Simple Faith by Anna Schmidt Read Free Book Online Page A

not talk much about herself or the outside world except to field his questions about how the war was going. When he asked how long before he was going to be able to get out of this place, her answer was a shrug or the unsatisfactory, “When the time is right, you will go.”
    Often she stayed late into the night, teaching him French and Spanish phrases that she told him might be important as he made his way along the line. She sat at the foot of the cot facing him for lack of even an inch of space for a stool or chair. She always smelled of lavender. She wore her uniform most of the time, with her hair tightly wound into a bun at the nape of her neck. But once or twice she had come for the visit wearing wool pants and a flannel shirt, her dark hair loosely pulled back and tied with a ribbon—an unusual feminine touch given that the rest of her clothing was so plain. She never wore makeup, but she didn’t need it. Her skin was fair and smooth, her eyes were large and ice blue, her lashes were long, feathering her cheekbones as she sometimes read aloud to him from a book of quotations by George Fox, founder of her Quaker faith.
    Their discussions of religion had come from two sources—their diametrically opposed views of the war and his desire to keep her with him for company as long as possible. The loneliness could be sheer torture.
    “ ‘Be patterns, be examples in all countries, places, islands, nations wherever you come; that your carriage and life may preach among all sorts of people, and to them; then you will come to walk cheerfully over the world, answering that of God in everyone; whereby in them you may be a blessing, and make the witness of God in them to bless you.’ ”
    At first Peter had scoffed at such pious platitudes. “Your George Fox should be living in this world,” he told her. “Then we’d see how cheerfully he would walk over the world.”
    “He did live in a world like this,” she told him as she closed the book and set it aside. “He was persecuted and imprisoned. Back in the seventeenth century, things were not exactly wonderful, especially for someone who did not follow the prevailing rules of the day—or perhaps I should say
rulers
of the day. Like now.”
    Peter felt ashamed of his ignorance—the same way he had felt the night she told him that her husband had been Jewish and that was why he had been killed. He had assumed the man had died fighting against the Nazis.
    “No,” she had said. “His only crime was that he was Jewish—for them that is enough.”
    He watched her as she tucked his blanket in at the foot of the narrow cot. She had brought fresh linens, and he was crouched into a space between the eaves while she made quick work of changing his cot. “Tell me about the Inner Light,” he said.
    She continued working, making precise corners with the blanket to anchor it for the night. “You are familiar with the New Testament?”
    He shrugged.
    “I will give you one example. In the book of John, chapter 8 , it reads, ‘I am the light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life.’ Now get some rest,” she added as she slipped through the low door, taking the lantern with her.
    Peter had thought about those words and the piece she had read from George Fox all the next week while she was back in Brussels. If his calculations were right, today was the day she would return for the weekend. He was so looking forward to seeing her, hearing her voice, wishing that her hand would touch his brow; although now that the danger of fever had passed, she no longer included placing her small palm against his cheeks and forehead as part of her routine.
    He judged it to be late afternoon as he sat on the side of the cot and studied the angle of the light filtering through the black curtain. Anja had promised that beginning today he would take some short walks. He had already practiced standing, putting weight on the weak leg, and