The Tortoise Shell Comb

In the middle of the night, I hear a sound. It seems to come from downstairs, maybe from the building hallway near the door. I get up and put my ear against the landing door. Once again, I hear something like a shuffle. I quietly wake up my aunt who sits in bed, her hair in disarray and her face anxious. She wakes her husband and both of them quietly go to the landing to listen. - There is someone downstairs, concludes my aunt in a whisper. We listen for some long minutes. The house is wrapped in a thick silence. - There is no one, says my uncle. Go back to bed. You too, Simon. - Shush… The shuffle starts again, followed by panting and a faint groan. There is definitely someone downstairs in the hallway. The floor squeaks under our bare feet. We hold our breath to listen. Sarah has joined us on the landing. All of us return to the dining room where we sit in the dark. My aunt Fortunée says, in a low voice: -If it were a thief, he would come up. The same is true if it were the Gestapo or the Militia… - So, what do we do? - We have to go and see who it is. - I will wake Marguerite and ask her to go and see… Says her husband Salvatore - Don’t even think about it! Says Fortunée in an irritated whisper. We sit around the table the rest of the night, too frightened to move, incapable of making a decision, while now and then bewildering sounds come from the stairwell. Fortunée shakes my uncle’s shoulder who, in spite of his fear dozed off for a few seconds. - We have to check now. Armed with a frying pan, Salvatore goes slowly down the steps, almost in slow motion, as if walking on eggs. I follow at a distance. - Anybody there? He asks. A moan answers. We continue down. Half way down the steps, I recognize the shadow of a man lying under the stairway. His face is covered with dirt and he is wearing a German uniform. I stop. My aunt catches up with me. - Is he armed? - It’s one of the Croats - He does not look dangerous. Maybe he is hurt. We should see if we can help… - You want to get us all killed? Mutters Salvatore between his teeth. - Well then, tell him to go away! Oh, you can be so clumsy, sometimes! My aunt approaches the soldier. I get close too. He is very young, just a few years older than I am. - What do you want? Fortunée asks him. - Croat, mutters the soldier with a plaintive voice, kein übel, croatisch, , deutsche mich zu töten. We don’t understand what the soldier is muttering. His arm is covered with dry blood. Now Sarah comes down. - He cannot stay here, says Salvatore. - Let’s get him upstairs, says my aunt. - It’s impossible… We start arguing about what to do. It is obvious the man does not have the strength to walk on his own and if he did, once outside he would immediately be shot down by the SS. After all, he is a deserter. Nevertheless, my uncle wants him to go away. In the end, Fortunée makes a convincing argument: The soldier is sure to collapse as soon as he gets outside and this would attract the Germans to the front of our house. Salvatore holds out his hand for the wounded man to grab. However, the soldier does not have the strength to stand up. I lean forward and pass my arm around one shoulder while my uncle does the same on the other side. The soldier stinks. A beard a few days old covers his dark face. His bushy hair is unkempt. From the landing above, Marguerite who was coming down to make coffee looks at us in shocked silence, her hand covering her mouth. We climb the steps carrying the wounded man as best we can. Marguerite helps us sit him down on a chair in the dining room. Slowly, he drinks a glass of water she hands him. She removes his jacket, then his shirt. Although superficial, the wound has bled profusely. Marguerite cleans the wound and prepares a makeshift dressing. - Danke, mumbles the young soldier staring at Marguerite. - What are we going to do with him? Asks Salvatore. We have to ask him to leave as soon as it is dark tonight. - Not wearing this uniform, says Marguerite. Find him some clothes and shoes. Then she adds: - To begin with, give me a towel… I smile inwardly, noticing how suddenly roles have reversed. Marguerite, the maid, has taken over and gives orders. - Danke, danke, repeats the deserter, then a hand on his chest: - Milos. - Simon, I answer. Milos feels better after he eats some bread and drinks coffee with us. His spirits improve as well but, we still don’t understand a word of what he is trying to tell us, and we have not yet decided what to do with him. I have an idea. I bring paper and pencil and after I wet the lead on my tongue, I draw a door and an arrow as well as a little man leaving the house towards a countryside with cows and trees. Milos borrows my pencil to draw a car followed by a question mark. No, I motion with my head as I draw a pair of legs. Milos looks disappointed, but he grasps what I meant. I then draw a map of the region. Salvatore, who knows the countryside well from scouring the area looking for food, writes down the names of places where people are likely to help the deserter. When we are done, Milos goes up to rest on Marguerite’s bed.