by Brandon Dean
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
About the Author
Prologue
It’s so quiet, so serene. Pure nothingness, apart from the mechanical churning of the truck engine ahead of me. I’m on my way back home now. Or, at least, the closest thing to a home I have. A house of God transitioned into a temple of sin. The ones I align with are broken, no matter which side I choose or what angle I look at. One side of the coin is made up of men morphed into monsters, skewing the world to fit their own twisted agenda. The other is made up of men filled with pure helplessness, worker bees in a hive of catastrophe, unsure whether the breath they’re taking right now will be their last. But fear not—I have a plan, and I have a prayer. They aren’t going to get away with this.
The people I’ve met along the way, as well as the people I’ve lost—it does a lot to a guy, especially when that guy is just a teenager who’s trying his hardest to grow up on his own. German bombs blanketing the ground don’t do much to help matters. Go ahead and paint that picture in your head: foreign planes systematically gliding through the sunset as far as the eye can see, and in one flawless and precise brushstroke, everything you’ve ever known is gone.
Sometimes I wonder how I’m going to survive all this. Sometimes I want to give up. But what can you do when giving up isn’t an option? You see, I’m past done. I don’t fear death, but I fear a world where the ones I love have to fight this battle alone. And maybe that’s what keeps me going.
I hope that one day this can all be over, that one day I can wake up to see Hazel by my side. I hope that one day I can prop my own grandkids on my lap and tell them silly stories. I hope that one day I can look myself in the mirror without guilt and regret staring back. I hope that one day we can all learn to move on and be happy. That’s all I want now, just to be happy.
I hope that one day, we make it to Promised Land.
Chapter 1
My father, James, impatiently tapped his finger on the steering wheel of the family sedan. We had been sitting in the traffic of downtown Cleveland for nearly an hour, and he must’ve been craving a cigarette. He must’ve left his Marlboros on the kitchen counter again.
“I wonder if this damn light will ever turn green!” he shouted. My mother, Amelia, placed her hand upon his shoulder, telling him to calm down in the kind tone she always seemed to possess. Dad scoffed; he didn’t want to start an argument—not today, at least. It was my seventeenth birthday, and as a celebration, we’d decided to go to the Indians and Athletics game.
I looked out the window at the pedestrians walking on the sidewalks. I saw a paperboy waving his goods in the air, hoping to make a sale to whatever passersby he could. “Do the Germans Have the Upper Hand?” the headline shouted. It was a dark time that seemed to jeopardize our very way of life. It hadn’t affected me directly, however—not until the Japanese attacked and so many people in my own little world had to go overseas. It really is amazing how tragedy can bring people closer together. It’s also disheartening to realize it takes those very same tragedies to form unity on the home front. And going on with our everyday lives was easier for some than others. My best friend, Riley, had said goodbye to his father that day, and there I was, sitting in the back seat, being driven to a baseball game by my own. There was a tinge of guilt that rested somewhere in my heart and soul. It didn’t seem fair, but I wasn’t about to complain.
“Clint,” I heard my mother say, breaking into my thoughts to bring me back to the present. I was scared—most of us were. We just didn’t know how to admit it, and a lot of us, myself included, didn’t know what exactly it was we were scared of.
“Oh, sorry, Mom. What is it?” I replied.
“I was just asking you if you’ve thought of any baby names,” she said.
Mom was about six months pregnant. I was excited; I’d always wanted a younger brother to take under my wing, but I supposed a little sister would be just as good.
“Boy or girl?” I asked.
“Boy, hopefully,” Dad interjected.
“Oh, behave yourself, James,” Mom said with an eye roll. “Just tell me what you have already,” she said, directing her attention back to me.
To be honest, I hadn’t given it too much thought. I was a teenage boy—I had other things on my mind besides baby names. I did, however, have two—one for a boy and one for a girl.
“I like Logan for a boy and Violet for a girl,” I told Mom.
“Violet . . . Violet,” she whispered to herself. I knew that, despite the fact that my dad was hoping for a boy, she desperately wanted a girl. “I think I like Violet,” Mom said.
“Like hell I’m naming my son Violet!” Dad protested. I couldn’t help but notice that he was trying to hide a smile.
Mom laughed. She always laughed at my dad’s jokes, even when they weren’t funny. She’d always said that was one of the reasons she’d fallen in love with him, and I believed it. She was either really easy to make laugh or she simply humored him because she adored him so much. I think it was a little of both.
I wondered what my future sibling would look like. I had inherited traits from both my parents—my mom’s blue eyes and my father’s dark hair. Life really is an amazing thing. To think that we all start off too tiny to see. One of God’s many unfathomable miracles, I supposed.
We were approaching League Park. I had been excited for the game since my father had promised to take me the week before. It didn’t even matter that the 1943 Indians were an average team up to that point. I just wanted to do something else besides school and chores. We found a space to park not far from the field. I brought my glove in hopes of snagging a foul ball.
“That glove isn’t gonna do any good if you don’t know how to use it,” Dad taunted playfully.
“Yeah, yeah,” I replied. “Just you wait until I get one hit to me—then you’ll see.”
Dad smiled at me and helped my mother out of the car. “Maybe our next boy will be a little slugger, maybe teach you a thing or two,” he shot back.
“Maybe, or maybe he’ll end up like me and have the coordination of a one-legged spider.” I laughed. Dad did have a point, though. I was the first male in the Brodsky family who didn’t excel athletically. My father had been the star quarterback at his high school, had been offered a free ride to play in college for the University of Tennessee, but he’d decided to take a different route and had joined his uncle Paul to work in one of the many steel mills the area was known for. I guessed the thought of leaving the only place he’d known was too much for him to swallow.
We headed toward the field. My parents walked together, their hands locked tightly, with me following behind them. We approached the counter and were able to get three tickets just a few rows up behind home plate for a little less than four dollars. It usually would have cost more than that, but prices had gone down quite a bit—along with attendance—due to the current state of affairs.
My father grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the machine on
ce we entered the stadium, pulled one from the pack, and lit it quickly. “That’s much better,” he said, taking a long drag. “Now, let’s go find our seats.”
We sat behind home plate and had an absolutely perfect view of both teams as they passed balls and did short sprints back and forth on opposite ends of the outfield. My dad was staring ahead nervously; he must’ve thought I didn’t notice.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He looked at me, coming out of his trance. “Oh, nothing,” he said.
I knew better, though. I knew what was bothering him, deep down. “Dad, you aren’t going anywhere,” I said, hoping my words would be truth. “You’re staying here with Mom and me.”
Dad turned back to the field and muttered, “We aren’t talking about this, Clint.”
“Dad, I—”
“Stop!” he interrupted. “Did we come here to be sad, or did we come here to have a good time?”
I could see what looked like tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. He didn’t mean to snap the way he did; he just couldn’t bear the thought of saying goodbye to his family, especially since his second child was about to arrive. I didn’t reply; I didn’t know what to say. On one hand, I didn’t want to drop the topic. On the other, I knew he would shut down anything else I had to say about it.
I looked to the field again, trying my best to enjoy the game. The Philadelphia Athletics were lined up on the third-base side, while the Cleveland Indians were on the first-base side, along the chalk lines. The caps of both players and spectators were placed over chests as the national anthem played throughout the stadium.
The game began, and three innings passed without either team getting a single hit. At the top of the fourth, however, a large, burly man from Philadelphia swung at a fastball over the heart of the plate. The sound of his bat on the leather ball cracked and echoed through the stadium as it cleared the left-field fence with several feet to spare. Groans and sighs rippled through the air as the home team found themselves at a disadvantage.
“How ’bout them Indians?” Dad asked me.
“They still have five innings, Dad. They’ll pull through.”
“Twenty dollars says they won’t,” Dad replied.
“Dad, I don’t even have twenty dollars,” I said.
“I know—that’s how sure I am,” he said with a smug look.
Four more innings came and went, and neither team did much to help their cause. The Indians managed to get a couple of men on base only to leave them stranded, and the Athletics were able to score one more run. The score now sat at two to zero. My dad looked at me, rubbing his thumb and index finger together and grinning.
I rolled my eyes. “Smart-ass,” I muttered.
The ninth inning was just as slow paced as the rest of the game. Philadelphia couldn’t get a man on base, but neither could the Indians, having gone down on three straight strikeouts. The crowd was full of disappointed faces, their heads shaking as they streamed out of the stadium after the loss.
Thunder started to rumble through the sky as we got up from our seats. “Well, at least Mother Nature waited until the game was over,” Mom said as Dad helped her up.
“Yeah, now we get to wait in all that traffic again,” Dad replied.
“After the way Cleveland played today, I think you couldn’t possibly be any more let down,” I said to Dad.
He laughed. “’Bout time we agree on something.”
We made our way back to the car, and less than a minute after we were settled in and had the car started, the sky opened up and poured down rain. Dad turned on the windshield wipers, but it did little to help his view of the road ahead of him. I watched as some pedestrians casually walked along the sidewalks under the cover of their umbrellas, while others scurried like mice as quickly as they could to get to some kind of shelter or to their vehicles.
“I can’t see a damn thing,” Dad said, leaning forward in his seat with his eyes squinted.
“Do you think we should wait it out somewhere?” asked Mom.
Dad paused for a moment before responding. “Hey, Clint?”
“Yes, Dad?” I replied.
“You hungry?” he asked.
“Always.” I laughed.
Dad looked back to Mom. “Yeah, we can wait.”
I could tell Dad wanted to wait it out just as much as she did; he had asked me so it would seem as though he was being respectful of what Mom and I wanted. Dad valued his pride and did everything he could to prevent his masculinity from taking even the smallest of hits.
We turned right at the end of Twelfth Avenue and into the parking lot of a small hole-in-the-wall burger joint called Vicky’s. I had never been there before, but my dad swore by their burgers and milkshakes. We stepped inside and walked to a small booth in the back of the restaurant, near the kitchen and away from the other customers. I looked around to take in the atmosphere. There were about half a dozen tables but only three other booths in the dining area, one of which was twice as large as the rest. I looked over to the front door, where a calendar hung. May 1943. I needed that reminder, because the décor and furnishings looked as if they hadn’t been updated in over twenty years. There were some visible cracks peeking through the beige-painted walls as well as a few rips in the vinyl on our booth. I quickly forgave the sad state of the dining room, though, as soon as the smells wafting from the kitchen hit my nose, making my mouth water.
A thin waitress stood over our table and carelessly laid silverware in front of us, her uninterested gaze focused on the small notepad she held in her hand. “What can I get you?” she asked, noisily snapping a piece of chewing gum.
“Just three burgers and fries,” Dad said to her.
She kept focus on her notepad as she hastily scribbled down the order. “Anything else?” she asked disinterestedly.
“Three drinks, as well. That’ll be it for now,” Dad said, giving her a smile that went unreturned. The waitress walked away and into the kitchen, chomping on her gum with increasing intensity every step of the way.
“Hope she doesn’t expect a tip,” Dad said.
“Oh, James, she might just be having a rough day. Be nice,” Mom urged.
“Yeah, yeah, you and your kind heart,” he said while buffing a water spot of off his spoon with a napkin. “So, did you enjoy your birthday present?” Dad asked me.
“Yeah. I would’ve enjoyed it more if the Indians knew how to get on base,” I said.
“I heard that. Well, there’s always next time,” he replied. Dad had never liked baseball much—he was more of a football man—but he knew how much I liked it, so he tried to put his own prejudices aside for me.
The waitress came back, looking as uninterested as ever, and placed three empty drinking glasses stacked inside one another on the table. She walked away even more quickly than she’d come.
“Thank you!” Mom called after her.
“Uh-huh, sure,” the waitress replied, never looking back.
Dad placed his now-clean spoon on the table and turned his head slowly to Mom. “So, how much of a tip do you think we should leave?” he asked.
Mom rolled her eyes and faced ahead with her arms crossed, huffing in irritation.
I grabbed one of the drinking glasses from the stack and went up to the counter. “Root beer, please,” I said to the young-looking soda jerk.
“You got it!” he replied.
I sat on a stool at the counter while I waited for my drink.
“Hey, kid,” a harsh voice to the right of me said. “How old are you?” The voice came from a husky older man sitting at the counter.
“I’m seventeen.”
He reached down to the ashtray next to him and extinguished his cigarette. “You just might luck out, then,” he replied.
“What do you mean, ‘luck out’?” I asked.
“You know exactly what I mean,” he said through a raspy cough.
“And what about you?” he asked the soda jerk.
“I’m nineteen,” he said, sliding my root beer in my direction.
The old man laid his bowler hat on the counter and reached into his shirt pocket to grab another cigarette. “Got a girlfriend?” he asked the soda jerk as he placed the butt between his lips and lit the end.
“Yeah. I do, actually.”
The old man laughed. “Not for long, you don’t.”
The young soda jerk refrained from lashing out at him. “Would you like another sundae, sir?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“No, I’m fine,” the man said, sliding his empty glass dish away.
The radio behind the counter was tuned to our local news station. “Turn it up, will ya?” the old man demanded.
The soda jerk sighed as he increased the volume. The radio was now loud enough for anybody within a few feet to hear.
“This is Wilmer Foster with a breaking news update. Reports from an undisclosed military source are indicating that German military personnel are conducting tests for a new type of explosive weapon. It is believed that this new type of weapon was developed using some form of atomic energy. The validity of these reports is not certain as of yet. We will be sure to update you as we gain more information. Thank you all, and have a blessed evening.”
“You know what that means, don’t you?” the old man said.
The soda jerk and I looked at each other, confused. We knew this news wasn’t good, by any means, but we had no idea of its significance—not yet, at least.
“No, not really,” I said to the old man.
He laughed at me in condescension. “Figures. You dumb kids think you know everything. But when it actually matters, you don’t know jack-shit.”
I gave him a sharp reply in response to his insult. “Well, since you’re obviously a genius, why don’t you tell us what it means?”
The old man glared at me. “Hey, how ’bout you show some respect, you little prick?” he said before taking a drag on his cigarette. “What it means is those Krauts are going to blow us to kingdom come. And there ain’t nothin’ a goddamned one of us can do to stop it.”
