Without a Trace

   “Dear Herbert, everything I own I leave to you. Since it is your responsibility now, it is up to you what you are going to do with it. Don't feel embarrassed when you go through the letters in the safe, actually I want you to read them. I want you to know what I wasn't able to talk about. Not even with you. God bless you, you have always been like a son to me.” And enclosed the key of the safe.

    The man who wrote me this letter and whom I called 'uncle', was dead. From the moment on he heard that he was not going to recover from what he thought was a cold, it only lasted two weeks before I had to say goodbye to him for ever.

He was not my uncle, people who did not know us mistook us often for father and son, but we were not related; he was a friend of the family and I knew him all my life.

    The relationship struggled when I was a teenager but this was also the case at home with my parents who passed away a few years ago and who I loved. The bond with uncle Martin grew stronger and stronger and his loss hurts me more than I expected. That he left me all his belongings, means more to me than I can and will explain. Yet it will be strange to go through it.

    Although we shared emotions, we were both also introvert and the private emotions were us. It is strange that he wanted me to read the letters.

   It was 8 PM and a very cold night when I closed the curtains to keep the dark world outside. I added logs to the fire, poured myself a whiskey and sat down in what had always been 'my chair' and which was never reupholstered; it felt like a good old friend that embraced me.

The large box with the letters stood on the floor next to me. All bound with a string and on top a list with numbers that corresponded with those at the envelopes; he catalogued them all with dates.

    I hesitated to open the first one, it felt uncomfortable. I did not know what their content was, if it were personal letters to him and from whom. There were no stamps, someone must have delivered them. Right then I did not even notice that the handwriting looked familiar.

Staring at the envelopes did not reveal much and after a deep breath I started reading.

    The early morning light peeped through the curtains. I kept the fire burning all night until the last log and the last letter dated May 1995.

Fifty years of letters, one every month, that makes 600 letters. Each envelope contained one sheet of paper, written both sides and I read it all during a night I was not even aware of the time. I was more than surprised when I finished the last that it was 8 AM in the morning. The content was so fascinating and yet so odd and questionable, that I forgot all about time, even where I was. Or to finish my first Whiskey and I stared at the little bit that was left in the glass.

I rested my head against the back of the chair, closed my eyes and thought about what I read and if I was able to understand it.

    This was all a month ago and it is today that I am ready to tell you something about it and still this is not going to be easy. First of all I need to mention that the letters my uncle left me, were not written by someone else; it were his own letters to himself. His address at the envelopes was in his own handwriting. How odd you will think and you are probably right until you understand that it was his way to write a diary. Still a strange way to do it; the average diary writer would start with “Dear Diary”. Not uncle Herbert, he started with “Dear Herbert” and ended with “For ever yours”. No, this is not funny, actually it is very tragic, as well the content as the writing to his own address. And I have to admit that after reading the letters I doubt very much if the story that started in 1944, is true.

    In 1944 uncle Herbert was stationed in France where he fell in love with (his words) a beautiful French girl named Marie. She answered his love and promised to move with him to his country but they were young and there was a war going on although it looked like Hitler was going to loose. But their love for each other grew stronger and stronger and when France got liberated, Herbert moved with his infantry to Holland. The night before he left was their first intimate night. It were very passionate hours; as if they knew they were never going to see each other again. In the very early hours of the day of departure, Herbert left Marie with the promise to come back to marry her. Tears were shed on both sides and than one long kiss before he disappeared in the fog that lay as a blanket at the fields and the ruined houses.

    In 1945 Herbert returned home and never talked about what happened during the war. He never mentioned the horrible fightings, the death of his comrades, the liberation of France and Holland and never mentioned Marie.

Of all the letters he wrote, he wrote one to Marie but never received a reply.

I know now he sent her his address and promised her to go to the station every day, hoping to see her arriving by train.

    He kept his promise and spent much time at the small local station famous for it's candy pink colour that somehow beautifully blended with the natural colours of the countryside. Unfortunately it closed in the early 70's and is now surrounded by woodland.

    The only time Martin wasn't there was when he was taken into hospital with a pneumonia 2 months after he arrived home from the war.

A busy time for my parents who worried about Herbert's health while my mother also gave birth to me; their one and only child. This was also the time Herbert started his strange diary in which he not only expressed his deep love for Marie (if she ever existed) but also his love for me as if I was his own child.

   Maybe it was the chaotic and dramatic period just after the war that a new life of a baby, although it was the son of his best friends, made him aware of the future and the love in his heart, not killed by the terrible things he saw. Or maybe indeed his love for Marie.

    I am now at the end of Martin's story that may not look spectacular to you but which revealed more about his character to me. Because he was introvert, I never got to know what his real feelings were. He trusted these feelings to paper and than passed them on to me. Please understand that I can not go deeper into this, I am introvert as well.

    Yet he left me with a few questions. For instance why did he stop writing after 50 years? Is this because it was an important mark after the war? These 50 years of freedom were celebrated in Europe with veterans visiting the countries they fought for everyone's freedom. Where so many gave their lives.

Photo: @gioboretti (Instagram)

    And why was there an empty envelope at the bottom of the large box? An envelope with a different handwriting and a large safety pin with a blue ribbon?

And the strange address with only the name of the village and “Martin at the pink train station”???

    One day I will read the letters again, maybe I will find the answers.

Word of thanks: the photo of @gioboretti (Instgram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you Gio!

Links: please visit the beautiful Instagram Account of Gio Boretti and listen to his beautiful guitar compositions at his YouTube account.

Note: the story is pure fiction! A figment of my imagination!

Helen 

The Last Breakfast (short story)

    Françoise cried, she did not know where Philippe was. She took her large red handkerchief from the pocket of her apron and blew her nose, the sound scared her. One of those other things she did not like; being afraid of sounds, even silly noises as blowing her own nose or closing a door.

She put the handkerchief which had known better days, back in her pocket and folded her hands, waiting for Philippe.

   The farm was their life; they gave everything to it and received so much in return. They never wanted to leave it. No holidays, apart from not interested in travelling to places where you needed to spend money to have fun, who was taking care of the cows, geese, goat and chickens? And their loyal horse that did not listen to orders from strangers?

    No, the world outside their farm and fields was not interesting enough. Since they bought a tv, the world entered their house and she was not too happy with it. Too confusing but Philippe loved it. He bought it to watch Farmer's News on the Sunday's but she knew that he also loved watching other programs with a preference for discussions. She thought of all the voices being very confusing and went to bed on her own, knowing Philippe would follow soon; tomorrow was another early day.

   Françoise unfolded her hands and ate her breakfast. How silly she thought, to lay the table for 4 people. She could not remember any more when she did this. The time that they had two boys working at their farm, had long gone.

It was not easy to keep the farm going on her own and she wondered how long it would take for her body to give up. Since Philippe died there was not much left to live for. He passed away not long after their 56^th wedding anniversary; a day as usual. Though life was very unusual afterwards. No one to cook for, no one to talk to and no one to keep her warm during the cold Winter nights when the wind blew through the cracks round the windows and in the roof. Philippe never managed to repair them and she was too tired. And did they have money to spend on repairs?

   While she finished her breakfast, she pondered over the savings. It confused her not to know any more where they left the money. She remembered their agreement about saving as much as they could for the bad times. It was something they were brought up with being children of farmers. The house needed a few repairs and Philippe was too old to do it himself. Oh yes, she knew he did not want to listen, he was as stubborn as the bull they had. As soon as she finished the dishes, she was going to ask Philippe about the money they had hidden somewhere. She smiled; it must be hidden in a very safe place... if she could not remember any more where it was, how could a burglar find it??

   She stood behind her chair with her forefinger against the top of her nose and frowned her eyebrows. What on earth was she going to do right now? Ah, yes, milking the cows and churning butter. Or did she churn butter yesterday? It was so confusing not to know which day it was today... or yesterday. And was it Wednesday tomorrow? Or Saturday when the few left customers were going to collect the butter? The best there was in the village.

    The best thing to do was walking to the barn to milk the cows and then check on the butter. Suddenly she got angry, why did Philippe die? He was not ill, he was as healthy as could be for a man of his age. In her memory he always remained the tall and broad shouldered Frenchman that carried her over the threshold; a smile that curled his moustache and a twinkle in his dark brown eyes that fascinated her from the moment he laid eyes on her. And now he was gone.

   She shook her head to clear the mist that blurred her memories. She could not remember any more why Philippe died. Was it his heart? No, no... he fell off the ladder when he tried to repair the roof of the barn. That is why she was so angry. He did not listen to her! He never listened, he said he was like a cat with 9 lives but it turned out he had just one!! “Philippe....!!!” she cried in her handkerchief, “Philippe.....”

   Coffee, she needed a cup of very strong coffee. There was definitely something wrong with her emotions; here she stood without knowing why she cried. It was a relief that Philippe was in the stables, it would have worried him to see her crying. She sniffed her nose and straightened her back: “Silly old woman! Smile and go on with your work!” she told herself. There was so much to do: the dishes, the cows, the butter. Philippe could not do it all by himself. They promised each other to run the farm together. She too walked behind the plough and drove their first second hand tractor. She was never ill and together with Philippe she could handle the whole world.

    There was one thing she cold not give Philippe; they never had children but both did not complain. They were happy together. The downside was that there was nobody to inherit the farm. Did she and Philippe discuss this before? She could not remember. Was it a good idea to start this subject during coffee?

Coffee..... she forgot all about it and she did not want that wonderful husband of hers to come and look for his coffee. That never happened in their marriage, she always called him when it was ready.

   Françoise walked to the stable which was so empty with only two cows to look after instead of the twenty they had before. So much changed since Philippe died. She cried when she sold 8 cows although she knew she could not milk them all. She simply could not take care of the farm as it used to be all on her own. Yes, the neighbours offered help but you can not always rely on them, can you? No, she had to minimize the work, she was not as young and fit as she was 30 year ago. The death of Philippe broke her energy and the will to continue. Life without him was empty, very empty.

   She passed the ladder that still lay in the hay. The ladder that killed Philippe. No one removed it after he was taken into hospital by doctors telling her they would do everything to save his life. Nonsense she thought. Her heart told her he was dead, gone, not coming back alive. And her heart was always right. While the ambulance disappeared in the far distance, she knew that part of her heart disappeared as well. Gone, forever. But not her love for Philippe!

    She loved him so much so how could she walk here in the empty stable without calling him for his coffee? And where had the cows gone?

And why was there a bright light in the otherwise dark stable? Where did it come from? The light spread it's beams on the floor until the hay shone like pure gold.

Gold she wanted to touch and she reached out to the light.

In astonishment she watched the light crawling up her arm, covering her head, her whole body. She looked up to it's source and there was Philippe how she remembered him: the twinkle in his beautiful dark eyes, his deep voice asking where his coffee was.........

   

Photo: @forgottenheritage (Instagram)

   The coat of Françoise still hangs at the door, she forgot to put it on when she walked to the barn. The table is still laid for 4, she never had time to do the dishes. Not even if she had remembered it. Philippe's death disturbed her life, her brains. The dust in her head that covered the day to day thoughts and duties is now visible in her abandoned house. It covers everting she was so proud of. But she is not aware of it any more. Maybe she looks upon it from above and does not care. Maybe she smiles when people are taking photo's of the farm. Photo's that will survive the house, catching the memories in an everlasting frame.

Word of thanks: the photo of @forgottenheritage (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you Matt!

Link: the beautiful book Forgotten Heritage by Matthew Emmett and his Facebook Page

Note: the story is pure fiction!A figment of my imagination!

Helen

The Letter (short story)

 'My Love,

My hands can not hold a pen any more. The red knuckles are swollen like marbles and my fingers grow in the wrong directions.
Do you remember when we were still children with elastic muscles that we crossed our fingers, one over the other? That is how my hands look now. I am glad you can't see this, it would have upset you.
The pink and ring finger are the worst but my fore finger is the best of all and allows me to type a letter to you. It is a slow process as you will understand but you have all the time of the world to read it.

I am in a strange mood. I thought I got used to my solitary existence but strangely enough I didn't. My thoughts often wander off to the old days when we still lived together. Married as in 'happily ever after'.
Have we been happy? Yes. We were childhood lovers, we knew each other so very well, our marriage couldn't go wrong. How wrong we were but let not dwell on this right now.
I still remember our wedding day with all the love and laughters, all the expectations for the future; our future.
We did not have a great income but you were determined to climb the social ladder and I was more than willing to hold that ladder, to support you where ever I could. I promised to do so and I kept my promise. You asked me to support you and that is what I did...... till death did us part.

Do you remember how we loved to curl up on the sofa? Or in bed? We became great lovers and memories of our intimacy still cause that special warm feeling. Or our arms wrapped around each other, talking about our dreams. Your dreams were more demanding than mine. You wanted a family, a job with status and an appropriate  income, a bigger house, being a member of The Lions and the Golf club. And, not to forget, a perfect and elegant, good looking wife to impress your colleagues and friends to be.
My wish list was a family home, children, a house and a garden, hugs and love, a dog. Could I ever dream that the only wish we had in common was children....
Maybe the house too but mine was cosy and big enough for our family. Yours was to impress, pompous and in my humble opinion, horrible.
You were generous and  promised me on forehand a house keeper, a nanny and a gardener. Well, I thought it was generous but I learned otherwise.

You ticked almost all the boxes on your wish list, almost. The children box was never ticked. At first you blamed yourself but soon you blamed me, not openly, I did not even notice it in the beginning. I did not recognize the early signs of mental abuse. I have to admit that you were very, very good at that. I am not going to repeat all the details, you know exactly what you have done to me. But what you did not know was that you forced me to play my own game. I had to to survive, to stay close to me. And when I finally, after so many years, saw through you, I became even better in playing mental games than you.

You never found out did you, that I became the best actress ever and that I only acted like the manipulated wife you created. Created in your mind my love, not in real!
You hated your sudden hair loss, you were so proud of the dark curly hair you inherited from your mother. You had never been ill before so you hated the so called influenza that caused stomach and belly pains and vomiting. Not long after you recovered but within half a year it started all over again. The doctor said you were stressed. The demanding job, the long hours, a holiday would do you good. And it did. A year after, the same thing happened again but you felt worse than ever. Strong as you were, you recovered again. But my love, you were not smart enough to know it wasn't a influenza! And it was not due to stress! Not at all, but I played my game so very well that no one was surprised when you finally died. They spoke beautiful words at your grave. Your business partner mentioned he had never seen a man before who was so dedicated to his work.

And I? I played the grieving widow. And I played it very, very well. I almost believed my own grief, I almost felt the pain for your loss. I played it so well that people never noticed the joy in my heart. The joy about my freedom and most of all the joy because I won the game you started!

Photo: Forgotten Heritage

Did you notice the Crow who watched your funeral? He and I became very good friends. He knows my moods and when my mood is as dark as his deep purple and black feathers, he talks to me. His hoarsely voice causes great fear with people who don't know him but not with me. He waits for me to finish the letter and to take it to your grave. This will also be my goodbye to my feathered friend. I have done what I wanted to do. I have enjoyed my victory long enough and it is time to go.
All that will be left is the two cups with the residue of what ended our lives. They lay next to the type writer and your portrait, guarded by the Crow who will be faithful to me until his own death.
Goodbye my love......'

Word of thanks: the photo of @forgottenheritage (Instagram) inspired me to write this story and I was given permission to use the photo as an illustration for which I am very grateful. Thank you Matt!

Link: the beautiful book Forgotten Heritage by Matthew Emmett

Note: the story is pure fiction!A figment of my imagination!

Helen