Okay, okay, Anne thought. Here goes nothing. I’m throwing everything on the table except for the card up my sleeve and I hope I can just bluff my way to winning this hand. It’s all or none because he’ll either shoot me or believe me.
“You’ve learned a lot about me over these past months and the one thing I’m sure you’re convinced of is I have a very good memory, maybe even photographic. You also know I studied World War II, this war, pretty extensively. What I didn’t tell you is that I studied the first war as well.” A little white lie. “Was your grandparents’ house actually a farm house about fifteen kilometers west of Hamburg?”
Bronson looked at her. “Yes, it was.”
“Your grandparents raised vegetables and chickens for the markets in Hamburg, didn’t they?”
“Yes. How do you know that?”
“Because this is history, and I know history. It so happens the events around your grandparents’ and parents’ deaths were recorded in the history books. Your grandparents, Gustav and Anna von Frick, were Allied sympathizers. Their farm house was part of an underground network used to smuggle out people and information.”
“No!”
“They weren’t killed by Americans. The American Army wasn’t even near there. They were discovered by the German Army and while your grandparents and your parents hid in the cellar, German men – not American men – German men opened the cellar door and dropped in hand grenades.”
“NO!” Bronson leaped to his feet. His chair-back hit the floor.
“They were murdered by your own people. It was believed, but not proven, that your grandmother’s brother, William Spengler, was the one who finked on them.”
“NO!”
He rushed at her. She raised her cane against the attack, but the cane was useless. He yanked it from her and it flew across the room. And then his hands were on her, his viselike grip on her arms. She felt herself rise from the chair under his power and then follow the path of the cane. She landed hard on the table, two legs of which collapsed under her sudden weight, and then smashed through the legs of the fallen chair. She hit the floor hard and her head slammed against the bottom of the cast iron stove.
That didn’t go too well, she thought to herself, and then blackness overcame her.
Chapter 70
Sunday ~ November 14, 1943
Without knowing or caring where she landed, Bronson lunged out the door, slammed it shut, and dropped the log in place. Rage boiled within him, anger like he had never felt before. He rushed toward the path that ran to the beach, thought he knew where it was, but because his eyes had not adjusted, ran four feet to the left. He was stopped short by a palm tree, bounced into the brush, and then something hit him, like a dozen knives all at one time. His muscles reacted as though jolted with electricity and flung him onto his back into the dune grass where he laid in pain more excruciating than anything he had ever felt before. It was five minutes before the pain eased enough that he became conscious of his surroundings again. He couldn’t conceive what hit him and he was certain whatever it was, that it was still sticking in him, like little knives all over his body, on both arms, his chest, his legs, even his left cheek. He carefully moved his tongue over to the cheek. There was nothing there but a hole and pain and the taste of blood. Whatever it was had gone all the way through. He moved one hand carefully over his body, expecting whatever hit him was still sticking out of him but there was nothing except pain and more blood. He flexed his arms and then rolled over onto his hands and knees.
He could make out the palm tree he first ran into, and then the Chinese bayonet plant to its left with needles a woman could sew canvas with. He recalled a child he treated once who did exactly what he just did. The child wasn’t so lucky, though. He lost an eye.
He brought himself up to one knee, let the pain subside, then pushed to a standing position. Where was he going and why? He was angry. He remembered he was angry, so angry he saw white, which was then driven out by the red that filled him when he hit the needles of the Chinese bayonet. He lifted the log and opened the door to the beach house.
Bronson saw the legs of Anne Waring poking out from under the broken table and chair and remembered the words, which again began to raise something up inside him. He pushed it down, shoved the broken furniture aside, and knelt next to her. He checked her pulse then felt for anything broken. Finding nothing, he picked her up and laid her on the bed, got his medical bag and after taking a pain killer, began cutting away hair around the gash on her head.
When he was finished with Anne, Bronson began cleaning and treating each of the wounds on his own body. He stripped off his clothes, including his underwear as one hit very close to the base of his penis. The thought of how close sent a shiver down his spine. There were a total of eleven wounds, the worst being his cheek and stomach. Once done, he pulled on his underwear and pants and then reached for his shirt. It was then that he noticed Anne’s eyes were open.
“How long have you been awake?” he said.
“Long enough. What did you do? Run into a swarm of giant bees?”
He put on his shirt, buttoned it and then told her about the bayonet bush.
“Serves you right.” She felt around her head. “God, I’ve got a headache.” She tried to sit up and then eased herself back down. “Everything hurts. What all did you break of me?”
“Just your head. You probably have a concussion.”
“No shit, Sherlock. How long until the boat leaves?”
“Twenty minutes. We need to get out there.” He poured a mug of water from a jug and handed her that and three white pills. “Take these. It’ll help with the pain.”
“What is it?”
“Bayer Aspirin.” He took another two for himself. He finished dressing and then retrieved her cane. “Sit up and move around. It’ll help with the soreness.”
She tried sitting up and then lay back down. “Can I wait until the aspirin kicks in? I’ve got a splitting headache.”
He held out his hand. “We don’t have time to wait.”
She looked at him. “Why should I cooperate? There isn’t anything in this for me.”
“I certainly think it would be more comfortable if you get into the boat under your own power. Take my hand. I’ll help you sit up.”
Anne stared at the hand a few seconds then allowed him to pull her to an upright position. She sat still for several minutes with her eyes closed, waiting for the pounding in her head to let up. When she opened her eyes, she was looking at the floor and a pile of her hair. “Oh my God!” She felt along the bandage. “How much of my hair did you cut?”
“You were bleeding and it needed to be cleaned and bandaged. I cut what was necessary.”
“You butchered me!” Anne tried to get a clear picture of what she said that prompted him to throw her across the room. She could see so little through the pain. Besides her head, her shoulder was sore and it hurt to breathe. She ran her hands over each of her ribs and determined none were broken, but they were very sore. She pulled the cane stick around in front of her and then pulled herself to a standing position. She swayed a bit under the pain and dizziness.
He helped her on with a coat that was too big for her, and then handed her one of the lanterns. She waited while he stuffed several things into his medical bag. He picked up the other lantern and said, “Let’s go.”
She limped across the room and out the door, appreciative of the fact that her ankle wasn’t further damaged. As a matter of fact, compared to her head, it wasn’t in bad shape at all. The cool air felt good. She headed in the direction he pointed and then he fell in behind.
At the beach Bronson placed both lanterns on the dunes about twenty feet apart and then began pacing back and forth, his eyes out to sea. Anne eased herself to a sitting position, lay down, and then began to think again about her predicament. She was convinced that in the long run, it would all work out because history could not be changed. She had told herself that over and over. Still, sh
e had no idea what was going to happen. Once she got on that U-boat, her life would be over. It would be just a matter of time. But what about Bronson, her future grandfather and Illinois sheriff? When, and for what reason, does he switch sides? Does he disappear after the war and reappear in Chicago under a different name, after delivering to Hitler his future granddaughter and thus committing her to death? What happens in his mind on the night in 1961 when he realizes who his daughter brings home?
She could tell him. She thought of that several times already, but each time something inside her said no. Let what happens happen. Whatever is meant to be, will be, and if she was meant to tell him, she would.
Maybe the boat never shows. Maybe they leave him stranded on foreign soil and he is forced to abandon his plans. If so, what does he do with her?
He stopped pacing and was looking out to sea. She couldn’t see anything. She closed her eyes and wondered if he thought anything about what she told him. It was all true. The only lie was how she knew. He had to believe her because she hit their names exactly, knew what they did for a living, knew how they died. She even knew the date.
“Let’s go,” he ordered.
She heard other voices, German voices. She didn’t move.
“Now! Mrs. Waring. Under your power or theirs. Makes no difference.”
She turned her head and saw three men pulling a rubber boat up onto the sand. The light reflected off of the black clothing. Bronson said something to them and two of them started toward her.
“Okay, okay!” she said and rolled herself to her hands and knees. Then their hands were on her and she was yanked to her feet. “I can do it myself,” she demanded and tried pushing them away but they held their grip and dragged her down to the boat, throwing German phrases and words at her that she was glad she couldn’t understand. Just when she thought her feet were going to get wet, they picked her up, carried her the rest of the way, and then dropped her into the boat. She landed on her face.
“You ass-holes!” She rolled onto her side spitting saltwater and something that smelled a lot like oil. She lay there while they shoved the boat off and piled in around her. She could feel whatever was in the bottom of the boat seeping into her clothes. She started to get up.
“Nat!” one of them said and shoved her back down.
“Damn it! It’s wet down here,” she yelled back and tried to sit up again.
“Nat!” he pushed her again.
“I’m no good to anybody if I die of pneumonia,” she yelled.
“Just lie still,” Bronson ordered her. “They weren’t told to be gentle. They’ve got a woman coming on board their boat and contrary to what you may think, they don’t like it. A third of the crew is going to want to rape you, a third will want to protect you, and the rest will want nothing to do with you. You make it hard on them and the percentage in favor of taking turns with you may increase.”
All right. She’d lay quiet. Maybe she could get an opportunity to break free and jump in the water. Better to take her chances with the sharks or drowning then getting on board with a bunch of men, who haven’t been with a woman in... how long?
She could almost hear the blood pounding through her pain-throbbing head.
Elizabeth Anne. She pulled her thoughts around to her baby she would never see again, trying to take her mind off of the pain radiating from places all over her body. The boat rocked and bounced; she kept calling up Elizabeth Anne’s face, imagined the feel of her soft skin and the sweet baby breath. One of the things Anne liked to do was lie on her back with Elizabeth Anne asleep on her chest.
Total trust.
Total dependence.
Total love.
Steven would not understand that. Maybe he would find a woman, a good woman who would make a good mother for his baby.
Mourn for me Steven. But don’t mourn too long. Give Elizabeth a mother.
Two of the German sailors rowed with their backs to where they were going. The third handled a lantern, which he flashed on and off a couple of times. She assumed he was signaling the submarine of their return. Bronson didn’t help. He only sat with his medical bag in his lap. The side-wash from the light gave his face a chiseled look.
So what does happen to him? He has to get to Chicago to marry Francine, my grandmother, so that my mother can be born. And there isn’t much time, is there? I’m born in ‘63 and my mother was...
... Holy shit!
How did I forget that? I’ve always known the year of my mother’s birth because she just turned twenty when she gave birth to me.
Holy shit!
Does he know? Does he have any idea he already has a nine-month-old daughter?
The seawater continued to soak into Anne’s clothes but she no longer took notice. She played her sudden revelation over and over in her mind. She remembered thinking in the hospital about how her life seemed to run in circles and thinking about the fact that her mother was born in 1943 and then looking at Elizabeth suckling on her breast. It was a crazy thought because her mother was born in February of ‘43 and Elizabeth Anne in July.
Crazy thought!
Crazy everything!
And then another thought, a flash of vision so sudden she sat up, or would have sat up if not for the German sailor with the light, shoving her back down. She accepted the shove and settled again into the sloshing salt water with a “what if?” running through her mind.
What if Francine’s baby is not his?
He may not be her grandfather. But for sure, he is the one pictured in her mother’s photo albums and he talked once of having a girlfriend in Chicago by the name of Francine. I sure hit a button when I mentioned his grandparents. How long has he been gone from Chicago? When did he arrive at Roper Hospital in Charleston?
He does marry her. That’s a fact. Can’t forget that. But when? My mother never told me and I don’t recall it being recorded in the genealogy.
“When did you leave Chicago, Nathaniel?” she heard herself ask. She looked up toward his face, little more than a silhouette against the starry sky.
“Hush, Mrs. Waring,” he said down to her.
“Why are you being so formal now, Nathaniel? These guys don’t speak English. When did you last see Francine? When did you leave Chicago and come to South Carolina?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Not only am I a fortune teller; I’m also a psychic. Which month in 1942 did you say good-bye to her? So long, adios little lady. Been fun but I’ve got some spying to do. What month did you tell her you were hitting the road?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Wham bam, thank you, Ma’am.”
“I asked her to come. She broke it off.”
“But you wham-bammed her, didn’t you!”
“What?”
Anne heard the confusion in his voice, like he understood her question but didn’t believe what she was asking. “You slept with her. You two had sex.”
There was only silence.
“What month did you leave? My guess is June. June of 1942 Francine Johnston dumped you, isn’t that right?”
“July. And what difference does it all make? Why do you even care?”
“It isn’t I who should care, Nathaniel. It’s you. I told you I’m psychic and my crystal ball tells me your daughter, Rebecca, was born February 27, almost exactly nine months ago.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Where do you get all this stuff about my grandparents running an underground, and then Francine and a child you think I have?”
Anne didn’t answer. She should tell him how she knew these things. But what difference would it make anyway? She was heading for Germany and there’s no changing their minds now, even if she could change his. Maybe in her telling him he’ll get the reason to find his way back after the war, find Francine and start a new life.
“How do I know these things, Nathaniel? I’ll tell you...” The light holder’s boot shoved her in the back followed by a string of German words.
She heard more voices, then the light holder picked up a coil of rope and threw it. She sat up to see a big, black shape blocking out the night. Dark bodies were moving about the dark shape. She saw a rope ladder and the two rowers clamored up. There was conversation between the light holder and someone on the dark shape. Bronson helped her to her feet.
“Time to go,” he said.
There was more German chatter back and forth and she could see a person, the captain most likely, standing at the top of what she knew to be the conning tower. The light-holder was pointing to her and then Bronson and talking fast. She looked at Bronson whose face had turned white in the black night. He was staring at the captain. The conversation stopped and then the captain said something short and sharp, like an order.
Another black body with a rifle appeared from around the side of the conning tower.
The captain barked another order and the black figure took a shooter’s stance. Then Anne knew. Either the light-holder understood English or the intention all along was to kill the spy who had gone crazy, writing about a woman who time-travels. And he just stood there. Didn’t he see? Didn’t he understand what his people were about to do?
“You’ve been set up,” she screamed and launched herself toward Bronson, with the intention of taking him into the black water with her. But when she heard the explosion from the rifle, she thought she was too late. She hit him hard and he flipped over backwards and out of the boat. She might have landed in the boat herself if not for the bullet that was meant for him. Its impact into the bone in her shoulder spun her around and sent her out the boat backwards. The heavy coat filled with water and pulled her down. In her struggle to get her useless arm free, she thought about Elizabeth Anne and asked God to keep her safe and keep her happy.
Chapter 71
Saturday ~ November 14, 1987
James sat in a chair looking at the prescriptions the doctor gave him. He didn’t feel too bad until he walked around. Then he felt like an old man.
He laughed at himself. Hell. I am an old man.
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