I tucked the diary under my mattress and stood as the cheers of the soldiers radiated across the camp. “What’s going on?”
“Germany has surrendered!” Betty-Lou shrieked, her arms clenched to her chest and her fists curled up tight like a baby’s, before bouncing back outside. We followed. There were cheers, hugs, the men lining up to give me a squeeze. I was happy to provide what comfort I could. Some of these boys haven’t felt a woman’s arms around them in years.
With Hazel, of course, they were more circumspect, preferring to get into a deep conversation, spill their guts. She’s got this girl-next-door quality—it’s as if she were wearing pigtails and overalls, not a uniform. They may like to look at me, but they want to get to know her. I have to admit, when we first met, I thought she was a prude, and an insecure one at that. If I hadn’t pushed her onstage that first day she showed up, I suspect she would have run for the coast and swum her way back home.
But now I see that she’s stronger than I gave her credit for, and bolder, too.
With the celebrations in full swing, that night the five of us girls hit a Neapolitan nightclub, an after-hours joint on the second floor of a restaurant. The place was just how I like it: dark, music blaring, a mob of movement. The liquor poured freely and they asked me to sing, so I got up on the makeshift stage and belted out “That Old Black Magic.” The band had my back, we shook the town. That’s where the power is, when you’re onstage, untouchable, and on fire. That kind of attention is like rocket fuel to me.
After, I stepped down and joined the girls at the table.
“You’re so courageous,” Hazel said. “Do you ever get nervous or doubt yourself? I can’t imagine pulling off a song like that.”
I admit, the compliments warmed me up. I told her the truth: “I never get nervous. I figure if I mess up, I’ll just shimmy my way out of it.” I performed a quick shoulder shake, and the soldier walking by us tripped on his feet. “Works every time.”
When a young waiter brought over another round of drinks, Hazel examined him closely. The nightclub was staffed by POWs, and I knew who she was thinking about.
“Are you sure Colonel Peterson got our report?” I said. “What if he’s mad that we met with Paul?”
“I don’t care if he was mad, I’m glad we did it.” She added that she’d even dreamed of Paul last night.
I didn’t tell her I had, too, Paul’s face as pale as a specter. And how my grandmother had appeared in the dream, trapped in the cell with him, screaming for help.
When my grandmother moved in with me and my parents when I was just a little girl, none of our neighbors wanted a Kraut nearby. Before coming to Seattle, she’d lived alone on tiny Vashon Island, a crazy hermit that the other islanders just barely tolerated. But my mother was sickly, and needed help raising me. Grandmother didn’t make things easy on herself, speaking English only when necessary, defiant as ever.
My father, a failed salesman and successful inebriate, raged every evening against the world or his boss or both. I stayed hidden as much as possible, my grandmother bearing the brunt of his anger. At my mother’s wake, when I was just five, one of his coworkers pulled me onto his lap. I could smell the liquor on his breath and it reminded me of my father. Shocked by the unexpected warmth of a man, the arms wrapping around me, I softened into his embrace.
I remember looking up at the man’s face, the one who’d pulled me close. He kissed my forehead and pulled my hips in tighter. Into something that felt very wrong.
My grandmother appeared out of nowhere, yelling at him in German and yanking me by the arm. He’d crossed his legs and arms and called her a bitch, a Hun.
At my mother’s wake.
“So tell me, do you have a boy back home, Maxine?”
Hazel’s question, clearly an attempt to lighten the mood, snapped me back into the room. The nightclub was emptying out. Without the crush of bodies, the room’s charmless decay was exposed, and depressing. My performance, like all performances, had vanished without a trace once the spotlight was turned off.
“No. No boy.”
A man. But I’d never tell her that. He and I had made a pact not to tell anyone our secrets.
Sometimes I miss him so much I don’t feel like I can keep it in, but I must. Although he’s been part of my life for so long, I can’t even write him letters home, knowing that the arrival of a letter from abroad will arouse suspicion. Yet I know he’ll be waiting for me when I return. He promised.
“No one special?” Hazel was slightly drunk. She blinked a couple of times, trying to focus her gaze.
“No one special,” I repeated. “How about you? Any beaus back in New York?”
“No. But that’s fine. I was always too busy working.”
The heat in the room was stifling and the mood of the remaining men had shifted, ever so slightly, from celebratory to predatory. The other girls had left to return to camp, leaving Hazel and me on our own.
That’s when Colonel Peterson appeared, looking like he’d had as many drinks as we had, his cheeks as red as apples.
“Ladies, I received your report.”
We both froze, unable to speak.
“It was surprisingly helpful. We were able to compare it to the report from our contacts in Calabria, and it appears that the boy’s story checks out.”
We whooped and hugged each other. I asked him what happens next.
“He can’t go back to Germany, nor stay here. We’ll have him released to the British forces, and taken to England.”
Paul will be safe. That’s what counts. While I’d love to see him again and say goodbye, wish him well, at least we know he’ll be safe.
I know why Hazel got so tied up with Paul, even if they don’t share the same language: She sees her dead brother in him. We don’t speak about that, of course. For me, it’s also personal.
I was out with my grandmother, when I was fifteen. We were shopping downtown, and I was proudly wearing grown-up shoes with a heel for the first time. I tripped over my own feet, splattered down on the sidewalk. My grandmother shrieked, then rattled off a scolding about picking up my feet when I walked, that I should stop scuffling along like a mule.
But in her frustration, she’d spoken German.
Before long, we were surrounded by angry men. I began crying, and they thought it was because I was afraid of a German stranger who’d pushed me. My grandmother stepped away from me, fear-stricken at having revealed herself, her nationality. A few men spat at her, called her a Kraut.
The injustice enraged me, and my teenaged embarrassment of drawing attention to myself faded fast. “Nein. Sie ist meine Großmutter.”
The crowd grew silent. I repeated the words, in English. “She’s my grandmother.”
Of course, that was the wrong thing to say, as it only incensed them further. Then a woman stepped into the crowd, a woman with a deep voice like thunder and the stature of Cleopatra, and mouths dropped. That was how I met Lavinia Smarts. I’d fallen on my face right in front of the theater where the actress was playing Lady Macbeth, and she took our hands and led us inside, to safety. Just as I’d saved Paul. I’m still not sure how I had the nerve to get into the driver’s seat of the Jeep and slice through the crowd, but it was like an invisible line connected me to those boys. I remembered Lavinia’s determined expression as she plucked me and my grandmother from danger, bringing justice to the world, and I couldn’t let her down.