Simple Faith

by Anna Schmidt

  “And until then?”

  She settled onto the ground, her back against a boulder, and patted the place beside her. “Might as well settle in,” she told him.

  He sat down and eased off one of his espadrilles. Anja’s fist went to her mouth as she saw the blisters on his feet. At least two were large open wounds, bleeding and oozing. “Why didn’t you let me treat those when we were at the monastery?” she demanded, her concern for him finding voice in annoyance.

  “I don’t know. You had your hands full with Mikel and Daniel, and it seemed like the rest gave them a chance to heal some. They didn’t seem so bad.”

  Of course the two-hour hike they had just taken had only aggravated them all over again. They could get infected—they probably already were. Now what?

  “Follow me,” she said as she started back the way they had come.

  “We’re going back?” he whispered. “Don’t give up now, Anja. I can do this. I will do this.”

  “There’s a stream we passed. We can get water there.”

  “We have water,” he reminded her, holding up the goatskin that the monks had given them along with a supply of food for their journey.

  “We also have some ointment and gauze in our first-aid kit,” she whispered. “That water is for drinking, and our first step is to clean the areas. Now come on.”

  She scampered on all fours up the side of the hill, staying low to the ground—hopefully a reminder for Peter of her warning before they left the monastery that this area closest to the French side of the river was a favorite place for Germans and locals loyal to them to keep watch for evaders.

  When they reached the stream, she was well aware that the water would feel like thrusting his feet into a tub of ice cubes, but there was no question that it would help. If nothing else, it would numb the pain. While Peter soaked his feet, Anja stepped out of the coveralls she wore over her hiking clothes and began tearing at the fabric with her teeth. When she had some strips of fabric assembled, she motioned for him to place one foot on her knee. She dried it with what was left of the coveralls, then stroked on a thin layer of the ointment. After that she wrapped his foot first in gauze and then in a layer of the thicker soft fabric she’d ripped from the coveralls. When she had tied off that, she eased on his espadrille and motioned for the other foot. Once she had repeated the treatment, she wadded up what was left of the garment and hid it beneath some stones by the creek; then she motioned for him to follow her as they crawled back through low shrubs and brush.

  It was dark by the time they crawled back to the place that hid them and gave them the best view of the power plant and barracks. The spotlights were illuminated, although fully half of them were not working. There were also lights inside the barracks. She could hear voices as the patrol guards gathered in the yard to change shifts. She saw them walk up and down and around the power station, along the river, and then back again. But then she realized that this was not something they would continue to do. Once they had made one survey of the area, they retreated back inside the barracks or leaned against the side of the power plant and smoked as they talked.

  “We wait for the next shift change,” she whispered. “If the routine is the same, then we will wait for the last shift before dawn and go.”

  Peter squeezed her hand to show he’d heard her, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he tugged at her until she was sitting next to him; then he gently ran his fingers over her eyelids to close them. “Rest,” he whispered. “I’ll keep watch.”

  Time dragged on, and between the lullaby of the rushing river and the utter quiet that surrounded them otherwise, Peter had to fight to stay awake. He tried concentrating on the stars. He’d never been any good at finding the constellations—much to his dad’s annoyance. “It’s right there, Petey,” his father would say when they would camp out in the backyard. Now he tried to keep himself alert by simply remembering the names: Big Dipper, Little Dipper, Orion—was that right?

  He gave up and focused instead on the lack of activity around the power plant and the barracks. Light still blazed in both places, but there didn’t seem to be much activity. There was no way for him to know what time it was. He knew at least several hours had passed, for he had witnessed a second changing of the patrol. The routine had been the same as before—a cursory check of the area and then a return to the barracks. All he could do now was watch for the next shift of the border patrol to leave the barracks, circle the area, and go back inside. Then he and Anja could finally move out.

  And then what?

  If they made it across the suspension bridge and past the patrol barracks and through the tunnel, what then? More to the point, how much farther would Anja go with him? Mikel had pointed to a place on the map on the other side of the river past the tunnel where they would come to a house. They would stay there while someone from the house went down to the village and called the British consulate in San Sebastian to let them know that “the package was ready for pick up.” A car bearing diplomatic plates would arrive, and once inside that car, Peter would be truly safe for the first time since his plane went down. The car was considered British territory just like the consulate and embassy were.

  Next to him Anja stirred and then settled back into sleep. How he longed to talk to her—to say to her all the things that were in his heart. Oh, he understood that she would go back to the monastery—how could she not? Daniel was there. But Peter did not want to say good-bye without making sure that Anja knew what she meant to him—would always mean to him.

  Without warning she sat up fully alert. She clutched Peter’s arm—a reminder for him to remain absolutely still. He realized that once again she was listening for something. And then he heard it as well. A movement just yards away from where they waited. Everything went still, and then Peter heard the call of a night bird—the same one he’d heard from Mikel once before. It had to be a trick—a trap—but before he could warn Anja, she made an answering call.

  Peter waited for the inevitable. They would be captured or shot. It was over just when he was within sight of freedom.

  Anja was well aware that the signal could not have come from Mikel, but it was a signal that was known only to the guides along the escape line that she and Josef and Lisbeth traveled. She had to believe that whoever was out there was a friend—someone who could help them. Someone who could hopefully take Peter the rest of the way and let her get back to Daniel—and Mikel. At the same time, it was obvious by his sudden tenseness that Peter thought they had run into a trap. She had to keep him from attacking whoever was coming and perhaps causing harm to someone she cared about. “Wait,” she hissed and clamped her hand down on his arm.

  “Anja?” A whisper as soft as the wind. A voice she recognized.

  “Josef?” How was this possible? He was supposed to be back at the monastery treating Mikel.

  A rustling nearby and there he was. With relief she fell into his arms. “Lisbeth?” she whispered.

  “Safe,” he assured her; then he turned and offered his hand to Peter.

  Anja did not miss Peter’s initial hesitation. He had always questioned Josef’s loyalty, but then he reached out and grasped Josef’s shoulder.

  Below them they heard voices and looked over the rise to see the changing of the patrol.

  “We have to go,” Anja said. She did not know how Josef had managed to find them, but at the moment all she cared about was that Peter’s safety was no longer solely her responsibility. The relief she felt was like one of the boulders they had scaled on their way to this place being lifted off her chest. She began to edge her way down to the place where the suspension bridge connected to the French side of the river. Peter followed, and Josef came last.

  The bridge was in worse shape than Mikel had described, and while they waited for the guards to make their rounds and return to the barracks, Anja studied the only passage available to bring them to the other shore. She was lightweight and could move very quickly across as long as the bridge did n
ot sway too much. But Peter and Josef were both heavier in spite of the fact that neither of them had eaten regularly or properly for months now. What if the frayed ropes or rotted slats gave way? What if the whole thing collapsed?

  She decided that Peter should go first and motioned him to do so as soon as the last guard had gone inside and they heard the barracks door slam. Of course, he refused, but Josef understood her thinking and practically shoved Peter onto the swaying bridge. While trying to retain his balance, he traveled several steps out over the river. He could come back of course, but Anja and Josef both signaled him forward.

  Step-by-step he made the crossing—sometimes having to make a leap when several of the slats were missing. That kind of sudden movement made the whole thing sway dangerously, and since one side rope was missing entirely, the chance that the whole contraption might spin around and dump Peter into the river was very real.

  Anja held her breath, willing him to make it. If he didn’t, there was no reason for her or Josef to attempt the crossing, for Peter would surely be swept away by the vicious current and lost. They would do what they could to rescue him, but Anja knew that the chances of him surviving were not good at all. On the other hand, if he made it, then Josef could go next, and if he made it, then he could take Peter the rest of the way and she could return to the monastery.

  Josef clasped her shoulder. “Anja, Lisbeth is at the monastery with Daniel.”

  “And Mikel,” she said, thinking that she was completing his sentence.

  His grip tightened. “Mikel was the one who sent for us—some smugglers you passed in the mountains?”

  She nodded.

  “They were not smugglers. Mikel knew that he was badly injured and …”

  “But he’s going to make it—tell me that you got there in time,” she insisted.

  Josef pointed to where Peter waited on the other side. “Go,” he urged. “We can talk once we reach the safe house in San Sebastian.”

  “Mikel?” Her voice shook like the swaying bridge beneath her feet.

  “Go, Anja.”

  Even as she took that first shaky step onto the bridge, she knew that Mikel had died. Now she crossed the bridge on winged feet. The truth was that all she wanted to do was run and run and run until she collapsed—until she had no more strength to fight the defiance that drove her.

  No more! Please no more.

  Peter waited for her on the opposite side, his arms outstretched to pull her the last few feet to safety. She was well aware that he thought her tears came from relief that they had both made it. He helped her to the shore behind him and turned to wait for Josef. In the light illuminating the power plant, she saw that he was actually smiling at her as if they had achieved a huge victory. And in that moment, she was filled with an anger that threatened to consume her.

  Peter followed Anja and Josef’s steps as they edged their way past the power plant, ran across an open area to the dark side of the barracks, and from there followed a railway track for several minutes until it disappeared into a tunnel. The tunnel was darker than the night and dank, and it was hard to find their footing as they hurried along, skimming their fingers over the rocky wall like someone who was blind and needed to feel the way. Finally, there was a marked difference between the blackness of the tunnel and the charcoal gray of the outside world.

  They emerged gasping as if they had run a long race. The three of them crouched in a cluster of trees, listening for footsteps, voices, any sound that would indicate they had been seen and followed. In the distance, they heard the river—behind them now and muffled by the tunnel and trees. Peter realized that they were still in the mountains, but at least now they were on the downhill side and headed in the right direction.

  Josef handed him the goatskin, and he drank his fill, then passed it to Anja, who sipped at it distractedly. Something was not right. Instead of feeling the exhilaration that they had succeeded in safely making the crossing and getting past the border patrol, she seemed tense and on edge. True, they were not yet safe, but they were certainly safer than they had been in weeks. He reached to touch her arm, and she jerked away, folding her arms tightly around her knees and refusing to look at him.

  Peter glanced at Josef, who seemed unmoved by her behavior. “What’s going on?” he whispered.

  Instead of answering him, Josef gently helped Anja to her feet. “Come on,” he said softly. “We need to reach the safe house before it is fully light.” He wrapped his arm around her as if she were an invalid. “Come on,” he urged.

  It took them some time to reach the safe house—yet another ramshackle stone structure nesting in the hillside. Given their last experience, Peter’s senses were instantly on alert as they approached the seemingly abandoned house. Josef led them around the fringes of the property, staying close to rocks and trees and shadows as he surveyed the situation. Anja showed no interest in any of this but followed Josef blindly as if in a trance.

  “I’ll go first,” Josef whispered as he started across the open yard.

  Peter crouched next to Anja. “What’s happened, Anja? Something is terribly wrong and …”

  She looked up at him with eyes that were devoid of their usual liveliness and sparkle. “Mikel is dead,” she whispered and then responded to Josef’s signal by breaking away from Peter and running to the house. Peter was so stunned by the news that he fell back onto the ground. Mikel? Surely not.

  He felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. He felt as if he might actually throw up. Mikel—a man who seemed to know no bounds when it came to strength and survival—was dead. Mikel—the man who loved Anja so much that Peter had been able to persuade himself that letting her go was the greatest act of love—was gone.

  No wonder Anja was acting the way she was. She had just been told that her best friend had died, and because she had chosen duty over love, she had not been there. Peter felt tears sting his eyes and swiped at them with the backs of his filthy hands. What kind of world was this where good men who only wanted to live in peace could be taken while horrible little tyrants lived?

  “Peter?”

  Josef was standing over him.

  “It’s true then—Mikel is dead?” Peter managed to ask. Josef sighed and nodded.

  “Come on inside, my friend. There is food and hot water for bathing and clean clothes. Then we will talk.”

  “Anja?”

  “She is grieving—and not just for Mikel. She will need time, Peter, and it will not help her if you try and take the blame for Mikel’s loss.”

  But he was to blame. He was to blame for the fact that Mikel was dead, that Anja was once again separated from those she loved, that Josef and Lisbeth… “Where is your wife?”

  Josef smiled. “She is at the monastery with Daniel.”

  “You and Anja should go back as soon as she’s up to traveling. I can manage from here.”

  “Come inside, Peter. Refresh yourself, and then we will talk of next steps.”

  The farmhouse was warm and inviting, nothing at all like the other so-called safe house. An elderly woman smiled at Peter as he and Josef came through the door, and Josef made the introductions. “Rosa … Peter.” In an aside, he told Peter that she spoke only Spanish and the Basque dialect of the region.

  Peter nodded and worked up a smile for the woman, all the while searching his surroundings for Anja.

  “She’s lying down,” Josef told him, indicating a closed door just off the kitchen. “Come get cleaned up and changed.”

  Peter followed Josef into a small bedroom where a copper tub filled with steaming water took center stage. On the lumpy bed lay a stack of frayed towels and a set of clothing—corduroy trousers, a flannel shirt, a heavy knit sweater, and a jacket. There were also underwear, socks, and a pair of heavy hiking boots. Lined up on the dresser was everything he might need to shave and tame his matted and dirty hair. Behind him he heard the door close and realized that Josef had left him alone.

  He sat on the floor—not wan
ting to soil the bed—and took off the espadrilles, then unwound the bandages that Anja had fashioned for him. The extra padding had worked as apparently had the ointment, for the blisters were no longer bleeding or oozing liquid. He knew the hot water would sting, but once he was used to it, he also knew that it was going to be about as close to heaven as he was likely to get on this earth.

  He inched his way into the hot water. When he had washed himself, the water was tepid and the color of cement, but he felt better than he had in weeks. He dressed quickly, for the poorly insulated farmhouse was not as warm as the bath had been. He shaved, ridding himself of several days’ growth of a beard and staring in the small hand mirror at a man he no longer recognized. It wasn’t so much how he had changed in outward appearance as how he had changed inside. The way he thought about the world had shifted dramatically. From an airplane it was easy to decide wrong and right. On the ground it was not so cut and dried.

  He had volunteered for a duty that he’d been so certain was the right thing to do—go and destroy the enemy. He had even thought he knew exactly who the enemy was, but did he? Some of the German soldiers that he’d seen resembled his friends and classmates back home. Many of them were no more than teenagers. Were they fighting for some grand cause or simply—as he was—to stay alive long enough to get back home and see his family? From his position in the bomber, the people below had been faceless—a unified mass known as the Enemy. But now he understood that they had families, dreams for the future, beliefs that kept them going.

  As he combed his wet hair, he stared at his image and thought about Anja and everything she had been through since this war had begun. In his arrogance, he had once thought that he could sweep her and Daniel away to America and everything would magically be all right for them. But now he understood that events and horrors that Anja had faced were indelibly seared onto her soul. Nothing could erase those scars.