She lay on the snow, staring up at the flickering stars. Exhaustion was taking hold—the desire for sleep was overwhelming. Nothing could have been more wonderful than to close her eyes and succumb to it. Her body ached; her shoulders and arms still burned from dragging the man out of the snow cave. But she had to keep on. Stopping now would mean failure. She wouldn’t accept that. The sled was four feet long. He was about six. If it weren’t for his broken legs, she would have pulled him behind her, letting his limbs drag on the snow as they went. She could hardly let his head flounder over the end of the sled, could she? She brought the sled alongside his body. It was his only chance. If his legs had to drag, so be it. Perhaps there was a way she could make him more comfortable.
The man’s backpack was still in the snow cave, and she went back inside to retrieve it. The rope she’d seen earlier was coiled at the bottom. She drew it out. It was too long, but she had the knife she’d taken from the house. She cut six lengths, each about eighteen inches long. This was going to take a few minutes, so she took the brandy from her pocket and, reaching down, opened the man’s lips to pour it into his mouth. He spluttered it back up at first, but she lifted his head and noted with some satisfaction how he swallowed back at least some of it. She took some herself, feeling the heat of it all the way down to her stomach.
It took her about two or three minutes to collect several sturdy branches, each about three or four inches in diameter. She dropped them down next to the airman’s body in preparation for what was going to be the hard part. She took off her gloves. The cold seemed to attack her hands, but she ignored the pain, focusing on what she had to do.
She placed one hand on the man’s left ankle and pushed her other hand up inside his pants, feeling for the bone. It was broken a couple of inches below the knee. Ideally, she would have set it as soon as she’d found him, but she’d had more pressing matters to deal with at that time. The man grimaced under her touch, but she pressed on, lining the bone up under his skin as she applied a slow, strong pull to the bottom of his leg. The bone moved back into place, and she took two branches and tied one to each side of his leg with the rope she’d cut. The leg was set and immobilized—as long as the rope held. She checked the lengths again. They were tight. It was as good as she could have expected. Now she had to do the same for his right leg. She reached under his pants leg again, feeling for the bone. This break didn’t seem as severe. She set the bone in place and tied the branches to each side of his leg.
She stood still for a few seconds. “Who are you?” she whispered.
She waited a moment, as if he was going to sit up and answer her question. But there was no sound from his lips, just the whine of the wind as it began to swirl around them once more. It had to be almost seven. There was no time to waste. She took his backpack on her shoulders and slipped him out of the parachute, its purpose served. She couldn’t leave it on him: It could catch on the ground. It was heavy. People had been executed for being caught with less. Even if the Gestapo wasn’t looking for him, someone finding a parachute up here would lead to questions that would lead to him. She could risk bringing it, because if they were caught, there would be no explaining him away, with or without the parachute. She folded it up as best as she could, getting it down to a manageable armload of nylon before placing it on top of him. She took the remaining length of rope, around twenty feet, and looped it around the sled, securing him to it, and the parachute to his chest. She pulled the rope tight but allowed the man space to breathe. Then they were ready.
She took the tie at the front of the sled and pulled. The sled moved along the smooth surface of the snow, and they set off. The first few hundred yards were relatively easy as they made their way across the snowy meadow, but the fastest way back to the house involved moving through some trees and across a frozen stream. That wasn’t going to be possible while pulling the man behind her. She was going to have to stick to the trails, and that increased her chances of meeting someone. She thought of whom she might meet, and of the deficit of trust the Nazis had created among the German people. The pistol still weighed heavy in her pocket. She had forgotten to take it out of her coat.
For every easy downhill slope, there was another uphill to negotiate, and the steep climb to the cabin at the very end of the journey awaited her. She would be at her absolute weakest then. She kept on, though her muscles were beginning to fail. She could feel the strength leaking from her. Her breaths grew deeper and more pronounced. Sweat began to freeze against her exposed skin. She knew how dangerous that was, how frostbite could follow, but she didn’t stop. There could be no stopping. She kept on as the sun peeked over the horizon. There was no joy in its coming, no comfort in the dawn. She was almost a mile from the cabin, and the cloak of night was unraveling by the second.
The sound of footsteps came from in front. It was hard at first to tell quite where from. She stood silent, her pulse racing. Her ears were attuned to the silence, and she could clearly make out the sound of approaching footsteps along the trail. She looked back at the man on the sled. It was hard to tell how much time they had, but she doubted it was more than a minute. The trail curved ahead, which meant that the person approaching would be out of sight until it was too late. She pulled the sled off the trail and down behind a line of trees. She did her best to hide him, covering him with some loose branches. The tracks they’d made along the path itself were still visible. Anyone could have noticed where they’d stopped. She pressed her hand over her mouth to stop the sound of her breathing.
A minute dragged by, the noises getting ever louder. The figure came into view. She recognized the man and almost laughed as she shook her head. It was Herr Berkel, her ex-boyfriend’s father. She knew without hesitation that he would report her. Daniel was in the Gestapo. Nothing would have given Herr Berkel more pleasure. He was about sixty feet away now, ambling along the trail, walking stick in hand. It had been years since she’d spoken to him, back when she and Daniel were together. He was a gruff man, lacking any charm or refinement. He lived close by. This was probably his morning routine.
He was a large man, well over sixty years old. Her hand went to the gun in her pocket. What was she prepared to do to protect a man she’d encountered just hours before, one whom she’d never spoken to? She probably didn’t even know his real name. Looking at Herr Berkel brought back clear images of the evils that had swallowed her country. She moved her eyes to the man on the sled and felt every bit of hope left within her. He had already saved her life, just as she had saved his.
Berkel stopped on the trail about twenty feet short of where they were hiding. He leaned back, stretching out his lower back, and retrieved a cigarette from his pocket. He placed it between his lips, struck a match, and inhaled the smoke. She could just about make out his face from where she was hiding. His eyes appeared to focus, and he began to walk again, although more slowly this time, while staring down at the trail. He looked right and then left, within a few feet of where they were hiding. He stopped, and her heart almost stopped with him. Her finger was on the trigger. She was ready. She was prepared to draw her gun on a man she’d known for most of her life to protect a man she’d found only a few hours before. Where would she hide the body? She had to make sure it didn’t come to that. Herr Berkel shook his head and resumed along the trail. He moved past where they were hiding and kept on, seemingly unaware of their presence.