by Lyn Cote
Drake gripped the railing and waited out the nautical miles, bucking the Atlantic swells, tacking east-southeast for international waters. As the first gleam of dawn hovered over the vista, finally, one of his crew of two gave the shout, “The Fortuna’s off starboard, sir!”
Drake hurried to starboard and glimpsed the running lights of the long, low freighter. Before long, he was rowing the twenty feet to the freighter’s side, Bette in the rear of the small wooden skiff. He tied up on to the metal ladder. With the skiff bobbing with every move they made, he helped Bette get started up the ladder, then scrambled up behind her. On board the gently rolling deck, they were met by a short, swarthy man in sweat-stained khakis. The deck was gritty underfoot and the smell of oil hung over them.
“Are you the captain?” Drake asked in a hushed voice, which the early morning hours seemed to demand.
“First mate. I speak English. You want one of the passengers?” In the damp, predawn charcoal gray, a crowd of shadowed shapes appeared in the mist and moved closer.
Drake folded his arms against the chill. “Yes, I want Ilsa Braun and her child.”
“Me?”
It was Ilsa’s voice. She was still there—alive. The relief washed through him like fresh warm water. “Ilsa, it’s me, Drake Lovelady. And Bette, Gretel’s friend, came with me.”
Ilsa emerged from the deep gloom. She held a very small sleeping child in her arms. She looked even thinner than two years ago. Murmurs in German swelled around her. “Why have you come?” she demanded.
He heard the distrust in her voice. What did she think he would do to her that could be worse than going back to the Nazis? “To take you,” he explained in a voice that said that she should have expected him, “from the ship before it docks in Virginia.”
“We’ll take you home with us to Washington, D.C.” Bette went to Ilsa and gave her a quick hug.
“You will take me into the country illegally?” Ilsa demanded, standing stiff and unmollified. “I would be thrown in prison and then deported.”
“No,” Drake said, knowing Ilsa would fight him, “that won’t happen. I’m going to have the captain marry us and take you into the country as my wife. You will gain US citizenship when I marry you.” There, he’d said it. His voice had come out shaky. He cleared his throat and turned to the first mate. “Take us to your captain.” His voice firmed. “He can legally marry us in international waters.”
“No!” Ilsa exclaimed.
CHAPTER FIVE
In the dimness of approaching dawn, Drake saw Ilsa’s face twist in dismay; it was a honed blade into his heart. But he’d expected this from her, hadn’t he? He had to make her face the fact that she had no other choice. It was marry him or face horrors he couldn’t even name. With two long strides, he was in front of her. He slipped the child from her arms and handed her to Bette. Ilsa released the child without protest. Then he leaned close to Ilsa’s face and spoke low and fiercely. “I’m not taking no for an answer. You are marrying me and then we’re heading back to Georgetown.”
Ilsa’s sunken eyes flamed at him. “I don’t want to marry a Gentile, a goy. I don’t want to marry any man.” She spat at his feet. Disapproving murmurs hedged them on all sides.
“This isn’t about marriage and you know it.” He gripped her arms. “You know why you fled Germany.” He felt the anger building in him—rage at the situation, at this woman who wouldn’t give an inch. “In the Fatherland, you’re no longer considered human and, Ilsa, it isn’t against the law to kill animals.”
Ilsa looked stunned; her mouth groped for words, but only a whimper came out.
I can’t let you go back. I refuse. “Do you want to live or do you want to die?” He shook her arms.
Ilsa swayed, and then she nodded. “Very well. You win.”
Bette hung back, as stunned as Ilsa by his words, stunned by her surroundings. She’d seen hobos begging at the back door of Ivy Manor. She’d seen sharecroppers who owned nothing but the ragged clothes on their backs. But she’d never seen degradation like this.
And it wasn’t just what she glimpsed in the grayness. She’d never smelled anything like the stench that hovered over the freighter—a combination of salt water, sweat, urine, and vomit. The child in her arms reeked. She tried not to breathe through her nose, held her free hand to her side so she wouldn’t cover her nose, her eyes, or turn and run away. She hadn’t expected it to be like this, to see humans reduced to huddled, stinking shadows.
Mr. Lovelady turned with Ilsa, now drooping limply by the arm he clenched, and faced the first mate. “Take us to your captain.”
Bette almost told him to stop gripping Ilsa so tightly, that he was hurting her, but she couldn’t open her mouth. She shook inside, the horror of this scene nearly pulling her apart. Tears hovered. She forced her emotions down.
“No, I bring him.” The first mate hustled away, his rubber soles slapping the deck and disappearing into the forecastle.
“Bette,” Drake said, “you will be a witness. The first mate can be another.” Ilsa said nothing, just stood there held up by Mr. Lovelady, barely breathing.
Bette nodded. The shadows around Ilsa shifted. Eyes gleamed in the faint light. Here and there, Bette glimpsed a pale hand or a face in profile. But the light was low and the faces were smudged with dirt and grime. Bette wanted to step back, prevent these faces from coming closer to her, wanted to close her eyes and not be here. She gripped her lower lip with her teeth to keep from crying out.
With one hand, Mr. Lovelady drew Ilsa closer to him and reaching out, gently brushed the little girl’s dark, matted hair. “How is she?”
“She . . . lives.” Ilsa said no more.
With the child lying against her, Bette moved to stand beside Mr. Lovelady, seeking, needing his protection. The faces drifted closer to them. As if to hold them at bay, Bette stroked the little girl’s head. It felt too warm to her and the child looked more like an infant than a toddler.
Parting the shadow people, the first mate shuffled back with another older man at his side. “This is Captain Montoya.”
“Captain, I want you to marry me to this woman and then I’m taking her away with me.” Mr. Lovelady shook the man’s hand. In the growing dawn, Bette watched him press an American bill into the captain’s palm. Was it a fifty?
The captain spoke to the first mate at length in Spanish—or was it Portuguese? The first mate turned to Mr. Lovelady to translate. “The captain says he has never done this, but it is in his power. But you have to speak your own words. Then I tell him what you have said. He will write of the marriage in the ship’s log.”
Bette felt the soundless crowd listening and watching intently. Did they understand English? The silent gathering hovered around them now, hemming them in completely. She, Mr. Lovelady, Ilsa, the captain, and first mate stood like an island in their midst. The scene with its ghostly sentinels began to take on the aspect of a dream.
“Does the captain have any stationery or paper with the company’s name on it?” Mr. Lovelady asked. “He will write that on this date he married us and you and my young friend can sign as witnesses. I’ll need proof when I get back on shore.”
The first mate relayed that to the captain, who nodded in agreement. Bette shivered in the chill dampness of the early morning breeze, shivered with the nearness of the company of noiseless wraiths.
Mr. Lovelady turned to Ilsa. “I don’t remember all the marriage ceremony. I don’t usually pay much attention. Let’s just do the vows part. He held her hand. “I, Drake Lovelady, take you, Ilsa Braun, as my wedded wife. To have and to hold from this day forward in sickness and health, for richer for poorer, for better or worse, until death us do part.”
Ilsa didn’t move. Bette wondered if she would cooperate. Why didn’t she understand what was going on? He’s trying to keep you from going back. What’s wrong with you?
“Repeat after me,” Mr. Lovelady ordered, “I, Ilsa Braun, take you . . .”
Ilsa ju
st stood there looking at him. Bette touched her bony arm. Nothing. The crowd stirred with dismay, shuffling, whispering, edging nearer. The back of Bette’s neck crawled with sensation. And suddenly she wanted to scratch her arms as if her skin were crawling with vermin.
Mr. Lovelady leaned closer. “Say it.”
“I, Ilsa Braun, take you, Drake Lovelady . . .”
Mr. Lovelady began again, “. . . as my wedded husband . . .” He recited the vows again and she repeated them as if she were reading a grocery list. Then he looked at the captain. “Let’s get the paperwork done.”
Within minutes, Mr. Lovelady was descending the ladder to the skiff, the smudged, handwritten wedding certificate folded in his shirt pocket. Ilsa came down next. Bette with the child in one arm was the last one over the side. As she stood there on the top rung, looking toward the deck, the sun’s light backlit the ghost people. They stared at her—alive yet appearing already dead. Most looked at her blankly, but a few pled silently for her to take them, too. I can’t. I can’t marry anyone, hide anyone. I can’t do anything.
She lifted a hand in farewell and then let herself down the metal rungs. She stepped carefully into the rocking skiff and hunched down in the bow. Ilsa, who had settled in the stern, looked at her child in Bette’s arms and murmured something soothing in German. And Mr. Lovelady sat in the middle. He rowed them away.
On board his yacht, Mr. Lovelady ordered the captain to head for Chesapeake Bay again. Ilsa took her child back. Then she collapsed into a deck lounging chair and fell asleep as if someone had hit her with a hammer. Mr. Lovelady paced the deck, which purred again with the engine’s vibrations.
Leaning against the railing, Bette stood a few feet away, watching Ilsa with the child sleeping on top of her. Bette turned and looked back at the freighter, already moving away in the misty dawn. From the freighter, no one waved good-bye or called to Ilsa. They had been left to whatever fate would bring them, and Ilsa was going to America, to safety.
Guilt rose in Bette’s throat. Why is this happening? Why is there someone like Hitler? Why am I safe while girls like Gretel are in danger? It isn’t fair! Unable to look away from the ship drawing away on the horizon, she knew she’d never forget the haunted faces in the murky dawn.
Drake had achieved his goal; he’d saved Ilsa. She and the child were here. But would she ever be his? Or would she bury herself in bitterness and hold herself away from him?
The doctor held the silent, limp child in his arms. A freshly scrubbed Ilsa in a pale summer cotton nightgown borrowed from Bette stared at the doctor and Drake from the high bed where she sat propped up on pillows. Bette had left them to buy groceries. Earlier in the backyard, Drake had burned Ilsa’s clothing to kill the lice and fleas. He had showered afterward, feeling unclean, defiled.
“The child appears healthy, but malnourished,” the doctor said.
“I have fed her only breast milk,” Ilsa muttered, picking at a scab on her knuckle. “I was afraid the food on the ship might not be good.”
“A wise decision. I don’t suppose your diet has been the best, and both of you have suffered.” He turned to Drake. “I’m going to administer vitamin shots to your wife and the child for a week and then she can begin to take vitamin tablets. I want her to drink lots of fresh milk and fruit juices. She should have a soft, bland diet at first until her stomach adjusts. Rich food or spices and butter will only make her sick.”
Drake breathed in guarded relief. He’d feared that the child might be in danger of dying—she was so quiet, so tiny.
The doctor handed Drake the child and administered the vitamin shots. Ilsa didn’t even flinch and the child only whimpered once. “I’ll be back tomorrow to check on my patients.” Black bag in hand, he walked out, leaving Drake alone with Ilsa.
Drake gazed at Ilsa. Her face was clean now but still drawn and so thin, with dark smudges beneath her eyes. There was so much he wanted to say to her, but not now. “Why don’t you finish that glass of milk?” He nodded toward the tray on the little bedside table.
Ilsa obeyed him without comment. He was afraid to move for fear of upsetting the child who felt so thin, almost weightless, in his arms. At eighteen months old, little Sarah weighed only fourteen pounds—about half what the doctor said she should weigh. “Do you want more toast or cheese and crackers?”
Ilsa drained the last of the milk and shook her head. “I only want to sleep. Give me Sarah, bitte.”
Drake awkwardly moved forward and transferred the child to Ilsa. He stood there watching her arrange the child beside her. He was wrung with pity for the little girl. And he longed to lay down beside Ilsa and hold her. Just hold her. You’re safe now, Ilsa. “Shouldn’t we have a cradle or something for her to sleep in?”
Ilsa shrugged. “I have always kept her beside me.”
“I’ll let you get some sleep.” He turned to leave.
“Why did you do this, Drake Lovelady?” Ilsa’s question stopped him.
He paused. He tried to bring up a glib explanation and found he couldn’t. I don’t want this to be just a marriage in name only. But you aren’t ready for the truth of how I feel, Ilsa. “Go to sleep, Ilsa. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Does it make you feel like the hero again?” she asked, sarcasm soaking every word.
“Sleep, Ilsa.” He left, closing the door gently behind him. In the hallway, he found himself wracked by waves of hot uncertainty, like a case of inverted chills. He’d gambled. He’d married her. Please, Ilsa, give life a chance. The time for bitterness should, can come to an end now.
A month later, Drake sat beside Ilsa with her daughter in her arms in the front seat of his Cadillac. The wind through the open car windows fanned the heat of summer over them, speeding up the evaporation, but not cooling them. Chloe had invited Drake and Ilsa to spend time at Ivy Manor. Drake had agreed to visit in hopes that somehow Chloe or the change of scenery could help him break down the wall between Ilsa and himself.
“Is summer always so hot?” Ilsa asked, holding the baby away from her.
He gripped his self control. As days had passed, Ilsa had not given an inch, remaining prickly. He’d almost come to the conclusion he should just set her up in an apartment in New York City and let her have her privacy. But he wasn’t willing to give up yet. “Sometimes it’s hotter.” Drake tugged to loosen his tie. Then he saw Ivy Manor’s chimneys in the distance. A smile lifted his mouth. Why did he think that Chloe could help him reach Ilsa? “There it is.”
Within minutes, Drake was leading Ilsa up the front walk toward the front door. It flew open and Chloe with Roarke at her side came toward them with open arms. “Drake! Ilsa, welcome!”
For a few moments, everything was a happy jumble. Chloe hugged Ilsa and claimed the child, then she shook Drake’s hand after Roarke had finished greeting him.
“We’re so glad you’ve brought your bride to meet us.” Chloe turned to Ilsa again and took her hand. “Come into the backyard. We’ll sit out in the shade in the summer house and drink iced tea.”
“I am happy finally to meet the beautiful Chloe,” Ilsa said, casting a glance at Drake.
Chloe didn’t react to Ilsa’s odd remark. She just urged her along. Drake wondered whether coming here had been a good idea. But if Chloe with her warm heart, and the peace here at Ivy Manor, couldn’t help Ilsa, what could?
Later that evening, the summer sunset laced rosy fingers through the surrounding trees, lush green and some bending their willow whips to the stream. Ilsa stood in the doorway of the cottage and watched the lovely Chloe walk away hand in hand with her husband. Seeing the couple holding hands and talking to each other stung something deep inside Ilsa. Had she ever been that loved, that carefree?
Memories of her first husband bobbed in her mind until the stark image of his hard expression—as he put her out into the street—blotted out everything else.
Rubbing her arms as if chilled, she turned back and faced the man with her in the little cottage. Sarah alr
eady slept in a bed in the cottage’s one bedroom. For the first time since she’d become Mrs. Drake Lovelady, Ilsa was completely alone with him. In Georgetown, Bette was always down the hall and Drake had hired a full-time maid and cook. But here in this little cottage hidden away in a grove of ancient willows and elms, she and her husband were alone.
Her husband. No, the man who’d saved her life, the man she should be grateful to. She shuddered. I don’t want to be grateful to any man.
“Why have you brought me here?” she asked, lethally quiet.
Leaning against the doorjamb, Drake looked at her. “How do you like Bette’s family?”
She ignored his question. Was he taunting her with Chloe, the woman he’d once loved? “I’ll be happy when Gretel comes. Why haven’t you taken me to New York, to see Gretel?”
“Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
Why was he always so good to her? Why wouldn’t he tell her what he wanted from her, what he wanted in payment for rescuing her and Sarah? “No, I—”
“You didn’t eat enough at dinner.” He stood up straighter. “I’m going to pour you a glass of milk and make you a snack.”
“I’m not hungry.” Her stomach rumbled, protesting its hunger, making her a liar. She felt like spitting, hissing like a cat. I don’t want to accept anything else from you.
“Little Sarah needs you to eat more,” he said and gently took her hand and led her into the small kitchen. She sat down at the little table, only big enough for two, and watched him open the small white icebox. He shook a glass quart of milk and poured her a tall serving of the creamy-white farm-fresh liquid.
Her mouth became wet as the glass of cold milk begged her to take a sip, just a mouthful. But she couldn’t. She stared at it, unable to move. After watching her a moment, Drake sighed and turned to slice a rosy peach into wedges. He placed them on a plate and set it before her.
