Blue Skies Tomorrow (31 page)

Mrs. Novak stood in the entry to the parlor, her face as gray as the streaks in her black hair. “There ought . . . to be . . . a limit.”

Two envelopes trembled in her hand. Western Union telegrams.

Two years ago, Helen had laughed when she received her telegram, but now her face tingled as the blood drained away.

“This—this is my fourth telegram from the War Department. Once when Walt was injured, twice when Jack was injured, and now . . . there ought to be . . . shouldn’t there be a limit?”

One of the brothers was wounded, missing, or dead. Helen clenched her hands on her lap and prayed it wasn’t Ray. But it was wrong to hope it was Jack or Walt, especially with Walt’s pregnant wife in the room.

“All right, Mom, let’s sit down.” Allie guided her mother-in-law to the armchair. “Would you like me to go to the church first and get Dad?”

“No, Allie, stay. I’ll get Pastor Novak.” Betty took off, out the front door.

Helen couldn’t breathe or move, but the women she’d written off—one as a useless society girl and the other as a flibbertigibbet—were the only ones of use.

“Would you like to wait for Dad?” Allie said.

“No . . . no. I have you dear girls.” Mrs. Novak’s eyes glistened, fixed on the envelopes.

Allie knelt beside her. “That one’s from Britain, not the War Department. Would you like to open it first?”

Mrs. Novak nodded and worked a finger under the lip of the envelope with a cringing expression. Helen understood. As long as the envelope remained sealed, she could pretend all three sons were alive and whole.

Helen hugged her arms around her stomach, her throat swollen shut.

“I can’t. My fingers. Allie, would you . . . is it too much . . . ?”

Allie shook her head, drew her lips between her teeth, and opened the envelope. Then she rested on her heels to read it. “The telegram’s from Jack.”

Helen took a gulping breath. That meant it was Ray. Walt didn’t fly combat missions. The V-1s and V-2s killed thousands of civilians, but no one faced greater danger than the airmen.

Allie rose to her knees and settled one hand on her mother-in-law’s arm, her eyes soft but strong. “Ray’s plane was shot down over Germany.”

Helen slapped a hand over her mouth, clamping off her cry.

Mrs. Novak moaned, pressed both hands over her face, and crumpled over her knees.

Allie rubbed her shoulders. “Jack says there were at least three parachutes. He says we mustn’t lose hope. We mustn’t.”

Hope? At best, Ray was a prisoner of war during Europe’s coldest winter on record.

“I know he’s safe in a POW camp.” Allie hugged her mother-in-law’s shoulders. “They’ll notify us soon. Jack is writing a letter with more details. We mustn’t lose hope.”

Weeks would pass while they waited for word, but there would be none. Only three parachutes. Ray would be the last man to bail out, not one of the first. That meant . . .

Her gaze fell on the little white cake, never to be enjoyed, for a birthday that would never be celebrated again.

Helen choked on a sob, but she had no right to mourn. She’d killed another man.

Along Lech River, Germany
Saturday, January 20, 1945

Ray trudged south in the dark through snowy woods, careful to keep the Lech River in sight to his left. He’d never been this cold and hungry before.

The Luftwaffe uniform was designed for warmth, with a cardigan under a gray blue service jacket, trousers with a buttoned-in quilted lining, and a heavy overcoat, but Ray couldn’t shake the chill of wearing a dead man’s clothes.

Johannes Gottlieb was his name.

Oberleutnant Johannes Gottlieb, twenty-seven years old, black hair, blue eyes according to his identity card, and a few inches taller than Ray and several pounds lighter judging by the snug fit of the uniform.

Johannes Gottlieb died so Ray could wear that uniform.

He stopped and squeezed his eyes shut against the mental image of Johannes’s death. The Nazi official committed premeditated murder three times, but he might as well have killed Ray and the other Allied airmen.

What chance did he have?

Wearing an enemy uniform within their borders was grounds for summary execution under the Geneva Conventions. Even if he made it to Allied lines or the Swiss border, how would he cross?

Ray stepped around a thicket of bushes, a good place to hide during the day, but he wanted to press on for another hour. For Johannes’s sake, he needed to press on.

The first night, he’d ridden Johannes’s motorcycle and sidecar through Friedberg and across the Lech River south of Augsburg. No one pulled him over. When he ran out of gas, he abandoned the motorcycle in a ditch. He couldn’t buy gas with his accent. He didn’t even know how German rationing worked.

After he’d gathered his supplies into his parachute, he took off on foot. The Lech led south to the Alps, and then he hoped to head west toward Switzerland.

A futile goal. At least a hundred miles in the dead of winter with little food. His seat-pack parachute held two K-rations with three meals each, and his escape kit contained bouillon cubes, candy, and fishhooks. Poor Johannes had plenty of cash in his wallet, but Ray could hardly saunter into town and buy food.

Ray gazed at the dark overcast sky through the tree branches. “Lord, I don’t want to lose hope. I need hope to survive even more than I need food.”

Hope kept his feet moving—hope that somehow he’d survive and see Helen again.

Why hadn’t he told her he loved her? His reasons seemed good at the time but now felt flat. She’d think he was dead, and he probably would be dead soon. Would it be easier or harder for her to bear the news if she’d known he loved her?

Ray stepped into a clearing. He stopped short and ducked behind an evergreen tree. That was sloppy. The fatigue, horror, and stress were taking their toll. He pressed his forehead to the tree trunk.
Lord, I don’t know how long I can keep going. Show me what to do. Give me a sign.

He peeked around the tree and strained to see through the darkness. Only a clearing, thank goodness, and not a road or a tributary or the end of the concealment of the woods. A chimney rose in the middle of the clearing where the snow lay flat and even.

Ray inched forward. A house once stood there, and a bowl-shaped depression beside the foundation showed a bomb had leveled the house.

Perhaps there was a basement. For once he might get some sleep. He wouldn’t have to hide in the brush wrapped in his parachute to blend into the snow, on edge listening for voices and footsteps, any slumber interrupted by bloody nightmares.

Ray hiked over shattered, charred, snow-covered timbers and stomped around in his black leather boots. A hollow sound rang near the fireplace. Under the snow lay a trapdoor. He lifted it and descended a steep flight of stairs.

He groped around in the darkness, over lumpy cloth bags, and he breathed in the earthy smell of potatoes.

For the first time in days, a smile cracked his face. “Food and shelter. Lord, you are good.”

Maybe he could stay a few days, rest for the journey ahead. He set down his parachute bundle and went back outside to survey the area.

Nothing to the east but the river, and the south looked clear. Then he headed west. From what he could tell, the woods formed a band a quarter to a half mile deep along the riverbank.

When the trees thinned, Ray crouched low. The land before him lay perfectly flat and empty. He waited and peered ahead until the black of night turned to the gray of dawn.

Far in the distance stood large square buildings.

“Hangars,” Ray whispered. Not only hangars, but runways and a couple dozen fighter planes dispersed across the field.

If only Ray could hop in the cockpit of one of those birds and fly away.

A crazy thought, even more so when he saw the triangular form of the fighters. Those were no ordinary planes. They were jets. Messerschmitt 262s.

Ray smiled at the irony. He’d reached Lechfeld, his primary target the day he was shot down, a lifetime ago, when Jack told him to go knock out some jets.

Maybe he could throw some rocks and complete his mission objective.

Ray crawled backward behind the trees, stood, and brushed snow from his uniform. Damp wool. Dew on the fleece. Hadn’t he prayed for a sign as Gideon had?

A Luftwaffe airfield. A Luftwaffe uniform.

A new plan swirled in Ray’s mind, came into clear view, and brought peace. His uniform wouldn’t attract attention around here. He had food and shelter and basic survival gear. Instead of trying to reach the Allies, he’d wait for the Allies to reach him. The dangers of the approaching front couldn’t be any greater than the dangers of traipsing a hundred miles through enemy territory.

Ray ran his hand over his thickening beard. If he wanted to blend in, he’d better use the razor blades in his escape kit.

31

Antioch
Saturday, February 10, 1945

“Bumped by a dog.”

“Hmm.” Helen poked at her ice cream sundae. Listening to her sister’s chitchat in the White Fountain’s Saturday matinee crowd was difficult enough without the envelope calling from inside her purse.

“Honestly, Helen. You haven’t listened to a word I said.”

“Of course, I have.” She wiped a chocolate smudge from Jay-Jay’s protesting mouth. “You were talking about the LeRoys. First Police Chief LeRoy died in December, and so young. And poor Leon was at sea and didn’t even hear of his father’s death until he came to port, then when he tries to come home to comfort his mother, he’s bumped off his military flight by Elliott Roosevelt’s dog.”

“The president’s son himself. Made
Time
magazine and everything. I wonder if Antioch’s ever been mentioned in
Time
before? True, Colonel Roosevelt had no idea his dog was getting the royal treatment, and he was appalled. Oops! Jukebox needs another nickel.” Betty sprang from her seat, quite agile for being six months pregnant. Soon Bing Crosby crooned “Swinging on a Star.”

Little Judy rocked back and forth in her chair, combining Betty’s and George’s charm. “ ‘Oo oo eye eye dee daw,’ ” she sang.

Jay-Jay tapped his cousin’s arm with his spoon. “No, Doody. It’s ‘Woo doo wike do sing a staw.’ ”

Betty giggled and wiped ice cream from her daughter’s arm. “He’s turning three next Friday and he knows everything.”

Helen smiled, but it hurt. Jay-Jay’s hair was trimmed short, reducing his curls to a wave on top. He’d lost the pudginess in his cheeks and arms and knees. Thank goodness he was growing to favor the Jamison side of the family.

“Heaven’s sake,” Betty said. “Would you go ahead and read that letter?”

Helen’s hand tightened around her pocketbook. “This isn’t the time. It’s Jay-Jay’s birthday party.”

Betty hitched up an eyebrow. “And you’re in such a celebratory mood. Go ahead. It can’t make things worse.”

Helen sighed and pulled out two pages in Ray’s handwriting.

January 14. The day before he was shot down. Her last letter from him. Even if he survived as everyone in town believed, in prison camp he’d be allowed to write only a few letters a month, which would go to his parents, not her.

She pulled herself together and read silently:

Today went late and tomorrow will be early, so I’ll get to the point.

You’ve expressed concerns about murderous thoughts toward Jim. Believe me, I’ve had murderous thoughts of my own. Yours is the righteous anger of a wronged woman.

Please reject the lies. You are not responsible for Jim’s death. If all your lovely ways and words failed to persuade him to treat you properly, you mustn’t believe you persuaded him to enlist.

You have a good heart that belongs to the Lord, and in time you’ll come to forgive Jim. But you also need to forgive yourself. You fell in love with a charming man—hardly a sin. The stars in your eyes blinded you to his controlling ways and rushed you into marriage—also not a sin. When his true self emerged after the wedding, it was too late. The sin is his alone.

The Lord loves you, and he’s already forgiven you as you’ve asked. Believe him. Trust his forgiveness.

Please stop apologizing for “burdening” me with your brokenness. Haven’t I burdened you with my brokenness as well? One thing I’ve learned this year is we’re all broken and in need of God’s healing hand. Our mutual sharing has never been anything but an honor.

Helen couldn’t finish, not if she wanted to keep her composure.

“Well . . . ?” Betty played pat-a-cake with her daughter.

Helen drew a steadying breath. “I’m going to miss his letters.”

“Nonsense. You know he’s fine. With our troops at the Rhine, the war in Europe will be over any day now. He’ll come home and sweep you off your feet.”

Somehow Helen managed the eye roll she used when her sister talked that way.

Betty perked up. “Oh, Dorothy, there you are.”