He didn’t seem aware that her tone had changed. With a nod he turned and walked away.
Delphine heard a commotion coming from the hospital as she made her way along the path to the main entrance. She could hear babies crying and, from somewhere farther away, men’s voices yelling words she couldn’t understand.
She pushed open the door to the lobby, where a boy was sitting at a table, rolling bandages. He looked no more than twelve or thirteen years old. The sound of the door opening made him look up. She saw a flash of fear in his eyes. It was her uniform. It made her look like a German.
“I’m a nurse.” She said the words slowly, in English. She pointed at the red patch on her sleeve, then took a few steps toward him. His face was blank. “Je suis Fran?aise,” she tried.
“Francuzka?”
Delphine nodded. She jabbed her hand at her chest. “Madame Fabius.”
“Wolf.” He mimicked her gesture, a shy smile transforming his pale face. He stood up and beckoned her to follow him.
The volume of noise increased as he opened the door. It was a female ward—a mixture of pregnant women and new mothers. The adult voices subsided as Delphine entered the room, but the high-pitched wail of babies went on unabated. There was one in the cot nearest the door, its face red with crying. A woman lying in the bed next to the child was fast asleep—probably drugged after a difficult birth, Delphine thought, for surely no mother could sleep when her newborn was making a racket like that.
She scooped the infant out of the cot and held it to her, rocking on her heels the way she had when Philippe had been this size. The baby stank. She glanced at Wolf, pinching her nose. He nodded, pointing to the cot, where a greenish-brown stain was clearly visible on the mattress. Then he touched her elbow, ushering her across the room to a wooden table, where a pile of cloth diapers lay in an untidy heap. At least they were clean, she thought, as she laid the baby down.
Removing the soiled diaper revealed inflammation on the little boy’s skinny bottom and legs. No wonder he was wailing. Delphine motioned to Wolf to come and stand by the baby. This allowed her to open her knapsack and rummage through the supplies she’d helped herself to in the medical tent at the army base back in Cherbourg. There was an emollient cream that would help soothe the rash. But first she needed clean water and something to wipe away the mess. She glanced around the room. There was no sink to be seen—just rows of beds.
“Water?” She mimed raindrops falling from the sky to Wolf, who looked back at her uncomprehendingly for a moment, then motioned with his foot to something under the table. It was a bucket with a tin army plate for a lid. The water inside looked clean enough. There was a chipped enamel jug alongside it, which Delphine examined before dipping it into the bucket.
Wolf helped her pin a fresh diaper around the struggling baby once the cream had been applied. To her surprise, the crying subsided as Wolf hovered above him, making faces and little cooing sounds. With more sign language she asked him to hold the little boy while she went to find Dr. Jankaukas. She couldn’t believe there was no one other than this child on hand to assist the new mothers. There must at least be auxiliary staff, even if there were no trained nurses.
She found the doctor in a neighboring ward. This one was full of men. Some had obvious signs of broken bones. Others had bandages over their eyes. Ignatz Jankaukas was bent over a patient with blood oozing from a wound on his neck. Delphine stopped in her tracks, not wanting to interrupt what appeared to be a medical emergency. She watched him stanch the flow of blood, then administer an injection. The missing fingers the major had mentioned were on the hand holding the syringe.
He looked younger than she had expected. Late thirties, perhaps. But even from a distance, she could see exhaustion etched on his face. As he straightened up, he caught sight of her. There was a momentary wariness—not far short of the fear she’d seen in Wolf’s eyes. But unlike the boy, the doctor must have recognized the red patch on her cap.
He came toward her, wiping his hands on a surgical coat that was streaked with blood. “Madame Fabius—bonjour! Excusez-moi—je voudrais embrasser votre main, mais je suis tout sanglant!”
She was surprised that he knew her name, and amazed that he spoke French so eloquently. He was apologizing for being unable to kiss her hand because he was too bloody. In the next breath he told her she was an angel from heaven, that since the Belgian doctor had taken flight, the hospital had been on its knees. He said he had never in his life been more grateful to see a nurse.