Free Simple Faith by Anna Schmidt Page A

pastries—the almond ones?”
    She actually blushed. “Those are Josef’s favorite as well.”
    Peter hesitated. He so longed to ask how she—an American—had ended up married to a German. For that matter, how she had, according to Anja, ended up imprisoned in a concentration camp and running for her life after the escape. But he would not ask. There was something about the way her voice softened and her eyes took on a dreamy glaze when she spoke her husband’s name that made him hesitant to pry. There was no accounting for why a person loved another, so he simply smiled at her and then closed the bathroom door.
    Lisbeth had left a razor, soap, and a toothbrush on a table next to the sink. The table was no larger than the plant stand his mom used to show off her prized Christmas cactus. Stripping off the filthy clothing, he began washing himself, luxuriating in the feel of water—tepid as it was—on his skin. He leaned over the sink and squeezed water on his head and then soaped his hair to get rid of the stench of the stable. And although the water had turned a putrid gray by the time he finished, he was reluctant to pull the plug and let it all drain away.
    He was aware of Lisbeth doing things in the small bedroom—changing the linens, no doubt. He heard the snap of sheets—another reminder of home when his sister used to hang the sheets on the line outside the kitchen. Then he heard Lisbeth fluff the flat pillow he’d slept on, and finally he heard the sound of her footsteps and soft humming retreating down the stairs.
    Eleven men in this small space?
    He roused himself and buried his face in the softness of a towel then towel-dried his hair. It had grown considerably longer than the military style he’d sported when the plane went down. He wrapped the towel around his waist and turned to the tasks of brushing his teeth and shaving. By the time he finished, he felt and looked almost human again. He turned to the stack of clothing. Lisbeth had thought of everything—underwear, socks, trousers that were actually long enough for him, and a heavy, ivory cable-knit sweater with a turtleneck that covered him to his chin. He gathered the soiled clothing into a bundle along with the towel he’d used and placed them on the floor next to the sink. Then remembering his mother’s admonition to leave a room the way he found it, he scrubbed out the sink before leaving the thin washcloth spread over the pile of soiled towels and clothing. Taking one last check of the bathroom, he opened the door to the narrow hallway.
    Sitting on the straight chair in the freshly made-up bedroom was Lisbeth’s husband—Dr. Josef Buchermann.
    “Feeling better?” He stood as soon as Peter stepped into the hallway.
    “Much. Thank you.”
    Josef indicated that Peter should sit on the side of the bed. “We need to discuss your new living arrangements.” As soon as Peter sat down, the doctor took his seat on the chair and pinned Peter with his direct gaze. “You will likely be here for some time. You are the object of a massive manhunt, and we cannot risk moving you again—at least until the extra checkpoints the Nazis have put in place are lifted. On the positive side, that gives us the time we need to rebuild your strength. There is but one thing we must ask of you.”
    “And that is?”
    “If we are to get you safely back to your base, then you must—without question—follow everything we tell you. Can you do that?”
    Peter bit his lower lip. This man—this German—was asking for his blind and unconditional trust. “Who is
we
?”
    The shadow of a smile flickered across the doctor’s lips. “Without question,” he reminded Peter.
    Peter shrugged. “Moot point since I can barely walk across the hall.”
    “You did not answer my question. I have noticed that Americans are very good at changing the subject—I have learned as much from my wife. Nevertheless …”
    Peter was growing impatient. “Nevertheless, we need to