Nightingale

by Susan May Warren

  She stared at him. “You asked him to. You wanted all memory of me dead—gone! You told me you wanted to put that night in a box and bury it. That seemed like a coffin to me. He didn’t steal anything from you.”

  “Don’t you want that night gone?”

  She got up, walked to the window, where the light splashed onto the grounds. “I do. I want it gone. But I love Sadie, so if I had to live through this again to get her, I would. She’s worth this for me.”

  “Then you should know that if you leave, my father will track you down and bring you back.”

  She stiffened. “He hates me.”

  “But Sadie is his grandchild. He’s not going to let her go. For my mother’s sake, if nothing else.”

  “But they threw me out. Your mother hates me.” She watched as a couple of teenagers rode their bicycles through the circle of lights.

  “That’s when they thought Sadie wasn’t mine. It’s different now. She knows Sadie’s my daughter. And don’t think my father won’t find you—he’s done it before.”

  She took a breath, looked at him. He picked up the zucchini bread. Smelled it. “I love the smell of this bread. Bertha sent me a couple packages overseas. It’s amazing how long zucchini bread lasts.”

  “That’s because Bertha is your mother. Of course she sends you bread.” And cherishes your daughter.

  He drew in a long breath. “When I was nine years old, my mother caught my father philandering, again. She told him that she wasn’t going to take another of his children under her roof. It wasn’t hard for me to figure out who my real mother was. A real mother would do anything for her child. Including stay behind and take care of him, pretending he belonged to someone else.”

  He set the package on the table. “I figure he got her pregnant when she worked for his family. Probably he and his father had a similar conversation. Only, he possessed the courage I don’t. He married the woman he loved.”

  “I don’t think a man loves a woman when he cheats on her.”

  Linus’s face tightened. “Rosemary was the girl I was supposed to marry. Until…” He shrugged.

  “You are not blaming this on me, are you?”

  “You are very pretty.”

  “You make me sick. You were the one that showed up in that borrowed car, took me out. I remember at least three drinks that you ordered. And I also remember saying no. A couple times.”

  His considered her a long moment. Then his expression dissolved. “I’m sorry, Esther.” He looked up at her again, met her eyes, his dark eyes a texture she didn’t recognize. But, finally. “I’m sorry. It was my fault. I showed up that night with one thing on my mind. And it wasn’t about your honor.”

  She nodded but turned away before he might see how those words tunneled deep, loosened a tightness inside her. “And now?”

  “And now we get married.”

  “And Rosemary?”

  His silence made her look at him, and she saw it in his eyes. “You—you don’t plan to leave her, do you?”

  He swallowed, and for a moment she saw in his eyes herself, the woman who had longed for someone she couldn’t—shouldn’t have.

  “I love her, Esther.”

  “Then tell your father the truth. Tell him you don’t want Sadie. Tell him to leave me alone. I’ll go away; you never have to see me again.”

  “No. Sadie’s a Hahn. She stays.”

  “That’s your father talking. But,”—she folded her arms against the shaking deep inside—“what should I expect, you’re just like him.”

  His eyes widened, and for a moment she thought he might throw something, again. She sucked in a breath, willing herself to press him to the truth.

  When she did, it took her breath away.

  “I could marry Rosemary. And keep Sadie.”

  His words dug the strength from her. She hated that they made her reach out, balance herself against the marble trim. “And what? I’d become your housekeeper?”

  His silence made her hate him.

  “I won’t be your prisoner.”

  “I think, either way, you already are.” He opened his zucchini bread, smelled it again.

  She took the water left in his glass, considered it for a moment, then in a move she never expected, she threw it in his face. “See you at the altar.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Esther’s words on paper haunted Peter the most. The private places she’d hint at in her letters, the nuances of hope in a future he couldn’t quite surrender.

  Could you tell me, please, how he died?

  Linus was a good man who loved his town and his family. I will miss him.

  I lived, like you, on a farm in Iowa, although I regret that my family didn’t share the ties of yours. We too lived on dust and the taste of despair for too many dry years, but my father kept us in bacon and bread. It seemed, however, the dust parched him of any affection.

  Yes, I had a sister, Hedy. We would lie in bed at night, the one we shared in the sweltering attic of our home, and roll our fingers over my father’s discarded globe. We’d land on such countries as Italy or France or even Peru and conjure stories of places we longed to visit. Hedy and I traveled the world, around and back, before she left home at age seventeen. She died when I was ten years old.

  I love being a nurse. I thought it would unlock the world for me. Instead, it has been my salvation these past three years, in a prison I alone created. I hope, someday, to learn more, even to pursue a medical degree, become a surgeon. But sometimes that dream feels like trying to catch a star, hold it in my pocket.

  The day I received your first letter, we had a man who jumped from the roof of the hospital. He climbed to the edge and I followed him, in an attempt to lure him from danger. As I did, the night swept through me, and for a moment, I feared I too would jump. It passed, thank the Lord, it passed.

  Do I believe in love? I fear how much I long for it. It makes me taste my own hunger, and I can’t help but despise it. But yes, I do. I do.

  “God doesn’t love a woman like me.”

  “God loves you more than you can imagine.” He spoke the words aloud, into the darkness, bringing back the shape of her fingers in his, the texture of hope in her eyes.

  He pressed his hand to his chest, counting the healing bumps of his ribs, remembering her tones as she’d saved his life in the trauma room. He understood wanting to save lives. That impulse, perhaps, they shared. And knowing he had someone who cherished his words, his life, his dreams—someone he could write to in the hollow of the night, or after work stripped him down to exhaustion—it eased the loneliness inside. Perhaps he’d just needed someone to look into his life and tell him to hold on.

  And maybe he didn’t love her, either, but for the first time since he’d stepped aboard that train in Dresden, he recognized part of the man he’d left behind. The man he wanted to be.

  The man he hoped to go home to.

  He sat up, swung his legs over his cot. Stared at Arne’s empty bed.

  “I’m sorry, he didn’t make it,” Dr. Sullivan had said as he’d emerged from the surgical theater. Arne’s blood smearing his white surgical shirt dredged up too many demons.

  Peter would have to write to Arne’s parents. And his kid sister, what was her name? Eva?

  He got up, tiptoed out of the tent. Let the night scour the grief from him. He edged along the shadows, listening to the gurgle of the Baraboo River, the sway of the night through the reeds. Crickets buzzed against the pane of darkness.

  He squatted against the corner of the tent, running his hand through his hair, now longer than he’d ever let it grow.

  Faithfulness had fatigued him, stripped him, turned him brittle.

  And what if, after everything, he returned home to nothing?

  And you’ll die here, just like your father. I wonder if he cried out when they gassed him….

  Fritz’s taunt wore through him. Peter pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. God, please.

  He’d ma
de a deal. His conscription, his service for his father’s freedom. Signed his name. Handed over his freedom to the SS.

  “Why, Father?” Even now he could hear his voice from the past, so much anger coiled tight even as he’d thrown into his duffel the debris of his decision—his picture of his parents, taken at the Iowa County Fair in 1932. His medical graduation ring and, of course, his Bible. He’d crammed it all into the leather duffel bag that he’d dragged to America and back then sat on his narrow bed in the room that overlooked the red-tiled roof all the way to the Frauenkirche, the sun winking off the cathedral like some sort of ethereal fare-thee-well. He’d certainly departed from the life he’d spent the last three years scrabbling for. “We should have left, gone back to America. Why didn’t we do that?”

  “God called us back to Germany for a reason, Peter. Who knows but it was for this very season that we are here—”

  “To do what?” His voice exploded out of him. His father stood in the doorway, his hands in his pockets, and he didn’t even have the decency to flinch. Just stared at his son.

  “To act justly and love mercy and be servants of God.”

  Peter just stared at him, even now remembered his father’s quiet tone, the way he said it so simply, as if, of course, this answer should be evident.

  “This is all God requires of us, Peter. This is our faithfulness in a world gone mad. How could I live with myself if I didn’t help?”

  Peter dragged a hand over his face. Hung his head.

  He didn’t expect his father’s hands on his shoulders, the peace that stole through him, hot and solid in his touch. “May the God whom you continually serve deliver you.”

  And you, Father.

  Please, God.

  He looked up now, remembering the words, staring at Esther’s stars. May the God whom you continually serve deliver you. God, where are You?

  The stars did seem closer here in Roosevelt, as if he could pluck them, pocket them, and take them home with him.

  No. He wanted to take Esther home with him.

  She’s marrying Linus on Friday night. Caroline’s tight words rounded on him.

  What was he supposed to do about that?

  “You’re going to let her?”

  What could he do—jump the snow fence?

  The idea seemed to have fingers, to seize him.

  Yes.

  He could jump the fence. Find Esther.

  He looked like an American. Acted like an American.

  Was an American. He didn’t belong here, a prisoner of war.

  And Esther didn’t belong with Linus. The thought pressed into his sternum, tightened his chest. How could he stay here, let her walk into the arms of a man who cared nothing for her?

  She couldn’t marry Linus. Not a man like Linus. Any other man but Linus.

  He stood, measuring the distance to the fence, a crazy swirl in his chest, buzzing through his body. Yes—

  You make more trouble, we’ll ship you off to Fort Robinson, and you can wait it out with your Nazi pals.

  He watched the fence sway as if pushed by the balmy summer wind.

  And, as he did, he felt it again. The hands. The presence of peace, flushing through him, turning him hot.

  No, not hot. Warm.

  Unafraid.

  God loves you more than you can imagine. He saw himself then, holding her hand, seeing past her eyes to the broken Esther that thirsted for love.

  But not his love.

  He stared at the sky, drawing a breath, deep and full, without spiking pain in his chest for the first time in weeks.

  A star lost its pinnings and he watched it arc across the sky, wink out into the night. With you, I don’t feel so lost.

  Oh, Esther… She wasn’t lost. She just wasn’t yet found.

  Let her be found in Me.

  The words pulsed through him. Let her be found in Me.

  “What does that mean?” His voice rasped out, soft in the swell of night.

  He traced her face in his memory, her soft smile upon him as he woke in the ward, the way she checked his wounds. Why would a woman like Esther marry Linus?

  You’re trying to earn your atonement.

  He heard his own harsh tone and flinched. Saw her face, void of emotion, as she said, God can’t love a woman like me.

  Oh. Oh.

  Esther was marrying Linus because she was trying to fit herself into God’s love.

  The truth rushed through him, full, fast, and took his breath away. And in the bitter silence behind it, he heard the words, again.

  Let her be found in Me.

  How, God?

  Act justly and love mercy and be servants of God.

  His father’s voice seemed to embed the wind, the swirl of the stars. The smells of the silage rose to prick his nose.

  It is our faithfulness in a world gone mad.

  Act justly.

  Love mercy.

  He stared again at the snow fence, watched it wobble.

  Stop her.

  The sense of it pulsed inside him. Stop her. The thought rushed, hot, full through him, a surge of truth that nearly made him cry out. Stop her.

  Except…

  Well, they just couldn’t catch him, could they? He’d find her, keep going, to Chicago. Yes. He could get them to Chicago, then he and Esther could vanish. He and Esther and Sadie.

  He pressed his hand to his chest, solid against his racing heart.

  Maybe this was why he’d bartered his freedom. Why God had sent him back to the land he loved.

  The wind picked up again, and this time brushed against his skin, raising gooseflesh.

  And certainly, then, God would set him free, right?

  “Why didn’t you leave? Just take Linus and run?” Esther stared at herself in the mirror—or what she thought might be herself—her blond hair in victory rolls, a blue pillbox hat, a netted veil over her face. The powder-blue suit with the skirting around the hem of the jacket, a pair of black pumps, the ones she’d worn on the train from New Jersey. Except for the scuffed shoes, she didn’t recognize the woman with the sallow face and wouldn’t look at the eyes that stared back.

  Behind her, the sun had already set, the candles for the ceremony probably already flickering in the solarium. She stopped by on her way into the dressing room—aka, the nursing lounge—and saw that someone had engineered a pair of candelabras beside a small altar. Chairs lined up in rows, allowing for a small, almost ten-foot aisle for her to traverse. And a spray of hydrangeas, roses, verbena, all picked, probably, from the Hahns’ garden, made the display seem homemade. Simple. Nothing special.

  Nothing special.

  “Why did you allow him to take Linus and turn you into the maid?”

  Bertha sat on the chair, ignoring her, brushing Sadie’s golden brown locks. Sadie played with her basket of white rose petals, cut from Mrs. Hahn’s garden. She picked one up, let it drift to the ground. Another.

  “Leave them in the basket, Sadie,” Esther said, crouching to pick them up. Bertha didn’t look at her, even when Esther tried to meet her eyes.

  “There you go,” she said to Sadie, turning her. “You’ll be the prettiest one there.”

  “No, Mama is the prettiest.” Sadie grinned up at her mother.

  She didn’t feel like the prettiest, but then again, she’d never been Hedy, had she?

  Bertha stood up, straightened Esther’s collar, fiddled with her netting. “I never had anywhere to go. And no one stood up to stop me. Besides, the judge was his father. A boy needs his father.”

  Esther touched her wrist, met her eyes. “Thank you for standing up with me today.”

  Bertha’s eyes filled. “Linus was a good boy. He’ll be a good man.”

  Esther turned away, checked her appearance one more time in the mirror. Held out her hand for Sadie. “It’s time we get married, sweetums.”

  “We getting married.”

  Sadie skipped out of the room, holding her mother’s hand. “We getting mar-rie
d.”

  They walked down the corridor. When they reached Charlie’s room, Esther handed Sadie to Bertha. “I’ll be right there. I have one last stop to make.”

  Bertha took Sadie while she ducked into Charlie’s room.

  He lay in darkness, disappearing, it seemed, more every day. She flipped on the light. Oh, someone hadn’t shaved him for two days at least, a dark grizzle swathing his chin. But she didn’t have time to do it now. Still, she adjusted his covers then sat on the side of his bed. His external wounds had healed, but something still trapped him in the shadowlands.

  “Charlie. I won’t be able to beat you at cards anymore. Not that you don’t deserve it—I saw you cheating that last time, hiding the ace of diamonds up your sleeve.” She brushed his brown hair back. He needed a haircut too.

  “But see, I’m getting married today, and I won’t be coming in anymore—”

  “Esther!”

  She stilled, her hand on Charlie’s face. No, it couldn’t be—

  “Esther.”

  She turned. Peter, dressed in white surgical shirt, a pair of brown trousers, his blond hair slicked back, clean shaven, as if he’d recently scrubbed in.

  “Peter?” Standing before her, something sweet and urgent in his eyes? He even smelled good. “What are you doing here?”

  “I saw you duck in here—I’m hoping I’m not too late.”

  “Too late for—” She caught her breath, hating the rush of hope. “Oh, Peter—you can’t. We can’t.”

  But she stared up at him, and with everything inside her she wanted to leap into those arms—and how thirsty had she become, that on the day of her wedding she longed for this other man? This honorable and kind man. This man who saw her and cared enough for her to—

  “You broke out of camp. You escaped!”

  “It was hardly a big event—the guards are playing poker at the guardhouse. I only had to wait until Bert did his rounds and then hop the fence.”

  “Are you—what were you planning?”

  Something twitched on his face with her question. “I… You’re not marrying Linus.”

  His words shook her. So bold, so sure—nothing of the desperation of the previous argument. He nearly decreed it, like a command.