Songbird Under a German Moon

by Tricia Goyer

  The thought of hurting another human being like that sickened him. And then, the realization that others would believe it. An accusation like that would hit every paper, just as Kat’s death was about do. Marv might be able to come to the rescue, but not before Frank’s name was slandered. That would be something no one would forget.

  Poor Mom. Even though Frank knew she’d never believe it, he also knew her life would never be the same. She’d never recover. Lily’s death had already shattered her heart. He wasn’t sure she could handle more.

  Lord, please don’t let that happen—please.

  Frank walked down the cracked sidewalk toward the church, feeling the pull of fellowship with God that he hadn’t felt in many months—not since the battles had ended. It had been easy to pray, to read God’s Word, and to think about eternity when he knew tomorrow he’d fly over enemy territory or head into dark alleyways. Sometimes he and the other guys would even pray together and encourage each other before the flight. Maybe that was because if the danger was close, they wanted—they needed—God closer.

  Frank touched the door handle of the church, expecting it to be locked. Instead, the latch turned, and the door opened.

  “Hello?” He stepped inside and let his eyes adjust to the light.

  The room was small, dim. There was a narrow aisle and no more than ten worn, wooden pews on either side. Candles flickered at the altar. One woman—he assumed from her slumped position that she was older—sat in the front right corner, head lowered and covered with a shawl that hid most of her face.

  He took in a deep breath, almost expecting to breathe in the same scent of flowers and women’s cologne as he would at his church back home. Instead, odors of old wood, dust, and mildew met his nose. But that didn’t matter. Peace overwhelmed him as he continued forward. Frank moved to the back pew, and his legs seemed to give out as if unwilling to carry his weight any farther.

  In front of the wooden pew was a kneeling bench—dirty, torn, inviting—and he sank onto his knees. A million thoughts swirled around his head as Officer’s Frey’s words played in his mind.

  You walked up that trail alone…

  Everyone is going to know this photo…

  How lucky for you…

  He folded his hands and rested them on the back of the pew in front of him. Then he rested his forehead on his hands and realized they were shaking. Frank opened his mouth to pray, but the words didn’t come. It was as if all the worries had built a wall between him and God. Even now, even here, he couldn’t escape them.

  “I want to give everything to You, God. Help me,” he finally whispered. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to You sooner, more often. Forgive me for forgetting You when things were going so well. How did I ever think I could handle life without Your daily help?”

  The prayers continued, one at a time, as he had the strength to pray them.

  “Protect”—he blew out a soft breath—“protect those that remain.”

  That was his greatest fear—that whoever killed Kat would strike again.

  “You are the Protector,” he prayed. “You watch over them even when I’m not there.”

  He still had a nagging in his heart that told him there was more going on with Kat’s death than what was seen on the surface.

  Should I trust this feeling, Lord? Should I continue to seek answers—even if I might be the one accused? He yearned for God’s answer, right now, out loud. Even a letter, a telegram would be nice.

  Am I putting the lives of the other USO women at risk because I’m afraid of hurting my own reputation? Or because I’m afraid of losing Betty?

  “Lord, I don’t know what to do. I’ve never felt so helpless as I did in that room. And my friend—even my friend didn’t stand up for me.”

  As he prayed, Frank felt God lift some of the weight he carried. God was there. God was with him. God would always be with him.

  Lifting his head, Frank noticed the woman who’d been praying near the front had disappeared. Then his gaze landed on the mural on the wall at the altar. In the painting, Jesus stood in the Garden of Gethsemane. Jesus’ arm was outstretched to a man who carried silver coins in his hand. Behind the man, an army of Roman shoulders stood with swords ready to arrest the Son of God.

  Jesus, You were accused. Your friends abandoned You…

  “Dear Jesus,” he whispered, the truth of that hitting him more than it ever had before. And it was at that moment that the ache of his heart transformed. The pain he felt wasn’t simply the pain of his accusation and betrayal, it was that of Christ, who endured so much more. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

  “Thank You, Jesus. Thank You for taking that on—for me.”

  He continued to sit there, thinking of all the times God had helped him and protected him since he left home and joined the army. Thinking back, there were too many to count. He should’ve died in the fighting. Many of his friends had, yet he still lived. God must have a reason. Maybe God had brought him to where he was for a purpose. Maybe it wasn’t just Marv trying to set him up with a pretty girl. Maybe God did need a combat photographer shooting stills of pretty girls for a reason only God knew. And from the peace Frank felt deep inside, it wasn’t to walk away.

  Frank took in the mural again. “I understand, even if it means I lose everything, I need to stand firm,” he whispered. “If something inside me tells me Kat did not do this to herself, I need to keep looking.”

  The scripture verse that had popped into his memory returned. Frank whispered it into the quiet of the sanctuary, “And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock.”

  He didn’t know what it meant, except that God would help him stand—or better yet, only with God as his foundation could he stand at all.

  Help me to stand strong. Help me to be faithful. I won’t give up. I’ll continue searching for the truth, pursuing the truth.

  Peace came over him, sweeter than anything he’d experienced, and then he rose, turning to leave. As he did, something on the pew—a slip of paper, torn from a book it seemed—fluttered to the floor.

  Bending to retrieve it, Frank saw that someone had written a phrase in German, Angst verleiht Flügel. He scratched his head, almost certain that the paper hadn’t been there before. Did the old woman leave it for him?

  If so, what does it mean?

  Then he looked at it again, closer.

  I know this handwriting. It’s the same as on the letters!

  Frank wondered if he should knock as he approached the back door of the Festspielhaus. He did, twice, and then waited. Maybe Oskar wasn’t even here today, especially since there wouldn’t be any practice—at least for a few days.

  He stepped from side to side, rubbing his arms, hoping to keep warm. A chill numbed him as he’d climbed the hill. He wondered if he should test the doorknob, to see if it was open, but he changed his mind. Even if Oskar were here, working in one of the deep recesses, he didn’t want to try to hunt him down. Or scare him by tromping up and down the halls.

  Frank was just turning to walk away when the door opened.

  “Yes?” It was Oskar’s voice.

  Frank turned.

  “Oh!” Oskar’s face brightened. “Mr. Witt—it is you.”

  “Please, call me Frank.”

  “Habits learned in one’s youth are hard to break. I am older, yes, but you are an important man.” Oskar ruffled his hair with one of his hands. In his other hand, he held some type of clamp.

  “Yes, well, I don’t know about that.” The wind picked up, felt like an icy gale. Frank blew in his hands. “Can I come in for a moment?”

  “Please do, it is cold out, but I am afraid there will not be rehearsal toda—” Oskar scowled. “Did you hear the horrible news?” He stepped back and let Frank hurry in, shutting the door behind him.

  “Yes, Oskar. It is horrible. I feel so bad for Kat. But the truth is, I didn’t come because of a rehearsal. I c
ame to speak with you.” His words echoed down the hall, and the silence overwhelmed Frank. Every other time he’d been to the Festspielhaus there had been singing, dancing, voices. Not today.

  “Me? You came for me?” Oskar cocked an eyebrow curiously.

  “Yes.” Frank pulled the piece of paper from his pocket. “I found this note written in German, and I don’t understand it.”

  He handed the paper to Oskar. Oskar’s eyes widened for the briefest moment, and then his face returned to the same pleasant smile again.

  “Did someone give you this note?” he asked.

  “I—I don’t think so. I found it on a church pew, and I suppose someone left it there. I’m curious, that’s all. I don’t know German.”

  “Yes, well, it is just a simple poem. Or rather proverb—I think that is how you say it. Angst verleiht Flügel. It would translate, ‘Fear lends wings.’”

  “Fear lends wings?” Frank rubbed his chin. “I have no idea what it means.”

  “It means, Mr. Witt, fear would make you do things you think impossible in any other situation.”

  “So you’ve heard this before? Is it common?”

  “It is not common—not as common as other proverbs. But I have heard it before.” Oskar’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Frank wondered if Oskar remembered he was there. “I had someone I loved who told me this once. She is gone now.”

  Frank turned the words over in his mind. “I suppose it’s true. Maybe fear does get us to do things we thought were impossible before. Mostly if our fear draws us to the places where we should have been in the first place.” Frank thought about his moments in the church. Fear had driven him to the arms of God. Even though he wished he’d gone to God as easily during the good times as the hard ones, at least he’d gone.

  Oskar nodded. A tear pooled in his eye, and Frank wondered if it were due to thoughts about his lost love.

  “Yes, Mr. Witt. Sometimes the situations we are given change everything—even who we are deep inside,” he said with a heavy sigh.

  Dierk viewed the opera’s set, wondering where he’d gone wrong. He had never expected anyone would find this place—his secret room. But she had. How?

  When Dierk had first seen the beautiful singer inside, he considered walking her home. Any gentleman would do such a thing. He’d walked her home many times, out of sight, just to make sure she arrived. There were many bad men in the forests.

  Then, after they talked awhile, he saw that she had noticed things she shouldn’t. The crates, the plans. He had no choice. No choice.

  Dierk wished she could have sung one last song, but the plunge of the needle had caused a scream instead.

  She was an angel. A beautiful messenger. And he had dressed her as such.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Betty glanced around the rehearsal room at the forced smiles, and it amazed her how everyone could sing, dance, and play when the only thing on all their minds was the fact that Kat’s body was being shipped home tomorrow. It had been two days since Mickey had told them about her death. It still didn’t seem real.

  “Betty, did you hear?” Irene said during their first break. “They found another body. A lieutenant. It got me thinking about what you said.”

  Mickey strode out of the costume room. “No need to fret, Irene, no one’s out to do harm. The guy’s buddies heard the shot and said the lieutenant was the only one in his room. He was just depressed, you see, over so many of his men killed during the campaign. Took his own life.”

  Irene shook her head. “That makes no sense. His poor family. He fought to stay alive the whole war and now this.”

  Betty took Irene’s hand. “Seems to me that it’s another victory for the Germans. I wish he would have seen it that way. I wish someone would have known, would have talked to him.”

  Betty wondered if what Mickey said was the truth. She hoped so. I wish I could talk to Frank about it. It had also been two days since she’d seen him.

  How come he isn’t coming around?

  The last time they’d talked was on their walk to the outskirts of Bayreuth, and since then he hadn’t even stopped in to say hello.

  “Okay, girls, take a ten-minute break while I talk to Oskar here about a backdrop idea I have for your next number,” Mickey said with a wave of his hand.

  “Sure, Mickey.” Irene pulled up a chair, turned it around, and straddled it. “It’s not like we haven’t been sitting around enough. Practice makes perfect.”

  “I think I’ve forgotten how to sing,” Dolly complained. “Or maybe my heart’s not in it. I don’t care if Mickey gives us an hour break. It just doesn’t seem right—us being here.”

  Newspapermen had descended on the town of Bayreuth—or so they heard—telling the world the horrible news. They’d seen jeep after jeep of reporters coming down the main road, seeking to interview them on the death of their friend, but as ordered, the MPs on duty sent them away. They had no desire to talk about Kat’s death—they were having a hard enough time coming to terms with it themselves. The hardest moment, perhaps, was when they saw the first headline. It became even more real at that moment.

  Hollywood Starlet Katherine Wiseman Lost Husband and Will to Live. Wiseman’s Death Ruled Suicide.

  Mickey had brought a copy of the Stars and Stripes to Wahnfried. He’d also worked it out that their meals would be delivered too—at least for a couple of days. MPs had guarded the house day and night, to ease Mickey’s mind. Even then, Betty had a hard time sleeping. Even after she and the other girls had packed up all of Kat’s things and given them to Mickey to be sent back to the States, Betty couldn’t help but think that Kat should be there—sleeping in the bed next to her with her silk eye mask on. Sometimes at night, she’d have to turn on her flashlight and check—she’d been so certain she’d heard Kat’s breathing.

  Ten minutes later, as promised, Mickey returned. He tried to run the rehearsal like everything was normal, but everyone could tell he was having a hard time of it. His hair wasn’t combed as neatly as Betty was used to seeing. His smile wasn’t nearly as bright. Even his complaints, his orders, his anger wasn’t as sharp as usual. Betty found it strange that she actually missed those barks.

  “Okay, I’m thinking through the line-up. I have the band playing four numbers, the Johnson Sisters doing three of their cha-cha acts. We also have the triplets singing two numbers. Good enough?” He looked up, peering out from under his bushy eyebrows, as if waiting for comments.

  “What about solos?” Irene tapped her foot on the ground. “I mean we always have a few solos in the show.”

  “What would you like to sing? Give me some suggestions. What are some of Kat’s favorites—something that could be a tribute to her?” Mickey asked.

  “Oh, I wasn’t thinking about me. I was thinking about Betty,” Irene said. “The guys will be expecting the songbird to chirp.” Even though Irene smiled as she said those words, Betty felt an underlying tension—possibly even resentment. Ever since her big blow-up with Mickey, things hadn’t been quite right. All the women treated her with courtesy, but after she mentioned the possibility that maybe Kat didn’t commit suicide—that someone could have taken her life—they remained distant. As if considering the thought would put them in danger too.

  Mickey glanced over at Betty, and she could tell from his gaze he didn’t want to use her, but Betty wasn’t going to let him get off that easily. She bit her lip, wondering what she could do to get in his good graces again.

  Maybe if I take back what I said about Kat’s pregnancy and my concerns that someone did this?

  Betty knew it would help, but she wondered if she could actually do it. Do I lie? Do I shove down what I know and believe to be true in order to get them to like me?

  “Yeah, Mickey, give Betty a shot to show you what she has up her sleeve,” Dolly said.

  “Okay, Betty. The girls want you to sing.” It was the first time Mickey had used her name, but it wasn’t the sweet sound she’d expected.
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br />   She smiled as she remembered who she was and what she was here to do. I’ve come to sing. It doesn’t matter if Mickey thinks I’m trying to slander Kat. It doesn’t matter if the other girls have a shield of protection around them—the guys will accept me. And they deserve a good show.

  “Okay, I have an idea. I remember hearing Kat on the radio once. She was singing ‘Ain’t Misbehavin’ and she did it really jazzy like.” Betty turned to the band, who awaited their instructions from Mickey.

  She focused on Wally. “Why don’t I start with a tap of my foot, and then you pick it up?”

  Mickey eyed her and then stepped back. “So Betty thinks she’s running the show now.” He gave a harsh chuckle.

  “Sorry, Mick, I don’t mean to be stepping on your toes, but can we try?”

  “Sure, Betty. Go for it.”

  Even though the look on his face was stern, Betty hoped by the time she finished singing, Mickey would warm up to her.

  She turned to the band members. “Okay, I know you guys know the song—let’s just try it and see what we come up with.”

  “Sure, Betty.” Billy cast her a smile. “C’mon boys, let’s jazz it up.”

  Betty started by tapping her foot in a lively rhythm, and on the tenth beat, Billy joined her, followed by the horns and then the wind instruments. Finally, the complete band played. On cue, Betty started to sing, “No one to talk to, all by myself….”

  She smiled at the band, who indeed added their own jazz to the mix. Betty launched into the next line and decided to add her own flair with her feet. She sashayed up to the front of the practice stage just as Kat had modeled.

  Seeing her, Irene whistled, and Dolly jumped to her feet and joined in. Not wanting to be left out, the Johnson sisters mimicked the steps until they had their own little production happening.