Five Past Midnight - James Thayer [42]
"He was a submarine officer, so he's most likely dead." Dietrich turned back to the window. A million Berliners were without homes. "She kept this house cleaner than it ever had been, and hadn't touched a thing she didn't require. So I told her she could stay."
"What's her name?"
"I haven't asked." The detective wiped mist from the window. His voice rose suddenly. "There's my wife."
Dietrich yanked open the front door and hurried down the four steps to the black Horch. The driver and front-seat passenger made no move to get out of the vehicle.
Dietrich pulled open the rear door. "Maria, I'm here, and..." Emotions chopped off his words.
She sagged out the door and he had to catch her. He was startled at how little she weighed. And instead of smooth muscles on her arms and shoulders, Dietrich found only bone. She was skeletal and spindly.
"Maria," he blurted. "It's me. It's Otto."
She was unconscious, her eyes closed, her body limp. She was wearing a coarse brown dress and no coat.
"Let's get her inside." Doctor Scheller had followed Dietrich.
Dietrich was unable to move. The doctor put his arms around Maria's still form and pulled her from the car. In the front seat two Gestapo agents chatted about dinner plans.
Dietrich was finally able to help. He and Scheller formed a fireman's grip to carry her up the stairs. Dietrich kicked open the door. The Horch pulled away from the curb. When Dietrich and Scheller lay her on the davenport, her head flopped to one side.
"I'll... I'll get her some water." Dietrich fled to the kitchen. He could not bear looking at her, her shrunken face, her convict's haircut, her dulled skin. He dipped a ladle into a bucket and poured water into a glass. After a moment he could return to the sitting room.
Scheller was using a tongue depressor to look at her throat, holding her head up with his other hand. A deflated blood-pressure cuff was around her thin arm. His black bag was open at his feet.
Dietrich held the glass. "I hardly recognize her, Kurt."
The doctor held her wrist and silently counted. He didn't look up.
After a moment Dietrich said in a low voice, "She has always been the lively one, you know, the funny one in our marriage. If I was too dour—and I was dour a lot, looking at murdered people for a living—she would stick me in the ribs."
Scheller lifted one of her eyelids, then the other.
"And she has always been stronger than me. When I was pressured to join the Party, and when I refused an order to investigate a political crime, I would come home afraid, and she would pour courage into me."
Scheller unbuttoned the first three buttons at the back of Maria's dress so he could examine her skin.
Dietrich's voice was dark with sorrow. "And when our only child, Bernd, was killed at Stalingrad, she helped me through the agony." A moment passed. "I can't lose her, Kurt. I can't."
Scheller placed his hand against Maria's forehead, then he said, "She's got typhoid fever, Otto."
Dietrich blinked. "Typhoid fever? How can you tell?"
"This rose-colored rash on her skin. I've seen this before."
"Is she going to be all right?"
Scheller hesitated. "Otto, I don't think she's going to make it. She's too far gone. She's bleeding internally."
Dietrich's heart was a hammer in his chest. "Too far gone? She... she... There must be something you can do."
Scheller slowly shook his head.
"Some medicine?" the detective demanded. "What medicine is used to treat typhoid fever?"
"Ampicillin. But there isn't any in the entire city."
Dietrich stabbed his hand into his jacket pocket and brought out Himmler's letter. He held it up for the doctor. His words were frantic. "We can get some ampicillin with this letter. This letter'll get us anything, anything we want."
Doctor Scheller reached for his friend's shoulder. "Otto, there's none in Berlin. There's none in Germany. And it's too late for the medicine anyway."
Dietrich felt as if a cable were tightening around his chest.
"Let's take her upstairs, Otto. She'll be comfortable in bed."
The detective's voice was a rough whisper.