Beyond the Shadow of War

by Diane Moody

“It’s all right. I’m here.”

  She grasped his hand and held tight. “I know. It just looks‌—‌”

  “‌—‌too much like home?”

  She nodded slowly.

  “That day I found you in your house. Do you remember showing me the little pig Hans had carved for you?”

  “Yes. I was just thinking about that this morning.”

  “Do you still have it?”

  “Of course. Why?”

  He was stalling, trying to keep her distracted from the rubble passing by outside the window. “Oh, no reason. Just wondering. What do you call it? In Dutch, I mean?”

  Her expression lightened. “Mijn vliegend varken.”

  “Main veekend farkan?”

  Anya shook her head and tried not to snicker.

  “What’s so funny? I said it just the way you did.”

  She covered her face as silent laughter shook her shoulders.

  “Oh, come on now. It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

  Still smiling, she finally looked up at him. “That was worse than bad, Danny. Please‌—‌you have to promise me you won’t ever try to speak Dutch again.”

  “What? Why?”

  Anya pressed her fingers against his lips. “Because you sound like a pig, and it’s an insult to the Dutch language.” She shook her head, still smiling. “You must not even try. Promise me.”

  He feigned a pout, removing her fingers from his lips. “That bad?”

  “Horrible.” She snorted. “Afschuwelijk!”

  “God bless you.”

  “What?”

  “You sneezed. I said ‘God bless you.’”

  “But I didn’t sneeze.”

  “Yes, you did. You said, ‘achoo-lik’ or something like that.”

  Her laughter filled the space between. When she tried to compose herself with a deep breath, she lost it all over again.

  He folded his arms across his chest. “Okay, go ahead. Have your fun. I can take it.”

  She dabbed at her eyes, trying to find her composure. “It never ceases to amaze me how tears can show up at the best of times as well as the worst of times. It makes no sense.”

  He said nothing, just stared at her.

  She elbowed him. “Go ahead. I’m sure you have some clever retort just dying to spring from your lips.”

  He leaned toward her, his arms still folded. “No. But I admit I love to hear you laugh.”

  “Don’t be silly. Hans used to say I laughed like a chicken‌—‌all clucks and snorts and honks.”

  “I bet he loved the sound of it as much as I do.”

  Her smile started to fade. But just a little. “I don’t know. I suppose. Maybe.”

  “Sure he did.” Danny drew her close to his side. “Anya, I want you to promise me something.”

  “Promise what?”

  “We’re going to see a lot of bomb damage‌—‌”

  She started to turn toward the window again, but he gently nudged her chin back toward him.

  “Listen to me. I must be some kind of idiot, suggesting we take our honeymoon in London. It never occurred to me that the damage from the Blitz would remind you of home and the war, when all I wanted was a chance for us to get away and have some fun.”

  “Danny, it’s‌—‌”

  “So what I want you to promise me is this. Look beyond the war’s remnants. When you see sights like those out the window, remember that it’s over. No more bombs will fall on us. In Holland and England and all the other countries damaged in the war, it’s time to rebuild and make a fresh start. That doesn’t mean we forget everything that happened or those we lost during the war.

  “But right now,” he laced his fingers with hers again, “let’s try to block out everything. Even if just while we’re here. Let’s look beyond it and just be thankful we have each other. Can we do that?” He noted a flicker of the sadness in her eyes as she nodded, then watched it ease away with the hint of a smile.

  “Promise me?”

  “Yes. I’ll try very hard.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  “I promise.”

  With a quick glance at the elderly woman across from them, Danny turned and gave his wife a resounding kiss. “There. That seals the deal. Veekend farkan or no veekend farkan!”

  Anya groaned a laugh. “No, you promised!”

  “Newlyweds?” the woman across from them asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Danny said. “Married this morning.”

  “And isn’t that lovely?” She tilted her head as she studied them. “I wish you both the best. My husband and I have been married for over fifty-six years.”

  Danny blew a whistle. “That’s a long time. What’s your secret?”

  “Very simple, I think. You have to make sure you marry the right person, of course. But I can see you’ve already done that.” Her eyes twinkled as she continued. “Then you get up every morning and ask the good Lord to give you one thing you can do that day to show your love for her, and her for you. Even in the tough times, you’ll find it makes all the difference.”

  “Good advice, don’t you think, Anya?”

  “Yes, I should think that’s very good advice. Thank you.”

  “You are most welcome.”

  “Anything else?” Danny asked.

  She smiled. “Oh, I expect you’ll figure it out along the way. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I believe this is my stop.”

  As the train came slowed to a stop, Danny stood and helped her collect her things. She glanced back once more before leaving.

  “Congratulations to you both. Enjoy your honeymoon.” With a wink, she left them.

  4

  It was almost five in the afternoon by the time they arrived in their room at a lovely hotel in the West End. Danny placed Anya’s bag on the folding luggage rack and dropped his small duffel bag on the floor beside it.

  She sat on the end of the bed then immediately jumped up, as if she’d just perched on a bed of red hot coals instead of a floral coverlet. She was glad his back was turned so he didn’t see her reaction. She’d felt her heart hammer a little harder with each passing mile on the taxi ride from the train station. She felt so foolish, letting her nerves rattle her like this. Heaven knows, she wasn’t the first bride to be nervous about her wedding night.

  “Wait,” she said as Danny started taking off his uniform jacket. He paused, half in, half out of it. “I just realized I’m hungry. Quite hungry. Are you?”

  He smiled as he slid back into his jacket. “Sure. You know me. I can always eat.”

  “Good. Then shall we?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Moments later, they were seated in the hotel’s restaurant downstairs.

  A tall waiter appeared, dressed in black slacks and vest over a starched white shirt, his posture stiff. “Good afternoon. Might I ask what kind of tea you would like?”

  “What would you suggest?” Danny asked.

  “That would depend on your taste, of course, though I dare say most of our guests prefer our own house blend.”

  Danny looked her way. “How does that sound to you?”

  “Yes. Fine. Thank you.”

  “Excellent,” the waiter said. “And will we both be having the afternoon tea?”

  Danny’s brows drew together. “Yes. I just told you. The house blend.”

  The waiter’s smile tightened. “I’m referring to the meal, sir. The afternoon tea.”

  “Sure. Yes. Why not? As they say, when in London …”

  Anya waited. “When in London?”

  “Yes, who says what, sir?” added the waiter.

  Danny shrugged. “It’s just a saying. You’ve heard it, right? When in Rome you do as the Romans do?”

  “But do what, Danny? What do the Romans do?”

  “Never mind. Must be an American thing.”

  “Quite,” the waiter answered. “Then am I to assume you’ll both be having afternoon tea?”

  “Yes,” Anya answered. “Thank
you.”

  “Very well. I shall return shortly with your tea.” He bowed ever so slightly then left.

  Danny raked his fingers through his hair. “You’d think the fact that both Brits and Americans speak the same language, we’d be able to understand each other.”

  “Sophie told me she often laughs at the strange way you Yanks talk.”

  “Like we say bathroom and they call it the lav or the privy?”

  Anya smiled. “Yes, something like that.”

  “Or what we call a cigarette, they call a fag?”

  “I’ve not heard that one before.”

  “Or the way they say, ‘she’s in hospital’ instead of ‘she’s in the hospital’. Or ‘at university’ instead of at the university.”

  “I have no idea, but at least you can pronounce their language,” she teased.

  “Point well taken. I trust you’ve noticed that I’ve avoided all attempts to speak Dutch since we arrived?”

  “Yes, and I thank you for that, Lieutenant McClain.”

  “You’re most welcome.”

  The waiter returned with a sterling silver pot of tea, and cups and saucers of china painted with violets and ivy.

  “Let me ask you a question, my good man,” Danny began. “Is afternoon tea just a fussy snack in the middle of the afternoon? Or is it the evening meal? Because I’ll be honest, I could eat a horse about now.”

  Two lines deepened between the waiter’s brows as he stiffened his back again. “I beg your pardon? I’ll have you know we do not, and for the record, never have served horse meat.”

  Danny laughed as he raised his palms. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to suggest any such thing! It’s just an expression. It means I’m really very hungry as opposed to not wanting anything to eat.”

  “Quite. Then I shall explain. Our afternoon tea, dictated by the hour in which it is served, is a light meal of cucumber, egg, and salmon sandwiches, assorted scones served with clotted cream and jam, along with today’s pastry selection, a delightful Victorian sponge cake. Not as hearty as horse meat, but I should think it might suffice.”

  “Perfect. Yes.”

  “I’m glad it meets your approval.” Another half bow and he was gone.

  Anya was grateful for the distraction as they chatted through their meal. Later, as the waiter removed their dishes, she felt the nerves creeping back in. “Would it be possible to bring us another pot of tea?”

  “Anya, are you sure?”

  She avoided Danny’s eyes and confirmed her request with a smile and a nod to their waiter.

  When he left, Danny reached for her hand across the table. “Anya, look at me.”

  She busied her free hand brushing crumbs from the linen tablecloth. When he squeezed her hand, she finally looked up. “Yes?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “What’s okay?”

  He didn’t answer, just looked at her with the same adoring eyes she’d gazed into during their wedding.

  “I know you’re nervous. But if it’s any help, so am I.”

  She felt the heat burning her cheeks and dropped her eyes to their joined hands. “Danny, I don’t even know‌—‌”

  “Neither do I.”

  Her eyes found his again. “What? You mean‌—‌”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I mean.”

  The tightness in her chest lessened, at least a little. “You’re not just saying that to make me relax, are you?”

  “Much to the chagrin of my fellow crew mates, I promise you I’m ‘not just saying’ it.”

  A long, pent-up breath slipped through her lips as she found her smile again.

  The waiter approached their table with a second pot of tea.

  “Please forgive me,” Anya said, “but I’ve changed my mind. It’s … been a long day.”

  “No problem, madam.”

  Danny gave her hand a final squeeze as he turned to the waiter. “Check, please?”

  “I beg your pardon?” he asked.

  “The check? The bill? Whatever you call it, bring it. Please.”

  As much as Danny had looked forward to their wedding night, he wasn’t enjoying the prickly sensation of walking on eggshells as they returned to their room. He set the key and his wallet on the dresser and took off his jacket. As he loosened his tie, Anya set her pocketbook on top of the luggage she’d borrowed from Sophie, her hand shaking ever so slightly.

  He pulled off his tie and tossed it on the dresser, then took a step closer and reached for her hand. “Come sit with me.”

  The lingering scent of her borrowed perfume wafted over him as they sat down, but he fought the urge to take her into his arms. There was no rush. She needed time, and he would give her however long she needed.

  If only I could make her relax. If I could just make her laugh again.

  An idea came to him. He leaned over and untied his shoes. “I have a question. What kind of advice do you think Frederic would give us about now?”

  “Frederic?” Anya snorted, then covered her mouth at the sound of it. “Of all people, why would you think of Frederic at a time like this?”

  “I don’t really know. I guess I always had the impression he was some kind of playboy. A ladies man.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I’m not so sure he would be the one to ask.”

  “No?” Danny mimicked Frederic’s unique posture and stilted English. “But he was so suave and so‌—‌how do you say‌—‌debonair!”

  “What does this mean? Swa‌—‌”

  “Suave and debonair?” he continued as Frederic. “It’s‌—‌how do you say‌—‌someone who’s charming and smooth. Veddy, veddy smooth.” He dropped the accent. “Did you know he once said something to me about us?”

  “Us? As in, you and me?”

  “Yes. It was that day in the safe house when I first saw you, remember?”

  “Yes. You were downstairs, laid out on the bottom bunk and looking rather pitiful, as I remember.”

  “Hey, you try jumping out of a B-17 in the middle of a war. I was lucky it was just my leg that got injured. I could’ve been shot out there or captured by Nazis, you know.”

  “Poor American flyboy. How well I remember.”

  He shook his head for her benefit. “Do you want to hear what Frederic said or not?”

  “Go on. What did he say?”

  “He had just come downstairs when you rushed off all mad or crying or something. I can’t remember exactly.”

  “I was probably mad at you. I stayed mad at you often when we first met.”

  “And don’t I know it? Anyway, Frederic came sauntering over to me after you left. He was puffing on one of those disgusting cigarettes he always smoked. What was in those things, rolled manure?”

  “So awful, weren’t they?” Anya wrinkled her nose. “You’re probably better off not knowing.”

  “I’m sure you’re right. So he comes over and takes a puff,” Danny continued, acting out the part, “and he says, ‘You Americans. You, how do you say … fumble?’ And I said, ‘What do you mean?’ And he says, ‘You have Anya here,’ and points his cigarette toward my bed and says, ‘but now she’s gone. So? You fumble.’ He shrugged as if certain I understood.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said I didn’t realize football was so popular in The Netherlands.” At her confused expression, he added, “Fumble. It’s when one team loses the ball to the other team.”

  “Oh, I see.”

  “You do?”

  “Not really, but did he say anything else?”

  “No, as I recall he walked off mumbling to himself, probably about how stupid Americans are when it comes to love.”

  “As if he’d know what love is? Frederic thinks he‌ … thought he was an authority on all subjects.”

  At that moment, Danny remembered the night Frederic and Eduard were killed by German mercenaries. Along with Anya, as part of the Resistance, they’d been transporting Danny and the other Allied crewmen out
of the country. Anya was the team’s sole survivor. An involuntary shudder passed over him as the flashback resurfaced. He’d watched Anya snap the neck of a German soldier who’d caught them escaping.

  War memories. Great. I’ve done it again.

  He could tell she was remembering that night too, and God only knows how many other nights just like it.

  He took her hand in his. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring all that up.”

  She shook her head and tried to smile. “It’s okay. It was nice to remember how silly Frederic was.”

  “True. He provided some much-needed comic relief in the middle of the war, and that’s always a good thing. But good grief, how that man could pass gas.” Danny shivered. “Never saw anyone clear out a room full of people so fast.”

  “I know! Wasn’t it awful? Sometimes, when the two of us were in the cab of a truck, it would be so bad, my eyes would water. They would literally water.”

  Danny laughed hard, leaning back on his elbows. “Yes sir, he was definitely a colorful guy.”

  Anya leaned back too, then turned on her side to face him, resting her head on her hand. He heard the thump of her shoes hitting the floor.

  “I remember Frederic once telling me he wanted to go to America after the war to be an American movie star. ‘Like the Clark Gable or the Lawrence Olive.’ Not Olivier, mind you. But Lawrence Olive.”

  Danny chuckled and fell back on the bed, crossing his arms behind his head. “Just what Hollywood needs‌—‌another Don Juan.”

  “I could never get it through his head not to refer to people as ‘the Clark Gable’ or ‘the Lawrence Olive‌—‌er, Olivier. Frederic was hopeless when it came to things like that. He imagined himself quite the sale … slabe‌—‌”

  “Celebrity?”

  “Yes, that’s it. He thought himself quite the celebrity. And more than worthy of attracting the attention of all those famous actresses.”

  “You mean, like the Greta Garbo? Or the Jean Harlow?”

  “You’re learning. Frederic would be proud.”

  “Yes, but there’s one thing I’ve got that Frederic never had.”

  “And what might that be?”

  He turned on his side to face her, then slowly traced his finger down her jawline. “You.”

  She was still smiling, though he noticed an almost imperceptible quiver at his touch.