Letters at Christmas

A gap in the curtains beamed a slither of light onto Christine's pillow. She groaned, shifting her face deeper under the blanket. It was unusually bright for winter, everyone said so. She gave up the fight to stay asleep and began her morning routine. There was a lot to do today, and if the transport routes were clear, the delivery she and half the neighbourhood were expecting would arrive.


She heaped an extra spoonful on top of yesterday's coffee grounds. They'd been drying in her father's hanky by the stove. The tin was nearly empty, but she thought she may as well enjoy the dregs while they lasted. Who knew when decent coffee would be available again. Christine knew that their troops at Stalingrad needed the supplies more than they did, especially since they were so far from home. Her neighbour, Frau Planck, had taken to boiling twigs and chestnut shells for tea. She claimed it was good for her constitution.  

The telephone downstairs tinkled and she heard General Pfefferburg limp across the landing to answer it. His voice carried, a habit he retained from his days in the trenches. 

"Frau Wagenknecht!"

Christine stepped out of her apartment and peered over the banister. "Yes, General?"

"There's a fire at the post office. They need you to come in at once."

The shadows that fluttered under Frau Planck's door assured Christine that she and the entire household were now aware of the news. "Thank you, General. I am on my way." With no time for breakfast, she wrapped up in her coat and headed for the tram stop. The streets were crusted in grey slush, as salt and snow commingled. 

"Ticket, please. Oh, good morning, Frau Wagenknecht. You're early today." The conductor's eyebrows threatened to curl over the visor of his hat.
"Morning, Herr Schumacher." She handed him a smile with her ticket.
He always took great care to clip it neatly before returning it to her. "Have a beautiful day."
Christine nodded, then pursed her lips and clasped her hands in her lap. Ordinarily she would allow him to flirt with her a little, but she could not get her mind off what might await her in Gerhardstrasse. She sniffed the air, expecting to find evidence of singed bricks.

The tram paused outside Konditorei Kaiser, and she could smell the loaves of Stollen - cobbled together with whatever the bakers could find - resting on their racks behind the counter. The air around her seemed to crackle in anticipation as she neared the post office. Except, there was no fanfare. No billowing clouds, no fire engines manned by the elderly and invalid. Only the line of crows perched on the rooftops, cawing their omens for those who cared to hear them.

"Oh, good, Christine, you're here." The post master waved her into the store room.
"Martin, I was told there was a fire."
"Yes, er, sorry about that. I couldn't think of a different excuse to get you here fast."
"So, there's no fire?"
"Not apart from the one I lit in my pipe earlier, no."
"I missed my breakfast to get here."
"You can have one of my sandwiches." When she started to protest, he said, "You simply must see this," and gestured at a bag of post lying on the floor.
"It arrived, then?" She forgot her hunger for the moment. 
"Yes. And there's something in there for you."
Christine touched her chest and raised her eyebrows at him. 
Martin nodded. "I'll be in the sorting room if you need me." He closed the door with a click.

Trying to ignore the fact that her mouth had turned to parchment, she bent down over the bag. There was a large box at the top, looking worse for wear, and the white string that held it together was muddy in places. When she registered the handwriting, her legs gave way and her eyes released their tears. She lifted the box out of the bag and perched it on her lap. This was Schrödinger's box: it both contained and didn't contain the letter she'd been waiting to receive. She debated never opening it; perhaps she was better off not knowing. Before she could stop herself, her fingers had undone the knots in the string and were tearing at the cardboard flaps. The letter was on top, as expected, and underneath was a length of grey silk, a small black journal, an enamel mug, a tin of coffee, a box of matches and a small wooden heart, whittled to perfection.

My darling

I cannot begin to describe how cold it is here. I am wearing everything I own, and yet the chill will not give up its hideout in my bones. Werner and I are taking turns at being the lookout, so I finally have a moment to write to you. We have long given up hope that we'll be home for Christmas. If I close my eyes, I can smell my favourite things: the goose in the oven, the potato dumplings, buttery and warm, the fire crackling and your perfume. Especially your perfume...

These were the last words he would ever write to her. According to the date, his division was ambushed some days later, and Eddie had run into piano wire as he tried to escape. That was two years ago. She would never forget the bike messenger's curt manner as he handed her the telegram informing her of Eddie's death. The week after, she received a paper bag containing his things and a note from Werner saying how sorry he was and that he'd sent her a box of gifts Eddie had been saving for the Christmas post. 

There was a knock on the storeroom door, and Martin appeared with a cup of coffee and a sandwich on a plate. "So it finally arrived?" He swept the room with his eyes. "Here, take this. You must be famished."
She tried to shake the stiffness from her joints. "What time is it?"
"I'm on my lunch break." He watched her sip the bitter drink. "Perhaps you should go home?"
"Yes," she said. Christine contemplated the contents of the cup. "Martin, what happened to this bag of post?"
"It got lost, I expect. Possibly fell into enemy hands. Or off the back of the truck. You know how reckless the drivers are these days. I've told Günther to mind the potholes, but does he listen?"
"I'd like to sort through the remainder of the post, if I may."
"Of course, but I think it can wait until tomorrow."
She laughed to conceal her tears. "Yes. It's been two years. What difference will one more day make?"

When Martin arrived the next morning, he found Christine at her post in the sorting room, carefully stacking the letters into neat piles. There were hundreds of them and it would probably take her the better part of two days to finish.
"Need any help?"
"All good, thanks."
"Remember to feed and water yourself. I don't want to have to call for the doctor."
"I'm fine, Martin. Stop distracting me."

Before he turned off the light for the day, Martin leant into the sorting room. She was sitting where he'd left her, working through the piles.
"It's time to go home, Christine."
"Yes." She made no indication that she would be leaving.
"Now." He flipped off the light.
"Martin, please."
Something in her voice made him switch the light on again. "Lock the door on your way out."

It was nearly 2:30am when she finished. She rummaged around the bottom of the bag to check that she'd got it all when her knuckles grazed against a paper corner. "How did you get stuck in there?" When she pulled her arm free, and saw the thick white envelope with the familiar scrawl, she had to steady herself against the counter. But the postmark did not come from within the army postal service. The date stamp was over a week after that of the last letter. She ran her letter opener under the seal and tore it open.

My darling

We were ambushed; it seems some idiot corporal gave away our position. I've gone into hiding. I'm not sure for how long. But I will come back and find you when this is all over. For now, try to go on without me. And don't forget me, please.

A tap at the sorting room window made her jump. A crow was trying to break an acorn against the glass. As the pounding of her heart subsided, she wondered whether it was truly possible. Everyone, including the army, believed Eddie was dead for the past two years. She'd even worn black for twelve months and given away his clothes. No, it was impossible. And yet.

The air raid siren jolted her body and her breath caught in her chest. If she could see the crow, it meant she hadn't put up the blackout curtain. She dashed to turn out the light and clambered under the desk. How could she have been so stupid? Perhaps they hadn't seen? 

The Spitfires were getting closer. Christine heard the wails as the bombs fell through the air and hugged her knees to her chest. Her thoughts went to Eddie, Martin, Herr Schumacher, Major Pfefferburg and Frau Planck as the detonation tore through the post office, turning her, her memories and the letters into confetti. There would be no more post for Christmas.