A PLUME BOOK
AMERICAN BLONDE
©LOUIS KAPELERIS
JENNIFER NIVEN’s three previous novels are Becoming Clementine, Velva Jean Learns to Fly, and Velva Jean Learns to Drive, which was chosen as an Indie Reader’s Group Top Ten Pick. Niven has also written three nonfiction books. The Ice Master was named one of the top ten nonfiction books of the year by Entertainment Weekly, has been translated into eight languages, has been the subject of several documentaries, and received Italy’s Gambrinus “Giuseppe Mazzotti” Literary Prize. Ada Blackjack was a Book Sense Top Ten Pick and has been optioned for the movies and translated into Chinese, French, and Estonian. The Aqua-Net Diaries, a memoir about Niven’s high school experiences, was optioned by Warner Bros. as a television series. She lives in Los Angeles. For more information, visit jenniferniven.com or follow her on Facebook.
Praise for Becoming Clementine
“Unforgettable and heartfelt.”
—Pam Jenoff, bestselling author of The Kommandant’s Girl and The Diplomat’s Wife
“A page-turner of a story.”
—James Earl Jones, Tony Award–winning, Emmy Award–winning actor
“An unforgettable tale of love, sacrifice, courage, and compassion that will resonate with readers long after they finish the book.”
—Chicago Tribune
“A spell-binding spy saga.”
—Elizabeth P. McIntosh, OSS/CIA, and author of Sisterhood of Spies
“A heart-stopping tale of wartime intrigue, romance, and high adventure.”
—Romantic Times (A Top Pick)
“It’s all here—intrigue, romance, heroism. A terrifically absorbing read.”
—Will Irwin, author of The Jedburghs and Abundance of Valor
“Richly textured, historically evocative, emotionally mesmerizing, Becoming Clementine takes you on a journey so gripping you can smell the gun smoke.”
—Kerry Reichs, author of What You Wish For and Leaving Unknown
Praise for Velva Jean Learns to Fly
“An endearing portrait of a young woman with a big heart—Velva Jean Learns to Fly illuminates the power of going after a dream and the courage it takes to never let go.”
—Beth Hoffman, bestselling author of Looking for Me and Saving CeeCee Honeycutt
“Velva Jean’s story delves into the contributions made by amazing women during World War II and tells a compassionate story about adventure, love, and war. This is a wonderful book—very hard to put down.”
—Ann Howard Creel, author of The Magic of Ordinary Days
“I devoured Velva Jean Learns to Fly and immediately began spreading the word: This one is not to be missed!”
—Cassandra King, bestselling author of Moonrise, Queen of Broken Hearts, and The Same Sweet Girls
“Velva Jean Hart is a heroine with grit, grace, determination, and enough humanity to hook readers with ferocious tenderness, making them want to find and befriend her. Niven’s writing shines.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“A sweeping adventure that takes the reader from the streets of Nashville to the belly of a WWII bomber.”
—Benjamin Percy, award-winning author of Red Moon and The Wilding
“In this fun, fast-paced, heartwarming sequel to Velva Jean Learns to Drive, we follow the beloved young heroine from her mountain home to Nashville. But soon after Pearl Harbor is attacked, Velva Jean begins singing a new song—one full of patriotism, courage, and feisty independence. The perfect read for any girl of any age who yearns to soar beyond her dreams.”
—Susan Gregg Gilmore, author of The Funeral Dress and Looking for Salvation at the Dairy Queen
Praise for Velva Jean Learns to Drive
“A touching read, funny and wise, like a crazy blend of Loretta Lynn, Dolly Parton, a less morose Flannery O’Connor, and maybe a shot of Hank Williams. . . . Niven makes some memorable moon-spun magic in her rich fiction debut.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“In this story Jennifer Niven creates a world long gone, a mountain past where people suffer failure, loss, and betrayal, as well as the strength and joy of connection and deep love. Velva Jean Learns to Drive takes us far into this soaring, emotional country, the place where our best music comes from.”
—Robert Morgan, bestselling author of The Road from Gap Creek and Gap Creek
“A fluid storyteller.”
—Wall Street Journal
“Velva Jean learns to . . . not only drive, but to soar. This beautifully written coming-of-age story captivated me, and I recommend it to anyone who has ever longed to ‘live out there.’”
—Ann B. Ross, author of the bestselling Miss Julia novels
“Spirited.”
—Parade
PLUME
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) LLC
375 Hudson Street
New York, New York 10014
USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China
penguin.com
A Penguin Random House Company
First published by Plume, a member of Penguin Group (USA) LLC, 2014
Copyright © 2014 by Jennifer Niven
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Niven, Jennifer.
American blonde : a novel / Jennifer Niven.
pages cm
eBook ISBN 978-0-698-15793-4
1. Young women—Fiction. 2. Appalachian Region, Southern—History—20th century—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3614.I94A83 2014
813’.6--dc23
2013039066
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
CONTENTS
About the Author
Praise for Becoming Clementine
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
MISS RED, WHITE, AND BLUE
1945 ~ 1946
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
KIT ROGERS
1946 ~ 1947
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
T
HIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
VELVA JEAN HART
1947
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
ENDINGS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
for John Ware,
agent, mentor, champion, friend
Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world.
—Edna St. Vincent Millay, Letters of Edna St. Vincent Millay
for Briana,
who knows and loves Velva Jean almost as much as I do
for Mom and Louis,
always
Once upon a time, there was a town that didn’t exist.
—Penelope Niven
MISS RED, WHITE, AND BLUE
1945 ~ 1946
ONE
Six days after setting sail from Scotland, my brother Johnny Clay and I stood pressed against the railing of the Gray Ghost. It was June 21, 1945. We were only two of fifteen thousand passengers. Soldiers filled the upper decks, so crushed together that I was afraid I might have to jump overboard to breathe. The fog settled thick around our shoulders as we waited for the first sight of land.
Ever since I was a little girl, growing up in my brother’s shadow, it was important that I see things first. But this time I’d decided to let him win. He needed to win because the war had changed him. Every day I looked at his face, searching for some trace of the boy I knew—my brother, my best friend, champion gold panner, rider of the rails, paratrooper—and sometimes he was there and sometimes he wasn’t. Today he was somewhere in between, here one moment and then gone again, like the sun on a cloudy day.
Thanks to a German bullet, Johnny Clay would always limp, but he didn’t mind this because all the best cowboys limped. The thing that troubled him more was the middle finger of his left hand and the fact that—also thanks to a German bullet—it was missing from the knuckle up. My brother was vain, and limping was one thing, but missing a finger was another. He was a gold panner and a guitar player. These were the things he could do best, once upon a time when he was whole, even though he’d done other things—roped cattle, flown and jumped out of planes. Now, if you asked him what he was going to do with himself, he’d tell you he guessed he might do anything he set his mind to. But he’d say it in a far-off way, as if he didn’t really mean it or care much at all.
The fog was so heavy that I could barely see the water, but as the ship went churning through, the spray hit my face. Before the war, the Gray Ghost had been the Queen Mary, the grandest ship on the ocean, but since 1942 she’d been used to transport troops across the world. Soldiers crowded to my left, to the back of me, to the right of Johnny Clay. I stood, my arm against my brother’s, staring out into nothing and thinking over everything I’d seen and done since the last time I’d been home to North Carolina, early in 1943. If you asked me what I planned to do now that I was going home again, I would tell you that for the first time in my life I didn’t know.
“What do you think New York City looks like, Johnny Clay?” I wondered if it was grander than Paris, where I’d worked as a spy, where my name had been Clementine Roux, where I’d cut and dyed my hair and pretended to be French, and where I had been captured by the Germans. I stared out at the fog and saw all the places I’d been: Scotland, England, Germany, and the villages and cities of France. I thought of the pieces of me I’d left behind, a piece here, a piece there, scattered like bread crumbs. How much of me was left?
My brother leaned over the rail, so far that I felt myself reaching for him, ready to pull him back. He said, “See for yourself.”
All at once, the haze lifted, and in the distance I could see the black outline of land. Something appeared through the clouds—at first a dusky mass, like a haint, but then a form. A crown, a torch held high. The Statue of Liberty. The torch had been dark since the war began but now it burned bright through the mist.
The soldiers started to cheer. Two dirigibles flew low in the sky. A helicopter passed over the ship, then another. From somewhere, a song was playing, as if the city was singing. Smaller boats steamed past, blowing three long whistles. The Gray Ghost responded with a rumbling, knee-shaking blast—like thunder. Flags flew from the tops of buildings and from the windows, which were open and filled with people leaning out. A brass band played on the pier: “God Bless America.”
I laid a hand on my brother’s arm, lightly, hoping he wouldn’t move it away. I said, “Oh, Johnny Clay. It’s beautiful.”
We pushed down the gangplank, carried by the crowd. Fifteen thousand soldiers fighting to be first on shore. I held tight to Johnny Clay’s hand, my feet barely touching the wood of the dock. With my other hand, I held tight to my hatbox, my Mexican guitar, my mandolin, until Johnny Clay took them from me. I didn’t need to walk because the men around me were pushing me forward. Thousands of people lined the pier and the harbor, waving, crying, shouting out names. Banners held high, flying in the breeze that skimmed off the water: “Welcome home, boys! Well done!” Handkerchiefs to mouths. Sobbing. Laughing. The first of the soldiers off, straining to find loved ones in the ocean of faces and waving hands. Men in uniform kneeling down to kiss American ground. Newsreel crews gathered, interviewing the returning heroes. Confetti falling like rain. I wanted to cover my ears from the noise, but I didn’t dare let go of my brother’s hand. It was his bad hand. I tried not to feel the knuckle, the smooth knot of it where the skin had grown over.
Just like that, we were on land. Back to America. Home. From somewhere, I heard my name and turned. I could see a man running, holding on to his hat. “Velva Jean Hart?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You’re the little girl pilot, the WAVE . . .”
“WASP.” I wasn’t a WASP anymore—Women Airforce Service Pilots, responsible for ferrying planes and bombers to military bases. The WASP had been disbanded in December. I wasn’t anything anymore, just a girl wanting to get back to her family and her mountains.
“Right, sure, WASP. You were in the British papers.”
Was I? I didn’t remember. I’d been too busy worrying over Johnny Clay, sitting at his bedside in the base hospital, praying for him to wake up, to get better, for months, and then waiting to go home, to be told he was strong enough, to find a ship with enough room to take us.
“Martin Seever, New York Post. Mind if I ask a few questions?”
“Okay.”
“How old are you, honey?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Where’re you from?”
“North Carolina.”
“Charlotte?”
“Alluvial. It’s in the mountains.”
“You the brother?” The man with the hat looked at Johnny Clay.
“Yessir.” Johnny Clay narrowed his eyes.
The brass band played “Battle Hymn of the Republic” as men kissed their wives, parents, children.
“How did it feel to be rescued by your sister? Is it true she picked you up herself and carried you into the plane?”
I thought Johnny Clay was going to punch the man. I said, “There was another man, an agent.” I didn’t want to say too much. A Frenchman. I don’t know his real name but I still have the gold ring he gave me.
“Now before this, you let yourself be captured by the Germans and placed in a French prison, is that true?” The reporter was looking at me again.
“It was supposed to happen that way, but I was taken early.”
Martin Seever, New York Post, was writing down everything I said. He wanted to know how I got out of prison, was I tortured, what did the Nazis do to me, how did I find the agent, how did I free myself from the train that was sending me and all the others to Ravensbrück concentration camp. I told him Johnny Clay helped free me, he and the
other agents. We fought off the Germans together as we escaped through the Palatinate Forest to France.
“Is that where you found the plane?” This was from another man, with a notebook and a cameraman.
“Just outside the forest on a German airfield, yes.”
A third reporter appeared: “Had you ever flown a German plane before?”
“No.”
“You were shot at by Germans and Americans on your way to England?”
“Yes.”
We were surrounded. They asked us to pose for pictures, the Statue of Liberty in the background, holding up two fingers in the V for Victory sign. One of the men had a moving picture camera. He said he was Ed Dale with News of the Day.
Johnny Clay said, “The newsreels?”
“That’s the one.”
Ed Dale pointed the camera at us. “Look right into the lens. Smile and wave. Put your arm around her, son, lean on her just a little. Wave that hand, the one missing the finger. Now, honey, you look up at your brother and then back at the camera, right in there. Thatta girl. Remember—you’re happy to be home. You’re a brave soldier but you’re grateful just the same. You’re a daring aviatrix, second girl in history to fly a bomber across the ocean. You’re a war hero—the girl who saved her brother after he was shot by the Germans, the girl who stole a German plane and not only saved the life of her brother but of a secret agent, important to the Allies. But you’re also just a little girl who loves her country and now you’re back in that country and the war is all but over.”
I tried to do everything he was telling me. I ran a hand over my hair, which was wild and too curly from the salt air. The color had grown out where I’d dyed it almost black, and it was back to its regular color, not quite honey, not quite gold, not quite brown. I touched my bottom lip where there was still scar tissue, courtesy of a German interrogator. My face was wet from crying. I reached a hand up to wipe the tears away and Ed Dale said, “No, no. Leave them there. That’s perfect. Now blow a kiss to America.”
The sun broke through the fog and I tilted my face to the sky, closing my eyes for a second to soak it in. And then I looked into the camera and blew a kiss.
American Blonde Page 1
