No Neutral Ground: A World War II Romance (Promise for Tomorrow Book 2)
Page 26
“We’re really going there? Is someone meeting us? Who’s Ludwig?”
“Yes and yes and nobody. Phyllis will join us there. What could be more natural than meeting your friend for lunch? And she’ll exchange my film for a fresh one. Ed doesn’t want us going to the legation today. What’s next on your phone list?”
Jennie grinned as she tucked her hand around his arm. “The German National Tourist Office. Say something like we’ve received a shipment of lewd Swedish-language magazines from Berlin. Can they distribute them? Or maybe ask how many Swedish newspapers are still under their thumb.”
“Got it. A business might be a good place to call from. We could pretend to be shopping, maybe find an office area with no one around. We could slip in and use the phone.”
Oh dear. Her step must have faltered, for he grinned at her. “You’re looking very nice today.” His smile broadened as he studied her hair. “Do you sleep in hair curlers? Don’t they hurt?”
Her elbow connected with his ribs. “Watch it, buster. I’ll share Bertil’s secrets with your crew.”
“Remind me to keep you two apart. Ah, here we go.” Rafe tugged her to a doorway.
The stenciled word on the door read Leksaker. Toys. How fitting, since Rafe considered their outing a game. He led her through the store with a purposeful stride, and whisked her through a door marked ‘Private.’ Without slowing to give anyone a chance to question them, he found a darkened room and entered.
“Just what we were looking for. Watch the door. What’s the number for the Tourist Office?”
Watch the door and read numbers at the same time? Please. Jennie pulled out the phone directory and scanned the listings. “One one, six two, five two.” She reeled them off in under a second, but Rafe never stopped grinning and dialed.
She rolled up the directory and twisted it. A page ripped. What was she doing? She smoothed it out but, peering into the hallway, her hands again rolled the pages tight. Behind her, Rafe spoke in imperious tones. Something about Gothenburg.
Jennie caught her breath. “Someone’s coming.”
Rafe waved his fingers. Run interference. Oh dear, dear, dear. Safely making posters sounded better all the time.
She stepped out. “Ursäkta mig.” Horrors. Her voice sounded squeaky. She cleared her throat, and noted the name on the door. “Isn’t Miss Ericssen in today?”
The secretary cocked a brow. “No, she’s on vacation this week.”
“This week? I thought her vacation was next week.” Jennie crossed to the far side of the hall, hoping to turn the woman away from the office. “Oh, no, that’s right. Midsummer is this week, isn’t it?”
“Ursäkta.” Rafe excused himself as he brushed by.
The secretary frowned after him before turning back to Jennie.
Jennie smiled. “Tack.” She hurried after Rafe.
Not until they were a block away did Rafe slow their pace. “That went well, I think. Here.” He handed her the notebook. “I questioned the list of refugees from Gothenburg and got the name of their primary spy there. Jorgen Banner. Hopefully he’ll come under surveillance if he’s not already.”
Jennie tried to write but her hand shook so badly, she couldn’t read her scribbles. If they did many more calls, her stomach would be twisted so tightly she wouldn’t be able to eat a bite at the fancy restaurant. Rafe watched her with a quizzical look. “What?”
“How did you get involved with OSS?”
A fair question, given the state of her nerves. “A friend of Dad’s recommended me for my artistic ability. Being surrounded by the enemy, Sweden’s a hotbed of intrigue. But I thought I’d be tucked away in an office, not involved in cloak and dagger stuff.”
“Exhilarating, isn’t it? Sure beats bombing cities into oblivion. And you’re doing fine, even without a disguise.”
After their fourth call, Jennie tucked the notebook away in her tote bag. An elevator sped them over one hundred feet into the air to an observation deck linking two buildings. The spectacular view left her breathless. “We can see for miles. I missed all this when I flew into Stockholm after dark.” The city lay before them on one side. From the other, the archipelago stretched out to infinity. “But where’s the restaurant?”
“Right below us. We’re standing on the roof.”
Jennie looked down, and regretted it. “But this is a foot bridge. The restaurant must be awfully narrow.”
“Long and narrow. Let’s go find Phyllis.”
Late that afternoon, Rafe wandered the streets of the old town. He spotted a strangely-shaped sign hanging outside a shop. Krukmakeri. A glance in the window cleared up the mystery. Pottery. The sign was shaped like a pot. He sighed and walked on.
Too bad his crewmates weren’t here. They’d been inseparable for months and, all of a sudden, they were apart. The internees were allowed to visit Stockholm for three days every month. He’d have to contact Alan, Cal, and Steve, and get them down here.
He paused beneath another sign. Lindbergs Antik. That bureau on the side there looked just like the one they had in their Cologne apartment. Probably it had been destroyed in one of the many bombings Cologne suffered. That, and the paintings of Rhine River scenes that graced the walls of their living room, and Mother’s china that she’d hated to leave. All the little things that made up a cozy life. Another sigh heaved his chest.
Things could be replaced, but not people. Father had told him that when he was four or five years old. The day replayed before his eyes like a movie film.
#
They waited at a street corner for traffic to clear. Rolf’s cap blew off and fell in the street. He stepped down from the curb, reaching for it.
Father grabbed him back. An automobile turned the corner, right where he’d just stood. He looked up into the wide, startled eyes of a woman. The car disappeared down the street.
“Never step off the curb without looking for traffic.” Father’s voice had sounded shaky.
“But my cap…”
“I can replace your cap, Rolf, but I can’t replace you.”
#
A film of tears watered Rafe’s eyes, obscuring his vision. A dozen years later, Father threw him away. Him, Mother, Rita, and Albert. The ache filling his chest made it hard to breathe.
Times like this weren’t meant to be handled alone. Someone to talk to would be ideal, but who? Jennie had to work at the office. Bertil may or may not be at the airport at this time of day. His crewmates were too far away. He reached an intersection and looked around. Overhead, a spire loomed. Tyska Kyrkan. He aimed for the church.
Inside, a sacred hush swathed the sanctuary. As before, the stained glass windows glowed in the sunlight. He walked forward and sat down, staring at the scene of the crucifixion. Memories of the choir singing in Cologne Cathedral echoed through the years. Me thought the voice of angels from heaven in answer rang, Jerusalem, Jerusalem, Lift up your gates and sing, Hosanna in the highest, Hosanna to your king.
The tears he’d held back on the street streaked down his cheeks, but why? Here, peace surrounded him. It made no sense. The world remained at war, with thousands being slaughtered on both sides, military and civilian. He remained estranged from his father, but God Almighty Himself must have reached down and touched his heart, uplifting him.
How long he sat in quiet communion, he couldn’t guess. The sound of footsteps reached him. Good thing they provided warning, or he might have jumped out of his shoes when a hand touched his shoulder.
“Guten abend, Rolf. Wie gehts?”
His mother tongue offered another layer of peace. Spoken gently, infused with caring, German was a beautiful language, quite unlike the strident, belligerent tones on the radio during Hitler’s speeches. He turned to greet the pastor.
“Good evening, Jurgen. I’m enjoying the peace I find here.”
The pastor studied him for a moment, and sat down. “Tell me why you do not find this peace elsewhere.”
Rafe shifted in the pew. “A
fter eight years, I think I should be used to my father’s rejection, but I’m not. Sometimes it slaps me upside the head and I wonder all over again. ‘Why, Father? Why?’ And the hurt continues to churn.”
“May I tell you a story?”
Rafe’s answering grin wobbled a bit. How often as a little boy had he climbed up on Father’s lap, asking for a story? He nodded.
“A soldier came home on leave to find his wife and children dead. Their shelter had taken a direct hit. Our soldier was despondent and wandered the ruins of the city for days. One morning he saw a bedraggled woman marching through the rubble, dragging along an equally bedraggled little boy. He had a hard time keeping pace, for his short legs had difficulty maneuvering the chunks of debris. He stumbled on one large piece and scraped his leg, causing it to bleed. His mother jerked on his arm, but he fell to the ground. As he cried there, she yelled at him most unpleasantly. Our soldier picked up the small boy, pressed his handkerchief to the wound, and said, ‘Frau, you don’t realize the treasure you have here. I’ll be glad to take him if you don’t want him.’ That’s a wonderful picture of our Father in heaven.”
Pastor Jurgen paused momentarily. “King David said in Psalm twenty-seven, ‘When my father and my mother forsake me, then the Lord will take me up.’ Being here in His house may make you more aware of His presence, but Rolf, never forget, He’s with you wherever you are.”
Again, Rafe’s tears slipped out. The night before his first mission, he had imagined God, the Father of the fatherless, reaching down to lay His hand on his shoulder. Peace had filled him then. Was it wrong to long for his earthly father’s care, too?
Stockholm
Tuesday, June 20, 1944
Jennie rushed into the legation’s reading room. Yes, there was Rafe, his nose buried in a Berlin newspaper. She ran to his side and pulled away the paper. He looked up in surprise, but she was too breathless to speak.
He smiled. “Good morning, Jennie. It’s nice to know you’re so eager to see me.”
“Pwsh.” She pressed a hand to her chest and breathed deeply. “We just got the news. We’re going to Malmö. Right now. You, too. The Eighth Air Force had a horrendous mission to the far eastern side of Germany. Scores of Liberators have landed in Malmö. Dad’s contact said it’s busier than Piccadilly Circus. The Swedes are overwhelmed and we don’t have enough staff to process them all quickly. We’ll help out where we can.”
Rafe was already on his feet. “If scores arrived in Sweden, that means scores more didn’t make it to a friendly roost. Will we take the train?”
“No, we’re flying. Hopefully Malmö isn’t too congested at the moment.” She paused at the door. “You don’t need to go back to your apartment first, do you?”
He patted his pocket and grinned. “Just picked up a month’s pay. If I need anything, I’ll get it at Malmö.”
A small plane awaited them at Bromma Airport. Jennie and Rafe climbed into the back seats while her dad sat next to the pilot. After her night flight from Scotland, Jennie pressed her face to the window. Here was her chance to see Sweden from the air. The plane was noisy, however, the flight bumpy, and the temperature soared in the bright sun. They should have taken a train. She pressed a hand to her roiling stomach. If they didn’t land soon, she would disgrace herself.
Rafe leaned close and yelled in her ear. “I kind of miss being at twenty-five thousand feet where the temperature’s minus forty.”
She tried to smile, but must have failed. Rafe frowned. He directed her attention out the window. “They’ve got lots of forests down there. After the war, the Swedes could do a booming lumber business to help rebuild Europe.”
He was trying to distract her from her malaise. So sweet of him. Focusing on a distant object helped some. Still, this flight couldn’t end soon enough. She tried breathing deeply. Rafe picked up her hand, his thumb massaging her palm. Her eyes fluttered shut. She could get used to this.
The plane banked and Rafe leaned into the window. She couldn’t hear him above the engine noise, but read his lips. “Wow.”
She craned her neck for a look and gasped. Bombers, lots of them, were parked wingtip to wingtip. All of them appeared to be Liberators with their twin tail fins, high wings, and blunt noses. Smoke still rose from the wreckage of one bomber. Oh dear. That didn’t look survivable.
Their plane had barely bounced to a stop before Dad was out and striding to a waiting jeep. She and Rafe hurried after him and scrambled into the back seat. The driver gave Dad a report. Over three hundred B-24 Liberators had been sent to Pölitz to bomb oil targets. Opposition was anticipated to be light, but intelligence had been dead wrong. Waves of enemy fighters had mauled the formations, sending many bombers down in flames. In one hour’s time, fifteen bombers landed at Bulltofta Airfield, leading to chaos.
“They were queued up, waiting to land. Almost like a squadron got lost, but they’re from several different bases. Quite a few men have been sent to the hospital. We’ve got some fatalities too, although half of the crew from that one,” he pointed to the smoking wreckage, “is still alive. Both starboard engines were out, the right wing hit a rise in the field, and the plane cartwheeled. Horrible thing to see.” The driver paused a moment. “Another half dozen more planes landed or crashed elsewhere, as well. Most of the crews are in that hangar, waiting to learn their fate.”
After Dad left to meet with Swedish officials, Jennie pointed to the hangar. “Let’s go see the crews.”
She and Rafe slipped inside. The few guards present appeared to cause apprehension among some of the men. They milled around, some talking quietly, some looking exhausted, some appearing to be in shock. Rafe nodded to one young man who couldn’t have been out of his teens. He was busy chewing his fingernails down to the quick.
“Should we tell them they can relax?”
Jennie smiled. Why not? Already some were eyeing her curiously. She stepped forward. “Hello, boys.”
Her greeting caused an instant reaction. The men perked up and moved closer. Their comments swirled.
“You’re an American.”
“Are you interned here?”
“How long do we have to stay here?”
Rafe stepped up beside her.
She held up her hands. “Since you fellows didn’t make reservations,” she paused as some chuckled, “your accommodations for tonight may not be the best. The Swedes weren’t prepared for this American invasion, but as quickly as possible, you’ll be processed and moved to an internment camp.”
She glanced at Rafe. He smiled and nodded, encouraging her to continue.
“I can tell you the first thing you will need to do is buy civilian clothes. You may not wear your uniforms here, so you’ll dress like Lieutenant Martell.”
Rafe raised one arm, his hand bent at the wrist and, with his other hand on his hip, pirouetted. Several men laughed. Jennie smiled. They were relaxing.
“While here you may take part in all kinds of sports. American magazines are available. Some internees are learning to play the piano. You can buy art supplies.” She should have thought of that before. The internees themselves could provide paintings for the Svithiod exhibit. “And the best thing of all, no one will shoot at you.”
A rousing cheer filled the hangar, followed by “Atten―hut!”
The men snapped to attention. At the door stood a group of officers, her father among them. He quirked a brow at her.
“Hi, Dad.”
“I see my daughter is bucking for a commission.” Dad claimed their attention and got a laugh from the men before introducing a Swedish colonel who informed them of the rules and regulations.
At his conclusion, many of the officers approached Rafe with questions, the enlisted men lurking nearby to hear his answers. One of the men ogled Jennie. “How’d you get the girl?”
Rafe’s eyes narrowed. “The girl and I knew each other before we arrived in Europe.”
The man backed off.
Malmö, Sweden
Some men had been shipped to camps the previous day in an effort to relieve the congestion. Jennie and Rafe helped in the processing to get more of them on their way, and by midmorning, the transfers were moving smoothly. Then a cry rang out.
“B-17 coming in!”
Rafe dashed outside, and Jennie followed on his heels. The Flying Fortress, with two engines smoking, landed safely, and kept going.
“Stop, stop, stop.” Jennie clenched her hands so tightly, her nails dug into her palms.
The bomber struck a small building, tearing off part of a wing, and didn’t stop until it ran into an embankment at the edge of the field, a row of houses just beyond.
Jennie sagged. Her heart pounded like she’d run a mile. Vehicles raced to the plane. A wounded man was lowered down to a waiting jeep. She turned away, only to hear another cry.
“Here comes another one!”
This Fort didn’t have its wheels down. It belly-landed and slid into a ditch.
Jennie puffed out her breath. Another day of chaos for Malmö’s Bulltofta Airfield was underway.
#
The train chugged north through the same forests they’d looked down on while flying to Malmö. Jennie paid no attention as she stared out the window. If she lived to be eighty, she would never be able to wipe out the image of a heavy bomber with brake failure crashing into a ditch. No wonder, since that had happened three times this morning. Minor crashes, but enough to injure the men inside. They were the lucky ones. More men died today. Some were dead on arrival. Others died when they bailed out too low for their parachutes to open.
By the time the last plane landed at twelve thirty, three hours had elapsed since the first arrival. She shoved a hand through her hair and her fingers snagged on tangles. Her hair must look like a bird’s nest after the way she’d toyed with it all morning.