Dava says, crossing her arms as she approaches. “I said ten minutes.”
“I’m sorry,” I begin. “We lost track of time. I can take her inside.”
Dava shakes her head. “You’d probably go by way of Vienna and then I wouldn’t see either of you for days.” I open my mouth to protest but Dava raises her hand. “Anyway, I need your help with something, if you’re feeling up to it.”
“I’m fine. What is it?”
“We have a small transport of refugees coming in tonight from Hungary and the woman who usually helps with admissions is unwell. Want to do it?”
“Sure,” I reply eagerly. I had noticed other residents working around the camp, in the kitchen and the gardens. Several times I pressed Dava to let me help. But she explained that residents of the medical ward were not allowed to have jobs, that I would have to wait until I moved over to the main camp. They must be really desperate for assistance to break the rules now.
“Great. They should be here any minute. Just go around to the table on the front lawn and Dr. Verrier will explain what to do.”
“No problem.” I look down at Rose. “Sleep well.”
As Dava wheels Rose toward the door, I start around the side of the palace. Several army trucks have rumbled through the gate from the main road. They sit now on the grass on either side of the long dirt driveway. Soldiers climb from the trucks, open the back doors. One by one, refugees appear, still clad in their tattered, striped prison clothes. Many lean on the soldiers, unable to stand or walk unassisted. All are emaciated, skeleton thin. Did I look like that just a few months ago?
“Excuse me,” a man calls in German. I force myself to turn from the refugees. A man with dark hair and spectacles wearing a white coat stands by a folding table a few meters away. Though he is not one of the doctors who treated me, I recognize him from the ward. “Are you the help?”
“Yes.” I walk toward the table and sit in the folding chair he indicates.
“Your job is to verify the information for each person on the arrival list—name, nationality, date of birth, if they have it. Then I will tell you whether he or she is going into the medical ward or the main camp. Do you understand?” I nod, studying the line of refugees as they approach the table. They all look as though they will need medical attention. I wonder if there will be room for them in the wards.
I take a deep breath, then look up at the first of the arrivals, a gaunt, bedraggled man. “Name?” I ask.
The man hesitates, a panicked expression crossing his face. Then he glances down at the row of dark numbers on his forearm. Though I did not receive one, I know that prisoners in the main camps were tattooed by the Nazis. This man is unaccustomed, I realize, to being thought of as anything but a number. I take a deep breath, start again. “Hello,” I say in Yiddish, smiling gently. “I’m Marta Nedermann. What’s your name?”
The man’s expression relaxes. “Friedrich Masaryk.”
I check him off the list. “Hungarian. Born November 18, 1901. Is that correct?” The man nods. He is only in his forties. With his white hair and hunched posture, I would have taken him for at least sixty.
Dr. Verrier examines the man. “Herr Masaryk, you are undernourished, but otherwise well enough to go to the main camp.” I make a note on the chart as one of the soldiers escorts Herr Masaryk away.
The next arrival, a woman, lies on a stretcher, borne between two soldiers. I look up at Dr. Verrier, who shrugs. “Camp rules, I’m afraid. Even the unconscious have to be registered.”
“Lebonski, Hannah,” one of the soldiers bearing the stretcher reads from the woman’s forehead.
I check the list quickly. “I don’t see it.” I scan the list again. “In fact, I don’t see any women’s names….”
“Is there another list?” Dr. Verrier asks.
“Dammit,” one of the soldiers swears. “Mattie forgot to give us the list from the women’s camp. Jim!” He shouts over his shoulder to another soldier who stands several meters away by one of the trucks. Behind him, I see several of the arrivals cringe. The sound of a soldier yelling, even an American, is still terrifying to them. “Where’s Mattie?”
The other soldier points toward the palace with his head. “I think I saw him go around the side.”
Dr. Verrier turns to me. “Would you mind?”
“Not at all.” I stand up and walk quickly around the palace. The back lawn is tranquil, a world away from the chaos of the new arrivals. I scan the terrace, but it is deserted. Perhaps the soldier was mistaken about the one with the list being here. I pause, uncertain what to do. I will ask Dava to help me, I decide, starting for the palace door. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I see something move in the tall grass down by the lake. I take a step forward. A dark-haired soldier is half sitting, half lying by the water’s edge. That must be him. I walk quickly down the lawn. He does not look up as I approach. “Excuse me,” I say. Slowly, as though he had been sleeping, the soldier sits up and starts to turn. As his face comes into view, I gasp.
It is Paul, the soldier who saved me.
CHAPTER 4
I stand motionless, staring down at the soldier. Is it really Paul? His wide blue eyes are instantly recognizable. My breath catches. “Can I help you?” he asks, cocking his head. Paul’s voice, low and melodic, is the one I remember from prison. But his words are formal, his expression unfamiliar. He does not recognize me.
Of course not. He has probably liberated hundreds of people since we met. I hesitate, wanting to tell him who I am, to thank him for saving me. Then I remember the queue of sick and weary arrivals. There is no time for small talk. I clear my throat. “I—I need …” I stammer, my English faltering. Taking a breath, I try again slowly. “One of the soldiers said … Mattie.”
“That’s me. Mattie. Paul Mattison, actually.” Paul Mattison, I think. Looking down at him, I feel a strange tug inside me. I have replayed that moment in the prison so many times. It is hard to believe he is here. “Did they send you for the list?” he asks. I nod. He yawns and stretches slowly, then pulls a piece of paper from his breast pocket and holds it out to me. “Here.”
As I take a step toward him, my heart flutters. He is even more handsome than I remembered. But closer now, his eyes are bloodshot, as if he has not slept for several days. Fine, dark stubble covers his chin and cheeks and his uniform is coated in dust. As I bend down to take the paper, I recognize his earthy pine scent. There is another smell, too, though, both sickly sweet and sour at the same time. Alcohol, I realize. Paul is drunk, or was. Suddenly I am seized with the urge to flee. “Thank you.” I snatch the paper, then turn and start toward the palace. Picturing Paul’s face, I am disappointed. Is that drunk, sullen soldier really the same man who rescued me?
“Miss,” a voice calls. I turn to find Paul making his way unsteadily up the bank of the lake. “Wait a minute.” As he approaches, I notice that his hair and face are now wet, as though he dunked his head in the lake. The smell of stale water mingles with the pine and alcohol. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
My heart races. He remembers. Then, looking at his unfocused eyes, I realize that it does not matter. “I—I don’t think so,” I manage to say.
He stares at me puzzled. “But …”
“Przeprasz …” I begin. In my nervousness, I have reverted to Polish. “Excuse me, I have to get back to the arrivals.” I turn and walk around the side of the palace.
Dr. Verrier stands by the table, arms crossed. “I’m sorry,” I say as I sit down. The soldiers, who had placed the stretcher with the woman on the ground, pick it up again. I unfold the crumpled list, locating the woman. “Lebonski, Hannah.” Dr. Verrier quickly directs the soldiers to take her to the ward, then moves to the next patient.