And that had become their pattern thereafter. He no longer wanted light reading. Hans was obsessed with what was happening to their country. Emilee would bring the paper each time and share with him the turmoil and upheaval going on all around them. The articles about political and social unrest interested him the most. He made her read every word of every pertinent article and then, in some cases, read them again. It was ironic, actually. She had told her supervising nurses that she read to him because he couldn’t sleep. But now, he would vacillate between frustrated rage and sorrow so deep it almost left him weeping, and sleep was forgotten.
As for Emilee, normally when she went off shift and went to bed she would be asleep in minutes. But now she too would lie awake, brooding on what this meant for her, for her family, and for the future. What kind of a world were they facing? What would be left of their beloved Fatherland for the next generation?
In 1914, the German people had sent their men off to war with grand and joyous celebrations. There were speeches and parades, rallies and hundred-gun salutes. Martial music filled the air and citizens lined the streets, waving flags and throwing flower petals as the men marched past. Women draped floral wreaths on the tanks and trucks and heavy cannons as they rumbled by.
Four years of war had changed all that. Two million of their young men were either dead or missing in action. Hundreds of thousands more were in Allied prison camps and wouldn’t be released until Germany signed a formal peace treaty. It was a rare German family that hadn’t lost someone. The economy was reeling from the enormous costs of the war and reparations. Add to that the food and fuel shortages. Add to that the fact that at the same time millions of young men were returning home to look for work, the war industries were laying off hundreds of thousands of workers. The unemployment rate was rapidly approaching half of the employable population.
The jubilation was gone. Now, the same people who had thrown flowers and waved flags seethed with rage. The result was almost universal disillusionment, discouragement, despondency, and growing desperation.
Emilee sighed. It was happening again, and she hated it. She hated the pall of impending disaster that hung over them. So, let Hans be annoyed that she had not brought a newspaper tonight. There were more pressing things they needed to discuss. He might not agree with that, but in her mind, the two of them were approaching a crossroad that couldn’t be ignored any longer.
When she had come on shift at 10:30 last night, there was a note attached to Hans’s patient chart. “Sergeant Hans Otto Eckhardt, patient #42350, has been approved for discharge from the hospital. Please see that he is at the hospital administrator’s office at 9:00 a.m., Monday, 2 December, 1918.”
She had known it had to happen sooner or later, but to actually see it in writing had hit her pretty hard. Just like that, Sergeant Hans Otto Eckhardt was going to walk out of her life. Unless she did something about it tonight. Monday morning was less than thirty hours away, and she didn’t work Sunday nights. Her next shift started Monday night at 10:30 p.m. By that point Hans could be halfway across Germany.
Emilee kept telling herself that maybe that was for the best, but “herself” refused to listen. She had to know. Maybe he would still walk away, but if she didn’t make some effort to clarify their relationship, not knowing what might have been would haunt her for a long time.
From the first day she had started nursing school at age seventeen, her instructors had hammered the neophyte nurses about the dangers of hospital romances. One professor had thundered at them, “You may actually do irreparable harm to the patient, and you will almost certainly find yourself looking for new employment.” Two of Emilee’s friends had proven him right. One friend broke things off with her patient when he began pressing her to marry him. When she refused, he attempted suicide. The other friend, who had also worked the midnight shift, had given herself to a sailor one night when they slipped into an empty room for privacy. They became “engaged” as the affair continued. A month later, when he received news of his discharge, he slipped away without saying good-bye and she never heard from him again.
Those had been vivid lessons for her, and she had kept her relationships cordial but distant, warm but professional.
Until Sergeant Eckhardt arrived.
He was not the most horribly injured or disfigured patient she had dealt with. Though he carried over a hundred shrapnel wounds in his body—including one that had nearly blinded him—they were nothing compared to the man whose legs had been blown off by a land mine, or the soldier whose lungs were so badly seared by mustard gas that every breath was agony for him.
Emilee had been on duty one night when a new trainload of patients, including Sergeant Eckhardt, had arrived from France. She had been tasked with cleaning him and preparing him for surgery. His clothes were filthy and caked with mud. He had no boots on, only filthy, woolen socks. His hair and whiskers were matted with blood.
But as the man beneath the dirt and grime and blood gradually emerged, she discovered that he was quite good-looking. His hair and week-old whiskers were a light blond, the kind of blond hair that many women would give a month’s salary to possess for themselves. His facial features were stark, even gaunt, but beneath the ravages of war she thought she discerned intelligence and strength of character. His body was as lean as a greyhound’s, but his shoulders were broad and his torso like steel cords. When the doctor had pried one eye open to check for signs of concussion, she had been startled by their color. They were a light blue, like a robin’s egg or a summer sky in the morning.
Remembering the counsel about hospital romances, she had pushed him out of her mind. Then one night as she was doing her rounds, he asked her to read to him. He was having recurring nightmares, he said. He couldn’t go back to sleep, he said. She agreed, and it quickly became her nightly routine.
As the nights came and went, Emilee learned that her initial impression had been correct. Hans was intelligent, funny, and often deeply profound. This drew her to him in ways that surprised her. On the other hand, there was another side of him that greatly annoyed her. He was unashamedly self-centered, often moody and petulant. His intensity was almost frightening sometimes. If she disagreed with him on a topic and was able to best him in arguing her point, he would withdraw and sulk like a little boy.
One memory of him that still cut deeply every time she thought of it was from the day his bandages were removed and the doctors told him he wasn’t blind. She had been finished with her shift by then but asked the eye surgeon if she might stay for the unveiling. The surgeon’s nurse, Magda Rhinehart, who was a good friend of Emilee’s, was a statuesque brunette who turned men’s heads wherever she went. She was standing near Hans when he opened his eyes. Emilee would never forget what she saw in his eyes when they focused on Magda—first surprise, then pleasure, then amazement. Emilee had been standing back in the corner watching. Magda got that reaction from men on a regular basis.
Then, as everyone else left, Emilee came forward. Hans stuck out his hand and introduced himself. Though they had talked for hours together by that point, he, of course, had never seen her. But the moment she spoke, he knew who she was. And she had been watching closely for his reaction. This time it went from surprise to open disappointment before finally turning into a warm smile.
His disappointment at seeing her was in sharp contrast to his amazement at seeing Magda. Not that it surprised her. She knew what she was. Her hair was a mousy brown and usually pulled back in a bun when she was at work. Her eyes were all right, a little darker shade of blue than his, but her nose looked like it had been stuck on as an afterthought. And she tended to be a little plump, even though she was careful about what she ate. She was honest enough to acknowledge that people liked her, but no one called her beautiful. In fact, her mother, with the typical bluntness of many German parents, summed it up with two words. “You’re plain, my Liebchen, and there’s nothing to be done about it.” Before his passing, her father, who had idolized her, tr
ied to soften it by saying, “But you have character, Emmy. A good man will recognize that in you.” This only told her that he agreed with her mother’s assessment.
Emilee took a quick breath. Tonight she would try to find out just how important her physical beauty—or lack of it—was to Sergeant Eckhardt. It was time, and while it excited her to perhaps get a clearer idea of what his feelings for her were, she could not shake the idea that this might be their last time together.
She sighed, this time with a deep weariness. Reaching into her apron pocket, she fingered the three letters there. These were not going to help in her quest. In fact, they might prove to be pivotal in ending it once and for all. But she had to know. How Hans reacted to these letters might be pivotal for her too, for she was deeply disturbed by what had happened the night before.
The previous night, Hans had dozed off while Emilee was sitting by his bedside reading to him. She decided to wait for a moment to see whether he would wake up again or their time together was over for the night. As she sat there, she noticed something in the small waste bin beside his bed. Curious, she leaned in closer. To her surprise, there were three envelopes there with his name on them. However, they were addressed to the Ministry of War in Berlin and had been forwarded on to Pasewalk. The return address was a village in Bavaria. That and the fact that they showed a woman’s handwriting led Emilee to assume these were letters from Hans’s mother, or perhaps a sister. But what puzzled her was that none of the three had been opened.
When Hans awoke a few minutes later she asked him about them, thinking perhaps they had been knocked into the waste bin by mistake. To her total surprise, he angrily snatched them out of her hand and stuffed them back in the waste bin. “I put them there,” he snapped. “That’s where they belong.”
Only later did the whole episode begin to bother her. Why the War Ministry? Why not send them directly to the hospital? The answer hit her hard. Because his family didn’t know he was here. Could that be? He had been here almost a month—surely he would have written to his parents by that point. The more she thought about it, the more it disturbed her. Maybe there was some logical explanation, but for the life of her she couldn’t see what it might be. So on her rounds two hours later, seeing that he was sleeping deeply again, she had retrieved the letters. Tonight, she was going to find out what was going on.
And with that thought, she turned, took a deep breath, and walked swiftly over to bed number nine. Bending down, she peered into his face. There was no question about it. His eyes were closed and his face was in calm repose. His chest rose and fell rhythmically. Disappointed, she reached out a hand to wake him and then pulled it back. One of the policies her night supervisor held to very strictly was that no patient should be woken unless it was for medications, treatment, or some other emergency.
With a sigh, she backed away. Maybe on the two o’clock rounds.
Chapter Note
In A Generation Rising, volume one of this series, I identified Pasewalk Military Hospital as being located in Berlin (see, for example, page 245). That was because one of my American sources listed the town as being “near” Berlin. But further research reveals that Pasewalk is actually a small town about eighty miles northeast of Berlin. Though someone from the United States might say that Pasewalk was near Berlin, residents of the city would probably not.
December 1, 1918, 2:05 a.m.—Pasewalk Military Hospital
Emilee entered the ward an hour later, stopping for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the dim light. Then she moved forward, her soft soles making no sound on the linoleum, until she stopped at the foot of bed number nine. As she did so, she noticed that Sergeant Eckhardt’s right foot was jerking a little under the covers. Then she heard a soft moan. Moving up to stand beside him, she was startled to see that his eyes were wide open, staring up at the ceiling.
“Hans?”
He didn’t respond, so she bent down and laid a hand on his arm. “Hans, it’s Emilee.” She shook his arm a little to get his attention.
He came awake like an exploding volcano, arms flailing, fists clenched, eyes wild. Yet he made not a sound. She fell back a step and then leaned in again. “Hans, it’s me. Wake up.”
He struck out at her, and his fist struck her hard on her upper arm. With a cry, she jerked away before he could strike her again. But the chair beside his bed was right behind her. She tripped over it and fell backward. Her elbow smashed into the bed post and sent stabbing flames of fire up her arm. She threw her upper body across the lower part of his bed and managed to pin down his legs. He went berserk, grunting softly, kicking and writhing like a madman. One foot caught Emilee full in the face, knocking her back.
Fortunately, Hans was barefooted. If he had been wearing his boots, he would have smashed her cheekbone. As it was, lights flashed across her vision, and she was momentarily blinded. But instinctively, she again threw her full weight across the thrashing legs. “Hans!” she hissed. “It’s me. It’s Emilee.”
He was rolling back and forth, flailing at her with his fists, trying to get free of her. She could hear him grunting, but that was all. Desperately, she buried her face against his legs and held on. “It’s Emilee, Hans. It’s all right.”
Finally reality registered and the thrashing slowed. Hans fell back against his pillow, gasping for breath. His eyes were still wild as he looked around. In the dimness of the night lights of the hospital ward, there wasn’t much to see. Finally he raised his head. “Emilee?”
She pushed herself up, fighting the impulse to clutch at her cheek, which impossibly was both completely numb and registering flashes of blinding pain. She reached out for his hand, found it, and hung on. “Yes, Hans. I’m here.”
He fell back, swearing softly under his breath. “I thought you were. . . .” He couldn’t finish it. After a moment he pulled himself up on one elbow, staring at her, his eyes glowing spots of light in the near darkness. He blew out his breath in a long, painful sigh. She sensed his body starting to relax. “What are you doing here?” he finally gasped.
She got slowly to her feet, peering at the beds on either side of her. No one seemed to be awake.
She moved quickly to stand beside him. “It’s just after two a.m., Hans,” she whispered. “I came to read to you. You were asleep at one o’clock.”
He was still gasping for breath, but she could see sanity starting to return. She took his hand. “I’m sorry I startled you. I thought you were awake.”
He squeezed her hand. “I was awake. I . . . I must have dozed off.” Then suddenly he sat up, peering at her. “Was that you I just kicked?” he asked, horrified. “Are you hurt?”
“No.” She managed a shaky laugh. “Well, just my cheek.” Then she forced herself to chuckle. “And my right arm. And my knee. But other than that, I’m all right.”
“Oh, Emilee, I’m so sorry.”
She pulled up a chair, sat down beside him, and took both of his hands. “It’s all right. I shouldn’t have come up to you without warning like that.”
He turned his head and looked at her. “Which cheek?” he asked. She pulled away and gingerly felt her left cheek with her fingertips. “This one.” He reached up to touch it, but she shrank back. The numbness was leaving now and it hurt like fury. “It’s all right.”
“Ah, Emilee,” he exclaimed. “I’ll bet you’ll have a black eye by morning. And then what are you going to tell people?”
“I’ll tell them I had a little accident,” she said with a thin smile. “Like maybe I tripped and fell out of the fourth-story window or something.”
He didn’t laugh. He closed his eyes as if he were the one in pain. For a moment she thought of the envelopes, but then she decided this was definitely not the time. But his eruption had reminded her of something else she wanted to talk to him about.
“Hans, can I ask you a question? As your nurse, not just as a friend?”
“What?” That approach had clearly taken him aback.
‘”Are you sti
ll seeing that associate of yours? Hitler, I think his name is?”
“Adolf? Yes. We talk often. What of it?”
“Did you see him yesterday?”
“Yes. We spent about an hour talking about what’s happening in the country right now.” It was said with deep bitterness. “He finds it as appalling and upsetting as I do. Why do you ask?” This time there was an edge to his voice.
She sat in her chair debating whether she dared say this or not. Finally, she took both of his hands. “Hans, again, I’m talking as your nurse now. I’m wondering if seeing him is a good idea.” She rushed on as his eyebrows lowered. “A friend of mine works on that ward. She told me that you were there and—”
“And she told you that he’s a madman?” he sneered.
That surprised her. “Not at all. Actually, she thinks he’s brilliant. Mesmerizing is another word she uses.”
He relaxed a little. “He is brilliant. His grasp of what is happening in the Fatherland right now is amazing. Visionary!”
“It’s just that . . .” A quick sigh, then she plunged. “My friend said you were both quite agitated when you finished talking. Very upset. Maybe that is what’s causing your nightmares. Getting all worked up can do that.”