“Doing something worthwhile for a change.”
Abel thought about the young captain as he slowly headed back to the field kitchen.
For both men the war was over.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The stretcher-bearers took the captain into a tent and laid him gently on an operating table. Captain William Kane of the 9th Armored Division could see a nurse looking sadly down at him, but he was unable to hear anything she was saying. He wasn’t sure if it was because his head was swathed in bandages or because he was now deaf. He watched her lips move but learned nothing. He shut his eye and thought. He thought a lot about the past; he thought a little about the future; he thought quickly in case he died. He knew that if he lived, there would be a long time for thinking. His mind turned to Kate in New York. The nurse could see a tear trickling out of the corner of the one eye.
Kate had refused to accept his determination to enlist. He had known that she would never understand, and that he would never be able to justify his reasons to her, so he had stopped trying. The memory of her desperate face now haunted him. He had never really considered death—no man does—and now he wanted only to live and return to his family.
William had left Lester’s under the joint control of Ted Leach and Tony Simmons until he returned. Until he returned … He had given no instructions for them to follow if he did not come home. Both of them had begged him not to go. Two more men who didn’t understand. When he had finally signed up, he couldn’t face the children. Richard, aged seven, had held back the tears until his father said that he could not go along with him to fight the Germans.
They sent him first to an Officers’ Candidate School in Vermont. Last time he had seen Vermont, he had been skiing with Matthew, slowly up the hills and quickly down. The course lasted for three months and made him fit again for the first time since he had left Harvard.
His first assignment was in a London full of Yanks, where he acted as a liaison officer between the Americans and the British. He was put up at the Dorchester, which the British War Office had taken over and seconded for use by the American Army. William had read somewhere that Abel Rosnovski had done the same thing with the Baron in New York and he had thoroughly approved. The blackouts, the doodlebugs and the air raid warnings all made him believe that he was involved in a war, but he felt strangely detached from what was going on only a few hundred miles south of Hyde Park Corner. Throughout his life he had always taken the initiative; he had never been an onlooker. Moving between Eisenhower’s staff headquarters in St. James’s and Churchill’s War Operations room in Storey’s Gate wasn’t William’s idea of initiative. It didn’t look as if he was going to meet a German face-to-face for the entire duration of the war unless Hitler invaded Trafalgar Square.
When part of the First Army was posted to Scotland for training exercises with the Black Watch, William was sent along as an observer and told to report back with his findings. During the long, slow journey to Scotland by train he began to suspect that he was fast becoming a glorified messenger boy, and to wonder why he had ever signed up. But once in Scotland, William found everything different. There, at least the air held the excitement of preparing for war, and when he returned to London, he put in a request for an immediate transfer to the First Army. His commanding officer, who never believed in keeping behind a desk a man who wanted to see action, released him.
Three days later William returned to Scotland to join his new regiment and began his training with the American troops at Inveraray for the invasion they all knew had to come soon. Training was hard and intense. Nights spent in the Scottish hills fighting mock battles with the Black Watch were a marked contrast to evenings at the Dorchester writing reports.
Three months later they were parachuted into northern France to join Omar N. Bradley’s army, moving across Europe. The scent of victory was in the air and William wanted to be the first soldier in Berlin.
The First Army advanced toward the Rhine, determined to cross any bridge they could find. Captain Kane received orders that morning that his division was to advance over the Ludendorff bridge ahead of them and engage the enemy a mile northeast of Remagen in a forest on the far side of the river. He stood on the crest of a hill and watched the 9th Armored cross the bridge, expecting it to be blown sky high at any moment.
His colonel led his own division in behind them. William followed with the 120 men under his command, most of them, like William, going into action for the first time. No more exercises with wily Scots pretending to kill him with blank cartridges—followed by a meal together. Germans, with real bullets, death—and perhaps no meal afterward.
When William reached the edge of the forest, he and his men met with no resistance, so they decided to press farther into the woods. The going was slow and without event and William was beginning to think the 9th must have done such a thorough job that his division would only have to follow them through, when from nowhere they were suddenly ambushed by a hail of bullets and mortars. Everything seemed to be coming at them at once. William’s men went down, trying to protect themselves among the trees, but he lost over half the platoon in a matter of seconds. The battle, if that’s what it could be called, had lasted for less than a minute and he hadn’t even seen a German. William crouched in the wet undergrowth for a few more seconds and then saw, to his horror, the next wave of the 9th Division coming through the forest. He ran from his shelter behind a tree to warn them of the ambush. The first bullet hit him in the head and, as he sank to his knees in the German mud and continued to wave and shout a frantic warning to his advancing comrades, the second hit him in the neck and a third in the chest. He lay still in the mud and waited to die not having ever seen the enemy—a dirty, unheroic death.
The next thing William knew, he was being carried on a stretcher, but he couldn’t hear or see anything and he wondered if it was night or whether he was blind.
It seemed a long journey, and then his eye opened, focusing on a colonel, limping out of the tent. There was something familiar about him, but he couldn’t think what. The stretcher-bearers took him into the operating tent and placed him on the table. He tried to fight off sleep for fear that it might be death.
William woke. He was conscious that two people were trying to move him. They were turning him over as gently as they could and then they stuck a needle into him. William dreamed of seeing Kate, and then his mother, and then Matthew playing with his son Richard. He slept.
He woke. He knew they had moved him to another bed; slight hope replaced the thought of inevitable death. He lay motionless, his one eye fixed on the canvas roof of the tent, unable to move his head. A nurse came over to study a chart and then him. He slept.
He woke. How much time had passed? Another nurse. This time he could see a little more and—joy, oh joy!—he could move his head, if only with great pain. He lay awake as long as he possibly could; he wanted to live. He slept.
He woke. Four doctors were studying him, deciding what? He could not hear them and so learned nothing. They moved him once again. He was able to watch as they put him in an ambulance. The doors closed behind him, the engine revved up and the ambulance began to move over rough ground while a new nurse sat by his side holding him steady. The journey felt like an hour, but he no longer could be sure of time. The ambulance reached smoother ground and then came to a halt. Once again they moved him. This time they were walking on a flat surface and then up some stairs into a dark room. They waited again and then the room began to move, another car perhaps. The room took off. The nurse stuck another needle into him and he remembered nothing until he felt the plane landing and taxiing to a halt. They moved him yet again. Another ambulance, another nurse, another smell, another city. New York, or at least America, he thought; no other smell like that in the world. The new ambulance took him over another smooth surface, continually stopping and starting, until it finally arrived at where it wanted to be. They carried him out once again and up more steps into a small white-walled
room. They placed him in a comfortable bed. He felt his head touch the pillow and when he next woke, he thought he was totally alone. But then his eye focused and he thought he saw Kate standing in front of him. He tried to lift his hand and touch her, to speak, but no words came. She smiled, but he knew she could not see his smile, and when he woke again, Kate was still there but wearing a different dress. Or had she come and gone many times? She smiled again. How long had it been? He tried to move his head a little, and saw his son Richard, so tall, so good-looking. He wanted to see his daughters but couldn’t turn his head any further. They moved into his line of vision, Virginia—she couldn’t be that old—and Lucy—it wasn’t possible. Where had the years gone? He slept.
He woke. No one was there, but now he could move his head; some bandages had been removed and he could see more clearly. He tried to say something, but no words came. Kate just watched, her fair hair longer now, falling to her shoulders, her soft brown eyes and unforgettable smile, looking beautiful, so beautiful. He said her name. She smiled. He slept.
He woke. Fewer bandages than before. This time his son spoke.
Richard said, “Hello, Daddy.”
He heard him and replied, “Hello, Richard,” but didn’t recognize the sound of his own voice. The nurse helped him to sit up, ready to greet the rest of his family. He thanked her. A doctor touched his shoulder.
“The worst is over, Mr. Kane. You’ll soon be well and then you can return home.”
He smiled as Kate came into the room, followed by Virginia and Lucy. So many questions to ask them. Where should he begin? There were gaps in his memory that demanded filling in. Kate told him that he had nearly died. He knew that but had not realized that over a year had passed since his division had been ambushed in the forest at Remagen.
Where had the months of unawareness gone, life lost resembling death? Richard was almost twelve, already preparing for St. Paul’s. Virginia was nine and Lucy nearly seven. Their dresses seemed rather short. He would have to get to know them all over again.
Kate was somehow even more beautiful than William remembered her. She told William how she had never accepted the possibility that he would die, how well Richard was doing at Buckley and how Virginia and Lucy needed a father. She braced herself to tell him of the scars on his face and chest; they would take time to heal. She thanked God that the doctors felt certain there would be nothing wrong with his mind, and his sight would be fully restored. Now all she wanted was to help that recovery. Kate slowly, William quickly.
Each member of the family played a part in the recovery process. Richard helped his father to walk until he no longer needed crutches. Lucy helped him with his food until he could once again feed himself. Virginia read Mark Twain to him—William was not sure if the reading was for her benefit or his, they both enjoyed it so much. Kate stayed by his side at night when William could not get to sleep. And then at last, after Christmas had passed, they allowed him to return to his own home.
Once William was back in East Sixty-eighth Street, his recovery accelerated, and his doctors were predicting that he would be able to return to work at the bank within six months. A little scarred, but very much alive. He was allowed to see visitors.
The first was Ted Leach, somewhat taken aback by William’s appearance—something Ted would have to live with for the time being. From Ted, William had news that Lester’s had progressed in the past year and his colleagues looked forward to welcoming him back as their chairman. A visit from Tony Simmons brought him news that made him sad. Alan Lloyd and Rupert Cork-Smith had both died. He would miss their prudent wisdom. And then Thomas Cohen called to say how glad he was to learn of William’s recovery and to prove, as if it were still necessary, that time had marched on by informing William that he was now semi-retired and had turned over many of his clients to his son Thaddeus, who had opened an office in New York. William remarked on their both being named after apostles. Thomas Cohen laughed and expressed the hope that Mr. Kane would continue to use the firm. William assured him he would.
“By the way, I do have one piece of information you ought to have.”
William listened to the old lawyer in silence and became angry, very angry.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
General Alfred Jodl signed the unconditional surrender at Reims on May 7, 1945, as Abel arrived back into a New York preparing for victory celebrations and an end to the war. Once again, the streets were filled with young people in uniform, but this time their faces showed true elation, not forced gaiety. Abel was saddened by the sight of so many men with one leg, one arm, blind or badly scarred. For them the war would never be over, no matter what piece of paper had been signed four thousand miles away.
When Abel walked into the Baron in his colonel’s uniform, no one recognized him. When they had last seen him in civilian clothes three years before, there were no lines on his then youthful face. The face they now saw was older than its thirty-nine years, and the deep, worn ridges on his forehead showed that the war had left its mark on him. He took the elevator to his forty-second-floor office, and a security guard told him firmly he was on the wrong floor.
“Where’s George Novak?” asked Abel.
“He’s in Chicago, Colonel,” the guard replied.
“Well, get him on the phone,” said Abel.
“Who shall I say is calling him?”
“Abel Rosnovski.”
The guard moved quickly.
George’s familiar voice crackled down the line with welcome. At once Abel realized just how good it was to be back—and how much he wanted to be home. He decided not to stay in New York that night but to fly the eight hundred miles on to Chicago. He took with him George’s up-to-date reports to study on the plane. He read every detail of the Baron Group’s progress during the late stages of the war, and it became obvious that George had done well in keeping the group on an even keel during Abel’s absence. His cautious stewardship left Abel with no complaints; the profits were still high because so many of the staff had been called up during the war, while the hotels had remained full because of the continual movement of personnel across America. Abel decided to start employing new staff immediately, before other hotels picked up the best of those returning from the service.
When he arrived at Midway Airport, Terminal 11C, George was standing by the gate waiting to greet him. He had hardly changed—a little more weight, a little less hair perhaps—and within an hour of swapping stories and bringing each other up to date on the past three years, it was almost as though Abel had never been away. Abel would always be thankful to the Black Arrow for the introduction to his senior vice president.
George, however, was uncharitable about Abel’s limp, which seemed more pronounced than when he had gone away.
“The Hopalong Cassidy of the hotel business,” he said mockingly. “Now you don’t have a leg to stand on.”
“Only a Pole would make such a dumb crack,” replied Abel.
George grinned at Abel, who was looking slightly like a puppy that had been scolded by its master.
“Thank God I had a dumb Polack to take care of everything while I was away looking for Germans.”
Abel couldn’t resist checking once around the Chicago Baron before he drove home. The veneer of luxury had worn rather thin during the wartime shortages. He could see several things that needed renovation, but it could all wait; right now all he wanted to do was see his wife and daughter. It was then that the first shock came. In George there had been little change in three years, but Florentyna was now eleven and had blossomed into a beautiful young girl, while Zaphia, although only thirty-eight, had become plump, dowdy and distinctly middle-aged.
To begin with, Zaphia and Abel were not sure quite how to treat one another, and after only a few weeks Abel began to realize that their relationship would never again be what it had been. Zaphia made little effort to excite Abel or take any pride in his achievements. It saddened him to observe her lack of interest and he tried to get her i
nvolved in his life and work, but she did not respond. She seemed contented only at home and with as little to do with the Baron Group as possible. He resigned himself to her attitude and wondered how long he could remain faithful to her. While he was enchanted with Florentyna, Zaphia, her looks and figure gone, left him cold. When they slept together he began to avoid making love, and on the rare occasions when he did, he thought of other women. Soon he began to find any excuse to be away from Chicago and Zaphia’s listlessness and silently accusing face.
He began making long trips to his other hotels, taking Florentyna along with him during her school vacations. He spent the first six months after his return to America visiting every hotel in the Baron Group in the same way he had when he had taken over the Richmond Group after Davis Leroy’s death. Within the year, they were all back to the high standard he expected of them, but Abel wanted to move forward again. He informed Curtis Fenton at the group’s next quarterly meeting that his market research team was now advising him to build a hotel in Mexico and another in Brazil, and they were searching for other new lands on which to erect a Baron.
“The Mexico City Baron and the Rio de Janeiro Baron,” said Abel. He liked the ring of those names.
“Well, you have adequate funds to cover the building costs,” said Curtis Fenton. “The cash has certainly been accumulating in your absence. You could build a Baron almost anywhere you choose. Heaven knows where you’ll stop, Mr. Rosnovski.”
“One day, Mr. Fenton, I’ll put a Baron in Warsaw and then I’ll think about stopping,” Abel told him. “I might have helped lick the Germans, but I still have a little score to settle with the Russians.”
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