Lingering Casualties of Love and War

Prologue

Interviewing My Grandmother

I had always liked Grandma’s Spanish accent—so strange for a black woman in America. I visited my grandmother on her birthday last April 6. She was always so healthy until she got really old. Grandma was a tall woman and, in her younger years, she was unusually strong; but at ninety-four, she stooped from arthritis and her heart was failing. The doctor told my mother that Grandma wouldn’t be around long, and the suggestion soon proved to be true. A large part of unique history died with her.

I’m in the Journalism School at Dillard University in New Orleans. I’d like to go into TV broadcasting some day, or maybe write a column for a newspaper; but, in today’s job market, especially for a black woman, both choices seemed nearly impossible. My mother insisted I visit Grandma Mattie, my proud but private, sole remaining grandparent. Mom said I should have a long chat with Grandma before she died. If I thought being black was rough today, I should hear for myself what my grandmother went through at my age.

I met with Grandma at the Lakeside Rest Home near Shreveport where she lived near her much younger sister-in-law another nine years, following Grandpa Henry’s death in Illinois. Her sister-in-law was still relatively spry.

The rest home was a modest place with shrubs and flowers and with a small pond across the road. Several other black women lived there, as well; but mainly it was for whites. Grandma was used to that.

For the longest time, she refused to give up and meet her Maker. She could be ornery, and refusing God His will in receiving her soul must have been her greatest pleasure. But at other times, she seemed as if she were already halfway there. She had a presence that suggested she’d lived ten lifetimes and was just wrapping up the last one.

On my trip to the old folks home, one day stretched out to an entire week and then two. I started taking notes and had to backtrack in order to get down all she told me. At night, I filled in the blanks of the story in my motel room which I had rented in order to spend that much time with Grandma. It was the best money I ever spent.

Toward the end of her story, I cried so often I could sometimes barely write. She would wait patiently until I regained my composure. She often tried to think up something funny to say at those times in order to help me back. How she could find humor in her past life was amazing.

*****

Matilda Henry was born in 1924. She said it was an odd year, although it was actually even. Perhaps if she’d been born in a different year, things might have turned out better for her. I think that’s what she meant. She was born seven years to the day after World War I started for the United States, which she took as a bad omen. Other than being a little superstitious like that, she was every bit sane and at times quite witty.

Being freed in 1813 under the Freedom of Wombs Law didn’t help blacks in Argentina much, back then. Black men were forced to join the Argentine Army and fight on the front lines of wars, greatly reducing their numbers. Black women often became prostitutes in order to survive—just like their mothers and grandmothers who had also been sold into prostitution under slavery. The conditions for subsequent generations never really changed that much, despite the intent of the law.

*****

Grandma Mattie was age twenty-one and living in Buenos Aires when she first met Franz Clough, a Nazi on the run after World War II. He was a man dangling off the arm of destiny, ready to fall at any moment. His wife had just died, leaving him with a newborn son in a country where he barely knew the language.

Poor folks didn’t have much to do back then, other than listening to the radio or playing cards. The rest of the time, the women living with Grandma were on their backs working. When they did have time to visit, they told and retold stories so often they all got them down pretty well.

Grandma died shortly after her birthday. I don’t know if that made for an even or an odd life, but her mind was as sharp as a tack, right up until she couldn’t catch her breath for the last time. The following is what she told me.

Chapter I

An Evening Out

Franz and Gustel Clough had driven into the bustling center of Hamburg, Germany in order to meet some friends. It was July 1943 and the weather was pleasing, just after midnight, after a hot day. The two couples had taken in Casablanca at the Ufa-Palast, and then ate dinner together.

Rather than linger inside a stuffy building, they went to an outdoor biergarten where they could stare at the stars and talk about how the war was going. Franz and Hobard were officers in the same army unit and had a lot in common.

Gustel’s arm was interwoven with Franz’s as they leaned in toward their friends to hear above the din from the other revelers. A low rumble caught Franz’s ear, and he looked skyward, expecting to see a flash of lightning.

Is it supposed to rain tonight? he asked.

Hobard looked up. Not that I’ve heard.

Well, I hear thunder, Franz replied.

Me, too, Gustel said. Now I can hear it, too.

They all straightened their backs nervously, suddenly reminded that a war, which sometimes seemed more theoretical than real, was taking place.

You don’t suppose… Hobard said.

Planes? his wife asked.

It’s getting louder. It’s not thunder, Franz said urgently.

For a moment, there was complete silence in the beer garden as Operation Gomorrah began. Everyone in the eatery was gazing at the sky. Then, the place seemed to erupt into panic. Chairs were shoved back, and several were toppled over as couples and small groups all dashed for their cars.

Franz looked sternly at Hobard, Take Gustel home. There’s a public bomb shelter not far from here, and I’ll go there.

Franz! Gustel screamed. You’re coming with us!

Franz took her by the arm and gently nudged her toward Hobard, That’s an order, Franz, the more senior officer, said. Now hurry!

Hobard and his wife began pulling Gustel away, as she pleaded for Franz to come with them.

There will be a lot of casualties initially, Franz said, looking at Hobard and avoiding his wife’s eyes. We will need fresh replacements soon.

Hobard stuttered for something to say to convince Franz to go with them.

Go! Go now! That’s an order! Franz yelled.

As the trio ran to the car, Franz made a dash for the underground bomb shelter. Soon, there were thunderous explosions and flashes of light off at a distance. He glanced back to see the taillights of Hobard’s car hurrying away to the south.

The path of bombing began creeping toward him in an eerie stepwise fashion. Franz ran to the door of the shelter. It was still open, he was glad to see. Others were quickly funneling in after him, and soon the shelter was at capacity. With a sudden slamming of the door, his fellow Germans still outside were left to fate’s capricious fingers.

Even inside, they could hear the Allied bombers flying over. Franz rested his hand against a wall to better feel the concrete shaking from the explosions. No one talked, except a few friends whispering amongst themselves. All eyes in the room were wide with apprehension. The shelter couldn’t withstand a direct hit, they all knew; and fellow Marburg District residents trapped in the open were dying in numbers too large to comprehend.

A woman standing beside Franz held her husband’s hand; her fingers were white from a death grip of her husband’s hand.

A nearby explosion caused her to jump, and she swung around to bury her head in his chest. He patted her on the shoulder and looked up at the ceiling. Over and over, the bombs hit all around them.

Franz pushed off from the wall and raised his voice to ask how many inside were soldiers. Four hands went up. Then, he asked for their ranks. He was the senior officer there.

When it’s over, he said, you four come with me. We’ll start the relief effort together. Later, you can find your units and return to them.

For roughly an hour, that part of Germany shook as if earthquakes were trying to swallow the entire city. Finally, the bombing stopped and someone opened the door. The drone of fading British airplanes could still be heard. Franz stepped out to see that Hamburg was up in flames.

He returned to the beer garden with his comrades. His car was still there, intact, right where he’d left it. A number of buildings in the business district were burning, though not yet fully engulfed in fire. Franz’s immediate job was not in saving the burning shops or even working on transportation issues, but rather to help the survivors.

The five soldiers rode in Franz’s car toward the largest of the fires they could see. Franz hurried until stopped by rubble. Then, they got out in front of the carnage directly ahead. Franz directed one of the enlisted men to an intersection for traffic control. He knew that, in the ensuing panic, traffic could snarl to a stop and hamper rescue efforts.

Franz sent the other men out to track along both sides of the street. Two were to go east, he and the others to the west.

Suddenly, there was a scream. Then, a whimper. Franz followed the direction of the young voice past a small shoe repair shop nearby. The voice came from a two-story building, next door. The lower part had been a pastry shop, according to the advertising on the intact front window, with a small apartment above it for the owners and family. Most of the structure toward the rear had collapsed, and Franz could tell that a young boy was trapped inside.

He made his way into the pastry shop. The front door was unscathed. Just beyond it, however, the roof and ceiling of the ground floor lay in a massive heap of ruin. The boy whimpered again.

Where are you? Franz shouted. He waited a second but heard nothing. Where are you? he yelled again.

I’m not supposed to talk to strangers, the boy cried, his tone one of distress.

I’m a soldier and I’m here to help you get out, Franz said in a soothing way.

By then, Franz could tell where the boy lay trapped. Just at the edge of tangled beams, plaster, and rebar he could see a small foot sticking out. Again, the boy cried out in pain. Franz began removing debris, hoping that all of the damage to the building had ended, but directly overhead were dangling pieces of the former home, and they looked ready to fall on him. Franz could see the roof smoldering. He searched around for anything electrically active, despite knowing that all electricity to the darkened area had been cut off.

He tossed aside two-by-fours, laminated wooden pieces, and a couple of flattened, glazed donuts. So much for fresh pastries in the morning. As he glanced over, he could see a man’s bare arm sticking out through the twisted wooden remnants of his once cozy life. Franz thought the man was probably dead, his wife presumably also. No one could have survived that much falling debris. He called to them but heard nothing.

In a few more minutes, Franz pulled the boy out and up from under a chair that had protected him during the collapse. The boy appeared to be about five years old and his blond hair was striped in black streaks. He held his left side and right leg simultaneously. The boy winced as Franz unavoidably jostled him around, retrieving him from what seemed a certain death. If the roof didn’t catch fire soon, sparks from a nearby burning building would finish the job.

Franz carried the whimpering child outside and sat him down on the sidewalk in front of the store. He told the boy to stay put and went back inside, searching for the boy’s parents. After digging through the pile of rubble, he found them. They were lying next to one another, just as they fallen through the upper floor. Their bed was just feet away from their corpses. The boy being under a chair had saved their son, Franz reckoned.

He made his way back outside to the youngster, What’s your name?

Brendan.

Brendan what? Franz asked as he unconsciously sniffed the air for the exploded iron and magnesium powder of conventional bombs, and for the soot of petroleum from incendiaries.

What? asked Brendan.

No. What is your last name?

Bauer.

What’s your middle name? Franz asked in order to distract the youngster from thinking about his parents.

The boy doubled over in pain. Franz could see a burn on his right leg, well into the muscle. Yet, Brendan was holding his left side. Franz lifted the boy’s pajama top and found a faint bruise over his left lower rib cage. He lightly touched it and the boy winced. Broken rib? Ruptured spleen?

I’ve got to get you to a hospital, Franz said.

I want Mama, Brendan said. And Papa.

Franz didn’t know what to say. He carefully scooped up the boy and hurried for his car. He eased Brendan into the backseat and wadded up a jacket for his head. Franz headed for the nearest hospital, but was soon stopped by debris in the street. Everything around there was badly damaged, and much of it was on fire. He knew from the bombing path that the southern part of the city hadn’t been hit, and he drove in that direction. As he hurried, he could occasionally hear the boy softly crying. Mama and papa, or the pain? Franz didn’t know which it was. Probably all of it, including the scare from the bombing itself.

As Franz sped down the street, Brendan stopped crying. Franz took it as a bad sign. He raced the engine and screeched his tires around corners. Then suddenly, the hospital lay just ahead.

Franz eased to a stop and carried the tyke inside. Already, the hospital was rapidly filling with the injured. A triage nurse looked up at Franz as he stopped in front of her, a demand in his expression.

We’re swamped, the nurse advised. You’ll have to wait.

Franz informed her that he was a Nazi and the son-in-law of a high-ranking Nazi officer. The boy was to be considered a priority.

The nurse patted the arm of the patient she was attending to. He looked anything but happy as she bent over to check Brendan. Franz lifted the boy’s pajama top. She gently touched the bruised area, but Brendan barely noticed. He now looked deathly pale.

Lay him down over there, the nurse said, pointing to a gurney in the corner of the Emergency Room. I don’t know if we can save him.

Well, you’re damned well going to try!

We need blood. Lots of blood.

I’m O-negative, Franz said and showed her his dog tag.

Okay, we’ll use yours, but the boy is in shock from lack of blood.

Franz began unbuttoning his shirt as Brendan was rushed toward the surgical ward.

Soon, Franz lay on a gurney beside Brendan. A large-bore needle was inserted into the crook of his arm. He squeezed his fist repeatedly in order to help pump out the blood. As soon as the unit of blood had been collected, the nurse reached over to remove the needle from Franz’s arm.

Franz stopped her hand with his. Collect another unit, he demanded.

The nurse gave him a stony stare, You’ll need your blood if you’re a soldier. You might be too weak to work.

Take the blood. Now!

The nurse started over, siphoning off another unit of Franz’s blood.

That should be enough for a boy his size, she said, once it was done. If that much isn’t enough…

I know, Franz growled, angry with the situation, not the nurse.

He sat up and put on his shirt. As he did, he felt wobbly and lay back down. The nurse came over in a minute and looked disapprovingly at him. Then, she spun around and briskly walked off. She hurried back and handed Franz a glass of orange juice.

Drink that and leave, she said in a huff. Then, she walked off to turn her efforts toward the growing group of the moaning injured.

Franz staggered back to his car. He sat in the driver’s seat a few minutes, fearing even to drive off. Within ten minutes, he felt much better, glad for the juice. He drove back to the pastry shop, went inside, and found a couple of donuts. He dusted them off and ate them ravenously. He then drove up and down the street, looking for his men. One darted out of a burning store, dragging out an elderly man by the shoulders. Franz stopped his car there.

Where are the others? he asked.

The enlisted man looked up in surprise at hearing Franz’s voice. He looked around and said, I don’t know. Up and down the street, I suppose, sir.

The elderly victim didn’t appear horribly injured. His rescuer was applying a tourniquet for a bleeding arm injury. Franz spotted a vegetable cart and hurried for it, but had to slow to a walk, lest he faint. He returned with it and weakly helped the enlisted soldier load the victim into it.

Take my car and go looking for others to help, Franz ordered. I gave blood, and I’m too weak to help much. I’ll start off with this guy toward…somewhere. Surely, they’ll have collection points started. For the injured, not the dead.

Chapter II

Our Pretty, Little Hamburg

Franz worked without a break until late the following afternoon. Throughout the latter part of the day, there had been light attacks by the Americans. Finally, he was exhausted and drove home to check on Gustel, just hoping that she and their friends had made it home safely.

Gustel flew out the door of their home when she saw him driving up the lane, a swirling, tan, dust cloud trailing his racing car.

Oh, you’re all right! she sobbed, throwing her arms at him before he could even climb out of his seat. Papa stopped by. He said it’s far worse than it looks, and from here it looks like all of Hamburg is burning.

Yes, it’s not very good.

She wiped away her tears. I want to see it.

Franz turned his head to look at the smoke blanketing the city and softening what lights were still on.

I want to see it now, she insisted.

I’m exhausted.

I’ll drive.

The two climbed into the car, Gustel driving. She could tell Franz was too fragile. Within fifteen minutes, they had reached the district hardest hit. She skirted the areas where rubble in the streets blocked their passageway. Half an hour later, she headed for home.

It is worse, she noted sadly. I just can’t believe it. Our pretty little Hamburg.

At the southernmost part of the city, they passed by the red-light area of town. Two young women in high heels and short skirts paraded around a corner of the street they were on. Franz was shocked to realize that prostitution seemed to be the one profession that allowed for no time off, whatever the conditions.

There’s never an excuse for that, Gustel hissed as they flew by.

Maybe they’re destitute, Franz offered.

That’s an excuse, not a reason!

Franz let it go at that, but wondered why he didn’t agree with her.

Back at home, Gustel fixed Franz a leftover meal of sauerbraten large enough for three men, and he wolfed it down viciously. He made his way into the living room and slumped into a recliner from where, through his front window, he could see Hamburg burning. Just as he felt revived enough to return to the rescue effort, he fell asleep.

In a couple of hours, Gustel’s father stopped by and Franz struggled out of sleep and snapped to his feet. Her father was Standartenführer (Colonel) Renke. He was a well-connected Waffen-SS officer, and lived not far away in a cluster of homes of the Nazi elite.

Gustel hugged her father as if she hadn’t seen him for a year. The three then took seats at the kitchen table where Gustel would soon have coffee and strudel for them.

Grave concern was written across the Colonel’s handsome but deeply grooved face. He was in full dress uniform, and streaks of gray at his temples gave him the look of a diplomat. Franz didn’t like that his father-in-law’s jaws clenched so regularly, so rhythmically, just as he prepared to speak. Franz knew the news wouldn’t be good.

They say it was the British last night, the Colonel relayed. It’s the work of Sir Arthur Harris. He is the Air Chief of the British Bomber command. Expect more of the same to follow.

Gustel gasped.

We have intelligence indicating that they plan to return, he continued. We’ll be waiting for them this time. We’ll be better prepared.

Communications? Franz asked.

Down throughout much of the city. Transportation is a mess. The hospitals are beyond anything we ever imagined. We don’t know yet how many thousands have been killed. The public shelters generally held up well, but they were like a drop in a bucket.

I saw them coming at us, Franz said curiously. They bombed at a distance. Then, they seemed to come back and bomb again the areas they’d just hit.

It’s called ‘creep-back,’ her father explained. The trailing bombers know that we’ll have flak and jets against them, so they begin dropping their bombs just a little too soon. Each bombardier lets his bombs go early so his plane won’t get shot down. They probably planned the bombing that way in order to hit the center of town so hard.

Franz nodded.

The Colonel slapped his hands on the table and stood up. I’ve got to go.

Franz jumped to his feet, halfway at attention, as Gustel’s father made his way to the side door of the house. Gustel went with him to his car and soon returned.

Papa says that’s why we live so far out here in the country. With the KZ Neuengamme Concentration Camp so close by, hopefully they won’t bomb out here. He hopes they won’t bomb at all south of the Elbe River.

Franz was 6 feet 1 inch tall, and stared down at Gustel’s light brown hair as he took her in his arms. She had always been protected from life by her family. Now, she needed abundant reassurance that she would still be safe. He patted her head as he squeezed her. He was sure the RAF wouldn’t miss sight of the fact that the seaport, the factory district, and ship building sites all lay to the south of the river. He didn’t mention it. Soon, he headed for bed; it was only eight in the evening. There would be no lights on at their house that night. No one wanted to draw the attention of the bombers when they returned.

Chapter III

July’s Hell

Just before midnight on July 27, still the same day as before, the RAF hit Hamburg again with another large-scale bombing run.

Franz rocketed out of bed at the sound of the explosions. He looked over to see Gustel with the sheets already drawn up over her face.

Do you suppose you could get up and fix me some coffee? he asked. And maybe something to eat?

She dutifully lumbered out and headed for the kitchen as Franz got dressed. She sat at the table as he ate fried eggs and sausage. From there, they could see the white-light explosions out the front window. Even from there, they could feel the Earth moaning at the acne scars being created across the face of Hamburg. He saw his wife shaking, even in silhouette from the exploding bombs.

This night would see the destruction of the part of Hamburg east of Alster Lake, which lay nearer to the heart of the city. Franz could see an orange glow arising from that part of the city, suggesting that this bombing run was more intense than even that in the previous early morning hours of darkness.

As a transportation officer, Franz was concerned about the possible damage to the rail lines and to the trains used to move Jews, Gypsies, Jehovah’s Witnesses, POWs, Communists, and homosexuals. It hadn’t yet crossed his mind that his name was scattered throughout the government documents used in the exterminations.

Once the bombing ended, Franz drove into the city. The light from the fires seemed brighter this time. He met his men at an alternate rendezvous point that hadn’t been bombed. Of the two dozen men who had reported, most looked as worn out as he felt. He broke them into groups of five, one officer with each squad. He also made note of the names of his men who hadn’t reported in. Franz took four men with him and they headed out, looking for survivors. They started at a residential area at the edge of the destruction where several dozen homes had been hit. Soldiers of every type were heading there, as were many civilian volunteers.

Just as Franz and his men started off, a piece of paper swirling in the air hit Franz in the face. Irritated, he grabbed it. It looked different from the other burning debris swirling around in the air. He turned it over and over in his hands. Black material smeared off on his fingers. Another soldier asked him what it was.

I don’t know, Franz murmured, intent on studying the strange item. It seemed to have aluminum foil on one side. He tucked it in a pocket and set off looking for anyone trapped in a building.

For hours they combed through the destruction, freeing the living and noting the dead—just as with the previous large-scale attack.

Two blocks away, the group heard shouts coming from houses almost opposite one another up ahead on the street. An injured man staggered out of his burning home, holding up his wife.

You four go up there and see what you can do for them, Franz ordered. I think I heard only one voice from the house on this side. I’ll check it out.

Franz rushed to the partially collapsed house from where he’d heard a woman’s muffled voice. He warily made his way inside, cognizant of the dangling wooden beams and shredded electrical wires. Blessedly, there was not the smell of human flesh burning. The bomb was either a dud; or it had a delayed fuse, and Franz would be blown to bits.

He crept through the kitchen and then over to a hallway of rooms on the left. The living room on the right was badly damaged but still intact. He wondered exactly where the bomb rested inside the house.

Where are you? he shouted.

I’m in here! she yelled.

Oddly, it sounded to Franz more like, "What took you so long?"

The rear of this house was also partially collapsed. The hallway walls were buckled but standing. He eased toward the rear bedroom and went inside.

Over here, she said.

He followed the direction of the woman’s voice with his flashlight. Then, he spotted her. She lay trapped in her bed, face up, with a large wooden beam across her pelvis and lower abdomen. He stood staring awkwardly for a moment.

Well? she grumbled.

Are you hurt? he asked.

Do I look injured?

Not really. Is there anyone else in the house?

No. My parents went off to the bomb shelter.

Why didn’t you go with them?

It’s really none of your business, but I’ve got studies. I can’t go running off every time there’s an air-raid. I…

Never mind, he said as he tried to free her.

A lot you care.

Let’s see about getting you out.

Franz tried several times to lift the beam trapping the girl, but it was no use without assistance of some kind. He turned his flashlight across her face. She appeared to be around twenty and was absolutely gorgeous. Light blond hair, deep blue eyes. Smirking at him.

You should have gone with them, he admonished.

I’m old enough to make up my own mind! she huffed.

Snarly little thing, Franz surmised. Prickly nature. Her parents were probably in the shelter to get away from her, not the Brits. She was still in her night clothes. The beam from Franz’s flashlight drifted down from her face to her feet as he tried to figure out how to free her.

Are you finished examining me?

Sorry, he mumbled, having noticed that her breasts were only a thread or two from being bare. Pompous little ass. I’m going to have to find something to help free you.

More soldiers like you? she guffawed at him.

Something to pry up that beam. If I move it up over her head and then drop it… No, don’t think such things. I’ll be right back.

After crawling through rubble, Franz found a poker by the fireplace and returned with it.

Let me stick this in, he offered. It should be long and hard enough. As he glanced up at her, the soft glow from the flashlight in his armpit revealed another smirk on her face. It was not a smirk of derision this time, but rather one of humor. He started to apologize for the innuendo, but decided not to. He hadn’t intended it, and didn’t want to encourage her.

With all his effort, he lifted up on the poker, using it as a lever against the mattress. He could feel the wooden beam slowly budging. An inch would do. He saw the girl slide out from under the beam and he let it crash back down. Not across her head, though.

Now, she was standing before him and smiling. Her nightgown, which hadn’t previously been torn at the chest, revealed a ragged edge and a lot of breast. He could even see a wet spot where she had bitten through in order to tear it. Was she playing with him? Or was she inviting an advance?

Franz went over and slumped down along the wall until he was sitting, exhausted. Exhausted yet again from the effort and too tired to move for a moment. She sat down beside him, thigh to thigh. He didn’t think she had spotted his wedding ring. She had an air of savoir faire, even partially dressed as she was. Her fingernails were manicured and polished in a glossy finish.

Thank you, she said, nudging up against him. You saved my life.

Oh, I don’t know about…

Would you like something to eat or drink? It’s going to spoil now, without any electricity.

Maybe some water.

In a few minutes, the girl returned with a glass of water, a cold chicken breast from the refrigerator, and an apple. Franz had already removed his wedding ring, not sure why he’d done it. But he had a pretty good guess.

Have you had to dig a lot of people out tonight? she asked.

Quite a few.

You’re terribly brave, she murmured, nudging his shoulder with hers.

What’s your name?

Arabella. What’s yours?

Fr… Frimunt.

Nice to meet you, Frimunt. Would you like to go in the other bedroom and lie down? I’m sure you need the rest.

Lying in bed, with Arabella tending to him, was awfully tempting. Then, suddenly, Franz realized what he was contemplating. Violating Gustel’s trust! That was one thing he could never do.

Franz jumped to his feet and turned to look at Arabella one last time. Thanks, but I’ve got to go. I’ve got to rejoin my men.

I doubt that resting is a capital offense.

No, but thanks, Arabella. I’ve really got to go.

She made her lower lip tremble in a last-ditch effort to hold him there, but Franz scooted away before she could work anymore black magic on him.

Chapter IV

Jew!

Franz came upon another house and heard a girl’s muffled pleas. By then, he had lost track of his men as they had each moved quickly from house to house and, over time, had become separated. The injured were dragged out onto the street, each one hoping that a lorry would soon find him and take him to a hospital. Many had died right there, bathing in pools of their own blood. Despite all the human corpses and other terrible sights, Franz’s conscience was still smarting from his temptation with Arabella. He tried to put it out of his mind.

The voice from this house surprised Franz. The house appeared unscathed. There was more a sense of panic in the voice than the usual woeful plea of someone injured.

He entered the house and followed the voice until he stood in the kitchen, looking about. He was completely puzzled. He’d been sure she was there. He spun around again.

Where are you? he shouted.

Here.

He looked around and around.

Behind the wall, she said.

Franz padded over and tapped against the far wall.

Yes, in here. Can you get me out?

He heard terror in her voice despite her attempts to control it.

Under the kitchen table, she directed, there is a throw rug. Then, a trapdoor.

Franz followed her directions and indeed found the hidden access. He moved over the table and struggled down into the house’s crawl space.

I’m over here! she said with