Telegram For Mrs. Mooney

by Cate M. Ruane

  Then at about ten o’clock, we watched as a Rolls Royce came out of a garage and rolled toward the locked gate. Our eyes fixed on the chauffeur, who got out to open the lock, then drove the car just outside the autiel entrance. He parked and got out of the car, so as to lock the gate again.

  I heard the roar of a 500cc motorbike, coming out of a side driveway. We watched dumbfounded as a Luftwaffe officer—in full uniform and sunglasses, white silk scarf trailing behind him—came shooting out of a driveway riding a German motorbike. Them things go zero to a hundred in seconds flat. Before we knew what happened, Hans Dorfmann was rocketing down the road, through the open gate and out of sight.

  “Well at least we know where he lives,” said Daphne. “Now it’s simply a matter of waiting for him to return.”

  We spent the whole day walking back and forth. At all times at least one of our four eyes was on the building where Hans Dorfmann lived. We each took a short break to relieve ourselves in a café bathroom. And once, Daphne kept watch while I ran to a market and brought back snacks: faux cream puffs to be exact.

  Night dropped again and still no Luftwaffe major. My spunk began to weaken—and that’s the truth—but Daphne’s remained solid as the Hoover Dam.

  The gate kept opening and closing for cars, most of them very expensive: Daimlers, Mercedes, and once a Bugatti Coupe. Whenever Daphne spotted a German car she said, “In bed with the Germans.” Then she’d spit on the ground. I’d never seen her so sore. Somebody was getting the brunt end of that, and I was glad it would be a Nazi.

  At half an hour past midnight Daphne looked at her wristwatch and yawned. The gate opened again, and this time, instead of two headlights pointing in our eyes, there was one. We hid in an entrance across the street from where the Luftwaffe major lived: Hans Dorfmann—the Nazi who was impersonating my brother and threatening to expose the Comet Line.

  The transmission shifted gears as the motorcycle rolled down the street, its headlight blinding us. Daphne readied the bow and arrow. The motorbike swung into a driveway next to Dorfmann’s building. I looked at the Luftwaffe pilot’s back, and was close enough—my eyes sharp enough—to see he wore the insignia of a Luftwaffe Flieger-Stabsingemieur.

  “Are we sure it’s him?” I whispered. I’d never killed a man in cold blood and my knees began to shake.

  “I’m sure,” said Daphne, in a voice so low and yet so fearsome, it made my hair stand up on end. “And besides, what’s the worst thing that happens? We kill the wrong Nazi?”

  We watched as Hans Dorfmann cut the motorbike engine; the headlight went dark. He was hidden in shadow, but there was still enough light for Daphne to sight her target. Dorfmann swung his leg over the motorcycle seat and with both hands on the handlebars he lifted the bike onto its stand. I looked at Daphne, “It’s now or never,” I said in a shaky voice.

  She pulled her right elbow back, right fist and feathers to her armpit, the bow and arrow tip steadied with her left thumb and index finger, the string straining and bending the bow. Her form was perfect, taking the correct body stance: feet spread apart, body perpendicular to her target, left foot pointing toward it. Aiming at the bull’s-eye on the side of our barn in East Hempstead, she’d be about to decimate Hitler’s nose. She squinted one eye like she was looking in a riflescope. Highlighting every syllable, she shouted his name, “Flieger—Stab—singe—mieur—Hans—Dorf—mann!”

  She wanted to look the man in the eyes as the arrow flew at his heart. A shot in the back was too good for him. Better that he have a moment to mourn his choices. Her arm pulled the string even more tautly. I was afraid it would break, but Daphne wanted the arrow to make its deadliest impact.

  The man turned his face to us and seen exactly what awaited him.

  I had my eye on the tip of the arrow and followed its path as it flew from the bow, whooshing across the street and hitting its mark. Even in the dark, I could see the red-feather-tipped arrow sticking out of the Nazi’s chest.

  He groaned, “Awwwwh,” as he began staggering toward Daphne—one hand on the arrow, one unbuttoning his jacket—reaching for his Luger, no doubt.

  I yelled, “Run, Daphne!”

  Insanely, she took a step out from the entranceway so that she stood illuminated by a street lamp—making the perfect target. I didn’t know what got into her. We’d be lucky to make it to Ravensbrück alive.

  Then the Luftwaffe major spoke something—one word—almost in a whisper. But the street was deadly quiet and gust of wind was coming from his back, bringing his word to us. Sounded like he’d said “Jeepers.”

  Daphne dropped her bow, letting it crash to the ground. “Oh no,” she said, her voice all choked up.

  The man stepped into the light. My eyes were still on the arrow, which I seen had missed its mark and was sticking out of his shoulder blade—not his heart.

  “Sweetheart,” he said, “I know I haven’t written in a while, but really Daphne, this is extreme.”

  My brother tried to grin but it was hard with the pain he was in.

  Daphne started bawling.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  WHEN I STEPPED INTO THE LAMPLIGHT, my brother yanked the arrow out of his shoulder, ran across the street, picked me up, hugged me to him, and tossed me into the air. I felt like bursting. My jacket was all bloody but so what?

  “I knew there’d be trouble the minute I took my eye off you,” said Jack, “but honest to God—I’m flabbergasted.” He stood there in the street looking me up and down, his hands on his hips. Scratching his head, the Luftwaffe pilot’s cap went lopsided. “I thought the time you ran away to Coney Island took the cake, but this beats all.”

  This was a real complement. I was beaming. I’d forgotten all about the time I went to beg the rollercoaster operator to take me on as his apprentice. That coaster had an unparalleled 58.6-degree drop and a top speed of 60 miles per hour. A cop ratted on me to my ma. She sent Jack to get me. The two of us took a few spins on the Cyclone. My stomach was so upside down that I threw up on Jack’s shoes. On the drive home he said he couldn’t blame me for trying. Charles Lindbergh himself said it was the best roller coaster in America.

  Jack put one arm around Daphne’s waist and one around my shoulder, squeezing it to him. “Awwwwh!” he groaned, clutching the arrow wound. As we walked up the steps, I felt him kiss the top of my head.

  “Jack, darling,” said Daphne, “You shan’t break off the engagement simply because I tried to kill you, will you?”

  “Steady on old girl,” he said with a British accent. I couldn’t believe my ears. I should’ve paid more attention to Lady Sopwith. He bent down and kissed Daphne on the lips, hard. When they came up for air, he said, “Honey pie, it’s only a flesh wound.” He said it like a New York cabbie.

  My brother was back.

  Jack stood straight up, trying to look chipper but staggering a little. “Why, I feel like I got shot by Cupid!” He kissed Daphne again.

  When we reached the door I was standing so close to him that—by mistake—I stepped on the heel of his flight boot. The townhouse door handle was shaped like a lion’s body; into the lion’s open jaws you inserted the key. “You do the honors,” said Jack, handing the key to me. I opened the door, fingers intact and laughing.

  When we entered the townhouse, Daphne let out a hoot. “It looks like Versailles! How ever did you land here, Jacques, darling?”

  “I thought you’d like it, honey. I picked it with you in mind.”

  “Oh get out, Jack,” she said. “Really?”

  “Actually the place chose me.”

  “Well, who wouldn’t?” She stood up on her toes and they rubbed noses like Eskimos.

  Time to do a little exploring, I thought.

  It wasn’t like any joint I’d been in, unless Notre-Dame counted. The ceiling was five times taller than me, painted with chubby-cheeked cherubs and clouds, so I felt like I was looking up into heaven. The trim on the walls was, I’m pretty sure, solid gold. A chandelier in th
e dining room looked like thousands of diamonds. And, if it crashed on you, forget it.

  I didn’t want to get lost, so I made my way back to the lovebirds. Jack’s shirt was open and Daphne was pouring something from a little silver flask onto the arrow wound and swabbing it with a handkerchief. Whatever she was using was strong as moonshine, by the way Jack was moaning.

  “Say, this is a mighty swell place,” I said. “Who lived here? A gangster?”

  “No, a banker—Awwwwh! I take it from the building caretaker, who comes to check up on things—and he’s on our side, by the way—Ouch!—that the fella fled to the south of France right before the Germans rolled into town.”

  “I’m feeling a little light-headed,” said Daphne, looking at blood on her hand. “You’ll have to take your jacket and shirt off, Jack. Is there an old bedsheet we can use to make bandages?”

  Jack looked down at the Luftwaffe uniform and said, “Let me get out of this monkey suit.”

  “Please do, darling. It’s giving me the willies. And why are you wearing it in the first place?”

  Obviously he’s a spy, I thought, without saying it out loud. I seen the poster in London: Loose Lips Sink Ships.

  Daphne turned to me, “And while Jack changes, let’s you and I see what we can rustle up in the kitchen. That is, if we ever locate the kitchen.”

  All that we found was a couple tins of ham, a loaf of French bread, a small wedge of cheese with green mold on top, and a half full bottle of cider—the kind that’s boozy.

  “Jack’s living the bachelor life, I’m happy to see,” said Daphne.

  We took everything with us and made our way back to the living room, where Jack now sat decked out in a tweed suit. His shirt collar was opened at the neck and instead of a tie, a white silk scarf wrapped around his throat. On his feet were brown wing-tipped shoes worn with argyle socks. A felt beret tilted on the side of his head. He looked upper crust—I hardly recognized him. The only thing that spoiled the picture was the sling around his shoulder. When he noticed me admiring his new outfit, he said, “Courtesy of the previous tenant. I hope he doesn’t mind me borrowing them.”

  Daphne sat close to Jack on the sofa, her legs folded behind her, knees resting on Jack’s. I sat on the floor near the fireplace. The room was freezing. Next to the fireplace was a nice stack of wood and I couldn’t resist. As I made a fire I asked, “Why were you wearing that Nazi suit, anyway?”

  “It started when I shot the Gestapo agent who made the mistake of coming to my airplane all on his lonesome.”

  “Your Enfield service revolver?”

  “I was wounded: broken nose, dislocated shoulder and a cannon bullet had come from below and hit my right heel. There was blood all over my face, so it wasn’t hard to play dead. The Kraut didn’t see it coming.”

  I said: “You weren’t scared, were you, Jack?”

  “Call me Jackrabbit. Sure I was scared.”

  “I’d ’a been terrified!” I said in a rush. “I’d pass out with fright! I’d of—I’d have—VOMITED!”

  Jack pulled me to him. “I was shaking in my boots, Tommy.”

  I felt like a paratrooper whose chute opens after the ripcord being stuck. I never had to fake it with Jack. He’d still be my brother no matter what, even if I was a jackrabbit like him, even if being in a war was petrifying and I wasn’t brave all the time. So long as I had Jack, my feet were never going to touch ground.

  “Well,” he said, jumping back into his story, “that’s when I had the idea to switch clothes with the Gestapo agent, thinking it might throw the Germans off long enough for me to get out of there. Lucky for me, a couple of farmers came along and helped me get the German into the cockpit. We put his motorcycle in the back of their truck—didn’t want to give the whole works away.” Jack took a piece of French bread and stuffed it into his mouth.

  “Did the Gestapo agent have a swastika tattooed on his neck?” asked Daphne.

  “How did you know?” Jack talked with his mouth full.

  “Mother of God!” I said. The priest in Dunkirk—Monsignor André—wasn’t lying after all. He told us the truth about the Nazi dressed in Jack’s flight uniform—the one with the girlfriend named Sabine and the swastika tattoo. I was terrified by the idea that we’d almost assassinated a priest. There weren’t enough Hail Mary’s in the history of the world to have gotten me out of that mess.

  “Then I had a run in with an SS Waffen Truppführer,” said Jack. “I was dressed in the Gestapo getup and he struck up a conversation with me. That’s when I tried out my German for the first time since high school.”

  “A nun taught you?” I asked.

  “Sweetest nun I ever met,” he said. “The SS fella asked where I’d picked up the New York accent. He didn’t like the answer.”

  Jack crossed himself. There was silence in the room—like a church.

  Then he said, “The SS uniform came in handy later, when I had to break a buddy of mine out of a German prison. He worked for the Resistance and was my only hope of getting out of here.” Jack got a big grin on his face. “You should have seen it—marched right into the prison like I was Adolf Hitler himself. I was in the nick of time too, because my buddy Pierre’s face looked like a welterweight who’d stupidly challenged Joe Louis for the heavyweight title. I roughhoused Pierre all the way to the front entrance, acting like a jerk. Pierre was an actor before the war. He started squealing and pleading for his life—me yelling death threats at him the whole time. By then I’d ditched the Long Island accent.”

  “Did thou do it reading Shakespeare?” I asked.

  “You’re a funny one!” said Jack. “No, I did it eavesdropping on Luftwaffe pilots.”

  “Spy work!”

  He put his finger to his lips and shifted his eyes around the room. Then he laughed and whispered in my ear: “Wait’ll I get together with Churchill. Have I got stories to tell.”

  He was smiling, but I saw his teeth clench as the light went out of his eyes. Jack was keeping the bad stuff from us, putting the positive spin on his stories. That was Jack: always the upbeat one.

  “My God, it sounds terribly dangerous,” said Daphne, putting her hands over her ears. “I’m not sure I want to hear this.”

  Jack looked at me. He knew I was itching for more. I leaned in so’s I could catch every word. “It was my friend’s idea to find a Luftwaffe pilot and steal his identity. And we picked the right one too, because he had a key for these digs in his pocket.” He waved a hand around the room. “The plan was for me to take a Messerschmitt and fly back to England. Risky, I know, but I was getting tired of starvation.”

  “What went wrong?” I asked. Obviously he was still in Paris.

  “Twice I’ve tried—planes from two different German airfields. Got shot down by the RAF the first time, which I have to say, made my day. I bailed out in the Channel and swam back to France. You know I’m a strong swimmer, Tommy. Remember when I was a lifeguard at Jones Beach?”

  He slapped his knee. “Problem was, I had to flip the plane upside down to drop out and I busted up a couple of ribs striking a vertical stabilizer.” He opened the buttons on his shirt and showed me the scars. You get the Purple Heart for scars like that. “It was a long and painful swim, that was.”

  He buttoned his shirt again while still talking: “Second time the Luftwaffe chased me from the base. I managed to get away into the clouds. And the plane didn’t have enough fuel. But I shot down a German bomber headed for England before ditching the Messerschmitt in a field. Why, that plane’s sitting there right now, waiting for—”

  “What happened to your Resistance friend, Pierre?” I asked. “Couldn’t he help you get out through Spain?”

  “He got caught a second time, and I wasn’t able to help him—they sent him east is what I figure.” Jack stopped short. His Adam’s apple moved up and down and his eyes watered up. “He was as true blue a fella as I’ve ever known. He was helping Jews to hide, he—”

  “Oh, Jack.�
� Daphne started tearing up. “It’s all too monstrous.”

  All the life went out of Jack’s face. “Worse than monstrous. Things are rough here for Jewish folks.” He took her hands in his. “Babe, we’ve got to get you the heck out of here. Alaska wouldn’t be far enough. No joke, this is no place for the likes of you. I’ve seen some things with my own two eyes. Got to Paris in time for the last big roundup.”

  “When they took whole families to the Vélodrome?” I asked.

  I knew Daphne was thinking about her Aunt Dalia when she said, “Where did they send them? La—lab—our—camps?”

  Jack ran his fingers through his hair nervously. “Worse than that,” he said. “Pierre had a friend staking out the place where they took people from the Vélodrome, an internment camp outside of Paris—town called Drancy. The Germans were loading people into cattle cars. One of the train engineers was overheard talking about Poland.”

  I wondered why Jack was delivering such a hard blow, instead of “humoring” Daphne. Then it came to me: he needed her to know what kind of danger she was in. He wasn’t pulling any punches. The next punch was a woozy.

  “There’s talk about death camps.” Jack kissed Daphne’s forehead, not a sloppy kiss but gentle.” Daphne rested her head on Jack’s shoulder and was real quiet. She closed her eyes and gulped hard. We both knew Jack was right and we had to get her out of here fast.

  “It’s a rotten trick telling people they’re a superior race,” he said. “The world’s lousy with it. Now we’re getting it from all angles: the “Aryan Race” on one side and the Yamato-damashii on the other, everybody in between getting squeezed out.”