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

by Terri Wangard

  She squared her shoulders. That was her job. Two or three photographers were busy snapping pictures. She’d get some of those for her exhibit. She’d show any naysayers back home that these American airmen hadn’t run away from the war. These men didn’t even get to enjoy their enforced vacations.

  The service ended, and Dad and Mom joined other legation staff in conversation. Jennie slipped away. Rafe and a few other airmen busied themselves folding the flags that had draped the coffins. They worked quickly, silently. Rafe’s jaw flexed, his lips pressed tight. She turned away to give him privacy.

  Placards stood at each grave. She wandered down the line, reading them. Shaw. Heskamp. Traut. Rudisill. Coats. Lohmeyer. Spencer. Puckett. Deck. Kellerman. Ten lives cut short. Tears pressed her eyes again. She took a deep breath and blew it out.

  “Miss Lindquist?”

  She turned to a Swedish officer beside her. He wore pilot’s wings and his name tag read Marklund. “You’re Astrid’s husband.”

  “Yes.” He bowed with Old World courtliness. “Gustav Marklund. Astrid enjoyed spending the weekend with you.” He glanced around. “May I assist you in any way?”

  “Actually, yes.” Astrid had said he was formal. She possessed such spontaneity compared with his military stiffness. Maybe out of uniform he’d be more relaxed. “I’d like to talk to the photographers about getting pictures.”

  “For your exhibit.” Gustav smiled and offered his arm. “Right this way.”

  #

  “I’d rather face another combat mission than face Alan.” Rafe shuffled his feet. It wasn’t too late to board the Stockholm train with the Lindquists. The thought was tempting.

  Jennie’s brow knit. “Alan won’t bite.”

  “No, he’d more likely take a swing at me.” He raised his fists and demonstrated some light footwork.

  Jennie pushed his hands down. “He’s your friend, and he’s unhappy.”

  Rafe paced back and forth. He wasn’t going back to Rättvik entirely for Alan’s sake. Pastor Jurgen insisted it was as much for his own well-being. The desire to avoid confrontation resulted in an agitated spirit and loss of peace. That was true. He’d lost sleep over Alan.

  The call for travelers to Stockholm brought Jennie to his side. She cupped his face with her hands. “You’ll do fine with Alan. He’s a good man who’s lost his way. You’ll be a big help to him.” She stretched up on her toes and kissed his cheek. “I’ll be praying for you.”

  Rafe wrapped his arms around her and hugged her tight. The lure of Stockholm tugged hard at him. He stepped back and watched Jennie board the train. A last wave from the window and she was gone.

  Filling his lungs with air and his heart with determination, he strode for his own train. Why did he have such a hard time confronting people? He didn’t used to. When he was fifteen, he’d challenged Ludwig when his friend wanted to pillage old Herr Lerner’s garden. The miser deserved it for running over Ludwig’s bicycle with his car and blaming Ludwig, but his poor wife had always been kind. And he’d stood up to Fraulein Jung when she wanted to keep the class after school because the vase on her desk was broken.

  When had he become such a doormat, letting people stomp on him? He’d let Maj-Britt hound him. In basic training, he’d voiced no objection when the sergeant ordered him to scrub the latrine for someone else’s infraction, but of course, drill sergeants were naturally nasty folk and he hadn’t wanted to jeopardize his training.

  The worst incident came when his father… Rafe’s steps faltered. His father’s betrayal. He hadn’t stood up to his father. He sucked in his breath to stem a wave of dizziness. The wounds of his father’s betrayal had crippled his will to stand up to conflict.

  Stockholm

  Tuesday, July 4, 1944

  “Happy Birthday America” covered the center of the cake, while starbursts in red and blue icing decorated the edges. Everyone applauded when Mr. Johnson, the legation minister, cut the cake, and his secretary brought out tubs of ice cream.

  Jennie and Phyllis carried their sweets outside to eat by the waterfront. Phyllis forked up a mouthful and closed her eyes in bliss. “Someone’s been hoarding sugar for this treat.”

  Jennie dragged her fork through the icing before lifting a star intact and setting it aside on her plate. She added a taste of ice cream to a bite of cake. “Not bad.”

  “Not bad?” Phyllis lowered her plate to her lap and stared into Jennie’s eyes. “Are you feeling all right?”

  Jennie huffed a laugh. “Sure, I’m fine.” She scooped up a larger bite and savored it. “Mmm, so delightful.”

  “Your sarcasm is unbecoming.” Phyllis’ tart expression renewed Jennie’s laughter.

  “Sorry. It’s just that I expected today to be so different. Rafe and I planned to go sailing. Or maybe go to the amusement park, Gröna Lund Tivoli. Or maybe even Skansen, although probably not. An open-air museum isn’t Rafe’s first choice for holiday fun.”

  “I know. Let’s go shopping. Shopping’s the perfect cure for the blues, and I do need a few things.” Phyllis jumped up and would have headed back into the legation if Jennie hadn’t grabbed her arm.

  “Finish your treat. Then we’ll go.” Shopping didn’t hold the same appeal to her, but a little mindless diversion was more appealing than, oh, a doctor’s appointment.

  Within an hour, they were wandering the ladies section of a big department store. Jennie browsed among the dresses while Phyllis sought the assistance of a sales clerk. Jennie held a dress up to herself in front a mirror before shaking her head and returning it to the rack.

  “Excuse me, miss.” A man her father’s age stood before her, hat in one hand and two garments in the other. “I’m looking for a gift for my wife. Which would you prefer if you were buying a sweater? This one…” He held up a blue cardigan. “Or this one?” He flipped the cardigan aside to reveal a pullover, also solid blue.

  Jenny fingered the soft wool of the cardigan. “This is lovely. But tell me, what’s your wife’s hair style like?”

  The man pulled a photograph from his wallet with a quizzical expression. Jennie tried to hold back a smile. Ask an artist a fashion question, and he’d get an artistic answer. She studied the woman’s image. “Not a fussy hairdo, so a pullover wouldn’t be a problem. Her face is oval shaped.” She held up the pullover. “This has a V-neck. You might want to look for a rounded neckline. That would help an oval face look less long.”

  She handed back the photo and stepped over to the sweaters. She located a crewneck pullover with a design in blues and greens. “This has a cheerful look.”

  Not for the world would she admit his wife possessed a careworn look and could use some cheer.

  With profuse thanks and much bowing, the man took the suggested sweater and hurried to a sales register. Jennie grinned at the woman’s imagined delight over the pretty gift as she turned to find Phyllis.

  A policeman stood in her way. “You’ll come with me, miss.”

  “Excuse me?”

  #

  Jennie sat beside her friend in the store manager’s office. She tingled with cold and felt sweaty at the same time. The policeman accused her of being a spy. Someone had observed her slip something to a Swedish citizen. She thought they’d gotten rid of Lars.

  “Of course I gave something to a citizen. A man was shopping for his wife, which I thought was very nice of him, and he asked for my opinion. He showed me her picture and then I gave it back. If we appeared to be secretive, it was only because whoever was spying on us was too far away to see what we were doing.” If only she could press her hands together between her knees to keep them from shaking, but that would hardly be ladylike. She grabbed her reticule and yanked out her notepad, flipping to her sketch of Lars. “Is this your spy?”

  The policeman took the pad and eyed the sketch before raising his gaze to Jennie. “Did you do this?”

  “Naturally she drew that.” Phyllis swelled up like a rooster. “Jennie’s an artist and that’s
why the man was wise to ask her help in selecting his gift.”

  A smile teased Jennie’s lips. The shopper hadn’t known of her artistic ability.

  “Who is this?” The policeman tapped the sketch.

  “A German who’s been the bane of my existence in Stockholm. We thought he’d been sent back to Germany.”

  A salesclerk slipped into the office. “I can confirm that a Claes Ericsson purchased a sweater on the advice of this young lady.”

  The policeman nodded to Jennie. “You may go.”

  They were barely outside the office door when Phyllis exclaimed, “Just like that. No apology, nothing.”

  The saleslady twisted her hands together. “Is there anything else you need to find today?”

  Home, that’s all. Before Jennie could decline her help, Phyllis answered. “Yeah, do you have any recipes for fried kraut?”

  Rättvik

  Tuesday, July 4, 1944

  Rafe hiked up the trail. What a stroke of luck that Alan had gone off on his own and headed for the bluff that offered a panoramic view of the area. Rafe’s favorite place to escape Maj-Britt. Maybe now it was the place where Alan sought to escape his demons. Steve had filled Rafe in on what had happened after he’d left Rättvik. A new internee had moved in with Alan, a man who identified with Nazi ideas of racial supremacy. His bigoted ranting had rubbed off on Alan.

  Rafe spotted his crewmate slumped with his back against a fallen log. His hands dangled from his upraised knees and his chin rested on his chest. He was the picture of gloominess.

  Rafe hesitated. Now that he was here, what did he say?

  “Happy 4th.”

  After a moment, Alan’s head rose, surprise etched on his face. “What are you doing here?”

  Promising. No hint of revulsion. No annoyance. Jennie’s prayers were working. Pastor Jurgen hadn’t told him what to say. He said God would bring the words to mind. Okay, God, fill me in on those words.

  “I stopped by on my way back from the funerals in Malmö yesterday. Bunked with Cal and Steve last night.”

  “The funerals?”

  “The ten men who didn’t survive the big American invasion of Sweden two weeks ago.”

  “Oh, right. You mentioned that.” Alan straightened, moving his elbows to his knees. “How was it?”

  “Depressing.” Rafe took a deep breath. This was it. “Are we still friends?”

  That got Alan’s attention. His elbows came off his knees and he leaned back against the log. The focus in his eyes told Rafe he didn’t know what he was talking about.

  “Is my ancestry a problem?” His voice remained calm despite the thundering of his heart.

  Alan exhaled a gusty breath and stretched out his legs. “Yeah, friends.” A smile tipped one side of his mouth. “I guess I owe you an apology. That weekend in Stockholm wasn’t the break I thought it would be.”

  Rafe held his tongue to allow Alan to set his own pace. Alan startled him by jumping to his feet.

  “It’s just that I’d really like to knock heads together.” He held up his hands like he was clutching two heads.

  Rafe stepped back.

  Alan laughed and relaxed his hands. His laugh sounded like the old Alan. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

  They didn’t go far before Alan eased aside the branches of a shrub. A bird chirped from its nest. “She’s used to me,” he whispered. Returning the branches, he turned back to the trail and looked out over the lake. “A bird built a nest in one of Ruby’s flower pots back home. I can still hear her when I got too close. ‘Gently, gently. Don’t frighten her.’” His fists clenched before he waved a hand back toward the nest. “I thought about that when I first realized how I’ve been changing. Only this time, Ruby was saying ‘You’re frightening me.’ She wouldn’t like what’s happening here. And that scares the stuffing out of me.”

  He shoved his hands into his back pockets and stared out across the lake.

  Steve had scored a bull’s eye on what was ailing Alan.

  “Are you still rooming with the bigot?”

  A moment passed before Alan turned to face Rafe. A wry smile pushed up the left side of his mouth. “Did Steve or Cal tell you about him?” He barely waited for Rafe’s nod. “Did they also mention whether they requested he be transferred? Because he abruptly left and I heard he’s now at Korsnäs, which has a disciplinary section. Can’t say I miss him.”

  The two stood side by side, surveying Rättvik and Lake Siljan. A cool breeze swept across the lake and up the hill to ruffle Rafe’s hair. He watched fluffy little clouds play tag and smiled at the game. A heavy load fell from his shoulders. He’d worried for nothing.

  “Have you, ah, seen Maj-Britt lately?”

  Alan snickered. “Oh, yeah. She sank her claws in a technical sergeant from the 389th Bomb Group. Then she found out he’s enlisted rather than an officer, and dumped him. So now she’s fishing again. Wanna go another round with her?”

  “Himmel hilf mir.” Rafe shuddered.

  They headed down the hill and approached the first house on the road leading into town. Two children, probably brother and sister, stood in the yard with a flimsy cardboard box. A calico cat wound around their legs.

  “Say, would you like a kitten for Jennie? They’ve got a batch and are looking for good homes.”

  “Just what she doesn’t need in the city.” First Brenda Jane Prescott in England, now these kids in Sweden. Children were the same the world over.

  The children’s hopeful expressions tugged on his heartstrings. The boy opened his mouth and Rafe half expected him to say, “Have any gum, chum?”

  Instead he asked, “Want a kitten, mister?”

  “Do you still have them all?” Alan leaned forward to look in the box.

  “No, just five,” the girl answered.

  Just five?

  The box twisted and the children lowered it. One side broke free and five kittens tumbled out. They scampered around the yard, looking like wind-up toys that wouldn’t last long in the hands of a three-year-old. Rafe and Alan knelt to help the children corral them. Two bounded to Rafe and climbed on his legs, digging through his trousers with their tiny needle claws. “Mew, mew, mew.”

  He pried loose one furball. It sure was cute. Jennie would love it, but Stockholm was no place for it.

  Alan and the children each held a kitten. “These are boys.” Missing a front tooth, the girl spoke with a lisp. “Those two are girls. They like you, mister.”

  Of course they did. He was a magnet for females.

  Stockholm

  Wednesday, July 12, 1944

  Ed had requested a meeting, something about a special assignment. Rafe arrived early, and found Jennie in Phyllis’ office. “Any idea why Ed wants to see me?”

  “None at all. I’ve got something to show you.” Jennie rifled through a file and pulled out a mimeographed copy. “I wrote this based on your conversation with Mrs. Pasch. Remember her comment that wealthy elderly women do nothing but attend teas? The British and Americans are starting a radio program aimed at German troops. It’ll feature music and slanted news aimed at eroding morale. I submitted this little news item.”

  Rafe scanned the copy. Wehrmacht soldiers complain that the home folk engage in frivolous activities instead of contributing to the war effort. One private stated his grandmother’s letters are filled with gossip from tea parties, and never accompanied by packages. Couldn’t the ladies at least knit gloves and socks while they chitchat? “They probably don’t have any yarn to knit with.”

  “Are you trying to excuse them?”

  He laughed at Jennie’s outrage, belied by the sparkle in her eyes. “Far be it from me.”

  In Ed’s office, another man attended the meeting. Rafe wasn’t given his name, although he had noticed him at the legation before. They pored over a map of what appeared to be Staden, the island of the old town. That was fine with Rafe. He’d become quite familiar with all the twists and corners of the ancient l
abyrinth.

  Ed spun the map in front of him. “Here’s your destination, Den Gyldene Freden, on Österlånggatan. It’s an old restaurant with a cellar meeting room that’s actually a cave. That’s where we anticipate the meeting between these characters.”

  He nodded to his cohort.

  The man offered two photographs that had clearly been taken on the sly. One man raised his face to the sun, offering easy identification. Rafe shook his head. The man was unfamiliar. The other subject’s hat shadowed his features to the extent he could walk up and slap Rafe in the face without Rafe suspecting a problem.

  Ed’s cohort set the photos aside and tapped the map. “This place is a rock’s throw from Zum Franziskaner.”

  And not far from Tyska Kyrkan, Rafe’s favorite escape valve. He looked up to find Ed and the other man watching him intently. Something wasn’t right. “What do you know about these two?”

  “Not much. We have no idea who the shadowy figure is. The other one is connected with the German National Tourist Office.”

  A pseudonym for Nazi sabotage, or espionage, or some kind of mischief. It would sure be nice to know if Rafe had caused trouble for anyone with his prank phone call a couple weeks ago. Only a couple weeks ago? Boy, it seemed longer than that.

  “We received a tip from a Swede who’s given us worthwhile intel before. Mystery Man likely just arrived from Deutschland. We want to know why. Get close to them. Chat with them if possible. If you notice they’re about to depart, leave before them and try to tail them.”

  Rafe listened with butterflies hatching in his gut. This sounded like an assignment for a trained agent, not a casual just-happened-to-be-in-the-same-place-at-the-same-time occurrence. “Why me?”

  Ed shifted, causing the butterflies to flutter up and down Rafe’s spine.