Chapter Sixteen
Sam nestled the back of his head into the crook of his elbow.
The distant bombing raid had kept him awake for much of the night, filling his mind with images, some he had tried to forget, others he could easily imagine.
Somewhere along their journey the sounds of war had changed, now more prominently coming from the Western Front, which felt ever nearer.
It gave him hope that the Allies’ offensive was making ground.
Elsa had talked about feeling conflicted and, to his surprise, he now felt the same way.
Joy that a successful bombing raid was taking place only a few miles away and sadness that innocent children would inevitably suffer from the devastation caused by the indiscriminate bombs.
Frustration he could not take part, yet also guilt that deep down he was glad he could not.
He turned his head to watch Elsa sleep. Her company was even more conflicting.
He had been reminded of the pleasure that was to be found from being in the company of a woman, including all the highs and lows, yet only as a direct result of a bloody, callous war.
His gaze wandered over Elsa’s delicate features.
Her pale skin still somehow managed to hold an innocent rose blush in her cheeks.
Long, fair lashes curved away from her closed lids.
If they were to suddenly open, he knew they would have the power to instantly ignite an obsessional interest within him.
He had never felt like this with Moira, who he rarely thought about these days.
He hated fighting with Elsa. He eased himself up on his elbow for a closer look, drawn to her flawless beauty.
He had not dared to really acknowledge it before.
How could a face be so fascinating to study and impossible to ignore?
How could the delicately tapered lashes and that perfectly shaped nose make him forget those deaths in a nearby town?
His gaze lifted to her hair, the same shade of amber as the wildflower honey back home.
A smile curved his lips. It was impossible to remain angry with Elsa.
He suspected much of his anger came from the fear that she did not care for him as much as he cared for her.
For his part, how the argument had unfolded was now hard to pin down.
It was fading like sea mist in the hot morning sun.
It was just the three of them now. The mad world outside must never come between them again.
He lazily reached towards her and, mindful not to wake her, lifted one of her curls in the crook of his little finger.
Light, smooth and delicate, he marvelled at its fine structure.
She did not stir at all, not even to swat him away in her dreams. He noticed for the first time that Klara had moved away from Elsa in the night.
Usually, they slept snuggled together and it was not like the little girl to sleep on her own.
He frowned. Elsa had not noticed her absence, which in itself would have woken her.
She was a light sleeper and could hear a spider creep across the floorboards if she was so inclined. He sat up. Something wasn’t right.
He grazed her cheek with the back of his fingers and felt the heat radiating from her body.
This was why Klara had rolled away in her sleep.
Elsa had been too warm to cling to in Klara’s subconscious.
Elsa quietly moaned in irritation. Her lacklustre moan did not reassure him, nor the slight sheen of sweat on her neck and forehead.
He had seen sickness spread through the prison camp like water flooding from a broken dam.
Illness had no mercy on bodies already weakened by work and hunger.
Yet when it mattered most, he had missed the signs.
Angry with himself, he reached for the water bottle.
‘Elsa?’ he whispered, hating to wake her when he knew she needed to rest. ‘Are you ill?’
She remained still.
‘Elsa?’ He gently shook her. ‘Elsa!’
Her eyelids fluttered. Slowly, as if the movement was a struggle in itself, she opened her eyes and looked at him.
‘You feel hot. Are you ill?’
‘I just . . . need to sleep.’
Her words were whispered on a single breath. Sam shook his head. ‘Water first. And something to eat.’ He frantically twisted at the cap of the water bottle.
She shook her head.
‘You must.’ He threw the cap aside, lifted her tenderly and brought the bottle to her lips. She sipped obediently at first but eventually drank deeply. Precious water spilled from the corners of her mouth as he tried to quench her thirst. She pushed his hand away and turned her head from him.
‘Now eat some breakfast,’ he said, offering her the last of their bread. He noticed the tremor in his fingers as he held the solid, black bread towards her lips.
She lay down without looking at him and turned away from him. ‘No more. You eat it,’ she mumbled. ‘I have no hunger.’
Sam stared at her back. Leaden dread crawled into his chest and settled around his heart.
He was no doctor. What should he do? He lay down beside her, his fists clenching and unclenching as his mind worked, ideas forming with no clarity or path to make them happen.
She had taken some water, he reassured himself.
Perhaps plenty of rest and water would suffice until she was well enough to eat again.
‘Don’t leave me, Sam,’ she murmured.
His stomach churned at the thought. ‘Why would you say a thing like that, Elsa?’
‘Because of yesterday.’
‘Yesterday is in the past. I said a lot of things I didn’t mean.’
‘But it was the truth at the time. That time might come again.’
He stared at the cobwebbed roof timbers of the old disused barn. She was feeling vulnerable, scared and fevered and, like a knight in shining armour, he felt compelled to promise her the world. He rested the back of his curled fingers against her heated spine to reassure her he was near.
‘I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Promise?’ she whispered.
He thought of the water bottle lying empty at his feet, Klara blissfully unaware and still asleep and the Allied army, so tantalizingly close, approaching from the west. ‘I promise,’ he lied.
* * *
Sam eased himself away from Elsa’s sleeping body, silently grabbed his rucksack and bottle, and crept to the barn door.
He hesitated before he lifted the latch.
She looked peaceful and comfortable, which was an improvement, he consoled himself.
Yes, her lips were dry and she remained pale, but after a sleep she was more likely to eat and drink again.
After drinking something, she would improve.
She was too ill to travel but the longer they stayed the more likely it was that they would be discovered and viewed as suspicious.
He slung the rucksack over his shoulder and turned away from her sleeping form.
He had been lucky so far, he told himself.
People were not interested in three more refugees fleeing the east, but it was only a matter of time before someone delved deeper and asked why he was conveniently mute.
He needed to get out of Germany and delaying it for too long was putting them all in danger.
He pulled the barn door open and scanned the horizon.
About half a mile away, a small village was nestled among towering pine trees.
A church tower was just visible above the high-pitched roofs of the village houses, but other than that he could see very little.
He looked back at Elsa. If she woke to find him gone, she would understand. At least, he hoped she would.
The village appeared untouched by the war.
A scattered collection of whitewashed houses with timber frames crowded along narrow roads and around a small central square.
Morning had broken an hour ago, and the small farming community was already awake.
Sam waited in the shadow of one of the trees to observe the scene.
A solitary man with a wide-brimmed hat and large moustache appeared from one of the houses.
He entered a barn and reappeared almost immediately, leading a horned cow with a bony bent spine.
He took his time harnessing it to a wagon before leading it, wheels creaking, out to the fields.
A woman came out from one of the houses carrying a low-brimmed basket hitched on one rounded hip.
Although her face was lined, it was difficult to guess her age as her hair was covered with a headscarf tied at the nape of her neck.
She made tutting noises through her teeth to call her chickens, and within seconds they appeared from nowhere like frenzied fanatics chasing their idol, a chaotic bundle of flapping wings and flying feathers.
With a sweep of her hand, the woman scattered corn on the ground at her feet, instantly bringing order to the mob of hens.
The sound of flowing water snared Sam’s attention.
He scanned the yard. In the shade of a tiled roof supported by four posts stood a well pump.
A young woman was pumping the long lever with a practised, methodical rhythm.
He watched from a distance as clean, refreshing water spouted out of the tube into a large, deep tub.
When it was half full she stopped pumping and lifted it onto her back by its straps.
She made carrying the weight look easy as she walked away with her fresh supply sloshing on her back.