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After the horrific Christmas bombing of Manchester and other northern industrial cities, January weather came in like a lamb. The second week brought cold, sleet, and snow. Last night freezing fog and wind gusts of 60 knots assaulted the island.
On the 21st, Rupert flipped up his collar as he trudged home. What exactly did freezing fog mean? If the stuff touched you, did you develop a slippery sheen?
In spite of the weather, the glow of Christmastide stayed with him longer than normal. His family had done right by those American soldiers, nor could he fault the soldiers. Not at all, especially considering their beleaguered colleagues holed up in the Bulge. No Brit could deny their fortitude in standing up to Adolph’s blighted hoards.
How could so many Germans have amassed with such fierce resistance? If only the world could go back to Versailles—yes, he believed, along with Towsley, that a bit of kindness back then might have changed the state of nations today.
Ah, but one only saw such things in hindsight. At least, the Americans finally took Bastogne, and were making great strides toward final victory. One sign in particular heartened the people of Bethnal Green—on January 15th, for the first time in five years, commercial shipping resumed in the Channel.
But back to the Americans. What a surprise when one of them knocked on the door the evening before the holiday, bearing two large feathery chickens. Madeleine actually shrieked and the children came running.
Rupert rose from his chair in time to see the young fellow blush. “My mother’s family still lives north of London. I went to see them today and told them about your invitation. My uncle insisted on sending these for our dinner—he chopped off their heads only two hours ago.”
Madeleine’s thanks was lost as Rupert shook the soldier’s hand and ascertained details about his uncle. When the young fellow left, wonder laced Madeleine’s voice.
“How long has it been since I cooked a chicken? How shall we—” The fowl, now at rest on the table, tantalized Rupert even in their undressed condition, while Cecil stood awestruck. For once, Iris took the lead and began to stroke the soft breasts.
“I do hope I can do them justice. I put in an order at the butcher’s, but had no idea what would come forth.”
“Righto. Do them justice? So you shall, my dear. Now then, Cecil, let us tackle the plucking out in the garden—we’ve only a short time before the service at church.”
The best of it was witnessing Cecil’s boundless delight. Later, his gleeful chortles replayed in Rupert’s head as he lay in bed. Madeleine’s sighs matched his own—what generous provision!
The next morning when Cecil spied the chickens in Madeleine’s roaster, stuffed and prepared for baking, he simply could not contain his delight.
“How long will they take to bake, Mum?” His questions continued until Rupert took him outdoors to hunt down wayward feathers before their guests arrived.
Later, one of the GIs presented Cecil a jackknife, not to mention a box of fudge sent from his family in faraway Oklahoma. The friendly American pulled out a notebook and drew a map of the United States. He explained where his state lay on the map, west of the Mississippi and north of the Gulf of Mexico.
Of course, Cecil’s interest lay with the fudge. “Could I eat some right now, Mum?”
Madeleine indulged him, and soon he and Iris had sticky brown goo running down their chins. Apart from one of the Americans entrenched with Anna in a corner, involved in a deep discussion, the day left nothing to be desired. And Junior had seen to the situation with Anna by joining in on their conversation.
Hopefully by next Christmas, all the foreigners would be back in their homes. That would still be preferable, gifts and luscious chickens notwithstanding.
But when one of their guests pulled out a mouth organ and launched into “Hark the Herald Angels Sing,” and “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen,” how could he restrain himself from joining in with Madeleine and the others? One of the GIs boasted such a lovely tenor—how could Rupert not admit that some of these fellows’ parents had reared them honorably, after all.
As of today, the BBC broke the spell that had lingered from that lovely day. The foreign service reported so much negativity on several fronts that Rupert left the break room. Better the drudgery of reports than being peppered by that string of disheartening events.
Who wanted to hear about Operation Nordwind in northern Alsace, on the west bank of the upper Rhine? During the Great War, Rupert had had Alsace and Lorraine up to his hairline. Everyone knew how badly France, having lost this area to Germany in the Franco-Prussian War forty-some years earlier, coveted the territory.
Their obsession formed a study in revenge as the French spent more than a year back and forth along the border to win their objective. The Germans would win, the French would soon defeat them in another battle. Then the Germans would recover what they’d lost, somewhat like a game of badminton. Except thousands perished in these attempts.
All of those deaths over a few yards of real estate. Although those in the know declared the present push against the Allies to be Adolph’s final major air offensive in the West, how could they know whether or not his Jagdgeschwadern, or fighter wings, might resurrect? In fact, that had occurred in the Colmar Pocket, where in the fall, the tide had seemed to turn in the Allies’ favor.
But in an effort to retake Strasbourg from the American forces, the Germans broke out in the north and headed east to the motherland. Besides that, the SS had killed many American prisoners in cold blood at Malmedy.
That December atrocity, like a bad egg’s stench, spawned more viciousness. Now, the Americans had killed dozens of German prisoners at Chenogne, and such retaliations would surely continue.
On the plus side, the American Air Force was bombing Formosa and India—but the Japanese had introduced kamikaze pilots to wipe out American ships. Such devotion. These men went to their missions welcoming death.
Such a gloomy prospect, the war dragging on through 1945. This dreary outlook hung like a pall over London. Why hadn’t the Americans, with military leaders like Patton, closed the pincers with their tanks east of the Bulge when the opportunity arose? It was almost as if someone wanted the war to continue.
Since before Christmas, Vicar Towsley had been occupied with matters concerning his mother. But the last time they spoke, he assured Rupert that someone was not the Almighty.
“Then why—” Rupert might have completed that inquiry in so many ways. Why didn’t one of the attempts on Hitler’s life work? Was that too much to ask? How many times had people tried to blast that maniac off the planet, only to lose their own lives as a result? And why had such a load of sorrow fallen on the Williams family and so many others?
The house, his refuge in more ways than one, provided a steamy welcome. Madeleine had heated the copper for Saturday night baths, and Cecil’s complaints rose as she scrubbed his head. Merciless about preventing scabies and lice and all other manner of infestations, she paid his screeching no mind.
This meant that dear Iris had already received her scrub without argument. Her constitution resembled her mother’s—take what comes in stride. Do your best and move on to the next challenge.
Quietly backing out into the garden, Rupert detested the rise of cowardice in his heart. Is this what a man does—returns to the cold to avoid chastising his son?
His sigh carried the weight of the world. Such a long day it had been. On top of all the rest, Melvin Williams, home for a night, had stopped by the station. Someone pointed him to where Rupert sat filling in government records.
Answering the knock, he looked up into a countenance shadowed by grief and marred by war. It was all he could do to keep faces like this from the Great War at bay, and seeing one in the flesh agitated something in the pit of his stomach.
“Beggin’ y’r pardon, off’cer, but—”
“Do come in, Melvin.”
But Williams stayed in the hallway. “That day with the Vicar.What came over me, I canno’ say—”
“Well—”
“I have come to say m’ apologies, off’cer. You’d ev’ry right to cuff me on the spot. Yet you—” He took a deep breath. “Beggin’ y’r pardon, but I must say thank you.”
Dark pools of misery hovered under Melvin’s heavy brows, and Rupert thought how he favored his father to a T. Now he waited, poised in the threshold as if expecting something.
“I appreciate you coming. Perhaps in the future you will find a way to—at some point, you may be able to clear yourself in your own mind.”
Had that made any sense at all? Melvin seemed satisfied enough and jerked away, cap in hand. Rupert crossed the room just as Melvin touched something in his breast pocket—something white. Oh my—
As surely as he knew his own name, Rupert recognized that swatch of white—Marian Williams’ hankie. The one she’d been carrying when she descended the tube station stairs, the one that flew from her hand in the crush. The very one he had found in the corner, dried and shrunken into a bloodstained ball.
That bit of cloth walloped him in the chest and he failed to send Williams off with a better word. But in retrospect, his critical thoughts about the man dissipated during that encounter, though he’d expressed none of his sentiments and made no attempt to follow Melvin through the station’s front door. Relief flooded Rupert and also rendered him speechless.
Quite a day, indeed. And now, the drenched garden glistened like a head of slicked-back hair. Freezing fog, the weatherman called this ghastly downfall. That phrase might describe what had occurred inside his head during Melvin’s attack—a freezing fog locked him in shock, unsatisfactory behavior for a namesake of Sir Ernest Shackleton.
But truth was truth—this circumstance had revealed his own weakness. At the same time, it brought forth his strength. Yes, strength. For this afternoon, no trace of hatred toward Melvin had marred his spirit. If Towsley were here, the word would be VICTORY. And in these dark days, nothing warmed the heart like a victory, however small.
From the lack of sound inside the house, Cecil’s battle with Madeleine had subsided. Rupert turned the doorknob and pretended to walk in for the first time this evening. Iris ran to him, and he put his heart into bringing cheer to his household.
###
NOT SINCE THE DAY TOWSLEY faced the congregants with his wretched jaw had Rupert been so moved by a sermon. Not that the vicar’s style had improved—in fact, his haggardness led to some errors in reading.
But the message—oh, how this one sliced into the soul. Strangely enough, the deepest crevasse opened on the walk home with Madeleine
Watching the children slide along on the glazed pavement, she set the lesson before Rupert. “That man with the crippled hand—the Pharisees were doing something to him, weren’t they?”
“Doing?”
“I mean, by not allowing him to be healed on the Sabbath, they were leaving him helpless. That was, in effect, doing something.”
“I suppose so, if you look at it that way.”
“So many people need help. I wonder how I can possibly do enough, and whether things will ever be normal again.”
“As do I.” This was all he could say at the moment, for her words brought that trembling soldier to mind, the one whose face was slowly being reconstructed. Did his absence today mean he was back in hospital? He could do more to help that fellow.
Cecil had run on ahead, sliding as far as he could at a time, and called, “Hurry, Iris—it’s even slicker up here.”
Something about the moment summoned Rupert. He handed Madeleine the umbrella and tore off like a madman, hollering as he gained steam and cracked down the pavement like a lad once more. He swooped Iris up and she giggled so profusely, he giggled, too.
Nearing Cecil, he crashed headlong, and they all fell in a heap of arms and legs. When Madeleine drew close, he pulled her down, too, for the simple fun of it. That afternoon they played games, and later, Junior and Kathryn joined in.
By then, Anna had returned from her friend’s house, and she made over Henry and the baby. Christmas seemed to have tiptoed back, though it would be impossible to reinvent the intimacy this family experienced just after the GIs left.
The air raid siren blew, so in the Anderson shelter, they bequeathed each other a few handmade gifts. When the “All safe” siren sounded, Junior voiced the perfect sentiment.
“All together again—the way it should be.”
And so it was once again on this January day. After Rupert returned early from volunteering, Madeleine’s yawns grew vigorous. Then Vicar Towsley happened by, with apologies for the late hour.
“Tomorrow after school, would you have Cecil bring a couple of his chums by? I promised to help one of our elder parishioners who lives partway to Poplar.”
“Certainly, but see that he comes home by half past five.”
“Ah, yes. I shall bring him myself.”
Bless Towsley—so good to have him back. And tomorrow, Rupert could rest easy, knowing Cecil and his chums had not ventured into one of the derelict buildings so prevalent in the Green.
Quite the dreary Monday at the station, what with ongoing bad weather—but hot tea waited in the break room, and relative safety, unlike so many enjoyed this afternoon. Looking back through the reports and newspapers piled on his desk, one stuck out to Rupert.
The Daily Mail’s reporter Eric Lindel, who had witnessed the tube station tragedy had turned in his story, he stated, but the article that ran the next day described a large German bomb striking the tube station. Staring at the out-of-date record brought Melvin Williams to mind. Had he read this?
The tale fit well with the visiting bomb scientist’s explanation, since the Nazis had labeled Bethnal Green Target Area A. But every word of the article rang with falsehood.
He’d half a notion to discuss the matter with the Chief, but what good would that do? Nearly a year had passed, and nothing could change what had occurred. The rest of the pile before Rupert contained no truth about the disaster’s cause, either.
The scene through the window brought no relief from his dark thoughts. But just then, as he began looking forward to going home, the floor vibrated. Then came a rumble.
Again, louder.
Scrambling up, he saw that people had halted in the center of the street and stared southward. Another rumble, and smoke ascended—not that far away. Rupert collided with the Chief in the hallway.
“Come, we shall take the car.”
Down St. Peters Street, Rupert’s throat stopped up in flumes of smoke. Worse, he noted their direction—toward where Towsley had taken the boys. When the car failed them due to debris in the street, Rupert leaped out and raced ahead toward the rise of grey-blue smoke and flame.
That widow—if he were not mistaken, she lived down the next street. Hacking at the dreadful filth in the air and stumbling over massive dirt clods, he lunged on.
Great metal shards splattered like weeds over a gigantic crater. Rupert rummaged among the glass and splintered wood, bricks and cement and— He held his breath at an impossible sight. A human arm, still in its sleeve. A workman’s hand, thick with muscle and hairy.
If Towsley and the boys had started back home, where could they have gotten by now? How would he ever find them?
In a sudden gust, a portion of spire appeared—St. Matthews. No, more like— In another insistent shower of ashes and dust, he lost his bearings.
And then another gust. He rubbed his gritty eyes, covered a few more yards, and viewed what he had hoped not to.
Sprawled gracelessly over the street, Vicar Towsley’s unmistakable form brought a terrified gasp. In a stupor, Rupert stared. What was that underneath the vicar’s long coat? Something brown and of leather.
Shoes. Unmistakably. Boys’ shoes.
Cecil had only one pair, quite scuffed.
From the frayed hemline of a pant leg spewed a length of homemade undergarment. Had Cecil not fought Madeleine of late at having to wear just such a piece?
Near Towsley’s hand fell a black forelock, cloyed with blood. Below it, fair skin showed. The skin of a youth, with a protrusion—even as Rupert recognized little Peter Abrams’ nose, his mind denied the possibility.
Peter, the spritely Jewish boy who often played with Cecil, lying silent and still in the midst of this wreckage? No!
Now the Chief arrived and leaned down. He attempted to ease Towsley over—what a heavy-boned fellow. Then the situation clarified. Some terrific weight had caught him at the knee and pinned him down.
The Chief took a haggard breath, gave up the effort and touched the vicar’s throat. “No pulse.” He half-turned.
Then his breath seized, and he cried, “Oh, dear God, Laudner.”
Superhuman strength surged through Rupert, and he heaved against a fallen rafter, allowing the Chief to turn over Towsley’s body. And there, underneath, lay three youths, their clothing still colorful due to the Vicar’s body protecting them from the constant grey downfall.
No movement, not even a tremble in any of them. One could scarcely take in their serene posture, all together but placid.
Cecil’s ruddy cheeks had turned ashen. In the roiling dust, Rupert knelt beside the lad, raised his head into his lap. Scarred by the blast, his cheek felt warm. Hope flitted as the Chief checked for pulses. His face showed no emotion as he bent to seek the breath of life, though the boys’ caved-in torsos declared the truth.
Then the Chief eased back. He removed his hat and turned completely. In that moment, the reality etched on his face shattered Rupert’s soul.
Shouting ensued as volunteers invaded, hoping to pull survivors from death’s grip. Sloughing through debris, stretcher-bearers skittered behind crew chiefs. Rupert felt he should do something, yet could not move.
The Chief now stood staring at Towsley and the boys. Finally, he covered the vicar’s face with his handkerchief and bowed his head.
Time stood still as he came ‘round and placed his hand on Rupert’s back. That touch, through several layers of clothing, loosed an inner torrent, and a great wail ascended.
“Oh, Cecil—dear God, no! No! My little boy—my boy.” Clinging to Cecil, Rupert crumbled, and then he felt himself gathered in.
The Chief crushed him against his chest and sobbed with him.
