“We made good progress today, Dad,” I said, proudly marking our spot in the photo album. We were nearing the halfway point and would have it finished in another couple of sessions. I kept my eyes on my notes as I worked up the courage to ask the question I’d been burning to. “You kept one of the photos last time, Dad. Do you want to put it in the album, or should I look for a frame or something? It doesn’t seem smart to keep it unprotected.”
He produced the photo from his breast pocket as if he’d been waiting for me to ask.
“She belongs in the book,” he said. “On the last page. I’m just not ready to paste her in a book and put her on a shelf just yet.”
“I understand,” I said, though the words weren’t true. I couldn’t understand until I knew who she was.
“She was a lovely girl,” he said. “I wish you could have known her.”
“Me too, Dad,” I said, though I suspected that if she’d played a larger role in Dad’s life, I wouldn’t be alive and sitting with him.
CHAPTER TWELVE
ANGEL IN THE ASHES
MAX
September 26, 1944
Hürtgen Forest, Germany
Max Blumenthal, you are the dumbest piece of shit that ever walked the earth.
I cursed myself with each step I took into the forest, stealthily as I could, trying to avoid detection by the Germans. All I had was a vague idea of where they’d camped from the direction we’d walked from the hospital and how long it had taken the blond waif of a thing—Margarethe—to take me there. Other men in my platoon had grown up in Scouting, in groups that took them on camping trips in the backwoods armed with nothing more than a compass, a map, and their wits. They learned how to read a landscape, tell time by the sun, and other survival skills that the son of a Los Angeles tailor simply wouldn’t have gained in his formative years. I was more convinced with every step I took into the woods that I was going to end up lost or in enemy hands, all in the attempt to deliver food and supplies to the injured man and the two women who fought to keep him alive.
I told myself I was going for Jonas’s benefit, but the memory of the kiss Margarethe had given me in parting was a stronger lure than I wanted to admit.
“You shouldn’t be here,” a voice said. Margarethe emerged from behind a tree and holstered a small pistol under her jacket, her movements practiced and graceful. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you.”
“Lucky for both of us. I brought food,” I said.
“I can loot bags after I shoot their owner,” she said. From her wry tone it was clear that it wouldn’t be the first time she’d had to perform such an office. How this reedy woman who so easily disguised herself as a schoolboy could have found herself in this situation, I didn’t know, but I felt myself choke on the idea that she willingly put herself in harm’s way. Seeing the adept manner in which she handled the gun, she was probably deadlier than I was by a margin I didn’t want to consider.
“I’d appreciate it if you made an exception for me, then,” I said. “Considering I saved your friend’s life and all.”
“This once,” she said, but flashed a wink and motioned for me to follow her. “I could take the food and send you back on your way if you’ll be missed, but I suspect you want to check in on Jonas.”
“Yes, I’d like to see how he’s doing,” I said, though her lack of alarm on his behalf was as telling as anything I’d see in person.
“The forest has been busy lately. You have to be more careful. I could have heard you from a mile away.”
“I was trying to be quiet,” I protested.
“Well, it’s not your strong suit, Max. Stick to caring for your patients.”
“I plan to,” I said. “I’d never planned on anything else, but this war seems to have gotten in the way.”
“It got in the way for a lot of us, didn’t it? Anxious to get back to doctoring in America?”
“I’m not a doctor, I’m a dentist,” I said. “Or almost. Just graduated from dental school, but haven’t set up my practice yet. I should be back in Los Angeles filling cavities and telling children not to eat so many sweets. Not dodging bullets as I try to collect dying men off the battlefield.”
“You brave soul. I think I’d rather face the bullets than put my hands in someone’s mouth.”
“It’s not that bad,” I said, my shoulders shaking with a chuckle I couldn’t restrain. “There’s something gratifying in keeping a child’s mouth healthy or helping someone learn to like their smile again.”
She stopped in her tracks and looked up at me. “You’re a good man, aren’t you, Max?” she asked.
“I like to think so,” I said, shrugging. I didn’t consider myself much better or worse than the average man. Like all of us, I was just trying to get by in a world that seemed to have gone topsy-turvy. “I try, at any rate, and I hope that’s good for something.”
“You are a good man, Max. Just be careful. Good men don’t last long in war.”
“You seem to know a lot about me after only spending an hour or so in my presence,” I said.
“I’ve had to become a quick study of human nature,” she said. “I live too close to the den to not be able to tell the difference between a lion and a sheep. One slip would mean my life and more.”
“Don’t you have someone to take care of you?” I asked. I wished I could bite the question back as soon as it fell from my tongue. “I mean, doesn’t your family mind that you’re out here alone? Your father? Your husband?”
I felt my mouth sour on the word husband, but lord knew it would be a miracle if she hadn’t been snapped up already.
“My father is dead,” she said, no emotion leaching into her voice. “And I don’t trouble anyone else with what I do. They’re safer that way.”
“You’re probably wise,” I said. “Though I’m sorry about your father.”
“I’m not,” she said, rancor seeping into her words. “I’m glad he died before he saw the worst of this. He worried for Germany when I was young. He saw the rise of these thugs, but always trusted that reason would prevail. I’m grateful he never lived to find out how misguided he was in his faith in his own people.”
“I would think he’d be proud of you and what you’re doing,” I said. “He just might wring your neck if he knew how dangerous it was.”
She actually tilted her head back and gave a full-throated laugh. One more genuine than I’d heard in ages. “He was always one to make sure we didn’t grow up too fearful of danger. Cautious, yes, but never afraid. My sister got that message plain enough—she’s a test pilot.”
“Do you ever think that maybe he was too thorough in his teachings? Your traipsing about these woods is closer to suicide than bravery.”
“First of all, sir, I do not traipse. And secondly, I’m still alive after four years working for the resistance movement, such as it is. I’m many things, but reckless isn’t one of them.”
“There’s truth in that,” I conceded.