Good Fellows: Debt & Dishonor

3. Joy and Mourning

Tuesday, 30 April, 1918

The funeral of Walter Kirchlich was held in the local Lüterian church, an imposing gothic cathedral capable of seating comfortably in excess of three hundred people. That day, Karl Kirchlich thought he counted seventy-five, but he wasn't sure, because he kept getting interrupted by some well-meaning mourner come to offer his or her condolences... and usually her condolences, since so many of the men were away at war. His son, Francis, stood dutifully beside him in silence, dressed in his finest suit. Tears welled in the blue eyes of the child and wound their way down his rounded cheeks, but he wouldn't speak a word of his sadness to his father. Every one of them was heartbroken over the loss of his brother, a life not yet fulfilled, a candle snuffed out before its light was fully cast, and Francis thought that he might serve the others best as a support. If he spoke to anyone about the way that he was truly feeling, it would have to be to Sophie, because she would understand him even without talking.

Francis glanced around for his twin. Sophie was... somewhere. He remembered some time ago having seen her wander off with Gerhard Lötz, who was a friend of Klaus' primarily, but he had long lost track them both. Probably, they had slipped out the side door and were now taking a walk through the church garden. It was one of Sophie's favorite places, and at present a feast for the senses. The warm spring weather, coupled with occasional showers and sun, had created an ideal environment for the flowers to grow and bloom.

Meanwhile, Friedrich and Klaus were still milling around in their war uniforms, tearfully greeting old friends and answering questions about conditions for the soldiers at the front. The whole family was thankful that they had been given leave, even if Friedrich's was only for the day and he would have to be back on a train bound for the front lines before morning. Francis thought that it would be much more difficult for them to say goodbye to him than it would be for him to depart. Now that death than reared its ugly head, his mother was a mess of nerves for her two remaining soldiers.

Francis glanced back at his mother, collapsed in the first of the dark oak pews, sobbing into a handkerchief, unable to stand. Annaliese was there with her arms around her, doing all she could to offer some comfort, and Ruth sat beside them, staring at her feet, despondent. Francis frowned at that. He knew that Ruth was as broken as their mother was, if not more. The difference was that Ruth had always been better at managing her emotions and somehow keeping them locked up deep inside. 'Even so,' Francis told himself in silence, 'a soul can only bear so much sorrow on its own.'

Francis was surprised by his father's hand suddenly giving him a firm pat on the shoulder, and he looked back to their line of guests. Standing there with his worn hat in his hands was Martin Edelmann, whose expression was soft and sympathetic.

"You know Francis, don't you?" Karl Kirchlich asked the boy. His voice was somewhat strained, and Francis worried that he might break down again into tears.

Martin gave a submissive nod. "Yes, I have. He's brilliant," he answered in a low voice. Then, peering past them to the pew, he added, "You must be proud of each of your children. They're all so remarkable."

Karl smiled. "Yes, of course. We're very proud."

Martin opened his mouth and stopped himself short of speaking. His eyes evaded those of the old psychiatrist, and his hands nervously wrung the brim of his crumpled cap until at last he summoned the courage to speak the words he had held inside of him. "May I speak to Ruth?" he asked; his voice trembled mildly.

"Yes, I suppose," Karl replied, and he turned to his son. "Francis, take young Herr Edelmann to see your sister, would you? And see that he finds his way out afterwards. I wouldn't want the two of them to get lost together."