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In the German Enchantment collection
(Feb. 2002--Barbour)
"Dearest Enemy" is a historical novella
in a group of four interrelated novellas dating from the 1600's to present
day--all involving two special families and one very special castle.
(Authors are: Dianne Christner, Irene Brand, Pamela Griffin, and Gail Gaymer
Martin)
In "Dearest Enemy", Brigetta Linder is tired of the Great War that has
raged for almost four years, and longs for peace. When she stumbles across
wounded American POW, Joseph, near her home in the Black Forest, she struggles
with her own inner battle--should she turn him over to the authorities, as a
loyal citizen of the fatherland would do? Or should she help him, as her
Heavenly Father would expect her to do?
Over the weeks, the issues become even more clouded the closer Brigetta grows to
Joseph, and he to her. Yet two enemies of war can have no common ground--can
they? With the danger of discovery always near, Brigetta must face one of the
most important decisions of her life--one that will forever affect her, her
family, and the enemy she has grown to love.
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One
(Engelheim, Germany--1918)
Brigetta Linder climbed the mossy path, her gaze going upward to the
castle built into the rocky cliff. Engelturm. Towering dark firs and
spruce of the Black Forest surrounded the citadel, like guards watching
over their king. Beyond that a steep drop-off led to the twisting River
Wurm.
When Brigetta was a child, her Oma filled her head with countless fairy
tales. Yet the stories Brigetta repeatedly begged to hear from her
grandmother were the true ones regarding the sandstone fortress. Through
the years, Brigetta visited the structure often and dreamt a thousand
dreams, an enjoyment that hadn't lapsed now that she was a woman of
seventeen. In her imaginings, the castle was as it had been in days of
old, towering and strong, and she the lovely countess fighting for
justice. Her count was handsome, with a pure heart, doing good for the
people--everything a countess must have in a count.
The scrawny German Shepherd turned on the path ahead and barked, as if
telling her to hurry. "Hush, Wolfgang," Brigetta scolded, "you
will wake
the entire village."
In reality, such chances were slim, since her family's cottage was
situated away from the township and up the hill, closer to Engelturm. Her
Opa had become a hermit after his Eva died, building a cottage near the
abandoned castle, keeping to himself and making his clocks. Upon his
death, he left Brigetta's father the cottage, as well as the tools of his
trade. Yet Brigetta didn't mind being isolated from the village of
Engelheim. Especially when it brought her close to her beloved castle.
The rose-tinted ivory tower soared above the treetops, beckoning to
Brigetta. It promised her escape, enticing her to forget about the war
that seemed never to end . . . to forget that starvation lurked
everywhere--an evil beast with sharp fangs ready to shred the life from a
man . . . to forget that her cousins were fighting on the other side of
the Rhine, in France, and might be dead even now.
Wolfgang barked, startling Brigetta from her morose thoughts. Shaking her
head to clear it, she continued up the overgrown path, using a walking
staff to aid her over the steeper places. Thorny bushes pulled at her
calf-length skirt and thick stockings, but she ignored them, moving ever
higher. She must hurry. Often she woke early, slipped out of the cottage,
and visited her castle in the gray predawn mist. Yet swirls of pale rose
were already starting to filter the sky beyond Engelturm. Soon her mother
would awaken and expect Brigetta's help with morning chores and
breakfast--what little of that there was.
At last Brigetta broke through the dense foliage. Inhaling a breath of
awe, she surveyed the magnificent castle--her castle--as she always did
when she made it to this point. To see it so close moved something deep
inside her. Hundreds of years ago had there been a young woman like
Brigetta, dreaming her dreams as she peered down from Engelturm's many
arched and slit windows?
Growling, Wolfgang came to attention, his scraggly gray and white ruff
bristling. His pointed ears pricked forward, then lay back against his
head. He barked and ran over the makeshift bridge spanning the dried up
moat, toward the crumbling outer wall.
"Wolfgang! Halt!"
Instead of obeying her command, the dog disappeared through the opening.
The blood drained from Brigetta's face. He never disobeyed unless there
was a threat. Had a wild boar or wolf found its way inside?
Overcoming the impulse to turn and flee, Brigetta approached the stone
edifice, wielding her stick over her shoulder like a weapon. She'd come
too far to turn back now, to be deprived of her sojourn. The intruder
must go--and she would see to it.
Carefully she stepped through the narrow opening, over the crumbled
rocks, and moved across the courtyard toward the north wing of the
abandoned fortress. Wolfgang was nowhere in sight, but his loud barking
pierced the moist air.
Brigetta followed the sound and crept through what must have been a
gallery. A long line of faded rectangles along the walls looked as if
they'd once held portraits. Slowly she made her way past an arched door,
leading to the great hall, and moved farther down the corridor. Here,
dawn's light didn't penetrate, and Brigetta entertained fear of the
unknown as clammy darkness moved to suffocate her.
Over Wolfgang's barking, Brigetta heard the unmistakable shuffling noise
of loose rocks rapidly sliding over the ground, as if the intruder were
trying to escape. Tightening her grip on the stick, praying under her
breath that the good heavenly Father would protect her, she crept through
the chapel entrance into the lower part of the tower. An agate altar
glimmered below a broken stained glass window. Three rows of stone
benches lined either side.
Wolfgang cornered the intruder, who'd pushed himself as far against the
wall behind the altar as he could go. In the dim light seeping through
the arched, multi-colored window, Brigetta could discern the brown
uniform of the blond man who lay on his side, his watchful eyes never
leaving the dog. She gasped as realization sank in.
An American soldier. Her enemy!
Mind reeling, Joseph Miller eyed the vicious, barking dog, vaguely aware
someone had moved into the round room. Looking up, his eyes met the
startled brown ones of a young woman with a halo of thick, dark curls. He
tried to make sense of everything, but couldn't think straight. She held
a stick, as if she were going up to bat in baseball. Hot . . . he was so
hot.
A hazy recollection of the past days flickered through Joseph's mind,
playing tag with his memory, but the thoughts were disjointed. Rushing to
obey an order . . . grenades and machine-gun fire exploding all around
him . . . capture by enemy soldiers . . . somehow he'd been taken across
the Rhine and into German occupied territory--on foot? In a vehicle? He
remembered running, getting shot then running some more. Had he escaped?
Or was he in a prisoner-of-war camp? But such places didn't have
rosy-cheeked angels, did they?
Bracing his hand on the ground, Joseph tried to sit up. Burning pain
seared his ribs. He inhaled sharply, curling inward and clamping a hand
to his torn shirt and the cloth tied around his side. The dog growled.
"Wolfgang," the girl said tersely. Her command silenced the animal,
though she still held the long stick over her shoulder.
Joseph licked dry lips. "Water," he croaked. "Thirsty."
She looked at him, her brow crinkled in puzzlement. "Was ist das? Ich
verstehe nicht."
German. She spoke only German. Of course. And thanks to his grandmother,
Joseph knew the language. "Wasser, bitte. Durstig."
Her mouth dropped open in shock. "You speak German?" she asked in her
language.
"A little." Another pain stabbed his side and he groaned. His eyes
closed
as he fell backward, letting his head knock against the stone floor.
"You're hurt!" She closed the distance and fell on her knees before
him.
Obviously she no longer considered him a threat. The stick clattered to
the ground beside her. "Where are you wounded?"
"Ribs. Left side." A dull heaviness invaded his head, separating him
from
reality. She put her hands to his shirt and tugged it up, inflicting
worse pain.
"Aaagghh!" His eyes flew open as he harshly reentered the world. Her
head
bent low, her gaze lowered to his bare chest. A becoming flush touched
her face . . . or maybe it was the strange rosy light coming from above.
"The wound is not too deep, but it looks infected." A pause. "How
were
you injured?"
"Bullet . . . from a German rifle."
Her head whipped up, and their gazes collided. Joseph saw fear return to
her eyes. She snatched her hands from his chest and stumbled backward to
her feet, as if she'd just remembered who he was.
A film descending over his mind, Joseph watched his beautiful enemy back
out from what would surely be his tomb, then turn on her heel and run
away. Closing his eyes, he prepared to die.
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