Wait for Me

by Caroline Leech

  Lorna swiped at him.

  “You know what I mean. She’s not as good with the sheep, though.”

  “Ah, yes, I heard about that.”

  “At her first birthing . . .” Lorna mimed Nellie’s dead faint. “You know, with the blood and everything, so Paul looked after the sheep instead. But Nellie’s fun to have around, and Dad won’t be happy to lose her once John Jo gets back.”

  If John Jo came back.

  Lorna clapped her hand over her mouth as if she might actually utter those awful words aloud.

  Sandy pulled her to face him.

  “Lorna, he’ll come back, you know he will. A whole brigade of panzers couldn’t bring that bruiser down.”

  Lorna leaned her head against Sandy’s shoulder.

  After a while, they started walking again.

  “So,” Sandy said, lighting another cigarette, “about Paul? What do we know of him?”

  Lorna knew he was digging for more than Paul’s name, rank, and serial number, but after what had happened with John Jo, she wasn’t going to risk giving it to him.

  “Not much,” she replied. “Worked on his uncle’s sheep farm, and he can drive a tractor.”

  Sandy nodded. “But I hear he got himself shot up a bit.”

  Who’d been telling Sandy all this, and how much more was there?

  “Burns,” she said, fighting the temptation to shrug again, “on D-Day, I think. And shrapnel, but he’s recovered now, other than the scarring. And, well, that’s about it.”

  Sandy stayed silent, but what else could she tell him without giving herself away? He knew his sister too well.

  The pretty girl in the photograph by Paul’s bed in the hayloft came to Lorna’s mind.

  “He has a sister. A bit younger than me. Lilli.”

  How had Lilli reacted to the news that Paul had been injured and taken prisoner? Had she exploded with rage, lashing out at the nearest target? Lorna doubted it. Lilli would certainly never have told her brother to go back to the war and not come back.

  Sandy squinted at Lorna through the cigarette smoke.

  “His father died in the war,” Lorna stumbled on. “But his mother is alive, and his sister is almost the same age as me—”

  “Lilli.”

  “Oh, yes, I told you, Lilli. They’re in Dresden.”

  Sandy stopped walking.

  “Dresden? Oh, that’s a bad show.”

  “What is?”

  “Nasty business, Dresden. The RAF and the Yanks had a go at it back in, when was it, February, maybe? Blew it apart, from what we heard, turned it into an enormous fireball. ‘Blanket bombing,’ they called it. The RAF boys went back for recon pictures, and they said it was unrecognizable, totally obliterated. Even the Blitz couldn’t compare.”

  Lorna felt nauseous. She’d remembered hearing something about Dresden, but she couldn’t believe she’d missed a story like this.

  “What about the people living there?”

  What about Paul’s mother and sister?

  Sandy flicked his cigarette into the muddy water.

  “Like I said, nasty business.” He put an arm around Lorna’s shoulders and pulled her close. “But Paul was lucky to have missed it.”

  Lorna pulled away.

  “Lucky?” She hadn’t meant to screech. “He’s stuck here not knowing if our planes firebombed his family. How is that lucky?”

  “In the same way that I’m bloody lucky to still be alive after his mates spent months bombing the arse of London, that’s how!” Sandy’s face was now pink under his freckles, and he took a deep breath before continuing. “Look, we’ve all been through things that no one should ever be expected to go through. And hopefully, sometime soon, it’ll be over and we can get back to some sort of normal life. But in the meantime, we are still at war, so don’t you forget that.”

  “I’m not likely to forget—”

  “Well, that’s not quite the way I heard it.”

  God! Not Sandy too!

  “Don’t start telling me who I can be friends with, Sandy, I’m not having that again. Not from John Jo and not from you.”

  Lorna turned for home, but within a few strides, Sandy caught up.

  “Come on, don’t be like that,” he said, as ever the peacemaker among the sulking Andersons. “You can be friends with anyone you want. But perhaps be a tad more circumspect about this friendship, that’s all. Come on, Lorna, wait a second.”

  Lorna stopped so suddenly, Sandy walked into the back of her.

  “Did you hear me?” he said. “Be Paul’s . . . er . . . friend by all means, but be careful. For Dad’s sake.”

  Er . . . friend? She didn’t like the way Sandy had hesitated on that word.

  “Why? Because Dad would hate the idea of me being Paul’s . . . er . . . friend because he’s a German?”

  And now she was hesitating over that word as well. Sandy had read her like a bloody book. Just like he always could.

  “You’re wrong. I think Dad would hate the idea of you being Paul’s ‘er . . . friend’”—the way Sandy was saying it now was so suggestive that Lorna’s cheeks burned—“not because he’s a Jerry, but because he’s a man. Dad isn’t going to be thrilled with any man you might have as your ‘er . . . friend,’ now, is he?”

  That was what Paul had said about John Jo.

  Sandy continued to waggle his eyebrows at her lewdly, and eventually Lorna couldn’t hold back a smile.

  “Well, I’m glad Paul’s my friend.” Lorna looked up defiantly into Sandy’s teasing face. “And I’m especially glad he’s my ‘er . . . friend’ too. No matter what John Jo thinks.”

  But, of course, she had neither John Jo nor Paul anymore.

  “None of it matters anyway.” Lorna’s smile faltered. “I was so horrible to Paul after we got the telegram, he’ll never want to see me again, let alone be my friend.”

  “You mean your ‘er . . . friend,’” said Sandy, winking at her. “And once I’m back in London, you’ll need to keep me abreast of any developments between the two of you.”

  He nudged her elbow and gave a filthy chuckle, but this time Lorna couldn’t laugh along.

  She followed her brother into the house with a tug of dread. She had to say good-bye to Sandy tomorrow, and who knew for how long this time?

  “You never told me your brother could speak German,” Nellie said the next morning through a mouthful of bread.

  “German?” Lorna glanced up from studying her porridge. “No, Sandy speaks French.”

  “And German,” insisted Nellie. “He’s out there now chatting away all in German. I hadn’t a clue what they were saying.”

  “Who?” Lorna was puzzled. “What who were saying?”

  “What your Sandy was saying to our Paul.” Nellie talked slowly, as if Lorna was being particularly dense. “I didn’t have a clue ’cause it was all in German.”

  Sandy was talking German? To Paul?

  Wait! Paul was back?

  Lorna ran to the kitchen door and peered out.

  Paul was back!

  He was standing across the yard with Sandy, who was leaning against the low wall talking earnestly. When Sandy lifted his cigarette to his mouth, he left it there to free up both hands to illustrate in the air whatever he was explaining.

  Paul’s hands were pushed deep into his pockets, his head bowed as if studying the toe caps of his boots, but he was clearly listening intently.

  Finally, when Sandy stopped talking to take a drag on the cigarette, Paul said something. As he spoke, he pulled a piece of folded paper out of his shirt pocket. He opened it up and handed it to Sandy, who studied it carefully, nodding, face serious.

  Might that be the same piece of newspaper Paul had torn from The Scotsman a few weeks before?

  Paul scratched the back of his head, then swiped his hand across one eye and then the other.

  Lorna’s heart tightened.

  What were they talking about?

  Sandy placed a hand on Pa
ul’s shoulder, and Paul looked up. After another few seconds of conversation, the two men shook hands and Paul walked away round the corner. Sandy took another pull on his cigarette before grinding it into the cobbles with his shoe. Blowing out a long stream of smoke, he walked over to where Lorna was standing at the kitchen door.

  “He wanted to know if I knew any more about Dresden than this,” Sandy said, handing Lorna the piece of newspaper as he walked past her into the house.

  The page was from The Scotsman, dated Thursday, 15 February 1945, and it was soft and well handled, splitting slightly along its folds. The newsprint was smudged, particularly down one long thin middle column, the black type leaking gray shadows as if a finger had followed each tiny line.

  ALLIED AIRCRAFT HELP RUSSIANS

  Three heavy attacks on Dresden

  Dresden was attacked by 450 heavy bombers of the American Eighth Air Force yesterday after 800 heavy bombers of the RAF had struck at the city twice during Tuesday night.

  In the first attack on Dresden, which began soon after 10 o’clock, there was cloud over the target, though the sky was clear along the route. By the time the second force reached the city, over three hours later, the cloud had gone (a meteorological officer suggested that the heat of the fires caused by the first attack may have been responsible), and the crews were able to see the effect of the first attack.

  Nearly 650,000 incendiaries, together with 8,000-lb. high explosive bombs and hundreds of 4,000-pounders, were dropped on the city. Air crews reported that smoke was rising to a height of 15,000 feet. When the Americans arrived about 12.30 yesterday, they saw fires still burning and there was a layer of smoke over the whole city.

  The German military spokesman quoted by the German News Agency stated that the RAF “hit exclusively the very heart of the city. The world-famous Zwinger Picture Gallery, the Palace, and the Opera House were destroyed in the attack.”

  There was a photograph of Dresden. The caption mentioned the palace and the opera house, the two bridges spanning the river. This was Dresden as Paul remembered it, as it had been before the bombing. But it wasn’t Dresden anymore. Paul’s Dresden was gone.

  Lorna leaned against the door frame. She wanted to go after Paul, to make things right between them, but now was not the time. At best, he needed time to think about what Sandy had told him. At the very worst, he would be raging against the Allies and their bombs, blaming every British citizen for the pain that must be tearing apart his heart.

  He might blame Lorna, just as she had blamed him.

  The irony wasn’t lost on her. How angry she’d been, never thinking how he’d been suffering this whole time. How could she have been so selfish as to think hers was the only loss that mattered?

  She had to apologize to Paul. Perhaps not now, but definitely later. She had to tell him how very, very sorry she was, and how wrong she’d been.

  And she would have to hope that he would forgive her.

  Twenty-Four

  As if letting Paul walk away from her wasn’t hard enough, Lorna had to say good-bye to Sandy. He promised he’d come back to see her as soon as he could get more leave.

  After they parted on Monday morning, Lorna sprinted all the way to school, trying to outrun the demons nipping at her heels. She was therefore on time for once, and immediately wished she’d stayed home.

  Mr. Wilks would be the substitute teacher for Mrs. Murray’s class. A crotchety old man, he rattled along from Longniddry each morning on an old iron bike whenever another teacher was sick. Apparently, he’d once taught at one of the posh boys’ schools in Edinburgh, and everyone knew his only delight was making his students as miserable as him. When Lorna arrived, he had everyone standing in lines outside the school door, even though a steady drizzle had set in.

  “Precipitation never hurt anyone,” he barked from the warm and dry front hallway.

  Mean old git!

  Beside Mr. Wilks stood William Urquhart—and Iris, Lorna noted—and William was taking an inordinate amount of time to ring the bell.

  Eventually, as Lorna followed the dripping mass inside and past William, still swinging the handbell, Iris stepped forward. She had clearly heard the news about John Jo because her expression was torn and uncertain, so Lorna slowed to let her speak. They hadn’t talked at all since Good Friday, but given the circumstances, Lorna might listen, just this once.

  Suddenly, William banged the bell back onto its shelf and stepped between the two girls.

  “Good morning, Lorna,” he said, taking Iris by the elbow and ushering her toward the classroom door before Iris could say anything.

  Lorna was dumbstruck. Iris had adored John Jo for most of her life, yet she couldn’t even stand up to William long enough to say she was sorry to hear that he might be dead.

  She was not Lorna’s Iris anymore. That girl wasn’t even Lorna’s friend.

  Lorna followed them, her woolen stockings squelching in her wet shoes. When they reached the classroom, William steered Iris inside but then he paused, looking back at Lorna.

  “What?” Lorna hated the way he looked at her, as if she were something stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

  William shrugged and disappeared into the room.

  The day got no better. Mr. Wilks made them all change desks so they were sitting in alphabetical order, meaning Lorna was now next to Esther Bell.

  All morning, Esther would pull her desk a few inches away from Lorna’s, as if Lorna smelled bad. Every time, Mr. Wilks made her move it back again, but Esther’s desk would migrate again and again once his back was turned. This routine amused Esther, and apparently Craig Buchanan too. Lorna just wanted to go home.

  Other than Esther and Craig, however, the class was unusually quiet. Five other telegrams had arrived in Aberlady on the afternoon of Lorna’s birthday. Four had reported other soldiers from John Jo’s regiment missing in action. The fifth had been delivered to Mrs. Murray. A shroud of grief lay over the school, the village, for these Scottish soldiers—these fathers, sons, and brothers of Aberlady—but still, Lorna’s guilt-ridden thoughts could not help but seek out a German soldier instead.

  At the end of school, Lorna bolted for the door. If Iris was trying to catch her attention, she didn’t care. The damage was done and Iris had missed her chance to repair it.

  Once she was away from the school, Lorna’s mood lightened considerably. The rain had passed on, leaving a mild afternoon, so she carried her coat over her arm and hummed to herself as she hurried along.

  She was going to find Paul, and she would apologize and commiserate, and perhaps she would kiss him, if he would let her. It would be a kiss of comfort and of friendship, a kiss saying, I understand. Still, the idea of it sent a buzz of anticipation through her.

  Gradually, Lorna become conscious of the tune she was humming. It was “John Anderson, My Jo,” the song for which her brother had been named.

  Mrs. Mack had always sworn that the poet Robert Burns had written it especially for Lorna’s mother to sing to John Jo when he was a baby. Lorna had been almost eleven before she had discovered that Burns had died more than a century before her brother was born, but she’d never admitted to Mrs. Mack that she knew about the lie.

  There had been a John Anderson in each generation of Lorna’s family for centuries, and because her mother had loved the Burns song so much—and because “my jo” meant “my beloved” in the old Scots tongue—she had given her firstborn son the nickname John Jo.

  John Jo Anderson. Beloved. Yet he had gone back to the war thinking that his only sister hated him.

  Guilt pinched at Lorna again, and she let the melody trail off to nothing.

  The hawthorn bushes along the path were coming into flower, the white petals and the new leaves lush after that morning’s rain. In the field far beyond them, Nellie whistled and clapped to call in the cows for milking.

  Lorna suddenly became aware of an aircraft’s drone coming up the Forth from the east, drowning out Nellie’s calls. It ha
d to be a fighter plane; the engine was pitched too high for the deep-throated American bombers from East Fortune.

  Lorna could see it, silhouetted dark against the bright sky over Gullane Point. She shielded her eyes with her hand, squinting to make out the details.

  A Spitfire? Or maybe a Hurricane? From RAF Drem, probably. No, the angle of the wings was too sharp. So, if it wasn’t a Spitfire, then what . . . ?

  Lorna recognized the tail strut and the blunt wings even before she could make out the fuselage. A maelstrom of grays, not greens. And there were no familiar RAF roundels on the wingtips, only menacing black Luftwaffe crosses.

  The wail of the air-raid siren in the village rose over the shrieking engine.

  Messerschmitt! A Messerschmitt 110 was streaking toward her.

  Lorna ducked, crouching beside the brambles but not losing sight of the plane. One wing dipped slightly, shifting the plane’s path so it wouldn’t fly directly over her head, but still close enough. The engines screamed as the plane sank lower. Surely the pilot wasn’t trying to land! The field beyond the house was open and wide, but certainly not long enough to land a plane on, plus it had a herd of dairy cows ambling across it, and Nellie.

  Nellie!

  At that moment, Nellie looked up. The plane was no more than two hundred yards from her now, but she didn’t move, apparently transfixed, even as the cows around her scattered.

  “Nellie! Get down!” Lorna shouted, though Nellie could never hear her over that ungodly engine.

  Nellie mustn’t have realized this plane wasn’t friendly. RAF pilots frequently buzzed the farm as they returned to base, deliberately sweeping low and waggling their wings. Couldn’t Nellie see that this was no RAF joyrider? Obviously not, and Lorna was powerless to warn her.

  Nellie lifted her hand to wave just as the Messerschmitt pilot opened fire.

  Crack-crack-crack-crack-crack-crack!

  Crack-crack-crack-crack-crack-crack!

  The red lights of the tracer bullets spat from the wings, slicing the air from plane to ground. Dirt spurted up in parallel lines as the bullets ripped across the field toward Nellie and the herd.