Telegram For Mrs. Mooney

by Cate M. Ruane

  “My God, I think they’re rat arsed!” said Daphne.

  “Drunk as skunks.”

  I took another peek and seen they were each holding a beer bottle and passing around something that looked like a gallon of whiskey. One was tipsy, stumbled, and fell. “Shazam!” I said. The Germans were too drunk to notice us, but it was the dogs I was worried about. I forced a terrifying image from my mind.

  We made a dash down the track. Daphne stumbled to her knees. Her suitcase went flying and hit the ground with a thud, opening and spilling everything on the ground. I helped her up and we both hurried to gather her belongings and stuff them back in the suitcase. “You’re not hitting the bottle yourself, are you?” I whispered to Daphne, and she laughed for the first time that day.

  “No, Thomas. I tripped on a rail.”

  I found a huge bottle of perfume in the grass—the perfume Jack gave to her. “Yardley English Lavender,” she said when I handed it back. “What would I do without it? The fragrance reminds me of Jack.”

  “I’d of thought Jack smells more like monkey grease.”

  After I recovered from a pinch in the arm, we made our way down the track. A half-mile or so and I saw in the distance a lopsided Spitfire: wing bent and broke. It made me think of a bird that had fallen from its nest. As we got near to the airplane, I read the numbers painted on the side of the fuselage.

  My brother’s plane.

  A cloud moved above, casting us in pitch darkness. We were now far from the depot and invisible to the Germans.

  “I’m going up first to take a look.” Daphne stepped onto the wing, stood on her tippy toes and leaned into the cockpit. I wanted to give her a few minutes alone, so I stood by the propeller, which was smashed to pieces. I was waiting for the sound of weeping or screaming or some other girlish reaction. Instead I heard her say, “Oh, thank God!”

  I scrambled onto the wing and she made room for me to look with her into Jack’s cockpit. There was nothing there to be happy about. “Can you see what I see?” she said.

  “I can’t see much of anything.” I jumped back down to my duffel bag, grabbing my flashlight. Back up on the wing, I switched it on and examined the control panel. It was a grim sight to be sure, but Daphne remained jolly-like. Covering the seat and some of the gadgets was the ominous sight of dried blood. My heart lurched. I felt faint. Daphne began giggling. I figured she’d lost her mind.

  “You don’t get it, do you?” she said.

  “Can’t you see what’s here?” I asked, bug-eyed with fear.

  “It’s not what’s here, Thomas. It’s what’s not here.”

  I said, soft as possible, “We already knew the Germans came and removed Jack’s body. The man from the Resistance said so—remember?” I put my arm around her shoulder.

  She pointed to an empty spot on the top right side of the dash, above the boost gauge. I was sure then she had lost her marbles. “Look carefully,” she said.

  I shined my flashlight onto the spot and wondered what the heck she was talking about. Then I got it. “There was something taped there,” I said looking her in the eye. I stared back at the spot, to a square made of transparent adhesive tape on the dash. “What was taped there?”

  “A very flattering snapshot of yours truly.”

  “Was it always there?”

  “Jack said it was his lucky charm. He would have never left England without it being firmly in place.”

  “Which means…?”

  “That obviously Jack removed the photograph. And a dead man can’t do that. Proof positive that Jack survived the crash.”

  “Hmm,” I said, thinking of the flip side. I had my doubts, but I was afraid to speak them. For one thing, there were a lot of lonely men in the area and any one of them might want that photograph. Men everywhere put pin-ups on their walls. As a matter of fact, I had one of Judy Garland hung in my bedroom and Jack had one of Rita Hayward on the opposite wall. Daphne’s photo might be hanging above a Nazi’s bed. The idea of it made my stomach turn.

  Right then I figured Jack for dead and was about to say so. But I decided to find a gentler way to get Daphne to give up the search. I pointed to a haystack. “Even if Jack is alive, it will be like finding a needle in a haystack. Jack would be hiding out in disguise. Why, we might pass him on the street and not recognize him.”

  When I seen she wasn’t being moved, I changed my tactic, trying to sound chipper: “This is great! We can go home with good news for Ma. We’ve done what we set out to do.” (This is what people call humoring, even though there was nothing humorous about the situation.)

  She stamped her foot on the wing. “We set out to rescue Jack. I always knew he was alive. Proving him alive was never the mission.”

  “Fair enough. Then where do we go from here?”

  She slammed her hand on the Plexiglas hatch window. “Dunkirk!”

  I had an awful feeling about where this was leading, and it looked like it was going to require a shovel.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  WE SAT ON THE WING QUIET-LIKE, letting things sink in. Neither of us wanted to leave Jack’s Spitfire. I was feeling sorry for myself. Jack was my only brother and there’d be no one to take his place. Ma said, “I’m finished” the day I was born. My whole life was sprawled out in front of me: lonesome, that’s what it amounted to. Being the only boy in a family of girls is worse than being an only child. And on top of it, Jack was my best friend. I’d never find another one like him. Daphne was okay, but she was a girl. And I doubt she’d want to move to New York without Jack.

  There was supposed to be a better ending—a tickertape parade down Broadway, me sitting next to Jack in an open-top sedan, Roosevelt in the front seat.

  I tried to think if I could’ve done something different: beg Jack not to sign up, tie him to a kitchen chair, slip him a Mickey Finn. Any which way I turned the thing around, the story had the same ending: Jack going off and getting himself killed. I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was somehow my fault. Brothers are supposed to look out for each other.

  I looked over at Daphne, afraid maybe she was thinking the same thing, blaming me. Her eyes were fixed on the moon, her face ghost-white in its light. She looked angry all right. “You mad at me?” I said.

  She looked me straight in the eye. “Why would I be mad at you, silly? It’s Hitler and his lot I’m angry with. He’s the cause of all this sorrow.” She roped her arm around my bicep and we got on the same frequency, her thoughts winning over mine.

  It really did help to blame Hitler.

  My brother was probably dead and Hitler was going to get away with it, by the look of things. Meanwhile, just down the track, Germans were celebrating. They didn’t give two hoots that they’d ruined my life. The whole set up was rotten.

  My eyes wandered down the train track ending up at the German military installation, not half a mile from us. On top of that warehouse was the same artillery gun that shot my brother from the sky.

  If things went much further, the Nazis would be goose-stepping into London in no time flat. And from there it was a short boat ride over to the old country. I had grandparents in Ireland, and even though I’d never met them, they were still kin. Next thing you know, Long Island. I’d be sitting at Ebbets Field with Nazi Stormtroopers in the box seats, cheering for the Yankees.

  The rhythm of Daphne’s breathing worked like a hypnotist’s pocket watch. My eyes started to droop and my head got fuzzy with sleep and fell to her shoulder. Daphne’s cheek rested on my head and her soft hair covered my face like a blanket.

  ACK-ACK-ACK, ACK-ACK-ACK, came the racket of artillery shells exploding in the sky. We jolted awake. Two fighter planes roared over our heads, banked and turned back toward the German base. Ideas began flowing like the Mississippi River. Make that the Nile. “So,” I said, “would you do anything to stop the Nazis from taking over the world?”

  “Of course, Thomas. Anything.”

  “Then I’ll need the perfume.”

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nbsp; “Oh dear, not that.”

  I explained the general outline of my plan and Daphne added some nice touches. She handed over the bottle, first dabbing a little perfume behind each ear.

  We needed a diversion. I figured we’d use a box of firecrackers. It worked to get me onto Endeavour. Daphne didn’t think it was a good idea to waste them in that way. “I’ve got it!” she said, leaping from the Spitfire wing and lifting her suitcase. “It’s time I got into uniform. Don’t peek until I say you can.”

  When she gave me the signal, I turned and looked down to her—and what a sight it was! I whistled like a sailor. Daphne pulled on a pair of long satin gloves, which reached above her elbows. Jean Harlow would be rolling over in her grave she’d be so jealous.

  We went over the plan again. I gave her a handful of darts, which she concealed in a small red satin purse. She asked for the slingshot too. I slung my duffel bag over my shoulder and clutched Daphne’s suitcase in my left hand. I wished it were blue, not pink. At a time like this, I thought, exhaling everything in my lungs.

  We made our way back down the tracks, hiding behind the shack again. I circled around to the front of the depot, approaching the opening of the fence and the guard post. A drunken soldier saw me coming and stumbled to the gate. I raised my right arm in the air and shouted, “HEIL!”

  The soldier tried to wave his arm in the air but was still holding a beer bottle.

  A dog growled.

  “I’ve come to find my brother,” I announced in German, and if I spoke it with a heavy Long Island accent, he was too drunk to notice.

  “Ihr Bruder?” he asked. Your brother?

  “My brother, the major. I’ve come all the way from Dusseldorf to visit him. He’s expecting me.” I lifted Daphne’s pink suitcase to make my point. The soldier waved me in, while taking a gulp of beer.

  Right on cue, Daphne made her entrance. She stepped into a circle of light made by a small floodlight above the gatepost. The light bounced off the sequins on her red evening gown. She was sparkling like the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. She said, “Bonsoir,” and the soldier’s jaw dropped. He forgot all about me.

  As I made my way into the complex, men called to one another. An entire battalion headed to the gate. Daphne had good aim, but I had better act fast. I bolted for the warehouse. No one stopped me. No one was there to try.

  The place was full of wood crates. Some were opened and I seen ammo cartridges—the kind they loaded into the anti-aircraft guns. I didn’t know if this would work, but it was worth a try. Dumping the contents of my duffel bag onto the cement floor, I got to work. Opening Daphne’s suitcase, I retrieved the bottle of Yardley English Lavender and poured some on my duffel bag. I placed this by a crate of ammo. I splashed perfume on the wood crates in the immediate vicinity. On top of the duffel bag, I stacked books, opening the pages so that the paper was exposed—pages and pages of old and dry paper. The books got doused with more perfume.

  Jane would appreciate that.

  Shakespeare would write a sonnet.

  And the three musketeers would invite me to be the fourth.

  Then I topped the pile with the two halves of Mein Kampf, the one book that wanted burning.

  I dragged another stack of ammunition close to the first pile, so the two stacks of boxes were a foot or so apart, my kindling between them. Using box tops, I added to the firewood. I placed a few packages of firecrackers alongside the books. My summers at Boy Scout camp were about to pay off. “Forgive me Howard,” I said, setting the packet of pink love letters on top of Romeo and Juliet.

  Now I stood, adrenaline pumping through my veins. A firecracker was in one hand, in the other a box of matches. I lit the box of matches first and then the firecracker. I had it from experience—there wasn’t much time before the flare ran down the short piece of string and the firecracker exploded. Heat singed my fingers as I tossed the flaming matchbox and firecracker at the stack of books.

  BANG!

  I waited until flames began licking the ammunition. I grabbed my bow and arrows and stuck the framed photograph under my arm. Flight Lieutenant John Joseph Mooney of the 121st American Eagle Squadron was coming with us.

  Not wanting to draw attention, I ambled back to the gate. When I got close, I seen Daphne was firing rocks with my slingshot. She had a good eye. More than one soldier was feeling it.

  By now the racket coming from the warehouse was like the sound of a fireworks show at Coney Island. The soldiers swiveled their faces to the building. One looked our way and begged to Daphne in French, “Ne vont pas!” which I later on learned means: Please don’t go.

  A piercing siren went off, and my ears begun to ring. A spotlight swung around catching us in its range. A screeching noise came from a loudspeaker. Then came German words I didn’t understand, but were pronounced like swearwords.

  Daphne removed her high-heeled shoes and we bolted in the direction of the green barn we’d walked past earlier in the day.

  And then, in one glorious explosion—heard as far as Berlin, I’m sure—the whole kit and caboodle blew. I wondered if there was TNT stored in the warehouse. Nazis used the stuff to make the bombs that were destroying London.

  A bullet whistled past my right ear. We ran to a field of corn stalks and picked up our speed, running between two rows, hoping to block the view of sharpshooters. A gigantic dog ran behind us, threatening to catch up at any second. I couldn’t help but scream, “Ma!” The dog bit into the hem of Daphne’s dress, but she managed to loosen herself and keep going.

  By the time we reached the green barn, the dog was ten steps behind. I hurried to find a trap door, as Daphne fended herself off by waving a pitchfork she’d found propped against the barn wall. I located the door to the root cellar—the one used to ferment beer. I turned to grab Daphne. She was now standing still, gulping in oxygen, her arms resting on the pitchfork handle. The dog sat in front of her—wagging its tail happily—tongue hanging out loose and spittle dripping from its mouth.

  “If I’m not mistaken, he’s an Airedale,” said Daphne, wiping her sweaty brow. “Essentially, large British terrier. Why, I do believe he’s decided to return to the fold.”

  All three of us stepped down into the dark space, me using the flashlight, which was still sticking in my blue jeans pocket. Daphne and me sat with our backs resting against a keg of beer. The dog laid down at Daphne’s feet, licking her toes.

  The place smelled like a pub. Besides beer, the root cellar contained mason jars full of canned vegetables and fruit and also loads of tin cans. Somebody was hiding the stash from thieving Nazis. Using my pocketknife, I opened a can of beans and noticed that my hands were shaking. Daphne opened a jar of stewed tomatoes and said, “What a fright that was,” letting out a long sigh.

  I shrugged my shoulders and steadied my hands by digging them into the dog’s fur. I coughed from deep down in my lungs, hacked up phlegm and spit on the ground, hoping to seem macho.

  Daphne found a jar of poached pears. The dog licked the jar clean. “What shall we call him, Thomas?”

  “How about Franklin, after FDR?”

  “How about Winston?”

  “How do we know he’s a he?” I asked.

  Daphne lifted the dog’s tail. “I think we shall call her Marlene. After Marlene Dietrich, of course. She’s also German but working for our side.” Daphne patted Marlene on the head and said, “Poor Marlene. You should have seen how those German soldiers treated her. I might not be a dog-lover. But when I saw one of them kick her, it took everything in me to not start screaming.”

  I patted Marlene on the head even though I didn’t like dogs and preferred cats. “We’ll take care of you, girl,” I said. Marlene licked my nose, then circled up in a ball and went to sleep.

  Some time later on I woke to the sound of the rusty hatch door being opened. I grabbed my bow and arrow, expecting to have to defend Daphne. Marlene let loose a fearsome growl, barked, and bared her teeth menacingly.

 
; “Are you in there, Joe DiMaggio?” I recognized the voice. It was Antoine, the vegetable seller.

  Daphne shouted, “FERSE,” to Marlene, who started whining. “I heard the Germans use the word when they wanted her to heel.”

  “Come quickly,” said Antoine, taking my hand and helping me up the steps. The sun was coming up over the fields, hitting the barn side so that now it was orange instead of green. Next to it sat a car with the engine running but the headlights off. He motioned us into the boot. “Hurry, hurry!” Marlene jumped in after us.

  There I was—in a stuffy trunk again—wondering where the car was heading. It was freezing in the trunk, and the dog became a bed warmer, Daphne and me pressed up against her fur. My hand was a muzzle, keeping Marlene from barking. Also keeping her from licking my face. When we stopped about an hour later, we waited for the trunk to be opened. When it did, we were inside a garage. By the rumblings coming from the outside, we knew we’d arrived in a booming metropolis.

  “Brussels,” said Antoine, reading my mind. “I thought it safer to hide you in the city. The Gestapo is searching for you. Apparently we have you to thank for a nice bit of sabotage.”

  He took a close look at Daphne, moving his eyes up and down her red sequin dress but without the least sign of rude. “We’ll have to get you out of that gown and into something less memorable.” He looked at Marlene and asked where she’d come from. As we followed him up an inside staircase to a flat above, we told him how the dog had switched sides.

  “Excellent!” he said in the French way.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  WE WERE INTRODUCED TO a lady old enough to be my grandma. She was Antoine’s mother, Madame DeQuick. But she didn’t look anything like the other Mrs. DeQuick, them not being blood related, only in-laws. This Madame DeQuick was tall and broomstick skinny. Her hair was the color of straw, like what happens to all platinum blondes when they pass fifty. And unlike the other one, all her hair was on top of her head, none on her chin. Even her eyebrows were plucked and then penciled like big arches, so that it always looked like she’d put her finger in a live socket. And there was no sign of a husband—only a gold wedding band—so it made sense that she was dressed in black.