Catching the Wind

by Melanie Dobson

  A blissful peace had settled over England in the late 1940s and ’50s, except in the hearts of the many people trying to find loved ones they’d lost.

  After the war, he and George had spent months searching for Brigitte, but they couldn’t locate her. Youth today didn’t understand a world before social media and mobile phones, before one could search the Internet for a missing person or post their picture on screens around the world. And many people—today and from years past—didn’t understand or honor faithfulness. A deep commitment to those you loved, to persevere no matter what. One didn’t just forget a lost friend.

  He tightened his grasp around the knob of his cane. Every day he prayed that he wouldn’t forget her.

  Wind channeled between the pine trees, like the current of a river carrying him deep into the forest.

  For decades after the war, he’d returned to England to search for Brigitte on his own. George and Letha had pitied him, thinking she must surely have passed away. He knew the realities and yet something kept prompting him to look for her. That quiet, still voice that urged him forward. A voice the assailants in his mind had tried to slay.

  But he’d persevered like the knights of old, searching for the lost maiden. Like he’d done back in the tree house long ago. Whenever he returned to England, he would look for her, but the longer he searched, the more it seemed as if he were searching for a specific pine needle in this island’s vast grove.

  George and Letha both died in 1984. That year he hired a private investigator in London. When that search availed nothing, he hired a second company. Then a third. One of the men he’d hired had come close to finding her—or so he said—but then he’d rammed into a dead end. It had been five years since the last agency closed his file.

  Some thought him eccentric to continue this search, but he didn’t care. The knight’s code was to defend, protect. Long ago, he’d promised to find Brigitte, and he would persevere in this quest until God chose to take him home.

  Six months ago, he’d begun an exhaustive search for a new investigator, trying to hire a person who would make this a personal journey instead of merely a professional one. He’d wanted to hire a woman who understood English along with some German. Someone who could think differently from the agency men he’d hired in the past. Someone compassionate, smart, and who knew how to keep a secret.

  Someone who knew what it was like to be left alone.

  When he read Quenby Vaughn’s series of articles about refugees, he was impressed with her ability to empathize with the tragic loss of the children while condemning those who infiltrated a new country intent on doing harm. It was a wretched line to walk, determining who needed help and who wanted to start a war.

  Miss Vaughn was smart and capable, empathetic yet tough. Once his investigator discovered that she was preparing to write an article about Lady Ricker, the employer of Mr. and Mrs. Terrell, it seemed his prayers to find the right person for this job had been answered. And now he prayed that Miss Vaughn would do what no one before her had been able to accomplish.

  Together they would rescue Brigitte.

  The wind rustled the pine needles again, and for a moment he thought he heard barking in the distance. Instinctively, his body cried for him to run, but his legs were so tired, as if he’d already walked a dozen miles today.

  He glanced around at the trees, confused.

  He had been walking a long way, hadn’t he? All the way from Germany. And he was hungry. Tired.

  He lifted the walking stick in his hands. Examined it. Where had he found such a polished piece? Perhaps the farmer had given it to him.

  “Brigitte,” he called out into the rain, steadying himself against a wet branch as he scanned the trees for her.

  She would be nearby, looking for food or a place to sleep. She would never leave him.

  Daniel blinked, saying her name again as the rain splashed his face, but this time it was just a whisper. He was back on the island, in the forest near his home.

  There was no Brigitte, of course. Hadn’t been in a long time.

  It wasn’t just the walls of the castle that were closing in on his mind. Now the trees seemed to be fogging it as well.

  If he didn’t find Brigitte soon, he feared he might not remember her at all.

  When he emerged on the other side of the forest, Jack was waiting for him.

  His driver opened the car door. “You ready to go home, Mr. Knight?”

  He nodded slowly. “I believe I am.”

  “Eileen has a nice cuppa waiting for you.”

  Daniel closed his eyes in the backseat of the car, trying to think about the tea, but her eyes emerged in his mind again, the vibrant blue of them staring back at him.

  Somewhere, Brigitte was waiting for him too.

  Chapter 15

  Mulberry Lane, December 1940

  Brigitte’s back was crushed against the closet door, her hands pressed against her ears, but she couldn’t block out the yelling. It grew louder and louder in the kitchen below her room.

  She didn’t understand much English, but the Terrells said one word over and over that she knew well now.

  Girl.

  They always seemed to be fighting about her.

  If only Dietmar were here. He could tell her what else the Terrells were saying. He knew all the English words.

  Herr Terrell would leave soon. And perhaps Frau Terrell would as well. Then they’d be gone for hours. Sometimes Herr Terrell didn’t return until late at night. Then the fighting would start again.

  She reached up and touched her shoulder, her long hair sheared by Frau Terrell’s scissors the night she’d arrived. The cuts made by Frau Terrell’s nails had healed weeks ago, but they’d left behind stripes on her skin.

  Herr Terrell hated her—she didn’t need the words of English to understand that. Frau Terrell tolerated her as long as she did the chores assigned her. The woman would point at the broom and say, “Sweep.” Or at the dishes and say, “Wash.” So she swept or washed or whatever Frau Terrell asked of her. Just like Aschenputtel—Cinderella—from the Brothers Grimm.

  She didn’t mind the chores. They kept her from thinking about her sweet papa back in Germany. And about her best friend.

  Closing her eyes, she pretended that Dietmar was waiting for her below the window, ready to rescue her like he’d done at home. It had all been play back then in the tree house, at least until the enemy really had come and taken her papa away.

  Now she needed Dietmar to charge this tower. Climb the vines that led up to her room. Take her with him.

  He’d promised her that he would come. A thousand times.

  Oh, why had he left her, back when all those people were looking at the children? Why hadn’t he stopped the Terrells before they drove out of town?

  She’d seen him standing on the curb, his hands to his sides. And she’d thought—hoped—that he saw her in the car. That he would find this house and steal her away.

  Weeks had passed—perhaps even a month or two—but still each morning she awoke fresh to the hope that Dietmar would surely come today.

  Had Hitler’s men found him in England? Had they taken him back to Germany?

  The knight clutched in her hand, she looked down at the gardens below the window, as if Dietmar might be rushing toward her. The vegetable garden reminded her of the one at Dietmar’s house, except almost everything was brown, dead now that winter had come.

  One day she and Dietmar would find each other. One day soon, she prayed.

  She wanted to sing softly, invite music into her tiny room to ease the aching in her heart, but she would have to wait until the Terrells were gone. They thought her stupid, and she preferred it that way. Instead of talking to them, she reserved her voice for the privacy of this space where they’d set up a cot for her, the day after a woman visited them and apparently said they should.

  When Herr and Frau Terrell were gone, for hours and hours at a time, she’d sing songs that Mama taught her long
ago. At night, after her chores were done, she’d sit on her cot and gaze out at the moon over the gardens and trees, hoping that Dietmar could see it wherever he was as well. Hoping that perhaps he was sleeping in the forest beyond the cottage.

  She never slept on the cot. Each night, she’d crinkle up her blanket on the rug and sleep with her head under the canvas, between the wooden legs. It reminded her of a canopy made for a princess.

  There was a knock on her door, jostling of the knob. “Open it, girl!” Frau Terrell called.

  Brigitte crept out of the closet and turned the lock.

  The woman barged inside, pointing at the door handle. “No. Lock.”

  She kept her eyes focused on the frayed edges of the rug.

  “Come along,” Frau Terrell barked, reaching for her wrist. Then she yanked her forward. Brigitte followed, afraid the woman would drag her down the steps if she didn’t comply.

  Downstairs, Frau Terrell pointed at two eggs in a yellow-and-blue bowl on the counter before handing her a woven basket and scooting her toward the door. As if Brigitte should know where to find the eggs.

  She waited another moment for the woman to point her toward the henhouse, but Frau Terrell had returned to washing potatoes in the sink. Brigitte slipped out the door, grateful for the opportunity to roam outside.

  The air was crisp, cool as the Elzbach River used to feel streaming between her toes. The breeze brushed over her skin, and she closed her eyes along the lane, savoring its breath.

  Sing, it said to her.

  But she couldn’t sing outside, in the language forbidden here. She’d have to wait until she was safely locked in her room again, the Terrells gone.

  A mangy dog stepped up beside her, sniffing the plaid pinafore that the lady from town brought for her to wear. Brigitte stopped to scratch his ears, and he followed her as she ambled across the pathway toward the pasture, between piles of dried leaves and footprints embedded in the dirt.

  From her window she’d seen Herr Terrell digging in these gardens. He was younger than her father and a strange sort. He wore a brown cardigan and trousers when he gardened, and each morning he greased his black hair back, as if he were going to a party instead of to work outside.

  Frau Terrell wore a straight gray skirt every day when she left the house, under her checkered coat. Her hair was always combed into a neat knot above her collar, a lump on the back of her head.

  The Terrells came and went from the house as if they hadn’t a care. As if they didn’t know that on the other side of the water were men trying to hurt them all.

  No one was digging in the garden today, but as Brigitte neared the edge, she saw two men building a wall from a pile of bricks and pail of mortar. Neither of them looked at her or the dog as they drew close.

  She ignored them as well, until she heard their voices.

  Instead of the language in England, they were both speaking German. They talked in whispers about how far they were from the channel waters. One man wanted to cross back over to Germany on an undersea boat. The other man preferred to wait out the war right here.

  One of the men sounded like her father, and her heart raced as she stepped toward him. But it wasn’t her father; she could see it now as he picked up a brick. His nose was all wrong, his hair too long.

  What if these men were like the ones who took Papa away? What if they would hurt her too?

  Her mind screamed for her to run, but her feet froze on the path. And then it was too late. One of the men had already spotted her. He tipped his hat and said something to her in English.

  She glanced back toward the cottage. Frau Terrell would be angry if she didn’t hurry back with the eggs. And this man seemed kind enough. Perhaps he could tell her the location of the henhouse.

  “Wo ist das Hühnerstall?” she whispered.

  His eyes grew wide, and she knew instantly that it had been a mistake to use her voice. Dietmar had told her not to speak in German. She should have listened.

  “Dort drüben,” the man replied, pointing to his left.

  “Danke.”

  He asked where she was from, and she told him from a house along the river. Then he asked about her family.

  “Girl!” Frau Terrell shouted from the garden.

  The dog scampered away as Brigitte turned toward her.

  “Stay away,” the woman commanded, waving the potato peeler in her hand as she approached.

  The man returned to his work, and Brigitte prayed neither man would tell her secret, that she too spoke the language forbidden here. But they seemed to be afraid of Frau Terrell as well. One man dipped his spade into the mortar while the other lifted a brick.

  Dozens of words spilled from Frau Terrell’s mouth before she boxed Brigitte on the ear. “Fetch the eggs.”

  Brigitte’s head hung as she moved away, her cheeks burning from embarrassment as she found the henhouse to the left of the wall. The chickens scattered when she plodded through the straw, stealing eggs from their nests.

  She didn’t know much, but Dietmar had taught her how to run. She could leave tonight through her window, climbing down the ladder of vines. The Terrells wouldn’t know she was gone, at least until the morning.

  But if she left tonight, where would she go? She didn’t know this strange country. Didn’t know where to find Dietmar or his aunt.

  Dietmar knew where she was. He’d promised to come for her, and Dietmar never broke his promises.

  The dog joined her side again as she latched the henhouse door.

  Just a little longer, and Dietmar would find her.

  A little longer, and they could return to their parents.

  It wouldn’t be long now before they could all go home.

  CHAPTER 16

  _____

  The Tonbridge train station was mostly quiet at a half past one, a direct contrast to the throngs in London. The town center was a paradox as well, modern storefronts mixed with the medieval past. A river ran through town and lapped against the foundations of old shops now housing establishments like Subway and Starbucks. And an abandoned stone castle perched on a grassy hill, overlooking the town.

  The public hall had been replaced with an apartment building, three stories tall, but the sidewalk where Quenby stood was the last place Dietmar had seen Brigitte, her nose pressed to the car window. If the Terrells had taken her to Breydon Court, they would have driven north through the town center before leaving town.

  With the Uber app on her phone, Quenby requested a ride to Breydon Court. Then she found a bench as she waited for the driver, facing the white bridge that crossed over the river. Its Narnia-like lampposts framed the castle wall behind it.

  She’d already spent several hours in the town of Maidstone this morning, searching through records for information. The Elizabethan house at Breydon Court had been built in the 1500s; the owners in 1626 then expanded it into one of the largest manor houses in Kent. The Ricker family inherited it in 1868, and they resided there until Lord Ricker’s death in 1944.

  After her husband’s death, Lady Ricker and her two young children relocated to a town house in the affluent St John’s Wood, a district of northwest London. The Dragues, a prestigious family from London, purchased Breydon Court with the contingency that the two Ricker children could keep an apartment in the house for the remainder of their lives if they wished.

  Was this why the interviewer had asked Lady Ricker about Admiral Drague during her interrogation? Or was there a personal connection between the Ricker family and the Dragues?

  Louise McMann, Quenby had read, married in 1968. After the death of her husband, she’d returned to live in her family’s former home.

  Quenby couldn’t search the census records for the Ricker or Terrell families—those were closed to the public in Britain for one hundred years—but before she left Maidstone, she’d asked the clerk for records of Tonbridge evacuees in late 1940 and early 1941. The woman assured her that she’d e-mail Quenby anything she found in their archives. T
housands of children were evacuated to this area at the beginning of the war, until the Luftwaffe began bombing Kent. Then they had to be evacuated from Kent as well.

  A silver Volvo pulled up to a curb near the bridge, and the Uber driver confirmed Mrs. McMann’s address before driving Quenby north, past fields with docile cows and brilliant-yellow blooms.

  Until the policeman took them to Tonbridge, Brigitte and Dietmar would have walked for miles through pastures and trees like this, searching for the skyline of London. They’d been so close—

  But if they had found Dietmar’s aunt, both children might have been killed in the Blitz as well.

  A jet flew overhead as her driver turned west.

  “Is there an airport near here?” she asked.

  He nodded. “Biggin Hill is about ten miles north.”

  “I didn’t realize there was an airport so close.”

  “It’s mostly for private airplanes now, but it was an RAF base during the war.”

  Quenby scooted forward on her seat. “Do you know the World War II history of this area?”

  “A little,” he replied. “German soldiers and downed pilots were housed over at a prisoner of war camp on Pembury Road. Many of the prisoners worked on local farms to supply the rest of the country with food.”

  She looked at a half-timbered house outside the window, sitting above a fruit orchard and a field of ewes guarding their lambs. “Are the buildings still there?”

  “No, there’s a grammar school on the property now.”

  “Have you ever been to Breydon Court?”

  He flashed her a curious look in the mirror. “Most people have never even heard of Breydon Court.”

  She shrugged. “I’m doing some research for a story.”

  “I took a passenger there once,” he said as he swerved into the other lane to avoid a pack of cyclists. “I had to drop him off at the front gate.”

  They drove through a neighborhood and then down a quiet street that ended at an ornamental gate made of wrought-iron slats. On the other side, tufts of white-and-fuchsia rhododendrons padded both sides of a driveway.