They talked of the radical changes that had seized the world, British and American women working long hours in factories and businesses because there weren’t enough men to hire. Buck volunteered that his grandmother in Chicago watched a collection of toddlers every weekday while their mothers worked and found she rather liked helping the war effort in her own particular way. They discussed the pinch of rationing and how the tight supplies of food in the shops freed up cash the Brits could contribute to the War Savings Campaign while the Americans purchased war bonds to fund the fighting. They talked of London, Beryl describing how the stone walls and tower of Christ Church Greyfriars stood, the roof collapsed into the nave—brought down more than two years ago on a particularly vicious night of the Blitz. Now, in 1943, Londoners had chosen not to lament the loss, but to see it as a magnificent symbol of their own steadfastness in the fight.

  “It’s Gordon, you know, who’s made me this way—makes me see all this,” Beryl said. “I take scores of mental notes about what he might observe with all this glorious architecture taking this beating—like the Wren churches—and I imagine the meaning he would ascribe to it.”

  “And dad will appreciate it when he returns,” said Colin. “He’ll have a lot to catch up on.”

  “Let’s hope for all our sakes,” added Ivy, “that these two Yanks here and all their brethren make that happen soon.”

  Jack leaned slowly across the table, one hand clasping Ivy’s, the other reaching for Hugo’s.

  “We’re on it,” he promised. “Number one goal. For all of you.”

  “I’d say the Florida Gator’s doing her part,” said Buck. “Our sturdy little girl has got a bite. The Luftwaffe’s only chipped off a little of her paint at this point—nothing serious—and probably because they took issue with our little message to Hitler. Those Nazis are so thin-skinned.” At this they all laughed, Beryl feebly attempting to convince them she didn’t entirely approve of their crass cartoon, but no one bought her motherly indignation.

  The fliers detailed for Beryl how the war had come calling for them, pulling them out of comfortable lives they believed were headed in a safe and predictable direction. But Pearl Harbor put a quick end to the idea the United States could sit out this war and since then, every ounce of American energy had turned to equipping the arsenal of democracy.

  “You weren’t already trained as a pilot?” Beryl asked.

  “Hardly, Mrs. Clarke,” interjected Hugo, a grin on his face. “He was an ale-swilling university boy. Probably good for nothing.”

  “Hugo—that was our secret, man. And here I thought I’d be able to fool everyone into thinking I know what I’m doing flying the Gator. Yes, I’ll confess that is probably an accurate description of my previous focus in life, although I gotta say that feels like a million years ago. I earned my degree in mechanical engineering, Mrs. Clarke. The University of Florida, class of ‘41.”

  The men offered broad accounts of their missions to date—describing the unearthly feeling of piloting their B-17 into the air, watching as one bomber after the next climbed into the sky to the initial rendezvous point. How they waited, circling over the glistening waters of the Channel as hundreds of bombers arrived from bases across East Anglia, the mass of them then forming up in staggered rows to minimize the prop wash—the wake turbulence—thankful every time they were not consigned to Purple Heart Corner, the plane in the lowest right-hand corner of the formation and therefore the most vulnerable. They described the concussive jolt of the German anti-aircraft fire that began as they crossed over France and how it built into a continuous, truculent fervor over Germany itself. Colin added the details he’d learned and found fascinating: that each man on the crew had an electric warming suit he plugged in when the bomber reached 17,000 feet altitude to keep ice off their oxygen masks and prevent frostbite. That the Florida Gator had dozens of pock marks from flak—some the size of soccer balls—and she still flew steady and true. That the Americans were making progress, he believed, destroying targets that would fatally compromise the Nazis’ ability to wage war.

  “Exactly that, Colin. Just so,” said his mother, proud of this perceptiveness but still missing, a bit, the little boy he’d once been.

  The hour grew late. As Buck and Jack cleared the dishes and Ivy and Hugo busied themselves with washing and drying, Colin whispered what had become a frequent pitch: that he pack his things and head back to London with his mother.

  “I would not have a moment’s peace if I were to do that, Colin. Your dad is trusting me to keep you safe.”

  “I miss you, mum. Mrs. Hughes is the absolute tops—she really is. And Hugo—we will be friends for life. I don’t want to sound ungrateful. But I worry about you a bit. And I miss us being a family.”

  “Let me say this again, love.” Beryl looked him steadily in the eye, her hands in his. “You’ve no need to worry about me. I’m well. We’re both exactly where we ought to be. We’re still a family, my sweet, wherever we are. And here we have an extended family. Not at all what we planned, is it? But it’s a gift to us both. Let’s remind one another of that when we get blue, alright?”

  Hearing just a bit of what Beryl had been saying, Ivy sidled up and reached an arm around her.

  “Any word of Wills?” asked Beryl quietly so Hugo would not hear. Ivy gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head, then leaned into Beryl’s embrace. “I’m still praying, you know,” Beryl said. “Every day.”

  “I’m counting on it,” Ivy whispered.

  The kitchen tidied, Ivy suggested Beryl stay overnight rather than attempt to get a seat on the midnight coach. She could squeeze onto the loveseat in the sitting room and leave after church in the morning. Beryl had stayed over on more than one occasion and as appealing as that sounded, Jack had another suggestion: he could requisition the jeep or perhaps even a staff car and return her to London tonight, provided his CO approved. Beryl attempted to demure, protesting this was way too much to ask, too much of an inconvenience, but she was ultimately unsuccessful.

  “You didn’t directly decline, Mrs. Clarke, so I’ll take that as an affirmative,” Jack smiled. “Let’s swing by the base and get the ok and we’ll head south.”

  “Well. Yes. Certainly. I would appreciate it so, Lieutenant. The only time—I promise—it’s just that the train may take half the night and if it truly would not interfere with your responsibilities. I would be grateful. So grateful.”

  “One, condition, ma’am. You call me Jack.”

  “Right. Yes, Jack. And I’m Beryl.”

  And with another round of hugs and handshakes all around, they were off.

  . . .

  They dropped Buck at the base and, after obtaining permission, Jack swapped the jeep for a staff car that would afford more comfort across the sixty miles to London. Beryl curled into her seat, relaxed and warmed by the bourbon, repeatedly expressing her thanks, to which Jack replied that he now understood just where Colin’s fine manners had been cultivated. He listened as she talked about her work at Grove Park, the heart-rending cases she handled one after the next, then blocked out so she could attend to the next patient in front of her.

  “Sounds wearing,” said her driver.

  “Tis,” she responded.

  They mused over the expected acceleration of the war now that the U.S. Army Air Forces were better trained, better equipped, and more strategically astute about what needed to be done, Beryl impressing Jack with her wide knowledge of aircraft and their capabilities, the geographical considerations, and her own analysis of when she believed the Allies might invade Fortress Europe.

  “And here, I thought you were a nurse—not a military tactician,” observed Jack, struck by both her reasoned insight and the easy, relaxed way she expressed herself.

  “We’re all living this stuff, Jack, every detail, because we want so much to see signs of progress. And on top of that, I’ve got to study long and hard to stay ahead of my son with all he knows.”

  They talked of Gordon—what she knew of his situation at this point and how Colin seemed to be handling it. She praised Ivy, her surprising strength and her loving generosity towards Colin, but even so, Beryl missed him desperately and knew that her influence as his mother had been diluted, interrupted, readjusted in ways out of her control. Necessary, yes. She knew that. But it grieved her. Much to Jack’s surprise, the tears came.

  “My apologies, Lieutenant. Jack. You didn’t know this long trip could get even worse, I’m sure, with me feeling sorry for myself like this.” Beryl pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve. “It’s just been a long day. And I’m not used to topping it off with drink.”

  “I can’t imagine how rough this is for you. With your husband locked up—and being apart from your boy. I have to tell you; I miss Colin on the days I don’t see him. He and Hugo brighten every single one of these foggy, freezing cold, pea soup days. And Colin is so curious and bright—very good at math, you know. He stays right with me through very complicated expositions on the physics of flight. He’s interested in every bit of it. Just remind yourself: you’ve been the best kind of mother because you’ve been selfless and committed to keeping him safe and out of danger until this thing is wrapped up. And it will be wrapped up. Not right away, but eventually. And then you’ll get your family back.”

  His kindness did not have its desired effect, eliciting instead a fresh a torrent of tears. Beryl attempted a smile as they fell and readied herself to respond.

  “You are as dear as Colin says you are. He’s told me so much about you and the crew through his letters. Your base and your plane and these long chats you have with him at Ivy’s and at Kimbolton. I am so, so very grateful to you.” She blew her nose, then shook her head, trying to clear it. “Do you know, Jack, this is most I’ve allowed myself to dwell on this in four years—the most I’ve said to another human being about how dreadfully difficult life has been? One of the very few times I’ve allowed myself to just feel the pain of it, the despair, because I bloody well have to keep it out of my head or I’ll be useless at the hospital and likely kill a patient in the process. I’d be of no use if I didn’t push this from my mind every single, god-awful day and simply go to work, do my job, come home, feed the cat. Chin up and all that. I cannot count the number of my friends killed in the Blitz. I’m not saying people I heard of or people I was acquainted with. Friends—dear friends who were a regular part of my life and deserved to live. Deserved it probably more than I. If I actually counted how many are gone now, I would lose heart. And I can’t do that, can I? We can’t. We mustn’t. Gordon and Colin do not deserve for me to grow faint-hearted. But inside… sometimes, it wrecks me.”

  He reached over and took her hand and she didn’t resist, removing it briefly to shift gears, then reaching for hers again. She laid their clasped hands in her lap, then brought his to her face, pressing it into the tears that flowed for Glenda who had trained her, for Bennie Densmore and his sweet family. For the innocent children they could not save at Grove Park, punished for the sins of power-mad adults. Then it poured out, all the competing emotions she’d kept to herself over these many months, the oppressive loneliness, if soldiering on, playing pretend and ignoring the loss and the horror, was the best way to endure it. If enduring was enough. Or if living in this shuttered way would close off essential parts of her that would remain inaccessible for the rest of her days, whether those days included her family reunited or more heartbreaking loss.

  When they arrived at her flat, she began to apologize for falling apart, attributing it to how familiar he seemed to her, their connection to Colin, his Yankee informality that seemed to invite her to let down her guard. And of course, the bourbon.

  “All your fault,” she said. “Ply the lady with liquor and look what you get.”

  He offered her a cigarette, then lit one himself, drawing on it slowly, thoughtfully, reaching again for her hand. “I’ve learned you have to release the floodgates sometimes, Beryl,” he said, exhaling and looking out the window of the staff car at the quiet, dark city. “Gotta relieve the pressure and just feel, you know? Feel it as much as it hurts to do it. Doesn’t make you weak or less courageous. You let it out and then you have room to handle more. You’ve had way more than your share too, with all you go through at the hospital every day. That’d be enough to keep me hidin’ in a closet. So please don’t be so hard on yourself. No one expects you to be perfect.”

  He turned to her, suddenly aware of how close they sat, the feel of her hand in his, the wisps of her breath. He believed he’d never seen a more beautiful, sorrowful, honest face. A face that didn’t deserve the grief it bore, that she worked relentlessly to hide to preserve a veneer of normalcy for her son. And, because Jack didn’t know what else to do, had no other tricks in his bag to soothe this woman whose tender courage had impressed him so, he leaned over and kissed her, her tear-drenched and eager response surprising him utterly.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Illusion is the first of all pleasures.

  –Voltaire

  Sagan, German Reich, 1943

  There was some urgency to complete the arbor before winter set in and the ground froze. But securing the concrete in which to set the series of balusters that were now part of Gordon’s design proved an obstacle: they would have to wait until they could get some leftover supply shipped in from one of the Nazis’ many construction projects ongoing throughout Poland. Reinhard said there were massive endeavors underway across the Reich commanding large stores of cement, brick, and wood. It frustrated Annalise entirely that the vaunted Reich was not well enough organized to send the very limited and minor items she needed. When Reinhard finally had some say, after the war, his competent leadership could surely improve government efficiency. What she could not confirm but nevertheless suspected was that her straight-arrow husband failed to leverage the under-the-table network that could have secured the supplies in a week’s time.

  In the interim, Gordon drew up working plans and introduced some detail to the structure. He drafted and revised, requested more drawing paper and pencils, and revised some more, acting the part of the exacting artist driven by his talent to be thorough and careful. Gordon added elaborate corbels, proposed a more delicately carved lintel, always soliciting the Frau’s impressions and thoughts, taking her input and promising to incorporate it into the next revision. He recommended they use cedar for not one, but three columns on either side—drawing an objection from Frau Schröder who worried the red hue would clash with the red brick Terrasse. Gordon promised that with time, the columns would weather and lose the orange overtones in favor of a rich ochre. Alternatively, they could paint or stain the pillars which provoked many long discussions of paint and stain shades and how they wore over time. Their debates over this and every best choice to be made for the project moved easily from German to English and back. When they had trouble conveying nuance and specificity, each would try another language to make a point. Sometimes French worked.

  On his workdays at the manor house, the cook, Clara, brought him a thick soup or stew and warm buttered bread at midday. He would break from his work and sit on the terrace, savoring the peppery flavor of the chicken or beef broth, the sweet scent of the butter—so pungent after years of unflavored potatoes and watery soups. He smuggled anything he could back to the barracks, Annalise observing this without comment from the earliest days. As time went on, the assortment of fruits and breads at breakfast doubled in size, a small burlap sack appearing on the table that soon became Gordon’s tote bag. Clara began bringing four, five thick slices of bread with his midday meal.

  “Is the lady of the house aware of this abundance you’re sharing with me?” Gordon asked her the first time she appeared with an entire warm, crusty loaf.

  “She is aware of most things,” Clara responded enigmatically, looking around furtively to ensure Friedrich was not nearby. “What news do you have of the war?”

  “Same as you, I would imagine,” Gordon responded guardedly.

  “This, I doubt. We only hear what the Germans wish us to hear.”

  “And you think there is another side to the story?”

  “My dear Lieutenant, I know there is. We know there is, even though the only radio reports we are permitted to hear are those here in this house, the German propaganda.”

  “And yet you work for the commandant and his wife.”

  “Helene—she is the housekeeper—and I worked for many years in this home for Dr. and Mrs. Stroński. He delivered our babies, restored our children after infections and accidents. We worked for them even after the Nazis invaded because they were good and fair people who treated us with respect. They begged us to leave their employ for our own safety, so we made it appear that we no longer worked here. I moved out and took my things to my sister’s home, and we returned sporadically to cook and keep the house. The day the doctor and his wife were taken from this house—a terrifying scene I shall never forget—they lied to the Gestapo taking them into custody, screaming that Helene and I stopped working for them long ago. Mrs. Stroński said we,”—here her voice grew pinched and her face strained—“we spat on them when we quit because they were Jews. They accused us of arriving on the premises that day only to ensure the house would be properly cared for until the new German occupants arrived. They yelled that we were vipers, snakes. But that is not what they believed. None of this was true.”