“Sure he does. He couldn’t get us away from him fast enough.” Bitterness tinged his voice and swept away the moisture in his eyes.
Christoph quirked a brow and his shoulders hunched. They walked in silence for a minute. “Did you ever consider what life was like for your father growing up? Three older sisters, the first boy born into Grossmutter’s family in three generations. They spoiled him. Petted and pampered. Whatever he wanted, Uncle Heinz got. Until the war came along. Suddenly everything’s out of control. He can’t have his way. He’s told to get rid of his Jewish wife and he lacks the backbone to defy.” Christoph offered a humorless smile. “I heard Mutter and her sisters discussing him. He’s in a state of bewilderment and wants nothing more than life as it was with his family beside him.”
“Never going to happen. Mother remarried.”
Rafe grinned when Christoph’s jaw dropped. “Why are you so surprised? Mother’s a beautiful, desirable woman. Plays the piano like a prodigy and knits us sweaters for winter.”
Christoph hadn’t raised his jaw.
Rafe pulled an envelope of pictures from his pocket. “Here’s Mother and her husband in front of their house. Mother is her father’s daughter for sure. She has a huge victory garden of vegetables in the backyard and her flower gardens in front are the envy of the neighborhood.” He flipped to another photo and chuckled. “Here’s Albert. No doubting he’s Opa’s grandson. He’ll study horticulture at university this fall, if he’s not drafted. We hope to resurrect the business in Holland after the war and be the U.S. distributor. And here’s Rita. She has another year of university, and then plans on law school.”
“Wow.” Christoph stared at the photos. “A huge house for one family? Not a noisy apartment?” He shook his head. “No need to mention that to Uncle Heinz.” He sighed as he looked at his cousins’ images. “Albert and Rita? What happened to Gottlieb and Brigitte?”
“We Americanized. Brigitte shortened to Rita, and Mother from Hannelore to Laura. Couldn’t do anything with Gottlieb, but what are second names for?” When Christoph raised his eyes and waited, he added, “I’m Rafe. Ralph might have been the logical choice, but I borrowed a helpful neighbor’s name.”
Paul had drifted away to give them privacy, but now rejoined them. “Should we know anything about the guy glowering at us by the latrines?”
A casual glance back brought a scowl to Christoph’s face. “Leutnant zur See Pruhst, my second-in-command on the S-boat. I don’t know why he’s here.” He touched a white patch on his uniform. “We’re supposed to be only whites and grays here, I thought. Those with no loyalty to National Socialism or with no strong feelings either way. Pruhst is hardcore. He should’ve gotten a black patch and been put in a different camp. I won’t be surprised if he causes trouble and lands me in it.”
Paul pulled a pen from his pocket. “Ensign Pruhst. We’ll see about a transfer.”
They circled around the camp, away from Pruhst’s view.
“How’s your family doing? You were back in Cologne at Christmastime?” The image Rafe had of the last family gathering was over eight years old. He could pass most of his cousins on the street and not recognize them.
“My parents live in the little cottage on their garden plot outside the city.” Christoph’s gaze strayed to the pocket where Rafe put his pictures. “One room, meant to facilitate their gardening in summer, is now their home. The apartment building disappeared when Tommy tried to wipe Cologne off the map.”
Rafe cast a sidelong glance at his cousin for his reference to the British. For the first time, resentment tinged Christoph’s voice.
“We heard about the Brits’ thousand bomber raid. They left Cologne in bad shape.”
Christoph nodded his acknowledgement. “My sister evacuated to Bavaria with her two sons, but she’s not happy there. They aren’t treated well at the house they’re assigned to. The Bavarians resent having to share with them. Erich has difficulty understanding the local dialect and the children make fun of him at school. They have no choice, however. Her husband was killed in Russia, and Mutter and Vater have no room for them.”
Christoph released a massive sigh. “Grossvater died after that big raid. Rescuers got him out of the shelter with no injuries, but then he suffered a heart attack. Grossmutter lives with Uncle Heinz in a basement portioned out for three or four family groups. Pretty dismal.”
‘Pretty dismal’ accurately described Rafe’s reaction. Once, he might have felt satisfaction over his father’s misfortune. Now? A hollow place inside him wanted to cry. “How has your experience been in the Kriegsmarine?”
“Better in the navy than in the army, for me at least.” A frown puckered Christoph’s brow before smoothing away as he gained animation. “I enjoyed being at die Sahnefront, guarding Milchkühe. I didn’t command my own boat yet, but that made my time more relaxed.”
Rafe and Paul exchanged baffled looks.
“You were,” Paul hesitated, “based on a farm?”
Christoph swung his head around, eyes wide. A smile started. “Es tut mir lied.” He apologized, but that didn’t stop him from snickering. “The cream front is Denmark, where there’s lots of food and little fighting. The resupply U-boats are called milk cows. When I got my own S-boat, I transferred to Holland. Not as nice there.”
Rafe smiled. “We thought it was beautiful during our stay before leaving for America.”
“You went to Holland first?” Wistfulness swept across Christoph’s face. “What was your escape like?”
Escape seemed an odd word choice, at least from his cousin, but Rafe didn’t belabor the detail. “I was sent out first as an apprentice for the flower bulb business. That enabled me to take a bit of luggage. Oma sewed a lining into the trousers I wore to hide extra money. Opa’s partner came to Cologne, ostensibly to consult with him and bring samples, and I accompanied him back to Amsterdam.”
The day was eight years ago, but still as vivid as yesterday. Mother’s tears. Opa’s rigid posture. Gottlieb’s eagerness to go with him. “Opa brought the whole family to the train station to stage a tearful farewell. He announced he’d bring the family to visit when he traveled to Holland in a few weeks, and maybe we could expect Gottlieb to take a turn as apprentice someday. He intended that any Party spies would take note. Then just a week later, they followed. They carried only a bit of hand luggage, but Opa had been transferring money to Holland for some time under the guise of building up the business. We still had to pay the Reich Flight Tax.”
Rafe turned to Paul. “The previous government implemented the tax to prevent capital from leaving the country, but the Nazis used it to steal from the Jews. They wanted us to leave, but with only the clothes on our backs.” Anger infiltrated his voice and he clenched his fists at the memory. “But since Opa got away with most of his money, we were in good shape to start over in America. We stayed in Holland nearly a year before sailing for the States.”
“Boggles the mind to think you had to do that.” Paul had listened with slack-jawed interest. “And then you came to Milwaukee.” To Christoph, he added, “I live in the same city, but we didn’t meet until we were here in England.”
Rafe pivoted to Christoph. “What about Bertil, Ludwig, or Johan?”
His heart sank when his cousin shook his head.
“I don’t know anything about Bertil. He was more your friend than mine and, after you left, he transferred out of the Naval Hitler Youth. I think he joined a motorized unit.”
Rafe sighed. Good. That’s where Bertil should have gone to begin with. Would have, if not for the desire to stick together.
“Ludwig’s dead. His U-boat disappeared a year ago.”
“Ludwig? In a submarine? He’s claustrophobic.”
Christoph shrugged and continued in a lifeless tone. “And Johan went down with the Bismarck.”
Rafe blew out his breath. “He couldn’t have gotten to be the boss officer on a battleship.”
Christoph’s eyes suddenly fla
shed and his voice took on new life as he growled, “And there’s no glory in dying for Gröfaz.” Paul looked puzzled, and Christoph elaborated as he paced back and forth. “Größter Feldherr aller Zeiten. The greatest field commander of all time. Herr Hitler.” He spat the words out in a barely audible tone and tilted forward in a mocking bow.
After a quick glance around, Christoph added, “I’m glad to be out of the fight. I have no idea what we’re even fighting for, other than to fulfill that madman’s illusions. You would not believe the stories I’ve heard coming out of the Eastern Front.” He pointed to scrawling on the side of a barracks. Aus der Traum. The dream is over. Hands planted on his hips, he looked Rafe straight in the eye. “Ever since you left, I knew something was wrong with the dream, whatever it was. Uncle Heinz did you a favor, Rolf. You were lucky to leave Germany.”
Stockholm, Sweden
Thursday, April 20, 1944
The Best of Sweden. Sweden on Display. Spotlight on Sweden. Sweden Exhibit.
Jennie crossed the last one off. Too obvious. Spotlight on Sweden had a nice ring. She circled that one.
Her collection of paintings stayed frightfully small. Phyllis thought she sketched quickly. Well, sketching, yes, but paintings took longer. Maybe she’d have to take lots of photos to give American audiences a good look at Sweden. Maybe she could add small souvenirs, like a miniature tall case clock, a Dala horse. What else was quintessentially Swedish? Had there been a gift shop at the Uppsala cathedral? A doll dressed in a tiny replica of Queen Margaret’s medieval ball gown would be great. She jotted down a note: Contact Astrid.
Her pencil tapping on her father’s desk, she glanced at the papers lying there. The latest list of air crews to arrive in Sweden. She picked it up. No Rafe Martell. She picked up another list and winced. Airmen buried in Sweden. Again, no Rafe.
She snapped her fingers. Lots of American airmen were here now. She could focus an exhibit on Sweden through the internees’ eyes. That’s it. Sweden, Shelter from the Storm. What she needed was an internee from the Chicago area to help promote the exhibit back home. She began digging through the file drawers.
“May I help you find something?”
Dad caught her red-handed. She refused to squirm. “Do you have a list of the internees’ hometowns? I need to talk to several airmen.” She explained her idea for the exhibit. “How they fill their days, their impressions of Sweden, that sort of thing. And pictures. Lots of pictures to go with my paintings.”
Dad heard her out in silence. He motioned for her to vacate his chair. Sitting down, he said, “I don’t have a list of hometowns. Only their bases in England.” Folding his hands, he added, “Your idea has merit.”
Jennie’s eyes widened. “But?” She perched on a visitor’s chair. “I hear a great big ‘but’ coming.”
Dad chuckled and swiveled to look out the window. He turned back. “Maybe not. Your exhibit won’t take place until after the war. Then it will be okay.” He nodded. “Yes, you have a good idea. Some people, including those high up in the Army Air Force, believe our air crews come to Sweden to avoid further combat.” He slapped his hand down on the desk. “That could not be further from the truth. Drawing attention to the internees could help refute that claim.” He pulled his calendar forward. “I’ll be going to Malmö in a few weeks. It’s just across the channel from Copenhagen, Denmark, and that’s where most of our planes land. Plan on coming with me.”
Jennie started another list. She’d want pictures of the damaged planes. Maybe the local newspapers took photos at the funerals. Maybe a hospital visit. A picture of a wounded airman would help debunk the idea that flights to Sweden were to escape combat.
Her list continued to grow. Maybe she could even meet Astrid’s husband.
Ridgewell Air Base
Monday, April 24, 1944
“Ugh. The weather is stinko today.” Cal hesitated at the Quonset hut door as if debating whether to go back to bed. Rafe pushed him out.
“Where you think we’re going today? Another mission to France?”
“Does it matter? You’d think they’d be easier, but we’re losing crews over France as readily as Germany.” Just the day after their trip to Camp Hill Hall, Paul had been wounded over France. Now he was still in the sack while a replacement flew with his crew. Rafe pursed his lips. Being killed or wounded was a likely possibility in this business, but it was always supposed to happen to someone else. Paul was lucky to have dodged the bullet. He shook his head. What was he thinking? Paul hadn’t dodged that bullet. Thank goodness his wound wasn’t serious.
“Good morning, gentlemen. Today we’re going to Erding, about thirty miles northeast of Munich. Your target is an airfield.”
A groan rose in the Briefing Room. They could anticipate nine hours of flying time, much of it over Germany. Just great. And Bavaria—that’s where Christoph’s sister was. Please, not in Erding. He didn’t want to bomb another cousin.
“Your route will take you over France as much as possible. Keep your eyes peeled for convoys, in both France and Germany.”
Rafe jotted notes. Weather must be good over the continent if they’d be able to watch the roads. Of course, that also meant the antiaircraft gunners would see them. He headed out for their ride, Sweet Patootie. Of all the planes they’d been assigned to fly, Sweet Patootie was his favorite. Each bomber had its own peculiarities, but Sweet Patootie’s only peculiarity, in Rafe’s opinion, was that she didn’t have one.
The planes took off and got into formation without mishap. First hazard behind them. Rafe yawned and rubbed his eyes. Ahead of him, Alan’s head bobbed over the bombsight. How many accidents happened because they were roused from bed in the middle of the night and couldn’t keep their eyes open?
They were still climbing for altitude when a shout jerked him to full alert. Alan jumped up and grabbed the controls for his twin .50 caliber guns. Rafe gripped his desk as the whole squadron leveled off to avoid colliding with a stream of British Halifax bombers.
“Those guys don’t fly a very tight formation, do they?” Standing behind the pilots in the cockpit, Mickey had a good view.
“They don’t fly in formations for night missions. Too hard to keep track of each other’s wingtips to avoid collisions.” Cal didn’t sound any more awake than Rafe felt.
Rafe took a Gee fix for the activity more than a need to know their position. Then he stood up and stretched left, right, up, down. If he stood directly under the astrodome, he gained a little space. Up to the dome, down to his toes, up to the dome. Alan turned around to watch. He began to direct Rafe’s stretches, pointing up and down in a faster cadence to increase Rafe’s pace.
“What’s going on in the nose?” Steve’s voice in his headset startled Rafe. “Why do we keep seeing hands appear in the astrodome?”
Rafe sat down in a hurry.
Alan nearly fell off his seat laughing. “It’s time for morning calisthenics.”
Curled up in the ball turret, Rusty said, “Never thought I’d say it, but I wish I could do some calisthenics.”
Rafe ignored the exchange and took another Gee fix.
The intercom had been quiet for some time as they neared the Third Reich. Mickey shattered the silence. “What the…”
Something fell past the Plexiglas nose. A scrape beneath Rafe’s feet indicated Sweet Patootie had hit it. It had been shaped like…
“Bandits at twelve o’clock high. They’re dropping bombs on us. I just saw one go by.” Harold sounded like he was coming unglued.
Rafe peered up through the astrodome. “Those aren’t bombs. They’re dropping their auxiliary fuel tanks.”
Clank! Another one banged off the fuselage, followed by the staccato belch of a machine gun.
“Who’s firing?” Steve yelled. “Don’t waste your ammo on gas tanks.”
“N… no one fired, sir,” Carlo sounded indignant. “That gas tank caromed into the left waist gun and put it out of commission. It fired on its own.”
Alan’s wry comment curled Rafe’s lips in a reluctant smile. “Maybe they want us to know how they feel when we bomb them.”
Flak greeted them at the target. Lots of it, and the Germans had zeroed in on their altitude. Sweet Patootie rattled and shook in the hail of shrapnel.
Rafe took his usual position behind Alan to watch for landmarks. To their left, Valiant Lady’s right wing jerked upward as a shell exploded beneath it, nearly flipping the bomber over before the pilots wrestled it back under control. Beyond them flew Sly Buccaneer with Paul’s crew. Rafe watched the bomb doors open.
Suddenly, Sly Buccaneer disappeared. Rafe was staring at an expanding fireball. He couldn’t turn away from the sight. If his friend hadn’t been wounded the other day, he’d have been in there. Paul would be dead, along with his crew. Instead, someone else from their hut just died in his place. Marvin, a new father. Bile rose in Rafe’s throat, and he swallowed hard.
“Thirty percent cloud cover, I’d say.” Alan provided needed distraction and Rafe snapped back to attention. Unaware of the tragedy nearby, Alan pointed forward. “Or is that smoke to obscure the target? Doesn’t resemble any other clouds.”
“It’s smoke. The only smoke in the area. They may as well have painted a big red X on the roof for all the good it does.” Mundane little details to add to his log, and keep his mind busy.
He checked his watch and recorded the minute for bombs away. He noted their groundspeed and took a compass reading. He heard himself ask, “Dan, any chutes from Sly Buccaneer?”
“Are you kidding me?”
That would be a no. Just what he expected. Hopefully someone else would give Paul the bad news. How do you tell a guy his close friends are all dead?
His notes stared up at him. Watch for convoys. He grabbed his binoculars and scrutinized the ground.
#
“Take it.”
Rafe yawned and looked around. He’d stopped searching for ground activity when clouds hid everything from sight. Take it. Alan’s head was bobbing again. He hadn’t said anything. Steve must have handed over the controls to Cal. They should be passing Brussels now. Soon they’d be over the coast and could start letting down.
No Neutral Ground: A World War II Romance (Promise for Tomorrow Book 2) Page 16
