The snow painted a spiderweb of ice on the windowpane. The door was open, but there was no noise from the living room. He thought to call out, to ask how she was, or to inquire about the fire, but he didn’t. He brought the covers back over his face until only his eyes were exposed. He thought back to the story she’d told him the night before, and the haunted look in her eyes as she told it. If she was Gestapo, she was one hell of an actress. He brought a hand to his face and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. The decision to tell her the truth would have to come soon. His legs still rendered him immobile. He’d be stuck here as long as the snow took to clear, and that could be weeks. What could he do while he was laid out in bed? He was miles away from his target. He was useless and possibly being prepared for torture and a grisly death.
He reached back under his pillow, feeling for the cold metal of the gun. She had saved his life. No matter what else, that much was true. Killing her would be tantamount to murder. But what was murder in war? He had killed men, had seen the look of terror in their eyes as they realized that they were about to draw their last breath. It was easy to dismiss what he’d done, to lose the sense that he’d ended their lives, to veil his actions in the fog of war, but he thought about those men often. Most days. They were enemies. They would have killed him. The only reason they hadn’t was that he was faster, stronger, better. He thought of the man he’d killed when his pistol had jammed, the feel of warm blood running over his fists as he plunged the knife into the man’s chest. He remembered the noise as he pulled the knife out. He knew that there would be no escape from that horror. Not now. Not ever.
Sounds from the living room jarred him back into the present—logs being stacked in the fireplace, the popping and cracking of the unseasoned wood struggling to ignite. What if she was who she said she was? But what were the chances of being found by someone who’d been immune to Hitler’s mass hypnosis?
There had been no allowance for nuance in his training. The Nazis were to be wiped out. His mission was paramount, and anything or anyone who stood in his way was to be eliminated. Nothing was more important. Not him, and certainly not Franka Gerber. He thought of her face and the earnest beauty of her eyes. He couldn’t let her charms sway him. He had to remain strong. He heard the footsteps coming to the door.
“Good morning,” Franka said. “How are you feeling?”
“Better, thank you.”
She seemed embarrassed for having revealed too much the night before.
“Would you like some breakfast?”
“Yes, please.”
Franka walked out, and he listened as she rustled around in the kitchen for a few minutes before returning with some meat and cheese, as well as a hot cup of coffee. She left him there eating it, returning to collect the plate from him only once he’d finished. A part of him longed for her to sit with him again, for her to tell him the rest of her story. Where was Fredi now? Was he a real person? It was getting harder to believe that this was just an elaborate ruse to gain his confidence. She left the room without a word.
A few seconds went by before he heard footsteps tramping across the wooden floor once more, and she came back into the bedroom, toolbox in hand. She passed by the bed without looking at him and sat down beside the hole in the floor. He watched as she took a hammer and began prying up the floorboard adjacent to the opening.
“What are you doing, Fr?ulein?”
“What does it look like? I’m opening up the floor.”
She didn’t look at him, just kept on. He waited until she’d pulled up the floorboard to speak again. It felt wrong to watch her doing all of this work while he lay there useless in the bed.
“Why are you doing that?”
She stood up and pushed out a breath as she stretched out her lower back. She got back down on her knees and peered into the hole she’d made. She seemed to be measuring out the width. It was about three feet wide and six feet long. Franka stood up and left the room, again without making eye contact. A couple of minutes later she returned with several blankets under her arm. She knelt beside the hole and laid out the blankets, lining the space under the floorboards. She stood up again. It seemed she was going to say something, but instead she made for the tiny corner between the bed and the wall where his rucksack and uniform still lay. She folded the uniform and placed it inside the hole.
“Fr?ulein, I really must ask what exactly you’re doing here. That’s my uniform.”
“Is it?” She threw the rucksack down on top of it. She picked up one of the floorboards she’d left against the wall and slipped it back into place.
“Fr?ulein Gerber?”
She laid the other two floorboards back into place. She got on her knees once more and pushed the floorboards down as hard as she could. She ran her hand over the surface of the boards, making sure that they weren’t protruding, and then stood back to examine her work, her fingers on her chin. The scuff marks at the end of the floorboards told an unwanted story. She walked out, and he heard her going through the cupboards for a few seconds before she returned, a pot of wood varnish in her hand. The floors in the old cabin had been well tended. The varnish on the floor was smooth and even, probably not five years old. Franka got on her knees and began to dab fresh varnish on the ends of the floorboards to mask the flecks that had flown off. Within two minutes or so it was impossible to tell that the floorboards had been disturbed at all.
“That’s for when the Gestapo come. If they find you here, we’re both dead, and I’m not going to live in denial, even if you are. They’re not going to come while the snow is as thick on the ground as it is, but once it melts they’ll start searching for you. Someone saw your parachute or heard the plane you jumped out of. The longer you keep up this ridiculous charade, the longer you’re jeopardizing both our lives. If you don’t start trusting me, we’re both going to die.”
She walked out of the room.
He lay alone through a dreary afternoon. The window let in little light, and the door remained closed. He heard sounds every so often but didn’t see her. There were no answers—only more questions. There was nothing he could do trapped here in this bed. The pain in his legs was bearable now, but he wouldn’t be able to walk out of here for weeks. Could he trust this woman? Had she disavowed the mindless obedience that the Nazis had instilled in so many Germans? Or were there more like her than he thought? What would she be willing to do if he did trust her? The pressure was building inside him. Every day alone and useless in this bed was a day closer to failure, and that was something he couldn’t accept. He cursed his legs, cursed the Nazis, tried to somehow sleep to escape the agonizing possibility that he might fail this mission. He bit down on his fist so hard he almost drew blood. Sleep would not come. There was no escape.
The cuckoo clock sang seven times, and a few seconds later the door opened. She came in and placed the tray on his lap as he sat up. He didn’t touch the food, even though he felt as if he were starving to death.
“Fr?ulein? Franka?”
The wind howled outside the window.
“Do you have pictures of your family? Do you have a picture of Fredi?”
“Yes, some.”
“Can I see them? I didn’t see any pictures when I was outside.”
“There were pictures once. I took them down just a few days before I found you.”
“Do you still have them?”
“I do.”