He pushed himself off the bench, waiting for the dizziness to pass before setting off on another lap. Everything hurt, the tingling in his feet feeling like fire. It didn’t matter. He had to keep the blood moving through his limbs to stave off the course of the illness. Delia was waiting for him.
But was she? Maybe she took his advice and went back to New York and married the old guy. Even if she did, she wouldn’t want him to die in prison. He had to survive, if only for her. The chance to work with her raising money for the CRB had been a gift from God. She’d forgiven him. They loved each other. They might never walk down the aisle together, but he’d made his peace with her.
All too soon the clang of a cowbell signaled the end of their time in the prison yard. They had five minutes to clear the area or else there would be consequences. Finn turned to the benches to help Father Gerhardt, but Lucas was already helping the old man to rise.
Without warning, Father Gerhardt toppled over and collapsed in the dusty grass.
Finn scurried over, ignoring the pain, and knelt beside the priest. “Father, are you all right? Did you hurt yourself?”
Gerhardt panted, staring at the sky. “I’m fine. Just dizzy. And my legs don’t work too well.”
A pair of angry-looking guards approached, yelling in German. It was obvious the old man was in distress, but the guards didn’t seem to know what to do. They stood staring stupidly at Father Gerhardt as he panted on the ground.
“I’ll carry him inside,” Finn offered, but the guards pushed him away. They exchanged a few sentences with Father Gerhardt, who sent Finn a reassuring glance.
“They are going to send for a stretcher,” he said, and Finn nodded.
It didn’t take long for the stretcher to arrive. Would they take him to an infirmary? In all the time Finn had been here, none ofthe prisoners had ever seen a doctor or been treated at an infirmary, if there even was one in this godforsaken place. Everyone stood in silence as the stretcher with Father Gerhardt was carried away.
From the corner of his eye, Finn spotted the cook with the water bucket, who discreetly made the sign of the cross as the stretcher passed him. Then he took his bucket and left the yard.
A few hours later, the clank of the neighboring cell door jerked Finn awake. He bolted upright and strained to listen. Shuffling of feet and a few snatches of German leaked through the ventilation pipe. Finn could make no sense of the words, but the shuffling sounds and the grunts indicated Father Gerhardt might have returned to his cell.
The door slammed shut, and the lock turned once more. Finn counted his breaths, waiting until he could be sure the guards were gone before standing on tiptoes beneath the ventilation pipe.
“Father?” he whispered. If the old man was sleeping, it was best not to disturb him, but mercifully an answer came.
“All good, Finn.” Gerhardt’s voice was weak but reassuring. It was late and clear the old man wasn’t up for more talk.
“Sleep well,” Finn whispered before limping back to bed to pray. He’d been praying for Father Gerhardt throughout the day, mostly begging God to keep him alive for selfish reasons. He needed the old priest’s company, his wisdom, his humor. This time, however, Finn thanked God.
Thank you for sending me a German to be my companion. I needed the reminder of our shared humanity.I never should have called them Krauts or Jerries. Please, God,keep Father Gerhardt alive. The world is going to need good men like him when this is all over.
The next morning, Finn returned to the ventilation pipe with a greeting, but there was no answer from the other side. He waitedawhile before trying again. When still there was no answer, he risked tapping on the pipe. No response.
A little over an hour later, the neighboring cell door opened, followed by shuffling feet and German voices. Finn pressed his ear to the ventilation pipe to listen. He’d learned enough German to know that Father Gerhardt had passed away during the night. They mentionedFriedhof, the name of the cemetery on the prison grounds.
Finn pressed his forehead against the stone wall of his cell. He didn’t need to hear any more. “Father Gerhardt, you are free now,” he whispered. “Thank you for everything you did for me. Thank you for being my friend and my moral compass through this terrible time. I hope that heaven brings you the peace and joy you always spoke about. I hope it looks like the Black Forest of Germany you loved so well. Farewell, Father. Your kindness will never be forgotten...”
He dragged in a lungful of air, and the effort sapped him of all strength. He braced himself against the wall as he crept back to the cot, flopping down onto it. He ought to rejoice that Father Gerhardt had gone to a better place.
Instead, Finn worried he wouldn’t be able to survive much longer either.
39
Delia listened to Joseph the cook relay the terrible symptoms troubling the men in solitary confinement. Something needed to be done for them, and the first step would be to identify their affliction. She asked Sister Gita to accompany her to a doctor’s office to serve as translator.
Dr. Achen was one of the few physicians left in Brussels, as most of the doctors and pharmacists in Belgium had been forced to go work in Germany. Gita said that the Germans thought Dr. Achen too old to be conscripted into service, and he’d come out of retirement to treat patients. She was grateful for the chance to meet with him, even though his practice was in the parlor of his town house. There was no examination table or bottles of medicine. It was simply a comfortable parlor with a few ancient medical texts on an overstuffed bookshelf.
Delia blanched when Dr. Achen entered the room, his palsied hand shaking on an unsteady cane and his skin so papery thin that a network of veins looked like an ancient map. Gita explained she would be translating for Delia, but it turned out not to be necessary.
“I attended Yale University back in 1850,” the doctor said in a scratchy voice. “Tell me how I can help.”
Attending medical school almost three-quarters of a century ago did not lend Delia confidence, but she proceeded to explain how the cook at the Saint-Gilles Prison had observed a common illness among the prisoners. She described their swollen hands and feet, their listlessness, and their terrible diet that consisted of nothing but turnips.
“Two of the men have died,” she concluded. “Just before death, the pain in their limbs eased and then they developed rapid heartbeats.”
The doctor’s brows lowered, and he grabbed a fat book from his shelf and flipped through its pages. The book looked even older than the doctor, and she clenched her fists. Could the answer to this strange affliction be in that tatty old book? Her nerves ratcheted higher as the doctor rubbed his jaw and skimmed several pages.
