“I shouldn’t have done that,” Adam said slowly, “but I can’t be sorry for it. You’re such a lovely woman, and you’ve been so kind to me.”
Maris could not answer. The kiss had stirred, had broken something loose inside that she had thought securely locked away, and she said, “You shouldn’t have done it, Adam!”
Adam gave her a keen glance. Her response had been passionate, and she was not a woman to give herself cheaply to a man. His coming had changed something for her, and he knew that from this moment on they could never be the same again. “This changes things, Maris,” he said.
“No, it changes nothing!”
He took her arm unconsciously and held her. “You feel something for me, and I feel something for you.”
Maris was breathing rather shallowly. The experience had frightened her, and she shook her head and forced herself to be calm. “It was just a kiss, Adam.”
“It was more than that.”
“No, that’s all it was!” she insisted. She pulled her arm back and said, “Come, let’s go back to the house.”
“Wait a minute! Why are you so upset if it was just a kiss?”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Adam!” Her voice was nervous, and she knew that she would not sleep well for days, so violent her reaction had been. Such things had been buried and dead to her, and he had disturbed emotions that she had safely put away for the rest of her life, or so she had thought.
Slowly she turned to him and the two stopped. “We would make poor sweethearts, Adam. Everything is against us. Even if we did fall in love, nothing could come of it.”
Adam was listening, but her nearness sharpened the long-felt hungers that had been stirred within him. The sight of her struck him—the things he saw and the warm things he felt in her. There was a frankness and a softness in her expression, a sweetness that trouble had not destroyed, and it gave her a fragrance and a desirability. No other woman had ever stirred him as this one. It was an inward beauty and an outward grace. He knew that he would not forget her, and now said quietly, “I don’t know much about love, but I don’t think you can turn it on and off with a switch.”
“You don’t love me, Adam. You’re just lonely and a long way from home.”
“No!” He shook his head. “It’s not that, nothing like that. There’s something in you that I have never seen in another woman, and I think you see something in me.”
His accurate remark frightened Maris, and she turned and said, “Come, we mustn’t speak of this again, and you must not kiss me, not ever again!”
“I can’t promise that,” Adam said quietly. He allowed her to pull him along in the snow and from time to time saw that her expression was disturbed, and he knew that this was not the end of the thing.
“I’LL BE BACK”
Adam walked slowly through the snow, his eyes on the distant line of mountains. A huge, orange sun touched the crest as he moved along the edge of the woods, then seemed to melt and began dropping rapidly out of sight. It never ceased to amaze him how quickly the sun disappeared. He could see the movement of it as it slid behind the rugged curvature of the earth, and he found a strange satisfaction in it. However, he wanted to get back to the house before dark and moved along more rapidly. Snow had fallen again the night before and left a two-inch crust on top of the older crust. There was a satisfying crunching sound as he moved along, and the thought passed through his mind, I bet the skiing would be wonderful here, but the twinge in his leg reminded him that he would not be doing any skiing for a while.
Reaching the side of the chateau, he entered and encountered Hilda, the servant, who said, “The countess wishes to see you.”
“Where is she, Hilda?”
“In the big room.”
This, Adam understood, meant the large living area with the vaulted ceiling, and he moved quickly, ignoring the twinge in his leg. He had discarded the cane the day before and now considered that he might have been too hasty. Maris had warned him against it, but Adam was so anxious to begin to get back his strength that he wanted to test himself. As he limped into the large, spacious area, he saw the countess standing by the fireplace. She turned to greet him, and he moved forward until he stood before her. “You wanted to see me?”
“Yes.” The countess studied him carefully for a long moment, then said, “You have thrown away your cane?”
“May have to take it back,” Adam said ruefully. “Maris warned me against it, but I guess I’m a little too anxious to get back my full strength.” He waited, expecting her to speak, but for some reason she seemed reluctant to do so.
Finally she said, “Come, I want to show you something.” Adam limped after her as she moved to the east side of the room where a rectangular dark-walnut table rested beneath a window. Pulling a chair out, the countess nodded at it, then seated herself. When Adam had seated himself she said, “I want you to see these things—Adam.”
Adam noticed the slight hesitation as she used his given name. It was the first time she had done so. Always before she had called him “Lieutenant.” He watched as she opened one of a series of what appeared to be photograph albums bound in rich cordovan leather. She turned several pages over and stopped at one, saying, “This is the first picture of Manfred.”
Adam leaned forward and peered down intently at the page. It was a portrait of the countess herself with her husband standing by the chair she sat in. The child she held was no more than two or three months old. He peered at it intently, then asked, “How old was he?”
“Only three months. He was a fine baby, very quiet, not like Lothar. Lothar cried constantly, sometimes for attention, sometimes just to be crying, but Manfred—never.” Turning the page, she said, “Look, here he is at one year.”
“A sturdy, fine-looking baby.” The child that was his father was wearing a rather feminine looking outfit, but the look out of his eyes was the same as that of the adult pictures that Adam had seen. He sat as the countess turned over the pages, and once he stopped and said, “Who is this?” He pointed to a picture of two children in a goat cart.
“That is Ilse. I don’t remember how old they were there. I think Manfred must have been perhaps five.”
“Ilse doesn’t believe what I’ve told you.”
“No; no she doesn’t.”
Adam waited for her to comment on her own belief, but the countess continued to turn the pages. She stopped at a picture of a young boy wearing knee-length pants, dark stockings and shoes, and what appeared to be a sailor’s top with a neckerchief. “This is when Manfred was seven. I remember it was four years before the Wright brothers flew in your country for the first time. Manfred told me that once when we were looking at this together. He was always good at dates and knew the history of aviation very well.”
He saw many pictures of the whole family, and Adam, of course, was fascinated by them. When they got to the later pictures, he noticed a portrait of Albrecht von Richthofen with Lothar and Manfred.
“This was just outside the airfield. Their father had gone to visit them. They were so proud of their life as soldiers.”
“I can understand that. They were very fine pilots, both of them.”
Quietly the countess turned her eyes upon him. She looked with a strange, haunted expression and seemed less assured than usual. “You have read much about our family?”
“Everything I could find,” Adam said, “which wasn’t too much.”
The countess thought that over, then continued to turn the pages. Finally she showed him a picture of Manfred with his head bandaged. He was standing beside a nurse, and the countess said, “This is after his crash. He was never the same after that, Adam. There were complications with the surgery to his head; then he had tremendous headaches.” Below, there was a picture of him in front of his famous red Focker Tri-Wing fighter plane. A huge dog was reared up on him and Manfred was laughing. It was one of a few pictures where there was a smile on his face.
“He seems very happy. He loved
the dog?”
“Very much; he took him when he was just a tiny puppy and he grew into the large animal you see there.”
Adam studied the picture carefully and said, “He seems very happy.”
“I do not think he was. This was after the time that he was here with your mother.”
“Did he ever talk about her?”
“Yes, twice, but he did not say much.”
“I would appreciate anything you could tell me. I know she would like to hear it.”
The countess related the two brief conversations, which were not at all satisfactory to Adam. The countess said, “I think, perhaps, it was my fault. He knew I was not sympathetic with his attachment with your mother. She was, after all, an American, and there was no hope of any life for them. I had no idea they were so close.”
“He never said anything about her, about how he felt?”
The countess dropped her head and seemed to be deep in thought. Finally, she lifted her eyes and her lips moved carefully as she said slowly, “I remember one more time. It was just before he went back—just before this picture was taken. He was getting ready to leave. I was helping him pack. I remember we had not talked about the possibility of his death. He thought it was bad luck, and so did I, but he did mention your mother.”
“What did he say?” Adam demanded eagerly.
“He was putting his shirts into his kit, and he turned to me and asked what I thought of your mother. I said, ‘She is a very beautiful young woman.’ I declined to say more because I was afraid of an attachment between them.” She hesitated, then said, “I remember what he said, although I had not until we began talking. He said, ‘She is the most gentle woman I have ever known, Mother. I wish you knew her better. I think you would like her very much.’”
When the countess faltered, Adam asked, “What did you say?”
“I said something such as, ‘I do not think she will be returning, do you, Manfred?’ And he said no more. I could see he was hurt by my attitude.”
For a moment, the only sounds in the large room were the crackling of the fire and the ticking of the large clock that hung on the wall. And then the countess said, “I wish now that I had talked with him more, but he was a very private person, you understand. You may tell your mother that is what he said of her—and you may tell her that I regret that I did not know her better.”
Adam then asked directly, “Do you think that I am your grandson?”
“My eyes tell me that you are, and there are other things.” The countess began to say, “You are like him in many ways. You keep things to yourself as he did. You move like he did, Adam.” She hesitated, then added, “There’s no doubt in my own mind that you are my grandson.”
Adam felt very strange. He looked at this aged woman, still strong and growing old, and realized how difficult it was for her to say this. He impulsively held out his hand, and when she took it with surprise, he held it gently. “I am sorry that I did not get to know you while I was growing up.”
To Adam’s surprise, tears came into the eyes of the countess. She let them run down her cheeks and struggled for control. When she regained it, she squeezed his hand and said, “You are very like your father. I do not know what will happen in this war, but I want you to know what he was like. I will tell you everything, and you must tell me about yourself. . . .”
“Adam is spending a lot of time with his grandmother, isn’t he, Maris?”
Maris looked over at Clint Stuart, who was watching her as she was preparing supper. “Yes, he is. It is good that she sees the truth of the thing.”
“Are you so sure yourself? After all, there’s no proof.”
“The countess says he is, and she knew Manfred better than anyone. Better than his father, I understand, and you can see the resemblance.”
Clint studied the young woman, and as they talked about the strangeness of the past days that the two fliers had spent there, he was surprised when she turned and asked him, “Are you married, Clint?”
“Yes, and my wife’s name is Carol.”
“What is she like?”
Afterward Clint never knew exactly how it happened. He simply began to talk about Carol, and before long he surprised himself by telling Maris about Carol’s problems.
Maris listened quietly; then she turned to him and said, “But you still love her, even though she left you for another man?”
“Of course!”
“Not, of course! Most men would not think so.” Maris came to stand beside him and put her hand on his arm. “I thank you, and I must pray for your wife. I will join you.”
Clint Stuart smiled at the young woman. “I need all the prayers I can get, and I’d appreciate it very much if you’d pray for Carol.”
Clint did not tell Adam about that conversation. He watched the young man carefully, for not only was Adam spending a great deal of time with his grandmother, he was also spending a great deal of time, Clint noticed, with Maris. Between the two women, they kept him occupied.
Adam was experiencing strange things. As his grandmother told him more and more about his father, he came to see the man that had sired him as a human being—not just as a famous ace, the idol of the entire German nation. He saw him as a young boy, sometimes insecure, and as the countess told him tale after tale of his boyhood, Adam felt very close to his roots. Once he said to his grandmother, “If he had lived, what do you think would have happened?”
“I have thought of that often,” the countess said softly. “His life was with airplanes, as yours is now, but when Germany lost the war many lost heart, such as my son Lothar, but I wish Manfred had lived.”
“I don’t know what he would have thought about me fighting for the Americans.”
“I think he would have understood.”
“Do you really, Grandmother?”
At the use of the name “Grandmother,” the countess started.slightly. It was the first time Adam had called her that. She smiled then, tremulously, and said, “It is good to be called that. It reminds me that Manfred is still alive in you and will be in your son. You are not married?”
“No, I’m not.”
“Are you engaged?”
“No, not that either.”
There was an ancient wisdom in the countess. She had seen the eyes of this young grandson of hers follow Maris almost incessantly. A thought came to her, but she knew better than to speak it aloud. A purpose came into her heart to speak to Maris later, but she only said, “I’m glad you came to this place. It is good to know that the blood of the family will continue—even though it is in a different country. Manfred, in a way, is alive as long as you are.”
For several days Adam spent his time either speaking with his grandmother or with Maris. He and Maris had become very close. There had been no more talk of love, and he had not attempted to kiss her again. Nevertheless, he knew that something had come into his life that he could not walk away from easily.
What happened next he could never explain. He had been reading the Bible at the direction of Maris, who seemed to find such joy in it that he himself was caught up in it. They had talked endlessly about doctrine, although she talked more simply about the Lord Jesus Christ than about doctrine. Almost every night as Adam went to bed, he read a passage that she had recommended, and one evening she had recommended the story in the Gospel of John of the woman at the well. He had read it before, of course, but she had spoken with shining eyes of what a wonderful thing it was for this woman, who had never known anything but unhappiness from men, to find peace from a stranger sitting by a well. Adam had read the story again and again, just before he went to sleep.
The next morning he rose early and went out before breakfast, moving cautiously to avoid waking Clint. As he stepped outside and moved along the walkways, his feet leaving imprints in the snow, he was still thinking of the Bible passage. He found out that he had almost memorized it, and when he was some distance from the house in the midst of a copse of trees, he stood thinking for
a long time of how strange it was that Jesus would speak so to such a woman.
The air was quiet and as he stood there his mind went back to the many times that his mother had spoken to him of God. He regretted that he had been so adamant and had given her such pain, and he resolved to make it up. He began walking again, slowly, thinking of the encounter, and suddenly the words of the Scripture came to him. He seemed to see the eleventh verse almost as clearly as if he were looking at a printed page. “The woman sayeth unto him, Sir, thou hast nothing to draw with, and the well is deep: from whence then hast thou that living water.”
The words seemed to echo within him, and he remembered that Maris had said, “That’s what most people do, Adam; they don’t think Jesus is able. The woman said, ‘You don’t have anything to draw with.’ She didn’t really believe that he was able to help her. Most people feel that way about Jesus. They really don’t think he can save them as he says he can.”
Adam slowly continued his walk, thinking about his own spiritual condition. “I guess,” he murmured aloud, “I’ve done exactly what Maris said. I’ve said to God, you don’t have anything to draw with—which is foolish.” He thought of the consistent Christian lives of his mother and stepfather and of others that he had known, and he thought of the faithfulness that seemed to shine out of Maris’s eyes—and a great hunger suddenly came upon him. It was something that he had never experienced before. If I could be like them, he thought, I’d become a Christian.
The search began in Adam Stuart’s heart. For two days he kept to himself more than usual. Maris seemed to know what was happening and she mentioned it to Clint. “God is after him, and we must pray much,” she said to the tall sergeant.
Strangely enough, Adam found Christ not through the direct help of either Clint or Maris but simply sitting in his room alone. Clint had gone outside for something, and all of the Scripture passages and all of the pressure that had been building up in Adam came suddenly like a rushing flood, and he looked down at the Bible he was reading—the same chapter that he had been seemingly trapped in: “Whosoever drinketh of this water shall thirst again; but whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him shall never thirst; but the water that I shall give him shall be in him a well of water springing up into everlasting life.” He closed his eyes and the next verse seemed to leap into place: The woman saith unto him, Sir, give me this water, that I thirst not.
Winds of Change Page 32
