Page 76 of Hell to Pay
“If the Americans lose, though,” Frau Adelberg said. She was literally wringing her hands.
“If they lose what?” I asked rudely. “The war? They aren’t going to lose the war. How can they?”
“The secret weapon, though,” Frau Adelberg said. “For Hitler’s birthday. That’s only two days from now.”
“If Hitler had a secret weapon,” I said, “he’d have used it already. And if the Americans are driven back in this battle,more forces will join them, that’s all. I don’t think they’ll be driven back, though. They’ve been advancing through the town so far, haven’t they? And Germany is besieged on all sides now.”
“How do you know that?” Frau Adelberg asked. “I’ve heard nothing about it on the wireless.”
“From the other refugees,” I said. “Somebody hears something or knows something, and they pass it along. The Russians are just outside Berlin, the British outside Hamburg and Bremen, the French at Salzburg. Frankfurt is taken, and the Ruhr Valley, and Goebbels speaks only of the heroism of a last stand, a fight to the death. Or have you heard of him saying something else?”
“No,” Frau Adelberg admitted. “I’ve heard the same.”
“And personally,” I said, “I don’t want to fight to the death. Do you?”
“Well, no,” she said. “I prefer to remain alive.”
“The war will end soon, or it won’t,” I said. “I think it will be very soon, but what can we do but wait and see? That’s not what’s important right now, though. I need to get this man water.” His eyes were open now and fixed on me, though he was still pale and sweating. “And soup, perhaps.”
“If we make soup for the enemy, though,” Frau Adelberg said. “Bad enough we have him here.”
I said, “What if it were your Emil, shot like this in the street in … in France? Wouldn’t you want some Frenchwoman to save him?”
“Yes,” Frau Adelberg said, “but I can’t imagine she’d do it!” The man on the bed smiled, I thought, but it turned into a grimace. “How are you intending to get rid of him?” Frau Adelberg went on. “Can you tell me that?”
“I’m not planning to,” I said, “not until the fighting ends. When it does, I’ll figure out a way. And in the meantime, he’ll need to eat. I’d make soup, but I don’t know how. A pity wedon’t have a chicken. Frau Heffinger always said chicken soup was the thing for mending hurts.”
Frau Adelberg raised her hands and eyes to the sky. “And now she wants to give him a chicken,” she told the ceiling.
“Well, as we don’t have a chicken,” I said, struggling not to laugh—it wasn’t funny, I knew, so why did itfeelfunny?—“the question doesn’t arise.”
Dr. Becker said, “I can make soup.”
“Oh, good,” I said. “Frau Adelberg, the dough should be risen now and needs baking.”
She sniffed. “I know very well how to bake bread, thank you. And you don’t know how to make a simple potato soup? A great girl like you?”
“No,” I said. “I fear my education has been sadly lacking.”
She shook her head. “Well, on your own head be it. If the authorities come for me, at least I can tell them that I refused to make the soup.”
The man motioned to me, then pointed to the floor. I asked, “What is it?”
“Rucksack,” he said. “Mein Rucksack.”
“You speak German?” I asked, but he shook his head.
I struggled to lift the thing—how had the children dragged it up the stairs, even with three of them? It was monstrously heavy. Dr, Becker jumped to help me, and Frau Adelberg screamed a little and said, “Don’t give it to him! What if he pulls out a pistol and kills us all?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I said. “I’ll empty it, then, shall I?” I asked the man in English, and he said, “Yes. Empty it.”
There was no pistol in the rucksack, and no other weapons, either. I supposed that was because the man had carried his knife, a bayonet, and grenades on his belt, as well as more ammunition and a canteen of water. I needed to tell Dr. Becker about all of that, too. There was a great deal of extra ammunitionin the rucksack, though, which Dr. Becker silently placed on top of the wardrobe—another reason I should stay in the room; the little boys certainly knew how to climb onto chairs! There was also a sort of folding shovel, which he placed next to the ammunition—how long would it have taken the boys to decide to stage their own battle? Below that, I found a folded rain poncho, a pair of extra socks, and a large can marked “Water.”
And a box marked with a red cross.
“Open it,” the man said.
I did, and Dr. Becker started forward and said, “Let me see.” He pulled items from it with little cries of delight. “Sulfa powder and wound dressings, and a roll of bandaging! Now we shall see. Morphine, also. Daisy, remind him that he has morphine.”
