Ingrid returns with a cloth-filled bag of ice and a small first aid kit. “Thank you for taking care of him. I guess I’m not helpful when it comes to injuries,” she says.
“If he was my son, I would react the same way. You can’t always think straight when you’re worried.”
“That explains why I can never think straight,” Ingrid says with a chuckle. I wouldn’t have pegged her as someone who worries often, not with the forward welcome she greeted us with.
“Do you worry about your husband a lot while he’s at work?” Through my hours of first-hand training in the nursing program, I was taught to keep the patient and whoever is with them occupied with casual conversation. I’m not sure I’d consider this conversation casual chit-chat, but I can tell her thoughts have shifted direction.
“Oh, we all worry about our husbands while they’re at work. It doesn’t quite matter where they work these days. With so much uncertainty in our country, it’s hard to avoid it, right?”
I suppose she has a point, but our husbands are putting themselves in more unnecessary danger than most.
“Can I sit up?” Gunther asks. “I don’t want to lie here anymore.”
“Just about done,” I tell him, securing the bandage with one last piece of tape. “Can you tell me how many fingers I’m holding up?” I hold three fingers up over his face.
“Three,” he says as if it’s a race. I put one finger down without asking how many he can see. “Two.” And then I put the third one back up. “Three! You can’t trick me.”
“I guess not. You’re pretty fast. I want you to sit up nice and slow for me.”
I slip my hands firmly behind his neck and back and let him do the rest. “You’re wonderful with children,” Ingrid says, crossing her hands over her chest. “It’s a good thing we have such a lovely new neighbor living next door. Isn’t that right, Gunther?”
He effortlessly pushes himself up to his feet and nods his head. “Thank you, Fräulein,” he says.
“My pleasure, sweetheart.”
I clean up the small mess of supplies and stand up beside Ingrid. “Could I convince you to come over for tea? It’s the least I can do to thank you for helping Gunther.”
She scoops the rubbish out of my hands and reaches down for the first aid kit and ice wrap while waiting for me to respond.
“I’d like that,” I say. “The house gets a bit too quiet for my liking sometimes.”
“You’re welcome to borrow my children whenever you’d like. You will never experience quiet again,” she says with laughter.
“I’m happy to watch them for you if you ever need a break,” I offer. “I would enjoy the company.”
“I’ll ask you again after you’ve been inside my house for an hour.” Her smirk makes me wonder if her children misbehave often or if she’s just venting as a tired mother.
I follow Ingrid and Gunther down the street and up her walkway that leads to the front door. They walk inside first, and I follow, finding her entryway lovely and much more lived in than mine. “How long have you and Karl been married?”
“About fifteen years, if you can believe it. We were young when we got married, like you and Otto.”
We’re only twenty-two—also young, but in a time of war, age is just a number. Or so everyone says.
Following Ingrid into her formal living room, I watch as she quickly turns a picture frame face down on the sideboard and then sweeps something off the tea table, but she moves so quickly I don’t have a chance to see what either are.
“You don’t need to tidy up on my behalf,” I say, staring at the downward facing picture frame.
“Oh nonsense, take a seat. How do you take your tea?”
I’m trying to break my stare from the picture frame, but my eyes are like a magnet to that side table. “Honey, if you have it, would be wonderful. Thank you so much.”
“Of course. Make yourself comfortable. I’m going to put the water on. Gunther, why don’t you show Frau Berger your favorite book?” Gunther has made a full recovery as he storms around in circles like a jet with accompanying rumbling noises. He reminds me of David when he was little, always trying to get in between Danner and me.
I watch him entertain himself while Ingrid is in the kitchen. If the side table wasn’t so close to the arched entry of the kitchen, she might not have noticed if I meandered over for peek. I would never invade someone’s privacy like that, but why would one feel the need to hide a framed photo of all things?
Ingrid returns with a tray of teacups and saucers. “So, have you met any of the other wives on the street?”
“No, I haven’t. Is the street always so quiet?”
