No Neutral Ground: A World War II Romance (Promise for Tomorrow Book 2)

by Terri Wangard

“How did he not see your faces?”

  “We pretended to be lovers.”

  Jennie’s color rose along with her grin, and Ed chuckled. He leaned back and studied them.

  “Are you willing to go into known German meeting places and listen to their talk?”

  “Sure.” Rafe shrugged. “I can’t really see myself sitting around reading newspapers all day long.”

  “When you come in tomorrow, I’ll brief you on procedures.” Ed rose, and everyone rose with him. “That’s good work, Martell.”

  Knowing about stolen diamonds and gold didn’t seem likely to help the Allies win the war. Unless the Dutch were informed about their wealth’s whereabouts. A lot of Dutch citizens courageously hid and helped downed Allied fliers. Maybe this was a way they could show their appreciation.

  He said so to Jennie as they headed for the door. A red-headed whirlwind blew in before they reached it.

  “Hello, Jennie and…” The whirlwind came to an abrupt stop and blinked at him.

  “Phyllis?” Jennie waved a hand in front of her face.

  The redhead blinked at Jennie before returning her attention to him. “Don’t I know you?”

  According to his crewmates, that was a pick-up line men used. “No, ma’am, we’ve never met.”

  She snapped her fingers. “You’re in the sketch.” She turned to Jennie. “That serviceman on the Queen Mary you sketched. It was him.”

  Jennie’s color flared. “This is Rafe. Remember I told you a plane crashed while I was in Malmö? It was Rafe’s plane.”

  “And yet you forgot to mention he was on it.” Phyllis rocked back on her heels with an ear-to-ear grin.

  Jennie gripped Rafe’s arm hard enough to cut off his circulation as she angled toward the door. “We need to run. See you later, Phyllis.”

  Rafe waited until they were outside. “You drew me?”

  “Hmm.” Her color heightened. She shoved her hands into her pockets and refused to look his way.

  “I’d like to see it sometime.” He cleared his throat. “What will Ed do with the information we gave him?”

  Jennie’s shoulders sagged, even as she finally met his gaze. She hesitated. “Do you understand what the goal of the Office of Strategic Services is?”

  “Spying.”

  She smiled. Slipping her hand around his arm, she spoke quietly as they walked close together. “That spying nets us all kinds of information, sometimes just a clue here or there, but matched up with others, it can paint a broader picture.”

  Rafe paused. A mental jigsaw puzzle that had been missing a few pieces suddenly started forming up. “You’re involved. You knew who to go to. You know what they do. Are…” he glanced around, “Are you a spy?”

  “No.” Jennie didn’t hesitate in her answer. “I’ve received training from OSS and I work for them, but I’m behind the scenes. At least I’m supposed to be. I don’t have the courage to be a front line agent. Especially one behind enemy lines. If captured, at the first hint of torture, I’d spill any secrets I have, right down to my kindergarten teacher’s name and address.”

  Her shoulders hunched as she spoke. “However, eavesdropping is a form of spying, so I guess I’ll be a spy after all.” She grinned, but immediately sobered. “We will not, however, go looking for danger.”

  “Fine with me. I’ve wondered sometimes if I could be better serving the army as a translator. This will give me an idea if I’d like that.” If he was released from internment before the war ended, maybe he’d ask for a transfer to military intelligence.

  “How would you feel about doing black propaganda?” Jennie’s eyes sparkled.

  “Uh oh. You are up to mischief.”

  Her laughter rang out. Too bad he couldn’t promise her the moon.

  “Black propaganda includes demoralizing the enemy with rumors, sowing discord among them. An instructor discussed methods used by agents around the world. I have an idea I’ll run past Ed. Maybe we can have a little fun with the Germans.” Her eyes hardened. “One German in particular.”

  Lake Mälaren, Sweden

  Sunday, June 11, 1944

  Jennie eased back in the bow of the tiny sailboat. She sat on a cushion that doubled as a floatation device, if needed, but none was available for her back. A little discomfort failed to dampen her spirits. Rafe had spent the previous day familiarizing himself with Stockholm, and found a sail shop. Before dipping into the world of nefarious activities, he’d insisted on taking her sailing.

  A breeze filled their sail and sent them skipping across Lake Mälaren. Rafe surveyed the other boats. His eyes narrowed on a fisherman in a rowboat. He leaned toward her. “We should speak Swedish to blend in. Remember, sound carries across water very clearly.”

  Laughter rolled toward them from another boat, underscoring his words.

  Jennie’s inexperience in sailing showed when Rafe’s “Coming about!” failed to rouse her. Only when he hollered “Duck!” did her peril become apparent. The boom was about to conk her on the head. She hit the deck as it swept over her. Easing back onto the cushion, she offered a sheepish grin. “Maybe I should wear a construction worker’s hardhat.”

  He laughed. “I’ll have to remember to use more practical terms instead of being nautical.”

  His posture suggested not a care in the world as he lounged, one hand on the tiller, the other holding a rope on the sail. He propped his feet up on the opposite bench seat. So at ease was he, she likened his eyes to be at half-mast. He might soon doze off. A gust of wind could catch the sail, capsizing them. Not a pretty picture.

  He let go of the tiller to wave at a beat-up boat chugging by with a rough sound. Freed of control, the sailboat lurched. Jennie grabbed hold of the rail while he calmly pulled the tiller back in line and adjusted their course. After scrutinizing the activity around them on the lake, he slid off his perch and indicated the tiller.

  “It’s all yours. Why don’t you try heading for that inlet?”

  The boat wallowed with no one at the helm. She stared at him.

  “Are you kidding? I don’t know anything about sailing,” she wailed even as she slid around the starboard side to delicately grasp the tiller.

  “Just remember, when you move the tiller to the left, the boat turns to the right, and vice versa.” Rafe took her place at the bow, stretching out with his hands clasped behind his head.

  If he could look so nonchalant about this, the little boat must not be too hard to master. She wiggled the tiller, not unlike a little kid playing driver by jerking the steering wheel back and forth. When Rafe opened his mouth, she cut him off. “I know, I know, hold it steady.” He smiled and closed his eyes. They wobbled into the inlet.

  The fisherman drifted directly ahead. Concentrating fiercely, Jennie maneuvered the sailboat to pass on his right. Before she could counter their movement, the sailboat proceeded to circle completely around the fisherman’s rowboat.

  Rafe shook with laughter. “Where’s a traffic policeman when you need one?” He grabbed his camera and stood up. “Accident photos. Insurance adjusters will love them.”

  He snapped a photo and advanced the film before composing another shot.

  Jennie opened her mouth, and clamped it shut. She’d nearly called him Rafe. Good thing she’d remembered in the nick of time to avoid English, but they hadn’t discussed using Swedish names. “Sven, will you sit down before we really have an accident? Help me out here.”

  The fisherman glared at them, gripping his oars with rigid hands. Any effort to maneuver away from them was thwarted as their boat wobbled within inches of scrapping against his.

  Rafe collapsed onto the bench, tears of mirth streaming down his cheeks. “I believe you’ve got the hang of the left-hand turn. Now try a turn to the right. Move the tiller to the left.”

  “R—Sven!”

  “Move the… tiller in the… opposite direction.” One hand clutched his middle as his gaiety convulsed him.

  Could it be that simple? She jerked
the tiller to the left. The sailboat shuddered and rocked as the sail slackened. The fisherman seized the opportunity to dig an oar in the water and inch away from them.

  “Not so fast. Smooth and easy does it best.” Rafe aimed the camera at her before twisting and snapping another photo of her fleeing victim. He lowered his voice. “Good idea to use a different name.”

  The gap between the two boats widened. The man didn’t look their way.

  Jennie dropped her voice to a whisper. “Despite the fishing pole, he had no tackle box or pail for fish. Just a Swedish newspaper. His unfriendly attitude seems unwarranted for our little mishap.” She followed his slow progress. “He could be a Swedish policeman assigned to keep an eye on suspicious characters, but he can’t follow anyone in a poky rowboat.”

  Rafe relieved her of the tiller and set the sailboat on a jaunty pace west, away from the city. “He had something with him. Maybe a listening device that amplifies sound. Folks think they can come out here and be alone to talk, but it’s still best to keep mum. They’re not so dumb.”

  Jennie had seen the poster he referred to, urging caution to servicemen around strange women. Resenting the insinuation that women didn’t know how to use their brains, Phyllis had urged her to create a poster showing smart women avoiding a listening man. She was about to share that tidbit with Rafe when a wave splattered her with cold spray.

  “Oh!” The iciness took her breath away. “Suddenly I feel like we’re back on Queen Mary.”

  #

  Rafe held her painting of Strandvägen and the legation up to the light streaming through the window. “This is incredible, Jennie. So detailed.” He put it back on its stand and picked up her latest painting, the shoreline of Varpan Lake with cottages painted in Falu Red paint. “I like the little girl playing in the sand.”

  He replaced the painting and joined her on the settee. “You really don’t think you’ll have a job at the museum when the war’s over?”

  Jennie sighed. “I have to face facts. My work was little more than secretarial in nature. I’ve never been in charge of a show.” Her voice faltered. “I’m barely out of school.”

  “Yours wasn’t the sort of job a returning serviceman would look for, was it?”

  She shrugged. “My boss would question why I should be rehired when I’ll probably marry soon. He believes women work only until they can catch a man.” Her fingernails dug into her palms. Why did men have to be so patronizing? Not returning to work for him might be a good thing.

  “This exhibit you’re planning will attract good attention for you.” He picked up her notes. “I think you’re on the right track here. Your paintings of general Swedish scenes, photos highlighting internee life and activities, and a few objects are all you need.” He turned to a fresh page and began writing. “Your idea of getting newsmen to contribute their photos is first rate. Maybe your dad can assist us in making the rounds of the major towns where internees are quartered, like Malmö, Rättvik, Falun, Västerås, and Loka Brunn. I’ll be your liaison if you like, if the newsmen don’t take you seriously as a woman.”

  Jennie sat up straighter as she watched his list take shape. Rafe might not be schooled in art, but his interest was contagious.

  “How about this? Pick four or five fellows and interview them for a few personal stories.”

  “Like a mechanic at Malmö. One of the camp commanders. Someone who’s benefited from taking a class. A married man. A wounded airman.” She ticked off possibilities on her fingers. People would come to see how their boys had fared in a distant land.

  “Use Dan. On the slim chance he doesn’t want to cooperate, I’ll order him to.”

  Jennie laughed and shook a finger at him. “Play nice with your friends.” She laid her hand on his arm. “Thank you, Rafe.”

  He took her hand in his. “You’re good, Jennie. I grew up drawing pretty decent renditions of sailboats, but these paintings are exquisite. You may end up with an unusual exhibition, but variety is good. Folks get bored with the same old thing. Maybe we can book your exhibit at other locations, like the Milwaukee museum. Your old boss will regret the day he let you go.”

  Jennie could have sat there, staring into his eyes, believing wonders of herself, but her mom stuck her head in the room.

  “How about some supper? The soup’s hot and the salads are crisp. It’ll be just the three of us since your dad’s in Loka Brunn.”

  Mom didn’t care about impressing people. Jennie no longer bothered suggesting she remove her apron before sitting down with guests. Today’s apron displayed Mom’s efforts in the kitchen for the last several days. She’d wiped at the mess created by a squirting tomato, but a seed remained imbedded in the reddened cloth. A brown smear showed where she wiped her hands after making gravy. The streak of crusty white batter must have come when she brushed against a mixing bowl. Mom believed in letting her apron get good and dirty before washing it. Rafe didn’t raise a brow at her “art canvas.”

  Jennie glanced around the kitchen, trying to see it through Rafe’s eyes. Like the living room, white was the predominant color. Cheery red-striped curtains at the window and red cushions on the pine chairs brightened the room. They ate at a small table in the center of the kitchen. The table doubled as a work surface, due to scant counter space.

  Mom didn’t waste time getting Rafe to talk. “Do you think you’ll enjoy having a job here rather than staying in the country?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Over three weeks to decompress from combat was great, but an endless vacation can start to drag.”

  Jennie stirred her spoon through her soup to cool it. Potato fragrance rose with the steam. She hid her smile when Mom continued her interrogation. “Will you be doing more than reading papers?”

  “Yes. I wouldn’t care to sit around reading all day.” Rafe sent her a pained look. How much should he say? Did her mother know what she did?

  Jennie nodded. Mom knew she had a minor role with OSS. “Ed was pleased with what we overheard yesterday. He’s in favor of us eavesdropping on a regular basis.”

  Ed included her in Rafe’s work because she had the training. She may have heard yesterday’s conversation, but she’d understood not a word. A couple, however, was less likely to gain attention than a lone man. Being a foil for Rafe couldn’t be considered a hardship.

  “At places like restaurants the Germans are known to frequent? I hope Ed gave you an expense account.” Mom turned a stern eye on Jennie. “I hope you won’t try to provoke the Germans the way your friends Phyllis and Emma do.”

  Rafe nodded at her question. “We’ll be eating out a lot.” He turned to Jenny. “He suggested we go to Zum Franziskaner on Friday. It’s on the old town island, by the waterfront.”

  “What if you were to engage a German in conversation?” Mom never let Rafe’s bowl get empty. He didn’t seem to mind as he continued spooning it up. “You couldn’t be overt, of course, but she doesn’t know you’re an American, so you may learn something.”

  She? “Do you have someone in mind, Mom?”

  “A German lady walks her little dachshund in Kungsträdgården. We’re nodding acquaintances. If we weren’t enemies, we’d probably be good friends. She seems lonely, and might be glad for someone to talk to.”

  Jennie’s shoulders sagged. The only possible scenario didn’t include her. Her lack of German proved to be the biggest obstacle. “You’d have to try to approach her on your own, Rafe, and have a story ready about who you are and why you’re in Sweden.”

  Rafe pushed away his bowl and leaned back with a satisfied sigh. “Ed’s already concocted that. My grandparents lived on Sweden’s west coast near Gothenburg, and that’s where I’m supposedly from. It’s too far away to facilitate easy checking up on me. Ed suggested I plan on visiting Opa’s brother and his family. That way they’ll know about me, should I need an alibi, plus it’ll be a place I can go if I need to lay low.”

  That didn’t sound good. She frowned. Ed wasn’t above taking advantage o
f Rafe. “Whatever happened to the nice, safe reading room?”

  Rafe grinned. “Oh, I’ll read the papers, but not in a stuffy room. I’ll read in cafes or parks where I can discuss the news with Germans and get their opinions.”

  He would have been safer being reassigned to Falun. The gleam in his eyes, however, told her he relished a bit of skullduggery. She wouldn’t be able to accompany him on a lot of these trysts with her lack of German and her Swedish not quite fluent enough to pass as a native. Oh dear, what had she gotten him into? Some day he might fail to show up and no one would ever know what happened to him.

  Stockholm

  Tuesday, June 13, 1944

  The Kungsträdgården had originally been a kitchen garden for the Royal Palace, but was now a popular park. The palace rose directly across the Norrström strait on Staden. Rafe strolled at a leisurely pace along the waterfront, passed the Royal Opera House, and entered the park at nine o’clock. Mrs. Lindquist said she saw the dachshund lady at midmorning. He paused by the statue of Karl XII. No sign of any dachshunds. The benches by a fountain offered a broad view of the park. He sat down and opened his magazine.

  The Signal was a slick German propaganda photo magazine that enjoyed great success. Rafe skimmed articles on military prowess and anti-Semitism, and restrained himself from tossing the thing into the trash. Did the Germans still believe the atrocious claims? Still, it was better than the virulent Der Stürmer. He couldn’t trust himself to maintain a friendly guise after perusing that rag, even if the German was a lonely woman.

  “Mitzi, kommst hier.” The feminine voice intruded into his sun-induced lethargy. His eyes rose from the page he’d been staring at. Heading down the path with jaunty steps and swinging tail was a bright-eyed, black and tan dachshund.

  “Mitzi.” Rafe lowered his magazine. Barely moving his mouth, he spoke again. “Mitzi.” The little dog’s ears perked up. “Hier, Mitzi.”

  With an excited bark, Mitzi made a beeline for him and jumped up on his leg. Her lady scolded as she hurried to catch up, but Rafe laughed. He leaned down and ruffled the dog’s ears. “Wie geht es Ihnen, kleines Mädchen?” The pendulum swing of her tail never stopped as she licked at his fingers. “I’ll take that to mean you’re doing very well, indeed.”