White Rose Black Forest(10)

“Yes, please.”

“My pleasure, Herr Graf.”

She retreated to the kitchen. Her hands were shaking as she reached for the last can of soup in the cupboard. It was hard to know how to play it from here. Trying to out him from his charade could be downright dangerous, but she had to let him know that he could trust her.

“Trust takes time,” she whispered. “This isn’t going to happen tonight.” She went back to him as the soup warmed on the stove. He flinched as she walked in.

“Everything all right?”

“Yes, thank you. It’s just that the pain in my legs is quite intense.”

“I understand. I’m sorry about that. I’m going to try to get more painkillers for you tomorrow.” He didn’t answer. “I have your boots, but I was forced to cut the pants off your legs. I also have your backpack. I saw that you had clothes in there.”

He nodded, seemingly unsure of what to say. “Thank you for taking care of me,” he answered after a few seconds. His eyes drifted toward the window and then back to her.

“I set the bones in your legs, but I’m afraid we’re going to need plaster casts to make sure they heal correctly.”

“Yes, thank you, Fr?ulein Gerber. Whatever you think is best.”

His eyes were glazing over, and he fell back on the bed.

“I’ll be right back,” she said. The soup was ready, and she poured it into a bowl for him. She returned to the bedroom. He was lying down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He sat up as she placed the tray in front of him. He devoured the soup even more quickly than she had earlier. She took the tray, wishing she had bread to give him. “You need to rest now.”

“I have some more questions for you.”

“Questions can wait.”

“Have you spoken to anyone else about my being here? Anyone at all?”

“I haven’t spoken to another soul in days, not since before I found you. We’ve no telephone here, as I said. There isn’t even a postal service. I’d have to go into town to get any letters if anyone knew I was up here. But they don’t. We’re alone.” She leaned forward. “I brought you back here so you could get better.”

“I’m grateful for that, but it’s important that I be on my way as soon as possible.”

“You’re not going anywhere on those legs for several weeks. Once the roads open up again, we can see about bringing you back to town, but until then you’re stuck here with me. You need to accept that and also realize that you can trust me. I’m here to make sure you get better.”

“I’m thankful, Fr?ulein.” He nodded to her, but there was little joy or true appreciation in his words. It was as if he were reading off a script.

“Think nothing of it. I could hardly leave you out there to freeze to death, now could I? The important thing now is that you rest.”

Even her own words were wooden. It was as if they were two bad actors performing a play.

The man nodded and lay back down, the pain evident on his face. Franka reached for the candle on the bedside table and extinguished it between two wetted fingers. She closed the door behind her, drained from the masquerade. She turned the lock once more, aware that he must have heard her do it. The man didn’t protest.

The fire in the living room was dying, so she added more wood, standing back once more to watch it blaze up. She felt like she was alone in a cage with a wounded animal and unsure of anything it might do. His broken legs were her only guarantee of safety. As long as he couldn’t move from that bed, he couldn’t hurt her, especially without his guns. It was paramount that he understood that she meant him no harm, but also that she was in charge. She would not be subject to the whims of any bully, be they a Nazi or an Allied soldier. She would keep him here, safe from the Gestapo. That would be her final act of defiance against them before she joined Hans and the others.

Her entire body ached now, crying out for sleep. She went to her bedroom. Usually she would have left the door open to collect some of the warmth from the living room, but she closed the door behind her.

She went to the window. It was a calm, clear night, and the stars outside shone like light through pinpricks in black velvet. The weather tomorrow would likely be good enough for her to go into town. The trails would be clear. It was the type of trip she might have relished ten years ago. That seemed like a different world. She’d accumulated so many scars since then.

Franka picked a hot-water bottle out of the closet, the memories of her youth coming at the mere sight of it—nights cuddled up under blankets, her eyes drifting shut as her mother sang her to sleep.

She had never meant to stay here this long. There were too many ghosts. But now she had little choice. Leaving the cabin would mean leaving him and giving the Gestapo their victory. She took the hot-water bottle out to the kitchen and poured the water in once it had heated. It felt good in her hands, like it was giving life back to her. She hugged it, feeling the warmth in her chest, before returning to the bedroom. Could he really be German? Why would he have said those English words in his sleep? Perhaps this was all simpler than she’d made out, and she could drop him off at the local hospital when the roads cleared in a few days. Maybe she’d misheard him talking in his sleep. She didn’t speak English and had only heard a few words spoken in front of her. Perhaps he hadn’t said anything at all. Perhaps he really was Hauptman Werner Graf of the Luftwaffe. Franka felt her heart drop at the thought that he wasn’t who she thought he was, that he was one of them. Was he a Luftwaffe flier? She had seen the propaganda films that showed foreigners coming to join the glorious German Reich. It seemed unlikely. If he was Luftwaffe, she would hand him over to the authorities as soon as he came to, and that would be that.