By early evening, Paul had gotten enough sleep to overcome his dizziness. The nagging headache remained, however. Neither he nor Pete had really recuperated from the long previous night when they lugged their gear to the Kaiserkeller for the evening’s gig. On arrival, they found Stu and Astrid already there, looking considerably more refreshed than they felt. Pete fussed with his drum set while Paul joined the couple at a table.

“Where’s John?” Stu asked.

“Pete says he took off right after the fight,” Paul answered, remembering little after his head impacted the wall.

“Vhat fight?” Astrid asked.

“Oh,” Paul said, shrugging. “John ‘n Pete sorta… well they got things out in the open, you might say.”

“Oh no,” Stu said. “They didn’t.”

“Trust me,” Paul said, rubbing the back of his head. “I got in the middle of it so I should know.”

“Are you all right?” Astrid asked, concerned.

“’Cept for a poundin’ headache I’m okay,” Paul said ruefully. “Smarter, too. Next time I’ll let ‘em kill each other.”

“Speakin’ of headaches, we just came from the hospital,” Stu said. “Our kid is sufferin’ somethin’ awful with one.”

“Oh, is he? Blasted Germans.” Paul shook his head in irritation. “He’s all right, though?”

“He is very miserable,” Astrid said. “Zat vard he is in is terrible for him. So noisy and he cannot rest, not possibly.”

“He wouldn’t be any better off at the Kino,” Paul said.

Stu and Astrid exchanged glances. “I vas thinking,” she said, “of perhaps looking after him at my house.”

Paul looked surprised. “Get on!”

“Vell, assuming ve could get him out of zere,” Astrid said.

“He really needs a quiet atmosphere and some personal attention,” Stu said. “He doesn’t belong in that shithole of a hospital.”

“What did he think about the idea?” Paul asked.

“We haven’t said anything yet,” Stu answered. “I don’t want to do anything that might compromise his recovery. Maybe he needs to stay there, miserable as it is.”

“Ve just don’t know,” Astrid said. “I vould like to take him home but I must have ze doctor’s permission.”

John’s arrival at the table silenced the conversation. The three looked up at him warily as he pulled up a chair and sat. He looked frightful. His pale face was covered in a one-day growth of whiskers. Dark circles rimmed his eyes. His hair was unkempt. But his eyes radiated an alert liveliness that was unexpected.

“Right then,” he said. “Are we gonna sit here or are we gonna put on a show?”

Stu shrugged. He felt anything but enthusiastic under the circumstances.

“Should I play lead, then?” Paul asked perfunctorily, tapping his lighter on the table.

“What’s the matter with you lot?” John asked. “We’re here to do a job and that’s what we’re gonna do. And we’re gonna go up there and give it our all. Everyone straight with that?”

“Sure.” Pete’s voice sounded behind John’s back. John turned, startled. His eyes met Pete’s and a silent truce passed between them.

“All right, then. How about the rest of ye?” he challenged Stu and Paul.

“It just… feels funny,” Paul said uncomfortably.

“It doesn’t have to,” John countered. “We know we can make a great sound when we try. Even without George, we can bring the roof down.”

“Seems disloyal I guess,” Stu said. “Hammin’ it up on stage while he’s where he is…”

“No!” John said. “You’ve got it all wrong!” He leaned forward intently. “Look, this is what he would want. George doesn’t want all this to fall apart now! Not over what happened to him. Then everything we’ve worked for would be for naught. The only thing we can do now is keep it alive, for him. He’s gotta have somethin’ to get better for! Don’t you see?”

“When you put it that way…” Paul said.

“We have no choice,” John said. “It’s the only thing to do now.”

“All right,” Stu said, disentangling himself from Astrid’s arm. “Let’s give ‘em a show.”

The boys wove their way through the tables toward the stage to a smattering of applause. They took their spots on the stage and waited while John stepped up to the microphone. His eyes scanned the audience until the din died down.

“Guten abend,” he said, smiling slyly. The crowd showed its approval with whistles and wolf calls. “If you know us you know there are five of us. Only not tonight. Tonight there are four,” he said in a sing-song voice. “Don’t worry, though. You’ll get your deutschmark’s worth. We’re here to entertain you, and entertain you we will. Don’t forget to buy lots of beer and keep yer hands off the waitresses. They’re mine.”

The crowd had mostly stopped listening to John’s monologue and chatted restlessly among themselves. They were not interested in a long diatribe in English.

“So, without further ado,” John said. “This one’s for you, George.”

John launched into the beginning strains of “Blue Suede Shoes” by George’s favorite musician, Carl Perkins. The others, quickly recognizing it, joined in and they joyously pounded out a spirited rendition, to the crowd’s delight.

Astrid sat and stared, mesmerized, through tear-stung eyes. A most remarkable group of human beings, she thought. 

***

In stark contrast to the boisterous atmosphere of the Kaiserkeller, the hospital ward was dreary and boring. Depressing, even. George sat and stared at the window, watching the shadows of evening deepen outside. He had re-read the magazines and comic books Stuart and Astrid brought him so many times he had them memorized. Besides, his arm ached, his side twinged, and his lip itched. Healing, they said. Itching is a sign of healing. He reached up and tentatively felt it. Still swollen but maybe not as much.

They had stopped giving him anything for the pain by late in the day. He figured it was either because he was an “indigent” patient – one who couldn’t afford to pay – or because they deemed his character in need of improvement. Or maybe a combination of both. So he had rested uncomfortably, dozing off only when extreme exhaustion overtook him.

His neighbors in the ward were a drag, no other way to put it. All Germans, of course, who spoke not a lick of English. Not that they looked like likely conversationalists, anyroad. Though he longed for company, John’s visit this evening had been more unsettling than anything. John had looked terrible. Tired, haggard, out of his mind. When he got that way, there was no reasoning with him, George knew. John was convinced Pete was responsible for George’s beating and he couldn’t be persuaded otherwise.

This worried George more than anything. They had been through a succession of drummers until they’d recruited Pete, and he was working out all right. He wasn’t the most brilliant drummer but he was adequate. And, he was kind of quiet and introverted, not like the others.  The birds really dug his moody good looks, though. Drummers were a rare and valuable commodity. They could not afford to lose Pete now, especially over a misunderstanding. Finding a drummer in England had been bad enough; finding one in Hamburg would be impossible.

Caught up in his thoughts, George didn’t notice a newcomer to the ward until she was beside him. Looking up, he was surprised to see Anne, the nurse he had met the night he was hurt. Well, he remembered her face, but not her name. Her friendly round face was framed by careless tendrils of dirty blonde hair sprinkled with gray that had escaped the bun at the nape of her neck. Her eyes crinkled warmly and her cheeks were rosy and plump. She looked just like a mum.

“Hello, George.”

“Hello.” George smiled in embarrassed delight.

“You’re looking much better than the last time we met.”

George shrugged self-consciously. “They say I’m on the mend.”

“Looks that way.” She appraised him visually. “How are you feeling?”

“I feel fine,” he lied.

Anne knew he was putting on a brave front. She could see right through his youthful bravado. The smile on his mouth did not reach his eyes, which mirrored his pain and anxiety in their dark recesses. She had been worried about him since he’d been brought in. So young and alone in a foreign country, with only a band of equally young and alone boys to support him through his ordeal. She felt her heart swell.

“Did your friends come to visit you today?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “John and Paul – they’re me two best mates – came in early. And Stu and Astrid came this afternoon too. And John came back later, as well.” A shadow crossed his face.

“John… I believe I met him. He asked a lot of questions about you.”

“He’s kind of the leader,” George said. “He’s twenty, you see.”

“Oh, is he?” Anne said. It was easy to see that George openly revered the twenty-year old John. Twenty seemed a tad more reasonable than seventeen, though not by much. “Is he the singer?”

“Well, he’s not a leader that way,” George explained. “See, we all take turns singing. We’re not like those other groups that have one singer and a bunch of players. We all sing. Even me.”

“You sing?” Anne smiled. “How wonderful. What do you like to sing?”

“I sing a few songs,” George said. “And I sing back-up.” He looked down and laughed lightly. “I’m not that good a singer, really. Paul’s a really good singer. John’s good too. But they let me have a go.”

“You must be doing something right.”

George shrugged again. “I know a few more chords than they do and I like to play the solos. That’s how I got in. I could play a bit better. John didn’t really want to have me at first. He thought I was too young. But I kept comin’ ‘round and pretty soon he gave in.”

“You must have impressed him.”

“Oh, I dunno. I think Paul talked him into it.” George smiled self-deprecatingly.

“Which one is Paul?”

“Oh, he’s the one with the sheep eyes. Least, that’s what John’s Aunt Mimi says.”

Anne laughed. There was obviously a great deal more to the story than she would ever know. “And what does Aunt Mimi say about you?”

“Nothin’ good,” George admitted. “She threw me out of her house. Said I was low class.”

“She sounds a bit stern.”

“Aye, that she is.” George nodded, momentarily at a loss for words. He shifted, grunting, in an unsuccessful effort to become more comfortable. “I’m sorry. Here I am, yammerin’ away.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Anne admonished him. “I’m asking, aren’t I?”

“What about you?” George asked. “You’re not German, are you?”

“No,” Anne said. “I’m American. But I happened to fall in love and marry a German scientist, so here I am.”

“American?” George said. “My sister lives in America. In Illinois.”

“I’m from Ohio. Not too far from Illinois.”

“Do you have children?”

Anne shook her head. “Karl – that’s my husband – and I, never had children. But I have nieces and nephews I am very close to. At least as much as possible from a distance.” Nieces and nephews who live sheltered lives in the suburbs of America, going to high schools and universities, not playing music in seedy clubs abroad. Changing the subject back, she asked, “Is your band playing tonight? Goodness, I don’t even know what you’re called.”

“We’re the Beatles, with an ‘A’,” George said. “Like in the beat, you see. John thought it up. We liked the sound of Buddy Holly’s group, the Crickets. So we became a different bug.” He smiled in response to Anne’s laughter, but his face soon fell. “I guess they’re playin’… I hope.”

“Can they get along without you?”

“Oh, it’s not that,” George said. “They can do without me. It’s just… well, it’s John. He thinks Pete – that’s our drummer – is the reason I… well, this.” He swung his cast up slightly.

“Why would he think that? Pete didn’t beat you up, did he?”

“Oh, no!” George said emphatically. “No, see…” George sighed, suddenly very weary. “We was out walkin’ and that’s when they jumped us. John thinks Pete ran away but that’s not how it happened a’tall.”

“I think I see,” she said, nodding. “John blames Pete for not looking out for you.”

“Right. But it’s not Pete’s fault I’m clumsy.”

“Clumsy? Even if you were, what does being clumsy have to do with getting beaten up?”

George shook his head. “It’s a long story.”

“Well, John struck me as an intelligent boy. Surely you could explain it to him.”

“I tried. But he had a go at Pete anyroad, and now I don’ even know if we’re still a group! For all I know, Pete’s on a boat back to England, and John ‘n Paul ‘n Stu’re getting pissed in some club somewhere.”

“You really think it’s that bad?”

“You don’t know John.”

“I can’t believe he’d throw all your hard work away over a misunderstanding.”

“I hope you’re right,” George said dejectedly. His eyes blinked rapidly and his chin quivered, in spite of his best efforts to control himself.

“This means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” Anne asked softly. “The group. Music.”

“I’ve got nothin’ else,” he said tightly, refusing to look at her. “We’re good. We’re bloody good.” His breath hitched in a suppressed sob. His left hand swiped angrily at the tears that threatened to spill over.

Anne reached over and grasped the fingers that protruded limply from the end of the cast. With surprising strength, they clasped her hand and held on as he wept softly. She would not leave until he let go.

***

By the time the Beatles finished their last set, the crowd had thinned, smoke hung so thick in the air it could choke a horse, and the bouncers were dragging the passed-out patrons out into the street.  John sat sprawled in a chair, his prelly high failing to sustain him any longer. His eyes, and everything else about him, drooped almost comically. Beside him, Paul slouched over an untouched ale, his head in his hands. He, too, was physically and mentally drained. Pete, still feeling the awkwardness between him and John, sat at another table chatting with a girl. For a change, neither Paul nor John had the energy for a romantic interlude this night. Both had dreams only of sleep.

“Ve’re going now,” Astrid announced. She stood with Stu and donned her leather jacket, worriedly appraising the two before her. The past two days had been a trial for all of them and she was concerned for their well-being. An inspiration struck her. “Vhy don’t you plan on coming for dinner at my house later?” she proposed.

John and Paul slowly looked up. Paul smiled weakly. “Ta, As’rid. That’d be brill.”

Astrid smiled. “Ve vill pick you up, zen. Around 4?”

John nodded vacantly, as if not comprehending.

“Gear,” Paul said.

Astrid and Stu left then. Paul stretched and yawned before looking at John. “Let’s leg it. I’m knackered. And so’re you.”

John nodded again. “Right,” he mumbled. He rose slowly and started for the back alley exit, Paul following.

“Wait,” Paul said, stopping. “What about Pete? We shouldn’t leave ‘im here.”

John turned lazily and noticed Pete with the girl. “He’s busy. Let’s go.”

“Hang on,” Paul said. He went over to the drummer and said something into Pete’s ear. Pete looked up, glanced around, and said something back. Paul nodded and rejoined John.

“He’ll be along in a mo’,” Paul said. “Meet us outside.”

A look of impatience crossed John’s face momentarily, then he nodded, too tired to argue. John shuffled to the door and pushed it open, gasping at the blast of cool night air that him in the face. He pulled his jacket together in front and zipped it. Paul followed suit.

“Cor, it’s bloody freezin’ out ‘ere,” Paul complained, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“I’m not waitin’ long,” John said.

“Got a fag?” Paul asked, his breaths coming out in steamy puffs.

John fished in his jacket for a pack of ciggies. He got one for himself and handed the pack to Paul. They lit up in companionable silence.

John, more awake now in the fresh air, paced back and forth.

“Good show tonight,” Paul said.

John nodded.

“Good crowd,” Paul added.

John walked a few feet away and stopped, looking around. “Did ye hear somethin’?”

“Hear what?”

John listened carefully, then shook his head. “Nothin’.”

Paul took a long drag off his cigarette. “Come on, Pete.” All he could think about was sleep. Even the prospect of bunking out on the thin, saggy, uncomfortable cot at the Kino was a glorious one. He didn’t think he could wait another minute.

“Fuck it, let’s go,” John said, tossing his cigarette butt down and starting for the street.

Against his better judgment, Paul acquiesced, the lure of a good night’s kip too tempting. Pete would be all right. Besides, who did he think he was, keeping them waiting? He’d probably end up going off with the girl, anyway.

As Paul drew up beside John, a band of four young men suddenly materialized at the entrance to the alley, blocking their way. The gang’s faces were shadowed and unreadable, but their cocky stance left no doubt as to the nature of their visit. The two Beatles stopped cold.

“Schauen Sie hier an,” a voice in the darkness sneered. Look what we have here.

“Fuck off,” John said defiantly.

The four ambled forward slowly toward John and Paul. John drew himself up to his full height and pulled his hands out of his pockets. Paul, his heart pounding, raised his chin and squared his shoulders, firmly rooted to his spot.

“Sie send…ehhh…peedles?” the same boy asked. The other youths snickered, still advancing.

Paul swallowed so hard he imagined everyone heard. “You ‘eard ‘im,” he said in a voice that belonged to someone else. “Get stuffed.”

“Wo ist Ihr Freund?” the boy asked with mock curiosity. Where is your friend? He shook his head. “Tsk tsk. Ich habe vergessen. Er fühlt nicht gut.” Oh, I forgot. Is he not feeling well?

“Gehen Sie zu Hölle,” John said menacingly. It was one of only three phrases he knew in German. Go to hell.

A look of rage came over the boy’s face. “Erhalten Sie sie!” Get them!

The Germans pounced. John and Paul lunged forward in defense but they were hopelessly outnumbered. John felt a fist slam into the side of his head, knocking him momentarily senseless. A body wrapped itself around his, holding his arms down tight against his sides as another youth punched him in the gut. John squirmed and twisted with all his might, throwing the boy holding him off balance enough that he was able to free one arm. He slugged the youth in the cheek, freeing himself. As he spun, the other one grabbed him in the same manner, pinning his arms. John raised his boot and slammed it into the chest of the boy coming at him. He heard Paul cry out in pain, or fear, or both, he wasn’t sure. John strained to see what they were doing to his friend. “Paul!”

Paul had been driven backward and slammed into the brick wall. For the second time in a day, his head bounced hard against an immovable object and he was stunned. He could hardly fight back as he was pulled roughly away from the wall by the collar of his jacket. Paul raised his arms feebly in a defensive measure but the fist connected soundly with his mouth. Blood filled his mouth and ran down his chin as he staggered. Another blow followed, this time to his stomach, and he doubled over and sank to his knees.

“Stop it!” John yelled. The two boys rallied and pushed him back, pinning him to the bricks on the opposite side of the alley. “Leave ‘im alone!” John twisted and struggled mightily, to no avail.

“Diesmal werden wir beenden, was wir anfangen!” the leader yelled angrily. This time we will finish what we start!

A boy leaned over Paul and grabbed his jacket, intending to pull him to his feet. But Paul, in a burst of energy, sprung upward and drove the top of his head into the boy’s face, smashing his nose. The boy shrieked in pain and, hands over his face, spun around and stumbled out of harm’s way, blood flowing through his fingers.

The other German, enraged at Paul’s unexpected – and very successful – tactic, deliberately reached down to his ankle, pulling his jean cuff up slightly as he retrieved his weapon. He raised the handle for all to see as he depressed the trigger that released the blade. The shiny knife glinted, even in the shadowy atmosphere of the alleyway.

Paul stood paralyzed, staring at the knife blade. This is it, he thought.

John’s eyes widened in disbelief. He struggled harder, grunting in desperation, against the restraining hold the leader and his lackey had him in. The scene took on a surreal air as he realized his best friend was about to get knifed, while these sadistic German teds were enjoying every moment of his anguish. Because there was nothing he could do to stop it.

In a flash, a figure emerged from the darkness and tackled the boy with the knife, knocking him to the ground and sending the weapon skittering across the stones. Pete landed on top of the boy and slugged him soundly in the face. In the melee, the two holding John released him to help their mate on the ground. As they grabbed Pete to haul him off the boy, John scrambled for the knife, plucking it off the pavement and holding it firmly aloft.

“Right!” he yelled. He advanced on the first boy and plunged the knife into his arm, then withdrew it. The boy screamed in pain and grabbed his arm, backing away from the madman.  “Who’s next?” John screamed, waving the knife threateningly. Although two of the Germans had fled, the other two were blocked by the imposing figure of John with a knife.

Paul, who had slumped back against the wall, watched in horror. “No! No, John, don’t!” he begged. He saw the crazed look in John’s eyes and knew, at that moment, that John could kill.

“Don’t do it, John!” Pete implored.

The two boys stood nervously, their earlier aggression gone. All they wanted now was to escape the crazy Englishman who had turned the tables on them.

“Come on, you Nazis,” John threatened, waving the knife in lazy circles. “Who gets it first? Which one o’ ye put my friend George in hospital? Eh? Come on, it’s confession time.”

The Germans, who spoke no English, exchanged glances.

Paul and Pete held perfectly still, the tension thick between them. They would not put it past John to kill one of these bastards right now. Especially in his sleep-deprived and drug-fueled state.

John lunged suddenly at one of the boys, causing him to rear back and gasp in fear. John pulled the knife back just in time, cackling at the boy’s reaction. He suddenly sobered then, and looked at Paul. Paul stood hunched over by the wall, blood streaming down his chin, his eyes dark and pleading. It was the look in Paul’s eyes that spoke to John. Don’t.

John stepped to one side and motioned with the knife. The two Germans understood they had just been spared and wasted no time dashing to safety.

Pete closed his eyes and sighed heavily. He dropped his chin to his chest.

Paul’s legs gave out and he slid down the wall to the pavement.

John held the knife before his face and stared at the blood on it.

***

Anne checked her watch for the fiftieth time in an hour. The end of her shift was nearing and she planned to visit George again before heading home. Sitting with him the previous evening had caused her to be a few minutes late reporting for duty on the fourth floor, where she worked. Her supervisor, however, had overlooked the transgression. Anne knew she was a good nurse and that she had the respect of her peers and supervisors alike.

As dawn streamed into the window of her ward, Anne realized it was time for shift change. She would be required to update the nurses coming on duty of the patients’ status before leaving. She reported to the nurses station and gave short reports on the patients for whom she was responsible. Then she retrieved her belongings from the locker room and hurried down to the third floor.

Anne crept into the ward and to George’s bedside. Most of the patients were sleeping, including George. The lights were still low but the rising sun’s rays pierced the dreary room, casting a warm glow on the painted cinderblock walls.

Anne decided not to wake him, but to wait a little while to see if he stirred on his own. As she sat and watched him, her instincts told her something was wrong. His breathing was a little too fast, and his face appeared sweaty. She stood and leaned in, positioning her ear close to his face. Even without a stethoscope, she could hear unmistakable stridor in his inhalations. She placed the back of her hand near his forehead, as close as possible without touching him. Her heart sank at the heat he radiated.

“George?” she said softly. She touched his forehead, only to find him burning with fever.

George’s eyelashes fluttered and he swallowed. A dry, hacking cough erupted from his chest, making him grimace. His eyes opened halfway, regarded Anne disinterestedly, then slid shut.

“Don’t worry, honey,” she said, giving him a light hug. “You’ll be all right.” Anne hastened away to find a doctor. And to raise some very hard questions about the nursing care – or lack thereof – George had been receiving.

***

Paul had to admit he felt better. Well, a little. As much as he hated puking, it was usually worth it in the end, when the feeling better part started. He wasn’t quite sure what brought on this bout of nausea and vomiting. He hadn’t had that much to drink tonight. Paul spat one last time and struggled to his feet. He felt a hand grasp his arm and looked up to see Pete regarding him sympathetically.

“Ta… Pete.” As the words left his mouth, a wave of sickness swept over him and he swayed sharply.

“Whoa, there, mate.” Pete steadied Paul and looked to John.

John, his head aching and his gut roiling from the beating he’d suffered, ambled over to Paul and Pete. He put his arm around Paul’s waist and urged him forward. “Let’s get back,” he said gently.

Paul felt the earth shift under his feet with every step. He nearly lost his balance twice, only to be saved by John’s guiding arm. Cor, I’ve got a good piss goin’ now. The hangover tomorrow’ll be bloody murder.

By the time they reached the Kino, Paul was feeling nauseous again. “The loo,” he gasped when John tried to steer him to his cot.

Standing outside the bathroom, Pete listened worriedly to the sounds within. “John, he needs a doctor. I’ve heard when people hit their head too hard, they puke. It’s a sign of somethin’ bad,” he said.

John shook his head. “He won’t go.”

“What’d’ye mean?”

“Paul hates hospitals,” John said flatly. “Ever since his mum.”

“But why?”

“She went in and never came out. Paul thinks hospitals kill people.”

“That’s crazy!”

“Is it?” John asked, raising an eyebrow. “When did yer mum die? When did you become such an expert?”

“One doesn’t have nowt to do with th’other,” Pete argued.

“Try tellin’ him that.”

“What’re we gonna do, then?”

“We’re gonna sit with him. All night. Wake him up every hour.”

“But we’re not doctors! What if he doesn’t wake up?”

“He will,” John sighed. “He has to.”

***

True to their plan, John and Pete alternately woke Paul every hour on the hour, through the rest of the night and into morning. Once or twice he was extremely hard to rouse, and he threw up one additional time. He was grumpy with each waking, complaining of extreme vertigo and a bad headache. Each time he lapsed back into sleep, he was peaceful, however.

John’s mind, having nothing else to occupy it between wakings, pondered the events of the evening over and over. He could scarcely believe what had transpired.  Never in a million years had he expected to be jumped by the Germans. He wasn’t sure why, exactly. Had he been foolish enough to think they’d be satisfied with the job they’d done on George? Had Paul’s presence at his side given him a false sense of security? He’d been preaching at them about the danger of going out alone at night. And yet, he’d been with Paul and was powerless to stop the bastards from almost killing him.

And Pete. If it hadn’t been for him… John hated to think. But no, he had to acknowledge what almost happened. If Pete hadn’t come flying out of nowhere and tackled the knife-wielding ted, Paul would be dead now. Dead. And John would have watched. He shook his head to stop his mind from going there. His hand wormed its way into his pocket and he absently fingered the handle of the knife. It felt strange and foreign. He remembered stabbing someone’s arm, but it was as if he’d watched someone else do it. He’d never knifed anyone in his life…until now, that is. How close had he really come to doing someone in? He was frightened to realize he did not know. It was as if he had been possessed, or insane. Christ, maybe he was insane.

Pete appeared in the doorway and waited until John noticed him. He motioned with his head. “Go on. I’ve got ‘im now.”

John rose slowly and shuffled to the door. As he came face to face with the drummer, he stopped. John gazed into Pete’s sleepy eyes for a moment. He opened his mouth to speak, but changed his mind.

For his part, Pete shifted nervously from one foot to the other. The way John had been behaving the last two days, he didn’t know what to expect. John clearly had something on his mind.

“Pete,” John finally said, looking down. “Ahhh… well… you know.” And John fled the room as fast as he could.

Pete watched John’s retreating back in puzzlement. He shrugged and took his seat next to a sleeping Paul.

***

Astrid lay beside Stu, watching him sleep, a dreamy smile of adoration on her face. He was so beautiful. His smooth chest rose and fell rhythmically as air rushed in and out his slightly parted lips. His hair, by day swept up and back, lay in a heavy fringe across his forehead. She liked the look, and planned to tell him so. If he would ever wake up.

She crept out of bed carefully so as not to disturb him, and went to use the lavatory. Upon returning, she noticed he was awake. He smiled as his eyes followed her across the room.

“Come back to bed, my love,” he crooned.

Smiling kittenishly, she crawled across the bed to him and kissed him. He wrapped his arms around her and toppled her onto her side, making her giggle. “Stu…” she gasped between his smothering kisses. “It’s late.”

Stuart groaned in frustration. “So what?” he said breathlessly into her mouth.

“Ve need to get up,” Astrid said. “I haf to go shopping…ze boys are coming for dinner…remember?”

Stuart pulled back and affected his best pout. “You love them more than me.”

“Don’t be daft,” she chastised, using a phrase she’d learned from them. “I luf you best, Meines schönes Ein.” She kissed him and he drew her in closer, moaning.

“But…” she said, breaking the kiss. “I vant to go see George too. Ve haven’t much time.”

“You love him more than me,” Stu said, his eyes twinkling.

“Ja, sometimes,” she teased.

“C’mere, you!” He pulled her on top of him and made his need known.

Astrid surrendered to the powerful magnetic sexuality he possessed. There would be time enough for visits and shopping… later.

***

By late morning, Paul had awakened on his own. He sat up on the cot, looking miserable. His face was pale and his eyes rimmed with darkness. His top lip was crusted with a bloody scab and markedly swollen. Pete brought him a glass of water.

“It lives,” the drummer joked.

“Ta,” Paul answered gruffly, taking the water.

“Still feelin’ sick?”

Paul nodded. “I don’ know what’s wrong with me.”

John walked in. “I do. Yer ‘ead’s not as ‘ard as we thought.”

“What happened?” Paul asked.

Pete stared at him. “You don’ remember?”

“I remember… you two fightin’,” Paul said. “An’ me bein’ stupid enough to get in the middle.”

Pete and John looked at each other.

“Come on, Macca,” John said. “You remember. What happened last night after the show.”

Paul frowned.

“Maybe it’s just as well,” John said to Pete. “The fewer witnesses, the better. Can’t have him runnin’ his gob all over the Reeperbahn about me killin’ that bloke, now can we?”

Pete looked at John in astonishment.

“Killin’… who?” Paul sputtered. “What? You…” Slowly his face relaxed. “You didn’t kill anyone, you bastard.”

“How’d’ye know?” John asked. “You don’t remember.”

“Aye, but I do. Now.” Paul massaged his forehead. The images from the previous night flooded his consciousness in fast motion. The four Germans. The knife. Pete leaping out of the darkness. John waving the knife around. “Christ.”

“You sure you’re all right?” Pete asked.

“Been better.”

“We’re expected at Astrid’s later. Remember?”

Paul groaned. “I dunno if I can make it.”

“Why don’t you go back to sleep for a few hours,” Pete suggested.

“Good idea,” John said. “You could use some beauty sleep ‘bout now. You look a fright.”

“Yer a reg’lar laugh a minute, you are,” Paul retorted tiredly.

“My work ‘ere is done,” John said with a smirk as he left.

Paul scooted himself down beneath the covers, curled on his side. He sighed deeply and gazed thoughtfully at the wall.

“I’d best be off, too,” Pete said, patting Paul’s foot as he stood.

“Pete?”

“Yeah?”

“I know what ye did.” He stopped short of saying thank you.

Pete shrugged. “Right.”

“I never believed…it was your fault. About George.”

Pete shrugged again.

“Anyroad…”

“Yeah.”

Paul snuggled into his limp pillow and closed his eyes. He was asleep almost instantly.

Pete watched him for a minute, then slipped out.

***

Someone had opened a window and left it. Who could have done such a thing? And why didn’t they come back and fix it? It was bloody freezing!

Waves of teeth-chattering tremors coursed through him, over and over. His hand wandered over his stomach and legs, searching in vain for a blanket, a cover, a handkerchief, a doily…anything with which to cover up! He tried to open his eyes but they had been weighted down. He didn’t know such a thing could be done. Perhaps he was blindfolded. He reached up to his face and touched his eyes, his nose, his cheeks, then he could not remember why he was doing it and his hand drifted back down.

It was Peter, his brother! That’s who had done it. The prat. Left the window open on a freezing winter’s night when the only source of heat was the coal stove downstairs.  Oh, he’d catch hell for it. When Da found out, he’d catch hell.

All this cold was giving him a headache. His head hurt so bad. Someone had clamped a vice behind his ears and tightened it. Sharp daggers of pain shot through his skull in a dull, unrelenting rhythm. If someone would only shut the window, all this would stop. He opened his mouth to ask if someone would please shut the window. But his mouth wouldn’t work right and all that came out was gibberish.

***

Anne replaced the cool compress on George’s head with a fresh one. He was burning up with fever and delirium and she couldn’t go home, not yet, even though her shift was long over.

George mumbled incoherently and Anne leaned closer, trying to decipher his words. It was impossible. She drew back as his body jerked and shuddered, his teeth clicking together audibly. She felt terrible torturing him with the cold rags and ice packs around the thin sheet covering him. But he was perilously close to seizures, his fever had shot so high so quickly. It had to be brought down by any means.

He lay now in the semi-private room of the advanced nursing care unit. After Anne had alerted the physician on duty of his sudden deterioration, George had been moved and urgent measures had been undertaken to head off the pneumonia that had settled in his constricted lungs. The tight bands around his ribs had been cut off, antibiotic therapy had been instituted and aggressive cooling was ordered. The latter was the hardest part for her, because he was not lucid and could not understand what was happening. She knew, in her heart, that he was suffering in his closed-off world. So far, she had not seen a glimmer of comprehension in his vacant eyes. She hoped and prayed that his temperature would drop soon and the George she’d come to know and care about would be back.

Anne took his slender arm and bathed it with a cool cloth. He pulled it away reflexively but she persevered, grasping his wrist so tightly she could feel his thin, reedy pulse beneath her fingertips. He whimpered softly in protest.

“Oh, George. You’re not going to do this the easy way, are you?” She sank down onto a stool at his bedside and clamped his hand between hers. The touch, the warmth seemed to soothe him and he relaxed, at least for the time being. “How on earth have you captured this old girl’s heart so strongly?”

His only response was to tense and shudder once more.

***

Stuart and Astrid walked along the hospital corridor, hand in hand, giggling at a joke they’d shared in the elevator. The gloomy environment of the hospital could not dampen their ardor or their happiness. When a plain-faced German nurse scowled at them for their inappropriate display of levity, they only laughed harder, burying their faces in each other’s hair to stifle their outburst.

They forced themselves to calm down and affect a serious air when they reached the door to George’s ward. Astrid led the way inside. A few steps into the ward, she abruptly stopped.

“Did ve get the wrong room?” she whispered.

Stu followed Astrid’s gaze to George’s bed. Or, at least, what should have been George’s bed, for it was now empty and neatly made up.

Stu glanced around, confused. He was sure they’d entered the correct room. He noticed the overweight patient on the opposite wall, still coughing continuously as he had the previous day. This was the right ward.

“No,” Stu said. “This is his room.”

Astrid whirled around to face Stu, her face panicked. “Stu, vhat’s happened? Vhere is he?”

“Don’t worry,” he answered calmly. “We’ll find out.” At that moment, a nurse entered the ward carrying a tray of medications. “There, ask her.”

Astrid approached the woman. “Entschuldigen Sie mich.” Excuse me.

The nurse eyed her with irritation and went about her tasks.

“Entschuldigen Sie mich,” Astrid repeated more forcefully.

The nurse sighed and set her tray down. She regarded Astrid with cold eyes.

Stu watched as Astrid proceeded to inquire about the missing patient. The nurse immediately shook her head dismissively and returned her attention to the medication tray. Astrid began to speak more insistently, at which point the nurse answered her abruptly and waved her off. Astrid’s further attempts at more information were ignored.

“What?” Stu demanded. “What did she say?”

“She said he has been moved but she von’t say vhere!” Astrid explained tearfully. “He is vorse, I know it.” 

“Why won’t she tell you where he is?”

“I don’t know.” Astrid dug in her purse for a handkerchief. “I am afraid, Stu.”

“What are you afraid of?” he asked gently, his arm draped over her shoulder.

“Somesing has happened to George and he’s all alone,” she said. “Vhat if he is much vorse? I’m so afraid.” She blew her nose and dabbed at her eyes.

“It’ll be all right,” Stu said. “Perhaps you’ve misunderstood. Perhaps he’s better, not worse.”

“No, you don’t understand. If he vere better she would not haf been trying to hide anysing.”

“What do you want to do?” Stu asked, steering her out of the ward.

“Ve haf to get John in here,” Astrid said. “He said he is George’s uncle. He signed ze papers. Perhaps zhey vill tell him somesing.”

“Let’s go get him, then.”

***

As luck would have it, they encountered John and Pete as soon as they left the hospital’s front door. The two were on their way in to visit. Stu put aside his surprise at seeing John and Pete together and braced himself to deliver the news.

John’s cocky smile faded quickly when he looked at Astrid’s worried expression. He shifted his gaze to Stu, who appeared apprehensive.

“What’s wrong?” John asked, hands on his hips.

“We went in to see George…” Stu said.

“Yeah? How is he?”

“We… don’t know.”

“What’ye mean?” John’s eyes narrowed.

“He’s gone,” Astrid said. “He’s been moved. Zhey von’t tell us anysing.”

Stu waited for the inevitable explosion. John merely froze for a moment, then bolted to the front doors and flung them wide, darting inside.

“So… what does it mean?” Pete asked.

Stu sighed. “It means we’d better get in there before he goes barmy and tears the place apart.”

Nodding in agreement, Astrid and Pete followed Stu inside.

***

Sounds returned first. The hiss of the oxygen, the ticking of a clock, the footsteps outside the door, the voices, sometimes near and sometimes not. But all echoing loudly in his head.  He felt so tired. He lay for a while, conscious but appearing asleep, eyes closed, unmoving. It took so much energy to do anything else.

George forced his leaden eyes open halfway. The sight before him was blurred and unfamiliar. There was a wall only a few feet away, the same ugly green color as before, only much closer. An institutional type clock was the only thing on it. He blinked a few times, trying to bring his world into focus.

“George?”

He rolled his head towards the voice. It was the nice nurse. She was smiling at him.

“I’ve been waiting for you to wake up. Your fever finally broke.”

Fever? He frowned. “I don’…remember.” His voice was raspy and weak.

“I’m not surprised. You were very sick.”

Sick? Beat up? Which was it? “I…was?”

Anne laughed. “Yes. And you still are, only you’re getting better.”

“Tha’s good.”

She nodded. “You have no idea.” After a beat, she asked, “How do you feel”

“I’m kinda thirsty.” He cleared his throat.

“I’ll get you some ice chips.” She disappeared and returned a few moments later bearing a cup of ice and a spoon. She fed him a bite of ice and he held it in his mouth, savoring its refreshing wetness. He studied her weary face.

“Ye look really tired,” he said after swallowing. “If ye don’ mind me sayin’ so.”

“You are very perceptive.” Anne gave him more ice.

His mouth full, he raised his eyebrow inquisitively.

“As a matter of fact, I am dead tired. Worrying over you has drained the life out of me,” she joked. When George looked alarmed she hastened to reassure him. “Think nothing of it. I would have done the same for any patient. The life of a nurse, you know.” It was a lie but he seemed to relax.

“I’m sorry for causin’ ye so much trouble.”

“You did no such thing. Please don’t waste your energy fretting. You need all of it to get better.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She patted his hand. “Now listen, I need to go home. My shift is over.” She did not mention that it had been over for several hours. “But when I come back, I’ll stop in to see you first thing. So, behave yourself and continue getting better. I don’t want to come back and find you’ve gotten worse again.”

“No, ma’am.” He managed a tired smile. “I won’ let ye down.”

“You could never let me down, honey.” She bent over and pecked his forehead before turning and scurrying out of the room. If she had embarrassed him she did not want to compound it by sticking around.

George stared at the door long after Anne was gone.

***

It was true. John stood just inside the ward entrance, staring at the empty bed that had once been George’s. He ran out into the hallway and scanned it for a doctor, a nurse, anyone. Seeing no one, he hurried to the next ward and flung the door open, looking inside. No one but patients in there. He crossed the hall and did the same in the next ward. He almost missed seeing the nurse who had been kneeling next to a patient’s bed, cleaning a mess.

“Hey!” John yelled. “You!”

The nurse jerked her head up at the shouting, a look of dismay on her face. “Shhhh!”

“Fuck that!” John yelled, walking towards her. “Me friend’s gone!” He pointed in the general direction of the other ward. “Where is he? I wanna know now!”

The nurse stood and frowned angrily at John, knowing a troublemaker when she saw one. “Sie müssen jetzt gehen!” she retorted, and approached him confrontationally. You have to leave now!

“Where is he? Tell me or find someone who can!”

“Ich werde die Wache rufen!” I will call the guard! She grabbed his arm to try to steer him but he jerked it away.

“I’m not leavin’ until I see me mate!”

An orderly who overheard the commotion rushed in to help the nurse eject the hooligan. “Sie! Kommen Sie mit mir!”  You! Come with me!  He was tall and strapping, and John thought better than to engage him in a tussle. Still, the Beatle did not allow himself to be led out peacefully.

“Just take me to me friend, that’s all I ask!” John pleaded as he was propelled into the hallway, the orderly’s hand gripping his arm firmly. “I’ve gotta see ‘im! You don’t understand! Let me see ‘im and I’ll leave! I bloody swear it!”

The stone-faced orderly dragged the weary Lennon away without a flicker of sympathy. Halfway down the first staircase, John broke free and tried to scramble past the thug and back up to the third floor. “Kommen Sie hier zurück!” Come back here!

Anne had just stepped into the stairwell from the fourth floor and heard the excitement one floor down. She peered over the banister curiously. It took her tired brain a minute to register John’s identity. That’s one of George’s friends!

“Halt!” she shouted. “Stop!”

The orderly stopped and looked up but John kept running. Anne scurried down the steps as fast as she dared to the heavy door that John had just disappeared through. “Erhalten Sie ihn!” she commanded breathlessly to the younger, swifter orderly. Get him!

The young man dashed after John. He was not hard to catch, as he had stopped outside the ward, unsure of where to go next. The orderly seized John’s arm with unnecessary roughness, proud of his capture. He looked back smugly at Anne, who walked toward them, catching her breath.

“Lassen Sie ihn gehen,” she said wearily. Let him go.

Get him! Let him go! The orderly released John and sighed disgustedly. He backed away but stayed nearby in case his quarry made another escape attempt.

“I am Anne, remember me?” she addressed John without preamble.

John’s face brightened. At last, someone with whom he could communicate! “George is gone! I was only tryin’ to find ‘im and they tried to throw me out! I just need to see ‘im!”

The elevator doors opened and Stu, Astrid and Pete appeared.

“George is not gone, he’s been moved,” she explained patiently.

“Where? No one will bloody tell me anything!”

“I’m trying to tell you! If you’ll just calm down.” She looked intently into John’s eyes until he blinked and allowed his shoulders to slump. “Okay, that’s better.”

“Where is ‘e? What’s ‘appened?” John asked more calmly but with a hint of desperation.

“He’s upstairs, receiving a higher level of care…”

“A higher what?”

“Level of care. He’s getting more attentive care now than he had down here in the ward.”

“Why?”

“There were some complications. Early this morning he was found to have a high fever. They did an x-ray and it’s pneumonia. Sometimes that happens in rib fracture patients with the tight bindings around their ribs. Their lungs can’t expand as much as they usually do and pneumonia develops.”

“He is very sick?” Astrid asked.

“He was,” Anne said. “Actually, his fever broke, finally.” She glanced at her watch. “Just a little while ago.”

“You’ve seen ‘im?” John asked.

“I just came from his room,” she said. “I spent the last few hours with him.” She smiled at their sighs of relief. “He hasn’t been alone, don’t worry. At least not until now.”

“Is he frightened?” Astrid asked.

Anne considered her answer carefully. “He’s very, very tired. He spends most of his time asleep, so no. I don’t think he’s afraid.”

“But ‘e’s gonna be all right?” Stu asked.

“He should be just fine. He’ll need a few more days in the hospital. He’s receiving a lot of antibiotics and oxygen therapy.” She wanted to add “he’s young, he’ll bounce back quickly” but refrained. These boys were young, sure, but they had a hardscrabble existence that no doubt rendered them less than optimally healthy. Ann regarded the pale, tired faces before her. She would bet they were all malnourished, anemic and living with compromised immune systems.

“Christ,” John murmured. “Can I see ‘im, then?”

Anne shook her head. “I’m afraid not. No visitors other than immediate family. I’m sorry.”

“But ‘e ‘asn’t got immediate family!” Stu argued.

“I know,” Anne sighed. “We’ve been through this, remember?”

“How long vill he haf to stay up zhere?” Astrid asked. “Vill he be moved back vhen he is better?”

“I don’t know how long he’ll be on the fourth floor. Until he’s stabilized, at least. But yes, as soon as he’s back in the ward he will be allowed visitors.”

John, too drained to fight any more, leaned back against the wall and gazed at the ceiling.

“I guess that’s it, then,” Pete said quietly. “We’ll have to wait.”

John pushed off the wall suddenly. “I need some paper,” he said.

Caught off guard, Anne hesitated. “Umm… how about typing paper?”

“Anythin’,” John agreed. She started towards the clerk’s desk and he followed. The others looked at each other and shrugged.

A few minutes later, they returned, John smiling in satisfaction. “All right, don’t just stand there.” He handed a sheet of paper and a pencil to each person. He held up the sheet he’d drawn on. It showed a godlike figure in the sky, a man with a robe and a long white beard, sitting on a cloud. “God” aimed his wand at a small figure on the ground, a line drawing of a lad in a leather jacket with dark, brooding eyes. Four similar figures stood off to the side. The caption read “and on the 8^th day, God made Georgie better.” A conversation balloon loomed over the other four Beatles, reading “What took you so long?”

The others smiled and chuckled, amused at John’s whimsical drawing and understanding the assignment they’d been given. They quickly scribbled charming “get well” greetings, adorned with child-like illustrations of their own. John assembled the pages and handed them to Anne.

“At least he’ll have these to look at,” John said with a touch of shyness.

Anne couldn’t suppress a smile as she paged through the heart-felt drawings. “He’ll love these,” she commented. “I’m sure they’ll brighten his day.” They had certainly brightened hers. Once again, as she scanned the faces before her, faces that radiated a magnetism that she could not define, she was struck by the special quality of these scruffy lads from England. Her heart lifted as she realized how lucky she was to have met them.

***

The two vehicles pulled carefully off the side of the road into the brush that separated the beach from civilization. It was an unseasonably mild day for late autumn in Germany. Astrid, Stu, and John climbed out of first car. Anne exited the driver’s door of the second car and Paul alighted from the rear. Pete had made other plans so he was not present. John sidled back to Anne’s car and opened the passenger door. He took firm hold of George’s arm above the cast and guided him slowly to his feet. George steadied himself against the car and caught his breath for a moment. The simple act of getting out of the car had tired him.

Although gaunt and pale, he was on the mend. The bruises and scrapes on his face were fading. His clothes fit a bit too loosely and this was something Anne hoped to remedy, starting today.

Anne opened the boot and, with Paul’s help, retrieved the picnic basket and cooler there. Astrid walked over, clutching a large, folded blanket against her chest, her camera strap over one shoulder. Stuart carried a guitar by its neck. John accepted the brown paper bag Anne thrust at him.

It was George’s first real outing since being released from the hospital to convalesce at Astrid’s house a few days earlier. During a visit to him there, Anne had learned that her next day off coincided with the group’s, and she invited them to dinner at her house. When the day approached and nice weather was forecast, the plans changed to a seaside picnic. They all agreed the outdoors and fresh air would do them good. Anne had packed ham sandwiches, crisps, apples, lemonade and cake for dessert. She was inordinately delighted that they agreed to the scheme. She wanted in some way to do something for them all, and this was more than she could have hoped for.

The group trooped across the tall grass to where the beach began. Paul glanced back at George, who brought up the rear as he trudged carefully across the uneven terrain. He clearly was still unsteady on his feet, but the determined look on his face told Paul to let him be.

The beach itself was almost empty. Astrid selected a spot and shook the large blanket out, letting it float down flatly on the sand. They set down the provisions and the two women began to lay out the feast.

“I packed lots of food and I want everyone to eat their fill… and then some,” Anne said.

“You don’t haf to tell zhese boys twice,” Astrid quipped. She and her mother had fed them on numerous occasions and had learned early on to prepare enough food for ten people.

“Anne,” Paul said. “Why didn’t you bring your husband? What’s his name, Adolf?”

John snickered.

Ann rolled her eyes. “It’s Karl. And I did invite him, but he’s working in the lab today.”

“Is he getting’ suspicious, then?” John asked. “All the time yer spendin’ with a band of handsome and virile young rockers who wear leather trousers?”

Now it was Astrid’s turn to snicker.

“If he is, he’s not too worried,” Anne said.

“You should bring ‘im down to the Kaiserkeller one night!” Paul suggested, talking around the potato chip he munched. “It’s about time you came to hear us play.”

“Yeah, that’d be gear,” John agreed.

“I’ll bring it up,” Anne said, handing out plates. “I’m not sure the Reeperbahn is his kind of place.”

George stood and gazed uncertainly as the others kneeled or sat down and helped themselves to the food, piling their plates high with a little bit of everything. He knew that getting down to the ground would be a challenge, as his ribs were not yet healed and still quite painful. He could only imagine getting halfway down and falling into someone or upending their plate. The last thing he wanted to do was make a spectacle of himself. On the other hand, he didn’t want to appear helpless either, and have everyone fussing over him.

Stu looked up first, his food momentarily forgotten. He nudged Astrid.

“George, sit,” she beseeched him. “You need help?”

A flicker of a smile crossed George’s face and he shook his head. “’Course not.”

Now everyone was looking at him. Brilliant.

Mustering his mettle, George sank shakily to one knee, his face a study in concentration. He bit his lip as he brought the other knee underneath him. Bracing now with his good arm, he plopped gracelessly to the sand with a grunt.

Well, he’d done it, and without landing in anyone’s lap. It had hurt like hell but it was over. He relaxed as everyone turned their attention back to their meals.

A plate of food materialized in front of him, courtesy of Anne. It contained much more than he could eat, and he worried she would be offended or disappointed when he couldn’t finish it. He looked around to see that everyone else had almost finished wolfing down their first helpings.

Anne saw the look of anxiety come over his face and felt a tinge of regret. In her zeal to feed him, she’d inadvertently caused him distress. Soon, however, the conversation took off on a lively topic, and she put it out of her mind.

In the end, there was no food left, except for the uneaten portion on George’s plate, and some of the cake. Anne and Astrid gathered up the dishes and trash. John and Stu wandered off to make sand castles, while Paul picked up the guitar they’d brought and strummed chords aimlessly.

Anne reached for George’s plate, still containing over half his sandwich and most of everything else. “Are you finished?”

George nodded, unwilling to meet her eyes. “Yeah.”

“It’s okay,” she whispered. He looked up then to see her smile warmly. He smiled shyly in return.

Once everything was cleaned up, Astrid sauntered over to join John and Stu. Anne carried the picnic basket back to the car. Paul was lost in thought with his guitar, having come up with a melody. George looked at him. Paul’s lip was mostly healed, but bore a trace of the assault he’d suffered at the hands of the Germans. George had been stunned to hear what had happened the night John and Paul were attacked. Not only because Paul had almost been killed, but also because it made him wonder if he’d have been stabbed if his own attack had not been interrupted. They were dead lucky, that’s for sure. And although the thought of going back was scary, lest it should happen again, his desire to play again was too powerful to stop him.

Hearing about Pete’s heroic act in saving Paul had allowed George to hope that the rift between Pete and John would be healed. But, although John and Pete got along superficially, their relationship seemed scarred, maybe for good.

Watching Paul, George felt envious. He missed playing. His fingers practically twitched with the desire to play his guitar again. He wondered if he’d be able to now.

A sudden outburst from John grabbed George’s attention. He saw John fall back on his arse, convulsed in laughter over something. They were too far away for George to see what had amused his mate. But the sight made him smile anyway.

 Astrid strolled the beach, her camera ready. She occasionally snapped a shot of a seagull, a shell, or a sailboat in the distance. She took some pictures of John and Stu, also. George hoped she would refrain from taking his photograph. He did not feel much like being preserved for posterity today.

A cool breeze blew in from the water, bringing with it the scent of the ocean. It lifted the heavy lock of hair that fell across George’s forehead, and he inhaled its balmy fragrance.

George fished in his jeans pocket and pulled out a few folded sheets of lined paper. He opened them up and smoothed them out against his thigh. He reached into the lining of his jacket and retrieved a pen hidden there. Placing the pen in his casted right hand, he painstakingly formed the first few words on the page.

Dear Mum and Dad,

Suzanne Warren is a 41 year old Beatles fan, living in the southwest U.S.  She has been a fan forever, since she remembers sitting and studying her older sister's Beatles albums as a very young child (and if she was good, she'd even play them for me). At the age of 13, her fandom blossomed into full blown Beatlemania. She began reading and collecting everything she could get her hands on. She has amassed a fairly impressive collection of books, articles, records, trading cards, etc. that are vintage and wonderful. They're her prized possessions. It's been a part of her life ever since, and she doesn't wish to ever be cured of this disease.

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