February 13, 1942
Arjan van Heemsvliet wrung out the silk handkerchief a third time, wanting to get every drop of blood out. His eyes fluttered shut as he squeezed. He knew he should sleep, if only to prevent himself from contracting the same horrible sickness as his patient. Yet he hadn’t allowed himself a full night’s rest since Gijs’s first bout of chest pain and vomiting began four days ago.
If only he had been able to find the right kind of antibiotics. Even his extensive wealth and social network couldn’t help him procure the correct cure. Without it, Gijs would have little chance at beating this bout of pneumonia. It had been in his chest too long, the blood-laced mucus he continually coughed up attested to that.
Arjan’s hands tightened around the silk cloth until his knuckles began to ache. Rose colored water streamed out of his fist. Damn this war! Six months ago he might have gotten lucky; infections like these were rare in the warmer months. Since winter had settled over the Netherlands, too many medicines had disappeared entirely, unlikely to be seen again until peace was a fact.
How many more months would it be before the Allies could free the Netherlands from its Nazi captors? Arjan looked down at the red-tinted water filling the basin; a tear rolled off his cheek and rippled its surface. Gijs didn’t have months, he realized. Perhaps a few days, if his lover was lucky.