White Rose Black Forest(33)

“Good morning,” Franka said. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, thank you.”

She seemed embarrassed for having revealed too much the night before.

“Would you like some breakfast?”

“Yes, please.”

Franka walked out, and he listened as she rustled around in the kitchen for a few minutes before returning with some meat and cheese, as well as a hot cup of coffee. She left him there eating it, returning to collect the plate from him only once he’d finished. A part of him longed for her to sit with him again, for her to tell him the rest of her story. Where was Fredi now? Was he a real person? It was getting harder to believe that this was just an elaborate ruse to gain his confidence. She left the room without a word.

A few seconds went by before he heard footsteps tramping across the wooden floor once more, and she came back into the bedroom, toolbox in hand. She passed by the bed without looking at him and sat down beside the hole in the floor. He watched as she took a hammer and began prying up the floorboard adjacent to the opening.

“What are you doing, Fr?ulein?”

“What does it look like? I’m opening up the floor.”

She didn’t look at him, just kept on. He waited until she’d pulled up the floorboard to speak again. It felt wrong to watch her doing all of this work while he lay there useless in the bed.

“Why are you doing that?”

She stood up and pushed out a breath as she stretched out her lower back. She got back down on her knees and peered into the hole she’d made. She seemed to be measuring out the width. It was about three feet wide and six feet long. Franka stood up and left the room, again without making eye contact. A couple of minutes later she returned with several blankets under her arm. She knelt beside the hole and laid out the blankets, lining the space under the floorboards. She stood up again. It seemed she was going to say something, but instead she made for the tiny corner between the bed and the wall where his rucksack and uniform still lay. She folded the uniform and placed it inside the hole.

“Fr?ulein, I really must ask what exactly you’re doing here. That’s my uniform.”

“Is it?” She threw the rucksack down on top of it. She picked up one of the floorboards she’d left against the wall and slipped it back into place.

“Fr?ulein Gerber?”

She laid the other two floorboards back into place. She got on her knees once more and pushed the floorboards down as hard as she could. She ran her hand over the surface of the boards, making sure that they weren’t protruding, and then stood back to examine her work, her fingers on her chin. The scuff marks at the end of the floorboards told an unwanted story. She walked out, and he heard her going through the cupboards for a few seconds before she returned, a pot of wood varnish in her hand. The floors in the old cabin had been well tended. The varnish on the floor was smooth and even, probably not five years old. Franka got on her knees and began to dab fresh varnish on the ends of the floorboards to mask the flecks that had flown off. Within two minutes or so it was impossible to tell that the floorboards had been disturbed at all.

“That’s for when the Gestapo come. If they find you here, we’re both dead, and I’m not going to live in denial, even if you are. They’re not going to come while the snow is as thick on the ground as it is, but once it melts they’ll start searching for you. Someone saw your parachute or heard the plane you jumped out of. The longer you keep up this ridiculous charade, the longer you’re jeopardizing both our lives. If you don’t start trusting me, we’re both going to die.”

She walked out of the room.

He lay alone through a dreary afternoon. The window let in little light, and the door remained closed. He heard sounds every so often but didn’t see her. There were no answers—only more questions. There was nothing he could do trapped here in this bed. The pain in his legs was bearable now, but he wouldn’t be able to walk out of here for weeks. Could he trust this woman? Had she disavowed the mindless obedience that the Nazis had instilled in so many Germans? Or were there more like her than he thought? What would she be willing to do if he did trust her? The pressure was building inside him. Every day alone and useless in this bed was a day closer to failure, and that was something he couldn’t accept. He cursed his legs, cursed the Nazis, tried to somehow sleep to escape the agonizing possibility that he might fail this mission. He bit down on his fist so hard he almost drew blood. Sleep would not come. There was no escape.

The cuckoo clock sang seven times, and a few seconds later the door opened. She came in and placed the tray on his lap as he sat up. He didn’t touch the food, even though he felt as if he were starving to death.

“Fr?ulein? Franka?”

The wind howled outside the window.

“Do you have pictures of your family? Do you have a picture of Fredi?”

“Yes, some.”

“Can I see them? I didn’t see any pictures when I was outside.”

“There were pictures once. I took them down just a few days before I found you.”

“Do you still have them?”

“I do.”

She disappeared through the door and came back a minute later, two dog-eared photos in her hands. She held them as if they were an injured bird she’d found. He took them between two fingers. The first photo was of the four of them posing together on the steps of what he assumed was their house. Franka was younger, perhaps sixteen at the time. She had short blond curls and was wearing a white dress. She had her arm around her father, a stout, handsome man with a brown beard and smiling eyes. Her mother’s long blond hair was carefree about her shoulders, her smile radiant and her eyes sparkling even in the colorless old photo. She had her arms draped around Fredi, who was nestling into her. He looked about eight. His weak, lank arms and legs protruded through his T-shirt and shorts. He was looking up at her lovingly. He turned over the photo to reveal the date—June 1933. Franka handed him the next picture, taken outside the cabin on a warm summer day in 1935, just the three of them. Fredi still smiled as he sat on his father’s lap, but it seemed for the benefit of the camera. Thomas was gazing at his son, the adoration clear. Franka sat beside them, staring with a seriousness uncommon in a girl that age. He handed the photos back to her.