CHAPTER 8

"He's still too weak to get out of bed, Ma'am, but you're welcome to visit him," the nurse on the phone told Bridget.

She had to know what had happened to him. Perhaps in this visit she could slip some poison into his cup, and hasten his demise.

A container of insect spray promised her results. Bridget promptly found a small liquor bottle in her pantry and poured the DDT-laden chemical into it, before depositing it in her purse and heading out to Landa's car. It was better that he should die in the hospital, rather than staining up her floor again with his vile blood. It had taken hours to get that disgusting stain off of her bedroom carpet.

It felt strange to Bridget to visit her nemesis in the hospital, even if it was to kill him.

She strode down the corridor, hearing her heels clicking on the linoleum as she moved with purpose. Today she had dressed her best and put on her most expensive makeup to make her final appearance to the man who had now twice tried to murder her. It would further show him that he had lost and that she was doing better now than ever before, a final moment of triumph for her.

She peered around the doorjamb into his room, attempting to do so without appearing fearful. What would she find?

Hans Landa was asleep in bed in his own hospital room, his body covered in a thin sheet. A trapeze-like contraption was positioned over the center of his bed, consisting of a metal triangle hanging from a chain that had been attached to a large metal pole extending out horizontally over the bed and vertically behind the bed. Landa's face looked paler than usual as he lie on his back, and under the thin sheets, she could see the outline of his body, of his thighs—oh! His right leg—the one she had shot—was either folded up under his body or was gone.

"Mrs. Haynesworth," a nurse's voice whispered next to her. "As you can see, Mr. Haynesworth's condition is slowly improving."

"His right leg… I don't see it…"

"Yes, Ma'am," the nurse interjected, frowning and slowly shaking her head all the while. The nurse was an older woman, with white hair, a crisply pressed uniform, and a stern appearance. "Unfortunately, it had to be amputated to save his life. The wound became infected and there was nothing else we could do. It will be a long recovery but he should be able to return to a relatively normal—"

"I understand," Bridget replied quietly.

"Do you have any more questions for me?"

Bridget could think of one important question.

"How long will he be in the hospital?"

The nurse considered for several seconds, her face still grim.

"I'd say three to four weeks, depending on his recovery."

"Thank you."

The nurse gave her a nod of the head and promptly left her side.

Bridget stepped into the room with Hans Landa, who was genuinely asleep this time, for he did not suddenly jolt out of bed with a big toothy grin to scare her out of her wits. She winced as her heels clicked on the linoleum floor, scanning the room for a place to deposit the insect spray.

Shit. No drink containers in sight. No food tray either. No matter, with this amputation, Landa would be stupid to try to harm her again. She had survived his assaults twice when he was an able-bodied man. In his current condition, she could only pray that fate would be cruel to him.

It was actually a bit of a shame that Landa was asleep right now, unable to see her triumphant form standing in his doorway. The missing leg was a lesson he had been forced to learn, the dire consequences of crossing her; there was nothing more she needed to say to him. Frowning, Bridget left his hospital room.

"You will be hearing from us soon," the director reassured Bridget, several seconds after she'd performed a short monologue in hopes for a part in a feature film.

The way he'd said it was different than what she'd heard before in these American auditions. It actually gave her some hope. The director gave her a little wink and she was pointed towards the door, but this could be it.

It had been a week since she'd last seen Hans Landa, and Bridget's life was slowly returning to normal. Better than normal, in fact. She finally had a car to drive!—well, his car. Up until this time, she'd had to take public transportation everywhere, and often didn't return home until late at night. In her excitement at having a car to drive, she sought audition after audition, hoping she'd be able to snag a role in a film before it was exceedingly obvious that she was pregnant. In the meantime, she wore baggy blouses with tight trousers or skirts that cinched her waistline in as much as it could comfortably go. Bridget continued walking on stiletto heels all the while, applying the perfect amount of makeup to accentuate her attractive features as she met with casting groups. It was an exhausting life but one that she'd gotten used to since moving to the United States.

Her stardom in Germany had made her complacent about the mind-numbing process required to get a role. The months and months of failed U.S. auditions had not only humbled her but had also made her bitter about her role in Operation Kino. That grinning monster Hans Landa had draped his arms around Aldo Raine and Utivich and claimed that they were the only remaining players in the successful plot to end World War II, and that had worked to shut her out of her reward. Though she had survived Landa's murder attempt, evil had won. And now she was carrying its baby.

If she snagged this role, it would pay some miniscule amount of money. Enough to perhaps get her some recognition, some possibility of a future role. Not quite enough for rent, but she'd have to figure out some way to stay local to the big studios. Now that she had the freedom to go wherever she wanted, she found herself finally enjoying her life in America, not returning to her little bungalow until evening most days. Soon her big break would come—she could feel it.

That bitch.

Hans Landa attempted to reach the trapeze dangling over his bed but was unsuccessful. Who knew that a leg could still hurt like hell when it was gone? That bitch had destroyed his life. He could no longer drive, could no longer walk without crutches. Not only that, but he was no longer a threat to her or to anyone, for that matter, in this condition. From the pinnacle of his success in the radio room negotiating with the OSS officer a mere four months ago, he'd since been reduced to a cripple with a disfiguring scar on his face.

What was he supposed to do now?

His vehicle was parked near her home. His ID, his wallet, his keys were at her home. He couldn't drive without both legs.

How could he have miscalculated his vengeance so badly?

She was supposed to die that day, in her polka-dotted sundress in the yard. He would have left her corpse on her lawn chair in a relatively natural position, sunglasses hiding her wide-open bloodshot eyes. The smell probably would have alerted the neighbors in a day or two. By then he'd be back in Nantucket, sipping lemonade and watching fishing boats offshore. She'd be but a memory to him then, a delicious memory, her terror that day in the theater office, how he'd used her fear against her. He'd muse on how he'd punished her. How he'd fucked the most beautiful actress in all of Germany. How he'd finally ended her traitorous existence once and for all.

But he had let her speak. He let her tell him the story of this pregnancy, of his own ill-begotten child growing in her womb. She'd actually struck a nerve in him, made him ill when he'd seen what he'd done to her.

He had actually saved her life. And how had she repaid him? By blowing his leg off.

Finally, he was able to pull himself to a seated position. By this point he was panting at the effort it had taken him. He was weakening—he could feel it—minute by minute, day by day, languishing in this hospital bed, while Bridget von Hammersmark was flourishing. He had to regain his strength and decide his next steps.

Before he could consider further, the nurse arrived, a dark-haired, stocky but fairly young woman. His features softened and the built-up anger within him began to dissipate. He had been addressing the young woman as nurse during the various times she'd assist him or bring him medication this past week. It felt strange to know so little about someone who had seen so much of him. Landa was a detective at heart and the fact that he hadn't even heard the woman's name uttered out in the corridor, perhaps by another nurse or even a physician, was disheartening.

This young woman had shown him a wealth of patience and kindness in his darkest moments. He had been quite the awful patient this past week, having to cope with the fresh loss of his leg and snapping at anyone who tried to rush him or help him. Unlike the other nurses, however, this woman didn't even react to his negative outbursts and maintained the same professional, warm demeanor throughout their interactions. She was his favorite nurse and he didn't even know her name. Truth to tell, she didn't know his name either.

"Your medicine, Mr. Haynesworth," she said, extending the cup of medicines to him, followed by a glass of water.

With a smile, he took the cup from her, and swallowed the pills with a gulp of water. "I have been here for a week now and yet I still don't know your name," he asked her amiably in an attempt to enhance what charm he may have had left.

"Esther," she replied, suddenly looking bashful. "I can take the cup now, Mr. Haynesworth."

"You can call me Hans," he replied warmly, handing it to her. Rather than receive a smile in return, he was met with a look of confusion.

"Is something wrong?" he said, looking back at her with equal confusion.

"Is your first name not John?" she said. "That's what your wife told us it was…."

"I prefer being called by my given name. Before I Americanized it," he quickly corrected, grinning broadly. He pointed at her, a silly, boyish smile on his face. "You've some very good observational skills! I should know this because I myself worked as an investigator for many years."

"Thank you," she said, seemingly not as flattered by the compliment as he presumed she'd be."I should be going now, to attend to my next patient." Esther turned to leave the room and he felt off-put by her reaction to him. Who could blame her, really? Surely the nurses already knew he was a Nazi or at least a perceived Nazi, by the unmistakable scar on his forehead and his accent. They hadn't yet accused him of anything—maybe Esther was holding her tongue in this regard.

Wow! So not only did his favorite nurse have great observational skills, but she also had great restraint! Nothing was more satisfying than an accusation made after just the right amount of small talk and niceties, once the subject had fully let their guard down. Perhaps she'd wait until his discharge date for the right time. He anticipated the day and how he'd respond. It was all he had to look forward to, for the time being.

The call had finally come. Bridget Haynesworth had acquired a small but significant role in a feature film. In a few weeks, filming would be starting at MGM Studios, which was only a few miles away from her home.

"You'd better not get any bigger," she instructed her stomach, patting it before snaking a belt through the loops of her pants. Rolling her eyes, she sucked in a breath and cinched the belt as small as it would go.

That bastard.

Her body was the driving force for making money and now with an expanding waistline, the offer she'd just received might just as quickly be taken off the table. Which would mean she'd have to move, further away from future job prospects, and then what? She'd then have another mouth to feed and no income. Not only was she almost out of money, but she had no family in the States, and no friends to help her through the pregnancy, the birth, the raising of the child. In fact, if she gave birth in a hospital in this country, they would ask questions—uncomfortable questions that would quickly reveal the nature of her past career. She might be deported, imprisoned, the child taken away from her. All these fears, all because of him.

That bastard had destroyed her life.

And the worst part of it all, is that this baby—her unborn child—was something that actually seemed a positive in her new destitute existence. Bridget had gone from being the star of the German silver screen to a refugee in a country that believed she'd betrayed them, a country in which she had to start her entire career over again. She had no family, no spouse or anyone she could talk to. Just this unborn child, conceived from a vicious rape.

Bridget thought of the amount of money she'd have to make at present to ensure she had enough to remain home with the child once it was born. The odds of making that kind of money in five months or so seemed astronomical; not only that, but she still had to pay rent and buy clothes and food for herself and had not yet earned any money since moving to the United States almost five months ago. She had often considered the possibility of telephoning her mother in Germany, not only to tell her about this child but to hope she'd travel to the U.S. and help her raise him or her. However, it would be dangerous to do so—she was a traitor to Germany, a force that had helped them lose the war. Would the U.S. send her back over there? Probably, being as the basterds had claimed she was a triple-agent. She had been deemed a traitor to both sides.

Years before, in her pinnacle of success, Bridget von Hammersmark had informed her mother never to expect a grandchild from her. She would remain unmarried for as long as she could get work in Germany. To stay desirable to her fans, she would stay unattached, aloof, available. Having a child was never a life goal. However, now that she was blacklisted and beginning her entire career again in an unfamiliar country with no relatives or friends, a child didn't seem like such a terrible thing.

In spite of her mind now considering him in the past tense, having resumed the life of an actress and the usual thoughts and concerns of an unwed mother-to-be, Bridget still had one very alive loose end to attend to—Hans Landa.