Gift from the Sea (2 page)

Am I the only person in this household who thinks this man’s sudden arrival is more than a little strange? She rummaged through her father’s bureau until she unearthed his oldest pair of pajamas.

Dr. Williams arrived an hour later with the news that the
lines of communication between the island and the mainland were not operating. “Looks like a real nor’ easter,” he surmised. “Could be a couple more days before the harbor can open,” he added as he followed Maggie’s father and Sean up the stairs to the guest room. While the three men conferred behind the closed door of number three, the women gathered in the sitting room just off the lobby to await the doctor’s diagnosis. Maggie’s mother tended to some mending while Sarah paced and Maggie sat on the edge of her chair, her eyes glued to the closed door at the top of the stairs.

Another hour passed and the only sounds were the ticking of the grandfather clock by the front door and the howling wind and drizzle turned icy sleet that was tapping at the windows. Finally the door at the top of the stairs opened, and the low murmur of male voices drifted down to the women. Mama’s fingers stilled even though she kept her eyes on her handiwork. Sarah stopped her pacing and waited, while Maggie leaped to her feet and rushed to the foot of the stairs to meet her father. “Well?” she asked.

“Sit down, everyone,” Gabe said quietly as he descended the stairs with Sean and the doctor, the gravity of the situation clear in their expressions.

Maggie could almost taste the tension that seemed to permeate the room. “Has the man passed?” she asked. These were turbulent times that made normally sane people act out of panic and fear. Would they be hailed as patriots or arrested for harboring the enemy? She gulped back the bile of anxiety that had formed at the back of her throat as her father placed a sodden leather wallet on the table and carefully removed one of the papers.

“Our guest is Stefan Witte of Düsseldorf. That’s in
Germany,” he added, as if they didn’t already know that. “According to these papers we found under his diving suit, he is twenty-six years old. If Tom’s German can be trusted, his papers identify him as a communications officer assigned to the German Naval Command.”

Sarah and Lucie gasped, and Maggie moved in for a closer look at the document her father had spread across the front desk. Same age as Michael.

“He is beginning to regain consciousness,” Dr. Williams reported, “although it is difficult to tell if his ramblings are the result of delirium or he is attempting to tell us something. He appears to be in a great deal of pain, though he takes it well. I expect that’s the frostbite starting to thaw.”

“Did he say anything that made sense?” Mama asked.

“A couple of words,” Gabe replied. “We believe that he was aboard a German vessel—probably a U-boat—that made it past the lightships keeping watch.”

“In any case, he appears quite agitated, which is dangerous given that we cannot know the extent of the tissue damage the frostbite has caused,” the doctor added. “In addition to the frostbite, there is also the potential he’ll develop pneumonia.” He turned his attention to Maggie. “The frostbite seems limited to his toes and fingers. I expect the hood protected his ears and much of his face, but we’ll need to keep a watch on his nose and cheeks.”

“Yes, doctor,” Maggie replied, automatically dropping into her role as charge nurse for the patient.

“Keep his hands and feet elevated and splint the fingers and toes between regular massages of those exposed areas with snow through the night.” He continued to speak to Maggie as a colleague.

“Is he suffering?” Sarah asked, wringing her hands.

“Tom has sedated him, and that should help him make it through the night,” Sean assured her.

“And tomorrow?” Lucie asked.

Dr. Williams cleared his throat, then glanced at Sean and Gabe before answering. “We’ve decided that in light of the storm and the fact that the island is virtually cut off from the mainland, the best course is to keep his presence here to ourselves for the time being. At least until we can find out who he is, how he got here and whether there are others. If we raise an alarm, it’s likely any cohorts he might have will panic and go into hiding. We might never learn their true purpose.”

“Isn’t that a job for the military?” Maggie asked, increasingly aware that everyone but her thought this was a good plan.

“Oh, Maggie,” Sarah said, “he’s a young man and he needs our help. What if he were one of our boys over there and some family had found him half-drowned?”

“He is German,” Maggie replied. “He is our enemy.” Have you forgotten? Forgiven?

Sarah turned away, and Lucie stared at Maggie for a long moment. “My darling daughter, what has this war done to you?”

“This man is not Michael—or George, Mama,” Maggie protested.

“Margaret,” her father said sternly, but Mama held up her hand as she looked deep into her daughter’s eyes.

“No, but like George and Michael, he is a young man in a foreign land. You have always been the one to remind us that there has already been enough loss of young lives on both sides of this horrible war.” Her voice caught and Gabe moved to her side, but she waved him away as she fought
to control her emotions. “Stefan Witte is our guest,” she continued in the firm voice she had always used when Maggie was in need of a reprimand. “He is ill and injured. Before we ask any questions or bring others into this, we will do our Christian duty. We will nurse him, feed him and show him that although our governments may be at war, he has nothing to fear while in our care.” She paused for a moment and then added, “Am I making myself clear, Maggie?”

“Yes, ma’am.” It had been weeks since Maggie had seen her mother so strong, so in command of the situation. On the one hand, it was a welcome change. On the other, there was a German seaman under their roof and it was naive to think that the milk of human kindness might be enough to defend them.

After Dr. Williams gave Maggie the medications she would need to administer for the pain and more detailed instructions for tending to the man, he promised to return the following morning at first light. He shook hands with Gabe and Sean, nodded to the women and left. Once he was gone, Maggie’s mother took charge.

“Sarah, if you would see to some clear broth now—our guest has to have nourishment.”

Sarah nodded and Sean followed her to the kitchen.

“I’m going to sit with him,” Gabe said, and Lucie touched his cheek gently before he started up the stairs.

Maggie waited until she was sure her father was gone and then said, “Mama?”

Mama turned, her expression softened by her moment with her husband. But when she saw Maggie’s face, she frowned. “What is it?”

“I can’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“Mama, he’s German.”

“And I’m Irish and you’re American. Oh, Maggie, you have always been the first to stand alongside anyone in need. When others on the island shunned the Schulers even before America became involved in this horrible war, it was you who called on them, brought them back to church and made clear to all that these were Americans who happened to have a German surname.”

“Yes, but—”

“And isn’t that the very reason why you became a nurse? So that you could help others?”

“I know, but—”

“Now this young man comes to us and you want us to turn our backs? He’s a child of God.”

Maggie swallowed hard as she stared at her mother. “You speak of him as if you know him. We know nothing about him except that he is German—not American with German ancestors like the Schulers. What if he’s a spy? What if even now his commander is sitting out there under the sea, waiting for some signal?”

Mama blinked and then released a sigh of pure exasperation. “I simply do not understand what has happened to your sense of charity.”

The war happened, Maggie thought, but her mother was as aware of that as she was. Sarah returned from the kitchen bearing a tray with a bowl of steaming broth, a spoon and a linen napkin. She started for the stairs.

“Maggie will take that, Sarah,” Mama said, her eyes never leaving her daughter’s.

The challenge was clear. Without a word Maggie accepted the tray and climbed the stairs. The door to room
three was slightly open, and she could hear her father’s low voice repeating two words.

“Stefan Witte,” he said several times, then added, “Can you hear me, son?”

“Do you think he can understand you?” Maggie said as she set the tray on the bedside table. She busied herself with stirring the broth and then unfolding the napkin, refusing to look at the man on the bed.

“Perhaps not, but keep talking to him,” Papa instructed. “He’s moving around more now, and Doc says that’s a good sign. If we can get him through tonight and tomorrow, Tom says he just might have a chance.”

A chance for what? To spend the rest of his days in a military prison? To face a firing squad? Maggie thought as she spread the napkin over the man’s chest, keeping her eyes glued to his fingers resting on extra pillows, their tips as white as the snow outside. Her parents had indeed gotten him out of the wet clothes, and he was dressed in her father’s pajamas, the covers tucked tightly across his chest. The bed also had been changed, and Maggie noticed a pile of dirty linens in the corner near the door with the man’s now lifeless diving suit flopped over the top like some rag doll.

“I’ll take these down so they can be washed and hopefully salvaged,” Maggie’s father said as if reading her thoughts. He picked up the pile and opened the door wide. “I’ll have Sean bring you a bucket of snow for massaging his fingers and toes. If you need help, just call out.”

“He seems harmless,” Maggie said, more to reassure her father than because she had made any observation of the man beyond the fact that he was wearing dry clothing and covered by clean linens.

Gabe smiled at her. For an instant he looked like a far
younger man, and Maggie saw that he was excited by the events of the evening. When America had finally declared war, she remembered how her father had anguished over his inability to go to the front. She recalled how both he and Sean had seemed to envy Michael and George their youth and the chance to fight for their country. And now perhaps the front had come to him.

Men.

She waited until she heard Papa’s footsteps descending the stairs and then took a deep breath and turned to face the enemy.

M
aggie’s first impression was one she would never have expected. Cleaned up after his obvious battle with the sea and the elements, Stefan Witte was strikingly handsome. His face, relaxed now by the drug the doctor had given him, was pale except for a faint sprinkle of freckles across his nose. His blond beard and mustache highlighted full lips and cheekbones that might have been chiseled out of stone.

Judging by the way his feet—elevated along with his fingers—pressed against the footboard of the bed, Maggie surmised that he was easily as tall as her father, and possibly an inch or so taller. His forearms were exposed, the sleeves of her father’s pajama top pushed back. She could not resist noticing how they were roped with muscle, tanned and covered by a fine pelt of golden hair. His fingers were long with a yellowish, waxy cast to the skin that had been exposed to the elements. If his frostbite was mild, the skin would eventually turn pink and blisters filled with clear liquid would need to be drained. If the frostbite proved more severe, the blisters would be black and there was
every possibility that Dr. Williams would need to amputate one or more of the digits.

Maggie shuddered at the thought and turned her attention to the task of getting him to swallow some of the broth. Papa and Sean had positioned him on a stack of pillows so that he was half sitting up in the large four-poster bed. Maggie pulled the napkin higher under his chin, and in the process her knuckles grazed the softness of his beard—in need of a trim.

“Nein!”
he cried out and Maggie jumped back. As suddenly as he cried out, he settled back into sleep, but his dry, cracked lips under the moustache continued to move as if searching for words.

She waited to be sure there would be no further outbursts. His deep-set eyes were closed now, the pale lashes and thick brows softening the chiseled planes of his cheeks and forehead. His hair, like his beard, was still matted with debris in spite of the hood of the diving suit and Mama’s attempt to wash him. Maggie suspected that once washed, it would be thick and curly. There wasn’t one thing about him that reminded her of Michael—or even George—and yet as she gazed at him, she could think only of her fiancé and her dear friend.

Here was the enemy in the flesh. A man like this one had shot George and dispensed the torpedo that had sent Michael to his grave in the sea he had always loved. What could her parents be thinking in taking such a creature into their home?

“Well, Stefan Witte,” she muttered, “let’s see if we can get some of this broth down—though with you unconscious, I can’t see how.”

She picked up the bowl and spoon and perched on the
side of the bed. She dipped the spoon and then blew on it to cool the broth. “Open,” she commanded as she guided the liquid to his mouth. Without a moment’s thought, she made the transition from horrified civilian to professional nurse. She had been given her instructions—instructions as always aimed at getting a patient to the place where he or she could leave the sickroom or hospital. It occurred to her that she should ask the doctor to teach her a few words of German so that she could communicate those instructions to the man. Surely the sooner he got his strength back, the sooner he could be transferred to the mainland to face his punishment and the sooner her family would be rid of him.

Broth dribbled off the sides of his mouth and ran down into his beard, but his lips parted slightly and at least some went into his mouth.

“Let’s try that once more,” she said, more to keep herself on track than for the hope of any conversation with him. “Open,” she said again, and this time because his lips parted slightly, perhaps by instinct, less spilled.

Maggie set down the bowl and looked away as she reached for the napkin to wipe his mouth. Without warning he grasped her wrist and just as quickly released her.

Her first instinct was to cry out for help, but she saw that his eyes were still closed and realized that his action had been no more than a reflex. “Stop that,” she ordered as she carefully examined the splints and bandages the doctor had applied to be sure there was no damage. The next time she looked up, his eyes were open.

Her heart hammered as she stared into twin pools of emerald, like the calm waters of Nantucket Sound on an autumn day. She knew she should call for her father, but
her voice seemed momentarily frozen and she refused to let the man see that she was afraid of him.

“So, Stefan Witte. You are awake.” She pronounced his surname with a
V
for the
W
and in two syllables, as Doc had done when he had corrected Sean earlier.
Vit-ta.

The man’s eyes widened in surprise that she knew his name; then he looked around the room, taking in his surroundings as well as the change of clothing. Sheer panic brought him to a full sitting position for just an instant before he cried out and collapsed back onto the pillows, his face shiny with beads of perspiration, his entire body convulsed by a fit of coughing and obvious pain. When the attack passed, he stared at her, his eyes narrowed with fear and suspicion.

“You have reached the island of Nantucket, off the shore of Massachusetts in the United States,” she told him while she ran cold water in the small sink behind the door and soaked a washcloth, then wiped his brow. “My father brought you here to our inn on the island.” She soaked the cloth again, wrung it out and folded it to place on his forehead. “And you don’t understand a word of this, do you?”

He pushed the cloth away and struggled to sit up. “I know English,” he said. His voice was weak, but other than a slight German accent his diction was perfect—almost too perfect. “Who also knows of me?”

Maggie bristled at his abrupt manner and rudeness. “Well, you are quite welcome. I imagine you are overcome with gratitude that we have rescued you and—at some danger to ourselves, I might add—taken you in. We could have called in the military, you know. There are ships anchored all over the place.”

“Who also knows?” he repeated, his eyes demanding her answer.

Maggie sighed. “My parents, our cook and her husband, who found you, and the doctor, of course.”

An expression of utter defeat crossed the man’s face as he sank further into the pillows. He murmured something in German and then closed his eyes again, but Maggie knew he wasn’t sleeping.

“You need sustenance. Here, eat this.” She placed the tray with the soup bowl on the bed beside him, then stood by to see what he would do. She half expected him to send the tray and its contents crashing to the floor with a swipe of his bandaged hand.

Instead he stared at the broth, then up at her. Eyeing her with suspicion, he secured the spoon with his thumb against the juncture of his forefinger. His four fingers stuck out like a salute. He could not hide the pain that shot through his damaged fingertips with the effort, but stubbornly he filled the spoon and stared at its contents.

“It isn’t poisoned or drugged, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Maggie said, irritated that this German would doubt her or her family. When he continued to hesitate, she pried the spoon from his grasp and took a sip of the soup. “See? Perfectly fine.”

She was tempted to make him watch while she devoured the rest herself, but Doc had mentioned possible dehydration and the need to push warm liquids into the man’s system through the night. It had been one thing to hand-feed him with the man unconscious. It was quite something else to have him watching her. Casting about for a solution, she poured a little of the contents into a water glass and held it to his lips. He grasped the sides of the glass with his palms and using this method he quickly finished the broth.

“Vielen Dank,”
he murmured as she removed the tray.

“You are welcome,” she replied, assuming by his tone that he had just thanked her. “How much English do you know?”

“
Ich bin—
I am a translator,” he said.

“For the Germans?”

His eyes narrowed again and he did not answer.

“Are you a spy for your country?” she asked, deciding that they may as well find out what they were up against now while the man could barely raise a soupspoon to his lips much less murder them all in their beds.

“Translator,” he insisted, his voice weak and raspy.

“On a German U-boat?” Again she saw a flicker of acknowledgment that she’d guessed right before his eyes shuttered again. “Is that how you came to be on our beach? Your ship dropped you there so you could what? Spy on us? Make your way to the mainland and send back information?”

“You talk too much and foolishly,” he muttered, and then he started to cough and choke, gasping for air as he looked at her with alarm.

Maggie was tempted to let him believe that she had indeed poisoned him, but instead she pushed him forward and started pounding his back with the flat of her hand as she called out for help.

“Mama!” Instinctively she knew that calling out to her mother rather than her father would prevent setting off waves of panic through the household. Nevertheless the response was the sound of multiple footsteps coming up the stairs. Meanwhile she eased Stefan forward, balancing his weight against her shoulder in order to give his lungs more room to function properly.

“What is it?” her father asked, reaching the room ahead of the others and rushing to the opposite side of the bed.

“Shall I call the doctor back?” Sarah asked, clutching
her elbows as she stared at the young man who was still coughing and gasping for breath. Sean set down the bucket of snow the doctor had ordered.

“He’ll be fine,” Mama said, and something about her calm assurance caused everyone including Stefan to breathe easier. Gabe moved aside to allow his wife to attend their patient. “Breathe deeply and slowly,” she advised, making exaggerated hand gestures and breathing sounds to demonstrate.

“He speaks English,” Maggie said, resisting the urge to point out the obvious fact that this supported her theory that he was a spy.

“Translator,” Stefan gasped, his eyes on Gabe.

“Well, whatever languages you speak, you’ve done enough talking for tonight,” Mama instructed as she helped Maggie ease him back onto the pillows. “What you need is rest.” Stefan shivered and Mama pulled the covers up to his chin as if tending to a child. “Why, you’re burning up,” she said after placing the back of her hand on each of his cheeks and then his forehead. “Sean, please hand me that bucket of snow so Maggie can start the massage of his fingers and toes that Tom ordered. And the rest of you, leave the man in peace.” She pulled a chair close to the bed. “I’ll sit with him awhile.”

“Lucie,” Gabe said, and it was both a warning and a plea. “You haven’t been well yourself. Perhaps—”

“I’ll sit with him,” Sarah offered.

“I am perfectly well—just a bit tired. No, Maggie and I can take the night in turns,” Lucie decided. “You heard Tom. He’s not nearly out of danger yet.”

“I’ll bring an extra pillow and blanket from the linen closet,” Sarah said. “One of you can get some sleep on the chaise while the other keeps watch.”

Maggie tamped down her innate alarm that their patient who had seemed almost robust while gulping down the broth looked quite frail now. Not that she wished his health to worsen, but he was the enemy and surely she ought not to care so much. Yet when she saw how pale he’d become and how he shivered violently, Maggie could do no less than follow her training. She removed the soft bandages and splints on his left hand, then plunged her hands into the bucket of snow and began slowly massaging his frostbitten fingers.

Her mother shooed her father and Sarah from the room, assuring them that all would be well. Sean set a second bucket packed with fresh snow at the foot of the bed, and Sarah brought the blanket and pillow. After shutting the door, Mama dropped the bedding onto the chaise, then returned to the bedside, where she stroked dirty blond curls away from the man’s forehead. “Sh-h-h,” she whispered soothingly. “God has brought you to this safe place.”

As she gently wiped perspiration from the man’s cheeks and neck, Mama hummed a lullaby that had always been Maggie’s favorite. “Show me how to use the snow on his toes,” she said, watching Maggie’s rhythmic stroking of the man’s fingers.

Maggie pulled the covers free at the foot of the bed just enough to reveal their patient’s feet. She had seen cases of frostbite before, and as such things went, Stefan Witte appeared to have a relatively mild case in spite of his ordeal. With practiced efficiency she folded a towel and placed it under his heels. He winced and his feet twitched spasmodically. “Take away the cotton separating his toes,” Maggie instructed.

Next she scooped up a handful of the snow and divided
it evenly in her hands. “The snow numbs the shocks of pain,” she explained as she slowly began massaging the snow against his heel and then the arch and then the toes.

“Let me try it.” Mama scooped up snow and started on the other foot. “I think he’s starting to relax,” she whispered.

And Maggie saw that it was true. His face was less tense, his limbs less rigid. “While you do that, I’ll work on the fingers of his other hand,” she said, taking another handful of snow and lifting Stefan’s right hand in hers.

“How long?” Mama asked.

“Until…until it melts.” Maggie’s voice cracked as Stefan’s fingers tensed against her palm. She knew it was nothing more than a spontaneous response to the cold of the snow, but for an instant it felt more like a plea. She risked a look at his face, but his eyes were closed. Yet she could not deny that his touch had moved her. He might not look like Michael or George, but in sleep he was no different than any patient she’d ever nursed. This was a human being in pain and relieving pain was her job.