Songbird Under a German Moon Read online

  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.

  DEDICATION

  To my mom, Linda Martin.

  Thank you for being the first to believe in me.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  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

  PROLOGUE

  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.

  CHAPTER ONE

  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 airp
lane 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.

  I can’t die now. I should get to sing at least one song—and I’d rather not have that song be in the angels’ choir, if I can help it.

  The thumping became a roar. Betty sat erect and cocked her ear. The shake, shimmy, and rumble of the airplane made her wonder how long it would hold together. Her hands searched for the armrest that wasn’t there and found the knee of the soldier seated next to her instead. She quickly pulled her hand away and averted her gaze from the soldier’s smile.

  “It’s okay, dollface. You can cling to me for courage,” declared the red-haired, freckle-faced man.

  “I don’t believe my mother would approve, sir. And if this plane goes down, it will do so with my good reputation intact.” Betty winked, trying to make light of the situation. Trying to calm the pounding of her heart.

  The chuckle of the redheaded soldier, mixed with the hoots of others near enough to hear her remark, told Betty her words did as she intended. She made them smile and found herself smiling too.

  “So tell me”—She turned her head and looked directly into the soldier’s eyes—“do you have a girl waiting at home?”

  The soldier’s cheeks reddened. “Well, no one is waiting. I wish there was…”

  “From the way you say that, it sounds like you’re thinking of someone special? Maybe someone you’ve been fancy on for a while?”

  “How did you know? Are you a mind reader?” His eyes widened.

  “No—not quite. I just have a way of getting people to open up to me, that’s all. My mother says it’s a gift. My father says I need to stop butting into other peoples’ business, but I can’t help caring.” She lifted an eyebrow. “So don’t try to hide the truth. There is a girl you care deeply for, isn’t there?”

  “Yes, I, uh, suppose there is. Her parents live two houses down from my parents’ place. We sort of grew up together.” Then he leaned closer. “I’ve never told anyone this before, but I’ve been thinking about writing her—”

  “You should.” Betty nodded. “Growing up on the same street, I’m sure you’ll have plenty to talk about.” She laughed. “And you no doubt already know her address.”

  “Yeah—right.” He looked away, lifting his gaze as if the words were already forming in his mind.

  The airplane shimmied some more, and she saw the soldier’s smile fade just slightly.

  She couldn’t do anything about that engine, but maybe she could lighten the mood. If I can catch my breath first. After all, her official job as a USO singer was that of a morale booster—she just hadn’t realized how soon morale would need to be boosted.

  An explosion shook the plane. Betty winced, grabbing the hand of the same redheaded soldier. Her stomach jolted, and she swallowed hard against the rising nausea. This time he didn’t say anything, but just squeezed her hand lightly as if to say, I’ll do what I can to protect you.

  One of the guys from down near the tail of the plane—a tall, handsome soldier with light brown hair and a chiseled face—rose and hurried toward the cockpit. Betty supposed he was another pilot, uneasy with the idea of sitting back and waiting to see what happened. He moved through the fuselage with a John Wayne swagger, which she was sure was due to the aircraft’s swaying and rocking. As he passed her, he looked down and offered a nervous smile. She hoped the smile meant things would be under control soon. She didn’t want to think of the alternative.

  They were twenty minutes away from Nuremberg, Germany. Twenty minutes—then an hour-long drive away from her new life and new career in Bayreuth. No, it was more than a career, it was a dream.

  “Don’t worry, miss,” an officer seated across from her said as he leaned forward. “Sounds like a little engine trouble—nothing these pilots haven’t handled before.”

  Letting go of her “friend’s” hand, Betty brushed hair from her eyes, where it had fallen during the plane’s shimmying. “Thank you, sir. I’m not worried. If these pilots survived Nazi fighter planes and ground artillery, surely they’re not gonna let one little ol’ engine stop them.” She curled her lips into a smile, hoping her grin looked half as confident as her words sounded. In her old job, she’d seen these planes on the production line. She’d spent two days training to work on them before she was given a job that better fitted her skills—singing at the airplane factory’s canteen.

  Betty dared to glance out the plane’s window at the white clouds scattered throughout the sky, thinking of the countless newsreels she’d watched at the Paramount’s Saturday matinees. Her mind replayed the black and white images of bombers filling the air as they flew over Germany. Now, unbelievably, she was flying the same route. It was a miracle that she’d come this far, and no doubt it would take a miracle to get them the rest of the way.

  Her daddy had said only Hollywood-type girls got picked for the USO, not recent high-school graduates with no formal training and only canteen singing on their resumes. Her older brother had told her the dream was impossible. Didn’t he know that was the last thing he should have said? More than once Bobby’d tried to squelch her dreams, and more than once she’d proven him wrong. That’s why, if anything would get them back on the ground safely, it would be the wings of this plane and her petitions to a faithful God.

  She said a quick prayer and then scanned the pasty-faced passengers. Her knee jiggled like it always did when she felt her nerves turning her stomach into knots, and soon her lips began to move with the song “Coming in on a Wing and a Prayer” running through her head.

  “Though there’s one motor gone, we can still carry on.” She sang it once, low enough for only her seatmate to hear. But then she repeated it. Soon everyone sang along.

  The thumping, the underlying backbeat to the airplane’s loud roaring, accompanied their song perfectly.

  Even though Army Air Corps photographer Frank Witt had been seated in the fuselage, and even though he hadn’t taken one day of flight school in his life, he knew something was wrong as soon as the C-47 climbed out after their last fuel stop.

  Please Lord, let us make it there safely. After what happened to Lily— Frank let the thought fade. He couldn’t think about losing his sister in a flying accident without the pain cutting deep to his soul. Ever since her death a year ago, he’d thought more of his own life. He wanted it to count. He wanted his assignment on earth to matter. His photographs mattered—but his undercover work mattered more. He just hoped his parents wouldn’t lose another child. Although the war in Europe was done, there were many factions who still fought for their place, their power, in the new world. Factions that, no doubt, would rejoice if this plane crashed here and now.

  When the Gooney Bird had finally reached its assigned cruising altitude, the vibration, which had been constant, changed noticeably as the engine’s speed changed, causing a continuous rise and fall of the engine’s roar. His guess was the copilot was working with the mixture controls, looking for the sweet spot where the 1000-hp Pratt & Whitney Twin Row Wasp engines sounded best and the instruments showed normal. These engines were considered bulletproof, and in-flight problems were rare. Wouldn’t you know we’d be the ones to get the trouble—and on the last leg of the flight.

  Before take-off, Frank had been shooting the breeze with the pilot and co-pilot when the ground crew had warned them the area had received four inches of rain overnight and there was concern that water had managed to find its way into the high-octane fuel storage tanks. Frank guessed that was the problem now. At least he hoped it was. He couldn’t help but think back to a few of his other flig
hts, when engine trouble had nothing to do with Mother Nature.

  His mind raced as he considered those who still wished him dead. There were too many to count—most of whom weren’t locked up in Nuremberg awaiting trial. The men and women Frank had ticked off were those who drew as little attention to themselves as possible, just as he had done during the war. Even his closest friends and co-workers didn’t understand that the photos he took on bombing runs meant little compared to the ones he took “off duty,” during his tours around the English countryside and through London’s busy streets. He’d foiled a sufficient number of enemy plots to cause someone to want to see him crash and burn. Frank just hoped that today’s trouble had nothing to do with him, especially since the aircraft carried the prettiest girl he’d ever seen, done up in her perfectly fitted USO jacket and skirt.

  A loud explosion shook the aircraft, and the cabin brightened as belching flames shot past the right-side windows. Frank glanced around and noticed the faces of the others losing the little color they’d maintained.

  Without hesitation, he rose and hurried to the cockpit, feeling as if he were walking the deck of a storm-tossed ship. He stepped into the cockpit doorway, interrupting the co-pilot’s words. When they acknowledged his presence, Frank stepped inside and stooped down close enough to the very busy pilots to converse with them.

  “Captain, the starboard engine blew a cylinder.” The co-pilot’s anxious breath sounded hollow. “The cowling is ripped open, and we have flames. I’m killing the fuel supply to that engine.”

  “Got it.” Dewey, the pilot, nodded, his gaze intent on the gauges. “Increase mixture to the port engine to keep it cool, open the cowl flaps, and maintain full throttle. But watch the temps.”