by Sarah Sundin
A strange lightness filled his chest. Frank Lyons would never hurt another woman again.
CHICAGO
Leah stepped off the bus, her arms empty without Helen. When she’d told Mama her good news, Mama had insisted she watch the baby so Leah could visit more orphanages. If only Leah had thought to ask Mrs. Demetrios which orphanage the girls had been taken to.
This was the third home. The brick building didn’t look familiar, but that meant nothing.
Leah opened the door. No one sat at the desk. To the left an office door stood ajar, and a radio announcer’s voice floated out, solemn and strident.
Perhaps she should be glued to the radio too, but Clay would want her busy and searching for her sisters.
“Hello?” she called.
The radio turned off.
“Yes?” A woman in her fifties peeked out with a face strangely plump for her trim figure and far too stern to be working with children.
Leah put on her warmest smile, held out a sheet of paper with her information, and gave her standard speech about her search.
“Very well.” The woman puffed out a sigh. “Come into my office.”
“Thank you, Mrs.—”
“Miss Stratford.” Her heels clunked on the hardwood. “Hmm. Kay-ray-hay-lee-us. One of those foreign names.”
“It’s Karahalios, ma’am, and it’s Greek. But I’m an American citizen.” Leah took a seat in front of the desk. “Besides, the Greeks are on our side.”
Miss Stratford raised a thick eyebrow and opened a file cabinet. “Kay . . . ray . . . Here we are.”
Leah blinked over and over, but yes, Miss Stratford was carrying a manila folder. “We—we were here?”
The woman sat behind her desk and opened the folder. “November 10, 1929. A George—oh, I can’t pronounce these foreign names—husband and wife killed, struck by a car. Three daughters, a four-year-old and eight-month-old twins. Oh, these crazy names.”
“I’m Thalia, the oldest.” Leah strained to read the faded handwriting upside down.
Miss Stratford lifted the folder. “You were adopted on November 20.”
“I was separated from my sisters.”
“Often necessary. Says here the Jones family wanted a girl to help in their store someday. They didn’t want babies. Something—hard to read—didn’t want crying and diapers. And look at that date—a month after the stock market crashed. We couldn’t take any chances.”
“My sisters? They were adopted? Did they stay together?”
“Yes, they were adopted together.”
Leah leaned forward, her heart beating wildly. “Where are they? Who adopted them?”
Miss Stratford drew back. “I can’t tell you. All adoptions are closed.”
Leah gasped. “But they’re my sisters.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Paxton. It isn’t possible.”
She collapsed back in the chair. She’d come so far . . . so close . . . and now nothing?
Miss Stratford’s face softened. “However, I can show you the information pertaining to you. Would you like to see it?”
What did it matter if she couldn’t find her sisters? Yet how could she not? “Yes, please. I know so little about my past.”
She pulled out a paper. “This is fine. So’s this. Some have carbon copies. You may have the copies.”
“Thank you.” A photograph was attached to one of the papers with a paper clip. A sad-faced curly-haired girl sat on a bench with her tiny arms around two dark-haired babies. “Oh my.”
She’d never seen a picture of them. “May I? Is it too much to ask?”
“Very well. You may have it.”
Leah held the picture before blurry eyes. This might be the only glimpse she’d ever have of her sisters.
“Miss Stratford?” A young woman in a white apron leaned into the office, hair askew. “It’s that Yardley boy again. He’s throwing dishes in the dining room.”
“That barbarian. Belongs in a mental asylum.” Miss Stratford bolted from her desk. “Pardon me, Mrs. Paxton.”
What a horrible woman to have in charge of an orphanage. Leah stared after her, then at the empty doorway, then at the manila folder.
Her hand stretched out.
A voice screeched in her head. Thief! Thief! Rotten little thief!
The voice lied. These were her sisters. Taking what belonged to her wasn’t stealing.
She slid the folder close.
On the first page: “Three girls: Thalia Karahalios, Calliope Karahalios, Polyhymnia Karahalios.”
She almost laughed. She’d been right about their names!
At the bottom of the page . . . “Thalia Karahalios adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Norman Jones, November 20, 1929.”
On the next line . . . “Calliope and Polyhymnia Karahalios adopted by Mr. and Mrs. Hobart Scholz, November 26, 1929.” With an address!
Leah memorized it and glanced to the door. A ruckus toward the back of the building assured her Miss Stratford wouldn’t return for a while.
She pulled her pen from her purse and wrote her sisters’ information on the paper she was allowed to take. Then she reassembled the folder.
A notepad sat on the desk, and Leah wrote a note, thanking Miss Stratford for the papers, the photograph, and the pieces to her past.
Leah tucked her papers into her purse. She had so much more than pieces.
39
POINTE DU HOC
Clay ran down the exit road with two Rangers from another company, the only men he’d found at the assembly point. Either Gene and his friends had already proceeded, or they were—no, he wouldn’t think of that.
Booms of artillery fell behind him, closer and closer. Might be German artillery or it might be the US Navy, unaware that the Rangers were already so far inland. Didn’t matter where it came from. It only mattered that he needed to run.
His breath came in hard puffs, and Lyons’s Browning Automatic Rifle bumped against his back.
Ruins of a farmhouse appeared, and Clay dropped to a squat. Jagged stone walls with broken windows, a collapsed roof, and shrubbery that could conceal the enemy.
American voices called in the distance. Three Rangers ran past the farmhouse unmolested. They must have already cleared the buildings.
“Come on, men.” Clay ran in a zigzag path, his gaze sweeping the bushes and walls and windows.
On the far side of the house, he jumped into a trench, but it ended soon. Open field stretched ahead. Half a dozen Rangers ran across alone or in pairs, taking different paths, as they’d been trained.
Miller from the other company tilted his head to the left, and Clay nodded. He’d go to the right and he’d go first.
Up out of the trench, and his feet pounded over the grass. Fewer craters this far south to slow him down—or to hide in.
A machine gun rattled to his right—but far away. Small arms fire cracked to the left, and closer.
Someone lay splayed on the ground. Clay didn’t dare stop to help, but one glance told him it was too late. It was Ernie McKillop. And he was dead.
“Oh, Lord.” Clay groaned and ran harder. He was supposed to die today, so McKillop and Gene and Holman and Ruby could live.
He slid into the trench on the far side. According to his mental map, it would lead to the second objective, the coastal highway between Grandcamp-les-Bains and Vierville-sur-Mer.
American voices soothed his ears as he drew closer. He climbed out of the trench about twenty feet from the highway and yelled out the call sign so he wouldn’t get shot by his buddies.
“Paxton.” Lieutenant Taylor gave him a nod. “What’s the word?”
Clay scanned the group—Holman, Ruby, Brady, the other two men from the BAR squad, about a dozen others. Where was Gene? He fought off a sick feeling. “Holman and Brady probably told you. No gun in our emplacement, only a telephone pole.”
“Same at the other five positions.” Taylor gestured with his Tommy gun across the road. “Patrols are searching for them
. Len Lomell saw tracks down there.”
“Good. I saw tracks heading south from our emplacement.”
“The highway’s secure. We’re expecting the 116th Infantry Regiment and the Rangers from Omaha around noon.” Taylor gestured east, toward Vierville, and then to the west. “We expect German reinforcements from the south and the west, so that’s where we’ll set up defenses. We need one more patrol down this lane.”
“I’ll do that, sir. Holman, Ruby, you’re with me.” Clay led them across the paved highway and down the dirt lane, flanked by tall hedgerows. Twenty feet down the lane, Clay found a gap in the hedgerow—an empty field lay on the other side.
“Anyone seen G. M.?” The question caught on his throat.
“Nah.” Ruby checked the other side. “We lost contact with him on the way to the assembly point, same as you and Lyons.”
Clay’s shoulders tensed. “Lyons is gone.”
Ruby groaned. “Oh, man.”
“I saw McKillop go down a few minutes ago.” Holman pointed his rifle down the lane. “I’m sure he’s fine.”
This wasn’t the time to tell Holman his best friend was dead. “I’m sure Gene’s fine too.” If Gene was gone, Clay would find out soon enough, either here or in heaven.
Right now he had to find those six guns. Even if the guns were placed several miles inland, the Germans could do serious damage with 155-mm shells.
Leapfrogging and checking through the hedgerows, the three men proceeded about three hundred yards. At the end of the lane, another ran east to west.
Clay crouched at the corner and poked his rifle and his head around to the right, while Ruby checked to the left. All clear.
Holman darted across and peered through the hedgerow on the far side. “An orchard.”
Clay joined him. Apple trees filled the field, heavy with moss and tiny green apples. If he wanted to hide artillery, an orchard would be a good place to do so.
To the right, the lane ended in about a hundred yards. Clay headed that direction. Every twenty feet or so, he surveyed the orchard while Ruby and Holman covered him.
About thirty yards from the end of the lane, he heard something. He motioned for Ruby and Holman to get down. They dropped, pointing their rifles in opposite directions.
Clay flattened himself to the hedgerow. Sticks and leaves poked him, and he edged up to see through the thinning brush near the top.
To his right, shapes broke up the neat pattern of trees—angled shapes. Five of them.
The guns! Each pointed west, straight toward Utah Beach.
Motion beside the closest gun. Clay ducked a bit, then poked the tip of his rifle through.
A man with the rounded silhouette of an M1 helmet.
Clay sighed in relief. A Ranger.
A soft pop. A fizzing sound.
A thermite grenade—good. The grenades created massive amounts of molten heat and could weld shut the breech or the traversing mechanism of a gun, quietly disabling it.
Clay tapped Ruby’s and Holman’s feet. “One of ours. He found the guns. Let’s cover him.”
Then two Rangers ran north up the lane—including the man with the thermite grenades.
“That’s Sergeant Lomell,” Ruby said. “And Jack Kuhn.”
“Great.” With that branch of the lane clear, Clay motioned in the other direction.
Fifteen minutes later they returned to the highway. No sign of enemy activity, thank goodness, and Clay reported to Lieutenant Taylor.
Taylor grinned. “D Company found and disabled five guns, E Company blew up the ammunition dump, F Company cleared Au Guay, the roadblock is set, and we’ve sent runners to Rudder at his headquarters on the point. All before 0900.”
“Great news, sir.” Now they just had to hold off any German counterattacks and wait a few hours for the force from Omaha Beach.
Taylor gathered the men. “All right, boys. We have about fifty men here at the highway. We’ll set up defensive positions down this north-south lane and at the east-west lane bordering the orchard.”
Clay’s squad received an assignment toward the middle of the orchard lane, and they headed east down the highway.
Ahead lay the village of Au Guay. Ancient stone houses and mossy stone walls stood silent and wary.
Clay turned right down a dirt lane. If it weren’t for the rifle in his hand and the sound of gunfire in the distance, it would make a pleasant stroll in the country.
But everything felt crooked. Down these lanes lay no craters to serve as his pit, no pillboxes to storm.
Had he misinterpreted his dream? Had his imagination played tricks on him?
Clay tripped on a root. He hadn’t felt so unbalanced in years.
CHICAGO
Leah burst through Juanita’s front door. “I found them! I found my sisters!”
“You did?” Mama Paxton rose from the chair by the radio. “Are they here in town?”
“I hope so. I have the name and address of the couple who adopted them. Well, at least their address fifteen years ago. I need a phone book.”
Juanita emerged from the nursery, bouncing Helen on her shoulder. “First, you need to take care of this sweet thing. She doesn’t like formula.”
“Of course she doesn’t.” Leah took her daughter, who fussed and squirmed. “Come on, sweetheart. Mama’s here.”
“While you’re nursing, I’ll look in the phone book,” Mama called from the kitchen.
“Thank you.” Leah settled in the rocking chair, unbuttoned her blouse, and called out Hobart Scholz’s address. “I hope they’re still in Chicago. I’m so thankful it’s an unusual name.”
Helen latched on and calmed.
Leah rocked, her foot tapping restlessly. “Anything yet?”
Mama came to the door with the phone book and a smile. “There’s a Hobart Scholz in Chicago. Not the same address, but he’s in this very neighborhood.”
“Oh!” Everything in her wanted to bolt out the door, but she settled back. “My sisters have lived without me for fifteen years. I suppose they can wait another thirty minutes.”
“Remember,” Mama said, “the girls will be in school.”
Yes, they would. “I should call first anyway, to make sure it’s the correct Hobart Scholz.”
Mama closed the phone book, one finger marking the page. “And give them time to prepare. This could be a shock.”
But what a pleasant shock to find a long-lost sister.
Above the contented sounds of Helen’s swallowing rose the radio’s static, and Leah’s heart shifted. She didn’t mean to forget about Clay—only to keep busy. “Any news from France?”
“Only that it’s going well. It’s too early for details.” Worry creased Mama’s forehead.
Leah cradled her tiny child. Her love for Helen was far bigger than her heart, and she knew she’d never stop loving her or worrying about her. What must it be like for Mama Paxton, knowing all three sons were in mortal danger?
How long would they have to wait? The radio wouldn’t deliver news on the Paxton boys. If Clay had survived, his letter to Leah wouldn’t arrive for weeks. If he hadn’t, the telegram could arrive in days.
She shuddered and pulled her baby closer.
After Helen finished, Leah burped her, changed her diaper, and laid her down for a nap, right on schedule.
Out in the kitchen, Mama grinned and pointed to the telephone on the wall. “Ready?”
“Yes.” She memorized the phone number and dialed, her finger and heart trembling.
Mama pulled a chair over, and Leah sat down.
One ring. Two rings. Three. Leah bit her lip. What if they weren’t home?
“Good day. Scholz residence.”
“Hello.” Leah’s voice tumbled out. “I’m Leah—Mrs. Clay Paxton. Are you Mrs. Hobart Scholz?”
“Yes . . .” Expectation warmed the woman’s voice.
Leah’s shoulders relaxed. “Do you have daughters named Callie and Polly?”
“Yes. Are yo
u one of their friends?” She sounded so sweet and friendly.
“I’m quite fond of them.” Leah ran her damp hand along her skirt and glanced to Mama Paxton for courage. “Although I haven’t seen them for almost fifteen years. I’m their sister.”
“Their . . . sister? They don’t have a sister.” Mrs. Scholz’s voice sharpened.
Leah worked her finger into the coil of the phone cord. “My maiden name is Thalia Karahalios.”
A gasp on the other end. “I’ve never—I’ve never heard that name.”
“My parents were Georgios and Althea Karahalios. They were killed in 1929. I was four, and Callie and Polly were eight months old. But I remember them well.”
“That isn’t—that isn’t possible.” Her voice shook and lowered. “They never mentioned another—another child.”
“At the orphanage?” Sadness seeped into Leah’s chest. How could they not have mentioned her to her sisters’ adoptive parents? “Another family adopted me first. I didn’t want to leave my sisters, but I didn’t have a choice. I’ve been looking for them ever since. Would it be possible for me to come over and see them?”
“Oh! Heavens, no.” Mrs. Scholz’s voice quivered. “Absolutely not. They—they don’t know they’re adopted.” She whispered the last word.
“Why—why not? Shouldn’t they know?”
“No, of course not. The social worker told us not to. She said it was best, so the girls would never be ashamed of where they came from.” Tears heaved through her words. “They’re our daughters. They’ve always been our daughters.”
Leah’s breath came fast and shallow. “Yes, but—”
“Telling them—oh, I couldn’t. I couldn’t hurt them like that. They’re such happy, well-adjusted girls, so active and well liked. I can’t let you upset their world. I won’t.” Conviction solidified in Mrs. Scholz’s tone.
Leah’s head shook back and forth. “But they’re my sisters, the only people left from my family. I—I love them.”
“I beg you. If you do love them, let them be. Please let them be.”
“But—”
“Please, Mrs.—Mrs.—Please don’t contact me again. Good day.” She hung up.
