The next few days were uneventful, besides the fact that Jacqueline was slowly healing. The colonel was gone most of the day and by the time he had gotten home, Jacqueline was fast asleep. She never thought about what the colonel might have been doing at work; she knew he was killing men and hunting Jews, but no part of her wanted to think any further than that.

A lot of her time was spent sleeping and walking around the townhouse thinking to herself. While she slept, she often thought about her father. She would reminisce in the memories she had of her father, and the little she had of her mother. She thought about her house, her room, her violin, her friends, her neighbors, and her books. She found herself aching for someone's gentle touch and the sound of laughter in a room. Although the medicine was healing her, the memories were suffocating her.

She had learned early on in life that grief and death were a part of living. After days of grieving her father's death, Jacqueline slowly learned how to keep her emotions in tact while thinking of him. From the day she woke up in the hospital bed, something inside her had changed. Her vivid spirit had morphed into a black and white picture. She never felt her age but it was then that she began feeling as if she aged ten years.

One morning, she sat up with a sharp pain in her temples as she woke up from a nightmare. In it, she saw a flaming house in front of her as she felt gravel against her skin. It wasn't until she noticed herself being picked up from the ground that she woke up – the dream was all too real.

Instead of getting up from bed, she laid in bed for another hour before a knock came from the door.

"Mademoiselle, I've brought breakfast," Gustave said in a thick French accent

"Oh, please come in," she replied quietly

She and Gustave formed a sort of friendship during her stay. Although they said very little to each other, they were fond of each other's presence.

He walked into her room with a tray filled with fruits, toast, and eggs with a glass of milk. The headache pulsated against her temples as she forged a smile at the food in front of her.

"Merci beaucoup, Gustave,"

"It's not a problem, mademoiselle,"

"Please, I insist you call me Jacqueline,"

He replied with a smile, "As you wish. You look ill, can I get you anything?"

"I think it's a side effect from the medication, aside from the fatigue,"

"What about the nightmares?"

Her eyes bolted up at him, "What?"

"I'm sorry, it's not my place to ask," he replied as he made his way toward the door

"Non, I'm sorry – how do you know about the nightmares?"

Gustave hesitated before answering, "The colonel overheard you talking – and sometimes screaming- in your sleep. He gave me strict instructions to make sure you are well fed and taken care of,"

"He did?"

"Oui. Sometimes he would come into your room and take the liberty to wipe off the sweat from your face,"

So his hands were the ones she felt at night.

"I see," she said as she poked at her food, "I believe the nightmares are from the medication as well," she lied.

"In any case, the colonel mentioned you liked books,"

"Oh really? What else has he mentioned?"

"Not much, mademoiselle. But I have noticed you have no entertainment around here, so I took a book from the library for you to read,"

He handed her the novel For Whom the Bell Tolls by Ernest Hemingway.

"I hope you do not mind that it is in English,"

"Thank you, Gustave. You didn't have to go through all that trouble,"

"It was no trouble at all, Jacqueline," he smiled

"I didn't know there was a library here,"

"It's always kept locked. The colonel preferrs it that way,"

I wonder why, she thought. She knew the colonel was a private man, but why did he find the need to lock a library in his own home?

"I see. Thank you again, Gustave," she replied as he left the room.

Jacqueline had only read a few novels in English, but her father was always a fan of Hemingway. She flipped open the novel and began reading. She read and read until she lost herself in the pages as the throbbing in her skull went away after each word her eyes walked over.

It was a little after twelve in the afternoon when the colonel arrived at his townhouse. He entered his home, making sure not to slam the door as to not wake up Jacqueline.

Gustave greeted him at the door and hung up Landa's heavy coat and hat. The colonel looked like hadn't slept for days and he dragged his body up the stairs and slumped into the chair behind his desk. It was cluttered with papers concerning Jacqueline, her family, and the Basterds. He picked up a picture of Jacqueline and he felt his eyes soften at the sight of her.

A feeling in his chest grew as he leaned the picture against the desk lamp and cleared his desk of the clutter of papers. He had not talked to Jacqueline since that night at the dinner table. When she had nightmares, an aching in his stomach overtook his mind and body. It was an ache that made him want to wrap himself around Jacqueline – an ache he had seldom felt before. He heard the door open.

"Colonel, I have made you some tea seeing as coffee will deprive you of more sleep,"

"Merci, Gustave,"

"Sugar?"

"No, this is fine. How is Mademoiselle Benoit?"

"She isn't too well, Colonel,"

Landa stopped drinking his tea and shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Is that so?"

"Oui. She didn't come down for breakfast so I brought it to her and she looked as pale as the walls,"

"Did she take her medicine?"

"Oui,"

"What is she doing now?"

"I believe she is resting, Colonel. Would you like me to go and check on her?"

"No, that's fine. Go on with your duties, s'il vous plait"

Gustave bowed to the colonel before leaving the weary man in his study. The thought of Jacqueline tossing and turning in pain made him put down his tea and storm out of the chair and into the hallway.

He opened the door ever so slightly to take a peek inside her room and saw an empty bed. He opened the door wider and the sound of wood creaking made her turn around from the window. Her face lit up at his presence as the colonel stepped foot into her room.

"Bonjour, Colonel,"

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle,"

"Forgive me for not being properly dressed,"

"No worries, I just came to see how you were. Gustave mentioned you weren't feeling well,"

"I believe it's just the side effect from the medication,"

"I will schedule an appointment with the doctor as soon as he is available,"

She knew it was useless to impose otherwise, so she kept her mouth shut and nodded at the colonel. He glanced at the bedside table and noticed Hemingway's novel resting there facing down.

"I see Gustave has chosen a novel for you,"

"Yes, and I'm very thankful that you are allowing me to read it,"

"I believe good literature is meant to be read and not stored in some dusty closet," he sighed as he dragged a finger over the novel's spine

"Then why do you keep your library locked?"

She saw the colonel's eyes drop to the floor as his jaws clenched.

"Forgive me, Colonel I did not mean to-"

"How are you liking it?"

"Excuse me?"

"What are your thoughts on the novel, Jacqueline?" he asked with a chuckle. He walked towards her and took a seat across from hers in front of the window. He crossed his legs and their feet barely touched.

"I'm not an expert on English literature, but Hemingway certainly has a way with words,"

"I agree," he said, urging her to continue

"When you read his words, you can feel the honesty in them. Brutal honesty, beautiful truth. His words were meant to be written, meant to be read and cherished,"

"It seems Hemingway isn't the only one who has a way with words," he replied with a smile

She couldn't help but smile back. She looked up and met Hans' steady gaze. The coldness she had first witnessed in his eyes at the hospital were replaced with a certain warmth. There was a moment of silence between them before she spoke.

"My father loved Hemingway. He always urged me to read his work but I never had the time,"

"Your father has extraordinary taste- in literature, at least. As far as his choice in acquaintances and allegiances go, I can't say he- "

"Colonel, please," she interrupted, "I understand you aren't fond of my father's choices, but please –"

"Who's your favorite author, Jacqueline?" he asked as he changed the subject

"Marcel Proust," she gulped

"You have nice taste, mademoiselle,"

"Merci,"

Silence filled the room as her anger subsided. The colonel took out a cigar case and handed one to Jacqueline.

"In case you have forgotten colonel, smoke is the reason I am unwell,"

"Of course, how foolish of me," he replied as he stuffed the case back in his pocket.

"Do you mind me asking you a personal question, Hans?"

He raised his eyebrows – not because of the question, but because he relished the sound of his name being spoken from her lovely mouth.

"Please," he said as his smile grew wider

"How many people have you killed?"

His smile nearly vanished but he made an attempt to keep his face light-hearted. His eyes tore through her gaze and she felt the throbbing in her temples return. He took his eyes away from her and stared at the window, taking in a sharp breath of air.

"I'm afraid I do not keep count of men I have killed,"

"What about the women and children?"

He breathed in again and licked his lips, "I do not keep count of the amount of people I have killed. I only keep count of those I have not found – for those are the only ones that hold my interest,"

"Do you not abhor yourself, knowing how many people's lives you have taken?"she felt herself stiffen after realizing what she had just said.

"Jacqueline, there is one thing you must understand about my job. It is a job – not a political statement or matter of opinion. I am good at what I do. My first intention is not to kill people, it is to find them. They are only killed if that is the suitable option. The uniform I wear every day does not matter to me, as long as I do my job right,"

"But you do know what that uniform stands for?"

"I am not oblivious, mademoiselle. And I suggest that you remember who you are talking to," he replied, his eyes hardening.

She stood up from her seat and walked towards the door to open it. Her legs were shaky and she felt as if her throat was too dry to say anything else. Within a few seconds, the colonel caught up to her and stood underneath the door frame.

"I do hope you enjoy that novel, mademoiselle,"

"Th-thank you," she uttered

"Hopefully, as you read, you will understand what I mean,"

"About what?"

He sighed and straightened his shirt before looking her in the eyes, "You never kill anyone you want to kill in a war," he said with a stern face.

She stared at him, trying to put together what he had just said. She felt as if he was talking in a different language and noticed her mind go blank.

His wide smile returned to his face, "Get well, Jacqueline,"

With that, he walked down the hallway and into his study. Jacqueline heard his door shut and she felt herself go numb – a familiar feeling. She lay back in bed and picked up the novel to continue reading. As she read, she thought of no one else but the colonel. She imagined his voice reading her the beautiful words from the pages and pretended he was next to her as she read. She knew this man was a monster, but she felt herself compelled to grow closer with him.

The line "You never kill anyone you want to kill in a war" is from Ernest Hemingway's novel For Whom The Bell Tolls. I do not own it.

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