by Bodie Thoene
Lori looked at Alfie. He was the first person she had looked at all day, and it made him feel better. She almost smiled at him too. “Oh, Alf,” she said. And then she washed some more.
“How uh . . . come you act like Werner did?”
Lori looked puzzled. “Werner?”
“When I let him out . . . uh . . . the cage. He thought I hurt him, locked him in on . . . uh, purpose.” He drew a deep breath. “I would not hurt Werner, but he was mad all the same because I locked him in, because he got to get used to . . . so he don’t get hurt. And you are acting like Werner when he licked his paws and don’t talk to me because he thought . . .” Alfie’s voice trailed off. It was a lot of talking, and he lost his place. He grimaced, hoping she knew he was not talking about Werner-kitten, but about her and the way she was acting about Jacob. “You understand, Lori?”
She shook her head. No. She had also lost her place. She kept washing the dishes. Not looking when Jacob whistled as he walked by one way and hummed back the other way.
“Can I dry those for you?” Jacob asked.
Lori acted as if she hadn’t heard him. Jacob acted as if something was breaking inside him. Alfie watched them both. He did not know he was smiling until Jacob got angry at him.
“What are you looking for?” Jacob said in a loud voice to Alfie.
“Leave him alone!” Lori shouted.
“He’s looking . . . smiling . . . this is not something to smile at!”
“He’s not doing anything at all! He asked me if he could help! Leave him alone!” She was slinging the dishes into the water, pushing Jacob out of the way while she scrubbed the countertop harder than she had ever scrubbed it before.
“Alfie—” Jacob shook his head, and Alfie could tell he was sorry for yelling at him.
“It’s . . . all right.” Alfie made sure he did not smile now. This was not about him. He patted Jacob on the shoulder, man-to-man, and then he went into the other room.
Mark and Jamie had gone out. Alfie picked up Werner and thought that he would also go out for a while. Something was up.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you . . .”
No answer as Alfie put his hand on the doorknob.
“Please, Lori. Please understand. Last night I . . . I could have . . . if I had not sent you away . . .”
Alfie smiled. He slipped out the door. So this really was something like Werner being put in his cage. Lori was nice. Lori was smart. Alfie felt certain that she would see how much Jacob loved her, and then she would quit licking her paws.
He reached up and scratched Werner under the chin. The kitten sat on his shoulder as they swung out into the morning light. He leaned hard against Alfie’s big head and purred. Lori would be all right, just like Werner-kitten.
***
Jacob ran his hand through his hair nervously. “It’s a good thing I’m not going with you, that’s all.”
Lori whirled to face him. “How can you say that? How? If you don’t feel the way I feel, then why did you tell me you loved me?”
“I do.” Jacob stared down at the sink full of suds. Bubbles made little rainbows in the sunlight. He groped for words. It had to be right, what he was about to tell her. What words could he use? “I love you . . . permanently. Last night, I was so afraid of hurting you. Hurting us.” He finished lamely with a shrug. “You see?”
Lori also stared at the bubbles. Her face reflected the long and sleepless night. “I threw myself at you,” she said miserably. “And you threw me out. I . . . I’m so . . . ashamed.” She covered her face with her hands and leaned back against the counter.
Jacob looked at her. She was not a girl anymore. She was a woman. The transformation had happened right before his eyes. Sunlight glinted on her golden hair. He reached out and touched it. “You think I don’t know the value of the gift you offered me?” he said gently, pulling her against his chest. She did not resist. “You’re beautiful. Oh, Lori! Like the best package under the Christmas tree. And I look at you and wonder what it would be like to unwrap you . . .”
She let her arms encircle his waist, and she laid her cheek against his chest.
He thought for a moment he could not breathe. “But, Lori, it isn’t Christmas yet. You can’t unwrap the gift until Christmas, or the whole day is ruined. You know?”
She nodded. Her face moved up and down against him, and her arms tightened around him. Her soft hands stroked his back. “Marry me,” she whispered.
“Yes. Yes. When all this is over and we’re—”
“No. Marry me today. Now. I want to spend Christmas with you.”
He lifted her chin. “You think I could let you leave me if we . . . ?”
“I’m hoping you won’t.”
He shook his head, trying to make some sense of all this. “Then I won’t . . . can’t marry you now. Because, Lori, you’ve got to get out of here. I’ll make it out someway. I’ll find you again. But you have papers in order and a ticket to leave. You go to England, and—I promise—I’ll find you by Christmas.”
She was silent. Listening. Thinking. “Marry me before I leave. They’ll let you join me if we’re married!”
That made sense, but . . . “You know what our folks would say?”
“They would be glad we did things right. Glad we knew enough . . . glad and proud that you sent me away from you last night so we could talk it over by the light of day!” Her eyes were fierce as she looked up into his face. “And it will help you get to England if you have a wife there. It doesn’t matter that we’re young, does it? I’m sure. Sure that . . .” She leaned against him.
“You can’t stay with me here,” he warned, “even if we marry! You must promise not to ask that of me.”
“I promise,” she said in a small voice. “Oh, please. Let’s not waste another minute. There are so few, Jacob. And time with you is my most precious gift.”
Jacob closed his eyes, arguing silently with everything she said. In the end, he lost the argument.
***
“Does that mean you aren’t coming to England, Lori?” Jamie looked worried as they all sat together around the table.
“No!” Jacob and Lori said at the same time. Then Jacob took over. “She is going. Just like we planned. I will come later.”
Lori nodded and nodded as he explained. “You see, when there is a relative—like a mother or a wife already in England—it makes it easier for the person left behind to immigrate.”
Mark scowled. “Well, I’m his brother! Aren’t I enough?”
Alfie was smiling because Lori looked as if she were purring. Jacob held her hand, and their fingers were woven together like a basket. “First you, Mark,” Alfie said. “Then Lori will be the wife. And Jamie will be . . . something too. Related.”
Jacob shifted in his chair and clapped Alfie on the back. Alfie got it. Why were Mark and Jamie so reluctant to see the benefits of having a wedding today?
Jamie scowled. “What will Mama say? She would want to be there. And . . . and Papa! What about that? Walking down the aisle and all that?” As the son of a pastor, Jamie had seen enough weddings that he knew how real weddings were supposed to be conducted. This was missing every possible ingredient for a successful occasion. Who would play the organ? Where were their formal clothes? A wedding dress? “What about the ring?” Jamie exploded. “You can’t have a wedding without a ring!”
Alfie stood majestically and plopped Werner into Jamie’s lap. He hurried back into their room and pulled out a bureau drawer containing his tin soldiers and his treasure sock. Dumping the sock out unceremoniously onto a line of cavalrymen, he found the answer to Jamie’s objection. It was a pretty ring, with green stones all around a large diamond. He had been saving it for something special. This seemed special enough.
“I got it!” Alfie cried, not bothering to put his other treasures back into the sock. “The best one!”
He placed it in Jacob’s hand and crossed his arms proudly. Mark and Jamie looked at each other and shr
ugged. Well, they knew absolutely that their parents would not approve. They had done their best. No one would blame them for this! Jamie gazed solemnly at the ring. “Emeralds and diamonds,” he said in a low, astonished tone. “Alfie, you’re a genius.”
Mark rephrased the comment. “A really smart fellow. I suppose that we should forever hold our peace, then. There’s no stopping them if they have a ring.”
“Papa won’t think much of this.” Jamie was still reluctant. “At least you better do it in a church.”
***
Lucy’s legs trembled when she stood. Her hands stood as she fixed her noonday meal of broth and crackers with a small slice of cheese and apple. Her mother had taught her well that from the cows in the barn to the hens in the coop, offspring fared better if the mothers were well fed. Lucy had no appetite, but she ate for the sake of her baby. She ate because she must be strong in order to leave Danzig soon.
But leave for where? Lucy pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat on a pillow to watch the baby sleep. How she wished she could go home again! How she ached to see her mother, to hear words of advice on caring for this precious little one. But there was no going back even if her parents had been willing to take her in. Wolf would find her there, and the end would be the same as if she had saved herself the trouble and stayed in Vienna!
Behind her, through the open window, Lucy could clearly hear the persistent bellow of a ship’s whistle. It would be wonderful, she thought as she looked at her little green book. Waiting at Table . . . England!
Before the priest had called out to her in the church, Lucy had imagined she had all the time in the world. Now she knew that the world had run out of time. Now, in this desperate moment, she must gather her wits and her strength for the sake of the baby. But she knew she did not have the strength to walk from here down the stairs. How, then, could she walk to the train station? Where would she find the stamina for that now?
Never had Lucy been so tired. Such weariness convinced her once again that if Wolf had not found her by now, perhaps he could not track her down at all.
She pulled back the sheet, revealing the baby’s perfectly formed head. So beautiful. Lucy’s mother would have commented on such a thing. She would have gathered her grandson into her arms and danced around the kitchen. She would have told everyone in the village that there never was a baby born with such a perfect head!
That thought somehow comforted Lucy as she gazed down tenderly on the child whom she alone had admired. No doctor. No proud grandparents. No joyful neighbors bringing food. No priest.
But the lack of all that did not change the fact that her son, beautiful and sweet, was born. He cried only when he was hungry, or when he needed changing. Did he somehow sense the sorrowing heart of his mother? Did an angel whisper in his little ear and tell him they were alone and without help, that he should be a quiet baby, a baby gentle and kind even in these first few hours of life?
It was the child who comforted Lucy, not she who comforted him. He was sleeping quietly, but she took him into her arms anyway. She pressed her cheek against his forehead as his eyes fluttered open and he considered her. She smiled down at him, and for that moment it did not matter that Lucy was alone. She felt no lack of mother or father or priest or doctor to gather in around her to admire this miracle.
Their absence did not change the fact that the miracle had happened. “For unto me a son is born,” Lucy whispered again. “And . . . his name shall be wonderful!”
She considered the little face as the baby’s first fist wobbled up to his toothless mouth. Those eyes, so serious! Yes. There was the matter of a name. Even the most wonderful baby could not be called Wonderful!
“I will sleep on it,” Lucy said quietly as she tucked him close to nurse him back to sleep. “Something worthy of a little boy as good and thoughtful as you.”
They lay together on the bed. He comforted her as the ship’s whistle sounded again and yet another ship slipped out of Danzig without Lucy and her son on board.
20
What God Has Joined Together
Concierge was an exalted word for the old man who lived at the foot of the stairs and collected the rent from the tenants of this building.
Hess presented his photographs to the doddering old fool.
Crooked fingers clutched the edges awkwardly as dim eyes strained to see the images on the paper. “Bitte. One moment.” He looked up at a light socket where a bulb had been some years past. “The light is bad in here.” He squinted and moved his arm back and forth like a trombone player as he attempted to find the proper focus for his eyes.
“A brother and a sister,” Hess urged, tapping on the faces of Lori and Jamie Ibsen so the old man would not mistake Karl Ibsen and his wife as the ones Hess was looking for.
“A nice looking family,” the concierge mumbled. “We do not have many of these sort let rooms here.” The weathered face wrinkled in distaste as the shrill laughter of a woman drifted down from the upper floors. “In the old days this was a fine boardinghouse. Before the Great War, it was a reputable establishment,” he said bitterly. “Now no one cares. No families like this come here anymore.”
“I am not looking for the entire family,” Hess repeated impatiently. “Just this boy and his sister. They would be with three other children. Not hard to spot. One among them is a Dummkopf, I am told. A big dim-witted boy.”
At this the man’s eyes sparked with recognition. He looked again at the photograph. “Yes. Not here in my block, but I think . . . the girl would be much older, you say?”
“Yes.” Hess resisted the urge to shake the information out of the old man.”Two years older than the photograph, at least.”
“Two small boys. Two older? One among them is the dimwit. A friendly fellow. Carries a little cat on his shoulder and has stopped to talk to me several times as I swept the steps.” He smiled at the thought. “They are in the neighborhood. Yes. I cannot tell you exactly where, but one does not forget such a group on a street like this.”
The old man could tell Hess nothing more. He did not know which direction they lived. Could not recall the names of the other children.
The gnarled hand stretched out, palm up, or a gratuity. Hess tossed a coin to him. It clattered on the chipped tile of the foyer, and he left the concierge groveling on the floor for his tip.
***
Orde had spent the better part of the week shuttling between the BBC and the TENS office on Fleet Street. He was getting acquainted with the mechanics of broadcasting live from the European Continent to the London studio, which would relay the program to the United States.
Arrangements had already been made for Orde to have a small storefront office in the same block as the building housing Polski Radio. It would serve as his Warsaw broadcasting base.
On the surface, it appeared simple, like sending a message by radio back to GHQ from a forward position. The problem was making the timing of each live broadcast coincide with the tiny window of broadcast time allowed during radio programming.
“Suppose I am covering an important conference in Warsaw, and I have nothing to report by airtime?” he asked Murphy and Harvey Terrill.
“Can you sing?” Harvey replied in a resentful tone.
“You’ll just have to wing it,” Murphy said with a grimace. Such things happened regularly in the new world of radio journalism. “Ask questions—plenty of questions. Get people wondering what’s coming. Then they’ll tune in when you have the answers.” Murphy leveled a look at Orde. “Just remember, talk slow! Americans love the sound of an English accent, but—”
“Right, old chap,” Orde replied. “I have heard it a million times from your Doc Grogan . . . ‘talk slowly and distinctly, please’”
Murphy had put Dr. Patrick Grogan to work improving the rapid machine-gun dialect of Samuel Orde. The pleasant, round-faced elocution specialist had drilled Orde the way Professor Higgins had taught Eliza in Pygmalion, preparing him for every eventuality. With marb
les in place in Orde’s mouth, Grogan had dared to challenge Orde to heated political discussions. Grogan had dared to challenge Orde to the argument and hammered away until Orde was red in the face with outrage and quite prepared to spit the marbles into the eye of his grinning teacher.
As if on cue, doc Grogan entered the TENS office with Charles and Louis in tow. Grogan had kept the boys at this side during the day to help out with the arrival of the newest Murphy child. He waved broadly and puffed out his cheeks as a way of greeting Orde.
He did not knock but entered the office with all the freedom of a TENS employee. “Well, well, it is Samuel Orde! I see you’ve lost your marbles at last. Here you are with Harv Terrill, and Terrill would kill to get the Warsaw assignment!” Grogan was smiling.
At this comment, Orde noticed the face of Harvey Terrill puckered with ill-suppressed dislike for Patrick Grogan.
Charles tugged Orde’s sleeve and smiled at him with a toothless grin. “We will lith-en to the radio.”
“Listen!” Louis corrected.
“Yeth. Er . . . . yes-s-s-s. But talk slow.”
Could I do otherwise with so many coaches? Orde wondered. “Even if bombs are exploding under me.” He raised his hand in solemn promise.
Orde had never seen the harried night desk editor look anything but tired. Now, as the playful repartee was exchanged between Orde and Grogan, Terrill acted downright irritated. He flashed venomous looks in Grogran’s direction. What is that about? Orde wondered. Perhaps two junior officers competing for the approval of the boss?
As the two boys boisterously clambered onto Murphy’s desk, Orde observed Terrill purposely bump a stack of papers beside them.
“Enough of this, Boss,” Terrill said, as though the boys had knocked the papers over. “This is not some playground,” he mumbled and stooped to retrieve and reorganize the documents.
Murphy shrugged apologetically. “I’ve been working you too hard, Harvey. Or you’d know this is a playground.” Grogan and Orde laughed. Terrill grunted his disapproval of the interruption.
