The Redbreast(45)

to sing. The others looked up from their beds. The

song was in an unfamiliar language, but he had

such a warm, beautiful voice. The healthiest

patients cheered and laughed as he pivoted round

with small, careful waltz steps and the loose

dressing gown cords swung with him.

‘Come back here, Uriah, or I’ll send you right

back to the Eastern Front,’ she shouted sternly.

He went back obediently and sat down. His name

was not Uriah, but it was the name he had insisted

they use.

‘Do you know the Rhineland Polka?’ he asked.

‘Rhineland Polka?’

‘It’s a dance we’ve borrowed from the

Rhineland. Shall I show you?’

‘You sit there nice and still until you’re well

again.’

‘And then I’ll take you out in Vienna and teach

you the Rhineland Polka.’

The hours he had spent in the summer sun on the

veranda over the past days had given him a healthy

complexion, and now his white teeth sparkled

against his happy face.

‘I think you sound well enough to be sent back

already,’ she countered, but was unable to stop the

blush which had shot into her cheeks. She was

standing ready to continue her round when she felt

his hand against hers.

‘Say yes,’ he whispered.

She waved him away with a bright laugh and

went on to the next bed with her heart singing like

a little bird in her bosom.

‘Well?’ Dr Brockhard said, peering up from his

papers when she came into his office, and as usual

she didn’t know if this ‘well?’ was a question, an

introduction to a longer question or simply his way

of speaking. So she just stood by the door.

‘You asked to see me, Doctor?’

‘Why do you insist on being so formal with me,

Helena?’ Brockhard sighed with a smile. ‘My

goodness, we’ve known each other since we were

children, haven’t we?’

‘What was it you wanted from me?’

‘I’ve decided to report the Norwegian in Ward 4

fit for duty.’

‘I see.’

She didn’t turn a hair. Why should she? Patients

came here to become well again, then they left. The

alternative was dying. That was life in a hospital.

‘I passed on the report to the Wehrmacht five

days ago. We have already received his new

posting.’

‘That was quick.’ Her voice was firm and calm.

‘Yes, they desperately need more men. We’re

fighting a war, as you know.’

‘Yes,’ she said. But didn’t say what she was

thinking: We’re fighting a war and you’re sitting

here hundreds of kilometres from the front,

twenty-two years old, doing the job a seventy-

year-old could have done. Thanks to Herr

Brockhard Senior.

‘I thought I would ask you to give him his orders

since the two of you seem to get on so well.’

She could feel him scrutinising her reaction.

‘By the way, what is it that you like so much

about him particularly, Helena? What distinguishes

him from the four hundred other soldiers we have

here at the hospital?’

She was about to protest, but he pre-empted her.

‘Sorry, Helena, this is none of my business of

course. It’s just my curious nature. I . . .’ He picked

up a pen in front of him between the tips of his two

index fingers, turned and looked out of the

window. ‘. . . simply wonder what you can see in a

foreign fortune-hunter who betrays his own country

in order to curry favour with the conquering army.

If you understand what I mean. How’s your mother

by the way?’

Helena swallowed before answering.

‘You don’t need to worry about my mother,

Doctor. If you give me the orders, I’ll pass them

on.’

Brockhard turned to face her. He picked up a

letter from the desk. ‘He’s being sent to the 3rd

Panzer Division in Hungary. You know what that

means, I take it?’

She frowned. ‘The 3rd Panzer Division? He

volunteered for the Waffen SS. Why should he be

enlisted in the regular Wehrmacht?’

Brockhard shrugged his shoulders. ‘In these times

we have to accomplish what we can and perform

the tasks we are set to do. Or don’t you agree,

Helena?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s in the infantry, isn’t he? In other words, he

has to run behind combat vehicles, not sit in them.

A friend of mine who was in the Ukraine tells me

that every single day they shoot Russians until their

machine guns run hot and the bodies are piled high,

but they keep pouring in as if there were no end to

them.’

She only just managed to restrain herself from

snatching the letter off Brockhard and ripping it to