Blue Skies Tomorrow

by Sarah Sundin

  After he cleaned the fish, he cooked it in his helmet with the chopped-up potato. His mouth watered. Even if he weren’t so hungry, he’d like the taste of this fish—like salmon, with a flavor that reminded him of thyme.

  Ray sat on a log and thanked God for his provision. While he ate, he planned out his night.

  After he cooled off his helmet in the snow, he’d clean it in the river, then boil the day’s drinking water. He’d already run out of halozone water purification tablets, so he had to be careful. Then he’d put out the fire with snow, a hissing and crackling spectacle. Before dawn, he’d return to cover the spot with snow.

  For most of the night, he’d traipse in the woods down the length of the airfield. Some of the jets were parked no more than a hundred feet from the tree line. Most Allied airmen saw these birds whiz past at over five hundred miles per hour. Was Ray the first to see one this close?

  He grinned. “Wouldn’t Walt be jealous?”

  He slammed his mouth shut. Silence was his rule, and if he spoke, it’d better be German.

  Ray picked up a chunk of wood left from making his dishes. Walt was the carver in the family, but Walt wasn’t there.

  Ray tucked the wood in his overcoat pocket. If he ever got out of this alive, he’d bring his baby brother a model of an Me 262.

  Too bad he couldn’t show him the real thing.

  32

  Antioch

  Sunday, February 18, 1945

  Wearing a polite, pained smile, Helen wandered around Fellowship Hall as if she had a purpose.

  For years she’d faked grief when she felt fine, and now she had to pretend she felt fine when she grieved. She had no right to mourn Ray. Hadn’t she wanted to keep their romance secret? If she could have that time back, she’d proclaim to the world how much she loved him.

  Someone jarred her left elbow, and Helen gasped and almost spilled her tea. For a moment, the acute pain took her mind off the smothering ache in her soul.

  Mrs. Llewellyn set a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry, Helen. Are you all right?”

  Helen rubbed her arm and forced herself to formulate a sentence. “I’m fine. I slipped in the rain yesterday and banged my elbow.”

  “You should be careful, young lady,” Judge Llewellyn said.

  “I—I know.” How on earth could she converse with the Llewellyns?

  “That was a moving sermon,” the judge said.

  Mrs. Llewellyn leaned closer. “I don’t know how Pastor Novak got up there today. They’re both so strong, aren’t they?”

  On the other side of the hall, Pastor and Mrs. Novak stood talking with the Waynes. The pastor had his arm around his wife’s waist, and both wore black suits and brave pale faces.

  The space constricted around Helen and squeezed out the air.

  “I—excuse me. I need more tea.” She set her cup on the first table she saw, grabbed her raincoat, and fled the hall, out into the rain, fumbling with her coat, sleeves all tangled up.

  A sob bubbled in her throat, and tears and rain mingled on her cheeks. When Jim died, Helen had concentrated with precision, and everyone thought her strong.

  She thought she’d performed grief well, but she’d had it all wrong. Her lips didn’t quiver; they twitched. In her true grief, she couldn’t think straight, she kept making jerky hand motions, and nothing made it better. Not work, not rest, nothing.

  Helen tugged her hood up. The church service made it worse.

  Pastor Novak didn’t mention his loss. He didn’t have to. He spoke with great effort and long pauses, and his hands never left the pulpit.

  How could he bear the loss of his firstborn son?

  Helen lifted her face to the rain. “Lord, I destroy the men I love. Don’t let me destroy Jay-Jay too.”

  Jay-Jay?

  She stopped so fast, one foot slid out beneath her. Jay-Jay had come to church with her while the Carlisles stayed home with colds. He ran around Fellowship Hall with Judy and his other little friends.

  Jay-Jay was still at the church.

  “Oh no.” She broke into a run, a faltering run, her left leg buckling with each step. She slipped on a leaf, cried out, and caught herself on a lamppost. She couldn’t afford to have two accidents in two days.

  Jay-Jay was fine. He was playing. No one would leave fellowship time for at least another half hour. He wouldn’t even notice she was gone. No one would know she’d forgotten him.

  No one could ever know.

  However, a tiny figure stood in front of the church on the curb, too close to the street. A small boy with blond hair and no coat. And he held his hands in front of his chest, opening and closing them, his gaze sweeping up and down Sixth Street.

  Helen gulped out a sob. “Oh, baby. Oh, sweetie.”

  She ran to him, to his contorted face and desperate cries, and she dropped to her knees on the slippery sidewalk and clutched him to her. “My baby. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  His cries changed tone, and he beat tiny fists on her sides. “Bad Mama. Bad Mama.”

  Helen cringed and bore it because that’s what a bad mama deserved.

  But no. No. She’d be an even worse mama if she let this pass.

  “No, sweetie. No.” She took his arms and held him in a firm grip, his wet, red face inches from hers. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I’m so sorry I left you, but I cannot let you hit me. You will not hit me. I love you too much to allow it.”

  With every ounce of her will, she trained her gaze on him—tender and apologetic but unyielding.

  Jay-Jay’s arms went limp in her hands. “Mama?” His voice edged high, grasping for forgiveness.

  “Baby. My sweet boy.” She pulled him to her and buried her face in his rain-sleek, boy-cut hair. Her chest heaved with his, her tears mixed with his, and all her grief ran together into a big muddy pool.

  A pool so thick and dark, she couldn’t see the surface.

  Klosterlechfeld

  Monday, February 19, 1945

  Ray wiped mud from his boots, ran his dry tongue around his mouth, and flexed his fingers over the door handle.

  Entering the village shop took more courage than his first combat mission. But he needed to do this. He puffed out a breath, opened the door, and slipped inside.

  The shopkeeper talked to a middle-aged woman over the counter and sent Ray a wave.

  Ray’s heart flopped around like a dying fish, and he wheeled down the aisle. He hadn’t looked another human being in the eye for a month. He’d forgotten the power of it.

  With long, even breaths, he searched the depleted shelves. He found soap, but it required a ration stamp, and it was nasty, lumpy, and gray. Too bad. The sticky, grimy feel of his skin bothered him almost as much as his empty stomach.

  Thank goodness—matches. Ray slid the box open and smiled at the sulfurous odor. The past two nights he’d failed to light a fire. Raw potatoes didn’t sit well in his stomach, and dysentery had set in since he couldn’t boil water. He could feel every rib.

  Farther down the aisle, a sign told customers they could serve the Führer by catching their own fish to eat. Ray scooped up the unexpected bonus of fishhooks and fishing line. Now he wouldn’t have to figure out how to fashion more when his supply gave out.

  Ray gritted his teeth for the toughest part. He laid his purchase on the counter before the shopkeeper, an elderly gentleman with high, rounded cheekbones. Body odor assaulted him. Maybe with soap scarce, Ray’s unwashed body wouldn’t stand out.

  “Guten Morgen, Herr Oberleutnant. How goes it with the Luftwaffe? Every day I hear your little planes.”

  “Ja.” Ray’s voice came out raspy from lack of use. He cleared his throat.

  “Are you sick? The Luftwaffe does not feed you well?” He tapped the fishhooks.

  Ray’s mouth dried out even more. Any answer required too many words. He pushed his purchase closer to the shopkeeper. “Wieviel?”

  The man sighed and rang up the purchase. “How much? How much? Young people always in
haste.”

  Ray handed the man a Deutsche Mark and escaped with his purchase in his pocket.

  Outside he took in deep drafts of cool air to settle his heart rate down. He’d done it. Sure, the shopkeeper thought him rude, but he’d done it.

  He scanned the white, gray, and yellow buildings with peaked red roofs cleared of snow since a recent warm spell brought an early thaw. Across the street a sign said “Buchhandlung.”

  A bookstore? Ray’s mouth formed a soft O, and a longing as deep as hunger pulled him across the slush in the street. He had plenty of cash. Without a ration book, he couldn’t feed his stomach, but he could feed his soul.

  He opened the door to the living scent of paper and ink and binding glue.

  “Grüss Gott.” Behind the counter, a tiny woman with a circlet of white braids sent Ray a beatific smile. Then a look of horror washed over her, and she snapped up her arm. “Heil Hitler!”

  Poor thing thought she was in trouble for using the traditional Bavarian greeting. Ray smiled at her. “Grüss Gott.”

  Then he whirled to the nearest shelf. What was he doing? He couldn’t say Rs properly, and a u-umlaut? Why not ask her for a hot dog and a paper with the latest baseball scores?

  The bookshelf before him burned his eyes with floor-to-ceiling copies of Mein Kampf. Enemy territory was no place to be kind and friendly.

  Ray sidled down the aisle. So many greats of German literature had been banned as “degenerate,” and what remained stank of Nazi propaganda. He picked up a children’s book with poetry about animals, which looked safe and pleasant.

  How about a biography? Beethoven frowned at Ray, and Ray smiled back and picked up the book, a subtle act of solidarity with the Allied cause. Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony served as an anthem for the Allies. The powerful opening chords signaled “dot-dot-dot-dash,” Morse code for the letter V. Combined with the Roman numeral V, the symphony sang “V for Victory.”

  Ray headed past the reference section. A dictionary? That would be helpful.

  Then his jaw lowered. A German-English dictionary.

  He stretched for it, then drew back. Would it brand him a foreign spy? Or an officer expanding his education?

  He stroked the binding. A risky purchase, but bad German carried its own risk.

  The blood whooshed in his ears, but he added the dictionary to the bottom of his stack and went to the counter before he could change his mind.

  “Three books?” The saleslady clapped ancient hands together and lifted her shoulders. “Ach, you sweet man.”

  Despite Ray’s vow to be impassive, he smiled. He didn’t realize how lonely he’d been.

  “Ach.” She hugged the poetry book. “What a beautiful book. The children will love it. Have you sons or daughters?”

  “Nein.” His smile drooped. He’d almost had a son. If he ever got home, he’d give Jay-Jay this book as a belated birthday gift. Three years old. How much he must have grown since Ray last saw him.

  The saleslady’s hand rested on the dictionary, and she stared at it.

  Every one of Ray’s muscles tensed, ready to spring. If she called the authorities, how fast could he run? Should he return to his shelter or flee the area? If he fled, he’d lose all his supplies.

  “The Americans come soon, nicht wahr?” Her voice trembled.

  Ray released his breath. With the early thaw, a spring offensive would come soon and so would the Americans—Ray’s greatest hope, but this lady’s greatest fear. “Ja,” he said softly.

  She nodded and raised watery eyes of medium brown, just about the shade of tea.

  And she was all the women in his life—Helen, his mother, his grandmother, all mourning half a world away. He couldn’t comfort them, but he could reach out to one frightened soul in their place.

  He settled his gloved hand on top of her knobby little hand, so much like Grandma Novak’s. “Keine Angst,” he said, repeating God’s great command to fear not.

  She raised a faltering smile. “Ja, keine Angst. God is with me, and also with you, nicht wahr?”

  Ray nodded, his heart full.

  He paid for his purchase and fled before he said anything more.

  Three Luftwaffe officers approached, and Ray slammed to a stop, prepared to run, but the men lifted hands in greeting and sauntered along.

  Ray stood still for a minute to catch his breath, and then strode down the sidewalk at a strong pace.

  His conversation with the saleslady was too long, too risky. What was he thinking? A month of hiding out, and he almost blew it with a few short words.

  33

  Port Chicago

  Tuesday, February 20, 1945

  Helen wadded up the sheet of typing paper and dropped it in the trash can, and then rubbed the bridge of her nose. Somehow she had to concentrate on this letter.

  The phone jangled, and Helen groaned. Where on earth could she find a perky secretary voice? “Lieutenant Llewellyn’s office, Mrs. Carlisle speaking.”

  “Hi, Helen. It’s Esther Jones.”

  “Esther.” For once, Helen didn’t have to fake a warm tone. “How are you? Have you found a job?”

  “Yes, with the NAACP in San Francisco. I’m sharing an apartment with some of the office girls. I feel as if I’m helping Carver in some small way.”

  “How is he?”

  “He’s holding up, but this is testing his faith. He isn’t cut out for prison life.”

  “No.” He was cut out for the lecture hall. Helen twisted her finger around the telephone cord.

  “Which is why I called.” Esther’s voice strengthened. “Lieutenant Llewellyn said we would have word on Carver’s appeal by now, but we haven’t heard anything. Have you?”

  “I haven’t. Let me get the lieutenant.” Helen knocked on Vic’s open office door. He lifted his head from a law book. “Esther Jones is on the phone for you.”

  His eyebrows hiked up, and then he took a deep breath and picked up the receiver. “Esther, so good to hear from you. How are you? . . . Yes, yes, so you have a new job? . . . I was impressed with the NAACP during the trial.”

  Helen returned to her desk and rolled a clean sheet of paper in the typewriter while Vic peppered Esther with small talk.

  “Yes, the appeal,” he said.

  Helen’s fingers hovered over the typewriter keys.

  “Yes. Well, this morning I had word. I wish it were good news, but I’m afraid they refused to hear the appeal.”

  “Oh no.” Helen’s fingers curled up, and she lowered her hands to the desk.

  “No. No, they didn’t. They don’t have to give a reason . . . Yes, I know it’s wrong.”

  Helen strained through the silence.

  “I wish there were, believe me. But we’ve exhausted our options. There’s nothing else we can do.”

  Her head hurt with the unfairness of it all. How could Esther bear it? How could Carver?

  “If I can do anything for you, anything at all, please let me know. And if something comes up, a new course to pursue, I’ll jump on it . . . Yes . . . God bless you too.”

  Helen couldn’t sit and she couldn’t type. She rose and grabbed a stack of papers to file, but the print wavered in watery gray.

  She rested her forehead on the cool steel filing cabinet. How could the world keep rolling under the weight of so much injustice? An innocent man in prison. A loving wife separated from her husband. A good man stripped from earth far too early. A small boy trapped in a home determined to wreck him.

  One woman trying to make order in the chaos.

  Helen hugged the papers to her chest. Work didn’t comfort her, and it had been a false cure anyway. Only God gave comfort, but Helen was so busy, she didn’t have enough time at his feet. Nor did she have enough time with Jay-Jay. But for her son’s sake, she had to pay off the last six months of her debt and get out. She couldn’t ask Papa for money without blabbing the Carlisle family secret, which wouldn’t be right. And Papa was already disappointed in her for marrying youn
g. If he knew the depth of her stupidity, he’d lose all respect for her.

  “Are you tired?”

  Helen jerked her head up. “Tired? I suppose so.”

  Vic gave her a lopsided smile and perched on the edge of Helen’s desk. “I got more work out of you when you worked part time.”

  Helen yanked out a drawer and stuffed a paper in a file. “I’m sorry. I’ll do better. I promise.” She shoved the drawer shut and pinched her finger. She cried out and stuck her finger in her mouth.

  Vic crossed his arms across his double-breasted blue jacket. “This kind of work doesn’t suit you. You’re meant to be some lucky man’s wife, running an efficient home, raising clean-scrubbed children, and leading every civic organization in town.”

  Helen squeezed back tears. “That’s not an option.”

  “Yes, it is.” His voice barely reached her ear.

  Her hand wrapped around the top corner of the file cabinet, cold and smooth and hard.

  He cleared his throat. “The night of the explosion you turned down my proposal very firmly, and I vowed never to bring it up again. However, my offer still stands. It always will. You know how I feel about you.”

  Helen turned slowly to the escape path opening up before her.

  Vic stared at his polished black shoes and tapped his fingers on his crossed arms. His jaw jutted forward.

  He’d never beat her—not this man who fought for the downtrodden and threw his body over hers after the explosion. He was a good man, a man of integrity, and a friend. Mrs. Carlisle said all she should look for in a second marriage was support and companionship, and for once she was correct. If she married Vic, she’d have a good husband, a safe home, and she could quit her job and have plenty of time for Jay-Jay and volunteering.

  “All right,” Helen said.

  Vic met her gaze, his forehead puckered up. “Excuse me?”

  She swiped moisture from her eyes. “All right, I’ll marry you.”