Crossword

by Alan Bricklin

  He thought back to what had led him to this place, how he had come to be waiting on the shore of a lake in southern Norway on a frigid February morning.

  From a few casual comments at a local bar, to hushed discussions while walking to work, to the first meeting in Swenson's barn after the cows had been brought in for the evening, Sten was drawn in and inexorably led down the path. With the help of Brits parachuted in under cover of darkness, the network grew. Sabotage and clandestine operations, small blows for freedom and for personal revenge, were all that he was able to do. It accomplished something positive for the allied war effort but only provided a small measure of relief for the anger and humiliation that raged inside him, for somehow it did not seem honorable, this skulking about at night, these small attacks here and there. It was not honorable in the manly way he so desperately wanted. When a man is denigrated and held in submission, embarrassed before his family and made to endure things that no self respecting person should stand for, he needs to confront his enemy, look him in the eyes and say to him that you can't do that to me or to my family, I won't let you, I, Sten Hierdahl defy you, challenge you, conquer you, shoot you, destroy you.

  The binoculars creaked in his hands and it was only then that he realized how hard he had been squeezing them. He relaxed his grip, returned his attention to scanning the lake. Yes, I have aged a decade in the last few years.

  "Anything yet, Sten?"

  Sten stared out intently, his forehead furrowed and the corners of his eyes creased from the effort. Holding the glasses in one hand he wiped a sweaty palm on his pants. The sky was lightening and the mist dissipating.

  "Sten?" Olaf fidgeted.

  "Yes. There it is."

  "Can I look?"

  Sten handed the binoculars to the youth. "What can you make out?"

  Olaf eagerly took them and pressed them to his eyes, looking in the direction Sten indicated. "Yes, I can see it."

  Sten's eyes rolled back in their sockets; he sighed, but mustered patience that he didn't know he had and said, "I know you can see the boat, but what exactly do you see? Do you see anything on deck, any crates or tarps covering anything? Are there Germans on board? How many? Are they armed?" Sten paused. He knew he would loose his temper if he continued, so he bit his lips while he waited for a reply from Olaf.

  Olaf adjusted the focus and looked very carefully at the distant ferry, his tongue flicking out to moisten his lips while he performed what he hoped Sten would consider a thorough inspection of the craft. After a moment he cleared his throat as if about to begin a rehearsed speech.

  Sten almost reached out to grab him by the shoulders and shake the response from him but, having surveyed the ship from stem to stern, Olaf finally replied, "There are no boxes or tarps on deck but there are soldiers. I count eight on the main deck and two patrolling the upper deck. They are all armed but I can't make out what kind of rifles they carry except for two near the bow who are manning a machine gun partly surrounded by sand bags. I'm sorry, that's all I can see. I can't see any special cargo."

  "It's there. They never have that many soldiers on the ferry and never a machine gun."

  "What do we do now?"

  "We wait and hope that the others have done their job properly so we can report the mission was a success." Sten turned back to the lake and once more stared out at the water, a few glimmers of morning sun streaking the surface as the last of the mist dissipated. Olaf stood with the binoculars extended for several minutes before Sten even noticed him and it was with reluctance that he now took them. He had been lost for that short interval, out there on the lake, alone with only the sparkling reflection of the sun and the gentle chop of the cold waters; alone in a place he did not want to leave.

  The Hydro was closer now and as he brought the image into focus he could see a few passengers walking the deck, strolling in the cool morning air, trying, he imagined, to ignore the German soldiers and pretend it was simply a routine trip on the ferry on a not unpleasant day in February. He tried not to think of the sadness that lurked just outside his awareness, wanted to return to the quiet of the glittering water.

  Suddenly the ferry seemed to inhale, to noticeably expand and rise slightly out of the water. A red yellow ball enveloped the craft, expanding outward, followed almost instantly by fragmented parts of the deck and superstructure as a massive explosion ripped the ferry apart. Fire, smoke and debris were projected through the air along with the people that had been walking the deck and the German soldiers that were meant to protect the precious cargo. The sound reached them several seconds later and he could sense Olaf's involuntary shudder. Still looking, Sten watched as the hull, which had been lifted a good two feet, fell back and debris rained down, sending up a thousand tiny plumes in an almost perfect circle around the boat. What remained of the Hydro quickly sank beneath the surface leaving only a small cloud of black smoke and pieces of litter and burned bodies to bob on the quiet chop of the lake.

  Sten slowly lowered the binoculars. He did not offer them to the boy standing next to him. Olaf sucked in a great mouthful of cold morning air for he had, unknowingly, been holding his breathe as the scene unfolded. He was visibly shaken and his breathing now came rapidly. "It's all gone. The whole boat, the passengers, everything. Did they have to destroy it all?", whispered Olaf. He turned to Sten. "Was it really that important? There were civilians on board!"

  Sten looked up at him and said in a quiet, but emotionless voice, "There are no civilians in this war; only those who know they're soldiers and those who do not yet know." He slowly straightened from the crouched position in which he had been observing the events on the lake, and his joints protested the change in position, causing him to wince. He arched his back, stretched his stiff muscles and started for the woods, not turning to see if the boy followed.

  Olaf stared after him a moment then looked once more at the distant cloud of smoke that marked the final resting place of the ferry Hydro and all who had been aboard, before following Sten into the shelter of the thick pine Forrest that bordered lake Tinnsjo.

  CHAPTER THREE

  DELAWARE RIVER, SOUTH OF PHILADELPHIA. 15 JULY, 1944

  The humid air of summer had descended on Philadelphia, the atmosphere hot and thick, a palpable feel to it. It covered the entire city, insinuating itself into every crevice and corner, settling heavy and immobile in living rooms and kitchens, coming uninvited into the bedroom and spreading out at its leisure in stores and restaurants. The most powerful of fans did nothing to dispel the oppressive air. The hot air swayed this way and that, whirled about, even turned once or twice on its heels, but at the end of all these gyrations, it remained where it was, sultry and suffocating.

  Larry Sabatini stood on the deck of the hospital ship Tranquility as it sailed up the Delaware River to the Philadelphia Naval base. The five hundred foot vessel, the former Marine Dolphin, had recently been acquired from the Maritime Commission and was making its way back from England to be refitted in its new capacity. In the distance, through the shimmering heat haze, he could just make out the head of "Billy" Penn, the statue of William Penn atop City Hall. It was like a personal "welcome home," lifting his heart more than he would have thought, and enveloping him in a feeling of security he had not known for many months. The uncomfortable summer air, starting to settle around him as the ship slowed and approached its berth, did nothing to dampen his spirits. The long days at sea had been a respite from a pervasive apprehension he had endured for months, an unease known only by those who had served behind the lines, in the heart of the beast, surrounded by the enemy, with thoughts of capture, torture and death always nibbling at your consciousness.

  Leaning over the rail as the vessel slipped into its mooring, he banished all thoughts of the OSS from his mind, and turned the inward eye to memories of South Philly, the place where he grew up, the place where his family lived, the place that meant comfort and safety to him. Two weeks of leave with no cares and no military. Or so he thought. Two we
eks to visit family and renew old friendships. Two weeks. But, at the end of those two weeks he would find that his life had been shattered and for all time hence thoughts of home would elicit neither comfort nor safety.

  It was a sign of the respect the OSS had for his abilities that he was allowed the time to leave the European theatre, make the transatlantic crossing, now relatively safe, and return home to visit his family. It was also a sign of the concern they had for an operative in whom much had been invested, and who ran the risk of losing his effectiveness and edge from the constant psychological trauma to which he had been exposed. Members of the Special Operations Branch of the OSS were carefully vetted, particularly in regard to their ability to withstand the kind of mental pressure that must be endured when operating behind the lines, often alone and with few resources except what one could muster on their own. Larry had dealt with situations that few could have tolerated, but his last mission had pushed his coping skills beyond their limit and he bore wounds that still festered.

  As lines were tossed between ship and dock he picked up his duffel, packed and at his side since first light, and joined the crowd waiting for the gangway to be lowered. There was an impatience to this group, a shifting from one foot to the other, an agitation like a heating pot of water not yet at the boiling point, tiny bubbles whirling this way and that, awaiting that last bit of energy to transform into a churning cauldron. The clang of the metal steps hitting the concrete surface of the dock silenced all conversation. It would be only seconds now. Two sailors moved aside a section of rail and the crowd burst through the opening, the clank, clank, clank, of feet on metal reverberating across the deck as soldiers and sailors dashed down to their two weeks of freedom. Larry resolved to bury everything from the last two years in some deep place he would not access for the next fourteen days. As he was funneled to the opening of the gangway amid the other soldiers, he picked up speed until he was ejected onto the stairs, and by the time he reached the surface of the dock with its myriad painted lines and stenciled numbers, his mind had been swept clean, the detritus of a dozen operations locked away with other war time horrors.

  With his pack slung across his shoulder, Larry made his way to the exit, waited in line to show his papers to some disinterested corporal, then walked through the main gate and emerged at the southern end of Broad street, the main north south thoroughfare through Philadelphia. He paused, looking north over the city, turning his head left, then right, saying a mental "hello" before adjusting his duffel and beginning the walk home. He ignored the few taxis waiting, and turned down offers of a lift from several people, volunteers, he thought, from the local USO. It was only a few miles, and in spite of the heat, he preferred to walk, to ease himself back into the old neighborhood rather than being suddenly deposited there, the aura of the military still lingering about his person. Straight up Broad Street he went, starting at the southern end of Philadelphia where the river curved around the city, stopping at every corner just to look around, to become a part of the city once more. After the first block, sweat soaked his shirt, but he didn't mind. At Passyunk Avenue he left Broad Street, proceeding northeast as that wide avenue cut a forty-five degree swath into the Italian part of the city. The intersecting streets were lined by red brick row houses, one connected to the other, the front stoops mini enclaves of activity. Here and there a spurting fire hydrant drew local children to its cooling splash as they dashed in and out of the water, their squeals rising above the other noises of the city and mingling with the honk of horns as cars tried to squeeze by. When he reached Ninth Street he turned north, walked about fifty feet then stopped and put down his duffel. Larry breathed deeply and the smells of the neighborhood filled his nostrils and brought with them a cascade of memories. No other sense stimulated memories like the sense of smell. The Italian market was several blocks away but he swore he could smell the aroma of Parmesan carried by the warm air that slowly curled around him. He rolled up his sleeves, undid the top few buttons of his shirt and slipped off his tie. The soldier was home.

  Continuing up Ninth Street he could see the stalls of the market, a fixture in South Philly since before he was born. As he started passing shops and their outdoor displays he saw people he knew, some nodding, some coming up to him and giving him a hug, a few of the older women squeezing his cheek and saying, "Don't worry, your mother will give you back the weight you lost." The sounds of the market and the bustle of people filled his ears and eyes. He found himself engaged in multiple simultaneous conversations, felt his back being slapped affectionately, had pastries handed to him along with slivers of salami and hard Parmesan cheese. Occasionally he heard, "Isn't that Giacomo Sabatini's boy?" His forward progress slowed to almost a standstill until one older woman broke through a group of men surrounding him and told them in no uncertain terms that it was Larry's God given duty to get home to his mother who was probably worried sick and that he shouldn't be wasting time with good for nothings like them. They laughed, but respectfully stood aside and with final pats on the back sent him on his way.

  Feeling happy and alive, Larry hurried up the street, waving and nodding to some of the folks, indicating he would talk later but had to get home now. He stopped once to buy some flowers to bring home to his mother, but the woman at the stall wouldn't take any money, saying only, "You're a good son. God bless." Then she crossed herself and slapped the hand of a young boy trying to take advantage of the distraction to snatch a rose. As he walked away Larry heard her say, "You try that again, Anthony, I cut your balls off."

  Duffel over his right shoulder, flowers in his left hand and a smile on his face, he continued up Ninth to Christian, turned right and reached Eighth Street a minute later. His feet seemed to be carrying him faster, and he had to restrain himself to keep from breaking into a trot. North one block to Catharine and he swung to his right, then paused at the head of the street. "God, it's good to be back," he said out loud, not caring if anyone heard him. The street, however, was remarkably quiet, especially compared to the bustling Italian market, a small group of boys half way up on the left provided the only movement that kept him from thinking of it as deserted. Savoring the moment, he walked on, inhaling, absorbing, opening himself to the mood and character of the place, letting it all pass over him, around him and through him until he stood in front of his house, where he practically skipped up the steps and walked into the home where he grew up.

  In the well-lit front parlor, with the large leather armchair that was his father's favorite, and the white lace curtains that were carried with care from the old country, stood his parents, Giacomo and Aletta Sabatini. They had been standing and talking when he came in, and they immediately turned to him, his mother clapping her hands together and crying out, "Lorenzo, my son, oh, look at you, you're really home. Thank God you're not hurt."

  "It's Larry, Letta, he's an American. He was born here."

  "As if you had to tell me. Who was it that was in labor all those hours, you or me?" Beaming, she walked toward him as he set down his load, her arms spread apart in preparation for the hug that only a mother whose son was in harm's way can give. Meeting her half way with equal emotion in his heart, he embraced her, almost lifting her off the floor as he kissed her cheeks. She pushed him back to look at him, tears in her eyes as she examined him with the critical eye of a mother who has shepherded her boy from infancy to manhood. For just an instant her broad smile faded when she looked into his face, a mere flicker, seen by no one, and then she was once more grinning. It was his eyes. When she looked into them, portals for a place much deeper, Aletta could see beyond into a recess that was hidden from the world, and in the darkness she found there, she perceived what the war had done to him, and she had to suppress a shudder. "Well you're home now, and at least while you're here, we're going to take good care of you."

  Muscular and well built, he did not appear to carry any excess fat on his body and at five feet ten inches, he had the look of a soccer player. His jet black, straight hair
and olive complexion spoke of his Italian ancestry, one that was actually not far removed since his parents, Giacomo and Aletta had emigrated to the United States from Sirmione, in northern Italy, several years after marrying. Nine months and one day after arriving in the new world, his mother gave birth to Lorenzo Enrico Sabatini, conceived somewhere between Ellis Island and South Philadelphia, a one hundred percent American as his father was proud to point out to anyone who would listen.

  Giacomo, patient as long as he could be, almost pushed his wife out of the way to get to his son, threw his arms around him and planted a kiss on his cheek. "Pop, what are you doing home? I thought you'd be at the shop."

  "My son comes home from the United States Army and I'm supposed to stay at work? Your mother and I were starting to worry; it took you so long."

  "How did you know I'd be home today? We didn't even know when the ship would arrive at the base."

  "You think you could walk all the way from below Passyunk through South Philly and someone wouldn't call me?" They called old Mrs. Esetta next door and she sent her son, you know, the good for nothing who's always looking for his next bottle of wine, and he told your mother who rushed over to the store to tell me. I closed up right away and came home.

  Larry laughed and it felt good. "You have better intelligence here than the army and navy together." He realized he still held the flowers in his hand, and raised his arm to present them to his mother when a female voice chimed in with mock annoyance.

  "I hope you didn't pay for those, because I started working at Filomena's flower shop, and if you were nice I might have given them to you for free." It was his sister, Pia, and even before the words were out of her mouth she was running to her brother. She flung herself at him with such force that he was almost bowled over and had to take a step backward to keep from falling. Using both arms, the flowers still in his left hand, he lifted her off the floor and spun her around while she kissed him and buried her face in his neck. "Oh, Larry, I am so glad you're home. I missed you."