Blue Skies Tomorrow (40 page)

England
Wednesday, April 18, 1945

Dr. Robinson unwound gauze from Ray’s right hand. “Much better. We can leave the bandages off now. Do you understand?”

Ray nodded, his jaws still wired shut. His hands were shiny and pink. Swelling concealed the usual features of veins and tendons and knuckle wrinkles. But today he could finally be himself again.

Behind the physician stood Major Siegel, the Army Air Force intelligence officer who had often tried to interrogate Ray.
“Können Sie jetzt schreiben, Herr Oberleutnant?”

He nodded, his heartbeat quickening. He could definitely write. Maybe he could see his brothers tomorrow, even today. They could cable Helen and his parents. Wouldn’t everyone be shocked and overjoyed?

Dr. Robinson frowned and passed the wadded-up dressings to a German POW medic. “Major Siegel, I’ve told you. His hands are too stiff, too weak, too unfeeling to write yet.”

Ray grunted and folded his hand into the writing position.

The physician’s jaw dropped. “How . . . ?”

Ray made loops in the air as if writing. Every day when they removed his bandages and soaked his hands in a saline bath, he had discreetly flexed his fingers to the point of pain, preparing for this day. He needed to tell his story.

Major Siegel plunked a notepad on the nightstand and handed Ray a pen. It slipped from his grasp.

“I told you, Major. You’ll have to wait.”

Ray shook his head, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and reached for the pen. Major Siegel picked it up and held it while Ray bent his pink sausage fingers around it.

With great effort, he scrawled, “May we talk somewhere private?”

The major read the note.
“Sie können auf Deutsch schreiben. Mein Deutsch ist sehr gut.”

Yes, the major’s German was very good—better than Ray’s. He tapped the note and looked up into the officer’s square face.

He narrowed one dark eye. “Private?”

“Important,” Ray wrote. The patients were German, and recovered patients staffed the ward. An American MP stood watch, an American nurse supervised the POW workers, and Dr. Robinson made rounds, but Ray felt uneasy. The other patients debated over him—was he a heroic pilot shot down over Allied lines or a traitorous defector? When Ray’s identity was revealed, he’d be moved from the ward, but he didn’t want to take any chances.

“All right.” Major Siegel picked up the notepad. “Captain Robinson, do you have anyplace I can interrogate the prisoner in private?”

The doctor’s mouth bunched up. “He’s a patient, not a prisoner.”

“He is both, as you are well aware. Someplace private?”

The doctor grumbled. “My office. Down the hall, second door on the right.”

“My adjutant and I are armed. We don’t need a guard.” He waved to a skinny young lieutenant and beckoned to Ray.
“Kommen Sie mit mir, Herr Oberleutnant.”

Ray stuffed his feet into his slippers and followed. The adjutant looked terrified, so Ray offered a smile. With the swelling and pain subsiding, he could manage some facial expressions.

Still the adjutant touched his hand to his holster.

If he could have, Ray would have said, “Howdy, Sheriff.”

Instead he followed the major down the sterile hallway. The POWs were housed somewhere in the English countryside in a real hospital building, not a collection of Nissen huts like most military hospitals in England. Presumably, so they could prevent escape by putting the POWs on the top floor.

“Setzen Sie sich.”
Major Siegel pulled a chair in front of a wooden desk and seated himself in the physician’s chair.

Ray sat, motioned for the pen and paper, and forced out letters.

“You are a hard nut to crack, Herr Oberleutnant,” the major said in German. “You appear to be a defector with an intact Messerschmitt. But many questions remain.”

Ray shoved the notepad before the major. It read: “I am an American. My name is Capt. Raymond G. Novak, U.S. Army Air Forces, 94th Bomb Group.”

Siegel’s eyebrows shot up, and he blinked several times at the paper. “This is unexpected. So, you’re Captain Novak, are you?” He spoke in English this time.

Ray nodded in time to his ecstatic heartbeat.

Major Siegel opened his briefcase on the desk. “That would explain your command of English and your possession of American military issue items—the underwear, oddly enough, and items from an escape kit. And it would explain this Bible.”

His Bible! He reached for it longingly. Four weeks without God’s Word had been close to unbearable.

“Captain Novak’s personal Bible.” The major put it back in the briefcase.

Ray’s lips tingled. Siegel didn’t believe him.

“Do you know when Captain Novak was shot down? Where?”

Ray wrote, “January 15, outside Augsburg.”

“Very good. You must have been there. But do you expect me to believe an American airman hid in Germany for over two months?”

The biggest problem with an unbelievable story was when you needed someone to believe it. Ray stretched the atrophied muscles in his hands, already sore and cramped from the few short sentences he’d written. How could he transcribe his lengthy story?

His gaze fell on a typewriter on a small table in the corner. He sprang to his feet.

The adjutant cried out and pulled his pistol.

Ray thrust up his hands and cocked his head to the typewriter, keeping his eyes on the trigger-happy sheriff. Then he brought his hands low enough to mime typing.

“He wants to type,” Siegel said. “Go ahead, Gottlieb.”

Gottlieb. Finally, Ray could tell Johannes’s story and his own. He sat at the typewriter and rolled in paper, fumbling with the sheet, slick in his fingers. Typing required adjustments for his stiff hands, but Ray pounded it out—the lynching of his crewmen, Johannes’s murder, his decision to stay at Lechfeld, his translation of the manual and acts of sabotage, and his flight in the Me 262. He wrote in choppy prose and run-on sentences, not striking through his mistakes, avoiding capitalization and punctuation—to get it down before his fingers failed.

After a few minutes, Siegel stood behind him. Ray zipped out the first page and handed it over his shoulder, then kept going, filling three pages in one uninterrupted paragraph.

The major read the pages with a neutral expression, the perfect intelligence officer.

Ray’s hands throbbed and flamed as they had the day he landed the Messerschmitt. Had he included the crucial details?

Siegel wiped his hand over his mouth and revealed a slight smirk. “You expect me to believe this?”

Ray spun back to the typewriter. “every word is true to verify my identity please contact my brothers lt col jack novak air executive 94 bg and walt novak a civilian engineer with boeing consulting with 8 af.”

Walt was probably inspecting the jet right now and perusing the manual. Perhaps Ray should have penned a personal note inside.

Major Siegel reached around Ray and took out the sheet of paper. “Lieutenant, please escort the prisoner back to the ward.”

A sigh rushed out, along with Ray’s expectation of an end to his nightmare. At least Siegel would contact Jack and Walt. He only needed one visit to return to his life.

Ray stopped at the desk and scribbled another note: “Please, sir, may I have my Bible?”

Siegel placed the testimony in his briefcase, read the note, and lifted up the little black Bible. “Captain Novak’s Bible?”

Ray could almost smell the pliable leather and the tissue pages. He picked up the pen. “My Bible. My grandfather gave it to me on my twelfth birthday. I always carry it.”

Major Siegel’s face hardened, and the Bible shook in his grip. “How much information did you torture out of Captain Novak before you murdered him?”

Pale pink petals fluttered down from between the pages, the blossoms from Helen’s hair. Ray’s hopes fell with them.

40

Antioch
Friday, April 20, 1945

Helen handed the job application to the manager at the Hickmott Cannery. A cannery lady. Her parents would be appalled, but it would be good, paying work for the summer.

The manager skimmed the application, then his eyes popped wide open. “Helen Carlisle. I heard you might come by. I—I’m afraid we don’t have any positions open.”

“Excuse me?” Giant ads in the
Ledger
begged for workers, declaring it a patriotic duty to send canned apricots, asparagus, and tomatoes to the front. “But—”

“Sorry. We just filled the last opening.”

Helen’s mouth went dry. He’d heard she’d come by? What had he heard and from whom? “If something opens up, please don’t call the number on the application. I’m moving. I’ll come back later and check. How long would you suggest?”

The manager slid her application away. “We won’t need any more help this year.”

This year? Nonsense. Cannery work was difficult, and girls quit all the time.

Helen headed up the road toward downtown. What was going on? All week she’d applied for work, avoiding friends of the Llewellyns and the Carlisles. After all, why would Victor Llewellyn’s bride need a job? She couldn’t openly seek work or a room until the news broke, but she needed both beforehand.

Behind her the San Joaquin River swept water down to the Bay, water as cold as the realization that the news had already broken.

Had Vic told his gossipy mother? Was that why no one would hire her? Was this the Llewellyns’ revenge against the woman who broke Vic’s heart?

Helen’s eyes prickled as she turned onto Second Street. Tomorrow, the week she’d promised him would be over. Without a job, she couldn’t rent a room, and if the Llewellyns turned the town against her, how would she find a job? If she left town, she’d be able to find work, but rooms were scarce and who would watch Jay-Jay?

The sweet spring air pressed heavy on her, bowing her head as she passed the businesses closing for the night, desperate to hire anyone but her.

What if the Carlisles had already heard?

Her breath hopped around in her chest. Was it safe to go home? Where could she go? She couldn’t sleep on Betty’s couch for long, not with the baby due any day. And Jay-Jay was at the Carlisles. She had to get him, get some things.

She picked up the pace to the Carlisle home.

Helen flung open the door. She’d fill a suitcase, grab her son, and go.

“Oh, good, Helen. You’re home.” Mrs. Carlisle stood outside the dining room door, fiddling with her apron. “Dinner’s on the table.”

Helen’s heart slammed into her throat. “I’m sorry. I’m having dinner at Betty’s tonight. Where’s Jay-Jay?”

“At the table. You can’t go to Betty’s. It’s pork chop night.”

“I don’t care for pork chops. Neither does Jay-Jay.” She brushed past her mother-in-law into the dining room.

Jay-Jay sat at the table with Mr. Carlisle—and Victor Llewellyn. Helen’s veins crackled with ice. Vic had told. He’d broken another promise.

She scooped up her son with shaking arms and returned his smacking kiss. “Hi, sweetie. We’re going to Aunt Betty’s for dinner.”

“Yay! Doody!”

Mr. Carlisle stood. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“She’s expecting us.” She inched to the door. While Vic’s presence was hardly welcome, it would grant her time to pack.

“You’re not leaving this house. We have something to discuss with you.”

Helen turned a searing gaze to Vic. “You told.”

He snorted. “I didn’t have to. They figured it out.”

“You said you were working on your new house every day.” Mrs. Carlisle sat in her chair next to her husband. “I went by on Tuesday, and you weren’t there. Nothing had been done.”

Mr. Carlisle sat and slipped a pork chop onto the top plate in front of him. “On Wednesday, Mr. Lindstrom came in to Carlisles’ Furniture. He said you applied for a job and inquired about the room for rent above his store.”

Helen sank into a chair and clutched Jay-Jay. The Lindstroms and the Carlisles had never been close. She’d thought she was safe.

Mr. Carlisle scooped creamed peas onto the plate. “Strange behavior. Clearly a sign of instability.”

Helen gasped. “Instability?”

“One of many. Very troubling.” He added a glop of mashed potatoes. “You burn down your house, leave a Llewellyn at the altar, and look for a job and a room when everyone knows we provide well for you. Lots of hysterical behavior. Now this attempt to smear Vic’s name.”

“What? I haven’t—”

“Encouraging that colored girl to press charges.”

“I never.” She glared at Vic.

His jaw poked forward. “Have you talked her out of it?”

“I talked to her on Monday. That’s what I promised to do.” She’d let Esther know the consequences and she’d asked about their plans, but she had no right to influence their decision. “Besides, it’s Carver’s decision, not Esther’s.”

Red blotches appeared on Vic’s cheeks. “First you break our engagement, now you try to ruin my career.”

“Me? But you—you’re the one—”

“As I thought.” Mr. Carlisle passed the plate to Vic. “More signs of instability. Clearly an unfit mother.”

“What?” Helen’s fingers worked into her son’s hair.

Jay-Jay squirmed on her lap. “Mama, I want down.”

She held him tighter. Mr. Carlisle dished out food with a calm face, Mrs. Carlisle sat docile as always, and Vic kept his gaze down and his brow furrowed.

“Unfit?” Helen choked out. “I love my son.”

Mr. Carlisle fixed a cool gaze on her. “No one doubts your love, only your sanity. That’s why we’ve filed for custody of Jay-Jay.”

That punched her in the chest harder than Jim ever had. “Wha . . . wha . . . ?”

“If you show some sense for once and get this girl to see the light, we’ll retract it. Under one condition—you continue to live in this house. It’s not safe for Jay-Jay to live alone with you.”

Helen couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. This couldn’t be happening.

Vic pushed his chair back. “Thank you for the dinner invitation, but I’d better go.”

“How could you?” she cried. “How could you help them?”