Agatha and Andres fell into a sort of rhythm. Their days were distinctly not intellectual—no books, no museums, no art. Agatha and Andres were grounded in the practical.
“What day shall I come to the White House for dinner?”
“What time does the train to Berlin leave?”
“What type of nuts do I need to buy so you can make me your famous nutroll?”
From Andres, Agatha learned to spend time in the mundane, not the grandiose, not the theoretical, but the now.
One day, they were planning an excursion to Hamburg. Andres suddenly turned to Agatha. “Shatz?”
“Yes, shatz?” responded Agatha with a mischievous twinkle in her eye.
“I am twenty-nine. You know this, yes?”
“I know this, yes.”
“I am forty-eight years old.”
“You are older than me,” quipped Agatha.
“Yes,” answered Andres. `
An uncomfortable silence entered their planning.
“Would you like to have children?” asked Andres.
Agatha tried hard not to react. Andres’ question pained her. It was Agatha’s deepest desire to be a mother. If she and Ernst had shared a child, maybe the pain of losing him would have been justified. But, the War to End all Wars took not only her husband but her unborn children as well.
“Yes, I do want children.”
“Would you like to have children with me?” Andres asked, then paused, “even at my age?”
Agatha made a split-second decision. “Yes,” said Agatha quietly, knowing her answer was not an act of love, but of planning.
Andres beamed. “Oh, shatz. We will be married in October. It will be a beautiful wedding. I will plan everything.”