by Anna Schmidt
By contrast Peter was tall and angular in build. And of course, where Mikel’s skin and features were dark, his eyes hooded beneath the cliff of his brow, Peter had the fairer skin, blue eyes, and dark sandy hair so common among Americans. His smile came readily, usually accompanied by a mischievous gleam in those sea-blue eyes. And while during the short time she had known him she had been the one protecting him, she realized now that she had always felt safe in his company. There was a confidence about him that inspired trust. There was an easiness about him that made her believe that one day she and Daniel would find happiness.
But it was Mikel, not Peter, who was walking across the courtyard now. In his hand, he clutched a fistful of early spring flowers he’d apparently gathered from the woods surrounding the convent. It was Mikel who was here, who would always be where she and Daniel needed him to be. She smiled and went to meet him, her mind still full of thoughts of what the future might bring. But such thoughts were blown away like the dust in the courtyard when a military vehicle she recognized as the one used by the German officer raced through the gates one of the nuns had opened and came to a sudden stop at the entrance to the hospital ward.
Anja and Mikel stood watching as a soldier—the surly one usually on night duty in the ward—got out from the driver’s side and the last person either of them had expected to see stepped down from the passenger’s seat.
“Peter,” Anja whispered, and she knew by the way Mikel dropped the field flowers and returned to his work that she had revealed far too much of her feelings in that single word.
Peter’s mind had raced along with the vehicle over the rutted and half-destroyed roads from the village to the convent. He’d considered all possibilities—focusing on the always-present possibility that he had outlived his usefulness and at some point the driver would stop, order him out, and then shoot him. So when the soldier swerved onto a narrow dirt lane that led through a wooded area and on to an iron gate in the distance, Peter dared hope that the German had kept his word and Peter would see for himself how Roger was faring.
A nun approached the gate. She moved with a slow stateliness that seemed only to irritate the driver. When he chastised her, she smiled and went on with her duty—opening and closing the gate. The soldier gunned the motor, leaving a trail of dust behind that surely had to have coated the nun’s habit. It was all Peter could do to keep silent.
In front of the rundown stone building that resembled a kind of school, the soldier slammed on the brakes, cut the engine, and motioned for Peter to get out. A nun waited at the top of the steps leading up to a pair of heavy wooden doors. Her habit was slightly different than the one worn by the woman who had opened the gate, and Peter instantly focused on her as someone with the power to help them. He was aware of other activity in the courtyard—a woman dressed plain but not in the black garb of the others, two more soldiers who seemed to be enjoying a chat and a smoke while a man—local by his dress—unloaded the truck. But all of that was peripheral to his intent to make an impression on the nun waiting by the door.
“Bonjour,” he called out as he mounted the steps. “I am Peter Trent,” he continued in French. “My friend is—”
The nun held up one hand to halt his explanation. Was she warning him not to say too much? “I know who you are and why you have come.” She spoke perfect English, although she did so with an accent that made him think of Anja. And as always, whenever he thought of Anja, his heart beat a little faster. “You will find your friend some improved, although he has a long way to go before he will fully recover.”
She led the way inside and down a corridor where beams of daylight flickered like candles through the narrow openings in the thick stone walls. The only sounds were those of his footsteps—and the soldier’s close on his heels—and the rustle of the nun’s heavy skirt skimming the polished wooden floor. Halfway along the corridor, she stopped and opened a door, revealing a large room filled with light from a half dozen or more large windows on each side. Two rows of beds lined either side of the room, and Peter noticed that every bed was occupied. He scanned the faces of each patient, looking for Roger, and finally saw him lying in the next-to-last bed at the far end of the ward. A soldier had leaped to his feet the minute Peter and the nun and guard entered the room.
“Where’s the girl?”
Peter startled because the question had come from his driver, who was standing so close that Peter could smell his sour breath.
The slightest hint of a frown crossed the nun’s smooth forehead and was gone in an instant. But Peter noticed she did not respond to the soldier’s question—this small act of defiance made him like this older woman all the more. She leaned close to Roger, gently touching his shoulder. “Captain? You have a visitor.”
Roger’s eyelids jerked in response to her voice but did not open.
“Your friend needs a great deal of sleep. It is the best medicine we can offer. Perhaps if you sit here next to him …” Catching a movement in the hallway, she glanced up and smiled. “Ah, here she is now,” she added, and gave the surly soldier a look that clearly translated to “I told you so.”
Peter had moved to the far side of Roger’s bed opposite the nun, and he’d kept his attention on Roger, trying to decide for himself if the nun was sugarcoating the state of the airman’s health or if indeed Roger was on the mend. But when the girl the soldier had asked about spoke an apology—in German—Peter froze. He knew that voice. But how could she be here of all places?
Slowly he turned to face Anja, pure instinct telling him not to acknowledge knowing her. Yet when he saw her, all he wanted to do was hold out his arms to her.
Anja was shaking when she entered the ward, but she knew she had to be there. The soldier who was usually the night guard had driven Peter to the convent. From the first night he was on duty, he had made lewd suggestions to Anja about how the two of them might make better use of the long hours when the English airman was sleeping and the ward was quiet. At first she had tried to treat his comments as a joke, but it quickly became apparent that he was deadly serious. Twice he had cornered her after she came back from going to the toilet. He had pressed the length of his body to hers and run his hands over her breasts and stomach. Both times she’d been saved by the sudden appearance of one of the sisters, but she knew she couldn’t always count on that.
Now she worried that Peter would see her and in his surprise blurt out something that would give them both away. She had stood in the hallway for longer than she should have, trying to calm herself and connect with the Spirit within, praying that neither she nor Peter would put the other in danger. Finally, she was ready—more because she could hear the impatience in the soldier’s tone than that she felt fully prepared to handle the situation.
Peter’s eyes widened in surprise and in the next instant softened with obvious pleasure at seeing her and then almost immediately shifted to indifference. She spoke only French to Reverend Mother and German to the soldiers and was clearly relieved when Reverend Mother explained to Peter that she was a novice at the convent, assigned to care for his friend.
“Thank you,” Peter said, directing the comment to her.
Anja turned to the nun as if for translation, hoping that the guard would be pleased that she was playing out her role.
“Merci,” the nun said with a nod toward Peter. “He wishes to thank you for caring for his friend,” she continued in French.
Just then Roger stirred and opened his eyes. When he saw Peter, he grinned and tried to speak, but the words were lost in a coughing jag that had the man struggling for breath. Both Anja and Peter bent to help him sit up. In a sitting position, Roger was able to regain control of his breathing and take sips of the water Anja offered.
He pinned Peter with a look. “What’s happened? Why are you here?”
The night guard cleared his throat and signaled the other guard to follow him from the ward. He shot a look at Anja that spoke louder than words. This is what we’ve been waiti
ng for. Don’t mess up.
“Are you leaving?” Reverend Mother asked the two soldiers.
“Just heading out for a smoke and some fresh air.”
“An oxymoron if ever there was one,” Roger muttered, and immediately began coughing again.
The night guard glared at him, obviously aware that the comment had been derogatory, although he did not speak or understand English. He turned his attention to Peter. “Twenty minutes.”
As soon as they were gone, Reverend Mother pulled a screen around Roger’s bed. She nodded to Anja and then glided from the room.
Anja retrieved the paper and pencil she kept on the medication cart and handed them to Peter. “Talk about anything but write what is important,” she mouthed.
Immediately Peter began relating a story about how the Scotsman and the Irishman had gotten into an argument over whose people were the more courageous and whose had suffered the greatest persecution through their histories. Roger laughed out loud from time to time, always sending himself into a fresh fit of gagging and gasping for the effort. But all the while he eagerly read the words Peter scribbled on the notepad. Anja read them as well.
No sign of Gestapo from headquarters. Officer trying to make a name for himself before sending for them. Give him something so he continues to stall. Planning escape as soon as you—
Roger motioned impatiently for Peter to give him the pencil and paper. In large letters he wrote, Forget me—just go.
Peter frowned and shook his head. He indicated Roger, Anja, and himself. “All of us,” he mouthed.
Roger abandoned the paper and mouthed back, “Don’t be a hero.”
Anja jabbed Peter in the ribs with her elbow. “Talk,” she whispered, knowing that the silence would alert some of the other men on the ward. Most of them were German, and who knew where their loyalties might lie?
Peter changed the subject, asking Roger about his health—how he was improving, what the doctor was telling him, when he might be well enough to be discharged.
“Doctor? There is no doctor,” Roger replied. “There is only this little angel of mercy here.” He added a translation in French supposedly for Anja’s sake.
She murmured something back to him and then stepped out from behind the curtain. Some of the patients knew why she had been assigned to the Englishman. They knew that she was caring for him in order to spy on him. They needed to see her listening and even taking notes because, although she was not yet sure which patients were reporting her actions to the officer, she had no doubt that one or more of them had. So she busied herself with organizing the medications on the cart as she feigned listening to the conversation behind the curtain.
Roger asked about Ian and Colin. Then he said something about an invasion. Peter shushed him, and Anja knew that this was the bit of news she was intended to give the officer. Peter had once told her that if captured he had been instructed to offer as little information as possible but if tortured, then he should give his tormentors something that was close to the truth, something about which they might have already heard rumors.
Gossip had been rampant for weeks about the possibility of an Allied invasion. Some believed it was imminent; others—like Anja—were sure that it was little more than wishful thinking. Pencil and paper poised for the benefit of the spies around her, she leaned close to the screen and listened.
“Months,” she heard Peter say dismissively, loud enough to be heard by those around them.
“But on schedule,” Roger insisted, his whisper easily heard as well.
“How should I know? We’re not exactly getting the latest updates,” Peter said impatiently.
Just then the two soldiers returned. The night guard frowned when he saw the privacy screen and strode down the ward with fire in his eyes. “Was ist los?” he demanded, ripping the screen aside.
“We thought a little privacy—that it might make them less cautious,” Anja explained in German.
The soldier scowled at her and then nodded with grudging agreement. He gave an order to the day guard to take Peter back to town and took up his post as night guard, arms folded across his chest. He watched as Anja tended to Roger, giving him his medicine and then helping him settle back onto the pillows. As soon as Roger drifted off to sleep—or pretended to do so—the guard held out his hand. Anja gave him her notes—notes she had written in German—and watched as his unkempt eyebrows shot up at the word invasion. He turned the paper over and back several times as if willing there to be more; then he brushed past Anja, calling her an unflattering name for any female, much less one he thought was preparing to join the convent. He hurried from the ward.
Roger cocked open one eye and smiled. “It worked,” he whispered.
“For now,” Anja replied, pretending to check his temperature as she leaned in close. “You must persuade Peter to escape if he can,” she added.
“He will not leave without you.”
“Then he is a fool.”
“A fool in love.” Roger sighed, and this time when he fell asleep, he was not pretending.
Anja, on the other hand, had never been more awake. Her mind raced with the ramifications of Roger’s declaration. If Peter loved her—as she loved him—then Roger was right. He would not go without her. She had to find a way to make him believe that a future between them was impossible.
She stood at the window, lost in thought. The nuns were on their way to evening vespers. Mikel was raking dead winter leaves from the flower beds in the courtyard, exposing the tips of green leaves of daffodils and tulips rising up from the earth. She watched him for several minutes.
Mikel was the answer.
CHAPTER 14
Mikel had no illusions about Anja’s true motive when she came to him later that afternoon.
“Do you still wish to marry me, Mikel?”
Although he was taken aback at her directness, he did not show his surprise. He was a simple man—a practical man—and there could be only one answer to such a question. “I do,” he said as he continued to scatter straw for the lone cow the nuns kept for milking.
“Good.” She walked away but not before he saw her face. He knew that look. It was the tight, determined expression she took on whenever she was planning something. “Anja?”
She paused and looked back at him.
“Do you wish to marry me?”
“We will marry,” she replied, and although he knew this was not an answer, he would not risk questioning her for fear she would change her mind. “If you are sure,” she added, and the way she looked at him, he knew that she was offering him this one last chance to back out. He also knew that in that look was the truth of her feelings for him—she cared for him as a friend and colleague. She did not love him.
“I am sure.”
“Then I will ask Reverend Mother how we can do this.” To Mikel’s surprise, she did not turn to go again. Instead, she took a step toward him and cupped his cheek with her palm. “Thank you, Mikel. I will—”
He closed his eyes. “No promises, Anja. It is enough.” He held her hand. “What will you tell the American?” He had always refused to use the man’s name. He was no different from all the others they had shepherded to safety. He was an evader and as such had no name.
“Nothing.”
“He loves you.” And you love him.
“He only thinks he loves me. It is wartime—an unreal time when nothing is as it seems.” She smiled at him. “You and I understand what is real and what is not.”
He watched her walk away. She was far too thin, but there was such strength in the set of her shoulders. No, she did not love him, but he would take whatever she could offer, and in time perhaps …
Suddenly he knew what he must do. Until the American was out of her life and back with his unit, he would always be there between them. With Anja and Daniel relatively safe in the convent, Mikel could take the American the rest of the way.
Every waking moment, Peter, Ian, and Colin worked on their escape p
lan. No one would say it, but they all knew that none of them would go without Roger. The problem was that Roger was not getting any better. In fact, when the German officer had sent Ian and Colin for a visit, still hoping for them to reveal details about the Allied invasion that he could take to his superiors, they had returned to report that Roger was running a high fever and struggling to breathe. They told Peter that a nurse had confided that Roger’s lungs were full of fluid and they did not have the medicine necessary to help him.
A few days later the officer called Peter to his office.
“Your friend died last night,” he said in a tone devoid of any sympathy.
Peter had a moment when he suspected a trick.
But then the officer sighed heavily. “I suppose we can bury him in the cemetery near the convent. The ground is still frozen, but—” He suddenly looked directly at Peter and smiled. “But surely you and the others would wish to give him a proper funeral. You will dig the grave and prepare the coffin. After all, have you not been asking for more opportunities for the men to exercise and be outside?”
Peter clenched and unclenched his fists. It would serve no purpose to punch this little Napoleon in the mouth. “All right,” he said. “I’ll tell the others the news. Is there anything else?”
It was evident that the officer had expected more of a reaction from Peter. He stared at him for a long moment and then dismissed him with a wave of his hand. “Be ready to leave in ten minutes,” he said as Peter left the office.
There was no opportunity to talk as they were herded onto the truck and rode with a guard over the now-familiar road to the convent. But Peter was coming up with a plan—one he hoped would get them all—including Anja and even Mikel—to safety. The key was finding a way to speak with Mikel.