White Rose Black Forest

by Dempsey, Eoin

  “Who are you?” he said, rubbing the nape of his neck.

  “I’m from this area. I grew up in Freiburg. This was my family’s summer home.”

  “Are you here alone?”

  “Apart from you. What were you doing out there in the snow? I have your parachute.”

  “I can’t talk about it. That’s classified information. If I were to fall into Allied hands, it could be damaging to the war effort.”

  “Well, you’re still in the fatherland. You’re safe. The Allies are hundreds of miles away.”

  The man nodded, his eyes dropping to the floor.

  “You must be famished. I’ll fetch you some food.”

  “Yes, please.”

  “My pleasure, Herr Graf.”

  She retreated to the kitchen. Her hands were shaking as she reached for the last can of soup in the cupboard. It was hard to know how to play it from here. Trying to out him from his charade could be downright dangerous, but she had to let him know that he could trust her.

  “Trust takes time,” she whispered. “This isn’t going to happen tonight.” She went back to him as the soup warmed on the stove. He flinched as she walked in.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Yes, thank you. It’s just that the pain in my legs is quite intense.”

  “I understand. I’m sorry about that. I’m going to try to get more painkillers for you tomorrow.” He didn’t answer. “I have your boots, but I was forced to cut the pants off your legs. I also have your backpack. I saw that you had clothes in there.”

  He nodded, seemingly unsure of what to say. “Thank you for taking care of me,” he answered after a few seconds. His eyes drifted toward the window and then back to her.

  “I set the bones in your legs, but I’m afraid we’re going to need plaster casts to make sure they heal correctly.”

  “Yes, thank you, Fräulein Gerber. Whatever you think is best.”

  His eyes were glazing over, and he fell back on the bed.

  “I’ll be right back,” she said. The soup was ready, and she poured it into a bowl for him. She returned to the bedroom. He was lying down on the bed, staring at the ceiling. He sat up as she placed the tray in front of him. He devoured the soup even more quickly than she had earlier. She took the tray, wishing she had bread to give him. “You need to rest now.”

  “I have some more questions for you.”

  “Questions can wait.”

  “Have you spoken to anyone else about my being here? Anyone at all?”

  “I haven’t spoken to another soul in days, not since before I found you. We’ve no telephone here, as I said. There isn’t even a postal service. I’d have to go into town to get any letters if anyone knew I was up here. But they don’t. We’re alone.” She leaned forward. “I brought you back here so you could get better.”

  “I’m grateful for that, but it’s important that I be on my way as soon as possible.”

  “You’re not going anywhere on those legs for several weeks. Once the roads open up again, we can see about bringing you back to town, but until then you’re stuck here with me. You need to accept that and also realize that you can trust me. I’m here to make sure you get better.”

  “I’m thankful, Fräulein.” He nodded to her, but there was little joy or true appreciation in his words. It was as if he were reading off a script.

  “Think nothing of it. I could hardly leave you out there to freeze to death, now could I? The important thing now is that you rest.”

  Even her own words were wooden. It was as if they were two bad actors performing a play.

  The man nodded and lay back down, the pain evident on his face. Franka reached for the candle on the bedside table and extinguished it between two wetted fingers. She closed the door behind her, drained from the masquerade. She turned the lock once more, aware that he must have heard her do it. The man didn’t protest.

  The fire in the living room was dying, so she added more wood, standing back once more to watch it blaze up. She felt like she was alone in a cage with a wounded animal and unsure of anything it might do. His broken legs were her only guarantee of safety. As long as he couldn’t move from that bed, he couldn’t hurt her, especially without his guns. It was paramount that he understood that she meant him no harm, but also that she was in charge. She would not be subject to the whims of any bully, be they a Nazi or an Allied soldier. She would keep him here, safe from the Gestapo. That would be her final act of defiance against them before she joined Hans and the others.

  Her entire body ached now, crying out for sleep. She went to her bedroom. Usually she would have left the door open to collect some of the warmth from the living room, but she closed the door behind her.

  She went to the window. It was a calm, clear night, and the stars outside shone like light through pinpricks in black velvet. The weather tomorrow would likely be good enough for her to go into town. The trails would be clear. It was the type of trip she might have relished ten years ago. That seemed like a different world. She’d accumulated so many scars since then.

  Franka picked a hot-water bottle out of the closet, the memories of her youth coming at the mere sight of it—nights cuddled up under blankets, her eyes drifting shut as her mother sang her to sleep.

  She had never meant to stay here this long. There were too many ghosts. But now she had little choice. Leaving the cabin would mean leaving him and giving the Gestapo their victory. She took the hot-water bottle out to the kitchen and poured the water in once it had heated. It felt good in her hands, like it was giving life back to her. She hugged it, feeling the warmth in her chest, before returning to the bedroom. Could he really be German? Why would he have said those English words in his sleep? Perhaps this was all simpler than she’d made out, and she could drop him off at the local hospital when the roads cleared in a few days. Maybe she’d misheard him talking in his sleep. She didn’t speak English and had only heard a few words spoken in front of her. Perhaps he hadn’t said anything at all. Perhaps he really was Hauptman Werner Graf of the Luftwaffe. Franka felt her heart drop at the thought that he wasn’t who she thought he was, that he was one of them. Was he a Luftwaffe flier? She had seen the propaganda films that showed foreigners coming to join the glorious German Reich. It seemed unlikely. If he was Luftwaffe, she would hand him over to the authorities as soon as he came to, and that would be that.

  The bedroom went black as she blew out the oil lamp at her bedside. No. He had said those English words. She had heard them. She still could hear them, could still sound them out on her tongue. He wasn’t Hauptman Werner Graf of the Luftwaffe. Why had he been lying in the snow in the mountains of the Black Forest? He couldn’t have been there for more than a few minutes when she’d found him; otherwise she would have come upon a corpse. If he was a spy or a prisoner of war, the penalty for helping him would be death. She could handle that. The National Socialists couldn’t take anything more from her now. Not when she had nothing left for them to take.

  Franka turned over in the bed, pulling the thick blankets up to her chin so that only her face was exposed. Beneath the bedcovers was the only warm place in the house apart from the fire. The man only had one blanket, and the hole she’d made in the floor would let in a draft. She got out of bed, taking the key to the man’s bedroom door. She put on a nightgown, and a coat over that, before tiptoeing away. The house was still. She unlocked the door, put a hand on the door handle, and knocked with her other hand as she opened it.

  “Hallo?” she whispered. “Are you awake, Herr Graf?”

  He was lying in the bed, but she could see that his eyes were open. For a horrible second she thought he might have been dead, but soon he turned his head to her.

  “I am awake, Fräulein.”

  “Are you warm enough?”

  “I’m fine, thank you.”

  She didn’t take his word for it. It was colder in his room than hers, and he didn’t have as many blankets. She’d left the curtains open, and the lig
ht of the moon was streaming in. The features of his face were visible in the half-light. She took his hand. She hadn’t planned on touching him, just wanted to see how cold he was. His eyes came to hers.

  “You’re freezing,” she said. “Why didn’t you ask me for another blanket?”

  “I don’t want to cause you any more trouble.”

  “Nonsense. There’s no use suffering when there are more blankets in the closet.” She let go of his hand and opened the closet. She took out a thick blanket and spread it over him. “This will keep you warm.” He was staring at her, and she stepped back. “I’m going into town tomorrow. The roads will be closed, but we need food and I can’t bear the thought of the pain you must be in.” She paused for an answer that didn’t come. “It’s obvious that I can’t bring you in with me, but if you’d like, I can report your presence here to the local Gestapo.” It was her turn to stare at him now.

  “That won’t be necessary, Fräulein. The local police are not of concern to me. As I mentioned previously, I’m handling some sensitive matters on behalf of the war effort right now. Alerting anyone to my presence here wouldn’t be prudent at this time.”

  “So you don’t want me to report that you’re here to anyone? They could tell the Luftwaffe, your superior officer, whom sent you up in that airplane.”

  “Really, there’s no need. I’ll leave you as soon as the roads are clear. Until then, I’ll be your grateful guest.”

  Franka wondered if he knew how long his legs were going to take to heal or if he was being deliberately ignorant. She was certain of one thing, however: he wasn’t an English-speaking Luftwaffe pilot.

  “As you wish.” She turned to leave.

  “Fräulein, how did you get me here?”

  “I dragged you on a sled.”

  “You dragged me back here unconscious?” His eyes were wide in the darkness. He held his hands together in front of him as if he were praying. “You are a truly remarkable person. I am forever in your debt.”

  “You need to sleep now. Is there anything else you need?”

  “A chamber pot, perhaps? Just in case.”

  “Of course,” she answered, and went to the kitchen. She found a basin that would do the job and brought it back to him. He accepted it with a smile and thanked her once more. Franka closed the door behind her, turning the key in the lock. She determined not to use the name Werner Graf anymore. Saying it out loud demeaned them both.

  Franka awoke with the dawn. The night had brought a deeper sleep than she’d enjoyed for many months. The man’s presence in the house had in some way blunted the memories that found her in the dark. The memories were always worse at night, and sleeping alone had become torture. There was comfort to be drawn from his presence here, and she felt it. She had already done so much for him, and he for her. He was the first thing that came to her mind as she opened her eyes. She wondered if he’d slept, and if he was in pain. She wondered if his bones were still set properly with the splints she’d made, and when, if ever, she’d learn the truth about him. The floor felt like ice, and she searched for her slippers, then slid her feet into them before venturing to the window. Pushing back the curtains revealed the winter sun in a cloudless, cobalt-blue sky. The snow was as it had been the night before. Doubts crept in. Did she really have to make this trip into town today? Could she wait? They had little food left, and she couldn’t leave him lying in misery until the roads opened back up. Who knew when that would be? The roads up here could be closed for weeks at a time, although that was before the brutal efficiency of the Nazis. It was decided, then: she would go into town today. She would go all the way into Freiburg. She would find the supplies she needed in the city, and no one was looking for her—she had no one to hide from.

  Franka went to his room and put her ear against the door. There was no noise from inside, so she drew back and went to the kitchen. The skis were still against the wall where she’d left them the night before. Ten miles was a ridiculous distance to attempt on skis, particularly considering her lack of practice these past few years. It was less than two to the main road into Freiburg, and she was confident in her ability to hitch a ride into town from there. She restocked the fireplaces in both the living room and the kitchen. The fires would be long extinguished by the time she returned but would provide some warmth while she was gone.

  It had only been a few days since she’d been in Freiburg, but it seemed like years ago. She was a different person now. Those few days she’d spent in the city the week before were a blur. She closed her eyes, trying to forget.

  Franka unlocked the door to the man’s room, listening for any noise before pushing it open. The room was dark, the curtains still closed. The hole in the floor remained. The man was lying asleep on the bed. He didn’t seem like he’d moved since last night. She wondered if she should wake him but then decided against it. She went to the desk in the living room and took a piece of paper and a pen.

  I’m going into town for the supplies we spoke about last night. I shouldn’t be more than a few hours. Please stay in bed until I get back.

  Franka Gerber

  She wondered if she should have signed it Fräulein Gerber but didn’t want to bother writing the note all over again. He was still asleep when she returned to his room. What if this man was a prisoner of war? What then? Could she keep him up here for the remainder of the war? With the Allied landings in Italy a few months before, and the calamity of Stalingrad, the eventual defeat of the Reich finally seemed possible. But it wasn’t close. The National Socialists still maintained an iron grip on most of Europe, not to mention Germany herself. Could she hide him up here for months, or even years?

  “One thing at a time, Franka,” she whispered. “Get the man some painkillers, and some food to keep you both alive; then worry about what comes next.”

  She placed the note and a glass of water on the bedside table. The bottle of aspirin was empty, the last of them taken in the night. The full weight of his pain was lying in wait for him as soon as he awoke. She closed her eyes as she took the empty bottle in her hand, letting a breath out through her nostrils. There was nothing more to be done. Franka locked the door behind her.

  The bright sunlight through the windows hadn’t lulled her into any false hopes of warmth, and she put on her winter coat, hat, and gloves. She slipped her arms into her backpack, took the skis, and stepped out into the morning. Her sunglasses shielded her eyes from the burning sun. She slipped her feet into the skis, which still fit perfectly. Having them on felt like stepping into the past.

  The horizon was clear, broken only by the carpet of snow-peaked trees climbing the surrounding hills. The snow was flawless, innocent white and would have lent a beauty to any landscape, let alone one as inherently spectacular as this. When was the last time she’d truly observed it? Had the darkness that had overtaken her obscured all else? She picked up speed, feeling a giddiness she thought she’d lost. The cabin faded into the distance.

  The ground hurtled toward him, the rushing of the air rendering all his senses useless. He reached for a parachute that wasn’t there. The ground below him stopped, changed into the field behind his parents’ house. He was suddenly on the ground, rolling in the softness of the grass, and as he tried to move, the pain struck. He shook awake to the sound of the front door closing. He bit down on his lip, balling his fists together as a tsunami of agony rolled over him. He struggled against it, taking a deep breath in through his nose. He opened his eyes again. Several minutes had passed, and his brow was damp with sweat. He saw the note on the table. Questions came faster than he could process them. His mind was wobbly, charred at the edges by pain. Who was this person? Was this some Gestapo plot to gain his confidence, to get him to reveal the true nature of his mission? The woman had said they were ten miles outside Freiburg. He tried to remember exactly where that was, and how far it was to his target. The Black Forest—he had landed in the Black Forest. They must have seen his parachute. The woman was a Gestapo agent.
How could she have gotten him back here by herself? It didn’t seem possible. She must have had help. Her story didn’t check out. Her face appeared in his mind. She was pretty as a pearl-handled dagger. He checked his torso for wounds. His head ached, but apart from that, and of course his legs, he seemed okay. She must have gone for help. They’d probably be here in minutes.

  He reached down to touch the wooden splints along his legs. They seemed flimsy enough to confine him to this bed, but perhaps that was her plan. He was wearing pajamas, his backpack was missing, and his Luftwaffe uniform was thrown into the corner of the room. He propped himself up in the bed, trying to peer out the window through a chink in the curtains. He saw nothing but white. He needed a plan. Step one: get out of here. But how? The bed had been pushed all the way to one side of the bedroom. The window was about eight feet away across the room but might as well have been a mile. He took another sip of water before the hard part. The avalanche of pain that struck him as his legs dipped down the side of the bed was like nothing he’d ever experienced. He had to cover his mouth to stifle his own screams. It was cold in the room, but he could feel slick sweat on his back. He lay back and took a few ragged breaths. The house was quiet.

  A cuckoo clock sounded, the bell chiming nine times. The noise brought him back into the moment, and he found the strength to sit up once more. Gently, he continued lowering his legs down the edge of the bed, carrying the weight of his body in his arms and pushing out deep breaths through pursed lips.

  “Control the pain,” he said in German. He made sure he did. Any slip now would be fatal. Maintain your cover. “You can do this.” His useless legs dangled off the side of the bed, and he was sitting now, facing the window. He looked down at the missing floorboards that the young woman had pried up. What had she been doing? Was she trying to make it as hard as possible for him to get to the window? He surveyed the room. There was nothing between him and the window, nothing to prop himself up on once he got there. Perhaps crawling to the door might be the better option.