Eindhoven, Netherlands - September 1944
Slowing bleeding to death in a stranger's kitchen was not how Ilse Königsmann expected to spend her afternoon. The appearance of American and British troops were a surprise as well. The men who had saved her from an execution had turned their attention to more important matters. Ilse was no longer the most exciting thing in Eindhoven and she was going to die because of it.
Of course, Ilse never expected to outlive the war, not with the burden of sins she had to carry at all times. The sins against the Führer were tucked neatly into the back of Ilse's mind. Should they be uncovered, her life wouldn't be the only one forfeited. There were other sins too, crimes against God which ate at her heart. The sins of the heart fueled the sins of her mind and the years of juggling it all had worn heavily on the young woman. Her death would come sooner, rather than later, she knew. It was right around the corner awaiting a stroke of bad luck or a mistake on her part. And she had promised herself she wouldn't resist the cold clutches of death when they came for her. She was prepared for the inevitable. She wouldn't cry or struggle against the way of all things. Or so she had believed.
Death had come for her on a sunny early autumn day in Holland. It was her day off, the one time when she was free from the responsibility of the makeshift hospital and her countrymen's superficial injuries. She was enjoying the isolation of her tiny apartment and the pages of a forbidden book she had found on a dusty top shelf of the small library down the street. She had confiscated it in the name of Führer but never with the intention of burning it. She was half through A Farewell to Arms when a loud knock shook the old cedar door on its hinges. Without hesitation, Ilse kicked Hemingway under her overburdened dresser before opening the door.
It was Lieutenant Krause, flanked by two men she didn't recognize, both dressed in the greyish green uniforms of the Gestapo. Fear grew in the pit of her stomach. Krause stepped into her apartment without a word, hands resting behind his back and with an odd look on his older face. He was the same age as Ilse's father but he somehow looked much older with his completely gray hair and sagging jowls. The differences were more ironic when Ilse remembered that this was Paul Krause's first war, since the newly-minted Lieutenant had used his political ties to avoid the front nearly thirty years earlier. Ilse's father wasn't as lucky. Krause had ignored his duty to the motherland when Germans were dying by the thousands only to use those same privileges to land a comfortable commission in a defeated country. Ilse hated him for that. Meanwhile, her father was somewhere in Italy, trying to outlast wave after wave of British and American troops.
Krause spoke without looking at her, preferring to criticize the messy interior of her apartment. Had she collected too much stuff or was her apartment too small, Ilse wasn't sure. Not that any of it mattered now. Ilse was being sent back to Berlin to answer questions. About what, Krause wouldn't tell her but Ilse had a few ideas regarding potential topics. Am I under arrest, she had asked. No, of course not. A lie. Why else would Nazi secret police be standing in her doorway. Ilse wasn't permitted to leave her apartment until the SS transport arrived to return her to Germany. She would probably never make it to Berlin. A roadside interrogation and execution were most likely, if she were lucky.
But then word of the planes that had cut across the sky, dropping soldiers onto the Dutch countryside reached Eindhoven. There would be no transport to Berlin today. Still, Ilse's undisclosed crimes needed dealing with.
This time there was no knock on the door before one of the Gestapo barged into Ilse's apartment. It would have been an easy death for Ilse, a quick bullet to the head instead of the drawn out ordeal she would have to endure if her captors had sufficient time. But that innate human desire to survive conquered Ilse's embrace of death and she found herself in a struggle with her would be assassin. She had managed to knock the gun away but not before the man got a shot off, the bullet planting itself in the wall just over her bed. Now, the two Germans were struggling on the floor of a Dutch apartment, each trying to get the upper hand. Ilse was fighting for her life; the officer was fighting to take it from her. Meanwhile, a celebration was beginning outside.
The man was larger than her and it didn't take much for him to throw her to the floor, her head smacking dangerously off the hardwood. A strong hand took hold of her neck and held her to the floor while simultaneously blocking her airway. Ilse could hear nothing but the sound of her heartbeat echoing in her ears while the man slowly squeezed the air and life from her body. But then the knife entered her line of sight. Reflecting the dim light of her apartment, the long blade was quickly pressed to Ilse's throat. She felt the sharp metal slice through the skin of her neck just under her chin and the pain had Ilse flailing about trying to push the man and his knife away from her.
Having collaborated with the Dutch Resistance for nearly two years now, Ilse was always awaiting the moment when the Gestapo would come for her. She just hadn't expected it to occur in the middle of an Allied invasion. She also knew that killing her so soon wasn't protocol. All resistance members and their collaborators were to be taken alive and questioned. One's punishment usually resulted in how munch information a person gave up. Sing like a nightingale and a few years of hard labor would be enough to forgive your crimes. A firing squad was usually the last thing those who refused to speak would ever see. But no one had asked Ilse any questions at all before attempting to kill her. That wasn't Nazi policy. Unless this wasn't punishment for collaborating with the enemy. Maybe this was about a different type of treason, one where any cooperation on her part wouldn't be able to save her. No, she thought, her lungs screaming for air. She had gone to great lengths and had spent years covering up that crime. No, somehow the Germans had discovered that she been giving aide to the Dutch and they had sent an overly eager officer to deal with her.
Either way, it didn't matter. Because Ilse was certain the man was going to strangle her to death or finish slitting her throat. Then the door burst open once again.
Two shots rang out and the pressure on Ilse's throat disappeared. A coughing fit ensued as her body tried to force air back into her lungs as the body of the dead officer collapsed to the floor next to her. The young woman turned her watering eyes to his body. He had been shot in the back of the head but his face was still looking murderously at her, though his eyes had gone dark. She stared into his blue eyes, the same color as her own. Blood poured from the wound in his head to the floor where it mixed with Ilse's, soaking into her clothes and staining her skin.
Hands shaking her pulled her attention away from the man's body. Pain erupted in her neck from the sudden movement causing Ilse to scream. She focused her eyes to the space above her and she saw a man standing there. She didn't recognize him, but she did know what the orange armband represented. He was a member of the Dutch Resistance, now empowered by the German retreat from Eindhoven. He was a short brown haired man, reminding Ilse's of her husband and so many German men back home, though she doubted he would have appreciated her comparison. His mouth was moving quickly and it was clear he was yelling at her, but she couldn't hear him over the ringing in her ears. Bored with her deafness and the man standing above her, Ilse moved her eyes back to her officer's body and looked at his face. He could have been her brother, if she hadn't been an only child. He had the same blue eyes as Ilse, through hers were still alive and paler in color. She could see blonde under his cap, a few shades darker and shorter than Ilse's own. The similarities stopped with their chins, which were both slightly pointed. Whereas his nose was round, Ilse had inherited the long, angular nose from her mother. In regards to her appearance, it was the only thing she got from her mother's side of the family.
Blood had began to soak into the man's grey uniform. She noticed that blood had splatter across the imperial eagle stitched above the right breast pocket, turning the usually white swastika red. She remembered that the SS had always taken such special care when it came to their uniforms; all Nazis did. She could tell the man was proud to wear his uniform. Ilse took a bit of pride in the possibility that it was her blood that was now slowly ruining the wool fabric that was a symbol of what the man had died for.
Her thoughts were interrupted when hands began to pull her upwards, with no regards for her injury. Ilse clenched her teeth to keep from screaming again as the Dutchman pulled her to her feet. She gave no resistance as the man dragged her from the small apartment she had once called a temporary home, and into the street. He marched Ilse down a couple of blocks before pulling her into a house. She was moved quickly into a small kitchen where a small, elderly lady stood over a stove and Ilse was forced down into a wooden chair. The man pointed a finger at her, said something in Dutch before turning around and walking back out, leaving her with the old woman and a young boy standing in the doorway, carrying a rifle across his back.
Holland was just as the British advertised. Green fields, fresh air and full of retreating Germans. The large street celebration was unexpected but welcome, despite the logistical obstacles it created, particularly with the British tanks.
Lewis Nixon was in the middle of discussing bridges and tanks with the local Dutch Resistance leader when a man, also with an orange armband, politely but anxiously interrupted. He spoke quickly in Dutch, pointing down the street. When Nixon's eyes fell on the blood smeared on his hands and shirt, the uneasiness in his stomach grew. When the two were finished speaking, the leader turned back towards the American officers. "There's a woman. A German woman who's been helping us," he explained, nodding in the direction the other man had pointed. "The Germans tried to kill her right when your planes flew over. You should talk to her. She should be helpful."
Curiosity stirred in Nixon's stomach. "Königsmann?" The Dutchman nodded as Dick gave Nixon a confused look, eyebrows raised. "Lead the way."
"You know the woman?" Dick asked as they pushed their way through the crowd of people. Harry kept close by so he could hear as well.
Nixon nodded. "I know of her. Her name appeared a few times in the Holland reports from the OSS. She's been stationed here as a combat nurse for a couple years. Her husband's a Party member and her father is a damn general with the 10th Army but here she is stealing ration books and passing information to the Dutch." Either the woman was very brave or very stupid, or maybe both. To their knowledge, she had no training in clandestine activities or intelligence. She was just a nurse with probably too much time on her hands. The fact that Ilse Königsmann had survived this long undetected surprised him. It almost caused him to bounce with curiosity as they headed in her direction. "We should probably find a translator too."
Nearly half an hour had passed since Ilse was all but carried into the kitchen. In that time, the German woman discovered the full extent of her injuries. The Gestapo officer's knife had carved not only her throat but also her arms from where she had struggled. Her right forearm looked as though she had gotten into a wrestling match with a panther with dozens of cuts littering her skin, all bleeding slowly. The old Dutch lady had tried to examine the slash in younger girl's neck, certainly the most pressing of her injuries, but the boy had prohibited it. Ilse didn't deserve their help. Instead, she was simply given a clean dish cloth to hold against the wound and pray she didn't bleed out before Ilse could convince them of her usefulness.
The cut couldn't have been too deep considering she was still breathing. But Ilse needed to stop the bleeding; the flower embroidered cloth had absorbed its capacity a few minutes ago, rendering it useless. But there was no one around who could help her, who would help her. The old lady had been kicked out of her own kitchen some time ago and the resistance leader's attention was elsewhere, as was his presence, leaving Ilse to stare at her guard, a boy who appeared to be no older than fifteen, in silence. She was their prisoner; but her capture had been pushed aside when planes flew over and men started falling from the sky. She could feel her body going numb from the blood loss, blood that had already stained her white blouse red. Tired, Ilse had resigned to watching her blood drip onto the yellow tiled floor when she heard footsteps enter the kitchen.
In the lead was a Dutchman she did recognize. Mr. Van Kooijk had been the man she passed information to for two years, though they still didn't particularly like each other. None of the Dutch liked her very much, even if they did know of the aid she had provided them over the years. He wore a proud smirk on his face that bordered on arrogance. But the woman's attention was quickly drawn to those standing behind him. There were four of them, dressed in dark green uniforms complete with guns and helmets. The small brown screaming eagle stitched onto their shoulders confirmed that they were American.
The three soldiers in front exchanged looks with each other, clearly confused by what they saw. One of the men stepped forward a little and removed his helmet, revealing his red hair underneath. Van Kooijk followed in the American's steps. With her arm growing heavy, Valeria removed the cloth from her injured neck and tossed the bloody thing onto the nearby kitchen table. Nearly the entirety of her white shirt was now covered in blood, causing to fabric to cling to her skin awkwardly. Her hands were bloody as well and Ilse was having difficulty keeping them from trembling. Her blonde hair had fallen out of its bun and strands now stuck to her face with sweat and blood. And though she couldn't see it, judging by the soreness of her throat she was sure she had bruising around her neck from where the officer had choked her. Ilse was a mess. And van Kooijk's smiling face was grating on her nerves.
"For years, I helped you people survive and this is the thanks I get?" She asked, eyeing the short Dutchman as she chided the man in German. "Manhandled and left to die?" Whispering amongst the Americans caught her attention. The soldier in the back was translating her words for the others. Ilse frowned at that.
Mr. van Kooijk ignored her complaints, responding in his less than perfect German accent. "The Americans need to ask you some questions."
The young woman pretended to consider his statement for a moment. "Is that so? Tell them to speak quickly because I'm running out of blood." In truth, most of the bleeding had stopped but she still needed someone to stitch up her throat, least she open the wound back up. She knew her position. The minute she talked, any leverage she had disappeared. Either the Dutch would kill her themselves simply because she was a German behind enemy lines or they would allow her wounds to do the job.
More whispering among the Americans occurred before the translator in the back spoke. Ilse couldn't quite make out his face but his German was much better than any Dutch person she had spoken to over the past few years but it was clear by this accent that he wasn't a native born German. "How far are the Germans retreating?" Ilse didn't quite know that answer but acting like she did was the thin edge her life was balanced on.
Returning her eyes to bloody hands as she slouched back in the chair, Ilse shrugged her shoulders. "I'm a too little busy dying to talk."
Van Kooijk huffed. "Speak the truth or your treatment will worsen."
Ilse couldn't help but snort at that. "You shouldn't make threats you can't follow through on. It makes you look weak." Suddenly, a rough hand grabbed her injured arm and twisted. A short high pitch scream escaped her lips. Her vision blurred by a pool of tears as she looked towards the ceiling. The sharp pain was quickly replaced by anger and shame at her weak outburst. A string out curses left her mouth, directed at no one in particular. When she finally opened her eyes, the Dutchman was gone, leaving her alone with the four Americans.
"Tell her we sent for a medic to have a look at her injuries." The redheaded man said, looking over his shoulder at the translator.
Ilse shook her head, annoyed with the back and forth between languages. "I speak English just fine."
The half-dead girl had sung like a canary, giving up everything from the number of troops and tanks to their intended destination. And in nearly perfect English. She had given them concrete answers to all their questions and had barely flinched when Doc started poking around her wound. When he tried to give her morphine before stitching her skin back together, she had refused. Instead, Nixon had noticed she was eyeing a bottle wine that rested atop a shelf on the opposite wall of the kitchen.
"Don't move your head," Roe ordered a moment later, gently moving her head to the side once more. "It'll go faster that way." Annoyance crept into her face and Lewis Nixon couldn't help but grin. Nonetheless, she kept her head at the awkward angle. Nixon looked around the kitchen. Harry and Dick had left to see to the rest of Easy Company and alert the British about the newly gained intelligence and Mr. von Kooijk had been kicked out after his argument with the girl, leaving just him and Roe alone with the German woman. Liebgott had wanted to stay as well but with his presence now unneeded he was sent back to his squad.
When the woman's face twisted in pain at the needle that passing through her skin, Nixon grabbed the bottle of wine off the shelf and crossed the room to where she sat precariously and handed it to her.
Her blue eyes looked at him suspiciously but she took the bottle and tossed the cork on the table. Roe looked like he was wanted to knock the bottle out of her hands but with his own covered in blood and holding an already sterilized needle, he decided against it.
Despite having poured out numerous secrets that would certainly lead to the death of more than a few of her countrymen, Ilse Königsmann didn't trust them. And judging by the looks she gave the Dutch, she didn't trust nor like them either. She took a decent sized swig, somehow managing not to spill any or move her head from the ordered position. When her grip on the bottle began to slip, Nixon took the bottle from her. Again, she looked at him with unfriendly eyes. The color blue had never looked so hostile.
"So, you're a nurse?" He asked, deciding to break the silence. Unable to nodded, she raised an eyebrow in confirmation. "Since when do Germans put women on the front lines?"
With another angry look, she answered. "It wasn't a front line when I got here," she pointed out. "I was part of an occupation force. You're the ones who decided to jump out of airplanes and into enemy territory."
Nixon let out a quiet laugh at that, and some of the serious disappeared from her face. "What's your name?" He asked finally, even though he already knew..
"Ilse Königsmann." She answered, looking over at Roe instead of at him. The medic had finished stitching and bandaging the cut on her neck and was never examining the ones on her forearm. None of them were deep enough to require stitches so Doc just wrapped her arm in gauze. When he was done, Ilse rose to her feet and reached for the bottle of wine still in Nixon's hand. He gave it to her, taking the opportunity to look her over.
She was a bit taller than other women Nixon knew, reaching the same height as himself. He looked down to see that an extra couple of inches were due to the black leather boots she wore. Tucked into them were a pair of black trousers followed by a now bloody white blouse. The only jewelry she wore was a thin gold band on her ring finger. Her hair, which was also stained with blood, was a pale blonde color and fell to the middle of her back. She had small breasts and thick thighs that gave her an athletic look. If Nixon had to bet, he was sure she could throw a good punch if she felt the need.
Now that he was finished, Roe gave the usual speech about taking it easy for a few days and Ilse nodded in agreement and said her thank you.
"Is all of that your blood?" Nixon asked as Ilse began to roll the bloody sleeves up away from her clean bandage. She shook her head but didn't elaborate. "I'm Captain Lewis Nixon, by the way." He offered his hand and she shook it, her grip firm, but the suspicious look had returned.
After taking one last swig of wine, Ilse put the cork back in the bottle and set it gently on the table, almost reluctantly. "Well, Captain Nixon. What's next?"
With a smirk, Nixon grabbed the bottle off the table. "Follow me."
"Where are we going?"
"Somewhere more secure than a stranger's kitchen."