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

by Terri Wangard

  Jennie rushed on. “And we’d all go together to Christmas Eve services. Actually, the song I most remember Grandma singing was ‘The Old Rugged Cross.’ Oh, and all my grandparents would come to watch our school plays.”

  She toyed with her tableware. “My grandfather died after he was hit by a car in 1929. He’d been bringing home some ice cream. I remember Grandma leaning over him in the coffin. She was crying and saying, ‘So cold. So cold.’ I didn’t understand why he’d be cold. When she stepped back, she stepped on my foot.”

  He brushed his thumb back and forth across the hand he still held. “I remember Oma telling Opa what flowers the bulb company should concentrate on. He’d say, ‘Let me run my business, woman.’ He acted henpecked, but we all knew it was for show.”

  Their meals were delivered and they ate in silence for several minutes while he tuned in to surrounding conversations. The man on his left was Swedish, home on leave from the military. Nothing of interest there. A voice on his right offered tantalizing snippets. A clerk at the German National Tourist Office complained of the difficulty of getting supplies from Berlin.

  Rafe held back a snort. Their bombing missions to Berlin had better be making life more difficult for the Germans. His grim delight vanished with the man’s next comment.

  “I received more names and addresses of German refugees living in the Gothenburg area. Several are Jews. A copy will be forwarded to Berlin on the next Lufthansa flight.”

  A list of German refugees! He could end up on it if he wasn’t careful. He’d given his German name to Frau Pasch, and mentioned Cologne. She may have reported her contact with him. Someone with nothing better to do might ascertain a Rolf Schilling his age used to live in Cologne before disappearing in 1937. He gulped down a bite of sausage without tasting it.

  Rafe fished out of his pocket the tiny Minox Ed had given him. He inclined his head to the right as he slid the matchbox-sized camera to Jennie. She’d have to photograph his suspect. As a trained employee, she knew how to use it. He watched as she hid it in her palm and, using both hands, fiddled with an earring. A quiet click and the deed was done.

  “This schnitzel is very good.” Jennie slid her hand across the table. “Astrid gave me a recipe for herring balls. I thought I’d try it for our next meeting with Lars.”

  Rafe covered her hand with his own. When she withdrew, the camera was in his hand.

  “That’s a good idea. Add pickled beets and a crab salad, and he’ll be a happy man.”

  Their comments made no sense, but they didn’t need to. They spoke for the benefit of surrounding diners. Rafe’s concentration wasn’t required, and he began surveying the room. Three men sat in a booth behind Jennie. Their conversation looked intent, but he couldn’t make out more than the occasional word. German words they were, too. Something about the eastern front. Someone died. Nothing of interest.

  “I think it was the same bird again this morning. I couldn’t see it with all the leaves on the tree, but it sang the same tune. I think it’s a red-flanked bluetail, or maybe a yellow hammer. Have you seen the bearded tit? That’s my favorite bird around here.”

  He looked back at Jennie and grinned. Hopefully she knew what birds were indigenous to the area, and was not making up names.

  After leaving the restaurant, they strolled south on Skeppsbron. The Zum wasn’t terribly far from the Lindquists’ apartment on Södermalm and with sunset after nine o’clock, they planned on a leisurely walk. They hadn’t gotten as far as the bridge to the next island when Jennie grabbed Rafe’s arm and turned down a narrow lane.

  “Detour,” she hissed. “We’re being followed.”

  #

  They maintained their unhurried pace. Everything Jennie had learned about losing tails had sounded so easy in theory, but this was real.

  “Where to now?” Rafe’s voice whispered in her ear. “The scenic route?”

  “I’ll show you my favorite place.”

  She indicated another street and they turned. His strategy on his first day in Stockholm should work here. Jennie stopped and slid her arms around him. His eyes widened, but he enfolded her in his embrace. She put her mouth near his ear and sneaked a look back. “That man was at the bar.”

  “Right. Hopefully just trying to get a feel for who we are, instead of knowing who we are.”

  She hugged his arm as they resumed walking. “How do you like your roommates?”

  “They’re okay. Lance is a typist for your dad in the internee section. He must have been bored to take the job because his typing isn’t worth beans. I’m much better than him. All I know about Sandy is that he snorts a lot in his sleep. Fortunately, I sleep in a closet off the kitchen that I believe was meant for a maid.” He paused and pointed at a window display as though they were shopping.

  They stood in front of a music store. A violin rested on a velveteen cloth. Jennie tapped the window before they moved on. “I wish I had learned to play a musical instrument. Too bad I don’t have time for lessons like the internees.”

  “My mom plays piano. She wanted me to learn, but I hated to practice, and she gave up on me.” Rafe’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s edging closer to hear us.”

  “You speak Swedish so well. Did you learn it from your grandparents?” She stopped beside a gate.

  “Not really. Swedish isn’t difficult for someone who knows German.” He looked up at the gate. “‘Fear God and honor the king.’ Is this a German church?”

  “It is. The outside doesn’t look like much but the interior is gorgeous. I’ve never seen its equal in America.”

  They stepped inside. The low-hanging sun beamed light through the stained glass windows, spotlighting the golden altar. Jennie resisted the urge to drink in the beauty and instead watched Rafe for his reaction.

  His gaze wandered from the shining king’s gallery to the brilliantly colored window scenes to a row of paintings lining the balcony from the front of the church all the way to the back. “Those paintings depict scenes from the life of Christ.”

  “Aren’t they fabulous? Imagine continually being surrounded by these visual reminders of who Jesus is.”

  In the balcony above them, the organ pipes rose, sheathed in gold like the sacristy. Rafe followed the pipes up to the vaulted ceiling. She allowed him a moment to absorb it all. “No one’s around. Why don’t you go to the washroom and wash your face. We’ll leave our watcher at the front door and duck out the back door.”

  While he washed up, Jennie removed her earrings and touched her hair. Only sticking her head under a faucet would change her appearance, too big a job to attempt at the church.

  Rafe returned, combing his hair, the glasses stuck in his pocket. She smirked at his relief to have a clean face.

  “If someone at the legation had fixed you up, you wouldn’t have recognized yourself.” She pointed to the back door.

  “Something to look forward to.” He peered outside and waved Jennie through. “Time now to make our escape.”

  Walking at a brisk pace, they headed for the bridge to Södermalm. “Did you hear anything interesting?” Their stride made Jennie breathless and brought a stitch to her side. “Can we slow down now?”

  Rafe smiled. “I think we’ve lost our shadow. How would you like to visit the airport tomorrow?”

  “What’s there?”

  “Maybe something. Maybe nothing. The man you photographed mentioned the Lufthansa flights. The Germans fly openly into Stockholm, but the Allies have to sneak in.”

  Jennie nodded. “A Lufthansa plane was parked near us when my flight arrived.”

  “I’m sure someone’s always there keeping an eye on who comes or goes, but I’d like to see it for myself.”

  “We’ll do that. Then on Monday, we’ll play games with the Germans.”

  He eyed her when she didn’t elaborate. “That’s a devious smile. Should I be concerned?”

  She chuckled. “The Swedes have phone lines tapped. Were you told that?” At his nod, sh
e continued. “We’ll select German phone numbers from the phone directory and call with suspicious sounding messages. That’ll stir up the police to investigate them. We can use public phone boxes in neutral locations so the calls aren’t traced to us.”

  A burst of laughter slipped out of Rafe. “Aren’t you the mean little kid? But that’s a good idea for stirring up discord.”

  Stockholm

  Saturday, June 17, 1944

  Rafe’s eyes lit up when they met at the legation. “You’re you again.”

  Jennie laughed. “I liked being someone else last night.”

  They started for the train station at a brisk pace. A frown puckered Rafe’s brow. “Don’t you like you as you are?”

  Jennie pulled her lips between her teeth. She looked away from Rafe’s probing gaze. “I wish I was clever.”

  Rafe grasped her arm, bringing her to a halt. “Clever? What are you talking about? You’re intelligent. You wouldn’t be working for the OSS if you weren’t.”

  He wouldn’t be satisfied until she explained herself. Jennie stepped up against a building to avoid blocking other pedestrians.

  “Ed wants me to do more than I expected. Pretending to be Brigitte, I don’t have to worry about stupid Jennie Lindquist. I can be bold and…”

  Rafe still held her arm and he shook it now. “Why do you think you’re stupid?” When she didn’t answer promptly, he shook her again. “Did someone say something to make you think that?”

  Jennie looked around. This was hardly the place for such a discussion. She’d just always known she wasn’t clever. Hadn’t she?

  Rafe propelled her to the end of the block and across the street to a little park. He led her to a bench. “Who told you you’re stupid?”

  “What about the airport, Rafe?”

  “Forget the airport. It’s not going anywhere. Neither are we until I know who hurt you.” Rafe would make a good prosecuting attorney.

  Why assume someone had hurt her? Why couldn’t he let it go? “I’ve just always known I’m not as smart as everyone else.”

  “When was the first time you thought you weren’t smart?” Now Rafe held her hand, his thumb swishing back and forth across her palm.

  Jennie sighed. Was there a first time? Yes. Yes, there was.

  “I didn’t understand double digit multiplication.”

  Rafe’s eyes popped, but he stayed silent.

  “It was fourth grade. Everyone else understood. We had to solve a page full of problems, and then exchange papers to grade. Joey Lardnois got mine. I had them all wrong. I’d multiplied like we do addition. He started laughing, loud, and said, ‘Boy, are you stupid.’ The teacher, Miss Ratner, called me up to her desk and had to give me extra instruction.”

  Her voice cracked and tears filled her eyes. Once again she was that mortified little girl.

  Rafe scooted close and wrapped his arm around her. “Joey was the stupid one, not you. I’ll bet you never did a wrong multiplication problem again. Even if you did, what does it prove? Only that you’re human. You don’t need to hide behind hair dye or a painted face to act brave or smart or anything. How many people get accepted by the OSS, or speak more than one language, or paint beautiful pictures? Who cares about arithmetic?”

  Jennie managed a laugh. She dug through her reticule and fished out a handkerchief. After blotting her eyes and tending to her nose, she took a deep breath. “I suppose you whizzed through all your arithmetic classes.”

  “Oh, well, I liked working with numbers. That’s how I came to be a navigator. Keeping track of history dates is what bedeviled me. I kept trying to put the Franco-Prussian War at the beginning of the nineteenth century, seventy years before its time.” He jumped up and pulled her with him. “I never again want to hear you say you’re stupid. Understand?”

  She saluted. “Aye, aye.”

  He frowned and smiled at the same time. “Come on. Let’s go see if anything exciting is happening at the airport.”

  #

  The normal bustle of an airport hung over the field, but it looked like more than the air traffic warranted. Rafe stared at the American Liberator parked alongside a German Lufthansa DC-3.

  “Do the Swedes seriously expect to avoid problems by putting enemies in such close proximity? I wouldn’t be surprised if someone drew a gun and they started shooting each other.”

  “Rafe, dear, this isn’t a gangster film or the wild west. The Swedes are neutral. They want to pretend there isn’t a war going on and expect everyone else to do likewise.” Jennie patted his arm like he was three years old.

  “Very funny, missy. The Swedes keep the internees separated. They even separate the Americans from the British. And all we could do is give each other fat lips and bloody noses. Here they could do a bit of serious sabotage.”

  He studied the layout. The Germans watched the Allied planes and the Allies watched the Germans. The man lounging against the shed over there, fiddling with a clipboard, must be a watcher, but for whom? The fellow unloading the Liberator spent more time watching the German plane than what he was doing. He looked too nervous to be a spy. Must be a first-timer in awe of his proximity to the enemy.

  Jennie fidgeted beside him. She hadn’t insisted on disguises, but had tucked her hair up in a net and wore a wide-brimmed hat. Her large dark glasses weren’t fashionable, but hid her face.

  Her caution gave him an inspiration. “Why don’t you head for the chairs by the terminal entrance? I’ll reconnoiter by the mechanics’ shed, see if anyone will tell me who’s who.”

  Inside the shed, he found a cleanish pair of overalls and slipped into them. He grabbed a toolbox and headed for the Liberator like he knew what he was doing. At the front wheel crouched a mechanic, likely an internee.

  “How’s it going?”

  The mechanic looked up with narrowed eyes. “Got any grease in there?”

  “I don’t know what’s in here. I didn’t look.” Rafe set down the toolbox. The guy looked trustworthy, but he might think Rafe was a spy. He looked up at the plane. “I flew on B-17s myself. Did you fly on these pregnant cows?”

  The mechanic laughed. “Sure did. They’ve got better speed than your Forts.”

  Rafe dropped to a knee and pulled out his rank insignia. “I’m assigned to the legation now and am trying to get a feel for the layout here. Do you know who’s watching us, German or Swedish?”

  The mechanic stared at him for a long moment before glancing around. “Goons are more likely to hang around when a plane comes in so they can see who gets off or on.” He inclined his head toward the man with the clipboard. “Don’t know who the goldbricker is, but he’s not a Yank or a Limey.”

  Goldbricker. That stumped Rafe for a moment. Someone who excels at goofing off and lets everyone else do the work. He nodded.

  “That fellow over there by the Kraut plane we like to think is Gestapo,” the mechanic continued. “He never seems to work either. The other Krauts avoid him.”

  Too well dressed to be a mechanic, and he did seem to have his nose in the air.

  “Never saw that light chassis by the door before, but she’s not doing a good job of reading her book.”

  Rafe stifled a laugh. “She’s okay. She’s with me.”

  And, he didn’t add, she wouldn’t appreciate the moniker even if it was complimentary.

  “Some guys have all the luck,” the mechanic muttered as he gave his wheel a crank.

  Rafe smiled. “Are any of the Krauts friendly?”

  “We don’t speak the lingo and if they know English, they’re not saying. We do exchange civilized nods with some of them.”

  Another mechanic hurried out from the supply shack. “A cylinder head cracked on the flight from Scotland and we don’t have a spare. There’s no way we’ll have it ready to go back tonight.”

  The mechanic at the wheel stood. “Did you tell McGuire?”

  “No way. He’ll flip his wig.”

  While the two mechanics argued about who shoul
d tell, Rafe eyed the Lufthansa plane. The DC-3 used the same engines as the Liberators. “Why don’t you ask the Krauts if you can borrow one?”

  The men stared at him like he’d spoken Japanese. “Don’t be a yuck.”

  The wheel mechanic looked alarmed and hit his friend’s arm. He’d seen Rafe’s insignia and knew he was an officer.

  Yuck translated to fool, like the way Jennie disguised him yesterday. Rafe smiled and tried a bit of slang himself. “They’ll be so impressed with my cajones, they just might give me one.”

  He headed for the enemy’s plane. A mechanic stood over a rolling tool cart.

  “Entschüldigen.” The man turned around. All thoughts fled Rafe’s mind. He could only stare. The man stared back, reflecting his disbelief.

  “Bertil?”

  He hadn’t seen his best friend in eight years. Christoph hadn’t known what became of him.

  “Bertil?” He cleared his throat. “You are Bertil?”

  “Rolf.” Bertil wasn’t in any better shape, and he swallowed hard. “Ever since you disappeared, I’ve wondered if I’d ever see you again.”

  Heedless of any Americans, Germans, and Swedes who may be watching, two long-lost friends, torn apart by a war that still separated them, embraced. Tears stung Rafe’s eyes. He pushed away and held Bertil at arm’s length. Lines fanned out from his eyes. Eyes that looked old, set in a face much leaner than in their teen years.

  “I don’t want the Gestapo questioning you about me.” Rafe led the way behind a truck and bins of aircraft paraphernalia. “Christoph told me you’d switched to a motorized unit, but I never considered you’d be here.”

  “Christoph knew where you were? He always said he had no idea.”

  “No, no, he didn’t. I saw him a couple months ago in an English prisoner of war camp.” Rafe pulled off the stained mechanic’s cap he wore and raked a hand through his hair. “We bombed his boat.”

  Bertil leaned forward. “You bombed his boat? You did? Or the Allies?”

  “I was a B-17 navigator in the American air force, and we… my crew… we bombed his boat.”