Chapter 37
‘Where were you this morning?’ asked one of the nurses as Clara met them outside the Gasthof the following morning. She couldn’t face breakfast. Her heart was broken and her appetite gone.
‘I’m not feeling too well,’ said Clara. She climbed up into the back of the truck, tucking herself in the corner behind the cab. With luck they’d take the hint and leave her alone.
Sadly, that wasn’t the case.
Alma climbed in last. ‘And there was me thinking you were sleeping in. I mean, you didn’t get back until the early hours of the morning, did you?’
Alma and the nurses all looked at Clara, waiting for her response. ‘I needed some fresh air,’ she said.
‘At two o’clock in the morning?’ Alma persisted, despite Clara closing her eyes. ‘You weren’t with one of the locals or a soldier by any chance?’
Clara’s eyes snapped open. She sat up. ‘Why would you say something like that? Besides, what I do is none of your business.’ She didn’t mean to sound so prickly but the panic that Alma had seen her with Friedrich or even suspected was sending her mind spinning. Was Friedrich now in danger?
‘Don’t tease her,’ said one of the nurses. ‘There’s nothing wrong with a midnight liaison. Especially, with handsome officers.’
‘You would know all about that,’ said the other nurse, nudging her friend. They both burst into laughter and the conversation was taken up by them enthusiastically talking about their former lovers. Clara closed her eyes again, trying to let the motion of the truck rock her to sleep.
It must have worked because the next thing she knew the truck had come to a halt and Alma was shaking her awake. ‘Come on. We’re at the Belgian border. They want to check our papers.’
Clara’s heart fluttered wildly. She suspected the border guards might not be so relaxed as the ones in Berlin. She had every faith in Friedrich and the forged papers he had prepared. She knew he wouldn’t have supplied her with anything less than perfect documentation.
She hopped down from the truck along with the other nurses, where they were lined up on the side of the road as a border guard made his way down the line, inspecting each piece of documentation carefully.
As Clara feared, this was no slapdash half-hearted inspection.
‘And you are from Berlin?’ the guard was asking Alma.
‘Ja. The Charité Hospital,’ she replied.
‘Like the others?’
‘Ja. We all work together.’
The guard handed Alma back her documents, before moving to stand in front of Clara. She passed over her papers.
‘And you’re from Charité also?’ he asked.
‘No. I’m from the Reich Health Office, Medical Supplies Division,’ replied Clara.
‘Why have you been asked to travel to the Lille?’
‘Monitoring and assessing medical supplies.’
The guard pursed his lips. ‘Strange accent.’
‘I’m from a small town near the Swiss border,’ explained Clara. A bead of sweat slid down her spine.
‘Really? So am I. Whereabouts exactly?’
Clara had no idea if he was telling the truth or testing her. ‘Schliengen, near Basel,’ replied Clara confidently.
‘Schliengen! What a coincidence. My cousin is from there. You must know his family, they are very well known in the town. Herr Ralf Schmitt? He was the local head teacher. You must know him?’
Clara frowned as if she was trying to remember.
The sly smile on the guard’s face told her he was testing her, which meant he was suspicious or just enjoying the power trip.
She doubted very much he knew of the small village.
Friedrich’s research would have been meticulous.
He told her the village had less than a thousand inhabitants, with basic infrastructure of a church and a school.
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t remember the name. Schliengen is very small, mostly families. I can’t place anyone by the name of Schmitt, not a head teacher anyway. I’m sure I’d remember that.’
He studied her, then smiled. ‘Forgive me, Fr?ulein. My mistake. I was thinking of a different village altogether.’ He handed back her papers before turning around to nod at one of the other guards who instructed Clara and the nurses to get back into the truck.
Clara just wanted them to clear the border crossing as quickly as possible and escape what felt like a danger hotspot.
The driver climbed into the cab, the engine rumbled to life and the first gate lifted for them to pass through.
A second checkpoint waited twenty metres ahead, also manned by border guards.
Only after this gate opened and they rounded the bend did Clara realise why the crossing had taken so long – a massive convoy of military vehicles stretched along the roadside, waiting to cross back into Germany.
As Clara’s truck slowly trundled past, she caught glimpses through the canvas of battle-weary soldiers slumped in the backs of trucks.
Their hollow eyes and empty stares bore no resemblance to the triumphant warriors described in Berlin’s newspapers.
Mud-splattered and dented vehicles told a different story.
Catcalls erupted from some of the troops as they passed. Clare kept her gaze fixed downward, her stomach churning, while Alma and the other two nurses eagerly stood up to wave and smile back at the soldiers, clearly enjoying the attention.
When they finally left the convoy behind, Clara took a long deep breath of relief.
‘You know, you’re really not much fun,’ said one of the nurses settling back down after waving enthusiastically at a truck full of grinning soldiers.
‘She’s still pining for that captain from last night,’ Alma said with a laugh.
‘Plenty more where he came from,’ the other nurse chimed in.
Clara forced what she hoped passed for a smile. She couldn’t summon any enthusiasm for their conversation, but alienating herself would be dangerous. ‘Maybe I’ll find someone to take my mind off him,’ she said, although the very thought felt like a betrayal to Friedrich.
‘That’s more like it!’ Alma beamed, turning to the others. ‘See? I told you she wasn’t really stuck up.’
Clara nodded weakly, wondering how many more lies she’d have to tell before this nightmare was over.
They had been travelling for almost six hours, having made their way across Belgium, stopping on the way at a small village for a rest break and something to eat. From there they had crossed into France, without the need for any border controls as both countries were now under German occupation.
The countryside rolled gently past in soft green waves, fields of ripening wheat and barley stretching towards distant coppice of beech and oak trees.
Stone farmhouses with steep slate roofs dotted the landscape, many now flying German flags from their gates.
Clara knew from what Friedrich had told her that many of the homes had been seconded by the Germans and officers had been billeted to stay with local families.
The peaceful rural scene was marred by the fresh scars of conflict. Burned-out vehicles lay abandoned in ditches, and several farmhouses showed blacked windows where fires had raged. Telegraph poles leaned drunkenly along the roadside, their wires cut and tangled.
As they passed through the small French villages, Clara noticed the eerie quiet. Shops were shuttered, streets were empty except for the occasional German patrol. The few civilians she glimpsed moved quickly, eyes downcast, carrying market baskets or leading children by the hand.
They continued, village after village, town after town, all with the same sense of defeat and fear. As they reached the outskirts of one such village, the truck slowed down in the narrow road. She could hear the voice of a woman calling out in French, with obvious distress.
Clara leaned over, looking around the side of the cab.
There was a young woman, roughly her own age, carrying a small child of no more than about two years old in her arms. The child was wrapped in a blanket but appeared limp and lifeless.
Clara knew enough French to understand what the woman was saying.
She was begging for help. Her child was injured and she needed medical attention.
With the slowing of the truck, Clara assumed they were going to stop to help the woman.
But to her horror, the driver swore at the mother and child and steered the vehicle around them.
Clara looked down at the woman and child.
As they drew alongside, she could see the blanket was bloodstained.
She jumped to her feet, banging on the rear window to the cab.
‘Stop! Halt!’ she shouted. She banged again. The soldier in the passenger seat turned to look at her. ‘Halt the truck!’
The vehicle lurched a stop. The momentum hurtled Clara forwards. She didn’t care, she snatched up one of the medical bags from under the seat.
‘What are you doing?’ asked Alma, grabbing hold of her arm.
‘Helping that woman and her child!’
‘But she’s French.’
‘I don’t care what she is. The child needs medical attention.’ She shrugged off Alma’s hand and rushed to the rear of the truck, throwing the bag out and jumping out after it, before rushing back towards the woman.
‘Merci. Merci,’ sobbed the woman. She laid her child on the grass verge, which was churned up by tanks and military vehicles.
Clara spoke to her in French. ‘Tell me what happened?’
The woman pulled back the blanket and immediately Clara could see the extent of the injury.
There was a deep gash in the child’s thigh, still bleeding.
‘My daughter. She fell on some broken glass. Our window was shattered from the fighting. I came back to see what I could salvage from our home. I had to put her down for just a moment and she fell. There’s so much rubble and debris everywhere.
It’s my fault. I should never have come back. ’
The words rattled out at speed, full of anguish.
‘Shush, now. It’s not your fault,’ Clara reassured her, hoping her limited French was being understood. She might not be using all the right conjunctions and tenses, but she prayed her meaning was clear.
Clara opened the bag and took out a small bottle of saline solution and a clean cloth. ‘I’m going to clean it first,’ she said. ‘What’s your daughter’s name?’
‘Mathilde,’ said the mother, her voice trembling.
‘And yours?’
‘Agatha.’
‘All right, Agatha. You need to hold Mathilde very still now,’ Clara instructed.
She glanced back towards the truck, but to her dismay none of the others were coming to help.
They were merely observing from the rear of the vehicle like spectators at a show.
The two soldiers had walked around to the back, taking the opportunity to smoke while they watch with detached curiosity.
How could Alma and the other nurses just sit there? Why wouldn’t they help another woman and her child? It was unthinkable that simply because Agatha was French, they would refuse to help.
She turned her attention back to the child.
‘Bonjour, Mathilde,’ she said softly. ‘Alors . . .’ She wiped the damp cloth over the wound.
The child flinched but didn’t resist. Clara continued to clean around the injury, the reddish-brown streaks of blood smearing across the pale skin.
Tenderly, she wiped at the edges of the gash.
Mathilde flinched again and gave a little whimper of protest. ‘?a va alter, ma petite.’ It’s going to be all right, little one.
Now that the skin around the area was clean, Clara could see the gash was indeed deep – deeper than she’d initially thought. ‘I need to check there’s no glass left inside,’ she told Agatha. ‘It’s going to be very painful for her.’
Agatha nodded her consent, holding her daughter even tighter, trapping the child’s injured leg under her arm so Clara could examine it properly.
Mathilde screamed and tried to thrash around as Clara poked the wound.
She couldn’t blame the child. It must be excruciating.
She used a small amount of iodine once she was satisfied there was no glass remaining inside.
‘Let’s have a rest for a moment,’ she said.
‘Give Mathilde a cuddle. In a minute, I’m going to have to stitch up the wound. ’
Mathilde continued to sob as her mother tried desperately to comfort her. Clara took out the needle and surgical thread she would need.
‘Hurry up!’ called one of the soldiers impatiently.
‘I’m going as fast as I can,’ Clara called back, her voice tight with frustration.
‘I could work quicker if someone actually helped me.’ She looked pointedly at the three nurses, but none of them moved.
She sighed heavily. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said to Agatha, ‘but I’m going to have to stitch her leg now.
This is going to hurt but I’ll be as quick as possible. ’
She could see the fear and helplessness in the Frenchwoman’s eyes, but Agatha held her child tighter, nonetheless.
This time Mathilde seemed to sense what was coming and began thrashing her arms and legs wildly.
Just as Agatha secured one limb, another would start kicking, or an arm would flail and strike out.
Clara felt panic rising in her chest. There was no way she could suture the wound if Mathilde was this agitated. The bleeding was getting worse, and time was running out.
Just then, Alma suddenly appeared, kneeling beside them and, without a word, took hold of the child’s legs with firm but gentle hands. This enabled Agatha to restrain Mathilde’s upper body.
Clara worked swiftly, her training taking over as she completed three precise stitches in a matter of minutes. Once finished, she wrapped a clean bandage snugly around the child’s leg.
‘Merci beaucoup,’ Agatha whispered through her tears, clutching her daughter.
‘You need to change the dressing daily. Don’t let the wound become infected,’ Clara said urgently. ‘In a few days you will need to find a doctor to remove the stitches.’
Agatha nodded frantically. Clara hoped she understood. She rifled through her medical bag and pressed two clean bandages and a small bottle of iodine into the woman’s hands. ‘Take these. And please, be careful.’
‘We need to go! Now!’ the driver shouted.
Clara walked back to the truck with Alma thanking her for her help.
The nurse paused at the back of the vehicle, studying Clara’s face intently. ‘Who are you really, Frida Hoffmann?’ she asked quietly.