Motherland by Maria Hummel Page A

letter emerged easily. It almost sounded like another man writing, someone confident with words, a father who knew he was making the best choice for his family, a good German who did not believe the war would end. He also mentioned his old classmate, changing the details to make it seem as if he and Hartmann had mutually recognized each other. He’d sworn he would operate on Hartmann somehow, before he left. I owe it to him . The two stories wound together: a surgeon describing his devotion to injuredmen. I owe it to them . When ink covered the whole paper, Frank folded it without reading it and dropped it in the hospital’s outbox.
    All day he tried to imagine Liesl reading it, but couldn’t. What would she think? How would she know that he still had the rucksack packed and hidden beneath his bed? That if ever she called to him, he would come? He could never say such things with the censors.
    The package from her appeared in his room the following afternoon, as if summoned. He opened it gingerly, but the box had clearly been raided long ago, its paper ripped and retaped, the tape dirty from transport. If there had been money or a map, it was gone now, stolen before the package even reached the hospital. All that was left was an innocent, golden, Christmas stollen, wrapped in butcher paper, and a brief letter.
    Frank looked out the window toward Schnell’s office, relieved and astonished at his earlier foolhardiness, the dangerous game he’d asked Liesl to play. Someone’s greed had saved them somewhere along the way. He scanned the letter.
    I had no nuts or fruit , Liesl had written. Just a few raisins and one big fig. Enjoy! Your loving wife .
    Frank turned the loaf over in his hands. He’d never heard of figs in stollen, but Liesl had her own country ways of cooking: big, salty, hearty slices of things, lots of butter, meats baked wet and soft. It had taken some getting used to, but he missed it now. It pained him to think of her receiving his letter in return, announcing his departure for Berlin. He would write her another note tonight.
    Since it was hospital tradition to share the bounty of care packages, Frank brought the loaf to the small annex where the medical staff ate its meals together. He didn’t like most of them. The other doctors were young, ambitious, and talked about the patients as if they were conquests and not people. The technicians were too quiet and deferential. He really wanted only to offer the holiday bread to his friends by the window:the anesthesiologist, Garren Linden, his comforting hulk leaned against the sill, and Anna Reiner, the only nurse who dared to infiltrate the men’s conversations. She looked tiny beside her bearded admirer. She kept smoothing her black hair behind her ear while Linden talked about Beethoven.
    “Eight nice, proper slices,” Frank announced, making small marks on the floury top with his scalpel.
    The other staff members were chattering about Ardennes. One of the younger doctors had a cousin who was part of a secret operation to go behind Allied lines. The doctor had a way of talking loudly and then softly so the whole room ended up listening to him. His hair sat on his head like a shellacked sponge. “He speaks perfect English because he spent a year in Minnesota,” the doctor said. “He’s supposed to pretend to be a lost American, and then sabotage their plans.”
    “It seems like the Amis would jump on any reason to go home,” Frau Reiner said politely.
    “Ja and they’ve already got two,” blurted Linden. “French beer and French whores.”
    Everyone laughed except the doctor, who said, “Please, not in front of the lady.”
    Frank watched Frau Reiner grin and chuck Linden on the arm. “That’s right, you oaf.”
    “My apologies, Madame,” Linden mumbled, but he looked pleased.
    “Apology accepted,” the doctor said without a trace of humor. “At any rate, we Germans talk with our throats. Americans talk with their noses.” He described