“Carry on,” said Hill.
“I’ll have to hit pretty hard and pretty quick.”
“Right-o!” said Hill.
But the assault was never necessary. Although the doctors tried in many ways to get me to admit having attempted suicide, they never told me that Hill had confessed. I think they were afraid of the consequences for Hill.
Later in the same day a lady came to see us. She was accompanied by the Sertabeeb (Superintendent of the Hospital). She was Madame Paulus, of the Dutch Embassy, and Heaven knows it went bitterly against the grain to deceive her and wring her woman’s heart with our senseless gabble, but under the circumstances we had no choice.
“I have come from the Dutch Embassy,” she said. “I always come to see sick prisoners.”
Hill glanced up from his Bible. “I am not sick,” he said surlily.
“No,” I chimed in, “he’s not sick. He’s always like that. And I’m not sick either. They are keeping us here against our wills. I belong to the Turkish War Office, and I’m going to have a Turkish uniform. Tell them to let us go—I say!” (in alarm) “you are not English, are you?”
“I speak English,” said Madame Paulus gently, “but I am not English. I come from Holland. Do you know where that is, Mr. Hill?”
Hill nodded slightly, but went on reading his Bible.