Barnstorm (19 page)

“That’s it?”

“Yep.”

“What’s in the pouch?”

“Mimeographed underground newspaper.”

“What’s a mimeograph?” Craig asks.

“Heck if I know, we’ll Google it, later.”

“Let’s go home now,” Craig suggests.

“That woman is counting on us.”

“That woman? What do you mean, that woman?”

“Agneau.”

“Luke, you damn well know what I mean.”

“It can’t be,” Luke insists.

“I don’t speak French, but I’ll tell you what. It’s 1944. Before D-Day. That woman is Grandma Yvette!”

“I know,” admits Luke. He pulls the Zippo out of his pocket.

“Put it back. We gotta figure this out, before we try flickin’ that lighter again.”

Luke put the Zippo back in his pant pocket. “Let’s get to the village and then head to the woods. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

They shinny up telephone poles at the edge of the village. The night is greeted by a sliver of a new moon. Darkness covers their ornery deeds. Road signs pointing south are reversed to north. East becomes west. It’s like Halloween, but all tricks with no treats. The village is small, quiet. Even in the darkness Craig could tell the difference between a cobbler and a butcher. Just as he was laying the canvas pouch at the base of the baker’s well, car headlights blinded the Graham cousins.

“Geler! Haut les mains,” came the harsh, guttural command.

It didn’t take English, Luke’s French, or Craig’s Spanish to recognize German orders yelled by the black-uniformed Gestapo officer. The German SS Officer approaches the well and opens the canvas pouch, thumbs through a dozen copies of the latest Résistance propaganda newspaper, and smirks.

“Weiter!” He orders, with a gun in Luke’s back.

The small band of Gestapo SS troops march the Graham cousins to the village center, and push their backs against the courtyard gazebo. The German SS Officer snatches the silk map from Luke’s shirt pocket, ripping his shirt. He removes a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket, laughs, and offers the boys one last smoke. Craig initially declines, but follows Luke’s lead in taking a cigarette after he notices four German soldiers forming a firing squad. The German SS Officer lights his own cigarette and blows smoke in Luke’s face. As he proceeds to light Craig’s shaking cigarette, a quick breeze extinguishes his lighter. He flicks his German lighter again with no success.

Luke, slowly, reaches into his pant pocket and offers the Zippo to the German SS Officer. The Officer flicks the top open and inspects the gleaming chrome and U.S. Army Air Corp insignia. “Yankee!”

Luke and Craig make eye contact, touch shoulders, and lean in close to the accommodating German SS Officer. Smug in his arrogance, the Nazi spins the geared wheel as he reaches to light Luke’s cigarette. Sparks fly as lightning strikes the village gazebo.

Partially blinded and more expectant of returning to an attic in America, Craig knees the German Officer in the groin. Luke reaches into Grandpa’s trunk, retrieving the German bayonet relic. He plunges the bayonet into the neck of the Gestapo officer. Another burst of sparks and a puff of smoke reduces Herr Hendrik to ashes. Only his brass belt buckle and Grandpa’s Zippo remain. The belt buckle, a too-hot-to-handle souvenir, chars the attic floor beside Grandpa’s trunk as it spins to a stop. The Zippo lighter is once again nestled in Luke’s pant pocket.

Panting, short of breath, the two cousins fall to their knees. Craig touches the still smoldering belt buckle and jerks his hand back, reacting to the heat. Luke rises and sits in the rocking chair, shifting to retrieve the old pocket watch. He cups the watch in his hand, puzzled.

“How long ya think we were gone, Craig?”

Finally successful in picking up the warm belt buckle, “Oh, three, four hours,” Craig responds.

“Look at this,” Luke says as he hands the pocket watch to his cousin.

“Only two minutes?” Craig questions as he furls his brow. “And look at our clothes.”

“Dry, no dirt, no mud. Your shirt pocket isn’t torn,” Craig observes.

Patting his shirt pocket, Luke retrieves the silk map of France, placing it beside the ribbon-tied letters on the rocking chair. Retrieving Grandpa’s Zippo lighter from his pant pocket, he flips open the top.

“No!” Craig yells, as he cups his hands around Luke’s. “We’ve had enough adventure for one day.”

“What’s the racket up there?” Craig’s mother yells, her foot on the first attic step. “Don’t make me come up there.”

Typical of their quarterback, wide receiver second sense communication, the cousins make eye contact, confirming that they’d clean the attic mess up later. Luke places the lighter on the rocking chair as the boys prevent discovery and tumble down the steep stairway.

The afternoon returns to good food and a rehash of old Grandpa Graham stories. Luke and Craig avoid each other in fear of tipping their hand. They had no experience in how a killer of a Nazi Gestapo officer should behave or react to Résistance stories or Grandma Yvette’s retelling of how she first met Grandpa. Only Yvette, and now two of her great-grandsons had any first-hand knowledge of 1944 occupied France.

It is now that awkward time following a funeral – when to leave? No one wants to be the first to leave. Leaving last is no good either. Especially with a close-knit family, it would be hard to give Grandma Yvette that last hug before abandoning her to the loneliness of her Victorian house.

“I’m fine,” she smiles as the last of her children ease down the steps from her front porch.

“Love you, Granny,” seems particularly heartfelt as Craig and Luke accept the new widow’s French smooch on each cheek. A chill touches spines as they recall a younger Agneau sending them on their first WWII mission.

The tired, weary widow contemplates her first night in sixty-five years without her beloved Ben. The usual bedtime routine is history. Ben doesn’t put the last coffee cup in the dishwasher. Yvette returns twice to confirm that the front door is locked. Halfway up the stairs, she returns to turn off the living room lights. On her last pass through the darkened lower floor, she stops at the table displaying Ben’s Army medals and memorabilia. Her fingers grace the fabric of the folded American flag. Clutching it to her breast, she glances at the picture of her young Army Air Corps fly-boy. Tucking the flag under her arm, she limps up the second floor stairs.

Ready for bed, she notices that the attic door is ajar. Easing the door shut, a remnant of light seeps through the ill-fitting door jam. An involuntary whisper of “fichu” communicates her displeasure at one more task delaying her first night without spooning with Ben. She opens the door and turns off the attic light switch. Light still cascades down the steep stairway, eliciting a second “maudire.” This time, less involuntary and much less of a whisper.

The attic stairs had obviously been designed by an architect younger than ninety. Succumbing to the steep stairs, Yvette ascends to the third floor in more of a vertical crawl than upright. Folded flag still tucked under her arm, she meanders her way around junk she now voluntarily “damns” she should have pitched decades ago. Hand on the brass floor lamp’s knob, she gives a twist. The three-way bulb brightens. For the first time in ages, she sees Ben’s WWII Army trunk. Her breath momentarily stolen, she lowers, kneels beside the open trunk. As she sorts through the dust and memories, she places the folded flag in the trunk. Her legs fail her in her first attempt to rise. She steadies herself with a hand on the edge of the trunk. Not as steady as she would like, her hand slips into the trunk and comes to rest on the trunk bottom. As she extricates herself from falling into the trunk, she grabs at something soft. It is her beret.

Justifiably short of breath, Yvette kneels beside the old oak rocking chair. Gathering the objects blocking her derriere aside, she settles into the chair. A brief exhale and rock back and forth provides a respite. Her only objective had been to turn out the lights. She is now immersed in the 1944 French Résistance. Continuing a slow rock, she fingers the beret, brings it to her face and inhales the French countryside. The beret now cocked astride her silver-gray hair, she unfolds the silk map of a French village she had once called home. She lays her hands on the bundle of letters in her lap. Sliding the top letter free of its bowed ribbon, she reads sweet words written in a bygone century. A tear moistens her cheek as the letter drifts from a quaking hand to the attic floor. As she bends forward to pick up the letter, another object falls from her lap to the floor with a metallic ‘clink.’

The emotions of the day, the years, the decades pierce her heart. She returns the letter to its bundled home. She tucks the silk map under the sleeve of her blouse. She rocks forward and picks up Ben’s Zippo from the attic floor. A strange, yet comforting warmth soothes the aged stiffness in her fingers. Her heart races as she flips open the Zippo. The three-way bulb in the brass floor lamp dies, exhausted. Nimble fingers spin the Zippo wheel against the eager flint. Wrinkles fade. Lightning etches jagged shadows across the attic floor.

A bundle of ribboned letters is illuminated in an otherwise empty oak rocking chair that slowly comes to rest.

☁ ☁ ☁

“She looks great. Don’t you think she looks natural?” the elderly mourner queried.

Positive nods all around confirmed that Serge had once again performed magic. Tears flowed, a lifetime of stories competed with the gentle fragrance of lilacs and fresh-cut carnations. Serge stayed in the shadows and took no small measure of satisfaction in his craft. He indeed had turned the cranky widow Foster into a prom queen. Tomorrow she would be slowly nestled next to her beloved husband of fifty-seven years who would probably remark, “Damn, Ethel, you haven’t looked this good since 1957.”

In his early forties, Serge had left his family mortuary business in St. Petersburg in the able hands of his twin brother Dimitri. Serge’s emigration to Buffalo, New York was part of a larger plan of intrigue and, well, he kept most of his plans to himself. Only fellow mortician Dimitri knew the truth.

The scheme was Dimitri’s idea. His close connections to the newly empowered Russian mob, combined with Serge’s artistic skills resulted in a dozen small paydays. There had been no glitches. It was all so easy. The aging ethnic population in Buffalo produced a monthly supply of burial shipments back to Mother Russia. Serge would perform his cosmetic magic. A beautiful Buffalo memorial service would end with caviar, vodka, and dancing. The casket would be closed, crated, and shipped to Dimitri in St. Petersburg. The Panolov funeral home would Skype the internment in the family plot and local Buffalo mourners took final solace that grandma rested in eternal Russia. The old folks needed to be back in the U.S.S.R.

Only Serge and Dimitri knew that grandma’s body cavity harbored a treasure of diamonds, rubies, and U.S. greenbacks‒ all duty free. Russian mob money laundered from Serge through Dimitri. Business was booming. Grandma did indeed look, ‘oh so natural.’

When it was time for Gladys Pushkin’s service, Serge and Dimitri agreed to go for the mother lode. Gladys would deliver $2 million in cash.

Gladys was radiant, not easy for a Russian babushka corpse. Serge had performed another miracle. Her hands folded neatly on the peach knit suit that graced her tummy, only Serge knew what she was protecting. The service was lovely. Serge stayed in the shadows, pacing a little nervously. This casket was different. This shipment would be his last. He and Dimitri would retire and distance themselves from the mob. They would skim just enough of the $2 million to make it worth the risk.

As the last mourner left the Buffalo funeral parlor, Serge smiled at Gladys and stroked her cheek. “Safe travels, my dear,” he said as he deftly closed the casket lid. The catch of the lid clasps sent a brief chill down his spine as the ‘click’ was swallowed by the plush parlor carpet and soft brocade drapes. Serge turned out the lights one last time. Fred and Tom would crate the casket and drive Gladys to the airport in the morning.

Serge slept in. He dreamt of caviar, full-lipped Russian women, and how he and Dimitri would live the high life. Mid-afternoon, he stopped by the funeral home to confirm that Gladys was on her way to St. Petersburg. To his surprise, Fred was pushing a casket through the courtyard to the storage shed.

Puzzled, Serge inquired, “Isn’t that the Pushkin casket?”

“It was,” Fred responded.

“Was?”

“Yeah, the family changed their mind,” Fred said. “When they saw the shipping charges, they changed their mind.”

Still not fully comprehending, Serge asked, “Changed their mind? Where’s Tom?”

“Oh, Tom’s on his way to the airport with the Gladys Pushkin box. The family had her cremated this morning.”

☁ ☁ ☁

It took a little less than a year, 260 days to be exact, for the Walston Expedition to flip from Earth orbit via what’s known as the Hoeman Transfer Orbit to ease into the Martian orbit. A trip of 249 million miles. The voyage could have been as short as 150 days if NASA had dangerously loaded up on fuel. A precautionary rescue and supply vehicle had been launched immediately after the Walston Expedition deployment to orbit Mars during the planned exploration of the red planet. NASA had a ‘Plan B’ for even the most remote contingency.

Six astronauts, including a married couple, due to the planned Martian conception experiment, had successfully become Martians on October 1. There were no border agents to stamp their passports. No Native Americans to teach them how to fish, grow maize, or a sleek Pocahontas to lament the felling of a mighty sycamore. It had taken a month to construct their living pod ‒ quite an ingenious contraption. NASA had conducted a global contest won by an eight year-old autistic boy from a rural community in Iowa. His thousand square foot living pod was basically a transformer constructed of Lego-like Teflon blocks. The million dollar tax-free prize was invested in gold futures that would accrue to the young inventor on his twenty-first birthday.

Even though the Martian days were twenty minutes longer than those on home Earth, the labor seemed easier as Martian gravity was sixty-two percent less than Earth’s. The Martian 687 day year was irrelevant as the surface mission would only last six Earth months.

One of the more interesting adjustments came after sundown. Hopeless romantics might wax poetic about a Martian moonrise. It occurred three times nightly for Phobos and every 1.3 nights for Deimos. Two moons; weird, oblique, not round. Both Martian moons were captured asteroids slung in very low orbits. At only 5,827 and 14,562 miles above the Martian rocky surface, they were almost “duck-your-head” events.

The expedition had entered its third month. A hydroponic greenhouse fueled by astronaut excrement and water recycled from urine was producing spinach, hybrid turnips, and a mush-like grain they joked probably tasted as blah as manna. The conception project, nicknamed Genesis, was energetically pursued with natural success by the honeymooning astronaut couple.

The third month also signaled the planned delivery of a surface rover from the orbiting rescue and supply craft. Holdover technology from the last three Apollo missions in the early 1970’s, this updated rover buggy would enable the astronauts to finally cross the mountain range over the horizon. Aaron the geologist and spouse Elisabeth, the archaeologist, would lead a three-day dig in the foothills surrounding an ancient sea-bed. Contingency plans were confirmed and off they went. Conjugal duties and experiments aside, this was their first time alone, together, in almost a year.

The solar-powered rover performed as expected. At programmed intervals, the intrepid explorers gathered samples, banged on rocks, and used instruments designed by adult autistic scientists who didn’t have gold futures trust accounts. All was as rehearsed. When something appeared unnatural, a gauge or nuclear instrument solved the mystery:
this glass-like blob is a ten million year old meteor from another planet,
or
the composition of this rock is representative of molten lava, probably volcanic.
Evidence of ice or water was particularly exciting.

On the last day of their adventure, it was Elisabeth who discovered it. The ‘it’ would define their mission. Ever the archaeologist, dig she must. She had removed two feet of surface dirt, dust, and rock when her titanium pick hit ‘it.’ A gentle vibration of a quiver was sent through her wrist and settled into her elbow; there was a spark. No sound, as the predominantly carbon dioxide atmosphere wouldn’t carry a sound, even if there were one. Another stab. Another spark. Unusual. Elisabeth pried, dug, dusted away a greenish fuzz, almost like dried moss or mold. ‘It’ was hard. The shard belonged to a larger something that was not to be found. Its surface had fossil-like rivulets, designs like a fern. But it was ordered, not random. Elisabeth secured it in the rover buggy trophy pouch for the drive back to home base. She pondered her find as Aaron bounced over the red planet’s rugged terrain.
What could it be?

Elisabeth let Aaron do the heavy lifting to unload the rover buggy. She was pregnant and would play that card often over the ensuing months. She was eager to seek out Adam, the philosopher astronaut. She placed her ‘it’ on the lab table in front of Adam.

“What do you think?” she queried.

“Interesting,” he said as he fingered the playing card-sized mystery.

“Look at this corner, like it’s broken off,” Elisabeth puzzled.

“Where’s the mate?”

“Wasn’t any. I searched a three foot radius.”

Adam gently nestled the ‘it’ in the carbon dating chamber and keyed instructions. After a whirl and a blip, the number 100,000 appeared on the screen. “Huh?” he pondered.

“Huh, what?”

“I would have expected some of your dig crap to be a hundred thousand years old. On earth, but not Mars.”

Adam extracted the ‘it’ from the carbon dating chamber and laid it on the scientific table. He rubbed a common cotton swab over a corner of ‘it.’ “That’s not a fern fossil,” he observed.

Elisabeth’s pulse quickened as she gasped, “Oh, my God.”

“Ditto,” Adam agreed. “You better sit down.”

Adam’s cotton swab revealed something specific. Something intentional. No random fern design here. “It looks like . . .” Elisabeth stammered, “That first squiggle looks like an . . .”

“Yeah. An ‘s’.”

“Then,” Adam scrubbed, “a ‘u’.”

Elisabeth was ready to throw up. Letters were forming a definite pattern. “Not words,” she said. “More like code.”

“Maybe the Mayans or Aztecs beat us here,” Adam laughed.

Goosebumps rose on top of other goosebumps already staked out on the back of Elisabeth’s neck. “Very funny,” she said.

Adam was done with his scrubbing. The shard gave up the entire code:
sueD tivaerc oipicnirp ni.
They each fumbled and failed to make any sense of ‘it.’

“My first shock is the English alphabet,” Elisabeth observed. “Latin, actually,” the philosopher turned astronaut corrected. “But this is gibberish.”

Archaeologists being code breakers at heart, Elisabeth turned pale. She removed a small mirror from the lab table drawer and positioned it for Adam. “Okay, Leonardo da Vinci, read it now.” The reversed image revealed:
in principio creavit Deus
.

☁ ☁ ☁