Chapter 83

Wading through the teeming hotel lobby, I’m desperate to flee, yearning to retreat to the cave of my room. But Lenora and Evelien are nowhere in sight. I told them I wouldn’t be long.

How far did they go? Why aren’t they back?

“Fenna.”

I trace the voice through the surrounding chatter, only to find Wing Commander Moretti. He boasts his usual warm smile, a marked contrast to our run-in at the airfield.

“I was so pleased this morning to hear you’ve returned. In fact, I had planned to visit you shortly.” As if remembering a key reason, he removes his service cap in a motion of paying respects, his expression leveling. “I was quite sorry, of course, to learn of—”

“Don’t say it.” The command is instinctive. A means of self-preservation. Given the secrecy of Arie’s file, Moretti doubtfully knows enough to plunge into details. But even a blanket consolation will nudge me toward a cliff, of which already I’m teetering on the edge. I explain in bare terms, “I just want all of this behind me.”

He nods thoughtfully. “And ‘this’ includes England, I presume?”

“Soon, I hope.”

“Will I at least see you at HQ until then?”

I shake my head. “I’m done with that as well.”

A beat passes. “I see.”

I’m unsure if the disappointment in his face stems from our paths dividing or from a judgment over my quitting, prodding me to justify. “Honestly, I just can’t imagine I’d provide any real worth to anyone here.”

“Well, I for one would argue that.” He issues a tight smile. “Look about.”

Impatient, I merely wait for his point.

“I said to look.” His fatherly nature, more overt than ever, makes my behavior seem that of a stubborn teenager. Yielding, I survey the lobby filled with servicemen of all stripes. Many bear the gauntness of POWs. Some lean on canes. Others wear bandages and slings. And yet the beaming smiles among those greeting one another are somehow their most prominent features.

Moretti adds, “Nearly every chap in this room managed to survive by evading the Jerries and escaping Nazi territory. Do you think they accomplished that on their bloody own?”

The scene should make me feel proud that even in a small way I might have contributed to bringing these sons and fathers and husbands home. Instead, an ugly selfishness takes hold. For in a blink, I’d trade the entire group of them for one specific soldier, and the impossibility of that makes me want to scream.

Struggling to keep my composure, I stammer, “I…should go.” As much for Moretti’s sake as mine. I scan the entry in search of Lenora.