objective. Killing is not a military objective in and of itself.”
Yves couldn’t hold his own in that kind of conversation. He didn’t think Heinrich had ever killed with glee; he simply wasn’t the kind of man who charged, wild-eyed, across trenches and barbed wire to bayonet an enemy. Yet, according to stories he’d heard, that hadn’t been rare in the Great War. He didn’t want to think of him as somebody who killed for a strategic or tactical objective. His own ties to soldiering had been tenuous at best, and he’d shed his uniform with nothing but relief.
Maybe his cowardice was one of the reasons the Germans hadn’t been stopped this time. Maybe the accusations that his generation simply lacked the courage and vigor to defend the fatherland were true after all. Certainly, the thought of facing something like von Grimmstein in battle made his heart stutter. If one people produced such men, and another didn’t, what did this spell for Europe?
“But let’s not speak of that.” Heinrich waved the waiter over. Yves watched him pay, acutely aware of von Grimmstein holding court at his table. Quite likely Heinrich was avoiding him too—and von Grimmstein was trying to attract his attention. To what end, Yves couldn’t guess. Besides, he didn’t want to get pulled into any maneuverings the Germans were doing amongst themselves. As far as he was concerned, the less attention, the better.
He received his coat and belted it while Heinrich exchanged a few words with the maître d’. Heinrich’s hand between his shoulder blades didn’t feel like an imposition; more like protection. They both seemed to breathe a sigh of relief when they left the hotel. “I would very much like to come visit you after duty,” Heinrich said, as his driver idled at the curb.
Yves nodded. “I’ll be at home.”
“No show tonight?”
“No.” Yves dug into his pockets for a cigarette. “I’ll be writing.”
“Music?”
“Maybe. I don’t know yet. There’s an . . .” He pulled a cigarette out of the pack and gesticulated with it. “Unrest. An electric charge. I don’t know how to explain it, but I think there’s a new song coming.”
“What is it about?”
“All songs are about love,” Yves said without thinking, and then was glad he could hide his face behind lighter, flame and folded hands. He inhaled, immediately wishing he’d not used that word. Heinrich’s face was immobile. “The audience loves to hear about it. That, or jokes.”
Heinrich nodded. “I’d wager people would listen to anything from you.”
“Ah-ah. No. Whenever I get too serious, people still laugh. I’m apparently even funny when I’m completely earnest. I think they just don’t believe me.”
Heinrich nodded to him and pointed toward the car. “I’ll be over at eight. My driver will take you home.”
Protest wouldn’t get him anywhere—Heinrich worked just a few minutes away, and turning down his generosity could lead to questions. He’d accepted the first rides; refusing now would look strange. So he slid into the car and allowed Heinrich to close the door behind him.
The driver briefly turned. “Home?”
Yves had no idea how good the man’s French was, but he did note that he left out any title or address or name. Was that disdain for him or insolence toward Heinrich?
He pushed into one of the corners, tried not to think about it. He’d rather start work on the song, the mood first, the opening keys of the melody. Once the first few pieces came together, he could build the rest around them. But wrestling that core of the song out of the vague potential for a song, actually crystallizing it into something tangible (well, more or less), was the hard part. Much like forcing rain from a heavy sky.
When the car stopped, the driver opened the back of the car first, pulled something out, and then opened Yves’s door.
“Oberst von Starck requests you keep hold of these,” the driver said. “He said you know what
Yves couldn’t hold his own in that kind of conversation. He didn’t think Heinrich had ever killed with glee; he simply wasn’t the kind of man who charged, wild-eyed, across trenches and barbed wire to bayonet an enemy. Yet, according to stories he’d heard, that hadn’t been rare in the Great War. He didn’t want to think of him as somebody who killed for a strategic or tactical objective. His own ties to soldiering had been tenuous at best, and he’d shed his uniform with nothing but relief.
Maybe his cowardice was one of the reasons the Germans hadn’t been stopped this time. Maybe the accusations that his generation simply lacked the courage and vigor to defend the fatherland were true after all. Certainly, the thought of facing something like von Grimmstein in battle made his heart stutter. If one people produced such men, and another didn’t, what did this spell for Europe?
“But let’s not speak of that.” Heinrich waved the waiter over. Yves watched him pay, acutely aware of von Grimmstein holding court at his table. Quite likely Heinrich was avoiding him too—and von Grimmstein was trying to attract his attention. To what end, Yves couldn’t guess. Besides, he didn’t want to get pulled into any maneuverings the Germans were doing amongst themselves. As far as he was concerned, the less attention, the better.
He received his coat and belted it while Heinrich exchanged a few words with the maître d’. Heinrich’s hand between his shoulder blades didn’t feel like an imposition; more like protection. They both seemed to breathe a sigh of relief when they left the hotel. “I would very much like to come visit you after duty,” Heinrich said, as his driver idled at the curb.
Yves nodded. “I’ll be at home.”
“No show tonight?”
“No.” Yves dug into his pockets for a cigarette. “I’ll be writing.”
“Music?”
“Maybe. I don’t know yet. There’s an . . .” He pulled a cigarette out of the pack and gesticulated with it. “Unrest. An electric charge. I don’t know how to explain it, but I think there’s a new song coming.”
“What is it about?”
“All songs are about love,” Yves said without thinking, and then was glad he could hide his face behind lighter, flame and folded hands. He inhaled, immediately wishing he’d not used that word. Heinrich’s face was immobile. “The audience loves to hear about it. That, or jokes.”
Heinrich nodded. “I’d wager people would listen to anything from you.”
“Ah-ah. No. Whenever I get too serious, people still laugh. I’m apparently even funny when I’m completely earnest. I think they just don’t believe me.”
Heinrich nodded to him and pointed toward the car. “I’ll be over at eight. My driver will take you home.”
Protest wouldn’t get him anywhere—Heinrich worked just a few minutes away, and turning down his generosity could lead to questions. He’d accepted the first rides; refusing now would look strange. So he slid into the car and allowed Heinrich to close the door behind him.
The driver briefly turned. “Home?”
Yves had no idea how good the man’s French was, but he did note that he left out any title or address or name. Was that disdain for him or insolence toward Heinrich?
He pushed into one of the corners, tried not to think about it. He’d rather start work on the song, the mood first, the opening keys of the melody. Once the first few pieces came together, he could build the rest around them. But wrestling that core of the song out of the vague potential for a song, actually crystallizing it into something tangible (well, more or less), was the hard part. Much like forcing rain from a heavy sky.
When the car stopped, the driver opened the back of the car first, pulled something out, and then opened Yves’s door.
“Oberst von Starck requests you keep hold of these,” the driver said. “He said you know what
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