Lovers in Enemy Territory

by Rebecca Winters

  "Hello," he answered back with a faint smile, and held out his bronzed hand which Miguel shook with enthusiasm. "Where am I?"

  Miguel thought he understood. "House of Luis, my friend.” He pointed to his chest. Jeffrey fell back against the pillow. He felt for his leg and discovered a splint had been applied and expertly wrapped. He pulled up the trouser leg. "You did this for me?"

  "I.” Miguel smiled.

  "Are you a doctor?" How could it be that he’d run into such a godsend!

  "No.” He shook his head emphatically. "A friend."

  "Thank you. Thank you very much," Jeffrey replied, and grabbed Miguel's hand to shake it firmly.

  "Is nothing," Miguel grinned. Then he put his hand to his head. "It hurts?"

  Jeffrey winced. "Yes."

  "Are you hungry?"

  Jeffrey's eyes opened wider. "Yes.” He flashed a grateful smile.

  "Good. You eat now."

  Jeffrey smiled and expelled a heavy sigh, but the exertion of trying to make himself understood caused the eyelids to close and he was once more in a light sleep.

  Miguel had seen enough to satisfy himself that the Englishman was not suffering a severe head injury. He went down the ladder and told Luis to come up and help him get the flyer down the stairs. He tapped the flyer on the arm. The eyes opened, instantly alert. That was another good sign. "We help you down," he pointed to the floor.

  Jeffrey wasn't sure what Miguel meant but he tried to sit up and do their bidding. Luis went around the side and together they got him to his feet and over to the ladder. In a moment they had him downstairs and lying on a mat in front of the fire. The fire felt deliciously warm to Jeffrey.

  Miguel spooned out some stew in a bowl and placed it in front of him. "Paella," he said and pointed to the stew. "Eat!"

  Jeffrey needed no second invitation. His hands shook so hard, he had trouble holding the spoon. He was offered bread and goat milk which he ate and drank with equal relish. The more he ate, the better he felt.

  There was nothing wrong with the Englishman's appetite. When

  he was full, he looked over at Luis and smiled. "Thank you for the food, for your house."

  Luis didn’t understand the words, but he saw the look of gratitude on the bronzed face. He nodded back and his smile stretched from ear to ear.

  It was that face Jeffrey remembered in his muddled dreams. Miguel took the bowl away. Then he squatted in front of him, staring.

  "Your name?" he pointed to him.

  "Jeffrey Norwood."

  "Jeffrey?" Miguel repeated, stressing the last syllable. The Englishman nodded. Miguel reached for his hand. "Luis and I, we hide you." He

  looked around as if he were afraid. "The Boches. They come."

  Jeffrey concentrated on his words. Boches-- he knew that word well enough. Now he understood and squeezed Miguel's hand.

  "Come," Miguel spoke with authority. "We go outside." Luis went for more blankets and together they helped him around the back of the hut and into the root cellar. They pulled away a long bin half full of vegetables and spread out a blanket on the floor where he would lie down.

  "You stay here," Miguel explained and helped him to lie down. Once he was flat on his back, Miguel put the other blanket over him. Then the bin was wedged up against him as tightly as possible and the boards over the hole were put back in place.

  "Okay?" Miguel called out.

  "Okay," came the muffled reply. The footsteps went away and he was sealed in the cool darkness. The sudden movement had caused his leg to ache and he cursed the fact that he had so little mobility. It smelled of onions in the damp space, and it suddenly struck him how unbelievable it was that he was lying in a hole, utterly alone, somewhere in the Pyrenees.

  He was wide awake now and the reality of his precarious situation assailed him. It was a miracle he was alive. His thoughts wandered to the other two who had jumped ahead of him. How long ago? He'd lost all track of time. The poor devils. By rights, he should be dead. He sighed again.

  How was it possible he'd been found in that storm and taken care of? It appeared he'd come out of this with nothing worse than a broken leg and a few bruises. He touched his cheek, aware for the first time of the puffiness at his temple. It hurt if he applied even the slightest pressure.

  There were a hundred questions he wanted to ask, but he'd have to be patient. They might leave him in the hole for days. The Basque men had thought of everything. They’d risked their lives for him. There was literally nothing to do at the moment but think, and it was then that memories of Catherine and Michael swept over him, till his face was wet with tears.

  He had to get out of this alive so they could be together. She’d promised him they'd be married. Would it ever really happen? Right now he could only pray that the Germans wouldn’t discover his hiding place. The men who’d helped him would lose their lives for it.

  Jeffrey had no idea how long he lay there before he was oblivious to his world. His thoughts were back in England with Catherine and Michael, and the remembrance was so sweet and poignant, it erased the pain and the uncertainty of his present situation. He slept on and off till nightfall.

  Miguel and Luis had just finished their evening meal when there was a loud banging on the hut door. Someone was trying to force it open. Miguel's black eyes darted to Luis and he got to his feet. "Who is it? What do you want?"

  "Open up in the name of the Third Reich, and be quick about it," the gutteral words reached his ears. The urge to kill was foremost in Miguel's thoughts just then. He reluctantly undid the bolt and three soldiers burst in, almost knocking him over. One motioned for the two of them to get over against the wall, waving a gun in their faces.

  The other two began a very thorough search of the hut, starting with the kitchen cupboard, the fireplace and finally the loft. When nothing in the hut looked suspicious, they helped themselves to the rest of the stew and stuffed their pockets with cheese and vegetables they’d found on the counter.

  Finally they all went outside and the two Basques were forced to watch as the soldiers sifted through the hay with a pitchfork. Still they found nothing. One of them overturned Miguel's cart and set fire to it. Miguel's face was livid as he watched this insanity, helpless to stop it. Never had he been so close to taking a human life.

  The soldiers walked through every inch of the upper and lower pasture, breaking into the upper hut. A few minutes later and they were reassembled, trying to decide where to go next. Miguel understood German fairly well, and picked up enough to realize that the soldiers were satisfied that no one was here.

  Apparently they’d searched the entire area surrounding the plane crash and had come up with nothing. The pilot and crew must have burned to death. They started walking off, but one of the men caught the metallic gleam of the handle of the root cellar door and called to his friends in a loud voice.

  They rushed over and pulled the boards away. Jeffrey was awake and heard the noise. His heart stopped beating. Outside Miguel stood poised for a struggle. If the soldiers discovered the airman, Miguel was prepared to fight, hand to hand. Luis had similar feelings and girded himself up for a fight he figured was imminent.

  The soldiers rummaged through the bin, taking their time. There was a lot of conversation. With famine still plaguing the land, the sight of vegetables was difficult for the German soldiers to resist. They stuffed their coats with potatoes and onions. Jeffrey guessed what was happening and praised the Lord that their desire to fill their bellies was greater than their desire to conduct a further search.

  The men finally stood up and walked off without replacing the board. Jeffrey could feel fresh air on his face. The footsteps grew fainter. After a minute there was total silence. "Thank God," he muttered to himself.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  "Jeffrey," a familiar voice whispered. "The Boches, gone."

  "Yes," the exultant voice replied. In a moment, all three were back in the hut, but Jeffrey hadn't failed to notice the charred re
mains of Miguel's cart, nor failed to smell the smoke which filled the air. His hand gripped Miguel's shoulder.

  "I'm sorry. It’s my fault."

  "No," Miguel shook his head. "It’s nothing."

  "Thank you for helping me."

  "You-do-same-for-me?"

  "Yes," Jeffrey nodded, and cursed again that he couldn’t communicate. The goodness of these mountain men would never be forgotten. His thoughts returned to his two crewmen who could be lying dead anywhere. What was their fate by now? He shuddered to think. By some miracle he had landed in a pasture. The perspiration poured off him and his leg began to buckle from weakness.

  Miguel felt the dead weight and tightened his grip on the airman's arm. They got him into bed immediately and took him more food. Jeffrey sat in the bed, deep in thought, weary from the tension. Miguel handed him a plate of bread and cheese.

  "Thank you," was all he could say. It wasn’t enough. Because of him, Miguel had lost his wagon, and the two men had risked everything. What a mess. Jeffrey had no way to repay them, but when and if he got back to England, it would be a different story. He gobbled his food. Miguel could not help but smile at the ravenous airman.

  "You stay here now.” Jeffrey hesitated, then answered with a broad smile.

  "Good," Miguel replied and they shook hands. "Now you sleep!"

  Jeffrey nodded. The urge to sleep was overwhelming. The close call with the soldiers had depleted him of his last ounce of strength. He closed his eyes and it wasn't till the following morning that he awoke and looked into the warm, dark eyes of the old man. This morning his head was clear and the bed felt warm and comfortable. The pain was not as bad in his leg.

  "Good morning."

  The old man nodded.

  "Where is Miguel?"

  The other one shook his head, not understanding.

  "Miguel?" Jeffrey said the name distinctly.

  Luis stood up and gestured. Apparently Miguel wasn’t here. Then the man pointed to the hot milk and cheese on the table. Jeffrey ate in silence and felt the man's eyes on him. When he finished eating, he tried to work himself over to the edge of the bed.

  If only he could stand up. Lying around in bed would not help him to recover, but when he tried to stand, the pain shot through him like a hot poker. He could not put any weight on his leg.

  Luis pushed Jeffrey gently back against the mattress and held out his hands for him to wait. He went downstairs and out of the hut. Jeffrey shook his head, not comprehending, and had to be content to lie there, utterly helpless. If Philip and Michael could see him now.

  And Catherine. There was always Catherine to think about. Was she still in Spain? Was it possible the convent was anywhere near where he lay at this moment? To see her face, to hear her voice and feel her lips on his again. He’d give his life for such an opportunity.

  He had to find out his location. If Catherine were still at Saint Theresa's, he could get word to her. When the old man came back, he would try to make himself understood. He needed paper and pencil. He could draw a map. He grew more and more excited. It was not beyond the realm of possibility that his darling Catherine was closer to him than he ever dreamed.

  His thoughts were flying so hard and fast, he felt feverish. He slept a little and finally heard the hut door open and shut. The old man climbed the rungs of the ladder carrying two long wooden sticks beneath his arm. He stood them on end. Crutches! The Old Basque had actually fashioned him a pair of crutches !

  A broad smile stole across Jeffrey's face. Luis held them out. Jeffrey clasped the strong hand. "Thank you, Luis!"

  The crutches were awkward to handle, but after ten minutes they served him perfectly well. Jeffrey smiled again at his friend, then sat down on the bed, exhausted. He put the crutches on the floor at the side of the bed.

  "Luis? Do you have paper, pencils?" He pretended he was writing in the air. Luis watched and tried to make it out, but he didn’t understand. Jeffrey thought some more. Then an idea leaped out at him. There would be charcoal in the fireplace. He could use that to write with.

  He grew more excited and reached for the crutches. In no time he was on his feet and over to the ladder. He indicated to Luis that he wished to go downstairs. With the old man's help, he made it to the ground floor, and Jeffrey, out of breath, worked his way to the fireplace and felt about for a piece of charred wood. When he found a small one he sat down on the floor and began to make marks on the hearth. Luis watched, fascinated.

  "Papier," Jeffrey said the word in French, hoping it might ring a bell. The old man scratched his head and finally nodded. He rushed over to the cupboard at the end of the hut and rummaged through a drawer. He came back to the hearth with an old section of newspaper. It was better than nothing.

  Jeffrey spread it out over the wood floor and began sketching the outlines of a map of the Pyrenees. He drew the shape of the Basque coast line and filled in the towns of Fuenterrabia and Irun, putting in several mountain ranges that he remembered from the map he saw in the little book.

  He drew a plane and a chute. Luis nodded and smiled. Then Jeffrey offered him the charcoal. "Your home," he pointed to the man and Luis looked carefully at the drawing. Finally he put an x near the town of Irun.

  Jeffrey's eyes opened wide. If that was so, then the convent was close. He took the charcoal and drew a cross and the word Theresa below it, then gave the charcoal back to Luis. The old man's eyes lit up and he made sounds. He put another x on the paper, right next to the previous one. "Senora Theresa," he called out excitedly.

  "How many kilometers?" Jeffrey questioned. "Kilo-me-ters?" he held up his fingers, one at a time. The old man's face beamed with comprehension. He held up ten fingers.

  "Good heavens," Jeffrey thought. Saint Theresa's was just ten kilometers from here, if he understood Luis properly. Where was Miguel and when would he be back? If Jeffrey didn't have a broken leg, he'd set out immediately to find Catherine. Was she still there? Was she safe?

  It just wasn't possible that she could be so close to him after all this time. It was as if the hand of God had again reached out and gently guided him to the right spot. His emotions were at fever pitch.

  Luis too felt frustrated that the language problem prevented them from communicating. Apparently the convent meant something important to the Englishman. Luis would try to find out what it was that caused the man to appear so excited all at once. He patted Jeffrey's arm.

  "Miguel," he said the name and then pointed to the convent. "Miguel."

  Jeffrey concentrated hard to discover what the old man was trying to convey. Something about Miguel and the convent. Maybe he meant Miguel had gone there for help. He couldn't make any other sense out of it. If that were true ...

  The old man put his palms together and laid them against the side of his cheek, closing his eyes in a semblance of going to sleep. "Miguel," he repeated the name.

  "He sleeps there?" Jeffrey mimicked the gesture. Luis clapped his hands and nodded. That was it! Miguel slept there. That meant he had to know Catherine! Why did Miguel live there? What would he be doing at a convent?

  Then Jeffrey remembered his leg. Miguel wasn't a doctor, that's what he said, but maybe he helped the sisters. Was that the explanation? He took another look at his leg. It was a professional job of splinting and he had little pain now. The medics couldn't have done a better job. Jeffrey's mind was full of questions and ideas.

  Again, Luis could see the look of eagerness and frustration cross over the airman's face. In a few days, Miguel would come back. Then the Englishman could get the answers to his questions.

  *****

  A week passed before Miguel could return to the hut of Luis with the Sister. New cases of typhoid had been reported in Fuenterrabia and the

  surrounding area. The sisters were kept busy day and night, looking after the poor families whose members had fallen victim to the dread disease.

  Miguel waited on the sick and drove himself mercilessly till the early hours of the morning
. Scarcely a word passed between the two of them. During that time, the Holy Mother had received an unprecedented visit from two German soldiers demanding to see every room.

  Catherine was in the supply closet when they marched into the infirmary. Miguel was down in the village at the time, much to her relief. She shook like a leaf as they walked about the room, looking over each patient with ruthless scrutiny. The sisters on duty kept their wimpled heads lowered and tended to business as if the soldiers were not there at all. She kept her back to them and continued to fold bandages.

  One of the soldiers came to the doorway of the closet. It was obvious to see no one could be hiding in there and he grunted an obscenity. Then they were gone. Ever since Miguel had told her about the plane crash, Catherine had harbored secret fears that the Germans would come to the convent. She’d imagined many horrors, but now they had gone.

  She was thankful that Miguel was away at the time and praised his wisdom in not telling anyone about the flyer. There was no curiosity on the sisters' part, no discussion once the soldiers went away for they knew nothing.

  Miguel returned from town that evening and she told him in detail about the surprise visit. He broke out in a cold sweat when he realized for whom the search must have been instigated. His mind was on the Englishman once more.

  "Sister, I think it’s safe now for us to go up to the mountains. It is set for the day after tomorrow. We’ll leave as we usually do for our afternoon rounds. No one will know our destination. I must see how the man's leg is getting along.

  "But even more important, pray that Senor Polila in the village will have some milk for us tomorrow. I plan to take fresh vegetables from the convent garden to bribe him. I think God will forgive me for a little subterfuge.”

  Catherine smiled sadly. "I’ve been praying for days now, Miguel. The supply is running low. If the Alba children don’t get more milk, they’ll die as surely as their mother is going to die."

  Miguel stared at the lovely face and realized the sister was a changed person from a month before. Her idealism had been replaced by a more down-to-earth approach. In a way it was sad that her foundation of high hopes had been shaken, but it made her a more useful, productive Sister of God, more capable of rendering the kind of service needed in such difficult times.