Authors: Walter J. Boyne
"Sit. And listen. It's bad enough that her daddy flies and might get killed. Losing her mother would be just too much. You of all people ought to know that."
Patty bridled. Her mother used to say that "only the truth hurts"—and it was so. But Clarice had no concept of doing something for a cause, no idea of what Patty's larger aims were.
"Let's not talk about my poor mother."
Clarice, indignant now, said, "Let's
do
talk about her. Let's talk about how she insisted on flying the big Hafner bomber, how she was going to break all of Amelia's records, how—"
"Damnit, Clarice, Mother didn't just crash. Bruno Hafner killed her, he sabotaged the airplane, you know that."
Just saying the name "Bruno" made Patty feel sick; he'd married her mother and used her to promote his airplanes, then, when it suited him, snuffed her out.
Clarice took advantage of her silence to say, "You know what that baby in your arms is? She's a bridge, a lifeline, between three families and two generations. She ties your family—what's left of it—and Bandy's family and ours together like no one else could. And she needs you to take care of her."
Still shaken by the thought of her stepfather, Patty said, "Don't be cruel, Clarice."
"I'm trying to be kind and you won't let me. Men are different. You'll never get Bandy to stop flying, no matter what you do. You could tell him you were divorcing him, taking the baby away—he can't help himself, he'd let you, and just keep on doing what he's doing. Men are idiots."
Patty knew that it was true. Bandy loved her and the baby with all his heart—but flying was an integral part of his life. He could not live without it.
"I don't know what you're flying for, except to prove that a woman can be as stupid as a man. And let me tell you something else. If you do kill yourself, the real victim will be Charlotte."
Clarice paused, her eyes filling with tears. "When the phone rang last week, I knew something had happened, I knew you were dead. I couldn't believe it when I heard your voice. I love you and I love this baby, but I'm old and I'm not so sure I'm well. I won't be around to take care of her. And even if something happens to you, Bandy won't stop flying. What if he got killed, too? Who'll take care of her?"
Concern flooded Patty's face and she rose to embrace Clarice. She loved this woman deeply. "Is something wrong? Have you been to the doctor?" she asked.
"Don't start on me. We'll talk about that another time. Right now we're talking about you stopping flying."
"All right, Clarice, you win. I'll start cutting down."
"My God, Patty, this is not like quitting smoking cigarettes. You can't just taper off, not if you can get killed in the process. I could be holding the baby at your funeral today, damnit! You won't always get away with it!"
Patty heard the sound of the mail truck pulling away.
"Let me check the mailbox, Clarice, please. I hear what you're saying, and I know you're right. Let me work on this." She kissed her and ran from the room.
Clarice, upset with herself, upset with Patty, turned back to straighten the countertop. They'd remodeled the house last year—new bathrooms, new cabinets in the kitchen, and a wing added on for the Bandfields. In a way the house was a homecoming for Bandy. His mother, Emily, had inherited a huge property that bordered on the Rogets' land, and his wastrel father, George, had mortgaged it all off before skipping town. Two years later, poor and bitter, Emily died of a broken heart.
The Rogets had stepped in back then to serve as surrogate parents.
Hadley always said that George Bandfield was the finest machinist he'd ever known, and he passed most of his talent along to young Frank. Hadley had been tough on him, driving him almost as hard as his father had done, trying to teach him everything he knew.
As she mopped up the sink, Clarice sighed, wondering if she'd gone too far. She knew that Patty was really a good mother even if she was career-crazy. And Bandy smothered the baby with love when he was home, but he was often gone, too.
At least Patty and Bandy were talking about having another child. It would be good for the parents and Charlotte, and perhaps soothe whatever devils were driving them. Bandy was not satisfied just being in the airplane business anymore. Something had changed him—the fighting in Spain, probably—and he was clearly restless.
Patty walked in waving a letter, Charlotte slung under her arm like a sack of potatoes.
"At last, word from our
wandervogels,
postmarked Dayton. That old Henry Caldwell has really latched on to them."
She opened the letter and a snapshot of a huge rambling three-story brick house fell out, a big red X marking a room on the second floor.
On the back Bandy had written, "Our new house; X marks the spot where we're going to make our next baby."
Patty tossed the picture in the wastebasket and began reading aloud:
"Dear Patty. Surprise, surprise! Old Caldwell's called me back to active duty; I'm going to be working mostly out of Wright Field. But that's not the best part!"
There was a coffee stain, and the ink had run, but Patty could make out: "Hadley's coming, too! Tell Clarice to pack her glad rags and both of you get on the next rattler coming East. Bring the baby, too, ha ha. Hadley's got a really important project, and he says to tell Clarice that she'll love it—"
Clarice broke in. "I'm not going anywhere, especially not to a hole like Dayton, Ohio."
Patty boiled with anger, clenching her fists and stomping her boot on the floor. First the dressing down from Clarice, and now this.
She crumpled the rest of the letter up unread, tossed it in the wastebasket with the photo.
"God, he's done it again. This is the last time. I'm not going either, Clarice, he didn't even discuss it with me." Her voice trailed off as the thought crashed down. How could he be so insensitive to ask me to go back there, where my mother was murdered?
She turned and ran from the room as Clarice picked up the baby and danced her around the room, whispering, "Nobody's taking you from me, honey, not your daddy, not nobody, nobody. She'll go—but I'll be coming with you."
***
Chapter 2
Berlin/November 10, 1938
Caldwell felt ill at ease in the ballroom of the Italian Embassy, the only American amid the crowd of German, Italian, and Spanish officers, diplomats, and their guests. After all Bandy had told him of the horrors about the Spanish Civil War bombings of Guernica, Madrid, and Barcelona, he had expected them to look like thugs. Instead they were very ordinary. In American uniforms and with American-style haircuts, they could have been officers at any U.S. Army base.
His Luftwaffe escort in Berlin, Captain Helmut Josten, had jokingly made wearing his uniform a condition of his invitation.
"Come along, Henry, but you have to wear your uniform. Franco's peasants never get to meet a real live American general." Caldwell had accepted instantly, more than glad to wear the insignia of his new rank. He'd spent twenty years toiling in the procurement trenches, expecting that he'd retire as no more than a major. He was entitled to enjoy his new stars.
It was an anniversary party. Two years ago, the famous Luftwaffe Condor Legion had made its clandestine journey to Spain to fight in the civil war. They had traveled in civilian clothes, and their airplanes had been shipped in crates marked furniture. Although they came in far fewer numbers than the Italians, they had been of decisive help to Franco. Now, the men who fought in Spain were busily shaping Goering's Luftwaffe in the light of their newfound knowledge. Most of their old theories had been proven wrong. Hard fighting had hammered out new concepts on bombing, ground support, and formations for air combat.
Instead of introducing him to the combat pilots, Josten had been busy dancing around the flower-heaped room with a beautiful White Russian held tightly to him. We used to call that doing the fish, Caldwell grinned to himself.
As the pair approached, the woman whispered to Josten and excused herself. The twenty-four-year-old captain was a walking Luftwaffe recruiting poster, almost six feet tall, with a swimmer's build, broad shoulders, and narrow waist. His engaging face was framed with close-cropped curly hair over his broad brow, wide-set eyes, and strong jaw. Earlier Caldwell had watched him, surrounded by fellow pilots, telling in German too fast for Caldwell to follow a flying anecdote that involved lots of hand movements and sound effects. Josten had kept them captivated, and at the last moment everyone burst into laughter—one woman who was listening had turned away holding her sides. At an American lawn party it might have been ordinary—in the stiff society of the German military, it was worth noting.
Josten reminded him in so many ways of Bandfield. They both had the pilot's confident manner, and the ability to listen intently and absorb what was being said, then ask key questions. They were both quick technically, able to explain engineering problems easily. Josten's fluent English derived in part from his omnivorous reading—Caldwell was amazed at the depth of his knowledge of history. He was obviously a voracious reader in both English and German. More interesting, Josten managed to tie his views of history into today's events without seeming either pedantic or political.
Unlike most pilots, the man was dazzlingly versatile. In 1936 he had swum in the Olympics, then later that year set half a dozen soaring records at the
Wasserkuppe
in a glider of his own design. During the Spanish Civil War he was credited with four kills—but according to some of the people Caldwell had talked to, had actually destroyed several more than that. Remarkably, his whole demeanor reflected an inner peace and self-assurance not found among many of the German officers Caldwell knew. He carried himself with a perfect military posture, but he did it easily, gracefully, unlike most of the stiff-necked "heel-clickers," as Bandy termed them. And Josten's candor had convinced Caldwell early on that he was a man of integrity and good will.
A voice asked, "Will you introduce me?" and Josten turned to introduce Caldwell to his companion.
"Lyra, may I present my friend and fellow pilot, General Henry Caldwell. General Caldwell, Countess Illeria Gortchakov."
She extended her hand, and Caldwell fumbled for a moment, trying to recall if you were supposed to kiss the hand of an unmarried woman. He played it safe, holding her hand for a long moment as he stared at her. Lyra was stunning, fair-skinned, wearing little makeup. An emerald necklace—expensive if real—matched the color of her wonderfully intelligent eyes. A simple white gown clung to her tall slender figure, a perfect foil for her thick black hair which shimmered with an iridescence so dazzling that she dared to wear it unfashionably long. It took all of Caldwell's self-control to keep his eyes on her lovely oval face, away from her startling cleavage. Caldwell felt that for the first time he truly understood the word "aristocratic."
They chatted and he was surprised at how well informed she was about current events, like the scare Orson Welles had given America only ten days before with his
War of the Worlds
broadcast.
"Countess, how do you know so much about American affairs?"
"Not by reading the
Voelkischer Beobachter,
I assure you. I work at the Foreign Ministry, translating key articles. I get to read most of the American, French, and English periodicals. And I must say, General, I'm amazed at the technical information in American magazines. You seem to have no secrets."
"We have a few, but a free press can ferret them out."
She smiled, "Your point is well taken."
Something in her manner told Caldwell that this woman was different and might be useful to him. He pressed his luck. "Isn't it a little unusual for a foreign national to work in a key German ministry?"
"Not in these busy times. I certainly didn't raise the issue. I needed a job."
Work was the key to survival in Europe, crowded with fragmented families trying to survive the Depression-reinforced disaster of the 1914-1918 war. No matter how much one might dislike Hitler and the Nazis, he had solved unemployment and even created a labor shortage.
Yet it was hard for Caldwell to believe that a White Russian woman was employed in the Nazi Foreign Ministry. Lyra saw the skepticism in his eyes and, lowering her voice, said, "Helmut won't be offended if I tell you that most of the leading Nazis are snobs. They think employing a White Russian countess—a victim of the Bolsheviks!—is chic, and I won't disabuse them."
"Well, you are chic to me as well, Countess. You are the first royalty I've ever met."
"My family is not royal, not at all. Did you know that your American Civil Service organization was copied from the old Russian system?"
Caldwell shook his head in surprise.
"But there was one big difference. If you did an outstanding job in the Russian government, so that you reached the very top, the good Czar Nicholas could ennoble you. I don't think President Roosevelt can do that."
"No, but the Republicans claim he wants to."
"In any event, my father was one of the fortunate ones, an engineer. He had a major role in building the trans-Siberian railway. He did so well that the Czar gave him a hereditary title and a modest estate."
A frown passed over her face. "Unfortunately, after the Revolution, the only thing we could take with us was the title. I don't even remember the place, but my father misses it so. You should hear him tell of the fruits that we grew there, the wines that we made."
"Is your father still living?"
"Yes, and my mother, too, in Riga. He is struggling with a timber export business there, just able to make ends meet. I came here to give them a little relief, a chance to have a life of their own without worrying about me."
A tall, serious-looking woman rushed over to Lyra, took her arm and pulled her aside to whisper in her ear. Caldwell could tell by their manner that she was a trusted friend.
A look of intense concern shadowed those wide green eyes, and Lyra said softly to the two men, "Will you excuse me?"