Winds of Change

by Gilbert, Morris

Adam licked his lips and was surprised that he felt so well. “Much better,” he said, and found that his voice was not as raspy as it had been. He reached up and touched his forehead, and exclaimed, “I think my fever’s gone!”

  “Yes, you had a hard time of it.”

  “What day is it? How long have I been here?”

  Maris studied him as she answered, “Three days. I thought you were going to die at one point, but as your sergeant says, God has his hand on you.”

  Adam smiled suddenly. “He always says things like that. He believes it, too!”

  “Don’t you believe it, Lieutenant?”

  Adam was surprised at the question and said slowly, “I suppose I do now. Only a miracle could have saved us this far. I really expected to be shot down or slapped into a prison camp somewhere.”

  “I must change the bandage on your leg.”

  Adam watched as she removed the bandage and studied the smooth curve of her cheek and the unusual color of her ash-blonde hair. “Why are you doing this for me?” he asked curiously. “After all, we’re the enemy.”

  Maris did not answer but continued to change the dressing. She did observe, as she was tying on a fresh bandage, “I took two pieces of metal out of your leg, both rather small, and the infection is almost gone now. I did some stitches, but you’ll have a bad scar.”

  Adam shrugged as she came back and sat down on the chair beside his bed. Then as if nothing had happened, she answered his earlier question. “Why do I do this for you?” Hesitating for what seemed like a long moment, she shrugged her shoulders. The light blue blouse that she wore revealed her womanly figure, and she seemed to struggle to find an answer. “It is all very complicated, Lieutenant.”

  “Look, you might as well call me Adam. We don’t have to be so formal.”

  “Very well, and I will be Maris to you.”

  “Maris? I’ve never known anyone named Maris. Is that a German name?”

  “No, it’s Latin. It comes from the phrase Stella maris—that means star of the sea.”

  Adam lifted his eyebrows. “That’s very pretty,” he said. “Star of the sea.”

  “It has another reference to the Virgin Mary,” Maris said. “My father was a Latin scholar, and he chose it because he thought it was pretty. My mother wanted to name me Brunhilda.”

  Adam chuckled. “I’ll bet you were glad she didn’t.” Then he said suddenly, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make fun.”

  “I realize our German names sound a little harsh to American ears.”

  The slight interchange had lightened the mood, and Adam said, “I haven’t really thanked you properly, but I’m sure Clint has.” She only nodded her head slightly and he prodded, “If a German parachuted down in America, I’m not sure he’d get such good treatment. Your name is Richthofen, so I’m sure your family is pro-German.” He studied her carefully, and wondered if it was time to reveal his identity. He hesitated, and finally said, “Really, Maris, why have you helped us?”

  Maris Richthofen drew a deep breath and shrugged her shoulders. The movement expressed a grace that lay in her, and she clasped her hands together and began to speak. “My father is Heinrich von Richthofen. My family has a long tradition in the military. My father’s cousin—you’ve heard of him no doubt—Manfred von Richthofen.”

  Adam took a deep breath and thought, This is my cousin then, at least a distant one. “Yes,” he said carefully, “I have heard of Manfred von Richthofen. The Red Baron we call him in America.”

  “He’s well known in America?”

  “Oh, yes, very well known! What about your father?”

  “He was a distant cousin of Manfred’s. As a matter of fact, he was on his first patrol the day Manfred died. He finished the First War with eight kills to his credit, and he went on to study engineering.” Pain came to the dark blue eyes of the young woman and she suddenly clenched her hands. “I wish he’d gone on and become an engineer.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He joined the Luftwaffe and fought in the war in Spain. Afterwards, he was given command of the Luftwaffe’s Eighth Flying Corps. He was in charge of the dive bombers and the fighters that overran Poland. Later he was sent to Russia. He was an unhappy man. Sometimes I think he was not sorry to die.”

  “Why do you say that?” Adam inquired gently.

  “He was not in sympathy with Hitler.” She looked at him suddenly and said, “You Americans can never understand that. Many in our country hated everything Hitler stood for. Many stood against him and were executed. I have thought it would have been better if my father had done that, but he did not.” She straightened her shoulders and looked straight into Adam’s eyes. “He always said he fought for Germany and that some day Hitler would die, and then Germany could be purified.”

  Adam had no answer for that and said, “What about the rest of your family?”

  “There is the countess, of course; she’s seventy-two. That’s Manfred’s mother. She had two other children who were killed in 1925 in a flying accident. The other brother is Karl Bolko. He’s still alive. As a matter of fact, he’s at the house now. He stays quite often with his mother.”

  “There was a sister, wasn’t there—Ilse?”

  “How did you know that?” Maris stared at him with surprise, then shrugged. “I must have mentioned her. Yes, she comes here often, too. I’m very close to my cousins. Manfred, my cousin, is in flight training to become a fighter pilot. Ann is eighteen and engaged. Nicol is sixteen and dying to get into the war, and we’re determined to keep him out of it. Wolf, the son of Lothar, is an army engineer. He hates what he does—which is designing sub pens.”

  “He does a good job of it,” Adam said wryly. “We’ve dropped a million pounds of explosives on them and still haven’t knocked them out.”

  “You’re a bomber pilot then? I never asked.”

  Adam thought of the bombs that had fallen on Berlin and studied the woman for signs of anger or bitterness. When she did not speak he said quietly, “You must hate us very much.”

  “Why, no!” Maris looked surprised. “Did I not tell you I am a Christian?”

  “Yes, you did say that, or Clint told me.”

  “Jesus Christ forbids his disciples to hate.”

  Adam stared at her with an incredulous look in his eye. “We have many Christians among our people, and I have seen hatred for the Germans.”

  “I am not responsible for them. It is the same with my people, of course. I’m not their judge, but for me, I cannot hate. Jesus has shown us that we should forgive our enemies.”

  A sudden thought came to Adam. “Is that why you have taken me in and helped me?”

  “Of course!” Surprise washed over Maris’s face. “I do it in the name of Jesus. Why else would I help an enemy?”

  Adam shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t think very clearly.” He hesitated, then put his hand out. “Let me thank you, though. If every Christian were like you, I’d become one myself.” His hand closed on hers. It was soft but firm and held his own hand tightly. He squeezed it and said, “From the bottom of my heart I thank you for what you’ve done for me and for my cousin.”

  Maris flushed. He was holding her hand tightly, and something passed between them during that brief handshake. She removed her hand, her voice unsteady as she said, “I did hate you and your people once.”

  “When was that?”

  “I was in love once with a young man. His name was Franz.”

  Tragedy worked around the edges of the tone of the young woman’s voice. It showed itself in her eyes and Adam said intuitively, “He was killed in the war, I suppose?”

  “You’re very quick! Yes. He was a medical student, and I was a nurse. We were very much in love. We planned to go as missionaries to preach the gospel of Jesus in Africa, but he was forced to join the navy.”

  “How did he die?”

  “His sub went down in the North Atlantic.” She hesitated; then tears came to her eyes. She dashed them away
at once and said, “I’ve not wept in a long time—but then I haven’t talked to anyone else about it.” She found a handkerchief, wiped her eyes, and looked at him strangely. “Odd that I should be telling all this to you. I buried it in my heart long ago—but I still think of Franz, and I still think of Africa and the lost dreams that are gone forever.”

  Adam sat in the bed, his hand still tingling from the woman’s handshake. He saw something in her he had rarely seen in a woman—strength and gentleness combined. “I don’t see how you keep from hating me and others like me,” he said.

  Maris Richthofen said, “If it were in my own strength, it would be impossible. I did hate, but then the Lord came to me and said, ‘I did not hate those who crucified me, and you must not hate those who harm you. We must love them.’”

  “You mean,” Adam blinked with surprise, “you actually saw Jesus?”

  “Oh, it was a dream.” Maris smiled and her face cleared. “But it was so clear to me! So I like to think that it was the time Jesus came to me when I needed him most. If I had allowed hate to come into my heart, I would have become bitter. Hatred destroys the one who has it, don’t you agree?”

  Adam dropped his head. He himself had been filled with bitterness for so long that he had not allowed himself time to think. He looked up and said slowly, “I’m afraid I’ve let bitterness come into my own heart. I wish I could be like you.”

  Maris leaned over, her lips soft and almost maternal. They were full, well-shaped lips, and as she spoke he saw the compassion there and in her eyes. “Jesus will give you himself, Adam Stuart. When you break down the wall and let him come in, he brings his love, and he dwells within you. Then it will be not you but he who will let love override the hatred that’s there.”

  Adam was fascinated. He had heard the gospel before but never from such a source as Maris Richthofen! “I don’t know if I can do it,” he said. “I’ve heard the gospel all my life. My mother and my father are fine Christians, but I’ve been a rebel.”

  “We were all rebels. Jesus came to hunt rebels down and to bring peace to them.”

  Adam dropped his eyes again. “Well,” he said, “I need peace—that’s certain enough.”

  Maris reached over and put her hand on his. “He will help you, Adam. I will pray for you as your friend prays for you. He has told me.”

  “Clint? Yes, he always has. He’s a real Christian; I know that.” Adam was very conscious of her warm hand on his and did not move. Finally he looked up and said, “My mother would be glad to know that someone was praying for me. She’s prayed for me for years.”

  “Then our prayers will join together, your mother’s and mine, and you will see God do something in you, Adam Stuart.”

  “It doesn’t seem possible we’ve been here a week.” Adam was standing beside the bed testing his leg. He held onto the cane that Maris had found for him and looked over at Clint. “Why, look, I’ve got this thing licked, Clint!” He walked the floor, leaning heavily on the cane, and grinned broadly. “I’ll be running the high hurdles in a week!”

  “Well,” Clint nodded with approval, “maybe not that, but you’re certainly better. That young woman’s some doctor.”

  Adam turned and made his way across the room. “You’re right about that. I’ve never known anybody like her! I’ve got the feeling the rest of the family wouldn’t be so keen on helping a pair of American fliers.”

  “I don’t think so.” Clint watched as Adam made his way back and forth across the room. “You better take it easy on that leg. I know Maris said to exercise, but you’ve probably done enough.”

  “I want to go downstairs.”

  “Might be too much for you.”

  “I’m sick of this room! Come along. You go first and if I fall I can fall on you.”

  Clint laughed. He was glad to see Adam doing so well, but he was even happier to find out that Maris’s witness about Jesus was having a great effect on his friend. As he went down the stairs slowly he asked, “What do you think of Maris? She’s sort of a relative of yours, isn’t she?”

  “A very distant cousin as far as I can figure it out.” Adam said no more until he reached the first floor and took a deep breath. “She’s like no woman I’ve ever known—except my mother. She has a sweetness in her that’s very rare. I think she’s risking a lot to help us.”

  “Come on into the kitchen. I can make us some coffee.”

  The two men moved into the kitchen and Clint, who had mastered the art of doing the cooking, stirred around and soon had coffee ready to pour into the thick mugs. He poured two cups, set one before Adam, and then sat down across from him. The two men sat there talking for some time, and then Clint lifted his head. “I hear her coming. It’s a good thing she had this cabin away from the big house.”

  Both men turned to the door, and Clint said, “Hello—” But he broke off suddenly, for it was not Maris.

  A short, stocky man wearing a black overcoat stood staring at them. He had pale blue eyes and blonde hair. For one instant he stood staring at the two men, then at once stepped back outside and slammed the door.

  Adam hobbled to the window and watched him run toward the house. “Now, we’re in for it! I think the vacation’s over.”

  He was right about that. Five minutes later a car pulled up and a man got out, accompanied by another man, much younger. Both men had pistols, and they came straight for the house.

  “We’d better not resist. They look as if they’d like to shoot us!” Clint said. He turned around and as the door burst open, both men put their hands up saying, “Don’t shoot! We surrender!”

  The short, older man moved into the room, covering the two with a Luger. “What are you doing in this house—but I see you are both downed fliers.”

  “Yes,” Adam said quickly. “I was wounded, and—”

  The younger man, a tall individual with the same blonde hair and blue eyes as the other said, “How long have you been in this house?”

  Adam had some idea of saving Maris from discovery and said, “Not very long.”

  “We must take them into town and turn them over to the authorities,” the older man snapped. “What are your names?” When he received them he said, “You’ll be turned over to the authorities and carried to a prison camp.” He would have said more, but the door opened and Maris walked in. She took in the situation in one swift glance and said, “Don’t shoot them, Karl.”

  “Why, of course not!” This, Adam knew, was Karl Bolko, his real father’s brother. Bolko shook his head in surprise. “Why would you think such a thing? But you have done wrong to shelter them.”

  The younger man asked suddenly, “Why did you do it, Maris?”

  “He was wounded, and I thought he was going to die.”

  Adam had figured out that the younger man must be Wolf, the son of Lothar. He had studied many pictures of his uncle, and the young man was a dead ringer for him with his handsome, chiseled jaw and light blonde hair. “But I might have expected it of you,” the young German nodded.

  “Come, we will go to the house,” Karl said. “I will call the authorities from the telephone there.”

  Adam was helped into the car by Clint, who whispered, “Don’t give up; it’s not over yet.”

  “I think it is,” Adam said. “They don’t have any choice.”

  They all got into the car, which was driven by Wolf. Karl Bolko kept his pistol trained on the two men, turning backward over the seat. When they got to the large house, they all got out and Bolko said, “Come,” and waved with the Luger.

  As Adam entered the big house he felt very strange. He knew this had been his father’s home, and he had read many descriptions of it. He limped, leaning heavily on the cane, into the large room and suddenly stopped short when a woman arose and came toward them. He knew at once that this was Countess Kunigunde von Richthofen, his grandmother. She was tall and strongly built. Her silver hair was arranged neatly, and she had the same direct, light blue eyes as the other members of
the Richthofen family.

  “What is this, Karl?”

  “Two downed pilots—Americans, I think.”

  “Where were they?”

  Bolko hesitated, and it was Maris who said, “They were in the cottage. The lieutenant was wounded. He had infection and a dangerous fever and I wanted to help him.”

  “That was foolish, Maris!”

  “No, it was not foolish.”

  The countess gave her a look of compassion, saying, “Your father’s death is still with you, but these two men are our enemies.”

  Maris said, “The war is lost. What good would it do to send these young men to a prison camp? We know what the camps are like. They may die there!”

  Karl Bolko said, “We have no other choice. It is our duty!”

  “We have a duty to God,” Maris said, “and that is to show love where we can. These men are not dangerous.”

  “If we turn them loose,” Wolf said, “they’ll be dropping bombs on Berlin again.”

  The argument went on for some time, and Adam and Clint stood silently. Adam was studying the face of the woman he knew to be his grandmother. He knew she had been the strength of the Richthofen family for years, even before her husband had died, and now he could not help but admire her.

  Finally, the countess said, “I’m sorry, Maris, but we really have no choice. Karl is right. We must turn them in.”

  As soon as she said this and nodded to Bolko, who started toward the phone, Adam spoke up. “Countess—” he hesitated. Bolko had turned, stopping as he made his way to the phone. They all were looking at him, and Adam wondered if he were doing the right thing.

  “Look at me very carefully, Countess.”

  The countess stared at him steadily. “Very well, I am looking.”

  “Do I resemble anyone to you?”

  The countess blinked with surprise. She had not expected this question, and her eyes flickered toward Clint then back to the speaker. “What do you mean?” she asked. She spoke English fairly well, although with a thick accent.

  “I think if you will look at me closer, you will see that I resemble someone very dear to you.” Adam saw the eyes of the old woman narrow and then he said, “My father was Manfred von Richthofen.”