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But that was not the only problem. "Even if we could, do we want to betray our country?"
Maud was emphatic. "We have to defeat the Nazis."
"I hate the Nazis more than anyone, but I'm still German."
"I know what you mean. I don't like the idea of turning traitor, even though I was born English. But we aren't going to get rid of the Nazis unless we lose the war."
"But suppose we could give the Russians information that would ensure we lost a battle. Erik might die in that battle! Your son--my brother! We might be the cause of his death."
Maud opened her mouth to answer, but found she could not speak. Instead she began to cry. Carla stood up and put her arms around her.
After a minute, Maud whispered: "He might die anyway. He might die fighting for Nazism. Better he should be killed losing a battle than winning it."
Carla was not sure about that.
She released her mother. "Anyway, I wish you'd warn me before bringing someone like that into the kitchen," she said. She picked up her basket from the floor. "It's a good thing Lieutenant Koch didn't look any farther into this."
"Why, what have you got in there?"
"Medicines stolen from the hospital for Dr. Rothmann."
Maud smiled proudly through her tears. "That's my girl."
"I nearly died when he picked up the bag."
"I'm sorry."
"You couldn't know. But I'm going to get rid of the stuff right now."
"Good idea."
Carla put her raincoat back on over her uniform and went out.
She walked quickly to the street where the Rothmanns lived. Their house was not as big as the von Ulrich place, but it was a well-proportioned town dwelling with pleasant rooms. However, the windows were now boarded up and there was a crude sign on the front door that said: SURGERY CLOSED.
The Rothmanns had once been prosperous. Dr. Rothmann had had a flourishing practise with many wealthy patients. He had also treated poor people at cheaper prices. Now only the poor were left.
Carla went around the back, as the patients did.
She knew immediately that something was wrong. The back door was open, and when she stepped into the kitchen she saw
a guitar with a broken neck lying on the tiled floor. The room was empty, but she could hear sounds from elsewhere in the house.
She crossed the kitchen and entered the hall. There were two main rooms on the ground floor. They had been the waiting room and the consulting room. Now the waiting room was disguised as a family sitting room, and the surgery had become Rudi's workshop, with a bench and woodworking tools, and usually half a dozen mandolins, violins, and cellos in various states of repair. All medical equipment was stashed out of sight in locked cupboards.
But not anymore, she saw when she walked in.
The cupboards had been opened and their contents thrown out. The floor was littered with smashed glass and assorted pills, powders, and liquids. In the debris Carla saw a stethoscope and a blood pressure gauge. Parts of several instruments were strewn around, evidently having been thrown on the floor and stamped upon.
Carla was shocked and disgusted. All that waste!
Then she looked into the other room. Rudi Rothmann lay in a corner. He was twenty-two years old, a tall man with an athletic build. His eyes were closed, and he was moaning in agony.
His mother, Hannelore, knelt beside him. Once a handsome blonde, Hannelore was now gray and gaunt.
"What happened?" said Carla, fearing the answer.
"The police," said Hannelore. "They accused my husband of treating Aryan patients. They have taken him away. Rudi tried to stop them smashing the place up. They have . . ." She choked up.
