Eventually Katrinka became aware of a dull, throbbing sensation, and saw that her hands were torn and bleeding. She stopped at an ambulance to pick up a few bandages, then made her way down the streets to her boarding house.
Most of the women were back. Spying Katrinka, they rushed out to greet her, their concerned faces making her cry. They’d heard news of the attack, and Katrinka had to tell them about Beryl. There was a great deal more crying after that.
They took her to the parlor, and one of the boarders brought her a cup of tea. Another gave her a soft, clean cloth to wrap around her hands, and helped her to her room.
Katrinka took her towel to the bathroom. The water was barely warm, and her injured fingers made it difficult to wash, but she removed the grime and blood the best she could. Once back in her room, she changed into her schoolgirl skirt and sweater, the only other clothing she had. She would try to find a place that would clean her suit.
She wrapped a few thin bandages around her fingers and sat on her bed, staring at the wall for what seemed a very long time. Eventually, her eyes fell on the letter she’d written the night before. She picked it up in her trembling hands, ripped it in half, and threw it into the dustbin. Then she sat down to write another, struggling to hold the pen between her damaged fingers.
“Tell Papa that, as soon as he is ready to leave, I will come with him. I will meet him anywhere.”
She would mail it the next morning, along with a letter to Will’s sister.
* * *
That night, one of Katrinka’s housemates took her to a different tube station bomb shelter. Cynthia told her she did not need to bring blankets, as they were provided. Entering the shelter, Katrinka was astounded to find many rows of beds, but surprisingly, the place was only half full. Apparently, many Londoners, hardened from the years of sporadic bombing, chose to stay in their homes at night. Cynthia took her to an air-raid-shelter warden, who directed her to where she could sleep, and the location of the toilets. She also handed Katrinka a gas mask and showed her how to use it.
Soft conversation and murmuring drifted around her until very late. Then, a vast silence settled on the station, unbroken except for the occasional snore. Her fingers ached horribly, and she was cold. She heard skittering across the floor and wondered about rats. She got very little sleep.
* * *
On Monday morning, Katrinka reported for work at the news office. There were dark circles under her eyes, and two of her fingers had become infected. She informed Mr. Brockley that she would try to find a physician during her lunch break. She apologized, since the newsroom seemed frantic with activity.
The man grimaced when he saw her hands. They were swollen and raw, and in some places the skin was torn away. Katrinka explained what had happened, and he offered to take her to a doctor that he knew. She accepted gratefully. The pain was becoming unbearable.
The doctor saw her right away, while Mr. Brockley waited in the outer office. The doctor washed her hands in a soothing solution, then applied a salve mixture of sulfonamides. He assured her it would bring down the swelling and infection, but she was to come back in two days’ time, so he could check on the progress of the healing. After the appointment, Mr. Brockley took her to a local chemist shop to pick up the prescription and sticking plasters.
They returned to the newsroom in the late afternoon. Mr. Brockley led her into his office and called for tea. Weak sunlight filtered through the crooked blinds behind his chair. Katrinka was sleepy and sat back with the warm cup in her hands, hypnotized by the swirling dust motes. His office smelled like the old wood in her grandmother’s attic.
“I’d like to do a news article about your experience,” Mr. Brockley was saying. “A firsthand account of your impressions. With the censorship, we can’t publish anything about it now, but the paper could use it later.”
Dragging her eyes away from the dust motes, she turned to him, surprised. “About the bombing?”
“Exactly.” He explained that he wanted to interview her about the rocket attack, for it had been a rocket attack—one of the newer, more frightening versions of the V-1 the Germans had been using previously.
Katrinka had no desire to revisit those thoughts, but after some hesitation she agreed. Under his gentle questioning, the terrifying images spilled out. Beryl’s tram, with its dead occupants still upright in their seats. The man sitting amid scattered body parts, singing gibberish and drawing circles in the dust. The embroidered elephants on the little girl’s dress, and the dying kitten.
* * *
For the next few weeks, Katrinka became his reporter. She would go out in the morning looking for news. “Human-interest stories,” Mr. Brockley called them. She would come back in the late afternoon, and dictate to him what she had seen and heard in her walks through the city.
When her fingers healed, she could type her own news articles and submit them before leaving each day. It seemed everyone had a story to tell her: hospital nurses and patients, bomb shelter wardens, shop keepers, and regular people on the street.
The deadly rocket attacks continued. Because of their incredible speed, there was no defense for them. There was nothing to warn of their approach before they struck. The results were indiscriminate and lethal.
Katrinka did a story on the social activities supplied in the London tube bomb shelters. Tea and other items were offered for sale, some even had small bands for dancing, and there were always improvised singing groups. One night, a woman brought in a portable record player and several records. She was besieged with requests to play certain songs. Another night, she passed a group of children learning arithmetic from an elderly man, who had set up an easel and portable chalkboard.
Katrinka became a fast and accurate typist, often staying after hours to finish a story. Life settled into a routine, and she formed friendships with some of the women at the boarding house. But, for the most part, she remained aloof. She stood back, reporting the events and people as a distant bystander, with nothing really touching her.
Each night, she would pocket a few belongings and join the others deep underground. She had no nightmares. She had no dreams. For Katrinka, it was a time of waiting, but she did not know what it was she waited for.
* * *
December arrived, and London celebrated the Christmas season in a muted fashion. Because the bombings were now indiscriminate, there was no need for a blackout. For the first time in four years, churches were able to light their stained-glass windows. However, it was one of the coldest winters on record, and there was very little fuel for heating. The earlier belief that war would be over before Christmas was now just a bleak memory. Fierce battles were being fought in the Ardennes, and German troops had surrounded the town of Bastogne. There were several rocket attacks throughout the month, and over thirty attacks in England on Christmas Eve, but the British would simply not give in.
Katrinka wrote an article about the women in her boarding house. They had elaborate beauty methods they used before heading out on dates with young soldiers. There were no stockings to be had, so they applied gravy browning as a leg tint and used eyebrow pencil to draw the seam up the back of the leg. Burned cork was used for mascara, and sometimes beetroot juice for lipstick. They felt it their duty to help boost the morale of the men and tried to keep as well turned out as possible.
Katrinka stayed busy, but the short, dark days depressed her. One night, she woke to find herself sitting up in bed and searching the covers for Wolfe’s warm body. She could not believe it possible to miss anyone the way she missed him. Like a bad toothache, his absence became a physical pain that never went away, wearing her down. She wondered where he was and if he was still alive.
The holidays came and went. There was no word from her father.
* * *
At the end of her second month in London, a letter came to her at the Batavia Mews, postmarked from Swit
zerland. It was from Gorges, her father’s solicitor. She tore it open and read it:
My dear Katrinka,
I am glad to hear you have found a place and are working in London. I have received a wire from your father. I am to inform you of his planned departure to California, on Saturday next, from Liverpool Docks. I regret the short notice, but evidently there is an illness at home, and he hastens to be there.
If you wish to follow, be at the Liverpool Docks Master Station on or before that date, and you will be taken to your father’s ship. If not, your father wishes to assure you he will understand, and he looks forward to seeing you, whenever that may be.
I will also be sending you certain papers when you have made a decision as to your living arrangements. You stepfather, Emerson Badeau, left you—in trust—a large sum of money to be given to you when you are age twenty-one. He desired that you be able to pursue your search for Amelia, should anything ever happen to him. I will go into more detail in our next communication.
You may send a reply to me, via paid message return.
Fond regards,
A. Gorges.
Katrinka sat on the bed and reread the letter several times, bewildered by its contents.
The sudden departure of her father to California. What home was he referring to? And who was ill? His only relative left living was his mother in Porto.
Her eyes burned with tears when she read of Emerson’s generosity and forethought. He had always taken her dream seriously. For many years, she had looked forward to the time when they could begin the search together. She would have to find Amelia now. She owed it to both of them.
She sat on the bed for a long while, holding the letter. Then she looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time. It seemed impossible to her that she had ever lived here.
She loved the excitement of the city, the courage of the people, and their carelessly contrived attitude to facing death. But it was a cold, gritty place, and there were no familiar, friendly faces. She longed for the warmer air and sunshine that she’d grown up with. Now she would be headed back. Would it be home? And if not, where did she belong?
Chapter 13
Coronado, 1945
Father and daughter left together from Liverpool Docks in late January. After boarding the ship, Katrinka did not see much of him, as he and the crew were absorbed in getting out of the North Atlantic U-boat territory as quickly as possible. The times they were together, her papa was unusually nervous and restless. He seemed distracted, speaking to her in disjointed sentences, and sometimes walking away in the middle of a conversation.
Amparo and his crew fully intended to reach San Diego by early spring, a journey that would stretch over seven thousand nautical miles. He would avoid the coasts and sail for open sea as soon as possible. They would stop in the Azores to pick up cargo intended for the naval bases in San Diego, before heading to the Caribbean islands and transiting the heavily defended Panama Canal. In truth, the man was more worried about storms than an attack. Crossing the Atlantic mid-January was serious business.
The weather at sea was extremely cold. For the first week, Katrinka seldom ventured out onto the decks, preferring to stay curled up in her cabin, studying maps and reading, with Rolf lying close. The little dog had been delighted to see her again, running in circles with wild yelps and bumping her with his wet nose. For the first few days he’d walked just in front of her, looking anxiously over his shoulder to make sure she was there.
Despite the poor weather and fear of U-boats, Katrinka felt intense relief and gratitude. Le Flâneur was her home, wherever it took her. Once again, she felt the subtle shifting of her bodily fluids as she adjusted to the movement of the sea. This was where she belonged.
* * *
She woke one night, seized with a restlessness and longing to be out on deck. She glanced at the small clock on the bureau; it was just past two in the morning. Kneeling, she opened a small chest at the foot of her bunk, and pulled out a thick sweater and coat. She put these on, as well as a heavy woolen hat, and slipped outside onto the deck.
The blast of frigid wind took her breath away. She leaned into it, letting it pierce through her body, cleansing and purifying. Thousands of stars glittered overhead, their reflections twinkling like scattered diamonds across the black-velvet cloth of the ocean.
Rounding a corner of the deck, she gasped with delight. A full moon was just rising over the dark water. It was majestic and immense, unfurling its light as if inviting her to step onto its silvery bridge and run out across the waves. She leaned against the railing, mesmerized by the sight. She would sail like this forever, never setting foot on land again.
* * *
Amparo’s concerns were well founded. A vicious winter storm caught them halfway to Ponta Delgada. They tried heading south to avoid it, but even the outer winds were raising ten-meter waves. The wind and rain started in the afternoon, with the sea becoming rougher as dark descended. It was perilous to be moving about without support.
Dressing in warmer clothing before dinner, Katrinka was standing by her bunk when a violent wave propelled her into the bureau across the cabin. She caught sight of her startled face in the mirror as she hurtled toward it and thrust out her hands to brace for impact.
The rough seas continued all night, but the blow that struck at four in the morning bounced Katrinka from her bunk onto the floor. It felt like an earthquake. A few moments later, the jarring blare of the ship’s warning system shrieked. Scrambling up to the bridge with her life jacket and a terrified Rolf in her arms, she found the world had become pitch back.
“Papa?”
Her father and the Chief mate crouched over the instruments in the dim light.
“Katrinka?” He looked up and moved swiftly toward her.
“Papa, what—”
“It is all right. A false alarm. Seaman Salazar saw water coming into the engine room and sounded the bell.”
“What was the crash?”
“A wave hit us against the strong current. All is well.” His face looked strained in the dim lighting of the bridge. “All is well,” he repeated. “Go back to bed.”
Katrinka returned to her cabin, but she could not sleep. Although a seasoned sailor, she was nonetheless feeling queasy. The boat surged up the face of each wave, teetered on the crest as if suspended in the air, then dropped back down again into the churning trough with a sickening plunge. These surges and plunges were interspersed by the violent slamming of waves against the sides of the boat. She wondered if they would lose any of the containers lashed to the deck. Rolf retired to a corner of her bunk, his eyes miserable.
She could not just sit there. Clinging to the railings, she climbed down the inside passageway stairs to the galley, where Hipolito made her a cup of ginger tea. Despite the severe listing, he and Gil were attempting breakfast. She took her tea back to the day room, braced herself against a chair, and drew back the blackout curtains. Huge waves crashed outside the large portholes. The sky lightened with the coming of dawn, but she could see only rain and dark gray all the way down to the horizon. Amazingly she was hungry, and after a while, managed to make it back down to the galley for breakfast.
* * *
As they neared their destination, Katrinka noted her father’s increasing restlessness. One evening after dinner, he found her sitting in a chair on the upper deck, with Rolf stretched out at her feet. An orange sun glinted off the water, catching thousands of flying fish midair, turning them into miniature silver disks.
She watched, surprised, as he placed a wooden chair next to her. Then, he pulled two mugs and a bottle from his pockets, and poured them drinks. The port was an old one—a special treat they did not have often. He sank into the chair with his pipe, squinting up at the sky. Katrinka noticed with a pang, the deepening wrinkles and large crow’s feet around his eyes. It saddened her to think of him g
etting old.
He sighed deeply, glancing at her. “Trinka, there are things we need to discuss.”
She settled back, sipping the sweet liquid. Maybe he would tell her what had been on his mind. “Yes, Papa?”
“You will remember when we last gathered in Porto, when my father died. Before Emerson’s trip to Lascaux.”
She nodded. It seemed like another lifetime, but the pain had not lessened.
“Before he died, my father gave me unexpected news.” He remained quiet for some minutes, staring out at the sea.
Katrinka controlled her impatience. “Yes, Papai?”
“He told me that the daughter of… an old acquaintance of mine had contacted him. Her father had recently died, and Gabriella—that’s the daughter’s name—had been trying to reach me.”
“Who is—”
“That night you came for the plastique, you asked me why I never married your mother.”
Katrinka nodded, slightly bewildered. “I remember.”
“We had a discussion, your mother, Emerson, and I. We decided it best for you to have American citizenship. I have retained my Portuguese citizenship, and had a working visa for the United States, but there was another reason.”
“Yes, Papa?”
“I never married your mother because I was already married.”
She had never suspected this. “What?”
“It was many years ago. As you know, I came to the United States as a young man and worked as a commercial fisherman, as well as with the tuna fleet in San Diego. It was a hard job, but a good life and good money. In the summer, I would stay in Coronado in the small city of tents, near the Hotel Del. You will remember it.”
“Where you took A-mah and me. Yes, of course I remember.”
“It was a wonderful place, and on those warm summer evenings there would be music and dancing at the large pavilion.
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