“The explosion. Same time as the shrapnel,” I told her.
She pressed around my ear. Her fingertips brushed against my earlobe. I twitched.
“Does that hurt?” she asked.
I shook my head. No, it didn’t hurt. I was half-deaf but I wasn’t numb. The nurse’s face was inches from mine. Her mouth was close and her breath was in my ear. I closed my eyes, fighting like hell to hold off the shiver. She was testing me.
She leaned back on her heels, grinning.
“Are you satisfied?” I asked her.
“Oh, yes.” She smiled. “You must be deaf in that ear.”
“I know you said something. I could feel it. I just couldn’t hear it.”
“Well, I’d like you to hear this. I’m Joana. You should call me by my name. Not nurse, not girl. Joana.”
“That might be impolite,” I told her. “You’re older than me. I should probably call you ma’am, or maybe madame?”
She rolled her eyes. “Lie down. I want to check the dressing on your wound.”
I lay back and folded my arms behind my head. I had to ask.
“Or maybe you’re a Mrs.?” I said.
“No, I’m not a Mrs.,” she said, inspecting my wound. “Do you have a Mrs.?”
I flinched. “That area you’re touching now. It still hurts,” I said.
“That’s normal. If it were infected, you’d have a fever and discoloration.” She had no problem returning to medical chat. She softly swept back my overgrown hair and laid her palm against my forehead. Her hand was warm. “You don’t have a fever.” She paused and cleared her throat. “So I’ve been thinking about what you said. We could all be split up tomorrow. I need to stay with Emilia.”
“You need to?”
She peeled my soiled bandage back farther. “Yes. Her time is near and despite the brave face she’s putting on, she’s probably quite frightened.”
Are you frightened? I wanted to ask. Was a soldier waiting somewhere for her? I thought of the song “Lili Marleen” that she had mentioned. Maybe a guy was waiting under a lamppost back in Lithuania.
“So you want to help the Polish girl. Are you like that English nurse, the one who carried her lamp through the dark to save all of those sick people?”
“No,” she said flatly. “I’m no Florence Nightingale. It’s just—Emilia reminds me of someone.”
I realized that telling the truth might be the ammunition I needed. “She reminds me of someone too,” I said. “I have a younger sister.”
It worked. Her head snapped to me.
“You do?”
I nodded. “She’s nearly sixteen now, like the Polish girl. My father sent her up north near the Danish border for safety. I haven’t heard from her in over three years. I’m going to find her.”
Her expression softened.
“Are your parents still alive?” I asked.
Her hands stopped. Her fingers rested lightly on my chest. She stared off into the corner. “I hope so.” She sighed.
Family. I had hit the nerve. I was exactly where I needed to be to convince her, but suddenly I felt bad. She was genuinely a nice girl. And why did she have to be so pretty? Why couldn’t she have a mustache like that giant, Eva?
“I try so hard not to think negatively,” she said. “My mother is in a refugee camp in Germany, but my father and brother are still in Lithuania. Mother thinks they’re fighting in the forests. I’ve heard that Stalin has done unspeakable things to Lithuanians. And then I think of the family upstairs at that estate.” She paused. “Are you absolutely sure they were all dead? I keep thinking that maybe one of the children was alive, that I could have helped.”
I didn’t want to describe it for her. “They were dead.”
She looked straight at me. “I did something stupid.”
I stared back at her, waiting. The curtain to her guard was sliding down. Her truths were there for the taking. A soft curl slipped from beneath her ear onto her cheek. That curl. It was killing me.
“I wrote the family a note, saying that I borrowed their sewing kit. It didn’t feel right taking something of theirs. That was before I knew they were all upstairs, of course. I signed my name on the note and left it in the kitchen. Now my full name is in that house. What if the relatives return to find the dead family and my name?”
“Sure, you slaughtered the family and then left a borrow note for a sewing kit. That’s a real calculated killer.” I laughed.
The curtain flew back up. I had pushed too far. “Killers aren’t always assassins. Sometimes they don’t even have blood on their hands.” She gathered her bag, leaving my shirt open.
“Your stitches should be removed in a couple days. I don’t know if they will accept me on a ship. If they do, I may think about vouching for your ear and your wound. But I have to know more. I can’t take the risk. Either give me your name, show me your papers, or tell me what you’re hiding in your pack.” She stood up and looked down at me.