Trouble in Paradise (4 page)

“It really doesn’t hurt that much.”

“Answer the question,” he said sternly.

There wasn’t much choice. “My side … sort of my ribs and my hand,” I said, holding up the right one. As I made a fist to show the scraped knuckles, even that hurt.

“What about your eye?” he demanded. “You can’t honestly say that your eye isn’t hurting.”

“I was getting to it,” I said.

He turned to Jack, who was sitting on the edge of his bed. “And you?”

“Pretty much the same … and also the back of my head.”

Dad came over and ran his hands over the back of Jack’s head, feeling around.

“Ooowww!” Jack howled as he tried to draw away.

“There’s half a goose egg back there,” Dad said. “And quit squirming so I can see it.”

He lowered Jack’s head and parted the hair with his fingers. I could see Jack grimacing, trying not to react, but I had the feeling Dad wasn’t being any too gentle.

“Your mother pretty well filled me in on the situation,” our father said. “Not the best.”

“No, sir,” Jack said.

“No, sir,” I parroted—no point in looking disrespectful here.

He took the chair from the desk and brought it over to between the beds, turned it around and sat backward on it.

“Your mother is pretty upset.”

“We know,” Jack said.

“I think my being gone and all of the moves have been very hard on her,” he said. “Between the three of us, though, I think she’s overreacting.”

Overreacting? There were so many things we couldn’t tell him about—the agents, the kidnappings, the tunnels, the guns and the threats … and the deaths. If he’d known all of that, he’d have known why Mom wasn’t
overreacting
as much as just
re
acting to what had happened.

“I told her that boys get into fights,” he said. “Boys are boys.”

Shockingly, it looked like this was going in the right direction, for us.

“And from what she told me, it wasn’t really your fault,” he said.

“Not really,” Jack agreed.

“It’s not like you started it … did you?” he asked.

“No, sir,” Jack replied. “They came after us and we didn’t have any choice.”

“That’s what your mother said.” He shook his head. “Six of them … you fought six of them.”

“Not each,” Jack said, “that was between us.”

He laughed. “Did I ever tell you about the time my brother, your uncle Jack, and I fought five guys at once?”

“No,” Jack said. “I’d like to hear that story.” After all, he was named after our father’s older brother.

“Me too.”

My father looked over at the door, like he was making sure it was still closed. He leaned in closer.

“You probably don’t know it, but your uncle Jack has a fierce temper.”

“Uncle Jack?” I questioned. He was always playing and joking around and making puns. I’d never seen him when he didn’t have a smile on his face.

“Terrible temper,” my father said. “Anyway, I was about your age, George, and I was pretty well minding my own business, playing with a ball in the schoolyard. These kids—there were five of them—took away my ball and started pushing me around.”

“And you popped them?” Jack asked.

“Not me, your uncle. He comes out of nowhere and starts pounding these kids … he was like a bowling ball knocking down people. And then he picks up one of them—up over his
head
, mind you—and
throws
him at the others.”

“Golly,” I gasped.

“And those kids just went running away—limping away—like they were being chased by the devil himself,” my father said. “And do you know what the strangest part was? Your uncle had this look on his face—all blank and peaceful—and it was like he was hardly there. I had to tell him about tossing the kid … he didn’t even remember.”

“Not at all?” I questioned.

“It was like he was in a trance.”

“That’s amazing,” Jack said. “But … but I thought you said the
two
of you fought five kids.”

My father looked embarrassed. “I guess it was really my brother who fought five guys … but I was there. It just reminded me that what you two did was what brothers should do … take care of each other.”

“Nobody hits my little brother!” Jack snapped. “Well … except for me.”

“That’s how it was with my brother, too.” He paused. “But I think it’s best that we don’t tell your mother about that little story.”

“We won’t,” Jack said.

I nodded in agreement.

“Your mother says I should punish you,” he said.

He let out a deep breath, like a sigh, as if he was regretting what he was about to say—or do. I figured he wouldn’t be the only one regretting it.

“But to tell you the truth … I’m not sure she’s right.”

“You aren’t?” I said.

“Do
you
think you should be punished?” he asked.

“No!” I exclaimed.

“I don’t see how you had much choice. As far as I’m concerned, you didn’t do anything except defend yourselves.”

“So you’ll talk to Mom and explain that—?”

“Oh, no, that won’t be happening,” he said, cutting Jack off. “In fact, we’re going to agree that I gave you a good tongue-lashing and that you both promised this would never happen again.”

“It won’t,” I said.

“Never again,” Jack agreed.

“Well … I’m glad you promised.” He paused. “But, boys, if anything like this ever
does
happen again—”

“It won’t,” I said again.

“Let me finish. If you ever need to defend yourselves in the future, you do what you have to do.”

“We can fight?” Jack asked.

“Of course you can. Nobody is ever going to use the Braun men for punching bags without getting a few punches back. Now, both of you go and wash up for supper.”

“We’re getting supper?” I asked hopefully.

“Your mother threatened, but that’s one threat she’ll never keep. Make sure you wash away any traces of blood, and whatever you do, don’t mention being in pain. Understand?”

We nodded our heads in agreement.

He reached out and put a hand on Jack’s shoulder and then ruffled my hair.

It was
so
good to have Dad home again.

CHAPTER FIVE

“
PASS THE POTATOES
,” Jack said to me.

“Please
, pass the potatoes,” Mom said.

“Pleeeeaasse
, pass the potatoes,” he said.

I gave him the bowl.

“Thank you
so much,” he said.

“You are
very
welcome. It was
my
pleasure.”

“That’s
most
kind of you,” Jack replied. “You are
such
a gentle—”

“Knock it off or you’ll both be back in your room,” my father said, interrupting Jack.

“Even pretend manners are better than no manners,” my mother said.

“Let’s change the subject,” my father suggested. “So how was schoo—” He stopped himself mid-sentence as he realized this probably wasn’t the best choice of subject.

“School
was great,” I replied. “I have a very nice teacher.” Deaf, and not very good—but she was nice.

“I like my class, too,” Jack added. “How was your day, Mom?”

“Just the usual routine. You’ve seen one letter, you’ve seen them all.”

“Some of them must be interesting,” my father said.

“We really don’t have time to read them,” she said. “We’re just basically scanning for details around times and places.”

My mother was employed as a censor. She went through letters—hundreds and hundreds a day—that were being sent between North America and Europe and Africa. Along with hundreds of other women, her job mainly involved looking at the letters between soldiers and their families, to make sure that nobody was sending information that could help the Nazis if enemy agents obtained it accidentally, or on purpose.

A censor had seen all of the letters we’d received from Dad while he was serving in Africa. Sometimes a word or part of a sentence had been blacked out with a marker, so that we couldn’t read what was underneath. I knew Dad wouldn’t have said much in those few words, but whatever it was must have revealed something that the censor was worried about.

Now Mom was the censor—one of twelve
hundred
, from what I’d heard. They’d been drawn from Canada, Britain,
the United States and other islands besides Bermuda. They all worked in The Princess Hotel, this big pink building down on the bay that had been a real hotel when there were tourists. The Catalina flying boats landed in the harbour. To see them land or take off was amazing. They had big engines, with wheels for landing on regular runways and floats for landing on water. They carried mail between North America and Europe. And all of it, along with the mail carried by ships, was brought over to the hotel by boats, censored and then sent back to continue the journey.

“Have you come across any ‘Dear John’ letters?” my father asked.

“A few. They’re the worst.”

“Who’s John?” I asked.

My parents both chuckled.

“It’s not a person, it’s a type of letter,” Jack said. “It’s a letter to say that somebody doesn’t want to be with that person any more … right?”

“That’s right,” my father said. “A couple of guys in my regiment got those letters. One was from a girlfriend, but the other one, it was his wife … she’d met somebody else.”

“That is so terrible,” my mother said.

“Awful. He’s off fighting to save democracy and she gets involved with some
civilian
.”

He said “civilian” like it was a dirty word, but I knew what he meant. Most of the men had enlisted, volunteered
to defend our country, like my father had, and they didn’t have much time for those who weren’t willing to fight.

“I can’t get over the fact that there are enough letters to keep so many of you occupied,” my father said.

“All the letters on the flying boats are routed through Bermuda,” my mother explained.

The Atlantic was far too wide for a plane to fly all the way without refuelling, so the flying boats set down in Bermuda.

“That’s why we have such strange hours,” my mother explained. “When a plane lands, there could be twenty thousand letters and parcels to go through.”

“Do you look in the parcels?” I asked.

“Not me,” my mother said. “I’m a letter lady.”

“But you don’t just look at things between soldiers and their families, do you?” Jack asked.

“All communication that goes to and from Europe.”

That got my attention. “So you could be reading mail that was sent by spies or enemy agents?”

She didn’t answer.

“Sounds like there’s a story here,” my father said. “Are you reading mail from Mata Hari?”

“‘Dear John’ I know, but who is that?” Jack asked.

“A famous German spy in World War One who was eventually executed as a double agent,” my father said. He turned to my mother. “Well … have you caught any spies?”

“She can’t tell you that,” Jack said.

“Official Secrets Act,” I added.

“She can’t even tell her husband? Wait … how do you two know about things like the Official Secrets Act?”

I swallowed hard. I knew why I knew about it—after all, we were still sworn to secrecy by it. I couldn’t tell my father about any of the things that had happened to us since we’d gotten involved with Camp X. But what was I supposed to tell Dad now?

“
I
told them,” my mother lied. “And I’m glad they listened so well.”

Wow, she’d said that so
believably.
If I hadn’t known any better, I would have believed her. Our mother was really quite the good liar … something to keep in mind. I mean, if she was so able to tell a convincing lie, could I believe the things she told me or—I stopped myself from going any further in that direction. It was bad enough that I didn’t trust anybody outside our home.

“We had two planes land at almost the same time last week,” she said. “There were close to forty thousand letters. That was the night I didn’t get home until almost midnight.”

“I don’t like that,” my father said.

“Believe me, dear, the boys are fine on their own without me being—”

“It isn’t the boys I’m worried about.”

She gave him a questioning look.

“I don’t like you to be out there late at night,” he explained.

“It’s not like I’m alone. The downtown is filled with people.”

“That’s what I don’t like,” my father said. “All those soldiers, half of them half in the bag. A couple of the Military Police told me it’s like a frontier town down there, with drunken brawls in the streets.”

“That’s mainly Friday and Saturday nights.”

“And you sometimes work
those
nights.”

“Nobody has ever bothered me.”

“And I’d like to keep it that way.”

“It’s just a bunch of little boys getting into trouble because their mothers and wives and girlfriends aren’t here.”

“And it’s apparently gotten worse since half of those little boys are American soldiers here to build the airfield. They and the British soldiers don’t seem to realize that they’re allies,” my father added.

“What about the Canadians?” my mother asked.

My father shrugged. “I can only speak for
this
Canadian.”

“Good, because I think we’ve had enough fighting from members of this family already.”

Wait a minute—somehow this had come back to us again!

“I just wish I could walk you home each night,” my father said.

She reached across the table and gave his hands a squeeze. “You’re such a sweetie. I’m just glad you’re now here instead of halfway around the world.”

“I’m glad, too,” he said. “Although I still think the whole thing is strange.”

“What do you mean?” My mother was trying to sound innocent, but my father was still asking awkward questions about why he had been reassigned, and why we were with him. Apparently the cover story wasn’t holding water for him.

“You know what I mean. I’m pulled away from my troops in Africa and reassigned to Bermuda. Doesn’t that seem a little bit … peculiar?”

“I think it’s mostly because they needed me here, and since you had to serve somewhere, why not Bermuda? We should just be grateful and not question it too much,” my mother said. “Aren’t you glad you’re here?”