by Tricia Goyer
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe she did walk into the pond and drown herself. If someone had done this to her, Kat would have put up a fight.
Yet even as he thought that, something inside told Frank to keep looking for the truth. To not give up. He’d prayed about it a lot—trying to decide what to do. In fact, the only time he wasn’t thinking about what had happened to Kat was when he was in class. He and two hundred other guys had hopes of getting their high school diplomas before shipping home. Sometimes he felt like a dope for being there, trying to learn algebra again. Still, he’d stick with it. He knew where he wanted to be, what he wanted to offer, before he got more serious with Betty.
A knock sounded on his door, and Frank jumped.
“Hey, why is the door locked? You got a girl in there or something?” Art called.
“No—just trying to nap. Don’t want to have any bad Germans getting me while I’m snoozing.” Frank gathered up the photos and slipped them under his blankets. Then he strode to the door, unlocked it, and stepped back.
Art had a sly look on his face, and he quickly glanced inside the room as if expecting to see a girl there. He walked in with a disappointed look.
“I don’t know why you’re so concerned—why you think you need to lock the door.” Art chuckled. “You’d just be another body in their books—in their morgue. It’s not like they haven’t seen enough around here already.”
“What do you mean ‘another’ body? They haven’t found another body, have they?”
“I’m not talking about the suicide. I’m talking about the fact they’re still pulling bodies out of the rubble. One guy I was talking to, working with the clean-up crews, said they unearthed three hundred German soldiers caught in their barracks by American bombers. Been there since April. What a mess.”
“I wonder if I was on that bombing run. I seem to remember flying over this area.”
“I wondered the same thing.”
“Actually, I don’t understand why we don’t have more murders—problems,” Frank said. “Maybe whatever happened to Kat was because she was at the wrong place at the wrong time. The Festspielhaus is surrounded by forests. Who knows who’s lurking out there?”
“So you really think it was something more than suicide?” Art asked. “I talked to Denzel, and he said your thinking that way is a bad idea. He told me what went on down in his office.”
Frank crossed his arms over his chest and turned to the window. “Did he tell you how he just sat there and didn’t stick up for me? Didn’t say a word?” Frank tried to keep his voice calm. He’d already talked to God about his feelings of betrayal a number of times, and didn’t want to stir up those angry feelings again.
Art sat on his cot and removed his boots. “If I were to go with my gut feeling, I’d side with you. There’s a lot more going on in those woods than anyone realizes.” He leaned back on his bed and put his feet up. “I was talking to a guy today who supervises whole work crews of former German soldiers. Just him, his gun, and one hundred prisoners-of-war.”
“So how’s it going? Does he have many Volkstrom, soldiers, running away?”
“There were some, he guessed. But for every one he loses, he gains three more.”
“I don’t understand. How is that possible?” Frank sat on his bed, being careful not to disturb the photos.
“Well, every day the prisoners get a hearty breakfast, they work all day, and then we feed them a good meal at night too. That’s more food than the average German citizen gets—and it’s far more than those former German soldiers have, hidden in the woods. That soldier said they head out with one hundred and then he counts them when they come back—99, 100, 101, 102…”
“I wonder how many more are out there?” Frank shook his head. “All it takes is one guy with a big grudge to do something like what happened with Kat.” Frank rose and tucked his .45 Colt into the wooden holster. “There’s not a person in town who admits they were a Nazi, but I have a feeling it’s the quiet before the storm. Hatred doesn’t disappear just because somebody signed a peace treaty.”
“So, where you headin’?” Art yawned.
“First mess, then class, and then the Festspielhaus tonight.”
“Oh yeah, I heard about that show to honor Kat. I think I’ll try to make it. I might try to sneak in Magdalena. She told me she was interested in seeing a show.”
“I’ll look for you there.” Frank opened the door, glancing to where the photos were hidden. Art had never messed with his things before, and he hoped that would still be the case.
“Oh, wait.”
Art’s words halted Frank’s steps. “Speaking of Magdalena, she wants to talk to you.”
“To me?” He glanced back inside the doorway.
“Yeah, she said she sang for the Festspielhaus for many years, and she has something she wants to tell you.”
“About what?”
“She didn’t say. Maybe we should meet up after the show tonight? We could meet over at that German club where she sings.”
Frank shrugged. “Sure, that sounds good, but I need to talk to Betty first.”
“You’re still interested in her? I thought that had cooled.”
“I’m still interested. I just want to do things right. I don’t want to pull her down. She deserves someone who has his act together.”
“Okay, we’ll be at the club if you can make it. Magdalena made it sound really important, whatever it was.”
Betty glanced around the mess hall at the soldiers’ faces and forced herself to smile. It was Pearl’s birthday, she discovered, and Pearl’s sister Shirlee had talked to the mess sergeant last week about making a cake—which ended up being the size of a small plate with four little candles. Even though no one was in the mood to celebrate, Irene thought they all should try their hardest to have some fun.
Betty broadened her smile and rapped her spoon against a tin tray. “Is it anybody’s birthday?”
“It’s mine, ma’am.” One soldier raised his hand.
“It’s mine too,” called another fellow.
“It’s my wife’s,” another soldier called with a wistful look on his face.
“I’m sorry there’s not enough cake to go around for everyone in the room,” Shirlee said, “but if the birthday guys would like to come forward, you can all make a wish and blow.”
The men came forward, and in unison with Pearl, they blew out the candles. When the cake was divided, they each had a small slice.
“So what did you wish for?” Betty asked a tall blond soldier.
“I wished you’d have a lunch date with me.” He pointed to the table where he’d been sitting. “Do you care to join me, miss? My name is Abe.”
“I can join you for lunch, Abe.” She smiled. “Just let me get a tray.”
Two minutes later, she was sitting across from the blond soldier, wishing it were Frank. Still she tried to be polite. It was the guy’s birthday, after all.
“So have you been to any of our shows?” she asked.
“Yes, two in fact.”
“What did you think?” Betty took a bite of her sandwich.
“Well, I saw Bob Hope right before the Battle of the Bulge, so it’s not a fair comparison.”
“Really?” Betty bit her lip, and her mind immediately returned to Mickey’s criticism of her voice.
“Yeah, I mean, how could he compare with the likes of you?” He winked.
“So tell me about the Battle of the Bulge,” she said, attempting to change the subject. The guy’s eyes brightened, and he launched into a story of a battle near Chenogne even before she had a chance to take a breath.
Twenty minutes later, he was still talking. Betty ate her lunch in silence as he talked about people and places and battles she’d read about in the newspaper back home. His take was different from what she’d read and seen on the newsreels, that was for sure.
“So when we got to the town—we were in Germany by this time—there were white sheets hanging in the win
dows.” The soldier’s face was narrow, and with his blond hair sticking up, he reminded her of the scarecrow in Wizard of Oz. “We thought that meant they were surrendering the town, but as soon as the first tanks rolled in, snipers from the windows opened fire. I wasn’t going to let that happen. I let them have it…”
He continued talking, and she looked around. It was interesting, she supposed, hearing about the fighting from this guy’s point of view. The thing was, the way he talked, you’d think he’d won the war by himself. After another ten minutes had passed and she’d still not supplied a word, Betty was looking for a way to excuse herself.
Then she saw her excuse as Frank entered the side door and got in the chow line.
She interrupted the blond soldier as he was in the middle of telling about the Germans he’d rounded up. “Excuse me, Aaron, was it?”
“Abe. Abe Gentry, ma’am.”
“Yes, Abe, I’m so sorry but I just saw someone—a friend—that I need to talk to. It’s about the death—the other night.”
“Saddest thing. To think someone so beautiful, so talented, would end her own life like that.”
Betty nodded. She still didn’t think it was suicide, but that was something she’d keep to herself, unless she was with someone she trusted, like Frank. Besides, she didn’t want Abe to have to try to defend his opinion.
“Katherine Wiseman was a beautiful singer, and she did a great job in movies too,” he continued. “I think Hollywood is really shaken up and—”
“Yes, I know,” Kat said. “I completely agree with you, but I need to talk to my friend, you see.”
Without another word, she stood, dropped off her dirty tray, picked up a clean one, and then hurried to slip in line right behind Frank. She knew the soldier was still watching her, most likely stunned by her rudeness, but she didn’t care. If she could talk to anyone concerning her suspicions about Kat’s death, she knew she could talk to Frank. She still thought he was handsome and kind, and even if he’d changed his mind about the possibility of them having a future relationship, she hoped she could consider him a friend.
“Hey there, mind if I join you for lunch?”
Frank looked back over his shoulder and his face brightened. “I don’t mind, Songbird, but what are you doing here? Don’t you have a show to prep for?”
Betty’s chest tightened, and she pushed back the grief she’d tried to forget all morning.
“Mickey is gone for most of the day. Irene said that last night, at the last minute, he flew to England. There’s been a change of plans, and Kat’s going to be buried next to Edward. I’m sure that’s what Kat would have wanted. Mickey’s supposed to be back this afternoon.”
“So is the show still on for tonight?” Frank had a pleasant look on his face, as if he was happy to see her.
“Yes, as far as I know. You know how Mickey is—Mr. ‘The-Show-Must-Go-On.’”
Betty held up her tray and accepted another sandwich. The soldier behind the counter looked curiously at her, but he didn’t say anything. I’m hungry today, buddy, okay? she wanted to say.
After their trays were full, she followed Frank to a table, which happened to be only four tables away from Abe. Poor Abe. His face appeared more sad than angry to see his lunch date dining with another. Betty wondered now if he regretted wasting a wish.
She and Frank talked about ordinary things—the weather, the Bach record that had made Irene so happy, and Art’s story about the Germans who were slipping into the POW line. A work crew had value since it meant warm food and a warm bed.
Betty waited for Frank to get half of his sandwich eaten before she launched into what she really wanted to talk about. “Frank, do you think we could continue what we were talking about the other day, about Kat?”
Frank looked around, and she could tell he was wondering if it was safe to talk there. Betty glanced around too, seeing that the tables nearest them had cleared out, and also noticing that the cackle of soldiers’ voices around the room would make it nearly impossible for anyone else to pick up on their conversation.
“Okay.” Frank leaned forward. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Well, I know before the show you were backstage the night—well, the night Kat ran out. Did you see anything, you know, that caused you to believe she was suicidal?”
Frank lifted his face and stared into the air above Betty’s head, but he didn’t speak. After a few minutes, he looked into her eyes. “That’s strange you’re asking that. I’ve wondered the same thing. I saw a range of emotions going through Kat that night, but I think the fact that she committed suicide is probably the best evidence of her emotional state.”
“Yes, that’s what everyone is saying, but that’s not fair. Kat was my roommate. If anyone should have picked up on her fragile mental state, I should have.”
“Betty, do you really think anyone’s going to believe that argument? You were her roommate for three nights—and none of those nights happened after she heard the news about Edward’s death. News like that is enough to push someone over the edge, right? At least that’s what everyone says. Most people think she didn’t have anything to live for. She loved performing for the soldiers and that was ending. She was flying back to work for a studio she no longer respected to act in a movie she didn’t like. Then, with Edward—maybe she just decided she didn’t want to live like that.”
“Is that what you think, Frank?” Betty leaned forward, studying his face—his strong jaw, chiseled features, and dark eyes that didn’t do very well hiding what he truly felt.
Frank didn’t answer her.
“Frank…” Betty bit her lower lip. “What if I told you she had something to live for?”
Frank’s eyes widened in surprise, and she leaned forward so that Frank’s nose was only six inches from hers. “Kat had a condition,” she whispered. “Mickey told me not to tell anyone, but I just have to. I trust you.”
“A condition?” Frank furrowed his brow.
“Yes, a condition. Kat was pregnant. Only a few months along. She met up with her husband in Paris and…”
Frank cocked an eyebrow. “She told you that? She told you she was going to have a baby?”
“Not directly, but in a beat-around-the-bush type of way.”
“Maybe you misunderstood her.” Even as Frank said the words he knew Betty could be right. A distant conversation filtered through his thoughts, and he remembered being in Paris and hearing some of the other guys talking about seeing a famous movie star with her husband. The more he thought about their conversation, the more he realized it had been Kat. He hadn’t made the connection before until Betty mentioned Paris.
“I’m young, but not foolish. Kat said she was expecting as clear as she could without speaking those exact words. I know what someone means when they say the things she said.”
“If that’s true, which I don’t know if it is, then it could have been another reason she decided to take her own life.” Frank glanced away, expecting the words to come, then he looked at her again, angry at himself for the way he was treating her. I have to do it.
“If that’s true? You don’t believe me?” Betty’s eyes widened in anger. “Do you think I’m lying to you, Frank?”
“No. I think you believe it, but maybe you misunderstood.” He rubbed his jaw. “But if that was true then that could be another reason why she took her life.”
“What do you mean?” Betty folded her arms over her chest and her anger was still evident.
“Think about it, Betty. How would it look if she returned to Hollywood with everyone knowing her husband had been stationed away from her—and then he died. They would all wonder about her pregnancy. There she’d be, fighting to protect her good name.”
“But I always thought of it as a reason she’d want to live. It was a child, Edward’s child.”
“Yes, but when someone’s scared, sometimes they don’t think straight. Sometimes their actions are rash and they do things they later regret. Onl
y with Kat, her rash decision wasn’t something she could take back.”
“You don’t believe that.” Betty reached across the table and took his hand. “Deep down I know you don’t.”
“Maybe I need to. Maybe it’d be easier if I did.”
“It wouldn’t be easier for me. I need you.” She sighed. “If, in the end, we talk things through and we both decide Kat did this, then I’ll be happy to walk away. But something inside me isn’t letting go. Maybe it’s God encouraging me to keep asking questions. I’d like to think so.”
“But what if asking questions, talking about this, brings problems for us?”
“You mean we’d be in danger from the person who hurt Kat?” A chill moved up Betty’s spine. “I hadn’t thought about that. I suppose if someone did this, they’d do whatever it took to make sure they aren’t found out.”
“What if our own reputations are at stake?”
“I’m not sure why that would be the case, but right now I just want to be the advocate for Kat that I know she would have been for me.”
Frank chuckled. “Are you serious? The Kat I witnessed, those few times, didn’t seem like someone who’d stick out her neck for someone else.”
“Well, maybe I saw another side of her. People aren’t always as they appear…” She glanced around the room and sighed. “There’s more going on inside people than we think.”
“Do you believe that, Betty?” Frank’s gaze was intent on hers.
“Yes. I suppose I believe that more than I used to.” She leaned forward, the edge of the table pressing against her ribs. “Frank, why are you saying this?”
“I’m saying it because I have something to tell you.”
Betty studied his gaze, and she could tell she wasn’t going to like what he was about to say.
“I used you, Betty. I used you to get to Kat. To get to the others in the Festspielhaus.”
Betty felt her chin drop, but her heart dropped further. She stared into Frank’s eyes and knew it was the truth.
