“Then take two goddamn steps, Private Jenkins, and in a few hours, you’ll try for three,” I ordered. The humor I’d been known for grew thinner as the war went on, and it seemed like Jenkins was the sort who needed orders more than he needed a laugh.
“You’re a real sonofabitch. You know that, Captain?” Jenkins muttered as he sat up. I didn’t care for the wheezing sound in his chest as he exerted the effort to move.
“More than you could possibly imagine,” I said, deadpan. Jenkins managed to sit fully upright and swing his legs over the side of the bed. He tentatively slid to put his weight on his injured leg and blanched in pain immediately. I was at his left side, ready to act as a crutch and let him wrap his arms around my shoulders.
“It hurts too much.” He grimaced. “Let me lie back down.”
“You will not lie back down until you have taken two steps,” I said, gripping him a little tighter so that he wouldn’t have to bear his full weight on the injured leg. “You faced the huns; you can do this.”
“Fuck you,” he muttered under his breath.
“What was that, Private?”
“Yessir,” he said, louder.
“That’s what I thought.”
Jenkins managed his two steps, and I prodded him to take five, which meant ten to get him back into bed. More than I’d hoped for, but he was sweating and pale when he lay back down.
“Again in three hours, Private. No excuses,” I said.
He gave me a wary look but nodded as he pulled the blanket back up. I patted his chest and moved on to the next patient.
I should have been relieved to be in a field hospital that was now miles from the fighting, but the farther I was from the front, the farther I felt from Margarethe—Metta—that enigma of a woman. When the American troops pushed across the Rhine, there was an undeniable surge in morale—I felt it too. But with each push forward, I worried that Margarethe was caught under the wheels of the war machine.
“Jenkins?” my commanding officer asked as I placed Jenkins’s record back in the file.
“Leg is healing fine, but a patient at more obvious risk for pneumonia I’ve never seen.”
“Is he safe for transport to a convalescent hospital?”
“If he gets up and moves every so often, most likely, sir.”
“Then I’m shipping him back to France as soon as the next hospital train arrives,” he said. “Safer for him, more beds for us.”
“If you think that’s best, Major,” I said. Clearly his decision was made, and I’d learned from others in his position not to bother taking a contrary position. Certainly, I’d feel more comfortable keeping Jenkins here where I could oversee his care myself and help keep him from getting sicker, but he was one injured man out of tens of thousands. I couldn’t rehabilitate them all. Jenkins didn’t seem likely to attempt to exercise without coercion, but back home, I wouldn’t be able to force my patients to finish the antibiotics I prescribed or even brush their teeth as often as they should. I could only parent them so much before they had to take responsibility for themselves.
I thought of Ma and Dad, about the dental practice I’d start when I was back stateside. I’d always thought I’d stumble across the right girl once I got my practice off the ground and have a gaggle of kids for my parents to spoil. Too many years of hunger and adversity in the old country had left Ma unable to bear more than just one child. I’d honestly given little thought to the woman I’d share my life with, and had always assumed I’d know it when I saw her. And, of course, the perfect girl would come along precisely when I was ready for her, when the practice was well established, and I had money for a home. She wouldn’t have to endure scrimping and saving at the supermarket, asking for the cheapest cuts of meat with her head bowed. She wouldn’t have to be ashamed of her clothes at temple. In fact, she’d have the finest wardrobe in the Fairfax district. She’d set trends in the neighborhood with her smart dresses and would be the envy of all her friends. We’d have a modest home and hired help, so she’d have the days to do as she pleased. Lunch with friends, charity work, whatever she wanted. She could leave the work to me and enjoy life. All I’d ask for was a cheerful greeting, a pleasant evening together, and a warm body next to mine in bed.
But Margarethe shattered everything about that dream.
Lovely, gentle Margarethe, who had disappeared months ago. I was certain I’d never hear from her again and had resigned myself to praying for her continued health and happiness wherever she was. There was precious little else I could do for her. And as hard to admit as it was, Margarethe didn’t fit into the picture of domestic bliss, however naive and idealistic it was, that I’d painted for myself. How would that lovely creature find her place in our old neighborhood? Her accent would raise suspicion. Her blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty wouldn’t be admired, it would be scrutinized. And even if she proved herself the kindest neighbor and dearest friend, she’d never be fully welcomed. Would she even want to be? Taking her from Germany to Los Angeles would be like taking a lion from the grasslands of Africa and moving the beast to the arctic circle. Try as it might, it would never adapt.
And yet, for all the heartache our relationship would bring about for our families, our friends, and ourselves, I would take the chance in a heartbeat to make her my own.
I’d tried to keep my mind off the contours of her lovely face, the soft curve and the downy skin of her hips. The way her hair caught the sunlight, so brilliant I expected it to reflect rainbows like a prism. The constant barrage of patients certainly helped, as well as our descent into the depths of Germany. We seemed to be accelerating toward Berlin at a breakneck pace. But still, as I worked, I could see her face emerge in the sea of dirty men clad in olive drab who all looked as though they needed six months of rest on a beach with their mothers’ cooking served at regular intervals. Nearly every day I saw her face in the shadows. But today, it spoke.
“Hello, Max. I’ve missed you.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
MENDING THE BROKEN
JOHANNA
June 6, 1943
Berlin, Germany
“Liebling, that can’t be you.” Harald’s voice was a raspy shadow of itself. He’d been home for six hours but was still in shock. He faded in and out of consciousness—mostly out of it—but I was relieved to have him home where I could watch the rise and fall of his chest with my own eyes all the same. I kissed his brow and put a moist towel on his forehead, though I didn’t sense a fever. I had him stretched out on our bed, hoping my ministrations were helping his healing rather than slowing it down.
“Don’t speak, Knuddelbär. Save your strength. Just nod or shake your head. Would you like some water?”
Nod.
I’d set out a pitcher of cold water and a glass on the nightstand, along with whatever else I thought might be helpful to nurse him. I cursed myself for not having the forethought to take a basic nursing course, but no one truly expects Armageddon to break out in their own backyard. I poured him a glass and handed it to him, not releasing it until I was sure he had the strength to lift it to his lips. He drank greedily, as though he’d been wandering through the deserts of Africa for days with no water in sight.