Page 8 of Alive (Shadows of a Forgotten Past #2)

CHAPTER 8

~ FAR APART ~

Cruel time crawled along at a snail’s pace while I had to keep pressing forward. My work with Mr. Haywood in the garden and my involvement with the Women’s Institute volunteers on the herb-foraging project increased. For while the men fought on the frontlines, the nation’s daily survival rested upon the shoulders of our women. Gone were the days of delicate dresses; most of us now donned trousers, ready to work in fields, farms, and orchards. Where we were once typists, clerks, or shop assistants, we now plowed the land, built fences and irrigation ditches, tended to crops and animals, and more.

After a long afternoon of taming the sprawling marrows—a wonderful problem to have—I was ready to collapse on the sofa when the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Sterling, this is General Frankfort.”

“Thomas?” I blurted, abandoning formalities as a flurry of terrible scenarios involving Alex and Will raced through my mind.

“Hello, Florence.”

“Did something happen to Alex?”

“No—no. Nothing of that sort.”

“Will?”

“No. Relax. As far as I know, they’re both fine.”

“Thank heavens!”

“I’m ringing because I need your help. I’m in a rather rough spot.”

Thomas in a rough spot? Rare. “Tell me. What is it?”

“The number of refugees has increased tenfold in the past month, and we’re struggling to accommodate them. Just this week, a group of Jews reached our shores after escaping from Germany. They were on a prisoner train, being transported to . . .” Thomas hesitated.

“A labor camp?”

“You’ve heard about them, then?”

“Alex mentioned them.”

“The train was bombed, and they made a run for it. Thankfully, good Samaritans helped them reach France, then England.”

“That’s a miracle,” I said earnestly. German forces controlled France, and few ever escaped their grip.

“You can say that again, and, to tell you the truth, I’m seeing more and more miracles. I never thought the day would come when I wouldn’t question things as much, when I would go with the flow. I suppose one lives and learns.”

“In the end, it’s all about where that flow takes you, isn’t it? If it leads to a good outcome, so be it.” I hoped he’d read between the lines and apply his newfound convictions to my likeness of the old Florence. “But tell me, how may I help you?”

“I’ll be able to house the group in a matter of weeks. Until then, I have nowhere for them to go. Would you take them in? You can think it over and ring me back.”

“I don’t need to think about it. We’ll gladly take them in. The house can accommodate a hundred people if necessary.” History did repeat itself, and once again, our people would answer the call to help. I thought of the Great War and Hurst Castle. Catherine and her family had offered it as a hospital for convalescent soldiers.

“For now, I have eight. Three boys and five girls between the ages of six and sixteen. Two of the girls are siblings. None of the others are related. Most likely, their parents didn’t make it out alive.”

“They are children . . .” My heart ached for them—young, innocent souls torn from their families by the wickedness of men.

“You understand the implication in this, yes?”

“What do you mean?”

“Others might prefer to take in adults who can help with farm work.”

“I’m not concerned about that. We have plenty to share, and I’ll make sure these children are treated as children. If nothing else, I can give them a safe place where they can enjoy life and be happy. Do they speak English?”

“Enough to communicate. Florence, there is something you must prepare for.” His tone grew somber. “You must be mentally ready to meet them. They’ve been to hell and back. Their scars run deep. Can you handle that?”

I couldn’t say that my experiences in the Great War would be of help. Instead, I said, “Don’t worry about that. I grew up an orphan in poverty. I’ve seen quite a bit, especially through the Depression in the States.”

“Be that as it may, it might not be enough. Just remember to focus on their future, not their past. I’ll bring them tomorrow afternoon.”

“We’ll be ready.”

“Thank you, Florence. I’m indebted to you.”

“I don’t think so. Surely, Alex owes you a favor or two.” I thought of all those years ago when Thomas had saved our lives in the forest and of the support he’d offered me in Keyhaven. The payment was overdue.

* * *

Punctuality was one of Thomas’s greatest strengths. True to form, the refugees arrived the next day in a military truck. The Haywoods, Zaira, Martha, and I stood ready to welcome them.

“Good afternoon.” Thomas jumped down from the passenger seat.

“It’s good to see you again.” I extended my hand, and he shook it firmly.

The driver lowered the tailgate and helped the passengers down. Thomas hadn’t exaggerated—their condition was unlike anything I had witnessed before. My heart ached at the sight of their gaunt faces and the haunted, wary look in their eyes.

They huddled together in the courtyard, clutching at the clothes on their backs—the only possessions they had. Their garments provided upon arrival in England, hung loosely on their frames.

“Welcomed to our home. We are happy to have you here.” I kept my emotions in check as I introduced the rest of us.

The response was a collective, faint, “Thank you.”

The youngest, a boy Thomas had mentioned was six years old, peeked out from behind one of the girls. His wide, dark eyes were filled with curiosity. I smiled at him, and after a moment, he darted forward, pressing something into my hand—a yellow petal.

I tried to catch his eye to thank him, but his shyness won out, and he retreated behind his friend. When I smiled at her, she rewarded me with a tentative grin.

Mrs. Haywood came forward and hugged them as if they were her grandchildren. She then motioned for them to follow her and Mr. Haywood inside. We had scrubbed the guest wing from top to bottom. The fresh linens, the carefully arranged rugs, and the simple toys placed on the nightstands helped create a safe, welcoming space.

Furthermore, with plenty of bedrooms, we’d let them choose their own, hoping it would give them a sense of control and comfort in a world that had offered them little of either. Forti Radici would now be their sanctuary.

“I’d better see to the afternoon tea,” Martha announced as she climbed the front steps. “I think we’ll need more cakes than I planned.”

I turned to Zaira. “We should give them a tour of the area as soon as they are feeling up to it. There are a few fun spots I think they’ll enjoy.”

“Oh, that’s a wonderful idea!” Zaira lit up with enthusiasm. I could practically see the wheels turning in her head, already crafting plans.

“Will you join us for tea?” I asked Thomas and his comrade.

“It would be our pleasure,” Thomas replied, “but would you take a walk with me first? I need to stretch my legs. It was a long ride.”

“I’ll show you to the sitting room,” Zaira offered the other soldier.

“Thanks, ma’am,” he responded, trailing her inside.

Thomas and I strolled to the rose garden, the sweet scent of flowers drifting through the air.

“Are you unwell?” Thomas broke the silence. “You are pale.”

“I could never have imagined they would look so dispirited and worn down.”

“I warned you.”

“I know. I now understand, but don’t fret. We’ll take good care of them.”

“Thank you.” Thomas heaved a sigh. “I’m confident they’ll eventually heal inside and out. They simply need time to do so.”

“Time, yes. It controls everything and yet nothing.” I thought about the past. “Doesn’t it?”

Thomas halted mid-step and faced me. For that brief instant, it felt as though time ceased between us, our old friendship as strong as ever. Once again, war bound us together. Memories of collapsing into his arms at the loss of those left behind at Forti Radici flooded back. I could only hope this moment wasn’t an omen of more heartbreak to come.

“How can this be? Florence, how can this be?” Was he speaking of the war or of me?

“War happens, Thomas.” I recalled his words from long ago. “Without people like you, more lives would be taken, not just those of young men but women and children.” My enigmatic answer straddled both subjects.

Recognizing the familiar phrasing, he finished the statement as he had a lifetime ago, “The cruelty would have no end.” His eyes searched mine with unsettling intensity. “You have confirmed that which I see but sanity contradicts. You, Florence, are Florence.” He shook his head, as if trying to dislodge the absurd notion. “No. It’s delusional.”

“Delusional or not, some truths are better left unsaid.” The reality was too farfetched, too implausible for him to comprehend. Perhaps, with time, it would reveal itself in manageable fragments, easier to accept.

“You neither confirm nor deny it.”

“Can you live with that?” I asked.

“I suppose I can . . . for the time being.” He whistled, the sound low and resigned. “Like I said over the telephone, I’ll go with the flow.”

“Any news of Alex?”

“No,” he answered.

“You’ll let me know if you hear anything, won’t you?”

“Of course, but you must try not to overstress. Alexander knows how to handle himself. Despite the challenges of his career, I only saw him broken once, and it had nothing to do with work.”

“Tell me about it.” Though I had a good idea of when that might have been, I wanted to hear Thomas’s perspective.

“When you—” I suspected in the name of common sense, he corrected himself. “When his first wife passed away, those of us close to him thought he might die of sorrow. I confess I wasn’t surprised when he went to war. What surprised me was that he returned. I didn’t think he wanted to.”

He was correct. Alex told me as much. Thankfully, death had eluded him.

“And when he did, he was, as expected, more disturbed than when he left. So, Catherine, a girl I was seeing at the time,” Thomas said, and again, I suspected for the sake of clarity, “and I devised a plan to help him move on. She had a friend, Dorothy, who fancied Alexander.”

“Did she, now?” I muttered. This was a story I hadn’t heard before.

“We organized a get-together to introduce them.”

“And Alex accepted?”

“It wasn’t easy, let me tell you, but in the end he did. However, it didn’t go as we’d hoped. In fact, it was a complete disaster.” Thomas chuckled as if the memory amused him.

“Well, go on then.”

“As the evening wore on, Alexander cleared the glasses from the sitting room and went to the kitchen. Dorothy followed him. I was elated—finally, some progress. But Catherine, observant as ever, noted his detachment. She said he was polite, but his heart wasn’t in it. Still, when minutes passed, I thought maybe, just maybe, our plan was working. Then the arguing began.”

“They argued?”

“Heck, yes. In an uncomfortable, sour moment, their voices rose to a fevered pitch, and their words multiplied. Catherine nudged me to intervene. I approached the kitchen, only to hear Alexander recommending Dorothy, in no uncertain terms, ‘go to the devil.’”

Should I laugh or feel sorry for the girl? I couldn’t decide.

“The next thing I knew,” Thomas continued, “Dorothy stormed out of the kitchen, and out of the flat. Catherine ran after her, and I after Catherine. I took them both home and didn’t speak of the incident again. Needless to say, we never tried setting him up with anyone after that.”

“I don’t blame you.” Ironic how Alex encouraged me to date if tragedy ever struck, yet he had refused to do so himself, at least in that instance. I wish I knew what exactly transpired in that kitchen.

“Years passed,” Thomas said. “Alexander moved to New York. Then I heard he remarried. I was happy for him and stunned all the same. When I saw you, I understood.”

I seized the moment to steer the conversation away from myself to Catherine. “Tell me more about Catherine. What happened between you two?”

“Truthfully, I’m not sure.” He shrugged, his expression neutral. “She moved up north, and our meetings became more and more sporadic until they stopped altogether. The last I heard, before I decided to move on, was that she was seeing someone else.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right. It took a minute, but I found Mary. She’s everything I could have hoped for, more than I deserve, really. She’s perfect for me.”

“Things have a way of working out in the end, don’t they?”

“Apparently so, Florence. Apparently so.”

* * *

I shifted, adjusting my pillow and tugging the covers tighter around me, but my thoughts refused to settle. Seeking relief, I cast my mind back to the afternoon: I had entered the library when the sound of laughter pulled me to the window. Peering outside, I saw our guests enjoying each other’s company in the garden. The days had worked wonders for them. Their pallor had faded, color returning to their cheeks, as their physical and mental health continued to improve. Most remarkable of all was the light of hope that radiated from their faces.

Through a veil of tears, I watched two of the boys position themselves to race. They exchanged a quick glance, and took off down the path. The boy trailing behind lost his footing and fell to the ground. Instead of surging forward to claim victory, the other boy turned back to help his friend. In that tender moment, kindness triumphed. Amid their struggles, they hadn’t forgotten who they were or what love meant. There was much to be learn from these children—for starters, that focusing on others was a key to surviving life’s harshest trials.

I rolled over again as my stomach rumbled, reminding me I’d barely eaten today. There might be leftovers in the kitchen—even a crust of bread would do. I threw my robe over my nightgown and padded down the hallway.

I descended the staircase, my hand gliding along the banister, when a memory surged: almost twenty years ago, heavy with child, I’d come down these very steps in search of a cup of milk. But that night, I found much more than milk—I stumbled upon the heart of a murderer.

I could still hear Mrs. White’s chilling words as she conspired with Mr. Vines, “ If he is not with me, he might be better off alone . . . You know very well that I won’t hesitate in removing any obstacles ,” she had said. True to her words, she had removed me. Again, I wondered if she had also removed my child? From suspecting that foul play might have been involved in his death to believing he might be alive lay a vast realm of unknowns—unknowns that deepened my belief that there could be more to his story.

I reached the landing and took the dark passage bordering the stairwell, my footsteps echoing in the hollow space. The air thickened, each breath feeling heavier, harder to draw in. Did something malevolent lurk just beyond my sight? I hurried to the switch at the end of the corridor.

The single bulb buzzed to life, light flooding the space. There was nothing here. Nothing but fear, mocking me for its hold. Still, the unease remained, as if the house carried remnants of Mrs. White’s vile plans. Perhaps, in dredging up those memories, I had unleashed the energy of that fateful night. I could only hope she would never set foot in Forti Radici again.

Heaving a calming breath, I resumed my steps and crossed the double doors with carved flowers into the kitchen. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a figure scurrying through the shadows into the larder. I flipped on the light and grabbed a rolling pin from the counter.

“Who’s there?” I hated the fear in my voice. “Show yourself.”

Silence.

I stepped inside the storage room and peered around in a frenzy. I noticed one thing out of place—a tiny foot sticking out from behind a shelf. I released the breath stuck in my throat and lowered my weapon.

“Good evening,” I said gently. “Are you looking for something to eat? I sure am.”

The little fellow who had given me the flower petal the day of their arrival peeked out from his hiding place. His eyes were wide and alert as he gave a cautious nod.

“Come on.” I motioned for him to join me. “Let’s find some treats. I’m sure Martha keeps plenty around.”

For a long while, he stayed rooted to the spot.

“Come on,” I repeated with a smile.

He sidestepped into the aisle, his movement careful as though unsure of what awaited him.

“Let’s see.” I scanned the top shelf. “No, nothing here.”

He pointed to the fourth shelf from the bottom, the corners of his lips tugging in a shy smile.

Bending at the knee, I could see one tin of flour and another of bay leaves. The boy slipped closer and pushed the flour aside, revealing a jar filled with malted milk biscuits. Clearly, this wasn’t his first outing to the larder.

“You like these?” I held up the jar.

He nodded eagerly.

“Right, then.” I never would have guessed that a child would enjoy the malty flavor of the biscuits. “Let’s bring them with us.”

We settled at the table, and I handed him a biscuit.

“I’m Florence.” I tapped my chest to reinforce my words. “What’s your name?”

“Eldad,” he responded through a mouthful of biscuit.

“That’s a lovely name.”

“Papa is gone.” The boy shifted on his seat, his feet swinging in the air. “Evil men burn shop. Papa don’t come out. They take us train.”

The biscuit in my hand stilled, my appetite vanishing in an instant. It was clear he understood, in a way no child should, that his father would never return—not by choice, but by the cruelty of others. And although I longed to know what had happened to his mother, I couldn’t bring myself to ask. Some truths were too painful to uncover and to relive.

“Would you like another biscuit?” I said instead.

“Yes, Florr—” His little tongue stumbled over the next consonant, unable to complete the word.

“It’s all right.” I smiled reassuringly. “Just call me Flor.”

“Flor.” He returned my smile, a little more confident now. “Big noise, big fire. Train stop, we run. Farms, more farms. Now here.” He finished the story quickly, as though eager to unburden himself.

Thomas’s account had been accurate. Bombs had struck the train, causing it to burst into flames. The chaos gave the prisoners their chance to escape, and heaven had blessed them with people who helped them cross two countries to safety. It was nothing short of extraordinary.

As Eldad devoured the rest of his treat, his gaze drifted to a point beyond my shoulder. I saw past the veneer of his composed expression to the anxiety simmering beneath. Love swelled in me for him, alongside an unyielding rage at the monsters who had caused such suffering.

“Would you like some water?” I offered, hoping to pull both of us to the present.

He shook his head, the light in his eyes dimming. “I miss Papa.”

I extended my hand. To my surprise, he took it and climbed into my lap. I encircled him in my arms as he rested his head on my shoulder. Minutes ticked by. His breathing softened, his frame relaxed, and he drifted into sleep. I stayed as still as possible, not wanting to disturb him, but my mind churned. The Nazis’ inhumanity was too surreal to grasp. How had the world allowed them to rise to power? Complacency and carelessness had blinded us while the enemy prepared to strike.

Eldad stirred, a soft groan escaping him as his head lolled back against my arm. His serene, angelic face pulled me from my dark thoughts. Somewhere in the woods, a rooster crowed, ushering in the new day. I pictured the bird perched on a fence, its red wattle swaying and its feathers gleaming in the early light.

With some effort, I stood, determined to carry Eldad to his bed where he could enjoy a few more hours of rest. I left the kitchen, and glanced at the boy in my arms. My world suddenly felt a little brighter, my burdens a little easier to bear. Would holding my son have felt like this? I believed it would have.

My baby. Just as daylight streamed through the corridors, my path became clear. There was one who knew more about my son than I did. One who had recently frequented my dreams—the one who had brought him into the world. Dr. Jones.

Was he still alive? Would he recognize me? And as Alex’s second wife—supposedly uninvolved—would he even help me? I didn’t have the answers, but I had to try.