AN: here's a recording of Schubert's Nacht und Traume, which comes up towards the end and is well worth listening to...especially at night! Ian Bostridge is the tenor; again, you need to type in the "youtube" before the rest of the link to make it work. Just listen to the piece, it's one of the prettiest German Lieder out there.

.com/watch?v=HWEVPRCcu2o

ZEHN

Nachtmusik

That evening

Outside, the sun had begun to throw off long shadows; Markos had been out for the day, trying to make himself useful (and failing miserably) with Nala's hunting party. Kopa's mother had never strayed from his side since he was attacked, but now that things seemed to be on the upswing, she had decided to leave for a few hours and engage in what Hermann jokingly referred to as das Einkaufe, "grocery shopping". As the sky began to darken, Kopa ate a few scraps of meat—he was far from having regained his appetite—while Hermann gorged himself on stolen potato chips from the airplane, secretly hoping for Markos and company to bring back something large, tasty, and edible. A distant gunshot told him that either his wish had been fulfilled, or his friend had just shot himself as opposed to a game animal. No, he thought, he might not be a good shot, but he does know which end goes bang and which end to hold on to. Plus, I don't hear any swearing, so that's got to be a good sign. Kopa had finished the few bits of food in front of him; he yawned and tried his best to curl up, but quickly let out a yelp and returned to his original position. He pretended he hadn't heard or done anything, as he knew the routine once he started hurting again in the evenings. But to a music aficionado with a highly-trained ear, Kopa's little cry was about as ignorable as a live hand grenade being flushed down a toilet.

Kopa, still wincing, tried his best to act uninvolved. "No no no no, Hermann, it wasn't me, honest, it was, uh…you?" He could tell he had no options whatsoever, but he was determined to make it sound believable. Hermann, however, wasn't buying it, as funny as it was to hear such a high-pitched noise pinned on him. "Right, I didn't mean you, I meant Markos, it was him."

"Kopa," said Hermann as he walked over to where his things were and filled a syringe with a clear liquid, "Markos isn't here. Trust me, if it was him, you would know. The last time he needed one of these, you would have thought he was being killed in the trash compactor." Hermann found these attempts at redirection rather amusing—they reminded him of how he would react to similar situations as a child—but his lightheartedness faded as soon as he turned around and saw the look on Kopa's face. Kopa had never actually seen the syringe before—he had always closed his eyes as soon as he knew what was coming—but this time he did not have the same good timing, and got a clear, albeit unintentional look, at the entire thing as the sun glinted off the needle. Hermann saw Kopa's eyes grow unmistakably wide with fright, and his breathing immediately changed from normal to the trademark short, choked panic breaths he had come to know so well back in Stuttgart—most of the time, he saw it in critical patients who couldn't tell if they would leave the hospital in a wheelchair or in a plastic bag. "Damn, this is my fault," he said to himself as he paced back and forth, trying to quickly think of a way to fix the situation. "How could I have let him see…I knew that he's afraid of it to begin with, and still…how much stupider could I get? They ought to use my diploma as fire kindling." But Hermann knew that beating himself up wasn't going to change things. He put the syringe down where even he couldn't see it, and walked over to where his trembling patient lay, eyes screwed shut, awaiting the worst of the worst.

"Kopa?" No answer. "Kopa, beruhige dich. Es ist nicht hier…it's gone. You can open your eyes." Kopa still did not respond, but he slowly opened one eye and looked in Hermann's direction. Hermann opened both hands to prove they were empty, and then sat down on one end of the clothing mattress. "I'm so sorry," he said, obviously and undeniably embarrassed. "That was entirely my fault. I promise won't ever let that happen again. Just forget you ever saw that; think of something different, like Markos getting stuck in a tree at midnight in a Santa suit…with no pants." He was referring to a certain medical school party incident which, much like the computer episode, he had sworn to never bring up again. He could tell, however, that mentioning one of Markos's least favorite moments had little to no effect on Kopa, who was still unable to calm himself.

"I guess you had a pretty big fright there, didn't you?" asked Hermann after a moment's pause. Kopa nodded rapidly in agreement. "You know, mein Sohn, there's nothing shameful in being afraid," Hermann said, slowly running his hand along the uninjured part of Kopa's back. "Did you ever wonder, by any chance, why I walk the way I do, with this cane?" He tapped it against his right foot for emphasis. "It's because not very long ago, I was in your position."

"What do you mean?" asked Kopa in a wavering voice.

"I broke my leg a few years ago playing football…it's a game we have back in Germany," Hermann answered. "Technically, what happened to me is known as compound fractures of the tibia and metatarsal, but all that means is that the bones snapped in two…not a good thing at all. At first, the doctors told me that it was broken too severely to fix, and that I would probably lose the whole thing from the knee down. Then they said I would never walk, and that it would take three surgeries just to put the bones back in place." He rolled up his right pants leg, revealing an expanse of scarred skin. "And they were right about the surgeries, I'll give them that. But the point is, do you not think I wasn't ever scared that entire time, not even once?"

"No," replied Kopa, "I've seen you…nothing scares you. 'Her-mann Wolf-gang Ster-litz'…even your name sounds like someone too strong to be afraid."

Hermann smiled, as this was the first time someone here had actually pronounced his full name correctly. "Then, my friend, I have done my name a disservice," he said. "In fact, I was named not for anyone of notorious strength, but for an Austrian man named Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and also for my father, Hermann Dietrich Sterlitz. However, my name is rather beside the point…the truth is, I was scared back then in the hospital, and I've been afraid since then. I'd be lying if I told you otherwise."

"But what could you have been afraid of? If I could do everything you do, I don't think I'd ever be scared again," Kopa said with a hint of envy.

"Kopa, reading music and speaking German doesn't mean I never get scared. When I was first told that I might lose my right leg, I was afraid that I would never get better, that despite the surgeries and rehabilitation I would be missing a limb or in constant pain for the rest of my life. The first day I started working in the hospital at Stuttgart, I couldn't go five minutes without thinking I had done something wrong or made some kind of horrible mistake…maybe I had read a chart wrong and given the wrong medicine to the wrong patient, for example. And when I came here and saw you that night for the first time, I was…"

"You were what?" asked Kopa.

"I…I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to do anything. Scared that I would fail, even though I was determined to try my best."

Hermann realized that he had let his professional composure slip away with his last sentence, and determined not to let on any more than he already had, he said nothing more, sitting in silence as he watched the setting sun. "Even so, I have borne it, but do not ask me how," he thought. "If the guys back in Germany could only see where I am…" After several minutes had gone by, Kopa opened his eyes.

"Are you saying…I need to be like the person in the song?" he said with his head lying in Hermann's lap.

"As far as I'm concerned," Hermann answered, "you're already like him; in fact, you're better than him. You've made it through much worse than he has; all that happened to him was, his girlfriend left him for someone else."

"You mean that?"

"Yes, I do. If Robert Schumann were here today, I'm sure he would write his next Liederkreis about you. Feeling a bit better now, are we?"

"I think so. You…you can do it now, if you want."

"Are you sure? I can wait until your mom gets back with Markos if that would make it easier."

"No, I think I'll be OK," Kopa replied. "Just tell me when…you know…"

Hermann got up, stumbling a bit before regaining his balance with the cane (much to Kopa's amusement), and picked up the capped syringe from where he had hidden it in a stack of clothes. "Right then, ready?" he asked.

"Wait a minute," said Kopa, "could you, um…"

"Could I what?"

"Could you sing me that song again?"

"Of course, I'd be happy to," Hermann said as he shot a glance over at the open music book to look over the words, knowing that Kopa was still a bit nervous. "You can squeeze my hand as much as you like, I won't mind," he said, stretching out his left hand and secretly hoping for no broken fingers after all was said and done. "Just relax and take some deep breaths…that's a good lad."

'Anfangs vollt ich fast verzagen…

Kopa felt the now-familiar stick in his right shoulder, but did not shut his eyes in fear or anticipation. He only kept his paw wrapped tightly around Hermann's hand, listening to each slow, subdued note of Robert Schumann's Opus 24 Number 8 come forth and fade away, just as the burning feeling first increased and then gradually dissipated into nothing.

"There, that wasn't so horrible, was it? You know, it's rather strange," said Hermann as he rubbed the injection spot, "I've met all kinds of people before, and some of them reminded me of certain songs from time to time, but never once did I meet someone who fit so perfectly into Robert Schumann as you. Care to give me my hand back now?" Kopa released his grip on Hermann's left hand and sank into the mattress of Hermann's clothing that had since been serving as a bed, his eyes already half-closed and his paw dangling over the edge. Hermann could tell that even though everything had worked out for the better, it would be best for all involved to get an early start on the night. He could always get up, after all, once Markos got back with the others. And yet, it didn't quite feel right to Hermann that he was sleeping on a real mattress, while Kopa, who was certainly deserving of a reward of some kind for his bravery, had to make do with the unneeded contents of the armoire back in Stuttgart. "Hey, Kopa?" Hermann said, "want to sleep somewhere a bit more comfortable tonight?"

"OK," Kopa said with a yawn. "Where is it?"

"Over there," replied Hermann, pointing at his mattress and sleeping bag. "You sleep there, and Markos and I will figure out the rest.

"Are you sure?" Kopa asked. "Where are you going to sleep?"

"Don't worry about that, we'll be fine where we are. You deserve it more than we do. Think you can walk? Try taking a few steps over this way." Gingerly, Kopa rose to his feet and put one paw in front of the other for the first time since the night Markos and Hermann had stumbled into his waiting family. Slowly but surely he picked his way to where Hermann was standing; when Kopa finally stepped onto the mattress, an expression of pure delight made its way across his face.

"I've never felt anything this soft before," he said, carefully lying down on his side and stretching himself out. "What does this do?"

"That's a sleeping bag," Hermann explained. "You get inside it to sleep. But before you doze off, I've got a little something for you. Seeing as it's rather cold at the moment, I think you could do with an extra layer, and regardless, you've more than earned this." He walked over to his suitcase and pulled out one of his treasured World Cup jerseys. "This is the same shirt that the German national football team wears," he said. "See, it says 'Deutschland' across the front. When the World Cup games were in Stuttgart, I got two of these, but I've only ever needed one for myself. You should keep this one."

"But how does it work?" said Kopa.

Hermann chuckled to himself. "It doesn't 'work', you just put it on."

Kopa tried to get his front legs through the arms of the shirt, but only succeeded in getting himself tangled up. Hermann, unable to contain his laughter, straightened out the jersey until it hung more or less as it should, even though it was quite obviously several sizes too big. "There," he said, "you look like a real football player now. That ought to keep the cold out for the time being and keep anything from getting under the bandages. See if you can get yourself in here."

Hermann ran the zipper down on the sleeping bag and helped Kopa, oversized shirt and all, get inside it. Kopa felt as if he were on a cloud, completely pain-free even though he was lying on his bad side. He heard Hermann click off the flashlight, let out a deep sigh, and felt the soft, heavy weight of the flannels as they were pulled up high on his neck. Hermann was about to walk outside when he heard his name called one last time.

"Yes?" he said, trying to make out Kopa's shape in the fading light.

"One more song?" Hermann could tell from Kopa's voice that he was already mostly asleep.

"Alright, just one. Does your mom usually sing to you before you go to sleep?"

"No, not usually...I just like it"—yawn—"when you sing; it makes me feel good and warm inside. I don't know why, but it does."

Hermann smiled to himself and thought for a moment about which song to choose before settling on Franz Schubert. "This one is called 'Nacht und Träume'," he said. "That means 'night and dreams' in German.

Heil'ge Nacht, du sinkest nieder;

Nieder wallen auch die Träume

Wie dein Licht durch die Räume,

Lieblich durch der Menschen Brust.

"What do you think…like it?" Hermann asked.

"Uh-huh," Kopa mumbled softly, sinking into sleep. "Keep going? Please?" Hermann happily obliged with the second verse.

Die belauschen sie mit Lust;

Rufen, wenn der Tag erwacht:

Kehre wieder, heil'ge Nacht!

Holde Träume, kehret wieder!

Sung into an irresponsive mass beneath the warm layers of quilting, Kopa soon closed his eyes and drifted off. Hermann whispered a nearly-imperceptible Guten Nacht, and thought of picking up his cane and walked outside to wait for his friend, but he simply stayed sitting where he was, smoothing the little tuft of brown hair on the top of Kopa's head as he watched him sleep. When Markos returned shortly thereafter with Nala and the rest of the hunting party, Hermann assumed that for once, Markos's aim had actually been true—after all, the defunct gazelle being dragged in clearly had a bullet wound. Nala walked over to Hermann and said in a hushed voice, "He only speaks German, right? He doesn't understand what I'm saying right now?" Hermann nodded his head yes. "Good, then don't let him fool you. We killed it, and then he shot the thing from four feet away once it was already dead."