Nightingale (34 page)

He made his way, almost by instinct, to the square of the Frauenkirche. Like a dog to his bone, maybe, searching for comfort. But his head spun from the halfhearted beating of his interrogators, and the tugging of a voice, deep inside…

“God called us back to Germany for a reason, Peter. Who knows but it was for this very season that we are here—”

His father's voice churned through him, scrubbing away the darkness, clearing his thoughts.

“To act justly and love mercy and be servants of God. This is our hope in a world gone mad. How could I live with myself if I didn't help?”

Yes, his father had been a nightingale.

The sun stumbled over the rubble of the Frauenkirche, turning every boulder into bullion. Only the altar and the chancel remained.

And though this world, with devils filled,

should threaten to undo us,

we will not fear, for God hath willed

his truth to triumph through us.

Her voice, light, soft, bled through him and vanished in the wind, captured in the voice of two schoolgirls standing behind him. “You okay, mister?”

No. Probably never.

He nodded to the girls, shooed them away. They backed up, their eyes reflecting a man he didn't know.

Pigeons cooed over the square, oblivious of the rubble, and the scent of a wood fire, something cooking, seasoned the air. How long
might it take to rebuild such a fortress, such a magnificence as the Frauenkirche?

Or, maybe next time it might be built stronger, with bricks that might withstand the heat.

What if God stripped him of everything so that He might rebuild him, one day at time, one forged brick at a time…in Him?

I once told you that I was lost. You told me to let God find me. To be found in Him.

Maybe that was the key. Maybe a man had to lose himself, his pride, his honor, his strength in order to discover himself…in God. Maybe he'd just been serving God because…well, God delivered those who served Him, right?

No.

But what if God delivered, not because of duty fulfilled, but rather…grace.

I've discovered that the finding is not to find myself…but to find Him. To discover, step by step, His grace, His forgiveness, His strength, His hope, His love, His peace, and finally His joy.

Maybe he had lost himself, but he hadn't lost God.

Hold on.

Not to Esther. But to the One who gave him the love he saw reflected in her eyes. Maybe she was right—their love might not have been enough to build a life, but rather only to sustain with the sweet taste of desire, of belonging, of acceptance.

No. For him, it would have been enough.

Hold on.

He closed his eyes to the words, let them find the brittle tendons of his faith.

Hold on to grace.

Hold on to forgiveness.

O God, what have I done?
The words shuddered through him as the cobblestone bit into his knees. What had he done?

It didn't matter that Fritz had committed crimes. He'd turned Fritz in not out of justice—but revenge. Peter's hands scraped the cobblestones as he found his feet, and he took off down
Augustusbrücke
, the streets so cluttered he had to wind his way through the narrow alleys that had made Dresden the perfect target for Allied bombing.

Around him, the city had come to life, of sorts. Women cleared the debris from the street brick by brick into green-gray wagons provided by the army. Dust churned into the air, the stew of oil and gasoline as Russian Kamaz trucks belched across the morning.

Russian soldiers, some directing traffic, others drinking coffee, eyed him as he tightened his coat around himself.

Most of the shops lay empty, although a few opened, with sallow-faced children standing in line, their ration cards in their grimy hands. A woman, well-painted, flirted with a cadre of soldiers seated in the shadow of a café, laughing as they drank tea. She glanced up at Peter, wear in the lines around her eyes, her body too thin for the comfort she peddled.

He looked away, cut down
Terrassenufer,
wanting to run, willing himself to steps that wouldn't alert. In the building overlooking the river, where the sun poured into the open faces of former dwellings, he saw women hoeing potatoes from dirt piled upon kitchen floors, the grim cultivation of desperation. Or perhaps innovation.

A soldier—the thin strap of his Kalashnikov cutting into his shoulder—eyed him as he sat on the back end of his Kamaz. Peter ducked into an alleyway, threading his way through the city.

Faster now in the shadows until he emerged on the Theaterplatz.

Only the statues of Goethe and Schiller remained to sentry the former grandeur of the home of Bach and Wagner, the Semper Opera House. The haunting strains of Richard Strauss's
Salome
echoed over the three stories of wreckage, former Corinthian columns, Baroque statues, Renaissance domes, and aediculae now spilling out across the blackened stones of the Theaterplatz.

Again, God had pushed His thumb against the pride of Dresden.

Women strolled by, one pushing a pram filled with rubble.

He stood at the edge, the wind sharp off the Elbe, lifting his collar as he rehearsed images in his head.

Fritz, beaten to death, pulpy and broken in some neighboring hovel.

Fritz, fighting back, his knife serrating another soldier's throat. Fritz, cursing his name, sending the troops to the hospital in search…

Rachel. No, Fritz wouldn't know her, right? But that might not matter. The Russians bore no regard for nationality. For Geneva rules.

They might simply run every nurse onto the street. And then what?

He ducked back into the alleyway, his breath corroded with the refuse piled and rotting among the debris. The tinny smell of blood and—

“Peter.”

He stilled at his name dragged over gravel, as if forced out on snaggle-toothed breath. “Peter?”

He turned, searched, saw nothing but rubbish—a broken chair, the curious form of a chandelier still intact on a pile.

“Over here. Please.”

Yes. There. Under the cover of a splintered divan, a hand stretched out, its bloodied print on the orange upholstery.

He moved the sofa, and his breath splintered out of him.

Fritz. The man lay broken amidst the rubble, russet blood sopping his shirt, his face pasty as he stared up at Peter.

“You're late,” he said, his voice so thin Peter had to hold his breath to hear it. He crouched next to him. “I must have run into a patrol—I…” His jaw tightened, his eyes waxy as he squeezed out a groan. “They shot me.” He lifted his hand to reveal a thumb-size hole ripped through his gut. Peter pulled away his shirt, grimaced at the damage.

At best, he'd lacerated his liver.

Peter's expression must have betrayed him because Fritz released a harsh, bitter chuckle that sounded more like a cough. “Yeah. That's what I thought. I guess this is what I get, huh?”

“You need surgery. I need to get you to the hospital.”

“Yeah. Sure. Like you're going to save my life.”

Be found in grace.

“I might.”

“Why would you do that for me, Doc?”

Be found in forgiveness
.

He pressed his hand to Fritz's forehead. Cool, slick. Like the man might be going into shock.

“We're going to need a wheelbarrow or something. I'll be right back.”

He edged back to the alleyway entrance. There—the woman with the pram. Perhaps—

Up close, she might have been twenty and, once upon a time, lovely, with her regal cheekbones, dark sable hair. Round hazel eyes. They looked at him with a fear, however, that reeled inside, unhinged him. “I won't hurt you. I just need your pram.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I need it.”

“I'll bring it back.”

“And what will you give me for a day's work lost?”

What would he pay—wait. “Chocolate? Coffee? Canned beef?”

Her mouth opened. She glanced at the soldiers now lounging in the sun. “You'll return it?”

“By this evening. Right here.”

She got up, nodded.

He strolled back to the alleyway, waited for her to follow.

They made the exchange as she dumped out the rubble from the carriage. She tucked the bag into her coat, buttoning it against what looked like a pregnancy bulge.

“Thank you.”

“Don't lie to me, sir.” Her eyes searched his and he couldn't help but reach out, touch her cheek.

“I'm a doctor. I promise, I'll keep my word.”

He received a ghost of a smile, and for a pause, she leaned into his hand.

He left it there until she slipped away, cradling her bundle.

Then, moving the divan, he hoisted Fritz into the pram. “Try to keep your mouth shut,” he said, checking the wound again then positioning Fritz's hand over it. “I'd like to stay alive.”

Be found in courage.

“God, we could really use Your deliverance right now.”

Fritz's eyes flickered over him, stayed one long moment before closing, his jaw tight for the journey.

“How did you get in here?” Nurse Glennis, her red hair in a snood, cut away Fritz's shirt, dropping the sodden cloth into a tray. She'd known
Peter immediately, helped him wheel Fritz down the corridor and into an exam room. Now, with the blinds closed, the smells of antiseptic righting him back to himself, a stethoscope around his neck, he let his heartbeat slow, paced out his examination.

He palpated Fritz's abdomen. A general rigidness, which probably meant internal bleeding. Fritz didn't have long if Peter didn't get inside him, close off the bleeders, repair his liver.

Even then, probably not, thanks to the staph infections rampant in the hospital.

“I came in the ambulance entrance, in the back.”

“Is that where you got the jacket too?” She indicated the white lab coat, the one he'd buttoned over his bloody clothes. Unfortunately, the blood seeped through, staining it. He snapped on gloves, began to probe the injury.

Fritz had passed out halfway to the hospital, which had made the journey that much easier.

“He's lost a lot of blood. We'll need a transfusion before we can operate. And in the meantime, we'll need to pack his wound.”

“You're not going to operate, are you?”

He looked up at her. She seemed younger than Rachel, with a round face, freckles. “Where's Rachel?”

“She left this morning.”

“And the doctor on call?”

“He's here, in the hospital. I can find him—but you need to go. Now, before they find you.” She had hazel eyes, flecked with green, and knew too much.

“I didn't kill that Russian.”

“Of course not. But we have to report a gunshot wound.” She raised an eyebrow. “It's going to look like you were involved. You need to
leave.” She handed him hot, moist gauze, and he used it to pack Fritz's wound as she inserted the IV line for the transfusion.

Fritz's waxy color suggested he might be too late. Peter shoved a rolled towel under his legs, bending them to lessen the pressure on his abdomen.

“We don't have time to track down the doctor. I need to get in there and see what the damage is, try and stop the bleeding.”

She checked the blood flow then glanced at him. “You might be right, but we have a new nurse in charge. She's not going to let you operate. I know you're a doctor, Nightingale—the entire nursing staff does, but we've had Russians patrolling our halls all night, looking for you.”

“Why me?”

“They interrogated Elise. She told them about you, about the milk—and there were others.” She took Fritz's pulse, not looking at him. “People are hungry. You can't blame them.”

No, maybe not.

Be found in strength.

“Listen, Glennis. I'm going to roll him down the corridor and into the surgical theater. And you're going to carry the IV. And should the Russians see us… Well, I'll put myself in God's hands.”

“I hope that's enough.” She opened the door, glanced out into the hall, then nodded and returned for the IV bag. He wheeled Fritz out.

This early in the morning, patients overflowing into the corridors slept on cots, on gurneys. A woman in a grimy housecoat cradled a child, a graying bandage encasing his hand. The wheels rattled as Peter pushed Fritz over rivulets in the marble. Fritz jerked, groaning.

They passed the nurses' station, and he didn't look up to meet eyes with the new duty nurse. Hopefully she'd believe he was a doctor—an American doctor.

He let himself breathe when he saw the station was empty.

Glennis opened the double doors into the surgery theater. Flicked on the overhead lights. They bathed the table, the ceramic basins, the saline solutions, the scrub sinks. “We'll need help. A scrub nurse and an anesthetist—”