“Next stop, Yoo-te-bor.” Rafe stirred at the conductor’s call. That was Swedish for Gothenburg. He reached for his bag. He hadn’t been allowed to return to his apartment. One of his roommates brought his gear to the legation. At least he’d been able to stop there and say a proper good-bye to Jennie.
The ancient conductor watched passengers disembark at the station. The waddle hanging below his chin would have been the envy of a Thanksgiving turkey back in Milwaukee. Rafe jerked his gaze to the man’s eyes and nodded farewell. He needed to quit sulking.
“Rolf Schilling?”
His old name no longer seemed to fit. He wasn’t the same person he’d been when he left Germany. Memories of Cologne rose like specters. Not even time spent with Bertil had this effect. The name belonged to someone else.
The American accent and the military bearing identified the man offering his hand as his contact. “I’m Giles Lafferty. Stockholm didn’t tell us much. Just that you’re looking for your grandfather. We need to know where you are in case anyone asks, although that’s not likely. Here’s a card with the phone number of the consulate. Do you know where you’re headed first?”
Hello to you, too. The guy said all that on one breath of air. The way he jiggled his keys in his pocket, he must be in perpetual motion, body and mouth. If Rafe had to spend much time in his company, he’d turn into a nervous wreck.
“I’ll need to check a city directory. My grandfather’s brother lives north of here. He’s supposed to have a grandson living here.”
“Fine. Fine. There should be a directory inside the station here.” Giles Lafferty spun on his heel and headed for the door, leaving Rafe to hasten after him.
Several Svensons were listed. Rafe tapped a finger on the page. “Michael. He’s likely my distant cousin.”
A vague memory of playing with a slightly older boy on a beach in Sweden failed to provide a face. Question was, would Michael remember him?
Giles Lafferty stood waiting. Rafe placed the call.
“Hej.” The deep voice might be Michael’s.
“Uh, hello. This is Rolf Schilling, grandson of Gunnar Svenson’s brother Göran.”
“Rolf? Rolf? I don’t believe this. Rolf! We have been wondering about you. Praying for you. Uncle Göran’s last letter to arrive was full of concern. Where are you?”
The yoke of uncertainty he’d carried across Sweden had been an unnecessary burden. He was coming home to a family that cared. He snatched a pen from Giles Lafferty’s pocket and scribbled the trams and connections and directions Michael rattled off. Rapid-fire speech must be a Gothenburg trait.
“I’ll call my sister and Uncle Leif. They’re also in Gothenburg. We’ll have a grand time tonight.”
Stockholm
Sunday, July 16, 1944
When Bertil remarked that city hall had a lovely view of the water, he must have meant to meet him there. On Sunday afternoon, to be exact. The Germans might not try to keep the day holy, but Bromma was a Swedish airport. He must have the day off.
Jennie strolled along the walkway bordering the South Terrace. Across the sparkling waters of Riddarfjärden lay Södermalm Island. The roof of their apartment building was all she could see of it.
Stairs leading down to the water interrupted the balustrade. When a sweep of the grounds showed no sign of Bertil, Jennie descended a few steps and sat down. A breeze ruffled her hair. Unlike a sultry summer day in Chicago, Stockholm’s temperature hovered at seventy degrees Fahrenheit. She watched clouds skid across the brilliant blue sky. If only Rafe sat beside her.
“Guten Tag, Jennie.” Bertil eased down on the step, keeping a respectable three feet between them. He nudged his hat further back on his head. “Where is Rolf?”
“Gothenburg, to visit his grandfather’s relatives. I have no idea how long he’ll be gone. Dad thought a couple weeks, but the minister plenipotentiary has made it sound like he won’t be able to return until autumn, and only then to be sent back to England.”
The internees didn’t have to stay in Sweden for the duration, like they did in Switzerland. Rafe’s crewmates would be thrilled to leave, especially Alan. And if Rafe’s job at the legation were truly compromised, he’d leave too. Her heart faltered at the thought.
Bertil had been leaning forward on his knees, watching her sidelong, but now he sat up and punched his fists down on his thighs. “What is it about Rolf that females find so appealing? Even as a boy, he got more than his share of valentines. I think every girl in our class gave him one. Why is he so special?”
Jennie smiled. Bertil looked so perplexed, but what could she say? “I noticed him on the Queen Mary because he was standing all alone, looking a little seasick.”
Bertil’s jaw dropped. “Rolf, seasick?” He threw back his head and laughed. “Ach, I wish I could have seen that. Rolf Schilling, sailor extraordinaire, seasick.” He slapped his leg. “That’s rich.”
He listened avidly as she described their voyage. “He decided a combination of things ailed him. The late, unappetizing meal they had. The crowded, stuffy cabin he slept in. He’d been on rougher water than that.”
“Sure, he can make excuses if they make him feel better.”
Oh dear. If Rafe and Bertil stayed in each other’s lives, Bertil would never let him forget this. “Tell me about Rafe as a boy. Did he appreciate all those valentines?”
“I think he was sweet on Marianne Ockstadt. He gave her a valentine. And they danced together in a school production. My mother says they did a quite respectable waltz. We must have been seven. They were still good friends before he… before he left. He’d walk her home from catechism class.” His head wagged slowly as he spoke of Rafe’s abrupt departure from Germany.
“Did you know his father well?”
Bertil studied the sky. “Herr Schilling was the man every boy wished was his father. He’d take us sailing, he’d kick a soccer ball with us at the park, and he taught Rolf how to play tennis. He was there for him. No father I knew was so involved with his kinder.”
He glanced at Jennie. “When Christoph told us Herr Schilling had divorced his wife and left his family’s safety to his wife’s parents, we could not believe it. He had to join the Nazi Party, you know, to keep his job. He doesn’t believe in it, but party membership is required for civil service jobs.”
Bertil threw up his hands, fingers splayed. “He works for the railroad, though. It may be an important position, but it’s nothing special. Not at the expense of his family. I would have jumped at the chance to go to America, even if it meant being dependent on a father-in-law.” He heaved a sigh and stilled for a moment. “It didn’t take him long to wish he had gone with them. I last saw him in 1941. He’d aged twenty years. He’s an old man now, living with nothing but regrets.”
Jennie stared down at her hands folded in her lap. Her heart ached for Rafe. Not just any father, but the best father possible had turned against him. No wonder he had a hard time forgiving his dad. She needed to go home and hug Dad.
A swan glided toward them. Bertil reached into a small sack and tossed a bread crust onto the water. The swan gobbled it up and watched for more. Bertil offered the sack to Jennie.
“Uh oh, a Nazi stooge is looking our way.” He tossed another crust. “He’s walking by. Maybe he isn’t watching me.”
Jennie cautiously peered over her shoulder. The man didn’t look sinister, but she shivered nevertheless. “How do you manage to stay here rather than join the fighting?”
Bertil’s shoulders shook as he chuckled. “According to my records, I am color blind. That makes it difficult for me to distinguish between friend and foe. I expected to be sent to a Luftwaffe base to service warplanes, but have decided I am forgotten here. Fine with me. I do not believe in their war.” He eyed her for a long moment. “Should they discover I am not color blind, I would be sent to the eastern front on a punishment squad.”
Jennie resisted the inclination to gape at Bertil. It took courage to stand against the Na
zi regime, even if he did so from a neutral country. Neutral didn’t necessarily mean safe. She wouldn’t have the nerve to withstand the pressure to conform. Making prank phone calls had been hard enough.
Did Rafe realize how much she was like his father?
Bertil brushed crumbs off his pants. When he stood, a folded paper remained on the step. “I made that for Rolf. It lists the main people in the German espionage network in Sweden. Copy it in your own writing before you do anything with it.”
He sauntered off.
Jennie stared at the list as though it might burst into flame. The swan glided close. “Shoo.” She flapped her hand at it before sliding over enough to pick up the paper. She unclasped her purse and shoved the list inside. She stood, brushed off her skirt, took a deep breath, and walked away. A bull’s-eye had likely materialized on her back. American spy.
North Koster Island, Sweden
Wednesday, July 19, 1944
The bracing ocean breeze contained a fishy scent that shouldn’t have been so strong. Leaning back on his elbows, Rafe looked around for a dead fish floating among the rocks, but didn’t spot one. He should move to another rock, but couldn’t summon the ambition.
A beautifully desolate view spread out before him. Centuries of wave action had smoothed the rocky islets. The slab he perched on boasted a crack from which sprouted determined purple wildflowers.
The roar of the surf filled his ears. Gulls soared overhead, adding their cries. Somewhere nearby, a seal barked. He squinted open one eye in time to see a flipper splash. He sat up and stifled a yawn.
Red, white, and yellow cottages clung to the rocky coastline of the mainland, their gables all pointed in the same direction. Probably the red ones got their paint from Falun. Most folks around here fished for their living. Theirs was a hard life.
Uncle Gunnar approached, hopping from rock to rock, still spry for an old man. His looks, voice, and mannerisms matched those of Opa. More than once, Rafe mistook him for his grandfather while talking with him. Since arriving at Uncle Gunnar’s home in Strömstad near the Norwegian border, he’d battled homesickness for his family in Milwaukee.
“Pretty cove, isn’t this?” Uncle Gunnar lowered himself on Rafe’s rock. “I don’t suppose you remember being here before.”
“I’ve been here? When?” Scenery like this was impossible to forget. The remote outpost was so sparse and isolated, they could be alone in the world. Only wresting a living from the sea concerned the inhabitants. Not war or spies or betrayal.
Jennie would love this view. She’d paint a picture that did it justice. Since he was the only internee likely to be here, however, sharing Koster’s barren beauty in her exhibit made no sense.
“You were a little tyke. You wanted to splash in the water, and your father kept pulling you back up on the rock.”
His father. Rafe wrapped his arms around his knees. “How well did you know my father?”
“I saw him only three or four times. We always thought he was a fine husband and father.”
“Until he threw us out. I’ll never understand that.”
Uncle Gunnar stared out to sea. Apparently, he had no answer. Rafe’s sigh came from his heart, where the ache continued to fester.
“I can’t imagine living under the Nazi regime.”
Rafe looked up at Uncle Gunnar’s sudden words. “Father didn’t have to. He could have left with us.”
Uncle Gunnar continued to search the horizon. He filled his lungs with the sea air. “What do you know of your Uncle Helmut?”
Father’s uncle, actually, on his mother’s side. “Only that he died young of a heart attack, before I was born.”
“Mm, hmm. He was in England.”
“England?” Rafe did the math in his head. Uncle Helmut had died mere months after the armistice ending the Great War. “Why was he in England?”
“He went to see an old friend who was interested in some sort of joint venture. His friend saw it as a means to help Helmut financially and to promote good will. Unfortunately, Helmut wandered into a rough neighborhood. Hooligans attacked him, screaming ‘Death to the filthy Hun.’” Uncle Gunnar shook a fist in the air. “Helmut wasn’t seriously injured, but come morning, he was dead.”
Rafe sagged over, elbows on his knees. Why had he never heard this? Thoughts ricocheted in his head. Grossmutter’s brother. Grossmutter, a kindly, dignified lady, now living in a bombed-out cellar with Father. Photos of Father fishing with Uncle Helmut, laughing. Father, intent on staying in Germany.
“Why wasn’t I told?” He swallowed hard. “It wasn’t like that in America. We were welcomed.”
“Would your father have been able to slip into a new life as well as you did? Remember, Rolf, he doesn’t have your talent with languages.” Uncle Gunnar laid a hand on Rafe’s shoulder. “You loved your father deeply, my boy. You raised him up on a pedestal, allowing him no room for error. But he’s a mere mortal with the same fears and insecurities as the rest of us.”
His hand dropped away. “I’m sure he didn’t foresee the extent of the Nazi evil. Who could have? Had he known the cataclysm to come, I’m sure he would have left with you. Göran believed he anticipated a brief parting until the Nazis were swept away, then you would have returned, your parents would remarry, and your comfortable life resume intact.”
The conversation Rafe had overheard all those years ago hadn’t hinted of a happy ending. Of course, Opa was an eternal optimist. If he were in Father’s place, what would he have done?
One voice in his head insisted he wouldn’t have abandoned his family. Another voice urged caution. Hindsight made the matter too simple. Rafe hung his head between his knees.
The breeze caressed the nape of his neck, cooling his heated emotions. A memory teased him. He and Father had been outside late one evening. A similar breeze swooshed off his cap. He grumbled as he snatched it up. Father had laughed. “Listen to the breeze, Rafe. It carries the music of the stars.” Mother and Father often laughed about the music of the stars. They shared a joke he wasn’t privy to.
That snippy young evader Rafe had interrogated had demonized the whole German nation. But not everyone was in favor of the Nazis. Lots of good Germans had been intimidated into silence. And Father was one of them. He must have been far more aware of what was going on in Germany than Rafe had been. That knowledge, and knowing what happed to his uncle, had paralyzed him into inaction. And Rafe had condemned him as a coward.
Tears stung his eyes and he brushed at them. Another minute and he’d be bawling. Think of something else. Anything. “I thought you lived on Koster. Good thing I found Michael as soon as I got to Gothenburg.”
Uncle Gunnar eyed him silently for a moment. “This is a wonderful spot in summer, but I wouldn’t care to live here year round.”
Rafe nodded, picturing Uncle Gunnar’s cozy house. White, not red, with throngs of hollyhocks and poppies.
A long-buried memory sprang to the surface. “Did I pick your hollyhocks?”
A chuckle rumbled before bursting out of Uncle Gunnar. “You sure did, my boy. You yanked them up and presented them with such pride to your mother. Your poor parents were mortified.” He continued to chuckle. “Some still had their roots and we managed to salvage a few. Your father had a hard time getting you to understand the pretties would be better appreciated where they grew.”
A distant cry of “Tomas” drifted on the air. They turned to see several people combing the shoreline.
“Tomas. Isn’t that the little boy whose father was scolding him when we moored your sailboat?”
“Yes, I believe so. His father told him to stop pestering him and he ran off.” Uncle Gunnar clucked his tongue. He rose slowly to his feet. “I need more padding on my bones if I’m going to sit on rocks.”
They began making their way back to shore. Rafe’s blood raced when he slipped on a wave-washed rock. With one hand down, he recovered his balance. A flash of green caught his eye.
“Oh, no.” He
closed his eyes and dragged in a breath. His eyes opened. Still a bit of green. “Uncle Gunnar, wasn’t that little boy wearing a green shirt?”
Uncle Gunnar followed Rafe’s gaze. They hurried to the edge of the rock. There, bumping in the current between three large slabs of stone, floated the missing Tomas.
Rafe closed his eyes and sank down to his knees. Even after two months of combat, he wasn’t used to death. Especially not the death of a child.
Uncle Gunnar hailed the islanders and they bore the tragic burden to shore. The parents were summoned. The father’s wails of anguish drifted over the island and pierced Rafe’s soul.
Is that how his own father felt after shoving them away? Wishing like the dickens to call back that rash moment when he’d turned them out?
He straightened. He would not live with regrets. Two things needed to be done. One would take time. When the war ended, he would find his father. But the other he could do right away. As soon as he got back to Stockholm.
Stockholm, Sweden
Monday, July 31, 1944
The train chugged into the Stockholm station. Rafe scanned the people waiting. There she was. Jennie clasped her hands together as she searched the train’s windows. She spotted him. One hand came up in an enthusiastic wave, startling a nearby woman. He grabbed his gear and headed for the exit.
She made it to the door before him. No sooner did he step down than she flung her arms around him. He’d come home.
“Honey,” he gasped, “I need to breathe.”
Jennie loosened her grip and stepped back, running her hands across his shoulders. Stretching up on tiptoe, she kissed him. If he wasn’t blocking other disembarking passengers, he’d drop his belongings, wrap her in a hug of his own, and kiss the daylights out of her. “We have to get out of traffic.”
She tugged him to the side of the platform. “You’ve been gone less than three weeks, but it seems more like three months.”
No Neutral Ground: A World War II Romance (Promise for Tomorrow Book 2) Page 32