Penelope
It had been years since he cried. He didn’t even know he was still capable of it. His emotions felt alien in a place like this, and he looked around to make sure no one was watching. The letter was still firmly in his grip. He couldn’t let it go. He had no idea he still loved her. He knew that he had stowed his feelings for her until it was convenient to revisit them. Perhaps once the war was over—maybe then there would have been time to love her again. But now it was too late. He reached for the pencil he kept beside his bed and scrawled down a few words on a piece of paper. He could never hate her, not when it had been his fault. He read and reread the letter and then wrote her back—You can have your divorce—and mailed it to her the next day.
December 1943, over southwest Germany
The rumble of engines rendered almost any other noise irrelevant. John could feel every vibration through his body. He was taut as wire, his heart galloping. He thought of the words of his superior officer, who’d spoken with unvarnished honesty about the fact that they weren’t sure of the strength of the false documents he carried, nor of the cover story they’d concocted for him. They had little precedent to judge the current circumstances. The OSS had never parachuted an agent into Germany before, let alone one unaided and alone. He knew the risks. He was a volunteer and had beaten out many more agents for the honor of fulfilling this mission.
The crewman cupped his hands around his mouth and spoke up over the engines: “We’re coming up to the target. We should be there in thirty minutes.”
John nodded, and the crewman disappeared back inside the cockpit. John moved to the window, a few feet from where he had been sitting. The clouds swirled by in the dark night, and only a few lights dotted the vast quilt of black on the ground below. He ran his hands over the Luftwaffe uniform he was wearing and went over his cover in his head for what seemed like the millionth time. He felt as if Werner Graf had taken hold of his soul now, that he truly was him. It felt like John Lynch was a cover, or at best, a memory of a life he’d once known. There seemed no point in being John Lynch anymore. Reminiscing could jeopardize the mission, could cost him his life. He would return to himself one day, when Werner Graf had served his purpose.
The plane jigged as it hit turbulence, and he was thrown forward, but his seat belt locked him in place. One of his instructors had warned him that the Gestapo would check for strap bruises across his chest and thighs. He dismissed those thoughts as soon as they came. No use in worrying. No use at all.
A rumble came over the din of the engines. John raised his head up. Another rumbling sound came, and then another. John knew they were over Germany now. He’d never reckoned that flak would take down the plane before he reached his drop zone. He’d thought through almost every other scenario. He’d gone over every conceivable question he might be asked, practiced his accent and his cover story more times than he could remember, but he hadn’t negotiated for being shot down. The crew chief stuck his head out of the cockpit again to tell him they were taking flak on both sides. John gave him the thumbs-up, and the chief disappeared back inside. He was just closing the cockpit door again when a loud explosion ripped through the air. The force of the blast opened up a gash in the side of the plane a few yards from where John was sitting, and cold air rushed in. John gripped his pack, his knuckles white. The wing was torn like paper. The engine poured smoke, hacking like an old man clearing his throat. John felt for his parachute, knew that the drop zone was probably a hundred miles away. The plane shuddered and fell as more flak exploded on each side. The explosions came louder and louder, and the plane shook with each concussion, tossing John back and forth in his seat. Another jolt rocked the plane, this time on the other side, but it limped on. The flak continued.
The crew chief opened the door again, surveying the damage as the aircraft continued to drop. The flak was beginning to level off, the explosions sporadic now. John looked out the window again. The engine was billowing thick black smoke. It sputtered to a halt. The man stuck his head back into the cockpit, and John could just about make out the shouting. The chief made his way over to him.
“We’re never going to make it to the dropping point!” he shouted, but John already knew that. “We’re crippled. The starboard engine’s gone. We’ll never make it back. We’re going to have to turn around and try to get to Switzerland. If you want to jump, it’s going to have to be now.”
John nodded and unbuckled his safety belt. Were they high enough? The plane seemed to be losing altitude by the second. They were miles from the target, but he could make it there if he got to the ground in one piece. If he stayed on board the plane, the best he could hope for was to report back that he’d failed—if they made it that far at all. The flak had stopped, for now. They’d passed whatever city the flak had been defending, and now a tapestry of darkness lay below him.
The crew chief shook John’s hand. His good wishes were lost in the roar of the wind as the jump hole opened. John moved to the jump hole, felt the surge of the airstream. The dispatcher checked the static line on his parachute and gave him the thumbs-up. The green light flicked on as the plane bumped and jerked. He forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand, remembering to jump straight, legs together, and tuck his chin into his chest. He felt the plane slowing, and the dispatcher pounded his shoulder. He jumped. The cold air crashed into him, as if water from a waterfall. He felt a tug at his thighs and armpits as the chute opened. The plane disappeared into the black. The night was still, and he was alone. The roar of the engines dissipated, leaving only the sounds of his own breathing and the rushing air. The parachute flapped as he hurtled toward the deep-black ground below. There was no way to know where he was landing, but the dark told him he was somewhere remote, somewhere unpeopled, and that might give him a chance. He realized he was too low, but there was nothing to be done. He thought to pray, but his numb lips fumbled the words as the ground rushed toward him like an unseen, soundless express train. He felt the agony in his legs as his body collided with the snow-covered ground. He opened his eyes, the spread of snow all around him, and felt his body go slack as everything faded to nothing.
Chapter 10
Franka sat frozen to the chair. The fire had gone out in the living room, and the temperature in the cabin was noticeably lower. He was motionless before her, helpless. She knew the truth now. She felt vindicated. She wasn’t going insane. Her suspicions were correct. This man in her father’s cabin, whom she had rescued from the snow, was an American. A spy. She’d known he was American or English, had been sure of the fact for days now, but to hear him say it was still a revelation. She thought of Daniel and the Gestapo. There would be no leniency this time. Sheltering a spy meant the guillotine, but only after tortures that would make death seem like a mercy. Yet somehow she felt free. For the first time since she’d delivered those leaflets, seen the enthusiasm and pride in Hans’s eyes, she felt like she was living again. Truly living. Not just eating and sleeping and breathing. Not just killing time—living a consequential life.