“Well, I can’t deny that,” I said. There were stories from the east that said the Russians had women fighting in the infantry. Women in the air force even. More than a few, from what I’d heard—and they were fierce, according to Harald. The eerie sound their planes made as they zeroed in on their targets was something like the wail of a banshee. And no matter if they made their mark or not, there wasn’t a soul asleep in a camp once they found it. How different their policy of women’s emancipation was from our own, though I wondered truly if Stalin’s policies resulted in any real freedom for the women under his control. Here, Louisa and I were the exceptional women who proved the rule. We’d never been heckled by our male colleagues once they saw what we were capable of, but they considered us like spotted tigers. Permitted to continue with our work but made to understand that we were in no way typical of our sex.
“Do you think me mad?”
“I think you’re committed to your cause,” I said evenly.
“My cause?” she asked. I saw her straighten. “I hardly consider this war to be my cause alone.”
I held my breath. Slips like these cost people their lives. “I meant for your . . . plan. The war is the cause we all serve, naturally.”
“The two aren’t unrelated,” she reminded me.
“Of course,” I said. “I will say that I think the plan will be effective and that you’ve thought it out well.”
“But?” she pressed.
“What will you have me say, Louisa? We will lose men and aircraft. It’s not a risk, it’s a certainty. Whether it makes strategic sense, I cannot say. It’s not my area of expertise. I am ordered to help you see your plan through, and all you need to know is that I will carry out those orders to the best of my ability without complaint. If you want me to assure you that I have no reservations, that I cannot do, but I can assure you that any reservations I might have will not preclude my ability to do my duty.”
“You speak like a politician,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest.
“As you’re so keen to point out, I married a count. The jobs aren’t dissimilar,” I replied. “We just don’t have to bother with the hassle of gathering votes.”
Louisa threw her head back and gave a full-throated laugh. “Well put.”
“Louisa, it shouldn’t matter to you what I think of this plan,” I said.
“I know,” she said. “But it does all the same. You’re a good pilot, though it pains me to say it.”
“I think the same of you,” I said.
“Thank you,” she said, shifting in her seat. “Do you promise you’ll tell me if you hear that someone is sabotaging the project?”
“I hardly think that information will come across my desk, but if it does and I’m at liberty to tell you, I will.”
“Thank you,” she repeated. “I know you must think I’m being positively mad about this, but I just want to do something more for the war than set records and have my picture taken. I want to contribute something real.”
“I understand your drive and admire it, though you shouldn’t think those contributions are somehow lesser than anyone else’s. You’ve given your gifts for the cause, and that’s all anyone can ask.”
She looked satisfied and left with a lighter step than she’d entered with. The delay at the factory might have been a massive setback in Louisa’s eyes, but it felt more like a blessed reprieve for me. I hoped that perhaps someone in the higher ranks had knowledge that proved such drastic measures were beyond what was called for, though even the most optimistic corners of my heart could not convince the more logical side of me that there could be any truth in it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
A GLIMMER
BETH
May 31, 2007
Encinitas, California
Kimberly introduced Mrs. Patterson and her sons, Stephen and Nick. She was still shapely and graceful with a head of gray hair that still bore thick swaths of chestnut brown. Her boys were tall; both had their brown hair trimmed short, and they had perfect, even teeth that I knew Dad was taking in with approval. All-American boys like the ones who landed on the beaches at Normandy. I fought the urge to pace nervously as Kimberly saw everyone settled in the living room before rushing off. Mrs. Patterson took in her surroundings, assessing the situation.
“Hello,” she said, offering Dad and me a formal nod. Any trace of a Germanic accent was now gone, replaced by one fit for a California newscaster. I imagined she’d worked hard to get rid of her accent in the years after the war so she would find a readier welcome in her new home. “You look like you’re doing well, Mr. Blumenthal. I am glad to see it. I heard you gave everyone a scare.”
For two days, I’d sat vigil by my father’s side, preparing for the worst and holding out hope for the best. I washed his face and combed his hair. I read to him from the tattered hardcover of one of his favorites, From Beirut to Jerusalem, that Kimberly had tossed into a bag with some of the personal items she thought might comfort him. The gesture was such a sweet one, I’d pulled her into a hug and gotten the shoulder of her top soaking wet with my tears, but it wasn’t the first time she’d had to provide a comfort to a family member of one of her residents.
On Tuesday, she visited again. “Just be strong, honey,” she said, gently swaying as she held me in her arms. “He’s a tough old cuss. Don’t give up on him yet.”
It was almost prophetic. Just a few hours later, Dad’s eyes fluttered open and he began to respond to the world around him. He stayed a week in the hospital and was still pale and feeble, but he’d moved back to the care home and seemed happy about it. If nothing else, Kimberly’s cooking was infinitely preferable to the bland diet the hospital had forced on him.
“Well, I wasn’t done with this rock just yet,” he said, offering Mrs. Patterson a wink. “Still a few things left to do.” A wink. The old coot still had it in him. It had been so long since I’d seen him with new company. He was a natural-born charmer and couldn’t help but turn it on even now. He wasn’t practiced or smarmy as so many men are; his charm was simply an authentic part of who he was.
“Good afternoon,” I said, offering her a smile. “How are you today, Mrs. Patterson?”
“Quite well, my dear. I needn’t ask how you are, for you’re the picture of good health.”
“Thank you,” I said, feeling some prickling at my cheeks.
Kimberly came into the room with five glasses of lemonade and a full pitcher on a tray. “You’re both supposed to stay hydrated, hot as it is. I’m going to trust Beth here to enforce that for me.”
“You’ve got it,” I said.
“Good. Your dad is still recovering, and I don’t want Mrs. Patterson getting poorly on my watch.”
Kimberly bustled back to the kitchen to prepare lunch. Mrs. Patterson obediently sipped from the glass. She was prim, almost elegant, in her movements.
“Kimberly says you’re looking for a relative in Germany?” Nick stated as he topped off his mother’s glass, which was only short an inch or two. “We’ve been looking for Mom’s sister for the past two years. It was something we wanted to do for her before it’s too late.”