Songbird Under a German Moon

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Songbird
UNDER A
GERMAN MOON

 

TRICIA
GOYER

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Summerside Press™

Minneapolis 55438

www.summersidepress.com

Songbird under a German Moon

© 2010 by Tricia Goyer

ISBN 978-1-935416-68-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Scripture references are from the following sources:

The Holy Bible, King James Version (KJV).

All characters are fictional. Any resemblances to actual people are purely coincidental.

Cover and interior design by Müllerhaus Publishing Group

www.mullerhaus.net
.

Summerside Press™ is an inspirational publisher offering fresh, irresistible books to uplift the heart and engage the mind.

Printed in USA.

To my mom, Linda Martin.

Thank you for being the first to believe in me.

Many thanks to my wonderful husband, John, for being my biggest fan, my loudest supporter, and my rock. And to my kids, Cory, Leslie, and Nathan, who give my life so much joy. And my grandma who is the best laundry fairy ever! Thank you to Colleen Coble and Cara Putman for brainstorming with me. Your ideas made this book so fun to write! Also, thanks to my assistant Amy Lathrop and my friends Cara Putman and Jim Thompson for being great readers. Your comments rocked!

Thank you to Susan Downs, my awesome editor, for helping me and encouraging me in so many ways. This story wouldn't be half as good without your input. Also, Ellen Tarver for your great editorial advice, too!

Finally, special thanks to Janet Grant for being an encouraging agent and mentor. I appreciate you!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We can stand affliction better than we can
prosperity, for in prosperity we forget God.
~Dwight L. Moody

Dierk scanned the set, taking in every element with a master's eye. Every prop had to be perfectly in place—and it was almost so. The costumes hung with care, waiting for those who would take part in the
Festspielhaus
—Festival House's—final number. The blue and gold gown for Irene, the gold flowing robe for Rienzi's prayer, the white silk dresses for the Messengers of Peace.

The room was dark—hidden in the recesses and tucked behind the stage where the greatest singers in history had brought Richard Wagner's works to life. But Dierk knew it wouldn't remain hidden for long. At the right moment, all would be known. The final act would play.

A poster of the accursed Fuehrer hung on the wall. Dierk rose, paced the room, and then paused. Bending down, he slipped the knife from his ankle sheath. Then he stood. With a flip of his wrist, the knife flew from his hand, striking through Hitler's temple and into the wall with a thud. Dierk's greatest regret was that he hadn't personally killed the Fuehrer when he'd had the opportunity. After all, it was Hitler who'd cost him so much—all Dierk cared about.

Hitler had taken Richard Wagner's work and twisted the message and the music to carry out his own dark plot. Hitler had used Wagner's
music in rallies. He'd rewarded Nazi officers with tickets to Wagner's operas. Dierk didn't know which was worse, that the officers cared so little about the great works or that the revered music had rewarded them for killing the innocent along with the guilty.
So many innocent souls.

As much as Dierk hated how Hitler had used the Festspielhaus for his own gain, at least it had been Wagner's music that had played. Now the Americans, who knew nothing of Wagner—his message or his genius—used the stage for their irreverent song and dance. A disgrace! Anger boiled in Dierk's chest. He must do something to stop them. Who knew how many “singers” and “dancers” would continue to arrive.

They need a warning. They must understand—

As those who'd gone before him, it was now his part to keep Wagner's memory strong—and to destroy those who dared pollute the legacy of such a visionary.

Dierk released a low sigh. His heart ached with the knowledge that destruction and death remained the only way to remind the world of what was lost. If only there were a simpler path. But as Wagner had taught in
Der Ring des Nibelungen,
love and power could not live together.

Now that the war was over, Dierk knew he could choose a new life, a new home. His skills in the opera would be sought after—by those whose minds turned away from war to musical theater once again. But Dierk would not claim such power. Instead, he had chosen love—his love for Wagner. His decision was final.

Footsteps sounded in the hallway on the other side of the wall,
followed by the flutter of women's laughter. The singers had arrived—or those who claimed to be singers. They would never match the skill of operatic stars. They could never perform an opera.

Dierk stalked across the room, removing the knife from Hitler's photo and slipping it back into its sheath. He'd be back later. When no one would bother him. No one would see.

All would know of this place, this set, soon enough. At the good and proper time, their final parts would be revealed. The final song would be sung.

Thump, thump, thump-thump.

Twenty-year-old Betty Lake gripped her bench seat's front edge, sure the airplane's engine shouldn't sound like that. To her ear, the repeating thrums sounded like a drummer's tempo, warming up for a night of big band. But unlike the drummer's tempo, the thumping didn't stir excitement in its audience's faces.

Sudden silence replaced the joking and laughing of the few dozen soldiers seated around her. The fearful gaze of the soldier sitting across from Betty confirmed her guess. The airplane was having problems. A shudder moved through her even more pronounced than that of the plane.

The twin engine C-47 was a paratrooper transport, certainly not a luxury airliner. Forty passengers sat facing one another against the fuselage on long benches attached to the airframe, with only lumpy, hard-packed parachutes for cushioning. The unheated air nipped at Betty's nose.

That parachute better stay right here—under my rump where it belongs,
she thought as the airplane lurched in the air, causing her stomach to drop. She was the only female aboard the utilitarian aircraft. From the attention of the guys as she boarded, Betty could tell
they appreciated the company of an American gal. She'd tried to pretend she wasn't afraid, wasn't cold, wasn't tired, but soon the shallow reserves she'd been drawing from would surely run dry. She tightened her jaw and urged herself to stay strong, despite the engine's continued thumping.
Come on, you can make it. Keep chugging along.
She patted the bare aluminum that was her seat.

Just a few months ago, this transport plane ferried soldiers across the English Channel, depositing them to fight on the front lines. The men did their jobs—or died trying—and now she was heading deep into Germany on a different mission—to sing for the remaining soldiers on Occupation Duty. To bring a few moments of joy to the GIs who dreamed of returning home, but instead had to guard the defeated people of a ravaged land.

Trying for a calming deep breath, Betty nearly choked on the odor of fuel, of soldiers' bodies that had been too long without a bath, and on something else—fear. She could imagine the soldiers' thoughts—
I didn't survive the war to die in a transport plane accident.
And she couldn't imagine coming this far and not singing.

It wasn't that she didn't understand the dangers before setting out. Dozens of performers had died “doing their part.” Some in airplane accidents, some hit by enemy fire, and others who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Still, it hadn't stopped her from coming. Singing for the soldiers was all Betty had wanted since she'd first heard of USO singers and comedians, acts like The Andrews Sisters and Bob Hope. When she'd first seen clips of their performances on the newsreels—entertaining troops, bringing smiles to soldiers' faces, and delivering the good
ol' USA to soldiers' foxholes—she daydreamed about being one of them.