An Owl's Whisper (10 page)

Caspar, Not Marco

O
bergrenadier
Johannes Krebs drove his motorcycle, he called it a
K-rad
, over the icy road leading to Lefebvre. Not so fast, he told himself. Slick as it was, even with a sidecar, controlling the K-rad was tricky.
Better the dispatch arrives late than never.
He throttled down.

He saw it on the side of the road ahead. The little gray dog just stood there, almost up to its belly in snow, watching him approach. When Krebs got close, the dog’s tail began to swish, and its stare grew intense. Like a wolf, ready to pounce. As if Krebs on the
K-rad
were prey.

The dog waited until Krebs was a few meters away, then it sprang onto the road. The
obergrenadier
hit the brakes. The dog held its ground, barking at the lurching cycle. The
K-rad
skidded, its sidecar sliding to the right. Fighting for control, Krebs yelled, “Look out!” His options were hit the dog or chance the road’s dicey shoulder.

Krebs took the shoulder. But the dog again leapt into his path. Swerving to the left, he hit a pothole that sent the sidecar into the air,
Caspar, Not Marco
the rear wheel sliding beneath it. “Shit!” He kicked wildly, trying to pull his leg from under the toppling cycle. He made it, barely, and went sprawling into a snowdrift as the bike spun out.

When the world stopped tumbling, Krebs assessed his condition. He was shaken, but intact. And damned lucky.

Fearing what his careening cycle must have done to the dog, he craned his neck back from the drift. “Marco,” he called. Before he could get back to his feet, the dog was there, just feet away, uninjured and barking wildly.

“What? Not a pancake? How did you miss my
K-rad
, lucky hound? You know, I should strangle you with my bare hands for cracking me up, but you look like an old pal of mine from back in Garmisch—my mother’s Marco.”

Krebs rose to his feet and brushed himself off. The tone of the barking told him something wasn’t right. He squatted. “What’s the problem, little friend?”

The soldier reached for the dog, Eva’s Caspar not Frau Krebs’ Marco, but it backed away, then stopped again, just beyond reach. And he kept barking. When Krebs stepped toward Caspar, the dog scampered a bit farther.

“So we’re playing a game, eh? A bit cold for that, isn’t it? Where’s home, little fellow?” Krebs thought, such insistence—doesn’t seem like a game. “Hungry? Come home with me! I could use a mascot with luck like yours.”

Caspar seemed to have no interest in warmth or food. He ran up a path that led into the trees. Krebs huffed, “Wait,” and pushed his
K-rad
to the side of the road. He warned, “I’m not going to chase you.” But he did. The dog adjusted its pace to keep the
obergrenadier
following.

When Caspar disappeared around a dogleg in the path, Krebs muttered, “Already late with today’s dispatch and being made the fool by a dog—Johannes, this is too much.” He rounded the bend and there was Caspar, waiting at the side of the path. Standing watch. Barking,
Schnell!
He followed the dog’s gaze to the outline of a sprawled, white-dusted body.

The sight of the still form transformed Krebs, a change as instantaneous and profound as flicking on a light in a pitch-black room. In a second hand’s tick, his training as a medic, his medic’s sensibilities, came rushing back. No longer the messenger boy playing hide and seek with a mutt, he sprinted to the side of the figure, his heart racing.

Krebs moved the coat collar of the injured young female and felt a pulse in the carotid artery. He gently lifted Eva’s shoulder to check her breathing—that’s when he saw her notebook and the blood on the snow under her head. He completed his evaluation in seconds.
Breathing shallow. Swollen contusion above the right eyebrow. The whisper of pallor on her face and the chill in her skin.
“You don’t have much time, Johannes,” he whispered.

I’ll chance further injury to deal with shock, he decided. He lifted the girl and her lightness surprised him. Let’s hope that something—something essential—hasn’t already left, he thought. With Caspar at his feet all the way, he made it back to the cycle. He set Eva down and removed the emergency satchel from under the sidecar seat. When Krebs gently placed Eva in the sidecar, she moaned and came to, momentarily. Then she slipped away again. Like a paper doll, she slumped forward. Krebs took a gray wool blanket from the kit and tucked it around her legs and torso up to her chin. He removed his gloves and touched her lips.
So cold. So soft.
He shuddered.

Caspar jumped onto his mistress’ lap and was quiet.

“That’s the spot for you. Keep her warm.” He patted the dog. “You did well.”

Krebs read the words on the cover of the notebook he’d found next to the girl.
St. Sébastien
—the name of the convent school a kilometer or two away. Made sense.

The world around him slept silent and pure under its frozen white blanket. Krebs brushed Eva’s cheek. It was still and cold as the flock on the trees. He removed his gray woolen overcoat and flowed it over her shoulder. He brought the collar over the back of her head. He gently, reverently, tucked it around her. Then the reverence and the quiet vanished as he jumped on the driver’s seat and kick-started the engine. Tires crunching the snow’s crisp crust, he tore off toward the convent.

Stitches

Mother Catherine was sitting by a small coal heater, reading in the nuns’ parlor, when Sister Arnaude arrived, out of breath. “Mother, it’s Germans! In the courtyard.”

Mother slapped her book down and sprang up. “See to the girls, Sister. I’ll handle the
furor Teutonicus
.” Eyes aflame, she stormed down the corridor. Her thoughts shot back to the previous autumn.
Those ghouls storming in, all boots and rifles, with their documents in German and their contempt. They stole the food from our very mouths!
Mother’s fists were clenched.

As Mother approached the front door, the knocking—to her it was
pounding
—grew louder and more insistent. “Brutes, you’ll get nothing this time!” She flung open the door, ready to devour the barbarians on the other side.

But to her surprise, she faced something less than the
Gestapo
. It was lone
Obergrenadier
Johannes Krebs, carrying a bundle draped in a greatcoat and blanket.

The massive wooden door exploding open startled Krebs, but he managed to speak, and in French. “Sister, I see this young lady when I motor by on the road. It appears that she damages herself. I believe she may be one of your girls, so here I bring her.”

Mother pulled the blanket back and gasped. With the swelling and the blood, she didn’t recognize the face. But when she saw Caspar at Krebs’ feet, she knew. “Eva,” she murmured. Mother touched the girl’s cheek, and her fingers recoiled at its coldness. She asked, “Is she—?” The word
dead
stuck in her throat.

“Please Sister, can I be allowed to bring her in? She lives, but I fear for the shock.”

Mother Catherine raised her eyes in prayer for an instant. Then, “Yes, of course. Come, come. Bring her to the parlor. The stove there is warm.” As Mother led Krebs down the dark corridor, she demanded, “And how did this happen?”

Krebs ignored the question until they were in the parlor. He eased Eva onto the sofa. “Sister, as I have said, I
found
her damaged. Found her with following a dog’s barking. It is possible that she damages her head if she falls on the ice.” He checked Eva’s pulse. “Have you a nurse on the premises?”

Biting her lip, Mother shook her head. “There’s only Dr. Humbert in Lefebvre.”

“It’s too far in this weather. I’ve trained as medical aidman—may I do what I can?”

Mother Catherine looked at the man. The German man. She considered the thin face, pale blue eyes, and spectacles, making his look gentle. And the careful French and the asking-not-ordering which made him seem—was it painful to admit?—human. She pulled her eyes from Krebs and set them on Eva’s pale features. “Please. Do whatever you can.”

“I’ll need my kit.” Krebs was out of the parlor and back with a medical kit in less than a minute. He used two large books, a dictionary and a bible, to elevate Eva’s feet. “I fear about
die Gehirnerschüttererung
—I don’t know the word in French. It is a brain’s injury.” Krebs pried open Eva’s eyes and shined his small flashlight into each.

With Mother rubbing Eva’s icy hands, Krebs turned his attention to the gash above her eye. Sister Martine appeared in the doorway, and Krebs asked her, “Sister, can you get me soap, warm water and cloth?” He turned to Mother Catherine. “And would you please hold the light?”

As Krebs gently probed the illuminated injury, feeling for bone fragments, Mother’s eyes darted off Eva’s injury to his face. Human, even humane, is the right word, she thought, and that made her at once happy and sad. Distracted, she let the flashlight beam drift from the gash. Krebs gently guided her hand back until the injury was again lighted. The back of her hand warmed with his touch. Embarrassing her.

Sister Martine returned with the treatments and handed them to Krebs. “The pupils look the same,” he said. “It’s a good sign. I touch no broken bones. Now I am ready to clean her injury and impose a few sutures.”

Krebs washed his hands. He wet one of the cloths Sister Martine brought and rubbed the corner on the soap. He scrubbed the wound, first the gash itself, then the surrounding area. Eva stirred. She mumbled something about Caspar. Then she was quiet again. With the dried blood removed, the extent of the injury was revealed—a swollen lesion seeping watery fluid and surrounded by purplish bruising. The nuns had to look away, but Krebs seemed pleased. “Clean! The cut doesn’t threaten.”

Krebs doused a white cotton ball with iodine solution and dabbed the area of the injury. He took a waxed-paper packet from his kit and opened it with scissors. He removed a coil of fine, black thread with a small, curved needle attached and held the point up to the light. “Sisters, could you please nestle the
mademoiselle’s
head. The suturing will sting and I must have her still for my mending.” Mother Catherine held Eva’s head and Sister Martine, her hand. Krebs worked quickly. Mother looked away during the stitching. “That should do it,” said Krebs. He placed his hand on Eva’s cheek as if imparting a blessing.

Mother forced herself to examine Eva’s injury. It was spellbinding: The swelling. The bruising. The blood dried black. And the five black stitches with the clipped ends of thread sticking out, looking like spiders’ legs. A mighty conspiracy against Eva’s beauty.

Krebs covered the wound with gauze and taped it in place. He handed Mother two paper packets containing white powder. “She may take these for pain.”

Mother felt surprise that a German would concern himself beyond the mechanical repair of an injury to the patient’s comfort. This one is different, she told herself.

Krebs got up. “And now, I take my leave. As I carry dispatches to Lefebvre, I will inform Dr. Humbert. He may wish to see her. Head injuries want close watching.” Krebs picked up his coat and noticed Eva’s bound notebook. “Oh, yes, this must be hers.” He handed it to Mother.

At the front door, Krebs stopped and turned around. “May I ask what would be the
Mademoiselle’s
name?” Again, request rather than demand.

Standing at the door, Mother fought the urge to be cordial, but it overpowered her. “You may. It’s Eva. Eva Messiaen.” After a pause, Mother added, “Thank you, Mr.—”

“It is Johannes Krebs, Sister.”

“Johannes,” Mother echoed. “Same as
Monsieur
Brahms.” As she closed the door, Mother was thinking about the symphonies of Brahms, another German, music that spoke directly to her heart—as if it knew a shortcut, bypassing ears and brain completely. The door clicked shut.

After a moment, Mother reopened it and called, “God bless you, Johannes.”