A Blind Goddess Read online

  “Where?” He was silent. “I mean, where, Mr. Jackson?”

  “Start at the top, work your way down. That’s six floors. Don’t leave a speck of dust.”

  “PADDINGTON STATION,” THE conductor proclaimed. “Next stop, Paddington Station.”

  “Wait, Lieutenant, that’s our stop,” the corporal said. “Why was he so sore?”

  “Yeah,” another GI with a southern accent said. “No colored boy oughta talk like that.”

  “Aw shuddup,” responded a guy with a New York accent. “Come on, Lieutenant, wrap it up, huh?”

  “There’s still a lot of story to go,” I said. “But the reason he was upset is that his son was supposed to get the job. Had it, actually, until my old man made that call. As soon as he did, Tree Jackson lost it and young Billy Boyle had it handed to him.”

  “Ain’t right, if you don’t mind me saying so, Lieutenant,” the corporal said. “Colored folk got it hard enough.” The southern fellow shook his head at this misplaced sympathy.

  “Didn’t sit well with me either,” I said, rising from my seat. “But by the time I found out, it was too late. When I got to know Mr. Jackson a little better, he told me how things were. If you’re black, get back. If you’re white, you’re all right. It was his son Tree who had to get back. Enjoy your leave, fellas.”

  “Is that what Tree is still upset about?” Kaz said as we walked out of the train station to hail a taxi.

  “That ain’t the half of it,” I said. “But it’s all for today.”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “NOT HUNGRY, BILLY?” Diana Seaton asked, not waiting for an answer as she snatched a warm roll from my plate and soaked up the rest of her soup with it. She was enjoying her SOE recuperation leave, determined to get her strength back after time spent in that Gestapo prison.

  “Go ahead,” I said, delighting in the sight of her by candlelight. Diana had a way of dealing with the curves life threw at her that I envied. She’d had her share of tragedy, but fought her way through each one, confronting them directly and then leaving them behind. I was more of a brooder, I decided. Which was pretty much what I was doing right now. As opposed to Diana, who settled back into her chair, sighed, and finished the wine in her glass.

  “More wine?” Kaz asked, filling her glass from the bottle in the ice bucket. The three of us were dining at the Dorchester Hotel. It was elegant, and the food was terrific, even with wartime rationing. The Ministry of Food had decreed that no restaurant meal could cost more than five shillings, and meals were limited to three courses, to prevent rich folks from eating out to circumvent the strict rationing of groceries. Even with these limitations, the Dorchester kitchens managed to put on a fine feed. And wisely, booze was not rationed.

  Kaz topped me off, not needing to ask. We knew each other pretty well. I’d bunked here with Kaz since I first arrived in England, back in ’42. Well, bunked might not be the right word. Kaz kept a suite at the Dorchester, and had invited me to use one of the bedrooms. Kaz needed the company of the living. His family had visited him here before the war, while he was at school, and spent the last peacetime Christmas in that suite. Daphne, Diana’s sister, had lived with him there before she was killed. Scandalous, yeah, but there was a war on, so who cared? Not the staff of the Dorchester, that’s for sure. Kaz was a big tipper with a heart of gold, and everyone from the dishwashers to the concierge treated him like royalty. Not because he was a minor baron from central Europe, but because of his loyalty to his family’s memory, and to the Dorchester, his home for the duration.

  “I’m sorry your visit didn’t go well, Billy,” Diana said. “People change, don’t they? It can be disappointing.” She raised an eyebrow in my direction, inviting a response. I’d caught her up on the story I’d told Kaz on the train, and left it there. They’d both been trying, in a nonchalant sort of way, to drag more out of me.

  “Whoever said you can’t go home again knew what he was talking about,” I said.

  “Thomas Wolfe,” Kaz said. Kaz knew everything.

  “But it wasn’t home Tree was asking about,” Diana said. “It was a favor over here. Far from home. Wasn’t it?” Again that eyebrow. I was saved by the arrival of the Dover sole. Kaz ordered another bottle of wine.

  “Our cellars will be empty of Bordeaux blanc by summer,” the wine steward said as he popped the cork. “But the invasion should take care of that, unless the Germans carry everything off with them, don’t you think, Baron?”

  “I am sure every soldier in the Allied armies will be diligently searching for French wines. Do you know the date of the invasion, Charles?” Kaz asked with a grin as the bottle settled into its ice bucket.

  “One hears things, Baron. One does not repeat them. I can tell you we have some delightful Italian wines now, but they must sit for a time after their long voyage. Enjoy,” he said, and was gone.

  “He probably knows more than we do,” I said between mouthfuls of buttery sole. “Wouldn’t be a bad spot for a German spy, with all the brass talking shop at dinner.” Looking around the dining room, it was packed with senior officers and the much younger ladies that accompanied them. Another good opportunity for a spy.

  “England is so different now,” Diana said. “In only a few months, it’s become crowded with Americans. They’re everywhere. Between the tanks, trucks, and jeeps, it’s a miracle anyone can travel anywhere. I’m amazed this island can hold all of them.”

  “And the majority are here in the south of England, grouped all around London,” Kaz said. “But that is the extent of our knowledge.”

  “Really?” Diana said in a low voice, inviting our confidence.

  “Really,” I said. “Kaz and I have been close enough to the shooting war that we can’t be trusted with secrets. No one who might be captured by the Germans is let in on much of anything these days. It’s understandable, but frustrating. There are three kinds of people in England right now, those who are going, those who are planning, and those who are left out in the cold.”

  “Yes,” Kaz said with a grin. “Billy would certainly like to lead the charge from the first landing craft, wherever that may be.”

  “Let’s not get carried away,” I said. “I just don’t like being sidelined.”

  “Then why not look into the murder Tree told you about?” Diana said, spearing another potato. “It will give you something to focus on.”

  “I have my leave,” I said. “We might not get another chance to get away. Either of us might get an assignment.”

  “I have a month’s leave,” Diana said. “Perhaps you can get yours changed.”

  “I thought we had everything planned out,” I said. “You were eager to visit your father at Seaton Manor.” A day ago, she’d been excited at the prospect. Her father had recently been made an earl, and was now known as the Earl of Seaton, a step up, I guess, from Sir Seaton. The honor had been given for unspecified service to the Crown, which I knew to mean something to do with naval intelligence. Whatever the reason, Diana had been excited about it. Now, her eyes told a different story. I looked at her, then Kaz, who busied himself looking around the room. Then I recalled Diana had set up this dinner with the three of us. Not unusual, but now it looked like she wanted company when she delivered the bad news.

  “I’m sorry, Billy,” she said. “I know you probably cannot get your leave rescheduled at this late date, but something’s come up. I have finally got an appointment with someone at the Foreign Office.”

  “About the camps,” I said.

  “Yes, the camps,” Diana said. “The extermination camps.” Diana’s undercover mission in Rome had brought her into contact with both Germans and Italians who had witnessed the death camps in Eastern Europe. We knew there were concentration camps, where Jews from Germany and the occupied nations had been sent. We also knew the Nazis were beating, shooting, and working to death Jews and others they judged to be undesirable in forced labor camps. But the extermination centers existed for a single purpose. Whole
sale industrialized death. It was mind-boggling, difficult to fathom, hard to believe. Which was the problem.

  “You’ve been debriefed by the SOE, right? I know you told Kim Philby about what you learned,” I said. Kim Philby was an SOE spymaster, and Diana’s boss.

  “Yes, of course. But I don’t know what Kim did with the information, if anything. He seemed more interested in military and political data. So I asked my father to arrange for an off-the-record meeting with someone at the Foreign Office.”

  “With whom are you meeting?” Kaz said.

  “Roger Allen,” Diana said. “He is apparently close to Anthony Eden, the Foreign Secretary. Allen works for a group called the Joint Intelligence Committee.”

  “What do you hope to accomplish?” Kaz said.

  “I’m not sure,” Diana said, setting down her fork. “I don’t know what can be done, but I am certain we can and should do more.”

  “There are a lot of men getting ready to do more,” I said.

  “And in the meantime, how many thousands die each day? There must be something that can be done now. Moral outrage expressed by our leaders, perhaps.”

  “Good luck,” I said, holding my tongue. If Diana was counting on morality from politicians, she was going to need all the luck she could get.

  “Moral outrage has done little for the Poles, what there has been of it,” Kaz said.

  “I know, Piotr, I know,” Diana said, taking his hand in hers. “But I must try. You understand, don’t you?”

  “All too well, my dear. Do not let them break your heart.”

  “Hearts may be beyond mending, those that survive,” she said. We sat in silence, remembering crushing sadness and empty places.

  “Well now, my friends, how about dessert?” our waiter intoned, oblivious to the sudden depression that had settled over the table. “Something sweet?”

  Surprised by his sudden appearance, we stared at each other, waiting for someone to speak.

  “Yes,” Diana said, slamming her palm on the table as if making a momentous decision. “The sweeter the better!” We laughed, the riotous laughter of those at the end of the world.

  Later, as we left our table, Diana stopped to chat with a friend who was dining with an RAF pilot. Kaz and I walked to the lobby and waited.

  “Did you know about this?” I asked.

  “Diana’s meeting? Yes, she told me yesterday. She was quite worried you would be upset. Are you?”

  “I don’t know, Kaz. It’s important, what she’s trying to do. What’s a few days in the country compared to that?”

  “She must try, but I fear nothing will come of it.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because Roger Allen is a notorious anti-Semite. He is more worried about keeping Jews from emigrating to the British Mandate for Palestine than anything else, including what is happening in the death camps.”

  “How do you know that?” I said. Kaz shrugged and turned away. Then I remembered. Kaz knows everything.

  CHAPTER SIX

  UNCLE IKE GAVE me his trademark smile as he pinned the silver captain’s bars on my uniform. “Long overdue, William,” he said, as the small group applauded. “I’m proud of you, son,” he said in a whisper, as he gripped my shoulder.

  “Thank you, General,” was all I could get out before the well-wishers crowded in. Diana was there, along with Kaz, of course, chatting with Kay Summersby, Uncle Ike’s driver and companion. Kay and I had been pals since North Africa. Back then she’d been afraid she wouldn’t be taken to England when Uncle Ike got the Supreme Commander post, but here she was, right by his side. Mattie Pinette and a few other WAC secretaries gathered around the cake, which was probably more of a draw than the general’s nephew getting a promotion, no matter how long he’d been a lieutenant.

  “Well deserved, Boyle,” Colonel Samuel Harding said, extending his hand. Harding worked for Uncle Ike in G-2—that’s what the army calls intelligence—and is my boss if the general doesn’t have anything for me to do. Like now.

  “Thanks, Colonel,” I said, giving a wave to Big Mike, who stood in the doorway, taking up most of the space. Staff Sergeant Mike Miecznikowski had been with us since Sicily, and had become Colonel Harding’s right-hand man in the Office of Special Investigations. Everyone called him Big Mike because the army didn’t make uniforms large enough for his wide shoulders and bulging biceps. Big Mike had been a Detroit cop, and still carried his shield in his coat pocket.

  “Hey, congratulations, Billy,” Big Mike said. “I mean Captain Boyle.”

  “Don’t start with military courtesies now, Big Mike, you’ll only hurt yourself,” Harding said. Big Mike had a way with officers, at least the decent ones. He could have them eating out of his hand in ten minutes and on a first-name basis for life. Big Mike was the kind of guy who could get anything done for you if he liked you, and not much if he didn’t. And who doesn’t want a big, strong, friendly, proficient scrounger and former bluecoat for a pal?

  “William, you should be honored that Big Mike remembered your rank at all,” Uncle Ike said.

  “General, I’m strictly here for the cake,” Big Mike said. “And to see Estelle, of course.”

  “Nice to know where I stand,” Estelle Gordon said, her voice drifting up from somewhere behind Big Mike’s shoulders. Estelle was a WAC sergeant who worked at SHAEF. She and Big Mike were an item, about as head over heels as they were mismatched in size. She handed Big Mike a plate with a massive slab of cake and asked the general if she could get him one. He shook his head and lit up a cigarette.

  “I’m glad you’re back in England, William,” Uncle Ike said. “And glad Miss Seaton made it back as well. I talked to her father yesterday and he said you might visit them soon.”

  “Sir Richard is in town? That probably explains it.” “Explains what?” Uncle Ike said.

  “Diana has to stay in London,” I said. “She has a meeting with someone at the Foreign Office, to talk about the death camps. Sir Richard probably pulled a few strings to get her in.”

  “From the reports I’ve seen, there’s much to be concerned about, William. All we can do here is work as hard as we can to end this war as soon as possible. I’ll leave the rest up to the politicians.”

  “You mean the guys who got us into this mess?”

  “You’re a captain now, William,” Uncle Ike said with a wink. “Time to exercise diplomatic restraint.”

  “Then please don’t ever make me a major, Uncle Ike,” I whispered. I didn’t call him that unless we were alone. He laughed, and it felt good to lift his spirits a bit. “How do you like the new headquarters?”

  “I like it fine,” he said. “But I think some of the staff think otherwise.”

  “It is kind of off the beaten path.” Bushy Park was a royal park west of London. It was the new home to the Supreme Headquarters, Allied Expeditionary Force. Hundreds of officers and a few thousand enlisted men kept the place humming around the clock in rows of camouflaged huts, barracks, underground bunkers, and even tents.

  “That is the whole point, William. The center of London had too many distractions. Clubs, dances, shows, and fine restaurants. I want my staff at work full-time, instead of going their separate ways in the evening. They can get to know each other here. We’ve got people from half a dozen nationalities and services, and they have to work together, and work hard.”

  “Makes sense, General. But what about me? I’m still posted at Norfolk House in London.”

  “Don’t complain too loudly, William. There are officers who would kill to be sleeping at the Dorchester instead of in a tent.”

  “All right, General. There is one other thing I’d like to ask you. A favor.”

  “I can’t deny my own nephew a favor the day I promote him, so ask away.”

  “I visited a friend today, a guy I knew back in Boston. He’s with one of the colored tank destroyer battalions, over by Hungerford.”

  “Does he want a transfer to a white outfi
t?” Uncle Ike lit a cigarette and looked at me with a hint of recrimination. He thought my friend was a white guy looking to get out of duty with a Negro unit.

  “No, that’s not the case, not at all. He’s a Negro, and proud to be in a combat unit. They’ve been training outside of Hungerford for some time now, and they’ve gotten to know the locals. The people in town seem to like them too.”

  “I know, I’ve heard it often enough. A lot of the English say our Negro troops are the most polite of the lot,” said Uncle Ike, releasing a plume of blue smoke.

  “Yes, sir. It’s just that they got word that Hungerford is going to be restricted to white troops on leave only. My friend’s unit won’t be able to go into town at all.”

  “William, this seems like a minor affair, are you sure you want me to get involved?”

  “General, when we met my friend yesterday, the pubs in town had been raided by white GIs. They smashed every glass in the place so when they went on leave in Hungerford they wouldn’t have to drink from the same glass a Negro had.”

  “Damn it,” Uncle Ike said, crushing out his cigarette. “Hungerford, you say? What’s the unit?”

  “The Six-Sevententh Tank Destroyer Battalion.”

  “Consider it done, William. I have a war to win, and I can’t afford to get distracted by the rights and wrongs of race issues, but some things just aren’t right. Hell’s bells!” He signaled Mattie, who made a quick note and went to a telephone. Sometimes being the nephew of the Supreme Commander was a very useful thing.

  Well, “nephew” wasn’t exactly the right word. We were cousins of a sort, related through my mother’s side and Mamie Doud’s family, but I’d hardly known him before the war. It was my mom who had come up with the idea to get me assigned to his staff in Washington, DC. That was back before anyone else had even heard of Dwight David Eisenhower, when he was working in the War Plans Department in the nation’s capital. Just the right assignment for a young Irish-American ex-policeman to sit out the war, or so my mother thought. We’d all thought it was a grand idea, having given up one Boyle in the previous war for the British Empire, as it was viewed in my household. Not to mention a lot of others in South Boston, where the Irish Republican Army and the fight against the British rule in our homeland was the one true faith.