Nightingale (18 page)

He couldn't let that thought climb through him.

Yes, I've seen him. He's alive.

“I lived in Berlin, and the city was never quiet. Not really. Quiet, like this, I got from visiting my grandparents in Lauffen. We'd go fishing in the river, and Oma would make me latkes, and late at night we'd catch fireflies.”

He could see Arne's life in his eyes, how the camp along the Baraboo River could conjure ghosts, despite its almost peaceful whispers.

“The fireflies remind me of home. I hope we return soon,” Arne said quietly.

Peter stared down at the barracks of men, the silence pressing against him. Moonlight fragmented through the screen windows. The sweat of men and the odors of the camp kitchen stewed in the canvas tent despite the cool of the night.

He needed a drink. If he were careful, he might get to the washrooms unheard.

In fact, if he really wanted to, he might slide out into the night, beyond the rickety snow fencing that meant to detour escape, and lose himself between the buildings of Roosevelt.

Find Esther.

Five days. Five days since he'd seen her smile fade into the twilight.

Clearly, he'd been a desperate man, lying to himself. What a fool to think she might want him. No doubt she returned home and shook herself to her senses. What future did a woman like Esther have with a prisoner of war?

And what had he'd been thinking, anyway? That she'd wait for him? That he could return to her someday, start a life in America? He barely knew her.

Still, something about her letters made him feel alive. Even… respected. As if she saw past the POW uniform to the man who longed for honor.

Pursue faithfulness.
He let the voice wind through him.

He got up, stealing to the door, creaked it open, then folded into the night.

The camp lay sleeping under the scatter of stars, the spill of the Milky Way above. The guard station located at the head of the camp lit up the far end, where, no doubt, Bert and his cronies hashed out a game of poker.

Or perhaps the guards had just finished off a case of beer donated from the local brewery. He'd seen some of the townsfolk bring it over, a contingent that he hoped Esther had joined.

No.

And nothing in mail call either.

He tried not to let it turn him inside out. Tried not to remember the taste of her lips against his.

Sometimes a man has to wrangle his own escape.

No. The guards had learned to trust him. And he'd earned it—which meant he'd earned the right to leave camp, to work on the local farms, to have a decent lunch and live like a free man. More, if he escaped, he'd be shipped to Fort McCoy, or even Fort Robinson in Nebraska, where he heard men lived like true prisoners.

With good behavior he hoped that maybe the United States would let him stay.

He'd wait. And hope that Esther might truly want
him
…

He crept around the edge of the tent, listened, then scurried across the open ground to the lavatory tent. The guards had drilled a well into the ground for the men to wash up. With the men moving from town to town, they'd learned how to make their prison portable.

He slipped into the darkness of the tent, tried not to alert—

“The Janzen girl will be waiting for us. She said she'd have her daddy's truck down by the Baraboo, at the bridge west of town.”

Peter froze, recognizing Fritz's voice.

No.

He crept closer.

“We'll finish them off and be to the border by midnight. One last victory for the führer.”

“What about the girl?”

No. Oh no—Ernst Merkel he'd known from his days in basic training. The fact the powers sent him to Fort McCoy told Peter that Ernst's Nazi affiliations slipped below the radar, right along with Fritz. Sure, the Nazis only comprised a handful of the 137 men in the camp, but they fed on each other, terrorized the younger prisoners.

“We'll get rid of her—”

The wound in Peter's side flared as he stepped out of the tent.

Fritz crouched next to Ernst and—oh no, Hans Vanderburger. They startled, glanced up at Peter, and everyone froze.

Perhaps this was what happened when men stood up to darkness.

Until darkness stood up too. Fritz found his feet. “What are you doing here?”

Peter said nothing for a beat, just to gather himself, just to confirm
that he wanted this fight. But if Fritz and gang escaped, the Americans would batten down the hatches and, well, any hope of seeing—or even writing—to Esther might die with Fritz's scurry over the flimsy fence.

Not to mention what would happen to the pretty Janzen girl.

“Stopping you.”

Fritz kept his voice low. “I'm giving you one chance to go back. No one has to get hurt here.” His gaze went to Peter's ribs, and he let a smile slide over his face.

Peter ignored it. “I'm not letting you leave.”

Fritz glanced at his comrades. Hans rose, Ernst edged up beside Peter.

Fritz laughed, a short, quiet huff that had nothing to do with humor. “Come with us.” He stepped close, the cabbage from dinner sliding out on his breath. “You know you want to.”

Yes. For a second, standing in the dark, the stars a witness, he wanted to. He could find Esther—he'd just track down the hospital. And he could blend in, look like any of the farm boys from Wisconsin.

Maybe—

“He won't. He loves these Americans.” Ernst whispered in his ear. “Don't you? I saw that fraulein with the blond hair—”

Peter pushed him back, not hard, with his forearm. “Leave it.”

“That's it, isn't it?” Fritz said softly, that smile still around his mouth. “You want to stay right here, with these Jew-loving Americans. Like father, like son.”

Everything inside him stopped, as if a hand pressed its fingers through his chest. He tried for his breath, couldn't snag it even as Fritz stepped up to him, his voice dark and earthy. “And you'll die here, just like your father. I wonder if he cried out when they gassed him—”

Fritz didn't have a chance of seeing his right hook, the way it came out of the darkness. He jerked back, blood spurting from his nose, a guttural oomph of pain punching into the night. Just for a second, a strange, almost patriotic feeling surged through Peter.

Then Ernst jumped him.

He slammed to the ground, striking back, hitting flesh, hearing bones crunch—hoping they weren't his own.

He threw off someone—probably skinny Hans—but a boot landed in his kidney and white light strobed into his eyes.

Peter had Fritz around the throat, his leg around his waist, and he held on with everything inside him, even as more boots slammed into his spine, his ribs, his head.

Sirens, a spotlight, and his vision turned to red.

Fritz slid out of his arms, and then all Peter could do was curl tight and try not to howl.

Shouting raked over him, invaded his brain, melting into him, shaking through his body.

He hung onto consciousness until he heard English voices, Bert, calling out his name. Then darkness sucked him in, and he was, mercifully, lost.

Even a week after Linus's return, Peter still walked into her dreams in the fragile light of dawn.

And when he did, she let him stay there, just for a moment. Let him smile at her, even lift his hand to her face. Let his thumb caress away a tear.

You're not lost.

She let herself hear that even if, now, she had no hope of believing it. She'd left herself so far behind, so long ago, she had no idea what she might have been.

But, in the dewy moments before she had to be the woman she didn't know, she tried to put her heart to rights.
“I could have loved you, Peter. But I made a mistake.”

And always, he put his hand again on her face, his thumb brushing her cheekbone. “No, you didn't. Have faith.”

But she'd left that too, far behind.

Then, when she awoke, she lay there, breathing past the jagged edges of her heart.

How could she have begun to care so deeply for a man she barely knew? Whom she'd met twice, gotten a handful of letters from?

Maybe because in his letters she'd seen more than just his friendship. Something deeper behind his words had healed something inside. Like walking into sunlight after a long winter.

She simply couldn't break free—no, she didn't want to break free—from Peter. Letting him find her in the cold chill of her dreams to smile at her, to whisper in his low tones that he believed in her, that she could find herself again. No, despite the sweet pain that accompanied his visits, she couldn't sever him from her life. Not when he was the only one who saw her, and not the girl she'd become.

You're not lost, Esther.

“Get off me!”

The words jerked her awake, into the hazy darkness of the wee hours of the night. No, she wasn't at home, Sadie curled into the cradle of her embrace. The hospital.

Linus's room. The lamp on the grounds outside bled wan light through the window and over Linus, thrashing in his sleep. She wiped
her mouth, her lipstick smudged. How could she have let exhaustion lure her into slumber.

And while on duty, no less.

“Get—no!”

Linus's face twisted, his body jittery as he fought through his nightmare.

“Linus—wake up.”

She leaned over him, pressed her hand to his chest where his heartbeat banged against his ribs. “Linus!”

His eyes opened, but she saw only his nightmare in his eyes. “Get away from me!”

She should have expected it—especially after yesterday's violence, but maybe her own fatigue dulled her reflexes, because she didn't even put up a hand in defense.

She took the full brunt of his blow. His fist slammed into her jaw, exploded heat through her face. She flew back, hit the opposite bed, and crashed to the floor.

Her nose burned, and she touched it. Blood poured over her finger, down her face, splotched her uniform.

“Get out!” Linus, still in his sleep. He let out a string of cursing she knew he'd only learned through his suffering.

Footsteps slapped down the terrazzo hallways even as she pushed herself to her feet, grabbing at a towel to staunch the bleeding.

Caroline appeared at the door. Her eyes widened in horror then in the disgust at Linus that Esther couldn't let herself feel.

Wouldn't let herself feel. It had started with his kiss, and each day escalated into something darker. Something she simply couldn't admit.

“What happened?” She wet a cloth, handed it to Esther in exchange
for the bloodied one. Esther sank onto the side of the bed, watching Linus's face twitch.

“He's having a nightmare. I think his medication might be keeping him from waking.”

“This time. Yesterday he was fully awake when he hurt you. Wait—is that bruise from him?” Caroline took her arm, examined the imprint of his grip.

She hadn't known Linus when he'd lashed out at her yesterday, when she'd tried to leave after her shift, his eyes so wide, something of violence in them that shook her to her bones.
I told you—don't leave me!

But she could argue that she never really knew him.

Still, he'd clamped her arm so hard, she winced. He saw it and jerked his hand away, turning to the wall, his eyes closing. “I'm sorry,” he said, his voice thick. “I can't help it. I just don't want to be alone.”

“It's okay,” she'd said. It had to be okay.

“I'm getting restraints,” Caroline said now, quietly. And, heaven help her, Esther didn't stop her. Even assisted Caroline as she strapped his wrists to the bedrails. Then, she stood back as Caroline rapped him on the chest, a slick veneer of sweat over his body, dribbling down his forehead.

“Linus. Wake up.”

He lunged at her even as he blinked to consciousness. Stared at Caroline in the darkness, unseeing. “What—?” He looked at his hands, then searched the room, his eyes black. They landed on Esther. “Let me go.”

His tone, more than his words, sent a shudder through her.

“Linus, you hit her.” Caroline moved in front of Esther. “These are for your own good.”

His expression slackened, and guilt shadowed his face. Esther was thankful she had stopped bleeding, her nose only throbbing.

“I'm sorry.” His voice hitched. “Esther—I…” He shook his head.

Oh, see, he didn't mean… She moved to unbuckle his hands.

Caroline clamped her hand on Esther's arm. “No. We don't know what other dreams you'll have. We'll unbuckle you in the morning. Try to go back to sleep.”

His eyes narrowed on Caroline. “I can't sleep like this.”

Caroline ignored him. “I'm going to check on the patients in convalescent ward.” She squeezed Esther's hand. “No.”

Esther hated the way he looked at her, not unlike Sadie when she left her on the doorstep when she had to go to work, or worse, when she'd packed them up and moved them back to the Hahns'.
Why, Mama? I like Carowine's house.