I’m—­”

“Schmitt.”

Schmitt appeared through the curtains and stared at the doctor.

“Herr Major?”

“Take the doctor outside,” Koehler said in English for the doctor’s benefit.

“I’m treating this man; you can’t just walk in here. I refuse to leave. This man is my patient. He—­”

“And shoot him?” Schmitt said in English, staring at the doctor, who fell silent, lowering the bandage slowly to his side.

“Not yet,” replied Koehler flatly, eyes still on the doctor.

The doctor looked at Schmitt, then at Koehler, and quietly stepped out through the curtains. Schmitt nodded to Koehler and followed the doctor out of the gap before closing it quietly behind him. Koehler listened to their footsteps fade away farther down the ward, Schmitt following his earlier orders to move everyone out of earshot. Koehler waited, then turned and looked down at John Henry Rossett, who stared back at him through heavy-­lidded eyes.

“Hello, John,” Koehler said in English, well aware that Rossett’s German was terrible.

“Ernst,” Rossett replied through cracked lips.

Koehler took another drag of his cigarette. He noticed Rossett’s eyes following the smoke as he took it out of his mouth.

He held up the cigarette to Rossett.

“Can you?”

Rossett nodded, so Koehler held the cigarette to his lips and watched as he took a drag.

Rossett closed his eyes before letting the smoke rise back out of his lungs and float to the ceiling. He finally looked up at Koehler, managed a half smile of thanks, then closed his eyes again.

Koehler put the cigarette into his own mouth before lifting the loose cotton wadding from Rossett’s stomach to reveal an inch-­wide open wound. The wound had a faint whiff of infection, and Koehler softly tutted before gently placing the dressing back down.

“How’s the hand?” Rossett whispered, eyes still closed.

“Fucked. Index finger and thumb gone.” Koehler held up his gloved left hand, but Rossett still had his eyes closed.

Koehler shrugged, looked at it himself and then dropped it to his side.

“Sorry about that,” Rossett whispered.

“You didn’t do it.”

“No.”

“How’s the stomach?” Koehler put the cigarette back to Rossett’s lips.

Rossett took the barest of breaths, struggling to breathe life into the ember at the tip.

“It went straight through, came out clean the other side,” he finally said after giving up on the cigarette.

“I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do it.”

“No.” Koehler smiled, then sat down on the edge of the bed. His weight caused the mattress to sag, and Rossett groaned as gravity made him shift slightly. Koehler half rose, then settled again, this time more gently.

“I need to sit. I’m sorry, this leg is killing me,” Koehler said. “I took a round through the calf in the firefight at the pub, when you were trying to get away with the boy and Kate.”

Rossett opened his eyes.

“Me and you got pretty banged up.”

“Lucky to be alive.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Koehler chuckled.

“I think so.”

They sat in silence for a while until Koehler spoke again.

“I can’t believe you threw it all away. You had a good job, good living, quiet life, and you go and throw it all away for one Jewish kid.”

“Throw it all away?”

“We had it good, and you risked screwing it up like that.” Koehler looked around for somewhere to get rid of the cigarette. “You threw it all down the drain.”

“I was already down the drain.”

“You had everything.”

“Everything?” Rossett opened his eyes again. “I worked for you rounding up Jews, just so you could cart them off to . . . well, God knows where.” Rossett paused as he drew another shallow breath and looked at the ceiling above his bed. “I have no family, no home, no future, and no friends.” Another pause, another shallow breath. “I didn’t throw anything away, Ernst, because I didn’t have anything to throw away. That child, Jacob, he . . . I don’t know.” Rossett looked for the words. “He made me feel human.”

Koehler gave up looking for somewhere to put the cigarette and settled for dropping it on the floor. He leaned forward slightly so that he could rest his elbows on his knees, staring at the butt that was still smoking next to his boot.

His head hung low on his weary shoulders.

“I was your friend,” Koehler finally said.

“You were trying to kill me.”

“I was doing my job.”

Rossett chuckled, then grimaced as his stomach tightened.

Koehler looked up from the cigarette butt, waiting for Rossett’s pain to pass before speaking again.

“We’re part of a machine, John. I don’t like it any more than you do, but the fact is, we are part of a machine. We’re told to round up the Jews in London, so that’s what we do. What happens to them, where they go, it isn’t our concern. You taking that child, helping him, stopped you doing what you were supposed to do, and that nearly caused the machine to break down.” Koehler rubbed his hand again. “If I didn’t try to fix what was broken, it would have been fixed by someone else.