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Authors: Anna Schmidt

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BOOK: Gift from the Sea
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Stefan watched the tall, stately woman go and marveled at the gift she had brought with her. Not the cheese or bread but the sense of normalcy. Of all the Americans he had encountered, only she had treated him as something other than either the enemy or a reminder of those they had lost. Others had been kind in their acceptance of him, but Lucie Hunter had come immediately to his bedside and set about straightening his pillows and inquiring about his comfort. All the while she had talked about the weather, the goat cheese she had brought and the fact that the room he occupied had once belonged to her husband’s parents. She had not asked a single question or tried to pry information from him by referring to the war or his unusual appearance in their midst.

In her presence he had felt the tension that had become his constant companion slip away. And when she’d offered to shave him, it had felt like a gift. A kind of emancipation.

But the mood had changed the moment Maggie entered the room, for her very presence reminded him of who and what he was to these people. Although he had grown somewhat accustomed to her shifting moods, sometimes he found her aloof attitude irritating and confusing.

“So, now we will stand,” he announced as soon as Mrs. Hunter was gone. He pushed aside the covers and moved toward the edge of the bed.

Instead of rushing to his side as he had expected,
Maggie remained at the dresser. “We had a bargain,” she reminded him.

“It’s apparent that you have decided not to believe the story I told you of my sister, so why should I tell you more? The doctor wants me to stand, so I will stand—with or without your help.” He pushed himself upright and sat on the side of the bed, his feet dangling inches from the floor. He glanced around. “Please bring that chair closer.”

“You cannot support your weight on that chair. It rocks and you could fall.”

“Then give me something else,” he demanded, casting his eyes over the furnishings of the room.

“Oh, very well,” she huffed and came forward. “Stretch out your arms.”

He did so and she wrapped her fingers around his forearms. It seemed natural for him to do the same, although she had rolled back her sleeves, exposing bare, freckled skin that was warm to his touch.

“Hold on and ease forward,” she instructed, pulling him slightly toward her. “That’s it. Feet flat on the floor and rest.” He saw her study his features and take note of the beads of sweat on his brow. “Perhaps that is enough for now.”

“We will stand,” he said and tightened his grip on her as he raised himself to his feet. They teetered for a moment as if engaged in some sort of childish dance, and then he found his balance.

Her breathing had escalated along with his, and they were both gasping as if they’d just run a race. “We are again standing,” he whispered and grinned down at her. She stared at his freshly shaved cheek, and for an instant she seemed about to raise her hand to stroke his face. Instead she cleared her throat and concentrated on his feet.

“Not standing yet,” she replied, and he felt her loosen her grasp on his arms, her fingers resting only lightly on his skin. He followed her lead, adjusting his weight to accommodate the change in support. She let go, her hands still hovering in front of his chest and ready to push him back onto the bed should he pitch forward. She looked up at him and she was smiling. “
Now,
you are standing,” she said.

Their eyes met in the mutual triumph of the achievement and lingered. “You are very beautiful. Like your mother,” he said.

Her smile faltered and she glanced down, then back at him. Once again her expression was that of the nurse. “That’s enough for now. We will try again later.” Once again she wrapped her fingers around his forearms. “Just sit down,” she instructed as she gently pushed him back onto the bed. He could not help but notice that from this position she was able to keep her distance. There would be no repeat of yesterday’s collapse.

“Very good.” She waited for him to reposition himself in the bed, then tucked the covers tightly and precisely under his armpits.

He reached for her hand and held it, forcing her eyes to meet his. “Let me tell you the rest,” he said, and although she could easily have broken the contact, she took far more time than was necessary to pull her hand away.

Maggie rubbed the back of her hand, not because his touch had been harsh but rather because it had been so gentle. Wasn’t it bad enough that her duty to him as his nurse required contact? And yet the touch of Stefan Witte was somehow consoling. She reminded herself that it was only natural to feel such an emotional connection. After all,
he had lost dear ones to the war as well. But until now she had never thought of those people America was fighting as much more than “the enemy”—a faceless, inhuman force standing against everything she held dear.

Stefan was changing that with his story. He had shown her Uma and the child, reminding her that they had suffered greatly just as people she knew had. She felt her certainty that all Germans and their allies were her enemy waver. In Stefan’s presence, she found herself questioning everything.

Doubt, she thought.

“Very well,” she replied. “Tell me the rest.”

Chapter Seven

“W
here were we?” she said, forcing a pleasant but bland smile. She sat in the rocker but left it where it was instead of pulling it closer. “Ah, yes, you and your unit were on the train for Belgium.”

He nodded and launched once more into his odyssey. “It was common knowledge that our army had suffered heavy losses. It was also rumored that either we must defeat the Allies within the year or we would lose the war.”

“So you were then a foot soldier, and now you are with the German Navy?”

“As a translator I go where I am told. That particular assignment was based on my command of the French language.”

“You speak French as well as English?”

“And a little Italian,” he admitted.

“Impressive. Go on.”

“We finally settled just south of a town called Terhand. At night the English would make quick raids from their trenches, trying to break through our line so they could
reach France. We suffered heavy losses from this unseen enemy. In the towns there was much destruction—houses burned and ransacked or taken over as headquarters for our officers. The locals often ran away, leaving everything behind. Meanwhile the line of stretcher bearers was unimaginable…. So much misery and for what purpose?”

Maggie saw that his eyes were closed and he was lost in his own memories of the horrors he had witnessed on the battlefield. “But you were safe?”

“We were camped on a farm near Vieux Chien. The Supreme Army Command ordered us to confiscate food and supplies from the locals. My job was to listen for and interpret local response to these raids. Command was always alert for the possibility of retaliation.”

The sun had moved around to the far side of the cottage, leaving the room in shadow. The change in light seemed to fit the story he told. Maggie rocked without being conscious of her movement as she tried to digest the horrors he related.

“Every day the fighting became more fierce. The blood—it was like a river at times.” His voice caught and choked but he pressed on. “More than half our men died there, boys they were. Death all around, not just human death but horses and other farm animals slaughtered and beyond that the skeletons of burned-out homes and farm buildings, and personal effects scattered across the earth like so many autumn leaves—clothing and books and photographs. The noise was horrific, shell after shell, hour after hour.”

“That’s barbaric,” she said. “How did it all end?”

His eyes opened wide, and she could feel him staring at her despite his face being in shadow. “End? It doesn’t end, Maggie. You know that. I am telling you of one battle, and
you must multiply that by hundreds, perhaps thousands, as well as by weeks, months and years. And for what?”

She had never heard him speak with such passion. As always the effort cost him, since his throat closed and he was consumed by a choking cough. “Enough,” she murmured as she went to him and helped him sit upright until the coughing passed and he could sip water. “That’s enough for today.”

“No. The paper, the advertisement. I want you to know.”

“All right. Tell me that—only that.” She eased him back onto the pillows and waited by the side of the bed.

“One night—unable to sleep for the shelling and artillery fire—I pulled the paper out and studied it closely. The chemist shop was in the same little town where we had set up headquarters. I could not help but think that God had brought me there.”

“It could have been a coincidence,” Maggie said. But she knew her mother would also see this as evidence of God’s divine intervention, that God had brought Stefan to the very place his sister had wanted him to be.

“I thought that, as well,” he said. “A few days later I was able to get away into the village. Everything was a mess, and the chemist’s shop appeared to be as shuttered and abandoned as everything else.”

“Seemed to be?”

“As I was checking around the back, a side door opened a crack, and I saw the nozzle of a pistol. ‘Don’t shoot,’ I said in French and raised my hands. Two men came out of nowhere and surrounded me, taking me inside the shop, where I faced a third man, the one with the pistol.”

“You must have been so frightened,” Maggie said and then realized that he deserved to be frightened. She shook off her inclination to empathize with his feelings.

“At first I assumed I had walked into a trap—everything from the man at the cemetery to the woman at the postal station had been leading me to this. But when I told them how I had come there—when I said Uma’s name—an incredible thing happened. The man lowered his weapon, and the three of them began speaking in French.”

“Which you understood. What did they say?”

Stefan shrugged. “They were arguing about whether or not to trust me, whether my being Uma’s brother was enough and if so, how they might make use of me.” Again he seemed to drift off into his own memories of that day.

“And what happened?” Maggie asked impatiently. “Clearly you weren’t shot.”

“They let me go. I asked them if they weren’t afraid I would turn them in, but they said that was the test. I needed to choose sides, as Uma had done.” He paused for a beat, his eyes on hers. “As you may well have to do one day.”

Maggie brushed aside his comment. “I have chosen sides—I am American.”

“Sometimes it is a far more complex choice than one of simple citizenship.”

“So, you did not report them,” Maggie guessed.

“No, but neither was I ready to stand with them. The following day I received orders to go to Munich. And shortly after that I was scheduled to join the crew of a U-boat headed for the North Sea. Their purpose was to interrupt the shipping of supplies and food to England.”

“As they had done to Germany with the blockade,” Maggie said, shaking her head. “Sometimes war seems more like a game of tit for tat where the losers are innocents who never wanted to play in the first place.”

He leaned toward her. “That is exactly how I have felt,”
he said. “I did not want to take part in the very tactics that had ultimately ended the lives of my sister and her child. There had to be another way. I made contact with the chemist, and he agreed to help.” Stefan drew in a deep breath and stretched out his hand to her. “You understand why it was important for me to come here? To survive? To reach the proper authorities with the information I know? You believe me now?”

Yes,
her heart responded at once. She shook off such foolishness and focused on the logic of his questions. “What does it matter whether or not I believe you? How can that possibly make any difference at all?”

“What if it’s God’s will that we work together to shorten the conflict between our nations? If we could do that by even one day, Maggie, it will matter. It will matter to those dozens—perhaps hundreds—of people who might have lost their lives on that single day.” His passion for his cause flamed in his eyes. “I believe that this is God’s purpose for my life now that I have lost everyone, but I cannot do it alone. I am pleading with you to help me, Maggie. Your father does not believe me, but there is still time. The contact will be there, I am certain of it. If you spoke to your father, told him my story—”

Maggie stepped away from the bed and backed toward the door. “I cannot. Don’t you realize what you are asking of me?” She did not wait for his answer. “I must go. I’ll send Sean to stay with you until Sarah comes.”

Outside she forced her breathing to calm as she tried to digest what Stefan Witte had told her. What if?

The moment she reached the inn, she glanced at the calendar on the wall by the kitchen door and saw that it was the twenty-fourth. Had the contact come today?
Would he come tomorrow? And then would he give up? She glanced at the clock. It was too late to meet the steamer today. But tomorrow…

 

Later that night Stefan saw the light go on in the tower window of the inn. Was that her room? Was she there now, or perhaps a house servant had entered the room to turn back the bed for the night? But Sarah had told him there was no extra staff over the winter. In spring they would hire help to thoroughly clean and prepare the inn for the influx of summer visitors.

He had asked the Chadwicks if he might sit in the rocker for his supper and for a little while after. In light of warnings from Gabe to be on their guard, the couple’s demeanor had shifted to a polite and almost formal distance, and yet their curiosity about someone who had once lived where their son had died kept them coming around on some pretense or another. That very evening Sarah had suggested Stefan might want to sit up in the chair for a bit. But when he’d asked for the chair to be placed near the window, Sarah had protested that there was nothing to see with it being so dark. “Why not closer to the fire here?”

“I am used to being outdoors,” Stefan explained with a gentle smile. “It will comfort me to be near the window.”

“We can do both,” Sean said. “I believe the wheelchair that Mr. Hunter’s mother used is still in the attic.” He disappeared, with Sarah’s protest that the chair would need a good cleaning trailing after him.

Stefan was elated. A wheelchair would give him some freedom. “It would be very kind,” he said to Sarah, who sighed and went to gather the necessary cleaning supplies.

Once the chair had been cleaned to Sarah’s satisfaction, Sean made short work of making the transfer. He was a large man with powerful forearms from his years of hauling in nets filled with cod, herring or other fish in season. As soon as Stefan was settled in the chair, Sean escorted Sarah to the door.

“We’ll be down the hall,” he said, and Stefan heard it for the warning it was. Sarah pressed her fist to her lips and glanced at her husband. Sean placed his arm around his wife’s shoulders and gently guided her toward the door. “Come along, Sarah.” When Sean left the door open a crack, Stefan knew that it was because while the man liked him, he did not fully trust him.

Now he wheeled the chair closer to the window and used his hands as blinders to shield his eyes from the lamplight as he peered into the darkness at the light in the tower. He saw a silhouette at the window. Maggie. Have I translated the sadness, the rage in those eyes correctly? Are you as troubled by the course of this war as I am? Together we might do something that could help it end.

But his thoughts turned from the strategy of his mission to the woman herself—her smile, her incredible eyes, her fierce determination when she would have something. In another time and place, Maggie Hunter, you and I might have become more than friends.

He shook off such fantasies when the clock in the parlor chimed the hour, reminding Stefan of the passing of time. Every minute meant a minute less of his chance to make a difference, perhaps even change the course of things. Tomorrow was the deadline. If he did not show up at the docks tomorrow, then what? Surely the contact would come on the final day. Someone had to be there.

Maggie, I need you to persuade your father to give this one more try.

Stefan dropped his head into his hands. What was the use? If the contact was made, what then? If he got to Washington, D.C., with his information, what then? He’d already been unable to convince an obviously sympathetic but sharp businessman that he had come in peace. How could he possibly hope to reach officials within the American government?

“But I am but one small person,” his minister had preached at the service for Uma. “What can I do to make a difference?” The man had covered the underlying message to Uma’s comrades that she had done a great deal by playing up her love of family, her kindness to the poor and suffering, her willingness to share whatever she had with those less fortunate. Her love of country.

He rolled the chair toward the door, feeling the ache in his muscles with just this bit of exertion. “Mrs. Chadwick?”

“Yes?” She appeared at the parlor door at once, her face lined with worry. “Has something happened? Are you in pain?”

“No, ma’am. I was wondering if I might have pen and paper.”

She hesitated, glancing over her shoulder at her husband.

“I thought perhaps writing would help exercise my fingers,” Stefan added.

“Oh. Well, I can’t see why not,” she decided. “There’s some stationery in the desk. I’ll bring it to you.”

“Thank you.”

Settled in the wheelchair with pen, ink and paper, Stefan wrote furiously for an hour, heedless of the cramping in his fingers. He had to get it down. He had to give her the whole
of it. Any day her father and the doctor might have him transferred. And he little doubted that once he was in the hands of the military authorities on the mainland of America, no one would believe him. He would have failed, and it would all be for nothing—unless Maggie believed him.

Maggie Hunter was his last hope. In spite of everything she did to cling to her belief that he and his countrymen were evil, he had seen something in her eyes when he’d told her about Uma. He had seen sympathy, yes, but something more. He had seen that same outrage he had felt when he’d found his sister and her child starved to death. What he had seen and heard in her questions went far deeper than simple understanding. Maggie had the courage to take action, and if she believed deeply in something, she would take that step. He was sure of it.

He recalled that what the minister had left unsaid that day in the cemetery was that the actions of one person could inspire another and another until the few became many and the tide of events was transformed. He had to find a way to convey that idea to Maggie Hunter.

BOOK: Gift from the Sea
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