After dinner, and taking many breaks along the way, I stroll the deck further aft toward the stern where the red British ensign whips smartly in the breeze. On a deck below, I’m delighted to find a children’s pool, and I lean on a railing and watch the children play. Their joyful shouts and laughter make me smile. I tilt my head back and look up into the night sky to find Mars. I don’t know if it’s in retrograde or not, but it makes me think of Élodie and those children and our long-ago southward journey, and I am filled both with anticipation and trepidation for what I might find in France. In my mind, I reach up with both hands, like a curator in a museum straightening a picture, and make sure the face of the moon is turned squarely toward me.
I’m still lost in these thoughts, when I’m startled by a voice over my shoulder. “I’m not at all surprised to find you here. You always loved the sound of children’s laughter.”
My heart jumps into my throat as I whirl around and fall back against the railing. “Callie!”
38 Years later, this brief conversation, and Élodie’s passionate defense of the Jews of Europe, became the basis for my book Reluctant Salvation: WWII Refugee Children and the Roosevelt Administration.
39 Mysterious Water
40 And the Gold of Their Bodies
41 Who is there?
42 Élodie! My god! Is it truly you?
43 How does one say, hornets’ nest?
44 It’s not possible!
45 Gaston! Come here please.
46 The “joining.” Refers to the forcible annexation of Austria by Nazi Germany.
47 The common greeting in southern Germany and Austria. You can tell where a person comes from according to whether the greeting is Guten Tag (Northern Germany/Prussia), Grüß Gott (Southern Germany/Austria) or Grüezi (Switzerland)
48 Do not be afraid.
PART 2
MARS IN RETROGRADE
The ultimate test of a moral society is the kind of world that it leaves to its children.
—Dietrich Bonhoeffer
She said, I’m tired of the war,
I want the kind of work I had before,
A wedding dress or something white
To wear upon my swollen appetite.
—Leonard Cohen
Chapter 10
The Carrots Are Cooked
I regain my balance and push myself off the railing. “What are you doing here?”
“I thought I’d keep you company.” Her smile is devilishly self-satisfied. “But shouldn’t the real question be: What are you doing here?”
I have no idea what to say. I stand dumbly, mouth agape.
“Never mind,” she continues. “I know exactly what you’re doing. At least you took our advice not to fly. Good move.”
“But how the hell did you find me?”
Callie removes a slip of paper from her pocket and hands it to me. “You left this on the desk in your condo. I don’t know, it almost seems like it was intentional.” I look down at the paper, torn from the notepad I keep on my desk.
Cunard 800-728-6273
Brooklyn Cruise Terminal
72 Bowne Street, Brooklyn
Callie shakes her head. “One phone call was all it took to confirm what I suspected. And, yes, they did have some empty cabins.”
“But what about Danny and Ashley?”
“Tom has them while I’m on vacation. I told you that before, but you were probably too busy planning your jailbreak to hear me. So, Papa, was it intentional?”
“What?”
“Leaving this slip of paper out where I was certain to see it.”
“I forgot to take it with me. I’m an old man. I forget things.”
“I’ll bet you have another copy in your pocket right now.”
I turn my pockets out to show they’re empty. “Like I said, it was a mistake.”
“Sure.” She says slowly, appraising me with a skeptical eye. “Anyway, if you don’t mind my company, I have three weeks.”
“Goodness! Of course, I’d love your company.”
“Good. I want to see what this D-Day ceremony is all about. I took the brochure from your desk where, as it happens, you had conveniently left it. And, by the way, I turned off your computer and unplugged it from the internet. You shouldn’t leave it hooked up like that in case of lightning.”
“I guess I just forgot. I was in a hurry.”
“People pulling off a jail break usually are. You know, you’re gonna have a fight on your hands with your insurance company when you get back. They don’t take kindly to patients leaving against medical advice.”
“I’ll fight that battle when I come to it,” I say. “Where is your cabin? Have you already paid for it? Can I help you with that?”
“An inside cabin on deck five. And no, thanks, Papa. I’m good.”
“At least let me buy you a drink.”
“Now that, I’ll accept.”
“Good. Let’s take a walk. There’s the Commodore Club near the bow, one deck up. And on this deck, just below it, is the library. I’d like to visit it first.”
Callie smiles. “To see if they have any of your books?” She knows me well.
“Now, I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to. I’ve seen you check out every library and bookstore you come across.” She slips her arm in mine and we start walking along the teak deck.
“Guilty as charged,” I say with a laugh. We walk to about midships when I say, “Let’s take a break.” I stop and lean against the rail.
“Tired?” she asks.
I nod.
“You only have yourself to blame. You busted out before they were finished buffing you up. I think we should spend some time together in the gym during the crossing.”
I nod again and wait until I feel ready to continue our stroll.
When we arrive, I’m delighted to find that the library is surprisingly large and richly appointed. The bookcases are made of darkly polished wood and are divided into glass-door-fronted cubbies, presumably so the books won’t fall out if the ship lists in heavy seas. Sofas and reading chairs are distributed throughout, some facing the windows overlooking the bow. Callie helps me search the bookcases, and we quickly find a copy of my Reluctant Salvation: WWII Refugee Children and the Roosevelt Administration.
“You should offer to sign it,” Callie says.
“You don’t imagine I ever miss a chance, do you?”
When I show the young librarian the book, and the embarkation card containing my picture, she says, “Yes, of course, Mister Budge. We’d be delighted if you would sign it. And I’ll be sure to message the captain you’re aboard. He always enjoys meeting famous guests.”
Famous. I couldn’t help a laugh at that.
The Commodore Club is lit in soft blue. A group of people are gathered around a piano, laughing and talking. A pianist plays show tunes. When Callie and I walk in, we hear the last notes of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” before the pianist segues smoothly into “Memory” from Cats.
We take a table near a window overlooking the bow and page through a menu of drinks. “What the hell kind of drinks are these?” I ask. “Rhubarb mule, Secret Garden, Japanese Dynasty, Passion ‘n’ Orange smash? Can’t I get a simple martini?”
Callie laughs. “Here you go,” she says with affected snobbishness. “A Beluga vintage vodka martini with a dash of Noilly Prat to your taste.” She turns the page. “Oh, my god! There are two pages of martinis!”
A waiter arrives and stands poised with order slip and pencil while Callie flips quickly through the menu and finally says, “I’ll have a ‘Crazy in Love.’”
“What in hell is that?” I ask.
Callie reads from the menu. “Stolichnaya Raspberry Vodka, Watermelon Syrup and Strawberry Purée, topped with Champagne. You should have one, too. Isn’t that what this trip is all about? Crazy in love?”
I give her a sideways glance and look up at the waiter. “Can I get a simple martini?”
“Certainly, sir. Wha
t would you call a simple martini?”
“Bombay Sapphire, two olives?”
“Of course.”
“There, see?” I say to Callie. While we wait for the drinks to arrive, we remain silent, listening to the music as the pianist transitions to “Life is a Cabaret.”
At last, the drinks arrive. I take a sip and ask, “Did your mother know you were going to do this?”
“No. She didn’t know. I called her after we left the pier. She was frothing at the mouth when she learned you skipped out of rehab. I think she was ready to sic the freaking Interpol on you. I expected she’d react like that, so when I deduced where you had gone—because you had so brilliantly left that piece of paper on your desk—I kept it to myself.”
“Good girl! But, why did you call her after we left?”
“I figured if she knew I was with you, at least she wouldn’t panic and call the police.”
“What did she say when you told her?”
“She was apoplectic.” Callie shakes her head. “Honestly, I’ve never heard her swear like that. Then she insisted I turn you right around when we got to England.”
But I’m not listening to Callie. The pianist has taken a break, and one of the passengers from the group standing around the piano is now sitting at the keyboard playing “We’ll Meet Again” as his friends sing along. I stare across the room with a tightness in my throat. Callie places her hand over mine. “Papa, where have you gone? What’s wrong? You just went far, far away.”
“She sang that,” I say. “She taught the children to sing that.”
“Who?”
For a brief instant, I see Élodie. She has the children gathered around her, enthralled. They are singing with her. I can almost hear them. “It was the last night,” I say.
“The last night of what?”
“It was after Andorra.”
“Do you mean Élodie?”
“Yes. Élodie. She taught the children to sing that song.”
“What children?”
I shake my head. “Maybe later,” I say. I’m not sure I want to get into all of that now. I pause, take a sip of my martini, and ask, “So, when your mother told you to turn us around as soon as we got to England, what did you say?”
“Not a chance, I told her.” Callie replies. “I said I planned to stay with you through the Normandy ceremonies.”
“… keep smiling through,
just like you always do
till the blue skies drive
the dark clouds far away …”
I tear myself away from the song. “How did she react to that?”
“How do you think she reacted,” Callie says with a snort. “She was royally pissed.”
But I am still thinking about France, about the children, about Élodie. “What? I’m sorry. I wasn’t listening,” I say.
“I said she was royally pissed.” Callie gives me a questioning look.
“Good!” I say, trying to sound bright. I glance up at the group around the piano. There are six middle-aged men, bleary eyed, top shirt buttons undone, bowties untied.
“When we get to England, I’ll call to assure her you’re okay,” Callie says. “That should keep her at bay for a while.”
“… so, will you please say “hello”
to the folks that I know…”
“Good plan,” I reply. I glance up at the group again. “I saw her in person,” I say.
“… they’ll be happy to know
that as you saw me go
I was singing this song.”
“Who? Élodie?”
“No. The song they’re singing was sung by Vera Lynn. I saw her perform it.”
“Who was she?”
“They called her ‘the Forces Sweetheart.’ She was a British singer who went around to bases to entertain the troops.”
“Like Bob Hope?”
“Yes, like Bob Hope. I saw her in England twice before D-Day.”
An elderly couple has joined the group and are dancing in the background. The man is still thin enough to wear his World War II uniform. Ivy leaves on his shoulder patch, the 4th Infantry Division, slogan: “Steadfast and Loyal.” The guys who attacked Utah Beach. The guys for whom I was supposed to help take out the German 88s aimed at the beach. One of the men in the singing group raises a boisterous toast. “To the men of Normandy!” They clink glasses and say, “Here, here!”
“They’re talking about you, Papa!” Callie exclaims.
I shrug. I don’t know what to say. I don’t want to say anything.
“I’m gonna tell them you’re here.” She starts to get up, but I grab her wrist.
“No, don’t. I don’t want to grandstand.” And they might ask too many questions.
“Don’t be silly. They’ll love meeting you.” She lifts her drink and walks over to the group at the piano. She speaks with them for several minutes, then returns, a satisfied smile on her face.
“Papa, they’re members of a D-Day club.”
“What the hell?” I say. “There’s a D-Day club? What is it, some kind of fan club?”
“They’re all history buffs. Two of them have read your books. Come say hello to them.”
“I don’t know,” I say. I see the 4th infantry guy mingling with them.
“Oh, come on. They’ll enjoy it. And it’ll do you good.”
Sometimes, Callie doesn’t know when to give up, when to stop doctoring. With a sigh, I rise and shuffle to the piano group. They greet me with handshakes. A tall man—the one who had proposed the toast—says, “It’s an honor to meet you, sir. All you guys of that generation are heroes.”
Another man asks, “What unit were you with?”
Damn, I can’t lie! “Eighty-Second Airborne,” I say.
“Really? Wow! You guys really saw some action.”
“I guess.”
“Were you with the five-oh-fifth regiment? The one that captured Sainte-Mère-Église?”
“Sainte-Mère-Église?”
When I regain consciousness on the edge of the flooded field I reach down and feel the wound in my thigh and examine my hand in the spill of moonlight and it glistens with blood and I hear the dull blasts of 88 mm flak guns and the sporadic sharp mutter of machine-guns that seem to come from a great distance and it’s as though when I jumped from the C-47, across the face of the full moon, I somehow jumped clear out of the war.
“Papa,” Callie says, “the man was asking you about your unit.”
“Yuh, the five-oh-fifth,” says the man.
“Uh, no. I was with the five-oh-eighth.” I pause, take a breath. “You guys seem to know your history.”
“It’s our hobby.”
“Hobby?”
“Yuh. Didn’t you guys in the five-oh-eighth miss your drop zone by quite a lot? Some of you up to ten miles away?”
“I guess.”
“In fact, some of your guys even went missing. It must have been tough.”
“I guess,” I say. I reach behind me, find the arm of a chair, and lower myself into it. I take several deep breaths.
“Papa, are you okay?” Callie asks.
“Why aren’t you wearing your uniform?” one of the men asks. “Lots of the vets wear their uniforms at the D-Day commemorations. Like John here.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say to Callie. I look at the man standing above me. “I guess I don’t like to draw attention to myself.”
“That’s understandable,” the man says. He looks at Callie. “A lot of the veterans don’t like to talk about their war experiences. It’s not that they’re hiding something. Isn’t that true, Mister Budge?”
“I suppose.”
“What was it like?”
“What was what like?”
“Missing the drop zone. How long did it take you to hook up with your buddies again?”
“I don’t know. It was quite a while.” I turn to Callie. “I’m very tired. I think I’ll go to my cabin.”
Callie nods. “I’ll walk with yo
u.” She looks up at the men. “It was nice to meet you, but if you’ll excuse us.”
“Of course,” the tall man says. “Maybe we can talk more tomorrow. Always love to talk with vets.” Again, he raises a glass. “Here’s to you, sir.”
The others raise their glasses, clink them together. “Here, here!”
Callie and I start to leave, but the man from the 4th Infantry Division blocks our path. He extends his hand. “Private First Class John True, Fourth Infantry, Second Battalion, Eighth Infantry, Charlie Company” he says. “I went ashore at Utah on the first wave.”
“You fellers did well,” I manage to say.
“Despite incoming artillery. Freakin’ eighty-eights. Way more than we expected.”
“Yeah,” I say, sliding past him. “Excuse me, but I really am very tired.”
But Pfc. True again blocks my way. “That guy asked about Sainte-Mère-Église. I was there. After that, we took Cherbourg.”
“Well done,” I say, again making a motion to pass him.
But he continues. “We went on to help liberate Paris. Ernest Hemingway was with us. Imagine that! Then the Siegfried Line, Hürtgen Forest in Belgium, the Battle of the Bulge, and we crossed the Rhine at Worms.”
What can I say? “Sounds like you had one hell of a war. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really am very tired.” Finally, I manage to slip past him and, moments later, Callie and I emerge onto the promenade deck and start to walk aft. I hold onto the rail as I walk, and after a few moments, we come to a wider area where deck chairs face the sea under lifeboats hanging from their davits. “Do you mind if I sit for a few minutes?”
“Of course not! I could see you were really getting tired in there.”
“Yes.”
“You seemed to be under some stress with those people.”
“I guess it’s like one of them said. Some of us vets don’t like to talk about the war.”
“Well, I’m gonna be watching you closely. I don’t like that you were having trouble catching your breath. You may have done some damage by skipping out on your rehab.”
“I’ll be okay.”
“Still, if you’re having trouble tomorrow, I’m gonna ask for a tour of the medical facilities on this ship, and I’m gonna take you with me.”
The Light from the Dark Side of the Moon Page 18