Chapter 1

 

 

Fourteen-year-old Rachel McTavish and her little brother, Ben, were home alone in a drafty old house in the village of King’s Park on Long Island, New York. It was Christmas Eve, 1942, a Tuesday that year, and they were waiting for their father, Donald, to come home from New York City where he needed to attend a training meeting as he was being schooled to become the local bank manager. He hadn’t expected to go into the city for a meeting that day, he planned on doing the last minute shopping, but he received a call to attend an unforeseen meeting that was mandatory. As he was leaving that morning to drive to the commuter train station he promised the kids he would be home as soon as possible. He also whispered to Rachel that he would be bringing with him the Christmas presents.

It was 5:30 P.M. later on that day and snow had begun falling from the gathering of black clouds that made it darker than usual for that time of day. The area where they lived was still largely rural and the falling snow flakes were highlighted by the lone street light just down the lane from their house. A stiff wind drove some of the snowflakes sideways, but they were plenty others beginning to add a fresh white blanket on top of the existing dingy snow. It was also starting to stick to the boughs of the dark forest of trees across the graveled country road.

Rachel’s brow was wrinkled as she contemplated some of the problems that could arise from the storm in their dads efforts to get back home on time as she opened a can of soup and made some toast to go with it for dinner. Then, after she had cleared the table and done the dishes, she turned on the radio to pass the time. It was a late model, polished wood Philco set and the only new piece of furniture in the house. She and Ben listened to a report on Santa’s progress from the North Pole. She knew it wasn’t a real report but watched Ben’s eyes widened as he pictured the flight of the sleigh and reindeer. Being in the middle of a snow storm only added to the believability of Santa and his Reindeer. Ben was seven years old and on the verge of not believing in Santa Claus, but this close to the great day he surrendered again to the childhood fantasy. They also listened to another of Gabriel Heatter’s pessimistic reports about the progress of the war “The United States forces and the Allies are not doing well, either in the Pacific or European theaters,” came rasping out of the radio from the static of a weak signal, because of the storm. Rachel was old enough to be frightened by the war. She could easily imagine German soldiers with their rifles and wearing those long woolen coats and scary helmets, marching down the dark road outside their house. This made her want to check outside through the windows just to calm her imagination, so she cautiously, but deftly stepped over to the window trying to not draw attention to her efforts to quell her inner fear. The scene before her was the blowing snow in the wind which created a little anxiety, but it was void of any dark foreboding soldiers. She felt a veil of relief cover her.

She walked over to get her favorite blanket and she wrapped tightly around herself and sat on the window seat, staring out the frosted living room window pane at the blustery storm that was continuing to gain in strength while it unleashed its wintry fury. It was 10 P.M. now and she had already turned off all of the lights to conserve energy. Her blond hair was highlighted by the single candle she had placed in the front window in hopes of making a signal for her dad to see amidst the dark fierceness of the storm. The reflection of her face in the frosted window revealed a pensive and worried expression. It was way past the time when her dad was scheduled to arrive from the city and because of the storm, she wondered if he would make it at all. If he didn’t, how would her younger brother Ben react to not finding anything under the tree? Ben had succumbed to the fatigue of Christmas anticipation and was asleep on the couch under a quilt. She would need to get him up and into his own bed but for now she was content to have him nearby. She drew the thick quilt more tightly around her shoulders and neck and tried to ignore the growing panic that made her feel like crying.

Enjoying this time of year and being happy were challenging enough for Rachel in the aftermath of her mother’s death, Amelia, the previous Christmas. She missed her mother more than she could have ever imagined. Unlike Rachel, her mother never allowed an anxious moment to cause any outward show of fear. She had a calm, cheerful confidence that was contagious. If she were here, she would take Rachel in her arms, rock her gently, soothing away any anxiety, and assure Rachel that all would be well in the end. That was her mother’s way.