by Susan Finlay
She stood up straight, and as she did, she heard something. The fox? It had seemed afraid of her, but might she be the one in danger? Would a fox attack a person?
Standing as still as she could, she listened. Nothing. Then she heard it again.
A moan? Was the fox caught in a trap? It was forbidden for people to catch, kill, or eat wildlife. That was a Nazi rule. But that didn’t mean someone hadn’t gotten desperate and set traps to catch wild animals. If it was caught, what would she do? What should she do? Her family needed food. But she’d looked into the fox’s eyes.
She crept toward the moaning. A man. A uniformed man. Fear stabbed her, and she stumbled backwards.
“Help me,” he said, seeing her. In English! She’d studied English in school, never expecting to need it, but it was a required course.
“What happened?” she asked.
He pointed up toward the sky.
Mein Gott! The air attack last night. “Did your plane get shot down?”
He nodded.
“How . . . how did you survive?” She glanced around and didn’t see an airplane or pieces of one, nor a parachute.
“I jumped with a parachute. It is here,” he said. “Underneath me. I was afraid it would attract attention, so I hid it.”
“Where are you hurt?” She squatted down to get a closer look at the man.
He turned slightly, moaning again, and showed her his side. A bloody mess of a wound covered his side. Then he pointed to his left leg.
She gasped, then involuntarily turned her head away. “I am sorry. You need medical attention.”
He pulled on her sleeve as she started to get up. “Please, you can’t tell anyone I’m here. I’ll be taken prisoner, or worse. Let me die alone. It’s better this way.”
“I am not going to let you die!” She tried to get up again, but he bent forward and reached up, grabbing her arm.
“You would be making my life unbearable if you tell someone. Please. Don’t.” He moaned again and put his hand over his bleeding wound.
She sat down beside him. “How did you get these wounds, if you landed with a parachute?”
“I landed in the trees. A branch or two must have jabbed me in the ribs and leg. I wasn’t shot, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“If you were not shot, then I can clean the wounds and try to bandage them. I do not think you will die.”
“You’d do that? Aren’t you worried what will happen to you or your family if you’re caught helping the enemy?”
“I do not consider you the enemy. The allies are our saviors, if you can stop this war.”
He studied her face, without comment.
She felt her face grow warm under his gaze. He looked to be around her age. Maybe a couple years older. Dark hair, blue eyes, muscular. She looked away again, this time because she didn’t want him to see that she was intrigued.
“I should go and get water. There is a stream nearby.” She didn’t wait for him to answer. A few minutes later she returned with her apron soaking wet. It would have to do.
After cleaning his wounds, she wrapped strips of his shirt, which he’d removed, around his middle section and around his left thigh and tied them. “Where is your airplane, or what is left of it?”
“On the other side of the woods. I was lucky that the wind carried me away from the wreckage. I’m sure I would have been captured if it hadn’t. I fell among the trees and stayed there, figuring the trees would help hide me.”
“Are you English or American?”
“American.”
“I have never met an American before. How old are you?”
“Nineteen. And you?”
“Seventeen. Well, almost. My birthday is next month.”
“Ah. You’re my brother’s age.”
Neither of them spoke for a few minutes.
“I should go home. My family is waiting for me. Do you have anything to eat?”
“A few rations in my pack.”
“I will try to bring you something tomorrow.”
“Please don’t put yourself at risk for me. I’m grateful for what you’ve already done. Cleaning and bandaging my wounds. I’ll rest up and be on my way.”
“You cannot walk. Not yet. Stay here and I will come back. I promise.”
She hurried back home, but when she got close to town slowed her pace, not wanting anyone to get suspicious. She nodded to people—including soldiers—and carefully made her way back to her family’s townhome.
Mutter said, “What took you so long? I was worried sick something had happened to you.”
“Sorry, Mutter. I found these.” She held up her basket full of bean pods and fresh mushrooms.
Mutter smiled with delight and grabbed the basket from her hands. “Come help me add these to the soup. I started cooking it a few minutes ago.”
While they worked on the dinner preparations, Ilse said, “There are more bean pods and mushrooms out there. I will go back again tomorrow and get more. There may be berries around, too.” She smiled inwardly. She’d done it. She’d provided a plausible excuse for leaving the house again and going into the woods. If she brought back only the amounts of food they needed each day, she could continue the trips for days or maybe weeks, without Mutter getting suspicious.
“Good. But be careful. The soldiers may still be searching the area. I wouldn’t want you to get caught by some of them. I’ve heard stories of soldiers attacking innocent girls and women.”
“I will be careful.” As the evening wore on, though, she couldn’t shake the thought that she might not be safe. Someone in town might see her leaving each day, get suspicious, and follow her. That could lead to death for her and for the airman.
Each day she varied her route. One day, as she was bringing food for him, she came across an abandoned house in a wooded area, apparently abandoned because it had been damaged by one of the bombs dropped over the past couple years. She decided to take the airman, Ronald, there, but he wasn’t able to walk that distance yet. Finally, at the end of two weeks, seeing that his wounds seemed to be healing fairly well, as far as she could tell, she went to him to tell him about her plan to move him. When she got there, though, he was sick, probably a cold or the flu. He was shivering and obviously running a fever.
She laid next to him for a while so he could get some warmth from her body. Later that night, she sneaked out of the house in the cold night air and took a blanket to him. She realized, though, that he desperately needed better protection from the elements if he was going to have a chance to get well. The next day, leaning on her, he walked to the shack. After digging through remaining cabinets, she was able to find a flashlight, another blanket, and some towels he could use as pillows, creating a bed for him there. The problem now was finding food in this new area to take back to her family so she could keep up the pretense.
Thomas Landry, July-Sept., 1944, San Francisco, California—
TOM LANDRY, HIS mother, and sister sat around the living room listening to the news on the radio. According to the news announcer, the war was almost over, Germany was losing. They all cheered and clapped, laughing and toasting with their coffee mugs. “Maybe Pop and Ron can come home soon,” Tom said. “Wouldn’t that be grand? No more terrible news, no more fear that something bad might happen to them.” He glanced at his sister and then looked at his mother. She was smiling, but tears were rolling down her cheeks. Tom stood, walked over and hugged his mother, with his sister soon joining them.
He knew his mother waited anxiously every day for the mail to come, hoping for good news, and dreading bad. Every time someone rang the doorbell, she peeked out the lacy curtains on the front window to see who was standing on the veranda. He wasn’t sure if she would open the door if someone official looking from the military was standing there.
A few weeks later, when the doorbell rang, his mom rushed to the window, pulled back the curtain, and screamed. Tom felt his stomach twist in a knot of fear. He glanced at Teresa. Her fa
ce was white.
Mother turned, ran, and flung open the front door and wrapped her arms around someone.
Tom and Teresa ran over to see who it was.
“Daddy!” Teresa yelled, pushing her way into the hug.
Tom stood back, waiting. When the kissing and hugging broke apart, he too rushed over and hugged his father. “Glad you’re home, Pop. I’ve really missed you.”
“Missed you too, son,” he responded, tousling his son’s hair.
“Are you home permanently?” Mom asked, her gaze locking onto Pop.
He didn’t answer right away, instead looking down at the floor, his foot moving slightly. “I . . . they let me come home on leave. I’ll have to go back in a couple of weeks.”
Mom looked broken for a moment, but then smiled. “Well, at least you’re home,” Mom said, smiling and pulling his arm to get him to come inside. He didn’t budge.
He looked at her, frowning, and said, “They let me come home because Ron is missing in action. There was an organized air attack. His unit was part of a mission to take out the air base near Memmingen, Germany. The Germans apparently got a tip and they had their planes in the air when our guys got there.”
“Did they kill him or capture them?” Mom asked, shaking.
“No one seems to know.”
How could this happen? Tom wondered. On the news all they heard was that the allies were winning the war and that it would be over soon. Real soon. Like months maybe. It’s not fair. Ron had to make it home.
Tom felt his knees get weak, and knew he needed to sit down. He found the nearest chair, a few feet from the entrance and sat on the edge of it, his mind reeling. Mom and Pop and Teresa sat on the sofa, talking. Tom heard Teresa tell Pop that when she grew up she was going to become a nurse and heal wounded soldiers. Tom swore to himself that he would join the army as soon as he graduated high school, regardless of what became of his brother and regardless of the war’s progress. He’d be eighteen then and would be old enough. No one could stop him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Lucas Landry, July 2017, Sacramento, California—
LUCAS LEFT THE Slavic diary with a professor at his former university. He was recommended to Lucas by his German professor, the one with whom he’d talked about the identity cards he’d found. The man had told Lucas he would translate the diary when he had some free time. Said it would probably take awhile, but didn’t elaborate. What did awhile mean? A few weeks? A few months? After leaving the university, feeling dissatisfied, Lucas stopped at Tawny’s clinic. She was on lunch break and he was picking her up to go out for a quick bite.
He pulled up to the curb and waited. Whenever he picked her up for lunch, he usually found her waiting for him right there by the door. Only not today. He glanced at his watch. Right on time.
While he waited, he thought about the past week. Tawny and Bianca had recovered from the flu within a few days, and he hadn’t gotten sick, big thumbs up. His Aunt Elsa had regained consciousness and although she was still in the hospital, she was probably going to be all right, according to her doctors. Another thumbs up. Not a bad week.
He turned on the radio and tuned in to his favorite classic rock station, rolling down the window to get some fresh air while he waited and listened. His favorite oldie came on and he turned up the volume a notch, not too loud, but loud enough to make him smile and imagine he and Tawny were at a party, dancing the way they had back when they first started dating.
Five minutes passed. Maybe she forgot? He turned off the radio and pulled out his cell phone to give her a quick call. Ah, there she was, exiting the building and striding toward the car. He put his phone away.
She opened the door and slammed it. Hard enough to rattle his teeth.
“Uh, I’m happy to see you, too,” he said, wondering what had made her angry.
“Oh, sorry. It’s not you. I’m just . . . just livid.”
Did he dare ask why?
“I didn’t get the promotion. The supervisor called me into his office. Do you know what he told me?”
“That you didn’t get the promotion?”
“Shut up. You could be a bit supportive.”
He bit his lip. Shoulda seen that coming. Okay, let’s try this again.
“Tell me what happened, Tawny. I didn’t mean to be unfeeling.”
“He told me that one of my patients had complained about me. The jerk—the patient—had apparently called me all kinds of names, the kind of racial slur names that could start a fight, you know what I’m talking about?”
Lucas nodded, his mind meanwhile dredging up his brother.
“The patient doesn’t want to see me anymore because I’m black. Can you believe that? What the hell difference does my race make?”
“It shouldn’t make any difference. Are you sure there wasn’t more to it than that? I mean some patients and therapists don’t click. It doesn’t mean anything. We’re all different and sometimes we can open up more with some people than with others.”
She turned and faced him, her eyes fierce. “Don’t you think I know that? I’ve been doing this as long as you have, you know.”
Whoa, that wasn’t normal for Tawny. “Okay, okay. Don’t bite my head off. I’m trying to help.”
“You’re right,” Tawny said, her tone less sharp. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I don’t like this. Not one bit.”
She crossed her arms and turned her head to look out the passenger side window.
Leaning toward her, Lucas said, “Tawny, sweetie, tell me what’s going on. Did you have a bad session with this patient?”
“No, I only saw the guy once, a couple months ago. Maybe less. I’d have to check the date. He was friendly. We had a good session, actually. He told me he loved my accent. He’s got issues that I could have helped him with, none of which have to do with race. He made a couple appointments after that, but canceled each one. Then, wham! I get called into the supervisor’s office about the promotion and get this bullshit.”
“Oh, wow. That really sucks. It’s not fun when a patient is rude or argumentative or tells you he doesn’t like something about you or your methods. But acting like everything is fine and then running to the boss behind your back is worse, in my opinion.”
Tawny said, “If the patient had told me, I could have talked to him, maybe we could have resolved the issue, or at least referred him to another therapist. Now, the supervisor won’t let me talk to the patient. There’s nothing I can do.”
“I agree. I’d rather someone be honest with me up front. I can see why you’re upset. It almost sounds like the patient planned this.” He hesitated, glanced out the windshield a moment, then said, “Are you sure the boss didn’t make it up as an excuse for why he didn’t give you the promotion?”
“I can’t answer that. Like I said, I never spoke to the patient again, so I have to assume he went to a different counselor. But how the hell would I know? No one included me in the conversation.”
“Well, either way, don’t let it get you down. You are a great counselor. You deserved that promotion, and one day you will get it. You might have to change jobs after the baby comes, but you’ll get the job you want. I’m sure of it.”
Tawny sat for a few moments. “Thank you, Luke. You are the best husband a girl could have. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She reached over and hugged him. “I’m going to try to put this out of my mind. There’s plenty of patients out there and plenty of jobs in this field. I don’t need that guy.”
Lucas didn’t understand why her boss would wait until now to say something about a complaint. He wanted to ask more, but figured it was better to let it drop for now. She was feeling better, and he didn’t want to spoil that.
“Ready for lunch?” he asked.
“Yes. Take me somewhere good. I want to pig out.” She patted her still small but growing belly. “The baby is hungry, too.”
Lunch was good. Tawny actually laughed and talked, but she seemed worried, he coul
d tell by the wrinkles in her forehead. She always got those when she had a bad headache or was stressed. Based on her conversation with her supervisor, Lucas was pretty sure that remained the culprit.
After dropping her back at her work, he went back to his work and met with a group of patients in drug-rehab. The patients kept his focus, distracted him from personal thoughts, but on his way home from work that evening, his thoughts returned to Tawny and her problem patient.
If she was that upset about a patient not wanting to work with her because she was black, how would she react if she found out about his father and brother rejecting her?
That begged another scary question. She was upset because the patient hadn’t been honest with her and hadn’t told her to her face. Because he hadn’t, she couldn’t talk to the guy and try to resolve their differences. Lucas hadn’t been honest with her, either. Would she push him away if she found out?
He pulled into the driveway of their home and rested his forehead on the steering wheel. Why hadn’t he told her the truth five years ago, back when his father was still alive and she could have tried talking to the guy? Maybe they could have come to some resolution.
Yeah, right. It was totally different with Dad. Dad wouldn’t have given an inch. He was that prejudiced!
CHAPTER TWELVE
Christa Nagel, September 1, 1944, Altstadt, Sudetenland
CHRISTA NAGEL WASHED clothes and bedding in the wash tub set-up in the root cellar. It was by far her most hated chore. The only good that came from it was not having to change diapers, wipe snotty noses, or break up squabbles. Some days, she wished she were an only child. Most of the time, she figured that if Mutti and Vati could have only one child, they wouldn’t pick her. She was the oldest and could do the most chores, but she wasn’t a cherubic baby or a sweet little boy or girl, just a gangly, ugly eleven year old girl. In the spring, there would be even more competition. She could never compete with a brand new baby. She knew it was wrong, but sometimes she wished a bomb would drop and destroy her family’s home and all the kids, except her. Gott will probably smite me for thinking something so horrible. She vowed to go to Church tomorrow and go to the confessional, if the priest was still in town. How wrong was it that she hadn’t been there in months and didn’t even know if the priest was still there?