Nightingale (23 page)

“Shh. Save your breath—shh.” Peter put his hand on the boy's chest, cupped his forehead. Cool and clammy. He rounded the tractor,
found Arne's leg shattered beneath the weight of the engine. If he ever walked again—

No. First, they had to get him free.

If he lived that long. He returned to Arne. His face had paled, his breath reedy. “Stay with me, Arne. Think of home—of fishing with your grandfather. C'mon—”

Fritz hovered above him, unmoving.

“Let's see if we can pull him out.”

“We can't lift this thing.” Fritz's voice tunneled out from someplace far away.

“We can try!”

Peter climbed to his feet, braced himself as he grabbed the front of the tractor. Glanced at Fritz. He shook his head but bent beside Peter, shoving his work-worn hands. “I'll hold it, you wrench him free.”

“On three.”

Arne howled. Fritz roared. “Get him out!”

Peter grabbed Arne under the armpits. But his leg, wedged deep beneath the tractor, trapped him.

“Help me, please.” Arne's voice shrank into the cry of a crow above.

Fritz sat back in the muddy, rank silage and hung his face in his hands.

“It's your leg, Arne. It's wedged under the frame, and frankly, I think you're already close to losing it. We may need to take it off to get you out.” Peter tried to say it as gently as he could, but Arne still pressed his hand over his face and his shoulders began to shake.

Behind them, the army truck slogged over the field, pea silage clogged into its wheels. Peter hoped Bert had also brought the axe. Sure, they should be able to hoist the tractor off him, but how long would that take?

He stripped off his belt, rounded the tractor, then wedged himself as close as he could to the kid's leg, feeling through the muck as he cinched the belt around his knee and cut off the circulation.

Arne came alive on the other side. “No! Don't do it, please! Oh no—please, Peter, don't—”

Peter came back around to Arne. Crouched behind him. Found his battlefield voice. “We'll try, Arne, I promise. But your chest is crushed, I have no doubt you're bleeding internally, and in a moment, your lung might collapse. We may have no choice.”

“Let me die—please, Peter, let me die.”

“You don't mean that, kid.”

He didn't, his expression so raw the fear reached out and grabbed Peter too. How he hated this part of his job.

Peter's voice gentled. “Think of what you have to go back to. Your family. Your kid sister. They want you, even without a leg.”

Arne's jaw clenched and oh, Peter wanted to find the courage for him.

Deliver him, O God. Deliver us all.

The truck skidded past them. Bert left the motor running and jumped out. He dragged a chain from the back end out to the tractor.

Fritz got up, and they looped it through the high, back wheel.

Peter leaned close. “We're going to pull the tractor upright. The minute the pressure is off your chest, you are going to lose consciousness with the loss of blood and possibly the air rushing into your lungs. I promise, I'm going to do everything I can to help you keep that leg. Your part is staying alive.”

Arne's eyes nearly climbed out of his skinny face.

“Ready?”

Arne shook his head, but Peter nodded at Fritz.

Fritz shot a look at Bert.

The truck growled as Bert worked the gears, and the tractor shuddered.

Arne's breathing quickened.

Peter grabbed him under the shoulders. Wiggled him through the pudding of earth—not enough. “More, Fritz!”

The tractor shuddered again. “Its stuck in the silage—it's too slippery! We can't move it.”

Peter looked at Arne's face, saw the fear even as he slipped into darkness.

Yes, he hated this part of his job.

“Are you hurt? You're covered in blood.”

Peter looked up from where he sat in a wooden chair in the hallway outside the trauma room. Inside, Dr. Sullivan was trying to save Arne—not to mention what remained of his leg.

He was thankful the kid hadn't been awake for when they'd rocked the tractor off him with the truck, enough to dislodge his leg. Yet, if Arne lived, he'd at least have both legs, even if it would be a miracle if he ever walked again.

Caroline sat next to Peter in the wooden chair of the reception room and reached for his bloody shirt. He flinched, and she gave him a look that made him release his grip on his torso.

On his re-cracked ribs. Probably. The burning suggested that he'd done some damage, but perhaps he'd only strained them.

“This is Arne's blood. Mostly.”

“Let's get you into a room.” She helped him up, guided him across the hall to an examination room, then led him to a table. “Who's Arne?”

“A kid. A fellow prisoner. A tractor rolled over on him today.” He winced as she pulled up his shirt. She reached for scissors and cut it off him.

“Is that who Dr. Sullivan is operating on? I saw Rosemary follow him into the surgical suite.”

“Yes—only…” He made a face. “I wanted to go in there too. I should be in there. I did my share of battlefield operations—”

“You have a tear in your wound under your arm. Otherwise, you seemed to have survived this round.” She tore off a piece of surgical tape, closed his wound with it. “Stay here.”

He sat on the table, drawing in the smells of the hospital—the acrid snap of Betadine, the sickly sweet odor of ether, the chlorine in the cleaning solutions, the bite of old coffee drifting from the kitchen. Nurses jockeyed a noisy cart of supplies down the hall. He ran his hands over the nubby, stiff cotton on the table and watched as, outside, the lamps flicked on, splashing light onto the ground, although the twilight hadn't yet descended.

He liked farming. Better, however, was the chance to save someone's leg.

Their life.

Someday he'd return home, to his life, join his father's practice. Drs. Hess and Son. And then he'd dive into saving lives, forget the ones he'd lost.

Caroline returned, a white hospital surgical shirt in her hand. “Put this on. You can't walk around bare-chested.”

He took it then closed one eye as he lifted his arm over his head.

She pulled it over him. “She's getting married on Friday.”

He didn't have to have a name. Still, her words swiped his away. He opened his mouth to nothing.

“Esther. She's marrying Linus on Friday night. Here at the hospital.” Caroline stuck her hands into her pockets, walked to the window.

“I knew who you meant. And—why? I thought—” No, he'd
hoped
that Linus had spoken—or rather shouted—the truth. That no, they weren't getting married.

Probably he'd held on to that too much.

“Mrs. Hahn wants to silence the rumors that her future daughter-in-law is in love with a prisoner of war.”

Oh. He stared at his hands. Arne's blood embedded the wrinkles, the pores.

“So?” She rounded on him. “And?”

“And what?”

“You're going to let her marry another man?” Caroline raised an eyebrow.

“What choice do I have?”

She gave him a look that suggested he might want to drag back out to the pea silage where he belonged. “Listen, what do you want me to do? Escape? Storm in here, steal her away? She doesn't want to marry me—and frankly, she probably shouldn't. I'm headed back to Germany any day—and who knows when—or if—I'll get back here, and…”

She still wore the fairytales-do-come-true sort of disappointment on her face. “Okay, fine.” He took a breath. “I don't want her to marry him either.” He slid off the table. “He scares me, okay? He's wounded—and not just physically, but he's broken inside too. I've seen it over and
over with the guys I dragged off the battlefield. They die, not because of their wounds but because of what they've seen. Linus has carried the war back home, and—” He clenched his teeth, backing away from the image that flashed into his brain. “Yes, I'm afraid she's going to be a casualty.”

The dark fear of it had tunneled inside, turned him inside out on his bunk, and now settled in his gut, churning. “Worse, I think he's in love with someone else.”

Caroline's eyes hadn't left his. “I know.”

“You
know
?”

“Rosemary Mueller. His high school sweetheart. She's in his room every day, during her shift, and sometimes at night—whenever Esther's not here.”

“Did you tell her?”

“I'm not sure the wedding can be stopped. The Hahns have it all figured out.”

“I'm going to talk to him—”

Caroline grabbed his arm. “Are you kidding me? You want to turn this into some sideshow? Listen. I'm sorry I told you. I don't know what I was thinking. I just…”

She wore a sadness in her expression. “I know what it's like to lose someone you love. I hate that, for anyone. No matter what side of this war they were on.”

He slid her hand from his arm. “You have to tell her about Linus. I can't write to her—there is nowhere I can send a letter. Please, Caroline. Tell her.”

“I'll tell her, Peter, but I can promise you that it won't matter. She's getting married on Friday to Linus Hahn. And unless you do something about it, there's no stopping that.”

“It's a beautiful dress.” Bertha laid the powder-blue silk and wool crepe two-piece suit on the bed, smoothing it. “I think Linus will love it.”

Esther picked up the dress and hung it on the attic door. “Thank you, Bertha. We'll be ready to go in a moment.” She turned to Sadie, picking her up and setting her on the bed while she buckled the straps to her white patent shoes. “Don't kick, Sadie.”

“Me can't help it. Am I really going to see my papa?”

“Yes, sweetie, you are. But you have to be on your best behavior. There are sick people in the hospital and they need little girls to be quiet.”

Please, Linus, be in a good mood.

She pressed a kiss on her daughter's nose, taking a whiff of her powdery softness, and then scooped her off the bed. How could he not love his cherub daughter?

She took Sadie's hand, led her down the stairs, then the next flight. Bertha waited by the door, bearing a package of zucchini bread.

“That smells good.”

“It's Linus's favorite. I'll just drop it off and go.”

“Please, stay as long as you'd like.” Esther opened the door, shooed Sadie outside into the August heat. Mrs. Hahn was out tonight at a pie social, or she would have been accompanying them. No one had offered to throw her any wedding showers, but Mrs. Hahn had spent the week preparing for what seemed the social event of the season. She had even hired a pianist to play in the solarium after the ceremony. And bought a fancy cake.

The entire shebang seemed surreal, as if someone else were getting married to this man she didn't know.

Didn't, in fact, want to know. And that truth could turn her cold in the high heat of the August nights.

The late afternoon sun dipped behind the shaggy black spruce, behind the Baraboo River. The pungent, briny odor of the cultivated peas from the far-off fields saturated the town. It reminded her of an old sock left out in the rain, moldy and seasoned with gutter water. Across the street, in the park, a pack of kids had picked up a game of kick-the-can. Sadie grabbed her hand, began to skip. “Ima gonna see my papa.”

Bertha glanced at Esther and smiled.

At least someone wanted to be around him.

Please, Linus, be in a good mood.

Twilight had tiptoed into the fragrances of the evening by the time they reached the hospital. Esther led them through the front entrance—so strange to use this entrance and not the nurses' corridor—across the rounded front entry, past the waiting room into the hallway.

Usually they asked visitors to stop at the reception desk to inform a patient when they had visitors, but, well, she'd practically lived here for three years, not to mention the past two weeks since resigning her job.