by Lisa Bingham
Returning to Edna’s side, RueAnn tried to offer her a bright smile. “I’m going to move you back into your bedroom, okay? The tester bed is high enough that we can take shelter underneath it. Do you think I could move you that far?”
Slipping her hands under Edna’s arms, she dragged her inch by agonizing inch, trying to move slowly, gently. Finally, panting, she left Edna next to the bed. Stripping away a pillow and a blanket, she tucked Edna into a warm cocoon. Then she tugged at the bedpost, head, foot, head, foot again, until Edna’s shape disappeared beneath the bedstead. Leaving the basket nearby, RueAnn wriggled beneath the bed as well, taking Edna’s good hand in her own.
“There!” she said with forced brightness. “Right as rain! We’ll just wait out the air raid, then we can get you to the hospital straightaway.”
But as she met Edna’s gaze, she knew the older woman wasn’t fooled. The raid could continue on for hours, and even then, there would be no quick medical attention. Not when thousands of Londoners were caught in the midst of such terror.
RueAnn squeezed Edna’s hand. “You rest. I’ll be here. I’ll take care of you.”
Edna’s eyes finally closed, her sobs quieting. Her body was suddenly so still, so lax, that RueAnn feared she’d died. But the faint rise and fall of her chest testified that she’d merely slipped into unconsciousness.
Only then did RueAnn allow her own sobs to surface.
“What do I do now?” she whispered into the din of a besieged city. “What do I do now?”
• • •
Rouen, France
Charlie felt someone touch his cheek, and for a moment he smelled roses. Roses that sifted down on him like snow.
“Charlie.”
Rex cupped Charlie’s cheek to help him maintain his focus.
“Hey, old boy. Stay with me now.”
Charlie tried to swallow, then gave up all effort to speak, nodding.
“I managed to finish the job when you passed out. You’re looking like a regular kraut, if I do say so myself.”
Charlie patted his side, then slid his fingers over rough wool.
“I changed everything down to your skivvies.”
Charlie nodded.
“The trousers were a little big, but not so bad.” Rex grinned. “At least you smell a little better.”
They both knew that was a lie. He stank of sweat, pig shit, and the sweet-sour odor of infection. Idly, he wondered how much longer it would take for the putrefaction to kill him from the inside out. A day? Two?
He focused on his friend, knowing that it was long since time for them to part.
“Go…now.”
Rex shook his head. “Nah. I’ll wait a few hours until it’s a bit darker. The Resistance blew up Gestapo headquarters last night. The krauts have been rounding up suspects in the area all day long.” He hesitated before adding, “I had trouble carrying you. Every time I haul you up, you bleed all over me. You owe me a new shirt when we get home.”
Charlie nodded.
“We’re still about four kilometers from the hospital, but I don’t dare take you any closer with all the patrols combing the area. There’s a tram stop near here. Once the moon sets, I’ll drag you to the road and—”
Charlie gripped his wrist with more power than either of them would have thought possible.
“Now. Go…home.”
“There’s plenty of time, Charlie boy.”
Charlie’s head rocked in the crushed grass.
“No more…time.” He dug his fingers into Rex’s wrist. “Now.”
Rex opened his mouth, then shut it again. “Charlie, I need…” he swallowed hard. “I need to take the letters with me.”
At first Charlie didn’t understand. The only letters were those he’d taken from RueAnn. He’d carried them for weeks now—originally bringing them along to keep his mother from discovering them more than anything. But once he’d begun to read them…
They’d become his talisman.
For the first time since their flight from Germany, since being pursued, shot and thrown in dung heap, be felt alone. Alone and defeated.
He opened his mouth to protest. He was a dead man anyway. What did it matter if he were discovered with letters written in English?
But then he realized that if the Germans found them, they would never believe he was alone. It wouldn’t take long for them to realize he was one of the men stopped at the railway station and they’d pursued three men with forged papers. Three. The moment any of them was caught, the search for the others would be intensified. Alex was beyond helping. But if Charlie remained unidentified for a few hours, a day, two, Rex would have a better chance of surviving.
His hands shook as he handed the packet to Rex. “If…when…you get back to England…mail them back to RueAnn. Don’t…don’t tell her…I…read them. Took them…by accident…”
A muscle worked fiercely in Rex’s jaw, then he nodded abruptly.
Taking the packet from Charlie’s hand, he was sliding them inside his shirt when he stopped. Moving quickly, he untied the dirty pink ribbon that held them together, looped it around Charlie’s wrist, knotting it tightly.
“Tell everyone it’s a trophy from a fraulein in a beer hall that you nailed during an air raid.”
Charlie nodded, involuntarily laughing, then groaning when the pain sliced through his abdomen.
“See you…soon…”
The muscle in Rex’s jaw worked double time.
“Don’t forget…return…letters.”
“You know I’ll remember.”
Charlie hissed, closing his eyes against a fresh stab of pain. “Go…”
Charlie purposely relaxed his body, pretending to lose consciousness again. He waited out the silence, rich with the mournful tune of crickets and frogs. He remained still, breathing slowly and shallowly as Rex touched his arm. Then he steeled himself as Rex gathered his things and moved stealthily into the shadows.
Fear rose within him like bile. Charlie grew chilled and numb, his body beginning to shake uncontrollably. Rolling onto his side, he pulled himself into a fetal ball, hugging the unfamiliar greatcoat around him. Then, needing something other than the pain, his fear, and his hopelessness to keep him company, he rubbed the frayed ends of the ribbon between his fingers until his body floated and he could have sworn he caught a hint of roses…
The clang of the tram bell woke him with a start. Heart pounding, Charlie wondered how long he’d been gone this time.
Moments?
Days?
As his eyes sought the darkness, he saw a shape creeping through the shadows clinging to the trees along the road.
Rex. He’d recognize his hulking shape anywhere.
Another clang caused him to flinch. The tram. They hadn’t accounted for the tram in their timing.
Straining forward, he saw Rex step deeper into the shadows, drawing himself so tightly against the rough bark that he could have been a part of the trunk.
The tram rumbled to a stop at the far end of the lane. Three people disembarked. An elderly couple who turned away from Rex’s hiding place and a young woman with a purse who began walking in Rex’s direction. If she continued on her course, she would walk directly past him.
A gust of wind tore at her skirts and she gripped her scarf more securely around her face, her head down, plodding.
Blackness crowded in on his vision and Charlie took gulping breaths to drive it back. Nearby, someone was cooking cabbage and the odor faintly clung to the breeze, making his stomach growl in protest.
The tram rumbled away, and at the last minute, Rex burst from his hiding place, running, using the sound of the squeaky metal car to mask his footfalls. As he brushed past the woman, she inhaled sharply, side-stepping into the trees.
Too late, Charlie heard the distant murmur of voices. A shout.
“Halt!”
Without warning, gunshots peppered the evening stillness. Rex stumbled, twisting as the bullets slapped into his body
, arms extending, windmilling, papers flying from his fingers to be caught by the wind and blown into the bushes near Charlie’s hiding place.
Shrinking deeper into the shelter of the leaves, Charlie waited, his pulse pounding in his throat as the Germans ran toward Rex who lay prone in an ever-expanding pool of blood.
Charlie ground his jaws together. There was no doubt Rex was dead. The barrage of machine gun fire had left gaping holes in his chest.
Bile rose in his throat as one of the Germans bent over Rex’s body, then kicked him in the head. Talking low among themselves, they joked about the accuracy of their marksmanship. A soldier turned, whistled, and Charlie shivered uncontrollably as he heard the rumble of a truck. Making himself as small as possible, he panted softly as the men waited for the canvas-covered truck to ease forward. Then, scooping up the corpse at their feet, they threw it into the back and clambered in behind it. Gears ground sharply, the truck shuddered and whined, then lumbered heavily down the lane toward the center of town.
Charlie waited, his pulse thrashing in his throat, the world tipping crazily as he fought to stay alert. He counted to one hundred, then counted to one hundred again.
A rustling noise alerted him, and too late, he remembered the woman who’d stepped off the tram. She was moving from the shadows of the trees on the opposite side of the street. She appeared to be as shaken as Charlie, moving slowly, testing the now-quiet street timidly as if a soldier might loom from the shadows. As she crept forward, her foot fell on one of the scattered letters, causing it to crinkle. Curious, she bent low, retrieving an envelope. She paused for a beat. Two. Then removed the letter from inside, skimming the contents.
Looking over her shoulder lest she was being watched, she began to gather the scattered envelopes, following them like bread crumbs in the darkness. She was so intent upon her task that she didn’t see Charlie sprawled in the dirt until she stumbled into him.
Gasping, she shrank against the trunk of a nearby tree, trying to make herself as invisible as possible.
Her shape tipped crazily as he was swamped with a wave of dizziness. He closed his eyes to keep from retching, a moan slipping unbidden from his throat. He was cold…so cold…yet so, so hot…
Someone touched his shoulder, yanking him out of a dark pool that spun around and around, dragging him down to a place that was frightening and oh, so alone.
He tried to open his eyes, tried to remember. Had someone been speaking to him?
“Rex?”
Too late, he realized he’d muttered the word aloud.
His eyes searched for purchase before settling on the face of a woman bending low over him.
“RueAnn?” he whispered, hope flickering.
The woman instinctively reared backward. Losing her footing, she fell into the soft weeds. In doing so, her hand fell on Charlie’s boot.
He saw the realization spread over her features at the same moment that reality returned. Too late, he realized the error. His boots weren’t German-issued. They were brown leather and thick-soled. Scuffed and scarred.
Time spooled into an eternity of heartbeats. Painful thrums that reminded him of the ache radiating through his body.
Moving slowly, she crawled toward him, mindful that if he was dressed as a soldier, he could be armed as well. Since he lay on his side, she carefully rolled him onto his back.
A fresh bolt of agony shot through him like sizzling lightning, causing his head to arch back and his eyes to squeeze closed.
The woman waited until his panting eased. “Wie heiβt du?”
He saw her lips move, heard the sounds, but he was slipping away into the blackness again. He squinted as the woman’s face seemed to shift into more familiar planes.
“RueAnn?”
Why didn’t she help him? Was she angry because he’d taken her letters?
“You’re hurt.” This time, she spoke in English.
He offered a bitter laugh that became a moan.
“I’m sorry. So sorry,” she said as she began unbuttoning the coat, spreading it wide. Despite everything she’d already seen on the road, she recoiled.
Charlie’s moan became a sob.
Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me here alone.
He couldn’t be sure if he’d spoken the words aloud. The woman quickly rebuttoned the coat, saying, “We’ve got to get you out of here.”
He grasped her wrist, his grip surprisingly strong. “My wife…”
“RueAnn?”
His brow furrowed in confusion.
“The letters are yours, aren’t they? Is she your wife?”
He couldn’t speak. He tried to grip her wrist, but his hand kept slipping.
“Never mind,” she said. “Right now, we need to get you away from the road before the patrols return.” She hesitated before asking. “The other man? The one who was running? Was he with you?”
He couldn’t control the sob that burst from his throat.
Her eyes softened then, and she slid an arm through his. “Do you think you could walk? I will help you, but we’ve got to get away from here as quickly as possible. The soldiers will come back as soon as they realize that it is not a Resistance member that they’ve killed, but a Brit.”
He nodded, knowing that it was a danger to trust this woman—to trust anyone. But also knowing that if he didn’t trust her, he would be a dead man.
The journey seemed to take an eternity, even though they traveled less than a few blocks. His legs were trembling so badly, he felt sure he would collapse when finally, she turned down a narrow path and made her way to the back of a small house—a mere shack made of rough boards and peeling paint.
As Charlie braced himself against the outer wall, she fumbled with her key, opening the door and swinging it wide.
“We need to hide you, yes? The Germans might begin a house-by-house search if they think an enemy soldier was in the area.”
He nodded, too exhausted to speak.
She gazed around the narrow kitchen and living area. Even to his own eyes, there were no real hiding places.
“Sit.”
He all but fell into a chair as she crossed to the middle of the kitchen and pushed a sturdy kitchen table to one side. Throwing back the rag rug underneath, she exposed a trap door.
“You will need to go down into the cellar. It is the only way to keep you out of sight.”
She threw back the door, then gathered a lantern and bedding from a nearby cupboard. After touching a match to the wick, she hurried down a narrow set of stairs.
A few moments later, she returned.
“I’ve made a pallet for you on the floor. It is not the best hiding place, but it will do for now.”
Charlie wasn’t sure he could stand, let alone navigate the stairs, but he knew he had no choice. Above all else, he could not put this woman in any more danger.
As soon as he reached the blankets in the far corner, he collapsed.
“I am going to heat some water for you. I will clean you up as best as I can. I-I work in a hospital, but I have no medicine.”
Charlie was panting against the pain that began to surge over him in waves.
“I will warn you. I have only turpentine to clean the wound.”
Dear God.
“I’ll work quickly. I promise.”
He kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut. As she gently drew back his clothing, exposing his wounds, the blackness edged closer.
And this time, knowing that he was hidden from the Germans, he allowed the blackness to swamp him and pull him into the depths.
Sweetheart,
I’m tired. So tired. But there’s nothing to do but tuck my head down and carry on. At least, tonight I’ve been promised some sleep.
Still no letter. Is something wrong? Are you safe? Dear God, I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t know you were out there, waiting for me.
I ache for you each and every day—not just physically. I’m not that much of a cad. I would be content simply to ho
ld your hand and hear the melody of your voice in my ear. Sometimes I dream of you at night—sweet, sweet dreams. But I wake to a nightmare.
I entered the RAF thinking it would be flags and glory. Since then, I’ve learned that war is noise and chaos and destruction. I’ve lost more friends than I can count. Others have been badly injured, burned.
As of yet, I am unharmed for the most part. Bullets strafed my canopy and I got banged up a bit—a black eye, cuts and scrapes, but nothing too serious. At least I’m being given twelve hours off to rest and recuperate.
Still no letter. Have you changed your mind? Found someone else? If so, I’ll understand. Just write something so that I know you’re safe.
And send a picture. For luck.
P.
Chapter Ten
London, England
Mere minutes after the air raid siren sounded, the new barrage began—this time made all the more terrifying without being hundreds of feet underground. The bombs fell distantly at first, then began to crawl nearer and nearer, until RueAnn wasn’t sure if the Germans aimed with any efficiency, or if they flew inland until they found a likely spot, then dropped their deadly payload across the city.
It had been years since she’d prayed, years since she’d thought of God in any light at all other than through her father’s interpretation. God, according to Jacob Boggs, was a vengeful being intent on destruction of anyone who might not follow his edicts to the letter.
But religion hadn’t always been so fearsome in the Boggs’ household. There had been a time, when Rue Ann was very little, when her mother had knelt with her each night, helping her to recite her evening prayers. During those times, her mother had spoken to God as if he truly were an absent, benevolent father.
It was to this God that RueAnn began to pray as the cacophony of noise assaulted her ears and the distant fires began to paint the walls with an eerie rosy glow.
At one point, Edna’s eyes flickered open, glazed with confusion. Not sure how much she remembered of her situation, RueAnn stroked her cheek and shushed her as if she were a small child until her lashes fluttered shut again and she slept.
It was then that RueAnn began to weep—for herself, for Charlie, and yes, even for Edna who had been less than kind, but who now lay at the mercy of the “dreaded Hun” as she called them, with only a tester bed to protect her.
