Zell am See, 1945

The surrendered German troops cycle in and out of town as though on a water wheel. Common soldiers, shredded and shaggy, march alongside pristine officers in prideful unison with razor sharp posture. As my ride pulls up to the POW hospital, I'm not concerned about running into Leon Wagner again. He's most likely on his way to a camp far from here, being shipped closer to wherever he originated.

"You'll be there tonight?" Florence rests her arm across the back of the jeep seat, an hour's loan from an officer admirer of her's. There are quite a few.

"You bet," I groan wearily, already feeling worn down. "After the day I'm likely to have, I'm going to need some fun."

"I'll keep the hearth fires burnin' for you then, darlin."

I tie my apron around my waist and walk towards the tent in the glare of midday. My gaze drifts down the green to the opposite end of the bivouac. I halt. Leon sits on a wooden crate, talking with two other POWs in front of him. From the rapidity of their conversation, I know they are speaking German. He passes a lighter to one of the other soldiers.

There is something both foreign and jarringly familiar in his actions. It's as though I am seeing him for the first time on a city sidewalk. As though he isn't the enemy. He notices me and a faint smile brushes across his mouth. Swiftly, I duck into the tent without acknowledging him.

But his presence bears down on me like a thunderhead. Going through the motions of removing stitches, administering morphine, and keeping records for the surgeon to review later, the casual image of Leon plagues me.

"I'm going to need you to clean a leg wound," the ill-tempered head nurse directs, motioning down a line of cots. "Get some fresh bandages on him."

I know she's talking about Leon. The blood drains from my face. The woman peeks up at me from her clipboard, her pug nose wrinkling in frustration.

"Anytime now, Tucker." She rolls her eyes.

Gathering what I need, I steel myself as I stride to the end of the tent. Averting my gaze from his face, I sit down on the edge of the cot and unhook the pins on his bandage. He is silent. I lean over for a piece of gauze, brushing away strands of black hair loose from my bun. Propping his heel on my thigh, I unwrap the wound. His face is hidden in a book. Curiosity drives me to study the worn cover.

"You are reading Faust." The words pop dryly from my mouth as I think them. I bite my lip at the slip.

The book lowers to his lap. Again, those icy green eyes are on me like a cold burn.

"Yes," he answers evenly. "A German tale about cheating the devil."

"I thought it was about making a deal with him?"

Leon smiles softly, closing the cover and setting it on the ground.

"You are educated. Did you attend university?"

"My family couldn't afford it. After high school, all I had was my First Aid training before I joined the nurse's corps." I cover the weeping gash with gauze. It looks a little better from the last time I saw it. The smell is gone at least. "I'm assuming yours could."

"Yes."

"Why aren't you an officer?" I jerk my chin towards his common Wehrmacht soldier's coat hanging on the back of his cot. By the decorations on it, I gather he isn't much more than a corporal by American rank standards.

Leon purses his lips, his eyes trail away as he dips his head to the side. His hair is a dark shade of brown, the oiled clumps are thick with dust.

"I wanted the every-man experience among the ranks." He arches a brow as he meets my eyes. "Better material for me to write about someday, I suppose."

I upend the bottle of iodine into a cloth.

"Aren't Nazis better at burning books than writing them?" My tone is razored with hostility.

"I am not a Nazi." Leon's voice drops an octave. He holds my eyes till I believe him. Swallowing hard, I look back down at the wound and keep my hands busy.

"You are very angry for one so young," he comments casually after a stretch of silence.

I shake my head with a scowl. We've only met once, he doesn't know anything about me. "And you are awfully presumptive for a prisoner of war."

"I have nothing left to lose." He cocks his head to the side with that searching stare. "Sounds like you don't either."

Pinning the bandage into place, I stand stiffly.

"Thank you, Ruth," he says quietly as I turn to walk away.

I pause, but then continue towards the front of the tent.

∆∆∆

Florence tops off my glass with a bottle of schnapps. I tip my head back as I take a strong pull, willing the liquor to invade my senses.

"After taking a leak, I'm going down the line, trying to find my foxhole..."

Lawrence is well on his way to a good buzz. I lightly step over the balcony threshold towards him and a few of the other guys. He is telling the same story from their days hunkered in the snow outside Bastogne, in the early days of the Battle of the Bulge. It was right before Cal was wounded

Someone puts on a record and it's the usual Glenn Miller. We're still in mourning over him. Florence argues against the choice, saying it's too depressing with the man dead not even a year, shot down somewhere over the English Channel. Harry Sabatini slurs the argument that it's a tribute. She responds with her musical, flirtatious laughter and I know she'll win the battle. The record changes again to Paper Doll by the Mills Brothers.

"And I'm telling the kid, it's me! Lawrence!" Lawrence is nearly in hysterics. "But this replacement keeps on coming at me with that trench knife. Catches me right in the wrist and just misses the artery. And the kicker? He was fast asleep dreaming."

I have heard this story a hundred times. He is standing by the rail in front of George Pinto and one of the new replacements just introduced as Ralph. I shake my head with a sigh, drinking again.

Lawrence glances over, his laughter mellowing into a half smile. His eyes soften as he studies me in the dim light.

"Didn't even get a Purple Heart out of the ordeal," he concludes, as he always does, before tossing back the last of his drink. "How's Cal these days, Ruthie?"

"Well enough," I reply, crossing towards them.

I brace my back against the balcony rail between Lawrence and Pinto, swirling my glass. In the sitting room, Florence throws her yellow curls back in amusement as Harry attempts to waltz with her.

"He's still in rehabilitation. My dad says he is in good spirits though."

"As good as they get for Cal, huh?" Lawrence nudges me with his elbow.

I tuck a strand of black hair behind my ear and look hard at the tiled balcony floor. "You know my brother."

Cal is home safe, but he should be here with us on two healthy legs. The thought sends a shudder through me as I stare into my half empty glass. The liquor isn't working fast enough. I take another swallow.

Coping has been difficult. Before, when there was only the blood and deaths of strangers to contend with, I could swallow the pain and soldier on. After seeing my big brother shaking from shock with a stump where a limb used to be, I haven't been able to handle it by myself anymore. The alcohol is easy to come by, it's become a nightly thing. I am far from alone in this ritual.

"I remember Cal on nights it got quiet in the Bois Jacque." Pinto's boyish smile breaks wide open. "And we would hear this awful singing-"

"The man couldn't stand the silence," Lawrence explains to the replacement.

"His favorite was 'Danny Boy'. Warbling like a homesick leprechaun." Pinto takes a drag from his cigarette.

"He is a terrible singer," I interject after finishing off my last swallow. "Lawrence, would you get me another drink?"

"Only if you'll get me one." He winks.

I give an exaggerated groan, but I don't argue as he takes my hand.

"We need more girls at these shindigs," Pinto complains before I am out of ear shot.

Lawrence leads me into their billeted quarters, past Harry who is dipping Florence dangerously close to the floor. We meander into the dimly lit, empty kitchen. I cup my hand around a cigarette to light it as Lawrence pulls a bottle from a cabinet.

"What do you have stashed up there?" I ask, pulling myself onto the kitchen table and crossing my legs.

My limbs are humming with warmth and my tongue is loosening up. Lawrence approaches with the bottle in one hand and the rims of two glasses clutched in the other. He brings the bottle close to his face as he studies the label.

"Something in German."

"How surprising."

"Let's see..." He grunts as he pops the cork. It goes off like a gun shot, but neither of us jump. "...what we have in this mystery bottle."

He pours us each a drink. Holding up the tumbler, he tips it towards me.

"What are we drinking to?" He asks, leaning against the table with a fist resting on my knee.

"How about to Brownsburg, Indiana?"

His chin juts out as he presses his lips together. "My hometown? Alright, I could do that. To Brownsburg."

"To Brownsburg," I respond as our glasses clink.

A thud comes from the other room.

"Harry Sabatini!" Florence shrieks.

I lean back to see her being helped up from the floor. Apparently, Harry's dancing skills are not as spot on as his comedic timing. Lawrence snorts and takes a drink. I do the same, our eyes not leaving each other as we both finish off the glasses. By now, I am feeling the heat of the liquor reach my brain.

I hold out my glass. Lawrence eyes it cautiously before turning his mossy gaze on me once more. "How about you slow it down a bit, Ruth."

"I want to make another toast," I insist, forcing myself not to slur. My eyes widen with impatience as he hesitates.

With a sigh, Lawrence concedes and fills both of our glasses.

"To the book of Ruth." I lift my glass and tap it against his. "To strangers in strange lands."

"Whatever that means." Lawrence closes his eyes as he drinks.

The tacky rim sticks to my lower lip. I think of Leon Wagner with his eyes and his books and his riddles. I think of the way he says his own name. I drink swiftly and deeply.

Lawrence's fist on my knee relaxes and he grips my leg. I set the empty glass next to me. Something shifts behind his eyes.

"I should be getting you home," he states with a sharp step back. "Curfew and everything."

He is right. Florence assures me that Harry will see her safely returned to our quarters in a little bit. I am certain that he will be more than happy to play escort.

The moon rises past the dark peaks that hem Lake Zell. Somewhere in the night, a car horn blares followed by a shrill whistle. Other than that, it's a quiet walk home. Lawrence takes my hand, entwining our fingers. I lean into his arm, enjoying the feeling of being wanted. It's as intoxicating as liquor and numbs the ache in my chest. And keeps away the specter of Leon Wagner.

I stumble to a stop a few doors down from where Florence and I are billeted with one other nurse. I press my hands against his chest and grasp the open lapels of his jacket. Lawrence rests his hands on my elbows.

"You need to get home and go to bed," he coaxes. "I knew you shouldn't have had that last drink."

I give his breastbone a sloppy tap. "What do you mean you knew I shouldn't have? You poured me that glass against your better judgement? Maybe you did it because you knew this would happen."

I kiss his mouth and for a moment, he gives in. But even through a drunken haze, I know neither of us want this to happen again. It took our friendship long enough to recover after the first time.

"Ruth." He breaks away, grabbing my hand at the nape of his neck and bringing it forward. "Ruth, you should get home."

"I know you're right."

We keep eye contact. Lawrence wets his lips and shifts restlessly.

"Shit," he mutters, losing his hands in my dark hair and kissing me soundly.

I love the smell of the Old Spice he uses after he shaves and the sharp intake of breath through his nose when we kiss. I love his hands pressed at the small of my back and how his shoulders mold smoothly under my palms. But I don't know how I feel about Lawrence McNeil as a person. The guilt of that realization is overwhelming.

I can use alcohol to cope with the pain, but I will not use him. It wouldn't be fair. I tear myself away. His eyes are heavy lidded as his hands remain suspended.

"Goodnight, Lawrence."

I take myself the rest of the way home.