Simple Faith

by Anna Schmidt

  Anja glanced in the mirror and then looked again. She did not recognize the woman staring back at her.

  “Get dressed,” Gisele said. “I have to go now, but I will see you at the party. You must not appear to know me, all right?”

  Anja nodded.

  “Good. I will let Peter know you are nearly ready.” And then to Anja’s surprise, the actress leaned in and kissed her lightly on each cheek. “I had no idea of all that you … Not until I was arrested … I had no idea, Anja,” she repeated, her voice breaking as she fled the room.

  Anja dressed, trying hard not to get any makeup on the outfit or disturb the dark wig. It amazed her that everything fit perfectly, and she knew that this had been Gisele’s unfailing eye for fashion and fit. In any other time, Gisele might have owned her own boutique or even designed clothes for the rich and famous. Instead, she was on her way to play the role of hostess to a party that was no more than a front to smuggle Anja and Peter and perhaps others onto the merchant ship and get them out of Spain.

  Well, if Gisele could carry this off, then Anja was going to play her role to perfection. She draped the long silk scarf that matched the dress over her shoulders and went to find Peter.

  The party was crowded and loud and exuded an air of pure phoniness as far as Peter was concerned. Was anyone fooled by this charade? He doubted it. The ship and dock next to it were packed with people who moved freely up and down the gangplank, laughing and flirting. Among them were members of the Spanish dictator Franco’s Guardia Civil—an elite corps that had been trained by the Nazis. They watched and listened as they wove their way among the partygoers, taking up their positions.

  At nine o’clock the sound of shrill whistles brought everything to a stop, and the ship went silent. Over a public address system came the announcement that the party was over and all guests were to immediately leave the ship. Anyone not part of the ship’s crew was to line up along the dock and present their papers. Suddenly Peter saw that there were a great many more soldiers than he had first thought as they emerged from the dark and formed a human wall that left the partygoers between them and the water. The second announcement made it clear that the crew was to immediately assemble on deck and the ship would be searched.

  In the confusion that followed, Peter looked around for Anja. He had worked hard to keep her in sight throughout the evening, but disguised as she was, it was difficult. Several women were dressed similarly with hairstyles that were like the wig she wore. He followed one woman as she hurried through the crowd toward the gangplank. He even reached for her arm to stop her, but then she turned and he looked down into the face of a stranger.

  Someone brushed against him. “This way,” the sailor murmured, and not knowing what else to do, Peter followed.

  “My wife,” he said as he hurried after the young man.

  “This way,” his guide insisted, and Peter realized that the man neither spoke nor understood English but had been taught these two key words.

  They passed a doorway, and the young man shoved Peter inside and closed the door without following. Peter was at the top of a metal stairway with nowhere to go but down. And down and down. By the time he reached the last step, he could hear the metal doors opening and closing above him and knew that the search was on. Where was Anja?

  Formby had told him that they would be hidden in the propeller shaft. He had even showed Peter a diagram of the ship’s internal rooms, but none of this looked like anything he had seen. And even if he came to a door clearly marked “Propeller Shaft,” he had no intention of going anywhere until he found Anja.

  Footsteps behind him made him dodge into a narrow corridor. He held his breath when he heard the footsteps quicken. He’d been seen. Someone was coming. More than one—there were two sets of footsteps. He pressed himself against the wall, his head almost touching the low ceiling lined with pipes. There was little light except for that which came from small fixtures spaced several feet apart in the main corridor. He waited, hoping that the shadows would protect him.

  “Peter?” A hiss. A whisper. But one he knew.

  Anja!

  He stepped out from his hiding place and nearly collided with Anja and Gisele—both of them now dressed in sailor suits like those worn by the crew. “This way,” Gisele instructed, and she kept moving while Peter took a moment to make sure that Anja was all right.

  “Hurry,” Anja insisted as she grabbed his hand and ran after Gisele.

  Toward the end of the corridor, one of the lights was out, leaving that area in darkness. A door opened a crack, sending a shaft of weak light and the thunder of engines idling into the hallway. Gisele ran inside, and Peter and Anja followed. With hand gestures, Gisele pointed to a small cubbyhole between the propeller shaft and the low ceiling. Then she slid beneath the shaft and emerged on the other side, where she scrambled up to an identical space there. Peter hoisted Anja onto the shaft, and she crawled to the hiding place. He followed and pressed in with her. The door below them opened and closed. Peter saw a Norwegian sailor study a chart. A moment later, the door opened again and two members of the Spanish guard entered the room and ordered the man aside. They showed him the burned-out light and berated him for not repairing it.

  Another shrill whistle and the Spanish soldiers hurried away. As soon as they were gone, the Norwegian reached up and twisted the lightbulb all the way in so that it worked perfectly. After several minutes that felt more like hours, Peter heard the unmistakable sound of the propeller turning, and he felt the ship begin to move.

  They were on their way.

  “Next stop—Gibraltar,” he whispered, and he was not sure whether the tears he felt dampening his hands were Anja’s or his.

  CHAPTER 22

  Anja wasn’t sure what she had expected Gibraltar to be like. She knew that it was an island and tropical, but as she and Peter stood on the deck of the merchant ship on their approach, she could hardly believe her eyes. The island was dominated by an enormous rock formation that terraced down to the town and harbor below. The harbor was alive with military ships of all types.

  “The locals must feel quite secure,” she said.

  “Most of the locals were relocated when the war began,” Peter told her. “No one was really sure what Spain would do—only that they favored Hitler and the other Axis powers. I suppose we can credit their long civil war with the fact that they decided to sit this war out and maintain their neutrality. Gibraltar is a key for the Allies—it keeps the Italians from attacking from the Atlantic and the Germans from entering the Mediterranean.”

  Anja stared at the landscape before her. The island was small in comparison to other islands—not that much larger than her home island of Bornholm back in Denmark. But she recalled that the name Gibraltar had over the centuries come to mean “Invincible.” Maybe it was the towering limestone mountain that jutted up hundreds of meters into the cloudless sky from an otherwise flat seascape. And maybe it was that rock formation pocked with armaments—artillery bunkers with their weapons pointed directly at arriving ships like theirs.

  The harbor was like a highway for military ships of all sorts and sizes—coming and going—or docked as if waiting for their next orders.

  “That’s one of ours,” Peter said excitedly as he pointed to a large ship flying the American flag.

  Anja’s heart sank, for there was no denying the excitement in Peter’s voice or the sparkle in his eyes as he gazed at the ship and its flag. Perhaps she had been fooling herself to believe that with all they had been through he had changed. Perhaps she had so wanted him to follow the ways of her faith—the aversion to war—that she had misjudged his loyalties. She remembered their late-night talks when he first came to them—those nights at the farm. She remembered how he had shaken his head in wonder at the very idea that you could ever deal with a tyrant like Hitler without declaring war on Germany. She recalled how he had actually laughed at her suggestion that even a man like Hitler had come into the world with God’s spiri
t dwelling within him.

  There are times, Anja, when the only option is to fight, he had insisted. Did he still believe that? As he gazed out at the harbor filled with military and naval equipment and personnel, did he think this was an answer?

  Behind her she heard Gisele’s laughter. The Frenchwoman had made friends with almost all of the crew, and she had confided to Peter and Anja just the evening before that once they reached Gibraltar, she had plans. “You are not to worry about me,” she insisted when Peter tried to explain as gently as possible that it was unlikely that she would be included when he and Anja were flown back to England.

  “As if I would consider spending my life in such a place,” she had huffed dismissively. “The British are good people, but they are dull and without the kind of zest for life that we French thrive on.”

  “You can’t go back to Paris,” Anja had said.

  “No. But Italy might be an option,” she had replied with a wink that told Anja not to ask any more questions. “I have made it this far in this war, cherie, and I will make it the rest of the way.”

  “Gisele, do not do anything foolish,” Peter had warned.

  “C’est la vie, Peter.” She had caressed their cheeks and then hurried off to have dinner with the ship’s captain. She was still wearing the sailor pants they had changed into when they left Seville, but she had paired them with the colorful shawl scarf that Anja had worn over her dress for the party. A shawl that Gisele had fashioned into an elegant, halter-necked sleeveless blouse.

  As Anja glanced back at her, she saw that Gisele was standing on the deck above them, her face turned up to the sun, her hair blowing in the tropical wind.

  “She is amazing,” Anja murmured, and Peter glanced back as well.

  “You are amazing,” he corrected her.

  As soon as they docked and walked down the gangplank, a military escort was there to meet them. An officer dressed in the uniform of the British Navy stepped forward. “Second Lieutenant Peter Trent?”

  Peter offered the officer a sharp salute. “Yes sir.”

  “And this is …”

  “Anja Trent—my wife.”

  The officer frowned but made no comment. “This way,” he instructed. He led the way along a narrow street that climbed up toward the rock formation that was even more intimidating at close range than it had been when seen from the ship. It surprised Peter how easily he fell back into the mode of following orders. He asked no questions but simply followed the man’s lead.

  But he could not help being taken aback when they were led to an opening that took them inside the mountain where a honeycomb of corridors and rooms had been constructed that included offices, a hospital, barracks, and a mess hall for the men stationed there, and miles and miles of hallways that led deeper and deeper into the core of the mountain.

  “Wait here,” the officer instructed when they reached an office. He pointed to a row of armless chairs. “Be seated.”

  “Peter, I don’t think they are happy that I am with you,” Anja whispered. “I think they were expecting you but not …”

  “This way.” The officer was back and headed out the door and on down the corridor.

  He stopped abruptly and handed a man seated at a desk some papers. “This is the American … and his wife. They are to be examined by the doctor and cleared for transfer.”

  “Yes sir.”

  “And then?” Anja asked unable to hold her tongue one minute longer.

  “And then, Mrs. Trent, you and your husband will be flown to England tonight.”

  By this time tomorrow they would be free—free of the fear and the constant worry. Peter put his arm around Anja’s shoulders. “It’s over, Anja.”

  But he knew that it wasn’t—not really. Once back in England, he would be expected to report to his unit, where he would receive his assignment—presumably for a mission over enemy territory. But Anja would be out of danger, and if Dr. Alonzo was true to his word, so would Daniel. His family would be safe, and for Peter this was all that mattered.

  The medical examination was more than a simple physical. Anja was asked a series of questions, and while the man asking the questions was unfailingly polite, she had the same feeling of panic she had experienced when being interrogated by the Gestapo. What if she got it wrong? What if she said something that made these men decide that she could not go with Peter? It seemed to her that the closer they got to freedom, the higher the stakes.

  She closed her eyes and mentally repeated the teaching of her faith that admonished her to “proceed as the way opens.” All she could do under the circumstances was to wait for God’s guidance and then move forward with unflagging faith that God’s plan for her would be revealed.

  “Mrs. Trent? Are you unwell?”

  She opened her eyes and smiled at the medic. “I am fine, sir. What was the question?”

  “I asked if you would like a cup of tea while you wait for your husband.”

  “Yes, thank you. Where is my husband?”

  “He is being debriefed by our intelligence officer. Once that is complete, the two of you—along with three other airmen who arrived here yesterday—will be on your way to England.”

  “And Peter—my husband—will then rejoin his unit?”

  “I cannot say for sure of course, but based on my examination, I expect that your husband will either be reassigned or perhaps even be discharged. His leg injury and overall physical condition make it impossible for me to believe he will be thought fit for any more bombing raids.”

  Anja’s heart soared at this news. If Peter were found unfit for active duty, they would both be safe. She was about to say aloud how wonderful this news was to her, but then she realized that the medic—indeed all of the men in this underground city—still faced a great deal of danger and perhaps months before they could consider themselves safe or be reunited with loved ones.

  “Have you any news of the woman who arrived with us—Gisele St. Germaine?”

  The medic smiled, and Anja was fairly certain that he also blushed. “Miss St. Germaine is being processed. I believe that her plans at the moment are uncertain.”

  The phone next to him rang. He had a brief exchange with the caller and then stood up. “Well, Mrs. Trent, are you ready?”

  She could hardly believe it. They were going—they were really going. “I am ready,” she replied, and her polite smile changed to one of pure delight when he led her down the hall and into a room where not only Peter was waiting, but also the airmen Ian, Colin, and Eddie.

  They arrived in Southampton late that night. Anja barely slept, for she was anxious for a new day to come—a day that she hoped would bring Daniel back to her. Each day for over a week while Peter reported to the naval base to be debriefed again and reassigned to help plan the highly secret offensive that could turn the tide of the war, Anja stood on a hillside and watched the ships come to the harbor. And each evening she would trudge back to the little house that Peter had rented for her and wait for another day to dawn. She didn’t even know what she was watching for—what flag would the ship carry? Would it be a passenger ship or a military vessel?

  Then one day when she had nearly given up hope, she saw a ship dock, saw the crew disembark and begin to unload the cargo, and saw a man who reminded her of Peter running up the gangplank. She looked closer, using the binoculars that Peter had given her because as a civilian she was not allowed to come too close. This was, after all, a military base. Impatiently, she searched the area.

  It was Peter, and with him were Josef and Lisbeth and …

  “Daniel!”

  Heedless of any military rules, she ran toward the harbor only to be stopped by guards on patrols. “My son,” she gasped as she pointed to Peter and Daniel coming off the ship. “That boy is my son. The man with him is my husband—Second Lieutenant Peter Trent.”

  The guards lowered their weapons but explained that they could not permit her to come any closer. “I’ll go and speak with the commander
,” one of them assured her. “We will work this out, ma’am. I just need you to be patient a little longer.”

  A little longer? Could this young man possibly fathom how long she had waited already? No, perhaps not. She decided to cooperate, but first she got as close as the guards allowed and shouted her son’s name. “Daniel! I am here.” She waved madly with both arms, and finally he saw her.

  “Mama!” The single word shot straight to her heart. Daniel was here on British soil. He was safe. They were all finally safe.

  EPILOGUE

  Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,

  Where there is hatred, let me sow love;

  Where there is injury, pardon;

  Where there is doubt, faith;

  Where there is despair, hope;

  Where there is darkness, light;

  Where there is sadness, joy.

  O Divine Master,

  grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled, as to console;

  to be understood, as to understand;

  to be loved, as to love.

  For it is in giving that we receive.

  It is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

  and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

  Amen

  —SAINT FRANCIS OF ASSISI

  England

  VE Day, May 8, 1945

  Anja heard the cheering before she saw the people begin to rush from their houses and down the middle of the streets of Southampton. As if they had been standing by at the ready, men appeared with ladders and yards of red, white, and blue bunting that they began attaching to storefronts and awnings. Children released from school joined in the celebration, waving small British flags.