No Neutral Ground: A World War II Romance (Promise for Tomorrow Book 2)

by Terri Wangard

  He laughed again and scooped the dog up onto his lap.

  A petite woman stopped in front of him and he beamed a smile at her. “What a delightful dog you have.”

  Tension faded from the woman’s eyes. “Mitzi loves attention.”

  Mitzi stretched up to lick his face.

  “But she does have a penchant for licking.” The lady reached for Mitzi.

  Rafe kept his grip on the dog. “Puppy dog kisses. We couldn’t have a dog in the apartment where I grew up.” He should stand, to be polite, but Mitzi was a handful. “I’m Rolf Schilling.”

  After seven years in America, his birth name sounded strange on his tongue. Stranger still was speaking his native language in public.

  “I’m Frau Pasch.”

  Pasch. Rafe’s mind raced. He heard that name just the other day. Ed had flipped through a stack of photos with him. Prominent Germans he was likely to see or hear about in Sweden. Pasch. He mentally snapped his fingers as a face materialized. Salt and pepper hair, a huge nose, deep ear lobes a woman would have camouflaged with large earrings. The German Minister of their legation in Stockholm.

  So this was his wife. Braided hair coiled about her head. The hat perched atop the braid looked like Mitzi might have played with it. A button has been sewn back on her coat with white thread instead of navy like the others. She didn’t appear as sophisticated as he thought a top diplomat’s wife would be. Maybe that explained her loneliness.

  He nodded toward the bench and she sat beside him. He began his questions before she could start her own. “Where are you from?”

  “Flensburg. I do miss it.”

  “On the border of Denmark. So you had some familiarity with Scandinavian life before coming here.” Best to avoid asking about air raids on the submarine facilities in Flensburg, or the naval academy nearby. “Have you been to Gothenburg?”

  “Only once. Oh, that was many, many years ago. We attended a wedding at Masthuggskyrkan.”

  “Really? I believe that was the church my grandparents were married in.” Actually, he had no idea where they were married. “However, I didn’t attend the wedding.”

  Frau Pasch laughed gaily, now quite relaxed. “Of course you didn’t attend your grandparents’ wedding, my dear boy.”

  Rafe stroked Mitzi’s silky fur. Time to start probing. “I’ve spent considerable time in Cologne. That’s a beautiful city.”

  “It was,” her gaiety dimmed, “until the Englanders bombed it. How they could destroy a city full of women and children is beyond me.”

  Rafe raised one shoulder. “I’ve heard the Luftwaffe had been busy bombing British cities.”

  Puzzlement flashed across her face, followed by resignation. “Ja, the Führer did say something about wiping English cities off the map.” She heaved a great sigh. “And now the Luftwaffe is toothless, nicht wahr?”

  Apparently German propaganda bragged about their intentions, but neglected to inform the citizenry of their own unrestricted aerial warfare against civilians. Time to redirect the conversation. “Have you been to Berlin lately?”

  “We were there last autumn. My husband met with the Führer.” She didn’t say the title with pride. “We went to the Wolf’s Lair for the meeting. What a trip that was. We took a train to Gerdauen, and a ministry car took us through the countryside of Masuria and the forest of Rastenburg. Goodness, I never saw so many birch trees. And mosquitoes! We had to slather our hands and necks with Dr. Zinsser’s lotion.”

  The eastern German localities she threw out weren’t familiar to Rafe. Hopefully they weren’t important. “Did you see many well-known people there?”

  “I didn’t see many, but there were two camouflaged trains. One for Ribbentrop, and one was Goering’s. Oh, that one is a veritable palace on wheels with every necessity. Private salons, dining car, toilets and showers, radio room, anti-aircraft batteries. All the top Nazi officials want a train of their own.”

  Rafe’s brows shot up. Only opponents of the regime used the “Nazi” epithet. Adherents insisted on the more dignified National Socialist. Before he could tactfully broach her affiliation, she spared him the trouble.

  “Many underlings were there. They have such dull minds. I’ve noticed a decline in good German manners since the Nazis came to power. Minor officials have assumed such authoritarian airs, or they act excessively familiar. They are uncouth.” She spat out the word like a curse. Tension radiated off her, and tears glistened in her eyes. Rafe marked her as a proud German helplessly watching her country self-destruct. “I fail to understand why so many rich, elderly ladies support Hitler so enthusiastically. They do nothing but attend teas and socialize.”

  Mitzi reared up, her paws on Rafe’s chest, and tried to lick his face. He wrestled her down and tickled her belly. Her tail never stopped swishing.

  “Has your husband always been a career diplomat?” Her chattiness was worrisome. Either she was a clever actress trying to dupe a gullible foreigner or she was so against the Nazis she didn’t care if she revealed secrets.

  “He’s been in the foreign service for over twenty years, always at the heart of German social life. Oh, he has panache. Speaks several languages, knows many big industrialists.” Wistfulness colored her tone. She must not feel his equal. “But serious health issues caused us to reconsider life. Stockholm is out of the frenzy.”

  The Swedes might not appreciate that last sentiment. Not the way the belligerent nations tried to pull their strings like a puppeteer.

  “Did you see the Führer when you were at the Wolf’s Lair?”

  “Oh, yes. The war has aged him. And the palsy. His left hand shakes continuously. He was much more vibrant when I saw him in 1941. Things were going his way at that time.”

  That was interesting. How much did the Allies know about Hitler’s health?

  “Has Berlin changed much?” The way they’d been bombing Berlin, the city better have lost its vibrancy as well.

  “Most Berliners have only one wish: to get some sleep. Air raids occur at all hours of the day and night. They are more in favor of the Russians now than the Allies, because the Russians aren’t bombing them.”

  That attitude would change when the Russians advanced into Germany. He seized the opportunity to end their chat when Mitzi needed to visit the shrubbery. Best not to overstay his welcome.

  “I enjoyed our visit, young man.” Frau Pasch rose with him.

  She’d be willing to chat with him again. He’d have to take flowers to Mrs. Lindquist.

  He reviewed what he’d learned as he hurried to the legation. Nothing Earth shattering. Nothing that would help win the war. If only he could be sure she was a disgruntled German and not practicing her own subterfuge.

  #

  Jennie spread out seven penetration reports. The subject of all seven reports was certainly a busy boy, making the rounds of internees in three different camps. Foolish of him to use his own name all the time. Unless…

  “Phyllis, are there any photos of Hans Schmidt?”

  “Not likely. Most people don’t have cameras.” Her friend rose, stretched, and joined her at the table. “Why do you ask?”

  “Hans Schmidt is all over the place. What if the Germans instruct their spies to all use the same name? This would be like our people all saying they’re John Smith.” She drummed her pencil on the table. “The Germans must have their own reporting system. Would they have files on us?”

  “I’m sure they do. There’s always someone spying on the legation to see who comes in or out. They learned about you the day you arrived.”

  “Yeah, Lars made sure of that.” He would have reported she visited museums and liked to draw. If anyone followed her, they knew where she lived. Cold shivers prickled down her spine.

  What about Rafe? If they opened a file on Rafe, they might realize he frequented German haunts. A smile curled her lips. She’d use her artistic ability to alter his appearance. He might fuss, but her effort could save his bacon.

  The doo
r burst open. Her thoughts conjured his appearance.

  “May I borrow a typewriter?” Without waiting for an answer, he plopped down at Phyllis’ desk and cranked a sheet of paper into her machine. His index fingers pounded away at the keys with more gusto than ability. A firm return of the carriage nearly sent the typewriter flying. Jennie and Phyllis exchanged grins.

  “Did you have a good morning?”

  “Hmm.”

  Jennie took that as a yes. She pulled out more penetration reports and attempted to concentrate on them, but her attention kept straying back to Rafe.

  “There.” Rafe sat back and read through his work. He ripped the page out of the typewriter and joined Jennie at her table. “I met the dachshund lady. She’s the wife of the top Kraut.”

  Hearing Rafe refer to his former countrymen by the disparaging term raised her brows, but she refrained from comment and pulled his report closer. “Rudolph Pasch? The German Minister? And she talked about all this?”

  “Your mom’s right. She’s lonely. She’s not comfortable with the Nazi breed of civil servants. And Mitzi’s a lot of fun.”

  Jennie looked up. “Mitzi? Her dog? How cute.” She pointed at the report. “She met Hitler.”

  Rafe turned to Phyllis. “Are the Allies aware of his health problems?”

  Phyllis shrugged. “I’m only a small cog in an out-of-the-way legation. You didn’t have to type that yourself, you know. You could have dictated everything to Ida, Ed’s secretary. That’s what she’s here for.”

  “No, thank you.” Rafe’s sudden scowl brought Jennie’s head up. “I came here to avoid Maj-Britt. I don’t need another one.”

  “Why?” Jennie laid a hand on Rafe’s arm. “What did Ida do?”

  “She smiled at me.”

  Jennie removed her hand and made her face emotionless. “Really?”

  She tried to sound serious, but couldn’t hold back her laughter.

  Rafe’s shoulders sagged. “It wasn’t just a smile. It was an inviting smile.” He gave her a brilliant smile with widened eyes and a flirty bounce to his brows. “She wants something.”

  Palms pressed together, Jennie raised her hands to her lips, trying to stifle her laugh.

  Phyllis didn’t hold back. “Goodness, Rafe, haven’t you looked in a mirror lately?” She fanned a hand in front of her face. “You do set a girl’s heart to fluttering. And there aren’t that many eligible American men here in Stockholm, you may have noticed.”

  Rafe pursed his lips, sat up straight, and glared at her. “I’m not eligible for her. I don’t like aggressive women.” He stabbed a finger at the phone. “Now, would you please call Ed’s office and see if he’s available? I don’t want to get stuck talking to her.”

  Barely containing her mirth, Phyllis picked up the phone. “Hello, Ida. I’m Rafe Martell’s assistant. Is Ed free for a debriefing?”

  Stockholm

  Friday, June 16, 1944

  What made Ed think Rafe could help the OSS by taking Jennie to dinner at Zum Franziskaner? Ed’s zeal for a coup overrode his common sense. Rafe had taken a quick scouting trip to the harbor establishment earlier in the day. Nothing sinister had turned up. He breathed deeply. This was his first foray into the lion’s den, not a chance encounter in a park. Highly unlikely they’d come to harm. They would keep to themselves, seeming to ignore everyone else. Maybe it was Jennie’s insistence on disguising him that had him on edge.

  He eyed her in the mirror. The hood covering her hair suggested she had her hair in rollers on the top of her head. Having her hair stacked up would be a different look for her, but poufy hairdos were stylish for women. His sister called them victory rolls.

  “They’re sure to note everyone who comes in, suspecting strangers as possible spies.” Jennie rubbed pomade into his hair. “You’ve probably been spotted at the legation, so they know you’re on the American side. It makes sense to keep them from realizing where they’ve seen you before.”

  She made a valid point, but he cringed as she parted his hair down the middle and combed it to the sides. He looked like a village idiot. The wire-rimmed glasses she insisted on pinched behind his ears, their round frames making him look like a bookkeeper. The eyebrow pencil she brought out was the last straw. He tried to move away.

  “Adding glasses and recombing hair is so conventional. You need to look different, Rafe. A few beauty marks will go a long way in making you look like a different man.”

  Beauty marks, ha! His face looked dirty now. He raised his hand and she slapped it down.

  “Don’t touch them. They’ll be obvious fakes if you smear them.”

  He grabbed her hand. “Why the red-painted fingernails? You’ve never painted your nails.”

  Jennie tsked. “Hello? Rafe, you answered your own question. I polished my nails because it’s different. Now behave yourself while I get ready.”

  She left to attend to her own makeover and he sat on his hands to avoid the intense urge to wash his face. His rearranged hair gave him a headache. Crossing his legs, he bounced his foot in a nervous cadence. He glanced at his watch, and shook it. Time must be standing still.

  A woman with deep red hair looked in on him. Her hair was parted in the center with the sides flipped up in big curls crowning her head. The rest of her hair curled under at the back of her neck, displaying her ears, to which pearl earrings were clipped. Her bright red lipstick matched her bright red fingernails in the same shade as Jennie’s.

  He ignored her. Chatting with a stranger held no appeal while he was decked out like a fuddy duddy.

  “Oh, good reaction.” Her voice was familiar.

  His head jerked up. “Jennie?”

  What happened to her reddish blonde curls? Besides the lipstick, she’d used rouge on her cheeks. Her eyebrows looked like someone else’s. And her hair…

  “What have you done to yourself?”

  “Rafe! I’m in disguise.”

  “What did you do to your hair? It was so pretty.”

  Her look said he was acting like a sulky four-year-old. She reached back and touched her hair. “This is a color rinse. We better hope it doesn’t rain or it’ll wash out and make a mess of my clothes.”

  “Right. Well, let’s get this over with.” He jumped to his feet and grabbed the unfamiliar tan coat out of her hands. After she slipped into it, he offered his arm. “Shall we go, Brigitte?”

  “Brigitte?”

  “I can’t call you Jennie, and Brigitte’s easy to remember since it used to be my sister’s name. Remember to call me Sven.”

  They snuck out the legation’s back door.

  As they approached the restaurant, more doubts assailed him. But what could go wrong? There was nothing unusual about a man and a woman dining out. Pushing aside his trepidation along with the door, he ushered Jennie inside.

  A cloud of cigarette smoke hovered under the rounded ceiling. A shelf atop the dark wood walls held a vast collection of beer steins. His gaze dropped to the tables, and his heart sank. A long row of small tables for two lined one wall. One long bench seat abutted the wall, with chairs opposite at each table. No possibility of confidential conversations with diners so close on either side. More private tables filled the rest of the room, but they couldn’t expect to be seated at a table for four. Of course, listening to others would be easier.

  A hostess directed them to a table. He nodded to the man dining at the neighboring table as he pulled out the chair for Jennie. He’d take the bench seat so he could keep an eye on the room. A man seated on a stool at the gleaming mahogany bar watched them settle in. Either Swedish police or German agent, he would bear monitoring. After a first curious glance, no one else seemed to pay them undue interest.

  Jennie laid a hand on his to claim his attention. She leaned forward and spoke in a low tone. “From the rationing coupons required, I’d say they serve beef.”

  His knot of tension began to unravel. He turned his hand over to capture hers, and smiled. “Don’t care for badge
r or crow? Ed said this place was supposed to have been founded by German monks and still serves classic German fare. I’m going to try the sausages and schnitzel.”

  He sat across from a stranger. Her eyes resembled Jennie’s, but with the heavy makeup, she wasn’t the girl he’d met on the Queen Mary. And that fussy hairdo…

  Jennie jiggled his hand. She leaned close and whispered, “You’re staring at me.”

  “I can’t help it. You look like you should be right at home seated at that bar, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in a long holder in the other. In that get-up, you remind me of someone who’s bossy and hard and not very nice.”

  Her penciled eyebrows rose. What had she done with her real brows?

  “Are you talking about someone you know? Or just a characterization?”

  Rafe huffed. “Someone real. Haven’t thought of her in years. My friend Ludwig’s sister. The way she was always trying to get us in trouble, I wouldn’t be surprised if she works for the Gestapo.”

  Jennie raised a manicured finger to lightly touch an eyebrow. Maybe they felt as lousy as his dirty face.

  “Promise you’ll go back to being your real self when we’re done here?”

  She grinned. “I promise, at least until we play dress-up again.”

  He leaned back while placing their order, and spotted the curious gaze of the diner on his left in his periphery. Ignoring him, he took Jennie’s hand in both of his. “What is your favorite grandmother memory?”

  Jennie’s eyes widened but she readily fell into the role of getting-to-know-you.

  “Dressing up on Easter Sunday. My mom, grandma, and I wore new matching dresses and Easter bonnets.” She frowned slightly and her eyes darted to the right.

  He guessed at her hesitation. Did the Swedes have a tradition of Easter bonnets? Every topic could be a landmine.