Gift from the Sea (3 page)

She cleared her throat and assumed her professional tone. “That should do for now. I’ll take first shift,” she said, handing her mother a towel for drying her hands. “You should get some sleep.”

As the night deepened and the storm clawed at the windows, there were times when Stefan thrashed about, calling out names and lapsing into mumbled ramblings in his native tongue. From time to time he would slip back into an exhausted sleep. But Maggie was wide awake. If anyone had told her this scenario was possible, she would have thought them mad. Yet here she was. More to the point, here
he
was. In spite of her determination to ignore the man but for the care her profession
demanded, she was incapable of turning away. As she watched him toss and turn through the night, she could not help wondering why he cried out with such pure panic in his delirium, as if he had somewhere to be or something urgent to do.

She had resolved to view the man impassively as just another patient, yet her innate curiosity got the better of her. What if he was married and had left a wife—and even children—back in Düsseldorf? If so, was he likely to have defected, as she had heard her parents speculate earlier? She wondered if the wallet her father had found had contained any other clues about the man. Were there photographs? Some token of remembrance such as the cross she had given Michael the day he left for Europe? And even as the unanswered questions plagued her, she kept watch lest he take a turn for the worse.

Just after three Stefan’s breathing changed from even to ragged and labored. Maggie had heard that sound before. It was the same sound her Grandmother Emma used to make in those last days before she slipped into sleep and never awoke. She was hardly surprised to find that she was concerned. This was her patient, after all. But her worry for his well-being, like her grief for Michael, took the form of anger—rage at the toll in human suffering this war was bringing and her lack of control to stop it.

“You will not die under our care,” she murmured as she pressed a piece of fresh snow from the bucket her father had replenished against his chapped and dry lips. “I will not allow you to bring more sorrow to these people that I love—do you understand me?” She shut her eyes tight against the exhaustion and fury that threatened to over
whelm her. “No more death,” she prayed. But having turned her back on God the day she’d learned of Michael’s death, who did she think was listening?

Stefan was vaguely aware of the presence of the two women through the night. The elder one spoke to him always in soothing maternal tones, while the younger one—a nurse, by her dress, he guessed—gave commands even when she whispered them. The burning fever had robbed him not only of physical strength but also of clarity of mind. Events ran together, overlapped, came at him out of sequence. He dreamed in English but cried out in his native tongue.

Now he was aboard the U-boat, waiting for the right moment. He had one chance. The U-boat captain had been disappointed with their position and vowed to exit the Nantucket waters and head farther south. He would surface once to give the crew time on deck. This was Stefan’s one opportunity, and he had volunteered to take the watch, giving him reason to don the diving suit. The bitter cold and howling winds had aided Stefan in his escape, for few crew members had elected to go on deck. When the call came for all on deck to go below, it had been easy to conceal himself in the shadow of the conning tower.

Then he was in the two-man lifeboat he’d managed to slip into the water. In the icy sea he struggled to paddle as fast and far as possible before he would be pulled down into the vortex as the ship submerged. But the lifeboat had tipped, and in fighting his way to the surface, he’d lost his paddle. He’d climbed on top of the overturned boat and clung to it for what seemed like hours in the endless howling of the wind and pounding of the waves. Then
miraculously the small craft had bumped up against an ice-covered rock, and when Stefan looked up, he saw the rhythmic, sweeping light from a lighthouse and knew that he had found the shore.

And now he was in this house surrounded by strangers speaking too rapidly for him to catch every word. His command of English for reading and writing was exceptional; understanding the spoken language was more difficult. But even as he hovered between consciousness and sleep, trying to decipher the jumble of words he’d heard that evening, he was aware of the nurse ministering to him. She covered him against the chills that racked his body, rubbed fresh snow over his toes and fingers, ordered him to take a sip of honeyed tea or beef broth and then took the cup away too soon. He clung to a single fact. She had confirmed that he’d reached his destination. He was on the island of Nantucket, and as soon as he could escape, he would head for the wharves, where he would meet his contact.

On the few occasions when he was lucid, he was aware that the storm had not abated, and he thanked God for that, knowing instinctively that the storm was somehow protecting him, buying time he desperately needed. The high winds of the storm had produced waves large and fierce enough to push him toward land. The interminable time in the water—minutes? Hours? And then the blessing of feeling himself caught and hauled upright when he had been certain that he would die before dawn. He hadn’t even cared who his rescuers were or what they might do. He knew only that he could stop fighting—at least for the moment. He had murmured a prayer of thanks and then closed his eyes, content in the knowledge that he had at least made good on his escape. God willing, he would be
as successful in the rest of his mission.

He remembered only snatches of what had happened once his rescuers had discovered him. Semiconscious, he’d felt himself half dragged and half carried. For one moment he had found land legs enough to stumble along through the fog. His two pairs of thick socks had done little to soften the sharp edges of the rocks along the path, and yet his feet were numb and he was incapable of making them perform properly. When he’d collapsed, the men to either side of him had carried him toward the lighted windows of a large house. But try as he might, he could not stay conscious as the men hauled him the last few feet up the steps of the house and he heard a girl scream, “Papa!”

His own father, mother, sister were all gone now. He had tried to tell his rescuers that he was alone in this world, and it had been his last thought before succumbing to the blessed blackness of unconsciousness.

When he awoke, he found himself face-to-face with the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen. Hair that was thick and shiny and the color of a raven’s wings. Eyes that were clear and direct and unexpectedly violet in color. Skin that was so unblemished by sun or wind that it reminded him of the pearly inside of a lightening whelk shell he’d found once. And a voice that showed no pity—only outrage.

Pure pride had made him reveal that he understood English. He was an officer, an educated man, and well knew that it was no accident he was on Nantucket, in Massachusetts, in the United States, for that had been the plan. However, revealing his knowledge had been a mistake because now they would question him.

Now, through eyes bleary and swollen nearly shut after the long battle to fight his fever, he studied the woman who
pressed a lump of ice to his lips. He saw that in spite of her beauty she was not a girl, as he had first thought. In the glow of a single lamp he translated the shadows beneath her eyes first into sleepless nights, but then into something more familiar—that hollow-eyed mask of grief he’d seen all too often on the faces of his countrymen. Sorrow that was unadulterated in this moment when she thought no one was watching. He knew that depth of grieving. It lay at the very foundation of everything he was risking.

Then he recalled the way she had spoken to him in that high-handed manner that told him she thought herself superior to him. He had heard stories of these American women and dismissed the rumors as exaggerated. But if this woman was any measure of the level of impudence his shipmates had described, he had little hope for the ability of the American male.

Stefan tried to think about steps he would take if he survived his ordeal. What would this family do? Would they nurse him back to health only to turn him over to the local authorities? And what of the contacts he must make here on the island? When he didn’t show up, would they take him for dead? What became of a man who defected to the enemy to help them defeat his own homeland? What kind of a man did such things?

You are a traitor, Stefan Witte.

Stefan felt hands on his shoulders and heard the urgent command of his nurse. “You will not die,” she whispered fiercely.

May it be God’s will that you are right, he thought and surrendered once again to the darkness that drowned out the pain.

A
t breakfast the following morning, Maggie’s father once again stressed the importance of keeping the German’s presence in their home a tightly held secret for the time being.

“Why are you protecting him?” Maggie was no longer able to hold her tongue. “He has survived the night. There’s no more we can do for him.”

Papa frowned at her, and Mama reached over and placed a silencing hand on Maggie’s. Maggie knew better than to dispute Papa’s decisions.

But Maggie kept her eyes locked on her father’s. Finally he sighed and attempted to explain his reasoning. Throughout her childhood, she had constantly raised impossible questions, such as why she had to wear dresses when George and Michael could wear pants, especially if the three of them were off to dig for clams.

“Maggie, if Dr. Williams and I can determine what threat or harm this man intended in coming to our shores, we might well prevent some action that could take weeks or months to uncover if we turn him over to others. Besides,
until he is strong enough to face the kind of interrogation he’ll have to endure, common decency demands that we provide him with basic shelter and medical care. Your mother and I are quite agreed on this point. We are Christians as well as Americans, Margaret Rose.”

Maggie swung around. “But, Mother—”

“That’s quite enough, Maggie. Now finish your breakfast. Then I want you to go to your room and get some proper rest. You were supposed to wake me but instead took almost the entire night’s watch.”

“Isn’t Dr. Williams coming back today?” Maggie asked as she picked at her eggs and sipped her milk.

“He said he would come by. I expect he’s had an emergency to see to, but he’ll be here,” Papa replied. Then he frowned. “Even if there’s no one around other than Sarah, Sean and us, it must appear that Tom has merely stopped for a social visit. For if anyone happens to pass him on the road coming or going—well, you know how fast news travels here on the island.”

“They’ll only think he has come to attend me,” Mama said softly. “You know how others have fussed over me. No one will suspect—”

“I don’t want people making assumptions about your health, darling,” Gabe replied, and as usual, when her parents looked at each other across the length of the table, Maggie felt as if she had quite suddenly disappeared.

It struck her that she and Michael would never have the chance to know that level of devotion—the kind of love that comes only after years of togetherness facing life’s challenges as well as its joys. The looks that she and Michael had exchanged had been more innocent, a little wondrous that a childhood friendship had blos
somed almost without their awareness into the promise of marriage.

She cleared her throat, drained the last of her milk and stood up. “I’m wide awake. I’ll go look in on the Ger—”

“Our guest,” Mama corrected her.

“Our guest. Then I must get to the hospital.”

“You can ride into town with Tom,” Mama suggested. “Until then, go and lie down. You need your rest.”

“I’m not the least bit tired,” Maggie insisted, although she could feel the heaviness in her limbs that accompanied a night without sleep. And yet her curiosity about the man in room three outweighed her weariness. The truth was that she wanted to see what she could find out about him. The question was why?

Her father studied her long enough that she felt color rise to her cheeks, and this time she could not meet her father’s gaze. “Get some rest, Maggie, for we may all be facing a difficult time over the coming days. This young man is far from being out of danger.”

Maggie could not dispute that. On every level, starting with his health, the German was in jeopardy. Although the fever had broken sometime around dawn and the man had finally fallen into an undisturbed sleep, he was weak and pale, and there was still the matter of the frostbitten toes and fingers. He would suffer significant pain over the coming days, but Maggie doubted it would lead to amputation. Of more interest to Maggie than the German’s physical condition was his purpose in coming ashore in the first place. There was always the danger that someone had missed him and sent out others to find him and bring him back. Or more likely, at least in Maggie’s mind, his cohorts here in America would come looking
for him, for surely he had contacts, if not on Nantucket then on the mainland.

Maggie excused herself. In the lobby she saw the German’s wallet on her father’s open rolltop desk. She paused and listened for the exchange of quiet conversation between her parents. She heard her mother refill her father’s coffee cup and then pull a chair close to his as the two of them talked. She ran her fingers over the wallet’s damp leather as it lay flat, spread out, on the desk. Her father had arranged the contents individually on pieces of blotting paper to dry them. She saw what looked like a photograph and carefully turned it over.

It was a picture of a young woman. She looked boldly toward the camera and smiled. She was holding a child of two or three. The child stared directly at the camera with one tiny fist raised in blurry defiance. He had the German’s piercing eyes. The woman’s eyes also were impossible to turn away from. They challenged and demanded a certain respect. So he has a wife and child, she thought and wondered at the kinship she felt for the woman in the photograph as well as the twinge of sympathy she felt for the man upstairs.

When she reached her room, she removed her shoes and lay back on her bed. She was indeed very tired, and yet sleep would not come. Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw the faces in the photograph. Then she remembered the many expressions she’d seen on the German—fear, panic, weariness beyond exhaustion and surrender—when he finally understood that for better or worse he was at their mercy. And just before she fell asleep, she saw Michael’s face, and wondered if he, like Stefan, had known similar moments of fear and ultimately resignation.

Stefan awoke to find the man whom he’d decided was head of the household sitting across the room. It was afternoon, judging by the angle of the sun, and the man was reading.

“Ah,
guten tag,
” the man said as he laid his book aside. “I must admit that’s the extent of my knowledge of your language.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “But you speak mine, do you not?”

“Ein bisschen,”
Stefan replied, aware that he should take care before revealing the extent of his understanding. He tried signaling with his fingers, but they were bandaged into stumps. “A little,” he translated.

“Very well, then we shall forge ahead.” The man stood and moved the rocking chair closer to the bed. “We need to discuss your future, young man.”

“I am Stefan Witte,” Stefan replied, prepared to chant the information he would give if captured.

“Yes. Yes. I am Gabriel Hunter, and this is my home—and my family’s business. We run an inn here on Nantucket—profitable business up until recently.” He sat in the rocker and leaned forward, resting his folded hands on the edge of the bed. “What is your business here?”

“
Ich heiße
Stefan Witte—”

Gabe leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them and leaned forward again. “You are in grave danger, young man. I am trying to find a way to help you make the best of your situation.”

Stefan searched the man’s features for any sign of cunning and found nothing but weariness. “Why would you do that?”

“Quite honestly? I have no idea. It’s just that it seems there has been so much loss and suffering and—”

“You have a son?”

“I have a daughter—Margaret Rose—Maggie. She’s a nurse. She attended you during the night, along with my wife.”

So the nurse has a name.

Stefan nodded. He was about to ask why she had not come near his room all day, but decided that might alarm the father. The man’s wife had checked on him a few times, but he had been groggy with the drugs the doctor had ordered and unable to decipher anything she had said. Once, he had heard the nurse’s voice outside his door, but she had not come to his room.

He waited for what the man might ask next. Instead Gabriel Hunter handed him a photograph.

“We found this with your papers.”

Stefan felt his throat close and his eyes burn with unshed tears. “Uma,” he whispered, fingering the photograph.

“Uma is your wife?”

“
Schwester—
sister,” Stefan explained.

“Ah. And that is her little boy?”

Stefan nodded as he ran his thumb over the cherubic face of the child. “They are dead now. Also my parents.” He swiped at a tear that had escaped. He made no effort to control the internal weeping that was breaking his heart.

Gabriel cleared his throat. “I am sorry for your loss.”

“Danke,”
Stefan whispered and turned the photograph facedown on the bed. “I can tell you nothing,” he said in a voice resolved to show his strength and determination.

“But why did you come and from where?”

“Nothing,” Stefan repeated as he studied his captor, wondering if indeed he might be able to trust this man. “You also have suffered loss,” he said after a moment.

“My wife and I have been blessed not to have suffered directly, but our daughter was to be married to the son of the doctor who treats you. He and a dear friend were killed in the war. So, yes, within these walls there is much grief and suffering.”

Perhaps that explained the nurse and her hostility. Stefan understood that kind of inner rage—he felt it every time he thought about his parents, his sister and her son.

“Do you believe in God, Stefan?”

Stefan was taken aback at the man’s sudden shift in topic. “Yes.”

“I thought as much.” He showed Stefan the gold chain with the small cross. “You were clutching this when we found you, and last night you called out to God.”

Stefan fingered the cross his sister had given him the day he left to report for duty. “It was a gift,” he murmured.

Gabriel stood and fastened the cross around Stefan’s neck. “And perhaps it is God’s gift that has brought you here to us. Perhaps He has a plan for us to do something to help each other. Think on that, Stefan Witte. We will talk again.”

Within two days the household quickly settled into a routine. Maggie attended to her duties at the hospital while her mother and Sarah divided their time between ministering to their guest and managing the normal household tasks of the inn. And although Stefan triggered painful memories of receiving the news about Michael and George and others, the women were diligent in administering the treatments and medications Dr. Williams had prescribed. He assured Lucie that no one thought anything of his coming so often.

“They assume I am meeting with Gabe on security matters,” he said. “Of course, they are correct.”

After three days Stefan began sleeping through the night and there was no longer a need to keep watch. Gabe decided that they would all retire to their rooms at night, but Maggie did not miss the fact that her father bolted the door to the German’s room. Even so, Maggie’s mother still insisted on sitting with the seaman after supper and reading him passages from the Bible until he slept.

For her part, having followed the doctor’s instructions for getting their patient stabilized, Maggie kept her distance. Every evening she sat by the fire, feverishly knitting socks to send to the Allied troops overseas before climbing the back stairs to her room in the tower, which faced her grandparents’ cottage and the stillness of the frozen harbor beyond. And still she listened for any information about this intruder. When she heard that the woman in the photograph was his sister and not his wife, she was inexplicably relieved.

Why should she care if he was married? Did it lessen the tragedy if the child was his nephew and not his son? What was wrong with her?

“Maggie, wake up.”

The urgency in her mother’s voice brought Maggie awake instantly. Outside a light snow was falling, and Maggie shielded her eyes from the unusually light morning sky. A warming trend had allowed the harbor to reopen the day before, and Maggie could not help wondering how long before it would close again on their opportunity to rid themselves of Stefan Witte. One look at her mother told her that something was afoot. Perhaps this was the day—the day her father and the doctor would turn the German over to the coast guard.

Her emotions were in complete turmoil these days. Hadn’t
she campaigned for that very action? Then why should it be that the realization that the day would come sooner rather than later came with a vague sense of disappointment?

“What is it?”

“We need to move Stefan.”

Maggie had noticed that the entire household had begun treating the man as if he were a member of the family or a special guest. “Why?”

“Dr. Williams and your father think the cottage would be best, at least for the moment. But we must hurry. There’s no time to spare.”

“But why now? It’s snowing and—”

“Your Auntie Jeanne has just arrived on the morning steamer.” Mama began laying out clothes for Maggie.

“In the middle of winter?”

“She called to say that she’s come to look at some property. Apparently she’s considering building a home on Nantucket and wants to see what it would be like to live here in all seasons.” Mama gave a sigh of exasperation.