Page 4 of Alive (Shadows of a Forgotten Past #2)

CHAPTER 4

~ THE UNCERTAINTY OF WAR ~

Alex’s premonition loomed before us. “ There is a terrible evil growing in Germany—one so immense, I’m afraid it will find a way to creep past its borders and threaten us all. ”

We were at war, and Germany wasted no time proving its intent. A German submarine torpedoed the Athenia , a British passenger liner. The Nazi war machine then set its sights on the battleship HMS Royal Oak , anchored at Scapa Flow in the Orkneys to aid the Home Fleet. Another German submarine evaded the defenses and fired three torpedoes—each finding its mark.

Of the 165 sailors under the age of eighteen, 125 perished. England mourned those precious souls, but never more than their mothers. I became convinced that when Shakespeare wrote, “ Hell is empty, and all the devils are here, ” he had foreseen our time.

England, determined to protect its youngsters, initiated the evacuation program, relocating them to safer areas. London especially saw a great number of its children removed. The city bore the brunt of the air raids, each more brutal than the last, designed to crush the spirit of resilience in our people.

At the manor, we prepared for the repercussions of war. Our plan was methodical: acquire extra tools, clothing, weapons, and seeds to expand the produce garden. Despite many helping hands, the task was overwhelming.

Adding to the strain, the incessant ringing of the telephone sent my nerves soaring. The army wanted Alex’s expertise. I understood that helping was honorable, but fear crept into my chest. Would they take him away?

* * *

Mrs. Haywood surfaced on the threshold. I may as well have been a chair in the library for the attention she paid me, her feather duster flurrying over the double doors. Muttering something under her breath, she gave the panels one final sweep before rushing in to address the furniture.

Upon seeing me, she shrieked. “Goodness gracious, Mrs. Sterling! I had no idea you were here.”

“All morning, in this very chair.”

“Oh, is that so?” A faint blush colored her cheeks.

“I just finished this book.” I signaled to The Count of Monte Cristo on the sofa. “And started this one.” I held up the volume for her to see.

“ Clever Agriculture .” She read the title.

“I’m afraid the more I learn about sowing and harvesting, the more I realize how little I know. I had a garden in New York, but nothing compared to what we hope to achieve here.”

“Take heart, Mrs. Sterling. There is always something to be learned.” Her eyes descended on The Count of Monte Cristo . “Was this your first time reading it?”

“No.”

“A favorite, then?”

“I wouldn’t say favorite. There’s just something compelling about the story that draws me back.”

“I can’t imagine what,” she replied with a shudder. “In my opinion, it’s too tragic. Too much anger and revenge.”

“Realistic, no?”

“Perhaps, but I think I’d prefer it if the story focused more on Edmond’s growth and the rewards he gained from his ordeal, like finding the treasure and meeting Haydée—rather than dwelling on vengeance.”

“True, but it doesn’t justify the injustices he suffered, does it?” I found myself defending the plot, though I wasn’t sure why.

“I think circumstances must be considered, and they are all so different,” she offered.

“While there is truth in that,” I countered, “I don’t believe circumstances give us license to harm others for personal gain. Do you?”

“Oh no,” she said with a nervous laugh. “Don’t read too much into what I said. It’s only a novel.”

“Indeed.” I smiled but sensed that something beyond the story troubled her. “Mrs. Haywood, is something wrong?”

“Oh, dear. Oh, dear.” She dropped her arms in resignation, shoulders slumped. “Is it that obvious?”

“Please, have a seat.” I coaxed her to an armchair and returned to my own.

“War, Mrs. Sterling. War is so deplorable, especially when it touches our loved ones.”

“Is it someone close to you?”

“The light of my life.” Silent tears slipped down her cheeks. “My son left on a high-risk mission early this week. I may never see him again. See, he is in the Royal Air Force.”

Her son? The Haywoods never mentioned children. “I . . . I’m sorry.” The nation remained transfixed by reports of the week’s strategic aerial campaign against Germany, aware of our numerical disadvantage. Having shared Alex, Lucca, and my father with the military, I understood too well the grief and anxiety that came with such sacrifices. “Would you like to tell me about him?”

“Yes, yes. That’s precisely what I need.” The housekeeper pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “He’s an extraordinary lad.”

“What’s his name?”

“William. We call him Will—our little Will.”

“Do you have other children?”

“No. I was unable to conceive for the longest time. I had accepted my misfortune when, late in life, my gift from heaven arrived. I became pregnant with Will.” Her composure cracked, and she sobbed as though her son were already dead.

“I’ve heard many stories from my husband about war and the miracles he’s witnessed,” I said gently. “You mustn’t lose hope. You are your son’s greatest support.”

“I keep telling myself that, but my emotions betray me now and then.” She sniffled and wiped her nose, composing herself somewhat. “Will is an excellent pilot, you know. He was selected to fly one of those high-performance planes—Spitfire, I believe they are called. He’s been infatuated with airplanes since childhood. I couldn’t keep him indoors. From sunrise to sunset, he would dash through the fields with his arms outstretched, pretending to be a plane. Time went by too fast.

“When Will came of age, Haywood and I used our life savings to send him to Cranwell for a proper education. But, of course, that meant we couldn’t retire. That’s why, at our age, we jumped at the opportunity to work here.” The creases at the corners of her eyes deepened, her thoughts seeming to drift from the room. “Oh, Mrs. Sterling, you must believe me—we did all we could for him.”

Her words held an undercurrent of—guilt? Maybe it was the timing. Having a son in the RAF would have been her greatest pride if not for the bloody war. The danger he now faced might have eclipsed the joy she once felt in supporting his ambitions.

“I have no doubt you’ve done your best, and likely much more,” I reassured. “Now, you must be strong for Will. As far as we know, he is alive and doing well. Hold on to that hope.”

“Yes, yes, he is alive. He’ll stay alive.” She stood at once. “You must forgive me. I shouldn’t have dragged you into my personal affairs.”

“The suffering and sacrifice of a mother are never in vain. They are accounted for in the heavens above, and whatever happens, all will be well.” My words surprised me more than they did her—I sounded just like Granny.

“Thank you, Mrs. Sterling. I must get on with my chores.” She turned to leave, her voice trailing behind her like a prayer. “He’ll come back to me…heavens above…”

* * *

The wind howled, and rain battered the house through the night. Restless, I left the bed and peered out the window. Darkness yielded to the first hints of dawn. And fog’s tendrils wove through the trees, smothering everything in their path—much like our menace, Adolf Hitler. The thought turned my mind to Mrs. Haywood’s son.

“What is it, Florence?” Alex mumbled from the bed.

“I’m sorry. Did I wake you?” I slipped back under the covers.

“I don’t think so.” He yawned and stretched, his arms reaching over his head. “The rain stopped.”

“At last. But it’s another gray day.”

“That’s all we’ve been getting lately.”

“Not ideal for our pilots.”

“The poor fellows,” Alex groaned. “The battle in the sky is a ghastly affair.”

A sudden idea struck me. Could Mrs. Haywood have been hinting for me to intervene on her son’s behalf? “Hypothetically speaking,” I said, “how difficult would it be to ground a pilot?”

“What do you mean?”

“Could a pilot be assigned to a safer post?”

“Who are you thinking about?”

“The Haywoods’ son. He is a Royal Air Force pilot.”

“I’ll say, I did not know they had a son,” Alex exclaimed.

“They do. And as you can imagine, they are distraught over safety.”

“As are countless other parents.”

I heard the implication: the Haywoods weren’t alone in their fears, and recalling one pilot wouldn’t solve the greater crisis. While I understood the fallacy of my pursuit, if my son had lived, he might be a soldier now, and I would try to keep him from harm. “He’s their only child, Alex. Could you look him up? Pull some strings? I mean, there must be other places he could serve.”

A heavy silence ensued.

“I’m not active in the army,” Alex said at last. “I don’t carry the influence I once did in higher circles.”

“And that’s why the army won’t stop calling you day or night, isn’t it?” I said with sarcasm.

“That’s different.”

“No, it isn’t,” I insisted. “You have connections. A few calls, reminders of old favors might make a difference.”

“Florence, be serious,” he said, exasperated. “It’s not as simple as you think. It’s unprofessional. And it’s inappropriate.”

“Mrs. Haywood. She’s gotten into me. She is terrified of losing her son. Do you remember the men you helped in the trenches? The stories you shared about their longing to return home, to see their mothers? I assure you—the longing of their mothers is far, far worse.”

Alex sighed, rubbing his temples. “Do you know where he is stationed?”

“All I know is that he flies a Spitfire.”

“Hmm. He must be very skilled. Did he fly this week?”

“I believe so.”

“I heard only fifty percent of the pilots made it back.”

“For Mrs. Haywood’s sake, I hope he was among them. Please, Alex, look him up.”

“All right, but I can’t promise anything.”

* * *

I headed to the kitchen, a storm of worries accompanying me. Alex had locked himself in his office. Again. The calls and telegrams from London refused to abate. The signs were impossible to ignore. The military crept back into our lives, and I couldn’t understand why they so desperately sought Alex’s advice. Surely, they had no shortage of clever strategists at their bidding. All I knew was the persistent premonition of separation—a loss taking root before it began.

I found the Haywoods and Zaira gathered around the radio atop the counter. The apparatus was our lifeline for news, though it mostly delivered updates that only added to our already flagging spirits. Even so, we remained tethered to it, needing to stay informed. A burst of static interrupted the communication, prompting Mr. Haywood to mutter a string of colorful words.

“Good afternoon,” I greeted.

Startled, Zaira and Mrs. Haywood whirled around with muffled gasps, while Mr. Haywood’s gaze snapped to me. They had been so engrossed in the broadcast that my arrival had gone unnoticed.

“Mrs. Sterling, forgive me—the signal is impossible today.” Mr. Haywood fidgeted with the dial.

“No need to apologize.” I pulled a chair and sat at the table. “I’m just as eager to hear the latest news.”

“Would you like some tea?” Mrs. Haywood offered.

“No, thank you.”

“Wretched war.” Zaira settled in the seat beside me. “The BBC is insistent that the German offensive is victorious everywhere. And they’ve confirmed that France has surrendered.”

“Heaven have mercy on us!” Mrs. Haywood threw her arms in the air, punctuating her words.

“France needs it more than us,” Mr. Haywood croaked.

“I’m not so sure about that,” Zaira refuted. “We are next in the Nazi’s list—and after our defiance, they won’t show us any mercy.”

“I’m afraid you are right.” I agreed. If France—better equipped to fight them than we were—had fallen, what chance did England have? With France occupied and only the English Channel between us, a swift and brutal invasion seemed inevitable. If that happened, nothing would stop the Nazis from dominating all of Europe.

“It was also announced that the conscription of men will continue full steam ahead,” Zaira said with sadness.

“Oh, my dear friend. I’m so sorry.” I held her hand. “You are thinking of Clarence.”

“He is almost thirty-nine, and in excellent health. Two more years would have spared him.”

“Maybe, but I’m afraid the government will raise the age limit if this conflict doesn’t come under control soon.” My stomach churned; Alex might not be spared either.

Mr. Haywood uttered a triumphant exclamation as the radio waves came clearly once more. An urgent voice announced: “ Britain continues to plead with the United States to join our efforts for liberty.”

The voice faded, again overtaken by a series of sharp pops and crackling. With a growl, Mr. Haywood toyed with the dial until the signal returned.

“ Years of Nazi indoctrination continue to bear fruit against minority groups, particularly the Jewish community. Reports of their businesses being shut down, their work licenses revoked, their homes and valuables confiscated, and their families torn apart multiply daily. So too does the number of missing or deceased. This, ladies and gentlemen, is a blunt campaign to obliterate life and its attendant rights. ”

The announcement ended, replaced by soft music—a balm to encourage listeners to carry on. There was no other option.

“I ought to get back to work.” Mr. Haywood gathered his gloves from the counter, looking haggard by the news.

“I’ll join you in a little while,” I told him. “I’d like your opinion on the seeds stored in the west cellar. I’m thinking of expanding the garden. If we are to survive this war, and help others do the same, we’ll need every inch of it.”

* * *

The fire in the hearth died sometime during the night. Even under the bedding, the chill seeped into my bones. I scrambled to Alex’s side, wrapped my arm around his chest, and flung my leg over his, absorbing his warmth.

“You are trembling,” he whispered, his voice thick with sleep.

“It’s freezing.”

“It reminds me of the night of the storm at Oak’s Place—one of the best nights of my life.”

“Mine too.” The rain had lashed the streets of Geneva, turning them into rivers. I’d stayed overnight at the mansion, ending up in Alex’s arms. It was the beginning of our relationship in New York, our second connection in life. “You know, it’s not fair that you are so comfortable wearing less clothing than me.”

“If you keep holding me like this, that might change,” he said playfully. “Then, I can warm you up properly.”

“How about another option?”

Alex laughed and rolled off the bed. Seizing the fire poker, he stirred the ashes in the hearth, then added a few pieces of newspaper. Once the kindling burned, he tossed in a couple of logs. Soon, the bedroom filled with a lively glow, and heat wrapped around us.

“There.” He slid back in bed. “I think you’ll survive now.”

“I suppose I’ve no right to complain. Our soldiers would gladly trade my problems for theirs.” The thought made me recoil. I couldn’t imagine the horrors they endured.

“That’s true,” Alex agreed. “Training and determination help, but war, especially the battlefield is ugly.”

“Speaking of soldiers, did you find out anything about Will?”

“Only what you already know. He is a Spitfire pilot with an exceptional record. Unfortunately, his prowess makes him invaluable to the RAF. That complicates your request.”

I mulled over his words, searching for a loophole. Finding none, I said in frustration, “Honestly, how much of a difference can one man make in such a large conflict?”

“A significant one. A skilled pilot can save countless lives.”

“And break his parents’ hearts along the way. The Haywoods have only him?—”

“Florence, you have taken this to heart.”

“I can’t stop thinking about the Haywoods,” I admitted. “And how cruel it would be for them to lose him.”

“Don’t fuss—I pushed some buttons.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I have no idea what might come from it, if anything. And even if he’s reassigned, he’ll still face danger.”

“Hopefully, less danger.”

A rumble, like the rolling motion of an earthquake, rattled the house.

“What in the world?” Alex flung the covers to the side and dashed to the window. “I can’t see anything.”

“Thunder? Again?”

“No, it’s not that.” He pulled on his trousers and hustled from the room.

I thrust my arms through the sleeves of my bathrobe and followed him downstairs, stepping into the icy dawn.

“Bloody hell!” Alex exclaimed.

To the east, the sky was lit with bursts of light, plumes of smoke rising ominously.

“Southampton,” I stammered, horror dawning. “The Luftwaffe found the port.”

“They are bombing the docks, the ammunition depots, and, most likely, the Spitfire Supermarine factory,” Alex growled, having foreseen this very moment. “It will leave us at an even greater disadvantage—one we might not recover from.”

“Good heavens—so much destruction.” I imagined the bombs shaking the city’s foundations, the scorching fires, the screams of the injured—a scene from hell that would repeat itself, I feared, countless times before the war’s end.

“I can’t stay on the sidelines any longer,” he stated resolutely. “It’s time to get involved.”

“What else can we do?” I thought of the area’s service projects and our Victory Garden, as we had named it. The produce would help families in need, and the surplus could be traded for essentials. Yet, in the face of so much devastation, our efforts felt woefully insufficient.

“The military is about to undertake a high-profile mission.” Alex took my hands into his. “They’ve requested my help. I might not make much of a difference, but at least I can try.”

“A mission?” I repeated, stunned.

“Yes.”

“What kind of mission?”

“One that will take me out of the country. That’s all I can tell you for now.”

The premonition I had dreaded came to pass. I felt as if I were sinking into quicksand, the world shifting beneath me. Alex would leave me again.

“You are shivering. Come on, let’s go inside before you get sick.” He maneuvered me into the house. His worried eyes looked down at me as his hands braced my shoulders. “Florence, I wasn’t going to tell you this. It’s not public information, but you should know. It’ll help you understand my decision.”

I stared at him, reminding myself to breathe.

“The Nazis have launched an operation called ‘mercy killing.’ It’s a euphemism for euthanizing anyone, young, old, even newborns who don’t fit their standard of perfection. On top of that, the reports of labor camps in Nazi territories are mounting. Of course, labor is a generous term, given the inhumane activities we fear might be taking place. And the terror they inflict on the nations they invade, it’s beyond comprehension. We must do all we can to stop this.”

Shame washed over me for how little I understood the state of the war. The world groaned under Adolf Hitler’s madness, and the call to rise and defend human life had been sounded. Alex would answer it, and so would I—his departure a refiner’s fire as I wavered between hope and surrendering to the void his absence would leave.

“Florence . . .” Alex searched my eyes for approval.

I nodded, pressing my lips together to hold back a sob.

Another war. Another mission, history repeating itself.