I miss you, and I assure you that I am safe and eating well, and I’ll be home soon.
Love, Herb
Anne had spent Christmas with her in-laws, but no amount of holiday goodwill could make her forget her mother-in-law’s bizarre and intentional cruelty back in August in allowing all those plants to die, or her smug satisfaction at Anne’s distress. She felt trapped by her in-laws, and she missed Herb terribly. She needed to be with him, not with his parents, and so on January 2, 1946, Anne marched into Gwendolyn Forsythe’s office at the Stangerone Freight Company.
Anne leaned on Gwen’s desk and announced without preamble, “I want to go to Germany now.”
“I know that.” Gwen didn’t even look up from the pile of papers she was sorting. “And you know we’ve been trying to find you decent quarters for passage.”
“I don’t care about decent quarters. I want to go as soon as possible.”
Now Gwen looked at Anne. She stuck her pencil over her ear and sighed. “I understand your frustration, Anne, but I don’t think you have any idea just what kind of a mess it is over there.”
“You can’t talk me out of this, Gwen, I’ve made up my mind. I’m a married woman who has spent far too little time with her husband and far too much time with his parents. Besides, Herbert is doing important work—”
“You’re doing important work here,” Gwen reminded her.
“I know, and I can continue to do it and be just as much help, maybe even more, over in Bremerhaven.”
Gwen swung her desk chair around and looked out her window, down at the wharves, where a multitude of dockworkers scrambled to load overseas provisions. She took the pencil from her ear and used it to scratch a spot on her scalp. “You are so young.” She smiled at Anne. “You have the energy for something like this, and it’s true we can use you over there. You’ve learned our system and we can trust you. All right. We’ve got a freighter making the trip to Bremerhaven in two days, carrying supplies. If you wish, you’ve got passage on it. You won’t have a stateroom; you’ll be lucky to have a bunk.”
“I want it!” Anne said.
The crossing was rough, with wintry gales howling on the open decks and slamming what felt like tons of rock-hard waves into the lower decks of the freighter. Anne spent two days lying in her bunk, miserably seasick, but the last three days were calmer. At last she saw land lying like a long dark shadow in the distance, but it took another day of traveling through the North Sea before they drew close to the wide mouth of the Weser River. As they neared land, she saw sinister gray submarines and ominous militant destroyers riding the ocean swells like watchdogs at the entrance to the long harbor, straining at the leash, foaming at the mouth in their eagerness to attack. She knew the war was over, but she still felt a surge of fear. With a visceral bite, she gained a more realistic understanding of what Herb had been through.
The freighter rumbled as it slowed to make passage up the Weser River toward Bremerhaven, and then they arrived at the port. In many ways, the landscape seemed familiar, with piers extending out into the water and every sort of vessel docked there: tankers, tenders, aircraft carriers, destroyers, cruisers, herring trawlers, and motorboats of every size and kind. Customhouses and warehouses lined the waterfront, the same red brick as those in Boston harbor, but unlike Boston’s buildings, most of these were bombed-out shells. Brick walls rose alone from piles of rubble; stone warehouses gaped roofless to the sky. It looked as if a gigantic angry child had hurled his building blocks down on the city. Then she saw the word STANGARONE in large gold letters above the entrance to one of the larger and mostly intact buildings.
The freighter shuddered to a stop, and dinghies and tenders motored out toward it, looking like a series of paddling ducks compared to the mammoth ship, to take the passengers aboard before the freighter went into the difficult task of docking and making ready to unload.
In a way, Anne couldn’t believe she was really here. Everything had happened so quickly. She had debated whether or not to write Herb to tell him she was coming, but a letter wouldn’t have reached him in time. She knew from experience that nothing ever went as planned when it came to shipping overseas, and she didn’t want to get his hopes up by sending a telegram and then being told she wouldn’t arrive for another week or another month. Then, as she thought about it, and let her imagination soar free, she realized how wonderful it would be, how amazing, if she arrived secretly, walked into his office one afternoon, and surprised him. He would be dumbfounded. It would be a story to tell their children.
She joined the single file waiting to climb down the ladder to the boat below. First stop, Stangarone’s warehouse. She’d introduce herself, ask how to get to Herb’s place on Goethestrasse, and tell them she could be at work tomorrow. She took a small suitcase with her. She’d arrange for someone at Stangarone’s to transport her trunk.
During the long entrance up the harbor, she had noticed a lessening of the noise of the throbbing turbines that drove the ship, but now as she was helped to step up onto the dock, new sounds accosted her ears. Different languages shot past her like signal flares, vivid, loud, confusing. Men in uniform strode past, shouting orders, men in rags wheeled dollies laden with boxes along the wooden dock to the brick street, fishermen in wool caps and rain slickers hefted giant wicker baskets filled to the brim with slippery fish onto the pier. At the next pier a vessel was undergoing repair work, and the banging of metal on metal rang through the air.
She’d thought she was pretty cosmopolitan, pretty savvy, for Boston and its docks were not exactly a pastoral scene, but as she squeezed her way through the crowds, it was the different languages, not the people or the buildings, that made her understand that she was far from home. Someone shouted at her, at least she thought they were shouting at her, but when she turned she saw only backs and shoulders and head scarves and uniforms. She pressed on until she’d reached a brick building to lean against as she caught her breath and decided what to do next. She tightened her grip on her purse.
It wasn’t going to be as easy as hailing a cab. Vehicles rumbled down the side streets, but they were bikes or trucks or wagons pulled by horses. An old woman in a man’s overcoat and a head scarf labored past Anne, pushing a baby carriage full of bags of potatoes. A motor scooter backfired like a gunshot. An emaciated child shuffled past, bent double over a wheelbarrow laden with fish and shellfish. The January wind whipped off the water, filling the air with a frigid mist that almost froze on her face. Clouds were gathering overhead, and she could tell the sun, hidden by the city’s broken walls, was setting on the darkening harbor waters. She had set her watch ahead one hour each day on the trip over, but her body wasn’t quite ready for evening; the thought of being here in the dark frightened her and impelled her away from her wall. She spotted the heavy gilt Stangarone sign again and fought her way through the shoving crowd toward it.
Gwen had been right, she was naïve and impetuous to come here like this, but she had done it and there was no turning back. And she was so close, so close to seeing Herb again! To holding him in her arms! The thought of the look on his face when he saw her gave her the energy and courage to surge onward, and at last she was at the solid brick edifice of the shipping company.
She knew better than to try to enter by the harbor side. She could hear men yelling and the creak of ropes as cranes swung the massive containers onto the shore. Skirting a pile of bricks, she made her way up a narrow brick street and around to the front of the building. Here the devastation was worse. What had once been a square bordered by offices and warehouses was a landscape of ruined walls and glassless windows, naked and open to the air. One side of Stangarone’s had been ripped open to the elements. Heaps of bricks rose like dunes against the one side that was left. Boards had been nailed over most of the exposed façade, and the door was nearly hidden by the rubble.
Anne opened it and went inside. The space was frigid and gloomy, but she could make out the staircase to the second floor. She h
urried up, came to an intact office, knocked on the door, and waited. She heard voices and stepped inside, to find a wooden desk, wooden filing cabinets, stacks of colored bills of lading, a black telephone, a woman who looked American, and—oh, heaven!—an American soldier standing guard by an inner door.
“Hello!” she cried brightly. “I’m so glad someone’s here. I’m Anne Wheelwright. I work at Stangarone’s in Boston. I just got off a freighter, and I’ve come over to work here.”
“Well, Anne Wheelwright, I’m glad to meet you!” The woman stood up, reached over the desk, and shook Anne’s hand. “I’m Georgia. And I’m dead beat! Why don’t you come with me. I’m going home. We’ll find someplace for you to camp out for a while.”
“Oh,” Anne said, flustered. “Thanks, Georgia. But first of all, I really would like to see my husband. He’s in the army, and he lives at this address.” She took a piece of paper from her purse and, knowing she would mangle the German pronunciation, handed it to Georgia to read.
“Oh, Goethestrasse, I know where that is. It’s a ways out. It’ll be a long walk.” She glanced at Anne’s face. “Tell you what. We’ll grab a couple of bikes, but you’ve got to be sure to bring yours back early tomorrow morning.” Grabbing a mangy fur coat off the coat rack, Georgia pulled it on and haphazardly stuck a crimson wool hat shaped like an overturned bucket on her head. She cuffed the soldier on the shoulder. “See you tomorrow, Pete.”
Anne followed her guide as she clattered down the wooden stairs. Georgia yanked open a wooden door, exposing a coatroom crammed with clothing, boxes, and several bikes. She wheeled one over to Anne.
“You follow me. It’s hard going out there and the cobblestones will bump your teeth right out of your head, but it’s faster than walking by a long shot. Don’t talk to anyone else, and if someone tries to take your bike, don’t hesitate to scream.” Seeing Anne’s expression, she added, “You’ll be fine. It’s a madhouse out there, but in a few days you’ll be just another daffy inmate. I reckon you’ll stay with your husband tonight and all, so he can help you get back here tomorrow. Eight o’clock, okay?” Without waiting for an answer, Georgia slammed the closet door and wheeled her bike outside.
Outside, it was cold, windy, and fully dark. Anne locked her eyes on Georgia’s hat as she pedaled her way through the throng. People no longer appeared as individuals but simply as hulking shapes converging and separating on the narrow brick lane. Bombed-out buildings loomed like turrets from nightmares, and the air was loud with the sound of cursing and occasional sobs. The air smelled of brick dust and kerosene. It was bizarre past her wildest imaginings. Here she was in her nice rose wedding suit, in her nicest high heels, seated on a rickety old bicycle, her nylons ripping as she strained to force her way along a maze of narrow, gloomy streets. Now she understood why Gwen Forsythe had looked at her oddly, why she had said, “You’re young.” You needed the energy of youth to stay sane in this dark world.
Georgia weaved along, making a sharp right here and forking left there, past houses where windows flickered with candlelight and shops with beautiful signs and no windows, past entire blocks of rubble piled in fantastic mountains, around cold heaps of stone. The façade of a church rose, strong and eternal, its spire ascending to the heavens, but as Anne passed it she saw that behind the façade was only wreckage. The farther they biked from the harbor, the more German Anne heard being spoken, until finally all she heard was the guttural, harsh German speech.
“Okay.” Georgia slammed on her brakes and pointed down a long lane paved in bricks. “This is Goethestrasse. I think the house you’re looking for is about three blocks down. Have a nice reunion, kid, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Georgia,” Anne said, but Georgia was already pedaling in the opposite direction.
No streetlights shone, but some of the houses she passed flickered with light, sufficient for her to see her way. She walked her bike, because the street was full of potholes, and she wanted to read whatever numbers still remained on the buildings.
And then she was there: 91 Goethestrasse. A handsome brick house, all its walls intact. A few of the windows were boarded up, but compared to what she’d seen, this was a citadel. Her coat and suit were rumpled from sitting on the bike and she took a moment to smooth them down. Her heart was beating crazily partly from the exertion of her bike ride, but mostly from the excitement of knowing she was about to see her beloved Herb again.
She knocked on the door. She heard voices. She waited.
The door opened. An angel stood there. Or, for a moment, she looked like an angel to Anne. Certainly she had never seen such a beautiful woman before, except perhaps at the cinema. The woman was tall and slender, with luminous blue eyes and silver-blond hair. She was obviously German and she was very pregnant.
“Yes?”
“Hello!” Anne said, smiling eagerly. “Do you speak English?”
“I do.”
“Oh, thank heaven! My name is Anne Wheelwright. I’m Herbert Wheelwright’s wife. I’ve just arrived from the United States. I have this address. Is he here?”
The dim light from the back of the house illuminated the other woman’s face. And that was all it took, a moment in the shadowy light, the recoil of the other woman’s body, the way her hands flew to cover her mouth. Anne knew.
Twenty-one
When they heard the raised voices coming from the den, Charlotte and Suzette exchanged a worried glance. Then Charlotte helped Suzette up off the living room sofa, and together they made their way into the kitchen. The den was off the kitchen, and they could overhear the argument without being caught gawking. Suzette sank onto a chair while she listened, and Charlotte paced the floor. Glorious had diplomatically removed herself to her own quarters, as she often did when tempers flared in the family. Charlotte saw Suzette’s face fall as they overheard the cause of the argument. Teddy, drunk again. The second time in less than a month.
Uncle Kellogg ambled in, drink in hand, nodded at Charlotte, and continued into the den. Soon she heard her mother shouting—about sweet cakes? Her mother wasn’t making any sense at all. Then Charlotte’s father stormed from the room, passing through the kitchen without seeming to notice Charlotte or Suzette, and then her mother flashed through, her face violently flushed. Charlotte had never seen her mother look so angry. Uncle Kellogg left the den next, casting an embarrassed smile at Charlotte, and went into the hall and up the stairs, no doubt to inform his wife of Teddy’s latest infraction.
Finally, slowly, Teddy emerged from the den into the kitchen. When he saw Charlotte and Suzette, he grinned sheepishly, stuck his hands in his jeans pockets, leaned against the refrigerator, and said, boyishly, “Oops.”
“For, God’s sake, Teddy, it’s not funny and you’re not cute!” Charlotte snapped.
To her surprise, Suzette spoke up. “It’s this family.”
Charlotte gawked at Suzette. “What?”
“It’s this family. Teddy stayed sober when he was with me in Arizona. We come here, and he gets drunk.”
Charlotte started to retort, then bit her tongue. She was aware that Aunt Grace and Mee and Uncle Kellogg had come down the stairs and were hovering in the hall, listening, and she would be damned if she was going to add one more argument to the ongoing fray.
“I’m going out to see what shape the table’s in,” Charlotte said.
“I can tell you what shape it’s in,” Teddy announced gaily. “It’s trashed.”
She didn’t dare look at him. “Then I’d better move it. I don’t want my customers to find trash where the farm stand was.”
She stormed through the mudroom, out the door, and up the drive way. It was a long walk, but she needed it to help her calm down. Things had been going so well, she’d been loving this summer, she’d felt pleased with herself, even a bit virtuous, to be involving Suzette in the garden, to give her work that made her feel useful and part of the family and provided money, as well, to buy whatever little things she wanted
. And it had been fun, having Teddy back. He was so lively and entertaining. During dinners, while Aunt Grace and Uncle Kellogg and the Ms had all the sparkle of a congregation of pilgrims, Teddy had brightened the room with anecdotes about his day at the antiques shop. He did fabulous impersonations, and when he got going he could be hysterical. Even the Ms laughed. And Charlotte’s mother had been so happy, having Teddy back and with a grandchild on the way. Why did Teddy have to ruin things? Was Suzette right? Was it being around his family that caused him to fall off the wagon?
She arrived at the end of the drive. There, right where she always had her farm stand, was the old Jeep, its hood up, its grille crushing the wooden table against a tree trunk. She could see that the table was broken in half, and splinters and cracks razed the surface. Fury ignited inside her. Somehow it seemed so personal. Certainly it was an ugly, destructive sight, and she chewed on her knuckles as she circled the Jeep, checking out its condition. Its tires had ripped two muddy streaks in the cool green grass.
She climbed into the Jeep. Teddy had left the key in the ignition. She turned it, and the battery kicked, but nothing else happened. She sat there for a moment, feeling utterly defeated. Suzette’s words echoed in her mind. “It’s this family.” Perhaps Suzette was right. Maybe there was something slightly off about her family—but no, that wasn’t true. Oliver was pure and simply wonderful. Of course, Oliver never stayed at Nona’s house in the “bosom of the family” for more than a couple of days at a time. So—had Oliver escaped, and in this way also avoided any sins that being with this family caused? Charlotte remembered her great transgression; her entire body flushed with heat as she thought about it. She had been so bad, so wrong, and it would not have happened if she had not worked at the bank, which was another way of being right in the heart of the family. But she also had to admit, at least to herself, that she did have a rebel streak, and so did Teddy. She loved her family, truly she did, but all her life she’d felt an urge to mutiny, if only she could do it without hurting anyone else.
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