“Easy, love. Don’t make yourself ill.” He looked pained at the prospect of not downing the entire glass in one long series of gulps but indulged me by slowing his pace.
Information was scarce, but it seemed he’d been close to a bomb blast of some kind and had fairly extensive bruising and lacerations. Walking was next to impossible for him, but the doctor I’d summoned, one of the few still left practicing who hadn’t been drafted, assured me that none of the damage to his spine appeared to be permanent.
“Are you in any pain?” I asked. I had precious little to offer him by way of relief, but if I had to go to the black market for medicines that would help him, I would do so without hesitation.
He shook his head, but not with much enthusiasm. He was in pain, but he was coping. That was my Harald, more stoic than was good for him.
“Don’t suffer needlessly,” I said, but did not press further. The more I pushed on that score, the less likely he would be to accept help.
“Would you like some food?” I asked. At the prospect of a home-cooked meal, his eyes lit up like a boy’s at Christmas. While our soldiers seemed to fare well enough at the front, I got the impression that care and feeding was haphazard at best on the medical trains. He nodded with as much enthusiasm as I’d seen him express about anything since the war broke out.
“Good,” I said, and smiled. If he wanted to eat, he wanted to heal, and that was as much as I could hope for.
I exited the room with another kiss to his forehead to find that Mama had already anticipated the need in the kitchen. She stood in front of a massive stockpot, stirring with rapt attention. Wafts of steam danced up from the surface of the soup, encircling her face as she bent her neck to taste her creation. With a deft hand, she added a pinch of salt and continued stirring.
I walked up behind her and kissed her cheek. “Whatever you’ve concocted there looks wonderful, and your son-in-law would very much like some.”
“I’ve not heard better news in months,” she said, patting my hand that rested on her shoulder. “Potato soup with sausage. It’s not what he grew up eating, but it will put meat on his bones.”
“I’m sure he’ll enjoy every bite. Thank you.”
“Thank me by eating your own portion once he’s had his,” Mama replied. She removed a bowl from the cabinet and placed it on a tray. She ladled the soup into the bowl and placed a good-sized hunk of brown bread beside it.
I hadn’t thought about food since Harald arrived, but Mama was right. There was no sense in wearing myself down to the point where I was of no use to him.
“Of course,” I said, taking the proffered tray from Mama.
Harald had managed to scoot himself into something closer to a seated position in anticipation of his meal. I placed the tray on my nightstand and helped him finish what he’d started. Once he was fully upright and his pillows were fluffed, I began to spoon the thick soup into his mouth slowly. It was just as well he wasn’t in any condition to feed himself. I could see the impatience in his eyes as I offered him spoonfuls at slow intervals to ensure I wasn’t going to cause his system any distress. I broke off a chunk of bread after the fourth spoonful of soup and handed it to him. He placed the entire piece in his mouth and only chewed as an afterthought.
“You’ll choke if you keep that up,” I warned, but doled out the soup a little faster once he showed that he could handle the viscous liquid without too much trouble.
His color was improved dramatically by the solitary bowl of soup, and there was something of the usual sparkle in his eyes once I helped him recline back into a supine position.
I wanted to question him. The list I had for him could have gone on for hours, but his need for rest was the only thing greater than my need for answers, so I limited myself to one.
“Tell me what hurts, Knuddelbär. Let me help you get well.”
“Everything, mein Liebling,” he replied with a stronger voice. “From my hair to my toenails. Everything hurts, but nothing so much as my heart. If I were more of a praying man, I would use every prayer to beg that you never have to see the things I saw in that hell.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE GARDEN PATH
BETH
May 10, 2007
Encinitas, California
I took Dad outside to enjoy the sunshine. He always grumbled that I shouldn’t go to the trouble, as he had to be escorted with every step he took. He stooped forward to relieve the pressure on the nerves in his spine, which made walking perilous, even indoors. The paving stones in the garden, no matter how well maintained, still made the journey nearly impossible for him. But at the end of the slow, arduous walk was a chair in the sun to welcome his weary bones. Each time we ventured outside, I saw the tension fade from his face, and he looked at least fifteen years younger. When I was a girl, I used to joke that my father was part cat. He was always seeking out the sliver of sunshine in the house on the rare cloudy days. On lazy Sundays, he preferred to nap on a lounge chair in the backyard instead of on the sofa or in bed. It probably contributed to some of the lines on his face, but I didn’t think he’d have traded those lines for a single moment of his sun-filled past. Especially now, when venturing out into the sun took as much effort as a considerable hike used to.
“You really loved her, didn’t you?”
Dad nodded. “And even if it was just a boyhood infatuation, there was the baby. I couldn’t bear the thought of the child being fatherless. Growing up and resenting me for my absence.”
“I’m sure Margarethe explained things,” I said, wondering if Dad had been worrying over people who had no chance of being found. So many civilians died and were never accounted for that it was beginning to seem like the most likely scenario.
“That doesn’t make it right,” he said, as though this were explanation enough. And to him, it was. Dad had always been the most involved father at school. Every concert, recital, science fair, or school play, he was there in the front row, even when none of the other fathers were. It occurred to me now that his involvement in my life growing up wasn’t just out of devotion to me. He was also parenting the child that was lost to him. There would never be any convincing Dad that he hadn’t shirked his duty.
“We’ll find them, Dad. And when we do, I’ll tell my brother or sister that you parented me enough for the both of us.” I hoped the promise wasn’t an empty one, but James and I would certainly explore every road that we thought might lead to Margarethe.
Dad patted my hand, but his expression didn’t relax with my assurances.
“Thank you for doing this, Beth.” He pulled his wrap tighter around himself despite the summer sun. “It means more than I can express. Please don’t spend too much of your downtime on this, though.”
“It’s important to me too, Dad,” I said.
“Even so,” he said, “I ought to have dug around on my own when the internet became so popular. I shouldn’t have left this up to you. But I knew it would upset your mother.”
“You do realize that if the baby survived, he or she is likely my only family after you’re gone, right?” I replied. “You’ve actually given me a gift, Dad. The hope that I might have an honest-to-God relative after you pass away.” It was a long shot that I’d find my half sibling, but having some sort of biological tie in the world was a comfort.