Amelie was concerned by how the young man was acting; and what he was saying, as well. He was confused, dazed, shocked by the condition of his leg. Her heart squeezed in her chest. He was German. He was a Nazi. He was the enemy. And he was human. She looked at his nametag, leaning forward to take it between her fingers. She tried to discern the letters amongst dirt and blood. Sigurd. Fahnrich Sigurd. She didn't know if the first word was an honorific, such as Frau, or if it was his first name. In any case, Sigurd was part of his name. As she thought, he spoke again, voice gravelly and rough and accented.

Blinking at his words, she couldn't help but blush a bit and glance away. It was a very kind compliment, from a handsome young man, to be sure. "Merci," she replied, looking back at him shyly. "Merci, Sigurd." She switched back to German, figuring he'd probably understand more in this state - even if she didn't completely make sense. "Your leg was broken. I try to fix it, but I not doctor." She looked apologetic, almost pleading for him to understand. "I try. It looks fixed. I have fixed a cow's leg before." Hopefully he wouldn't hate her for what she had done. Sigurd might have arthritis or pain for the rest of his life, if she hadn't done it quite right. But if he lived long enough to experience that - surely it was better than dying now? "I am sorry."