“But most of the GIs are so young,” Viv said, pouting. “It’s like going to a high school dance. They’re nice kids, but some of them are kind of rough.”
We sat around, sharing stories of our first week. All of us had the same complaints of aches and pains but also some funny stories of doughnut making gone wrong and overenthusiastic soldiers trying to help out.
“And that damn doughnut machine is the devil,” said Blanche. “It makes a total mess and only seems to work well half of the time.”
I heard the sounds of a jeep through the open window.
“I think Jimmy’s here; he’s offered to be our chauffeur for the night,” I said, getting up to open the door.
“Can he stay sober enough all night to do that?” Dottie asked, echoing my own thoughts. “If he passes out, you’re driving.” She pointed at me.
Mrs. Tibbetts got up to open the door, but it wasn’t Jimmy, it was Liz.
“Oh, I have the log for the week upstairs,” I said, getting up.
“You can give that to me Monday,” Liz said, smiling. “I just know you’ve all been eagerly waiting for mail, and the first batch finally came in.”
She held up a bunch of letters, and I felt anxious at the sight of them.
Dottie had a letter from her younger brother, Richie, and some students from her class had sent her adorable letters with childish scrawl and drawings on the envelopes.
Both of Viv’s sisters and her parents had written her, and she also received a couple of amorous letters from two fellas from the Queen Elizabeth she couldn’t even recall meeting.
“Finally, here’s some for you, Fiona,” Liz said, holding the last few letters in her hand. I had been standing there barely breathing, praying I had mail too. “There’s one here from your sisters, one from your parents, and one from an Evelyn Barker. Is that a friend?”
I saw Dottie and Viv give each other a look, and I felt myself get woozy, so I grabbed on to one of the chairs.
“Oh God,” I whispered, gripping the arm of the chair for support. “It’s Danny’s mother.” I had that floating feeling, like right before you’re going to faint. “It’s got to be news; she said she would only write if there was news. What do you think it is?”
“Oh, Fiona. I had no idea that your fiancé’s last name was Barker. Shame on me, I’m so sorry,” Liz said, looking distraught.
“It’s okay,” I said.
Everyone sat down, waiting on me.
“I can read it,” Frankie said, holding her hand out.
I gave her the envelope, and Dottie and Viv came over and sat on either side of me. Blanche and Martha inched over too. Mrs. Tibbetts got up and went to fetch us more drinks.
“You ready?” Frankie said, carefully opening the envelope so as not to rip the letter inside.
“Not really,” I said. There was no need to lie about it. “Just read it. Don’t skim it first, just out with it.”
Frankie took a deep breath and started,
Dear Fiona,
I struggled to write this letter, mostly because I picture you somewhere in Europe when it arrives—and I know seeing my name will fill you with dread about possible news. I received the enclosed telegram two days ago:
Frankie quickly flipped to the Western Union telegram, looked up at me, and said, “It’s stamped June 30, 1944.” She continued to read.
An intercepted unofficial shortwave broadcast from Germany mentioned the name of 2nd LT. Daniel Barker as a prisoner of war STOP No personal message STOP Pending further confirmation, this report does not establish his status to be a prisoner of war STOP Any additional information received will be furnished. STOP
So now you know this new information too, which raises more questions than answers. I have prayed that Danny was still alive, and this is the first glimmer of hope that he might be. But I am sure you feel the agony and frustration that I feel right now. Is the intercepted report accurate? If he’s alive and captured, where is he? What condition is he in? When will they tell us more?
The International Red Cross in Geneva, Switzerland, keeps track of prisoners of war across the globe and reports back to the US regarding the location and status of its citizens. Families are supposed to be notified right away of any details, so I’m hoping we hear more soon.
I’m sorry to be the bearer of this news. Joseph and the girls are more hopeful and optimistic than I am. They all send their love. I hope your work with the Red Cross is going well so far. I envy you, as I’m sure you’re kept quite busy without as much time to dwell on Danny’s whereabouts.
I will write as soon as I learn anything more. If by chance you find anything out in the meantime, please let me know.
Love,
Evelyn Barker
Frankie put down the letter, and the room was quiet. Everyone was waiting for me to say something. To cry or scream. To react.
“Thank you for reading it,” I said. “I feel numb.” I was still light-headed, and my hands felt clammy. “It’s hard to know how to feel. She’s right—all the telegram says is he might be alive and a POW. It’s news, but it’s not very precise news.”
“I can ask Judith if we can find out anything from the IRC,” Liz said. She was standing near the door, and I had forgotten she was there. “Harvey Gibson must have connections there; he has connections everywhere.”
“I’m not sure if Miss Chambers wants to do me any favors,” I said.
“I’m not sure Miss Chambers wants to do anyone any favors,” Viv said.
“Well, we’ll see; it’s worth asking,” Liz said. “In any case, I’m truly sorry, Fiona.”
“Thank you, and thank you for trying with Miss Chambers,” I said.
“Of course. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do,” she said, and we said our good-byes.
“I still want to go out,” I said. “Jimmy should be here soon. It beats sitting here reading this telegram a hundred more times to try to pull some other clue from it.”
“Are you sure you’re up for it?” Dottie asked, eyeing me critically. “I could stay back with you and Mrs. Tibbetts.”
“I could make us some more drinks,” Mrs. Tibbetts called out from the kitchen.
“I’m happy to do that too, but I think Mrs. Tibbetts might not need any more drinks,” Viv said, eyes wide with amusement.
“No, I’m okay, I just need to get some air,” I said, standing up, straightening out my uniform. “Martha, you said you’d give me some dance tips?”
“Sure,” Martha said, reaching over to squeeze my hand. “Happy to.”
“Well, let’s go, then,” Blanche said. “The boys await!” As if on cue, we heard Jimmy honking his horn outside, which sent the skinny chickens in the living room bolting, their feathers flying as they hid from the noise.
Everyone headed out to the car as I reapplied my lipstick. I picked up my change purse off the end table and stood for a moment in the sitting room. I was heading out to a dance, and somewhere out there Danny was sitting in a prison cell or worse. Part of me wanted to crawl into bed and ruminate about this news until I cried myself to sleep. Smiling and dancing with strangers felt like an odd thing to do now that I had another clue to his whereabouts.
“Fi, are you doing okay?” Frankie opened the front door and peeked back inside.
“No,” I said, giving her a sad smile. “I was just thinking about his last letter to me, before he went missing. I lost it in London, and I looked everywhere, but it never turned up. And this news, if it’s true, means he made it out of the crash alive. He’s been alive this whole time, and yet I haven’t received a single letter from him. Where the heck is he right now? What shape is he in? I can’t . . .” My voice cracked, and I stopped talking, putting my hands up to my mouth. I closed my eyes and took a long, slow breath.
“I know it’s hard, trust me, I know more than anyone,” she said with a nod, sympathy in her eyes. “But I promise you, you’re better off if you don’t sit here and wallow.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you for reading it for me. And for understanding. And I know you’re right. I can’t sit around here and feel sorry for myself. If I do that, I might as well not have come here at all. No matter what I learn about Danny’s fate.”
“That’s right,” she said. “So let’s go dance; you can at least pretend to forget about it all for a while. I promise you it will help.”
We heard the sound of the jeep’s horn again.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll take your word for it. Let’s go.”
She grabbed my hand and pulled me outside.
Chapter Thirteen
August 23, 1944
As our days in the English countryside went by, we got more comfortable with our daily routine. Jimmy would pick us up in his jeep at dawn, then we would go get the Cheyenne in Doughnut Alley behind Red Cross headquarters. When we arrived, we’d pray the British baking ladies that worked the night shift in the doughnut kitchen had baked enough to get us through most of the day, because the doughnut machine continued to be an instrument of the devil.