Greystone Mansion resembled many other Manhattan townhouses built during the Gilded Age, comprising nearly fifty rooms within the five-storied structure, spanning an entire quarter of a city block. Renner had inherited the mansion, like many of his contemporaries who had done the same, but he refused to sell as they had. Even directly next door, J.P. Morgan had razed his father’s impressive mansion to build a library and exhibition room, a building now called The Annex.
The Renner Beaux Arts mansion had become his personal sanctuary located on Madison Avenue in Murray Hill. It was his escape, so to speak, and there was no way he would part with it. Although designed for his mother’s sensibilities, the ceiling murals, gold latticework, and painted panels were comforting to him whenever he traversed even a fraction of the palatial mansion. The opulent ballroom, art gallery, and concert hall were superfluous to him, but they were each standard requirements within a residence of this magnitude at his level of society.
Fine works of art had never held any sensorial appeal to him beyond an investment value and as such, testimony of the Renner affluence and greatness. It was only now with the gifts of gratitude from the Reich that art was becoming a new fascination. He understood the Führer’s desire for his museum in Linz, Austria. Germans were culturally superior and the magnificence of the Führermuseum would be an indisputable declaration to the world. Surely, the Degas and the Monet would have been fine additions, yet they had been given to him. Acquisition by the Reich was assured—superior blood deserved such works, and he concurred. The newly acquired paintings represented a significant badge of honor when the head of the Wehrmacht, Hermann Göring arranged for their delivery to Meercrest.
Artwork aside, Greystone’s basement parking garage, accessible through an automobile elevator, was his particular favorite feature of the edifice. Autos and boats were lifelong personal passions, only reduced to distant second standing by his dedication to the Third Reich, which consumed him these seven years. Nevertheless, Greystone was his home, not his wife’s. Neither she nor the children ventured to 37th Street without explicit invitation.
He sat at his desk, a massive piece dominating the space with its ornamentation and antiquity, his rigid back addressing the floor to ceiling Tiffany stained glass window behind him. Papers lay strewn, and a cigar burned slowly in the ashtray on the desktop, a ribbon of sweet tobacco swirling upward. An empty rocks glass rested beside one tightly fisted hand as the other signed his name.
Frustrated and angry, he ran his fingers through his thinning hair after laying down the fountain pen. Apologies weren’t something he was used to giving, but the chief of the Abwehr was demanding an explanation. Failure was unacceptable, especially since the Führer’s declaration, “The greatest activity will be necessary in America.”
Renner hoped that his favor wasn’t fleeting. Ursula was expecting a piece of artwork as well, and then there was his Elizabeth, who, when she understood and had taken up her role as Mrs. George Gebhardt in the New Germany, should be gifted with a Renoir or a Rembrandt. Had she not voiced her admiration of those works following her insolent visit with the De Rothschild Jews?
The grandfather clock chimed on the hour heralding the execution of the saboteurs by electric chair in a D.C. jailhouse, and Renner sighed. Still unsure what had gone wrong with Operation Pastorious, he couldn’t dismiss the tremor of insecurity bubbling below his cool, calm, and ostensibly affable exterior. Someone talked, but who? Who else knew of the plan? How did the FBI get wind of the two landing parties? He, himself had firsthand knowledge that America’s coastline wasn’t impregnable and knew most of the men specifically selected for the mission. Former members of the German-American Bund would never have betrayed this vital Operation set to dismantle the American war machine.
He had just sealed the letter when Ursula entered the study holding the newest issue of the Nazi Party’s women’s magazine Frauen-Warte. “Frederick, will we be leaving for the Stork Club at eight?”
“After you deliver this letter to Yorkville.” His hungry eyes took in her appearance. The silky drape to her dress, adhered with an ornate broach upon her hip accentuated her full curves. She was a magnificent looking, zaftig woman with blonde curls and hazel eyes and lips that did things he had only dreamed about.
She sauntered to him, aware of how Renner undressed her with his gaze. She dropped the publication upon his messy desk then dragged her manicured hand along its edge to his outstretched arm, up to his shoulder. She moved seductively around the desk, until she came to stand behind him. Strong fingers massaged his shoulders, attempting to offer him relief through his dress shirt.
“You’re tense, Liebelein.” She leaned forward and flicked the top of his ear with the taut tip of her tongue. “I can do something about that.”
He smirked. “I know you can, but this letter is of the utmost importance. Berlin awaits answers for the failure of Operation Pastorius.”
“But our time together is so limited, my dear. I am expected back at Meercrest in the morning to care for your dear daughter.”
The sarcasm was evident in her voice. He knew, given the go ahead, she willingly, if not eagerly, would do whatever he asked of her when it came to Kitty, but even he wouldn’t go that far.
Renner wrapped his chubby fingers around the cigar and took a rapid series of puffs. “I’ll be back on the Island in a few days, and we’ll have all the time you desire. Frances will be visiting the Astors in Newport for the rest of the summer and, as for Kitty, my Elizabeth is considering taking her to my sister’s. She tells me that Kitty feels she doesn’t need a nurse any longer.”
“She’s an invalid. Of course, she needs a nurse.”
“If it keeps you in residence, well then, yes she does. Otherwise, I would shut her in an asylum far from the Renner estate, away from my circle and name. For the time being, I will keep her at Meercrest, if only to keep you beside me.”
Ursula sat upon the edge of the desk and crossed her legs baring her knees when her skirt hiked. “And what of Elizabeth’s situation?”
“I cannot be sure. The boy’s family owns one of the largest diamond houses in the city. Diamonds and Jews are almost synonymous … but this Martel family is Christian. It could be a ruse; have we not seen this throughout all of Eastern Europe? Have you heard anything discussed between my daughters?”
She shook her head, reverently stroking the spine of a book she knew well, International Jew written for the Dearborn Independent by Henry Ford, a man she, as well as Hitler, greatly admired. “What do you plan to do about the soldiers?”
“The war will be their demise before I feel the need to have Gebhardt address the situation. He is, however, compiling an in-depth dossier on the family, reaching out to some of our European friends. I am curious to learn his findings. Suffice it to say, no daughter of mine, especially Elizabeth will associate with Juden. She’s promised to Gebhardt.”
“Does she know?”
Renner pulled Ursula from the desk, landing onto his ready lap. “Of course not. I have yet to discuss with her the obligations and loyalties of propagating the Volksgemeinschaft. Perhaps, soon though, before she becomes attached to this boy.”
~~*~~
Floating heat hovered over the concrete runways and hangar line of MacDill Airfield as Will, finally tolerant to the tropical climate, walked through the hive of ground crew maintenance activity toward the Officer’s Club. B-26 bombers taxied in the distance, practicing the fine art of takeoff and landing this difficult plane. More Marauders soared above him, returning in tandem from anti-submarine patrol duty over the Gulf of Mexico.
Already tanned from an unexpected pass spent at the beach three days prior, Will walked across the base with a spring in his step.
Summer dress khakis, garrison cap, and aviator sunglasses painted the perfect image of virility to one Miss Ida Flores, a civilian switchboard operator assigned to the Signal Company. Exiting the Base Intelligence building, she watched the lieutenant’s long, lean strides and couldn’t help but stop and stare. Handsome was an understatement. Taller than most of the men of the 322nd Bombardment Group, he had a commanding presence and that cleft chin of his drove her wacky every time she found herself in his company.
He passed her by, reading a letter and she fidgeted playing with the artificial flower pinned upon her dress. “Good afternoon, Lieutenant Martel.”
He looked to her and smiled. “Miss Flores. Lovely afternoon isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir, another perfect day in sunny Florida. You look happy. Is there good news in that letter you’re holding?”
“Yes there is. It’s always good to hear from family. My brother’s with the Marines.” He grinned with pride, giving a slight shake to the V-Mail in his hand then continued toward his destination.
Ida sighed at his passing form, giving his back a once over. The dreamboat was always polite, but never interested, perpetually on the move, never stopping to chat. Lucky girl whoever she was to have captured that flyboy’s heart because he never flirted like most of the other GIs.
Apart from the occasional salute to a superior officer, his footsteps remained apace with only an intermittent upward glance, his mind stayed focused on his brother’s letter from New Zealand.
July 10, 1942
Dear Will,
You owe me two dollars, old man. Bet you didn’t count on me hearing about the All-Star Game all the way down under, and what a game! According to my C.O., we handed your National League their hats and Rizzuto didn’t even have to play. What was Doucher thinking playing all twenty-two of his men? Poor strategy. Well, the boys over here were glad to hear that in spite of the delay and blackout restrictions, they raised quite a bit of dough for us fighting men. All for the cause, right?
Where are you now? Still in Florida? Any word on when you’ll be flying over to ETO? Is that ship you’re flying still giving you problems? Damn if that isn’t FUBAR. Take care there.
I received a letter from my girl. She’s moved out of that ritzy family mansion and is sharing an apartment with one of her ARC friends. Turns out, her father has a pickle up his ass about you and me. Tread lightly there, brother. He definitely has it in for us. Of course, my girl doesn’t care about her father’s opinions, and I’m sure your pistol doesn’t either, but be careful what you write in those love letters you send Lizzy. The poker player in me can’t resist cautioning you to play your cards close to your chest.
How is Lizzy? In love with you yet or have you convinced her that a wartime romance is foolish? Better yet, have you fallen in love and are trying to convince yourself that she ain’t the one for you?
Unfortunately, there’s no time to check out the local recreation here in N.Z. Ah, it’s just as well, you know I’ve sworn off dames for the duration. I might enjoy a little “action” now and again, but my girl and I have sort of agreed to remain steady even in our separation. No I and I for this Leatherneck. Besides, the rain hasn’t really let up, so it’s been me and my lucky cards making a few bucks off some of the guys in between muddy drills.
Even though we just arrived, we’re breaking camp soon. Don’t know where we’re headed but it’ll be to the fight, that’s for sure. Twenty-three days at sea nearly killed me, but I’ll gladly get back in that tin can if it means killing a few Japs. You make sure you do some damage to those Jerrys. Be safe, Brother and write soon. I have a feeling I’m gonna need it.
Affectionately,
Lou
Will tucked the letter into his uniform trouser pocket beside Lizzy’s latest and shook off the bad feeling attempting to take over his happiness. He clung to the fact that his brother may have been a jokester, but he was one tough, determined Marine. He’d be fine and probably find humor somewhere—anywhere. Suddenly, his feeling of dog tiredness from training in the Link flight simulator at two in the morning seemed inconsequential when compared to what lie ahead for Louie.
His brother’s letter readily brought to mind good times and the usual baseball competitiveness that the two of them bantered about, spurring his recollection. He had a ballgame to listen to this afternoon and nothing was going to get in his way of the Brooklyn Dodger versus New York Giants round two faceoff. G-d, he wished he could be there in the stands of the Polo Grounds for another twilight game. He wanted to at least witness hearing his team win again after last night’s abbreviated victory, just to ensure that the sour grapes being thrown around today were squashed. The Giants had rallied in the bottom of the ninth inning, staging a promising comeback and then, suddenly, darkness. Exactly one hour after sunset—wham—the lights in the ball field went out and the game was called early before the Giants had a chance for last licks, all because of the new black out restrictions. Tonight was the Giants’ chance for revenge, and based on the boos and hisses in the club and from the stands, everyone’s radio would be set to the game. He wondered if even Louie might hear about the game somewhere in the Pacific on the Armed Forces Radio Service. Probably not, since it wasn’t the All-Star Game or the World Series.
For at least the sixth time that day, Will slapped the side of his neck. Since his arrival to Tampa, the mosquitoes were killing him yet he couldn’t help to chuckle at Lizzy’s comment when he wrote her of his plight. He could almost hear her laughter on the paper, mocking him when she wrote, “Poor baby, that’s what you get for being as sweet as candy.” He loved when she teased him, and he gave it right back in his next letter when he told her about all the pretty Cuban nurses at the base hospital who attended to his insect bites with alcohol or insecticide powder. Her next letter laughed at him again, stating she didn’t believe him and it wouldn’t matter anyway because he was officially rationed now, and she had no intention of sharing him with anyone, not even the mosquitoes! Yes, he was rationed and he wouldn’t have it any other way. What had he been thinking by wanting to deny himself this experience? He wasn’t thinking and then he met her and that kissable, twisting mouth of hers and he was a goner.
Only separated for three weeks, he missed her like the dickens and had a long list of things to write her about: his crew, his visit to the Colonnade, and the beauty of St. Pete Beach. New York’s Jones Beach or Rockaway couldn’t hold a candle to the sparkling white sand of Florida. Of course, in his next letter he would say nothing of what Louie’s letter implied. Renner could kiss his ass in Macy’s window and so could his brethren in the Fatherland when he got his chance to drop bomb loads over Germany and the Axis targets.
Will entered The Bayshore Club where “MacDill Manny” stood behind the bar pouring drinks, greeting officers, and making small talk with a few of the men with the Third Air Force. The radio beside the cash register was tuned to a local station playing “Rhumboogie.” Even the Andrews Sisters’ song was celebrating in Cuban spirit.
Signs hung at eye level behind the simple wooden bar with explicit edicts not to discuss military matters, most prominently displayed amongst the not-so subtle suggestions to Buy Defense Bonds. Overhead, two emblems adorned the wall: the Air Corps’ propeller wings insignia and the standard mantra of encouragement “Keep ’Em Flying.” On the far wall hung the requisite photograph of President Roosevelt, as though the man himself was ever-present, offering his personal encouragement of the missions before them.
Jimmy McCarthy, Will’s co-pilot, a New Jersey boy, sat at a table by the window reading the base’s newspaper Flyleaf. It seemed those in the club were mostly men from the New York area and there for the game.
“Whatya’ have, Lieutenant?” asked Manny.
Will placed his nickel on the bar. “Just a Pepsi. Thanks, Manny.”
McCarthy rose to get another beer from the bartender and walked to Will, slapping him upon the shoulder in his usual fashion. “So when are we back up in the air in the Baltimore Whore?”
“We’re scheduled for a practice flight tomorrow, but who knows, Command has cancelled training due to that accident over at Avon Airfield. Seems like we’re going for a crash record this month.”
“Damn if I don’t hate that Widowmaker. She scares the shit out of me every time we take off. I keep waiting for the engine to stall but you, you lift her up as smoothly as a dame’s skirt.”
“That’s because like a woman she needs tenderness, you big oaf. Those ships just require exactitude; every movement should be precise. When you’re ready for takeoff, you’ve got to be both rapid and smooth. Her flaps need to be milked up slowly at 145 then climb at 160 until you reach 1000 feet, no more, no less until you get to know her. Her rudders are sensitive. When you approach for landing, it’s important to keep up the speed or she’ll choke, but she’ll give you a shudder before she does. Her landing needs to slide down at an angle and approach at 140, flare out between 115 and 120 depending upon your load.”
“Damn, she sure sounds like a dame. Someone I know, actually.”
Will snorted. Of course, he didn’t mean to make the sexual innuendo out of his flying technique. “Some women, but not all.” There was nothing exacting or slow about Lizzy and the latter part—the landing—he had yet to discover. Hell, he hadn’t even gone beyond passionate kisses.
“And your girl, the one whose snapshot you keep taped above the altimeter?”
Will grinned in much the same manner as his brother. “I cannot tell a lie, my pistol loves to fly.”
“Pistol?”
“Oh yeah, Pistol. Full of fire, spirit, and wired for maximum damage to a man’s heart.”
“Sounds like you’ve already picked your ship’s name.”
“I hadn’t thought about that. Well, if you’re assigned to my crew when we get to Drane Field how does ‘Pistol Packin’ Lizzy’ sound to you?”
“I’ll do the artwork.”
Will grinned mischievously, thinking Lizzy would either be proud to have her image on the side of the ship or be madder than blazes. Either way, if only he could see the spark in her green eyes upon seeing it. Maybe he’d send her a snapshot.
~~*~~
Louie snapped his small, black notebook closed after writing in it, Sunrise, Friday, August 7, 1942 Operation Watchtower, Guadalcanal Solomon Islands. He shoved it into a pocket of his utility pants, figuring he’d fill in the details tonight. Who knew what the hell was going to happen when they landed at Red Beach, and he wanted to detail every memorable moment.
The 5th Marine Regiment was part of the first wave of the first offensive, and the men around him seemed confident—if just a bit clueless. It was six fifty in the morning and he’d just climbed down the Navy transport’s cargo nets into the overloaded Higgins boat, squished like sardines as they headed toward the war’s first land battle. Although the water was calm, an eerie mist had settled on the Pacific, one Louie was sure the top brass were thankful for. A B-17 flew overhead and the USS Quincy commenced hammering the beaches with its .55 caliber guns.
“Take that you filthy, Nips,” Lance Corporal Price proclaimed with youthful bravado.
“They have no fuckin’ idea what’s gonna hit ’em when we get ashore,” another voiced with valiant confidence.
Louie said nothing, just lit a Lucky Strike and continued to think of Lillian as he looked out at the convoy of ships to their rear and the fourteen other transports beside theirs. A warm spray of water coated his face and the cigarette but he didn’t care, something was changing in him already. His humor had been replaced with something else.
“Hey Price, bet I get the first Jap,” he finally said.
“Oh yeah, what’s on the table?” the young cocky Marine from Omaha challenged.
Louie shrugged. “Your cigarette ration.”
“Deal.”
Time drew closer, the remaining moon cast shadows upon Florida Island and Louie buoyed himself for the fight, but truth be told, at that moment he felt scared. Actually, he was shitting a brick, but he’d take that admission to the grave, vowing never to tell a single human being, not even Lillian if he survived this. He pushed the feeling down and thought of his brave brother. He thought of his brave girl and his brave aunt and grandfather in Paris. With fondness, he thought of his loving family as he attached the bayonet to his new rifle when the boat slowed. It was precisely nine o’clock in the morning and at that moment, he determined to draw on the things most important to him. That was what would make him fearless. He’d fight for them and the men who didn’t have the chance to fight at Pearl Harbor. He knew his brother would fight for the persecuted in Europe. Yes, today was going to be a fine day in the Solomon Islands.
~~*~~