by Ellen Butler
“Friederich,” she breathed.
“Who?”
“Friederich Dantzig. We met in Vienna, two years ago. He plays the violin for the symphony. It ... it was a fling, an April-May affaire. Mother was so angry when she found out because he is Jewish. She raked me over the coals and told me to forget him. But ... we still correspond in secret.”
“Where is he now?”
“Berlin.”
I sat on the love seat next to her and held her hand. Ever since the Anschluss of Austria, the news from Germany became more and more disturbing.
“Father says they are preparing for war ... again.”
“I know.” I rubbed her hand. “Adelene was called home to Paris. The French are shoring up the Maginot Line.”
Camilla’s frightened brown eyes stared at me. “What will happen to us?”
“Shh ... we are safe. Nothing is going to happen.”
“That is easy for you to say. Your home is all the way across the Atlantic. What can the Nazis do to you?”
I patted her hand but had no reassuring words to provide. She was correct. Half of Europe and an entire ocean created a barrier between the U.S. and Hitler.
After leaving Camilla, I penned a letter to Father asking if he’d heard about the attack on the Jews and what the Americans were doing about it. The disturbing report had brought to memory a little girl in Munich, Sacha, one of my girlhood friends. While we attended a Protestant church, Sacha went to synagogue. Religion meant little to me at that time, and I only had good memories of my mischievous playmate. I remember Sacha and I climbed the fig tree in her yard to get away from her annoying little brother, Elijah. We received a dressing down from her mother for throwing figs—not because we threw them at Elijah—because we were wasting the fruit. I wondered if she was still there or if her family had fled from persecution, like so many others. I’d read, in the Swiss newspaper, of trains filled with Jewish children traveling to countries beyond German borders, to Belgium, France, and Britain.
The thump of footfalls pulled me from my thoughts of Sacha and Camilla and her secret beau. The steps stopped outside the room, and a brief rap tatted against the door before it swung open.
“Mademoiselle Lily, se réveiller.” Miss Lily, wake up.
The lantern swung above me and I squinted against the light. “Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas?” What is wrong?
Augustine, the housekeeper, pulled back the eiderdown and spoke quickly in French. “There has been a telegram from your father. Your mother is unwell. You are to dress immediately for travel.”
Nothing Augustine uttered could have woken me more quickly than mother and unwell. I rose from bed and pulled off my heavy cotton nightgown in a blink. The coughing episodes that nagged Mother during our shopping trip to Paris, and her subsequent denials that it was something to be concerned about, played over in my head. Father had written a few weeks after they returned to the States assuring me her health was improving.
One of the maids, Berthe, I think, arrived carrying my valise.
“What’s going on?” Visina whispered.
Augustine shushed her and told her to go back to sleep.
“How am I to get home?” I pulled up my stockings.
“Your father has made arrangements. Once you’re dressed, go to the headmistress’s office. She will provide you with everything you need to know.”
Augustine worked quickly to help me into a pale gray wool travel suit while directing Berthe on the appropriate clothing to pack in my valise. “Here, mon petit, take your heavy coat. It will be cold on the ship.”
I traversed the dark, silent hallways to the headmistress’s office, where she explained my travel arrangements. A car would take me to Geneva, where I would get on a flight to Paris. An American family stationed at the Paris embassy happened to be transferring back home and had tickets on a cruise ship leaving Le Havre, two days hence. My father had been able to secure me passage, and the family would chaperone me to New York.
The flight from Geneva to Paris went smoothly, and an embassy vehicle picked me up from the airport where the driver told me that the Caton family had already left for Le Havre. He would not be taking me to the embassy but would drive straight to Le Havre, where a hotel room had been arranged for me until the ship left. I was pleased by this information; the farther west I traveled, the closer I got to my mother.
The Catons turned out to be a kind family. Julia was in her mid-twenties and mother to a pretty little five-year-old girl named Elise. I estimated Henry, Julia’s husband, to be in his mid-thirties. He spent his days reading reports and smoking in the men’s lounge. The only time I saw him was during dinner, when we dined at the captain’s table. I couldn’t blame him. Two days into the crossing, Julia and the nurse they’d brought to watch after Elise succumbed to the rocking of the ship. I ended up spending my days walking the decks and having tea parties with Elise to keep her occupied while the ladies lay miserable in bed. I didn’t resent having to look after Elise. She was a spirited little girl, and keeping her occupied served to keep my own mind from dwelling on the fears that would sneak up on me when I was alone.
The fourth night on the ship, I dreamed of Mother. She was her beautiful old self again; her eyes sparkled like the sun on the Aegean Sea, her cheeks had filled out, and her smile could entice birds to sing. She and I were having a picnic next to the river Danube, and she told me how much she loved me and how proud she was to be the mother of such a lovely young lady. She told me that Edward would need my help and asked me to watch out for him. I promised I would. Then she proceeded to give me fashion advice. I awoke from the dream refreshed, and for the first time since that dreadful night at the Château, the gnawing in my gut dissipated. I considered the dream an omen—that my mother had turned a corner and her health was on the upswing.
On the seventh day, our ship docked in the bustling New York Harbor. Mr. Caton escorted me to the train station, where he pressed a gold and cloisonné bracelet into my hand. “A gift, for taking care of Elise.”
Father sent a car to pick me up at Union Station in D.C. The trip from the station to my parents’ new home in Georgetown took less than thirty minutes. It was past nine when I finally arrived. A young, apple-cheeked maid answered the door and ushered me into the front hall.
“My little world traveler, you are a sight for sore eyes.” Edward, wearing a black suit and no tie, stood in a doorway on my left. Though he’d gained some weight since I saw him in England, the haggard look around his mouth hadn’t changed, and his eyes were bloodshot, rimmed in red. “I’m so glad you have arrived.”
He came over and pulled me into an unexpectedly tight embrace. I returned the hug.
“How was your trip?” he asked as I handed off my rain-dampened coat and gloves to the maid, who promptly disappeared through a green baize door.
“Long,” I sighed.
“Come into my study. Let me get you a drink. Would you like a brandy or sherry?”
“Sherry, please.” I stared up at the staircase, wanting to protest and insist on seeing Mother; however, my etiquette training kicked in, and I followed him into the large study, surrounded by mahogany bookshelves. Two burgundy velvet wingback chairs rested by a fireplace, and I sat in one of them, enjoying the warmth emitted by the burning logs.
“How was the trip with the Catons?”
“Fine. Mr. Caton gave me this bracelet for taking care of his daughter after the nanny and Julia became seasick. But please, don’t hold me in suspense, tell me how Mother is getting along?”
Edward handed me the sherry and sat across from me. “My dear...” He swallowed. “About your mother ... she ... she passed away,” he choked out.
“What?” I said in a high-pitched voice.
“I am sorry. It ... it happened three days ago.”
“Three days?” that silly high voice squeaked out.
“Yes, on Thursday. The funeral is tomorrow.”
The glass slipped from my fingers. Its co
ntents spilled unheeded onto the Axminster rug. The air must have been sucked from the room, because I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t move. Edward clasped my numb hand and spoke to me in words I didn’t comprehend. A wailing sob bubbled from below, agonizingly working its way up my chest, until finally, I sucked in a breath and allowed the untamed cry to burst forth.
♠♠♠♠
I awoke abruptly. A chill pervaded the room, the fire burnt to embers. Peaks and valleys of late-afternoon sunlight filtered through the clouds and into the window, chasing away the unhappy memories. I rubbed my eyes and stretched stiff muscles. The drapery of fatigue had been removed by sleep, and it was now time for me to formulate a decisive plan.
My options were limited. Without papers, Switzerland was a no-go; I’d never make it over the mountains or through the checkpoints without help.
Heading east, farther into Germany, turned my stomach. My identification card was now useless, even dangerous. I lit a candle and watched the paper crinkle and blacken around the edges where the flame licked at it. Anneliese Kruse disappeared beneath the sparks, and I tossed it away into the fire along with the message for Lenz. My last connection to the nanny’s life floated gracefully up the chimney in a cloud of smoke.
I could remain in this hut in hopes that the Allies would eventually overtake the area and not shoot or bomb me on their way in. The hut was warm and had some provisions. A chest beneath the cot revealed a rifle with one bullet in the chamber, which I could use to find food. However, regular smoke could draw the enemy’s attention. My boots stood side-by-sided, like silent soldiers, next to the hearth. The information on the film hidden within held viable intelligence that the American forces needed. No. Staying put in this bungalow was not a practicable option. As much as I dreaded to admit, I needed to move.
But move where? The only choice seemed to be west, toward the front.
My last eavesdropping mission led me to believe the Allies were pushing through the eastern-most edges of France toward the Rhineland. Hitler had commanded his generals to send additional troops and armored divisions to fortify their position to keep the Allies from crossing the river into the Fatherland. The front, a constantly moving line, was probably one hundred to 150 kilometers away. If I could get back into France, I still remembered names that could reconnect me with French intelligence. Hell, I could walk into an Allied encampment, surrender myself, and hope my superiors back in Paris could sort it out before I was shot or imprisoned. I needed to find transportation if I wanted to get the vital information to the proper people before it was too late.
Unfortunately, all my plans were delayed by two factors. First, due to heavily falling snow. Second and more frustrating, I couldn’t get my boot over the swollen ankle. I spent the evening packing the injury with icy snow and propping it up on the chair, tricks I’d learned after a nasty tumble from a horse when I was a child.
Dinner consisted of a hard-boiled egg, apricot marmalade, and more hot water. Afterwards, I covered up the window with a blanket, snuffed the candle, and carefully banked the fire so it would burn through the night. I probably should have put it out; staying the night increased my risk of detection, and the fire was dangerous. However, its warmth balanced out the frigidness wrapped around my foot, and I hoped it would dispel the soreness plaguing my throat. The only good the snow brought was the hope that it covered any sort of trail the dogs might track.
In the flame’s glow, I fingered the miniature brass compass at my breast. It had certainly saved my life the past two days, guiding me like a beacon away from danger. Lenz, a jeweler by trade, had mounted the clasp and provided a chain so I could wear it as a necklace. I’d told him it was my father’s and, since it was made in Switzerland, not something that would give me away. It was just another one of the lies I’d told.
Oh, it was true, the manufacturer was Swiss, but it was never my father’s.
He gave it to me. I remembered our exchange as clear as if it were yesterday. I’d given him my St. Christopher medal, the patron saint of travelers.
“To keep you safe,” I’d told him.
He pulled the scratched and well-worn compass from his pocket. “I jumped into Normandy with this. It was my father’s. He used it in World War I.”
I’d pushed it back at him, insisting he needed it more than I, but he folded my fingers around the cool metal.
“Keep it. The military issued me a new one when I jumped into France. You can give it back the next time we meet.”
Was it any wonder that I dreamed of him that night?
Chapter Four
City of Light
November 1944
Paris, France
Raucous laughter filled the air. A mixture of American and British servicemen crowded around outdoor tables, enjoying coffee and camaraderie. An army sergeant slapped the back of an English airman, and I smiled at the lighthearted group, voyeuristically enjoying their moment of pleasure—for once the tensions of war not uppermost in their minds. The sun warmed my face on this unseasonable autumn day as I approached the outdoor Café de Flore on the Boulevard St. Germain. A breeze tickled my legs and flirted with the hem of my lightweight coat, and I adjusted my hat forward to shade my eyes. Patrons crowded the outdoor café, enjoying an alfresco lunch. I searched in vain for an open table, finally alighting on a dark head bent over a book all alone at a table on the outer edge of the restaurant. The olive-brown uniform declared him to be an army captain, and an empty chair sat across from him. Unwilling to give up my plans to eat outside at my favorite restaurant, I squared my shoulders and approached the lonely soldier.
“Pardon me, Captain, would you mind if I joined you?” Two piercing, marine-blue eyes fringed with black lashes met mine, and a slight jolt ran through my body. I gave a hesitant smile. “You see, all the other tables are filled.”
The beautiful eyes glanced away, surveying the crowded restaurant, then he rose and indicated the empty seat. “By all means.”
While I situated myself, removing gloves and placing them beside my handbag, the captain waved at the waiter.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Lily,” he said, punctuating with a click of heels.
“Bonjour, Philippe.” With perfect, albeit countrified French, I proceeded to order an egg salad sandwich and a café au lait. Philippe gave a precise bow and ambled off. My gaze returned to my ruggedly handsome tablemate.
His brows puckered in puzzlement. “You are American, correct?”
“Yes, indeed, Lillian Saint James, from Washington, D.C.” I extended a hand.
“Charles McNair, of Milwaukee. My friends call me Charlie,” he replied with a slight Midwestern accent. The hand was rough but warm, and it sent an unexpected shiver up my arm. Surprise flashed, and his gaze darkened but was quickly masked as he released my fingers.
“Thank you for allowing me to join you.”
“It’s my pleasure.”
“What were you reading when I interrupted?” I indicated the forgotten book.
“The Sun Also Rises, by Hemmingway.”
“Ah, yes, the self-indulgent, beautiful Brett drags a jaded Charlie Barnes gaily across Europe from Paris to Pamplona with their motley group of friends,” I said, gazing around the Parisian café. “Apropos, I suppose, considering where we are ... and the title character, of course.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve only finished the first chapter.”
I waved to the book. “Feel free to carry on as if I’m not here. I don’t wish to disturb your reading. I simply couldn’t give up spending lunch outside on a day like this.”
“Actually, I am more interested in knowing what Lillian Saint James, from Washington, D.C., who speaks French like a Parisian and apparently reads Hemmingway, is doing here.”
My lips lifted. “Oh, I think Philippe would argue with you. My French is definitely not Parisian. And call me Lily. Like you, I’m here to eat my lunch.”
“That is not what I meant.” A finger drummed the table.
“What is a beautiful, young Ingrid Bergman look-alike doing here in war-torn Europe instead of safe at home in America?” He tilted his head. “Are you a nurse?”
I wasn’t wearing a uniform, but it was a good guess on his part. I had been known to don one when the situation demanded it. Most of the American women in Europe were nurses, typists, or secretaries for the War Department. Since the OSS had yet to give me a new assignment, I had the novelty of time on my hands. The day had been so beautiful—and Colette tempted me with a new dress and petite bow-bedecked hat—I’d taken to walking the Paris streets for fun.
I told none of this to my tablemate, instead allowing the standard-issue reply to roll off my tongue. “Just trying to do my bit. I’m a photojournalist for a newspaper.” I’d told that lie at least a dozen times to strangers and friends alike, but on this occasion, telling the lie to a solemn Charlie McNair made me uncomfortable.
Beyond the beautiful eyes, Charlie sported high cheekbones and a slightly crooked nose that looked like it had been broken at one time. His uniform fit over a stocky frame of compact strength, and I estimated his age to be late twenties. Although he might have been younger, either the elements or anxiety had etched premature crow’s feet. The war aged everyone early.
Laughter erupted again from the rowdy table of GIs and distracted my tablemate.
Philippe returned, placing a drink and sandwich in front of me.
“Merci,” I murmured.
“Bienvenue, you are most welcome.” Philippe eyed Charlie but didn’t deign to offer a refill on the coffee. With a Gallic shrug, he walked off.
“So, Captain, what does that fancy patch on your left shoulder signify?” I deftly diverted the conversation away from myself.
“Hundred-and-first Airborne, and that is a Screaming Eagle,” he said with pride.
I’d known the answer when I asked, but for appearance’s sake, I allowed my eyes to widen. This wasn’t the first paratrooper I’d run across. Their tactical fighting skills became legendary after D-Day. “So you signed up to jump out of perfectly good airplanes?”