Hello! This is going to be a shorter chapter, but I hope to post again before the end of the week so keep a look out.
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"So what exactly did you do?"
I rip my eyes from the steaming bowl in his hand to meet his stare. My stomach rumbles as the smell of the soup fills the cellar and I sink further down in my seat against the wall, holding myself so the groans don't travel to his hearing. He watches me expectantly.
"For what?" For a split second I think he is asking how I ended up here and my heart sinks in my chest. He doesn't know that I am not on the farm by choice. There's no way.
"My side. What did you do to fix it?" He eats another spoonful and I follow the movement. It took the can of salt pork and two jars of vegetables, but it should feed him for a couple of days.
"The book said to flush out the infection and give you penicillin, so that's what I did." I leave out how I took a scalpel to his insides and his frightening hallucinations. He still looks perturbed about his cigarettes and I know my standing with him continues to be precarious.
My finger is on my lips and I chew on the nail.
"You took out the stitches then? It feels strange – did you sew it back up?"
I pull my hand away from my mouth. "It needs to stay open for a couple more days. It's filled with antiseptic and gauze right now. I'll need to change it before you go back to sleep."
"Where'd you get the book from?" He continues to interrogate, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. I rub my tired face and sigh.
"I borrowed it from Greta. I told her I was thinking about volunteering at the aid station."
"Are you?"
"No."
"Why not?"
I look at him, judging what he is trying to learn with this line of questions. His figure on the cot is relaxed, but maybe purposefully so. The tension in him is still there, showing in the tightness around his eyes and the harder-than-needed grip on the bowl. He is forcing himself to talk to me, breaking the pattern of cruelty and suspicion marking the last couple of days. Most likely because he knows I am the only source of information about what is going on outside these walls.
It was only a few hours ago that he tried to kill me. I don't know why he's decided to play nice now. When I first came down here I was hanging on the fact that he didn't follow through with shooting both me and Greta in the yard and that he had possibly come to his senses. Hopefully he's realized that his best chance of survival is staying put. He won't ever find out about my shaky deliberations the first night he was here; if anything, he needs to be convinced that I will hide him no matter what.
"I don't have the time," I say neutrally as I get up from the floor. Any other answer would just bring the discussion around to why I was a member of the Party even though I clearly don't even support my side in the war. "Would you like some more soup?"
He goes to give me his empty bowl when his hand stops in midair.
"Aren't you having any?" he asks, brow furrowing.
"I ate earlier." A lie. He needs to eat to regain his strength. I don't want him to ration himself because the supplies are low.
His mouth thins, but he doesn't say anything as I take the dish from him and go up the ladder.
My head aches and I push my hair off my forehead with the splint when I reach the main floor. The sun is fading through the windows, chilling the house as I make my way to the kitchen. The tension down there is wearing. It's a never-ending dance of watchful stares and circumspect thoughts that would be exhausting even if this wasn't the end of the third day of this nightmare.
If I wasn't constantly reminding myself that this is my only chance to atone for the past I would have run off to Greta's ages ago. With as awful as Joseph has been I can't help but wonder if this is some sort of divine intervention to ensure I've earned my forgiveness.
There are no second chances, Caroline. I'll be watching.
Pushing back a shiver, I refill the bowl and bank the coals again underneath the pot.
Getting the soup down the ladder the first time wasn't easy with one hand. The second time isn't any better and I grit my teeth when it splashes onto my shirt from the crook of my elbow.
"Give it to me," a voice intones by my ear. I look over to find Joseph standing next to the ladder, still looking pale despite the first helping of food. I freeze at his proximity and he snatches the bowl from my arm, quickly moving away as he stirs it curiously.
"Did you put anything in this?" he asks, his tone unreadable. What did he mean by that?
"Besides pork and vegetables?" I stumble the rest of the way down the ladder.
"You should have some." His voice is off, like he isn't talking about my hunger anymore.
"I told you I already ate." I say as I look at my wet sleeve.
He draws near and holds the bowl out to me, his face expressionless. "I'm not asking."
"What is the problem?" I ask, shaking my arm dry before meeting his gaze. The hardness is back and I swallow with the awareness that something is wrong.
"You're lying."
The implication of his words rings in the air. "You think I've poisoned you?" I can't help the incredulity that creeps into my tone.
His jaw twitches and he pushes the bowl at me. "One spoonful."
A bark of disbelief emerges from my mouth. "After everything that has happened, you think I am going to finish you off with some soup?"
"Just fucking do it," he replies through gritted teeth.
I stare at him, anger bubbling in me despite who I am dealing with. He is being completely irrational. "What if I don't? You've already eaten it. If there was poison in it there is nothing you can do now."
"Then you better hope it acts quickly," he glowers dangerously and my pulse quickens in warning.
"Really? You won't extend me just a little bit of trust?" I counter.
He looks away and takes a deep breath, as if he were controlling himself.
"I followed your plan with your friend. I'm not tying you up. I am trusting you. But I still want you to eat...the...goddamn..soup."
The last words are drawn out and he looks at me again, signaling that my choice in what to do here is limited.
"I've done nothing but help you." My voice drops and I feel the fabric of my skirt clenched between my fingers on my good hand.
"You're still a Nazi," he says with finality.
He had me there and he knew it. That is all I'm ever going to come down to, isn't it? A Nazi to him, a traitor to everyone else.
My chest deflates as the fight in me peters back out into the familiar despair. Silently I snatch the spoon from the bowl in his hand and drain it into my mouth. The taste is hot and savory and my stomach immediately cramps, wanting more.
I hold the spoon out to him. "Happy?" I want to be biting, but my voice only sounds defeated to my ears.
He is silent and takes the spoon from me, finally releasing me from his scrutiny as he moves back over to the cot. Wordlessly he starts eating again, as if our conversation hasn't happened. I give a ragged sigh and go to light the lamp. The glow from the stove is dying and there isn't any more firewood. There is only one lamp for the house, trapping me down here unless I want to sit upstairs in the dark.
We don't speak as the minutes tick by and he finishes the second bowl. I resume my seat against the wall, not bothering to look at him and chewing on my nails.
Stop, Caroline. I'm not going to tell you again.
I drop my hand into my lap.
He is not a normal person. Even though we are on opposite sides of the conflict outside, a normal person would recognize the lengths I am going to keep him alive. A normal person would be grateful, or at least try to cooperate for that sake of our mutual survival.
Instead he butts heads with me at every turn, throwing baseless accusations with the abandon of a man who can't appreciate anything that doesn't fit in his worldview. His mind has slapped a title on me and he has ceased to consider anything else to change his opinion. After the three days I have been in his company I can tell he is a person quick to anger and slow to empathize. His obstinate nature and rigid focus are well practiced, as is his harsh demeanor. Whether the pain of the bloodshed that brought him here built such defenses or some other reason I don't know.
What I do know is that although I pity him, I don't like him. He is a ticking time bomb sitting in my cellar, an unwelcome guest who may be my route to Heaven but is unpleasant company all the same. The sooner he heals enough to leave the better.
There is a soft scrape of porcelain as he places the bowl on the ground, tugging me out of my stewing. His eyes catch mine from the cot. I stare expressionlessly back at him.
"Did you say something about needing to change the gauze?" His voice breaks into the stalemate, sounding tired.
I nod and rise to my feet to go back upstairs. He stays on the cot, not saying anything else.
In the darkness I find the wash basket with the dried bandages from the line earlier. I grab a handful and the bucket and slowly make my way back down to the cellar.
He is pulling off his undershirt as I turn towards him and the black shadows brush along his skin as the muscles underneath move. As I approach he leans away, exposing his side to me. His indecipherable gaze is stuck on the wall across from him and doesn't waver in my direction, gratefully. I don't want him looking at me while I'm so close to him, much less talking.
I guardedly sit next to him.
"Is this going to be painful?" The sound of his voice whispers by me and I hold back a sound of exasperation that emerges from the spot inside of me that is still upset with him. It's a valid question, I suppose.
"Probably." The word is clipped. He doesn't seem to notice.
"You still got the whiskey?" Without waiting for an answer he stands goes over to the shelves. The dusty bottle is still there and he rips out the cork. Swigging several deep gulps, he returns and settles back down.
"Okay." He nods towards me, his eyes fixated again on an unknown distant point.
Eyeing him carefully, I start unwrapping his middle. As the gauze unravels around him I lean closer to remove it. He is rigid, moving only to drink more from the bottle.
The area around the gash has withdrawn from an angry red to a slight pink. I pick up the bottle of antiseptic from the floor and try to hold it between my knees to open it with one hand.
"Do you want me to do that?" His words are edged with the fuzziness of alcohol. In seconds he has taken the bottle from me and pops it open. Holding it out for me to take, he finally looks down to me, his eyes blank.
I lick my lips, begrudging that he was trying to help me. Doesn't he realize that just moments ago he was insulting me? Doesn't he know that I have decided that he is unlikable?
"Can you -" I begin, trying to keep my voice level, "pour some on my hand? To clean it?" I spilled most of it last time I tried to maneuver it with the splint. Might as well save the antiseptic if he was offering.
He tips the bottle, letting it dribble onto my hand. Once its covered I shake it dry and take the bottle from him, pouring it into the bucket containing the gauze.
When I turn back his dark gaze is steady on me as he slowly rolls the whiskey bottle between his palms.
I bite the inside of my cheek with trepidation and his eyes flicker to the movement. I'm not a masochist and I don't enjoy inflicting pain on him, regardless of my feelings. "Ready?" I ask, deciding that he should have some warning.
The bottle meets his lips again. "Yeah."
I use the splint to brace myself against his rib cage. With my fingertips I pluck at the fabric bulging from the wound until I can get a good grip. In one smooth pull the gauze comes out, stained pink from the drainage. That's a good sign, I read. Whatever had cut him had gone a couple of inches deep, through the skin but not quite to the muscle. I bend closer, trying to see if there was any more swelling or pus in the dim light. Everything seems clean and healthy.
"How's it look?" He asks, still facing the wall. Although it had only been a few minutes a good portion of the whiskey is gone and his voice is thick.
"Good," I answer shortly, glancing at him again as he takes another drink.
The fresh gauze is thoroughly soaked and I squeeze out the excess antiseptic with my good hand. Holding the bucket still with my feet, I roll up the strips into crude balls. He's only going to drink faster if I warn him again, so with one more glance at him I silently push the first ball into the wound with my fingertips, making sure it reaches as deeply as possible. The fingertips of his right hand dig into his knee while his other hand clamps down on the neck of the bottle. The muscles of his stomach tighten while he takes a sharp breath through his nose. I pause, waiting to see if he will lash out, but he does nothing. His lips remain sealed, not emitting a sound.
As I reach for the second ball I hear him slowly exhale. When I turn back his eyes are closed and it seemed like he was focusing on remaining still. This time there is no reaction when I push the gauze in, nor when I add the third and final wad. He is still as a rock, the faint rising of his shoulders the only sign that he is breathing.
I still don't speak as I wrap his torso with a fresh bandage, not wanting to shatter the tense silence that has fallen in the event his mood has worsened. As I work around him the strain in his limbs slowly releases until the whiskey bottle is hanging loosely in his grasp.
Dumping the dirty gauze into the bucket, I hook it on my bad elbow and grab the lamp. There is nothing left for me to do down here and I find myself needing to get away from him, to take a break and repair my harried mind before we battle again in the morning.
"Go to sleep now," I tell him. He doesn't move or open his eyes. "I'll come and check on you in the morning."
He still doesn't respond and my distant fear that he would make me sleep down here with him eases. I maneuver myself onto the ladder to begin ascending when his voice suddenly reaches me in the dimness.
"Thank you."
My head twists around and I find him looking at me, his gaze steady despite the alcohol. I dumbly look back, not knowing what to say. For once his face is open, free of the anger, fear, and harshness of the last few days. In its place is gratitude. Genuine gratitude. The knowledge throws me and I almost lose the tenuous grip the splint has on the ladder.
"You-you're welcome," I hear myself stutter.
He looks back down on the ground and nods once, seemingly to himself, before moving to lay down. I take my cue, continuing up the ladder and to bed, wondering if I had read him wrong entirely.