The annual three-day village wine festival was a time of celebration and reunion as relatives and prodigal children returned to their homesteads. It had brought her grandson Christian home from boarding school and as expected as it was, he was not going to accept Schatzi's death easily. He spent most of his time at home in the company of the dog and when she'd grown too old and arthritic to walk far, he carried her. He had not known his grandfather, although he was the spitting image of him as a boy, and other than his own father leaving after his parents' careers and personalities clashed, he had not experienced the loss of a loved one in his twelve years. Frau Ehrlich had lived through the war years, one learned to get on with life and regard successfully doing so as a tribute to those who had passed on.

"I suppose she's up there with you now, Heinrich," she addressed the ceiling, "ruining expensive carpets."

"Who are you talking to, Oma?" Christian asked from the kitchen doorway and Frau Ehrlich turned around, brushing the tears from her eyes.

"Christian...Guten Morgen. Ach, nobody in particular. I have some sad news to tell you ...Schatzi passed on in her sleep last night."

Christian showed no emotion as he walked around the table and stared down at the little dog. He bent down with his back turned toward his grandmother. She saw his shoulders heave slowly with silent sobs.

"Christian...," she said as she started to get up from the chair, but he put his hand up and waved her away. He stroked the dog and made a small whimpering sound. He turned to look at his grandmother with tears streaming down his cheeks, then stood and ran through the kitchen door to the courtyard and kept running. By the time Frau Ehrlich made it to the kitchen window she saw the front gate swing shut and the boy running a race along the field road as the sun burned off the fog.

"Mein Gott," she muttered, "and with no breakfast, too."

She picked up the telephone receiver and dialed her daughter's office number.

***

The boy ran as if Death itself was chasing him. The chilly morning air stung his tear-filled eyes as he churned past fields of harvested tobacco, their pink blossoms frosted remnants of summer. He avoided the rows of wine grapes where workers could already be heard singing and laughing as they picked the last of the grapes and pruned vines. He tore off his flannel shirt and used it to wipe the sweat from his face as he ran past a patchwork quilt of vineyards climbing the steep hillsides high above the Rhine River.

He came to the end of the unpaved field road and leaned over, his hands on his knees as he gasped for breath. He climbed the few ancient stone steps to the old family Friedhof, spread his shirt out on the dew covered grass, and collapsed face down on the ground among the grave stones. The cold ground numbed his underside as the morning sun laid a blanket of warmth on his back, and he sobbed.