In Northmont, we’d felt the effects of the war from the beginning, through the lives of our half-dozen brave local boys who’d died in combat (Dr. Sam Hawthorne was telling his visitor as he poured a small libation for them both), but it was in October of ‘forty-four that the war really came home to our town, in a strange way that’s been kept secret for all these years.
It started for me when I was visited at my office one gloomy October Monday by a well-dressed young man with chiseled features who introduced himself as Robert Barnovich. He was probably in his thirties and I wondered why he wasn’t in the service. “What seems to be your problem?” I asked. He didn’t look or dress like a local and my first thought was that he’d been stricken ill while on the road.
“No health problem, Dr. Hawthorne.” He flipped open a card case and showed me a badge and photo ID. “Special Agent Barnovich of the FBI.”
“Well!” was all I could think to say.
He smiled. “Don’t worry, you’re not under arrest. I’ve been sent to discuss a situation that will be arising here in two days’ time. You understand this is top secret. The hospital administration knows, of course, and I’m telling you because your office is here at Pilgrim Memorial and you’re likely to be consulted on the case. Also, you’ve been cleared through a background check. We’re bringing in a secret patient from overseas. He’s had certain injuries that are not believed to be life-threatening. He’ll arrive here with his head and face bandaged, partly because of the injuries but also to keep his identity secret.”
“Is it Hitler?” I asked with a smile.
The FBI man’s face remained grim. “It is not Hitler, but that’s all I can say. He’ll be well guarded during his stay, but not a word of this is to leak out. Is that understood?”
“I suppose so. But why in heaven’s name are you bringing him to Pilgrim Memorial rather than one of the big government hospitals?”
“The decision was made after careful study. The government wanted an East Coast hospital that was easier to reach from Europe. And they wanted a first-rate small-town hospital where a secret patient wasn’t likely to attract the attention of the media. I’m told the Surgeon General considered the attributes of ten small East Coast hospitals before settling on Pilgrim Memorial.”
“I suppose we should be honored at that. Tell me one thing. Does this patient speak and understand English?”
“To some extent, yes. That’s all I can say.”
“And he’ll arrive on Wednesday the eighteenth?”
“That’s correct.”
“Will you be here?”
He gave a brief nod. “I’ll be here with my men as long as he is.”
That night over dinner I told Annabel about it. Samantha was three months old now and Annabel was back to work at the Ark a few hours a day, taking our daughter with her. Soon she hoped to be back full time, and we’d need someone to take care of Samantha. But not yet.
“What does it mean, Sam? A captured Nazi that they’re flying over here?”
“I don’t know. It’s someone important, with the FBI involved.”
“I’m glad to know you passed the background check. They probably don’t know you tell your wife everything.”
“You needed to know,” I answered defensively. “I might have to work overtime some nights.”
The war news that weekend had reported the death of Field Marshal Erwin Rommel three months after his supposed injury in an auto accident. We’d known for some time that his head injuries were actually caused by Allied planes strafing his staff car in July. Rommel had been friendly with the generals behind the failed plot to assassinate Hitler, and some rumors even had him taking command of the country if the plot had succeeded. But now, with his death, a state funeral was planned.
“Would it have made any difference if Hitler had been killed?” Annabel had wondered back in July when the news broke.
“Germany might have surrendered rather than fight to the death as they’re doing now.” With the conspirators dead and a half-crazed Hitler still in control, the inevitable Allied victory stretched further into the future.
Tuesday morning was a quiet day at the hospital, but from my office wing I could detect preparations being made for the new arrival. Lincoln Jones, the black doctor who’d delivered our baby, stopped by the office to ask how Samantha was doing. After I told him all was well and Samantha was even accompanying my wife to work a few hours each day, Lincoln asked, “What’s going on at the hospital? They’ve closed off several rooms at the end of the south corridor and are moving in some equipment.”
“It’s all very hush-hush,” I confirmed. “Some sort of secret patient is arriving tomorrow. The FBI’s in charge.”
“Why here?”
“They wanted a good small hospital on the East Coast. I suppose we should consider it a compliment.”
“Are you involved, Sam?”
“I was told they might call on me.”
“Who do you think it is?”
“I’ve a hunch it might be some top Nazi prisoner, but the FBI assured me it’s not Hitler.”
Lincoln Jones gave a familiar grunt. “And what will your job be? To cure him or kill him?”
It was Dr. Dwight Pryor, the hospital administrator, who came to my office on Wednesday morning. He was a gaunt, well-dressed man with glasses and a moustache, who rarely wore the white jacket that was the uniform of other staff physicians. I barely knew the man, and his only other visit to my office had come when he first took over as administrator and visited all the doctors with offices in the building.
“Dr. Pryor,” I said, rising to shake his hand. “You’re a rare visitor to our wing of the building.”
He sat down without being asked. “You and Dr. Jones have your own practices; you’re not part of the hospital’s staff. But with this new situation I thought I should speak with you. I understand Special Agent Barnovich has already filled you in on the basics.”
“Somewhat. I know we’re receiving some sort of secret patient today.”
“Correct, and that’s about all I know, too. He’s going to be under close supervision during his stay here, which I understand will be only a matter of a few days. If his health is satisfactory he’ll be transferred elsewhere.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Dr. Francis will be examining him, and he will call on you if needed. While the patient is at Pilgrim Memorial he will be known as Mr. Fuchs.”
“A German name.”
“Yes, but that means nothing.”
After he left I called my nurse April into my office and told her what little I knew. With her husband still away in the service, she was anxious to help in any way she could. “I just want to get André back home in one piece,” she told me. “Do you think this might be some important Nazi who will reveal information?”
“I have no idea,” I answered honestly. “But while he’s here I want you to be able to reach me at all times. Whenever I’m out of the office you’ll have a phone number where I can be contacted.”
She glanced out my window. “It looks as if the mystery man is arriving now.”
Sure enough, an ambulance had pulled up to the hospital’s emergency entrance and a patient on a stretcher was being removed. I could see his bandaged head, and a couple of men in suits accompanying him. I recognized one as Agent Barnovich. “I’d better go out to greet them,” I said.