by Robert Elmer
Two more shots made him duck again.
Troublemakers, he told himself. They shouldn't rush their own funerals.
Funerals he would likely be called upon to conduct. Since he could at the moment do nothing about it, he thought it best to at least get inside—though pulling free of his wrecked bicycle and standing up would not prove as easy as he'd hoped. Not when much of his body remained backwards and improbably twisted.
Then he saw the blood on the pavement and on his hand when he touched his chin, wet and warm. He could smell the vague, salty dampness even before tasting it.
"Not so good, I'm afraid," he whispered. He was used to seeing a bit of blood at the butcher's shop, but not his own. It appeared just as red.
This time when he tried to twist himself free from the wreckage, he felt a bite in his right side, just above the belt. A few moments later his starched white shirt had soaked crimson like a red-and-white Danish flag.
Pretty, almost.
At once fascinated and horrified, he couldn't decide whether to hold his side or cradle his chin. In any case, he knew he had to get up, despite all the terrible noise. So he yanked his legs back as hard as he could, ignoring the pain that shot through his twisted knee. Now his head was too dizzy, and a woman scurried by with her dog and disappeared into the shelter of a nearby alleyway.
Please, Lord, don't let it be someone from my church.
Even if it was, his light head overruled, he would politely ask her for a helping hand, if you please?
"Være så venlig?"
But no one stopped as his rattled mind loosened its moorings, slipping away from what he knew of Holy Communion, twisted bicycles, and broken bodies. When he finally touched his hand to his shirt he realized what kind of glass had actually punctured his side.
The little bottle of communion wine. That was it! The blood of Christ, symbolic or not, mingled with his own blood, very real indeed. There might be a sermon illustration in there, somewhere. Right now, though, he couldn't think of it.
"Fru Kanstrup will forgive my being detained," he whispered.
She must. He heard another popping sound, no, two, and then a pair of shoes running on the pavement past his head.But by that time he wasn't at all certain if his eyes were open or closed, or why it had grown so dark so quickly. And he heard that rough voice again, only this time much closer.
"Let's get you out of here."
Steffen looked up to see a young man with flaming red hair crouching next to him, grabbing him by the collar and hauling him like a sack of potatoes across the pavement and into an alleyway. Well, was that necessary?
He might have objected, but yet another shot echoed in his ears as the young fellow with the red hair pulled him to safety. Or perhaps it was thunder he heard this time, or another warning.
"Nikolai! Let him go!"
And that was all he remembered.
"Oh, dear!" The other young nurse looked up from the shattered glass on the hospital floor with a big-eyed expression of terror. "Your flowers, Hanne! I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—"
"Don't worry about it, Ann-Grete." Floor supervisor Hanne Abrahamsen didn't have time today to worry about dropped vases, no matter who the expensive flowers came from. She patted her friend on the shoulder as she sidestepped the mess."Just let's be sure to sweep it up before Dr. Jørgensen sees. You know how he gets after . . ."
No need to finish the sentence. Her voice trailed off as she rubbed her eyes and checked her wristwatch.
After working the past fifteen hours straight.
"You won't tell your boyfriend, I hope." Ann-Grete bent to pick out the roses from the glass mess. "See? I'll put them back in water right away. He won't know the difference."
"Ann-Grete, he's not my—oh, forget it. Thanks." Hanne nodded and checked her clipboard, forcing her addled brain to make mental notes as she hurried down the hallway and past the survivors of this latest riot. This past summer København had been heating up in more ways than one, as street demonstrations grew more and more violent. Flowers were the least of her worries.
In 39A, gunshot wounds to the shoulder. He'd been lucky the shooter's aim was a bit off. In 40B, multiple fractures after a run-in with a German guard swinging a half-empty bottle of Tuborg. She wondered how the poor man had made it home.And then there was Room 41, the priest. She paused at the door, wondering if she should bother him.
"Awake yet, Father?"
He blinked, and again. Looked up at her with the same weak, puzzled expression most people wore when waking up in a strange hospital bed.
"I was on my way to Bispebjerg Hospital . . ." His voice cracked. Likely he still didn't know where he was.
"You made it."
"In a manner of speaking." Now he tried to straighten up, which, given the tubes he wore pinned to his arm, might not have been the best of plans. "I was going there to visit one of my parishioners and found myself in the middle of a street battle. Poor timing, I'm afraid. And now—"
"Here, don't move." She stepped in and took his hand."You've lost some blood."
"Blood . . . ja." He looked up at her peaked nurse's cap and understanding finally flooded his eyes. "Oh! Well, as long as I can borrow some more, I'll be happy to return it in a few weeks."
At least he still owned a sense of humor. That had to be a good sign.
"That won't be necessary, Father." She popped a glass thermometer into his mouth and located his pulse as he mumbled and gestured with his free hand. But when he tried to reach for the instrument she beat him to it, pulling it back out enough for him to tell her.
"Just 'Pastor' is fine." He smiled, and even behind the bandages on his chin and forehead she noticed the nice row of teeth and a very pleasant twinkle in his blue Scandinavian eyes. "I'm not a Catholic priest, you know."
"I see." She popped the thermometer back in. Priest or pastor, it was all the same to her—though she had to admit the man was charming, in a different sort of way. "You've had a concussion. And you were just lucky all that broken glass didn't put your eye out."
This time he rolled the thermometer to the side of his mouth like a cigarette.
"Ah, luck. Now there's an interesting concept. You believe in it?"
She smiled and adjusted it so he couldn't talk.
"You may call it whatever you like, Pastor. My job at the moment is simply to keep you quiet long enough to take your pulse and temperature. And if you don't stop talking, I have another way to find out if you're running a fever. Whichever you prefer."
That settled him down just fine, until Hanne finally extracted the thermometer from between his lips with a brief, professional smile. Except now Ann-Grete burst in, her face flushed with excitement.
"There's a German officer out in the hall!" hissed the other nurse, eyes bulging. "I told him to wait, but he's asking all about—"
Uninvited, the black-eyed man in a matching black Gestapo uniform stepped into the room.
"I'm sorry." Almost without thinking Hanne stepped up to block his entry, like a mother hen protecting chicks. "The patients in this room are not able to see any visitors. You'll have to wait out—"
"I'm here to speak with a man who was involved in an incident on Nørrebrogade." He tried to slip by her as he checked a small notebook, but she sidestepped and gave no ground."A man on a bicycle, wearing a pastor's collar? We just need to ask him a few questions. A routine matter."
Routine? Hanne knew that with the German occupiers nothing was routine. And this fellow spoke with the kind of heavily accented Danish that blended an unseemly gargle of German phrases, just as unwelcome as the sputum of a highly contagious bronchitis patient. Still she refused to flinch, crossing her arms and resisting the temptation to shield her face. Sweat trickled down the back of her neck and she clamped her fingers tightly so no one would notice their trembling.
"As you can see," she spat back, speeding up her diction out of spite, "he's heavily sedated for the moment. He couldn't speak with anyone if he wanted to. N
ot to the doctor, even.And most certainly not to you."
She hoped the pastor would catch her meaning as she turned to see him lying with his eyes closed and his hands folded on his chest, the picture of serenity. Good boy.
"Hmm." The German frowned and finally backed up a step.If he peered around Hanne's squared shoulder he would surely not miss the black coat jacket still hanging beside the bed. "I'll ignore your rudeness for now. But I will be back in the morning, then, when he will be awake and able to answer my queries."
Without another word he swiveled on his polished black boots and strutted out the door, leaving a trail of black scuffmarks behind him on the newly polished tile floor.
No introduction, no names, and no one said a word until several long moments later. That's when Hanne finally breathed.
"Wow, Hanne." Ann-Grete checked down the hallway, still white-knuckling the doorframe. "You were a bulldog. I never knew."
And speaking of not knowing . . . Hanne turned to their "heavily sedated" patient with a frown. She didn't want to imagine the trouble he could have brought on them—or might still.
"You didn't tell me you were in the Resistance, Pastor."
He opened his eyes and looked around, eyes wide this time.
"Is it safe to talk?" he wondered aloud. "Because I don't know why you're doing this, but—"
"It's all right." She raised her hand. "You don't have to explain anything to me. In fact, I'd rather you didn't. It's much better that way."
"No, you don't understand."
"Did you see his beady little eyes?" Ann-Grete kept watch at the door. "I saw a snake like that at the zoo in Frederiksberg, once. Gave me nightmares when I was a little girl."
"I know what you mean." Inwardly, Hanne shivered the same way she had when the German trucks had awakened her out of her Adolf Hitler nightmare. But outwardly she made very sure her voice carried enough gravity so there would be no mistaking her intent. "But as soon as the Gestapo fellow is out of the building, we're moving our pastor out of here."
"Moving? Where?" If Ann-Grete's eyes got any bigger . . .
"He will be checked out of this ward immediately. Paperwork will indicate he was well enough to return home."
"But I thought the doctor said he wanted to observe him overnight."
Hanne sighed.
"Then we'll move him down to the psychiatric ward for now, just for a short time. If anyone asks we'll say he's confused and we don't know his name. You understand?"
"He's not the only one who's confused." But now Ann- Grete nodded seriously as Hanne finished her instructions.Ann-Grete was a good first- year nurse, even if it took her a little longer to catch on.
"And I don't have to tell you—"
This time Ann-Grete nodded gravely.
"I understand. No more paperwork. Just a note that he's been discharged."
Good. But just to be sure, Hanne glanced at her patient once more. He stared back at her, his mouth slightly agape, his hand on his cheek in wonder, or so it seemed.
Quite the actor.
3
BISPEBJERG HOSPITAL, KØBENHAVN
FRIDAY EVENING, 17 SEPTEMBER 1943
Our form of heroism is cheerful defiance with the
least possible show. We shall never learn to be ceremonious, and
this was our strength in these years. The German chains were
broken by Danish laughter.
—ERNST MENTZE
Listen, nurse, uh, none of this is actually necessary. Is it?" "Here we go. One, two—"
Nurse Hanne helped him slide out of bed and into a wheelchair by the side of his bed. From the cool draft on his legs, he wondered how much his skimpy hospital gown actually covered. Unfortunately, at the moment he could do very little to change the situation.
"As I told you, I'm not a member of the Underground," he went on, trying to sound as authoritative as when he mounted the steps to his elevated pulpit on Sunday morning. "I was just on my way here to visit a parishioner, an elderly woman who had fallen and broken her hip. Nothing more."
"So you said." The lovely raven-haired nurse checked the wheels on his chair and offered him a blanket, which he gratefully accepted. "But please don't worry. If we are asked, that's exactly what we will say, as well."
"No, you don't understand. I am most certainly not who you think I am."
"And who do I think you are?"
"Look, this is getting very confusing and existential, so unless you want to discuss the finer points of Kierkegaard's philosophy, then perhaps—"
"I did a paper on Kierkegaard in school." When she interrupted him her hazel eyes seemed to twinkle with purpose.He'd never seen such brilliant color; she could not know how they drew him in.
Or perhaps she just enjoyed being petulant. She checked her clipboard once again. "Patient displays obvious confusion about his identity. Recommend relocation to E Ward."
"That's not what it says."
She concealed an amused look.
"So you feel as if you were a piece in a game of chess, when your opponent says of it: That piece cannot be moved. Is that it?"
"You're quoting Kierkegaard, again."
Steffen looked up at her and sighed in resignation. By now he knew without a doubt this was a person who was used to getting her way, and nothing he could say would change her mind about who he was. The Germans had been shooting at him for a reason, she believed, so that was that. And the Gestapo man's visit to his room? Quite proof enough for her.Perhaps he could try another angle.
"You haven't heard of any clergy working with the Underground before," he asked, "have you?"
"There's always a first time." And this time she kept her eyes on her wristwatch as she tucked his arm against her and counted his pulse. He feared it might be racing a bit at her touch, though he would never admit it. He certainly would not admit the tinge of disappointment he felt when she let his arm go to jot another note on her clipboard.
"I'm going to live?" he asked. She lifted her eyebrows.
"Not such a safe bet, these days, especially for those of us traveling through gun battles. I suppose how long you want to live, well, that's up to you, then."
He opened his mouth to argue the point, then thought better of it as she began to wheel his gurney out of his room and into the hallway.
"Wait." He pointed back at the room. "My bomb-making supplies?"
"Of course." She paused their parade and fetched the small handbag with his robe and collar. When she handed it to him he clutched it protectively, like a pillow. Certainly she must have known what was in the bag (it had obviously been opened and examined), and still she seemed to think he was implicated in the incident? Yet she probably had no idea how hard his ceremonial collar was to starch and press.
"All right, then." She tucked the pen into the clipboard and hung it from a hook on the end of his bed. "So here we go."
Despite the soreness, he was sure he could have walked just fine. No need for this. But he decided he might as well enjoy the ride and appreciate Nurse Hanne's overprotective initiative. So he gripped the sides of the gurney as they shuttled down the polished hospital hallway, and kept an eye on her as they wove in and around examination carts and other staff. This nurse was obviously on a mission, one in which he found himself quite the center, perhaps.
At the same time, he couldn't help admiring this young nurse, several years his junior and pretty in a way he hadn't noticed at first. Though not all Danes were fair-haired and blue-eyed in the way that outsiders expected of Scandinavians, Hanne's features held just a hint of the Mediterranean, if one was looking closely for it. Her smooth skin and features reminded him of a late-summer tan, with a hint of gold. And her eyes—but he had already noticed that part of her.
Eventually they made their way down a ramp and through one of the hallway-like tunnels connecting the stately, attractive brick buildings scattered about the Bispebjerg campus.Along this route they would see none of the landscaped acres, some of the pretti
est in København. And they would miss seeing how Bispebjerg, or "Bishop's Mount," was so aptly named—though the "mount" was little more than a gentle rise in the city landscape. Instead they would slip underneath it all, through Nurse Hanne's shortcut.
But he didn't ask questions this time. She knew where she was going; he obviously did not.
"I don't want you to be alarmed at some of the patients you might encounter in the psychiatric ward," she finally told him as they wheeled through another set of doors, then up another ramp. She didn't even seem to labor behind his weight. "As a pastor, though, naturally you've seen these kinds of cases many times before."
"Naturligt." He nodded.
Unfortunately, he had.
"I actually don't get out to this part of the hospital very often," she admitted, pushing him carefully into another hallway. "I don't have a problem with injured bodies. It's the injured minds that are difficult. I don't know how you deal with it."
"Sometimes I wonder, myself. But it's funny. I guess I've always looked at it the other way around—admired the way people like you can patch up bodies. Seems like a very . . . like something Christ would do, if he were here. Me, I'm not very useful when it comes to blood. A little queasy, I'm afraid."
"No one's ever accused me of being like Christ." She laughed for the first time—a soft, warm sound that he could almost feel rather than just hear as it lit up her face. He wanted to ask her to laugh once more, just for the experience.
"No?" He looked up at her as they wheeled down the hall, seeing her face upside down but no less attractive. She visibly stiffened when a voice called her from down the hall.
