I wasn’t supposed to be riding my brother’s motorcycle the day I graduated from high school. If he found out I’d taken it, he’d give me a stern lecture about how it was wrong to borrow someone’s prized possession without asking and how it was irresponsible to waste gasoline during a war. But since he’d gone off to Europe and disappeared, I didn’t think there was much of a chance that he’d notice.
I pushed the 1937 BSA M20 to 65 miles per hour. The rushing air cooled my skin but still wasn’t softening the trio of frustrations that had sent me outside with a yearning for speed and solitude. I was angry that Bastien had stopped writing, angry that I couldn’t go to Belle’s graduation party because her father had threatened to shoot me with a shotgun, and angry that President Roosevelt had ended voluntary recruitment and instituted a universal draft. For years, I’d planned to volunteer with the air corps the day after graduation; now I had to wait until the draft board called me up, and they’d probably send me to whichever branch of service was most in need of fresh bodies. I loved flying along the road on a motorcycle, but flying in the air sounded so much better. With my luck, I’d end up on a graves registration crew. Or maybe worse, get sent to the Pacific. I was plenty mad at the Japanese, but I’d been wanting to get back at the Nazis since I was nine and the Gestapo took my dad away.
Thick green trees lined the twisting Virginia road, creating the illusion that I was all alone, which suited my current mood. A few hours ago, I’d thought it lame to come home after commencement to a party of two: my mom and me. Next door, all of Belle’s extended family and most of our friends gathered to celebrate. It was quite the contrast, but unlike Belle, I wasn’t Fairfax High School’s class of 1944 valedictorian, and most of my family was gone, one way or another.
I took a turn too sharply and felt the bike wobble, but I kept my balance. Even if I hadn’t caught myself, I wore a helmet, thanks to Bastien. My brother was big on things like wearing helmets and not playing with matches. He was overprotective, but I listened to him most of the time. When he was around to talk.
He had shipped overseas a year and a half ago. He’d told my mom and sisters all sorts of kind things in parting. Then he’d looked at me and said, “Lukas, don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.” He’d still had a German accent, so it had sounded more like vile than while, but it was his tone that still stuck in my head. It was as if he thought that since I procrastinated my homework and always lost my watch, I must be too immature to be the man of the house. I swear he still thought of me as the ten-year-old boy he’d brought to America eight years before. My sisters had started treating me like an equal when I’d surpassed them in height, and even Mom seemed to recognize that I’d grown more responsible. But with Bastien, it was like nothing ever changed.
I took the next turn slower than the last. Same with the one after as the road curved through the trees. As I came around the corner, I heard another engine. I moved to the right edge of the lane in case the other driver was sloppy during turns, but I didn’t think much of it. Not until the truck came into view, driving straight at me on the wrong side of the road.
I jerked the handlebars, forcing the motorcycle to the road’s shoulder and barely missing the big Deuce and a Half army truck barreling along inmy lane. A second later, I was off the pavement, driving over weeds and loose gravel.
I pumped the brake with my right hand so I wouldn’t skid and told myself not to panic despite the pack of trees looming ahead of me. I dodged a tree to the left, then two to the right as I fought to slow down. Then I hit a root. The motorcycle toppled to the side and slid out from under me. It bashed into one tree, and I banged into another. The air rushed out of my lungs in one big whoosh, and I had to gulp a few times before I had enough air to exhale again. My head hurt. My shoulder hurt. My right hip and leg hurt. But I didn’t experience horror until I saw the Beeza broken into pieces and wrapped around a tree.
Footsteps sounded behind me, and I turned toward the noise. I instantly regretted it. Moving hurt.
“Are you all right, lad?”
I squinted to get a better look at the man leaning over me. A glance back at the truck proved he was the driver. His voice and uniform said he was British. The three four-pointed stars on his shoulder straps told me he was a captain. Now, don’t get me wrong. I was glad the British were fighting the Nazis, and I was sure the man had a very good reason for being in America, but what idiot handed him a set of car keys in Virginia? I managed a grunt and tried to sit. The captain helped me, which was painful since my back was bruised.
The hammering in my head grew worse. “You know, you’re supposed to drive on the right side of the road around here.”
He cleared his throat. “Yes, I suppose I forgot where I was. Sorry about that. Can I offer you a ride somewhere?”
“No offense, but I’ve seen how you drive, sir. Not sure I want to get in a truck with you.” It was rude, and I shouldn’t have said it because it would be a long walk home. Probably take me until dawn, and in the meantime, my mom would be all sorts of worried.
To my relief, he laughed. “I would offer you the keys, but seeing as how you knocked your head quite soundly, I think you best accept my offer.”When I didn’t answer right away, he continued. “Be a good chap and agree to a ride. I can’t in good conscience leave you bleeding on the roadside with a ruined motorbike and no way to get home.”
I tugged off my helmet and felt along my forehead. My hand came away sticky and red. I stared at the pieces of the motorcycle again. I’d ruined it. If Bastien was still alive, he was going to kill me.
I didn’t have much of a choice, so I accepted the ride. The captain checked my injuries and asked if I wanted to go to the hospital. The cut in my head stopped bleeding after a few minutes, and I hadn’t been knocked unconscious, so I told him no. I was already late with June’s rent; the last thing I needed was a hospital bill.
The captain opened the tailgate and found a piece of wood to use as a ramp. Between the two of us, we pushed the remnants of the Beeza into the back of the truck beside some unmarked wooden crates. The rest of the pieces were small enough to lift individually. I wasn’t sure why we bothered. The thing was destroyed. I slunk into the passenger seat as the captain started the engine.
“I’m Captain Cunningham, by the way.” He kept his eyes on the road as he drove and kept the truck in the right lane.
“I’m Luke. Lukas Ley.”
Other than telling him where to turn, we drove in silence for a while. Something inside my head thumped, and I was afraid I was going to lose the apple pie my mom had made to celebrate graduation. It was my favorite dessert, but I was pretty sure it wouldn’t taste as good on the way up as ithad on the way down.
“So, why are you in Virginia?” I asked.
“I am working in an advisory role.”
“Advising on what, exactly?”
His lips tightened, then lifted into a smile. “There are a few things we have a bit more experience with. Driving in the right lane probably can’t be counted among them.”
“You got that right.” I watched the trees go by for a while, then looked back at the road. I wanted to make sure he was on the correct half of it. “I’m sorry,” I finally said. “I haven’t been very polite. Thank you for stopping, and thank you for the ride. It would’ve taken me a long time to walk home.”
“A ride is the least I could offer. I am rather embarrassed that I fouled up like that.”
“I guess that’s what you’re used to in England.” I could relate. When we’d first moved to the US, I’d taken all sorts of cultural missteps. It had taken me three years to get good at pronouncing a W.
“Yes. I spent time in Shanghai too. We drove on the left there as well.”
“Did you like Shanghai?”
He nodded. “Most of the time.”
“Do you like Virginia?”
“It has its pleasant moments. The traffic rules are a bit backward.”
I laughed. The sun disappeared behind the trees, and I realized I’d been squinting. “Turn left at the next cross street.” As he turned, I remembered he hadn’t told me about his job. “So you don’t by chance advise the army air force or anything, do you?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
“I want to be a fighter pilot.”
“Ah.” He glanced at me, then back at the road. “You and every other seventeen-year-old boy in America.”
“I’m eighteen,” I said. “And not everyone wants to be a pilot. Ray and Frank want to join the marine corps because they figure it’s a sure ticket to combat. Bob and Wally want to join the navy. And Arthur wants to drive tanks.” I realized he had no idea who I was talking about, so I shut my mouth. But then I opened it again because the motorcycle ride hadn’t been long enough to banish my frustration, and the wreck had added to it. “Not that it matters. They’ll put us where they need us.”
“Maybe you’ll be lucky enough to get what you want.”
By then, we’d made it to my house, a three-bedroom brick rambler on the outskirts of Fairfax. It had a big porch out front and a blue-star bannerhanging in one window. The house had been the perfect size when we’d moved in five years ago, but since then, both my sisters and Bastien hadmoved away, and I planned to follow them soon. It was bigger than what my mom and I needed, and so was the rent.
“I’ll put the motorcycle parts in there, I guess.” I pointed to the detached garage. “But if you have to be somewhere, we can put them on the grass for now.”
“I can spare a few minutes.”
We’d just set up the ramp again when my mom burst through the front door. Her mostly-gray hair was pulled back in a bun, and she wore a blue apron. She zeroed in on my cut forehead and gasped. Instantly I wished it were dark.
“Are you all right, Lukas?” she asked in German.
Cunningham’s eyebrows lifted slightly. He probably thought we were Nazi spies.
I answered in English. “I’m fine, Mom.”
“What happened?” By then, she was right beside me, trying to get a better look. She didn’t seem to notice that I’d mangled Bastien’s bike or thatshe was blocking the way to the garage.
“Um, had a little crash. So I’ll just put this in the garage, and I can tell you all about it later.”
She stepped out of the way, but I could tell she was eager to give me a thorough interrogation. She stood there watching, her hands on her hipsand her mouth drawn tight as the captain and I unloaded the broken bits of the Beeza and stacked them in the garage.
“Your mother is German?” the captain asked.
I nodded.
“And you? Obviously you understand the language. Do you speak it?”
“Yeah, I lived there till I was ten.” I picked up the last piece of the Beeza, part of the exhaust pipe, and carried it to the garage. When I turned around, he was still watching me. “I know what you’re thinking, that we’re a couple of German agents. But that’s not how it is. My brother’s in the army. One of my sisters is married to a marine, and the other just married a guy in the navy. We came to the US after the Nazis killed my dad. Trust me, no one hates Hitler more than we do.”
Captain Cunningham tilted his head to the side. “What is your brother’s name?”
“Bastien Ley. He’s a captain now.”
“I think I remember him. Talented chap. I daresay you look a great deal like him.”
“You know Bastien?”
Cunningham nodded. “We did some training together. Back in ’42, I believe it was. How is he?”
I swallowed before answering. “It’s been awhile since we’ve heard from him.”
A tightness crossed Cunningham’s face, and he glanced at my mom, then back at me. “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you have good news of him soon.” He grabbed his wallet and removed a few crisp American bills. “Here, for the repairs.”
I hesitated. I didn’t have the funds to fix the motorcycle myself, but I didn’t want to take advantage of Cunningham’s good nature.
He stretched his arm out. “The wreck was my fault. And since I am transporting those crates for official purposes, I can claim it as a work expense.”
I accepted the money. “Thanks.”
He climbed into his truck.
“Thank you for bringing my son home,” my mom said in English. She knew a lot of English, even if it didn’t always sound English.
He nodded politely. “Yes, ma’am.”
After the captain drove away, I stared at the motorcycle. It was my brother’s favorite thing in the whole world, and I’d smashed it into twenty-seven pieces.
“Lukas, what happened?” My mom switched back to German.
I glanced from the BSA to my mom. She studied my forehead. I brushed my hand along my hairline. It was sore, but it wasn’t bleeding anymore. “I told you, Mom. I had a little crash.”
“Little?”
I sighed. “No, I guess not. Look at it. It’s ruined.” I turned and walked into the house.
Mom followed me. I sank into the second-hand sofa, leaned over, and rested my head in my hands. My headache was getting worse.
“You are more important than the motorcycle.” She sat beside me and pushed my hair back so she could see my cut. “Where else are you hurt?”
“It’s not bad. Just bruises and scratches. I think I’ve had worse beatings playing football.”
“You were lucky, then. Or blessed.”
I scoffed. “I just destroyed Bastien’s motorcycle. You call that lucky? Or blessed?”
My mom rubbed my back. I bit my lip to keep from wincing as her hand went over a sore spot. “Motorcycles can be replaced or repaired.”
“Not that one.”
“Even that one. It was old when he bought it, remember?”
I remembered all right. And I remembered all the hours my brother had spent restoring it. That made it even worse. “I think he’s going to kill me.”
“Nonsense.”
She had a point—he wasn’t really going to kill me. He already had some weird guilt about when my other brother had accidentally started a fire and they’d both gotten caught in it when they were young. Bastien had lived. Hans hadn’t.
“Right. He’ll just hate me forever.” He’d probably never speak to me again, but I was starting to get used to that. For the last eight months, his letters had been so rare that he might as well have been not talking to me.
“That’s not true either. Has he ever lost his temper with you?”
“I haven’t ever wrecked his motorcycle before.” I rubbed my eyes like I usually did when I was tired, but then I stopped because it hurt. “I shouldn’t have taken it out.”
“No, you shouldn’t have. But you can’t change what happened.” She patted my knee. “Why don’t you have another piece of pie? Everything seems a little better after dessert, yes?”
I ate the pie with a tall glass of milk. But I didn’t feel much better.