“Miss Pierce asked that the letter only be opened if you returned to consciousness,” the doctor said. “It has lain in this drawer for a little more than five years.”
Burgess took the letter eagerly, his heart pounding. The doctor rose. “I know that you will want to be alone when you read your letter. I think perhaps we have talked enough for now, in any event. I will return tomorrow.”
Alone, Burgess lay for a long time merely staring at the sealed letter. He noted that it was postmarked in New York on June 18, 1949. Fear was nudging him, fear of what the letter contained. He knew what it contained. Sandra was young and beautiful and eager. She could not be expected to wait.
At last he slit the flap and withdrew the letter. Even so, despite his preparation, the words were a shock. She had waited, hoping, always hoping. But with each passing day hope grew dimmer. And then, a year ago, (that would be 1948), she had met a man... fallen in love with him... they were to be married in a month.
Burgess closed his eyes and let the letter fall to the floor. How could he blame her? It had been as though he were dead. It would be selfish to think that she would deny herself happiness for the rest of her life on one single grain of hope. Yet theirs had been such an undying love, so deep, so tender. A lump rose in Burgess’ throat and stayed there.
In the early evening the nurse came in with a tray of food. She was smiling cheerfully.
“We have been in contact with your government. They are sending someone at once. You will be on your way home not later than the day after tomorrow.”
She saw the letter lying on the floor. She picked it up, returned it to its envelope and opened the night stand drawer. Her eyes were filled with pity and understanding. “I am sorry.” she said. “So sorry.”
Burgess shrugged imperceptibly. The nurse rolled up the head of his bed so that he was in a sitting position, and placed the tray conveniently in his lap. Her bright smile returned. “And now you must eat and rest. When your people arrive we want them to see that you have been given good care.”
Burgess didn’t answer and after a moment the nurse left the room. He was alone and the aloneness intensified the ache and pain in his heart. He would always be alone. He wished that he had never returned to reality, to feeling.
The nurse returned a half hour later, frowned reproachfully when she saw that he had barely touched his food. But, removing the tray, she smiled again. “It is a shock, know. But you will adjust. Everyone does. Time—” She broke oft, biting her lip.
Burgess turned his head. Time, yes. Time heals all wounds, but only if a person is aware of the passing of that time. Sandra had had five years of time. But he, Burgess, had had less than a day. As far as he was concerned it was ten years ago, and the knowledge that be had lost Sandra was a savage pain in his heart.
The nurse arranged his bed for the night and went out. Burgess lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t think he would sleep, but he must have because suddenly it was morning and the nurse was staring down at him. The inevitable smile was on her lips and her eyes were bright.
“I’m sorry to be so cheerful, but everyone here in the hospital is excited. We seldom have miracles in the medical profession. Doctor Schroeder is justly proud.”
Burgess said nothing and the nurse put his breakfast tray in front of him. “After you’ve eaten your barber will be in. We must start getting you ready.”
He ate as much of the eggs and ham and buttered toast as he could, then rang for the nurse. She appeared almost at once, followed by a big, rotund man whom she introduced as Herr Kiediasch, the barber who had attended the colonel for the past ten years. Herr Kiediasch couldn’t speak or understand English, and for this Burgess was grateful.
The nurse said, “Doctor Schroeder will be in later on. He will answer any further questions you might have and tell you the exact time of your departure and arrival in America.”
The barber worked swiftly and skillfully. When he had gone, Burgess rummaged in the drawer of the night stand until he found a mirror. He wanted to see what he looked like after his ten year sleep.
He couldn’t see that he had changed much, but he supposed that was due to lack of activity and worry. He rubbed his hand over his now smooth cheek, as a man will do who has just shaved himself or been shaved. There was a slight cut on his upper lip just under his left nostril, and he thought the barber hadn’t been so skillful after all. He frowned at the cut — and then suddenly he froze. His whole body stiffened and the goose pimples appeared again.
That cut wasn’t freshly made! It was at least a day old, possibly two. It was the nick that he himself had made when he shaved before the briefing!
Wild eyed, Burgess stared about the room, his thoughts in a turmoil. Gradually he calmed himself and a weird sense of understanding came. It was a trick! A hoax! He reached into the drawer again and pulled out Sandra’s letter, this time examining the handwriting closely. Forged! Skilfully executed, but nevertheless he knew it wasn’t Sandra’s writing. The postmark on the envelope glared up at him. That was a masterpiece. They must have worked like madmen to prepare it in such a short space of time.
Burgess lay back on his pillow, his heart pounding. Why? Bit by bit he went over every detail of the conversations he had had with the doctor and nurse. There leaped into his vision a picture of Schroeder closing his eyes, pretending to think, saying: “Yes, the invasion was successful... the exact date escapes me.” And Burgess knew. He knew the reason for this elaborate plan of deception. They hoped that, in conversations about the past, Burgess would tell them the exact time and place of the planned invasion.
Burgess lay perfectly still. What a fool he’d been not to have realized it had been a hoax when they’d told him he’d been unconscious for ten years. A man who has been in a coma for that length of time doesn’t suddenly wake up feeling alert, able to sit up and eat and talk rationally. The process would be much more gradual.
But they had been clever. They had gambled on their cleverness. They had counted on his rational thinking being distracted by the shocking news of what had happened to him. And they had won. Or so they thought.
Burgess’ mind was suddenly clear and alert. How much time did he have? The nurse said that the doctor would look in on him later on. That could mean any moment.
He had to plan his own strategy, his own deception. Yesterday Schroeder had said he would be returned to America the day after tomorrow. This meant that they would have to obtain the information they wanted today. Why weren’t they keeping him here any longer? The answer to that was simple. Once he returned to consciousness it would seem strange if his own government weren’t notified at once.
Suddenly he scowled. How did they know that he had no family, that Sandra was so important to him? The answer came at once. Clearly he could see the sentence in Sandra’s last letter, the one that he had with him at the beginning of the mission. It read: “Darling you have been without a family so long, I can hardly wait for your return so that we can start one of our very own...”
Where was the letter? Probably they would produce it if he demanded, but they hoped that he wouldn’t. The discrepancy in the two handwritings might become obvious if a comparison were made. So far, their strategy had perfect, brilliantly and convincingly executed.
But now he must stop thinking about their strategy and think about his own. He must compose himself. When the doctor came in to question him again there must not be the slightest indication in his manner or expression that he knew of their plan. He closed his eyes and tried to think of himself as he had an hour ago — when he believed that he had been robbed of ten years of his life.