“It’s my understanding that your ship will be escorted to either Boston or New York. The Jews will be granted permission to stay in the U.S., and you and your ship will be permitted to do whatever you wish. After all, you were victims, too.”
Charest blew another smoke ring. “My crew can do whatever they wish as well. They can return to Canada or stay with me. Most have families, so I suppose they will go home. I will not go back to Canada. I think too many evil people will correctly surmise that I had something to do with this and take revenge on me. If permitted, I would like to continue shipping goods for a living, only this time I’ll be using the United States as a base.”
The band at the large but stark hall that had been rented for the party was doing a decent imitation of a Benny Goodman type orchestra. There was no real reason for the party, just that people wanted a break and chipped in to make it happen. The result was a couple of hundred people seated at card tables and thoroughly enjoying themselves with decent music, mediocre food and cheap booze. As at the Downing’s, everyone was in civvies in an inadequate attempt to mask the fact that almost all were in the military.
Tom had slow danced a few times with Alicia and had enjoyed holding her slender body close to him, but the idea of jitter-bugging was a little too much. He could dance it a little, but he was whipped after flying in from New York early that morning, and giving verbal reports to a lot of generals and admirals. He’d even reported to Admiral Ernie King, and he’d assured the admiral that Westover would likely make it, although wouldn’t be back to duty for a long while.
As much as he loved dancing with Alicia and holding her tight, he didn’t at all mind watching her as she and her friend, WAC Lieutenant Rosemary Poole, jitterbugged. Rosemary was short and chunky, and all eyes, at least his, were on Alicia. She wore a fashionably short full skirt that flared and showed her magnificent legs to well above her knee. Only a short slip kept him from seeing much more. She danced with a rhythm and abandon that surprised him. So much for the reserved nature of a school teacher and a classical musician, he thought happily.
Finally, she sat down and took a quick swallow of her beer. “Wow. That last one almost got me.”
“Where did you learn to do that?”
“Twelve years of dancing lessons as a kid should count for something. Yes, I had dreams of becoming a ballerina, but then I grew to adulthood and the male dancers complained that I was too heavy to lift.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
“Well, most of the male dancers were tee-tiny things themselves. I think anybody over five feet tall and weighing more than eighty pounds scared them. Between dancing and violin lessons, my parents hoped I really didn’t have much time to get into trouble. They were right, of course.”
“Maybe that was the idea. Do you have any other skills I should know about?”
“You already know I speak fluent German and passable French and Spanish. And you?”
“I can get by in German, but that’s it. Now, when am I going to hear you play your violin?”
“Pretty soon. Is there anything you’d particularly like?”
He thought of his erotic dream. “A little Tchaikovsky would be great.”
Her eyes widened and she laughed. “I keep forgetting you’re civilized. Tchaikovsky isn’t the easiest, but I’ll do it. Is there anything else you’d like? Do you want me to wear something special?”
Sweet Jesus, he thought, again recalling his dream. “Anything you choose will be wonderful.”
On its own, his hand began to shake as recent memories flooded in. She reached over and grasped it firmly, calming him. “You okay?”
“I think so.”
He’d told her of the fighting on the Beaufort and that he’d shot down two Germans. The fact that he’d killed the two men and wounded at least one more and nearly been killed himself was getting to him. He’d discovered that the distance between life and death was often just the width of a hair, maybe even less.
Westover’s situation was just such a case in point. The newspaper headlines and the radio reporters were calling Westover and Charest heroes, the Beaufort a slave ship or a death ship. The sailors and marines were praised to the skies for rescuing the Jews who’d been packed into the Beaufort’s hold. There’d been no mention of the one lonely army major who’d also taken part, and that he’d killed a couple of Nazis. Officially, it had been a navy-marine show. Whatever anti-Semitic feelings that had prevented previous boatloads of Jews from emigrating to the U.S. were quickly dissolving. Those who still harbored such thoughts were keeping discretely quiet.
Unofficially, Tom had gotten a commendation and it looked like he might be promoted to lieutenant colonel fairly soon.
Alicia squeezed his hand even tighter and stared into his eyes. It looked like tears were about to spill down her cheeks. “You had to do it and I’m glad you did. They would have killed you if you hadn’t. I just found you and I’m not ready to lose you. Do you understand me, Major Grant?”
He managed to laugh. Her intensity was contagious. “Yes, teacher. Maybe I just need a good night’s sleep, and no, I’m not suggesting we call it a night. I don't want to lose you either. I want to be right here with you for a very long time.”
She smiled warmly at him. There was a wicked glint in her eyes. “I’ve an idea what to wear when I play for you. I was originally thinking of a lovely and elegant basic black dress, but perhaps I will wear something else.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Secretary of State Cordell Hull tried not to feel sorry for the tense and nervous German diplomat who sat before him. Charge d’Affaires Hans Thomsen was clearly uncomfortable with the role his masters in Berlin were forcing him to play. Too damn bad, thought Hull. You play with fire and sometimes you get burned.
“Let me assure you, Mr. Thomsen, your protests are for naught. The American people are outraged by the atrocity your Nazi masters almost perpetrated on more than a thousand innocent people.”
Thomsen ignored the comment. He had a script to follow. “Mr. Secretary, your men had no right to forcibly take the Beaufort. My government requires a formal apology, compensation for the damages incurred, which included the deaths of several German soldiers, and Berlin wants the, ah, cargo returned. According to German law, the Jews are criminals and were being taken back to Germany for legal and lawful punishment.”
Hull snorted. “You mean they were being sent to be murdered, don’t you? Do you really think we don’t know what’s going on in your death camps?”
“Those terrible rumors are without merit, sir. Frankly, I’m surprised you even mention them. I must also point out that the Beaufort had diplomatic immunity since she was chartered by the German government.”
Hull shook his head sadly. Did the man really not believe in the existence of Auschwitz and other death camps? Why not, he thought. FDR and the military didn’t tell him everything, either.
“Please, Mr. Thomsen, do not insult my intelligence. The Beaufort is a Canadian flagged ship and her home port is Montreal. All the German government did was contract with her owner to ship a cargo to France. And in this case, it was a boatload of half-dead Jews who were being shipped across the Atlantic to be murdered. There is no immunity involved and there will be neither an apology nor compensation. In fact, I believe the United States is due both an apology and compensation.”
“Why?”
“Because approximately fifty of those Jews you so cruelly treated were American citizens.”
Thomsen was genuinely shocked, “Sir, that cannot be. I’ve been informed that all of them were confirmed to be Canadian citizens.”
“And indeed they all were,” Hull said, “but only up to a point. Your murderous masters neglected to check that some might have dual citizenship. Thus, there were American citizens on that ship and at least two of them are dead, either from maltreatment or in the gunfight that began when your Fuhrer’s SS Storm Troopers began firing into the packed hold.”