She put her head on Wolfgang’s shoulder. She could see the ewes in the distance, replete, but continuing gently to graze. The sun had sunk behind the hill.

It was dreadful that she could not tell Wolfgang exactly what she meant, even though he was right there, and even though she felt certain she loved him. But she could not tell him that her husband had always told her it was because of her that they could not have children, that it came from her, and because he was an honest doctor, loyal and frank, and she had always trusted him, she had believed him about that too; she had always believed it. Except that since his death, she had told herself that possibly it was not true, possibly it was he who was unfertile, sterile, and not her. She was sure that when he was at the front dicing with death, he must have thought about that all the time. She was sure the thought had haunted him day and night until his death, that it had driven him mad, the thought that one day she would fall pregnant, if he did not return from war, and then she would discover that he had lied to her for all those years. It was horrible to think about.

So that the evening would not be overshadowed by melancholy thoughts, she took Wolfgang by the hand and led him towards the hut, where it was now hotter than outside. They undressed, forgetting the ewes scattered across the western flank.

The world was at war, but here there was peace and the air was mild; the sheep grazed in tranquillity in the boundless meadows, never hungry. Inside, they did not light the little oil lamp. The door was wide open and a little of the glorious atmosphere outside came in; the moon had come out, and now was a time just for them. There under the night sky, far from the troubles of mankind, Joséphine and Wolfgang gave themselves up to the simple pleasure of forgetting everything.

August 2017

August 2017