Arms of Deliverance

by Tricia N. Goyer

  Tucking her shirt back in, Lee strode over toward the tents once more. A nurse whose blood-splattered uniform and dark-circled eyes gave evidence of just getting off duty trudged toward the trench.

  Lee hoped the woman wouldn’t notice the bag. She couldn’t help but glance back, then paused, her jaw dropping. It was already gone.

  The train whistle blew, causing the girl in Hendrick’s arms to tighten her grasp around his neck.

  “There, there, Stella. Papa will come for you soon.” He placed a kiss upon her cheek, stroked her fine, blonde hair, and adjusted the collar of her red blouse before handing her back to Onna. The girl glanced up at him uncertainly, then pushed her thumb into her mouth, resting her head on Onna’s shoulder.

  “She’s coming along well,” Hendrick stated, patting Stella’s back.

  “No thanks to you. Seriously, Hendrick, is your work so important that you rarely make it home at night? So important you cannot accompany me for the ride back to Berlin? I’m not asking you to stay; just help us settle. Besides, it’s not safe—”

  The train’s whistle blew again, and Stella’s shoulders quivered.

  “I will not answer that, woman. I believe the child in your arms and at your side should be confirmation enough of the importance of my work.” His tone made it clear the conversation was over.

  Hendrick squatted so his face was level with Sabine’s. His voice softened. “You will care for your mother and sister, won’t you?”

  Sabine nodded and smiled, clutching the two china dolls he’d purchased for their trip.

  “You’re doing well caring for your sister’s baby and your own.” His gaze lifted from Sabine’s face toward Onna’s. “And next time you see me we’ll have our own baby to care for. My son. Won’t you like that?”

  “Yes.” Sabine wrapped her arms around Hendrick’s neck. “A brother!”

  He unwrapped Sabine’s arms and led her toward the train, merging with the other passengers now boarding. “Good then. The time will come sooner than you think. And no worries. Even now our soldiers prepare for final victory. One battle lost has only strengthened our resolve.” He said the words more for Onna’s sake than the girl’s.

  Onna paused before stepping onto the train. “Hendrick,” she stated flatly. She placed a kiss upon his cheek; then she took Sabine’s hand and led her forward.

  Hendrick touched her arm, and Onna paused, turning to him. He studied her eyes, attempting to read her look—weariness, fear, hurt … abandonment.

  “Do not worry.” He caressed her cheek. “This will get better, you’ll see. I’ve done this for you. For us. This is the child we’ve longed for.”

  “No, Hendrick. It’s the child you’ve longed for. Don’t you understand? I didn’t need a baby. I didn’t need these …” She jutted her chin toward Sabine and Stella. “All I needed was you. But that’s something you’ve never understood.”

  Onna boarded the train and didn’t look back.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Mary couldn’t believe nearly three months had passed since the Americans first landed on the coast of France. No one imagined they’d be in Paris so soon, crushing four years of Nazi strongholds in under three months.

  And it hadn’t been a slow three months either. It all started with Mary’s interview of Jack, the Crew Chief—as he was now referred to by the London crowd and apparently those back in the States. “The man behind the men,” they called him. The photo of the man’s face peering into the sky had grabbed folks’ interest.

  That one interview led to more, until she’d traipsed from one shore of England to the other, interviewing more unsung heroes. Clerks typing Eisenhower’s secret memos. Red Cross workers handing out hot coffee and doughnuts to early morning air crews. Even the ETO girls who sang and danced across the American bases, taking the GIs’ minds off the war for even a few hours.

  And while England had been jolly good about elevating Mary’s name and face, she waved her last good-bye to the green English countryside this morning when the transport plane carried her to the new frontier of the recently liberated Paris.

  As she climbed into the army jeep sent to give her a ride into the city, she chirped to the driver, “Can you imagine this, Joe? We’re in Paris.”

  “Name’s Harold, ma’am. But you’re right. Sometimes I feel like pinching myself.” He flashed a tired smile, showing off the dimples in his cheeks.

  Mary thought he should still be a boy—at home fishing and inviting girls to school dances. But like so many others, he was a man now, with tired brown eyes and worry wrinkles creasing his pimpled forehead. She tapped his uniformed shoulder. “Hey, what do you say we do a quick spin around the block before you drop me off at my hotel?”

  He looked at her out of the corner of his eye. “I never was good with directions.” He grinned. “And I’m still not sure how I got this job, seeing as I always end up lost.”

  “Turn right, Harold. I have my eyes set on the Eiffel Tower and need a closer look.”

  Yet getting there wasn’t as easy as one would think. Barricades still smoldered, blocking the streets. Even the fluttering French flags couldn’t hide the names of German offices painted on buildings. The scents of urinals, gunpowder, and burnt castor oil still hung in the air.

  As they turned down one narrow street, Harold pointed to a side alley. Mary followed his gaze, spotting a group of children swarming an abandoned German tank as if it were a toy. They were thin waifs in ill-fitting clothes, and she realized that these were their first experiences of freedom.

  After attempting to find a path through the maze of open streets, they finally made it as close to the tower as they dared.

  Mary gazed up at the iron structure spiking into the light blue sky. “I can’t wait to write home and tell my mother about this. She always said I could achieve anything I put my mind too. Go anywhere I dreamed of going. I guess she was right.”

  She snapped a few souvenir shots; then Harold turned their jeep around, apparently determined to get her to the hotel by the Place de la Concorde before a search party was sent out for them. As they drove, a woman hurrying down the sidewalk with her shoulders slumped and eyes downcast drew Mary’s attention. Unlike the other women in the street who were dressed in their finest, with their long hair twisted on their head in braids, this woman’s head was shaved completely bald.

  “She had a Kraut boyfriend,” the driver scoffed. “The French citizens marched a group of them down the street and shaved them in broad daylight.”

  “Were there a lot?” Mary thought of the numerous Piccadilly Commandos, as the prostitutes were called in London.

  “Oh, yeah, there were a bundle. Those were the ones who had done it for love. The rest did it to survive.”

  “Of course,” Mary said, thinking of her own mother. “It’s so much more reasonable and acceptable to give one’s body and soul for food. Love is such a trivial thing, after all.” She released a disturbed sigh. “Okay, Harold. I’m ready for my hotel.”

  Fifteen minutes later, when Harold pulled the jeep up to the Hotel Scribe, a smile filled Mary’s face as she spotted a passel of people dressed just like her in khaki uniforms with large C patches on the sleeves. Jeeps, trucks, and army cars lined the adjacent streets, and a hotel attendant guarded the door against anyone not in uniform.

  Mary had heard about this hotel even before heading overseas. Eighty years ago, it had been built and named for Augustin Eugène Scribe, a popular writer of comedies and operas. Only weeks ago, the Germans had used it for their press center. Now the good ol’ Americans had liberated it for their own purposes—war correspondents.

  Through the front glass doors, Mary discovered khaki duffel bags and bedrolls lying in heaps topped by gas masks. Guests strode by in field clothes and mud-caked boots, thinking nothing of proper attire. She felt as if she’d entered a “Who’s Who of American Journalism” convention.

  Many of them glanced at her with curiosity. Then a wave of anxiety hit her.
What was I thinking coming here? These guys are the real thing. She hoped she hadn’t turned her back on a good situation by leaving her niche in England. Not to mention the fact that she was the only female in the room.

  She moved to the front desk, squeezing through groups of men swapping stories of what they’d witnessed on the field. Her driver followed, and at the desk she thanked him for his help, taking her large musette bag from his hands and slinging it over her shoulder.

  Then she spotted a familiar face—a thin man with a receding hairline, dressed in a too-baggy tan shirt and slacks. He waved and approached.

  “Hey, you don’t happen to be Mary Kelley, do you? America’s Sweetheart reporter?” He pointed across the room. “I made a bet with my friend over there that you were, but he’d assured me that there wasn’t such a person. He’s certain the Sentinel used a beauty queen’s photograph, but it was really an overweight bald guy writing the reports.”

  “Patrick!” Mary’s eyes widened and a chortle burst from her lips. She gave the photographer a quick hug. “Patrick, it’s great to see you. It was your photo that took my story to the top. But really—an overweight bald guy?”

  She patted her side, and a layer of dust from the jeep ride puffed up. “I’m surely no beauty queen these days, but tell your friend I’m the real thing. Heck, if I’m hanging out with all the behind-the-scene guys, hearing their stories and being treated to powdered eggs, I surely want to get the credit for it.”

  “Thanks a lot, Mary. You’ve just won me a beer.” Patrick turned toward the man waiting and watching from an elegantly upholstered chair. “See, Poppa, it’s Mary Kelley after all.”

  Mary’s laughter was cut short when she saw the “Poppa” Patrick was talking to. “Oh, I think I’m going to faint.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “That’s Ernest Hemingway.”

  “Yeah. I suppose you’re a fan too. Everyone seems to know that guy.” Patrick patted Mary’s shoulder. “Your paper’s smart for sending you over. I’ve read some of your recent stories. Those guys see your sweet face and imagine they’re talking to their girl from home.” He paused, and then glanced down at her bag. “Here, let me get that. I’ll carry it to your room.”

  Mary allowed the bag to be lifted off her shoulder. She offered a shy wave to Hemingway before they headed toward her room. He nodded and lifted his glass to her in return.

  Patrick led her to the room number she’d been given. “See you tomorrow.” He tipped an invisible hat as he set the bag by the door.

  “Tomorrow?”

  “General Eisenhower’s daily press conferences are held downstairs every morning. Unless you’re heading out to the field.”

  “No, I’ll still be here tomorrow. So I’ll see you there.”

  After unpacking her things, she decided to check out the first floor of the hotel consigned to the ETO press offices. She quickly strode through the joint, peeking into a room with bare tables where censors worked all day and much of the night. A few doors down she found the transportation room, where the beds had been pushed against the wall to make space for the cans of precious gasoline. Beyond that was the mail room, with thin V-mail envelopes spread out more or less alphabetically on the red quilts. And finally the correspondents’ mess, which featured K rations, coffee, and champagne—all a reporter’s basic needs—located next to the kitchen in the basement.

  As she walked she looked for Hemingway, but spotted only men in from the field and couriers who came and went. She even looked around for Lee, imagining she had quite a few stories to share about being at the front.

  Finally realizing she should follow the example of the other correspondents and head to bed for the night, Mary settled into her room. But she was too excited to sleep. She pulled the blackout curtain to the side and glanced out the window at the intersection of the Rue Scribe and the Boulevard des Capucines below, still wanting to pinch herself. The moonlight shone down on trees lining the streets—Parisian trees. And tomorrow she’d get an update from Eisenhower himself.

  She slipped out of her filthy traveling clothes and started the water for a hot bath. Yet even as she dipped into the steamy water, only one thing was on her mind. If I can only get to the front lines … then I’ll really find a story.

  Katrine hurried down the hall toward the nursery. Ever since she’d been registered for the child-care classes, and discovered the wing where the children lived, she wished she could spend all her free time there. She opened the doors to the sunny room lined with cribs. Two nurses rocked newborns to sleep, and a wet nurse gazed down at an older baby as she fed her. Katrine rubbed her stomach as she watched a half-dozen toddlers running and playing with assistants. Being here, seeing the amazing gifts of life, made this place bearable. No, even enjoyable.

  The sound of a baby’s soft cry drifted across the room. “May I?” she asked a nurse who had just entered the room behind her.

  The nurse looked up impatiently. “Class is not for an hour, but go ahead.”

  Katrine hurried to the infant, scooping the small girl into her arms. She kissed the top of the soft bald head, breathing in the infant’s scent. “I know, but I thought I could help. As my mother always said, many hands make light work.”

  “This is not work, Katrine. This is destiny. The future of the Reich rests within these children.”

  This fuss about birthing and special infant care seemed strange to her. She’d been the oldest of six and had also spent time with many aunts and cousins when they delivered their babies. Did these people really believe that bringing up a child in this strict, institutionalized facility would produce better children than a loving home?

  “Someday they may be soldiers and mothers. But they’re children first.” Katrine sighed. “And I can’t wait to see what my little one will look like. I want nothing more than to hold my baby in my arms. I don’t think I’ll ever let go.”

  Lee sat in the newsroom at the Hotel Scribe, surrounded by a dozen other reporters writing an equal number of stories. She pushed back her chair from the desk, unable to believe she was back in France so soon. After receiving the call from the colonel a few days ago, she’d been one of the first correspondents into Paris. Yet her tension had returned as soon as she set foot back on this continent. In England, the closest action she’d experienced was a buzz bomb that fell from the sky, exploding on the same block as the private apartment a friend of her parents had found for her. And that was too close for comfort. After quickly moving her things to her new London flat, she’d spent most of the month writing society-type pieces and interviewing famous figures of the war. The assignment fit her well, like a satin glove.

  A headache began forming at her temples just to think that soon she might be asked to head to the front lines where the pounding sounds would come from her typewriter and artillery shells. But she couldn’t think about that now.

  Focus, Lee, focus on the one thing you need to work on next. Forget about what might come after that….

  Her most recent piece was about the liberation itself, and how all Paris had streamed into the center of town, to the Arc de Triomphe, the Place de la Concorde, along the Champs Elysees, and even past the Hotel de Ville to Notre Dame Cathedral. If it were not for the bullet holes in the windows or barbed wire lining the dignified avenues, Lee would have never believed the Germans had occupied the city only the day before.

  Of course, “streamed into the center of town” was an understatement. The truth was, Paris had thrown a party unlike anything she’d ever seen—and that was saying something. Joyful groups cheered and screamed, waving flags that had been hidden away with hope of this day. And Generals De Gaulle, Koenig, Leclerc, and Juin were the centerpiece, leading the procession.

  She’d met the famous men, of course, and she’d been honored when General De Gaulle approached with an outstretched arm and devilish grin.

  “Such a beautiful lady. Why, I should be the one honored.”

  She’d spent the rest of the day at his side, getting th
e inside story—the envy of dozens of journalists—and some of which was strictly confidential. Keeping the classified stuff to herself, she wrote the detailed article, checked with the censor, and telephoned to the editorial office where she knew the rewrite man would record it with headphones and a typewriter—not that she needed much rewriting. She felt more confident about this piece than she had for months.

  But who knew how long this confidence would last? She seemed to be a dozen different people these days, all occupying the same body: The confident reporter. The fearful correspondent. The homesick American. The delicate female in need of an open door or steady arm to help her cross the busy Parisian street.

  No mood lasted more than a couple of hours. Her biggest struggle was to be a professional in a great big war.

  Just then the doors opened, and Mary Kelley strode into the room. “Well, look who’s here. Let me guess; you’ve been here for days, and even rode into the center of Paris inside some officer’s private limo?”

  Lee stood by her desk, leaned against it and crossed her arms, her gold bracelets jingling. “A general’s limo, Mary dear. How did you ever figure it out? Did you read about me in England?”

  “Oh, I heard about it from one of the other correspondents. He couldn’t stop talking about the beauty he spotted near the parade route. I knew it had to be you. What story were you working on, Lee? Something edgy, like which general was attending which celebration party?”

  Lee shrugged, noting Mary looked as unkempt—yet as perfectly darling—as ever. “What can I say?”

  Mary glanced at her watch. “Can’t stay long. I just heard you were here, and wanted to stop by for a quick hello to my roommate.”

  “Former roommate. Were you disappointed we had separate billets this time? It’s harder to fight for the top with no one around to step on on the way up.” Lee smirked.

  Laughter pealed from Mary’s lips. “See you at the front, I’m sure. Maybe we’ll even share a tent sometime.”