Poor child. Soon, Stella. Soon you will forget that dark past.
“Are they handling the adjustment well?” Lydia tucked a blonde strand of hair back into the knot at the base of her neck and turned to the files stacked on Hendrick’s desk.
“It will take time, especially for the younger one. Perhaps Onna was right. Perhaps we should have taken her to one of the children’s centers first.” He sighed, remembering Stella’s screams. And his dream. Or was it a memory?
He glanced to the top file in his hands. More requests from German officers on the new frontier. And additional shipments to fulfill them.
“But still.” He strode to his desk, which faced the room’s lone window. “I couldn’t bear the thought of parting with her. Once I’d chosen her, I had to have her close, lest she forget my position in her life.”
Lydia responded with a soft smile and set about filing his important documents in the tall gray cabinets.
Hendrick studied the large oak just outside the glass and wondered about the new buds just starting to crack open. How good it would be to examine their unfolding. How wonderful to escape this desk and walk among spring’s gifts. Yet the files, the reports, the requests could not wait. More important than Hendrick’s curiosity and his longing for the outdoors was his duty to his country. To screen. To sift. To discover amongst the genetic muddle those racially valuable.
Hendrick sank into his leather seat and again looked at the faces on the wall. His chest grew warm with pride. He was their rescuer. The valuable blood in their veins had been preserved—no matter the means of coming by it.
Katrine rubbed her belly, imagining the baby inside, still having a hard time believing she would be a mother. She then turned her attention to the child in her care, hoisting the chubby toddler from the polished dark wood crib. Two plump arms wrapped tightly around her neck.
She carried one-year-old Arthur through the large, quiet house. Her shoes were the only sound echoing through the long hallways. That and Arthur’s cooing attempts at words.
Who knew where the boy’s parents were? Perhaps off for a day in the country or shopping at the boutiques still doing business despite the war. Mrs. Pfizer’s “Mother’s Cross,” which hung over the dining room mantel, proclaimed that she’d birthed six offspring for the Führer. Yet Katrine hadn’t seen the family all together once—even on weekends when the older children were home from school.
Perhaps the Führer was more concerned about German mothers birthing Aryans than raising them. Katrine’s mind wandered to her grandmother’s round, joyful face and her father’s deep, sincere voice as he prayed over the Sabbat meal. A lump formed in her throat, and she quickly pushed those thoughts out of her mind.
Instead Katrine sucked in the warm spring air as she stepped outside onto the mansion’s long driveway. She choked down nausea as she settled Arthur into his pram. “In you go, little guy.” Last week Hedda, one of the maids, had overheard Katrine retching in the toilet and expressed her concern that she’d get the baby sick. Hedda no longer seemed to worry. Katrine had not confessed her condition, but no doubt the woman knew. She had seen the handsome SS officer walking Katrine home after their regular evening outings.
“Oh, quiet now. We’ll be moving in a second.” Katrine tucked the blanket around Arthur and pushed it toward Grote Markt, known to be one of the most beautiful squares in Belgium, and even all of Europe. The pram’s wheels trundled over countless cobblestones as she enjoyed the figures atop the Maison du Roi, a Gothic style building with pointy spires jutting into the air. Yet the rest of the square seemed rather lifeless. Everything was crafted white and gray stone, causing her to ache for the pastel colored buildings of Prague’s Old Town Square.
Was it only a few years ago she’d walked home from the synagogue, through the streets of the beautiful Czech capital, unafraid and content with her place in the world? Had that really been her … or some other girl?
Katrine—or rather, Rebecca—wasn’t sure.
“Live,” her father had told her. “For us, for our people, you must survive. And someday you will tell your children, my grandchildren, about our joys and our struggles. Do not allow our name to be forever lost.”
Her father’s dark head had bowed low, placing a kiss upon each cheek. Of course, his instruction had failed to consider whose child she would bear.
A grandchild of the great teacher Samuel Lodz conceived by a soldier of destruction? Katrine’s stomach churned. She reached in her pocket for a hard biscuit.
A large German tank rolled down the street, interrupting her thoughts. The sidewalk beneath her feet rumbled, and she fanned her nose against the smelly exhaust. Its once shiny exterior was now dented and pocked with holes, yet she could not deny the machine’s power. From the open hatch, a soldier lifted his hand in a Heil Hitler salute. Katrine quickly looked away, refusing to meet his gaze.
Instead she glanced at the pram, smiling at little Arthur’s wide-eyed gaze as he watched the monster roll by. His head was bald, except for the light blond fuzz at the nape of his neck. Arthur smiled, showing his two front teeth, and his attention moved to the wood larks chirping in the ancient oak overhanging the boulevard. As they walked beneath, Katrine breathed in the scent of its new leaves just budding—the scent of spring was the same despite the war that waged.
This war that had altered her life’s path. This war that caused her to betray father, mother, grandmother. And, most of all, betray herself. She never thought she would do such a thing. Never thought—
The stoplight changed, and Katrine pushed the pram more quickly now, as if in the vain attempt to escape her thoughts. Wasn’t this the very thing Moses and the holy prophets spoke against—mixing the godly with the ungodly? Becoming one with an uncircumcised gentile?
Katrine spotted Hendrick waiting for her up ahead. His warm smile displaced her thoughts of the prophets’ warnings. Instead of sitting on the park bench and reading news of the latest Nazi conquest, as he usually did during his lunch hour, Hendrick sat halfway up in a tree, studying the buds preparing to unfold into new leaves.
He smiled and waved, then jumped to the ground, straightening his shoulders and striding with straight-legged steps, the curious naturalist transforming into a soldier before her eyes.
On reaching her, Hendrick gently removed her hands from the pram and wrapped them around his waist, pulling her close. Katrine’s face pressed against his rough, uniformed chest. She breathed in the spicy scent of his cologne, then shifted her head slightly and studied the embossed image on his gold buttons. The death’s-head skulls smiled at her, mocking her. She closed her eyes and instead focused on his beating heart as she’d done so many times before.
The news phone rang, and Paul answered it as usual. But from the look on his face Mary knew it wasn’t a news report coming in. Instead of pulling his pencil from behind his ear and scribbling notes, he glanced toward Mary and nodded. Then he set down the handset with a smile.
“It’s those overseas government news service people. They want to see you right away … sweetheart.”
Mary straightened in the wooden chair and slid her fingers from the typewriter’s keyboard. “But my deadline. I’m almost done.” She glanced at the carbon in the machine, suddenly realizing she had no idea what she’d even been working on.
“Go now, will ya, kid?” Paul slid a cigar from his front shirt pocket and placed it between his lips, lighting it. The red glow bounced up and down as he spoke. “I’ll finish it up for you. I can make up fluff as well as you can.”
She still didn’t budge.
Paul waved his hands toward the door. “What are ya waitin’ for? From what I hear, they’re not going to hold up the action until you get there. This is Europe we’re talking about. The war. The big stuff. Now go.”
Mary stood by her mom’s side, shoulders straight, as the elevator carried them to the newsroom again. Yesterday she had watched all day long as men had hustled in and out of the room, pounding out sto
ries, getting a call, and then running out to chase another lead.
They’d hardly noticed her tucked away in the corner, but that was okay. She liked watching the frenzied pace of the newsroom, the chaos of the reporters frantically trying to create the most gripping story possible. Wouldn’t that be amazing, to write a story and then see people in restaurants reading it with their morning cup of coffee?
The elevator man opened the doors.
“Gerta!” a voice called to her mother as they stepped into the hall.
A thin woman with red hair and a pink suit approached and placed a hand on her mother’s arm. “I just wanted to thank you for that tip. The red wine came right out—”
Mary’s mother cleared her throat, and the woman’s words stopped short.
“I’m glad my trick was useful. Have you met my daughter? Mary, this is Yvonne. She’s the secretary of, uh, one of the editors.”
Yvonne took a step closer to Mary and lifted her chin. “What beautiful eyes, child—the most amazing aqua color. In fact, I know only one person with eyes like….” Her words trailed off, and she looked at Gerta. “There I go, putting my foot in my mouth again.”
“Most people say she looks like me.” Mother grabbed Mary’s hand and pulled her down the hall toward the newsroom. “Glad you were able to remove that stain,” she called back over her shoulder.
“Mother, wait. That lady said I look like someone. That I have the same eyes. Did she know my father?”
Her mother brushed the blonde curls from Mary’s shoulders. “She did know him, and she does. And I knew that bringing you here would lead to this.” She took a deep breath and looked down the hallway. “Walk to that stairway and see for yourself. He always takes the stairs.
“You don’t need to talk to the man, but heaven help me if you aren’t old enough to see him. After all, I have to see him every day.” Her mother seemed to be talking more to herself than to Mary. “I stand here and he sees me. Then he turns and just keeps walking.”
The sound of footsteps echoed in Mary’s ears, and she felt her throat drop to the pit of her stomach as she turned to follow her mother’s gaze.
Mary arrived at the Main Office of Foreign Correspondents with eager anticipation, out of breath from her quickened steps.
“Miss Kelley.” The receptionist’s face brightened as Mary approached. “They’re waiting for you in Conference Room One.”
Mary glanced down at her disheveled skirt and knee socks, and suddenly wished she’d kept her good suit at the office for an occasion such as this. She quickly combed her fingers through the large, loopy curls that fell just to her shoulders, took a deep breath, and stepped into the conference room.
The director sat at the head of the table, and one other reporter sat beside him. Lee O’Donnelly.
Lee’s lavender suit was freshly pressed. A pillbox hat sat upon her straight black hair, and she looked as if she’d just stepped out of one of New York’s top salons—as she probably had.
“Mary Kelley, good to have you. Take a seat.” Gerald Walker motioned to the chair on his right.
Mary sat, curling her legs to the side and hoping to hide her scuffed Buster Browns.
“Ladies, tomorrow morning the Queen Mary will set sail for England. I’ve asked six other reporters—male reporters—to be on board. And I’m extending the same offer to you.”
Mary’s fingers curled around the armrest, and she leaned forward in her chair, hanging on his every word.
“The foreign correspondents have decided that our nation needs more uplifting news of its boys. Too often V-mail is smudgy and hard to read—not to mention heavily censored. Family members are complaining. We’re hoping that more correspondents will help get news to the folks back home. And we’re not only eager for news of the front line, but news of our boys themselves—their life overseas, and how they’re faring so far from home. That’s why we’ve chosen the two of you.”
Mary’s lips lifted in a wide grin, and she had a sudden urge to jump out of her seat and give Mr. Walker a hug. Lee only nodded and smiled demurely, as if she’d expected this assignment all along.
“Now, just to let you know the command structure … authorization for your position comes from the European Theater of Operations U.S. Army. Officially, it’s referred to as the ETOUSA, but most of the time it’s just ETO.” Mr. Walker folded his hands on the table in front of him, and his voice grew stern.
“Because the war department wants to keep tabs, every reporter and photographer moving into the war zone has to first be accredited to a particular branch of the service. Ladies, as of tomorrow you’ll be considered part of the U.S. Army. We’ve already done extensive background checks on both of you.” He flipped through the file folders on the table before him. “I see you both have taken it upon yourselves to receive overseas inoculations. Wise thinking. I like that initiative.”
Mary cocked an eyebrow at Mr. Walker’s words. She thought she’d been creative and ahead of the game—getting her shots in the mere hope of being accepted. She glanced at Lee. Perhaps the high-society chick is smarter than she looks.
Lee took the director’s hands in her own. “Thank you so much for this opportunity, sir. I am honored to be asked to serve in this way.” She held his hands for a moment before releasing them with a squeeze.
“And, Miss Kelley, do these arrangements agree with you?”
“Yes, of course. Wonderful. I agree it’s a wonderful opponent—I mean opportunity. I’m thrilled to be chosen.” She accepted Mr. Walker’s firm handshake, but instead of proving her confidence, her sweaty palm flopped like a dead fish in his hand.
Mr. Walker cleared his throat. “Fine then, I’ll see you both at the pier at 7:00 p.m. tomorrow. And pack light. You’re lucky to get to hitch a ride with the troops. Don’t make the officers regret their decision.”
When the two women stepped into the hallway, Lee turned to Mary. Her smile disappeared like a light switch flipping off. “We may be colleagues, but don’t think we have to be friends. And don’t expect me to help you with your stories. I’ll have my own to write. What you can expect is this: I’ll fight for the front page. No hard feelings, of course.” She gave Mary a half smile.
“No, Lee. No hard feelings. You’re above that, aren’t you? After all, you’ve been in the newspaper business for what, two weeks?” Mary turned and strode toward the staircase. Let Lee take the elevator. She’d walk.
As Mary strode away from the Main Office of Foreign Correspondents, she thought about how far she’d come. She’d always known that women could do anything as well as men, and the article she’d written a few years ago about Helen Richey, the first woman employed as an airline pilot, had been her first realization of that.
It was one of her first big assignments, and her mentor, Paul, had liked what he’d read. Said it was a good description of women in jobs normally held by only men, even though he’d teased that it was a fluke, that women would never be accepted into all the roles men claimed. She’d given him a big slug in the arm for that comment.
When Mary had read it to her mom that evening, deepening her voice for impact, her mother leaned forward on the sofa, nodding and smiling with each point, and ending with wild applause. That’s why Mary didn’t understand the next day when it showed up in print, it had been hacked in half and used as filler next to ads for denture cream and a “cure-all” tonic.
She’d gone to bed stone-faced, telling herself to suck it up, that all reporters must pay their dues. Her mother had made her favorite dinner, meat-loaf sandwiches, but it hadn’t helped.
“I told you he doesn’t care,” Mary finally said as they sat on the stoop watching the local kids play kick the can in the street.
“Or maybe he cares too much.” It was her mother’s day off. Instead of wearing her hair up for work, it cascaded down her shoulders to the middle of her back. She looked younger, especially with the wistful gleam in her eyes.
“Yeah, right. And how’s that? He care
s so much that he’s going to forever chain me to insignificant stories that are diced to pieces before being hidden away in obscure parts of the paper—”
“Hold it right there.” Her mother held up her hands. Unlike her pretty face, they were old and raw from the chemicals she used to clean. “Do you think giving you special privileges would make you feel any better? I mean, what if you made the front page and everyone in the office knew it was because you were the editor’s daughter?”
Mary lowered her gaze. “I guess I wouldn’t like it.”
They sat there silent, perhaps both thinking of what could have been.
CHAPTER FOUR
Lee slid her hands into the pockets of her sky blue traveling jacket, hoping to hide their trembling. Seven reporters were circled on the wooden pier, awaiting their orders to board the troopship Queen Mary. There were supposed to be eight reporters in total—isn’t that what they’d been told? Yet someone hadn’t made it.
Maybe whoever didn’t show up had decided that reporting the news far from the tanks, big guns, and bombers was a better option. And perhaps it wasn’t the nippy night air that caused the trembling to travel up her arms.
Thousands of GIs lined the pier, sweating in their brown wool uniforms. They laughed, joked, and shuffled along, lugging their bulging barrack bags with each step. Wandering among the troops were numerous Red Cross workers, handing out coffee and doughnuts. They laughed at the jokes and asked questions about the men.
The reporters and other officials waited off to the side, away from the ragged lines, but not far enough to miss out on the stench of sweat and cigarette smoke that joined with the saltwater air and heavy oil smell.
Lee covered her nose with her kerchief. She glanced at the correspondents as they chatted about the latest news of war and the families they were leaving behind. They laughed and joked like old friends, and most of them were—or at least acquaintances. Even that girl reporter, Mary Kelley, was nearly doubled over in laughter as one of them joked about a rookie reporter who mixed up his quotes, causing an uproar in city hall.
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