Into the Storm

by Lisa Bingham

  Edna made a sound of scorn.

  But there was no denying the glint of pleasure in her eyes.

  • • •

  Sara was married in Edna’s front parlor with twenty-three guests in attendance—all close family and friends of the Blunts and the Biddiwells.

  She looked beautiful in her borrowed dress, Susan decided. She’d been so touched by Edna’s kind gesture that she’d refused to make any changes to the gown other than to baste the hem a little higher. Rather than a veil, she’d worn her hair up, with a coronet of marigolds tucked into the curls and her mother’s best pearls around her neck.

  Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, and a sixpence in your shoe.

  The afternoon was magical, reminding Susan of those carefree days before the war—good food, rollicking music from the gramophone, laughter, and dancing.

  Philip had manned his father’s Kodak, snapping photos, capturing the bride and groom’s first kiss as man and wife and the cutting of the cake.

  The only thing conspicuously missing from the celebration, were the faces Susan most longed to see—Millicent and Walter Blunt, Matthew, Michael, and Margaret.

  Susan and RueAnn had cleaned and decorated the Blunt house with flowers and vases of autumn leaves. For two days, it would be the “bridal cottage” until Bernard went to sea. Then Sara would go with Mrs. Biddiwell to Scotland where they would live in a cottage owned by Bernard’s relatives until the tide of the war turned.

  “I pray that they will have many more days to come,” RueAnn murmured.

  Susan hadn’t told RueAnn about the baby. Not yet. There would be time enough for that. Just as they had for the wedding, she was sure that they would rally around Sara.

  It was what women did in time of war or hardship.

  “What about you, Susan? Will yours be the next wedding? Is there someone special in your life?”

  Susan thought of Paul, of the beautiful letters she’d collected and hidden in the overnight bag she’d stowed in Edna’s original bedroom where she would be sleeping for the length of her stay.

  Her first thought when Sara had proclaimed her love for Bernard was that Susan was free to tell Paul the truth. She would no longer sign her letters with a simple “S”. Rather, she would use her full name.

  But almost immediately on the heels of such a thought, she was faced with the impossibility of it all. She had lied to the man. She had played him for a fool and he would not take kindly to her deceit. And with RAF casualties mounting as they fought to keep Germany at bay, she couldn’t afford to clutter his mind with such nonsense anyway. She would continue to write, slowly weaning herself away from the correspondence until natural attrition doomed their relationship rather than conscious thought.

  “No. There’s no one,” Susan said, realizing that RueAnn still waited for her answer.

  “Give it time,” RueAnn said, but they both knew it was a hollow promise. Men were already scarce and Susan felt as if she were drowning in responsibilities and regret. Since Sara had promised Bernard that she would live with his mother once he deployed, it remained to Susan to keep the home fires burning. With Sara unable to work, Susan was now the primary provider, the mother, the disciplinarian, even if it were only for her younger brother. She had nothing to offer any man who might take an interest in her other than a ready-made family and a stack of bills that she worked doggedly to pay each month.

  Feeling suddenly older than her years, she pasted what she hoped was a happy smile on her face. But inside she felt hollow.

  As she looked up, her gaze suddenly caught Edna’s. And for a moment, she felt as if the woman could read her very soul. There was a wealth of sadness in the older woman’s gaze, as well as a potent empathy.

  Lifting the glass she held in her good hand, Edna offered a silent toast to Susan. And Susan, feeling more toward Edna than she ever would have thought possible, returned the gesture.

  • • •

  Rouen, France

  Cursing softly under his breath, Charlie slipped through the shadows, easing up to the back door. Knowing that she might well blast a hole in him if he entered unannounced, he scratched on the door before easing it open enough to slip through.

  “Merde!”

  Just as he’d thought, she held his revolver trained on him. And though her hands shook slightly, there was no mistaking the accuracy of her aim.

  “I was just taking a walk.”

  “Why can’t you get it through your thick skull that it isn’t safe—for either of us—if you’re out roaming around!”

  Charlie knew that she was right. He was well enough to travel—had been for days. The time had come to make his goodbyes. The fear stamped on her face convinced him. Elizabeth had enough to contend with in her life without adding the complications arising from a wounded enemy soldier, so he said with quiet dignity, “I’ll be gone as soon as it’s dark.”

  She stamped her feet. “Stop it! Stop being so reasonable…so…so noble!”

  As quickly as her emotions had stormed and raged, they dissipated, like the calm after a violent cloud burst.

  Lifting her chin, she said, “I need your word that you will stay here. Inside.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  She eyed him with patent disbelief. “Why? Why can’t you err on the side of caution until I can find a way to get you back to England?”

  He was quiet for long moments, watching her, weighing his options very carefully before saying, “You’ve always assumed that I was a wounded flyer.”

  She shrugged. “So you’re infantry.”

  “No.”

  He limped to the table, settling himself into a chair and motioning for Elizabeth to do the same.

  “Just before the Germans marched into France, I was sent to Austria to investigate a suspected weapons facility. Something experimental. But by the time my men and I were able to infiltrate into the area, the Germans had begun their march toward the sea. We found that the plant had been hit in an air raid. The facility was abandoned. So we began digging around, asking questions. The only piece of information we were able to uncover was that the family of one of the men in charge had suddenly packed up and moved to a spot just a few miles out of Rouen. So we made our way back, knowing we had very little time before the Germans would have the area clamped down so hard we wouldn’t be able to arrange for a pick up.”

  She blinked at him. Growing still. “What are you? Resistance?”

  He shook his head. “British SIS. The Secret Intelligence Service.”

  She regarded him blankly, then her eyes widened. “You’re a spy?”

  He grimaced. “Not a very good one, it would seem. My men and I buried supplies just outside of town, then headed to the railway station, hoping to gather information. What we didn’t know was that the identity papers and travel documents had changed only a week earlier. We realized our mistake when a German patrol tried to arrest us.”

  “Which was how you were injured,” she murmured.

  “Yes.”

  “You said the facility was…experimental.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you still remember the names of the men involved.”

  “Some of them.”

  She collapsed into the chair opposite his. Absently, she traced a knot in the wood. “Today I was…approached.”

  It took several beats of silence before Charlie understood the import of her words. When he did, he searched her features carefully.

  “Resistance?”

  “Yes, thank God.”

  “What do they want?”

  “Information.” She licked her lips. “A man named Hauptman is in charge of inspecting all transports into the area. I’ve been asked to get into his office and alert my contact if certain names appear on the manifests.” Her gaze held his as she said, “They are the names of top-level scientists the Resistance believes might have been captured by the Germans.”

  Charlie’s breath hitched. Could his fa
iled mission be revived? “Do you have this list?”

  She shook her head. “They made me memorize it.”

  “Tell me.”

  She licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry. “Heinrich Dieter.”

  He shook his head.

  “Ernst Ruger.”

  Again, he shook his head.

  “Wilhelm Geisler…Karol Von Treigenheim…”

  “No.”

  “Erich Meissen…Georg Schultz.”

  “Yes,” Charlie breathed.

  “Claus—”

  “Richter,” Charlie finished for her.

  Elizabeth abruptly stood, moving to the stove to begin a pot of tea.

  “So that’s why you’ve been wandering around? Trying to get out of the city and find…what? The secret weapons facility?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then what, mon ami?”

  He considered the consequences of his words, then said, “As I said, before Rex and I were nearly apprehended by the Germans, we buried…supplies…just out of Rouen. I’ve been trying to retrace our steps so that I could find the spot where they were stowed.”

  “What kinds of supplies?”

  His gaze became piercing. “Ammunition, maps, a camera, and a radio.”

  She considered her words carefully before saying, “Could you tell me how to get to this place?”

  “No, Elizabeth. This doesn’t involve you.”

  She spread her arms wide. “But it does, don’t you see? At least a few of the men you’ve been looking for are on the list the Resistance wants me to find. I can help you. I can help you retrieve your things and then, I don’t know…Maybe we could combine forces and…information…with my contact.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Charlie insisted.

  “Without identification papers? Non. You’d be caught within a block. Especially since you’re a strong healthy man of military age.”

  Charlie was silent for so long, she finally prompted, “Can you draw me a map?”

  Sighing, he said, “I’ll need paper and something to write with.”

  • • •

  Elizabeth waited until Sunday, when she wouldn’t be missed from work. One of her neighbors, Mr. Grimaldi, owned a bicycle, and she traded him a week’s worth of butter rations for the use of the dilapidated vehicle, telling him she needed to visit a friend.

  The weather was cold, so she’d dressed warmly—a thick sweater, tweed skirt, woolen stockings, and a knitted cap. In the rucksack on her back she’d packed a light wool jacket, gloves, and a scarf.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Charlie insisted one last time. “I could try going out at night.”

  She shook her head. There were bright spots of color on her cheeks and her eyes burned with determination in a way he’d never seen before.

  “It’s better this way.” Then, hesitating only a moment, she lifted on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t worry.”

  Then she was gone, disappearing into the early morning gleam of sunlight on frost, leaving Charlie feeling more alone than ever before—and absolutely helpless. He returned to the cellar where any noise he made would be shielded and began pacing the room like a caged tiger, wishing there was something—anything—he could do to make time go faster. He tried to sleep, plan out the course of his career after the war. He re-read RueAnn’s letters and wrote more of his own to her and to his mother. Then, as the house grew cold and dark, he made his way upstairs where he could listen for the slightest hint of her return.

  Finally, when he thought he would be unable to bear another minute, he thought he heard footfalls in the back yard, the clunk-thud of firewood being gathered from the back stoop.

  Shrinking behind the door to Elizabeth’s bedroom, he held his thumb ready on the trigger.

  The lock clicked and the door swung wide, then slammed closed. Then Elizabeth flattened herself against the wall. After breathing heavily for a minute, she hurried to the stove, opening a small door and placing the wood on the banked fire.

  Charlie stepped into the kitchen. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded, poking at the ashes until a flame began to catch hold of the larger sticks. Then she held her hands out toward the heat. “Oui. I had to run back from Mr. Grimaldi’s because curfew is past and I didn’t want to be seen.” She shivered. “It’s freezing in here. You should have stayed under the covers, mon ami.”

  Charlie shrugged. He’d been too worried about her to even notice the chill, but now that she’d mentioned it, his body was wracked with shivers.

  Latching the stove again, she turned and set her rucksack on the table.

  “Did you find it?” Charlie murmured, his stomach churning with nerves.

  “Yes.” Her wide grin could have lit the room on its own. “I didn’t have time to examine it, though. I had to take a circuitous way there and back to make sure I wasn’t being followed. It took a lot longer than I’d planned. I wasn’t sure I’d located the right place, but then I found the first landmark—the lightning-blasted tree. I did what you told me to do…meandered through the area, slowly making my way to the hiding place on the hill. I ate my lunch there, carefully digging beneath the gnarled roots until—voilà!—I felt the package.

  As she spoke, Charlie took a bulky package wrapped in oilcloth from her bag. Blowing on her hands, Elizabeth reached to light the lamp, then sat on the chair, watching.

  Charlie unwrapped the layers of oilcloth, carefully laying out his booty—a metal container of ammunition, folded maps printed on silk, and a tiny metal camera.

  “What’s this?” she asked, pointing to the miscellaneous pieces left over.

  “The radio.”

  Her eyes widened. “A radio?”

  Charlie quickly snapped the parts together. “Cross your fingers,” he said, connecting the battery which had been cushioned in another smaller metal box wrapped with more oilcloth.

  Within seconds, they were rewarded with a crackle of static.

  Charlie laughed out loud, unhooking it again. For the first time since being wounded, he felt in control of his fate and the sensation was more heady than any drug. Finally, he had supplies, and even more important, he had information.

  Quickly, he dismantled the radio again. Taking a dishcloth, he began to wipe away any moisture that might be lingering on the equipment.

  “What are you doing? Aren’t you going to contact your superiors?”

  He shook his head. “The battery has been buried for months. I have no idea if it will last several hours or only a few minutes. As soon as I have something to report, I’ll send them a message.”

  “So what do we do now?”

  Charlie debated silently with himself before saying, “We get you into Hauptman’s office so that you can look for the names of any scientists coming into the area. Then we contact the Resistance and pool our resources.”

  My Beloved Wife,

  Last night, I dreamed of you. The dream was so startlingly real that even now I can’t shake the image from my mind. You were standing in the rose garden behind my aunt’s old house—the one where we first made love. In my dream, you were wearing a pale blue dress and the light was low and at your back. Your hair was down, the wind playing with the curls, tossing them against your cheeks. I was some distance away, closer to the house.

  The moment I saw you, I moved toward you, needing to be closer, to touch you, hold you. But you turned away from me, calling to someone I could not see. For a moment, I felt a flood of uncertainty, fearing you were rejecting me. But then, a tiny figure bounded into view—a little girl that you swung into your arms before walking to meet me.

  The scene was so vivid, so real. I could taste the tang of the salt air, smell the sweet perfume of roses. The grass rustled beneath my feet as I reached out to you, to the child in your arms. And then it all vanished like a puff of smoke and I woke to a sense of loss that was so all-encompassing that I could scarcely breathe.

  Ple
ase, please don’t give up on me. Don’t let another man steal your heart.

  Charlie

  Chapter Fifteen

  London, England

  The house was quiet when Susan returned from work, dejected from the news she’d received. Last night’s air raid had damaged the factory and it wouldn’t be until after Christmas that The Meade Ironworks would be up and running again. That meant that Susan had been given a “Winter Holiday”—which was Mr. Meade’s delicate way of saying she would be out of work and without a paycheck for the next few weeks.

  Shivering, she hung her coat on the hall tree. It looked forlorn there. Where once, she would have been forced to juggle for space with her father’s overcoat, her mother’s fur collars, and the children’s sweaters and jackets, now the hooks were empty. That meant Phillip must be about his Home Guard duties since his shift at the warehouse would be finished by now. Either that, or he was spending the evening with friends.

  Sighing, she gathered the pile of mail still scattered under the slot and hurried to the kitchen where a scant amount of heat would radiate from the stove, at least. Quickly, she fired up the coals and set a kettle on to boil.

  Gathering a mug and the tin of tea leaves, she decided she would probably make her way through the hedge and spend the evening with RueAnn. Occasionally, there were nights when the air raid sirens remained silent and it wasn’t necessary to pile into the Anderson, but the bustling atmosphere next door had become more of a home than this empty shell of a house. Now that she’d been given time off, she supposed she should give the whole place a stiff cleaning, but she didn’t even want to think about it.

  Sitting at the table, she kept an ear cocked toward the kettle and shuffled through the mail. Thankfully, her father’s pension and insurance payments had begun to trickle in, so they wouldn’t starve. But it would still be a balancing act of bills until she could get back to work. She sorted them into piles, looking for something from Paul. She hadn’t heard from him in nearly a week and she’d begun to worry that…

  An envelope with an unfamiliar feminine flourish caught her eye. It was simply addressed to Miss S. Blunt.