by Dan Walsh
“I don’t like this,” Jurgen said.
The next moment, the raft pitched upward. “Hold on, men!” the ensign yelled. “This is the one.”
The wave rolled them high in the air, too high it seemed. Ben remembered, they were supposed to lean back, shift their weight to the rear, but he—
“I can’t hold on,” the sailor behind Ben yelled. He went flying forward out of the raft.
Ben fell forward into Jurgen. A suitcase flew up and hit Jurgen in the head, then dropped and hit Ben in the back. He moaned and shoved it into the water. The raft shot up once more, nearly vertical, then went end over end, tossing all of them into the ocean. Ben heard men yelling, then he went under. He opened his eyes underwater, but it was pitch black. Jurgen banged into him once. He grabbed hold of Ben’s arm, but the churning water pulled them apart. Ben fought to come up for air, but he couldn’t surface. The swirling water shoved him farther down. He was almost out of breath.
He felt sand beneath his palms. The ocean floor. He spun around so that his feet touched bottom then pushed up with all his might. He finally broke through and sucked in his first breath of air.
Bam! Another wave hit him from behind, took him under again. And again, the turbulent water paralyzed him, keeping him from getting to the surface. He was going to drown. He remembered what just happened and deliberately swam downward till he felt the bottom again. He pushed himself up through the water and was able to catch another breath. This time, when he tried to tread water, his feet scraped the sandy bottom.
He turned to see another wave coming right at him. He dove under it and missed the full impact. The water shoved him around, but he found he had more control. He pushed off the bottom again and this time was actually able to stand, the waterline just above his shoulders. He looked around a moment but saw no one. He spent the next few minutes half-walking, half-swimming toward the shore. When he got to ankle-deep water, he collapsed from exhaustion.
He’d never been so frightened in his life.
A few minutes later, someone lifted him by the arms. “Ben, are you all right?” It was the ensign.
“Yes.” The ensign and another sailor helped him to his feet. He was soaked from head to toe.
“We need your help,” the ensign said. “My other man is holding the raft. But we need to gather up the crates and suitcases. They’re floating in the water.”
“Where’s Jurgen?” Ben said. “I mean, George.”
“I don’t know. We need to find him. Can you walk?”
“Yes, I’m all right now.”
“Then the two of you start gathering the packages. We must account for them all. You know our orders, we must leave no trace that we’ve ever been on this beach. I’ll keep looking for your partner.”
Ben nodded. He and the other sailor walked along the shoreline. Their eyes had adjusted enough to see dark shapes floating in the shallow water. Soon, they had all of the packages in a pile next to a large sand dune. Both men sat, trying to catch their breath.
A moment later, the ensign walked up and stood in front of them.
“Where’s George?” Ben asked.
“He must have drowned in the surf. But we cannot wait any longer. If we’re not back in five minutes, the boat will leave without us. Change into your street clothes. We need to take your uniform back with us.”
“But what about George? What should I do?” Ben got up, found the suitcase with his street clothes, and started removing his wet uniform.
“I’m not your superior. But if I were you, I’d wait here until his body washes up on the beach. The current is heading straight in, so he shouldn’t come in too far away.”
“Right,” Ben said, trying to sound more confident.
“You better hope he washes up before sunrise,” the ensign said as Ben handed him the wet uniform. “And when you bury him, make sure you take off his uniform. Bury him in street clothes. Okay, men, let’s get back.” He looked at Ben. “Good luck.”
Ben sat back on one of the crates and watched the three sailors push the raft back into the water. He didn’t envy their return voyage. After his strength returned, he got up, now with a mission radically changed from the one he’d been assigned. Just two things on the list: find Jurgen’s body and bury it deep in the dunes.
For the next several hours, he walked back and forth, looking, but with no luck. Just as the sky in the east began to offer the first signs of light, he saw a large misshapen lump far down the beach, rolling in shallow water. He ran all the way there.
It was definitely a body, in a German uniform, lying face down in the water. Slowly, he bent down and turned the body over. Staring back at him was the lifeless face of his partner Jurgen, staring at nothing.
It startled him. He looked away.
He turned back and looked at Jurgen’s face once more. Suddenly, Jurgen’s lifeless eyes blinked. Once, then twice.
Ben gasped and jumped back.
The next moment he sat straight up in his bed. He was back in his apartment on Grandview Avenue, his body drenched in sweat.
Chapter Twelve
Claire was glad it was Monday, and that she was at work. After church yesterday, she didn’t have near enough to do to occupy her mind, which gave her too much time to think. She tried to pay attention to the pastor’s sermon, at times even tried to apply what he said to her situation. But it just didn’t seem to fit, or else she wasn’t seeing things clearly.
He talked about trusting God in times of uncertainty, and gave a number of biblical examples of people who experienced times even worse than what America was facing right now. She guessed knowing that was supposed to help somehow, and he might even have said other things that would have helped her understand the connection. But her thoughts kept leaving the pew.
Ben loved her. That’s what her mother had said. She could tell he liked her, but . . . loved her? She kept reliving moments with him, at the diner on Friday with the gang, at the concert Saturday, after the concert at the amusement park, at her house for dinner after that. The way he looked at her and talked to her when she walked him out to the car. She loved how it made her feel, but was that love? He’d been coming around for over a month, but something this weekend seemed to have changed between them. But . . . was it love?
While she sat in the pew, more tormenting thoughts had followed, about her commitment to Jim, to wait for him and write him often. Which she had. But his infrequent responses and, now, the things his letters didn’t say really bothered her. What did she feel for Jim? What had she felt before he left that made her so quickly promise to wait for him? Was that love? If it was, what did she feel for him now? Did her feelings—should her feelings—even matter? She had made a commitment. What kind of person would she be if she abandoned that so easily?
She recalled that her mind reentered her body, sitting in that pew, just in time to hear the pastor say, “And that’s why we must put our trust fully in God and not lean on our own understanding!” Everyone around her had said “Amen,” so she did too. The pastor then asked everyone to bow their heads and pray. So she did. But it didn’t seem to take. She sure hadn’t spent the rest of her Sunday trusting God. The same troubling thoughts kept running through her mind all day.
“Miss Richards.”
Claire looked around. She was standing in one of the front windows at Woolworth’s, holding a poster rolled up like a tube.
“Miss Richards. I really need those rationing posters put up this morning. That’s why I asked you to come in a half hour early.”
She had just left Woolworth’s the same way she’d left the pew yesterday at church. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Morris. Guess I started daydreaming.” She stepped carefully around a display of kitchen utensils and serving dishes toward the glass window. “It won’t happen again.”
“When you’re finished putting those up, I have some in-store ration signs I need you to put up. Got a new listing from the OPA of some point changes in the candy aisle. I’ll leave the l
ist on my desk.”
“I’ll get right on it,” she said. She didn’t know if he’d heard her. He’d already turned and started walking down the main aisle. She hated disappointing him. He’d been so nice to her.
She unraveled the poster. It was a picture of a handsome GI with a big smile, holding up a tin cup, as if saying “Thanks.” Above it the caption read: “Do with less—so they’ll have enough!” She quickly turned it around so she wouldn’t see his face. He didn’t look a lot like Jim, but he made her think of him. Jim was over there going without, so she could have it easy over here. Do with less. Sacrifice. That was her job, the job of every patriotic American.
It was time she did her part. She had to stop thinking about Ben. She flattened the poster against the bottom edge of the glass and taped one corner to hold it in place.
“There you are. Your mom said I’d find you here.”
Claire taped the second corner down then looked behind her. “Barb, what are you doing here?” She looked beyond Barb, scanning the aisles, looking for Mr. Morris. “I can’t really talk right now.”
“When do you get off for lunch?”
Claire looked at a wall clock over the lunch counter. “In about an hour.”
“Got any plans?”
“Not really.”
“Good, ’cause we need to talk.”
Barb’s face looked pretty serious.
“About what?”
“Thought you couldn’t talk now.”
“I can’t, you’re right. Can you come back in an hour?”
“I’m free till this afternoon, so yeah.”
“Meet me back here, and we’ll go get something. I don’t want to eat here.”
“Well, I don’t want to meet where we usually hang out, in case someone we know comes in.”
“Sounds pretty serious.”
“It is, in a way. But don’t worry, it’s not life or death . . . more like health and happiness.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll come back in an hour.”
Claire and Barb found a seat at Ligget’s Drugstore, and the waitress was there in two minutes. “I’ll have a tuna fish sandwich,” Claire said. “And a Coca-Cola.”
“I’ll have a Coca-Cola too. But make mine a hot dog, mustard and relish only.”
“Got it, ladies.” The waitress took their orders and headed back to the kitchen.
“So . . . what’s up?” Claire said. Should she brace herself for bad news? Barb seemed upset but not distraught.
“We’re good friends, right?” Barb said.
“The best, why?”
Barb looked down a moment then back up. “I don’t know how to say this, so I’ll just say it. Is there something happening between you and Ben?”
Oh no, Claire thought. “What do you mean?”
“You know, do you guys have . . . feelings for each other?”
Claire didn’t know what to say. She and Barb were good friends. But so were Jim and Barb’s boyfriend, Joe. They all knew each other in high school, even went on a number of double dates together their senior year. “I want to be honest with you, Barb.”
“Please do.”
Claire looked in Barb’s eyes. She didn’t seem mad or offended. What was going on? “If you asked me a few days ago, I would have said absolutely not. But my mom and dad were asking me the same thing after Ben came over for dinner Saturday night.”
“Ben came over for dinner Saturday night? When, after the concert?”
“Not right after, but . . . soon after. I felt bad for him. He told me some difficult things he’d gone through, so I asked him over after we went on the Ferris wheel together.”
“You and Ben went on the Ferris wheel together?”
Had she done something wrong? Why was Barb acting like this? “It was just a Ferris wheel, Barb. It’s not like we—”
“No, I’m sorry, Claire. I’m not upset. If anything . . . I’m happy about it.”
“You’re happy?”
Barb sighed. “Relieved may be a better word.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I’m sure you don’t. But before I tell you what I came to say, you have to promise you won’t get mad at me. And you have to promise you won’t say where you heard this.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“Okay . . . you remember Sally Hamilton, right? From high school?”
Of course Claire did. Sally had been Jim Burton’s girlfriend before he and Claire had started dating. Sally and Jim were together for three years, from ninth grade through the summer between their junior and senior year. “I remember Sally. Why?”
“Oh, Claire . . . if this had happened before you and Ben started—”
“Barb, Ben and I haven’t started anything. We went on a Ferris wheel together.”
“But I’ve seen the way he looks at you. Joe’s seen it too. We both can tell Ben is crazy about you. Haven’t you noticed?”
“I wouldn’t say he’s crazy about me.”
“Well, he is. The thing is, until this weekend, I didn’t see anything on your end.”
“What do you think you see now?”
“I don’t know, something. It’s like something happened at the concert. Or maybe before. But the way you looked at him when the two of you were dancing. Right then, I thought, Uh-oh, Claire’s in trouble. It’s the way I look at Joe. But now, I’m thinking—”
“What, Barb, what are you trying to say? And what’s this have to do with Sally Hamilton?”
“Jim Burton, your Jim, and Sally are back together. There, I said it.”
“What?”
“Well, not back together. Jim’s still overseas. But I think you should know, he’s writing her letters. A lot of letters. Like boyfriend and girlfriend kind of letters.”
Claire was stunned. It felt like Barb had hit her in the stomach.
“You’re upset. I’m so sorry, but I had to tell you. You’re my best friend. I knew this would hurt, but now with Ben in the picture—”
“Barb, Ben’s not in the picture. Maybe he is. I don’t know. But what are you saying? How do you know this?”
“I was walking the dog yesterday afternoon,” Barb said. “You know Sally lives just five doors down from me. She was out getting the mail. Her family had gone somewhere Friday and Saturday, so she was getting it yesterday. Anyway . . . I stopped to say hi while she was flipping through her mail. She stopped at this one envelope and got this dreamy look on her face. Jim, she said, as if I wasn’t there. Jim wrote you? I said. And she said, yes, like it was no big deal. She said they’d started writing each other again. I’m telling you, I wanted to smack her right there. I couldn’t believe it. So I played dumb and started asking her some questions. Turns out, she and Jim are in love again. He said he was sorry for being such a fool and would she take him back. Of course, she said yes. But Claire, I’m telling you, Sally had no idea you didn’t know about this. I don’t know what kind of lies he’s been telling in his letters, but she was under the impression Jim had written you and told you all about this.”
This was terrible. Claire couldn’t help it. She started to cry.
“Oh, Claire, I’m so sorry. Jim hasn’t said a word about this, has he?” She reached across the table and patted Claire’s hand. “I’m so sorry, Claire. That Jim, he’s a first-class heel.”
Claire reached for the napkin and dabbed her eyes.
“But see, Claire, don’t you see? You’re free. You and Ben. You can be a couple—if you want to, that is. And with Ben’s heart murmur, you don’t even have to worry about him being shipped out to fight in the war.”
Claire sighed. She was free.
Then why didn’t she feel happy?
Chapter Thirteen
Father Aidan Flanagan, seated in the darkened confessional of St. Paul’s Church for the last half hour, had heard pleas for God’s mercy from the faithful, sought to give out a fair penance, granted absolution. It w
as Monday, now nearing the lunch hour. No one else had come in for a few minutes.
Aidan heard a noise. He looked through the mesh screening that allowed him to see out from the confessional. No one standing in line or kneeling nearby. He hoped he had done some good; he said a prayer of thanks and opened the door.
That’s when he saw one young man sitting near the back; he looked to be maybe twenty or twenty-five years old. He didn’t seem Catholic—you could tell such things. Even by the way he sat in the pew, like he was resting on a park bench. Was he waiting for someone? Aidan looked around. The church was empty.
The man looked right at him, then looked away.
Aidan walked closer. “Can I help you? Are you here to make a confession? We can do that.”
The man looked troubled; Aidan could see it in his eyes. “I need to talk to someone. But I’m not sure—”
“Then here, I’ll go back in, and you come in when you’re ready.” Aidan turned to head back to the confessional.
“I don’t know . . . maybe I should come back later.”
Aidan stopped, his hand on the knob. “That’s okay too. You could come back on Wednesday after the morning Mass. Or if you want to come in before then, you could call the rectory. Ask for me, Father Flanagan. I can meet you almost any time.”
The man stood up. “I don’t want to put you to any trouble. You’re here now.”
“Okay, son.” Aidan stepped into the confessional. He waited a few moments, heard footsteps. Then the door on the other side opened and closed. He slid the little wooden door over. A screen provided visual privacy but allowed them to hear each other just fine. No one said anything for a few more moments. “Is there something you’d like to confess?”
“I don’t know what to say,” the young man said. “I don’t . . . know how this works.”
“Usually people start off with a prayer. Something like ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,’ and then they say how long it’s been since their last confession.”
“I’m not actually Catholic.”
“Oh.”
“I’m Lutheran. Well, I was raised Lutheran, but my parents stopped taking me to church after we moved to Germany.”