Chapter 7
SEVEN
What I lack in skill, I make up for with charm. Or at least I’d like to think I do. Otherwise, I’ve just spent all my remaining money on travel to Norfolk for nothing.
Chin up, Minerva. You cannot let something as inconsequential as skill stop you from getting the job.
That’s right. I’m a quick learner. I’m not squeamish since I’ve done my fair share of gutting and maiming. I do rather like the red hue of blood, so that won’t be an issue either.
I suppose I just need to learn how to heal instead of kill.
Can’t be that hard, now, can it?
The bus stop is a distance away from the location, and I trudge my aching body forward, trying to think about the rewards.
I hope they will provide meals on arrival, or at least upon hiring me. I am far too hungry to be able to wait until tomorrow.
At this point, I am ashamed to say I would take anything. Even stale bread is better than nothing. Last night, as I was twisting and turning in an effort to ignore the pangs of hunger, I even went as far as to consider grilling the little cookie thief in my room. Alas, I found him already dead in the morning—perhaps the landlady took care of him.
The grilling option remains on the table, however. I wouldn’t be the first to do so. Of that, I am aware.
People are starving. I am not the only one. But where I once looked at them from a position of privilege my powers and monthly allowance afforded me, now I have a new appreciation for the people who so valiantly fight to live on. It’s especially heartbreaking to think of the young mothers whose husbands are on the front and who not only have to find a way to feed themselves but also have to feed their younglings.
From that point of view, I am still a little privileged.
Doing my best to forget about my empty stomach, I march forward. It takes me an hour to get to the location, which I realize is a military base—the headquarters of the Air Force. Well, if that’s the case, I suppose they should need a lot of nurses, no? That should be to my advantage.
Or…not.
There is a long line of females stretching all the way outside the military camp. As I get to the end of the queue, I ask if this is the line for the nursing position.
“We are all waiting for registration. There isn’t much information yet,” a female tells me.
“Thank you,” I murmur.
All right. I shouldn’t get discouraged about the almost fifty females here for the same position. They should have plenty of spaces to accommodate most of us, no? It’s war, after all, and they need all the help they can get. And I need all the food they have available.
I don’t do well when I’m hungry. And I don’t mean physically. I also mean that I get very, very, very angry.
Calm down, Minerva! Everything will work out in the end.
And then my brother will be forced to admit that I am not weak—despite having no powers. I can make it and I will make it.
I just need to be a little bit resourceful about it. And that involves keeping my ears wide open to the discussions around.
“You went to a three-year program?” someone asks, her voice dripping with awe.
The other female nods.
“I wanted to be a nurse before the war, too.”
“I only did the two-year program since it was cheaper and I could help the war effort faster,” the girl replies.
I narrow my eyes.
What’s this talk of two- and three-year programs?
“Excuse me?” I put on my best smile. “What do you mean by a two-year program?”
The girl in question turns to me, blinking in confusion.
“The nursing program, of course.”
“Nursing program?” I repeat slowly.
She looks at me askance.
“You’ve completed a nursing program, no? That is the minimum requirement for a nursing position.”
“Ah, yes, I have. Of course I have. From way before the war,” I lie.
She nods thoughtfully.
“You’re lucky. Those with more experience are likely to get priority in consideration.”
Uhm. Right.
I smile at her and end the conversation.
Inside, I am panicking. I am beyond panicking. I barely know what nursing is about and these females have completed two- and three-year programs? How am I going to get the job if that’s what I have to compete with?
More females arrive and take their place in the line.
I gulp down as I watch my chances of getting this job dwindling by the moment.
It all hits me in the face when one of the females next to me takes out a thick book about nursing from her purse and starts reading.
I angle my body toward her so I can gaze at what’s written inside. But I only manage to read a couple paragraphs before she catches me and gives me a glare. She shuffles a few paces away from me and continues to read.
Damn it. These people are treating this as a competition. Not that it’s not, since we are all hoping to get one spot. Everyone has their reasons for wanting the job, but I am right here starving . That should take precedence. Or at least it does, in my mind.
The line slowly moves forward, and I get the opportunity to see some of the military base. There are one-level buildings and tents erected everywhere, with military trucks running up and down the makeshift streets.
As I poke my head out of the queue, I note that the registration is being held in a similar building. Every female goes in, spends some five minutes inside, after which she comes out with a slip of paper in her hands.
When my turn comes, I’m already bored out of my mind. My stomach is growling incessantly, but I try to put on a smile—though damn, that’s hard.
Getting inside the building, I see there are three males behind a desk, shuffling some papers. Two have white coats, indicating they are doctors, while the other one has a military uniform on. The male in military garb is annotating things on a piece of paper, and he barely looks at me as I come in.
One of the doctors invites me to take a seat in front of them.
“Name?” the officer asks.
“M—” I stop myself. My name is not what you would expect of a British female, which might arouse their suspicion. The last thing I need is for them to think I might be a spy or something of the sort. Thinking quickly, I change some letters around to anglicize my name. “Mina Anyan.”
“Spell that for me,” the officer says.
I do, and he doesn’t bat an eye at my last name. I only removed the apostrophe from it because how the hell do I come up with an entirely different name in just a few seconds? Then again, maybe I should have prepared for it in advance.
“Age?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Marital status?”
“Unwed.”
“Good. Are you engaged?”
“No.”
They nod. It seems that was the correct answer.
“Good. Now tell us about your experience.”
Uhm…
“I graduated from a three-year nursing program in London.”
“Which one?”
I blink. Think, Minerva, think!
“The Nightingale one,” I quickly say.
“Good program.” The doctors nod.
So it is a program. I breathe out a sigh of relief. Was I bluffing? Perhaps, but Nightingale is the most famous human nurse, so I took my chances with her name.
“Any practical experience?”
“I’ve been working for the past three years at a small clinic just outside of London. We’ve been caring for the people affected by the Blitz who did not get immediate medical attention,” I lie again—an outrageous lie. I hold my breath, waiting for them to call me out on it, but it doesn’t happen. They just nod along.
“That is good. We are looking for nurses with practical experience.”
I smile.
“Here is your slip with your number. Keep it and wait for it to be called.”
“Called? For what?”
“There will be a practical and theoretical exam. It shouldn’t be hard for someone with your experience. We just want to ensure we hire the best, given the turnout.”
Right, my experience.
“Thank you,” I say as I accept the slip of paper.
Gazing down, I note my number is fifty-eight.
There are fifty-seven females before me, and who knows how many after. I’ll never get this job, will I?
I dejectedly make my way out of the building and look around for somewhere to sit down while I wait—and devise a new plan.
My muscles are aching, and I’m so tired my eyes are almost closing. Yet I can’t afford to let this puny body betray me like this.
No! I will get this job, I will eat, and then I will get a bed to sleep in.
How I will do that? Well, I’ll have to think some more.
The line to the registration seems never-ending as more females join in, which makes the competition for those positions more fierce.
If only I had my powers… Alas, if I did, I would not be here, ready to beg for some scraps of food.
And speaking of food…
I close my eyes and inhale deeply as the smell of food wafts toward me. It’s coming from one of the buildings.
Before I can even think about it, my feet take me to the origin of the scent. The main room of the building is empty. But judging by the rows of tables and seats, this must be the cantina. That means the kitchens must be around, too.
A few airmen walk around, and I quickly hide so I don’t get caught.
Now that the smell has infiltrated my brain, I do not think I can stop.
I round the building a few times until I find a small door. Pulling it half-open, I gaze inside.
It’s the kitchen!
Two males wearing aprons are chatting around as they prepare astronomical amounts of food.
There are maybe three or four huge pots on the makeshift stove, their contents simmering and releasing more of that mouthwatering aroma. To the right, there are six, or perhaps eight, trays laid one on top of the other. I strain to make out the contents and my stomach makes a loud noise when I see the meat lined up on the top tray—probably fresh from the oven.
There’s bread too. So much bread. Surely they wouldn’t miss a little, no? But I doubt they would just give it to me if I asked. I’d more than likely get kicked out for wandering where I’m not supposed to. Perhaps I’d even be punished since they might think I’m trying to do something nefarious like poison the food.
Okay, so asking is out of the question. That leaves…stealing.
Good grief! How low I’ve fallen. But food is food, so I will deal with my conscience later.
Surreptitiously opening my bag, I take out my carefully wrapped last resort.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “You’re already dead, so you won’t suffer.”
Opening the door wider, I hurl the dead little rodent in the middle of the kitchen. Then I close the door and I hide behind the building and wait.
The moments trickle by and nothing happens.
Either they’re not impressed with my cookie thief, or they didn’t see it. But would they even react? I’m not sure how males in this world behave, but screaming at rodents is usually a female thing—mostly because they’re smelly, sneaky bastards.
Just when I think I wasted my potential meal for nothing, a loud, shrilly sound erupts in the air.
The door to the kitchen bursts open, and the males run out, one after another. I quietly shake my head. If it were me, I would not send those manlings to war.
Alas, now I must be quick.
I dash into the kitchen and straight for the meat trays. Opening my purse wide, I stuff it with as much meat as I can before moving on to the bread and cheese—in between stuffing my face, too. With how hungry I am, I would have carried the entire kitchen out with me. As it stands, I must contend with only what I can carry in my purse.
Male voices resound from outside. I still. Steps thud closer and closer.
The door opens.
Eyes wide, I crouch behind the stove, the only spot hidden from sight.
“A rat? You were screaming about a rat?” The newcomer’s voice thunders. He doesn’t seem too pleased about that display of cowardice.
I frown. The voice sounds rather…familiar. But I can’t quite pinpoint where I’ve heard it before.
“It’s a big one, sir,” the other male complains. “So big. Look.”
I can almost imagine them pointing to my little deceased friend. And they think that is big?
Humph.
They should see the size of rodents in other worlds. That little fellow is tiny compared to those.
“And you both ran out of here like screaming girls because you saw a dead rat?”
“A big rat,” the cook continues, his voice trembling.
The newcomer releases a loud sigh.
“You’re in luck then. I’m saving you from a rat,” the male adds drily.
I peek around to see him pick up the rat by its tail and wave it around. The cooks recoil, taking a step back and running out of the kitchen.
Again.
I wait for the other male to leave as well, but he sure takes his time.
He wraps the little rat in some paper and he turns to the door. Before he leaves, however, he stops.
“Next time just ask for food. No one will begrudge you a portion.”
My eyes widen in shock.
“Rats are unsanitary, however.”
And with that, he leaves. Together with the rat.
He didn’t come after me. He didn’t tell me off for stealing the food. He just…left.
I wait a few more minutes before I think it’s safe enough for me to leave. To my surprise, there’s no one around.
Scurrying out of the way, I find an isolated spot and wolf down some more of the food until my stomach is finally full.
My hunger assuaged, I am now brimming with new optimism.
The food was good. This is what will await me if I get the job. Nice, tender meat, fresh bread, and delicious cheese. What more can I ask for?
Well, to be hired.
I mutter a curse under my breath. I might no longer be starving, but I still haven’t solved the little issue of not knowing a thing about nursing. If only that girl had let me read some of her book…
I have a good memory. If I read something a couple of times, I can memorize it.
But how do I get my hands on a book to read?
As if the fates decided to give me a little grace, I spot the girl carrying the thick book. She crosses the field to go to one of the barracks.
I quickly follow.
She’s going to the restroom. Surely she won’t go inside with the book, right?
I enter the barrack and note there are two stalls, both in use. The book is lying flat on a counter.
It seems that today is all about perfecting my thieving abilities because I snatch it without a second thought and run out of the barracks, returning to that isolated nook where I plop myself on the ground to read.
I vaguely hear numbers being called, but it’s still in the single digits. That means I have some time to get acquainted with the book.
To my surprise, there are pictures as well depicting the art of nursing, and as I read, I slowly gain a new respect for the profession.
Nurses do everything . They dress wounds, clean the patients, take their temperature, and observe their bodily functions as well as sometimes administer medication and anesthetics.
I bite my nails as it dawns on me that this is far from the easy job I imagined it to be. In fact, it might be the most grueling of them all. Whereas doctors only diagnose, prescribe treatment, and sometimes do surgeries, nurses do everything else.
It’s only one hundred and three days, Minerva. You can do it.
Think about food.
Yes, this is my only opportunity. I’ve already come this far. I might as well push through.
I memorize all the important elements, my confidence growing by the moment.
I’m on my third read-through when I hear voices.
Male voices.
They move closer until they’re just a few steps away from me. The only thing hiding me from sight is a big container next to the building.
I make myself smaller and clutch the book to my chest.
“You’re disciplining them for running away from rats? Come on, Vitry.”
“They’re barely eighteen and fresh off the boat. Cut them some slack,” another adds.
“Eighteen-year-olds are going to their deaths in this war every day,” a male adds.
I frown. It’s the same familiar voice from earlier. But where have I heard it before?
“Yes, but?—”
“They have it much better than others. They’re here, doing their duties away from the front lines. But that might not always be so. If tomorrow they get sent on the Continent, what are they going to do? The first sound of a bomb and they run away screaming? That won’t cut it. They’ll be shot down the moment they open their mouths.”
“But, Major?—”
“This is war , Lieutenant,” Vitry emphasizes.
“And their jobs are in the kitchen. Surely?—”
“For now,” he states. “The punishment stands. If you have a problem with it, then you two can join them as well.”
“Come on, Vitry.”
“Is that clear, Lieutenants?” His voice booms, brimming with authority.
There’s a pause.
“Is that clear?” he repeats.
“Sir, yes, sir,” the two males say in unison.
“You may leave,” Vitry tells them.
I hold my breath, listening for the sound of their steps. When the sound recedes, I finally relax and move my stiff body around. I held myself so still for a moment that I think I got a cramp in my lower leg.
I stretch my leg out and massage my calf.
Poor humans. Is this what they have to contend with?
I’ve been tired before, when my energy levels were low after too much fighting. But it’s never been like this—a pulsating ache that’s present in my entire body.
“Did you enjoy the food?” the same voice asks. It’s that male. Vitry.
I gasp and pull my leg back.
“I already saw you,” he adds drily.
“It wasn’t me! I didn’t steal the meat!” I cry out.
He chuckles.
“And how do you know it was meat if you did not steal it?”
I blink. Is he going to arrest me? Kick me out? Turn me in and publicly humiliate me?
“How do you know it was me who stole it?” I counter as I shuffle back and attempt to make myself smaller.
“There aren’t too many ladies who wear red shoes,” he says, and I hear his steps as he comes closer. “Especially ones with white polka dots on them.”
He stops in front of me.
I’m hiding behind the book—though it’s a measly attempt at hiding.
He looms over me, and once more panic takes hold of me.
What is he going to do? He clearly has a high rank if the other lieutenants deferred to him. He might want to make an example out of me in front of everyone—brand me both a thief and a criminal for bringing the little rat inside the kitchen. Then I’ll never get the job. I’ll never get three daily meals again. And I will likely end up sleeping in an abandoned building, perhaps a barn.
All these scenarios are too unappealing to even think about them.
“Nothing to say in your defense?” he asks.
I bite my lip as I slowly lower the book. Maybe I can find a way to appeal to his sensitive side. Perhaps I can bat my lashes as I’ve seen human females do to get what they want.
Yes. That is a good strategy.
The moment the book reveals my face, I rapidly flutter my lashes at him. When he doesn’t respond to this cue of a damsel in distress, I put in more effort. I bat my lashes at him to the point of aggression.
I can’t even see anything but my lashes as they create a dark web in front of my eyes.
Still. He doesn’t react.
Is he blind?
I lean in, fluttering them more. Good grief, if he doesn’t take a hint soon, my lashes might propel me into flight with how hard they’re fluttering.
“Do you have something in your eye?” he finally asks.
What?
Can’t he see what I’m doing? That I’m using a trick to appeal to his protective side so he won’t turn me in for stealing the airmen’s food.
I humph aloud and tilt my head, batting my lashes some more.
I am a female fluttering my lashes at you. You are male. Act like it!
“Are you all right? You don’t seem all right,” he adds in a low voice.
He comes closer to me.
Yes, this must be working, after all.
“There’s something wrong with your eye, isn’t it?” he asks.
“No,” I say with a groan.
My lids stop moving. I’m staring at him, wide-eyed.
He’s in front of me. As in, his face is only a few inches away from mine. Too close. Far too close for comfort.
And to my dismay, I realize why the voice and the name seemed familiar.
It’s him. The male from the other night.
The one who made me save the people in the bombing, thereby getting me punished for interfering in humans’ fate.
It’s his fault.
Not only is he the reason why my powers are gone and I am now little more than a puny human for one hundred and three more days, but he is also the reason why I am starving, why I had to steal, and why I was even considering eating my little cookie thief.
It’s all his fault.
And now? He dares to come so close to me I can feel his breath fanning on my face. It’s minty and fresh and ugh! I hate it.
I hate him .
“You…” he whispers, his eyes widening in recognition. “Tiny darling.” He smiles.
He invades my personal space and now he calls me that derogatory term. I might be tiny, but I don’t need to be reminded of it every single time.
My lips curl in a snarl, and before I can stop myself, I draw my fist back and punch him.
Straight in the face.
He whizzes and falls back, blood pouring from his nose.
I scramble to my feet, but powerless and achy as I am, I’m not as swift as I would like to be. He tries to come closer to me, so I use the thick book to swipe his hands away before I smash him over the face with it again.
He staggers back, disbelief written all over his features. Blood drips down his dashing uniform—no, not dashing; it’s just a uniform—and he looks at me as if he’s seen a ghost.
Before he has the time to recover and apprehend me, probably denounce me publicly for being a thief and a violent criminal, I run away as fast as I can.
“There she is!” A girl points her finger at me as I get back to the interview location.
I barely gather my wits about me when I hear her say.
“She stole my book!”