Eli felt his eyes pop at Bebe’s angry words. Clovis reached out to take Bebe in her arms. “He’s not coming,” she blubbered. “He’s not coming to Daddy’s funeral.”
Sol Rosen’s funeral wasn’t just a funeral, it was an event. Everyone in Hollywood, down to the last cameraman and script girl, attended the graveside service. Bebe found herself listening to the rabbi’s eulogy, wondering where he’d come by his information and all the kind words and outright lies he was saying. From beneath her veil she could see others wondering the same thing. “Your father wrote his own eulogy himself several years ago,” Clovis blurted out suddenly as if reading her mind.
Bebe, Clovis, and Eli were the last to leave the cemetery. “I feel as if I should say something, do something,” Bebe said softly.
Eli shook his head. “I wish he’d loved me. I loved him.”
“I wish I’d loved him more,” Bebe said.
“I loved him enough for all of us,” Clovis muttered. “It’s true,” she said defiantly as they looked at her. “He loved you, Eli, he just couldn’t show it. He thought it wasn’t masculine to show his feelings for a son. You have to believe me. It’s the truth.”
God would forgive her this little lie, and so would Sol.
Chapter Seven
Daniel Bishop stepped foot onto English soil, his heart thrumming wildly about in his chest. This, the first leg of his journey, was over, and he was still alive, but he was far from his final objective and had no way of knowing how much longer it would take to reach that final objective. Someone had said they were in Plymouth, but the Brits were a secretive lot, and when he’d questioned the man who seemed to be his guide, he’d just shook his head and said, “Later,” then called him a bloody fool for leaving the safety of America to come on a wild goose chase. In the end Daniel had followed the man blindly through the driving rain to the metal airplane hangar where he was now sitting, waiting for someone in authority to tell him what his next move would be.
Daniel closed his eyes and did his best to focus on a map of England and France. Plymouth, he thought, was at the southern tip of England on the English Channel and directly across from Cherbourg, and directly southwest of Cherbourg was Brest, a true deep-water harbor that was mined by the Germans.
Angry sounds of dissension bounced off the tin walls of the hangar. Obviously the men weren’t happy with his presence and didn’t want the responsibility of crossing him over to French soil. And he didn’t blame them. What the hell was he doing here? Patience, he told himself. An hour later he was still telling himself to be patient when the discussion became more heated. The group’s words carried clearly to him.
“The old man gave the order himself, so we can’t ignore it. Bear in mind, all of you, it’s an order and not a request. When the prime minister says jump, lads, we jump. The best thing as I see it,” announced the speaker with the loud voice, “is to draw lots. Short stick takes him over.”
Daniel listened for what he was sure would be more muttered curses, but the little group grew strangely silent. His stomach heaved when a short, stocky man with a thick growth of beard approached him. “We’ll go now.”
“Now! But it’s storming outside,” Daniel protested.
“Exactly. Put this slicker on, follow me, and try not to open your mouth again until I dump you into the hands of the French Resistance.”
Daniel did as instructed. “How are we going to cross the Channel if it’s mined?”
The bearded man turned to him. “We aren’t crossing the Channel because it’s too dangerous. I have a wife and three children to think of, so we’re going out to the ocean and head due south. Those important friends of yours that know the prime minister said you wanted to go to Marseilles, so I’m going to drop you off at Bayonne; if we’re lucky, someone will meet you at Saint-Jean-de-Luz and take you the rest of the way. It won’t do to ask me any more questions because that’s all I know.”
It was a garbage scow, Daniel was sure of it. Minutes later his suspicion was confirmed when the howling wind drove the stench of rotting garbage past his nose. He could see the wisdom of using the storm as a cover; if they were stopped the scow’s captain could say he was blown off course. But the chances of that would be dim, he thought. Even Germans liked their comfort.
The scow, sturdy as it was, was no match for the storm they were sailing into. Rain sluiced downward, streaming over Daniel and the captain as waves strained upward to meet the onslaught from above. It seemed to Daniel that he was immersed in water from head to toe. Desperately he fought for toeholds that didn’t exist, used his hands that were now raw and bleeding from hanging on to the rope the captain tossed him.
Twenty minutes into the trip found Daniel violently ill, the contents of his stomach spewing onto the slippery deck. He tried to think of pleasant things, safe things, to keep his sanity as the scow pitched forward, then sideways, always ending with what seemed like tons of water pouring over him. What time was it in Washington or California? His brain refused to function when he tried to calculate. No sane person would go through what he was going through, regardless of who owed who what. There was every possibility that he wouldn’t even find Mickey.
Reuben…What was Reuben doing now? Most likely on his way to Washington to find out where he was. Of his two friends Rocky and Jerry, Rocky would be the one to give in to Reuben and tell all he knew. Reuben would gnash his teeth, stomp his feet, curse, bellow, and then calm down. Then it would all flood back to him, and the reason behind this trip would be clear.
Daniel found himself wondering if he would die trying to help Mickey. Probably not, since he still had a good many things to do in his life. God always seemed to listen to him when he begged for something. He hoped He was listening now.
Night crawled into day and then into night again with no letup from the storm. Daniel craved dry land and sleep, both of which were impossible. “Tie the rope around your waist, it will free your hands,” the captain called. It seemed a simple order until Daniel tried to knot the rope with his raw, bleeding hands. Finally he gave up and resumed holding the rope as he’d been doing.
“You Yanks are a prissy lot, and the prime minister thinks you’re going to be our salvation. Bull turds!” the captain bellowed.
“We’ll save your asses because you Brits don’t have the sense to do it yourself,” Daniel shouted. “Go ahead, tell me to shut up, see if I listen.”
“Feisty, aren’t we. Who’s saving your ass now, Yank?” the captain bellowed a second time. “I haven’t met a Yank yet who didn’t cry in his beer.”
“I don’t drink beer, and I don’t know any American who cries in his beer. We’re on your side, you asshole!”
“What are you, some kind of crusader?” the captain said, giving the wheel a vicious tug.
Daniel gasped and sputtered and almost lost his hold on the ropes when a ten-foot-high wave slapped him full in the face. “I’m a lawyer,” he groaned.
“A blimey solicitor getting fat off other people’s misery,” the captain snarled. Daniel refused to be baited or to dignify the man’s remarks with one of his own. He was a damn good lawyer, and no one was going to take that away from him.
“Won’t be long now,” the captain called cheerily.
Stuff