Landa's request for release had been granted and today was the morning he'd be leaving the hospital. With practiced ease, he flung the bedsheets off while maneuvering himself into a seated position on the edge of his hospital bed. With the light streaming through his window now, he grabbed his wooden crutches leaning by the bed, adeptly thrusting them under his already achy armpits before hoisting himself to a standing position.
It had been a month since he'd first entered the hospital with a gunshot wound. Now he was leaving with one quarter of his right leg and a far more serious outlook on his life. He stood in front of the mirror, leaning heavily on one crutch as he used his hand to direct his hair over his forehead. His arms looked bulkier and more defined in the mirror, the increased musculature a testament to his strengthening what was left of his body these past few weeks. Landa's face looked just the same as when he'd entered the hospital. From the waist up, he looked like a slightly brawnier version of himself. At the thought of his improved physique, Hans attempted to flash a toothy grin, but it seemed out of place and he promptly scowled.
"Do you need any help getting dressed?" Esther asked him as she handed him street clothes outside the hospital bathroom. He peered at the clothes and then glanced briefly at the concerned but guarded face of his nurse. Finally he'd be able to wear his comfortable leather loafers—well, loafer—again, as well as the blue shirt he'd been wearing when he'd arrived. His trousers had been destroyed and so he'd been given a frumpy pair of wool shorts to wear. He hadn't worn shorts since boyhood. It was now November, but California appeared to have warm weather all year round.
Landa held out a hand to take the clothing from her.
"No, thank you. I will be fine," he said politely.
It was far more difficult to dress than he'd expected. At first, he'd been unimpressed with the shorts, but they were far easier to slip on his intact leg than pants would have been. Not only that, but they were long enough to cover the rounded stump of his amputated leg and more importantly, didn't drag on the ground. They would have to do.
He was surprised to see Esther standing outside of the bathroom after he'd gotten dressed. She'd been his favorite nurse this past month, even though she hadn't had much to say to him since he'd revealed his name to be Hans. She was shorter than he realized, with wavy dark hair, a round, matronly face, and a rather large bosom on her stout figure. Today he could very plainly see her décolletage, from which hung a silver Star of David pendant.
Landa had not seen her wearing that particular accoutrement this past month. It was clearly a silent statement from the woman. No wonder she had been immune to his charms.
This woman had seen him in all stages of undress this past month, helping him to bathe and stand and use the toilet. She had helped him wash his hair and had definitely seen the swastika on his forehead. How had she not asked him anything about his scar this entire time? More importantly, how had she been able to continue being his nurse, to continue being so kind and patient with him?
Maybe that was what this current silent confrontation was about. Why, otherwise, would she still be standing here after he'd dressed himself and was ready to leave?
He felt an unfamiliar surge of embarrassment standing before her, a woman who'd done nothing but help him this past month. A Jew. She had somehow managed to avoid mentioning his scar, somehow managed to avoid treating him in any way that reflected who he was to her, to her people.
It was very possible that he'd ordered members of her family killed. Members of her family in Europe—Austria, France, Germany— who had desperately tried to escape the fate of the concentration camps. Members of her family who were just trying to survive, just as Bridget von Hammersmark was… just as he was.
Robotically, he crooked an elbow and lifted the hair off of his forehead. She didn't react at all.
"Do you know what this is?" he asked her, his eyes moving from her eyes to her pendant then back.
"Yes," she said, unwavering, her expression unchanged.
He swallowed then, uncertain of what to say next. This was the first time he'd knowingly come face-to-face with a Jew since he'd left Germany. The fact that in his ignorance, he'd flirted with her, that he'd come to anticipate the arrival of this woman to his room, made it even more uncomfortable now. Certainly the woman loathed him. The realization made his face feel hot.
"Do you know the story of where scars like these originated?" he blurted, gesturing to his marked forehead. He wanted to hear her say it aloud. The silent Star of David was not a satisfactory answer to his swastika scar.
Esther opened her mouth to speak and he held his breath, waiting for the harsh words she'd been holding in, for the revelation that the local police would soon be arresting a Nazi fugitive turned in by his own so-called wife. She was no longer his nurse, now that he had been discharged. She could now exact vengeance against him, against the group that had persecuted her people.
"I do," she said. Now she was beginning to look uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot, her eyes darting around the room, unable to lock on his.
"Can you tell me what you know of the story, please?" he asked, the detective in him still ever-present. He smiled broadly at her, a Nazi asking a Jew to explain his punishment.
The small smile that she normally had on her face faded, and her eyes stopped wandering and locked on his, eyes of disappointment.
"Mr. Haynesworth, you know it better than I do," she said, looking right at him without blinking. "Now—is there something I can do for you? Order you a taxi, perhaps?"
Hans blinked several times, and he almost choked on his own spit. She had had the perfect opportunity to acknowledge his evilness, to throw it back in his face, to say that he deserved that scar. However, by replying to him like a disappointed mother might, she'd made him feel even worse. Instantaneously he'd lost the familiarity with her that had been building over this last month, and that bothered him. Esther hadn't even called him by his first name, which she'd been doing these past few weeks.
"Yes," he said as he quickly attempted to compose himself. "That would be a bingo." Immediately he felt stupid. He'd said it wrong again. What was he supposed to say—just Bingo, Aldo Raine had told him?
Esther flashed him a tight smile instead of correcting his sentence.
"Let's go to the telephone," she replied, turning to leave the room. He followed her without a word, his crutches thudding on the tile floor, the only sound in the empty white hospital corridors. He stared at the back of her white gown as she walked, the little white hat carefully positioned on her head. The thickness of her waist and darkness of her hair. The silver glint of the necklace around her neck. He had ordered people to be killed, people just like her, people who hadn't even had a chance to speak before they were destroyed. It was only a month or so ago that he'd throttled a neck very similar to her own, with dark hair just like hers. The recollection of what he'd done made his stomach feel hollow.
"Where will you be going?" she asked him, when they'd finally arrived at the telephone.
He found himself grimacing as he attempted to remember the address. He'd be seeing Bridget very soon.
The taxi dropped Hans Landa off in front of Bridget's home in the early afternoon. Sunlight poured into her small yard, onto the folding chair where he'd almost killed her. The curtains in the house were drawn and it looked quite dark inside. He wondered if she was home, if she even still lived here. If he could look inside, if he could spot that beautiful German radio in her living room, he'd know she hadn't moved away.
Her drawn curtains made seeing inside impossible.
His car!—not that he could start it without his key, but if he could find his car, he'd at least have something of his own. All he had at present were the clothes on his back. His car keys, wallet, and identification were in that house.
Could he break into the house, into his car?
Perhaps in his younger days, but not now. He was now a cripple. If dressing was so difficult for him, climbing in a window would be impossible.
When he'd arrived at her house initially, he'd parked his car on the cross-street, roughly half a mile up the road, in an attempt to distance his shiny new 1944 Chevrolet coupe from the scene of his crime. As a detective, he knew that the police would be interviewing neighbors about unfamiliar things in the neighborhood that day—vehicles, people. He had shown little restraint in strangling her in her own front yard, in hindsight—but the authorities had seemingly believed the story about the burglar strangling her and shooting him.
Maybe he should just sit and wait. It was entirely possible Bridget had holed herself up inside her home and was there at present. If he left to go find his car, she could leave the house, and he'd miss it.
Landa plopped down heavily in her folding chair. He would wait for her.
Two speaking lines. One day of filming. Pocket change. Bridget drove home from MGM studios, disgusted. She'd gone through all the trouble of auditioning, to receive a paycheck that would cover rent for roughly half a month.
She'd been gone all day today, standing on the MGM studios lot, watching the current American actors and actresses emerge from their trailers, surrounded by handlers and makeup artists.
That had been her, once. A media darling. She had been reduced to little more than an extra.
There was another audition two days from now. More than likely another disappointment.
Bridget turned the car onto her street. Palm trees still held their leaves, even though it was November. A bicycle sped up the sidewalk. Dogs barked. She parked the car behind the house and began walking towards the front door, her heels clicking on the sidewalk. As she made her way around the house, the hair raised on the back of her neck. Hans Landa was sitting in her front yard on the very chair she had been sitting in when he'd arrived to kill her. He had turned his head to look at her and his eyes, dark and intense beneath a tuft of blond hair, were locked on hers.