Josef turned from the window to face Helen, who had asked the question. “May I?” he responded. “Josef,” she said, “you’re not a prisoner. Not that I really know what you are.” It was the second week in August, and Josef was becoming restless. The wounds on his shoulder, front and back, were covered with new, pink skin, but the muscle was still weak. Most of the time, he carried his right arm in a sling, more from weariness than pain. He ventured out of the cottage often while Helen was in town, though never farther than the immediate area around her home. Josef had found an old rake in the tool shed under the house and, as best he could with one good arm, cleaned pine straw and brush from the sandy “yard.” “If you want, I’ll walk with you. We won’t see a soul.” Helen pooched out her lips and looked thoughtful. “Still,” she said with a point of her finger, “you can’t wear that. Even without the medals, it looks like a uniform . . . the wrong uniform. And if we should happen across someone .
