The Chase: A Novel

by Brenda Joyce

  “It’s late, Rachel,” he said heavily. “Hannah, it is time for bed, say good night to the guest.”

  He had called her Rachel. He never called her Rachel.

  Hannah protested, then bid Eddy and Rachel good night. She left, and ignoring them now, Papa walked into the kitchen and outside into the garden, where Rachel knew he would sit and smoke in solitude. The screen door creaked closed behind him.

  Eddy had been watching him leave, too. He looked at Rachel now, no longer smiling. “I shouldn’t have come uninvited,” he said.

  “No!” Rachel plucked his sleeve and then dropped it. “It’s all right. I mean, Papa didn’t mean to be rude.”

  Eddy studied her. “Is it all right, Rachel? I’m sorry to have upset your father, but if it’s truly all right with you, then I can live with that.”

  The truth came out of her mouth, seemingly of its own accord. “It’s more than all right, Eddy.”

  He smiled, a smile she had so quickly come to love. “Can we take a walk?” he asked, gesturing toward the front door.

  Rachel hesitated for only an instant. “Yes.”

  “Good.” He took her hand. “Let’s go.”

  Rachel was anxious and excited, and she felt the conflict not just in her heart but all the way to her bones. “Papa? We’re going to take a walk.”

  There was no answer.

  CHAPTER 17

  They slipped out into the night, hand in hand. Eddy smiled at her, but he didn’t speak as they began strolling down the block. The silence wasn’t awkward: instead, nothing felt as right as holding his hand and bumping against his hip as they walked. It was wonderful; Rachel felt as if they were a couple.

  Of course they were not. There was Joshua and, even more importantly, Papa.

  A few of her neighbors were still cooking their suppers, and spicy-sweet aromas wafted from the open windows of their houses. The sun had set, and because of the blackout, they had only the moon and the stars and the white strips painted on lampposts and sidewalks to guide them. Rachel still found it awkward to walk anywhere at night in such a manner; clearly Eddy did not.

  But then, he was a fighter pilot. The night would not deter him from anything, not when he had the courage to fly against the Luftwaffe.

  It crossed Rachel’s dazed mind that he didn’t even have to fight this war. He was an American. He could be safely at home with his family, his friends.

  She glanced up at him, suddenly shy. He glanced down at her, and they both smiled.

  “This is nice,” he said.

  “Yes, it is.”

  They smiled again and lapsed into another easy silence.

  His hand was warm and strong. His stride was long yet unrushed. She had to hurry a bit to keep up with him, even though she knew he was walking slowly so she wouldn’t have to exert herself. Why couldn’t Papa see that he was a wonderful man? Kind, strong, heroic?

  Because he wasn’t Jewish and he would never be Jewish . . . Rachel didn’t complete her dismal thought.

  But it was as if he read her mind. “Your father doesn’t like me.”

  “No, that’s not true!” Rachel cried automatically.

  They paused, facing each other. “I’ve met reluctant fathers before. But I’ve never cared about a girl before. Not this way.”

  Rachel felt stunned. He cared. “But we only just met.”

  “Believe me, I know.” He rolled his eyeballs a little.

  Rachel laughed. He joined her. “Does your arm hurt?” she asked.

  “No. But it’s badly sprained.” He grimaced. “They won’t let me fly for a few days, maybe even a week.”

  “That’s why you’re free tonight,” she realized.

  “Yeah. Why doesn’t he like me?”

  Rachel stiffened. She didn’t know what to say. Her neighborhood was obviously Jewish, at least to her—on the corner of the street was a small shop selling prayer books and seder plates, menorahs and mezuzahs, and other Judaica. But on the other hand, most gentiles had never met a Jew, and he might not realize the truth.

  “Is it because I’m a Yank, a Protestant, or a New Yorker?”

  He was trying to make light of the situation, but she couldn’t smile. He knew.

  “Rach? It’s because I’m a Christian, isn’t it? If I were Jewish, he wouldn’t give a damn.”

  She wet her lips. Her pulse raced forcefully. “You know.”

  “I know what?”

  “That we’re Jews.”

  He seemed a bit puzzled. “Hon, half the people in this neighborhood are speaking Yiddish. There are Jews in Brooklyn. Quite a few, actually. One of my mom’s good friends is Jewish—although she married a Catholic, a fireman.”

  Rachel was breathless. “She married a Catholic fireman?” How had she ever managed that?

  “Yeah. Her name’s Ruth Watts, and she’s happy as a clam. You’ll see when you meet her.” He took her hand, tucked it firmly in his, and they started walking again, turning back around.

  Rachel was stunned anew. He seemed to assume that one day she would be in Brooklyn, meeting his mother’s best friend. Her heart skipped in joy. But then she thought of Papa and was filled with despair.

  “I’ll win him over,” Eddy suddenly said with determination.

  Rachel looked at him. “He’s a very stubborn man.” She didn’t want to tell him about Mama. And then there was Joshua.

  He gave her a grin. “Hon, I don’t quit. When I set my sights on something, I always win.”

  Her heart ballooned with admiration. “That’s why you are such a wonderful pilot.”

  He agreed. “That’s why.”

  “And modest.” She laughed.

  “Terribly modest.” He halted in front of her house.

  Rachel’s heart slammed to a stop. He was going to kiss her good night. She knew it.

  He studied her. “I think I’ve broken enough Greene rules for one night, and you had better go back in.”

  She couldn’t laugh this time. She couldn’t even speak.

  “He will come around. Would it help if I ask him permission to see you?”

  “No!” Alarm filled her.

  “That’s what I thought.” He sighed. “Life can be short these days, Rachel. There was a scramble just before I left to come visit you. One of the guys got it. A frigging Emil tore up his fuselage. He crashed over the Dover Cliffs.” He looked at her, his green eyes impossibly sad.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  For a minute, Eddy couldn’t speak. He cleared his throat. “His name was John. We called him Joe. Don’t ask me why. Jonathan Edward Litton.” He paused. “Joe was nineteen years old, and last Sunday he got married.”

  Now Rachel couldn’t speak. Tears filled her eyes.

  “Hey! I didn’t mean to upset you, hon. But damn it, this is a war, and it’s real bullets we’re shooting up there.”

  “I know. I’m a WAAF, remember?”

  He gazed into her eyes. “No. I don’t remember. When I look at you, I see an angel. We only met today. Can you believe it? I can’t. I feel so happy, Rachel.”

  “Me, too,” she whispered.

  He had the use of only one arm, so he took her elbow and pulled her toward him. He was facing her house; she had her back to it. Rachel tensed, knowing he meant to kiss her.

  “Rach?”

  She had to look over her shoulder. As she did, she thought she saw someone standing in one of the blacked-out windows. They had put up blackened cardboard with black tape, so it was hard to tell, but she thought she saw a movement where there should have been none.

  “The windows are blacked out,” Eddy said softly. “He’s not there.”

  She met his gaze, not telling him that Papa would have to rip off only a small piece of cardboard in order to spy on them. And she thought, This will kill him.

  Eddy smiled a little and leaned over her, and the next thing Rachel knew, he brushed his mouth briefly over hers.

  Her heart tightened, and her breath got lost, and excit
ement slammed all over her.

  He straightened. “When can I see you again?”

  She could hardly breathe, much less speak. And the kiss had been chaste. “I . . . I go back to Bentley . . . Priory . . . in the morning.”

  “I know. How about a few hours after your shift? I’ll wine and dine you.” He smiled at her.

  “It’s a double.” She hesitated. She couldn’t tell him about the Y unit. Even when she was off duty, it was very hard for her to get off the base without a leave. But of course they could always stay on base.

  “Then the night after tomorrow. I can meet you at Command HQ around eight. You do want to see me again, don’t you?” The slightest light of anxiety flickered in his eyes.

  “Of course I do!” Rachel cried.

  Eddy grinned. “Okay, then.”

  They had a date. Just like that.

  “Good night, Angel,” he said.

  Papa was waiting for her.

  Rachel slipped into the house, quietly closing the door behind her. Foolishly, she was hoping that Papa had gone up to bed, but he hadn’t. He sat on the sofa in the parlor in the shadows of the room’s single lamp, waiting for her. His hands were folded in his lap.

  She couldn’t face him now. Not when her heart was singing with joy and hope. Not when she was falling in love.

  Rachel almost reeled. She was falling in love. With an American pilot named Eddy “Hawk” Marshall. With a gorgeous, green-eyed, daredevil, do-good American pilot.

  Papa stood. “I do not want you seeing him again.”

  The floor beneath her feet tilted wildly, impossibly. It took Rachel a moment to recover her balance, and she actually looked down. The wood floor wasn’t moving. She was surprised to find it so still.

  “Did you hear me, Rachel?”

  She looked up. “He is not what you think.”

  “Oh, so he is Jewish?”

  She wet her lips, her mind racing frantically, uselessly. “He volunteered to fight our war, Papa. He’s an American, from Brooklyn. Only a few hours ago, one of his squadron was killed. He crash-landed, Papa. Can’t you see? He’s a good man, a strong man, a heroic man and—”

  “Is he Jewish?”

  “His mother’s best friend is a Jew.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “She married a Catholic,” Rachel whispered.

  “He’s Catholic?” Papa asked, his eyes widening.

  For him, the only thing worse was Muslim—or fascist. “No. Protestant.”

  “I thought so.” Papa turned to walk away.

  Rachel stared at his retreating back, horrified. She ran after him, in front of him, halting him in his tracks. “Don’t do this! Please, Papa, don’t do this, and don’t make me choose!”

  His eyes widened. “Choose? I do not give you a choice, Rachel. And I know you will not behave as your sister does.”

  “But this is different. I am falling in—”

  “No. This is not different.” He cut her off. “He is a wild pilot, and you are a good girl. These pilots—these gentiles—they are all the same. Different from you and me. They will never be like us. Does he follow the Shabbat? Is he kosher? Is he circumcised?” He did not wait for her to answer. “I forbid you to see him again.”

  Rachel cried out.

  Papa walked upstairs.

  Another agent had given Lionel a special lens for his Leica camera in the first days of the war. The lens enabled him to reduce film to microdots, which provided him with an extremely safe way to transmit information back to Berlin. Each microdot was so small that it was the size of a dot made with the tip of a marker pen or a child’s crayon. It was easy to affix the microdots to the inside of an envelope, where only someone looking for them would discern their presence. Of course, microdots could be hidden in just about anything—the sole of a shoe, for example. Mailing them back to his colleagues was also a simple matter. Either neutral countries were used, or the mail was sent to actual prisoners of war in German camps, whose mail was intercepted by fellow agents.

  His flat was also set up so he could develop film—including microdots—himself. Before his death, his father had thought him to be an amateur ornithologist. Lionel had told his peers in the ministry that he was an avid birdwatcher and that ornithology was his hobby. Upon occasion, Lionel made sure to take snapshots of birds and ducks, and actually, it was a great cover as far as photographing various aspects of Britain’s defenses went.

  Recently he had changed his routine. That was very important, and he had learned that while at Park Zorgvliet. Now he came back to his flat for lunch so he could work, instead of doing so in the early evening hours. In a few months, he would change his routine again.

  He had received a letter from a colleague via Lisbon and was now developing microdots, having turned his small room into a darkroom. The first microdot appeared to contain a list of newly coded names for his contacts and for various military terms. In his business, everyone was extremely cautious.

  There was a knock at his door.

  Lionel straightened over the pan of developing fluid, surprised. He had a meeting tomorrow with the agent he reported to; had he misunderstood? He stared at the door, wondering if it could possibly be Ellen, his grieving step mother. (To his amazement, she actually was grieving.)

  There was another knock and then he heard, “Elgin? Are you in there? Elgin!”

  Christ! It was the American pilot he had chauffeured to and from the hospital yesterday. Lionel grabbed the pan and walked briskly to the closet, placing it inside. Using tongs, he removed the mostly developed document of new code names and clipped it to a wire hanging beside his uniforms and shirts. Marshall knocked again.

  Lionel hurried; he didn’t want the pilot to go away. He closed and locked the closet door, turned on the lights in the room, glanced around, saw the envelope from Lisbon. It was in the wastebasket. The other three microdots were in the desk drawer in a small tray of paper clips. “Right there!” he called out.

  He opened the door to find Eddy Marshall standing there, smiling. “Hey! I stopped by the ministry of information, and your aide said you went out for lunch.” He glanced past Lionel. “I hope you don’t mind my dropping by like this. Back home we’re pretty informal.”

  “Of course not,” Lionel lied. How did Eddy know where to find him? His radar went up.

  On the one hand, it was no secret that he had this flat. On the other hand, yesterday he’d had a private and extensive tour of the Biggin Hill aerodrome, and Eddy had even shown him into three hangars. Lionel had left Biggin Hill elated and had spent two hours sitting in his motorcar on the side of the road, drawing up a map of the air station and listing all that he had seen, right down to the number of damaged planes in the shop. In spite of being in the RAF himself, it would be too suspicious for him to find ways to tour these air stations when his job was strictly limited to the ministry of information.

  Still, there was no reason to be suspicious. Suttill must have told Eddy the flat’s whereabouts. “It’s a pleasure to see you again,” Lionel said, smiling. He led Eddy in, thinking now about the looks he’d witnessed passing between Eddy and Rachel yesterday. He had been bothered by their mutual attraction ever since.

  Eddy glanced around as Lionel closed the door, sniffing. “It smells like a darkroom in here,” he said with a smile. “Have you been developing film?”

  Lionel remained smiling as well, hardly perturbed. “I am an amateur ornithologist,” he said.

  “What the hell is that?” Eddy asked, finally returning his gaze to Lionel.

  Lionel wondered if Eddy had just scrutinized his flat. It was hard to tell. But for all his charm, Eddy Marshall did not seem overly bright. Most of the RAF pilots, while brave, were stupidly so. Mostly they were immature boys who liked to fly and fight. “My hobby is birds,” Lionel said.

  Eddy blinked. “Birds?”

  “Yes. I watch birds and I photograph them.” Lionel watched him.

  He sa
w Eddy bite back a real laugh. “You’ll have to show me sometime.”

  He might actually be a moron, Lionel thought. “I’m a rather clumsy photographer, so I do not show my work.”

  Eddy shrugged. Lionel thought the subject was over. But Eddy said, “My best buddy back home is into photography. Where’s your equipment?” he asked, looking curiously at Lionel.

  Lionel felt his smile stiffening in place. Maybe it was too soon to judge Eddy “Hawk” Marshall. He might seem glib, boyish, and easygoing, but just how easygoing could he really be? He was a top fighter pilot, no easy achievement. But could he really be any kind of a threat?

  Lionel had been taught never to underestimate the enemy. So he reminded himself that in spite of a quick smile and good looks, Eddy wasn’t that stupid, and right now, even though he seemed guileless, he was asking questions. “I keep everything down in the cellar,” Lionel lied. And he almost smiled. For he certainly did.

  Eddy nodded. “What do you shoot?” he asked.

  “Ducks and geese. Robins and jays. Swans.” Lionel smiled again. “So what brings you here?”

  “I thought I’d take you to lunch,” Eddy said. He held up his arm in the sling. “Can’t fly. Got some free time. How about it? You don’t seem to have dinner on.” He grinned. “I owe you one.”

  Lionel felt his smile vanish. He had told Suttill he was leaving to take a bite at home, Eddy knew that, and had apparently noticed that there was no sign of a midday meal in progress. Yet he had not once looked at the hot plate where, on occasion, Lionel heated a pot of water or boiled an egg. “How’s the café downstairs?” Eddy asked.

  “Not too expensive,” Lionel said calmly.

  “It’s my treat. It’s the least I can do,” Eddy said, shifting as if restless, which most of these pilots were. But Lionel became intrigued. Because Eddy was now facing his desk, even though his single glance at it was nothing but indifferent. “This flat’s a good idea,” Eddy said. “So who is she?”

  Lionel smiled. Was Eddy stalling or sincere? There was nothing but pads and pens on top of the desk, and although Lionel had been writing down several of the new code names on one scratch pad, he’d burned that piece of paper. Still, the top pad bore the imprints of what he’d written, but Eddy could have hardly noticed by glancing once and so blandly at it.