Enemies To Lovers 9: Searching

It's all over, the voice inside his head chanted, mocking him. You're nothing but a helpless cripple. Of what use could you possibly be to the Third Reich now? His family would be ashamed of him and would never want to see him again.

Tears came to his eyes as great sobs burst from his chest, and he made no effort to stop them. He lay on his back bawling like a baby, not caring who saw or heard him. Time seemed to crawl as he lay staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep because of the unrelenting pain. His arm and leg felt as if they were on fire, and no relief was in sight.

After awhile, a nurse brought him food, but he turned his face away. "Let me die!" he groaned.

Some time later, the same nurse arrived with a bowl of steaming water. "Time for your bath," she said cheerfully.

He scowled and looked in the other direction. She moistened a rag, applied soap, and began to wash his face.

"No!" he barked. His good hand collided with the bowl, sending the water splashing all over the nurse.

"Oh!" she cried in surprise. She disappeared but returned a few minutes later with several other nurses. Three held him while the fourth returned to washing his face. After that, she struggled to remove his hospital gown while he fought against it. During the process, she accidentally touched the stump of his arm, which brought fresh agony.

At last the task was completed, and the nurses left in relief, only to go through the same ordeal the next time he was bathed.

In the meantime, he continued to refuse to eat, and his weight began to plummet. He ranted and cursed every time he was offered food, until finally the nurses gave up and left him alone.

Joanna didn't know what to do. She had no idea whether Schiller was alive or dead. When she'd watched him being loaded into the ambulance, all she'd seen was the blood; she had no idea the human body even held that much. Surely he couldn't still be alive, could he?

Assumed to be an Austrian deaf mute, she'd quickly been taken in by another officer. This one had a family, a wife and four children as well as a German shepherd. Her new duties included washing dirty diapers by hand, cleaning up after the dog, and changing vomit-filled sheets. Her new captor struck her occasionally, but he never administered spankings or requested sexual favors.

Joanna couldn't get Schiller out of her mind. If there was even the slightest of chances he was still alive, she had to see him. She simply had to.

One morning she was cleaning up from the family's breakfast when she heard them talking about a hike they planned to take that day.

"Too bad you can't come with us," taunted seven-year-old Franz.

"She can't hear you anyway," his ten-year-old sister Ilse said. Both children laughed cruelly. Joanne itched to give them a tongue lashing but knew she didn't dare.

She waited until about half an hour after the family had gone, then left the house and made her way to the hospital. The path was almost bare of occupants, and the few there were didn't give her a second glance. When she reached the hospital's entrance, she glanced furtively back and forth to see whether or not anyone was coming, then pushed the door open and walked inside.

She found herself standing at one end of a long room with a set of embedded glass panels at the other end. Each side of the room contained a row of identical beds with lamps attached to the wall above them. Each bed held a wounded soldier. Some were asleep, while others moaned in agony.

Slowly she walked from bed to bed, looking into each face, until she came to the one she was searching for.

His sheets were damp with sweat, and drops of sweat covered his forehead. His eyes were tiny slits. They opened wider when he saw her.

"Joanna?" His voice was soft, full of wonder.

"I heard the tank explode," she told him. "I thought you were dead."

"Then why did you come?" he asked.

"I had to know for sure."

They both heard footsteps, and Joanna dived under the bed.

At first he thought she was a hallucination, a product of the fever that had wracked his body for several days. It had come upon him suddenly, in the middle of the night. He'd been lightly dozing when the surge of heat had awakened him, causing him to thrash in torment.

"Wound infection," the physician had said. "It could go either way."

After days of anguish, Jurgen had thought it would be a relief to die. A useless cripple like himself had no right to be alive anyway. He'd only consume resources needed by fit, able-bodied Aryans.

Several more days had passed, and he was disappointed to still be alive. Yet the sight of the familiar brown eyes had stirred an unfamiliar emotion inside him. Could it be hope?

The nurse examined him, took his temperature, and listened to his heartbeat, then moved on to the next patient. Jurgen felt his heart plummet. Had it been merely an illusion, then?

No, because here she was again, looking down on him once more.

"Well, now you know," he told her. An awkward silence followed. What did one say to a man as gravely injured as he undoubtedly was? To simply wish him a speedy recovery seemed woefully inadequate.

"Are you going to be all right?" she asked at last.

"I'm going to die."

Her eyes went wide. "Surely not!"

"I have no right to live in the condition I'm in." He raised his bandaged stump, and she gasped in horror.