To Run With the Swift

by Gerald N. Lund

  We had barely gone fifty yards when the front door to the château opened and a woman stepped out onto the porch. She shaded her eyes with one hand. “Mademoiselle Danni?”

  I waved. “Yes. It’s me.”

  We increased our pace, closing the distance between us rapidly. We met on the gravel sidewalk near the stone fence that defined the yard of the château. “Bonjour,” she said as we came up to each other. “I am Anina. I am very happy to finally meet you.”

  I was quite surprised at how much sorrow we felt as we watched Gisela. We were in the dining room having lunch with Anina and her three children. Grandpère Jean-Henri and Grandpère Louis were regaling her with tales of their boyhood and their wartime memories. Gisela sat on the opposite end of the table from her daughter. Occasionally, she would turn and seem to focus on the conversation, but quickly she lost interest and turned away to stare out the window or twist the tablecloth with her fingers.

  This was the woman that I had once hated, that I had once vowed to utterly destroy if I had the chance. Now she reminded me of a child. She was still as lovely and distant as ever, but there was a childlike quality about her that was both touching and disturbing. Disturbing because I had known her before.

  Grandpère startled me when he suddenly asked, “Do you take your mother to see Niklas ever, Anina?”

  Anina turned, looked at Gisela, then slowly shook her head. “I did on two different occasions. But she barely understood what was going on. And yet, it upset her for days afterwards. So I go see him when my husband can be with her.”

  “And how is he?” Rick asked.

  “Quite well, considering. He has actually taken on a strict regimen of weight lifting in the prison and looks very fit.”

  Dad spoke up. “If you don’t mind me asking, Anina, how did the whole thing with Von Dietz Global turn out? We heard they were talking about awarding all of the family shares to you.”

  “Yes. I am the only other child, so the full fifty million came to me and my husband.” She lifted a hand and waved it around the room. “Had it been otherwise, we would have been forced to sell the château. But Mother loves it here. As do the children. I think we shall spend each summer here from this point on.”

  Rick surprised me when he suddenly stood up and went around to Gisela. He knelt down beside her chair and took her hand. She turned in surprise, then searched his face with those eyes that were such a startling blue. I watched for any sign of recognition, but saw none.

  “Lady Gisela,” Rick said softly, “my name is Ricardo Ramirez, but everyone calls me Rick.”

  She peered at him more closely. “Do I ... know you?”

  “We met a long time ago,” he said. Squeezing her hand gently, he said, “Thank you for letting us see your beautiful home. We love it here.”

  Her face lit up. “It is lovely, isn’t it?”

  “I envy you,” Rick said with a smile. “Where I live, we don’t have many trees.”

  A horrified look crossed her face. “No trees? But how could you stand such a thing?”

  He laughed, then glanced at me. “We make up for it by having good friends instead.” He motioned for me to join them. “And I have one of my very best friends here with me.”

  I was suddenly having a difficult time seeing very clearly, but I got up and joined them, kneeling down on the other side of her. I took her hand. It was cold, even in the sunlight. I took it in both of mine.

  “This is my best friend, Danni McAllister. Danni, this is Lady Gisela von Dietz.”

  “I am very pleased to meet you,” I said, smiling through the tears, trying to push back the memories.

  She looked at me for what seemed like a very long time; then she turned to Rick and leaned in closer. “She’s very pretty,” she said in what was meant to be a conspiratorial whisper but could be heard by everyone in the room.

  “I think so too, Lady Gisela. Very pretty indeed.”

  She turned to me and searched my face. Then one hand came up and touched my cheek. “Do I ...” She gave a little shake of her head. “Have we met before?”

  I couldn’t answer her, so I just nodded my head.

  “It’s Danni McAllister, Mama,” Anina said. “She stayed here at the château with you last year.”

  “No.” She shook her head emphatically.

  “No what, Mama?”

  “Not Danni.”

  I gaped at her. She was struggling to remember. “It’s ...” Then she shook her head again. I started to tell her, but Rick quickly shook his head at me.

  And suddenly she sat forward again. “Carruthers.”

  I couldn’t believe it. “Yes,” I cried. “Yes, Lady Gisela, my real name is Carruthers.”

  She looked at Rick in triumph. “Not Danni.”

  He laughed happily. “No, Lady Gisela. Not Danni. Carruthers.”

  As I got up and returned to my seat, I saw that I wasn’t the only one with tears. Anina, Mom, Dorothée. Even Grandpère was misty-eyed. Anina reached across and laid a hand on my arm. “That was amazing,” she whispered, tears in her eyes now. “Thank you. I can only imagine how much pain she has caused you and your family, so thank you.”

  I sniffed back sudden tears myself. “Whenever I find myself feeling bitter,” I finally managed, “I try to picture a four-year-old girl in a ragged dress and tattered shoes, holding her mother’s hand as they pick their way through the rubble of Munich. And the bitterness goes away.”

  As we drove slowly back into the village, then on to Strasbourg to the airport, all of us were pretty subdued. Even Cody said nothing. When we got to the airport and reached the terminal where Air France’s domestic flights originated and ended, Louis reached up and gripped Grandpère’s hand. “I had heard that the château might be coming up for sale, and I planned to buy it as a surprise. Thought I would keep it as a bed and breakfast, with an open invitation for free lodging to the McAllisters of Southern Utah to come anytime. But this is better.” He swallowed quickly. “This is better.”

  “Oui.” Grandpère cleared his throat.

  Normandy American Cemetery and Memorial, Colleville-sur-Mer, Normandy, France

  June 13, 2012

  At first, Grandpère talked about doing it at the grave site of Lieutenant Arnold Fitzgerald, but then he decided perhaps that was too sacred a place. Mom suggested the picnic area behind the visitors’ center. Too public. Louis settled it when he said, “Why not on the beach, where the young men of Danni’s age first came ashore in France?”

  We walked down the beach, beyond the paved walkways, and found a secluded spot near the undergrowth at the base of the cliffs. There, Grandpère had us all sit down in the sand in a semicircle facing him. We were barely seated when he looked at me with great solemnity. “Carruthers Monique McAllister, would you come forward, please?”

  I got to my feet, not sure what to expect. We had had my birthday cake and opened my presents in the hotel before we left. I was pretty sure there would be some reminiscing about what had happened during World War II here. And I expected to get my usual birthday counsel and wisdom. So I was a little surprised at the formality he was setting up here. But I got up and went up to stand before him.

  “Danni, we are gathered together here on the beaches of Normandy on this, your seventeenth birthday. The place where we now stand is hallowed by the blood and sacrifice of literally thousands of an earlier generation. We stand here mindful of the stirring examples of those who have gone before: Angelique Chevalier. Pierre and Monique LaRoche. Lieutenant Arnold Fitzgerald, who never returned home. I believe that they still live, and that from time to time, God allows them the privilege of seeing through the veil and watching us now. It is always humbling to wonder what they might say to us if they were allowed to speak.”

  That hit pretty hard.

  “It was four years ago today that Danni celebrated her thirteen
th birthday,” Grandpère continued. “Because it fell on a Friday that year”—he shot Mom a quick look and a smile—“we celebrated it the following day and the day after that. On that third day, Danni was presented with a family heirloom that I was given by my father on my thirteenth birthday. It was an old cloth pouch with the name Le Gardien embroidered upon it, along with four fleurs-de-lys, symbols of the concept of guardianship. Danni was given a most solemn charge to care for the gift and to learn from it. Which she did.”

  “Especially the learning part,” I said. It wasn’t meant as a cute quip. I really meant it. Le Gardien had been a wonderful tutor, guide, and guardian. More and more now I realized just how much I had learned and grown.

  “Unfortunately,” Grandpère continued, “last fall, the pouch was forcibly taken from Danni and tossed onto a fire, where it was totally consumed. I know that Danni still believes that was partially her fault, but it is not so. She kept the pouch faithfully and well.”

  I was looking at the ground now. So many memories were flooding back.

  “But, if there is anything that the McAllisters have learned in this last year, it is that there are more important things than battered old pouches.”

  “I know, but—” I started.

  He cut in quickly. “I know that Danni feels terrible that she has nothing to pass on to her son or daughter when the time comes. Therefore—” He stopped and reached around to the back of his waist, lifting up his light jacket to do so. “As her parents and grandparent, we felt there was value in starting a new tradition.” He smiled. “After all, even the most ancient of traditions all started somewhere.”

  And with that, he extracted a package wrapped in lavender gift wrap and extended it to me. For a moment, I just stared at it, not daring to hope. But good old Cody saved me. “Come on, Danni,” he cried. “Stop stalling. Open it.”

  And so I did. And the moment the paper fell away, I started to cry. What I was holding in my hands was another perfect replica of the pouch. There were the fleurs-de-lys, one in each corner of the flap. There was the braided rope strap, with the hand-carved wooden button below it. And there were the embroidered words, Le Gardien.

  I could barely see my family and friends through the tears, and I knew that I was never going to get any words out. But good old Grandpère. Always the one to have just the right touch. He stepped to me, took me by the shoulders, and softly kissed me on both cheeks. Then, in a husky voice, he said, “Happy birthday, Carruthers.”