The year is 1942 and Europe is at the height of World War Two. Mila Goldstein, a Dutch Jew living in occupied Holland, has signed on as an informant for the British Secret Intelligence Service (SIS). However, days before her assignment, a wounded Ge...
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"You're awake."
Mila had walked into the spare bedroom of her house to find the German soldier she had been tending to struggling to sit up, eyes heavy with drowsiness, forehead beaded with fresh droplets of sweat from the exertion his attempts to rise from the bed he lay in had taken.
"Don't try to get up," Mila said sitting down the tray she had been carrying on the bedside table. "You'll bust your stitches," she added, kneeling beside him, lowering him lightly back onto his back.
"Wh-what happened?" The man croaked out in a throaty whisper, his gaze, though unfocused, falling on Mila.
"You were shot..." Mila said cautiously, examining the man.
"Am I in a h-hospital?"
"No," Mila shook her head. "I found you on my door step. I've been taking care of you here." She grabbed the tray she had been carrying when she had walked in and laid it at the foot of the bed, taking a seat on the bedside stool.
"Are you a nurse?" The soldier asked, watching her more intently now as she went to work opening and preparing the various supplies that littered the tray.
"No," Mila replied, opening the bottle of Morphine, pouring a small amount into a measuring cup. "Drink it. It'll help the pain," she said, holding the cup out.
"I'm okay," the man replied, eyeing the dark, thick liquid cautiously.
"It wasn't a suggestion," she insisted, holding out the cup until it was directly in front of his face. "Besides, you'll wish you had it once I'm done cleaning your wound." The man's eyes traveled from the cup, to Mila, then back to the cup. He reached out hesitantly and took it, tipping its contents into his mouth, swallowing with a grimace. "Good." She took the cup from him, placing it back on the tray. "Now," Mila began, reaching for the buttons of the man's shirt, "I'll need to redress your wound." The man nodded, wincing as he laid back against the mattress.
Mila pealed back the white button down she had dressed the soldier in after she had stripped off the bloody uniform he had been wearing. The shirt had been one of her brother's and had fit the man well, though the length was a bit short on his frame since he was a few inches taller than Abel had been. Mila examined the dressing she had placed on the man's abdomen, carefully pealing back the surgical tape she had used to secure it. Slowly, she pealed back the gauze. The wound looked clean, the makeshift sutures she had sewn in place still securely holding the wound's edges together.
The bullet hole had been larger than she had expected the night she found him. The perpetrator had most likely used a shot gun of some kind ... maybe a rifle. A handgun had certainly not inflicted the amount of damage this man had sustained. She traced a finger lightly over the stitches. He had needed nearly ten to close up the entirety of the hole the bullet had left in its wake. Mila glanced up at the soldier's face. He was watching her with curiosity. She hastily pulled her hand away, a red blush creeping up her cheeks. She grabbed the bottle of Gin from the tray. The man furrowed his brows, a questioning look painted across his face.
