Paul wiped the sweat from his forehead, probably smearing dirt over it as he did. He leaned against the plow and took a long, slow drink of the water Miriam brought.
“Sorry it’s not lemonade.”
The way her green eyes shimmered, how her hair glowed copper in the sunlight, how her dimples brightened her smile. He almost crushed the glass in his hand to keep from reaching over and taking her in his arms. Then an idea struck.
He pulled her behind the group gathered at the toy wagon, into a spot where her father wouldn’t see them. “This is torture. I have to kiss you. Avert your eyes, men.”
The group of his fellow prisoners guffawed but turned their backs to Paul and Miriam. He drew her into an embrace. She fit just right into his hold, her head nestled under his chin. Nothing had changed. “You’re beautiful.” He bent to kiss her.
“He’s coming. Her father.”
He jerked upright and stepped back with a groan. “Nein. Why now?”
She wormed her way through the group around the wagon and faced her father.
“Haven’t you been out here long enough?” Mr. Bradford scanned the crowd. He must be searching for Paul. Checking on his daughter, for sure.
“I want to make sure the men have had all they need to drink. You don’t want them fainting, do you?”
“You have lunch to prepare.”
“The stew is simmering on the stove, and the bread is in the oven.” She tipped her head to one side and peered at her father, her face as innocent as an angel’s.
“Well—”
“Okay, men, let’s get back to work.” Paul clapped his hands, and the crew jumped into action. They placed their empty glasses and crumb-covered plates into the wagon and scattered to work the plows.
Mr. Bradford grunted as Miriam grabbed the wagon’s handle. With a quick backward glance and a wink that Paul almost missed, she strode to the house.
“You would do well to stop ogling my daughter and keep the men working. A little more labor and a lot less lollygagging would go a long way.” Mr. Bradford took one step toward the barn.
“Could I have a word with you?”
He didn’t turn around. “If this is about Miriam, I’m not interested. I’ve said my piece.”
Paul slapped his thighs. What more could he do? Maybe he and Miriam would have to elope. Or perhaps the Lord didn’t want them together. Could that be why He had separated them for so long? Paul’s heart constricted. No, Lord, don’t let that be the case.
Miriam’s father made his way over the just-tilled field. He stumbled once but righted himself. He stumbled a second time. This time he went down.
And didn’t get up.
A chill raced through Paul. For half a second, he froze. Planes exploding in a burst of light. Men falling like shooting stars.
He couldn’t do anything then.
But he could now.
“Mr. Bradford! Mr. Bradford!” Paul raced across the field, the heavy clay clods weighing down his shoes. He might as well have been lifting rocks. His lungs burned, but he wouldn’t stop.
At last, he reached Miriam’s father. All color had surged from his face. “My leg. Oh, my leg. The pain.” He sucked in a breath.
Paul turned his attention to the man’s leg. Instead of being straight, it twisted into an odd angle. Paul’s stomach rolled.
A few of the other men reached them. “What happened?”
Paul grasped Mr. Bradford by the hand. “I think he broke his leg. Run to the house. Have Miriam ring for the doctor.” One man shot off.
The two who were left stood beside Paul. “What should we do?” The more muscular of them rubbed his hands.
“We have to get Mr. Bradford out of the field. He’s not going to be able to walk, and the wagon would be too jarring. See if you can find anything to make a stretcher from. And be fast.” Paul’s comrades sped away.
“How are you doing, Mr. Bradford?”
“I’ve never had pain like this before. It’s terrible.”
“Just relax. Soon the doctor will come. And the other men will have a stretcher. I know it hurts. One summer, when I was sixteen, I broke my leg. Such a silly thing, really. When you are young, you are invincible, you think. But riding my bike off the stable roof into a hay pile wasn’t a good idea.”
“Keep talking. It helps me to forget about the discomfort.”
Here was Paul’s chance. He had Mr. Bradford’s undivided attention. “You must have done some crazy things when you were a boy, no?”
“Everyone did.”
“But my leg, it healed. That was an important summer for me.”
Mr. Bradford bit his lip.
Paul squeezed his hand harder.
“How so?”
“That was the first year it was compulsory for us to join the Hitler-Jugend. All that summer, instead of being involved in the movement, instead of going to camp with them, I laid in my bedroom. My mother spent many hours with me to keep me company. My friends were away.
“A good woman is my mother. Instead of hearing about Hitler, how wonderful he was and how awful everyone else was, my mother filled my head with lovely things. She taught me much about Jesus and how He lived His life. How He treated all kinds of people with love and tenderness.”
“What is that verse?”
“In the Bible?”
“Yes. About Jews and Greeks.”
“‘There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in Christ Jesus.’”
“And you believe that?”
“With all my heart. I only fight for Germany because it is where I was born. Where I am a citizen. I was required to go to war for her. But that doesn’t mean I hold to what Hitler teaches.”
Miriam raced across the plowed field, her hair coming loose from its pins, streaming behind her. She arrived breathless beside her father. “Daddy, what happened?”
He shifted positions and grimaced. Paul shed his jacket, rolled it up, and placed it under Mr. Bradford’s head. “He broke his leg walking across the field.”
She brushed a lock of her father’s hair, the same color as hers, out of his eyes. “I’ve phoned Dr. Hamilton. He’ll be here as soon as he can. Thank the Lord he wasn’t out on a call.”
Her father grasped her by the elbow. “You’re a good girl.”
The two men Paul sent after a stretcher hustled back. “We found this tarp, a couple of pieces of lumber, and these tacks. Will that work?” The leaner man, Hans, opened his hand in which he held several brass nails.
“We’ll have to wrap the tarp around the lumber several times so it will support his weight.”
“It’s a good thing you are as thin as you are, Daddy.” Miriam wiped a tear from her ruddy cheek.
Paul brushed her chin. “Don’t worry. Once we have him to the house, the doctor will take care of him. Please, don’t cry.”
But the tears rushed down her face. “I don’t want anything to happen to him.”
Paul worked with Hans and Friedrich to build the stretcher. Once satisfied it would hold Mr. Bradford, they set about transferring him. “Hold on. This will hurt.” Paul nodded to the others. “One, two, three.”
Mr. Bradford cried out in pain as they moved him. Miriam gasped. “Please, don’t hurt him.”
“That’s the worst.” Paul motioned to Hans and Friedrich. “Let’s go.”
The rough terrain proved to make for difficult going, but they returned to the house as the doctor pulled up in his black Model A. The middle-aged man, well built and graying at the temples, stepped out and took over command. “Get him inside to the downstairs bedroom.” His nurse, not much older than Miriam, also exited the vehicle. The doctor gave orders for the equipment he would need and disappeared inside, the woman following him.
Paul assisted Hans and Friedrich in getting Mr. Bradford situated in the wrought-iron bed. The three of them slipped from the room and left the doctor and his nurse to their work.
Miriam hustled about the kitchen, pulling her bread from the oven and dishing out bowls of stew though it wasn’t even eleven o’clock in the morning. Paul moved to her side and pulled the ladle from her. “Stop it. You are worried, but he will be fine. The doctor will make sure of that.”
She nestled against him and flooded his shirt with her tears. “But what will happen to him from here? What if he can’t farm anymore?”
The question lingered in the air as Paul held her close, his own heart thrumming against his ribs.