by Diane Moody
Forgive me, that I never thanked you for the beautiful handkerchief with the little tulips on it. I’ve never seen anything so lovely. I shall cherish it always. Please tell your mother how much it means to me.
And please know always how much you mean to me.
Anya
12
Danny stared at the last page of Anya’s letter. He noticed several smears throughout the page. Tear stains? An overwhelming sense of loss consumed him. “She’s saying goodbye.” Hearing the croak of his own voice didn’t surprise him. But the knowledge that she was probably right shocked him to his core. He shuffled back to the first page to read the letter again. Surely he’d missed something.
The matinee showing came and went. Well into the evening showing, Danny lost count how many times he’d read Anya’s letter. He stared at the wall of the projector booth with unseeing eyes as he tried to imagine what was happening at that moment half way around the world. He felt so helpless.
Eventually he noticed the final reel of The Oklahoma Kid had run out. He reached over to stop the click-click-click flapping of the reel. Looking down into the auditorium, he found it completely empty. With a heavy sigh, he gathered his things and climbed down the rungs, his mind rounding in circles much like that reel on the projector.
“There you are.” Steve turned off the concession stand lights. “I’m done here so I’m leaving. That okay with you?”
“Sure. Is Dad in his office?”
“No, I haven’t seen him. I thought maybe he was checking inventory or something. You know your dad.”
“Huh? Oh, yeah.”
“You okay, Danny?”
“Huh?”
“I said, are you okay?”
“Yeah. See you tomorrow, Steve.”
“Goodnight.”
Danny’s mind traveled thousands of miles away to a Dutch parsonage. As hard as he tried, he couldn’t picture Anya’s face as it must now look. All he had was the old family picture of the Versteegs in front of a windmill. Back then she ran through tulip fields and sucker-punched snotty Girl Scouts. He couldn’t imagine how she must have matured or how the worry might be etched on her face now.
He noticed the overflowing trash can by the auditorium door. “Nice, Steve,” he muttered to himself. “How many times do we have to tell you?” He picked up the large container and made his way out the side door to the alley. He tossed the trash into the bin, but noticed a huge wad of bubblegum still stuck on the bottom of the can with candy wrappers and popcorn stuck in its gooey clutches. “Great. Just great.”
He froze.
What was that? A shot of adrenaline skittered down his spine. He didn’t move a muscle. He heard it again—a low moan, barely audible. It seemed to come from further down the darkened alley. As he debated what to do, he heard it again.
“Who’s there?”
He couldn’t be sure but he thought he heard his name. Oh no . . .
Danny rounded the trash bin and tried to make his eyes adjust to the pitch black alleyway. He spotted the slightest movement and rushed to the form lying on the ground.
“Danny . . .”
“Dad! What happened? I can’t see—are you hurt?”
“Those guys . . .”
Danny tried to lift his father’s head off the ground. He cried out in pain.
“Dad, let me go call an ambulance. I’ll be right—”
His father lifted his hand, reaching for him. Danny took hold of his hand—and the sticky substance covering it. “Dad, you’re covered in blood! Where are you hurt?”
His father moaned. “My legs . . . they smashed . . . my legs . . . baseball bat . . .”
Danny looked down at his father’s legs, for the first time noticing the dark stains all over his pant legs and the pool of blood beneath them. He clenched his fists as his gaze fell on the impossible angles of his father’s splayed legs.
“Those thugs . . .”
Their faces, the garlic on their breath, the rain-pelted Fedora, the cigar smoke, the sneer of their smiles—all exploded in Danny’s mind in a split second. “Dad, I’ll be right back. I’ll call for an ambulance and be right back. Hold on, okay?”
“Hurry . . .” It was more of a breath than a plea.
Danny knew seconds counted. He rushed inside, made the call, grabbed a jacket from the back of the office door, and hurried back to his father’s side.
“I’m here, Dad. I’m gonna lift your head, okay?” He balled up the jacket and slid it carefully beneath his father’s head. “There you go. Just take it easy. One breath at a time. Help is on the way, so hold on.”
His father groaned. “Tell your mother . . .”
As his eyes readjusted once again to the partial moonlight, Danny could see a tear slip from his father’s eye.
“No, you tell her. You’re gonna make it. So don’t you give up on me, you hear?”
His dad squeezed his eyes shut. “Joey . . . tell Joey . . . I’m . . . I’m so sorry.”
“Dad, please hold on. You’ve gotta hold on!”
The siren grew louder as Danny stroked his father’s face. “I love you, Dad. Hold on. Just hold on.”
“We got ‘em!”
“Excuse me?” Mom asked the police officer. Danny’s father lay unconscious in the hospital bed, his two legs in casts suspended in a maze of traction.
“We got ‘em,” Officer Cameron Fuller said. “All three of ‘em. Locked up so tight they’ll never see sunlight again.”
“How?” Danny asked in disbelief. “It’s only been two days.”
“We’ve been watching these guys for a long time. Arrested ‘em dozens of time but nothing ever stuck. Til now. This time we applied a little pressure, if you will. Little Rocco Feeney sang like a bird. We’ve got ‘em on so many charges, they’ll be old and senile before they ever walk free again.”
“Are you sure?” Danny asked. “I mean, how do you know there aren’t others who’ll just move in and fill their shoes? Make the same threats?”
“We made a sweet deal with Rocco. He’ll be out in ten, but he’s not the problem. Rocco’s just a stooge. A follower. Doesn’t have enough sense to connect the dots, let alone pull off anything on his own. Mulrooney was the brains of this operation. Called all the shots. Tried to scare folks like your dad here real bad, making ‘em think they’d be robbed or roughed up or even killed without his protection, when the only ones robbing and roughing up were his own flunkies. It’s not very original, but Mickey Mulrooney was good at it. Real good.”
His mother wiped her eyes. “Do you mean we don’t have to worry about another attack? Is Danny safe working at the theater?”
“He’ll be fine, Mrs. McClain. And we’ve been ordered to move more officers to cover that part of town. Kid, you’ll be sick of seeing our boys, but you’ll be safe. You have my word on that.”
They chatted a few moments more before Officer Fuller left. Danny stood across the bed from his mother looking down at his father. “Sure wish he could’ve heard the good news.”
His mother pushed a strand of her husband’s graying hair off his forehead. “Oh, he’ll be plenty happy to hear it once he comes out from under all the medication. Doctor Mercer seemed to think he’d start coming around sometime in the next day or two.”
Danny dropped back into a chair. “I guess this means I need to re-open the theater.”
His mother’s eyes fell on him. “That’s entirely up to you.”
“I know, but you and I both know that’s what he’d want. Besides, he’s gonna be here in the hospital for a long time. How else are we gonna pay the bills if we have no income?”
She made her way around bed and sat in the chair next to his. “I don’t want you worrying about the money. God will take care of us. He always has and He always will. Maybe we could find someone to run the theater for us while you’re in school.”
“Who? That’s why Dad wanted me to work for him. He doesn’t trust anyone else.”
“Well, for heaven�
�s sake, surely there’s someone who can pitch in and help? How about that young man who works at the concession stand?”
“Steve? He works two other jobs. He’s nineteen and already has two kids. I can’t expect him to give up one of his other jobs just for a few weeks until I graduate.” Danny dropped his head in his hands then ran them through his hair. “Look, maybe we can talk to someone at school. Explain the situation. I’ve only got a few more weeks. Maybe they’d work with us to let me cut my afternoon class. I’ve already got enough credits to graduate.”
“I’ll be happy to talk to someone, honey.”
He looked over at his father’s sleeping face. Even at rest, the creases of a face always scowling made him look mad. Danny thought back on those moments before the ambulance came when his dad whispered for Danny to tell Joey he was sorry, to tell his mother—well, he could only assume he wanted her to know how much he loved her. Such a striking difference from the indifferent, brusque, and angry father he knew. Would he still be different when he woke up? Would he still ask Joey to forgive him? Tell his mother how much he loved her?
He blew out a sigh. “It’ll all work out, I guess. I’m just thankful he pulled through.”
She reached over and placed her hand on her husband’s. “I couldn’t bear it if we’d lost him.”
Danny thought back on all the times his dad had belittled her in front of him. All the times he’d silenced her with his glare. And still, she couldn’t bear it if she’d lost him?
Danny needed some fresh air. “I need to run some errands. I’ll be back in a little while. Do you need anything?”
“No, dear. I’m fine.” She took hold of his father’s lifeless hand. “I’ve got all I need right here.”
13
May 1940
Danny sat at his father’s desk going over the ledger. As much as he didn’t want to learn the business, he wished at some point he’d asked his dad to explain the books. He felt sure it all made sense to his father, but to him it looked like chicken-scratched numbers in nameless columns. He rubbed his hand over his face and sighed.
I can’t do this on my own. I’ve got to take the ledger to Dad at the hospital and have him explain it. If he can stay lucid long enough.
Danny stared out the window, fighting the despair consuming him. Ever since he accompanied his mother to yesterday’s consultation with Dr. Mercer, he’d known his hopes of starting college in the fall had just gone up in smoke. The doctor’s words buzzed through his head over and over . . . With luck Mr. McClain might be able to leave the hospital by the holidays. But don’t count on him walking for at least a year. He’ll require months of physical therapy to retrain mobility of his legs. Of course the head trauma and other internal injuries are far more serious. As I told you before, Mrs. McClain, your husband is lucky to be alive.
Danny dropped his head in his hands. At least a year . . . Even if his dad made it home by Christmas, his mother would need help caring for him. He’d be an invalid. Who knew when he’d be able to go back to work? Danny could fight it all he wanted, but nothing would change the fact he’d have to wait another year to start college.
He stood up and stretched, then decided to go across the street for a cup of coffee. He had another half hour before opening the theater doors for the matinee. He locked the alley door behind him then made his way across 75th Street to the diner. He was about to climb the steps when a newsie stepped in front of him.
“Hey mister, want a paper?”
He started to brush past the kid when the big bold letters of the Chicago Tribune headline jumped out at him:
GERMANS INVADE HOLLAND
For a second, he stood motionless, staring at the headline as it seared into his brain. He dug in his pocket for coins and quickly swapped the newsie for a copy of the paper. Danny devoured the front page story as fast as he could, his heart beating faster with every sentence. The story began the evening of May 9 when Hitler gave another of his ranting speeches. In it, he said The Netherlands had nothing to fear. Because of their neutrality during the Great War, he said he respected their wish to remain neutral in the current war. Then, in the wee hours the following morning, the Dutch were awakened by the deafening sounds of an air battle overhead. Hundreds of planes roared above them, many dropping bombs at strategic locations. Others dropped so many paratroopers, the sky resembled a snow storm with all the white parachutes fluttering down. At the same time German soldiers poured over the border into every town and village, many disguised as Dutch citizens, priests, and soldiers. When the real Dutch soldiers rushed to load their weapons, they found their ammunition cases filled with sand, further evidence of sabotage.
Danny remembered Anya once telling him her country didn’t believe in war and therefore didn’t have a fully trained military. She’d told him how hard she had laughed at a group of Dutch soldiers riding bicycles with their rifles slung over their shoulders. How could such an “army” fight the mighty Germans? With war all around them, why hadn’t they better prepared to fight?
He scanned the rest of the article, hating what he read and sick with worry about Anya and her family. Had they survived? Were they safe? As the questions raced through his mind, he remembered Anya’s last letter. Would it be her last? Would his letters get through to her? No, of course not. The Germans immediately cut off every form of communication in the countries they took over.
Danny cursed and wadded the paper in his hands. He sat down hard on the steps of the diner ignoring the customers coming and going. He stared across at the theater. Had it really been only moments before when he’d groaned about having to put off college for another year? His eyes tracked downward to the paper in his hands. He carefully spread it across his lap, smoothing out the wrinkles and refolding it. Somehow it felt like Anya was in those pages and he wanted nothing more than to protect her. What was a delay in his plans for college compared to the horror she must surely be facing?
He closed his eyes, imagining the dark sky over Holland, the ghost-like shapes of the German Luftwaffe flying overhead, the inky blotches of flak dotting the sky, the massive explosions blowing up bridges and buildings.
He pushed the thoughts from his mind, trying to stuff them somewhere so he could think of some way to help, some way to get through to Anya. But what could he do?
Nothing.
Nothing except pray.
And right there, on the steps of the 75th Street Diner, he prayed. Oh Lord, keep Anya safe. Keep all of them safe.
Part II
14
May 15, 1940
Utrecht, The Netherlands
Anya sat across the kitchen table from her father. She studied the new creases on his face, the stubble on his chin; his eyes, normally shining with hope and laughter, now shrouded and troubled. But it was his silence that unnerved her, almost as much as the distant gunfire echoing through the streets. His hand, still poised around his coffee cup, trembled ever so slightly. Anya reached across the table and placed her hand over his.
“Father?”
As if snapping out of a trance, he looked up. “Yes?”
“So quiet you are. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
He turned his hand, taking hers in his, as a tired smile tried to form. “I was thinking of the day I married your mother.”
“Tell me about it.”
“It was such a beautiful day. The sky so blue. Birdsong filled the air. A cool breeze danced through the flowers in her hair. How lovely she looked, her hand in mine, as we walked from the church to the parsonage surrounded by those we loved. The parishioners had prepared a great feast in our honor.”
A distant explosion rumbled through the air, shaking the foundation below them. They’d grown wearily accustomed to such interruptions over the past few days. Since 3:30 on Friday morning, when the Germans invaded in spite of Dutch anti-aircraft and ground-to-air artillery, Anya and her father had watched their way of life turn upside down. The Germans quickly made themselves at home, emptying home
s and warehouses, stealing everything in sight, even forcing families out of their homes so they could move in. They gathered food from shopkeepers, raiding shelves until nothing was left. While pillaging, they ordered residents to give up all their metal treasures—copper, brass, pewter, silver, serving pitchers, plates, and anything else they could melt down for ammunition. Anya had watched her neighbor dig several holes in his backyard to hide his treasures. How has it come to this? she’d wondered.
The Germans demanded all radios be turned in. But like many others, Anya and her father hid their radio—in their case, behind a wall in the pantry. They drilled a hole for access then placed a framed picture over it. Listening late at night to the BBC, they’d heard that Queen Wilhelmina and most of the Dutch government had fled to England just before the invasion. Anya was furious. How could our queen turn her back on her people at such a time? How could they care only for themselves, leaving the rest of us to ruin? Her father had cautioned her, speculating the queen surely had good reason to go to England. Hours later they heard the voice of Wilhelmina explaining her actions. Unwilling to be arrested or shot as a lamb unto slaughter, the wise queen and her government had taken all of the national treasures and money to England. There, they had set up a temporary station where they could continue to govern from a safe place. Wilhelmina could speak to her people via Radio Orange—a broadcasting service in cooperation with the BBC—at least to those who kept hidden radios.
Now, Anya and her father waited, listening to determine how far away the bomb must have hit. Father and daughter looked once again at each other, confident there was no need to take shelter.
“Go on, Father. Tell me about the wedding feast.”
“So much food, so lovingly prepared. And yet I don’t remember what was served. Only the cake we cut together. Lemon cake with a pale yellow icing.” He paused again.