Page 92 of Beehive
The woman sighed and handed the chain back. “I know someone, a nurse who worked in a field hospital. She is not a doctor, but she might help—for a price.”
“Where?” I asked.
“Three blocks south, near the old bakery,” she said. “Second floor. Her name is Elke. If you knock three times, pause, then knock twice more, she might open the door. She is wary of strangers.” She paused, then added, “And if she asks who sent you, say Gerta.”
“Gerta,” I repeated, nodding. “Thank you.”
I started to back away, but the lookout stepped forward.
“And the shelter?” he asked. “That’s worth more than a name.”
I froze. “You know a safe place?”
He nodded. “Near the canal, there’s a row of houses. They are mostly intact. Some are watched, but not all. Number nineteen has a cellar you can access through the back alley. The lock isbroken. Hardly anyone goes there since it is half flooded, but it is quiet and far from the principal routes the Soviets patrol.”
I memorized the directions, my heart suddenly pounding with hope.
“Thank you,” I said. “I owe you all a great debt.”
“Yes, you do. I will collect that debt before you cross the border.”
That sounded ominous, but I didn’t linger long enough to think on it.
My heart hammered as I considered what I’d do if Elke refused to help. Beg more? Offer something else? Time was so short.
I found the building: a squat structure with boarded-up windows and graffiti scrawled on the walls. It didn’t look promising, but I followed instructions to the letter. The stairwell was dark and smelled of rot. I counted steps, reached the second floor, and faced a battered door.
Three knocks, pause,two knocks.
For a long moment, there was nothing.
Then the door opened a crack. A single eye peered out—a woman’s eye, with dark lashes and a weary glint.
“Gertasent me,” I said quietly.
The eye blinked, then the door opened wider. A woman whose wiry brown hair barely rose to my shoulder stepped back, allowing me to slip through the doorway. The sound of four deadbolts sliding into placeclickedbehind me.
Inside, the space was sparse. There was no furniture save a makeshift cot and a table piled with bandages and cloth. A lone lamp flickered atop a crate. The faint scent of antiseptic lingered, which I took as a good sign.
Elke was short, middle-aged, with a sharp gaze that settled on my face and chest as if scanning for signs of injury. Her hair was cropped close, and she wore a threadbare sweater beneath a stained apron.
“You are not wounded,” she declared.
“I’m not here for myself,” I replied, my throat tight. “My brother . . . he’s got a bullet wound in the shoulder. I cleaned it best I could, but I’m no doctor.” I paused, then forced myself to be honest. “We’re trying to cross over. He can barely walk. He really needs help.”
Elke’s expression tightened at the mention of crossing. “I will give you what aid I can, but no more talk of crossing. I have seen too many die in the attempt.”
I nodded. “I understand. I just need something to keep him alive. Bandages, disinfectant, antibiotics, anything that will help with the pain or fight infection.”
She turned to the table and began rifling through a long tin box. “I do not have much,” she warned. “The damned Soviets take everything they can find. A few strips of bandage, some sulfa powder, and a syringe of morphine—this is all I have. Is it a painful wound?”
“He’s tough, but yes, it’s painful,” I said.
Morphine. That could be a lifesaver, allowing us to move quietly through the night.
She handed me a bundle wrapped in cloth and a tiny vial along with a syringe. “Use it sparingly,” she said, pointing at a red line on the syringe. “A single dose. Too much, and he will be too groggy to move. Too little, and it will not help.” She hesitated, then added, “I wish I had antibiotics, but they ran out long ago.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I . . . I have so little to trade.”
