29
Leiston Army Airfield
Saturday, April 22, 1944
Jimmy Haywood huffed and pushed his paper away on the table in the Aeroclub lounge. “It’s too hard, Miss Lindstrom. I’m not good at maths.”
Violet smiled at the English wording and slid the paper back in front of the ten-year-old. “Nonsense. If you can add, subtract, and multiply—and I know you can—you can do long division.”
His blond head sagged back. “There are too many steps.”
Sylvia Haywood was exasperated at her son’s low marks in math and had asked Violet to help. How could she reach the boy?
The lounge bubbled with happy conversation as airmen and children painted rocks—the paint sent from Kansas and the rocks to avoid using scarce paper. With the P-51s away on a mission, the ground crewmen could help with Saturday afternoon crafts while they “sweated out” the mission.
It helped Violet sweat out Adler’s absence too. When he returned, they’d take their usual walk before dinner—the appetizer, Adler called it.
She turned her attention from his very appetizing kisses to the fidgeting ten-year-old. His short pants exposed knees scuffed from many baseball games.
Too many steps? “Jimmy, you’re getting very good at baseball.”
His face brightened. “I fancy it even better than cricket.”
Probably because the flyboys didn’t frequent the cricket fields—or whatever they were called. “How did you get so good at batting? Tell me what you do.”
“It’s easy.” He gripped his pencil like a bat. “You set up your stance—your feet, your knees, your shoulders, your bat. Then you keep your eyes on the ball, wait for the right moment, swing, and follow through.” Jimmy demonstrated.
Violet stifled a smile at how his actions and words mimicked the Yanks. With a serious face, she shook her head. “That’s an awful lot of steps.”
Hazel eyes narrowed—he knew he’d been tricked.
Violet laughed. “Long division only has four steps, and they flow in a circle. If you can learn to bat, you can learn to divide.”
She talked him through the steps again, showing him the flow. Then she wrote out four problems, each with one digit going in to five.
He moaned. “That’s too long.”
“No, it isn’t. The same four steps, over and over, round and round. You can do it. Hit those numbers right out of the park.”
That made him grin.
She patted the paper. “You work on those while I start cleaning up.”
It was two o’clock. Time for Griff to drive the children home and for the ground crewmen to go to their hardstands and wait for the returning planes.
Violet assigned the older children to wash the paintbrushes in the kitchen, while the airmen helped the younger children screw lids on paint jars and the ladies wiped little fingers with a damp rag.
Herb Steinberg set the colorful rocks in a cardboard box to send back to the village. “Say, Miss Lindstrom, you’re good with kids. You ought to be a teacher.”
She laughed and helped little Margie Haywood out of a smock made from one of Violet’s dad’s old shirts. “I am. Well, I was.”
Those two years teaching third grade had been delightful. She’d loved the children and had enjoyed helping them understand new concepts.
Great-Aunt Violet had warned her not to enjoy it too much.
Her neck muscles twitched. Why had she allowed discontentment to tarnish her joy?
Violet peeked at Jimmy’s work. He’d finished three of the problems, and they were correct. She squeezed his shoulders. “You did it, Jimmy. Very good. I knew you could.”
He smiled up at her with even more pride than when he hit a line drive.
Tom Griffith entered the room with a tall, skinny private. “Hiya, kids! Who wants a ride in my truck?”
The children bounded to their feet, grinning and shedding smocks.
Violet scanned the room. “Excellent job cleaning up. Put your smocks in the box and then you may go home. Thank you for coming.”
Griff flicked his chin in Herb’s direction. “Say, Herb, could you take them out to the truck? I’ll be right there.”
“Sure.” He carried the box of rocks over his head. “Come on, kids. Follow the leader.”
“Miss Lindstrom?” Griff motioned the tall private closer. “This is Paul Harrison. He’s new in the motor pool.”
“Hi, Private Harrison. It’s nice to meet you.” She shook his hand. The young man had soft brown eyes in his long face.
“Paul was raised in China. His parents are missionaries. Miss Lindstrom here wants to be a missionary too.”
Violet grinned, questions welling up inside her. This had to be a sign that the Lord would sway Adler toward missions. The timing couldn’t be coincidental. “I’d love to hear your stories.”
“I have the afternoon off.” Paul nodded toward the emptying room. “Tell me what to do, and I’ll tell stories.”
“I’d love that. Why don’t you fold the tarp while I clean up paint splatters?” She picked up a damp rag and bent over to look for paint that had defied the tarp. “First, tell me how you ended up in England.”
Paul picked up one end of the tarp and walked it over. “When the Japanese invaded China, our mission board ordered us back to the States. My parents didn’t want to go, but my youngest sister was only a baby and they were concerned for her.”
“I can understand that.” Violet dabbed at a yellow smear on the cement floor. Thank goodness for poster paint. The powdered paint traveled well from Kansas, mixed up with water—and wiped up with water too.
“I was drafted right after my eighteenth birthday, and here I am, fixing truck engines.” Paul folded the other side of the tarp over.
“Will you return to China?”
He chuckled. “My parents will be on the first ship after the war, but I’m going to college to become an engineer. Working on engines—I like it. I want to design even better ones.”
Violet frowned at a stubborn red splat. “What do your parents think about that?”
“They’re happy for me, but they say they’ll miss me.” He shrugged as if he didn’t quite believe the part about being missed.
She smiled at his back. “I’m sure they will, but I’m surprised they don’t want you to follow in their footsteps.”
“They said I’ll be a missionary in the auto industry.”
What an interesting way to think of it.
He folded the tarp into a square. “Where do you want to go, Miss Lindstrom?”
“It doesn’t matter.” A spot of green caught her eye, and she scrubbed at it. “My great-uncle and aunt serve in Kenya, but I’ll go wherever I’m sent.”
Paul flattened the tarp bundle. “You don’t care where you go?”
“Wherever I’m needed.”
“That’s odd.”
“Odd?”
He picked up a rag and knelt on the floor, squinting out the window. “My parents have always loved China and the Chinese people. Now that they’re stuck in the States, they moved to San Francisco to work in the Chinese community. I’ve met a lot of missionaries over the years. They’re all drawn to the country, the culture, the people.”
A twinge in her gut. She’d met a lot of missionaries in her college mission society. Each had a strong, specific passion like that.
Paul’s family loved China and the Chinese. Great-Aunt Violet loved Kenya and the Kenyans. And Violet? She loved the Lord. She loved . . . children.
“Do you see any more spots?” Paul asked. “I don’t.”
“Oh.” Violet brought her eyes back into focus. “I don’t either.”
“Anything else I can do?”
“No, but thank you.” She got to her feet and smiled at the young man. “I need to make sure the kitchen is ready, but please stop by the Aeroclub any time. I would love to hear your stories.”
“I’ll do that. Good-bye now.”
Violet gathered the tarp and paint bottles into a box and stacked it on the box of smocks. She didn’t like the unsettled feeling inside her.
She carried the boxes to the storage room. Why did she want to be a missionary if she didn’t have that specific passion? She thought back to the age of ten when she’d made the decision and to her subsequent decisions.
Why? Because she loved God. Because missions seemed the noblest, the most sacrificial, the most . . . difficult.
Violet made a face as she opened the storage room. Difficult? That didn’t sound quite right. That almost sounded wrong.
She set the box on a shelf and rubbed her forehead. Had God really called her to be a missionary or only to be willing to be a missionary?
With a groan, Violet shut the door. Was God swaying her heart, or were her feelings for Adler doing the swaying? What if the Lord chose her heart to change instead of his?
Maybe the Lord had something quieter for her. Less sacrificial.
Violet leaned back against the door and closed her eyes. Lord, I promised I’d allow myself to be swayed by you. By you and you alone.
She pushed away from the wall and headed for the kitchen. I’m willing.