by Alan Hlad
Clover left work early, stopping only to pick up her children from day care. As Evie and Hugh played in the pigeon loft, Susan retrieved her tin and the newspaper clippings, then joined Clover, sitting at the kitchen table.
“Are you all right?” Clover said, fumbling with her earring.
She always rubs her lobes when she’s worried. “I’m fine,” Susan said, trying to reassure her daughter. “I’m not dying, nor have I contracted a debilitating geriatric disease.”
“Why couldn’t we simply talk on the phone?”
Susan noticed a tone of concern in her daughter’s voice. “I want you to learn of this from me, rather from somewhere else. Also, I need to show you something.” She handed her the most recent newspaper clipping.
Clover read the article. “This has something to do with you?”
Susan nodded.
“I knew you had raised war pigeons, but you never said anything about secret messages.” She glanced at the article. “Did you work at Bletchley? I thought you had raised pigeons in Northampton. I had no idea you were involved with intelligence. . . .”
Susan shook her head. “It’s a personal matter, I’m afraid.” Susan uncapped the tin and spread the contents over the table.
Clover’s jaw dropped.
Susan looked at her daughter. “Before I met your father . . .” She handed her an aged piece of paper.
She glanced at the message, then stared at her mother.
Susan noticed how much Clover looked like her father—high cheekbones, small nose, and a swirling cowlick in her bangs. Seeing the resemblance and realizing what she was about to say caused a lump to form in her throat. She swallowed. And for the next hour, she told her everything. About Source Columba. Duchess. Bertie. And how, during the Blitz, she had communicated with an American trapped in Nazi-occupied France.
“My God, Mother.” Clover gave a long sigh.
Susan expected her daughter to be upset. Confused. Perhaps even betrayed by the fact that her mother had once had feelings for another man. But Clover surprised her.
“You were quite fond of each other,” Clover said, glancing at the deciphered messages.
Susan nodded.
Clover clasped her earring, as if the backing had fallen off. “Were you in love with him?”
She paused, surprised by her daughter’s candidness, then nodded.
“Ollie never returned?”
Hearing his name caused Susan’s belly to ache. She shook her head.
Clover held her mother’s hand.
Moved by her daughter’s touch, Susan’s eyes welled with tears. After all, Clover wasn’t a hugger. Even as a child, she had disliked being held, let alone touched. Susan squeezed her fingers. “It was a long time ago, dear.”
“But you wanted me to know?”
“Yes,” Susan said. “I’m tired of keeping a secret. And I wanted you to know, in the event they ever decipher the code and link the message to me. There were few women in the National Pigeon Service. I’m likely the only one named Susan.”
Clover looked at the newspaper clipping. “I’m surprised that Bletchley and GCHQ haven’t deciphered the code.”
“My father’s codebook was from the Great War,” Susan said. “Perhaps they’re focusing on codes from the wrong war.”
“Mother, they cracked the Nazi Enigma machine, for God’s sake. They’ll decipher this message.” Clover released her mother’s hand and smiled. “They’ll be shocked when they read this.”
Susan chuckled, then wiped her eyes.
“Don’t you want to know what this says?” Clover asked. “These messages could help them break the code.”
“Yes, but I’m not about to give them my messages,” Susan said.
“Why?”
Susan recalled her and Bertie’s decision not to turn over Ollie’s messages to the RAF. Even after half a century, her grandfather’s words still echoed in her memories. Our military will get their intelligence. But they will not see what is meant for you.
“Ollie intended this to be read by me, not our government,” Susan said. “More than anything, I want to know what’s on that piece of paper. But my heart is telling me that I should do this on my own.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Clover asked.
“You were always rather good at crosswords,” Susan said, sliding the coded message to her. “Want to help me solve a puzzle?”
CHAPTER 58
EPPING, ENGLAND
The following weekend, Clover and the grandchildren stayed in Epping with Susan. During the day, mother and daughter played with Evie and Hugh, rounds of hide-and-seek and trips to Clacton-on-Sea to release pigeons. Hugh, a persistent child, had even persuaded his mother, squeamish about droppings and irrationally frightened of catching a case of the bird flu, to hold a pigeon.
Clover, her arms outstretched, squealed as the bird flapped its wings.
“You look like the queen holding a pile of poo,” Susan said.
The children giggled.
In the evening, after the children were read a story and tucked into bed, she and Clover worked on the message, although they spent more time talking. To Susan, Clover seemed genuinely interested, wanting to know more about Ollie, Bertie, and her role in the National Pigeon Service. Both nights, they stayed up late drinking tea and eating sweet-meal biscuits. And by Sunday evening, they’d gotten no further than where they’d started. But Susan had, for the first time in years, truly connected with her daughter. Despite not getting any closer to deciphering the code, she cherished her time with Clover and her grandchildren.
“Mother, what do you think about hiring a cryptanalyst?” Clover asked, as she placed her luggage into her car.
Susan scratched her head.
“A code breaker.” Clover buckled her children into their seats. “With the other letters, an expert might be able to decipher the message.” She stepped to her mother. “Of course, I’d make sure we had a confidentiality agreement in place.”
“I’ll think about it,” Susan said.
Clover nodded.
“I enjoyed our time together,” Susan said.
Clover smiled. “Me too.” She got behind the wheel and started the car.
As they drove away, Susan blew kisses to her grandchildren, then returned to the cottage. The silence was deafening. Alone, the pressure returned, as if she had been placed inside a hyperbaric chamber. Exhausted, she fell asleep in her chair.
CHAPTER 59
EPPING, ENGLAND
Susan woke with her back stiff, as if her spine had been replaced with a steel rod. She took three aspirin and stretched her vertebrae, trying to regain movement in her arthritic joints. Barely able to touch her knees, let alone her toes, she vowed to never fall asleep in a chair again.
When the pain had been reduced to a dull ache, she made her way to the pigeon loft. Because she was late with their breakfast, most of the pigeons were already waddling around the feeding tray. Out of habit, she rapped on the grain barrel with a wooden spoon, then poured feed. She watched the pigeons peck and strut. Their talons scratched over the plywood floor. The cooing and familiar musty scent of the loft was comforting. But the temporary solace quickly faded when she thought of the indecipherable message inside her old tea tin—a ghost of the past, sealed like a genie. Perhaps Clover was right, she thought. Maybe I should hire a code breaker.
As she was refilling a water bowl, she heard a car engine. Pigeons fluttered. The sound of the automobile grew, then stopped. She stretched her back and grimaced. A car door squeaked open and shut. Stepping out of the loft, she saw a parked blue car. And a gray-haired man staring at the cottage.
The spring-hinged door banged behind her. “Hello,” Susan called.
The man turned.
Susan squinted, wishing she hadn’t left her glasses inside the cottage. “May I help you?”
He cleared his throat. “Susan.”
The sound of his voice jolted her. She froze, believing her ears m
ust be failing, just like her knees.
He walked toward her.
Her legs remained planted, as if her feet had suddenly sprouted roots. As he stepped to her, his face slowly came into focus. Although his cheeks and forehead were heavily wrinkled, she recognized the dimpled chin. Caramel eyes, dulled from age. His once wavy brown hair now white and wispy. “Ollie?”
He nodded.
“Oh my God.”
He gazed into her eyes.
Her breath stalled in her chest. You’re alive! Part of her wanted to wrap her arms around him. Hug him. Squeeze him. But the shock of seeing him spawned a flurry of mixed emotions. Her mind raced. Why didn’t you come back? Where have you been? What happened? She stared at him, unable to speak.
He slowly reached his hand.
She stepped back. Her heart pounded with uncertainty. Is it really you?
Ollie lowered his arm and paused.
You survived but didn’t bother to contact me. Susan’s shoulders drooped as her joy turned sour.
“May I come in?” he asked.
She hesitated. Were your promises merely a symptom of the war? Didn’t you feel the same way about me? And she realized that her precious memories, created under the duress of Luftwaffe bombs, may have been distorted dreams. Lies. Suddenly, her elation was buried in an avalanche of heartbreak. She wanted to cry. But despite how much the truth would sting, she needed to know what had happened. “Be an egg,” she whispered to herself. She took a deep breath, attempting to gather her fortitude, then led him to the cottage.
A few minutes later, they sat in the kitchen with a pot of freshly brewed tea. Susan’s hand trembled as she stirred milk and sugar into his cup.
“Thank you,” Ollie said. He took a sip and returned his cup to the table. “You look the same.”
Susan, seated on the opposite side of the table, glanced down at her tea. The reflection of an old woman peered back at her. “I thought you were dead.” The harshness of her words cut the air.
Ollie lowered his head.
Unable to bring herself to look at him, Susan fixated on a deep scratch in the tabletop.
“I saw an article in the paper,” he said, breaking the silence. “I spoke with Lydia and Niles Googins. They told me where to find you.”
Susan forced herself to take a sip of tea, hot and bitter. “Perhaps you should have called.”
Ollie cleared his throat. “I guess I was afraid that you wouldn’t want to see me.”
Susan added a lump of sugar to her tea. She stirred. The spoon clanged against the cup.
Ollie glanced around the cottage, then pointed to a framed photograph on the wall. “Your family?”
Without looking up, Susan said, “My daughter, Clover, and my grandchildren, Evie and Hugh.”
“They’re beautiful.” He took notice of another photo. “Your husband?”
Susan nodded, feeling her stomach tighten. “Duncan at his retirement party.” She paused then said, “He passed away five years ago.”
“I’m sorry.” He gripped his cup. “Did you have a good life?”
Susan looked up. She crossed her arms and nodded.
“I’m glad,” he said.
Confused about how to respond, Susan asked, “Do you have children?”
“No, unfortunately,” Ollie said.
“Married?”
“Once.” He paused. “Anna died from leukemia in ’52.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It was a long time ago.”
She swallowed. “You never remarried?”
Ollie shook his head.
“Where do you live?”
“Portland.” He took a sip of tea. “Maine,” he added.
Oliver from Maine, Bertie’s voice crowed in her head.
“I retired there after working in Boston for a regional airline.”
“You got to fly?” Susan asked.
Ollie nodded.
A swarm of questions buzzed in her head. She fidgeted with her spoon. Unable to contain her emotions any longer, she stood and poured her tea into the sink. With her back to him, she blurted out what she had wanted to ask since the moment she saw him. “How could you let me believe you were dead? For the past fifty years, you couldn’t find the time to call or write me a letter?”
Ollie started to speak but was cut off.
“What happened?” She leaned against the counter, alleviating pain that was building in her knees.
Ollie took a deep breath. “Where do I begin?” he whispered to himself.
“Perhaps from the beginning.”
Ollie ran a hand through his thin hair. After a long pause, he spoke. “In the winter of 1940, we attempted our escape from France. Crossing the Pyrenees mountain range, we encountered a Wehrmacht patrol. Our guide, Lucien, and Flight Lieutenant Boar were killed.” He rubbed his arm. “I was shot, attempting to cross a river into Spain.”
Susan turned.
Ollie closed his eyes, searching through his memories. “I was saved from drowning by two boys. They plucked me out of the river and wrapped me in their coats; otherwise, I would have died from hypothermia. Instead of turning me in to the border authorities, they took me to a monastery. I spent two months recovering.”
“Then you went back to the United States?”
Ollie shook his head. “Britain.”
Her mouth turned dry.
“I made my way to Portugal with the help of clergy, then boarded a ship to Britain. I arrived in Epping in May 1941.”
Susan covered her mouth.
He glanced around the room. “I found the cottage destroyed.”
Susan thought of the bombing. A flash of her grandfather covered in debris. “Bertie was killed.”
“I’m so sorry, Susan. Bertie was a wonderful man.” He rubbed the rim of his cup. “I can’t begin to imagine what you went through during the Blitz.”
She stepped to the table and took a seat next to him.
He cleared his throat. “I traveled to Church Fenton and joined the Eagle Squadron. After the Blitz, the RAF was desperate for volunteer pilots, even an American crop-duster who could barely lift his arm high enough to pass the physical exam. I flew a Hurricane for the RAF until shortly after the Japanese bombing at Pearl Harbor. When the United States joined the war, I was transferred to the US Army Air Forces.”
“Why didn’t you look for me?” Susan asked. “I left word with the neighbors that I went to Northampton.”
Ollie slowly reached his hand into his jacket and removed a small book, weathered and badly water-stained.
Susan’s eyes widened, recognizing her father’s codebook.
He lifted the cover. Inside, small yellowed pieces of paper, pressed like old garden flowers. He took the one on top and slid it to Susan. “This was the last message Duchess delivered to me.”
Susan shuddered at the sound of her pigeon’s name. She retrieved her reading glasses and immediately recognized that it wasn’t her handwriting. And it wasn’t coded. Her hands trembled as she read the message.
Susan’s hands quivered. She stared at the message. “You thought I was . . .”
“Yes,” he said.
She squeezed the paper. A mixture of shock and anger jarred her body. “Who’s Corporal Williamson? Why would he have sent this message?” She struggled to recall the names of the soldiers who were once stationed on the farm.
Ollie swallowed. “There was no Corporal Williamson.”
She stared at him. Then it struck her. She quickly retrieved her tin, kept on a kitchen cart, and emptied its contents onto the table. Comparing the handwriting from a message, signed Flight Lieutenant Clyde Boar, RAF, she found the penmanship to be identical. “My God.”
“Boar must’ve gotten to Duchess and switched messages,” Ollie said.
“Why?” Susan’s eyes blurred with tears.
“Maybe it was because he despised Americans, especially me. Or that he was jealous of us.” He leaned forward. “I believe the tipping point was w
hen he learned that he’d lost an eye. He turned bitter, realizing he’d never fly again. I suppose I became the target for his anger, and the message was initially meant to be a cruel joke, one that I’d figure out if I made it out of France.” Ollie took a deep breath and exhaled. “And even more confusing, Boar saved my life on two separate occasions.”
“I hate him,” Susan said. “He took away our future.”
He gently clasped her hands. “I spent the trip here trying to make sense of it all. I found myself regretting what I’d done, or not done. It was the longest flight of my life.”
Susan sniffed. A tear dropped onto his hand, and she noticed that he made no effort to wipe it away.
“Initially, I refused to let myself believe the news that you and Bertie had been killed. I’d been away when Duchess had returned, and I’d assumed that Boar had written the message, although he adamantly denied it. But when I returned in the spring of ’41, I found the farm destroyed. The field was pocked with craters. I abandoned my doubts about the validity of the message. And at that moment, and every day since, I believed that you were gone.”
Susan stared at him. She noticed his lower lip tremble.
“I couldn’t bring myself to stand over your grave. I had picked wildflowers from the meadow and placed them by a loft.” Ollie lowered his head. “If only I had stayed in Epping, I would’ve found you.”
“It’s not your fault,” Susan cried. “He did this to us.”
Ollie drew a wavering breath. “When I learned you were alive, I was ecstatic. And at the same time devastated by the thought of what could have been.”
She inched closer.
“I hate what Boar did, too. And I imagine I could spend the rest of my days as a resentful old man. But if it he hadn’t harassed you on that crowded train from London, we would never have met. You would’ve gotten off in Epping. I would’ve traveled on to Church Fenton. Our paths would never have crossed.” He caressed her hand. “And despite the briefness of our time together, I can’t imagine my life without you.”
She squeezed his fingers, sensing the time between them begin to melt away. “It wasn’t enough.”