Her mother hummed from the next room, then joined in. Her mom’s soft voice was much prettier than the German lady’s husky one.
Yes, begging was definitely worth a try.
Mary walked to their bedroom and sat on the rumpled covers, watching as her mother applied her makeup. “Mom, do you have to go to work today? Can’t we go to the park or the zoo? It’s such a nice day outside.”
“You know I have to work. The guys wouldn’t know what to do without me picking up their carbon and sweeping their ashes. And you want to have a new outfit when school starts again, don’t you?”
Though Mary’s father wasn’t around—never had been—her mother had faced every obstacle in their path with rolled-up sleeves, a cocked jaw, and a narrow gaze that Mary was sure even President Roosevelt himself would back down from.
She crossed her arms. “Then let me come with you. I’ll be good. I’ll just sit in a corner and watch the reporters work. They won’t even know I’m there, I promise.”
“You don’t understand. It’s more complicated than that.…” Her mother looked out the window, pressing her lower lip between her teeth.
“Ple-ease. If I’m not good, I’ll never ask again.” She held her breath.
Finally her mother nodded, as if coming to some resolution within herself. Then she stood and placed her hands on her hips. “All right then. Get your shoes and run a comb through your hair. But don’t be whining halfway through the day if you’re bored.”
They hurried out of the apartment. Her mother glanced at her watch, then took Mary’s hand, leading her through the busy streets toward the large office buildings downtown.
Mary didn’t say a word. She knew that if the wrong thing escaped her lips, her mother would send her back to the thin walls, smelly cooking, and German music.
Thirty minutes later, they approached the Sentinel building. Her mother stopped and turned to her. “Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. Just find a corner and sit in it.”
Outside the newsroom she paused once more, straightened Mary’s collar, and stepped back, obviously satisfied. “Remember, not a peep.”
Mary nodded. Even from the other side of the closed door, she could hear the curious rhythm of fingers pounding on typewriter keys. They stepped inside, and she was met by a bustling scene of white-collared men in motion, of words and confusion, black ink and white paper. Some men sat at long wooden desks, pounding their fingers against typewriter keys. Others leaned against the wall near the stand-up telephones, taking notes. And some hunched over semicircular desks that read COPY in bold letters on the front. These men wore green shades over their eyes and seemed intent on the white papers spread before them. One man was so round, Mary didn’t understand why the wooden chair didn’t break under him. Another tall man sat sideways because he couldn’t fold his long legs under the desk.
Mary didn’t know any of them or their various roles. But her heart pounded as fast as the typewriter keys, with rising excitement and expectation.
The young woman’s mouth opened wide, a cry bursting from her lips as Hendrick plunged the lethal injection into the white flesh of her breast, stabbing it into her heart. The needle slid deep, and Hendrick released its contents, then stood back to wait. In a matter of seconds the poison would take effect. He had performed the task a hundred times before. He’d witnessed the way death washed over a body—frantic movements soon stilling—as the feeble soul slipped away.
A group of men circled behind him, chosen officers of purification. They waited in anticipation, prepared to learn from the master, the expressions of their faces a mix of horror and thrill.
Yet still the mouth remained open. The screams continued.
A hand grasped Hendrick’s shoulder. “It’s happening again. You must stop her.”
Hendrick reached for the woman’s mouth, attempting to cover it with his hand, but she would not be silenced. Die, you must die.
It wasn’t a joyous task, but one of necessity. Only valued life deserved the Fatherland’s valuable resources, and this dim-witted female was not worthy. She continued to struggle. Then her face washed out in a stream of bright, white light.
“Hendrick, wake up! The child, she screams in her sleep. You brought her here. You silence her.”
His eyes adjusted to the brightness, and he realized he was in his family home, on the outskirts of Brussels. It was Onna, his wife, lying wide-eyed next to him. And the screams—they filtered in from the room attached to theirs. The ornate door did little to muffle the cries.
They’re the screams of a child, he realized. Yet their intensity was the same.
“Curse you, woman. I thought you found a nanny for her. I’m tired of these late-night episodes.”
“It’s Magie’s day off. What do you expect? You said—”
His look silenced her.
Hendrick jumped from the bed, slid on his satin robe, and strode across the room, still attempting to push the feebleminded woman’s face from his mind’s eye. Was she one of the hundreds he’d disposed of in his duty of carrying out the required ethnic cleansing? Had her face somehow become imprinted on his conscience? Hendrick wasn’t sure, but he refused to allow guilt to accuse his honored work.
Taking a deep breath, he stopped just short of the door and allowed his heartbeat to settle. He closed his eyes and pictured the angelic face, the wide blue eyes, the blonde curls. This was the second child he’d chosen. Aryan blood reclaimed from Polish soil.
“Poor thing, what nightmares she must have from her past life,” Hendrick muttered as he pushed the door open. Soon, he knew, the girl would adjust to her new destiny—just as her sister had. Soon the nightmares would cease.
“Stella,” he whispered, his bare feet sinking into the plush carpet of the room. A shaft of light angled through the doorway onto his new daughter’s face and outstretched arms. With three steps, Hendrick was at her side. He sat upon her bed and pulled her close.
“Papa, Papa, Papa,” she cried in his ear. He pulled her tighter, allowing her four-year-old frame to fold into his.
“Shhh, Papa is here. All is well, my Stella. All is well.” Hendrick patted her back, but at his words the girl’s body stiffened. Her cries stopped, and with a small gasp she pulled back from his arms.
“Papa is here,” he repeated.
Stella pushed against his chest and shook her head. “No,” she whispered. Her blue eyes darted, glancing around the pink and lace room with the same horror as the woman in his dreams.
“Papa is here.” Hendrick’s voice rose, growing in strength. He laid Stella back on her white cotton sheets. “I will not let them take you back, child. Close your eyes and rest now.”
She shivered, and he tucked the blankets tight under her chin.
“Sleep now. Sweet dreams, Stella.”
Even in the dim light, he could see her squeeze her lids tighter.
“Good girl. Good, obedient child.” He patted the top of her blonde head, yet still her shoulders trembled. He leaned over to the lamp on the nightstand and flipped it on. Golden light cascaded over the bed and her small frame. “It is the darkness that scares you,” he whispered, wondering if she understood his German words. “It will be better in the morning.”
Hendrick returned to bed to find Onna curled to her side—her back to him—pretending to sleep. He slid into the sheets beside her and curved his body next to hers. Though arousal stirred within his flesh, he refused to let himself give in. It was Onna’s fault, after all, that the child in the next room was not of his blood. It was her body that refused to provide children—the pride of every officer of the Reich.
Sweet Katrine, he thought, wishing it were her within his sheets tonight. Katrine is giving me the child I so desire. Even now my blood pumps through the heir of the Reich growing in her womb.
“Sweet Katrine,” he whispered. Onna’s body stiffened in his arms, but Hendrick didn’t care. “It is she who will give us our child,” he said louder, tightening his grasp. “I
t’s a name you should love as much as I, my dear. For through her my strength will live on.”
Though the quartet in the foyer was practicing one of her favorite melodies, Lee O’Donnelly wasn’t in any hurry to go downstairs and greet guests. She had thoughts of deadlines and finding the next big story on her mind.
She sighed as her pink satin robe slid off her shoulders, folding into a puddle on the marble floor. With quick movements, she pinned her shoulder-length hair to the top of her head and stepped into the water, drawn and awaiting her arrival. It was the perfect temperature and scented with lavender. Jane always prepared it right.
Thank goodness for good help.
Lee sank deeper into the warmth, leaned against the cushioned headrest, and closed her eyes.
Thank goodness for middle-of-the-day baths to melt away the tension.
She had barely been at the newsroom two hours when her mother called the office, reminding her of the afternoon tea and charity event with two dozen of their family’s closest friends. The Queen of the Known World, as Lee referred to her mother behind her back, had demanded her daughters attend. Demanded, not asked. As if they were still children who must obey her every whim.
The music’s volume rose, and Lee visualized the upbeat notes climbing the polished, winding staircase and sliding under her door, seeking her out in the deep recesses of her private bath and urging her to put on a happy face.
Music meant parties. And parties meant people. Rich people. Arrogant people. People who lived as if this worldwide war didn’t affect them in the least. People who instead expected one to smile and entertain with witty and complimentary conversation.
Yesterday, before heading to the tailor’s for a fitting of a new Dior dress, Lee had scanned the guest list. More money would be assembled on their patio this afternoon than was held in the Bank of New York. Close friends indeed.
She allowed her arms to float to the top of the water, determined to relax and take her time. After thirty minutes, her fingertips began to shrivel, and she expected Jane—in black uniform and white cap—to arrive with a summons.
Sure enough, not five minutes later a soft knock sounded.
“Jane, tell Mother to go ahead and start without me. It’s been a hard day at the office.”
“I’m not the help,” a husky female voice said through the door, “but I was sent up to urge you to hurry.”
The door swung open, and a leggy brunette entered. A flattering fuchsia dress clung to her sister’s frame. Though two years older, Rondi looked enough like Lee that people often thought they were twins.
Lee continued to soak as her sister perched herself on the marble countertop and lit a cigarette. She flicked a red-painted toe at her sister, splashing a spray of water but carefully missing. “Dad will kill you if he discovers those hideous things in the house. He just paid a fortune to have the drapes cleaned, remember?”
Rondi let a thin trail of smoke curl from her lips and grinned. “I’m sorry, Lenora, but I’m not the one in the hot seat today. I’m afraid it’s your rear firmly planted on Daddy’s bad side. But at least you’re giving Roger a break.”
“Yes, well, next time I see him, I’ll encourage our dear brother to write a thank-you note.” Lee rose from the water, stepping over the satin robe and reaching for the white cotton one hanging on the wall hook. “I don’t understand why Daddy isn’t over it. I thought after seeing my byline on the front page a few times, he’d be willing to give me some slack.”
“Could it be, one, he hates reporters? Two, his shining hope for the future, our brother, turned his back on the family business to work as one. Or three, his darling daughter left a reputable establishment to do the same.”
Lee sighed. “It was either a new career or death from monotony. What was I supposed to do?”
“He’s not going to back down on this one, Lee. Where do you think you got your strong will from? At least we know you’re not the child of the milkman.” Rondi laughed. “And I actually think he’s even more upset today than he was three weeks ago. After all, the whole city now knows it’s Marvin O’Donnelly’s daughter bucking the system, attempting to do a man’s job.”
“Attempting? More like succeeding.” Lee cinched the cotton belt around her waist, patted her neck with a plush hand towel, and then released the clip holding up her hair. Dark, thick strands fell on her shoulders. “My reputation precedes me, and my editors are coming to understand that I indeed have all the right connections.”
Rondi took one more puff, then turned on the sink faucet and ran her cigarette underneath.
Lee smirked as her sibling walked to the bathroom window and opened it wide, waving her hand to dissipate the smoke.
Rondi sighed. “So you have your name on the front page. But is it really worth it? It’s not like you didn’t have a good job at Vogue. And just think of all the fringe benefits you gave up—lavish parties, fascinating interviews, generous gifts … a smile on Daddy’s face.”
Lee strode out of the bathroom and to her wardrobe, opening it wide to discover her chiffon rose-hued dress pressed and waiting. To most women such a garment would be a luxury beyond imagining; to her it was just another evidence of being trapped in an archaic system dictated by her parents.
“I’ve had it with his hardheadedness.” Lee dressed hastily. “I want to do more with my life than give socialites tips on the best places to look for designer labels in patriotic shades of red, white, and blue. There’s a war going on, for goodness’ sake, with men fighting and dying. What about reporting that?”
Rondi glanced in the vanity mirror and then pinched her cheeks to give them more color. From the look on her sister’s face, Lee was sure Rondi would rather be pinching her.
With a final sigh and shake of her pretty head, Rondi stalked toward the door. She paused at the threshold. “Well, there’s no war in New York, but your family is here. Think about that. Because sometimes harmony in the home is more important than one person’s crazy dreams. Sometimes striking out solo just isn’t worth it, sister.”
CHAPTER TWO
The city room was a man’s world. Spittoons graced the corner of every desk. Cigar stubs, half-smoked cigarettes, and crumpled papers littered the floor. Massive Underwood typewriters topped rows of oak desks—a man sitting behind each one.
Mary had gotten her story in over an hour ago—beating Paul Bramley by a mere thirty seconds. It was a game they played every day, seeing whose text would hit the editor’s desk first, and guessing how close to the front page each story would appear. To win both meant a slice of pie at Brenda’s Café at the expense of the loser. Anything less than a complete win was a wash, not worth a free cup of coffee.
Paul glanced up from his whirring black typewriter keys. His brown fedora was pushed back from his forehead, his press pass tucked into the band. When he saw her, his fingers stilled, and a key froze in midair. “Gee whiz, girlie. You made me lose my train of thought.” His green eyes sparkled. “Good work on the senator’s story. Your ingenuity never ceases to amaze me. It seems she’s on to something with that Servicemen’s Readjustment Act. Or what was it you called it—the GI Bill?”
“It was an easy story, really. All I did was sit back on that white leather chesterfield and take it all in.” Mary smirked. “And I couldn’t have timed it better—I mean, what were the odds of a surprise meet-up with that bomber crew just back from overseas? Their hopes of starting their own businesses and attending college added a special touch, don’t you think?”
“What are the odds? C’mon, Mary, what source tipped you this time?”
Mary eyed her friend and shook her head. “A girl never tells her secrets. Now, speaking of secrets, let me see what you came up with.”
She peered over Paul’s shoulder and read silently.
Mary Kelley looks like a New York City high-schooler with her blonde hair and pretty face—reminiscent of the girl all the boys had a crush on. And while this unassuming reporter often wears knee socks and ox
fords to work, the others on her beat are on to her, and rightly so. For in that pretty little head of Mary’s is a mind her co-workers claim to be one-half Florence Nightingale and the other half Sherlock Holmes. Her stories not only find the facts—sleuthing for the crux of the story—they make readers care. Which is exactly the type of person needed on the front lines of this war.
Dear sirs, the people of this country have heard enough of the facts. They’re ready for heart. Although war production is at an all-time high, our men are still in need of more if we’re going to rise victorious. How can we empower our dockworkers to put in more hours, or encourage our Rosie the Riveters to give a little extra? By reminding them of their brothers and sons who need their support. Mary Kelley can do the job of providing the heart behind the headlines, and because of her pretty face on the masthead she’ll become America’s Sweetheart as well.
Mary cleared her throat as she rolled the sheet of paper from the machine. “It sounds a little over the top, Paul. America’s Sweetheart? Increasing war production by writing stories with heart? I want a job overseas, not to become the next Shirley Temple.”
Paul tipped the high-back wooden chair onto two legs and entwined his fingers behind his head. “Obviously, doll, you have no idea of the stuffiness of the review board. Yeah, it may be a little much … until you remember these guys probably read a dozen applications each day—every one of them with well-written, moving stories attached. There are plenty of reporters worthy of the assignment, but what’s Rule Number 7 of Paul’s Pointers?”
“Use your words to paint a picture in the reader’s mind, so they’re not just reading about an event, they’re living it too.” Mary lifted her fingers as if reciting a Girl Scout pledge.
“You get an A for the day,” he chuckled. “My advice and recommendation are going to take you places. Heck, soon you’ll be invited to those private interviews instead of crashing them. Speaking of which, did you read the piece by that high-society chick? Isn’t she with Vogue or something?”
Arms of Deliverance Page 2
