“Yeah.” Rafe’s mouth may as well be stuffed with cotton. He probably sounded like a frog, but no one remarked on it. The crew members exchanged light chatter while Rafe feverishly pinpointed their location and traced their homeward flight. If he kept busy enough, he wouldn’t think of the devastation of Cologne. How did anyone survive down there, bombing after bombing?
#
By the time Pella Tulip was parked on its hardstand, Rafe had the forward escape hatch open, and jumped down. He was expected at interrogation, but he had no answers for their academic questions. He had to get out of here, away from any reminders of war and why they were here. Only the English fields, surrounded by the breeze and the sun, filled with birdsong and growing things, would do.
Steve dropped out of the plane and studied him. “Give me your briefcase. You don’t need to go to debriefing.”
Rafe didn’t wait for a second opinion. He divested himself of his flight clothes, piling them into Dan’s arms, and strode off before the waiting jeep took away the rest of the crew. He started jogging.
At his tree, he collapsed in the same spot he’d sat before. Leaning over on his propped-up knees, he grasped handfuls of grass, pulling it up by the roots. If only he could pull out his anger, which had boiled to the surface and would surely scorch anything or anyone he came in contact with. Anger at the British for their wholesale destruction of his city. Anger at the Americans, who did a lot of collateral damage in their vaunted precision bombings, even if they tried for military targets. Anger with his father for casting away his family like so many liabilities. Anger with the Nazis for starting this whole miserable war in the first place.
He ought to pray, but pray for what? The damage was done.
Tears stung his eyes. When he’d fallen down the stairs as a youngster, Father had whispered, “It’s all right to cry. Tears release the pain.” Was Father alive? He had to know. He might be mad at the man, but that didn’t mean he wanted him buried in rubble.
Did Father ever think about him? About Mother and Rita and Albert? Did Father wonder what had become of them?
Time passed and a headache throbbed in his temple when arms came around him and a hand patted his back. Brenda, whose father had died in the blitz. What a pair they made. Two wounded souls. He reached up a hand and covered hers. Huddled together, no words were necessary.
The sun had slipped around to the western sky when a jeep ground to a halt on the nearby lane. Brenda moved away when two sets of footsteps approached.
Alan knelt beside him. “Come on, Rafe. Let’s get you back to base.”
With Cal on his other side, they pulled him to his feet.
“Bye, Rafe.” Those were the only words Brenda spoke to him that day. He waved in her direction.
They took him to the mess hall and sat him down at a table. His gaze roved up to the Quonset hut’s ceiling. A small parachute hung suspended like a giant white upside-down flower. He should send a picture of it to Opa Svenson. They could make nice decorations like that for the bulb business if it survived the war.
A mess steward brought a bowl of steaming soup. Rafe’s mouth quirked. A bowl of chicken soup to cure whatever ails you. A plate containing a thick slice of crusty bread joined the bowl. He glanced up to give the steward a nod of acknowledgement. Determination to please gleamed in the man’s eyes. Ridgewell’s ground personnel did their best to pamper the combat crews. He picked up the spoon.
Fellow navigator Paul Braedel slipped into the seat across from him, and Cal and Alan disappeared. Paul didn’t waste time with small talk.
“Our war is peculiar. All we’re aware of is the damage inflicted on us by fighters and flak. We don’t see any of the damage we do at ground level in Germany. Only what they’ve done to London.”
Coming from someone else, Paul’s words might be patronizing, but he could identify with Rafe’s confliction. A good friend of his late wife lived in Germany, and Paul didn’t know how she fared. With each other, they had the freedom to talk about their mixed emotions that the others might not understand. Paul had admitted he dreaded the day they might be called to bomb the friend’s hometown.
Rafe lowered his spoon. “Cologne was a beautiful city. Buildings hundreds of years old. The cathedral has holes in its roof. Did you know it was started in the thirteenth century? Work stopped after a hundred years, but resumed just one hundred years ago, finally finishing in 1880, so it’s practically brand new. And now it’s been bombed.”
Talking about the buildings was easier than thinking about the people and their fate.
The steward exchanged a dish of canned pears for the empty soup bowl and added a slice of white sheet cake with chocolate icing. After the man retreated, Rafe slid the dessert across the table and watched his friend consume it.
“Did you know the cathedral was built to be the repository of the bones of the Three Wise Men?” A grin jerked his lips when Paul choked on the cake, and he shrugged. “That’s the legend. Of course, someone may have swindled the archbishop with three derelicts off the street.”
Someone came up beside him and Paul’s eyes widen as he prepared to stand up.
“As you were, gentlemen.”
Rafe looked up into the face of the base commanding officer. Colonel Leber unclamped his pipe from his teeth and snagged a chair from the opposite table. He casually straddled the chair. Maybe he didn’t plan on cashiering Rafe.
“Today wasn’t quite how you envisioned your homecoming, was it, Martell?”
“No, sir. I knew it could happen, and at twenty-four thousand feet, it’s hard to make out a lot of detail. But it’s obviously not the same place I left in 1936.” The colonel’s mild expression prompted him to add, “A lot of familiar faces passed through my mind. The only one whose fate I know is my cousin.”
“He’s not too far from here. Are you interested in visiting him?”
Rafe gaped at him. “Is that possible?” To see Christoph again, to talk to him. Would they still be friends? “I’d like that. He probably knows if my father’s still alive.”
“We can make it happen. He’s here in Essex County, at Camp Hill Hall.” The colonel turned to Paul. “You speak German, Braedel, is that right?” At Paul’s nod, he said, “You’ll go with him. Watch his back.”
Rafe swiveled around to watch the colonel leave. He turned back to a big smile on Paul’s face.
“This ought to be interesting.”
Rafe nodded slowly. “But I don’t want Christoph knowing I was in the plane that bombed him.”
Uppsala, Sweden
Friday, April 14, 1944
“Mom, tell me about the relatives we’re not going to visit.” Jennie sat across from her mother in their compartment, both in a window seat as the train rolled north. “You corresponded with your cousin since childhood, but now you’re not going to meet her. That’s so wrong.”
The mysterious pouch tucked into her valise issued a siren call for her to explore its contents. She clenched her fingers. What could possibly be so important to warrant this trip to hand-deliver it?
“My mother’s family immigrated to Minnesota from Uppsala when she was nine, as you know. Her sister, my Aunt Frieda, married Claes Oleson, a visiting Swede, and returned with him in 1889. They settled in Norrkoping and never came back to visit. My cousin Sigrid and I were pen pals for years, but our letters were sporadic.”
“And she has three children, Lily being nearest to my age.” A second cousin Jennie had never met. They wouldn’t have a chance to be close like she was with her first cousins in the States. Selma was two years older than she, but they’d always been close, giggling together at family gatherings and sharing dolls, later books, discussing clothes and boys, followed by debating whether they wanted careers. When Dad had informed her and Mom they would all be going to Sweden, she had anticipated a similar closeness with Lily.
“So why aren’t we going to meet them?”
Mom stared out the window for nearly a minute before sighing. “
Right after I arrived in Sweden, I wrote to Sigrid and suggested we get together, either in Stockholm or Norrkoping. She took a long time to respond, and then her note said only that her husband doesn’t want us to associate with them. He’s a member of the Swedish Nazi Party.”
Jennie sucked in her breath. A Nazi in the family, like a skeleton in the closet. Despite the warmth in the train, she shivered. “Did Dad tell anyone in the military? We’re still here, so it doesn’t matter?”
“He informed the ranking air attaché and the legation head. Since Sigrid’s husband is someone he’s never met and whom we’ll have no contact with, they felt we don’t have a compromising situation. Sigrid ended her note saying she wished things could be different. Exactly what things she referred to is open to speculation, but I prefer to think she’s not in favor of her husband’s politics.”
The train slowed and the conductor came down the aisle, stopping at each compartment and announcing “Uppsala.” Jennie watched the city fill the window. A long building with silo-like corners caught her attention. A monastery? The train station blotted out her view and she reached for her valise.
“There’s a guesthouse nearby.” Mom pulled on her gloves and adjusted her hat. “Why don’t we leave our bags there before you go off on your errand? I want to visit the cathedral. A museum in the tower contains treasures that your grandma still talks about. I want to see the display.”
“The ball gown sewn with silver thread that weighs a ton? Yes, that’s a must-see.” Jenny maintained a tight grip on her case as they filed off the train.
They arrived at the cathedral at the same time as several other women. An elderly lady with a crown of snow white hair smiled at them. “Have you come to help out with the Ladies Alliance? We’re sorting donations today for families who are suffering from the shortages caused by the war and whose men are away in the military.”
Jennie hid a grin. Interesting way to greet sightseers. Put them to work. She didn’t need to hear Mom’s affirmative answer to know Mom appreciated the opportunity to mingle with local residents. This provided a chance to experience what her life might have been like if her family had never left Sweden.
She checked her watch. An hour remained before her rendezvous. Her nerves tap dancing over the coming meeting, she welcomed the chance to go inside. She wasn’t delaying the inevitable. Knowing exactly where Mom would be made sense.
Most of the ladies assembled in the meeting hall were Mom’s age and older. Dad had told her that thousands of Swedish men had been conscripted, especially when the threat from Germany had been greatest. Just as in America, many Swedish women now worked outside the home. She fingered a paisley patterned skirt in one of the stacks piled on a table. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Mom, I’ll be off now. I’ll see you later.”
Her voice quavered, and Mom looked at her sharply before her face relaxed in a smile. “Run along, dear. I know you’re keen to do some sketching while the lighting is good.”
Jennie swallowed a laugh. Dear Mom. She wasn’t informed of the scope of Jennie’s work with the OSS, but never hesitated to support her, even to the extent of offering excuses for her absence.
The park where she was to wait offered a splendid view of the monastery. Choosing the most advantageous bench, she pulled out her sketchpad and colored pencils and set to work. The scene took shape with quick bold strokes and subtle shading. Time slipped away. At length she held up her pad to judge the proportions.
“That’s an excellent rendition.”
Jennie shot to her feet, dropping her sketchpad to the ground. How could she have forgotten her reason for being there? She spun around. Behind her bench stood a short man. Check. He wore a fedora with a feather stuck in the band. Check. His tie sported red and black diagonal stripes. Not quite a check. Jennie had been coached to expect her contact’s tie to be solid red. Maybe this was the best he could do.
“I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” His voice was much lower than she expected from a man of diminutive stature.
She waved away his apology. “I tend to get lost in my own world when I’m drawing.” Now what? Did she invite him to sit? Push his packet across the bench so he’d unobtrusively pick it up? Ed’s instructions at this point were sorely lacking. She scooped her pad off the ground and held it up. “Did I get the dimensions of the monastery right?”
The man’s eyebrows shot up. “Monastery? That’s Uppsala Castle, where kings were enthroned in years past.”
Jennie dropped down on the bench. “Oh, I’m sorry. A castle? I assumed…” If she kept her mouth shut, she wouldn’t reveal her ignorance. She peered up at him through her lashes, and spotted the man behind him. A short man, wearing a feathered fedora and a solid red tie, he waved both hands at her. Merciful heavens above, he was her contact. If she hadn’t been so distracted, maybe she would have noticed this man hadn’t offered the identifying phrase. “Well, now I’ll know how to title it. Thank you.”
She gave him a nod of dismissal and turned her back.
The man didn’t take the hint and lingered. The real contact approached. “Pardon me, have you noticed a poodle? My daughter’s dog slipped its leash.”
The identifier. She offered a smile that trembled. “No, and I would have noticed a lost dog. What color is it?”
“Brown. The small variety.” He dropped the newspaper tucked under his arm to the bench and held up his hands, indicating the size of a basketball. The paper landed squarely atop the pouch. He pointed to her sketch. “Perhaps add a touch more shadow alongside the far parapet.”
Surprised, Jennie looked at her sketch and then up at the monas–, er, castle. “Why, I do believe you’re right. Good suggestion.”
The man nodded and picked up his paper, leaving the bench empty in that spot. He took his leave. Jennie promptly shifted her bag and dug inside, hoping the interloper failed to notice the suddenly missing pouch. Finding her charcoal, she smudged in the shadow. Her mission was concluded, but her heart continued to race. However did field agents, especially those behind enemy lines, maintain their composure?
The false contact continued to loiter. Was he an undercover Swedish policeman wondering about the stranger in his fair town? Time to get out of here. Time to join Mom. Carefully closing her sketchpad, she shoved everything into her tote and stood. Aiming for a look of surprise to see him still there, she offered a nod, a cheery “Good Day,” and headed off, expecting to hear “Hold it right there,” any moment. The only sounds came from birds singing in the trees.
At the church, she hurried into a washroom and splashed cold water onto her face. Looking into the mirror, she muttered, “You’d never make it as a spy, you know that? How could you have been so stupid to nearly give away that pouch to the wrong man?”
Her reflection had no response.
Back out in the hallway, she blinked. She could be looking into a mirror again. Dark blonde hair lacked her tint of red, but the wide-set blue eyes, straight nose and full smile matched her own.
The smile widened. “We could be twins, so we must be friends just waiting to meet. I am Astrid Marklund.”
Jennie’s own smile bloomed more slowly. “And I am Jennie Lindquist. My great-grandparents emigrated from Uppsala, so maybe we’re cousins. Their names were Björn and Ulla Setterdahl.”
“Setterdahl? We must be related. That’s my grandmother’s name.” Astrid led Jennie into the meeting hall and up to a woman whose face was wrinkled with smile lines. “Mormor, Jennie’s great-grandfather was Björn Setterdahl. Did you know him?”
The woman clapped her hands together. “Björn? He was my uncle.” She extended a hand to Jennie. “Oh, child. You are descended from Björn?”
Mom joined them with a puzzled expression as her gaze traveled from one girl to the other and back. Jennie introduced her.
Excited chatter rose among the ladies as they quizzed Mom about Björn and life in America. Astrid hugged Jennie. “So, we are cousins. What fun. I did not know I
have American cousins.”
Astrid’s peal of laughter sent shivers down Jennie’s spine. Even their voices matched.
Jennie noted the wedding band on Astrid’s finger. “Is your husband in the military?”
“Yes, he’s in the air force, based in Malmö. That’s all the way down in southern Sweden, across the Öresund Strait from Copenhagen, Denmark. He flies patrols along the coast where many damaged warplanes enter Swedish airspace. I haven’t seen Gustav in four months. Seems more like a year.”
With the sorting work completed, Astrid and her grandmother joined Jennie and Mom in trekking up the north tower to view the treasury. The tower held a large collection of medieval clothing. Jennie went straight to Queen Margaret’s golden gown from the early 1400s. Astrid pointed out the front of the gown was so long that the Queen had to lift it to walk. “Think how often she must have tripped on the hem.”
Mom sighed. “I can picture in my mind my mother standing here as a young girl, gazing enthralled at this same gown.”
“Birgit did love to come here.” Mormor smiled, a faraway look in her eyes. “She always wanted to play dress-up, and Queen Margaret was her favorite character.”
While the older ladies exchanged memories of her grandmother, Jennie broached the subject of their relatives in Norrkoping with Astrid. “I’m glad for Mom that we found relatives here. She’s so disappointed not to meet Sigrid. This was a chance in a lifetime, but the war is keeping them divided.”
Astrid nodded slowly and took her time in responding. “It may seem unthinkable to you that any Swedes would join the Nazis, but you need to understand, Sweden has traditionally been pro-German and against Russia. At first, my husband’s family thought Hitler was good for Germany. Even the king initially favored Germany when the war started. Still, we heard Hitler vented his rage over the poor turnout from Sweden to join his struggle against communism. He’d thought we’d flock to his cause.”
No Neutral Ground: A World War II Romance (Promise for Tomorrow Book 2) Page 14
