by Brenda Joyce
“They’re bombing London,” Eddy said, stunned. “The frigging Gerries are bombing the city!”
Rachel stood immobilized with disbelief as the sirens continued to scream belatedly, and as more explosions thundered, ripping apart the night.
CHAPTER 18
London had been attacked. What was worse, the news traveled like wildfire, and by the time Rachel was dismissed, she knew that the areas where the bombs had hit included her own neighborhood. Rumor had it that the old church at Cripplegate had been destroyed. Other neighborhoods had been attacked as well—Islington, Finchley, Stepney, Tottenham, and Bethnal Green.
Rachel hitched a ride in a supply truck that was passing through London. She was no longer in shock, but she was afraid. She kept reminding herself that the odds of her own home having been struck were low. But all she could think of was Hannah and Papa, who would have been in their beds last night when the bombs fell. And what if Sarah had decided to go home last night?
She squeezed her eyes closed. Many children had been evacuated to the safer area of the countryside early in the war. Some had returned, not liking it, others had stayed in their foster families. She, Papa, and Sarah had decided that Hannah could stay in the city. Now she was determined to see her little sister placed in a safe home.
She was so afraid.
Rachel stared out of her window. The effects of the bombing were everywhere. She saw the rubble of crumbled buildings and stores as the supply truck passed through Islington. Pubs and cafés had been hit and destroyed. Fires still burned in places, although sporadically; the fire squads and AFS had put out all of the larger infernos. Rescue squads were working the rubble, and ambulances were parked haphazardly by the bombed-out sectors, awaiting the arrival of the wounded and the dead. In certain areas soldiers patrolled and checked ID, in others, the Home Guard. And at every site of devastation, civilians were apparent, men too old to be in the Guard, women too old to be in the ATF or so young they had babies in their arms, and boys and girls too old to have been evacuated outside of the city. Some loitered; others were digging through the rubble to help the overtaxed rescue squads.
“I can swing by your house, Rachel, if you like,” Sergeant Thomas said.
“That would be great,” Rachel whispered.
“Damn Nazis,” he said.
Ten minutes later the truck was cruising past the synagogue on Whitechapel High Street. Amazingly, the tiny, beautiful temple where Hannah went to school, and where she and her family worshiped, was still erect. The buildings on either side of it were demolished.
“I’ll get out here,” Rachel said.
She wasn’t even aware of the truck stopping, saying good-bye, or getting out of the cab. Rescue workers were going through the rubble with a “sniffer.” A dozen civilians watched, gentile and Jew alike. An old grocery truck converted into an ambulance was parked at the curb, awaiting victims; a warden was directing the traffic around it. A housewife with the WVS was handing tired workers cups of tea from a makeshift stand.
“Rachel?”
At the sound of Sarah’s voice, she jerked and saw her sister sitting in the ambulance. She was the driver, and another woman Rachel knew, Felicia, sat beside her in the passenger seat. They were both in their navy blue ATF uniforms. Rachel ran over to the cab and gripped the door, as Sarah had her window rolled down.
Sarah stepped out, and they embraced briefly but hard. “Are you all right?” Sarah asked. She appeared exhausted. There were circles beneath her eyes, and her cheeks were very pale.
Rachel nodded. She wondered if she was as red-eyed as her sister. “Papa and Hannah? Have you seen them? Are they all right?”
“They’re fine. Our block is fine. The Goldbergs were hit, Rachel. The roof collapsed, the house was entirely destroyed. Rescue squads are there now, trying to dig the Goldbergs out.” Sarah’s voice broke on the last note.
Rachel managed to digest the news about their neighbors, who lived two blocks away. They were an elderly couple, with married children who had moved away. “They’re both missing?” she whispered.
Sarah nodded, then said viciously, “Hitler swore he’d never bomb the city! Damn those bloody Nazis!”
Rachel had to close her eyes, and the sisters clung together again.
“How was it last night at Command HQ?” Sarah asked hoarsely. Tears had filled her eyes.
Rachel hesitated, then gave her a look that she knew Sarah understood. She had confided in Sarah when she was transferred into the Y unit. Very low, she said, “There’s a new code word. We are working around the clock to figure out what it signifies.”
Sarah nodded. “You will figure it out. We are the best of the best.” She smiled bravely at Rachel, then her smile crumbled. “It’s been non-stop since midnight. It seems like there’s no end to the wounded, although right now we’re pulling out more corpses than anything else.”
Rachel took her hand and squeezed it.
The ARP warden suddenly came up to them. “That’s it, Sarah. Everyone’s accounted for. No bodies here.” He was grim, and like Sarah, he appeared dirty and exhausted. Rachel saw that the crews were breaking up.
Sarah jumped back into the cab of the ambulance. “I have to go.” The radio within the cab was crackling, and Felicia picked it up.
Rachel froze. “Sarah? Today is Shabbat.”
Sarah turned on the ignition. “God will forgive me,” she said.
Rachel realized what was happening and gasped, “But Papa won’t!”
Sarah shot her a grim and tired smile, backing away from the curb. Rachel had no choice but to step aside as the ambulance roared past her. She was aghast.
No one was at home. It was almost six o’clock—they still had two good hours before sundown. On a normal day, their dinner would be simmering on the stove, as no cooking was allowed once the sun set. But there was nothing on the stove now.
Rachel could guess where Hannah and Papa were. Still a bit shocked that Sarah had chosen to completely break with tradition, she hurried outside and around the block. The scene of devastation at the Goldbergs’ was every bit as terrible as she had imagined. Their house had been reduced to dust, rubble, and pieces of charred and scorched wood. As Rachel approached, she saw Mrs. Goldberg being carried into an ambulance on a stretcher. She was alive; her eyes were open and she was trying to speak.
Papa was with her, accompanying the gurney on its way to the waiting ambulance. He was trying to soothe her.
Rachel scanned the scene and located Hannah behind a small card table that contained a Soyer Boiler and several thermoses. She was working with a WVS volunteer, offering tea and lemonade to the various workers. Rachel smiled a little at the sight of her urchin sister, and she ran over to hug her.
Rachel stroked her unruly hair. “I am so relieved that you and Papa are all right,” Rachel said. “I could hardly think of anything else all night and all day!”
“Don’t cry, Rachel,” Hannah said, tugging on her hand. “It was just one of those nasty bombs. From now on, Papa said we’ll sleep in the shelter.” A year and a half ago they had put an Anderson shelter in their backyard, but they had never used it, as it was so cramped and uncomfortable.
Rachel sniffed and nodded, holding back her tears with an effort as Papa came over. She took one look at him and knew something was wrong. “Papa?”
“Let’s go home,” he said with a sigh. His overalls were covered with dirt and dust. There was even a bloodstain on one thigh. “It’s over, Rachel-lay, and we have Friday-night dinner to make.”
“Can I stay and help Millie clean up?” Hannah asked.
Rachel guessed that Millie was the woman with the WVS. Papa nodded, and Hannah ran back to the woman, who was packing up her things on the tea stand.
Papa took Rachel’s hand. Her heart began to beat with unease as she looked at his grim profile. He said, not looking at her, “Saul is dead.”
Rachel was stunned. She could hardly think. She had always known the Goldbergs,
and now Saul Goldberg was dead . . . killed by a German bomb.
They had been at war for almost a year, but until the summer, it had been a “phony” war, and until now all of the fighting had been in the air or out at sea. In fact, the ones who had been dying were the pilots, and as horrible as that was, the only pilot she knew was Eddy. There had been very few civilian casualties thus far.
For the first time since Britain had gone to war, Rachel knew someone who had died. The war had finally come home.
They walked home in silence.
In the kitchen they methodically began to put together a meal. Papa took lard and soup bones out of the icebox, while Rachel went into the garden for carrots and string beans. When she returned to the kitchen, Papa said, setting a kettle to boil, “Sarah is late. It’s almost seven.”
Rachel did not look at him, but every muscle in her body tensed as she went into the pantry for an onion, potatoes, and flour. She said, “Sarah is working tonight.”
Papa faced her as she came out. “If Sarah does not come home tonight, she will never be welcome in this house again.”
“Papa!” Rachel dropped the potatoes on the kitchen table, or perhaps she threw them down. “It’s a war, Papa. God will forgive her,” she cried, using Sarah’s own words. “Why can’t you?”
Papa’s face was set. “Because my daughter is a whore.” He looked ready to cry.
Rachel froze. Had she just heard what she thought she had?
Papa turned back to the stove. His shoulders were shaking.
Rachel ran to him. “How could you say such a thing? Sarah is beautiful and brave, Papa. More women should be like her!”
He did not look at her. “Do you take me for a fool, Rachel?” he asked wearily.
Rachel did not know what to do. In fact, she wasn’t even certain that Sarah was a virgin, so she did not dare get into that. She said, “Please allow Sarah to save the lives of Hitler’s innocent victims tonight. Please.”
Papa did not answer. He was peeling carrots, the skins flying wildly across the kitchen counter.
“Please, Papa. For me.”
He stiffened and his hands stilled. And he nodded.
Rachel sagged against the counter, flooded with relief. She said a prayer of thanks to God, for surely, this once, he had been listening.
The telephone rang.
It was automatic—both Rachel and Papa looked at the clock on the wall, as the phone could not be answered once the sun went down. It was seven-fifteen. Rachel raced to the phone to answer it, already knowing who it was.
“Eddy,” she cried, realizing too late that Papa was present.
“Rachel. Are you okay?” he asked quickly.
“Of course, I’m fine!”
“Is your family okay?”
“Yes, we’re fine. And you?”
“Thank God,” he said, relief evident in his tone. “I called the base the moment I had a chance, and they said you’d gone home, and I was afraid something had happened to your family.”
Love filled her chest, making it almost impossible to breathe. But in the next breath, she had an inkling, one she did not like, not at all. “Tell me you’re not flying?”
“Honey, I had to go up. A fractured wrist isn’t going to stop me. My squadron wasn’t going up without me, Rach. I’m the squad leader.”
“So now your wrist is fractured?” she said, aghast.
“Well, it’s hairline, which means it’s no big deal. Take heart. By the time we got up, the Gerries were halfway across the channel. We couldn’t catch them, and you know we’re a lot faster than they are.”
Rachel wanted to beg him to stay on the ground until his wrist had healed. Papa said, “Rachel. Today is Shabbat.” There was tremendous censure in his tone.
“Eddy, this is a bad time for us to talk. It’s a holy day.”
“I understand,” he said, and he hesitated.
There was something about his silence that filled her with dread. “What is it?” she asked quickly.
“Damn. Rachel . . . my squadron’s being transferred to the south. We leave tomorrow.”
“What?” Rachel reeled as if struck. “Transferred—where? Why?”
“The war is heating up. Hitler attacked London, Rach. Innocent people were killed last night. Customers leaving the cinema. Men and women leaving the pubs. This was an attack upon innocent civilians, not factories or airfields or munitions or supplies. We’re being moved closer to the action.”
“Where are they transferring you?” Rachel whispered, unable to fight the anguish. They had only just met. They had only begun to fall in love. They needed more time. Just a little more time . . .
“Tangmere.”
“Tangmere?” Rachel echoed. Tangmere was in the south. It wasn’t far from Portsmouth. It was so far away from her . . . .
“Rachel, we have dinner to make,” Papa said sternly.
Rachel didn’t even look at him. She was frantic now. She turned her back on her father. “But when will I see you again?” she asked. “You’re leaving tomorrow?”
“Rachel, I will find a way. It might be a few weeks, but as soon as I have the chance, I’ll take a leave and come up to London. I promise.”
Terror overcame her. He would forget about her. Find someone else. Or worse, he would be hurt, killed, and she would never see him again.
He was flying with a fractured wrist.
“Eddy, you don’t have to do this. Your wrist—”
His tone changed. “We’re short of pilots, and you know it.”
She did know it. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want you to worry,” he said, his tone easing. “Not about me and not about us.” Then he added, a smile in his voice, “I’m in charge of all the worrying around here.”
Rachel had to smile a little, but she couldn’t speak.
“I have to go, and I know I’m holding you up. I’ll write as soon as I get settled in. And I’ll call.”
He would write. He would call. Rachel felt tears sliding down her cheeks. She knew she should not be so selfish, this was war. But she remained terrified that she had lost him when she had discovered him only a few days ago.
“Rachel, are you there?”
“Yes,” she managed.
“I love you,” he said. There was no hesitation.
She didn’t hesitate, either. “I love you, too.” And she knew Eddy was smiling as he hung up.
Rachel gripped the phone to her breast. It was as if he had already gone.
But he hadn’t left. He wasn’t leaving until the morning.
There was always tonight.
But it was Shabbat. Rachel hung up the phone, and there was no internal debate. There was no choice. Slowly, she turned.
“So I’ve lost you, too,” Papa said, his eyes finding and holding hers.
“No, Papa. You haven’t lost me, and you never will.” Rachel went to him and kissed his cheek. “Let’s finish making dinner,” she said.
Rachel walked the distance from the underground station to the entrance to Biggin Hill. It was late, and there were no vehicles on the road for her to get a lift. It had taken her nearly two hours to get to her destination—it was almost midnight. She hadn’t realized that this air station was so far from London. On the map it seemed much closer.
The base was, of course, blacked out. It loomed ahead of her, indistinct and shadowy. The gates were closed. Security guards stood in front of them, two vague human shadows. Another guard would be seated in the security booth behind the closed gates, but Rachel could distinguish only the booth and not the soldier inside. As Rachel approached, she heard planes overhead. She looked up. A squadron was taking off. Against a panoply of stars, the dark silhouettes gleamed silver, streaking up into the night.
Eddy could be in one of those planes. On the other hand, his squadron was being transferred in the morning—he wouldn’t fly now unless it was an emergency and most of 11 Group was scrambling.
The two guards eyed her a
nd shone a flashlight on her briefly as she paused before them. She wasn’t in her uniform, so they did not mistake her for one of their own WAAFs. “Can we help you, miss?”
This was the hard part, Rachel knew. She swallowed down her apprehension—she had come this far, defying both Papa and God to do so—she could not back down now. “Would you please tell Eddy Marshall that I’m here?”
The guards looked at each other. “Do you have a pass?”
Rachel shook her head.
They looked at each other, slyly now. “So you want to see Hawk, eh?”
“Please,” she said imploringly. “He’s being transferred tomorrow. If he hasn’t scrambled, he’ll see me, I know he will.”
The guard looked doubtful. His buddy jabbed him. “She seems upset, Frank. Might as well give him a ring.”
“Thank you,” Rachel said.
Ten minutes later, as she stood outside the closed gates, Eddy appeared, hurrying toward her from the other side, clad in trousers and a bomber jacket. He was carrying a small penlight, shining it downward. “Rachel!” He broke into a run. “Open the damn gates,” he shouted.
The guards hurried to obey, pushing open the big wire gates. Eddy caught her in both arms, crushing her to his chest, in spite of the sling he was once again wearing. Rachel held on to him as if her life depended on it.
He set her back an inch or so, so he could look down at her face. “I don’t know what possessed you, but I love you for it,” he said. “I really missed you.” And he kissed her for a long time.
The guards cheered and whistled.
Being in his arms again felt like the best thing that had ever happened to her.
“Damn,” Eddy said, appearing flushed as he broke off the kiss.
Rachel was flustered, out of breath. “I had to come. I missed you, too.”
