Songbird Under a German Moon (18 page)

“I know what my vote is,” Betty said, slipping on her jacket. “I think we should go check on Kat. Maybe she needs some company—a shoulder to cry on. Besides, it's her last night. We should be around to tell her our good-byes.”

“Do you really think so, Betty?” Dolly took her elbow and held it. “It's Kat we're talking about. She likes time alone. She'd probably think we're invading her privacy.”

“Yeah—if you think she'll want us to cry with her, you don't know Kat very well, kid,” Irene added. “She only lets people get so close. She's a real star, and she knows it.”

“I don't know. She was very kind to me my first night here. Very open. We lay on our beds and talked about a lot of things.”

“And last night?” Irene asked.

“Last night she was really different,” Betty admitted. “You're also probably right about her not needing us there—or wanting us there—but it doesn't seem right, our going to the canteen and her being home alone. Maybe we can cut out early.”

“Okay, agreed.” Irene wrapped an arm around Betty's shoulders. “We'll try not to stay out too long.”

Betty nodded and followed everyone outside. It wasn't until she spotted Frank, standing at the bottom of the stairs, with a wide smile and bright eyes, that Betty remembered—seeing him in the rain, their brief talk, their promise to talk further. She forced a smile. “Hey, Frank.” The others continued on, but Irene remained at her side.

“Hi, Betty, that was a great show tonight. I really liked your songs.”

“Thanks. That last one was supposed to be Kat's song—her last solo.”

“What's wrong with Kat? Is she okay?”

Betty felt Irene touch her elbow.

“Um, Kat—she was upset about leaving. Overwhelmed with emotion—she really doesn't want to head back and do that next movie.” Even as she said the words, Betty felt a heaviness pressing upon her chest. More than anything, she wanted to tell Frank the truth, but she also knew what Mickey had said.

Frank's eyes reflected concern. “That's too bad. I'm sorry. Is she going to be okay?”

“Yes, I think so.”

Frank looked to Irene, obviously confused that she was hanging around. “So are we still going to talk tonight?”

“Betty said she's coming to the canteen with us.” Irene wrapped her arm around Betty's. “Right, Betty?”

“Just for a little while,” Betty said. “Do you want to come with us?”

Frank's eyes studied hers for a moment, and then he offered a soft smile. “Yeah, sure, okay. Do you want to ride with me, Betty? I have my own MP—a nice guy named Howard—and jeep tonight.” He winked.

“Every soldier needs his own MP,” Betty quipped.

Twenty minutes later, Frank and Betty were seated at a round table in the soldiers' canteen with the other USO singers and dancers, some of the band members, and a few soldiers. A phonograph played Benny Goodman, and around the room, more soldiers sat in small clusters while a few German women served drinks.

Betty looked around the table. From the look on everyone's faces it was clear that even though they were pretending that everything was the same as yesterday, nothing was the same. For Kat, nothing would ever be the same again without Edward.

“Would you like something to drink?” Frank touched her hand.

“A cup of coffee, please.”

“Sure.” He stood and walked across the room to the small counter to place the order.

“So, I was walking back from town today, and I got caught in the rain,” Betty said, trying to help the mood around the table. “You should have seen me by the time I got back to the Festspielhaus. I was a mess. Tell them, Irene, what my hair looked like.”

“It was a mess all right. Slicking it all back was the only thing I could do with it.”

“Your hair looks good like that.” Billy nodded. “You're brave, Betty, for going down there.”

“Brave?” She palmed her hair, making sure every strand was still in place.

“I don't like hanging out around town too often.” Billy flashed a knowing look around the table. “There are too many sad people. They come, they go. Every day there's a new group. I don't like seeing them without homes, without hopes. If anyone needs a concert to help get their minds off things, it's them. And seeing all those bombed-out buildings really puts me in a sober mood.”

“Are you saying you don't like what had to be done?” Frank approached. He placed a mug of black, steaming coffee in front of Betty. “I know a lot of guys who risked their lives, and some who died, on those missions.”

“I'm not sorry that we had to do that. We were out to win a war, right?” Billy shook his head. “But I can't be glad, either. I'm human. Sad stuff makes me sad. I just hope we can all forgive and forget.”

“I don't know how I could forget. I was on those front lines,” one soldier commented. “I can tell you that I cheered for every one of our planes flying overhead. I knew that the harder they hit, the easier things would be for me—although in the end things weren't easy.”

“Tell these folks about what you saw in Berlin,” the soldier's buddy commented.

“Berlin?” Frank leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. “When was that?”

It pleased Betty to see Frank's interest in her friends, in the conversation.
He really cares.
She scooted closer to him.

“Just last month,” the soldier continued, “my friend and I wanted to check out the Russian zone, and, boy, were we in for a surprise. While I
was there I gave my watch to an English-speaking Russian commander, and he gave me a tour of Hitler's personal air-raid shelter.”

“You did what?” Dolly gasped. She patted her chest as if trying to still her racing heart. “You went where?”

“You're joking, right?” Irene piped in.

Betty glanced at Frank, waiting for him to crack a smile. She was sure this guy was joking, and she was waiting for someone to make him admit it.
Surely you can't be serious, buddy.

“So what did you see?” Frank asked.

“Well, first of all, I couldn't believe it was right there, in the middle of town. It was just a few hundred yards from the Chancellery in a garden. My friend and I followed the Russian down a hundred steps—or so it seemed. And when we got inside it was like stepping into a mansion or something. There were kitchens—more than one—a huge library, servant quarters, and a room for Hitler's girlfriend.”

“Did you go into the room where Hitler—you know—” Irene ran a finger across her throat.

“No. The Russian didn't show me that, and I didn't ask. I did learn something there, though, something that's tied to this place. Did you know that when Hitler killed himself, one of the Wagner operas—an original—was in his possession?”

“Really?” Betty's brow furrowed. “Which one?”

“
Rienzi
.”

Betty felt chills travel up and down her arms. “Well, I suppose that makes sense.”

“Do you know that opera, Betty?”

“I don't know it, but I've heard of it before. I heard about how Hitler
first got his ideas for ‘German freedom,' if that's what you want to call it, after listening to that opera. I heard about how he used the music from it for his rallies and such.”

Betty didn't tell them that she'd heard all this from a driver. She didn't tell them that before coming over here she didn't know a place called Bayreuth existed, or that Wagner's music was such a big deal to Hitler.

“Did you sing in the opera, Betty? Have you sung professionally before?” Billy asked.

“I sang at the Douglas factory—at the Santa Monica canteen, actually.”

Eyebrows lifted as the other singers glanced at each other. She could read on their faces that being a canteen singer did not impress them. She thought about asking where they'd all sung before their stint in the USO, but she was almost afraid to know. She hadn't thought much about her musical experience—or lack of it. From the looks on their faces, it mattered more to them than she realized.

“Sounds swell,” Dolly said.

“Sounds easy to me.” Billy rested his chin on his hand. “Sounds easier than traipsing all over Europe in the middle of a war, like us.”

“Well, I did other work in the canteen too. It wasn't just about the singing. I helped wherever I was needed. It wasn't that easy—we'd get an express telegraph saying three hundred men were on their way. After that, you should have seen the blur of cotton aprons as we fixed up sandwiches and orange squeezers—the guys always appreciated those on a hot day.”

Laughter burst out at her table and the sound carried around the room. Other soldiers quieted and looked their direction. They all eyed
Betty as if they wondered what was so funny. Betty sat back in her seat, feeling heat rise to her cheeks and wondering if she'd already turned three shades of pink. Her throat felt tight and she felt like a little girl sitting at a table with professionals. She glanced over at Frank. His jaw was tight and anger flashed in his eyes. Yet he didn't speak. She could tell he was holding back his words, which she appreciated. After all, she had to work with these people.

“Sweetheart.” Irene reached across the table and patted Betty's hand. “There were times we dodged bombs and sang in hospital wards where injured men were contemplating how to write their girls back home and tell them they'd be returning minus a limb or an eye. I don't think you can understand how hard it really was unless you were here.”

“Yes, but I don't think you understand what things were like back in the States either.” Betty jutted her chin. “It's not like everyone back home wasn't sacrificing and working their hardest for the war effort—everyone back there made this win possible too. Do you know that some women—like my mom—worked twelve hours every night and then took care of their homes, their families, and tended their Victory gardens during the day?” Betty paused, seeing that not only the eyes of everyone at the table were on her, but also others from around the room. “I'm sorry, I don't mean to be disrespectful, but—things were hard there too.”

“She's right.” Frank spoke up from beside her. His voice trembled slightly, as he controlled his tone. “Everyone did their part. We all worked together to win this war.”

“If anyone should know how hard things were here, Frank, it's
you,” Billy said. “You have the pictures to prove it. I knew I recognized your name when Mickey introduced you yesterday. I went over to headquarters and checked out some old copies of
Stars and Stripes
and saw your photos. It was sad to hear what happened to the Klassy Lassy.”

Betty glanced at him, wondering what Billy was talking about. She'd have to ask Frank later. They had
many
things to talk about.

“It was painful, I'll admit that. But just because one person's experience was hard doesn't make another's situation any less difficult.” Then Frank smiled and turned to her. “Betty, you look a little tired. I'd be happy to give you a ride back to your quarters when you're finished here.”

“Yes, I'd like that.” She wiped her face and took another sip from her coffee.

Frank stood.

“But…” She glanced at him. “I need to talk to Irene about something first. It will only take a minute.”

“No hurries. I'll be waiting outside. It's a little stuffy in here.” He ran his finger under his shirt collar. Then, without a word to anyone else at the table, he turned and strode away.

“Gee, talk about Mr. Unsocial. Did it seem to you like he was trying to cut our party short?” Dolly asked.

“Maybe he has a lot on his mind—you know, stuff that happened in the war.” Billy warmed to his subject like a reporter delivering the news. “I read a little about him in the
Stars and Stripes
. There was a short bio to go with his photos. The article said he lost a sister back in the States. She was one of those WASPs and crashed her plane. Then—well, I don't want to be one who spreads rumors.”

“What? What happened?” Dolly prodded, scooting her chair closer to Billy's.

Betty felt her stomach tightening, as if someone were twisting it into knots. She didn't like this. Didn't like how they were talking about Frank now that he was out of earshot, but she had to admit she wanted to know.

Maybe I'm rushing into things too quickly. Frank wanted to talk about us spending more time together, but I didn't even know he had a sister—or that he lost her. I know nothing, in fact. Nothing except that I think he's handsome and kind.
Surely a relationship had to be based on more than that.

“Well, the article was about the loss of a whole B-17 crew,” Billy said. “Although, as a photographer, Frank wasn't assigned to a crew, this was the crew he flew with most of the time.”

“The Klassy Lassy,” Betty said. “Was he with them? Was he the only one who made it out?”

“No, nothing like that. It was his plain luck, really. The article said Frank had leave coming or something like that. He was supposed to go up that day with the bombing crew—to photograph their run. The pilot—his good friend—told him to sit this one out. If he didn't take the leave, he'd lose it. The paper said the crew never made it back. Their B-17 crash-landed. No one saw any chutes. Ten men gone, just like that. Frank missed the right flight.”

“How sad. No wonder he seems reserved and withdrawn,” Irene pouted.

Betty pressed her fingers to her temples and a sharp pain shot
across her forehead. “He's not always like that,” she spouted. “And even if he was, do you blame him?”

“No, I don't blame him, especially since he's lost all credibility as a photographer,” Billy added.

“What do you mean?” Another shooting pain hit Betty's forehead.

“I mean just three months ago he was taking photos of battles and concentration camps, and now it's of showgirls and jazz bands. Got to be a gut punch to one's ego.”