War Bonds: A Novel of World War Two, page 31
Father and son waved at the private at the gate and entered the base, the American soldier working to contain a grin, saluting Gordon, thanking him for his service, and welcoming him back home.
“Friend of yours, Colin?” Gordon asked.
“Tis,” said his son. “One of many.”
They made their way towards Jack’s Nissen hut, the airmen they passed greeting Colin, extending a hand to Gordon or patting him on the back by way of welcome. “You’re a bit of a celebrity,” Colin whispered. “With the escape and all.”
“And how would they learn of that, I wonder?” Gordon mused.
“Hugo. Absolutely. And perhaps I said a thing or two.”
They found Jack pacing outside his hut, ostensibly to ward off the chill, jacket collar, as always, pulled high on his neck, but it was really nerves that had him moving. He stopped once he spotted his visitors, seeing contentment, calm in Colin’s visage. This boy no longer had to manage the loss of a father, the loneliness of his mother, the undoing of his family. The pervasive shadows of worry that the war had imposed had been pushed out to sea, joy evident in his face.
“Dad, this is Jack. When we were little, we used to call him our Yank. But that seems a bit babyish now. Jack,” Colin raised his two fists exultantly, “this is my dad!”
The men locked eyes. Gordon appraised him, surprised at his youth, his lack of pretense, how overwhelmingly American he was.
“Captain,” Gordon paused. “I … Colin’s told me so much about you. Well, bloody hell, I can’t seem to come up with the proper words at the moment to thank you.”
“Lieutenant—Gordon,” responded Jack, offering a left-handed handshake, the tension dissipating. “We’ve been awfully worried about you for a mighty long time.”
“Your work is a bit of a high-stakes gamble too, I’d say. Colin says you’ve lost many, many friends.”
“I have. We all have.”
“Indeed. We have,” said Gordon. “Speaking with Wills just now, I’m seeing more clearly how different the war’s been for all of us. You, here and in the skies. Wills, all over France, in all manner of circumstance. And there I was, locked up inside the Reich, not doing much good to anybody.”
“You did your duty, soldier. Escape is no small thing and from what I hear, you provided some pretty damn good intel.”
“We were able to get word of the POW evacuations up the line, so you and your mates didn’t mistake them for retreating troops and bomb them. So yes, I’m pleased to have contributed that.”
They snagged a jeep and rode out to the hardstand for an up-close look at the Gator, pockmarked and patched up, still murderously airworthy. Speaking from a design perspective, from his years of experience and training, Gordon proclaimed the artwork on the plane’s nose outstanding, particularly the roundness of the protuberant Hitlerian rump. Colin said he always knew his dad would appreciate the plane’s florid feature. Then he launched into a lecture on the specs of Fortresses in general, as well as the specific missions this plane had survived. Gordon declined the offer to climb up into the belly of the plane, promising he’d be back to do it once his arm healed.
“It carries ten men, Dad, and can fly about 280 miles an hour at the most, but cruises around 180. There are thirteen guns on board—M2 Browning machine guns. For the milk runs—over to France and back, for example—they carry eight thousand pounds of bombs. Four tons! But on the longer missions, Fortresses carry forty five hundred pounds.”
Gordon watched his boy rattling off what he knew, so earnest and animated, wanting Gordon to understand every detail and to love that detail as much as he did. Gordon watched Jack, too, looking on proudly, never interrupting, allowing Colin to come up with a statistic even when it took a few tries.
After, they stopped at the O-Club, Jack ordering a Coke for Colin and a pair of whiskeys for the men. As they lifted their glasses, Colin drifted off to chat with some of the other airmen, pointing back at his father from across the room, his wide smile one of pleasure and pride.
It gave Gordon the moment to say what he came to say.
“You have been a father to my son over these years,” he began, “and I know that assuaged his pain, helped steady him. It was generous of you, Jack, and I’m grateful. You surely didn’t have to take that on in addition to your brutal duties.”
“It was a two-way street, Gordon. He gave me a reason to go on when it was hard, when it got to be too much. I got a taste of being a parent, I guess, when you do what you have to do because you promised to do it. In my case, I promised Colin I’d get back safely and somehow, despite some very close calls and some horrible losses, I did.”
“You seem quite attached to him. And he to you.” Gordon took a slug of the whiskey. “And Beryl? Did she give you a reason to go on as well?”
“Beryl?” Jack repeated stupidly, as if he were unfamiliar with the name.
“Yes. My wife, Beryl. Somehow, I get the sense that she contributed to your positive state of mind as well, to your commitment to get back here safely, in one piece.” He said this quietly, without emotion, simply stating facts as if they posed no threat to his intimate life with his wife.
“Of course. Yes. She’s Colin’s mother, and we’ve certainly become friends over the past three years.” As Jack lit a cigarette, his hands would not steady.
“Friends. Yes. Whatever the nature of your relationship, Jack, I am home now.” He took another drink. “And I have no intention of leaving again. Do not misunderstand me: I am deeply grateful to you and what you’ve meant to my son and yes, even the… the bedrock you’ve apparently been for Beryl. I recognize my return is unexpected and things are now somewhat… crowded. But I want Beryl and Colin and me to recover our life as a family. The three of us. When this damnable war ends, I want him back with us, in London.” Gordon leaned in, his eyes moist, his voice strained by emotion. “This war cannot cost me my family, too.”
“It won’t,” Jack said, the pain caused by his affair with Beryl no longer a nebulous, abstract thing but embodied in the man before him, arm in a sling, five years of his life lost, worried now he would lose his future too.
“We’re not involved, Gordon. I’ve stepped back. We agreed to it, although to be perfectly honest, I didn’t want to.”
Gordon’s eyes narrowed.
“But it didn’t matter,” Jack continued, “because once that telegram came, once she knew, she was clear with me about what she intended to do: restore your marriage. But one other thing you need to know: our involvement came after—months after—she got the news from the War Office. She did not knowingly betray you. That’s not who she is, as I’m sure you already know.” Jack gave a wry smile.
Gordon ruminated, considering the timeline Jack described. It fit more securely with what he knew of Beryl’s character. Why had he assumed something more deceitful? He dropped his head, relieved.
They watched Colin circulate through the club, chatting happily, getting a refill of Coke, glancing back now and again at his father and his friend, who both smiled in response.
“You know how when people are dying—when they die young—they tell the spouse who will survive them ‘I want you to remarry. I want you to be happy.’” Jack nodded, not sure he was prepared for Gordon to continue. “Rubbish, probably, but they say it anyway. Had I not returned, Jack, I believe you would have given her a happy life, would have been an able father to Colin, despite the fact that you’re a Yank and a bit on the young side. And I say that because I see my son has not just endured this harrowing time, but has grown into a perceptive, hopeful young man despite it. That is partially your influence, I know. And Beryl—she is steady and generous when she could be debilitated and frazzled with nothing much to give after five long years of this. I believe this is due in part to her fortitude and determination, but also because you loved her well, helped her trust there was still some good in the world, helped her hang on to, even sharpen all the best qualities we both, apparently, love in her.” Gordon lifted his glass in salute. “For that, Captain, I offer my ambivalent appreciation.”
Jack lifted his own glass in response, his smile rueful but relieved. “Glad I could help, Lieutenant. And I’m glad you made it home, really I am, for her—and for your son there. But you gotta know this hurts. It hurts like hell.”
“War is hell, remember? I believe one of your Confederate generals said as much.”
“Yeah, well, I blame Hitler. One hundred percent.”
. . .
Gordon returned to the flat late that night, finding Beryl sitting in the armchair in the living room, one hand around a wine glass, the other at her mouth, gnawing her fingernails. She came home from work that evening surprised to find his note, then feeling like she’d been socked in the gut when she saw what he’d left in their bedroom. Folded neatly in the center of the bed were two pairs of U.S. Army issue boxer shorts along with two U.S. Army issue T-shirts, Jack’s name stamped helpfully at the neck. He had gone through her things, she thought at first, furious at the invasion. But then she realized he was only just looking for space in the armoire—their armoire—to put his few things away. He hadn’t gone looking. That wasn’t the kind of thing Gordon did.
He nodded at her as he came through the door, removing his coat, unwrapping the scarf from his neck. She watched him apprehensively, trying to read his expression, glean from his posture how this would go.
“I saw Colin. He sends his love. Had a good visit over at the air base. Quite fascinating.” He paused, sat, and turned to her. “Did you have a mind to replace me then?” he asked finally, a conclusion, not an accusation.
“If you’re talking about Jack, and I assume you are, he has been an overwhelmingly positive support for Colin. A wonderful influence in your absence, most especially so when we thought you were lost.”
“Yes. Quite. I agree. But I mean with you. It appears his involvement extended beyond teaching Colin aeronautics and expressing a fatherly interest.”
Beryl sat quietly, knowing whatever she said it would sound weak and selfish. “I haven’t been running around on you, if that’s what you’re accusing me of. We didn’t become close until after I heard from the War Office. I was told I was widowed.”
Gordon nodded. “I’m aware. And I thank you for that, Beryl, truly. But now you know you’re not widowed. I’ve returned. And I don’t believe all this is so easily undone, is it?”
“Not easily, no.”
“Do you love him?”
She stilled, the struggle hidden inside her as she considered whether it was best to deny it wholesale, or risk hurting him by acknowledging that yes, she would always love Jack, would cherish forever how he had brought calm in the maelstrom, obviated her disorienting loneliness. But how to say that her love for Jack was a separate thing from her love for her husband and her deep desire to live within the love of the family they’d once been? Could they even be that family again?
“Gordon, I must understand something first. I’m sure over time, you will tell me all that happened in the years we’ve been separated. I know it has been excruciating from what you’ve said already and what the War Office and the intelligence agent have told me. But this woman—the German woman in whose home you worked, the one who made sure the typhus didn’t kill you. I know only bits and pieces, but her role in all this unsettles me. Who is she? It seems she means something to you apart from the war.”
“Who is she?” Gordon repeated with a sad smile. “Annalise was my master, Beryl. She was my savior and my tormentor, reminding me that a sane world still existed outside of the prison camp and giving me the most limited glimpse of it. I was very, very lucky to be able to work there, where I ate meals with bread and fruit and meat that was not infested by maggots, smuggling bits of it back to POWs who really needed it. Prison camp is inhumane, Beryl, no matter the conventions that were meant to safeguard us. There’s never enough to eat. It’s filthy. The rats have the run of the place even in the daytime. Men I knew died of skin infections, scratching at lice and bugs in their sleep, tearing their flesh to the point it couldn’t heal. Others killed themselves because of the futility of it all—day after day, the stench and hunger and disease. They lost hope. They ran for the fences, all of a sudden, knowing they’d draw machine gun fire that would end their agony. So, getting out of there for a few hours, working at the manor house, constructing the arbor, tending to the beautiful garden was a life-saving respite. It was a gift.”
“And did your benefactress expect you to show appreciation to her for granting this gift?”
“She did.”
Beryl gazed steadily at her husband. “How did you do that?”
“She sought my company.”
“You spent time with her alone?”
“At her request, yes. She would arrange it, send the household staff and my guard off somewhere.”
“And then?” Beryl did not want to hear what he would say next.
“And then I would do as she asked.”
Beryl nodded, drawing her legs up into the chair, crossing her arms, afraid of his answer to her next question.
“And did you think of staying with her? After?”
Gordon looked at her incredulously. “What? Stay? Hell, no. Stay? Never. There was no relationship. I wanted only to get back to you.”
“But, Gordon. You stopped writing. Why is that? Did you consider starting over with her—a new life in Europe once the war was over?” He tried to interrupt, but she pressed on. “Because your letters before that were… were empty. They never spoke of anything that mattered—of anything we’d shared or said that you wished to be back with us—that you were the least bit concerned for me or for Colin. Letters from a stranger, they were. It was like you’d forgotten me—lost interest in the life we’d shared.”
He shook his head. “I should have told you first off, Beryl, as soon as I stepped off that train. I did write to you. Faithfully. Frequently. I never stopped. But she stole my letters, Beryl. Annalise had her driver intercept them at the camp and bring them to her. I didn’t know at the time—please believe me. She only told me later, after we escaped. Said I should stay with her because she had made sure you had long since given up on me and moved on.”
Her skin prickled, his words like sharp cuts, as she finally grasped the whole of Annalise’s scheme, a stratagem that had somewhat succeeded. Beryl had indeed moved on, turning to Jack, engrafting him deeply into her life. All while this woman had kept Gordon at her side.
He continued. “The letters you did receive—in the early days, I nearly lost hope. I knew only that I wanted you to be safe and hoped you were staying in the shelter out back to stay clear of the bombs. The censors read everything, and I didn’t want them to know about my despair—how much I missed you. They used that against us and so much of surviving the camp was holding on to a realistic hope, looking past the filth and misery right in front of you but telling yourself a normal world still exists, run by rational, sensible people, despite the lies the Germans told us. I didn’t want them to rob me of that and use my love for you against me. Once I went to work at the manor house, I knew my letters would be scrutinized more carefully to make sure I wasn’t passing along anything useful. And they were. It’s how Annalise learned we were married. She confronted me about it and I lied to her that I’d been through a rough time and married you out of convenience. And from then on, I stayed neutral, worried to mention Colin because I didn’t want her to know he was our child.”
“You’re not a good liar, Gordon. You’ve never been.”
“Sadly, I’ve become quite skilled. It’s something I’m hoping to unlearn.”
“But when you escaped, why did she come with you? Wilkins omitted that detail when we talked, conveniently. What is there to think except that she thought you and she had a future?”
Gordon shook his head. “She had no choice. She had prepared for what she thought would be our escape. Ours alone. She was furious when she realized what it was—when she saw the other men and that her house staff were in on the plan. She had to come with us because we could not leave her there alive. And in spite of everything, I couldn’t kill her.”
The hair rose on Beryl’s arms, the back of her neck, at hearing her husband say he had contemplated killing this woman. “Where is she now?”
“I’m not entirely sure. We left her at a safe house in Kraków. Maybe she’s back with her husband by now. Or she may have reached Switzerland, where her children were in school. The partisans would have helped her with that, not realizing who she was.”
“So, she saved your life, did all she did, believing you loved her?”
“She saved my life, Beryl, so I would feel indebted to her. It’s how she operated. And I played along. I led her to believe I appreciated her and loved her. Do you understand that? I played along. I took what I could from her to survive.” His face contorted in pain, hand on his head, fingers raking across his scalp as he organized his thoughts. “But I never intended to stay with her. Ever. From the start, I used her. I used her for everything I could get from her that would sustain me long enough to get out of her control. And as I did it, I had to go a bit numb. I had to block out how desperately I missed you and Colin to make it through. Despondency leads to death in that kind of place and I decided very early on to allow myself to picture your face only one time each day. I would picture you wholly, fully. Count your freckles and your curls, see Colin’s round cheeks. I lay in the dark and pictured you, just before sleep, when I prayed for your safety.”
He paused, not wishing to hurt Beryl further, but needing her to know, to work his way free from the veil of deceit that shackled him. “When she asked me into her bed, I had no choice. I felt enslaved to her. But I used those moments, as conflicted as I felt inside, to remind myself real life existed outside the hell I was living. That I was still fully a man and what I did with her was a pale imitation of the joy I would experience again, someday, with you. The constant lying, presenting a completely different self, wore me out, Beryl. It’s like a dead weight I’ve hauled around for years that I can’t shed. But it served a purpose, and that’s what I kept in front of me. It helped me make it back to you.”
