“She thanked me quite nicely,” he told Zack. “Normally, they don’t bother.”
When Willi saw him, she folded her newspaper and stood up. “Would you mind walking?” she asked. She looked tired and drawn from the monumental hangover that was still marching around in her head. Outside, the weather had started to clear and patches of blue were breaking through the heavy clouds. “I think it’s going to turn into a nice day,” she said, making small talk. She glanced at him. “I want to thank you for last night, I don’t normally drink—at least not that way.”
“It was obvious,” Zack said. “But sometimes it’s the only way to hang on to your sanity.”
“Sanity,” she said, wanting to talk, “I think we’ve all lost it. It was those damn E-boats and Hofmann. Two weeks ago, he attacked an amphibious training exercise on the coast of Devon. Sailed in bold as brass, torpedoed two ships, machine-gunned six landing craft, killed I don’t know how many people, all Americans.”
They walked in silence. There was more that she wanted to say but could not. SOE had become deeply involved in the operation because the Gestapo had moved numerous French prisoners to serve as human shields into the buildings built on top of the pens where the E-boats docked. Unknown to the Gestapo, some of the prisoners were part of the Mistral network that had been inadvertently picked up. “We had information,” she continued, “that dictated the attack be extremely precise.” Part of the attack called for the Mosquitoes to hit the building where the Mistral agents were being held to kill them before the Germans discovered what they had. But by the same token, they had wanted to spare as many Frenchmen as possible.
And they wanted Hofmann. His boat had also been identified inserting German agents along the British coastline and SIS was positive that he had picked up a group of Luftwaffe officers who had escaped from a POW camp. “Hofmann’s the very devil,” she said. She gave him a plaintive look. “We had to select the targets.”
“Is that why you’re here?” he asked. She nodded. “And Bonder thought it was too risky?” Again she nodded. “Do you remember last night?” She shook her head no. “We all do the best we can,” he repeated. “It’s as simple as that.” Then he added, “I would have volunteered for the mission.”
Willi stopped dead in her tracks, a great weight lifted from her shoulders. “Why?”
“Because it’s something we have to do—you, me, Chantal—all of us. Your grandfather says it’s the ‘call to duty.’ Perhaps it’s our fate, I don’t know.” He paused for a moment. “But I do know that we can’t run from it.”
She felt a quiet resolve pull her back from the chasm of doubt where she had been tottering. “Thank you,” she said. “I was very near the edge.”
“Self-doubt and a sense of responsibility can do that to you.” Then he looked at her. “Shall we get on with it?”
“Yes, let’s do that.”
They walked back to the officers mess, a fragile peace established between them.
NINE
Morgan Adams, Washington, D.C.
The song’s rock and roll lyrics sang out through the apartment and Mazie did a clumsy little spin as she half-danced and half-tripped across the room to turn up the volume on the stereo. Then she pranced back into the kitchen, stomping her feet as she worked at cleaning it up. “La danse de la petite elephante,” she laughed, wondering if she had said it right. French was her weakest language but she liked to play with it as a distraction. She surveyed her handiwork and decided that it would do. Her father always wanted to do the cooking when he came to visit, claiming that she delighted in poisoning him with her cooking. So, she always cleaned the kitchen first. It will be stir-fry tonight, Mazie calculated. She surveyed the clutter in her large three-room apartment on the third floor of an old house off Columbia Road. Like her office, it was a study in disorganization and drove her father wild. But she knew where everything was. “What difference will ten minutes make?” she muttered, checking her watch. A knock on the door ended any further agony over her sloppy housekeeping.
Kamigami’s huge frame filled the doorway and she was in his arms, making him drop the two bags he was carrying. “Hi, Pop,” she said, content just to hug him. A slow smile spread across Victor Kamigami’s face as he held his only child. He was home.
Later, after they had finished the dinner he had cooked and after she had put the kitchen back in order, mostly to satisfy his sense of discipline, she joined him on the comfortable old couch she had rescued from the Salvation Army. “I was looking at this the other night,” he said, pulling an old family photo album out of a bag, “and thought you might like to have it.” They leafed through the pages together and he again called up the personalities and places that went with each photo. She hadn’t seen the album in years. When they got to the last page, a heavy silence came down. There was only one photo. A young and beaming Kamigami was holding a cherubic baby in his left arm and his right arm encircled a rotund young woman. She could have been Mazie’s twin sister.
“You really loved her, didn’t you?” Mazie could not remember her mother and only knew her through his memories.
“Still do,” he said. The pain of his wife’s death soon before Mazie’s first birthday had long died and there was only an occasional sadness when he thought of what might have been.
“Why didn’t you ever remarry?”
Kamigami didn’t have the answer. “The Army, I suppose. It seemed to fill a gap, and with your grandmother to help raise you, I couldn’t see changing….” His voice trailed off.
“What are you going to do when you retire? Move back to Hawaii?”
Kamigami tried to look at his future and be honest with himself. “I don’t know what I’ll do and since your grandmother died, there’s no one left on Maui. The family seems to have scattered.” It made him sad to think about it, but the Kamigami family had broken apart, fractured by the pressure of modern society.
“Why don’t you move in with me?” Mazie asked. She quickly added, “At least until you get settled and decide what you’re going to do.” Mazie had seen how her father’s stubborn pride drove his decisions. “You’re too young to retire and vegetate.”
“I’ll think about it,” he replied.
“I’ll put out some feelers….”
“Mazie, don’t go worrying about me. I’ll work it out. There’s something out there I can do.” It amused him when he thought how a prospective employer would react to his qualifications as a professional warrior. “Sometimes I wish that I hadn’t stayed so focused and branched out more,” he allowed.
“It’s not too late to change,” she said. “You can take classes….”
“I wonder.” He stared at the album, still open in front of him. “The Army is all I’ve ever been. It’s what I am.”
Bethesda Naval Hospital, Maryland
Captain Smithson had received the alerting phone call that Pontowski was on his way to the hospital. He reached the third floor in time to make sure everything was in order before the President arrived to visit his wife. “We’re looking good, Edith,” he told the head nurse. She peered over her reading glasses at the President’s doctor, wondering if the man would ever learn that her ward was always in good order. Smithson hurried off for one last check and to chase away anyone the President might stop and talk to. It was another opportunity to be in the limelight that he didn’t want to share.
Edith suppressed a smile and made no move to page Smithson when she saw the Secret Service agents come out of the elevator and do one last sweep before Pontowski arrived. Two minutes later, she looked up and saw the tall figure of the President coming toward her. They went through the greetings that had become a ritual when he came to the hospital late at night. Then he said, “Edith, you’re always on duty. Don’t you ever take a night off?”
“Of course, Mr. President.” She smiled, touched by his concern. The nurse would never tell him that as long as his wife was on her floor, she would cover every night shift.
�
��I brought this for her room,” he said, holding up a framed photograph for her inspection. A middle-aged Pontowski was holding a baby and standing next to a young version of himself. “Tosh took this,” he explained. “That’s my son, Zack Junior, and my grandson, Matt.” A gentle smile spread across his face as he looked at the picture.
“There’s a strong family resemblance,” the nurse said. She and Tosh had talked about their families and Edith knew that Zack Junior had died in a fiery crash in Vietnam when his F-4C Phantom had crashed into a hill. Now the President’s grandson, Matt, was in the Air Force and, like his father, flew fighters.
“There’s going to be a new addition to the family,” Pontowski explained. “Matt called tonight. His wife, Shoshana, is expecting and they’ll be here Friday. I want to tell Tosh.”
“She’s asleep, Mr. President,” Edith said.
“I’ll wait until she wakes up,” he said. “Hope it’s a boy.” He turned and walked down the hall.
“So do I,” Edith whispered.
Smithson scurried up to the desk in time to see Pontowski disappear into Tosh’s room. He hurried after him, dismissing the nurse with a contemptuous glance. “And that, Dr. Smithson,” she murmured, “is the difference between you and a great man.” In her mind, she ranked Pontowski with Winston Churchill and FDR, the two great wartime leaders of the twentieth century.
1943
Stowmarket, Suffolk, England
The old coachman stomped up and down the train platform to keep warm. He kept glancing at the clock over the waiting room entrance and urged the minute hand to touch twenty-two minutes past the hour. It did. “Late, as usual,” he groused to the middle-aged woman who was serving as a porter until the war ended.
“Wait inside, dear,” she said. “They’re always late now.” The clanging of a nearby crossing guard bell announced the imminent arrival of the train. “Only four minutes late,” the woman porter said. The train pulled into the station amid smoke, steam, wheezes, and grinds. “Good as on time, these days,” she announced. A compartment door swung open and Zack stepped onto the platform. Ruffy followed by a few steps.
“Over here,” the coachman called.
Zack smiled and walked briskly over. They shook hands and he introduced Ruffy. “How’s everyone?” he asked.
“Most about the same. The duke’s been under the weather and the doctor won’t let him out. Just as well—the bloody old fool wanted to drive over to meet you himself. He always did fancy himself a coachman. I brought the trap today.” He guided them to the light one-horse carriage waiting outside the station. They bundled in and the old man set the horse at a brisk pace toward Sherston Hall.
Zack asked about the duke’s old mare. “How’s Nancy doing?”
“The duke had to put ’er down…twisted bowel. Damn painful. It about killed the duke, but he did it himself. He’s been going downhill ever since.” They rode in silence the rest of the way.
The duke was waiting in the library for them. As usual, he was impatient and not content to sit comfortably in front of the fire. Instead, he hobbled around on a walking stick, ignoring the pain in his legs and hip. “About time,” he said when Zack and Ruffy entered the room. Zack introduced Ruffy and the duke waved them to nearby chairs while he settled into the large overstuffed wingback chair he always claimed. Zack could see that he was in pain and much weaker. “Glad you could join us,” he told Ruffy. “Sorry to hear about your family.” There was genuine concern in his voice.
Zack had written how a stray German bomber had crashed near Norwich and destroyed Ruffy’s home. His parents had been asleep and never knew what killed them. The duke had sent a letter in his almost illegible handwriting inviting them both to visit on their next leave. At first, Ruffy had been hesitant to accept the offer but Zack had convinced him. “Look,” he had argued, “Sherston Hall is close to Norwich so if it gets too much for you, claim family business and go visit your aunt or sister.”
Within a few minutes, Ruffy found that he was enjoying the old duke’s company and they found themselves in a rousing argument about how to treat the Germans after the war. Much to Ruffy’s surprise, the duke argued for a much more lenient peace than after World War I. “Reparations, punishment, all that nonsense last time didn’t work. Got to try something different…. Maybe we should listen to your chap.” He waved his walking stick toward Zack. “Amnesty, forgiveness…that sort of thing…when we can.”
“That was Abraham Lincoln,” Zack told him, “and we didn’t listen to him then.”
The duke grunted an answer. “Damn colonials. Don’t know when they’ve got it right.”
“Grandfather!”—the familiar voice captured their attention—“Will you please be nice to our guests?” It was Willi. The old man humphed and settled back into his chair. Ruffy caught the wicked gleam in his eye.
“What a coincidence,” Ruffy said.
“Hardly,” the duke conceded.
“Some leave,” Ruffy groaned as he and Zack entered the dining room after a long day cleaning out the stables. “You damn Yanks have this thing about hard work being good for the soul.”
“We got the idea from you,” Zack reminded him. They waited for the duke and Willi to enter. She walked beside him, arm in arm, trying not to be obvious as she steadied him. The duchess was right behind them. The duke sat at his customary place at the head of the table and urged them to enjoy the meal.
“My, but you’re being gracious lately,” Willi said.
The duke grunted an answer and shot a glance at Ruffy, who was closely watching him. The old man waited for the right moment to make his next move. “The quack,” he grumbled, “says Chartwell is out of the question—at least for me.” He lifted a bushy eyebrow and waited for his wife’s reaction. They had received an invitation from Clementine Churchill, the wife of the prime minister and the duchess’s cousin, to spend a long weekend at the Churchills’ country home in Kent. As usual, the duchess knew her husband had some devious plot in mind. She said nothing. “Of course,” he growled, “you and Wilhelmina should go without me.”
You old fool, the duchess thought, you are so transparent. She decided to play along with him. “Really,” she said, “it is out of the question. We’d have to go by train and I don’t fancy London these days. Why, just the thought of managing our bags from Liverpool to Waterloo Station to change trains is frightening.”
“One of these chaps can do bearer duties,” the duke said, glancing at Zack.
So that’s it, his wife thought, you’re throwing Zack to Willi. Well, she decided, that is a fate he doesn’t deserve. She gave her husband a sweet smile. “Well, if it wouldn’t be an imposition and if they”—she stressed this last word—“wouldn’t mind helping us through London, we could manage on our own.” The duke shot his wife a withering look and it was decided that Zack and Ruffy would escort the two women through London. When Zack discovered that Chartwell was only twenty-five miles south of London, he volunteered to travel with them all the way. Ruffy said he’d be glad to tag along and help carry their bags.
Later that night, the duke cornered Ruffy and asked if he would mind only going as far as London. When Ruffy looked confused by the request, the old man had said, “Confound it, I’ve got to patch things up between those two.” Ruffy stifled a laugh and said that wasn’t in the nature of things but that he would only go as far as Waterloo Station. The gleam was back in the duke’s eyes.
The train trip to Liverpool Street Station was uneventful but the train was packed and they were hard-pressed to find a seat for the duchess. Willi and Ruffy sat on the women’s two suitcases in the narrow corridor and Zack stood so he could better see the passing countryside. He grew depressed as they pulled into the outskirts of London and passed street after street of bombed-out buildings.
They unloaded from the train and had to take the Underground to Waterloo Station to catch the train to Sevenoaks, the nearest train station to Chartwell. It had turned into an adventure for the duch
ess and Zack was shocked to learn that it was the first time she had ever taken the “tube.” At Waterloo Station, Zack fought the ticket line to get a ticket for the duchess. Since Ruffy, Willi, and he were wearing uniforms, they traveled free. When he came back, Ruffy was gone. Willi explained that he had seen some old friends, made his apologies, and left. “He said that he’d get a room at the Imperial Hotel in Russell Square and for you to meet him there,” she told him.
“And with some encouragement from you, no doubt,” Zack said. She gave him a puzzled look. “We can’t have you and the duchess showing up at Chartwell in the company of one of the working class, now can we?” he asked.
“You don’t understand anything about us,” Willi snapped. The fragile peace between them was shattered and they made the rest of the trip in strained silence, finally arriving at Chartwell late that evening. The duchess and Clementine Churchill were obviously very close but took time to properly thank Zack and see that he had a “proper meal” and a place to sleep. He thanked them and headed for the small two-bedroom cottage at the back, where he could spend the night. He had a hard time falling asleep and kept thinking about Willi. She had disappeared with the suitcases immediately after their arrival and Zack wondered if he had misread Ruffy’s disappearance and had been too quick in his judgment.
The dull, distant echoes of bombs woke Zack from a fitful sleep. The luminous face of his wristwatch told him it was 1:50 in the morning and he tried to ignore the bombing. But the much fainter sounds of antiaircraft artillery blended with the sporadic explosions to trap his attention. He rolled over to go back to sleep. But sleep eluded him and, frustrated, he got out of bed and walked across the cold floor to open the blackout curtains. He could see a dull red glow outline Chartwell’s roofline. Now, wide awake, he quickly dressed and stepped outside in the cold night air. He picked his way along the path and followed it to a better vantage point. The northern horizon was glowing. The Germans had bombed London again.
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