Before they got deeper into oblivion, I said: “Any of you know if the 601 Squadron is stationed here?”
“The Millionaires? Oh, how I wish!” said Blanche, her cheeks reddening.
“Overseas at the moment,” said Geraldine. “I recall having read something about that in the paper. Malta, I think, or some such place. You can ask Dot—she’s been stepping out with one of the pilots. Come to think of it, she just had a letter from him.”
“Lucky girl,” said Blanche. “Oh, what I wouldn’t do to be dating a Millionaire. They take girls for supper and cabaret shows at the Savoy, afterwards for dancing at the Hammersmith Palais de Dance in Mayfair. Then they escort you home in a chauffeur driven limousine. And the chauffeur is often a French refugee, waiting with a bottle of Champagne chilling in an ice-bucket.”
I decided to let the ball roll: “So, this Dot—you say she’s dating one of the Millionaires? Any chance he gave her his silk scarf to remember him by? You know—a token of his affection?” They were loving it. Their forks hovered mid-air as they fantasized.
“As a matter of fact, he did,” said Geraldine. “She wears it everywhere.”
“And this Dot character—she bunks here?”
“Right again,” said Geraldine. “She’s on duty at the moment, otherwise she’d be here. By the way, we ought to save something for Dot to warm later.” She looked at the other girls, but the message was probably meant for me. Everyone had finished eating, but I was shoveling third helpings onto my plate.
Blanche said: “Daphne, do tell us all about your wedding dress. We want details! Don’t skip anything. Will there be lace?”
“Do tell!” shouted Beetle.
Now was my chance to scope out the place. Standing up, I bowed and excused myself, saying I had to use the bathroom, not that anyone cared. They kept going on about toile veils, garter belts, and elbow length gloves. Daphne’s dress was being made from a Luftwaffe silk parachute her ma fought the whole block to get her hands on. The WAAFs were oohing and ahhing about how lucky she was. Silk was rarer than jade, now that the Japanese occupied China. Daphne mentioned that they’d be married by a rabbi and a priest, she being half Jewish on her mother’s side.
Alice said, “That’s so interesting,” as I headed past a bathroom and up the stairs to the second level where the bedrooms would be. Each door was marked with two names. I scanned the doors until I found the right one. In the top slot was a piece of bowed cardboard. Block letters read: DOROTHY DOUGLAS-HOME. The bottom slot was empty. The door was jarred open. I slipped in, closing it behind me.
The closet was the double-door kind, divided into two sections and shared between the two girls. One side was packed tight with clothing, the other side practically empty. I began there.
My aim was to check labels, see if anything had been made in Germany. A navy blue Shetland sweater was hand-knit in Scotland, where they kept most of the sheep. I skipped anything RAF military issued, but read the labels in dress necks: Selfridges, Debenhams, and M&S—all English sounding; although I happened to know that the Selfridge fella was originally American. On a high shelf, I found a felt hat with a blue jay feather. Behind that a cardboard box full of spark plugs, and a small metal tool box with nothing but screwdrivers, wrenches, and a few nuts and bolts. My deduction was that someone had a car.
I moved over to the crowded side and found more stuffy English clothing, and a few clingy sequin evening gowns—the kind worn by the German actress, Marlene Dietrich. They must’ve cost a pretty penny. None of them had labels. Either they were tailor made or the labels had been removed. I looked for tiny holes where the stitches might’ve been, but couldn’t find one.
I headed for a dresser drawer. Just as I feared, the top drawer held undergarments. I forced myself to examine the labels anyway. If I was caught just then, I’d never live it down. I moved lightening fast. Brassieres and underpants. A garter belt that looked like an instrument of torture. Handkerchiefs. Nothing out of order: all the labels English. Most of the underwear was made of cotton or nylon.
The other dresser was a different story all together: silk, and lace—the kind made by Belgian Benedictine nuns. The Sopwiths had table linen made by them same nuns. I liked the idea of nuns making lace; much safer than letting them teach kids. I noticed that some of the labels were from high-class department stores. Like Harrods, for one. And a store named Fenwick of Bond Street. Lord Sopwith had a personal tailor on Bond Street, with an account, so that all he had to do was sign his name and walk out with the goods. The street was very hoity-toity.
My conclusion was that one WAAF was rich and one poor.
One or two labels in rich WAAF’s drawer were French, the names ended with elle and ette. I had a friend in Paris named Juliette, so I knew. That had me wondering: France was occupied by the Nazis. It could mean something. I spotted a stack of letters held together with a rubber band. Pulling out the bottom envelope, I slipped it into my pocket.
Then, in a bottom drawer, hidden under sweaters, I found a box of bonbons, the kind fellas give their sweethearts on Valentine’s day. Inside the box-top was a diagram showing the contents of each bonbon. I picked the one filled with a cherry, popping it into my mouth. I made sure to put the box back exactly where I found it.
Standing up, I noticed that both dresser tops were a cluttered mess. On the rich WAAF’s dresser was a stack of British Vogue magazines and a silver framed photograph: a group of gals out on the town with a few airmen. The background was London. I knew from a double-decker in the left hand corner, blurry but recognizable. The poor WAAF had only a small red book. At first I suspected it might be Mao’s Red Book, not that I’d ever seen one. But it turned out to be Baedeker Great Britain, a guidebook. A ribbon marked the beginning of the London section. If I could find a diary, all the secrets would come pouring out. Most girls keep diaries—my sister Mary, for one. I kept my eye out, coming up empty handed.
A glass ashtray sat on a low table between the two beds. I poked around finding nothing but burnt out matches, crumpled cellophane wrappers and lipstick stained butts. One girl smoked Benson & Hedges and other smoked India Kings. I brushed ash from my hands. Next I planned to look under the beds.
Lifting a ruffle, I peeked under the one nearest to the door and found a battered suitcase, the kind carried by Fuller brush door-to-door salesmen. Only this one was covered with souvenir travel stickers. From what I gathered, all the destinations were British colonies: Canada, India, New Zealand, Australia, Bermuda, South Africa, Singapore, Palestine, Rhodesia, and Ceylon. The suitcase had two latches, both locked.
I headed back to the dressers looking for a hairpin, finding one next to a matching sterling silver hairbrush, comb and mirror set. The initials D. D. H. were engraved on the backs of the brush and mirror. The silver was .925—the good stuff. Dot had expensive taste. Explained why she was dating a Millionaire pilot. The French silk underwear belonged to her.
Grabbing the hairpin, I returned to the bed and placed the suitcase on the chenille cover. They had bedspreads like that in France; the word meant caterpillar. The suitcase weighed a ton of bricks. Daphne knew how to pick locks, but we never got around to a lesson. As hard as I tried, the latch stayed locked. Breaking the lock would alert the owner to tampering. As I slid the suitcase back under the bed, my eyes were drawn to three small initials stamped in gold near the handle. F.C.R.—almost identical to the American president’s: F.D.R. All I found under the other bed was a pair of quilted slippers and dust balls. Before I could stop myself, I let out a earth-shattering sneeze.
The door flung open. Alice glared.
“What are you doing in here?” she asked rapid-fire, putting her hands on her hips.
“I was looking for the bathroom.”
“That couldn’t be true. You passed the toilet and marched right up the stairs.” She flew at me, grabbing my chin and prying open my mouth before I had a chance to swallow. “You’ve been into my chocolates, haven’t you? There’s evidence st
uck between your teeth.” She sniffed and growled, “You ate my brandied cherry chocolates, you rotten boy!”
“Okay, you caught me,” I said, thinking fast. “Everybody knows that ladies keep chocolate hidden in their dresser drawers. My ma hides chocolate mints in hers.” I tried to look shamed faced. “I’m begging you not to rat on me.”
Alice bought it lock, stock, and barrel. Sitting on the opposite bed she said, “I have half a mind to call the MPs. Where are you from, anyway? You’re not British, obviously.”
“Irish,” I said. “Irish-American. Both my ma and da were born in Ireland and then immigrated to New York. But my grandparents still live in the old country. I’ve never met them, but they send me presents. Once my grandma sent me a four-leaf clover, glued to a card.”
“Aren’t you lucky,” she said snidely. “Ireland… They’re not fond of we English, are they?”
“That would be an understatement. My brother Jack is an exception. He likes them so much he’s marrying one. Fighting for them, too. Ma had a fit. So can I get another chocolate or not?” I had to keep the game going.
She went to the dresser, the one containing cotton underwear. Deep in the bottom drawer was the box of bonbons. She opened the lid and scanned the rows saying, “At least you didn’t eat the toffee—they’re my favorite.” She straightened her back, prim-like. “Very English of me, I suppose.”
I waited for her to offer me another chocolate, but it didn’t happen. She lifted a toffee bonbon and slowly dropped it into her mouth. Then she closed the box and retied the red ribbon that held the lid on. She sucked on the chocolate loudly, rolling the chunk of toffee around her mouth slowly, crunching it in slow motion, ending with a sigh. We stayed eye to eye the whole time, neither one of us blinking.
“You won’t rat on me?” I asked.
“I haven’t decided yet,” she said.
I asked where she was from. Turned out to be a small village somewhere up north. One that no one had heard of, she said.
“Try me,” I said. “I aced geography.”
“Near Leeds,” she said, waving a hand in the direction, I figured, of Leeds. I asked her to be more specific. I was about to pull out my mountaineer compass.
“Tiny place called Bramhope, if you must know. Got out of there as fast as I could. Nothing but cows and hay-chewing farmers. Spinsters with stockings bagging around their ankles, their highest ambition to be librarians. Couldn’t stand the place. So provincial.” Her nose went up. She untied the chocolate box and took the last toffee, closing the box without offering me a second. Then she returning it to the bottom drawer.
“So you’ve traveled a lot, have you?” I asked, wondering if the suitcase belonged to her, but not wanting to give away that I’d seen it. Balance was needed, like in Olympic bobsledding.
“You might say I’m an intrepid traveler,” she said. This explained the stickers.
“Have you been to the Vatican?” I asked, wanting to get in my real question gradually. Leading up to it, in other words.
“Never,” she said. “Although I might go one day, if only to see the Sistine Chapel. But with Mussolini—”
“Germany, maybe?”
“Of course not. What do you take me for?” She huffed a little, insulted. These days, no one admitted liking Germany. Even saying you loved German Chocolate Cake—which I did—could get you in trouble.
“You aren’t Catholic?” I asked.
“No, Lutheran,” she said. “I mean, my mother was Lutheran but she converted to the Anglican Church when she married father—so that they could marry out of his family church in Bramhope. To tell the truth, I’m not particularly religious myself.”
“Name of the church?” I asked.
“St. Nicholas’, if you must know. I say, you are nosy. What’s with all the questions?”
“Just chitchat. I was raised Catholic myself. Christened at seven days old. Confirmed at age seven. Parochial school—the whole nine yards. I even played the part of Saint Simon of Cyrene in the Easter pageant. He’s the one who helped carry Jesus’ cross.”
“Well, bully for you,” said Alice. She had a mean-streak, that much was clear. And she didn’t like Catholics. But most English people didn’t. Not since Henry VIII converted, anyway. Alice stood up, signaling that she was finished with the interrogation. “Let’s join the others downstairs. They’re about to serve pudding,” she said.
Before we left the room, she went over to Dot’s dresser, took the silver hairbrush and ran it through her dishwater blonde hair. I could see by the way she admired herself in the matching mirror: vain, through and through. Pride is one of the seven deadly sins. If she’d been raised Catholic, she would have known that. Reaching over to her own dresser, she lifted a bottle of perfume, squeezing a large silk ball attached to the top and spraying herself and half the room both. My brother kept Daphne supplied with Yardley English Lavender. Alice’s perfume was stronger, more like whiskey—almost identical to the stuff my sister Mary bought at Woolworths: Evening in Paris, it was called; it came in a blue bottle and set you b ack a quarter.
Alice walked out the door first and started down the hall. I pretended to tie a shoelace. She didn’t see me jump over to the dresser and glance at the perfume bottle. No label, but I turned the bottle over and saw the brand name etched in the glass: Chanel No.5. Never heard of the stuff.
Suddenly, she was hovering over me. “You aren’t back into my chocolates, are you?” she said, her lips stretched tight against her teeth.
I meant to quiz her about the roommate, Dot—the one with the Millionaire boyfriend—and about the silk scarf he’d given as a memento of his unflagging love. But I could see that Alice wasn’t in the mood to answer more questions. She had a sweet tooth, like me, and didn’t want to miss pudding. I came out of her room and she locked the door behind me, using a skeleton key.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ONCE DESSERT WAS FINISHED, I wanted to bolt. The WAAFs were starting up a game of charades. Beetle was pantomiming a mouse, crouched on the rug with her nose twitching. I explained that I was fine on my own, but Daphne insisted on shadowing me and Ringo back to Jack’s mess where I’d be sleeping. She had to keep an eye on me, is what she said, when the real reason was she hoped Jack was back. It was near impossible to keep the bicycle straight, what with her on the fender and the dog in the basket.
“That was lovely, didn’t you think, Thomas? They’re all such great fun.”
“All except Alice, that is,” I said while trying to concentrate on my pedaling.
“Don’t tell me you think she’s a Nazi!” Daphne laughed and the bike wobbled.
“I didn’t say she was a Nazi, only that I didn’t like her. She reminded me of my sister Mary—your future sister-in-law, who’s going to make you wish that you married into a different family.”
“Alice seemed nice enough. Quiet, but sweet. What could you possibly have had against her?”
“She’s stingy with the chocolates, for one thing. And she blasphemed.”
Daphne began shaking the bicycle with her belly laughing, causing us to veer close to a ditch. I managed to bring us back under control. The extra weight on the back fender made it near impossible to pedal, and I had to stand on the pedals to get the bicycle moving forward. We might’ve made better time walking. By then, it was pitch dark and none of the street lamps were lit due to the blackout, making it tricky to navigate potholes, railroad tracks, and those metal grids the English put in the middle of the roads to keep cows from crossing.
“Blasphemed? You can’t be serious?” said Daphne, getting control of herself.
“I am too. She blasphemed the blessed memory of Saint Simon of Cyrene, as a matter of fact.”
“Who in God’s name is Saint Simon of Cyrene?”
“He’s the one who helped carry the cross when Jesus fell down. Don’t they teach you anything in the Anglican Church? Don’t you do the Stations of the Cross?” Daphne might be half Jewish, but her father was Chur
ch of England. Even I knew about mezuzahs and menorahs, macaroons and yarmulkes. I knew a few Yiddish words, to boot.
Daphne kept laughing. I wondered if they’d broke out a bottle of Scotch while I’d been snooping upstairs. She said, “You didn’t try to inveigle Alice out of her chocolates, did you?”
“Try and keep still, for Pete’s sake, or we’ll crash,” I said.
We arrived at Jack’s mess, a fancy-schmancy mansion requisitioned for war use. The place had columns that looked like something you’d see Julius Caesar standing under. Windows arched at the top and had diamond shaped panes, some made of stained glass shaped like family crests. Ma would be proud if she could see where her son slept. The pilots made the place homey by moving the antiques to the cellar and bringing in cushy couches and rattan arm chairs. They put up dart-boards where oil paintings used to hang. A big map of Germany served as another dart board, Berlin being the bull’s-eye. RAF recruiting posters were tacked up to fill in the blank spaces.
“I can’t come in,” said Daphne. “Regulations. The boys might be walking about half-clothed. You go in and see if Jack is back. Send him out if he is.”
I took Ringo out of the basket and shoved the leash into Daphne’s hand, ordering her to take the dog for a walk. I was still full of righteous indignation over Saint Simon of Cyrene. She leaned the bicycle against the house and started down the circular driveway, Ringo leaping behind her.
I stuck my head into the main parlor where a pilot lounged on the couch listening to the radio. Bing Crosby—my sister Nancy’s favorite actor—sang a love song, along with Dorothy Lamour. It was from one of them Road films with Bob Hope, the funniest actor ever. I seen the first two: Road to Singapore and Road to Zanzibar, and was dying to see Road to Morocco. It’d already opened in New York. Ma wrote to tell me that her, Mary, and my older sister Nancy, already seen it. For some reason, it wasn’t playing in England—the Germans probably sunk the ship carrying the film reels. When the song ended, I said: “Excuse me, sir, is my brother Jack back yet?” I’d never met this particular pilot.
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