Buried Angels

THE KARINHALL ESTATE 1949

Dagmar wept, but her sorrow was mixed with joy. Finally she had reached Hermann. For a while she had despaired. The money that she got from Laura had been enough to bring her only part of the way, and far too much had disappeared when thirst overcame her. She hardly remembered some of those days, but each time she’d climbed back on her feet and carried on. Her Hermann was waiting.

She knew quite well that he was not buried at the estate of Karinhall. An unpleasant individual had gleefully told her as much on one of the many train journeys when she explained where she was headed. But it made no difference where his body was buried. She had read the articles and seen the pictures. It was here he belonged. It was here that his soul would be found.

Carin Göring was also here. Even after her death, that odious bitch had retained her hold on Hermann. Dagmar clenched her fists in her coat pockets, breathing hard as she gazed out across the fields. This had been his domain, but now it was all destroyed. She felt the tears well up in her eyes again. How could this have happened? The estate lay in ruins, and the garden, which at one time must have been so beautiful, was now overgrown and abandoned. The leafy woods that surrounded the fields were encroaching with each passing day.

She had walked for several hours to get here. From Berlin she’d hitched a ride and then proceeded on foot to the wooded area north of the city, which she’d read was the location of Karinhall. It had been difficult to persuade anyone to offer her a ride. People had stared with suspicion at her tattered appearance, and she didn’t speak a word of German, but she had simply repeated ‘Karinhall’ until an elderly man had reluctantly allowed her to get into his car. When the road divided, he had waved his hand to indicate that he was headed in one direction while she should go in the other. So she got out of his car and walked the rest of the way. Her feet began to hurt, but she kept on going. The only thing she wanted was to be close to Hermann.

Then she had wandered through the ruins. The two sentry boxes at the entrance bore witness to how grand the buildings must once have been. Here and there Dagmar saw the remnants of walls and decorative stones, making it easy for her to imagine the past magnificence of the estate. If it hadn’t been for Carin, this place would have been named for Dagmar.

Hatred and grief overwhelmed her, and she fell sobbing to her knees. She recalled that lovely summer night when she had felt Hermann’s breath on her skin, when he had covered her body with kisses. That was the night when she had both received and lost everything at the same time. Hermann’s life would have been so much better if he had chosen her. She would have taken care of him and not, like Carin, allowed him to become the human wreckage that she’d seen in the hospital. She would have been strong enough for both of them.

Dagmar picked up a fistful of soil and let it slowly trickle out between her fingers. The sun was hot on the back of her neck, and in the distance she heard the howling of the wild dogs. Nearby a broken statue lay toppled on the ground. The nose and one arm were missing, and the eyes of stone gazed unseeing up at the sky. Suddenly she realized how tired she was. Her skin felt hot under the sun, and she wanted to find some shade where she could rest. It had been a long journey, filled with intense yearning, and she needed to lie down and close her eyes for a short time. She looked around for some shade. Next to a staircase which now led nowhere, a thick pillar had fallen so that it was leaning against the top step, and beneath was a patch of blessed shadow.

She was too tired to stand up, so she crawled across the uneven ground to the staircase, curled up as much as she could, and lay down in the cramped space with a sigh of relief, closing her eyes. Ever since that night in June, she had been on her way to him. To Hermann. Now she needed to rest.