Fly Away

by Lynn Austin

“That was a two-hour performance!”

  “Whatever. Play just a little of it, then.”

  “All right, if that’s your request. Now, you were flying a dangerous mission over Germany after discussing religion with another pilot, when . . .”

  Mike smiled and sat down beside her on the sofa. He took a few sips of his coffee, then leaned back comfortably. “I never did know exactly what hit me. There was a huge explosion. Bang! And the whole tail section was gone. Smoke and flames everywhere. I tried to keep the nose up so maybe I could gain more time and ditch it out over the ocean, but it was hopeless. So I decided I had better bail out. It was the first time I ever jumped at night. The last time, too, come to think of it. It was pitch black except for some artillery fire way off on the horizon somewhere. No moon, no stars, and I couldn’t tell how close I was to the ground until I hit it.”

  “Were you in Germany?”

  “Occupied France. Same difference, almost. Nazis everywhere. I heard some of them firing at me as I parachuted down. Felt like a duck in a shooting gallery. Good thing it was so dark, or they might have hit me.

  “I landed pretty hard in the middle of a field, and I thought for sure I’d broken both ankles. They were just bruised, though. My first thought was to get as far away from the chute as possible and take cover. So I untangled myself and crawled along the ground to a clump of bushes on the edge of the field. All the time I was waiting for the Nazis to start using me for target practice again.

  “By now every farm dog in France was barking up a storm, so I figured I’d better keep moving. I followed the fence line as far as I could because there was tall grass and bushes growing all along it for cover. It was early springtime and there was a light dusting of snow on the ground, and I remember thinking I was probably leaving a trail that any schoolkid could follow, but I didn’t know what else to do. I was cold, too. Damp and cold.

  “Before too long I saw flashlights coming across the field, heading toward the place where I left the chute. Looked like four or five of them.”

  “Nazis?”

  “I didn’t know, but I wasn’t gonna stick around and find out. I started to run, ducking down and hobbling along on two sore ankles, and all the while looking back over my shoulder at them, and thanking God that there was no moon. Sure enough, they found the chute, then started following the trail I’d made for them in the snow.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I ran faster! All of a sudden, wham! I went down with a crash and oh, boy, did I see stars!”

  “They shot you?”

  “Nope, I tripped over a fence wire, strung about a foot off the ground. I had been running so fast I never even saw it, and I hit the frozen ground so hard I knocked myself clean out.

  “I came to a few minutes later, I guess, because they were all standing over me. No uniforms, just farmer-type clothes, and they were all speaking French, “boo-sha, boo-sha.” Probably discussing what a bumbling idiot I was. I tried a few English phrases, but they just shook their heads. All they could say was “America” and point to my uniform. Two of them were carrying my parachute, so I figured they were going to help me hide from the Nazis.”

  “And did they?”

  “Yep. For the next few weeks it was like a game of hide-and-seek and charades all rolled into one. Only it wasn’t a game. They hid me in cellars and closets and hay barns and woodpiles. I never stayed in any one place too long. The French underground kept moving me, little by little, all over France it seemed. Sometimes they’d dress me like a peasant, sometimes like your grandmother, and I think they even had a Nazi uniform on me at one point.

  “All the time, I didn’t understand a word of their “boo-shah, boo-shah” or have a clue where I was going or who I was with. I just had to trust them, see? Whether I understood them or not, because there was no way I could help myself. I just did whatever they wanted me to, dressed however they said, went wherever they led me, and eventually I wound up back in England, safe and sound.”

  “How long did it take?”

  “Oh, somewhere between three and four weeks, I think. I ended up on a dinky fishing boat crossing the English Channel with two other pilots, a British fellow and a Canadian. I’ll tell you, being out in the water in that flimsy little boat in the dead of night sure made me glad I didn’t join the navy!”

  “Did they send you home after your terrible ordeal?”

  “What for? I wasn’t injured or anything. I apologized for wrecking their beautiful airplane and they gave me another one to fly, just like it.”

  “And you had to fly back there again?”

  “Sure, why not? No reason to stay on the ground. Boy, those were beautiful planes. Flew like a Cadillac.” He sat lost in thought for a moment. Wilhelmina saw another opening.

  “Well, you certainly must have thanked God for saving you.”

  “Yep, and I had a few words of thanks for the French underground too. Hey! You owe me a song now, remember?”

  “Yes, I remember. You wanted ‘Romeo and Juliet,’ but I don’t think I have any music for that. Or if I do, I wouldn’t know where to find it.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Play anything you want. You could lie and tell me it’s that ballet thing. How would I know?”

  Wilhelmina was smiling as she sat down at the bench. She gazed back at Mike, slouched contentedly on her sofa with his legs outstretched, his hands locked comfortably behind his head. Do you love him? her friend Catherine had asked. Wilhelmina’s words would be useless without love.

  Mike. He was so kind and gentle, almost tender at times, and suddenly Wilhelmina knew it wasn’t merely a sense of duty that made her want to share Christ with him. He had touched her heart, shared a part of his fleeting life with her, and she longed to share everlasting life with him in return.

  “How about ‘Moonlight Sonata’ by Beethoven?” she asked.

  Mike smiled. “Sure.”

  *****

  Mike watched in fascination as Wilhelmina got ready to play. She sat very still at the keyboard for a moment, with her head down, as if concentrating on the music. He wondered if that was like all the pre-flight checks he had to make each time he flew. Then she arched her long, elegant hands and began to play, a slow, haunting melody, poignantly sad, yet delicately beautiful. After a few minutes, Mike recognized it. It was the same song he had heard through the walls of Dr. Bennett’s office the day he learned he was going to die. He swallowed the lump in his throat as the memory returned. He wanted her to stop. He didn’t want to think about dying on his last night of life. But Wilhelmina was so involved in the music, playing with such depth of emotion and feeling, that it seemed wrong to disturb her. He watched her hands as she lovingly caressed the keys, like a mother caressing her newborn. They were strong, youthful hands. He saw tiny beads of sweat form on her forehead. All of the energy and vigor that he poured into living his life to the fullest, she had invested in her music. All her strength, all her emotion, all her passion. And the result was this moving, rapturous sound.

  No wonder she was so deeply depressed since her retirement. It wasn’t fun and adventure that she lacked. The school officials had taken away her only means of expression—her life and her soul. Mike tried to imagine never flying again, never feeling the thrill of liftoff, the freedom to soar the skies. He swallowed hard.

  The piece only lasted a few minutes, but by the time Wilhelmina finished playing the final, melancholy note it was as if she had been transported someplace else. Mike didn’t disturb the silence that followed until she finally relaxed and turned to him. Then he applauded softly.

  “That was beautiful,” he whispered. Their eyes met, and for a moment a wordless recognition of the peculiar sort of love they shared passed between them. Then Mike looked away, suddenly afraid that she would also recognize his unspoken farewell. He stood and walked over to the piano. “Do you have an encore? Maybe something with a few loops and dives and barrel rolls in it?”

  She gave him a puzzled look. “
You mean arpeggios?”

  He laughed. “I don’t know what I mean. It’s like we speak two different languages, flying lingo and music lingo.”

  “Is this what you want?” Her fingers flew up and down the keyboard at an awesome speed yet found each note with the precision of a surgeon. She stopped abruptly, after about a minute.

  “Oh, don’t stop! That was incredible! Like watching an air show or something.”

  Wilhelmina laughed out loud. “My playing has been called a lot of things by the critics, but that’s the first time I’ve ever been compared to an air show. I’m flattered—I think.”

  “I meant it as a compliment. What was that song? Play the rest.”

  “That was the third movement of the same piece, the “Moonlight Sonata.” But I don’t remember the rest very well without the music.”

  “You know, I think I could grow to like your kind of music if I kept listening to it. What’s your favorite song?”

  “Goodness! There are thousands of works. How can I pick just one?”

  “I don’t know, I’ve flown a lot of aircraft through the years, but I still think I could pick a favorite if I had to.”

  “Well, if I limited it to the piano repertory . . .” She seemed lost in thought for a moment. “I guess I would have to say ‘The Emperor Concerto’ by Beethoven.”

  “Can you play me some of it?”

  “Well, it’s a concerto, you see. I would need an orchestra. But I have a recording of it, if you’d like to hear that?”

  “Is it a recording of you?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Too bad. Oh well, sure. Play it anyway.”

  She put the record on the stereo, and Mike listened to the loud, majestic opening. He smiled appreciatively. “I like that. Who did you say wrote it?”

  “Ludwig van Beethoven.”

  “Well then, Beethoven sounds like a man who really enjoyed life. Listen to that . . . full of joy and fun.”

  “Actually, he didn’t have a very easy life, Mike. He lost his hearing—one of the most horrible tragedies that a musician could ever face. By the time he died he was almost stone deaf.”

  “So he had to stop writing music?”

  “No, he continued to compose, but he probably never heard his own music the way we hear it. Only in his mind. He was partially deaf when he composed this concerto.”

  “Well, that explains why this song is bursting with life.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Beethoven was dealt a really hard blow, right? But instead of letting it get him down, he poured his heart and soul into his music and created something truly beautiful instead.” Mike saw tears well up in her eyes. He needed to change the subject, fast. “Hey, will you listen to that? It sounds like two pianos playing at once.”

  “No, it’s only one.”

  “Does the guy have three hands, then? How can he play two songs at once like that?” She didn’t answer. “What did you say this was called? A concerto?”

  “Yes. It’s like a contest between the orchestra and a solo instrument, in this case, the piano.”

  “That’s just what it sounds like, too. First one team goes at it, then the other. What instrument is that, playing right now?”

  “That’s an oboe.”

  Mike pinched the end of his nose. “Sounds like a duck with a cold. What’s that one?”

  “French horn.”

  They sat down on the sofa again, and she explained the music to him as the concerto played. She used fancy words like motif and exposition, development, and recapitulation, until she was talking way over his head. But she seemed so engrossed in her lecture, so happy to be teaching again, that he didn’t have the heart to tell her he was lost. As the first movement neared the end, they both fell silent, listening. The delicate, tinkling melody nearly brought tears to his eyes. He thought of his wife. Helen loved pretty things.

  “That was beautiful,” Mike murmured. “Like a music box.”

  “Do you want to hear the rest?” He nodded and she rose to turn over the record. As the first few bars of the waltz-like melody played, Mike stood up and bowed.

  “May I have this dance, my lady? Or is it sacrilegious to waltz to Beethoven?”

  “Well . . . um . . . I don’t know.”

  “Listen, anyone who loved life as much as Beethoven did, wouldn’t mind if we danced to his music. Come on.” He took her in his arms before she could protest and waltzed grandly around the room with her. At first her body felt stiff and resisting in his arms, but as the power and beauty of the stately melody took over, she soon relaxed. In the comfort of her embrace, Mike felt some of his sorrow and heaviness begin to lift. He held her close. She smelled good, like lavender and Ivory Soap.

  As they waltzed past the mirror above the mantelpiece, Mike saw what a comical pair they made. Wilhelmina was three inches taller than he was. But as he swung her around, he also saw that her eyes were closed and that tears were falling silently down her cheeks. He hoped he hadn’t said something wrong. But maybe she needed to hold someone in her arms as much as he did. They clung to each other, dancing to the entire second movement in silence.

  Toward the end, the music slowed nearly to a stop. Then, after a few tentative notes, it suddenly took off at a rollicking pace. Mike swung into the new tempo and they galloped around the room together, bumping into furniture and nearly knocking over two lamps and an end table. Finally, they were both laughing so hard they had to collapse on the sofa.

  “I’ll bet old Mr. Beethoven had a good time composing that!” Mike said when he caught his breath again.

  “I suppose you see him sitting at his music desk, laughing heartily while he wrote?”

  “He never wrote this sitting at any desk! Listen to it! He was outside somewhere. Under a tree, maybe.”

  “You’re right, you know. That’s what all the books say. He composed outdoors—or at least got his inspiration there. I don’t know why, but I always pictured him at a desk. Serious. Somber. Dignified.”

  “No way! Just listen to that music. He was having fun.”

  As the concerto neared the end, the music slowed, gradually growing softer until it almost died quietly away. Then it took off again, ending with a majestic finale.

  “Boy, for a minute, there, I thought it was gonna die a quiet death,” Mike said. “But see? Old Mr. Beethoven decided to end it all with a whoop and a bang after all.”

  Wilhelmina’s expression suddenly changed. “Mike, we need to talk,” she said shakily.

  “Sure, what about?”

  “You’ve had several months to reconsider and I . . . I was hoping that you’ve changed your mind about . . . um . . . ending your own life.”

  Mike passed his hand over his face. His approaching death wasn’t something he wanted to talk about. It was something he just had to do. He stood up. “It’s late. I should be going.”

  “Mike, no! Please! Can’t we at least talk about it?”

  “No. No, we can’t. You have no idea how hard it is for me to do this, but I have to. I was hoping you had forgotten all about it by now. I never really meant to tell you in the first place.” He took a few steps toward the door.

  “Mike, please listen to me. It’s not God’s will for you to commit suicide. The Bible says—”

  “Wilhelmina, don’t.” He turned his back on her and walked the rest of the way to the door. She followed.

  “Mike, please don’t leave here angry with me.”

  He turned to her. “I’m not mad at you, Willymina. But, don’t you see? I can’t let you talk me out of it. I can’t. I’m sorry.” He gently took her hand and pressed it to his cheek. “Thank you for a very memorable evening,” he murmured. “Good night.”

  *****

  As soon as the door closed, Wilhelmina let out an anguished cry. She had run out of time. She would probably never see Mike again. All of the missed opportunities and unspoken words came flooding back to her in a deluge. Why hadn’t she tried harde
r to talk to him? Mike was dying without knowing Christ, and she had been too wrapped up in her own misery to meet his needs. Couldn’t she have forgotten her own problems for a few hours for his sake? She had been angry with God, but she had punished Mike for it. She stared in agony at her closed front door.

  “Here I am! I stand at the door and knock.”

  “O God, forgive me,” she wept.

  She wandered into the living room and saw how disheveled it looked. The oriental carpets were bunched and wrinkled. Lamp shades and furniture were knocked askew. One of her African violets was upside down on the floor. Even the oil paintings seemed to hang crookedly on the walls. The usually impeccable room had been disarranged by their wild, galloping dance.

  That’s what meeting Mike had done to her life. He had turned her orderly, predictable life upside down. As she gazed at her mantelpiece where the gaudy kite trophy had upstaged her grandmother’s antique clock, Wilhelmina thought of a question she hadn’t bothered to ask before: Why had Mike gone out of his way to include her in his life?

  Why had he taken her to the kite contest? And fishing? Why had he invited her to go to the balloon race tonight? She had stayed in contact with him in order to witness to him, but why had he bothered with a sour old stuffed shirt like her? Why had he worked so hard to cheer her up, treating her with tenderness and compassion?

  Mike’s life had demonstrated more of the love of Christ than hers had. Mike heard music in the rustling leaves. The leaves actually sacrifice themselves, he had told her. They fall off the branches and die, just so the tree can survive. Mike perceived the peace of God in the quiet forest. He recognized hope in Beethoven’s music where there should have been despair. She saw now that there had been dozens of opportunities to share the gospel message with him, but she had been too consumed with self-pity to notice them.

  Wilhelmina sank down on the sofa as memories of Mike washed gently over her. She saw him shaking her hand after the piano recital and, with a grin, firmly closing the lid on that awful piano. He had been right, of course. It was out of tune. But like the child in “The Emperor’s New Clothes,” he was the only one who had been honest enough to say it.