But after sixty-two long years little hope remains. She no longer hears the muffled staccato of distant machine-gun fire. The windows no longer rattle to the heavy drone of bombers overhead. And her German soldier has long returned to the Fatherland. Or died in battle--she never found out why he didn't come for her.

Deep in the pine forest, hidden in the undergrowth, her soft leather suitcase gives in to the elements and crumbles away. And nearby is a grave, not shallow, but deep--they hid her well. No markers or traces remain. Those who knew are gone, like her, and their secrets with them. Honour was satisfied and Catarina paid her dues. For loving the enemy, and for bringing disgrace on her noble family, there could only be one price.

But what did they know of love and of the heart? A poet once said the heart wants what the heart wants, and that was so true. She could no more have stopped herself falling in love with Philipp than stop breathing.

The mirror reflects the face of a twenty-year-old woman, frozen in the bloom of youth, who remembers when the villa rang with laughter and life. Looking around, she takes in the cobwebbed and dusty walnut furniture. The familiar black and white of the marble floor tiles, littered now with dried leaves that crackle and scrape as the breeze catches them. Weak winter sun filters into the room through the fogged-up windows, throwing patches of orange light onto the moth-eaten quilt that covers her bed. Catarina rises from her stool and crosses the room. With her sleeve, she rubs a clean patch on the glass and looks out. The light is fading, the sun melting into the earth as the day winds down and she feels herself fading with it.

If he listens hard enough he still hears the sound of laughter and music, floating on the sharp night air from the elegant ballroom. Philipp Munch buttons up his thick tweed coat--he feels the cold badly these days--and stands at the rusting iron gates of the old villa. The years roll away and he can still remember the first time he saw her. The first and last time he fell in love. His heart clenches and, even as hot tears threaten, he finds himself smiling at the small bunch of alpine flowers clutched in his fist. Every detail is still there...

Satin skirts sweep the ground, glasses clink and the sea of faces parts to reveal the most beautiful woman Philipp has ever seen, smiling and walking towards him. He stands there, mesmerised and captive, as she floats by in a rustle of silk and a flurry of dark curls. She smells of flowers. He turns and, like a sleepwalker, follows her retreating form until she stops and talks to a young man who touches her elbow with his hand and tries to steer her away from the crowd. She resists, shakes her head and laughs. The man laughs too and sweeps up her hand to kiss her palm. His lips linger there while the woman watches him with heavy-lidded eyes, her mouth curved into a smile. The man whispers something, and her smile fades.

"Who is she?" Philipp asks the waiter, who stops for a moment to hand him a long-stemmed glass of champagne.

"Catarina Bellamonte. The only daughter of the count. The man is her fiancé, Santino Allessio, son of the richest man in the province."

Philipp frowns and watches the battle of wills. The fiancé is short and sickly-looking. Clearly not good enough for her. And no match for her, either. The man's arm is around her waist now, while Catarina strains away from him, and, in a moment of sheer madness, Philipp finds himself walking towards them with only one thought in mind--to dance with this enchanting woman. He's in full uniform, something which gains him both reluctant respect and outright contempt. Italians aren't a people who hide their feelings--one minute smiling benevolently, the next just as likely to slit his throat in a dark alleyway. When he reaches the spot where Catarina was standing, she is gone.

A quick glance across the room tells him that the Generalmajor won't be needing the services of his driver any time soon. His commanding officer waves him away with a drunken smile and returns his attention to the champagne and the tall blonde hanging, laughing, on his arm. So Philipp makes his way to the double-doors, Catarina's only means of escape. He finds her standing in the shadows at the edge of the stone patio. Arms wrapped around her body, she is staring into the night. Somewhere in the village below a church bell chimes and, to its slow, steady rhythm, he walks towards her.

"Buon Natale, soldier." There's laughter in her voice. She doesn't turn around.

Phillip's courage falters and he stops, just out of her sight, only now remembering the language barrier between them. "Buon Natale, Signorina Bellamonte." The words trip on his tongue, still sounding awkward and strange to the ears of a young man who had never travelled much farther than the next town before the war. He fingers his glass, takes a deep breath and steps forward.

"Or should I say Fröhliche Weihnachten?" Catarina says. She turns and steps into the pool of light spilling through the glass ballroom doors. "We speak German here too." Her gaze flickers once over his uniform then comes back to rest on his face.

He shrugs, as if to say "What can I do? I'm as trapped as you are." She smiles briefly and looks away.

Behind them, in the ballroom, Philipp hears the sound of people talking and, laughing. Exchanging festive greetings. Before him the ornate, formal gardens drop away in a series of terraces, which merge eventually with a stand of pine trees. The trees' dark shadows form a boundary, beyond which he can see the shimmering lights of several small villages. Moonlight bathes the slope of an alpine meadow and catches the sharp peaks of snow-covered mountains. He feels very far from home.

He takes another step to stand beside her, and sets down his glass on the edge of the stone balustrade. Together they listen to the bells, now ringing in a joyful riot of noise and celebration. Catarina laughs again, a slightly hysterical sound which makes him turn towards her in question. In one smooth movement she tears a ring from her finger and throws it high into the air and into the garden below. Catching the moonlight, it tumbles into the flower bed below like a tiny falling star.

"It's over?" he asks. Third finger, left hand--he saw that much--and Philipp can't keep the laughter out of his voice either, nor the sheer relief that he has no right to feel.

What have you done to me? he thinks and shakes his head. Five minutes ago I didn't even know you existed. Now you're all I can see.

"They can't make me marry him," Catarina says, tilting her chin defiantly back at the house. "I'll kill myself first. Throw myself into a ravine. Then they'll be sorry."

"Don't do that," he says quietly. He wonders what colour her eyes are.

"Easy for you to say. What, are you here to sweep me off my feet? Take me away from all this? Wave a magic wand and make Santino disappear?" Her hand moves suddenly and closes over the pistol holstered at his hip. Dangerously close to a part of him that has been responding to her since the moment she walked into his sight.

He recoils. Instinctively, his hand covers hers and holds it still. She's so close now that when she speaks her breath warms his face. Her eyes catch the light. They are a deep green.

"Would you kill him for me?"

It's a question, urgently whispered. A plea, a command and a challenge. Philipp is trapped. Catarina deftly unclips the leather strap holding the pistol in place and half-slides it from the holster.

He's never considered himself a passionate man. Nor one prone to outbursts. He's not here for the glory of the Fatherland. He's here because they told him to be. Philipp has always done as he's told.

"Well?" Catarina tilts her head and holds her breath. Her hand under his flexes and he responds by sliding the gun back into the holster. Disappointment flashes in her eyes, so briefly he almost misses it--he's too busy concentrating on the feel of her hand, trapped beneath his.

She presses her lips into a thin line and nods twice. "I'm sorry," she says, sane again. "You must think I'm a madwoman. Did they send you to fetch me?"

"No, no..." he manages to stammer out. Her hand slides away, leaving his still on the pistol, gripping it tightly. In the heat of battle the enemy is unknown, faceless and remote. Killing is easy then. But to kill a man in cold blood--could he ever do that?

"What then?" Catarina returns her gaze to the garden, hands on the balustrade, arms rigid as she leans forward. "What could a lowly sergeant want with the daughter of a count?"

No, he may not be a passionate man, but he is a proud one and rises to the bait, consequences be damned. Clicking his heels together he makes a formal bow and holds out his hand. "My name is Philipp, Sergeant Philipp Munch. Would you give me the honour of this dance, Miss Catarina?"

Behind him the orchestra strikes up a waltz especially for them.

Light as air, Catarina floats between worlds, feeling, always, the pull of the white light with its promise of peace and completion. But how can she go when Philipp might still come? They promised to take this walk together rather than be parted. That hope refuses to die.

The shadows lengthen and the distant mountains darken in the purple dusk. Catarina clings to the earthly plane and prays harder than ever before.

"Please don't make me do this alone," she whispers. "Philipp, where are you?"

Philipp takes a key from his coat and, with a trembling hand, pushes it into the padlock. It hasn't been opened in twenty-two years, yet the key turns surprisingly easily. The chains rattle to the ground, but the gate is rusted onto its hinges and refuses to move. He pushes harder, puts his shoulder against it and digs at the dusty ground with his heel. Bit by bit the gate opens until there's a gap big enough for him to squeeze through. He retrieves the flowers and starts walking the long gravelled driveway, stopping halfway along to place a hand over a heart that beats far too fast these days. It used to do this for her. There were times when he swore she would give him a heart attack there and then--she was so beautiful. Especially when they made love...

He waits for more than hour, refusing to believe she won't come and just as unable to believe that she will. As he's reaching for the ignition key of the Audi staff limousine, feeling thoroughly ashamed of his foolishness, she's there, standing by the small side-gate. The silk shawl wrapped around her shoulders flaps in the light breeze.

Philipp's hand freezes on the steering wheel and his courage leaves him in a rush. What does he say to her? One dance and I've fallen hopelessly in love with you? Foolish indeed. He wants to run away. Instead he starts the engine, eases the car from its hiding place behind the trees and steers it back onto the main road. When he looks up, Catarina lifts a hand and waves. In one smooth movement he applies the brake. She opens the door and slides into the passenger seat.

"You came..." he says, and bites the corners of his mouth to stop the stupid grin that's threatening to break out all over his face. For a few minutes he just drives, with no thought of taking her anywhere but away from here and marriage to Santino.

"Where to?" he asks eventually.

"Up there." Catarina points to the top of the highest mountain. "Take me up there."

The double meaning isn't lost on him and suddenly he's a teenager again, all atremble in anticipation of his first time. He shifts down the gears and turns the car onto the mountain road. Neither of them speaks until, halfway up when Catarina points to a side-road and orders Philipp to take it with a cry of "There!" He turns the wheel sharply and the car swerves onto the narrow track.

When she shouts "Stop!" he slams on the brakes and they both lurch forward. Before he can gather himself she flashes him a smile and opens the car door.

"Catch me if you can," she sings, and for a second they're both frozen in place, the challenge hovering between them. She's an impossible dream, he knows that. Whatever he manages to catch of her will slip through his fingers like a mirage. He reaches out a hand, to make sure that he isn't dreaming now, and is surprised to find her shaking as much as he is.

"I'm cold," she says by way of explanation, and slides from the seat and out of the door.

There's nothing dignified about this. Nor in the way he wants her. She won't let it be. Philipp had always thought love was a serious thing--hadn't its complexity occupied poets for centuries? They needn't have bothered, he thinks when his body finally responds to his brain's command to move and go after her.

The urgency of the situation makes everything so simple, so clear. His position as a staff driver gives him some protection from the dangers of war, but all the time foot soldiers like him are being pulled out to be thrown at the Russian front. There's no time to waste on poetry and long courtships. Every passing moment is more precious than the last.

Philipp slides out of his own seat and finds her waiting for him. Standing in the alpine meadow with its light scattering of snow, backlit by the afternoon sun, she looks ethereal, other-worldly. Up here the air is sharp with winter chill, although that's not why he finds himself heaving in great gulps as if his life depends on it. She waits until he's almost upon her before turning tail and running down the slope of the meadow, curls bouncing, shawl streaming behind her like tattered angel's wings. With the confidence of one who knows the mountains well, she leaps and jumps over rocks and grassy mounds while he stumbles behind her, falls flat on his face and scrambles to his feet. Keeping her grimly in his sights, he gains on her.

She lets him catch her when they're hidden in the cool darkness of the trees lining the ridge. As she slows, his heart speeds up and he throws caution to the wind, bringing her down in a clumsy tangle of limbs. They roll out of control down a steep bank and land in a heap near the trunk of a great larch.

"Hello, Philipp," she says, and stares at him, wide-eyed. She laughs and throws back her arms, unconcerned that they're covered with scratches and her skirt is high on her thighs.

He lies panting beside her, wondering how he will explain away any tears in his uniform. When he looks at his watch, he realises that time is slipping away and in an hour he'll be needed to drive the Generalmajor to yet another reception.

"Catarina," he says in return and brings a hand to her face. My Catarina, he thinks. Whatever happens, I'll always think of her as mine.

"I got your note," she says, fishing into her pocket. She pulls it out, her expression a mask of mock seriousness, and starts to read in a monotone.

"Catarina, would you give me the honour of your company this afternoon, I wish to tell you something. Philipp."

Philipp feels his face reddening. He grabs the note with his free hand and crumples it in his fist, embarrassed now at his audacity. And at the fact that he's lying, dishevelled and out of breath, on a bed of mouldy leaves with the daughter of an Italian count. But that's lust for you. It addles your brain and steals your reason. Why else would he be doing this?

Her laugh softens into another smile and she asks the question she must already know the answer to. "What do you want, Philipp?"

His fingertips linger on the soft skin of her cheek. Desperation makes him bold.

"I wanted to ... to thank you for the dance. And I want very much to kiss you," he adds. "Catarina, would you allow me to do that?"

The answer is in her eyes, still bright with laughter, as they widen slightly in anticipation then half-close in acceptance. In the slight pucker of her lips and the straining of her body towards his. Philipp rolls and meets her halfway, his hand slipping behind her head to gather her to him. Lips only a hair apart, he whispers again.

"Say yes..."

She breathes the word on an exhaled breath, and when their lips touch he's momentarily overcome by a feeling of joy so strong that, if he didn't have better things to do, he'd be standing on the mountaintop behind him shouting it out for all the world to hear. Clinging desperately, he tries to hold on to the elation. It's too soon overtaken by a jumble of feelings and sensations that make him pull her to him until there's not an inch of space between them. And make him kiss her as if his very life depends on it.

The way she responds and wraps herself around him, as if even this close isn't close enough, makes him realise they've both started on a journey from which there can be no turning back. A journey that won't necessarily lead to happiness, but like pilgrims walking towards a shrine, it's a journey they have to make. If one thing could give this pointless war any meaning, it would be this.

Grinding his mouth against hers, one hand trapped between the back of her head and the clammy, mildewed leaves, he mentally apologises to the dim part of his brain that's telling him to slow down and treat her with the respect a count's daughter deserves. This is beyond his control. Caught between Fate and lust he can only follow where it leads.

"Philipp..." Catarina, arches more urgently against him. Her legs have him locked so tightly he can't move, nor get his hands between their bodies to unbutton his pants.

"Catari ... ".

Inexperience makes them clumsy. He pulls away and fumbles with his fly-buttons. She gives a cry of frustration and pulls up her skirt. When she pushes him away, with another cry, his hand stills. There's a brief moment of panic when he thinks she might have changed her mind. Or even worse, that he's hurt her with his inept bumbling. Frozen in place, head and shoulders raised, he watches her pull impatiently at the waistband of her french knickers. With a shudder of relief he resumes his frantic task, releases himself with a sigh, and rolls back into her embrace.

Seize the moment. Now he understands what that means. It's a dizzy, reckless ride into the unknown. The first slow slide of his flesh against hers. A moment he'll never forget.

He doesn't know if it's her first time--she cries out when he pushes into her. A slight resistance, then she's clutching at him again, greedy and insistent. And she's noisy. Somewhere through the fog of his wanting he hears her call his name, hears her demand and ask and plead that he never stop. He almost laughs out loud at the thought. Why would he want to do that?

He nuzzles into her neck and sucks gently, a counterpoint to their wildly thrashing hips, wishing he could leave his mark for all to see. Knows that he can't. It's a reminder that she isn't his, and never will be.

In his desperation he forgets everything but the need for completion. Catarina is left clinging to him, eyes tightly closed, hips still pushing vainly against his own while he pulses and empties himself inside her.

She takes his hand, slips it between their bodies. Philipp mumbles an apology which she quietens with a finger on his lips. Then she closes her eyes. He watches her expression change, sees the way her lips part and her eyelids flutter as she moves against his slippery fingers. He's still inside her, soft, but hardening rapidly.

Philipp starts to move with her, slowly and carefully this time, with his eyes open and firmly on her face. When she comes again it's with a small, startled noise as if she was expecting something else, but got something infinitely better instead. Her eyes fly open and lock with his. He reaches for her hand and entwines his fingers with hers. They haven't used any protection, but that's a detail he doesn't remember until much later.