A groan of tremendous pain came from somewhere deep inside him as she finished. “Two came out of it with only minor injuries.” She was silent for a moment. “I am so sorry,” she went on, “but you should know that you are a very lucky man, Sergeant. Another—”
“Just Hans, okay?”
“Okay. But if that piece of metal had gone a fraction of an inch farther, there would be no question. You would be blind. The surgeons were able to remove it successfully.”
“Did it damage the nerve at all?”
“The doctors don’t think so, but they won’t know until they take off the bandages. They wanted the wound to heal some before they look at it.”
He threw up his hands. “So it’s not hopeless?” he cried. “Why didn’t they tell me that?”
She poked his arm. “Shhh. Don’t wake up the others.” Then she answered his question. “Because they weren’t sure. They didn’t want to give you hope if there is none.”
“What about my left eye?”
“It’s fine.”
He swore again. “Couldn’t they have at least told me that? I thought I was blind for life.”
“They did tell you, Hans. But you were so drugged, I’m not surprised you can’t remember.”
“Oh.” He felt really stupid and didn’t know what to say.
“It’s all right. You’ve been through a lot.”
“One more question?”
“If I can answer it.”
“When do they plan to remove the bandages?”
“Nine o’clock this morning.”
Now he clutched for her hand. “Really?”
“Yes, really. They told you that, too, but . . .”
He sighed, but it was filled with hope. “How about reading something happy to me?”
“I would be pleased to do so.” She picked up the book, and he heard her open it and ruffle a couple of pages. Then she began:
“‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.’”
• • •
Hans could sense that there were several other people in the surgery room, but no one spoke except Colonel Peter Wobbe, the chief surgeon in the hospital. “Anyone else coming, Nurse Rhinehart?”
“No, Doctor.”
“Would you see to the drapes?” he asked.
Footsteps moved across the floor, and then Hans heard drapes being pulled shut.
“Sergeant Eckhardt?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Your eyes have been bandaged for a full week now. That means they are going to be sensitive to light. So I want you to keep your eyes shut until I tell you to open them.”
“I understand.”
“Are you ready?”
“More than ready, sir.”
“All right.”
Suddenly Hans felt cold metal against his skin just below the bandages. Then he heard the snip of scissors and felt the bandage begin to loosen. He felt his heart start to race a little. Two more snips and he felt hands come up. One hand steadied his head, while the other began to unwrap the bandage. “Keep them closed,” the doctor warned.
“Yes, sir.”
As the last of the bandage was pulled away, Hans could see light through his eyelids. He felt a surge of hope. He thought it was so in both of his eyes, but he couldn’t be sure. Before he could figure it out, he felt the doctor’s hand on his shoulder. “All right, cover your right eye, and then very slowly open your left eye.”
He did so, wincing a little at the sudden brightness. Then things began to come in focus. The doctor was directly in front of him, no more than a foot away. He was watching him intently. Behind the doctor were three other men, all wearing white coats over their uniforms. He turned to the right. Two more men in white were there. Slightly behind them was a nurse who was smiling at him warmly. He turned to the left and reared back a little. He was looking into the face of a beautiful woman standing right next to him, who was giving him a brilliant smile.
He was taken aback. No, stunned was a better word. For a moment, he thought someone had invited Lady Magdalena von Kruger to be here for this moment. She had huge dark eyes, jet-black hair, and translucent skin. She was incredibly beautiful. And she was smiling at him like she knew him.
“Sergeant, this is Nurse Rhinehart.”
“Hello, Sergeant Eckhardt.” There was a momentary stab of disappointment, but then he remembered that his mother had sent him a clipping announcing the marriage of Magdalena to some duke from Spanish royalty. “Hello.”
“Please cover your left eye now. Keep the right eye closed for a moment longer.”
He did so, holding his breath.
“Okay, slowly, slowly now. Open your other eye.”
He did so. No one in the room moved. He could feel everyone’s eyes upon him. Then his mouth relaxed into a slow grin. “Good morning, Colonel Wobbe,” he said.
Instantly, the room erupted into applause and cheers.
It took another half an hour of testing before Colonel Wobbe was satisfied and pronounced that Hans’s right eye was as healthy and normal as his left one. By that time, the other doctors had excused themselves and gone back to work, and Nurse Rhinehart had started her rounds on the burn ward.
The colonel shook his hand one last time and warned Hans to keep his eyes covered at least half the time until that afternoon. Then he began to gather up his things. As he did so, Hans was surprised to see that one nurse was left. It was the one who had smiled at him when he first took the bandage off. She had stayed in the corner through the whole examination, smiling shyly at him when he looked in her direction, but never saying anything.
He had wondered about her, thinking that maybe she would be his nurse on the day shift. Now, as she watched the colonel putting his things into his bag, Hans studied her more closely. She was a little taller than average height, maybe five foot three or four. She had brown hair pulled back in a knot below her nurse’s cap. Her eyes, placed over a pug nose that was slightly turned up on one end, were a light blue. At the moment, they seemed to be smiling at him too, as if there was some secret amusement behind them. She was somewhat plump but had a pleasing demeanor and a cheerful air about her. Hardly in a class with Nurse Rhinehart, but pleasant enough.
Colonel Wobbe snapped his bag shut, congratulated Hans, and exited. Hans waved and then turned back as the nurse came forward. He stuck out his hand. “Guten morgen. I am Sergeant Eckhardt.”
She laughed softly. “May I call you Hans?”
He did a double take. “Nurse Fromme?”
“In person.”
“But . . .” He was stammering now, surprised at the disappointment he was feeling. He had pictured her as blonde, statuesque, and amazingly beautiful. “I thought you . . . uh . . . were . . .” He stopped.
She tipped her head to one side and looked up at him, the amusement literally dancing in her eyes now. “You thought I was what?”
He was scrambling. “My . . . uh . . . My day shift nurse. Wait! You shouldn’t be here.”
“I shouldn’t? Why is that?”
“Because you’re night shift. You should be home in bed.”
“That’s where I am going now.”
“But . . .”
“I wanted to be here, Hans,” she murmured. “And besides, I had to ask Dr. Wobbe an important question.”
“What question?”
“I asked him if you had to be careful with how you use your eyes for a while. And he said yes.”
“I do? What can’t I do?”
Her smile became impish. “You can’t read books yet.”
For a moment he didn’t understand, but then he laughed right out loud. “You don’t say.”
“Ja,” she said, with that lilting laugh that delighted him. “Good thing you have someone to read to you, right?”
He stuck out his hand again. “Right, Nurse Fromme. Right you are.”
“You can call me Emilee,” she said as she s
hook it solemnly.
That was not expected. “Emilee. Isn’t that French?”
“No,” she shot right back. “Amélie is French. Emilee is very German.”
“I beg your pardon,” he said, bowing low. “I am very pleased to meet you, Emilee Fromme.”
“And I you, Sergeant Hans Otto Eckhardt.”
November 10, 1918—Pasewalk Military Hospital
Berlin, Germany
Hans.” Emilee bent down and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Hans, wake up!”
His eyes flew open and his arms began to flail as he cried out, looking around wildly. She grabbed his hands and hung on. “It’s me, Hans. It’s Emilee. It’s all right.”
Gradually recognition dawned, and he flopped back against his pillow. “Don’t do that, Emilee.” He swore softly. “You can’t sneak up on a soldier like that.”
Then, four things registered at once. The recovery ward was flooded with sunlight. All the other beds were empty and unmade. The clock on the wall read 9:37. And Emilee had a dress on beneath her winter coat, not her uniform.
After years on the front line, Hans had the ability to come alert instantly. He smiled up at her. “Look, Emilee, I like Pride and Prejudice as much as you do, but . . . you can’t start coming in during the day to read too. You . . .” He stopped, suddenly realizing that they were alone. “Where is everybody?”
She removed her coat and tossed it on the bed next to his. Then she reached down to the small chair beside his bed and picked up a folded newspaper.
Seeing that, he chuckled. “Really, I love to have you read to me, but don’t you think—”
She stopped his words mid-sentence when she unfolded the newspaper and held it up for him to see. It was the Berliner Morgenpost. But it was the headlines in one-inch tall letters that seized his attention:
KAISER WILHELM DEPOSED, FLEES TO HOLLAND. EBERT NEW CHANCELLOR. END OF GERMAN EMPIRE, NEW GERMAN REPUBLIC DECLARED. GOVERNMENT EMISSARIES NEGOTIATING SURRENDER TERMS IN FRANCE.
BERLIN SEIZED BY REVOLUTIONARIES. CHANCELLOR BEGS CITIZENS TO MAINTAIN ORDER. RIOTS SPREAD ACROSS COUNTRY. BOLSHEVIKS SEEK TO OVERTHROW THE GOVERNMENT.
For several seconds he just stared at it, his mind unable to process it into something rational. Emilee thrust it at him. “Read it.”
He picked it up and then handed it right back to her. “I still can’t make my eyes focus on something that small.”
“Sorry,” she said, taking it back. Sitting down, she leaned forward and began to read.
“‘Under tremendous pressure from military leaders and the heads of the Christian Democratic Party and the Catholic Centre Party, Kaiser Friedrich Wilhelm Viktor Albrecht von Preussen, Emperor of the Second German Reich and King of Prussia, renounced his right to the throne last night shortly after 9:00 p.m. Earlier in the day, Prince Max von Baden also resigned the office of Chancellor and appointed Friedrich Ebert, a prominent leader in the Christian Democratic Party, Germany’s leading political party, as the new Chancellor.’”
Hans gave a low whistle. “Did you know this was coming?”
She shook her head. “There’s been tremendous unrest since the Sailors’ Revolt that occurred about two weeks ago, and that—”
“Wait!” he cried. “Sailors’ Revolt? You mean like the Imperial Navy?”
She apologized again. “I forget how much you have missed. So much has been happening all over the country. But yes. About ten days ago, even though the navy admirals knew that the war was coming to an end, they started to plan for one last sea battle against the British Royal Navy in the North Sea. This was done without the knowledge of the German High Command. As they issued the orders and prepared to sail, the sailors mutinied. They had no desire to risk their lives when the war was already over in all but name. They also knew that democratic winds were blowing in the Reichstag and that powerful leaders were seeking to end the war as soon as possible. The sailors, who were as sick of war as you are, knew that an attack on the Royal Navy would ruin everything.”
“Wow!” he breathed. “I knew that thousands of soldiers were deserting all along the Western Front, but mutiny?”
“Oh, Hans. It’s been awful. People all over the Fatherland have been rioting against the war. Millions of workers have gone on strike. With all the unrest, the Communists have seen this as a chance to overthrow our government and tried to seize power.”
“Why shouldn’t they?” he said bitterly. “That’s what they did in Russia last year. Three hundred years of Romanov monarchy came to an end in the October Revolution.”
“And did you hear what happened to Czar Nicholas and his family?”
“No. Only that were deposed.”
“Four months ago, the Supreme Soviet asked Czar Nicholas and his family to get ready to be transported to a safe house. When they were gathered, armed men rushed in and shot them dead.” Her voice was taut with horror. “Nicholas, his wife, and all five of their children.”
“And they’ll do the same thing here,” he said. He swung his legs out of bed and faced her. “They’ve got to be stopped.”
“That’s why there’s battle in the streets of Berlin right now, Hans. The people are rising up to stop the Bolsheviks.”
He leaned back on his hands, dazed. As he considered all that she had said, he noticed again that they were the only ones in the ward. “Where has everybody gone?”
“They’re all down in the dining room. Someone has rigged up a wireless set and they’re monitoring military radio traffic.”
“I want to hear it too.” He got to his feet and then clutched wildly for her as the room began to spin. She was up in an instant, gripping his shoulders. “No, Hans. Doctor Wobbe says you have to stay in bed for another day or two. You are not well yet.”
He allowed her to sit him back down again and even allowed her to push him back so he was lying flat. “That’s why I’m here, Hans. I knew you’d want to know about all of this.”
He covered his eyes with one hand to stop the room from whirling around him. “So,” he said after a moment. “Is the war over, then?”
“Not officially, but it’s close.” She picked up the paper, found her place, and continued to read.
“‘Even before Kaiser Wilhelm abdicated, Chancellor Max von Baden, with the encouragement of Generals von Ludendorf and Hindenburg, sent a delegation to France to negotiate peace with the Allied Forces. Matthias Erzberger, leader of the Catholic Centre Party, was appointed to lead the German delegation. On the afternoon of the 7th of this month—’” she looked up. “That’s three days ago now.” Then she read on. “‘—the delegation boarded five railway cars and was transported across the front lines and into northern France to meet with Marshal Ferdinand Foch, commander-in-chief of the Allied Armies.’”
She looked up. “Is that how you say it? Fotch? It’s spelled F-O-C-H.”
“The French pronunciation is Fuhsh.”
She nodded and went on. “‘In Paris they were transferred to Marshal Foch’s private train car, an Imperial leftover from Napoleon the Third, and they were then taken to a secret location in the Com–Compignee Forest.’”
He took her hand, smiling. “Compiègne. They pronounce it Coh-PYEN-yeh.” He pronounced it again more slowly. “Coh-PYEN-yeh. The m is almost completely silent.”
She waved a hand. “Whatever. Anyway, they went to that forest. They say the location was kept a secret so they wouldn’t be bothered by all the war correspondents.”
She summarized the rest of the article. “Marshal Foch stayed only long enough to ask our delegation what they wanted and then turned the negotiations over to French, British, and American officers. No press representatives have yet been allowed on site, but it seems the Allied officers showed no interest in Germany’s wishes. Instead they arrogantly presented our delegation with a list of Allied demands and said we had seventy-two hours to accept them or face the consequences of hostilities resuming. There is little hope that the Fatherland shall come out of this with much
that we can rejoice in. We have lost the war. We know it, and our enemies know that we know it.”
Lowering the paper, Emilee looked up. “That’s it.”
He was staring over her shoulder, seeing nothing. “The stag is down.”
She gave him a questioning look, but he just shook his head and closed his eyes. “They are going to sell us out. After all the blood. After all the suffering.”
“Who is?”
“The politicians.” He nearly shouted it. “Those stupid, pigheaded, brainless imbeciles who run our government. And we are lost.”
November 11, 1918—Near Compiègne, France
In two days of bitter negotiations, the German delegation received very little that they asked for. They were the vanquished. The victors always set the terms for peace.
When he was told on the afternoon of the second day that a consensus had been reached, Marshal Ferdinand Foch returned to Compiègne and called for all delegates to assemble at 5:00 a.m. the following morning to sign the official armistice agreement. A few hours before dawn, all delegates gathered in the railway car to sign the final document. There were thirty-five conditions listed.
With the formalities over, as supreme commander of the Allied forces, Foch sent a telegram to all of his commanders saying, “Hostilities will cease on the entire front November 11th at 11:00 a.m. French time.” Matthias Erzberger, head of the German delegation, sent telegrams to Chancellor Ebert and the Imperial Army commanders. Word spread like wildfire all across Europe. Hundreds of telegrams followed. The airwaves hummed with radio traffic. Couriers were dispatched. The press corps raced to telephone exchanges or telegraph offices.
And so it was that as they approached the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918, officers on both sides of the Western Front stood with watches in hand, their men standing in ranks, gravely waiting for the precise moment. As the final seconds ticked by, they raised their arms high. Then precisely at eleven o’clock, the hands dropped. “Cease fire!” came the command.
Journalists waiting far behind the front lines would later describe what happened next. “The expectant hush that had fallen upon all of us deepened. And then we heard a rippling sound, like a light wind stirring the leaves of the trees. At first, we didn’t realize what it was, but as it increased in intensity, we began to weep, for we were hearing tens of thousands of voices on both sides of the line cheering the end of the war. That sound rolled across the fields of France and poured down from the mountains to the sea.”