Jörg woke up to the scent of fresh coffee. He found himself lying on a bed, having been moved there at some point. The air was dry and warm, nothing about it even slightly recalling that of the trenches pooled with fetid water.
The room he was in didn’t look like a field hospital, but part of a regular home or small inn. Brightly colored wallpaper decorated the walls, and curtains with a geometric pattern had been pushed to either side of a French casement window, through which sunlight streamed. It must be around midday.
The room looked entirely different from the style of his hometown. The furnishings and lights featured prominent curves and seemed delicate enough to break if handled too roughly. Furniture where Jörg had grown up was plain, sturdy, and coated with thick varnish to highlight the natural colors.
He removed the blanket covering him and sat up. Nothing hurt. Jörg moved his hands across his entire body, but it didn’t seem as if he had any major injuries.
There wasn’t so much as a trace of blood or sweat in the air. Instead, he smelled a fresh, grassy scent and, sniffing cautiously, realized it came from the flowers in the vase at his bedside.
Jörg took slow, careful breaths. His throat and lungs were fine. It seemed there was nothing wrong with his hearing. But rather than being relieved, it just made him feel more unnerved. With everything that had just happened, something should hurt. He wondered if perhaps it was his pain receptors that had been damaged.
A wild hunger suddenly overtook him.
The smell of coffee had brought back memories of freshly baked bread.
He got down from the bunk. His legs were steady, and he didn’t feel dizzy. Jörg walked toward the door, hoping to get something—anything—in his stomach, even if it was just boiled potatoes and bread.
The moment he reached for the handle, the door cracked open. Jörg peeked out into the hallway to see a girl of eleven or twelve hiding behind the door. She had shiny chestnut hair and a very healthy complexion, and she was wearing a stylish dress with fabric embellishments, the likes of which he would never see in his hometown.
Jörg smiled, adopting the warm demeanor he used when talking to the children that came into his father’s barbershop. “Do you mind if I open the door?”
She simply stared up at him silently, her eyes open wide. Had she not understood him?
With few other options, Jörg pushed at the handle.
The girl took her hands off the door and dashed down the hall. Jörg made to go after her, but just then, a voice called out to him from behind.
“How are you, soldier?”
Turning around, he saw an older woman. She looked nothing like the girl, so this probably wasn’t her mother or a relative. The lady was taller than Jörg, wearing a blouse with a rectangular neckline and three-quarter-length sleeves over a slim skirt. Her hair was pulled back into a bun, darker than the girl’s in color and almost black.
Jörg was relieved to find someone with whom he could communicate. He asked where he was, then followed it up by saying, “This looks like someone’s house.”
“It’s a hospital.”
“It’s nice for a hospital.”
“It also serves as an inn.”
“Then are you the doctor’s wife?”
“I’m the doctor.”
The woman extended her right hand and gently clasped Jörg’s, her cool, smooth fingers wrapping around his own. “My name is Alexandra Nastase. But please, call me Xandra. No one addresses me stiffly as Dr. Nastase.”
Jörg awkwardly returned the handshake. “I’ve never met a female doctor before.”
“I’m sure you haven’t. In most countries, women are primarily nurses.”
Xandra led Jörg to the dining room.
“You can walk by yourself, I see. You’re young, so your body’s responding well to the treatment. Would you like coffee and a croissant?”
“A ‘croissant’? What’s that?”
“It’s a pastry in the shape of a crescent.”
“So it’s like a Hörnchen?”
“Not quite. But it tastes just as good.”
The crescent-shaped pastry on the plate was wholly different from the kind Jörg knew. It had a crispy texture, with dough made up of layers like a pie. It tasted strongly of butter, and the thin flakes peeled off to stick irritatingly to the back of his teeth and the roof of his mouth. Hörnchen had a lighter flavor and denser centers. They also didn’t get this deep-brown color when baked.
It was still good, though. Jörg practically wolfed it down and drained the coffee in a single gulp.
“What side of the border is this?” he asked, to which Xandra casually replied, “The French side.”
Did that mean Jörg was a prisoner of war? No—nobody kept their captives in such fine condition. Nothing about his current circumstances made sense.
Xandra spoke before he could ask another question. “The man who brought you here will be back soon, so you can ask him why you’re here. What did you do before becoming a soldier?”
“I was a barber.”
“Oh, you were? In that case, I should ask you to cut that girl’s hair.”
Jörg began to say that he would be happy to, but a tightness gripped his chest and the words caught in his throat.
“What’s wrong?” Xandra asked.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to pick up a pair of barber shears again.”
“Why not?”
“When I was just a simple barber, a blade was a tool that let me change a person’s appearance and bring them joy. But on the front lines, I saw their terrible potential.”
“You’re scared of them now?”
“Yes.”
“You should forget all that.”
“No matter how hard I try, I’ll never be able to rid myself of those memories. These hands will never forget what it feels like to take another person’s life.”
Xandra didn’t pry any further. “Did you ever want to be something besides a barber?”
Jörg thought for a moment, then spoke softly. “I used to enjoy thinking about women’s clothes and jewelry. Arranging dresses and hats in different ways in my mind, then thinking up hairstyles to go with them… I know that must sound strange. It’s not the sort of job a man should be fantasizing about.”
“Not at all. Those sorts of jobs are becoming much more popular in the cities. Where did you learn about fashion?”
“I never had the chance to go to school, but I enjoyed reading. One of my cousins is clever, and he often let me borrow his books. Eventually, I started going to the library. I didn’t even have a girlfriend, but I would spend hours looking through books on clothes and accessories and furiously scribbling in notebooks.”
“Well then, I suggest you promptly forget about the war and start thinking about designing beautiful clothes for women. That’s where your true life leads.”
Is it really okay to forget about the war? Or rather, can I ever forget it?
Jörg’s heavy heart acted as a counterweight to Xandra’s carefree tone.
Try as he might to imagine beautiful things, all that came to mind were the horrific images he’d seen on the battlefield. No matter how hard he tried, he would never be free of that sinister metallic stench or the smell of gunpowder. There was no way those memories would simply fade away.
It was then that a tall man strolled into the dining room.
Jörg stiffened, still gripping his utensils. This was the same man who had been gazing down at him on the battlefield. He wore a cloak today, too, keeping it on even when he sat down in the chair.
The man spoke, sitting at a slight angle with an elbow resting on the armrest. “Very few people who wake up here have such an appetite. You must be quite strong.”
“Thank you very much for rescuing me.” Jörg set his utensils down on the table before continuing. “I assume I am a prisoner of war, correct? Dr. Nastase informed me that we are in France.”
“Please, call her Xandra.”
“If I’m being held captive, then I would prefer to address her by her proper title.”
The man sneered at what he’d said, but strangely, Jörg didn’t feel offended. It was clear from his attitude that he’d reacted that way out of contempt for the rigid formality of the military, a sentiment Jörg knew all too well.
“My name is George Silvestri,” he said. “Everybody calls me the Count, though I no longer hold any lands. We’re not French, but circumstances have brought us here.”
“Where are you from?”
“Romania. When I was young, however, it was called Walachia. What is your name?”
“Jörg Huber. I was deployed to Champagne with the German Army. The trenches were mostly dug by the time I got there, so I fired machine guns on the front line and, when they gave the order, charged into no-man’s-land.”
“The most treacherous of tasks. And you’re so young.”
“I couldn’t choose where they sent me.”
“And are you happy now that you’ve escaped the front lines?”
“Yes, that goes without saying. But I left my company behind, so I can’t feel too happy knowing they’re still fighting.”
“We have no connection to the military. I helped you because I have a personal favor to ask of you. You met the young girl here, I presume.”
“I did.”
“Her name is Lila. I would like you to look after her.”
“It didn’t seem like she can understand German.”
“She understands you perfectly. She’s just shy.”
A strange realization suddenly struck Jörg. Now that he thought about it, he was having no difficulty whatsoever speaking with either Xandra or the Count. They had chosen to speak in a language he could understand even before he told them anything about himself. How and when had they decided on that?