The tram brought her to the canal across from the legation. It had never looked so good. She quick-stepped to the front door, rushed down the hallway, and burst into Phyllis’ office.
“Goodness, girl. I thought you planned on sightseeing.”
Jennie pulled a chair up to the desk. “Don’t mind me while I finish this sketch I started on the tram.”
She shoved aside Phyllis’ pencil holder and continued her drawing with quick strokes.
Phyllis leaned over and watched. “Emma’s right. I can’t believe how good you are. Who is he?”
“I don’t know. He said his name is Lars. I don’t think he’s Swedish. He tried to engage me in conversation at the art museum, and then he followed me and started asking questions.” She picked up her drawing and studied it before turning it to Phyllis. “Have you ever seen him? He’s maybe a shade under six feet tall.”
“I can’t believe you whipped this out so fast and it’s so good. I’d recognize him if I saw him on the street.” Phyllis held the sketch out at arm’s length, then closer up. “I am so jealous. I can’t draw a straight line and you draw portraits.”
Jennie blew a lock of hair from her face before raking it back with her hand. “So you haven’t seen him?”
“Can’t say that I have.” Phyllis dropped the sketch on the desk, still staring at it. “His eyes look devious. He looks like he could be a spy in Casablanca.”
“I doubt he’s a spy. Too sloppy. Maybe another desk worker who wants to be.”
Phyllis adjusted her cardigan, once more the dedicated office worker, and picked up a pen. “He claimed his name was Lars? And he’s about six feet? How was he dressed?” With the notations jotted down, she rose. “I’ll post this in the break room where we have our rogues’ board. Maybe someone else will recognize him.” She sailed out of the office with Jennie in her wake. “Don’t forget to be here no later than two o’clock tomorrow so we can go to the ladies’ tea.” Her smile slipped. “Or did you want to meet me there?”
Jennie rushed to reassure her. “I’ll come here first. I’d rather go in with someone I know. The Grand Hotel looks a bit intimidating, although I’m eager to see inside.”
“We’ll have a grand time at the Grand. You wait and see.” Phyllis waved good-bye as they parted.
Before exiting the building, Jennie peered out for signs of Lars. If he suspected she was American, he might be lurking about. Cautiously slipping outside, she nearly stumbled out of her shoes at the voice behind her.
“You’ll attract more attention acting furtive like that.”
She whirled to face Ed. “I’d rather not meet up with the man who followed me earlier.”
A frown puckered his forehead. He pushed back his sleeve to check his watch. “Do you have time to stop in here and have a cup of coffee?” He propelled her into an adjacent building to a lunch counter. They perched on stools at the far end of the counter and a waitress set coffee before them, nodded at her companion and returned to her other customers. “Tell me about him.”
Jennie wrapped her hands around the steaming cup and related everything she could remember about Lars. “Phyllis posted his sketch on the rogues’ board.”
Ed nodded. “So you think he might be trying to impress his superiors. You may be able to use him by passing misinformation. If he approaches you again, toy with him.”
Too bad she hadn’t taken any drama classes in school. She licked her lips as the steam curled up from her coffee. “How do you suggest I do that?”
“Ask questions of your own. Art is your forte. Ruffle his feathers by commenting on Germany’s propensity of stealing occupied countries’ treasures. Observe his reaction. Don’t be afraid to play dumb. He may feel the need to enlighten you and reveal more than he should.”
Jennie swallowed hard. She’d trained for behind the scenes activities. Not face to face engagements. Especially with creepy guys like Lars. Talking to him held as much appeal as a dentist visit.
“Be ready with misleading statements in case you meet him again. If he asks what you’re doing here, meaning your purpose for being in Sweden, answer in the moment. For instance, you’re at the museum to look at art.”
Jennie’s smile bloomed. She’d done that at the display case. Her smile faded at his next words.
“Suppose he’s watching us right now. No,” he held up a warning hand. “Don’t look for him. He may ask who I am. You can’t stop and think. What would you say?”
“A Swedish councilman I’m trying to influence.”
Ed chuckled softly. “Always remember he’s the adversary. We’ll assume he’s German. I’ll admit I’m generalizing, but Sweden’s Secret Policemen are not as engaging, although with a pretty girl, they may try.” He rushed on, as though his backhanded compliment was a faux pas. “Have you heard about the experience of the British naval attaché?”
#
Jennie returned home with her head spinning. She entered the apartment and looked around. Muslin sheets served as curtains, creating diffuse light. They would filter the glaring sun of Sweden’s endless summer days in a few months. Their living room featured a monochrome of beige, cream, and white, a counterpoint for the dark of winter.
A Swedish tall case clock graced the corner. Farmers in need of additional income during the winter months had begun crafting the curvy clocks in the mid-eighteenth century. Jennie needed to include one in a painting for her art exhibition.
The fireplace drew her now. She cautiously poked her head in to examine the uptake. According to Ed, each flat’s chimney had an individual uptake leading to the attic, with an access panel for cleaning. The attic contained storage lockers for the occupants. In the case of the British naval attaché, the Swedish Secret Police had entered his locker, opened the panel in the duct, and lowered a microphone down the chimney. Months passed before the British discovered it. Might they not do that with all foreign diplomatic staff?
“Gracious, Jennie, whatever are you doing in the fireplace?”
Jennie jumped up and caught herself as her hair brushed the rim. “Mom! Don’t sneak up on a body in such a precarious situation.”
She backed away from the fireplace and brushed at her hair.
“Well, what was I to think? My daughter comes home and sticks her head in the fireplace. Not an everyday occurrence, if you ask me. Were you checking to see if we require the services of a chimney sweep?”
“My boss told me about the British attaché’s experience with the eavesdropping police. I wondered if they might try to bug us.”
Mom waved away the suggestion. “Highly unlikely. Captain Denham is prominent in Britain’s efforts to learn secrets. Your father is not. His concern is seeing to the welfare of the interned American fliers. The Swedes would be bored to tears if they spied or eavesdropped on us.”
Mom’s heels tapped across the pine flooring. She settled herself on the settee centered between the two windows overlooking the street and clasped her hands together. “I’m afraid I have bad news. I had hoped we could travel to Norrkoping to visit my cousin Sigrid. I finally heard from her. She says we are not welcome.”
Ridgewell Air Base
Same Day
They were the last Fort to return to Ridgewell. Word of their North Sea adventure spread quickly. The interrogator hadn’t been interested in their experience near the target in Oldenburg as much as he was in the part they played in preventing the capture of the downed crew and sinking the S-boat. Why those events warranted so much attention, they weren’t told. Even Dan was subdued as they left the interrogation hall. Had they violated some rule by using their Flying Fortress against the German boat?
After seven hours aloft, they hurried to the combat mess hall. Hopefully the other crews hadn’t eaten everything. The server spooned the last of the sausage-and-potato casserole onto their plates. The canned peas and corn were gone, but plenty of fresh Brussels sprouts remained. Dessert was a thin white cake with maple fudge frosting.
Rafe glare
d at his Brussels sprouts. They seemed to be the only fresh vegetable available in England. He shoved a sprout in his mouth, held his breath during a perfunctory chew, and gulped the thing down.
The bright afternoon sun illuminated the countryside and lured him off base. He bicycled around the fields surrounding Ridgewell until he spotted a lone oak tree near the lane. Under its shade, he propped his bike and sat gazing at nothing in particular. Dan’s phrase kept echoing. The faces of war. The faces of war.
The upturned faces of the German sailors continued to stare at him. What went through their minds as they watched the huge bomber come their way, bomb doors open, a dozen bombs tumbling down toward them? And why should the image disturb him? What the sailors experienced lasted no more than a minute. The bomber crews, on the other hand, experienced far worse from the German anti-aircraft gunners who hurled their canisters of flak at them for hours.
Nagging thoughts circled like sheepdogs nipping at the heels of a flock. Somehow, the Germans being sailors made today’s incident worse than dropping bombs on an airfield. What had become of his friends? Bertil, Johan, and Ludwig? What about Christoph, the best cousin a boy could hope for? Did any of them still live? If only he could find out. With his elbows on his knees, he dropped his head into his hands and raked his fingers through his hair. He had no way of gaining answers to his questions.
At length, he pulled a sheaf of paper from his pocket and located his pen. Dear Mother. His letter stalled. What could he tell her? Having a lovely time, wish you were here? With a groan he dropped his pen to the ground and let his head drop back against the tree. A bird soared high overhead. The sun, in its western decline, shone in his face. He closed his eyes. The breeze whispered in the branches. Nearby, a bird called and, further away, another answered.
He awoke with a start. Someone was with him. He opened his eyes. The kitten girl sat cross-legged in front of him. Brenda, her name was. Brenda Jane Prescott. She looked like an urchin with oily, mousy brown hair that might be pretty if it were washed. Her oft-mended dress could use a washing too. Ragged fingernails boasted crescents of dirt. Despite the cool spring day, her feet were bare.
She regarded him through serious eyes. “Don’t you got a bed to sleep in?”
Rafe straightened and shook away the vestiges of drowsiness. “’Course I do.” His voice croaked. He swallowed and tried again. “I wanted to get away from the base for a while.”
“Because it’s crowded and noisy?”
A smile jerked at the corner of his mouth. “Something like that.” He nodded toward the paper in his lap. “And I wanted to write to my mother.”
Brenda leaned forward and peered at the paper. “You don’t have much to say to her.”
“I have a lot on my mind.”
“And you don’t want to put it on her mind?”
His hands smoothing the pages stilled, and he sharpened his focus on the young girl. He could tell Mother about his dilemma. How they strafed a boat, and how he wondered about Chris, John, Ludie, and Bert. She would understand his deeper meaning hidden from any censor.
“She opens her mouth and speaks wisdom.”
Brenda perked up, her eyes brightening. “Who, me?”
“Yes, you. My mother would want me to share my concerns. I don’t need to hide my worries from her.”
She watched him for a long moment before looking again at his papers. “You’re only writing to your mother. What about your dad? Did he get killed in the war?”
“I don’t know if he’s alive or dead. I haven’t heard from him in a very long time.”
“My daddy got killed in the blitz.”
“Oh, Brenda, I’m sorry. Where’s your mother?”
“She has to stay in London ’cause she has a job for the war. Me and my brother Dickey had to come here because they don’t have bombs here.”
No wonder she wore such a forlorn air. “You miss her, don’t you? I miss my mother.”
Brenda cocked her head. “Are you a flying soldier?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Are you going to be killed then?”
Rafe sucked in a quick breath. “I hope not.”
Lips pursed, Brenda’s head tilted over the other way. “Me and Dickey count the airplanes when they take off. And then we count them when they come back. They don’t all come back.”
“No, they don’t all come back all the time.”
A call drifted to them on the cooling air, “Bren-da.”
“That’s Mrs. Claridge. We live with her. I have to go. It’s bath day.” Reluctance slowed her effort to rise. She stepped back and raised a hand in what must be a wave. Turning, she shuffled four steps away. She looked back. “I’ll see you again?”
Rafe offered a grim smile and a nod. In his profession, it was not wise to promise she would. He watched until she reached a hedge, turned and waved wildly, and disappeared.
#
An unfamiliar B-17 was parked near the control tower when he returned to base. This one lacked Ridgewell’s large identifying L superimposed on a triangle high on the planes’ tails. Other groups’ planes landed here for fuel or mechanical or medical assistance that couldn’t wait until they reached their own bases. No need to investigate.
A crowd gathered around the control tower, but that held no interest either, until a figure broke away and ran toward him.
“Lieutenant! Lieutenant!” It was one of the Sweet Patootie’s ground crew mechanics.
“What’s going on?”
“You’ll never believe it, sir. Some general’s here to see your crew. You gotta get over there.” The sergeant was nearly bursting his buttons.
Rafe turned his bike toward the tower, and the sergeant trotted alongside, gasping out the news that couldn’t wait. “That general was on the Fort that ditched and you fellas kept the Krauts from capturing.”
Rafe whirled to face the sergeant, jerking the bicycle wheel and nearly falling. “There was a general in those rafts?”
“Yes, sir. And he’s real glad not to be in Germany right now.”
“I’ll bet.” The crowd opened up a pathway for him and he handed his bike to the sergeant. His colleagues smiled, some punching his arms, on his long, short walk to the front. There stood his crewmates, Steve looking shell-shocked, Dan’s grin stretching from ear to ear. Rafe slipped into his place between Cal and Alan. This was unreal.
The general wasn’t recognizable and no one mentioned his name. Only a one-star, but that didn’t matter. The Germans would have been preening like peacocks to capture a general. What a propaganda coup for them to exploit.
The general described the trouble that led to their ditching. “We became aware of the German boat about the same time we heard the approach of your B-17. Coming from the south, we knew the boat had to be an enemy. Air Sea Rescue wasn’t anywhere in sight. As much as we wanted to get out of those blasted rafts, transferring to a German vessel held no appeal. I had images of being taken to Berlin to pose for photos with Hermann Göring. Not a pleasant prospect.”
He studied the crew standing at ease and shook his head. “We’re used to Little Friends coming to the rescue, but today we had a big friend rescue us. Darndest thing I’ve seen in a very long time. A heavy bomber comes swooping in and drops a load of bombs on a boat roughly the same size. The crewmen dove off that boat like an old Keystone Kops silent comedy film. And a coquettish nymph swinging in a big D adorned the nose of the Fort overhead.”
Rafe snuck a glance at Steve, and suppressed a smile at the color that rose in the pilot’s face. He hadn’t cared for the artwork on Dee Marie ever since Cal had pronounced the nymph cross-eyed.
“We don’t have them with us, but you men will all be receiving Air Medals for your service today.”
Cheers filled the air, from the gathered throng and from the Coolidge gunners.
The crowd was dispersing when Captain Hawkins, head of Ridgewell’s photo lab, approached the general. “Sir, we have your photos ready, from both your
strike camera and those with the British rescue team and the German crew.”
Rafe’s stomach clenched. “You have photos of the Germans, sir? May I see them?”
The German faces of war. That he might recognize anyone was highly unlikely, but still.
The whole crew followed Rafe into the hut where the photos were laid out. Clear and sharp, the Germans’ expressions conveyed dismay, hostility, anger, resignation. One by one, Rafe discarded them. Until the second to last one. A wave of dizziness crashed over him. He struggled to catch his breath.
“Do you know their names, sir?”
“Not of all the crewmen. Only the officers.” The general looked at the one that had captured Rafe’s attention. “Ah, that’s Cap-i-tan Lute-nant Beeker.”
His attempt at a German accent was atrocious.
Rafe continued to examine the picture as he corrected the pronunciation, “Kapitänleutnant Buecker.”
Everyone stared at him, but the photo demanded his attention.
“Do you know him?” The general’s voice was abrupt, incredulous.
Rafe nodded. His voice was barely above a whisper. “Yes, sir. Christoph, my cousin.”
Stockholm
Monday, April 10, 1944
The view of Strandvägen couldn’t be better anywhere than from this spot across the Nybroviken inlet. Sunrise had been at four forty-eight and was now at the perfect height to give added dimension to the scene. A sigh escaped Jennie as she flipped to a clean page in her sketchbook. No bombs fell to destroy Sweden’s capital. The stately buildings offered a sense of well-being in a world gone mad.
She selected a pencil to start a rough sketch. Setting up an easel with a canvas and her paints would have been her first choice, but not in the busy city. From her perch on the opposite bank, she used colored pencils for a rendering that would serve as a model for the real masterpiece. Borrowing Dad’s camera to capture all the finer details was a stroke of brilliance. Color film would be perfect, but she was getting ahead of herself. Her pencils would document the colors for later reference.
No Neutral Ground: A World War II Romance (Promise for Tomorrow Book 2) Page 12
