Praise for Friends & Enemies
Friends and Enemies hooked me from the first moment. Terri does a masterful job of creating deep, rich characters. You want to cheer – and yes, cry – for Heidi and Paul. She crafts scenes so realistic you forget you aren’t really there. Throw in a bit of suspense and mystery, and it’s a book you don’t want to put down! Bravo on a compelling debut novel.
Liz Tolsma, author of Remember the Lilies
Terri Wangard has written an extraordinary debut novel. Friends and Enemies is rich in history with characters you won't soon forget. This is a name to watch in historical fiction. Well done!
Mary Ellis, author of Midnight on the Mississippi
Terri Wangard writes a poignant story of loss and love that crosses enemy lines during World War II. Never before have I been brought to tears in the first chapter, and it only gets better.
Mary L. Hamilton, author of Rustic Knoll Bible Camp Series
Brimming with excellent research, Friends and Enemies gives an interesting look into life in Nazi Germany and the experiences of B-17 bomber crewmen. World War II fiction buffs will truly enjoy this story!
Sarah Sundin, award-winning author of Through Waters Deep
Praise for No Neutral Ground
No Neutral Ground gives a fascinating glimpse into a lesser-known aspect of the second world war–life inside a neutral nation. Wangard captures the thrill and fear of war when alliances blur and one can never be certain who is a friend or an enemy. From the cockpit of a B-17 bomber to the intricacies of espionage, this quick-paced story is well worth reading.
Christine Johnson, multi-published author of Love's Rescue
“Terri Wangard has created likable, engaging characters in an evocative story set against the backdrop of Europe during the Second World War. This novel’s rich, authentic details will delight World War Two era history buffs. And readers will find themselves rooting for the hero and heroine’s happily-ever-after in a world torn apart by war.”
Lisa Carter, author of Under A Turquoise Sky
Copyright © 2016 Terri Wangard
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Scripture quoted by permission. The King James Version is public domain in the United States.
Cover design by HopeSprings Books.
Cover art photo of woman ©William Moss, used by permission. Cover art map ©iStockphoto.com/gmutlu, used by permission. Interior art by Chalfont House or in the public domain.
Published in the United States of America by HopeSprings Books, an imprint of Chalfont House Publishing.
www.HopeSpringsBooks.com
www.ChalfontHouse.com
Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.
Paperback ISBN 978-1-938708-75-6
Table of Contents
Glossary
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Epilogue
Discussion Questions
About the Author
Bitte = Please
Entschuldigen = Excuse me
Es tut mir lied = I’m sorry
Fliegerabwehrkanonen = Anti-aircraft guns
Frau = married woman
Führer = ‘the leader’
Grossmutter = Grandmother
Grossvater = Grandfather
Guten abend = Good evening
Guten morgen = Good morning
Guten tag = Good day
Haus = house
Heilige Bibel = Holy Bible
Himmel hilf mir = Heaven help me
Jungvolk = young people
Kapitänleutnant = lieutenant commander; equivalent US rank is lieutenant
Kleines Mädchen = little girl
Kriegsmarine = navy
Leutnant zur See = midshipman; equivalent US rank is ensign
Luftwaffe = air force
Milchkühe = milk cows
Mischling = crossbreed, first degree: two Jewish grandparents
Mutter = mother
Oma = grandma
Opa = grandpa
Die Sahnefront = the cream front
Schnellboot, -e = Fast boat (similar to PT boat) singular, plural
Sieg Heil = ‘Hail Victory’
U-Boot, -e = submarine, submarines
Vater = father
Verstehen = understand
Vetter = cousin
Wasser = water
Wehrmacht = armed forces
Wie geht es Ihnen (Wie gehts) = How are you?
Woher kommen Sie? = Where do you come from?
Part 1
This is my Father’s world, O let me ne’er forget
That though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the Ruler yet.
This is my Father’s world: The battle is not done;
Jesus who died shall be satisfied, And earth and heav’n be one.
Maltbie D. Babcock
Cologne, Germany
May, 1936
“Rolf, you may no longer remain in the Hitler Youth.”
The nonsensical words sounded as though they came dredged from the depths of Herr Schultz’s soul. A long moment passed. Rolf Schilling had done nothing wrong. “Why?”
“I’m sorry, Rolf.” Sadness shone in the leader’s eyes. “Jews are not allowed membership, and you are Jewish.”
“What?” The word exploded out of him.
“Your mother is Jewish.” Herr Schultz shifted in his chair. “That makes you a first-degree Mischling.”
“No, that’s not
true.” Rolf sucked in a lungful of air. He needed to stay calm. Raising both hands, he ruffled his blond hair. “Do I look Jewish? I’m German, the most Aryan-looking student in school.” He pointed to his eyes. “Blue as the sky. Hitler should use me as his poster boy.”
“Stop, Rolf.” Sternness entered Herr Schultz’s gaze as he held up a hand. He continued in a softer tone. “Don’t speak such things. Be careful what you say.” His hand dropped to the table. “There seems to be as wide a variation in the appearance of Jews as there is among Aryans. And the Gestapo reports,” he sighed heavily, “the Svenson family is Jewish.”
“Opa and Oma are Swedish. They came from Sweden.”
Herr Schultz shook his head. “They were Jews living in Sweden.”
“No, they’re Christian. We’re all Christian. I was baptized in the Cathedral.” Desperation colored Rolf’s voice, but Herr Schultz was attacking the core of his being.
“Your religion doesn’t matter, Rolf. Your race does. Your blood is Jewish.” Herr Schultz picked up a sheaf of papers and tapped them against the table into an orderly stack. Clearly he meant to bring this meeting to a close. “Personally, Rolf, I think well of you, but,” he looked down, picking up a file for his papers, “you are no longer welcome here.”
Heat flushed through Rolf, followed by an icy chill. He lurched to his feet and hurried from the room. A reviving breeze fanned his face as he stumbled out of the Rhine Haus. He stared at the spires of Cologne Cathedral rising above the treetops. Invisible birds twittered in the branches as though nothing had happened to jar the foundation of his life.
His cousin waited for him, sprawled on a bench. The other boys had scattered for home after their sailing excursion. Christoph jumped up.
“Rolf! What’s wrong? You look like you’re sick.”
Spots danced before Rolf’s eyes and he swayed. Christoph jerked him to the bench and thrust his head down. His vision cleared as he took deep breaths. He straightened slowly, cautiously.
“What happened?”
Rolf stared at Christoph. “I’ve been expelled.”
“From what? The Naval Hitler Youth? Why?”
“Herr Schultz says the Gestapo says I’m Jewish. Mother’s Jewish. Her parents are Jewish.”
“Since when? They’re Swedish.”
“Herr Schultz says they were Jews living in Sweden.”
“You look more Aryan than anyone. How can you be Jewish? Besides, you’re Christian.”
Rolf shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. It’s in my blood.”
Christoph dropped down beside him and put his hands together, fingertip to fingertip. “Ridiculous. Your blood’s the same as mine. I’ve seen it, remember? When our tree house fell out of the tree?” He tapped his fingers in an increasing tempo. “If it really is true that your mother’s Jewish, everything’s going to change for you, and not for the better. Do you think Herr Schultz could be right?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. Last year, Opa Svenson was so upset about the Nuremberg Laws. I didn’t understand why. They didn’t concern us. But maybe they do.” He slapped his hands to his knees and rose. Anger heated his face. “This is 1936. We’re a civilized country. How can they do this?”
Whatever reply Christoph may have offered died in his throat when Herr Schultz came outside. He hesitated, and then hurried to the car lot. Christoph took a step to follow him, but Rolf grabbed his arm.
“Let him go. He can’t do anything. This wasn’t his decision.”
“What are you going to do?”
“What can I do? Go home. Talk to my parents, my grandparents. There’s got to be a mistake.” Rolf pivoted to face the Rhine. He caught his breath.
“What?” Christoph stepped up beside him. “Do you remember something? You’ve gone all pale again.”
“Three years ago, when the National Socialists ordered the boycott of Jewish-owned stores, Mother insisted on pushing past the SA men standing watch in front of Bloch’s Dry Goods. She bought some thread and needles which she didn’t need. I remember Herr Bloch was so pathetically grateful for her little purchase, but her shopping spree upset Father.” Rolf walked down to the pier. The Rhine gurgled on its way to the North Sea, as it had done all his life.
He spun back to Christoph. “He couldn’t understand why she would deliberately attract attention from the SA. I thought it was more her nature to support the unfortunate than to defy the boycott.”
“That took courage.” Christoph blew out a breath. “I don’t know if I would have done that.”
Rolf’s throat was as dry as the desert as he choked out, “She knows. She identified with the Jews because she is Jewish. She knew it could just as easily be us, and it will be us.”
The North Atlantic
Wednesday, March 1, 1944
The wind sliced right through Jennie Lindquist’s coat. So warm in Illinois, it now felt as thin as a pillowcase. Late winter was the wrong time of year to cross the North Atlantic. The temperature hovered around ten degrees, but with the wind and the ship’s speed, it seemed far below zero.
Her gloved fingers had grown stiff from the cold. She had to keep sketching, though, or she would lose her model.
The soldier continued to stare at the spot where the Statue of Liberty had long since faded from view in their wake. The quivering of his chin was his only movement.
Jennie perched on a stowage bin. After adding several pencil strokes to shade the edge of his arm, she held up her drawing and studied it through narrowed eyes. Had she captured his forlornness?
It would have to do. She shoved her sketch pad and pencil into her tote bag. Plenty of time remained aboard the ocean liner-turned-troopship to accomplish her goal of sketching a series capturing life aboard ship.
Overhead, the last escorting U.S. Navy patrol plane dipped its wings and turned back to New York. The Queen Mary was on her own to cross the North Atlantic and elude any skulking German submarines eager to hurtle a torpedo into her. Jennie scanned the horizon. Nothing but endless waves.
Ice crystals sprinkled down, luring her gaze upward. Lifeboats hung suspended overhead. A flexing chain caused more ice to break loose. Dismal gray camouflage paint hid the Cunard Line’s signature colors of red, white, and black. Behind her, one of the ship’s funnels belched smoke as the ocean liner charged full speed ahead at thirty knots. At least the frigid wind prevented soot from drifting down on the military personnel crowding the deck.
An officer standing ten feet away didn’t seem to mind the arctic blast as he raised his face to it. Jennie avoided contact with the military men. Her father had warned her to be wary of their intentions.
This one, however, tempted her. His profile presented classic lines an artist would love to paint. Portraits weren’t her specialty, but, my, oh my, his handsome features practically begged her to try her hand at capturing his likeness. Below the edge of his cap gleamed close-cropped blond hair; his eyes, when he turned his head, shone a startling blue. His heavy coat failed to hide broad shoulders tapering to a slim waist. To her eye, he presented the epitome of male perfection. Did the inner man match the gorgeous outer appearance?
Stray snowflakes swirled about him, and he brushed them away. She set aside Dad’s advice and invaded the solitude surrounding him. “You must be a northerner to be enjoying this glacial wind.”
He straightened to his full height, at least six feet tall, and settled his gaze on her. A quick grin lit his face, and her numb fingers itched to start sketching. “With a choice between enjoying the invigorating sea air or the warm, uh, unventilated air inside the ship, the cold air won.”
“Unventilated air?” Jennie laughed. “How polite.”
His smile came easily, as though he was used to wearing it.
“Someone on the last voyage must have been quite seasick in the room I’m assigned to. The smell was bad enough to drive me into this gale.” Looking back out to sea, he hunched his shoulders and tilted his head to the right, then the left. Weak sunlight glinted off
white-caps as the morning overcast broke up, but the restless waves continued to batter themselves against the ship’s hull. He maintained his grip on the railing. “The way the ocean’s churning, we may have a lot more gastronomic upheavals. And to think, I used to enjoy being in a sailing club.”
“Did you sail on the ocean?”
“Sail, no, although I’ve been on a previous ocean voyage. Rivers or the North Sea was where I mostly sailed, but” ― he glanced back at the milling crowd of servicemen ― “we weren’t packed in tight like this.”
The North Sea? Wasn’t that in Europe? Jennie grabbed the railing as the Queen Mary veered to port. Every eight minutes, the ship zigzagged to avoid a potential submarine’s crosshairs. She’d timed the turns.
His voice held an unfamiliar accent. It wasn’t English. He’d been on an ocean voyage, singular, and he’d sailed on the North Sea. He must be from Europe, maybe from a country overrun by Hitler’s army. He should have some stories to tell.
The cold and the pressing crowd of soldiers faded into the background. “Where are you from?”
She leaned forward for his reply.
“Milwaukee.”
“Milwaukee?” She stepped back. So much for hearing about foreign lands. “Really? I’m from Chicago.”
His gaze roved over her. “You’re not in uniform. What’s a civilian doing on a troopship?”
Jennie straightened to her five-foot, six-inch height. “I’m joining my parents in Sweden. My dad’s a military air attaché based at the American legation, where he works with interred American airmen. He came home on leave for the holidays and took my mom back with him in January. Now I’m going, too, to help out.”
“My grandparents came from Sweden. Do you speak the language?”
“Enough to ask for help if I get lost.” She laughed at his widened eyes. “Yes, I speak Swedish. Maybe not as fluently as a native, but I have Swedish grandparents, too. My mom’s been pen pals all her life with a cousin whom we hope to meet.” She tugged her hat down more securely and retied her scarf before the wind pulled it free. “Do you have relatives there?”
No Neutral Ground: A World War II Romance (Promise for Tomorrow Book 2) Page 1
