Helga’s Hero

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Author's note: please be aware that this story is intended as fiction. My knowledge of ww1 is sketchy to begin with (Holland remained neutral that time, so our history lessons tended to skim over it, and instead focus heavily on ww2 that had an enormous impact on the country), and my "Teach Yourself" book on ww1 was indeed very helpful to fill in the gaps in the overall chain of events, but it still didn't make me an expert. So this story is merely an expression of what my imagination makes of the few facts I do know.

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"Mutti?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"How come I don't have a Daddy?"

Frau Lindner sighed. She'd known all along of course that the day would come when her daughter would start to ask questions. She had just hoped...

"Of course you have a Daddy. Everybody has a Daddy."

"Then where is mine?"

"Helga dear." She squatted down and took her daughter's face in her hands. "You're still too young to understand. But I promise I will tell you everything when you're a little older."

The little girl's face lit up. "When I'm six?"

"When you're twelve," the mother promised.

The child's face immediately fell again. "That's so far away!"

Her mother smiled sadly, and kissed her daughter on the forehead. But her little fairhaired girl pulled away and ran outside.

The mother leaned against the kitchen slab, staring off into the distance of her memories. Her always busy hands folded and unfolded the tea-cloth she'd been holding.

George...

"Grandpa?" Helga eased onto the old man's lap and put an arm around his neck.

"Yes, sweetie pie?"

"Do you know where my Daddy is?"

The old man shook his head, and even an 8-year-old could see that there was no hesitation in his answer.

"Do you know who he is then?"

Again, her grandfather shook his head. "I'm sorry, sweetie. I really don't know. Why don't you ask your mother?"

The girl snorted, and shook her braids. "She says she won't tell me until I'm twelve. She says I'm too young to understand. But I just want to know who he is, and where he lives, and why he doesn't live with us. What can be so difficult about that?"

Another shake of the head. "I don't know, sweetie."

"But what do you know?"

Grandfather scratched in his beard. "All I know is, that in the winter of 1919, Grandmother noticed the signs of your mother being with child. And that it didn't really surprise your mother – she said she had already suspected. And a few months later I got this beautiful granddaughter."

"How?"

"Hm?"

"How did she suspect it?"

Grandfather looked uncomfortable. "I don't know. That's women's stuff. You better ask your mother or grandmother about that."

"But didn't she say who the father was? Because I know that it takes a Mummy and a Daddy to make a baby."

The uncomfortable look turned into a fiery blush. "Yes. Um... well..."

"So what did she say? About my father, I mean."

"Oh! Um... well, that was the oddest thing: she wouldn't say anything about who the father was."

"Why not?"

"I don't know, sweetie." He shook his head. "It really was the oddest thing, as I said. For it is customary for people to marry when they have unintentionally... um... made a child together. For propriety reasons, you see. But your mother did not have a boy-friend at the time, and despite our urges, she refused to tell us who was responsible for this... um... accident."

"Do you think that perhaps she doesn't know herself?"

Her grandfather chuckled. "Highly unlikely. Surely a girl knows when she... um..." The blush overtook him again.

"Why then?" Helga pressed on. "If she does know, why does she keep it a secret?"

He hugged her close. "I don't know, sweetie. I really don't know. Your mother is the only one who can answer that question. All I can do is guess."

"Then guess."

He shook his head. "No, sweetie pie. You're just going to have to wait until your mother thinks you're old enough to know."

"But that's four years away!"

"Then you'll have to wait four more years." He put her down on the floor and searched for his wallet. "Now why don't you run down to Zuckmayer's and get me half a pound of tobacco. You know the brand, don't you? I've got nothing left to put in my pipe. And here's an extra five pfennig for an ice-cream. Okay? Run along now!"

She gave him a last upbraiding stare before trotting out of the room. Why was everyone being so secretive about something as basic as a father?

And back inside, Grandfather took his pipe and pushed down the last strands of tobacco.

He couldn't blame the girl for wanting to know about her father. The problem was that he couldn't tell her anything, simply because he didn't know anything either.

Why was Irmgard so secretive about this man? Why had she not wanted him to do right by her? Had she not wanted him for a husband? Was he a brute; had he perhaps taken her by force?

But then why didn't she say something, and at least clear her own name? Why did she choose to carry the burden of scandal of having been intimate with a man outside the bonds of marriage? Why had she chosen to keep the girl (not that he wanted to miss his granddaughter for the world!), and so destroying all her chances of finding a partner and making a good marriage? Did she perhaps still love Helga's father? But did the man – whoever he was – even know he had a daughter?

He shook his head. Even after all his years of marriage, women were still a mystery to him. And his own daughter was no exception.

"Grandmother?"

"Yes, dear?"

"How do you make children?"

The clock ticked. The knitting needles clicked.

"Grandma?"

"I heard you, dear. I was thinking about the best way to answer your question."

Helga waited. The clock ticked. The knitting needles clicked.

"And please don't tell me they grow in the cabbage patch. Or that the stork brings them. I'm ten years old; I'm not a baby. I want to know for real."

"Of course, dear."

The clock ticked. The knitting needles clicked.

"Well?"

The clock ticked. The knitting needles clicked.

"Grandmother?"

"Yes, dear?"

"How do you make children?"

A stitch dropped off the needle, and another, three, four, five...

"Just a moment, dear."

Helga took a demonstratively deep breath, and blew it out with exaggerated impatience as she watched her grandmother retrieve the lost stitches. And the clock ticked, and the knitting needles clicked.

"Grandma, tell me. How do you make children? I want to know!"

Grandmother sighed, and carefully kept her eyes on her knitting. "When a man and a woman take off their clothes and hold one another real tight... that's when children are made."

Helga grimaced. "Who'd ever want to do that?"

Grandmother looked up despite herself. "What – making children?"

"No, take off your clothes and hold a boy real tight. And him without clothes as well! Yuck..."

Grandmother smiled. "One day you'll understand, dear. When you're a little older."

Another grimace from her granddaughter. "Why won't I understand anything until I'm a little older?" She sat up. "Will I understand when I'm twelve? Is that why Mutti won't tell me about Daddy until I'm twelve? Because..." Her bright face turned thoughtful. "She must have done that with my Dad, too, hasn't she. Take off her clothes, and him taking off his clothes as well, and then hold each other real tight. Otherwise I wouldn't be here."

"Exactly." Grandmother's full attention was back on her knitting.

"Why?"

"Hm?"

"Why would they do that? Did they want to make me? But if they wanted to make me, then why doesn't my Dad want to be with me?"

"I don't know, dear." Grandmother refused to look up into those questioning blue eyes. "But it is quite possible that they didn't mean to make you."

"Then why did they take off their clothes and hold each other tight? Didn't they know that's how you make babies?"

"I'm sure they did."

The clock ticked. The knitting needles clicked.

"Then why did they do it in the first place!" came the girl's tormented cry.

The needles stopped clicking, and Grandmother looked up. She put down her knitting and didn't even notice that she lost another half a dozen stitches as she reached across the table to place a comforting hand over her granddaughter's.

"I think they did it because they loved each other. Very much," she said quietly.

Helga looked up. "They did?"

Grandmother nodded. "It's the kind of thing a man and a woman do when they love each other very much. And not always with the intention of making a child together. But even without intending to, it happens."

She watched as the expressive face across the table assimilated that new knowledge.

"Do you think they still love each other?"

"I don't know, dear. It's possible."

"Then why didn't he marry her?"

"I don't know. Many possible reasons."

"Do you think he's... well, dead?"

Grandmother sighed. "It's one possibility, yes. But only your mother can answer that."

Helga rested her chin on her fists. "And she won't tell me until I'm twelve..."

Grandmother picked up her knitting and retrieved the dropped stitches. "You'll just have to be patient, dear."

And the clock ticked, and the knitting needles clicked.

"Tomorrow I'll be twelve," Helga announced as she stepped into the box bed she shared with her mother.

"Indeed," her mother said with a smile as she began to straighten the thin summer blanket around her daughter. "You'll be a big girl soon. And yet it seems only yesterday that I held you in my arms for the first time."

Helga looked at her mother. Always busy, making long hours as matron at the hospital, the bedtime ritual had traditionally always been very important to them both. It was their main opportunity to simply be mother and daughter for a moment, in a life where the daughter was mainly raised by her grandparents, because her mother had to go out and work in order to provide for them both.

"Can't you tell me now?" Helga suddenly pleaded.

"Tell you what, sweetheart?"

"About my father."

The older woman's head began to shake a negative reply, but the girl grasped her hand. "Please, Mutti? You promised you'd tell me when I'd be twelve. And I'll be twelve in a few hours now. Surely a few hours won't make a difference? And I so much want to know about him! Please?"

Silently, the mother looked at her daughter. And saw what George had seen all those years ago: the bright blue eyes with the dark eyelashes, the thick fair hair, the round and expressive face with the stubborn chin, the small ears, the straight nose, the mouth that was shaped to smile...

And she gave in. "Alright then. But you must promise to keep this to yourself, understood? Don't repeat to anyone what I'm to tell you here tonight."

Helga nodded solemnly. "I promise."

With that, her mother climbed into the box bed as well, and left the doors open at just a small crack. Helga tried to see her mother's face, but it was too dark to make out anything but a shadow. Maybe she had closed the doors on purpose – that she didn't want her daughter to see her face?

When she had settled down next to her, and put an arm around her, Mutti asked, "What do you want to know?"

"Everything," was the emphatical reply.

Her mother sighed. "I was afraid of that."

"But you promised!"

"Yes, I did." Another sigh. "Well, to start at the beginning..."

The war had been long and ugly. And no one was aware just how ugly as those who worked as doctors, medics and nurses in the field hospitals just behind the battle lines.

Young Irmgard Lindner was not an overly patriotic soul. But the thought of all those men, wounded and in need of help because they fought for the honour of her country, moved her to leave the safety of the hospital in Duisburg and to sign up to become a nurse in the army instead.

For over three years she had seen the most terrible injuries. Bits and pieces of men carried in, that lived for another hour or so in excruciating agony, only to die under her hands as she merely tried to relieve their suffering. Men with limbs blown off. Men riddled with bullets. Men terribly mutilated, with blood pouring out of them in waves. Men in shock, in fear, in agony.

She had assisted the doctor under the most gruesome circumstances. Holding down the patient as the doctor operated on him without anaesthetic, as medical supplies ran out far more quickly than they came in. As amputations became the order of the day.

But recently there'd been rumours about an armistice. Everyone at the front knew things were going badly for Germany – they lived it every day. Especially now that America had joined the opposing forces, it was obvious that Germany's chances for victory were reduced to practically nil.

Had the country's leaders realized it, too? Would this madness really come to an end? And soon?

But until the armistice was signed and in effect, the fighting continued. Pointlessly. Only producing more casualties and more wounded. To the point that they pulled even the doctor off his duties to fill out the ranks and go fight at the front.

"I can't go out there and shoot people!" Dr. Holt protested. "I'm a doctor, not a soldier! I save lives; I don't take them!"

But his protests, no matter how vehemently voiced, were futile, and he was sent off to battle with a rifle and a belt full of grenades, leaving Irmgard Lindner as his most experienced nurse in charge of the hospital for the time being.

He never returned.

What did keep up were the rumours of an armistice. The soldiers who were carried into the field hospital now were full of hope. Hope – not only to be healed, but also to soon be able to return home to family and friends in peace.

Left in the care of someone with mere nurse's training.

Irmgard and her assistants did what they could with the meagre supplies that they had. But it was inevitable that some of their patients died – simply because this reduced medical staff lacked the expertise to give them the treatment they needed.

They tried – oh, how they tried! None of them was qualified to operate, let alone do amputations. But they had all done their share assisting Dr. Holt, and necessity knows no laws. A few times, when only immediate surgery could save the patient, they had ignored every rule in the book and simply did the best they could. The results were mostly doubtful at best, but they couldn't just stand by and let a man die because some idiot had sent off their only doctor to get killed! They'd have evacuated such patients to a real hospital if there'd been time and a place to go. But usually, there was not, and these people's lives rested solely on their underqualified shoulders.

And that's when the news was spread: the armistice was signed, the war was over!

A weak hurrah sounded up from the single large ward of the hospital tent. Nobody cared that they had lost – as long as the pointless fighting was over.

And it was that very same day that fate would bring someone on Irmgard's path who would alter the course of her life forever.

It was late in the afternoon when she heard voices outside the tent. In itself nothing unusual, but... they spoke English!

Despite her busy work, Irmgard stood for a moment to listen. English had always been her favourite subject in school, though opportunities to actually use the language had been scarce.

"We'd like to help if we can," a friendly man's voice said. "There's been more than enough killing and hatred these past years. It's time we start helping each other again."

"We have everything we need," a heavily accented voice snapped. "We do not need your charity."

"It's not charity; we'd just like to offer a helping hand," the first voice said again. "For example, how are you on medical supplies?"

"We don't need your medical supplies," the other voice grated.

"Yes, we do!" Irmgard was taken aback by her own audacity, but to hear that stuck-up guy turn down an offer of medical supplies they needed so badly was simply more than she could bear.

It remained quiet on the other side of the canvas. But a moment later, two foreign soldiers appeared at the opening, accompanied by a sour looking officer of their own side.

They all looked at her, and she quickly busied herself with the nearest patient.

"You were saying, miss?" the elder of the foreign soldiers prompted.

She turned, glanced at the glowering German officer, and decided that the needs of her patients were more important than his pride. Or her own 'career' in the military.

"We do need medical supplies, sir. And desperately so. We are running short even on the most basic things." She was amazed at her own ease of actually speaking the foreign tongue with a native.

"Who is in charge here?" the man asked.

"I am at present, sir." She held her head high as the two of them looked at her appraisingly. So young, and then responsible for...? "Our doctor was killed in battle a few weeks ago," she explained. "As his most experienced nurse, I was left in charge."

"So what exactly do you need?" the younger of the two foreign soldiers inquired with concern evident in his voice.

Her eyes wandered to the white band with the red cross on his arm. "Are you a doctor?"

He nodded. "That's right."

"Then could you please take a look at our patients and give us some advice on how to treat them?" She all but grabbed his arm to pull him along.

"Of course." Only then did he look at his superior. "If that's okay with you, sir?"

The elder man nodded. "Go ahead. I'll send someone over to pick you up in a few hours."

A curt nod, and the foreign doctor followed her down the ward. He hadn't brought any equipment, so she provided him with the basics, and then showed him around.

Many of the patients were hesitant to be examined by this foreigner, but a few assurances from her that at least he was a real doctor and could do far more than they could themselves quenched most of the wariness and antagonism. As long as they'd get well, who cared what nationality their healer had?

He examined the wounded men in detail, commenting and often praising the treatment they had been given so far, and freely offering advice as to how to continue. Irmgard stayed with him, and translated the gist of his words for the patient in question.

And when they finally reached the small pantry at the far end of the tent, he said, "You have done well."

She had a tired smile as she poured them both a small cup of Ersatz coffee. "The best we were able to. But our best wasn't always enough."

"That's the curse of our profession," he sighed as he accepted the cup. "When our best just isn't good enough, the patient dies."

She looked out into the ward, and he followed her gaze. "You are the one who amputated that leg, aren't you?" he said quietly as he saw on whom her eyes rested.

She closed her eyes, reliving the horror of the hour. "Yes. But we only do it as a very last resort – when the man will certainly die if we don't operate." She looked up into his kind eyes. "I've assisted Dr. Holt a lot here in such operations, but of course I'm not qualified to perform them myself. But when it's the only thing that gives the patient a chance..."

"You do it anyway," he completed.

She nodded. "Most of them died anyway. Often during the operation, or else shortly after. It could be due to our inaptitude, or to our waiting too long, or... It's so frustrating to know that something can be done to save their lives, yet you are simply unable to do it."

He looked out over the ward, seeking out those patients who were in need of more specialized medical attendance. "I wouldn't mind lending you a hand," he said quietly.

She looked up, startled. "What?"

"Do these operations, I mean. So that those men at least have a decent chance. I'm sure you can handle the aftercare."

"Yes, but... you really want to help us? I mean... officially, we're enemies, aren't we?"

He looked her calmly in the eye. "Not anymore – the armistice has been signed, remember? Anyway, war is a game of the big shots. But as a doctor, it is my job to save lives, regardless of people's affiliation. So will you allow me to help them?"

"Yes. Yes, of course!" She was nearly speechless.

"Then perhaps if you can show me your surgery and your supplies? Then I'll get started right away."

Still a bit overwhelmed by his generous and lifesaving offer, she showed him around. He was appalled by the limited supplies they had to work with, but did his utmost not to let it show.

His doctor's eye however couldn't help but examine the young nurse at his side as well. Her face was drawn and pale, with dark, heavy bags under her eyes. Clearly she was exhausted. Oddly enough, even in a state like this, he was acutely aware of how beautiful she was, too...

"Alright," he said at last. "Here is what we'll do. I'll start on the simpler operations. Does any of your assistants speak English? Or at least understand it?"

"I'm not sure. I believe Selma speaks it fairly well. Martha maybe. I don't really know. We never had reason to speak it before."

"Don't worry, I'll find out easily enough. As for you, my dear..." He placed his hands on her shoulders in a shockingly familiar manner. She wanted to object, but under his kind and concerned gaze she suddenly found she simply didn't have the energy to voice even the weakest protest.

"When was the last time you had a decent night's sleep?" Obviously, he had noticed the signs, too.

She tried to think back, and shook her head. "I don't remember."

"That's what I thought. So I hereby order you to go to your tent and have a good nap. You're clearly exhausted – you'll be of much more help to me later if you get some sleep first. Okay?"

"But... but I can't... I have to..."

He cut off her half-hearted protest with a decisive, "What you need is sleep. I'll handle things here for a few hours. Don't worry, I'll manage."

Her will began to crumble. Here was someone, not only willing, but also capable of taking over for a while all the responsibilities that had rested so heavily upon her shoulders since Dr. Holt had been killed. And the mere thought of her bed...

With a heavy sigh she gave in. "Okay. But come and fetch me when there is a problem."

"I will." He guided her to the exit. "And no excuses or excursions. You're going straight to your tent and go to sleep." As if she wanted anything else...

How she reached the nurse's tent she never knew, but it was early the following morning that Selma shook her shoulder to wake her up.

"Who? What?" Quickly she sat up. "What's the problem?"

Selma smiled down at her. "Nothing. No problem at all. But the American doctor prefers your assistance for the last few operations."

"Who? Oh!" She threw off her blanket. "How do you know he's American?"

Selma rolled her eyes. "What do you think? I asked him of course."

"Oh. Yes. Of course."

"And you know what? I think he likes you. He was fishing a bit."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, asking what your name was, where you were from, how long you'd been out here in the field..."

"Don't be ridiculous." Irmgard started rummaging through her footlocker. "I'd wish I had at least another clean apron. This one is so creased." No wonder – she had fallen asleep last night completely dressed.

"You're blushing," Selma teased.

"I am not."

"Yes, you are. You like him, too, don't you?"

"Oh, shut up, will you?"

"Irmgard, the war is over. Soon it will be time to get on with our lives. And personally, I wouldn't mind going to America. And what better way to accomplish that than by marrying an American?"

"Well, go ahead. I won't stop you." Irmgard had given up the search for a clean apron, and quickly undid her thick blonde braid, brushed her hair, plaited it again and put it up in a bun with the speed of many years practice. All the while under her colleague's teasing remarks regarding her chances with the American doctor.

"I'll see you later," she said curtly, and hurried back to the hospital tent.

It was a changed place. All patients were bandaged properly, lying on clean sheets, and no one was moaning in pain anymore.

She looked around in astonishment. "What happened here?"

The American doctor came walking towards her. "I had the courier send over some extra supplies last night. I hope you don't mind?"

"No! No, not at all. The patients look a lot better."

The hint of a smile played around his lips. "As do you. Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you." She quickly averted her eyes. Selma and her nonsense...

"Good. Then perhaps we can start on the more complicated operations? I've saved those especially for you, as the most experienced nurse here. Or would you like to check on your patients first?"

She finally returned the smile. "I'm sure they were in good hands tonight."

"Let's hope so." He chuckled and led the way to the field version of an operating theatre.

When they emerged again for the final time, the doctor heaved a sigh and raked his fingers through his thick brown hair. "Now I'm the one who could do with some sleep."

She looked at him. She was tired, too, after this long day of operations, but he had been going all night as well. "You better go back to your own camp then. I think I can handle it from here. You've been a tremendous help."

He looked up and their eyes met. "Thank you," he said after a moment of almost tangible silence.

"Thank you for helping us out," she reciprocated. "If it wasn't for you, several of our men would soon have died."

He replied with a tired smile, and together they walked to the border of the no man's land that still separated the two armies.

He stopped, and turned to face her. "If there is anything else you need, or if there are any complications, don't hesitate to send for me, okay?"

She nodded. "I will. And thank you for all you've done for us."

A smile. "It was my pleasure." A moment's hesitation, then he bent over and kissed her lightly on the cheek. "And you take care of yourself now, okay? And grant yourself some sleep, too."

With that, he quickly crossed the spooky landscape between their camps, and disappeared behind the remains of a brick wall.

For two days, the German field hospital ran more smoothly than it had ever before. There were enough painkillers available to keep the patients reasonably comfortable, and no one suffered anymore of problems that needed urgent specialized treatment. Irmgard even dared to leave the place to her assistants for a few hours a night to take a nap as her personal physician had prescribed.

But when she returned to the field hospital early in the morning of the third day, she found one of the patients in unexpected agony.

"Sister!" he panted as she placed her hand on his head. "My leg – it's burning!"

The young man had walked onto a mine, and the damage to his legs had been so severe that the American doctor had had no choice but to amputate them both. He had been doing fine so far, but this development was more than alarming.

She pulled back the sheet, and paled. The left stump, or what was visible above the tight bandage around it, was severely swollen, and showed all the tell-tale signs of the feared gangrene. And with so little left of the leg, it was a matter of hours for it to spread to the vital organs in his body – which meant a certain death.

She bit her lip. There was nothing she could do... but perhaps their American saviour could?

"Hold on, and keep calm," she told the young soldier. "I'll go and get help." Hurriedly, she directed Martha to the feverish guy's side, and told her she'd be back in an hour.

And with that, she disappeared outside.

There were no guards left at the border of the no man's land, and she hurried across the treacherous ground as fast as she could. She slipped, stumbled a few times, but her determination told her to just keep going and get the help the young man needed so badly.

The soldiers at the other side whistled as they caught sight of the young lady struggling towards them.

"Hello miss! Coming over to our side, are you?"

"I like girls in nurse's uniform, don't you? They're so feminine."

"Yeah."

"Please!" Irmgard panted as she reached them. "I need to speak to the doctor. It's urgent!"

One of the soldiers just kept grinning at her, and looking her over from head to toe, but the other gestured with his head that she should follow him, and guided her through the maze of tents towards the back of the camp. There, he pulled the canvas of a large tent aside and ushered her in. "Here you are, miss. Enough doctors to choose from."

Irmgard barely managed to stammer a 'thank you' as she noticed immediately how well equipped this field hospital was. If it wasn't for the canvas and the tent poles, it could easily have passed for a regular hospital.

A girl her own age dressed in a strange nurse's uniform approached her. "Can I help you, ma'am?"

Irmgard tore her eyes away from the pile of supplies in the corner. "Yes. Yes, I'm looking for the American doctor."

The girl smiled. "We've got four of those here. Anyone in particular?"

"Yes." Irmgard's mind screeched to a halt. Four American doctors? Darn it, she had no idea what his name was! "He... um... the one who helped out in the German camp a few days ago."

She laughed. "Oh, that'll be George. He's probably asleep; he just finished the night shift. If you wait here, I'll send someone to get him for you, okay?"

Irmgard nodded.

George. His name was George. Georg, but then in English. It suited him. Yes, he was a real George.

And there he was. "Irmgard!" A bit bleary eyed, his hair disheveled, but... "What's the matter? What's wrong?" He grabbed her by the wrist. "You're bleeding!"

She stared at her bloodied hand. Must have cut it when I stumbled out there, it went through her mind. But that wasn't important now. She tried to pull back. "It's nothing, really. But..."

"Don't be silly." He pulled her towards a watertank and began to wash out the wound.

His irritation stung, and Irmgard had to swallow two, three times before she managed to regain the courage to ask for his help. "But there isn't time! I came to ask your help!"

"So talk. I can listen while I work."

She looked at her hand in his. Now that the blood was washed away, it revealed a pretty nasty cut in the palm of her hand. He quickly applied some antiseptic – it stung, but not half as much as his sudden bluntness with her.

She forced back the stinging tears. It wasn't important, she told herself. She needed him to help her patient, and whether or not he was friendly and kind to her was beside the point.

So as he routinely wrapped a bandage around her hand, she told him in a few sentences about the complication that had arisen back at their camp.

He fastened the bandage and blew his hair off his forehead once she was done. And raked his fingers through it for good measure. "You do realize that in his condition, his chances for survival are extremely small in any case. Once that gangrene affects the organs..."

"I know – believe me, I know! But we've got to do something! We can't just stand there and let him die! Please?"

He sighed. "Alright. I'll do what I can for him." He walked over to a cabinet in the corner and came back with a small syringe.

"What's that?"

"Tetanus shot." He grinned – it immediately warmed her heart. Especially when he continued, "Better be safe than sorry. If they'd lose you, I'm sure the whole place would come apart." If that wasn't a compliment...?

It was quickly over and done with, and with a, "Just a moment," he went to pick up some equipment from the storage room, exchanged a few words with one of the other doctors (imagine them having four!), and then they set off together in silence.

It was a crisp morning. The sun was just rising above the skeleton trees in the southeast, and it promised to be one of those rare beautiful November days. A day worthy to survive.

But when they entered the German field hospital, they found the young man writhing on his camp bed, completely delirious.

George didn't even bother to examine him. "To the theatre with him. Now."

He followed the stretcher in, with Irmgard at his heels.

"What do you think?"

"We'll see."

They both changed into operation gear, and George placed his hand on the young man's head. It was burning hot, and whether he was aware of his surroundings was doubtful. But he didn't just want to cut into him if these could be the man's last somewhat conscious moments of life.

"What's his name again?" he asked his nurse.

"Artur."

"Artur," George said urgently in an attempt to penetrate through the haze of delirium. "Your leg is in trouble, mate. I'm going to have to take it off completely to give you a chance. But if the trouble has already spread too far, there won't be anything I can do but to let you go as peacefully as possible, okay? Don't be afraid. We've got anaesthetic, so you won't feel a thing." He nodded to Irmgard and she injected the young man with a generous dose.

"Sleep tight, my boy. We'll do everything we can to save you. You just relax and go to sleep."

The burning bright eyes soon fell shut, and George quickly set to work. He decided to try to cut off the body by the hipbone, removing the entire leg.

But as soon as he cut through to the bone, he knew they were too late. The gangrene had already severely attacked the tissues around the hipbone, and a few careful probes revealed that both the intestines and the kidneys had already been affected, too.

He sought out her eyes and shook his head. "I'm sorry."

She put her hand over her covered mouth as if to stop herself from screaming. And he quickly closed up the cut he'd made in the young man's body. A little more morphine, and he would just slip away within the hour.

She watched his hands work in silence. She had seen them do so many good things a few days ago – but for this, even his best just wasn't good enough. Too late – her fault!

Just as he pulled off his gloves with a sigh, she burst out in violent tears.

"Hey, what's that? Don't crack up on me," he said gently. But he already walked around the table and took her in his arms. "Ssh," he whispered as she clung to him, crying out the tears of months on his shoulder.

Gently, he removed her cap and mouth cover, and softly rubbed her back.

"It's my fault!" she hiccuped. "If I hadn't gone to bed last night, if I'd stayed here, then..."

"Then you would only have overtaxed yourself again. You're human, Irmgard, you're not a machine. You need to rest in order to function properly."

"But if I'd been there, it might have been picked up earlier and..."

"And the poor boy still would have had very little chance for survival. Gangrene is usually lethal – you know that, Irmgard. Especially if it sets in so close to the vital organs. Even if it had been picked up earlier, it's highly improbable that he'd have made it. So don't be so hard on yourself. You did what you could. Nobody can ask any more than that. Our combined best simply wasn't good enough."

She just kept crying against his chest, and he stroked her hair and her back. Perhaps it was best to just let her cry it out. She couldn't have had it easy these past years. Hell – he'd only been here a few months, and already he felt raw inside. And these past few weeks in particular must have been tough on her, carrying the burden of a responsibility for which she was simply not prepared.

When she finally calmed down a bit, he pulled away a little to look her in the face. "Feel better?"

Hesitantly, she looked up at him, her friendly round face swollen and her eyes all red from crying. "I'm sorry," she mumbled.

He shook his head. "Don't be. Everybody needs an outlet sometimes."

Self-consciously, she brushed away her tears. "I'm sure I look awful."

A hint of a smile touched his lips. "Nothing a splash of cold water can't fix. I still think you look beautiful."

"Really?"

"Really."

She smiled. "You're such a liar. But thank you."

He chuckled. "But what you really need is a break," he continued. "Your colleagues tell me that you followed Dr. Holt's example in sending all your people on at least one break a day, but that you never seem to take one yourself."

She sighed. "I can't. I'm responsible."

"But you're not a machine. No one can keep going forever. So how about you go and make yourself more presentable in your own eyes, and I'll check on your patients in the meantime? And then I'm going to take you for a nice long walk. Doctor's orders!"

She moaned. "I can't! I can't leave the patients!"

"You left them to fetch me this morning," he pointed out.

"That's different."

"No, it's not. You were absent from this place, and pretty much out of reach for about an hour. If you can leave your patients to your staff to fetch me, you can leave them in their hands to take a necessary break."

To that, she had no reply.

"So will you come with me out of your own free will, or do I have to drag you away from this place?"

She laughed a little at the image his words brought to her mind. "Alright, I'll come. But not too long."

"As long as it takes to take your mind off your work," was his cryptic reply.

She smiled, and let go of him. Not that she wanted to – to her, he was like a safe haven in the storm, a rock to cling to – but there was such a thing as duty. And right behind them...

"But let's check on Artur here first. I wouldn't want him to die all alone – whether he's aware of it or not."

She turned away from her rock and took the young man's pulse. Erratic, as expected. Gently, she wiped the perspiration off his forehead, placed a cool hand on it... and froze as she became aware of two arms encircling her waist.

"Just hold his hand," George's voice said quietly from right behind her. "Nothing you do now really matters. Just let his subconscious know that he's not alone."

She followed his advice without comment, and together they watched by young Artur in silence.

The minutes took hours, and all that time he stood silently behind her with his arms around her. It gave her the odd sensation that the only thing that kept her upright was his strength – that if he'd let go of her, she'd just drop down and dissolve in a puddle at his feet.

"George," she began at long last, only to catch herself right away. "I'm sorry. May I call you George?"

"Sure."

"George... I apologize for dragging you out of bed for nothing."

"Not nothing. We did what we could, so don't mention it. And I still have to make sure a certain nurse takes her required R & R."

"R & R?"

"Rest and Recreation."

"Oh."

Silence.

"But you really don't have to stay. I understand if you'd rather go back to bed. I promise I'll find a moment to take some of that R & R."

She felt his chuckle against her shoulderblades – a strangely intimate sensation.

"I'd rather make sure for myself," he said. "Besides, I can't think of a pleasanter way to spend my off duty hours than in the company of a nice and pretty girl like you."

She blushed up to the roots of her hair. Was he flirting, or...?

But young Artur's breathing suddenly turning audible and laboured drove all thoughts of flirtation from both their minds.

"It won't be long now," George said quietly.

She gently squeezed the hand she was still holding. Unconsciously, they both held their own breath as each new gasp from the dying man became more of a struggle. Until at last, his breath was cut short and his head rolled aside.

"He's gone," George remarked unnecessarily.

And she squeezed the limp hand for one last time. "He has finally found peace."

She extricated herself from George's arms to go and cover the body, place a rolled up towel under young Artur's chin, and fill out the paperwork.

George watched her at work, and when she was finished, he followed her to the main hospital tent.

"Now if you can do your round of check-ups, then we can go for that walk," Irmgard suggested.

"Okay." He didn't mention her going to 'make herself more presentable' again. It was obvious that she had recovered her equilibrium, and to him, she looked fine anyway.

So he did his rounds, detected no new problems, and within the hour, the two of them were strolling shoulder to shoulder away from the German encampment.

She finally learned that his full name was George Bowen Hagley, that he was originally from a large farm in some place called Idaho, and had been working in a hospital in the city of Detroit since his graduation four years ago. By then, his arm had protectively slipped around her shoulders, and she had reciprocated by placing her arm around his middle. Maybe it wasn't exactly appropriate, but somehow it felt right nonetheless.

They walked on like that for miles, talking about the differences between Europe and the New World, comparing Detroit to Duisburg, discussing their preferences in food, literature and music... when at last they found themselves at the entrance of a shallow valley, looking out over the desolate remains of a landscape of war.

She shivered at the sight, and he pulled her close. And she put both her arms around him, hiding her face against the rough material of his uniform. "I don't want to look at this, George. It's such a waste..." she mumbled against his chest.

He just stroked her back for a while as to soothe her, and finally he muttered, "Sometimes I think we medics are the only sane people on the entire battlefield..."

She looked up. Their eyes locked, and even though he was aware that he shouldn't, George began to lean in on her for a kiss.

"May I?" he whispered as their noses all but collided.

In reply, she pulled him in, and a long, longing kiss followed.

When their lips finally parted, leaving them both slightly out of breath, their eyes never let go of each other.

"We really shouldn't, you know," George's now husky voice said at last, in as reasonable a tone as he could muster.

"I know. We really shouldn't," Irmgard agreed, still a little out of breath.

"It's not right. Highly inappropriate."

"It sure is."

"Improper. Immoral even."

"Totally unacceptable."

Silence.

She noticed how her entire body tingled. And those parts that touched his were just so... alive. Her breathing went fast – too fast. It matched his exactly. Oh, and those eyes...

"But you're just so beautiful, you know that?" he breathed at last.

Her eyes beamed at him as she smiled, and he let his thumb trace the contours of her lips, of her chin, her jaw, toward her left ear...

It didn't take much more for them to get locked in a kiss again, and from there on, one thing led logically to another, and before long they were passionately involved in one another behind the ghost of some burnt bushes.

When they finally disentangled their bodies, once again he caressed her sweet face, and asked in a whisper, "Irmgard... will you not come back to the States with me and become my wife?"

A soft laugh gurgled up from her throat. "Oh, George..."

He watched as her fingers played with the thick layer of hair on his chest. "Will you?"

She looked up, and averted her eyes again right away.

"Irmgard?" He stroked the flowing whiteblond hair, and plucked out a few twigs and leaves that had ensnared themselves there in their lovemaking.

She shook her head. "I don't think so, George. I don't think I could bear to leave my family behind forever."

His face fell a bit. "Are you sure?"

She nodded. "We're from different worlds, George. It wouldn't work."

"We could make it work," he insisted. "A doctor's pay is pretty good in the U.S. You wouldn't want for anything."

She rubbed his arm in an affectionate gesture. "I believe you. But that's not what I meant."

He waited for her to elaborate, but all she did was putting her arms around him and snuggling up to him again. "Please, George... Just hold me."

He sighed, and caressed the perfect hourglass figure in his arms. "What do you mean then?" he asked at last as she didn't supply him with any further explanation.

She looked up. "Like I said, we're from different worlds. Germany or America, Detroit or Duisburg. We just talked about it, didn't we? I don't think I could handle adapting to such a different culture, such a different lifestyle. I don't think I want to."

He remained silent for several minutes, while she lovingly let her fingers roam through his thick brown hair.

"I could come and live in Germany," he offered at last. "If you don't want to go to the States, then..."

"Don't be silly," she interrupted him. "You don't even speak the language."

"I can learn."

"And you would be as bad a misfit in Germany as I would be in America. It would never work."

The hurt expression on his face affected her more than she had expected, and in an effort to soften the blow, she kissed him gently on the lips. "It's not you, George. I like you a lot, and even though we've only met a few days ago, I think you're one of the sweetest men I've ever met." She hugged him close. "And I... thank you for today. Inappropriate as it was, I believe it was just what I needed. And I promise I will treasure our... 'adventure' here for the rest of my life. But marrying you... no. I really don't think it would be wise."

He sighed. "Alright then. No problem."

She half sat up at the obvious hurt in his voice. "George, I'm really sorry, but... Really, I don't mean to hurt you!"

"I said, 'No problem', didn't I?" He heard himself how badly he failed at keeping the bitterness out of his voice, so he sat up and retrieved their clothes from where they had flung them before. The sun was nearing the top of the hills in the west, and it was getting a little chilly.

He handed her her clothes. One last look at that perfect figure that never again would be his to hold, the expressive blue eyes, the flowing blond hair, the sweet mouth... "We'd better get back, before they send out searchparties for us."

In silence they dressed, and in silence they walked back to the camp. But when they were about to part, George suddenly turned to her. "Irmgard, tell me. Honestly! Do you regret what we did?"

She gave him one of her warm smiles and shook her head. "Not one bit. It may not have been the wisest thing to do, but I loved it." Her eyes still beamed at the memory.

An awkward smile appeared on his face. "So did I." A final caressing of her face, a soft peck on the cheek... "Take care of yourself, okay?"

"I will."

One last look; then he turned to go.

"You too!" she called when he was already some twenty meters away.

A raised hand was all the reply she got.

When the German field hospital was vacated two days later, with the remaining patients being moved to hospitals closer to their homes, the logical thing to do for the medical staff was to resign their post and return to civilian life.

And so Irmgard Lindner went home again for the first time in three years. With a million memories she'd rather forget, and one she intended to cherish for the rest of her life.

She was welcomed home with open arms, and even the Duisburg hospital was happy to have her back. The matron she got to work under had been an army nurse herself in her younger years, and understanding the horrors her younger colleague must have seen these past years, she tried to support her as best she could.

But even though her duties here were far less demanding than they had ever been out at the front, and her hours now allowed for daily rest and recreation, Irmgard found herself continuously tired, irritable, and bothered by all kinds of minor physical discomforts.

And that wasn't all. From the very beginning, she had resolved to cherish the memory of her passionate encounter with George, but to put him out of her mind. There could never be anything between them, so why dwell on an impossibility?

Yet she found herself thinking of him far more often than she considered good for her peace of mind. His kind eyes. His warm smile. Every word he had said. His bandaging her hand. His arms around her as she cried against his chest. The way he had caressed her face with his thumb. Their passionate kisses. His gentle touch of her body. The glorious moments of their love. The hurt in his eyes when she said she didn't want to marry him...

But when her period – otherwise regular as clockwork – was mysteriously delayed, one week, two weeks, three weeks...

Of course it could be anything, she told herself. Probably some vague virus she had picked up on the battlefield, which would also explain her fatigue and the occasional bouts of nausea. After all, she hadn't been sick a single day while she had been working at the front, and it was well-known that the body often reacts only after the stress is gone. That was probably what was happening here. Nothing to worry about.

Still, she didn't tell anyone. She didn't even go and see a doctor; she just tried to hide and ignore the problems as best she could. They were but minor inconveniences; nothing to make a fuss over, right? It would pass for sure, given time. For surely it couldn't be...?

She looked forward to her next period with an eagerness she had never felt for it before. But the days passed, one by one, and the bleeding didn't come. It couldn't be... it couldn't be...! It had to be that virus!

Meanwhile, she had developed a violent aversion to coffee. The mere mentioning of it made her gag. At home it wasn't such a problem, since they were all avid tea-drinkers, but she had to avoid the nurses' canteen like the plague out of sheer necessity. It was probably the memory of that awful Ersatz coffee at the front, she reasoned. And all the horrid memories connected to it. For it couldn't be... it couldn't be...!

Whenever that unthinkable thought encroached itself upon her, her breath caught and she immediately banished the mere idea from her mind. Of course she had sufficient medical training to put two and two together; to know that all those 'minor inconveniences' combined were a strong indication for... that. But surely it could be coincidence? Surely it could be some virus she had picked up at the front? A special kind of virus that went around only in and around the trenches, and from which only women got sick? And that's why the medical science barely knew about it – because there were so few women at the front? Surely that had to be it? For it couldn't be...!

But of course that was just a flimsy layer of stubbornness, covering a huge chunk of fear. For it couldn't be... it couldn't be...!

In the meantime, the due date for her next period came and went again without as much as losing a single drop of blood for the third time in a row. And she had to get herself a larger sized bra, for her breasts were so swollen that they really hurt.

And then she finally got caught throwing up in the toilet one morning. It happened when she came home from a nightshift, and she was able to explain it away by saying she'd eaten something in the nurses' canteen that disagreed with her.

From that day onwards however, she regularly caught her mother's probing eyes upon her. It made her nervous, to say the least. And when even her fourth period in a row failed to come, and when her father a few days later made an innocuous remark about her 'putting on some meat, rounding out her figure', causing another sharp glance from her mother...

Irmgard excused herself at the first convenient moment, saying she needed some fresh air. They all gave her an odd look, for there was a nasty drizzle outside, with the temperature being only just above freezing. But she needed to be alone if she were to face...

Huddled in her coat and refusing to think, she strode through the somber, wet streets to the nearest park. It lay deserted in this awful weather of course, but that was just the way she wanted it. If she were to face up to...

She sought out the cover of a draughty rotunda, and sat down on one of the benches, hiding her head in her hands. For there really was no denying it anymore – she had to face the music. She had to face the facts. The simple fact that she hadn't had a single period since she and George... The simple fact that she had missed out on no less than four periods in a row now. The simple fact of the clearly discernible bump in her lower belly. The simple fact of that bump beginning to show, to the point that even her otherwise oblivious father noticed. Not to mention all the tell-tale side-effects she'd been suffering from since...

In short, she had to face the fact that she was carrying George's child...

Putting that thought – the thought that had been lurking in the back of her mind for months – into words was all she needed to burst out in violent tears.

It was probably a good thing that the park was deserted, for what would people think if they saw her like this? What would they think indeed when they'd find out? Her reputation would be completely, irrevocably ruined. Not just 'would be' – it was ruined. She'd be slaundered and despised wherever she'd go, and no man would ever want to have anything to do with her. Oh George... How could this one wretched afternoon be the ruin of her entire life?

And how was she going to tell her parents? The disgrace of their daughter having conceived a child out of wedlock would weigh heavily upon the entire family. But what was to happen to her now? And what was to happen to George's poor little baby?

As the tears kept streaming down her face, her emotions were running rampant. Fear of the pregnancy and childbirth that now lay ahead of her, dread to own up her disgrace to her parents, shame and humiliation at the thought of what people would say, doubt as to what she should do with the child, painful longing as she thought of the sweet encounter that had caused all this, anger with George for getting her into this mess... And anger with herself for throwing all sense of propriety out of the window at the first wisp of temptation. Surely she could have said no?

She could have. But she remembered all too well that she hadn't wanted to. There had been a clear moment of realization, of the impropriety of what they were doing – yet they had mutually agreed to continue. She had wanted him to take her, so how could she fault him for actually doing it? And had they not both loved every minute of it?

The rational thing to do of course would be to locate George, tell him what happened, and marry him as soon as may be to hush up the whole affair. After all, she did have some information to go on – albeit very little.

But even though he had proposed to her at the time, did they employ this same cover-up policy in America? It was such a different country, so strange in its ideas, so far away... Perhaps he wouldn't marry her at all now that she was with child. And she still didn't want to go and live in America, and in return, he didn't belong in Germany either. Whatever they'd do, one of them would be very unhappy. Could she ask that of him? Of herself?

Perhaps she should just go away and have the baby in secret. And give it up for adoption. That would certainly limit the scandal for the family. But her heart ached at the thought of giving up the baby and leaving it in the harsh life of an orphanage. No child deserved that – and certainly not George's.

She brushed at her tears and shivered. If only George were here to take her in his arms and tell her everything would be alright... Her safe haven to flee to when things went beyond her control... Her knight in shining armour who'd take over a responsibility that should never have been placed on her shoulders in the first place...

A quavery sigh. If only she could find a good and loving home for the child... After all, it was her first, and it happened sometimes that a first pregnancy barely showed until it was nearly time for the baby to be born. If she was lucky, she, too, might be able to conceal it. And when her time would come, it would be high summer, and she could leave the city for a while on some pretense, have her baby, leave it at a loving home, get on with her own life, and nobody need ever know. In an ideal world, it sure would be the easiest way out...

When she finally went home, cold through and through, all she had resolved was that she would not involve George in this out of fear that she'd be forced to move to America, and that she would keep trying to conceal her pregnant state as long as possible.

The latter however turned out to be a hopeless task. Especially after her father's remark about her rounding out her figure, she felt her mother's probing, worried eyes on her much more often than what she was comfortable with, and one evening when it was just the two of them, sewing by the light of the paraffin lamp, mother quietly observed, "You are with child, aren't you."

Irmgard bit her lip, and continued on her dress (unobtrusively laying it out a few centimeters) as if she hadn't heard her mother's words.

"Irmgard?" her mother pressed as her daughter remained silent. "Look at me."

Irmgard looked up into her mother's eyes. Fear was in her own, even though she did her best to mask it.

"You're with child, aren't you."

No reaction, just a deep breath.

Mother sighed. "It's no use denying, dear. I can tell, by lots of little things."

Her daughter lowered her eyes in shame. Obviously, the game was up.

"Who did this to you?"

Irmgard vehemently shook her head. "I don't want to discuss it."

"Does he know? Have you told him? He should do right by you, you know. It's the only proper thing to do."

Another shake of the head. "I am with child, yes. But I don't want to discuss who's responsible. Because he was no more responsible than I was myself."

Her mother gasped in shock. "Irmgard, how could you!"

Tears sprung to her eyes. They didn't understand – they couldn't possibly understand what it had been like out there at the front. And George who... So she shrugged half-heartedly in an attempt to draw away the attention from her tears. "It just happened. And I didn't exactly object, so it's as much my fault as it was his."

"But you're the one who has to carry to consequences!"

Like being faced with this pregnancy and all that came with it.

"Irmgard, who did this to you? No matter what you said or did to encourage him, he should not have taken you!"

She looked up. "Mother, I said I don't want to discuss it!" Her voice betrayed the tears nonetheless. "It's my own business, not yours."

"It is my business, Irmgard! What's more, it's the whole family's business!" She paused, recollecting herself as she realized that her daughter - who soon would be a mother herself - was on the brink of tears. "You know we're going to have to send you away to limit the scandal if you don't marry the scoundrel as soon as may be," she continued quietly.

A quavering breath. "I know."

Her mother sighed, and took her in her arms. "And we'll have to act quickly, for it's already showing. If I can tell, other people can, too." She gently rocked her daughter in her arms. "Oh Irmgard... My dear, dear girl..."

Irmgard clung to her mother as she once had to George. Her safe haven in a world of madness – both of them. And here she was - forced to bring this frightening ordeal to an end on her own. Without being able to retreat to either of them for comfort.

"But are you sure – really sure that you refuse to marry the father?" her mother asked gently.

Irmgard nodded over her mother's shoulder, but she screwed her eyes shut as her heart lurched. Oh George... if only you knew...

"Maybe Auntie Berta in Bayern will have you," mother suggested after a moment of deliberation. "That's far away, and we know no one else there."

"Fine." All of a sudden, Irmgard felt almost inhumanly calm, and she let go of her mother. "Do what you have to, mother, but I'm going to keep the baby."

A startled gasp. "Irmgard! You can't do that! Unless of course you marry the father..."

"I can't. But I'm keeping the baby nonetheless. I won't leave my child at the mercy of an orphanage – you know what that's like. I want to raise it myself – take care of it, love it..."

"Irmgard!"

But her daughter had made up her mind, and would not budge. She was going to have George's child, and that was that.

Her father was called in and acquainted with the situation. For a full half hour he raged at her irresponsible behaviour, at the unknown scoundrel who had disgraced his daughter, and at the dishonour she had brought over her family. Her brothers vowed to beat up the elusive guy who had disgraced their sister, her own older sister lectured her without end, and her 16-year-old baby sister was secretly excited. But nothing anybody said could bring her to reveal the name of the culprit, and in the end a letter was sent off to Greataunt Berta in Bayern.

A positive reply arrived in a few days, and within a week of her family's discovery of her status, Irmgard was packed off on the long train journey to the foot of the Alps.

Officially, she was sent to the country for a change of air, in order to recover from the traumas of the battlefield.

But there wasn't a neighbour in the street who failed to guess the true reason for her sudden and long absence...

It had however been many years since the Lindners had last seen Greataunt Berta, and none of them had realized how old and frail the lady had gotten by now. In practice, soon it was Irmgard who was running the house and the small farm, and Auntie Berta – instead of continuously berating her niece as was expected of her – was simply glad for the help and the company she provided.

And as she came closer and closer to her time, Irmgard realized that she'd much rather stay here after her child would be born, to take care of her baby and her aunt together. Rather than going back to the city with her little one, and facing the slaunder of the neighbourhood...

Auntie Berta had no objections to such an arrangement, for her life was a lot easier with her niece around. And so came the sultry August morning that Irmgard suddenly became aware that her baby was on its way.

A message was immediately dispatched to the village to alert the midwife, and after many hours of agony in which she repeatedly cursed George to hell and back for putting her through this torture, she finally held a sweet little baby-girl in her arms. Her daughter. George's daughter.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," she whispered as the day's last rays of sunshine caused the newborn to frown. "I'm sorry I can't give you a father, but I promise I'll try to be the best mother in the world..."

"So what are you going to call her?" Auntie Berta inquired when she came up to admire the new member of the Lindner family.

Irmgard stroked the soft white baby hair on the little girl's head. "Helga Georgina," she said quietly.

And Auntie Berta frowned. "Helga Georgina? Are those traditional names in your mother's family? Certainly not on our side."

"No." Irmgard kissed the baby's little shrimpfingers. "I just like those names, that's all."

"Tsk!" said Auntie Berta.

But Helga it was, and she grew up to be a healthy and happy child. And it wasn't until three years later, when Greataunt Berta died, that mother and daughter moved back to the city of Duisburg, to go and live with Helga's grandparents.

Young Helga sat very quiet as she tried to digest the many new facts she'd just heard. "So my father is an American," she quietly said at last.

"Yes," was all that her mother gave in reply.

"And his name is George."

"George Bowen Hagley."

"And he's a doctor and he lives in a city in America called... what was it again? Deet? Doit?"

"Detroit."

"Yes. Detroit."

Silence.

"How old is he now?"

"I'm not sure. From what he told me about his work and his studies, I would guess he'd be around forty now."

"Only a few years older than you."

"Yes."

Silence.

"And what does he look like? You said he had brown hair."

"Yes. Thick, dark brown hair. Blue eyes. A very stubborn chin. Slim build. About 1.75 or 1.80 meters tall."

"Do you have a picture of him?"

Her mother shook her head. "Only in my mind."

"Do you still think about him?"

"Every time I see you."

"Why? Do I look like him?"

Her mother chuckled. "My dear, have you never looked in the mirror? You and I are like two peas in a pod! No," she continued. "On the outside there is very little in you to remind me of him. But I see talents and character traits in you that you can't possibly have inherited from me. So you must have gotten them from your father."

"Like what?"

"Your aptitude for mathematics. Your beautiful singing voice. Your sometimes so odd sense of humour. The ease with which you connect with others." She smiled. "Especially those last two remind me of your father."

Helga remained silent. There was one question she really wanted to ask, but... "Mutti," she ventured at last. "Please don't get angry with me, but..." She faltered.

"But what? I won't get angry, I promise. Ask anything you want."

Helga's fingers nervously twisted the side of the blanket around and around. "Do you... do you still love my father?"

It was Irmgard's turn to remain silent – so long so, that young Helga anxiously looked up at her mother.

"Do you?"

Her mother heaved a sigh. "I don't know, sweetheart. I've never met a man I liked better than your father – but then, how well did I know him? We only spent a few days in each other's company, and much of that time we were consumed with our work."

"But would you like to meet him again?"

Another sigh. And another, "I don't know, sweetheart. Sometimes yes, sometimes... no. So much has happened since then. He may well be married and have his own kids by now."

"But I'm his child, too."

"Yes..."

"Only he doesn't know that."

"No."

Helga frowned in thought. "You know what?" she said at last. "I'm going to study real hard on my English. And when I leave school and get a job, I'm going to save every pfennig I can lay aside, and then when I'm all grown up, I'm going to America to find my father." She hesitated. "Surely he would understand that I'd like to meet him? At least once?"

Her mother had a warm smile, and pulled her daughter close. "The George Hagley I remember would certainly understand." And with that, mother Irmgard decided it was time for her nearly twelve-year-old daughter to finally go to sleep. And as she tucked her in and kissed her goodnight, she said quietly, "Sleep tight, my half American girl."

And her daughter grinned. "And proud of it, too!"

Her mother nodded. "Me too. You're truly someone very special, Helga: a child from two worlds!"

With that, she left her daughter to her own dreams.

But little could she guess her daughter's plans for the future, just in case this George Bowen Hagley turned out not to be married either...

Soon afterwards, Irmgard took to speaking English with her daughter. For the general public, it was just to help her with her studies, but mother and daughter knew better. For now that she had confessed the whole episode to her daughter, Irmgard became aware that she actually did want to meet George again. If only for old times' sake, just to know what life had brought him. And Helga wanting to meet her father seemed like a perfectly valid excuse to – at a certain point – renew their acquaintance.

The year that Helga finished school, her mother surprised her by having arranged for her to go and help out at a children's summer camp in England for the entire summer. Helga loved working with the children, and though the experience was absolutely exhausting, she came back as fluent in the language as her mother.

The logical course to take from there was for her to take courses in secretarial work and apply for a job with an international company dealing with English speaking countries, where her advantage would show to the fullest.

Unfortunately, under Hitler's regime more and more international companies left the country, and in the end, she was forced to take just any job she could get, from cloakroom attendant to bakery assistant. And with no hope of getting to America any time soon.

And of course when the war broke out, she knew that all plans of going to America to look for her father had to be put on ice.

And that's when she saw the advertisement.

Experienced secretary wanted
in a Prisoner-of-War camp
near Hamelburg.
Good command of the English language required.

Of course: prisoners-of-war were likely to be British. Maybe even American, since America had recently joined the Allies.

The thought of maybe meeting a real live American made her half American blood tingle. She had no idea how much a secretary would have to do with the prisoners in a camp like that, but it was certainly worth a shot. After all, her English skills were well above average, and she definitely was not a bad secretary either, so...

She replied to the advertisement, got invited for an interview, spent half an hour with the balding Kommandant without being able to determine whether he was really smart or incredibly stupid, and left the premises under the appreciative whistles of the prisoners and with the job in her bag.

The boisterous spirit in the camp surprised her, but she didn't think anything of it. For now, she was occupied with finding respectable but affordable lodgings in town, and settling into the routine of this new job.

There was one routine however that never gave her the chance to settle into, and it concerned the frequent visits to the office of the senior officer among the prisoners, Colonel Hogan.

"Hello there," were his very first words to her when he walked into the Kommandantur within half an hour of her starting her new job. "You must be the new secretary. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance." With that, he took her hand with gentlemanly flourish and pressed a kiss on it.

For a second she was dumbstruck at his forthright behaviour, but then she just couldn't quell a laugh. "Well, nice to meet you, too, sir."

He raised his left eyebrow. "Wow, your English is excellent!"

She smiled. "Thank you." It sure felt good to hear that from a native's mouth after all these years.

"Hey, what do you say we catch a movie tonight, eh? And maybe have dinner at the Hauserhof afterwards?"

It was her turn to raise her eyebrows. "Aren't you a prisoner here?"

"What? Oh!" He snapped his fingers. "I keep forgetting."

She eyed him with suspicion.

"Then perhaps you would join me for some left-over potato soup in the mess hall tonight? And afterwards we can watch the sun set over the delousing station?"

Yep. He was crazy. "Maybe some other time," she mumbled.

At that moment, the door to the inner office was opened and her boss Kommandant Klink appeared. "Colonel Hogan, what is taking you so long? I sent for you half an hour ago!"

The prisoner gave something that vaguely resembled a military salute. "Just chatting up your new secretary, sir." He gave her a quick glance from head to toe. "She sure is pretty!"

"Colonel Hogan, this young lady is under my personal protection. So kindly save your flimsy American (Helga's heart skipped a beat. So this guy was a real American!) flirtations for your own young ladies."

"But there are so few of those around," the American colonel complained. "Perhaps if you could get me a few of my own...?"

"Don't be ridiculous," the Kommandant huffed. "Just come in and leave Fräulein Helga to her work from now on."

The American colonel did as he was told – but not without casting her a very mischievous wink over his shoulder.

With that, Helga was left to her own thoughts. And she smiled. The guy may be crazy, but there was something about him... And of course he was the very first American she'd ever met. The first person who shared her American blood. Should she tell him? Perhaps – when the war was over – he could even help her to find her father...?

Best to humour him then. Even though he was a little crazy...

Colonel Hogan's visits remained the colourpoint of her days at the camp. She soon discovered that he wasn't exactly crazy – rather the opposite: he was exceptionally smart and witty! It was just his manner that took some getting used to.

But maybe this forthrighteousness was typical for Americans? Although there were more American prisoners in the camp, she had very little opportunity of comparing their behaviour with the ever scheming, ever charming Colonel Hogan's.

She soon learned that she was but a tool for him – a pleasant tool, but a tool nonetheless. A tool to get information. And the longer she worked here, the more she became convinced that it was the supposed senior prisoner-of-war who was actually running the camp – as well as some illegitimate business to the side.

But how could she possibly deny him the (in itself mostly quite innocent) favours he asked of her? Being a child of two warring sides, shouldn't she be the one person in this madness who aided them both – her Heimat as well as her father-land?

And so it happened one breezy August morning, when Kommandant Klink had gone to town for a meeting, that Colonel Hogan ambled into her office again. "Hello gorgeous."

She was just standing by the filing cabinet, putting away some files, so naturally, the brazen American colonel seized the opportunity to take her in his arms as he always tried to do.

"Colonel Hogan," she greeted with mock primness.

He grinned. "What – no big kiss hello?"

"If you insist." A quick peck on his cheek.

"Hey, that's not what I call 'big'!"

She shook her head and smiled. "You don't deserve any more than that. You're not serious about courting me anyway, so why should I?"

"Of course I'm serious! I'm always serious when it comes to women. Scout's honour!" Three fingers were raised to his cap.

She couldn't help chuckling. "Alright, what do you want this time." It wasn't even a question.

He chuckled, too. "Well, I thought with the Kommandant out... When will he be back by the way?"

"Around lunchtime, he said."

"Good. Then perhaps you could let me have a peek at the guards' personnel files?"

She leaned her back against the filing cabinet and crossed her arms. But her voice was all sugar and spice as she asked, "And what do I get in return?"

"How about some nylons?"

She held out her hand to receive them.

"Hey, come on... You know I don't go around carrying nylons in my pockets. But I'll get them for you. Next week, I promise."

"How about a pound of coffee then? Right now?"

Hogan sighed. This banter was all part of the game they had established over the past year, but... "Haven't got that on hand either. It's been a while since the delivery man came around, you know."

"So what do you have on offer today?"

He twiggled his eyebrows. "My romancing you?"

"Uh-uh." She shook her head. "Not good enough. Like I said, you don't mean it anyway."

"But with ol' Blood-'n'-Guts out for the morning, it's such a perfect occasion to..."

She didn't even hear the rest of what he said. ...with ol' Blood-'n'-Guts out for the morning, it's such a perfect occasion to... tell him about her father?

"Alright." She straightened. "You can have your peek at those files – if you'll locate my father for me."

Colonel Hogan raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Your father?"

"Yes. You have connections; I know you do. Couldn't you pass on a request to your head office to find his address for me?"

He pushed back his crush cap and scratched his head. "My dear, what do you think I am – a super spy? I'm but a humble prisoner here."

She gave him a stern look. "Don't be coy, Colonel Hogan. You know better than anybody that I'm well aware that you are anything but an ordinary prisoner-of-war."

He shook his head in amazement. "I'm flattered! Whatever gave you that idea?" He started to take her in his arms again, but for once she pushed him back.

"Colonel Hogan, ever since I started working here, I have given you everything you asked for. Not because of your charms, but because it felt like the right thing for me to do." She paused a moment to gauge his expression. "Colonel Hogan, don't ever repeat this to anyone, but... I am a child of both sides. Officially, I work for Germany. But my father is American. So how could I not help you, too?"

The surprise on the colonel's face quickly made way for a mischievous grin. "No wonder I like you so much. You couldn't possibly be a thorough bred Hun. You're too cute for that."

She waited for him to get serious again before she continued, "My father met my mother shortly after the armistice in 1918. He was a doctor from Detroit, she was a German army nurse, and he helped her out with a few patients because their own doctor had been killed in battle." She went on to outline the story for him, and ended with, "Ever since I've known, I've wanted to meet my father. You have connections in America – I know you do. So if you really want to repay me all those favours I've done you, then please, all I ask is that you try and find my father's address for me. All I want is to send him a letter. Go to him one day, if I can. Surely that won't have impact on the war effort of either side?"

Colonel Hogan nodded slowly. "No, I suppose not. So what do you know about the guy? He's a doctor from Detroit, you said – anything else? A name perhaps?"

She took a deep breath. "His name is George Bowen Hagley – H-A-G-L-E-Y. He's originally from a farm in the state of Idaho, but after his graduation he worked as a doctor in the hospital in Detroit. He was stationed in France during the final months of the Great War, where he served as part of the medical team. He must be going on fifty by now." She shrugged. "That's all I know."

He nodded. "It should be sufficient. I'll see what I can do." He smirked. "Is that good enough to let me have a look at those files?"

Surprisingly enough, it was only three days later when Colonel Hogan upon entering the office secreted a scrap of paper in her hand as he kissed her in the neck. "One Dr. George Bowen Hagley from Detroit, as requested, madam," he whispered.

Her jaw dropped. "Colonel Hogan!"

He grinned. "Is the big boss in?"

"What? Oh! Yes, he is."

But before he once again barged into the Kommandant's office without knocking, he said quietly, "Why don't you write that letter and give it to me? I'll make sure it gets out of Germany before going into a regular mailbag."

A quick nod. "I will. Thank you. Thank you so much, Colonel Hogan!"

"Ssh!" He put his finger to his lips. "All part of the service." And with that, he suddenly barged into the Kommandant's office, making Klink jump in his chair.

That evening, by the dimmed light of the paraffin lamp in her chilly room, Helga discovered it wasn't exactly easy to write a letter to a father who didn't even know you existed. Many sheets of paper were wasted with failures of one kind or another. You couldn't just start out with, Dear Daddy, my name is Helga Lindner and I'm your daughter... What if he'd have a heart attack at such bluntly presented news and die? Then she still wouldn't have a father!

No. The version she finally settled for led up to the shocking news as gently as she could. And now she could only hope that it would reach him – and hope that he would find it in his heart to accept her as his daughter...

Dear Sir, the final version read.

You don't know me, but my mother, Irmgard Lindner, has told me about you. How you came to the German camp shortly after the armistice in November 1918, and offered help and medical supplies to the German field hospital. And how you volunteered to treat the more critical patients for whom my mother's capabilities simply weren't sufficient.

She also told me about that other day, when she went over to ask your help for a patient of hers with gangrene. You came immediately with her, but nothing either of you could do could save the patient. And she told me how you took her on a long walk afterwards, just to force her to take a break. And what happened on that walk – and how you asked her to marry you and she turned you down because she didn't want to move to America.

Sir, I'm afraid that this may come as a shock, but that wasn't the last my mother knew of you. For soon after she got home, she realized that her intimate encounter with you that day had left her with child – me.

She didn't know how to contact you, but she decided to keep the baby nonetheless. I was born on the 7th of August, 1919, and christened Helga Georgina, after you – my father. And yes, according to my mother, there can be no doubt that I am indeed your daughter.

My mother never married. She works as matron in the hospital in Duisburg, and now that her parents are getting older, she takes care of them, too.

I myself work as a secretary, and it was through my work that I finally found a way to track down your present address.

Ever since my mother told me about you on the eve of my twelfth birthday, it has been my dearest wish to get to know you, and maybe one day meet my father in person. I hope you don't blame me for that?

Coming to America to meet you is difficult at the moment, with the war and all. But if you can find it in your heart, please send me a few lines to tell me how you are doing. And I'm sure my mother would love to hear from you, too.

Your loving daughter,

Helga Lindner

"It might take many weeks – even months before you may expect an answer, you know that?" Colonel Hogan warned her when she slipped him the letter the following morning.

"I know." A sigh. "As long as he gets it..."

He grinned. "At least I can promise you we'll get it safely to England. From there on, it's in the hands of the mailmen."

But it was barely four weeks later that the men unpacked the latest supply drop (ammunition, detonator caps, radioparts, assorted foodstuff, a large pack of chocolate bars to bribe Schultz, and several roles of material suitable to make German military overcoats) and found there a grey envelope addressed to Miss Helga G. Lindner.

Newkirk snatched it up. "Hey, look at that, guys! We've got ladies' mail!"

But Hogan took it away from him before he could tear it open. "Hands off, Newkirk. That's for our pretty liaison in Klink's office."

"I can go and take it to her right now," Newkirk offered.

"Oui. Me too!"

"At two o'clock in the morning? Forget it. You guys better get this stuff downstairs and then hit the sack for a few hours. I'll deliver that letter myself tomorrow."

And young Helga blushed with pleasure when he handed it to her. "Colonel Hogan, so soon? I thought you said...?"

He winked. "I arranged it so that a friend of mine mailed your letter personally from Chicago when he went home on furlough. So it only had to come back through snail mail."

"Oh, thank you!" She pressed the letter to her heart. "Will you believe I hardly dare to open it?"

"Then you'll never know what he writes, won't you?" He flashed her a genuine smile – it may well have been his first. "At least he answered your letter pretty quickly. I'd say that's a good sign."

"Yes." She looked at her letter, then put it down at the corner of her desk. "I think I'll save it for tonight. But at least I can look at it all day!"

She had been severely tempted during the day, but she had managed to withstand the anxious curiosity she felt and save her precious letter till she got home.

And now she sat in her uncomfortable easy chair, turning the still unopened envelope over and over in her hands. Her father... The first sign of life of a father in all her life. Would he be willing to accept her? And maybe learn to love her, like a real father?

She sighed. Like Colonel Hogan said, she'd never know until she'd open the envelope. So finally, she mustered up the courage and...

She noticed right away that the sheet in it was very closely written, and a warm feeling of anticipation welled up in her heart. Surely he wouldn't write so much if he'd wanted nothing to do with her?

Carefully, she pulled out the single sheet and unfolded it. Immediately, her eye caught the first line. My dearest daughter!

Suddenly she felt tears streaming down her face. With these three words alone, he already let her know that he accepted her as his child, and was willing to be her father. At the age of twenty-four, she – Helga Lindner – finally had a real father...

She brushed her tears away, and began to read whatever else her father wanted to say in his very first communication with her.

My dearest daughter!

Words cannot describe how I felt when I first read your letter. Of course I remember your mother! She was the single bright spot in those dark and dangerous months I spent at the front.

Though I am grieved to hear that our encounter caused her so much trouble afterwards. And her not having the information to contact me and let me take my responsibility! I am truly sorry, for it cannot have been easy on her. Though by the sound of your letter, I'm inclined to believe she did an excellent job in raising you. Please tell me more about her life, and how she's doing.

As for myself, upon my return from the front I returned to work at the hospital in Detroit, and that's where I still am. I met my wife Lucy about a year afterwards, and we got married and had two sons: Martin John in 1923, and Theodore (Ted) Hughes in 1924. Later on, we also got a little daughter, Ellinor Mary, but unfortunately she died at birth.

My wife died six years ago, rather suddenly, from pneumonia. The boys were but 12 and 14 years old at the time, but it seemed that our loss brought us even closer together.

But as they do, young boys grow up. They both signed up when the U.S. joined the war, and were shipped off to Europe. Soon afterwards, I received word that my Ted had been killed in action. He was but eighteen years old.

My eldest has fared only slightly better. He was on a bomber's crew, and when his plane got shot down, he managed to get safely to the ground and was captured by the Germans. The War Office assures me that with his lack of special skills or knowledge, he would soon have been dropped off in a POW camp, but they haven't been able to tell me anything since. And the stories we hear here about the Nazis are not encouraging. Since you apparently still are in Germany, could you perhaps inquire as to his well-being and his whereabouts? I don't care whether you agree with the Nazis or not – if you can, please do it just to comfort a father's heart.

Forgive me, my daughter. I shouldn't put my burdens on your shoulders; that just isn't fair. Please be assured that the mere news of your existence has given me more happiness than I have felt since my wife died, and I would be honoured if you'd want to regard me as your father. God willing, we simply must arrange to meet one day, as soon as may be. And perhaps your mother, too?

Please write again to tell me all about you and your life. A whole new daughter to get to know – I wouldn't want to waste another day!

And please do give my kindest regards to your mother. Tell her I am truly sorry that she couldn't contact me when she needed me the most, and assure her that I'm prepared to make it up to her in any way I can. Although I realize all too well that there can be no substitute for what I could and would have done all those years ago – had I only known.

My dearest Helga, thank you for bringing your father so much joy. May the Lord keep all evil away from you, and believe me when I say that I can hardly wait to receive another letter from you.

God bless you!

Your loving father,

George B. Hagley

Helga practically threw herself at the prisoners' files the following morning. Of course she worked with those files on a daily basis. And of course it would have caught her attention if she'd come across someone in there by the same name as the father she'd never known. But you never knew – she might just have overlooked that one file.

But no – there had never been anyone by the name of Hagley in Stalag 13. And with a sigh, she slammed the filing cabinet shut. Time for plan B.

Plan B was actually rather daring. Rather basic in what was involved, but with a flavour of Colonel Hoganesque sneakiness and deceit.

First she took out the filed lists of the prisoners who had been brought into Stalag 13 over the past six months. Carefully, she went through them one by one, and noted which ones would give her a chance of adding a name to the list without it standing out to be a falsification.

And once that was sorted out, she took a deep breath for courage, picked up the phone, and requested to be connected to the secretary of Luftstalag 1 in Brenau.

Soon, she heard the phone ringing on the other side, and a lady answering, "Luftstalag 1, Heil Hitler."

"This is Luftstalag 13 calling, good morning and Heil Hitler."

"How may I help you?"

"I am calling you regarding an apparently misplaced American prisoner. Going through our files yesterday, it transpired that a Martin John Hagley was assigned to Stalag 13, yet there is no record of this man being delivered here."

"So? Maybe he escaped."

"Maybe he did, yes. But Kommandant Klink is very particular about his 'no escape' record, and he wants to leave no stone unturned to get this Hagley where he belongs: in Stalag 13. For it would not look good on his record if an inspection revealed there is a man missing. Could you perhaps check your files if there is a Martin John Hagley at Stalag 1? H-A-G-L-E-Y?"

"Hold on a moment. I'll check."

Helga closed her eyes for a moment. They bought it...

"Hello? Sorry, there is no one by that name here."

"Alright. Thank you for your time. Heil Hitler."

"Heil Hitler."

She put down the phone. One down, sixteen to go. But they bought it – and that was all that mattered!

She was halfway through her conversation with Stalag 4 when Colonel Hogan wandered in and bent down to kiss her in her neck.

She pushed him away – right now she couldn't use the distraction.

From the corner of her eye, she watched as the American officer perused through the Kommandant's mail. He often did that. And regularly secreted something away in his pocket. Or the opposite: adding something from his pocket to the pile.

"Hold on a moment," her colleague on the other end of the line said. "Let me check our files. Hackley you said? H-A-C-K..."

"H-A-G-L-E-Y," Helga repeated.

Colonel Hogan raised an eyebrow at her.

"Alright. Just a moment."

She covered the mouthpiece. "The Kommandant is at his paperwork. Go right on in."

Hogan shook his head. "That can wait. What about the letter from your father? Good news?"

Quick nod, big smile, as right at that moment her colleague in Stalag 4 returned to the phone. "Hagley, you said? H-A-G-L-E-Y, Martin John, private, serial number 352 74 41?"

Helga closed her eyes and bit her lip in silent and relieved triumph. "Yes, that must be our man," she said as neutrally as she could. "When did he arrive at your camp?"

"May 28th last."

Nearly four months ago. No wonder his father was worried. "Thank you for the information. Please inform your Kommandant that he may expect a truck from Stalag 13 to pick up this prisoner within the next few days."

"Will do. Thank you, and Heil Hitler."

"Heil Hitler." She put down the receiver and leaned back in her chair with a super relieved sigh.

Hogan arched an eyebrow at her. "What was that all about?"

She quickly filled him in about her father's son who apparently had fallen between the cracks of the bureaucratic papermill.

"And now you have him transferred to Stalag 13?"

She blushed a little. "Not for me. I just want to make sure he's as safe as possible – for my father's sake. He has already lost a son to the war. And you may think of Kommandant Klink what you like, but he is a humane jailor. The worst that can happen to you guys here is that you get thrown in the cooler for a while. And that, combined with everything you accomplish for your men, makes Stalag 13 to one of the safest havens in Germany right now. So if my... half-brother is here, my father can rest assured that he won't be starved or tortured. Or shot. Neither you, nor Kommandant Klink would ever allow that to happen."

Colonel Hogan chuckled. "So now I'm in league with Herr Kommandant – and all for the good of the prisoners?" He turned serious. "And have you thought of a way to get him here?"

"I'm going to tell the Kommandant the same tale: that double-checking the records, I discovered a prisoner on the roll who has never been brought into camp. That should have enough hints of a 'missing prisoner' to set off the Kommandant's alarm bells."

He shook his head in mock disapproval. "You're devious, Helga-dear."

She smiled sweetly at him. "Just following a good example, Colonel Hogan."

Helga was very pleased with herself when she went home that evening. Not only had she located her father's son (it still felt odd to think of him as a brother – or even a half-brother) and had she organized for him to be transferred to the relatively safe Stalag 13, she also had Colonel Hogan's promise that he would be able to smuggle another letter to her father out of Germany for her. Which meant she could write freely, without having to worry about censors. Already she was composing a delightfully long letter to her new-found Dad in her head, and she looked forward to spending the entire evening on writing it.

But when she entered her lodgings, she found a surprise waiting for her. "Mother!"

"Helga!" Irmgard Lindner hugged her daughter close.

But the embrace was far too tight to express mere affection and happiness to see her.

"Mother, what's wrong?"

Her mother audibly drew in her breath, as if to stop herself from crying. But her voice was strangely devoid of feeling when she said, "Grandmother and grandfather – they're dead. Half the street was bombed out last night. The house was completely pulverized."

Helga gasped. "Oh no!" She hugged her mother close.

There was simply nothing else one could say. The Allies bombed the German cities every night – sometimes even by day. They claimed to be aiming for military and industrial targets, but bombs hitting residential areas were no exception. It could happen to anyone, anytime, anywhere. Her uncle's family had been wiped out the same way. There was simply nothing one could say.

When her mother finally disentangled herself, Helga guided her over to a chair. "Come on, sit down. I'll make you a nice cup of tea."

As she busied herself with the kettle, her mother found the strength to give her some more details. "I was at the hospital on the nightshift. I had no idea until I came home in the morning and found half the street just... missing." She shook her head; she could still scarcely fathom it. "What's come over us?" she asked no one in particular. "We kill their civilians, they kill ours... What advantage can that be to anyone?"

A silent Helga poured the tea, and wished she had some sugar to put into it. Her mother could use it – hot, sweet tea was good for fighting off shock, wasn't it?

Her mother drank the hot drink without comment. And Helga sat quiet. She had looked forward to going home this weekend and to show George's letter to her mother. But now...? Her childhood home didn't exist anymore. Her grandparents were dead. And here was her mother...

"What are you going to do?" she asked at long last.

Her mother shrugged. "I can live at the nurse's home. That's no problem." She shook her head. "It's all just so pointless, you know. I can't understand how the children of those who had lived the horror of the trenches can be so stupid as to start it all over again..."

Helga clenched her teacup. Perhaps this was an opening to... "What was it again my father said? 'Medics are the only sane people on the battlefield'?"

Her mother looked up, and averted her eyes again. "Something like that, yes."

Helga took a deep breath. "Mother... Mutti, I have a letter from him."

Irmgard Lindner's head snapped up. "What?"

"You know that there are Americans in the prison camp where I work. The senior officer is American, too. I did him a few a favours, and in return..."

"You didn't... sleep with him, did you?" came her mother's alarmed interruption.

She blushed involuntarily. "No, nothing of the sort. They were purely practical favours, and in return, he pulled some strings with his homebase, and they located Geo... my father for me."

Her mother just stared at her – apparently unaware of the oddity of a prisoner-of-war being able to do such things.

So Helga continued, "I sent him a letter. And yesterday I got a reply." She picked up the envelope from the sideboard and held it out to her speechless mother. "I think you may want to read it, too."

Gingerly, her mother took the grey envelope. "From George?" she whispered.

Helga put her arms around her trembling mother. "Yes. From George B. Hagley, doctor at the hospital in Detroit." An encouraging squeeze of her shoulder. "And he certainly does remember you. Just..." She hesitated. "Just read it, okay? He sounds just like the George you told me about, the night before my twelfth birthday."

Without a word, Irmgard Lindner took the letter from the envelope and unfolded it. But before she had gotten through the first half of the front page, tears were already streaming down her cheeks. "Oh George..."

Her daughter just hugged her tight from behind. "It is him, isn't it."

Her mother read on without a word, and when she finished the letter, she pressed it to her heart in a remarkably similar gesture as Helga herself had used only the day before.

"It's him, isn't it," Helga repeated quietly.

Her mother nodded, and brushed her tears away. And suddenly she stood. "I want to go to him."

"What? Mother, there's a war on! You can't just..."

"I want to go to him," her mother repeated even more forcefully. "You can stay here if you like, but I'm going to America."

"But mother, you..."

Irmgard Lindner started to pace the small room. "I've been a fool. Sooner or later, you are going to get married; father and mother are dead... What am I supposed to do here on my own? He's alone, too, so what's stopping me from going to America?"

Helga folded her arms. "The war is for one. And I thought you didn't want to live in America?"

Irmgard turned on her daughter in a flash. "I didn't even try, did I?"

Helga took a step backwards in surprise. She had never seen her mother like this.

"He offered me everything, and I turned him down just because I was afraid to leave my safe little nest. And look where it got me!" Immediately, Irmgard stopped herself short. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. It's not that I regret having you, and raising you. You know how much I love you. It's just that... if it wasn't for my selfish cowardice, we might have been so much happier. And you'd have had a father all your life..."

Helga gulped. "But I don't blame you for that, Mutti. Leaving everything behind to marry a near stranger... I understand why you did what you did."

Her mother gave her an odd look, and Helga conceded, "Well, I think I do."

"Do you?" Irmgard shook her head. "Helga, everything and everyone in my life at the time pointed me in the direction of marrying your father. And all I did was turn and run."

They were both silent for a moment.

"And here is your father's letter," Irmgard continued softly. "I'm glad he found happiness with his wife and children for a few years. But everything in that letter tells me that right now, he is lonely as hell. He talks of making it up to me for what he should have done twenty-five years ago if he had known. But I feel I have an awful lot to make up to him as well. I should have married him – it might have been difficult to move so far away, but I'm sure he would have done everything in his power to make me happy. And I could at least have tried to live there, and to make him happy in return. And that's why I want to go to him now. To America. I owe him that much." She hesitated. "I can at least try..."

Helga embraced her mother. "I don't know how we're going to do it, Mutti, but I'm definitely coming with you!"

"Got a letter for me?" Colonel Hogan asked the following morning as he bent over her desk to kiss her on the forehead.

She shook her head. She never had had the chance for her letter after her mother's news and their combined decision to go to America. Instead, she said under her breath, "Colonel Hogan, what is the quickest way of getting to America?"

He raised his eyebrows. "You want to go to him?"

A quick nod. "Well, actually my mother does. Her home got hit by a bomb yesterday – killing her parents. She was at work at the time, so that's how she escaped. I let her read my father's letter when she came to tell me, and suddenly she is adamant to go and see him. And I certainly wouldn't mind coming along."

He smiled a little. "I can imagine that." He thought for a moment. "How quickly can you leave?"

She shrugged – the beginning embers of hope lighting up her eyes. "Pretty quickly, I presume. My moth..."

"Excellent. I'll be back in a sec." And he was out of the office before she even realized he was leaving at all.

The 'sec' turned into a good twenty minutes, but then the unorthodox American officer returned with a huge grin on his face. "Do you know the turn-off from the Hamelburg Road to Flenzheim?"

She nodded, not quite understanding where he was going, but sensing his obvious sense of being pleased with himself.

"Good. Then pack what you can carry tonight. Follow the road to Flenzheim for about half a mile – a kilometer maybe. There, where the woods give way to pastureland, you'll find a sandy track veering off to the left, leading to a decrepit sheep-shed. Hide in the shed and keep quiet. We'll meet you there around midnight, and you'll be in England before sunrise tomorrow morning."

Helga's jaw dropped. "But... how...?"

He shook his head. "Sorry. No questions. Safer for everyone. Are you in?"

"Yes. Of course!" Never had she imagined it could be that easy! But... "And my mother?"

"Her, too, of course."

"Oh, Colonel Hogan...!" She jumped up and hugged him.

He chuckled. "I'm going to miss that, you know that?"

She laughed, a little embarrassed. "I'm sure you'll find your way with whoever the Kommandant will employ as his new secretary. It's just... it's all so sudden. I'm so grateful to you for enabling me to finally get to know my father. First his address and the letter, and now this..."

Irmgard took it stoically when her daughter returned home from work that evening with the announcement that they'd have to grab a bite to eat, pack what they could carry, and dress as warm as they could to go and hide in a sheep-shed that night on their way to America.

"You pack your things; I'll make us some supper," was all she said.

So Helga quickly packed her clothes, her father's letter, some toiletries and some of her books and beloved mementos of her childhood, and within the hour they sat down for their – hopefully – last meal on German soil. At least for a long while.

They ate in silence, the only interruption coming from Helga's inquiry whether or not her mother did have her ID papers. After all, she'd lost everything else except the very clothes on her back.

"Of course I have them. Can't walk around without them these days," was the curt reply.

Helga wrote two short notes about her having to attend to urgent family business in Duisburg – one to be left for her landlady, the other to be mailed to Kommandant Klink on their way out of town.

And so, with less than an hour to go before civilian curfew, mother and daughter set off on their long postponed journey to America. One with a small suitcase and a letter in her hand, the other with a rather tight sweater and cardigan of her daughter's over her matron's uniform, and carrying an old carpet-bag.

The town was dark. Windows were blacked out, no lanterns were lit. Even the moon was not to be seen tonight.

Their footsteps echoed off the houses in the cobbled streets. A few people passed them, an old acquaintance lifted his hat. A man in Gestapo uniform stood watch at a corner, and eyed every passer-by with a suspicious glare. Helga felt her fiery blush as they passed the man on the other side of the street. Good thing it was so dark...

She mailed her note to the Kommandant in the first mailbox they passed, and soon they had left the small, dark town behind them and walked along the unpaved road through the woods. At least their footsteps didn't draw so much attention here anymore. But on the other hand, if they were stopped here – especially after curfew – was there any plausible explanation they could give for their walking here? With suitcases and all?

They were already approaching the turn-off to Flenzheim when Irmgard suddenly grabbed her daughter's arm. "There's a car coming. Quick!"

Helga followed her mother into the shrubbery by the wayside, and breathlessly they waited for the dangerous car to pass. Dangerous – oh yes. For those in cars were most likely to be patrols or Nazi bigwigs, and two ladies like themselves, who had no legitimate reason to be out here in the woods at this hour, would make an easy prey for any malevolent officer...

They watched as the car with its slits of dimmed headlights rumbled past – even in the dark, Helga was pretty sure it was the more luxurious type of a general's car. Perhaps even General Burkhalter's. But they waited until the sound of it was completely drowned out by the rustling leaves overhead before they ventured back out onto the road.

It wasn't much further to the crossing now, and from there on, it was a matter of ten minutes to reach the sandy track that marked the edge between the black woods and the bluish open pasture ahead.

A furtive glance around to make sure (at least to some degree) that they were unobserved, and mother and daughter hurried along the darkest side of the path in silence.

"That must be it," Helga whispered as a massive black shadow loomed up in the darkness.

She felt her way around the structure. It felt awful – all mossy and rotten and dilapidated. It certainly wouldn't be pleasant to wait inside the place. But that's what Colonel Hogan had instructed, so unfortunately, there was little choice in the matter.

So in they went.

It smelled even worse inside. Helga wrinkled her nose, and carefully took a few steps inside. How anyone could choose this as a hiding place was a mystery to her. Or maybe not – if no one wanted to use it, perhaps it made for the perfect hiding place after all?

She heard how her mother felt her way around the assorted junk, and finally her quiet voice said, "There's a small bench here. Come and sit down, sweetheart. We may have a long wait ahead of us."

Helga shuddered. "No thanks, mother." Who knows what might be on that bench... Spiders? Bugs? Cockroaches? The less her body was in contact with anything here, the better...

Silence.

"Helga..." her mother ventured at last, startling her daughter out of a black reverie about all the possible creepy crawly insects that might be in her immediate neighbourhood. "Are you angry with me?"

A sharp intake of breath. "Angry with you? No. Why should I?"

"I don't know," came the quiet reply out of the dark. "You just seem to be a little... curt with me tonight."

"I'm sorry," Helga mumbled automatically. She shook her leg and shuddered – was that a spider or something crawling up?

"Could it be that you regret your decision to come along? That you'd rather stay here?"

"No! No, that's not it."

"What is bothering you then?"

Helga gulped. "The idea of all the bugs and spiders crawling around here." She could hardly miss her mother's chuckle, but continued uninterrupted, "And what Colonel Hogan said, about us being in England before sunrise. I think he... he has organized a plane for us. How else could we be in England before the night is out?"

"The bugs you're simply going to have to endure for a few hours or so. They won't eat you. And as for the flying... I admit the idea of going up in the sky is a bit unnerving, but those boys in the Luftwaffe and the RAF and so on do it all the time. It shouldn't be so bad, I imagine. It might even be beautiful to see the world from a bird's point of view."

Helga let out a trembling sigh. "I suppose so. All the guys in the prison-camp are flyers."

Silence.

Helga shook herself. She was beginning to feel like there were bugs and spiders crawling all over her. And she jumped as out of absolutely nowhere she suddenly felt a hand on her arm. But it was only her mother, taking her jittery daughter into a comforting embrace. Almost as if she were five years old again, and scared of the neighbours' ferocious dog...

"I love you, Helga. And I'm sure your father will love you, too. My dearest wish right now is that we both may find what we seek in your father. And judging by his letter, I have reason to believe that we will indeed. So try and concentrate on that. The flying is merely a means to a happy end."

Helga held onto her mother tight. She so much wished she could share her mother's optimism. But now that she was finally on her way to go and meet her father for the first time, she suddenly felt awfully nervous. What if she wouldn't get along at all with her new-found father? After all, despite his kind letter, they were perfect strangers. Hadn't she idealized him – almost idolized him over the years beyond anything any man could ever live up to? And of course the higher the pedestal, the deeper the fall...

The wait was long. Too dark to check their watches even by the meagre light of the stars, and uncertain as to when exactly Colonel Hogan would show up, time seemed to pass at an excruciatingly slow pace.

The cold penetrated the worn soles of their shoes, and continued to crawl up their legs. Temperatures were unlikely to come below zero at this time of year, but the humidity could make it feel much colder than it really was. And all the time they waited with alternating patience and impatience for...

"Psst!"

Both Helga and Irmgard jumped.

Against the slightly less dark quadrangle of the shed's entrance was now the dark shape of a man visible.

Helga ventured closer, and was ever so relieved to recognize the familiar but sootblack features of Colonel Hogan by the faint light of the stars.

"Are you ready?" he inquired under his breath. "Where is your mother?"

"Here," came Irmgard's calm reply.

He gave her a courteous nod. "Good. Come along then. Bring your luggage, and keep quiet."

They followed him to the far edge of the field, where a man in RAF uniform was waiting in the bushes. Next to him lay a large bulky package.

"Here are your fellow passengers, Dunsmore," Colonel Hogan said softly.

They exchanged an appraising nod, and as the Colonel gestured for them to come down to the ground as well, he chuckled to Helga, "Surely you didn't think I'd organize a plane just for you and your mother, did you?"

"But who is he – an escaping prisoner?" she hissed back.

"Uh-uh. No questions, remember? Besides, we wouldn't want to spoil the Kommandant's record. No one escapes from Stalag 13."

She acquiesced in that with a sigh, but started again at his next question. "Did you bring any money?"

"What?" She almost sat up in indignation. "You never said anything about...!"

"Ssh." Gently, he placed his hand over her mouth to remind her to keep her voice down. "Not like that. But you're going to need some money once you get to England. Do you have any?"

"I brought my savings." She was ever so relieved that her first thought upon his mentioning money turned out to be wrong. He really just wanted to help.

"In marks, I guess? That won't do you any good." He pulled a small bundle of rustling papers from his pocket. "Here. Take this."

Even in the pitchblack of night, Helga recognized the bundle as banknotes, and she raised her eyebrows. "Counterfeit, I presume?"

A flash of white teeth as he smiled. "We only counterfeit German money. This is the real stuff, so don't worry."

"Thank you." She rummaged in her bag to put it safely away, and pushed another bunch of banknotes into his hand in return. "You better take this then. It's real, too – at least as far as I know."

A chuckle. "Thanks."

They waited together in silence in the soft but cold grass. Leaves and branches rustled in the woods around them, an occasional nocturnal creature ventured across the field... and finally, there was the low rumble of a single plane.

Far out, at what would be approximately the corners of the open field, four lights flared up. And but a moment later, they saw the giant birdlike form coming in low over the trees, and setting down in the field.

"Come on!" Colonel Hogan hissed. He already ran to the plane as it was turning around for its immediate take-off. The noisy propellers were still rotating faster than the eye could see.

The side door in the plane opened, and out of nowhere, two men Helga recognized as some of Colonel Hogan's closest friends in camp popped up to receive a few heavy bags full of... something. The man called Dunsmore pushed his heavy package inside and jumped in after it. Colonel Hogan took the ladies' luggage and threw it into the plane; then he and the tall black man with him gave Irmgard and Helga a hand to climb on board.

"Take care, and good luck!" Colonel Hogan shouted over the noise of the engines.

And the other helper – the young man with the pimple on his cheek – called out cheerfully, "Yeah! Send us a postcard when you get to the States, okay?"

But the heavy door already banged shut, and forceful hands pushed them down on uncomfortable chairs and quickly strapped tight belts in place over them.

Irmgard grasped her daughter's hand, and was surprised how cold and clammy it felt. Strange. She herself felt calm and excited at the same time.

The noise of the engines was deafening. The plane was already moving across the bumpy field, faster and faster, and suddenly, as they were pushed back in their chairs, the bumping turned into gliding, and they were up in the air – flying!

On their way to England – to America. To George!

Helga could cry when she saw London again. She had visited it at the time when she was helping with the summer camps, and had loved the beauty of the old city. Was it really only seven years ago?

Yet all she saw now were ruins and craters and rubble.

Her mother sensed her mood. "Come on. We've got to find out about passenger ships to America."

Helga swallowed. "Shouldn't we contact Geor... I mean, my father, too?"

"Maybe. How much money did the American officer give you?"

Helga dug it up and counted it quickly. "Fifty pounds. That's quite a lot. But should it be enough for passage to America, do you think?"

"I don't know. We'll have to go and ask."

After frequent inquiries, three times getting lost in the huge London maze of alleys and ruins, and two necessary visits to an air-raid shelter, they finally found the office they were looking for.

"To America?" The lady at the counter raised her eyebrows till they touched her hairline. "So where are you from? You're obviously not from here. I'd almost think your accent was bloody German."

"We are German," Irmgard said quietly, and the lady all but staggered back.

"Murderers!" she gasped. And then more loudly, "Murderers! You killed my daughter, you killed my husband...! And yet you dare to come here and...!"

Helga quickly pulled her mother out of the little office. "Maybe you shouldn't have said that," she chided softly.

Her mother gave her a look. "Well, we are German, aren't we? And they're killing our loved ones, too!" She sighed. "Oh well... Even if I hadn't said anything, she was bound to ask for our papers. Then she would have known anyway."

"Let's find another company and try again," Helga suggested.

It took them two days to track down the next office, but the reception there was much the same. And the third...

The old codger glared at them from over his reading glasses. "We don't do business with the Jerries."

"But all we want is to buy two tickets to America," Helga tried in her most persuasive tone. "There's nothing illegitimate about that, is there?"

"Perhaps not," the man scoffed. "But it's company policy: 'don't let the bloody Jerries escape what they're doing to us'. So you can stay right here where you are, and run the same chances as all of us of getting killed in the next bloody air-raid."

There was nothing left for them to do but to leave once again.

Dejectedly, they wandered around for a while without saying much. Was this to be their fate – to bear the curse of their people, even though neither of them had ever been involved with the Nazis, the killing, or the bombing raids on London?

"Maybe we're going about this the wrong way," Irmgard observed at last. "London has been heavily damaged by the German bombers. They're still at it every day, with thousands and thousands of casualties. No wonder the people here don't want anything to do with us."

Helga looked up. "So where do you want to go?"

"Some other port town. One that's not so badly damaged from the war. Maybe the people there will be less hostile to us."

Some more asking around revealed that the city of Liverpool had two large companies of transatlantic passenger lines as well.

"Then on we go to Liverpool," Irmgard decided.

They found the right railway station, got their tickets, and embarked on the long train ride northbound.

"I really don't know how we're going to do this, mother," Helga remarked as she leaned forward for some resemblance of privacy on the packed train. "I know we slept for free in London because we had to hide out in the air-raid shelters every night. But I sincerely doubt this money is still sufficient to get us to America."

"Then we'll have to find a job in the mean time. With so many men out on the front, the demand for workers must be sky high, just like in Germany."

Helga gave her a skeptical look. "Do you think they'll let us do paid work any more than they'll let us buy tickets to America?"

Her mother patted her on the knee. "Stop worrying, sweetheart. We'll find a way."

But at the Liverpool office, they were made aware of yet another impediment for their going to America.

"You can forget it, ladies. Even if I sold you those tickets – which I won't – the Yanks would never let you get into the country."

"Why not?" Partly out of despair, Helga's curiosity was now firmly aroused. "We haven't done anything wrong, have we?"

The man leered. "Maybe. Maybe not. But the Yanks are absolutely flooded with refugees these days. You'll have to have a real strong case for them not to send you right back where you came from. As we should have done when you entered Britain in the first place! But perhaps," he added in jest, "If you have a lot of money, they might let you in. Them Yanks do like money, don't they."

"But we just want to visit a close relative of ours," Irmgard explained.

"That's what they all say." The guy grinned, showing all his yellow teeth. "But unless this 'close relative' of yours is willing to go bail for the two of you, it still won't get you into the country. And believe me – going bail is expensive. So I'm not selling you anything. You don't exactly look like you could afford a return ticket, which means we'd have to ship you back for free. And I'm not going to let this company suffer extra losses on a lost cause like the bloody German two of you."

"Thank you." Irmgard took her daughter's wrist and led her outside.

"It's obvious," she said when they were out on the sidewalk. "We're not going to get to America without your father's help. I would have preferred not to have to rely on his resources right away, but... Let's find a telegraph office."

And shortly after, a cable found its way across the Atlantic.

ARE IN LIVERPOOL UK stop IMPOSSIBLE FOR US TO GET PASSAGE TO USA stop

NEED YOUR HELP AND MAYBE BAIL stop LOVE IRMGARD AND HELGA

It mopped up a major part of the funds they had left, but great was their joy after hanging around the telegraph office for an hour or two when a cable arrived for them in return – with reply paid as well.

TWO TICKETS SECURED IN YOUR NAMES WITH HARVEYS LPOOL stop SAILING THURSDAY stop

MEET YOU IN NY HARBOUR stop LOVE GEORGE

They fell into each other's arms, and for a moment, Irmgard just couldn't hold back her tears. "Oh George..." She brushed futilely at her tears. "I can't believe I'll actually be seeing him again..."

Helga hugged her mother tight. "Well, you will. And soon. How long does it take to sail to New York? Ten days, fourteen days?"

They sent off a short reply expressing their thanks and hopes for a speedy reunion, found a cheap bed and breakfast hotel for the night, and returned to the ticket office in triumph the next morning.

The guy at the counter raised his eyebrows when he saw who his customers were. "You two again? Get out of here – I'm not selling you anything."

"You don't have to sell us anything," Irmgard stated with near regal dignity. "We are here merely to pick up our tickets for tomorrow's departure. Please check your list for the name of Lindner. Irmgard Lindner and Helga Lindner."

Spluttering, the man did as he was asked, and was forced to concede that two first class tickets had been booked and paid for under those names. So he asked for their papers, compared the names in the utmost detail, and could do nothing but take out his ticketbook and write out the tickets for them.

But nothing could stop him from cursing every living and breathing Jerry under his breath as he did so.

And, "Thank you," Irmgard said with far too much exaggerated gratitude to be taken seriously.

Even by a fool.

The camp truck jerked to a halt, and immediately, Langenscheidt jumped out of the back. And almost tripped over his own feet.

The young private inside chuckled inwardly. How this new camp he was sent to could function properly with a klutz like this corporal and that tub of lard that called itself a sergeant was a mystery to him. With such jailors, surely the prisoners would fly out of here like pigeons?

There was the tub of lard. "Raus! Raus mit dir!"

Wary as always around enemies with a fire-arm within reach, he got up and jumped out of the back of the truck. And was immediately addressed by someone coming from behind the car.

"Hello there. Welcome to Stalag 13!"

He spun around, noticed the U.S. colonel's insignia on the collar, and jumped to stiff attention. "Private Martin J. Hagley reporting, sir."

Hogan returned the salute. "At ease, Private. Had a good trip?"

A puzzled frown creased the young man's forehead. "Pardon?" That wasn't exactly standard officer's behaviour, was it? Not that he had come across many colonels so far...

Hogan smiled jovially. "Never mind. Schultz, can we take him to his barracks?"

"No, no, no, Colonel Hogan! You know that new prisoners must always go to the Kommandant first."

Hogan nodded. "Yeah, to be told that they've now come to the toughest POW camp in all of Germany, and that no one has ever escaped from Stalag 13, and if he tries anyway, he will suffer the consequences, ladeedah, ladeedah."

"Exactly. So, Colonel Hogan..."

"Don't worry, Schultz. We can tell him that. We needn't bother the Kommandant."

"Colonel Hogan!" Schultz stomped his foot, and Hagley caught himself in looking back and forth between the two of them with his mouth open.

"I know you can tell him that. Believe me – I think you can tell him that much better than the Kommandant can. But regulations specifically state that new prisoners must be..."

Hogan waved the remainder of his words away. "Alright, Schultz, have it your way." He turned and gestured for Hammond to join them. "Hammond, this is Private Martin Hagley – Hagley, this is Sergeant Paul Hammond, one of our long term residents here."

Hagley began to salute this senior noncom officer, too, but Hammond gave him a fatherly grin and a firm handshake. "Hi."

"Once you've made the Kommandant's acquaintance, Hammond here will show you around our little country club and tell you everything you need to know."

Another salute. "Yes, sir."

Hogan returned it a lot less professionally this time. "And quit the saluting, will you? We've got several hundred men here. If I'd have to return the saluting of each and every one of them all the time, soon my arm would fall off!"

Hagley automatically started to salute again with his next, "Yes sir," caught himself, blushed with embarrassment and dropped his hand with an awkward grimace. "Sorry, sir."

"Alright, come along now," Schultz admonished him. "To the Kommandant with you. And don't forget to salute him now, or he will be very angry!"

But Hogan stopped them once more, taking the young man by the shoulder and telling him half under his breath, "By the way, a little bird told me that your father hasn't been updated on your fate since you got captured. An oversight from the War Office no doubt. So why don't you write him a long uncensored letter this afternoon, and I'll make sure it goes with tonight's airmail to England, okay? Hammond here can surely scrounge up some paper for you."

Private Martin J. Hagley had barely time to recover from his surprise before he was ushered into the Kommandant's office...

Apart from the remnants of a small autumn storm, the trip across the Atlantic had been fairly uneventful. Just water – water and sky from one horizon to the other. Helga found it gave her an unprecedented sense of freedom, and she spent much of her days on deck, watching the endless dance of the waves around them.

But when finally the monotony of water and sky was interrupted by the first sight of the skyscrapers of Manhattan, the passengers all jostled each other for the best places along the guard rail.

Little by little, more of the New World came in sight. Aside from the imposing skyscrapers, there were factories, houses, a huge port, low, wooded lands further to the side – and the famous statue of Liberty, for which they seemed to be straightly headed.

As they came closer still, they were able to make out trees, cars and people. Waving people on the quay.

Irmgard grabbed her daughter's hand. "Do you think he's there? Among them?"

Helga smiled at her mother's eagerness. "I'm sure he is. He seems like the kind of man who'd never break a promise if he could help it."

Her mother's eyes beamed as they eagerly searched among the miniature human figures on the shore. And Helga reflected for the millionth time since she had shown her father's letter to her mother that she really ought to find a way to give her parents some time together. Without her. More and more had she become convinced these past few weeks that her mother was – finally! – rekindling the embers of her old feelings for her father. And if anyone wanted to see those two happily together, it was she – Helga Lindner. She'd just have to find a way to detach herself from them now and then to give them some much needed privacy – no matter how much she herself longed to get to know her father.

Now all she could pray was that meeting him after all these years wouldn't turn out to be a massive disappointment. Especially not for her mother...

The ship moored at the quayside, and the passengers were summoned by loudspeaker to gather their belongings and prepare to go ashore. Irmgard and Helga joined in the expectant hustle and bustle that followed, and twenty minutes later, they finally set foot on American soil.

Irmgard heaved a sigh. "We're there, Helga."

"Not yet." Her daughter nodded to the customs officers in their little cabins ahead. "Only when we're past them, then we'll really be in America."

The queue progressed slowly. Some of their fellow passengers were sent to the left, others to the right. From what she had learned during the voyage, Helga noticed that apparently all American citizens were sent to the right. Yet also some of those who had claimed other nationalities were sent that way, instead of to the left where most of the non-Americans were directed.

Strange... But then, perhaps if her father had already arranged bail for them (as he most probably would have to, as she had learned), then they'd let the two of them through right away, too?

No such luck though. When they showed their papers, their names were copied onto a list, but they were both inexorably sent off to the left, and found themselves in a large, crowded room with barred windows high up in the wall. Men in uniform patrolled up on the catwalk a few meters above the ground.

Helga put down her small suitcase and sat down on it – failing any other suitable place to sit. "We're in prison," she said wryly.

"Your father will get us out. Soon." Irmgard was the last to lose faith now that she'd come so close.

Helga looked around at the mix of nationalities in the room, and listened to the variety of foreign languages spoken. "I've always wondered what it's like," she mused.

"What?"

"Being a prisoner. You can't help thinking about that when you work in a prison camp yourself – and are free to leave every day at half past five in the afternoon."

Her mother looked amused. "That American officer we met didn't strike me as a typical prisoner."

Helga chuckled. "He's not. Believe me – he's anything but an ordinary prisoner."

Suddenly a speaker system blared to life. "Miss Karin Jarryd, report to the office, please. Miss Karin Jarryd, to the office."

"I suppose she got her bail paid," Helga remarked as they watched a young lady who'd been with them on the boat scrambling her belongings together.

A few minutes later, the loudspeaker crackled again. "Mr. Leonardo Brunamonti and family, to the office, please. Mr. Leonardo Brunamonti and family, to the office."

The obviously Italian family attracted everybody's attention as father, mother and five children under the age of ten erupted in chaos to gather up their belongings. There was even a second call for them before they made it to the office, chattering and all.

Shortly after that, there was a call for a Mr. Hans van Dieren and family, for a Mr. Czeslaw Kleszcz (a name that proved to be a real tongue twister for the speaker, causing some chuckles among the waiting), for a Mrs. Soetkin Liekens, a Mr. Flemming Nygaard and family, a Mr. David Rubinstein and family, a Miss Niav Callaghan...

"Miss Irmgard Lindner and Miss Helga Lindner, please report to the office. Miss Irmgard..."

Before the announcement was completely repeated, they were already at the door. The guard took a doorhandle from his pocket and opened the door for them. And Irmgard practically rushed in. "George!"

She stopped dead in her tracks. There was only one man in the room – behind the desk. And there was no way he could be the George B. Hagley she had met twenty-five years ago.

"You got yourselves a bailsman, ladies," he said not unfriendly. "Here are your visitor's permits. They are valid for three months, so you will have to leave the country again on January the 16th. Is that understood?"

"Yes – yes, of course."

Helga glanced at her mother. She seemed absolutely distraught. So just to be sure, she accepted both their permits from the officer herself. "Thank you, sir."

He gave her a smile. "Well, enjoy your stay then, ladies!" He opened another door for them that opened up into a brightly lit arrival hall.

There were about two dozen people gathered there, in eager anticipation of their loved ones coming through that forbidding door.

But there was only one man whose breath caught in his throat at the sight of her – bearing such a close resemblance to the army nurse he had met and fallen in love with all those years ago. Her father.

His eyes however immediately darted to her companion. And she watched as their eyes locked – and never seemed to want to let go of each other again.

And they just stood there, the two of them, taking in each other without a word. A faint smile began to play around her mother's lips. Her father's features – creased with worry and grief – seemed to soften. And when in the end his hand hesitantly reached out to hers, and her grasping it firmly, Helga, too, felt tears gathering in her eyes as she understood that all would be well – and all would be well.

They were snapped out of their spell when another large, loud and chaotic Mediterranean family emerged from the office and were greeted by their equally loud and chaotic relatives.

George gently ushered Irmgard aside a little – and suddenly remembered Helga again. "So this is my daughter," were his very first words.

They took each other in and smiled simultaneously. And he said, "Let me give you that hug that's so long overdue."

And suiting the action to the word, he proved that from now on, she truly, honestly would have a real father.

"Two dozen detonator caps, half a dozen handguns with five dozen cartridges, six pairs of nylons, ten pounds of coffee, five boxes of firecrackers, five cans of powdered milk, two sachets of coriander and two with oregano, twenty roles of film, a box of chocolate bars, ten pounds of explosives, two roles of black material, a bottle of black printing ink, a magnifying glass, half a pound of peanuts, a new saucepan, a pack of pencils, a hundred packs of razor blades, a box with assorted needles, radioparts... hey, what's that?" Newkirk picked up the letter from among their latest supplies.

"To Colonel Robert E. Hogan, Stalag 13, Hamelburg, c/o Allied Headquarters, London, England," he read out loud. "Look, governor, you've got mail!"

Hogan took the letter from him. "Thank you, Newkirk."

"Who's it from?" Carter wanted to know.

Hogan looked at the return address, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. "I believe it's from our Fräulein Helga."

"You mean the girl who was Klink's secretary before Hilda? Gosh!" Carter's face lit up. "So she did send us a postcard!"

"Not a postcard – a letter," LeBeau scoffed, only to continue in a pleading tone, "What does she write, Colonel?"

Hogan tore open the envelope, and their supplies forgotten, the men crowded around him to read along.

Detroit, January 5th, 1944

Dear Colonel Hogan,

I really must write to you now to tell you how grateful I am for what you've done for us.

As you can see, we are in Detroit now. It is very different from Germany, but I'm doing my best to get to know the culture and the habits of my American half, and most of the time I'm enjoying the adventure of it very much.

My father is a wonderful man. He met us upon our arrival in New York, and he truly is the kindest man you will ever meet. I can easily imagine my mother falling in love with him at the time, no matter how brief their acquaintance was.

We stayed a few days in New York first. We did a bit of sightseeing together, though both my mother and I found the enormity of the buildings and all the illuminated advertisements glaring everywhere rather overwhelming.

When he became aware that my mother had nothing but her matron's uniform to wear, my father insisted on buying her a new wardrobe, and in the passing got me a few things, too. Believe me, I've never felt so beautiful in my life as that first time I tried on an American dress!

After a few days, we travelled on to Detroit. Downtown Detroit is somewhat like New York, but my father lives in a quiet and green residential suburb.

We settled into his guestroom, and were just preparing to really get to know about each other's lives when Martin's letter came. You can imagine that my father was over the moon with relief and happiness after all these months, and I'm ever so glad that our scheme worked out. Please keep my brother safe for me?

In the weeks that followed, we simply lived together and enjoyed each other's company. I don't think I had ever before seen my mother so quietly happy. But my father, too, was obviously cheered up by our presence. From what he told us, he must have been very lonely these past years since his wife died – especially when he lost his youngest son to the war and the older seemed to have disappeared off the face of the earth.

He got me a job as a secretary at the hospital where he works, but my mother preferred to stay home and help the housekeeper keep house for him. It was yet another sign of what I had seen coming from the first moment I saw them together, and indeed, by mid December they came to me – rather embarrassed, I thought – and told me that they wanted to get married.

I was delighted, but not a bit surprised. I had observed them together for two months now, and couldn't fail to notice how much they care for each other, how well they get along, and how happy the other's presence makes them. Perhaps they lack the passionate love of youth, but it was glaringly obvious that they'd be far less happy without the other than together. And not even the most pronounced differences between Germany and America could stop my mother this time from finally following her heart, and I must say, she has settled in here with much more ease than I had expected.

Things had to be organized rather hastily because of the expiration date of our permits, so they got married in a small private ceremony just after Christmas. And if I thought it was the happiest day of my life to finally see my parents united in marriage, I can tell you that I was wrong.

For yesterday, my father showed me some government form, all filled out except for the signature at the bottom. "If you agree," he said, "I will sign this and send it off to the council. And from that moment on, you will be my daughter – even officially."

It was as if the little girl in me – the one who so desperately wanted to know about her father – finally came home.

So thank you, Colonel Hogan. It was only due to your invaluable help that the happiness of these three people was finally made possible. And now I can only pray that my brother, too, will see the happiness of his father and be able to rejoice in it with us.

So thank you.

Yours truly, signing now

Helga Hagley

George lay on his side, leaning on his elbow and watching his wife as she got ready for bed.

A smile played around his lips. It was something he found you couldn't really explain to today's youngsters, but he still thought she was one of the most beautiful creatures he ever beheld. For the body may age, and the mind may weather the storms of life, but inside, your feelings weren't all that different from theirs. From those of a 28-year-old army doctor who fell head over heels in love with the brave nurse from the opposing side.

And here she was. She stepped into bed beside him and ensconced herself in his arms.

He kissed her and drew her close.

It all was so natural now. So unlike their first night together, when their mutual awkwardness and embarrassment, as well as his own resurfacing memories of Lucy, and consequently of Ted, had made things so very difficult. They had lain awake talking most of their wedding night, and for the first time in all these years had he opened up, and in her arms had he cried out the grief he had bottled up for so long.

Apparently, that was just what their own rekindled relationship had needed, for ever since, it had been entirely natural to sleep together. Almost as if they'd never known any different. And to hold each other, caress the other, kiss each other... and make love together.

Like now.

And when she finally lay there with her head on his chest, still slightly out of breath, she looked up at him with those beaming blue eyes of hers. And there was her loving whisper. "I love you, George."

And he beamed back at her. "I love you, too."

He was the happiest man on earth.

The End

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