War Bonds: A Novel of World War Two, page 26
Over their meal, Wills reprised stories about the few months he shared with Gordon, brief anecdotes that pointed to his stable courage, stories Colin continued to request. Jack sat through their telling with a stiff smile on his face and frequent slugs of bourbon, wrestling with an atavistic jealousy that shamed him—the irrational envy of a dead man into whose family Jack was now wholly assimilated. He wondered how long it might take for Colin’s apparent hunger for remembrances of his father to ease, for all of them to shed the pervasive regret and melancholy and live into a new future together.
His internal struggle mostly hidden, Jack had become a balm to Beryl since their mutual surrender to one another in late summer. Their relationship had elicited some chatter in Elsworth, along with a brief period of consternation for Colin, but in truth, their romance had revived her. Jack was careful and loving with Colin, still patient in answering his endless questions about Florida and flying and the war, saying funny things in his fresh way that was so different from the British men Beryl knew—including Gordon. He visited London as often as he could get a pass, eventually leaving some T-shirts and boxers in the armoire for when he stayed over. His visits gave her an excuse to dress for dinner and fuss over herself a bit, something she had not done in four years. Afterwards, he made love to her with great tenderness if she felt blue, with athletic exuberance when she wished for that.
But the loss of Buck had hit him hard and temporarily robbed him of the persistently sunny outlook they all counted on him to manifest. He often awoke in a panic, heart hammering, reliving the hours in the blood-spattered cockpit, nursing his wounded aircraft west, his buddy caved in next to him, a sodden heap. Beryl worried a depression could endanger him in flight and knew she must bear hope to him. She found their physical relationship did much to soothe him, salve to his psychic wounds. Lying in her embrace, safe in their sacred refuge, he had pondered more than once why it was Buck who died. She had no answer but assured him she was unbelievably grateful that he was here, that they had found one another, taking this tiniest step to mitigate their losses. Sometimes, afterwards, as he dozed and they lay together satiated and content, her mind would wander, trying to remember the particular way Gordon had made love to her, the sensation of him astride her or nestled into her back. As time passed, the touch of her husband’s mouth on hers, the feel of his hand on her skin, became harder and harder to recollect. It’s true. Time heals, she told herself. It just heals by helping you forget the things you love so you don’t miss them quite as much. It was not, she decided, a fair exchange.
Colin had made the hard shift, accepting without censure the unmistakable closeness of his mother and the American he’d introduced her to. He had far preferred when he was their intermediary, the liaison between them, both of them going through him to learn about the other. He had echoed the vicar’s words to Hugo—that his mum deserved a measure of happiness and that of all the men who could have found their way into his mother’s heart, Jack was a pretty good choice.
Beryl opened the drapes and Jack stirred, pushing the covers aside despite the coolness of the room, his flat belly moving in and out with his breath, the blonde hair on his chest and muscled legs catching the faint rays of the winter sun.
“Morning,” he said finally. “You’re up early.”
“Big day,” she responded, returning to the bed to sit near him. “Do I have to do this?”
“You do not,” he responded sleepily, reaching for her. “But I think you’ll feel better on the other side of it.”
“I half-wish I could just crawl back into bed and forget the whole thing.”
“Well, ma’am, don’t let me stop you. There’s a little space for you right here. If that’s what you’d rather do, I am happy to provide whatever support you need.” She leaned in to kiss him and he reached to pull the covers back over her. After a prolonged and deep kiss, she pulled away and rose to her feet.
“I’m a complete shit, I am. Making jokes and thinking about such things on the day of my own husband’s funeral. I’m a shit.”
Jack sat up, fully awake now, pulling the sheets to his waist. They had had versions of this conversation before. “We’ve had a long time to get used to this, Beryl. You’ve lived with this for a very, very long time. It’d be different if you’d gotten this news two days ago. But if Gordon was half as kind and reasonable as you say, he’d be happy you’re living your life, that you’ve found some pleasure again. I doubt he would want you to be lonely. Or celibate. Can’t imagine that. But I know what you’re saying. Today is not a day for us. I need to get showered and dressed and think about what we’ve got on our plate. Sorry. You just get to me, you know? You’re beautiful and when you’re half-dressed, you’re pretty hard to resist. And one more thing: you’re about as unshitty a person as I’ve ever met. And I promise you, that is an actual word. Or is it nonshitty? Maybe it’s deshitty. Let me think here.”
In spite of herself, she laughed, reassured as his humor reemerged after his sorrow of recent weeks. He had written a long, detail-filled, loving letter to Buck’s parents, attesting that Buck was among the most respected men on the base, describing how his high standards, his keen preparation, had safeguarded lives. Colin had followed through with his promise to write a letter of his own, which prompted Hugo, Margaret, and Patsy to do likewise, Margaret supervising the final edits to ensure they did not all tell the same anecdotes but as many different ones as possible so Buck’s parents would know how much they’d loved him. Patsy also drew a picture of Buck with the Gator, Marigold smiling at their feet, a bright golden sun over their heads. Each day, the children hoped to receive a reply, but so far, nothing.
They drove to Holy Trinity in a U.S. military staff car, requisitioned for this most solemn occasion. A contingent from the British army would be at the church to serve as an honor guard but they would do little more than stand at the front of the chancel as the service began, then retreat to a pew together: there was no casket upon which to drape the Union Jack, not even an urn to bear down the center aisle. Beryl and Jack met the members of Ivy’s household in the small parlor of the church, where the vicar said a brief prayer. Ivy stood calmly next to a uniformed Wills, having met the near-impossible challenge of outfitting four children for the service in clothes and shoes that were appropriate and actually fit. The girls wore matching navy dresses and held hands, standing as still and quiet as Beryl had ever seen them. Hugo had his arm crooked around Colin’s neck, both of them in ties and vests, sharing some last-minute wisdom meant to support and encourage.
The group made its way to the sanctuary and found the entire village had turned out, along with scores of American airmen, members of the Home Guard proudly attired in their uniforms, and the military representatives. Friends from London had made the trip, including several of Gordon’s colleagues from his firm. And the children. All the children from the school crowded into the pews directly behind the family. Wilbert was there, Colin’s red-headed train mate from evacuation day 1939, now a newly minted army private awaiting his orders. He’d received special dispensation to attend the service and was seated in the midst of the family that had taken him in and seen to his safety five years ago. They all prayed his training would extend a measure longer to keep him out of the fight.
The small chancel was bright with Christmas color, pewter vases filled with pine branches and red berried-holly, snipped from the trees in the courtyard. Fresh flowers were near impossible to come by, but that had not stopped the members of the Holy Trinity Flower Guild. They had leaned on the owner of a private greenhouse in the next village to furnish dozens of white phalaenopsis. The orchids were a favorite of Gordon’s, they had learned, the Lieutenant blessed with a green thumb himself.
The prelude concluded, followed by the Reverend Dowd’s invocation and then the opening hymn. “Be still my soul, the Lord is on thy side,” they sang, Beryl not entirely believing that to be true. But the melancholy chords, the almost hesitant way the organist played them, did what the vicar hoped they would—encouraging those gathered to remember they must always, always continue on, despite uncertainty, despite the unknowns of life. Trust and take the next step.
As the organ swelled at the final verse, there was one late arrival, a man who stood at the back of the sanctuary. He entered just ahead of the courier from the telegraph office, a young man who hastened down the side aisle—perhaps the only person in Elsworth who had reported to work that Friday. Vexed, the vicar beckoned him to climb the chancel and explain himself. He whispered something in the vicar’s ear, at which point the Reverend stilled, closed his eyes, then slowly reopened them as he asked the courier for a fuller explanation. He handed the vicar a telegram, which Reverend Dowd unfolded and read. At this point, he dismissed the courier and made his way to the organist, cueing her to continue playing even though the congregants had sung the hymn’s last words. The vicar then waved those gathered to sit and walked to the front pew to beckon Beryl and Colin to follow him, the expression on his face unreadable. Jack moved to follow Beryl, but the vicar asked him to remain in the pew: they would return shortly.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
And blood in torrents pour
In vain–always in vain,
For war breeds war again.
–John Davidson “War Song,” 7, 1899
South of Kraków, 1944
The men departed the safe house at three in the morning, Gordon slipping from the hidden alcove, pausing for a last look at Annalise as she slept, her face placid, untroubled. She had been a formidable enemy—he had to give her that—ruthless and willing to leverage every tool at her disposal. Chief among them, her pale, ethereal beauty which had commanded his attention from the start, physical gifts not reflective of inner goodness. Her allure and her ability to appear devoted had inclined her husband over many years to believe her lies and overlook wild, laughable inconsistencies, even as he shaped a life of comfort and plenty for her with no real responsibilities, no inherent purpose. What must he be thinking with her gone over a week now? No doubt he’d concluded she’d been kidnapped—blameless and at risk in the hands of the escapees. But one does not pack one’s jewelry and finest lingerie when kidnapped. Not usually.
As he gathered his things, Gordon considered the lengths to which they had each gone for mutually exclusive objectives: he, acceding to their affair in hopes of finding his way to freedom and she, carrying out a series of ruses, including intercepting his letters to cut him off from his former life, to keep him at her side. Had she gotten her way, had they somehow ended up together, he was certain she would have soon tired of him and used her machinations with someone else. She had wanted Gordon, had fed him, and delivered him medicine not because of who Gordon was, but because she had relished the audacious, dramatic pursuit right under her husband’s nose. Genuine love and regard for the welfare of another requires a generosity she had not yet learned to cultivate. Gordon pitied her children.
The men left the safe house one at a time on foot, their multiple layers of clothes causing each to look like an especially well-fed peasant, their pockets laden with food and supplies because a satchel would draw too much attention. They crept out of Old Town, rendezvousing at the Vistula below the city, which they would cross and re-cross as they made their way south. The city maintained a curfew so the five men moved carefully around corners, staying in the shadows praying they would not encounter city policemen or worse, a drunken Nazi soldier headed to quarters after a long night, someone likely to shoot first and ask questions later. Soon, they were in the safety of the countryside, traversing rocky outcroppings as they climbed into the Silesian foothills, moving quickly to stay warm. It was fifty kilometers to their next objective, Wadowice, a distance they could have easily made in twelve hours, but because of the need to skirt villages and populated areas, it would take far longer. Most of the travel would have to take place at night. Floyd used the hand drawn map that he had refined over the past months to keep them headed in the proper direction, as well as the compass he’d trusted since his very first bombing run, a tiny device embedded in a button that had once been attached to his flight jacket.
Dawn arrived late in southern Poland on the cusp of winter and by the time a weak sun ascended, they’d been traveling a good six hours, their feet stiff and cold, their legs heavy. They constructed a little hideaway in the woods, pulling long pine branches over fallen logs and there they rested through the day, ears tuned to any unusual sound that might lead to their discovery. They slept in shifts, ate small portions of their apples and cheese, reviewed contingency plans, then resumed their trek as darkness fell. Al and Gordon remained in charge of their two weapons.
They reached Wadowice at midnight, renamed Wadowitz by the German occupiers who had effectively cleansed it not only of Jews, but priests, academics, and artists—all lost in mass executions and deportations. Still, Polish partisans—the Home Army—operated within the city and throughout the Beskid mountains to the south with support from the British Special Operations Executive. The men eased their way into the forest at the spot where the Skawa River tributary spilled into the Vistula and waited in the frigid air for further instructions. For three full days, they dispersed, hid, and regrouped again and again, concern escalating that something was amiss, the odds falling that they could hide successfully much longer. On the fourth day, a young woman approached, walking her German Shepherd on the path that followed the river. She paced up and back, up and back, the same stretch of path until the dog broke from his leash and exposed Melvin’s position in a culvert behind a stack of downed trees. The Nazis favored Shepherds, Melvin knew. She was looking for escapees or contraband—something. He was done for. She ran toward the spot where the dog stood whining and pawing. Without acknowledging the man crouched at her feet, the woman reached down to pick up the dog’s leash, chiding him for misbehaving as she dropped a small square of paper on the ground. Then she turned and made her way back up the path in the direction she’d come. The paper contained a license plate number, an intersection, an address, and a time: eight p.m., roughly twelve hours from now. On the back was a hand-drawn map; at the bottom was the anchor emblem that signified the Home Army along with the phrase “zniszcz po przeczytaniu.” Destroy after reading. Melvin rounded up the others, and they committed the information to memory before setting the paper aflame.
After another long day of waiting, the men followed the river into town and found the described intersection, an unlocked car parked there, keys tucked into the visor. They piled in, Graham at the wheel, glad to be out of the elements and seated somewhere besides the cold ground. Well before curfew, they pulled into the address, a warehouse complex where Graham slipped the vehicle into a garage bay. An unknown person closed the garage door behind them seconds later. A group of men emerged from the shadows, opening the car doors and guiding the men down hall after hall of abandoned rooms until they’d traveled deep into the complex, arriving at what was once an office, where, blessedly, an old radiator still operated, piles of worn blankets lay on the floor, and a teakettle gurgled on a hot plate.
“Come in, come in,” said a man, drawing them through the doorway. A second man removed a pack from his back and placed it on the broad desk. He removed bread, dried meats, cash, and a weapon. He waved to offer his guests the food.
“All’s well with you?” the first man asked.
“It is,” responded Floyd, “although the last four days at the riverbank have been a bit… brisk.”
“Please, there is instant coffee and many blankets to warm you up. I am Jarek, and I welcome you on behalf of Polish patriots. While I wish the hardest part of your journey was behind you, I fear it may not be. We apologize for your extended stay near the river. Three divisions of German troops have moved through Wadowice in the past two days. They are abandoning their positions in Czechoslovakia to join their misguided brethren in Belgium.”
“How many remain here?” Gordon asked.
“Less than a battalion perhaps, maybe a thousand men. Very manageable, but you understand that we needed to allow that to settle out before we made contact with you. The complication from losing these three days, however, is that word has circulated about your escape. We have intercepted communications about the kidnapping you are responsible for. But where is the woman?”
“We left her at the safe house,” said Gordon.
“Ah. Excellent. One less complication. But it is imperative we get you in the hands of the Red Army as fast as we can. After you enjoy a few hours of refreshment here, we will drive you into the highlands to Babia Góra, which lies just this side of the frontier. A long day’s walk awaits you after that.”
“Who’s looking for us? Do you know?” Floyd asked.
