Ilse blanched. “Where?”
“In the thigh.”
“Is the bullet still inside?”
“I don’t know.”
Ilse darted back into her room and emerged with her sewing basket and scissors. “Grab some towels and a basin from the bathroom.”
Audrey did as she was told, then followed Ilse downstairs. She was sweating all over.
When they entered the kitchen, Ilse let out a gasp at the sight of Friedrich’s leg and the blood pooling on the floor. She snatched one of the towels out of Audrey’s hands, kneeling down to inspect him.
“He was shot from the back?”
“Yes.”
“There’s no exit wound here,” Ilse said. “And it’s a small enough hole. I think the bullet is still inside.” She straightened. “How long has it been?”
The day already felt like a week. “Four hours, maybe?”
“Okay.” Ilse was nodding as though convincing herself of something. “I think… I think if the shot alone were going to kill him, he would be dead already.”
“What do you mean, the shot alone?” Audrey asked.
“I mean if the bullet had hit an artery, he’d already be dead. Friedrich?” she said loudly, tapping his face. “Friedrich?” His eyes fluttered half-open. “We need to get the bullet out. But if I try, I could make you bleed more. It could get infected either way. But I’ll do—I’ll do my best.”
Infected. Audrey remembered all the soldiers she’d seen as a child, the ones who lost entire limbs in the Great War; her father had told her he’d witnessed men’s legs being sawed off due to gangrene.
But Friedrich was murmuring his consent.
“I need a knife,” Ilse said. She rummaged in a kitchen drawer and extracted two small paring knives. “This might work. Audrey, get some vodka from the sideboard. He’s going to need it.”
Ilse washed the knives and her sewing needles and scissors whilst Audrey retrieved the bottle from the sitting room. Once again, it was Ilse coming to their aid. Ilse had always called Audrey the brave one, but as one crisis led into the next on this mad mission, it became clear that Ilse had no understanding of the depth of her own courage.
After setting out the knives, her sewing kit, and the towels on the table, Ilse sliced Friedrich’s pant leg with the scissors, then gently wiped away the blood to get a clearer view of the wound, grimacing as she did so. Audrey couldn’t be sure, but the blood flow appeared to be slowing. Though she didn’t know whether that was reassuring or not.
“Have you ever done this before?” she asked Ilse, who shook her head.
“Give him the vodka,” she said. “And you might want to feed his belt between his teeth.”
Audrey awkwardly fiddled with Friedrich’s belt buckle. Once loosened, she had him bite down on the leather.
Removing the bullet was a gruesome process. Audrey did her best to steel her nerves as Ilse crouched down awkwardly behind Friedrich’s thigh and began to push aside shreds of flesh, digging into the wound as fresh blood filled the hole and dripped onto the towel Audrey had placed on the floor. Friedrich groaned and cried out several times, and Audrey had to hold his leg down. She felt sick, both at the sight of the wound and the fact that they were causing him such agony, but in a few horrible minutes, it was done. Ilse dropped the bullet onto the floor with a small clunk and let out a sigh. She rolled her shoulders, then, with steady hands, began stitching up the wound.
“You’re quite good at that,” Audrey said, and the memory of Ephraim’s attack crashed over her in a painful wave. Ilse had stitched up her own brother at this same table, and Audrey wondered how many wounds the world would inflict on her before she lost the will to try to repair them.
“Sutures are one of the first things you learn,” Ilse replied. “I might have learnt how to do this kind of surgery if I’d been able to continue studying, but…” She snipped the end of the thread, stood, and set the needle down on the table. “That’s it.”
Friedrich was unconscious again; the physical toll coupled with the medicinal alcohol had knocked him out thoroughly.
“All we can do is pray there’s no infection,” Ilse said, as she fashioned a makeshift bandage out of the towels and Friedrich’s belt. “We’ll have to keep him hydrated and fed, and keep the area clean and dry.”
She moved to the sink and began scrubbing the blood from her hands and arms.
Audrey studied Friedrich’s pale face. “Does he have a decent chance, you think?”
Ilse’s eyes welled with tears. “I honestly don’t know. I wish I did. He needs rest. The couch in the lounge will have to do. There’s no way we can get him upstairs.”
With some effort, they settled Friedrich into a comfortable position, leg raised on a pile of cushions. Then Audrey went to the front door and slid all the locks shut, sealing them inside their fragile sanctuary. Leaning against the door, she breathed in the smell of the house, grateful beyond belief that she had come home in one piece.
After a minute, she went to the lounge, pausing in the doorway at the scene before her. Ilse had draped a blanket over Friedrich and was caressing his brow. It was an intimate moment. Audrey cleared her throat, and Ilse withdrew her hand.
Avoiding Ilse’s gaze, Audrey set about building a fire, then poured herself a Schwartzhog and flicked on the wireless atop the spindly cherrywood table in the corner of the room. She needed to check for news of the bombing, to hear what the authorities suspected, to know whether wolves paced outside the door. Voices murmured in crackly tones. Some novel being read aloud. No news yet.
“What happened?” Ilse asked after a beat. “You didn’t get him?”
Audrey took a long drink. “No. We got close though. We really did.”
“Did anyone else get hurt?”
Angry tears threatened. “Claus is dead.”
Ilse gasped. “Oh God. I’m sorry. You liked him well enough, didn’t you?”
“Yeah. Well enough. But he had a wife, children.”
“He died a hero,” Ilse said. “I hope that brings some comfort to his family.”
