Telegram For Mrs. Mooney

by Cate M. Ruane

  “What’s a Yamato-damashii?” I asked.

  “Japanese version of the Master Race. Thugs always think they’re better than the next guy, that the other fella oughta be his slave: lick his boots and wash his dirty underwear. You know those kids, Tommy, who pick the wings off flies and drown kittens in toilet bowls? Well, if we lose this war they’ll grow up to be Stormtroopers.”

  I shuffled closer to Daphne and put my head on her knee. I felt terrible-bad about her aunt Dalia. Meanwhile Jack was telling us about what was happening to the Jewish Parisians.

  “First the Germans took away their radios, then bicycles. Next they disconnected their phones and forbid them from using pay phones. Then came the curfew. They’re not allowed in parks or theaters. Not even in cafés.”

  “No cafés?” said Daphne, sniffling. She started picking a scab off her knuckle. “My aunt Dalia must have been miserable.”

  “I’ll say,” said Jack. “Swell lady like that…broke my heart. ”

  We lifted our heads and stared at Jack with puzzled expressions. Daphne was the first to speak:

  “It almost sounds as if you actually met my aunt.”

  “Where do you think I headed first thing I got to Paris? I needed a place to hide, didn’t I?”

  Daphne made a bunch of confuse sounds: “Huh? Uh? Whah?”

  Turned out Daphne’d been upset, knowing her aunt wouldn’t be able to attend the wedding because of the war. She’d made out an invitation anyway and ordered Jack to carry it to the post office, even though he swore it was a waste of time and a stamp.

  “Gold,” said Jack. “It’s not a name you forget. But the address? I racked my brain to no avail. Soon as I arrived in town, I started asking around. Didn’t take long before I was pointed to Montparnasse. Remember? You told me Dalia lived near all the artsy types. From there it was a simple matter of asking at the snazziest restaurants. Dalia Gold, food critic. Sure, they knew your aunt. Before long I was knocking on her door, holding out that black & white of you—and introducing myself as the future nephew-in-law.”

  “She took you in?” asked Daphne.

  “Sure she did. And we hit it off like gangbusters.”

  Half Jack’s mouth smiled, the other half drooped. I was waiting for the shoe to drop—boot more like it. You could feel it coming. Daphne’s aunt was taken exactly one month after Jack crashed in Belgium. He couldn’t of been with her long.

  “Soon after that I made contact with Pierre and mentioned where I was staying. He’s the one warned me that your aunt’s apartment wasn’t a safe place, that another round up of Jewish folks was in the works. Then, early morning of the 16th—July this was—Pierre showed up at the door in a panic. Said the French Police were taking Jewish families by the thousands and that we’d better get out fast. And somehow we had to throw the Germans off our tracks.”

  I clapped my hands, “You used one of the uniforms again!”

  “Bingo. While Dalia threw things into a bag, I got into the Gestapo getup. Pierre played the part of an undercover French policeman. We slipped out quiet and then started pounded on your aunt’s door—loud enough to wake the whole building. See, we needed an audience so when the real police came calling, the neighbors would say someone’d beat ’em to it. A crowd of well-wishers cheered us on as we escorted your aunt to the waiting car. Would’ve made your stomach turn, Daphne.”

  Madame Barrault, I thought.

  Daphne rocketed from the couch. “Aunt Dalia! Aunt Dalia!” She ran for the hallway, opening doors and calling out for her aunt—like Jack had been hiding the old lady the whole time, waiting to spring a surprise.

  He looked at me and shrugged his shoulders. “It kills me to disappoint her.”

  By now I’d figured out Aunt Dalia wasn’t there. Daphne came back into the room with her hands on her hips. “Where’d you put my aunt?”

  Poor Aunt Dalia. Poor, poor, Aunt Dalia. I started to moan when Jack said it:

  “A convent.”

  Nuns!

  “Which convent?” Daphne asked.

  “I have no idea,” said Jack. “A month later and Pierre was arrested. And he’s the one who knew the exact location.”

  Daphne plopped back down on the couch—happy, if you can believe it. I’d go rescue the aunt but there didn’t seem to be any way to find her. France had a million convents, Jack said. She might be anywhere.

  “We’d better get to Spain then, right?” I said. “We’ll get a boat to America!”

  “England, please.” Daphne looked worried. “My wedding dress is in England.”

  “Funny you should say that,” said Jack. “I’ve been having the darndest time getting in touch with the Resistance again. I made a new contact after Pierre was taken—this one with a different group—and then the fella vanished. Poof! And since then, I’ve had a helluva time finding anyone else. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think they were trying to avoid me.”

  “They followed you to this building,” said Daphne. “Then watched you leave in the Luftwaffe uniform.”

  “O—h! Now I get it. So I take it you two have a contact here in Paris?”

  “Yes. And if it weren’t for Thomas and me being able to vouch for you, you might never have gotten back to England.”

  “How’s Ma?” asked Jack. “Gee, I miss her.”

  Just then I realized I was headed for the whooping of my life. I’d probably be grounded until I was eighteen and old enough to leave home. But I looked at my brother sitting in front of me—living and breathing and in Technicolor—and right then, it didn’t matter.

  “It’s a good thing we came, huh, Jack?” I said.

  He answered by grabbing my hands and swinging me around in a circle. My feet were flying in the air and they knocked over the bottle of cider.

  “Will you be going on any more missions?” I asked.

  “Maybe one,” said Jack, and Daphne slapped him.

  CHAPTER FORTY TWO

  Somewhere above France

  IT’S APPROXIMATELY 17:50 HOURS.

  Sheldon Edner, who is “Sel” to his friends, and Reade Tilley of the RAF 121st Eagle Squadron, are returning to England and only a few miles from the coastline of France when they spot a German Focke-Wulf 190 on the starboard side, about three miles away. The enemy aircraft immediately sees them and disappears into the clouds.

  Edner and Tilley, both flying Spitfires, give chase. They are about 25 miles from the coast when they manage to get within range, and Edner gives the first burst of five seconds and closes in from 300 to 100 yards. He sees the shells ricochet off the enemy aircraft, which goes into a spin and is losing altitude.

  But close to the ground, the German comes out of the spin, levels off, and circles back around, taking a position behind Edner’s tail.

  Tilley gets behind the enemy aircraft and fires a long blast from 100 yards astern. Meanwhile, the FW 190 is firing the whole time at Edner’s plane, which takes several hits.

  Between the Spitfire and the FW 190, many RAF pilots consider the German plane to be the superior. It sports two 13-millimeter cannons above the engine, two 20-millimeter cannons in the wing roots, and two more cannons in the outboard wing.

  Edner is now losing altitude and smoke is coming from his left wing. Tilley attacks the FW 190 once more, using the remainder of his ammunition. The German pilot now drops to 1000 feet to give Edner chase, and Tilley looks on helplessly.

  Tilley sees, about a mile from his starboard side, a Messerschmitt at about 9,000 feet. It drops down out of the clouds and comes up along the side his Spitfire. He’s so close to the German plane that he’s able to make eye contact with the Luftwaffe pilot.

  The Luftwaffe pilot gives Tilley the thumbs up.

  Tilley looks over dumbfounded and says, “Well, I’ll be a son-of-a-gun.”

  He watches as the Messerschmitt comes within 50 yards of the FW 190 and gives a long blast. Tilley sees dense smoke coming from the FW 190’s port engine and slight smoke coming from the craft�
��s starboard engine. The FW 190 immediately loses height and speed, and then goes into another tailspin—this one from which it doesn’t recover.

  Edner and Tilley watch as the enemy plane crashes in a French field.

  Edner assumes that Tilley made the kill.

  Tilley knows otherwise.

  Sel Edner is on reserve fuel by now, and flying low to the ground, and his Spit is shot up bad. He heads toward the English Channel. He is weaving to the left and right hoping to avoid fire from the Messerschmitt, but none comes.

  When the two RAF Eagle Squadron pilots cross back over the Channel headed to England, the Messerschmitt tips its wings and heads back toward Paris.

  Lieutenant Reade Tilley is going to be making one heck of a report when he gets back to RAF Rochford.

  EPILOGUE

  I LET JULIETTE KISS ME good-bye. On both cheeks too.

  “It will be freezing over the mountain passes,” she said handing me back the socks she’d stolen, “you’ll be needing these.”

  Then Dédée escorted us over the Pyrenees Mountains and into free Spain. She guided us to the British Consulate in Bilboa, before making her way back to Belgium. I pray every day that God will keep her safe. I have every reason to hope He will.

  From Spain we were taken to Gibraltar—which is really just a big rock that England happens to own. It’s stuck out in the Mediterranean Sea, south of Spain.

  A fishing boat returned us to England, where Lord and Lady Sopwith were waiting for us with the Rolls. O’Reilly the butler was leering at me as I put my foot back onto English soil. It turns out the Resistance was in touch with British Intelligence and so was Lord Sopwith, because he knew exactly when we’d make landfall. Keep that on the hush-hush, at least until this war is over.

  First thing we done was to head straight to a post office. Lady Sopwith insisted. As Jack handed over our message to the telegraph operator, I could almost hear the telegram boy on the other side of the big ocean yell, “Telegram for Mrs. Mooney.”

  This one was going to cheer her up.

  (Read a sample from Book Two in the series…just a couple of clicks away.)

  GOOD REVIEWS ARE BETTER THAN MARASCHINO CHERRIES

  If you enjoyed Telegram For Mrs. Mooney, kindly write a review.

  It will make the author do an Irish jig.

  Just go to this link and type in the title of the book: https: www.amazon.com

  And, while you’re at it, write one at: www.goodreads.com

  Thank you!

  And now clink on for a sample of the next book in the series…

  THE SERIES CONTINUES!

  MESSAGE FOR HITLER

  By Cate M. Ruane

  PROLOGUE

  Somewhere in The English Channel

  A FISHING BOAT BOBS ON CHOPPY WATERS, as its captain scans the horizon with a spyglass. He tilts his wrist and moonlight illuminates the crystal on his watch.

  “They’re late,” he says.

  Inside the cabin, a radio operator taps out a message—the same message he’s been sending for more than an hour. He adjusts his headset, as though that will help, then shakes his head, “Negative,” he says.

  A crewman cranes his neck out the porthole and shouts, “Still no contact, Captain.”

  Just then, a whitecap rocks the boat, almost capsizing it. The radio operator is thrown against a pile of nets, but manages to hold onto the radio set.

  “We have contact!” he yells.

  The crewman shouts, “Contact, sir.”

  “Obviously, you idiots,” says the captain as he watches a thousand tons of steel rise from the waters. He waits until the submarine has surfaced, then orders the crew to come up as close as they dare. When the forward hatch swings open, two figures emerge from the belly of the submarine. The crew helps them aboard the fishing boat.

  The captain turns toward his new passengers. “Welcome aboard,” he says. Noticing their uniforms for the first time, he begins to laugh. He straightens his back and executes a fast and sharp salute, “It is always a pleasure to be of service to the Royal Air Force.”

  Both passengers turn toward the submarine, bidding its crew farewell. They raise their right arms, palms perfectly flat. “Heil Hitler,” they shout in unison. The salute is returned and the hatch shut.

  The German U-Boat vanishes below the waters of the English Channel.

  The captain says, “Back to England, boys. Nice and slow now.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  London, England

  I WAS WARM AND TOASTY in the back seat of the Rolls, on my way to meet my brother Jack in London, when Lord Sopwith—my guardian for the duration—said, “Duncan here will drop me at the Air Ministry, then take you around to the Eagle Club. Will that suit, old boy?”

  “Boy oh boy, sir—does it ever!” I said.

  My mouth began watering. The American Eagle Club was a joint to boost the morale of Americans serving in the British Armed Forces. They dished up peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on real Wonder bread, and cheeseburgers with fries and a Coke. With any luck, we’d get s’mores for desert—toasted marshmallows and Hershey bars squashed between two crisp graham crackers. Washed down with a Yoo-hoo, it was the perfect meal.

  I’d been to the Eagle Club before—a special guest of my brother Jack, who joined up to fly with the Royal Air Force before we Americans had the sense to start fighting off Adolf Hitler. Except for the squadron leader, who was British, all the pilots in my brother’s squadron were Yanks. Winston Churchill used the Eagle squadron pilots to get America off the fence. He made sure their photographs appeared in Life magazine and Colliers, looking dashing in their flight suits, with parachutes strapped on their backs in case they had to jump from a burning airplane. They showed up in Pathé newsreels, dogfighting in their Spitfires against the German Luftwaffe. Getting metals pinned to their chests by the King and Queen of England. A Kansas girl, on a movie date with her Joe Shmoe boyfriend, took one look at those pilots and started swooning. Because of this, every man from sea to shining sea wanted to fight the Nazis. Ma called it propaganda, but it worked.

  “I’ll be back Sunday night, sir,” I told Lord Sopwith. “My brother will take me back to Warfield Hall on a Triumph motorcycle filled up with high-octane aircraft fuel.”

  “Then you’ll be back in time for dinner, no doubt,” said Lord Sopwith, adjusting his 14-karat gold wire frame glasses. “Invite your brother to join Lady Sopwith and me, will you? Just the thing—a good chat with a flyboy. Puts everything into perspective. Can’t have too much theory, what?”

  Lord Sopwith was an aviation pioneer. His company, Hawker Aircraft, made the Hurricane—the fighter plane my brother was flying when he shot down his first German plane. My guess was Lord Sopwith was headed to the Air Ministry to discuss his latest invention. He was working on top-secret airplane designs—very hush-hush.

  “And you’ll be billeted with the squadron?” he asked. “Should be jolly good fun being so close to the action.”

  We were passing by Downing Street. I rolled down the window, getting ready to wave if I caught sight of the prime minister, Winston Churchill. If you ask me, he got gyped. His house was smaller than the White House pantry.

  “Close that window, boy, before we catch our deaths,” said Lord Sopwith shivering. He buttoned up his coat and pulled a scarf tight around his neck. Then, to drive home his point, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and sneezed into it. I rolled up the window fast. Lord Sopwith is a real gentleman, so he didn’t take a look at the booger that came out of his nose. Instead, he folded the handkerchief back into a perfect triangle and tucked it into his pocket.

  I said: “I’ve already sat in a Spitfire, sir. I am learning how to fly one.”

  Lord Sopwith blew out a puff of air: “It’s come to that, has it? God preserve us.” He wasn’t taking me seriously. It happened all the time, even though I was a hero of the Belgian and French Resistance after rescuing my brother from the Nazis when his plane went down in occupied E
urope.

  “Really, sir,” I said. “I’ve started my training, just the same way Jack did. He put me in his Spitfire with a blindfold around my head. Had to feel for the instruments and name them one by one. Once I get that right, he’ll let me fly the girl. The fellas call it ‘feeling the tits and bits.’ ”

  “Rather risqué for a twelve-year-old, what?”

  I knew he was dead right, and that my ma wouldn’t like Jack using colorful language to refer to the thing that fit into a ladies’ brassiere. She wouldn’t like him teaching me to fly either. Ma wanted me home to East Hempstead, New York, because she was missing me something awful. Problem was that with the war full on, there was no way for me to cross the Atlantic without getting torpedoed by U-Boats. Last week a German submarine sank the British freighter Goolistan. Every living soul on board was now on the bottom of the ocean floor being eaten by catfish.

  I was sure grateful to the Sopwiths. While I waited for a safe passage home, they were letting me hole up at Warfield Hall. “It’s the thing to do,” said Lady Sop. Everyone lucky enough to own a grand country estate was expected to take in stray children—save them from the German bombs dropping on London. Lady Sop was in cahoots with my ma. Every single day she made me write a letter home, even if all it said was “I’m still alive and kicking.” She’d always check the spelling and grammar and make me rewrite the whole letter over if there was one mistake: “Mind your Ps and Qs,” she’d say. Which was strange, seeing that I hardly ever used words with the letter Q. I wrote my letters at a special desk made for letter writing. Lady Sop called the desk by its French name, escritoire. It had built in letter slots, inkwells, pen stands and matching blotters. There were also secret drawers, designed to confuse thieves. That was where you were supposed to keep the jewels and treasure maps. I checked, but the drawers contained nothing but rubber bands and paperclips. Turned out Lady Sop kept her diamonds in a safe-deposit box at the bank, which was probably a good idea.