After two long drags, the German ground the tip of the cigarette against a rock, sticking the butt into his trouser pocket. I exhaled as he walked back to the car. Daphne loosened her grip on my hand. We listened to the Mercedes purr to life and head on down the road.
“Ruddy hell-O,” she said, looking at her chewed up nails.
“You’ll find a nail file in my duffel bag.”
“My, my, you have come prepared.”
“It’s for escapes.”
“We should have used it on him,” she said, sparks coming from her eyes. “Plunged it right into his hard heart.”
“Next chance we get,” I said half-hearted.
As she manicured her nails, I kept watch for a Belgian vehicle. Finally, a pick-up truck lumbered into view, loaded with so many potatoes that the muffler dragged against the road and the tires were almost flat. Diesel smoke billowed from the tail pipe, making the air black. The truck needed an oil change. I said we’d better wait until something better came along. Daphne said we weren’t in the position to be picky and ran to the road with her thumb stuck out. The truck came to a jerky stop and she motioned for me to hop in first.
“Parlez-vous français?” said Daphne, once the truck got rolling again. I knew from my study of the encyclopedia that in this minuscule country Belgians spoke four different languages: French, Dutch, Flemish, and German. So I wasn’t surprised when the old farmer answered her in a language neither of us knew.
“Ich leiber Deutsch zusprechen,” I said, hoping he spoke German.
“Ja Wohl, I sprechen Deutsch,” he answered.
Daphne stiffened beside me. I told her not to panic, that I had everything under control. I was about to use a trick question. (Like asking a kid if he thought my sister Mary was smart. If he answered back yes, then I’d know he was an idiot.) So I took a deep breath and asked the farmer if he’d seen the Gestapo around, already knowing the answer. Besides, it was one of the only complete sentences I knew in German.
“Schmutzigen Schweine!” said the farmer. Just another way of saying Drecksau. He started mumbled under his breath. Garlic breath.
I turned to Daphne, explaining why we could trust the farmer. Then, substituting the words I knew for the ones I need, I laid out our situation. He looked confused but then said, “Amerikaner und Engländerin?!” A troubled look took over his face: knotted eyebrows, pinched lips, dilated pupils. We weren’t safe, he explained; we shouldn’t be wandering around Belgium hitching rides with any Tom, Dick, or Harry; he warned us not to trust anyone, not even a Belgian. He talked too fast for me to catch everything, but the gist was: lucky for us he came along when he did.
I turned my head to Daphne, my grammar a little screwy as I translated back to English. “He wants that we should come back to his farm. He doesn’t want to leave us on the side of the road. What do you think?”
“He seems sweet,” she said, eyeing the farmer. “Perhaps we should take up his offer. And besides, my nerves are frazzled.”
I gave the A-Okay hand signal. The farmer shifted into second gear and put his foot to the floor without picking up much speed. We moved forward in jerking motions and the glove box kept popping open and hitting Daphne in the kneecaps. Ten minutes later and we pulled up to a farmhouse with the farmer honking his horn.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
A LADY STEPPED OUT OF THE DOOR, wiping her apron. She reminded me of my ma and I felt safe. The farmer hurried us into the house and talked to his wife. Meanwhile, I scoped out the place. The ceiling was low and the windows small; most of the light came from the open door. Pots and pans hung above a fireplace and inside—where the fire goes—was a hook with a big-bellied pot.
The lady’s eyes flew open as she listened to her farmer husband. She kept on saying, “O je! O je,” which I figured meant, “Oh dear! Oh dear!” She told us to take a seat at the kitchen table and sliced us each a chunk of homemade bread. She set down a jar of raspberry preserves and took a towel off of a plate, revealing all sorts of hard cheeses. She made us eat off of her best china, which she kept propped up on a side cabinet. I never wanted to leave this house.
Then I remembered our mission. I tried to explain about Jack’s plane going down in Belgium. I used pantomime, my hand like an airplane crashing into the table. Absturz, absturz, I kept saying, exactly like I’d been taught. Still—they couldn’t understand what I was getting at. I said to Daphne: “I learned my German from a real German. They must speak a dialect and can’t understand the real deal.”
She rolled her eyes.
The farmer got up to leave the house, and we heard his truck start up and jerk away from the farm. His wife made a rolling motion with her hand, telling us to keep on eating. I was happy to oblige and so was Daphne. The farmer’s wife put her elbows on the wooden tabletop. Her hands cradled her chin—from it sprouted several hairs. “O je! O je!” she said like a broken record.
The farmer returned with another man, this one with black hair and a long thin face. He was also wearing overalls, but his steel glasses—with rims small as a Liberty Half-Dollar—made him look like a druggist. “My cousin tells me you are American?” he said, to our relief in English. “May I ask what is your business in Belgium?”
“Should we trust him?” I asked Daphne.
“You can trust me,” he said. “But can we trust you? That is the question.” Turning to the farmer and his wife, he rattled off something in Dutch. Then he turned back to me. “Where in America are you from, may I ask?”
“East Hempstead, New York,” I said, laying on the Long Island nasal. It was times like these you had to forget Shakespeare.
“And what is the tallest building in New York?”
The conversation was taking a funny turn, but I played along: “Empire State Build-din.”
“And if you were to take an elevator to the top of the Empire State Building, what would you find?”
Everybody knew the answer: an observation deck. To get up there you take an elevator that makes your stomach fall to your shoes. The observation deck is so high up that if you tossed a penny and it hit somebody on the street below, it flattened them like a pancake. They had them viewer machines and for a nickel you could see Ellis Island, where my ma and da were inspected for diseases before they could be Americans. Jack said the elevator down was the same effect as stalling an airplane.
“And if you look from this observation deck to the west, what do you see?”
I got my bearings and then said, “Jersey?”
Daphne interrupted, “Jersey is in England! Everyone knows that.”
He said, “He’s answered correctly. We have family living in Hoboken. I’ve been to visit them.”
“Oh,” I said, getting it. “You had to test me to see I ain’t a German agent.”
“Exactly. Have you heard of the Hitler Youth? They turn little children into monsters, train them up to be good little snitches and bullies. It would be exactly like the Germans to use children to expose the Resistance.”
I pointed out that there’d been hordes of German tourists visiting New York City before the war. They came to sightsee and eat them hotdogs and knishes street vendors sold from carts. Also hot chestnuts. And they all went to the Empire State Building. Some of those Germans could’ve gone on to become Nazi spies.
“You make a good point.” Rubbing his chin, he asked, “Who won the World Series last year?”
I looked down at my shoes, shaking my head as I answered the question. “Tragically, the New York Yankees. Monday, October 6, 1941: A date that will live in infamy. Ebbets Field, Brooklyn. The Yankees were up against the greatest team ever was: the Brooklyn Dodgers. Joe DiMaggio tried to sucker-punch Whit Wyatt: the umps split up the fight. Against all odds, the Yankees took this last game in the series: 4-1.” I looked into his eyes. “And how do I know this, you might ask? Well, I’ll tell you. I was in the bleachers with my da. Seen the disaster unfold before my very eyes.”
My interrogator turned back to the farme
r and his wife and they talked between themselves. He looked at me smiling. “You have passed the test. Now tell us your mission.”
First I wanted to know why he hadn’t tested Daphne. “That won’t be necessary,” he said laughing. “She has an honest face.” I wondered what that said about mine.
Daphne spoke up, explaining everything. Then she said, “And if we don’t find Jack soon, the RAF will presume him dead.”
A cold shiver went down my spine. “What do you mean presume dead?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know that comes as a shock.” She explained that a week ago she’d talked with Lieutenant Kennard, Jack’s commander, and learned that RAF Command would make a pronouncement if Jack didn’t show up soon. It was just a military formality, she said, “utter twaddle.” Even Kennard figured the same because there wasn’t a shred of evidence to prove that Jack died in the crash.
My lower lip began to wobble. The farmer’s wife said, “O je!”
Daphne flung her arms around me. “Don’t you think I’d know if Jack were dead? He’s my soul mate. I’d know.”
“That means the RAF will stop looking for him,” I said.
“Well, pudding head, why do you think I’m here?”
My interrogator cleared his throat. He was in touch with somebody in the Resistance, he said. It was one of their chief aims to rescue downed Allied airmen before the Gestapo arrived to investigate a crash. He promised to ask his friend if there was any information about Jack. I asked if we could come along and meet the friend.
“That won’t be possible,” he said. “These people are taking huge risks—to both themselves and to their families. Their identities must be carefully guarded. I know about this man because, well...that’s as much as I should say. It is far better if you wait here with the DeQuicks. My cousin is a good man, as is his wife. They’ll see that you are well cared for. But you must keep to yourselves. Don’t even speak with the neighboring farmers. Understood?”
Daphne wanted to know were he lived and what his name was, but he brushed off her question and said, “It could take some time to get information, so you must be patient. I will return as soon as I have news. Or better yet, I’ll send a coded message. Again—don’t stray from this farmhouse. You will endanger these good people by doing so.”
Mrs. DeQuick handed Daphne a kerosene lantern and escorted us to a stone barn with a thatched roof. I understood her say she’d be back shortly, bringing along some items—the details were lost in translation. She pointed up to a hayloft and we climbed a ladder. I always liked sleeping in barns.
“I think we should pull the ladder up,” said Daphne. “In case the wrong people come.” Knowing what sort of people she meant, I jumped to help her.
She set her suitcase on a bale of hay, took a small key from a string around her neck and opened the two small locks. I watched in amazement as she took one thing after another out of the small suitcase, arranging them like she was decorating a house and was planning to be there for a while. Out came a mirror, which she hung from a peg on the wall. Out came a silver hairbrush and comb set. Out came dresses. One was a long evening gown beaded with red sequins.
“You dragged a getup like that on a rescue mission?” I asked, dumbfounded.
“A mission to rescue my fiancé, so yes, indeed I did.” She found a few hangers made of pink padded satin and hung the dresses from a rafter, saying, “They need a good pressing but this will have to do.” She reached back into the case and retrieved a pair of red high-heeled shoes. They were also studded with red sequins.
“They look like Dorothy’s shoes in The Wizard of Oz!” I said.
“Maybe Jack will appear if I click my heels and say a wish.”
I asked what else she took along and she reached back into the case, removing the framed portrait of my brother Jack in his RAF flight uniform: the same photograph that had me weeping before. Now it had the opposite effect. I asked to take a look and she handed me the frame. “What’s all that stuff strapped to him?”
“That—” She pointed to his flight helmet and the cord that ran from it, “—is what attaches to his radio. And that,”—she pointed to his back—“is a parachute.”
“So maybe he bailed out?”
“In theory yes, although Sel Edner thought not. Jack was flying low when Sel saw him last; and then next thing, his plane was on the ground. We can’t rule it out entirely. Sel was hidden in the clouds and might not have seen Jack gain enough altitude for a bail out. Still, it’s unlikely. If the Spitfire had crashed from a higher altitude there’d have been an explosion, and thankfully there wasn’t.”
I pointed to something strung around Jack’s upper body.
“That is a holster,” she said. “And inside, my good man, is his service pistol.”
“You mean Jack had a weapon on him when he crashed?”
“A .45 caliber Enfield, to be exact. Pretty deadly when fired at close range. I know, because he once aimed it at a bloke who was being fresh with me. I’d just met Jack. It was then I knew he was sweet on me. I’d never had a fellow defend me with his life before.”
“Did he kill the guy?” I asked, wide-eyed.
“Of course not. The blighter got the message immediately, apologized and made a hasty exit.” She laughed remembering the scene. “Turned out the gun wasn’t loaded.”
She placed the frame on a bale of hay between us. Pointing to one side, she indicated her quarters and to the other side, mine. I followed her lead and arranged my weapons on a bale in my space. I wanted them close at hand. Daphne hooted as she registered what was in my duffel. “Laugh now,” I said.
“Fight the Germans with toys, why don’t we?”
Before long, Mrs. DeQuick called from below, “Yoo-hoo!” We lowered the ladder and climbed down.
Daphne took a tray, saying, “What a sweetheart.” She gave Mrs. DeQuick a peck on the cheek and the farmer’s wife giggled. She gave us each a feather pillow and a blanket, which she’d carried under her pudgy arms. “Merci Beaucoup,” said Daphne. It meant, “Thanks a million.”
Mrs. DeQuick understood some French because she answered, “Vous êtes les bienvenus,” which I figured meant, “Nothing to it.” She left the barn, pulling a sliding door closed behind her.
On the tray sat two clay mugs of warmed milk, and something wrapped in foil. Daphne held it up and said, “Could it be, I wonder?” She gently peeled back the wrapper, revealing a piece of chocolate. “Do you have any idea how precious this is? The Belgians are world famous for their chocolate, but that’s yet another thing Adolph Hitler has messed with.”
“He’s changed the chocolate recipe?” There was no end to the man’s tomfoolery.
“No, silly. There’s a chocolate shortage because of the war. This is worth its weight in gold.” She broke the piece in half and placed her portion in her mouth, making happy sounds. “You realize, don’t you, that if they’re going to keep feeding us, we’ll have to earn our keep.”
Chores. I thought I’d escaped all that when I left East Hempstead.
“Come now,” she said. “I’ll teach you to milk a cow. It’s something I learned staying at my cousin’s farm in Hampshire on school holidays. It’s jolly fun. You just pull the cow’s teat.”
We climbed back up to the loft, raised the ladder again and got ready for bed. Daphne brushed her hair until I thought it might fall out. Then she removed a paperback from her suitcase. She dimmed the lantern and moved it closer to her bale bed.
“Do you have a book I could borrow?” I said, sitting there in the shadows. I held up the only book I’d taken along, Mein Kampf. “This book gives me nightmares if I read it before bedtime.”
Daphne’s head whipped my way, making her hair fly. “That’s an evil book! You oughtn’t be reading it,” she said, tearing the book from my hand. She ripped it in half and threw it against the wall with a fastball pitch. “That wicked man calls us dirty Jews and says we smell bad.”
Her eyes were swimming,
shiny in the lantern light. A tear ran down her cheek and hung like an icicle from her trembling plump lip. Knowing that Daphne was one of the people Hitler was out to get gave me a bad feeling too: like at the end of summer or a wasp sting or chalk screeching on a chalkboard. She blinked and her long black eyelashes grew wet and heavy. It was terrible to see her hurt like that and to think it was part my fault. So I scooted over and put my arms around her. She smelled real good if you ask me, like flowers. I hugged her tighter.
She pushed me away. “Don’t get fresh,” she said, trying to laugh.
“So can I borrow a book?” I said, backing into the shadow so she wouldn’t see me blushing.
“Help yourself.” She sniffled and pointed at her suitcase, giving me permission to take a peek. Well—golly—no wonder that suitcase was so heavy. She’d brought a whole library. I glanced at the titles, which were mostly in French. She must’ve noticed my perplexing because she said: “I didn’t bring many English books, afraid that we’d be searched—only Pride and Prejudice and Romeo and Juliet, which I’m fairly certain even the Germans read in the original language.”
“Why didn’t you bring Richard III?” I said, digging my heels into the hay. “I’m not reading Romeo and Juliet.”
“You’re so like Jack, it’s terrifying. His idea of a romance is Riders of the Purple Sage.” She fluttered her eyelashes and puckered her lips. “And yet, your brother is one of the most passionate men ever lived.”
“Well, I ain’t.”
She said that since my English was so “atrocious,” I might as well try one of her French novels. I was about to poo-poo that idea when she mentioned that there was a particular one she’d brought along, specially for me. I riffled through the stack of books, franticly trying to make out the titles. Then I lifted Les Trois Mousquetaires triumphantly.
“That’s the one,” she said, winking.
I didn’t mind that the book was in French; it was an illustrated edition of The Three Musketeers. Gee, it was nice of her to think of me!
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