White Rose Black Forest

by Dempsey, Eoin

  Chapter 5

  Franka let the rucksack slip from her shoulder and let it fall to the floor. The man stared at her and had the gun pointed at her chest. His eyes twitched in the half-light, his teeth gritted in pain. She cursed herself for not hiding the gun better. It was hard to imagine how he’d gotten out of bed, let alone made it all the way to the table by the front door.

  “How did you get out of your room?”

  “I’m asking the questions here.”

  She saw his finger tense on the trigger.

  “I have your painkillers. You must be in terrible discomfort. I have food too, enough for both of us for days.”

  “I asked you a question. Why am I here? Why did you bring me back to this cabin?”

  His ingratitude was vexing her, and she felt her temper, blunt as it usually was, beginning to rise. He was terrified—a stranger in a hostile land. She was thankful he hadn’t pulled the trigger as soon as she’d walked through the door. “Simple necessity. It was too far to the nearest hospital, and I had no way of getting you there.”

  “Have you told anyone else that I’m here?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you asked me not to. You said even the local authorities knowing you were here might compromise your mission.”

  He stared on, the gun still pointed at her. He didn’t seem to know what to say next.

  “I told you, my name is Franka Gerber. I’m from Freiburg, and this was my parents’ summer cabin. They’re both dead now. My father died just a few months ago in a bombing raid on the city. My mother died eight years ago, of cancer.” She thought to tell him about Fredi but realized that she wouldn’t be able to without breaking down—she was close enough to that already. “I brought you back here because you needed help. You would have died out there. It is an absolute miracle I found you. There is no one else around here for miles.”

  “Why are you keeping me here?” His voice quivered as he spoke, perhaps from the pain he was in, perhaps from something else.

  She stared at the barrel of the gun. “Because I have no other choice. The roads are closed. I can’t get you down to the main road. It’s just not possible with your broken legs.” She pointed at the bag. “I have plaster of paris, gauze, and everything else I need to set them in casts. I can do this for you if you let me, but I need you to trust me.”

  “How do I know you’re not an Allied agent, keeping me here to win over my trust?”

  “I’m not an Allied agent. I’m just a nurse, from Freiburg.”

  The man let the gun drop a few inches before raising it up again.

  “I’m going to take off my hat and gloves now,” Franka said.

  He nodded, and she did as she said, letting them fall to the ground. She inched toward him with her hands out, as if approaching a frightened dog.

  “You have nothing to fear. I’m not working for anyone. I don’t have an agenda.”

  “What are you planning to do with me?”

  “I want to see you walk out of here. I don’t want you to tell me about your mission. You don’t have to talk. I just need you to trust me and know that I don’t mean you any harm.”

  Franka tried to hide it, but her voice was shaking. She motioned toward the chair beside her. He didn’t refuse, so she sat down.

  “Who are you going to turn me over to?”

  He raised his hand to cough, never letting the gun waver from her.

  “I’m not planning on turning you over to anyone—not unless you want me to.”

  “There’s no phone here? No one for miles around?”

  “We’re alone. You can shoot me now, but you’d be killing yourself too. It’s snowing again. We could be here for weeks. You won’t be able to travel, and you’ll die here. You need to trust me. I don’t mean you any harm.”

  “Can you take me into the city?”

  “No. You’d never make it. I barely made it myself, and I know these trails. I’ve been coming up here my whole life. You need to realize that we’re stuck with each other for a while. We need to trust one another. I must say I’m finding it difficult to trust you with that gun pointed at me.”

  “You had no right to take my guns from me in the first place.”

  “It was a precaution, nothing more. You had no need for them.”

  “How do I know that?”

  “Because if I wanted you dead I’d have left you out in the snow. You were hours from death when I found you.”

  She could see his eyes yielding, perhaps to logic, or perhaps to necessity.

  The man lowered the gun a few inches and closed his eyes for a second. “How do I know you’re telling me the truth, about any of this?”

  “If I were some kind of Allied agent, how on earth would I have known you were going to land in the snow, in the middle of nowhere, in Germany? Why would I be here, in the mountains, waiting for you to drop out of the sky? Your theory is someone found you when you were unconscious and deposited you here to be snared by a woman?”

  He closed his eyes but didn’t speak.

  “Who else is here other than the Gestapo? The Gestapo doesn’t deal in subtlety and nuance. They don’t try to coax information out of their victims. If I were Gestapo, I’d be torturing you right now.”

  “Why on earth would I be afraid of the Gestapo?”

  “Well then, why won’t you let me report you to them?”

  The man opened his eyes and opened his mouth to speak, but she didn’t let him.

  “I can help you. I want to help you. I went all the way into Freiburg today for you. I could have gone to a village closer to here, but they wouldn’t have had the painkillers you need. Put the gun down, and let me help you, and then, when the roads open, I’ll deliver you to the local authorities, and you can resume your recovery in a Luftwaffe hospital.”

  The man looked at the ground and put the gun in his lap. His voice was weak, drained of life. “Why are you doing this for me?”

  “Because I’m a nurse. Because you needed help.” Because I needed to be valuable again. I needed to do something useful, something good.

  “You don’t need to deliver me to the authorities. I can look after myself.”

  “Whatever you wish, Herr Graf. I really don’t care. Think of this as a recovery ward in a hospital. I’m here to do a job, and once you’re gone I’m no longer responsible. Does that sound fair?”

  “Yes, it does. Thank you, Fräulein.” His body drooped. The color had drained from his face.

  “You’re welcome. You must be half-starved. Have you had anything to eat?”

  “I didn’t make it to the kitchen.”

  “You wouldn’t have found much in there.”

  Franka let out a deep breath. She still didn’t know who he was, but that conversation could wait. Right now she needed to be a nurse again, and that felt good. She reached into the bag and removed a small bottle of morphine. He didn’t speak as she drew out the syringe and filled it full of the clear liquid.

  “This will help you with the worst of the pain. I have enough for the next three days or so, and then you’ll be back to aspirin. You might feel dizzy, faint, or drowsy, and we’ll keep a bucket for your vomit, but you’ll be spending the next few days in bed anyway. There’s no reason for you to be out here.”

  “I understand.”

  “You’re not my prisoner,” Franka said as she flicked the barrel of the syringe with her fingernail. “I’m a friend. You’ll come to see that in time. You’re free to go as soon as the roads open, or you can stay a little longer should you wish to continue your recovery here.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now how are we going to get you back into that bed?”

  “I crawled out here. I can crawl back in.”

  “And how exactly do you suggest crawling back into the bed? You won’t be able to haul yourself up.”

  “I can manage it.”

  “I have a better idea.” Franka went around behind him and t
ilted the rocking chair backward so that his legs were off the ground. He stifled the pain, biting down on his fist. She put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I need to get you back into the bed first, and then I’ll give you the painkillers.”

  “It’s just a little discomfort. I’m fine.”

  Franka took her hand off the man’s shoulder and pushed the rocking chair. He kept the gun on his lap. She didn’t reach for it or even ask for it back. Pushing him proved harder than she’d anticipated, and progress back to the bedroom was slow. Thankfully, it was only twenty feet away, and after a few aborted attempts, they arrived at the bed. The man tried to haul himself up, his thick arms struggling with his weight until she reached under his armpits, helping him up and over. He reached back for the pistol and shoved it under his pillow. Best to let him keep it, to show him that she trusted him, that she wasn’t the enemy. He lay back, the pain he was trying to hide etched on his face. He was sweating, panting, and she left to get him a glass of water before coming back and administering the drugs.

  “It will take about twenty minutes for the drugs to start working, and then I’ll set your cast tomorrow morning. In the meantime, I’ll get you something to eat before any nausea sets in.”

  The man nodded. She smiled at him before going back to the kitchen and returning with a plate of fresh bread and cheese. He ate it in seconds and collapsed back onto the pillow.

  It was after seven o’clock. “I’m going to leave you now. Try to relax and get a good night’s sleep. We’ll talk tomorrow.” I’ll be the one asking the questions then.

  The man closed his eyes, the drug-induced euphoria kicking in. A tiny smile came across his face.

  “Good night, Fräulein,” he whispered.

  She covered him with a thick layer of blankets, extinguished the oil lamp, and shut the door behind her as she left. He’d picked the lock once. Locking the door would be useless now. She would have to trust him, because she knew he wasn’t giving up her father’s gun.

  The fatigue she’d denied all day came to bear, and she shuffled into the kitchen to get some ham and bread. As much as she wanted to go to bed, she knew that the fire wouldn’t last the night, and the supply of wood was getting perilously low. She finished her meager meal, and after summoning the energy, she put on her hat, coat, and gloves and ventured back outside. Fortunately, there was just enough chopped wood remaining on the back porch to get them through the night. She would need to get more tomorrow. It was up to her. Everything would be.

  Daniel Berkel haunted her thoughts as she lay in bed. His ice-blue eyes were the last thing she saw before she finally succumbed to sleep.

  The house was cold when she woke. The fires had died overnight, and the air in the cabin was bordering on glacial. The mountainous layer of blankets on her bed was the only sanctuary, but she knew it was a temporary one. Hunger, and her desire to check on the man, drove her feet onto the floor. Her coat was hanging by the bed, and she put it on over her nightdress before emerging from her bedroom. With no sign of life from the other bedroom, she made herself a breakfast of liverwurst, bread, and cheese. The snow had come in earnest again last night, and the car was almost invisible now. Her footprints would be covered at least, and with the roads closed for a few more days the man would have some time to recover from the worst of his pain. The extra layers of snow outside would also offer some protection against any unwanted visits from Berkel. Perhaps by the time the snow had melted and the roads were passable, he would assume that she’d moved back to Munich. Wishful thinking. The Gestapo never assumed anything. She would need to finish that hiding place under the floorboards as soon as possible.

  Franka went to the man, pushing his bedroom door open with two fingers. He was still asleep, lying on his back, snoring.

  “You sleep, whoever you are,” she whispered. “That’s the best thing for you.” She stayed in the doorway for another minute or two, listening to the sound of him breathing, hoping to hear him say something in English again, to cement her convictions. He didn’t say a word, in English or German. She left him. The matter of warming the cabin was more pressing.

  The snow was three feet deep beyond the back porch. She took the sled and dragged it into the woods, ax in hand. Her father had taught her these things when she was a child. He hadn’t loved her any less because she was a girl but hadn’t babied her either. He taught her how to gather wood, season it, and set the fire. He taught her how to shoot, set traps, and skin and prepare the kill. He’d also introduced her to the works of Goethe, Hesse, and Mann, as well as the now-banned novel by Remarque, All Quiet on the Western Front. She thought about her father for the two hours she spent collecting wood. The Allies had killed him, and now one of them was asleep in his cabin. She tried to mentally separate the stranger in the spare room from the men who’d dropped those bombs. She knew that the Nazis were the aggressors, but where was the justice in carpet-bombing civilians? Tens of thousands of innocents had already died, and the bombings were only intensifying. Then again, the enemy of her enemy was her friend. Despite what they’d done, the Allies had to have some kind of right on their side, and helping the man could afford her the chance to get some measure of revenge on the Nazis.

  Franka piled the wood inside the back door in crisscrossed open stacks to ensure minimum drying time. It would need to dry quickly, because it seemed that the winter weather, like the war itself, would only get worse before it got better.

  It was almost eleven in the morning when she went back to his bedroom. His eyes flicked open as she entered. They were murky, full of pain.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “I’m fine. I think I could use some more painkillers. I slept through the night, but I fear they might be wearing off now.”

  “Of course.” She had the prepared syringe in her hand as she went to the bed. He took his arm out from under the deep layer of blankets and presented it to her. He took the shot wordlessly and, without flinching, watched her push the needle into his arm.

  She brought him a light meal afterward and waited to speak until he’d finished it.

  “I’m going to set the casts on your legs now. They’ll give you a far better chance of making a satisfactory recovery, and it shouldn’t be too painful while you’re under the morphine.”

  His eyes were half-closed, but he nodded.

  “I’m going to have to wash your legs first; then I’ll put on the stockings.”

  His answer came in the form of another nod, his eyes closed.

  Franka warmed up some water and formed a good, soapy lather in an old basin she’d found under the kitchen sink. She removed the primitive wooden splints and saved the wood for that night’s fire. Franka washed the bottom half of his legs. She knew he probably needed an all-over sponge bath, but he would have to do that himself. That didn’t seem proper here. She slipped on the stockings, which ran from his knees to his ankles, and then wrapped the gauze bandages around them. As she mixed the plaster of paris, words tumbled out of her mouth, partly to make him feel more comfortable, partly to hear a voice in the cold silence of the room.

  “I worked as a nurse for three years in Munich, at the university hospital. I saw a lot of broken legs. The injuries became worse as the war went on. I saw more and more young boys at the start of their lives, their whole futures ahead of them, with missing legs, or arms, or eyes. And then it wasn’t just soldiers anymore—it was women and children too, crushed in their own beds or burned to a crisp by Allied bombs. Thousands and thousands of them. We hadn’t enough room for the bodies in the morgue, not nearly. We had to lay them in the alley, pile them on top of one another.”

  She didn’t speak for a few minutes as she dipped the gauze into the plaster mix and wrapped it around a leg.

  “Did you ever work as a nurse around here?”

  “No, I left for Munich after I graduated college. I took the opportunity to get out of Freiburg as soon as I could.”

  “Why did you want to leave?”


  The sound of his voice startled her. His eyes were open, and he peered down at her.

  “I was young. I broke up with my boyfriend. I wanted a new start. I shirked my responsibilities to my family, and I left. I thought somehow that people in Munich might be different.”

  “Were they?”

  “Some, but not many.”

  She finished the first leg, leaving the plaster of paris to set, and moved to the other.

  “It seems like I’m answering all the questions when I’m the one who found you in the snow.”

  The man didn’t answer.

  “Why did you bail out over the mountains, and what happened to the plane? I didn’t hear anything. Why would you have bailed out there unless your plane was in trouble?”

  He took a few seconds to answer, and when he did his voice was garbled and groggy. “I’m so sorry, Fräulein Gerber, but I cannot speak about my reasons for being here. That could compromise my mission and put brave soldiers on the front lines in danger.”

  Franka brought her eyes back down to the man’s leg and bit her lip. “So then tell me something about yourself. Where are you from?”

  “I’m from Karlshorst, in Berlin. Do you know the city?”

  “Not well. I went a couple of times when I was a girl with my League of German Girls group. We saw the sights, Unter den Linden, the Reichstag, the Stadtschloss.”

  “It must have been exciting for a young girl to be at the center of the Reich like that.”

  She finished applying the gauze and began wetting the bandages in the plaster of paris. The other leg was already drying. She ran fingers over the surface of the cast. It was good.

  “Do you trust me?” she asked.

  “Of course. You’re a loyal citizen of the Reich.”

  “Why were you pointing a gun at me last night, then?”

  “I wasn’t sure where I was. I’m trained not to trust anyone. There is too much at stake. I see the error of my ways now. I see the kind of person you are. I admire anyone who’d go to such lengths as you have for a member of the führer’s armed forces. You’re obviously someone who recognizes the value in every serviceman as we strive toward the final victory.”