Finally, with great effort he hefted the book closed. “I believe the men are suffering from beriberi. It is caused by lack of proper nutrition. Give the men some pork or fish and perhaps green peas. That should solve the problem.”
Delia sagged. The odds of getting such things smuggled into the prison to Finn were nonexistent. “Is there a pill or medicine we can provide them?” If so, she’d figure out a way to smuggle it to the men.
The doctor let out a heavy sigh, reclined in his chair, and closed his eyes. The only sign that he wasn’t asleep was the rapid twiddling of his thumbs. A range of expressions crossed his face, and then he straightened in the chair.
He stood and beckoned them both to his kitchen, a tiny space crowded with herbs and copper pots dangling from an overhead rack. Dr. Achen reached for a canister on a shelf above the stove and opened it to show them a brown powder that gave off a sharp odor.
“It’s brewer’s yeast,” the doctor said. “It is packed with thenutritional properties that will help cure beriberi. Mix it into the water your cook gives the prisoners, and it might work.”
It didn’t sound very promising, but it was worth a try.
Their only way of getting anything to Finn and the other men was through Joseph. That night, Delia and Gita waited in the post office for Joseph’s return at nine o’clock. They had been meeting him here almost every evening since persuading him to offer water to the prisoners during their hour in the prison yard. There was always a stack of accumulated telegrams to be sent, and they waited patiently in the tiny post office while he completed the task. Sister Gita hopped up onto the front counter to read the messages while Joseph tapped the sounder in a rapid stream of electronic dots and dashes to send messages all over the world.
Once he completed the task, he’d pass on whatever he noticed about the condition of the men in the yard. Normally he was congenial, but that came to a swift end when Gita asked him to mix brewer’s yeast into the bucket of water he served the prisoners. Delia couldn’t understand as they argued in French, but the harder Gita pushed, the sterner Joseph became. Gita hopped down from the counter and paced the cramped area behind the telegraph station while Joseph folded his arms and glowered.
“He won’t do it,” Gita finally told Delia in English. “Ever since he asked permission to provide water to the men, the Germans are suspicious of him. The commandant warned Joseph that if he dared to smuggle notes or food to the prisoners, he will be clapped into chains and become a prisoner himself. He isn’t even allowed to speak to the men.”
Joseph’s fear was understandable, and Delia couldn’t even be certain the brewer’s yeast would save the prisoners. Dr. Achen was ancient, and the plan seemed improbable. How could she ask Joseph to risk his life for a folk remedy that onlymightwork?
“Tell Joseph that he will be a hero if he does this,” Delia toldGita. “Tell him that when the war is over, the CRB will nominate him for the Order of Leopold. The whole neighborhood will throw rose petals in his path.”
She listened while Gita relayed the message, and Joseph shoved his chair back from the telegraph machine to pace, his lumbering gait more pronounced than ever.
“He asks what good are medals and glory if he is dead.”
Joseph had a good point, but Gita went back to arguing with him, her white novice’s habit swaying with the force of her gestures. Joseph sparred, scowled, and shouted. It was a little unseemly to yell at a nun, but Gita stood up to him in an endless series of tart replies. The only time she broke stride was to relay Joseph’s latest argument.
“Joseph says his father depends on the income he brings in, and if he is imprisoned, it is his father who will pay the price.”
“Tell him I’ll pay for a telegrapher if he can’t do it,” Delia said.
Gita did, and Joseph shook his head. The arguing continued for several more minutes until at last Gita whipped off her veil and threw it against the wall as she continued shouting.
Joseph backed up against the wall, looking stunned.Finally,he interrupted. “J’abandonne. Je vais le faire.”Then he limped up the stairs and slammed the door.
Gita looked tired as she went to retrieve her veil. “He’ll do it,” she said, and yet she seemed annoyed.
“How did you convince him?” Delia asked.
“He doesn’t trust you to pay for a telegrapher because you will leave once the war is over. I told him that if he died in the jail, I would learn the trade and do the job for the rest of his father’s life.”
Delia was grateful for Gita’s persistence, but the younger woman did not look happy.
Gita locked eyes with her and said, “We must pray very hard for Joseph’s safety because I would rather pick snails from the muck than be a telegrapher.”
Delia grinned and gave Gita a hearty embrace. “Yes, my friend. We will both pray very hard.”
40
Finn ignored the pain in his limbs as he struggled to complete a single lap in the prison yard. His hands hurt as he braced them against the wall for support. And though his feet were so swollen that they felt like lead weights, he wouldn’t stop walking.
At least he could still feel the pain. When his feet went numb, it would mean that death was drawing near. He eyed the cluster of men slumped on the benches beneath the oak tree. Everyone was despondent since Father Gerhardt’s death last week. The old man had been a pillar of courage and optimism. With his passing, it felt as though the fragile thread of hope that held them aloft had vanished.
Finn lowered his chin and focused on the far end of the yard. He’d get there even if he had to crawl. The man with the crooked leg arrived and headed toward Finn with his bucket of water.
Finn leaned against the wall to catch his breath. It took a moment to summon the energy to reach for the ladle of water and draw it to his mouth.
He spat it out, gagging as he threw the ladle to the ground. Thecook picked it up, wiped the dipper on his trousers, then dunked it in the bucket again.
