Summer Beach Reads 5-Book Bundle: Beachcombers, Heat Wave, Moon Shell Beach, Summer House, Summer Breeze (144 page)

November 1945

Dear Anne
,

Here I am, seated behind a desk in an office at our temporary military headquarters in Bremerhaven, Germany. You have no idea what a luxury it is to be able to type this letter without wondering whether the ceilings going to come crashing down on my head. I even have the use of electric lights.

So things are better. Still, everyone wants to go home as soon as possible, and who can blame them? The vast majority of our troops have already been redeployed to the Pacific or sent home for discharge.

But we need a good solid U.S. presence here in Europe, and the Army of Occupation has been charged with many significant tasks. We have to protect potential sabotage targets and be prepared for any possible rogue-German military resistance. We have to guard all the stores in military government custody, which include artwork, literally tons of records, and tank cars loaded with mercury. Our men have to lay out billeting areas, establish lines of communication, and set up checkpoints at bridges, ports, railroads, and other facilities.

In addition, there’s the gargantuan task of redeploying troops. I’m sure you know about the Adjusted Service Rating: eighty-five points and you can go home! As you can imagine, all this takes a heck of a lot of paperwork and causes no end of grumbling. I have seventy-five points, but right now I’m glad to be here, doing what I can.

Morale is low for those who remain behind, waiting and waiting for months on end. The army has done its bumbling best to deal with morale problems by establishing training education, and recreation programs throughout the theater. Of course, that means even more paperwork and more guard stations to check passes!

I want to go home just as much as the next man does, and I know I could talk to some people and pull some strings, but I have been lucky and feel a responsibility to continue on just a little longer to do whatever I can to help.

While we’re waiting to get out of here, we’ve got DPs—displaced persons—and prisoners of war being shipped in from Russia and Poland. If you could see the hundreds of thousands of displaced persons and prisoners of war, with all they have left in the world on the back of a cart pulled by a starving horse, wearing rags, sleeping on the ground, grateful for the slightest bit of bread, you would understand how useful our Army of Occupation is. From my point of view, this work is more important than fighting battles. Not everyone feels that way, however, and I can understand the men who are struggling to return home to their loved ones and their lives.

I am comfortably billeted here in Bremerhaven, living with a German family in their nice house. My life is probably not so different from yours. I rise every day, put on my uniform, and go to the office, where I try to organize the arrival and dispersal of the multitude of foodstuffs and other necessities to be sent out throughout Europe. Bremerhaven, by the way, is in the northwest of Germany where the Weser River meets in the North Sea. You can find it on the map.

I miss you, and I assure you that I am safe and eating well, and I’ll be home soon.

Love, Herb

Anne had spent Christmas with her in-laws, but no amount of holiday goodwill could make her forget her mother-in-law’s bizarre and intentional cruelty back in August in allowing all those plants to die, or her smug satisfaction at Anne’s distress. She felt trapped by her in-laws, and she missed Herb terribly. She needed to be with
him
,
not with his parents, and so on January 2, 1946, Anne marched into Gwendolyn Forsythe’s office at the Stangerone Freight Company.

Anne leaned on Gwen’s desk and announced without preamble, “I want to go to Germany
now.
”

“I know that.” Gwen didn’t even look up from the pile of papers she was sorting. “And you know we’ve been trying to find you decent quarters for passage.”

“I don’t care about decent quarters. I want to go as soon as possible.”

Now Gwen looked at Anne. She stuck her pencil over her ear and sighed. “I understand your frustration, Anne, but I don’t think you have any idea just what kind of a mess it is over there.”

“You can’t talk me out of this, Gwen, I’ve made up my mind. I’m a married woman who has spent far too little time with her husband and far too much time with his parents. Besides, Herbert is doing important work—”

“You’re doing important work here,” Gwen reminded her.

“I know, and I can continue to do it and be just as much help, maybe even more, over in Bremerhaven.”

Gwen swung her desk chair around and looked out her window, down at the wharves, where a multitude of dockworkers scrambled to load overseas provisions. She took the pencil from her ear and used it to scratch a spot on her scalp. “You are so young.” She smiled at Anne. “You have the energy for something like this, and it’s true we can use you over there. You’ve learned our system and we can trust you. All right. We’ve got a freighter making the trip to Bremerhaven in two days, carrying supplies. If you wish, you’ve got passage on it. You won’t have a stateroom; you’ll be lucky to have a bunk.”

“I want it!” Anne said.

The crossing was rough, with wintry gales howling on the open decks and slamming what felt like tons of rock-hard waves into the lower decks of the freighter. Anne spent two days lying in her bunk, miserably seasick, but the last three days were calmer. At last she saw land lying like a long dark shadow in the distance, but it took another day of traveling through the North Sea before they drew close to the wide mouth of the Weser River. As they neared
land, she saw sinister gray submarines and ominous militant destroyers riding the ocean swells like watchdogs at the entrance to the long harbor, straining at the leash, foaming at the mouth in their eagerness to attack. She knew the war was over, but she still felt a surge of fear. With a visceral bite, she gained a more realistic understanding of what Herb had been through.

The freighter rumbled as it slowed to make passage up the Weser River toward Bremerhaven, and then they arrived at the port. In many ways, the landscape seemed familiar, with piers extending out into the water and every sort of vessel docked there: tankers, tenders, aircraft carriers, destroyers, cruisers, herring trawlers, and motorboats of every size and kind. Customhouses and warehouses lined the waterfront, the same red brick as those in Boston harbor, but unlike Boston’s buildings, most of these were bombed-out shells. Brick walls rose alone from piles of rubble; stone warehouses gaped roofless to the sky. It looked as if a gigantic angry child had hurled his building blocks down on the city. Then she saw the word
STANGARONE
in large gold letters above the entrance to one of the larger and mostly intact buildings.

The freighter shuddered to a stop, and dinghies and tenders motored out toward it, looking like a series of paddling ducks compared to the mammoth ship, to take the passengers aboard before the freighter went into the difficult task of docking and making ready to unload.

In a way, Anne couldn’t believe she was really here. Everything had happened so quickly. She had debated whether or not to write Herb to tell him she was coming, but a letter wouldn’t have reached him in time. She knew from experience that nothing ever went as planned when it came to shipping overseas, and she didn’t want to get his hopes up by sending a telegram and then being told she wouldn’t arrive for another week or another month. Then, as she thought about it, and let her imagination soar free, she realized how wonderful it would be, how amazing, if she arrived secretly, walked into his office one afternoon, and surprised him. He would be dumbfounded. It would be a story to tell their children.

She joined the single file waiting to climb down the ladder to the boat below. First stop, Stangarone’s warehouse. She’d introduce herself, ask how to get to Herb’s place on Goethestrasse, and tell them she could be at work tomorrow. She took a small suitcase with her. She’d arrange for someone at Stangarone’s to transport her trunk.

During the long entrance up the harbor, she had noticed a lessening of the noise of the throbbing turbines that drove the ship, but now as she was helped to step up onto the dock, new sounds accosted her ears. Different languages shot past her like signal flares, vivid, loud, confusing. Men in uniform strode past, shouting orders, men in rags wheeled dollies laden with boxes along the wooden dock to the brick street, fishermen in wool caps and rain slickers hefted giant wicker baskets filled to the brim with slippery fish onto the pier. At the next pier a vessel was undergoing repair work, and the banging of metal on metal rang through the air.

She’d thought she was pretty cosmopolitan, pretty savvy, for Boston and its docks were not exactly a pastoral scene, but as she squeezed her way through the crowds, it was the different languages, not the people or the buildings, that made her understand that she was far from home. Someone shouted at her, at least she thought they were shouting at her, but when she turned she saw only backs and shoulders and head scarves and uniforms. She pressed on until she’d reached a brick building to lean against as she caught her breath and decided what to do next. She tightened her grip on her purse.

It wasn’t going to be as easy as hailing a cab. Vehicles rumbled down the side streets, but they were bikes or trucks or wagons pulled by horses. An old woman in a man’s overcoat and a head scarf labored past Anne, pushing a baby carriage full of bags of potatoes. A motor scooter backfired like a gunshot. An emaciated child shuffled past, bent double over a wheelbarrow laden with fish and shellfish. The January wind whipped off the water, filling the air with a frigid mist that almost froze on her face. Clouds were gathering overhead, and she could tell the sun, hidden by the
city’s broken walls, was setting on the darkening harbor waters. She had set her watch ahead one hour each day on the trip over, but her body wasn’t quite ready for evening; the thought of being here in the dark frightened her and impelled her away from her wall. She spotted the heavy gilt Stangarone sign again and fought her way through the shoving crowd toward it.

Gwen had been right, she was naïve and impetuous to come here like this, but she had done it and there was no turning back. And she was so close, so close to seeing Herb again! To holding him in her arms! The thought of the look on his face when he saw her gave her the energy and courage to surge onward, and at last she was at the solid brick edifice of the shipping company.

She knew better than to try to enter by the harbor side. She could hear men yelling and the creak of ropes as cranes swung the massive containers onto the shore. Skirting a pile of bricks, she made her way up a narrow brick street and around to the front of the building. Here the devastation was worse. What had once been a square bordered by offices and warehouses was a landscape of ruined walls and glassless windows, naked and open to the air. One side of Stangarone’s had been ripped open to the elements. Heaps of bricks rose like dunes against the one side that was left. Boards had been nailed over most of the exposed façade, and the door was nearly hidden by the rubble.

Anne opened it and went inside. The space was frigid and gloomy, but she could make out the staircase to the second floor. She hurried up, came to an intact office, knocked on the door, and waited. She heard voices and stepped inside, to find a wooden desk, wooden filing cabinets, stacks of colored bills of lading, a black telephone, a woman who looked American, and—oh, heaven!—an American soldier standing guard by an inner door.

“Hello!” she cried brightly. “I’m so glad someone’s here. I’m Anne Wheelwright. I work at Stangarone’s in Boston. I just got off a freighter, and I’ve come over to work here.”

“Well, Anne Wheelwright, I’m glad to meet you!” The woman stood up, reached over the desk, and shook Anne’s hand. “I’m
Georgia. And I’m dead beat! Why don’t you come with me. I’m going home. We’ll find someplace for you to camp out for a while.”

“Oh,” Anne said, flustered. “Thanks, Georgia. But first of all, I really would like to see my husband. He’s in the army, and he lives at this address.” She took a piece of paper from her purse and, knowing she would mangle the German pronunciation, handed it to Georgia to read.

“Oh, Goethestrasse, I know where that is. It’s a ways out. It’ll be a long walk.” She glanced at Anne’s face. “Tell you what. We’ll grab a couple of bikes, but you’ve got to be sure to bring yours back early tomorrow morning.” Grabbing a mangy fur coat off the coat rack, Georgia pulled it on and haphazardly stuck a crimson wool hat shaped like an overturned bucket on her head. She cuffed the soldier on the shoulder. “See you tomorrow, Pete.”

Anne followed her guide as she clattered down the wooden stairs. Georgia yanked open a wooden door, exposing a coatroom crammed with clothing, boxes, and several bikes. She wheeled one over to Anne.

“You follow me. It’s hard going out there and the cobblestones will bump your teeth right out of your head, but it’s faster than walking by a long shot. Don’t talk to anyone else, and if someone tries to take your bike, don’t hesitate to scream.” Seeing Anne’s expression, she added, “You’ll be fine. It’s a madhouse out there, but in a few days you’ll be just another daffy inmate. I reckon you’ll stay with your husband tonight and all, so he can help you get back here tomorrow. Eight o’clock, okay?” Without waiting for an answer, Georgia slammed the closet door and wheeled her bike outside.

Outside, it was cold, windy, and fully dark. Anne locked her eyes on Georgia’s hat as she pedaled her way through the throng. People no longer appeared as individuals but simply as hulking shapes converging and separating on the narrow brick lane. Bombed-out buildings loomed like turrets from nightmares, and the air was loud with the sound of cursing and occasional sobs. The air smelled of brick dust and kerosene. It was bizarre past her
wildest imaginings. Here she was in her nice rose wedding suit, in her nicest high heels, seated on a rickety old bicycle, her nylons ripping as she strained to force her way along a maze of narrow, gloomy streets. Now she understood why Gwen Forsythe had looked at her oddly, why she had said, “You’re young.” You needed the energy of youth to stay sane in this dark world.

Georgia weaved along, making a sharp right here and forking left there, past houses where windows flickered with candlelight and shops with beautiful signs and no windows, past entire blocks of rubble piled in fantastic mountains, around cold heaps of stone. The façade of a church rose, strong and eternal, its spire ascending to the heavens, but as Anne passed it she saw that behind the façade was only wreckage. The farther they biked from the harbor, the more German Anne heard being spoken, until finally all she heard was the guttural, harsh German speech.

“Okay.” Georgia slammed on her brakes and pointed down a long lane paved in bricks. “This is Goethestrasse. I think the house you’re looking for is about three blocks down. Have a nice reunion, kid, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Georgia,” Anne said, but Georgia was already pedaling in the opposite direction.

No streetlights shone, but some of the houses she passed flickered with light, sufficient for her to see her way. She walked her bike, because the street was full of potholes, and she wanted to read whatever numbers still remained on the buildings.

And then she was there: 91 Goethestrasse. A handsome brick house, all its walls intact. A few of the windows were boarded up, but compared to what she’d seen, this was a citadel. Her coat and suit were rumpled from sitting on the bike and she took a moment to smooth them down. Her heart was beating crazily partly from the exertion of her bike ride, but mostly from the excitement of knowing she was about to see her beloved Herb again.

She knocked on the door. She heard voices. She waited.

The door opened. An angel stood there. Or, for a moment, she looked like an angel to Anne. Certainly she had never seen such a beautiful woman before, except perhaps at the cinema. The
woman was tall and slender, with luminous blue eyes and silver-blond hair. She was obviously German and she was very pregnant.

“Yes?”

“Hello!” Anne said, smiling eagerly. “Do you speak English?”

“I do.”

“Oh, thank heaven! My name is Anne Wheelwright. I’m Herbert Wheelwright’s wife. I’ve just arrived from the United States. I have this address. Is he here?”

The dim light from the back of the house illuminated the other woman’s face. And that was all it took, a moment in the shadowy light, the recoil of the other woman’s body, the way her hands flew to cover her mouth. Anne knew.