by Dan Walsh
“I haven’t done anything wrong. If it were up to me, I’d have stayed at my high school and gone on to Penn State. I might be flying fighter planes right now for the Navy or Army Air Force. I’m of German descent, but I love this country. I hate what the Germans are doing to the world right now. Should I have to pay for that? For my parents dragging me off to Germany the way they did?”
Ben waited, for what seemed like a long time, before Father Flanagan replied. “No, Ben. I don’t suppose that’s right. I don’t think you should have to pay for things you aren’t guilty of. I don’t think God expects that, either.”
“You don’t?”
“No, I don’t. You haven’t betrayed this nation, and you aren’t spying for its enemies.”
“I’m not, Father. And I wouldn’t have harmed a single American. There was no way I’d ever have followed through with my orders. And you know what I think? I think God took my partner that night on the beach. Let him drown in the surf, so he wouldn’t do what he came here to do. He was going to commit murder, as many times as he could, smiling the whole time. I knew I had to stop him. But I didn’t want to, kill him, I mean.”
“I’m glad you didn’t have to have that on your conscience, Ben.”
“But why is my conscience still so unsettled? I mean, if I’m not doing anything wrong.”
“It’s a good question. Have any ideas?”
Claire’s beautiful face flashed in his mind. Then a scene from the dinner table last night. All the lies he had to keep telling and keep afloat with her and her family. “There’s a young woman I’ve fallen in love with, Claire. She’s . . . the woman I want to marry. Have a family with some day. And her family, her mom and dad, they’re really wonderful people. I hate lying to them, to all of them.”
A long pause once again.
“I don’t think I can help you with this one.”
“What do you mean?”
“I do think lying to people is wrong. And there’s one other matter, Ben. Something that keeps bothering me about all this. I think I have to mention it.”
“What is it, Father?”
“I talked about it yesterday, briefly. And it clearly upset you. I imagine it might if I bring it up now.”
“Tell me.”
“You said a few minutes ago that you wouldn’t have harmed a single American. And there was no way you’d ever have followed through with the orders your Nazi commanders gave you.”
“That’s right.”
“But you know of two men hiding somewhere in America right now, who are completely committed to carrying out those orders. Many innocent Americans will die by their hands . . . if you do nothing. That’s a serious thing.”
Why did he have to mention that? “I know, Father. But there’s nothing I can do.” Instantly, Ben knew it wasn’t true. He’d thoroughly blocked these men from his mind, as if he’d shut them away, buried along with Jurgen’s body.
“Ben . . . there must be something.”
“Father, the FBI is all over this, now they know what the Nazis are up to. They had over thirty agents working the last case. The Coast Guard is setting up hundreds of teams with horses and dogs patrolling the beaches. If I breathe a word of this to anyone, I’ll get caught. And executed.”
“You can’t even send in an anonymous note?”
“I’ve read about these G-men. They have handwriting experts and big laboratories in Washington. They’d be able to trace it back to me. I know they would. And I’d be finished.”
Ben was exhausted. He was actually sweating. He could hear Father Flanagan breathing on the other side of the screen.
“Well, there’s something I’d like you to consider, maybe pray about. It’s one thing to turn yourself in to be executed for something you haven’t done. It’s another to risk your life to save countless innocents from being killed. The people your friends plan to kill aren’t even soldiers.”
“They’re not my friends.”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. But you know what I mean.”
Ben did. He didn’t want to think about it. “I need to go, Father. Thanks for meeting with me.”
“You’re welcome. I’m sorry if I’ve said things that offended you. But you wanted help with your conscience. What did you call it . . . unsettled?”
“I guess.”
“We can’t run from a guilty conscience. And I think you’re going to have more trouble in the days ahead, not just from this issue about the other saboteurs. What did you say her name is, the girl you love and want to marry?”
“Claire.”
“Yes, Claire, and her parents. It’s one thing to decide not to volunteer information to the authorities that would result in your unjust execution. But I don’t think it is ever okay to lie to those we love.”
“But, I can’t tell her. Or her parents. They’d never understand. It would ruin everything between us.”
“Are you sure, Ben? I think not telling her will ruin everything. And the longer you wait to tell her, the worse it will be when she finds out. That’s how these things work. It might hurt a little now, but true love should be able to weather something like this.”
What do you know about true love? You’re a priest.
“I can’t tell her, Father.” He stood up. “I just can’t.”
“Ben.”
Ben opened the confessional door.
“Before you go, I brought you a Bible. You don’t have one, do you?”
“No.”
“I set it in the pew right outside. I put a list of psalms to read inside it, ones that I think will help you right now. They’ve really helped me. After that, you might read the Gospels.”
“Thank you, Father. I can pay you for it.”
“No need. I’ll be praying for you.”
“Thank you.”
Ben walked out, picked up the Bible, and headed down the aisle toward the front doors. Father Flanagan really was a kind old man, but he didn’t understand. How could Ben ever tell the truth to Claire? Something she’d said yesterday at the park ran through his mind. The thing that had upset her most about what Jim Burton had done: You can’t have a healthy relationship with someone who lies.
If she couldn’t bear the weight of Jim Burton’s singular lie about returning to his old girlfriend, she’d be crushed by the avalanche of Ben’s lies falling down upon her.
It would ruin everything.
13
Legare Street, Charleston
1:00 a.m.
I carefully set the manuscript down on a little table I had pulled up next to me. Didn’t want the pages to tear. What time was it? No way, I thought as I glanced at my watch. I’d been sitting here for almost five hours.
Jenn!
I’d forgotten all about Jenn. I reached in my pocket for my cell phone. It wasn’t there. No, no, no. I spun the chair around and searched the desk. It wasn’t there. Must have left it out in the kitchen. Had she called? She must have. How could I not hear it? I ran out into the kitchen. She must be worried sick.
The whole house was dark. I flicked on the light switch. There it was, next to the microwave. My heart sank when I flipped my phone open and checked for messages. She’d called at least a half dozen times. I hit the send button.
It rang and rang, and finally I got her voice mail. “Jenn, I’m so sorry. Didn’t even hear your calls. I left my phone out here in the—” My phone started beeping. I looked. It was Jenn.
“Michael? What time is it?” She sounded groggy.
“It’s a little after 1:00 a.m. I’m so sorry, Jenn.”
“I was so worried.”
“I know, I’m sorry. I left my cell phone out here in the kitchen.”
“Where’ve you been?”
“Nowhere. I’ve been here at the house the whole time.”
“I called and called.”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
“I even called the hospitals.” She was sounding more awake. “I figured, it’s a modern
city. If he got in an accident, the hospitals would know. Since they didn’t have anything on you, I figured you were probably fine.”
“Jenn, I . . . no excuse. I hate that I put you through that. Really, I’m sorry.”
“Okay. You just forgot all about me, that I even exist.”
“It’s not that. I was just preoccupied, reading Gramps’s book. I was back in his office, had the door closed.”
“All this time?”
“I haven’t moved from that chair since I called you last.”
“Not even to go to the bathroom?”
“No. Speaking of that—”
“You better not take me into the bathroom with you. I’ll be able to tell if you do.”
I laughed. “I won’t. But I can’t talk as long.”
“Then you can call me back.”
“Don’t you have to work in the morning?”
“Yes. I need to go back to bed.”
“Well, you do that. We can talk tomorrow.” I walked toward the refrigerator, poured myself a glass of iced tea.
“So, it’s that good?” she said.
“Totally sucked me in.” I drank a sip of tea. “It’s not like any book of his I’ve ever read. It’s almost a love story.”
“Really?”
“It’s got some action and suspense, but so far I’d definitely not call it a thriller.”
“Do you think it will sell?”
“Jenn, it’s my grandfather. They’d buy his grocery list.”
“I’m glad you’re safe.”
“Sorry I made you worry.”
“Next time you read, keep your cell phone in your pocket.”
“I will, I promise.”
“Don’t just promise.”
“Okay. Love you. Can’t wait for you to read this book.”
“If your grandfather wrote a love story, I definitely want to read it.”
I woke up the next morning pretty groggy.
The sun was shining brightly through the curtains. I rolled over and looked at the digital clock. It was after 9:00. I reached for my cell, thinking of Jenn. How could I have missed her call again? She left for work at 7:30. When I flipped it open, I saw that I hadn’t. Jenn had let me sleep in. I was so glad she was coming back for the weekend. I got up and took a shower. Got dressed and went downstairs. After a cup of coffee and bowl of Cinnamon Life cereal, I was ready to head back to Gramps’s office and pick up where I’d left off.
Before I did, I looked outside. A much better location to work. I walked out on the veranda. The temperature was cool but not cold. Very little wind. I went back in, refreshed my coffee cup, put my cell phone in my pocket, and picked up the manuscript pages I hadn’t read yet.
As I walked back toward the porch, I pondered why my grandfather had decided not to turn this in to get published. It was definitely up to par with his other works. Was it the love story angle? Gramps always included a measure of romance in his novels, though no one would have ever pegged him as a romance writer. It wasn’t the time period; he’d certainly written novels set in World War II. Back to Bastogne and Remembering Dresden came to mind.
So what was it?
I opened the front door. A couple of chairs at the far end of the porch were clearly purchased for comfort. I sat in one, pulled a little wicker table close to hold the loose pages after I read them. Propped my feet up and set the manuscript on my lap.
I was going to be here a while.
Chapter Eighteen
Mid-January, 1943
For the next three months, Ben followed his own advice and did his best to put most of what Father Flanagan had suggested behind him. He genuinely appreciated the priest’s concern for his welfare but decided Father Flanagan just didn’t fully understand Ben’s situation. How could he? The clergy lived a rather sheltered life and Catholic priests didn’t even marry. So how could he know what was best for Ben and Claire?
Ben did, however, receive much help from the Bible he’d been given, and made it a habit to read it every morning. He’d started with all the references Father Flanagan had written out for him on a sheet of paper. First the Psalms, then the Gospels. Most of the psalms on Father Flanagan’s list spoke of God’s ability to know all things, including the condition of every heart at every moment of the day. This made sense to Ben, the more he thought on it. If there was a God, then he was God almighty, the most majestic and brilliant of all beings. It made no sense to believe in a small God.
Modeling David’s prayers in the Psalms, Ben tried to make a habit to talk to God that way, telling him whatever he thought, as honestly as he could. It was wonderful not having to keep everything locked up inside anymore. He was so grateful that he felt compelled to send Father Flanagan a thank-you note with fifty dollars inside. Although, Ben felt quite sure, someone of Father Flanagan’s virtue would likely give most of it to the poor.
Ben and Claire were now very much in love. Claire first said she loved Ben within a week of their first kiss. Now each spoke of their love constantly. They went out on dates two or three times a week, and Ben ate dinner at her house at least that often. The gang had somewhat dissipated after Barb and Joe’s wedding just before Thanksgiving. Right after their honeymoon, Joe had shipped out to boot camp. He was now stationed somewhere in California, preparing to be sent to the Pacific theater.
They’d occasionally see Barb, and even Hank, and share a meal together at McCrory’s, maybe take in a movie at the theater. That was the plan, in fact, for this afternoon. Ben was on his way to McCrory’s right now. Claire had met Barb there for lunch. Hank said he’d meet them at the theater for the matinee.
Hank had finally given up on Claire. Now he mostly complained about not being able to find the right girl in this town. Ben thought that strange, seeing as there were over ten thousand WACS walking about. You’d see at least two dozen at every gas station and grocery store at any given time. Just that morning, hundreds of WACS paraded by in neat rows on the boardwalk next to the Bandshell, as they did every Saturday morning, right past the spot where Ben and Claire had their first dance.
“You’re just too picky, Hank,” Barb would say.
That’s part of it, Ben thought silently whenever she’d say it.
Ben had just one more stop to make, to drop off a story he’d written for his employer, the Daytona News Journal. A human interest piece about a group of WACS who drove and fixed their own fleet of military trucks around town. Ben had gotten the job to give him something to talk about at the dinner table, to offset any more conversations about him working for Claire’s father. He’d started off freelancing, picked up a nice portable typewriter at Upchurch’s Office Supply, and hammered the articles out at home. They liked what he’d given them so much that they offered him a steady job. He split his time now between his desk at the News Journal on Orange Avenue and his kitchen table.
He dropped off the story to his editor. Everyone at the paper was buzzing about some major winter storm blowing in from the Gulf this evening. The paper was actually running a story on the front page, warning people to brace themselves for high winds and rough seas through the weekend. Storms like this often made their way across the state then out to sea. Temperatures were expected to dip below freezing overnight, and the weatherman predicted up to eight inches of rain in the next two days.
As Ben walked out to his car, he looked at the sky toward the west. It looked dark and stormy already. He wondered if they should cancel their movie plans this afternoon. On a nice day, he would have walked the distance between the News Journal office and the diner on Beach Street; it was just around the corner a few blocks. But it looked as if the rain might start cutting loose any minute.
It took two minutes to reach the diner but almost ten minutes more to find a parking space, compliments of the WACS. As he walked past the diner’s glass windows, he saw Claire and Barb sitting inside. Claire saw him, ran outside, and all but leaped into his arms. “I’m so glad you’re here,” she said.
&nbs
p; Ben kissed her passionately. As their lips parted, he glanced through the store window, saw Barb rolling her eyes. He smiled at her over Claire’s shoulder. He didn’t mind her chiding; he loved the way Claire greeted him and didn’t care how it looked.
“Oh my,” Claire said. “It’s getting cold out here.” She stepped out from under the awning and looked up at the sky.
“Big storm coming,” he said. “One of the weathermen at the paper said it was going to be a bad one.”
“Really?”
“Strong winds, almost as bad as a tropical storm. And eight inches of rain.”
“When?”
“Let’s get inside.” He opened the door, put his arm around her, and guided her in. “The worst of it’s supposed to come later tonight, but I don’t know if we should go to the movies this afternoon. Hi, Barb.”
She waved. “You two,” she said. “Every time you meet it’s like Rhett and Scarlett in Gone with the Wind.”
Claire looked at Barb. “I love that scene you’re talking about, but we’re not going to end up like Rhett and Scarlett. Our story’s going to have a happy ending.” Turning to Ben, she said, “Can’t we go to the movie? It’s only two hours.”
“What’s playing?” he asked.
“It’s an Alfred Hitchcock movie,” Barb said. “Called Shadow of a Doubt, with Joseph Cotton and Teresa Wright. Supposed to be good, very suspenseful. Joseph Cotton plays this creepy uncle who comes into town. He seems wonderful at first, but . . . he’s not who he pretends to be.” She said the last part in an eerie voice.
Oh great, Ben thought, that’s all I need. “I don’t know, Claire. These weathermen don’t always get the timing of these things right. By the look of that sky outside, I’d say it could break loose any minute. And look”—he pointed to her chair—“you only have a light jacket. You shouldn’t be out in weather like this in that. The temperature’s going to be dropping all afternoon.”
“Maybe we can go tomorrow after church.” Claire turned to Barb. “What do you think? Can you make it tomorrow afternoon?”
“Sure. I got no plans.”
“Umm . . . this storm is supposed to last all day tomorrow and maybe even through Monday.”