Even when he was sent off to rebuild broken-down houses in Shoreditch, he had no complaints. The work was hard but the sun shone and Stefan enjoyed being outside after the confines of the POW camp.
Then, this morning, the Lagerführer had announced he was being taken off the job and sent to the Nightingale instead.
And just to make matters worse, the weather had turned, from bright sunshine to leaden skies, heavy with the promise of snow. The prisoners’ uniforms were barely enough to keep out the savage cold as a biting wind blew in across the empty ground.
Stefan found himself thinking about Kitty again. He was surprised she had recognised him. He thought she would have forgotten about him. He had assumed she would be engaged to her soldier by now.
‘Bauer! Back to work!’ the foreman called out to him, shaking him out of his reverie. ‘Lazy bugger, I hope I ain’t going to have trouble with you?’
Stefan gave him a mock salute and went off to load up the hod with bricks. It was a joke between them; the foreman knew him well as a workhorse. He could get ten hours of labour out of him with no complaint.
Not like the boy beside him. He was a skinny lad, sixteen years old at the most. He looked scared out of his wits. And by the haphazard way he was loading up the hod, he wasn’t used to hard manual labour, either.
Stefan watched him with amusement for a while, dropping single bricks on to the hod in a random fashion, then cautiously testing its weight.
‘The foreman will expect you to carry more than that,’ he said to him in German. ‘Here, let me show you.’ He picked his way across the stony ground towards him. ‘You lay them on two at a time, you see? Then these two in the opposite direction, until the hod is full.’
The young man watched him, his expression apprehensive.
‘You haven’t done this before, have you?’ Stefan said kindly. The boy shook his head.
‘I was planting crops on a farm, but the Lagerführer said I must come here.’ He jumped at the sound of laughter from the men laying bricks on the other side of the site.
‘Don’t worry, you’ll soon get used to it,’ Stefan said, clapping him on the shoulder. He could feel the lad’s bones under the rough fabric of his uniform. There wasn’t an ounce of flesh on him. ‘They’re a good bunch on the building sites. They’ll make fun of you, but it’s all in good fun. The guards are all right, too. They don’t mind us having a laugh and a joke, and sometimes they’ll even give us a cigarette if they can spare one.’
He looked down at the young man’s hands, blue and scabbed with chilblains. ‘Don’t you have any gloves?’
‘Nein.’
Stefan sighed, took off his own pair and handed them to him. The boy started to refuse, but Stefan insisted.
‘Come,’ he said. ‘Before the foreman starts shouting again.’
He picked up the hod he had just filled and hefted it on to his shoulder. His back ached and the weakened muscles in his injured leg felt like twisted, burning ropes under his skin as he stumbled over the uneven ground to where the other men were laying bricks. He was aware of the young man struggling behind him, his puny frame buckling under the weight of the hod.
But at least he had heart. He didn’t give up all morning, even though he was clearly finding it hard.
At noon, they sat down on upturned buckets to eat their lunch. Stefan sat with the boy, Gunther, and shared a cigarette the guard had given him.
‘You see?’ he said. ‘It isn’t so bad, is it?’
‘I suppose not,’ Gunther agreed cautiously. He looked around. ‘What is this place?’
‘It is a hospital. Where we’re sitting now – it used to be the building where the offices were. And over there—’ he pointed. ‘That was where the nurses used to live until the Luftwaffe bombed it all.’
Gunther frowned at him, curious. ‘How do you know so much about it?’
Stefan opened his mouth, then closed it again. He couldn’t even say Kitty’s name. ‘I was a patient here,’ he said briefly. ‘One of the nurses told me.’
It was starting to rain as they returned to work. It lashed Stefan’s face like a thousand icy knives but he didn’t break his pace as he hauled the bricks across the site. The work was tedious, and his back and leg were complaining, but he welcomed the cold and the pain as it helped take his mind off Kitty. He kept his gaze fixed on the churned mud under his boots, never allowing himself to look up at the hospital buildings in case he saw her.
He had delivered a load of bricks and was halfway across the site for another when he heard a scream that made him swing round. The other men had dropped their tools and were running back towards the site.
‘Get back to work, all of you!’ the foreman shouted, as the guards raised their weapons, all their earlier friendliness forgotten.
Stefan hung back, his eyes narrowed, watching the scene. Then he saw why the men were running. They were clustered around a figure on the ground. It was young Gunther.
He dropped his hod and hurried towards them, pushing his way through the other men to where the boy lay lifeless.
‘What happened?’ he demanded.
‘It – it was an accident,’ one of the other men explained. ‘He slipped in the mud . . . the bricks fell on him . . .’
Stefan leaned over the boy, slapping his face. It was as white as wax, but for the rivulets of crimson blood running down his temple. ‘Gunther? Wake up!’
To his utter relief, the boy’s eyes fluttered open. He looked panic-stricken when he saw the ring of faces above him.
‘Wh . . . what—’
‘You dropped a brick on your head, you little fool!’ Stefan turned to the other men. ‘Stand back, all of you. Give the boy some air.’
The men muttered, but they recognised the authority in his tone and stepped away.
Gunther struggled to sit up, but Stefan pushed him gently back, cradling his head. ‘No, don’t get up. Rest there for a moment.’ He could feel warm stickiness flowing on to his hand.
The foreman pushed his way to his side. ‘How is he?’ he asked.
‘He needs a doctor.’
‘He’s in the right place for that, at least,’ the man said grimly. He conferred with the guards for a moment, then said, ‘We’ll get someone to take him. But you’ll have to go with him,’ he added to Stefan.
Panic surged through him. ‘Me? Why?’
‘You’re his friend, ain’t you? Besides, you’re the only one speaks English and German.’
‘He’s not my friend. I don’t have any friends—’ Stefan started to say stubbornly. Then he looked into Gunther’s eyes, so terrified and appealing. ‘Very well,’ he muttered.
‘Good.’ The foreman straightened up, rubbing his hands together as if he was already washing his hands of the whole matter. ‘The guard says there’s a ward set aside for POWs. You can take him there.’
Kitty thought she was seeing a ghost when Stefan appeared on the ward.
Nurse Riley had already told them to expect a head injury, so she wasn’t surprised when two porters arrived, carrying a stretcher. What did shock her was Stefan following behind, flanked by guards.
Their eyes met, and he looked away sharply.
Nurse Riley stepped in and took charge, asking Stefan questions about what had happened, whether the patient was conscious, whether the bleeding had come from the wound or from his ears. Stefan answered her briefly, his gaze still fixed on the ground.
‘Will he be all right?’ he asked quietly.
‘We’ll take him down to theatre so the doctor can dress his wound. Don’t worry, from what you say it doesn’t sound too serious, but we have to make sure.’ She turned to Kitty. ‘Could you wash and prepare the patient for surgery—’ she started to say, then she glanced at Stefan and changed her mind. ‘On second thoughts, I’ll do it. You take the Oberleutnant to the bathroom and help clean him up.’
Kitty looked at Stefan in dismay. It was the first time she’d noticed his hands were covered in blood.
She took Stefan to the bathroom and waited in silence as he washed the blood from his hands at the basin. She stood by the door, as far away as she could from the basin, but the room still felt stiflingly small.
He had his back turned to her and she allowed her gaze to linger on him, travelling up his tall frame to admire the breadth of his shoulders under his grey prison uniform. It was only when she reached the back of his shorn head that she realised that he was watching her in the mirror.
She dropped her gaze to her shoes, black against the white tiled floor.
‘How are you?’ she said.
‘Good, thank you.’ His voice was clipped, as if every word had escaped from between closed lips.
‘And your leg?’
He shrugged. ‘Still holding me up.’
‘You seem to be walking well, at any rate?’
She watched him rubbing the hard green soap over his hands. They were like strangers. Once they could have chatted easily, but now each word seemed to be an effort.
‘Do you like it – at the camp?’ she asked.
His mouth twisted at the question. ‘They treat me well enough.’
He was trying to be polite, but Kitty could see from the tension in his face and body that he didn’t want to speak to her. She should stop trying, she thought. Keep what was left of her dignity.
And yet she couldn’t. She had a few precious moments left with him, and she had to make the most of them.
‘I was surprised to see you here,’ she started again. ‘Everyone misses you, especially Hans. I don’t think he gets on very well with Felix!’ She smiled.
He didn’t respond. He finished rinsing his hands and reached for the towel. Kitty picked it up and handed it to him, and their hands brushed.
Stefan snatched his hand back as if he’d been burnt. ‘I am ready to go now,’ he said shortly.
Sister Riley was coming up the passage towards them as they left the bathroom.
‘Ah, there you are,’ she said. ‘I was just coming to find you. Your friend has gone down to theatre now. Once his wound has been dressed, we’ll probably keep him in overnight, just to make sure everything is all right.’
Stefan nodded. ‘Danke, Nurse Riley. I will inform the Lagerführer.’
Nurse Riley turned to Kitty. ‘Jenkins, perhaps you would escort the Oberleutnant out?’
Kitty caught her meaningful look. Nurse Riley obviously thought she was being kind, allowing them to have some more time together. She couldn’t have been more wrong.
They walked the length of the ward in silence, both staring straight ahead, keeping as far apart as they could, to where the guards were waiting.
‘You can take the prisoner away now,’ Kitty said shortly. Then she turned on her heel and walked up the ward, forcing herself not to look back.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Dora had actually started to convince herself that the telegram had been a mistake when the letter finally came from Nick’s commanding officer, Colonel Matthews.
It was a nice letter, embarrassed and apologetic. Dora let her eyes skim over it, trying not to take in the details. She didn’t want to know how her husband’s unit had met surprise enemy resistance in Belgium, or about the heavy shelling that had taken place, or that many men had been killed or captured. Nor did she want to know that Nick’s name wasn’t on the list of prisoners of war the Germans had sent to Allied command.
It didn’t matter to Dora that in the colonel’s opinion Nick had died a hero, or that he was a good man, sadly missed by the rest of his unit. Nor did she particularly care about the officer’s deep sympathy, or his ardent wish that she should find some comfort in Almighty God during her sad time.
All she cared about was that, in spite of all the colonel’s flowery words, her husband would not be coming home.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Helen said, when Dora showed her the letter. She had gone to her office in the military ward and handed it over without speaking.
‘I don’t suppose they could have made a mistake?’ Dora said. ‘I bet it happens all the time, doesn’t it? People get lost, forgotten about . . . just because he’s not on a list it doesn’t mean he’s—’ She stopped, unable to say the word.
‘I suppose it’s possible,’ Helen said gently, but Dora could see from her friend’s eyes that she didn’t believe it, any more than her mother, or her grandmother, or anyone else in her family believed it.
She stared at the letter, wanting to rip it into a thousand pieces. That wretched piece of paper spelled the end of her last hope.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Helen said. ‘Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? I’ll inform Matron—’
‘No,’ Dora said quickly. ‘I don’t want her to know. I couldn’t bear it if anyone made a fuss—’
It was bad enough at home, with everyone creeping around her and speaking to her as if she were an invalid. Dora knew they were only trying to be kind, but all she wanted to do was to be left to carry on.
‘Does anyone else on the ward know?’ Helen asked.
Dora shook her head. ‘Only Major Von Mundel. I know what you’re thinking,’ she added, seeing Helen’s face change, ‘but he’s been very good to me. He cares.’
Helen’s mouth pursed with disapproval. Over the past two months, she had been doing her best to overcome her dislike for the POWs, but she still couldn’t bring herself to trust Major Von Mundel.
‘At least let me change the rota so you can go off duty early,’ she said.
‘There’s no need, honestly. I’d rather keep myself busy—’
‘That’s an order, Nurse Riley!’ Helen cut her off, then smiled. ‘Look, I’ve got this evening off too. Why don’t we go out for tea? My treat. We could take Walter and Winnie, too. They’d like that, wouldn’t they?’
‘I’m sure they would,’ Dora agreed. ‘They’ve been asking when their Auntie Helen is coming round to play again.’
‘That’s settled, then.’ Helen sat back in her chair. ‘I’ll meet you at five and we’ll go somewhere nice.’
Just at that moment Clare came breezing in. Her face fell when she saw Dora.
‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ she said tightly. ‘I didn’t realise you were here.’
‘I was just going,’ Dora said.
‘Oh, please don’t leave on my account. I’m sure I wouldn’t want to break up the party.’ Clare passed a piece of paper to Helen. ‘The linen order,’ she said.
‘Thank you.’ As Helen signed it, Clare’s gaze fell on Dora’s letter, still lying on the desk.
‘What’s this?’
Dora snatched it out of her hands. ‘It’s mine.’ She folded it up and put it back in her pocket, then left before Clare could ask any more questions.
‘Was it something I said?’ Clare asked, after the door had banged shut.
She smiled archly, but Helen’s expression was grave as she looked back at her. ‘That letter was from her husband’s commanding officer, explaining how he died.’
‘Oh!’ Clare was taken aback. ‘I’m sorry.’
Helen said nothing as she handed her the linen order, then returned to her work. Clare stood her ground, staring at the top of Helen’s white cap. How dare she dismiss her like that, as if she was a probationer! They were supposed to be best friends.
This was all Dora Riley’s doing, she thought darkly. Helen was never as friendly after she had spent time with her.
Helen looked up at her. ‘Was that all?’
‘For now, yes,’ Clare replied, wounded. She walked to the door, then said, ‘What time shall we meet this evening? The pictures?’ she prompted, when Helen frowned. ‘It’s Friday night, remember?’
‘Oh yes, of course.’ Helen’s face twisted, and Clare knew with a sinking heart what was coming. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to cancel.’
Now it was Clare’s turn to frown. ‘Are you on duty until nine? I’m sure it said on the rota you finished at five—’
She saw Helen’s brows
pucker, and wondered if she’d gone too far. But she liked to make a note of Helen’s shifts, so she could plan their time together.
‘I do,’ she said. ‘But I’ve arranged to go out for tea with Dora and her children tonight.’
‘But we always go to the pictures on a Friday night!’ Clare blurted out.
‘I know, but this is important. My friend has just had some bad news, she needs some company. You do understand that, don’t you?’
What about me? Clare wanted to shout. She was supposed to be Helen’s friend, too. Why didn’t her feelings count for anything?
But she could see Helen frowning, and she didn’t want to appear selfish, so she smiled and said, ‘Of course.’
‘You could come to tea with us,’ Helen said. She didn’t look too enthusiastic about the idea.
‘No, thank you.’ Clare fought to keep the hurt out of her voice. ‘You know what they say. Three’s a crowd.’
Helen sighed. ‘Don’t be like that—’
Clare could see her patience wearing thin, so she said, ‘I mean it, you go and have a nice time with your friend.’ She emphasised the word. ‘She needs you, not me.’
Helen didn’t seem to notice her sarcasm, or if she did, she chose to ignore it. ‘We can go to the pictures next week, if you like,’ she said.
Don’t do me any favours, will you? Clare thought sourly.
She managed to keep her feelings to herself that night as she watched Helen getting ready to go out. She tried not to think about how usually it would have been the two of them getting dressed up and drawing stocking lines up the back of each other’s legs with eye pencil.
She was afraid she had already allowed her resentment to creep out too much. She didn’t want to put Helen off. So she sat on her bed, making a big show of writing a letter while Helen did her hair in the mirror.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to come out with us?’ Helen asked. She felt guilty, Clare thought with satisfaction.
‘No, thank you. I need to finish this letter. My parents have been complaining for weeks that I never write to them.’
Helen smiled. ‘It’s a good thing you’re not going out, in that case.’
A Nightingale Christmas Carol Page 23
