June 15, 1940 – Willow Grove, Nebraska

Connor couldn’t stop worrying about Nora. If someone needed help, his sister would help. That could cost her life and it would be his fault. As he worked in hard sun chopping weeds from ditches and fencerows, machete flashing, shirt soaked with sweat, he thought about his sister over there in Paris with the Nazis poised on the French border. Wheat next to the tangled fence row where he worked made a dry, rustling noise in a breeze that barely stirred its stiff beards. A lone mosquito whined around his head. He looked down the hill toward the pond, dark and muddy with not a ripple on its surface. He’d give anything to get his sister into the silly little rowboat their dad had made for them when they were kids.

Only eighteen months apart and just the two of them, Connor and Nora had spent their childhood exploring the farm together. Their dad farmed a half-section, 320 acres. They had sun-scalded short-grass pastures to roam, picking yellow coneflowers, daisy fleabane, and round, pink balls of common milkweed. They chased butterflies, admirals, monarchs, black velvet tiger swallowtails. They climbed trees and looked into birds’ nests, turned over clods and watched ants fleeing in all directions. That had changed with the dust storms and Connor’s high school graduation, when he headed for California seeking a job. With over twelve million people in the United States unemployed, he’d managed to get a few jobs picking fruit. But when the crop harvest had run out, he’d managed to get on with the Civilian Conservation Corps. After his two years in the Corps, he’d become a hobo, riding the rails and living on the bounty of the national park system.

While he knocked around the country from park to park, living on what he could catch, trap, or pick, the Nazis had taken over Germany and moved to take the rest of Europe. Rumors of Nazi death camps had spread throughout the country and his sister had decided to work right in the middle of it. Worse yet, Connor had goaded her into it. It drove him crazy that he remained safe at home while she worked at the edge of war. He whacked at a tough muskthistle releasing a sharp, acid odor from the severed stalk.

Still, he’d already lost his chance to go to college. He’d given up five years hopping trains, taking handouts, working the occasional odd job, and living on the land. Didn’t he deserve a chance to build his future? Nora was doing what she wanted to do, anyway.

He took a savage swipe at a cocklebur. Whacking and slashing at firebush, sunflowers, burs, and hemp, he worked his way across the ridge of the hill, ignoring the dust he raised, inhaling its dry earth smell. The country still had to recover from the drought.

He could enlist, but there wasn’t any point. America hadn’t entered the war. No U.S. troops were headed for Europe. Maybe he could join the Canadian Army. That might get him close enough to save his sister—but he knew darned well she wouldn’t leave until they closed the consulate.

I want her safe, but don’t I deserve to have a life, a home?

Connor’s parents, Claire and Henry, knew only what they heard on the wireless and what Nora wrote in her letters. But Connor had read the ones she wrote to their former neighbor Pauline—Nora’s best friend and Connor’s sweetheart. Her latest had him on the edge of panic.

Dear Pauline (and Connor),

Bright, clear skies and gorgeous spring in Paris—but the trickle of refugees I told you about has become a torrent. Every day, we see Belgians and Dutch and people from Luxemburg. Thousands of them come into the city and fill every train car available, happy to stand if they can escape. Cars jam the streets, slowed by farm families with wagons, maybe a cow tied on behind, and some chickens in crates on top.

Remember the Mormons we read about in history? I think I know what that looked like. I see carts piled with mattresses and furniture, maybe a couple of buckets tied on the sides, a man between the shafts, and the whole family pushing.

Parisians show enormous sympathy for the poor souls, helping any way they can—a little money, some provisions, water, or advice on routes. Then they go back to their day-to-day routines and talk about how glad they are that they’re safe. They’re still sitting in the cafés, sipping espresso and watching the human flood. When they talk about the war at all, they say the French Army will hold the Germans at the Maginot Line just like they did during the First World War. But I look at the map. The Germans are in Belgium. Why wouldn’t they go around the Maginot Line and come in from the north? I have to wonder, too, if these people have ever heard of the Luftwaffe.

Meanwhile, just to make this even more surreal, while the people enjoy their “safe” city, the newspapers go on and on about rapes and atrocities committed by the Germans during World War I. The contradictions take my breath away.

Well, I’ve got to get some sleep. We’re overwhelmed, preparing exit visas and letters of transit, not to mention all the dispatches and the actual negotiations with French authorities who seem to be absent without leave.

Nora

Connor William Conroy agreed with his sister. The Germans would definitely go around the Maginot Line and sweep in behind. He had worried his way through Nora’s excited dispatches about seeing the Eiffel Tower, walking the Champs Elysées, and learning to read the newspapers as she improved her high school French. He couldn’t share her enthusiasm when she received a promotion. He wanted her somewhere else—somewhere safe. He’d only mentioned the Foreign Service because it was the first thing off the tip of his tongue. He hadn’t meant it as a suggestion—but his sister had picked it up and run with it. How could he have known when he’d goaded her into going to school that she’d end up in a war zone?

He knew the U.S. would get in it before long. He’d said so the night before at dinner. His mom had done that pushing thing with her hands that she did when she didn’t want to talk about something. He’d turned to his dad.

“Look Pop, Roosevelt’s declared a national emergency. The car companies are making tanks; Congress approved munitions sales to the Allies and we’re shipping tons of stuff to England.”

Henry took a scoop of mashed potatoes and ladled gravy onto them. “I know son, but I hope we can send enough support to the British and French so they can stop it there.”

“I doubt it.”

“Well, there’s no draft yet, so I think Roosevelt’s hopeful.”

“It’s just a matter of time, Pop. I know I’ll get dragged into it eventually. Maybe if I take the initiative now, I can be out before it all goes to hell. Maybe if I get over there, I can talk some sense into Nora.”

His mother gave him a sharp look. “Isn’t it bad enough Nora’s over there getting bombed? You want to get into it too?”

“I don’t necessarily want to, but maybe I can get in and get out.”

His mother’s hands pushed.

Nora had written reassuring letters to the family about the safe bomb shelters under the consulate. They’d received one that morning, full of Nora’s busyness and all the papers she had to type and how they had to go to the shelters sometimes at night for an hour or two—a minor annoyance, she’d written. Good thing, too, because they’d begun hearing on the radio that the Germans were bombing Paris, but Connor wondered how reassured his parents were. Now he knew. He hoped Pauline would have another letter when he picked her up for their date that night. But first he had a fencerow to clear.

In the drainage ditch still worrying about Nora, he swiped at a clump of blooming hemlock, releasing a cloud of pollen that made him sneeze.

 “Aw Hell,” he said.

He finished circumventing the wheat and returned to the farmyard where he helped his father with chores, pumped a kettle of water at the pitcher pump, set it on the stove to heat, and ate supper with his parents. By the time the dishes were done, Connor’s water had boiled, so he dragged in the copper washtub and bathed. Cleaned up and dressed, he headed for Hastings and a Saturday evening with Pauline. When he knocked, she waited for him with a letter in her hand.

“Come in and sit. I’ll get us some lemonade.”

He took the letter and did as she told him, beginning to read and feeling his way back into an overstuffed chair.

Dear Pauline,

The Germans are coming and the Parisians seem utterly shocked! The authorities have burned petroleum reserves outside the city, so the air is full of soot. It stinks! You know how you spilled oil on the car engine that time? Ten times worse. My eyes water all the time. It gets on everything. I have to wash my hair every night and it’s greasy by noon. It settles on every document I type so there are fingerprints and smudges on them. There’s just nothing I can do about it.

We have a good bunker under the consulate, but those huge blasts roar and thump overhead, shaking dirt and bits of concrete from the ceiling. The car factory took the first hit. Almost 300 people died that first night, most of them civilians. I’m sure Mom and Pop have heard about the bombing, so I’ll try to call them and tell them I’m okay. Mom’ll worry anyway but it’s the best I can do. The authorities have restricted phone service, so I hope I can get through. (She hadn’t yet.)

I’m simply amazed at how Paris has turned on the refugees in only a few days. Rumors fly now that they’re some kind of German Fifth Column—a spy network. So the Parisians shut them out, refusing them any help at all.

It’s the kids, Pauline. In that stream of refugees, I see little children who have gotten separated from their parents. In Paris, even though the bombing has gone on for only three days, we already have orphans—kids whose parents died in collapsed houses or in the streets—wandering around, bloody and confused. I wasn’t supposed to, but one morning before dawn, I went into one of the bombed-out areas. I saw a little guy, he couldn’t have been more than two or three, tearing along the side of the street, through the rubble. You know how babies like that run, all stiff-legged? I started to grab him, but one of the gendarmes managed to catch him first and take him somewhere. I don’t know where. Nothing I could have done for him, I guess.

Now, in addition to Belgians and Dutch, we have people coming from northern France. Parisians too, are starting to leave—the ones who have money. The poor sots who have to work for a living continue to go to the factories every day because they’re dependent on their paychecks. The French authorities can’t seem to figure out what to do or how to defend the city. It’s chaos here and nobody seems to know what to do about it.

Nora

Connor looked up, the letter trembling in his hand.

“I got her into this, you know.”

Pauline took the paper and laid it on an end table, sat across from him, and took his hands.

“How do you figure? To me, she looked pretty excited to go.”

“One night, we were sittin’ around the house and Nora fussed about how she wanted to see some of the world like I had.”

“That sounds like Nora. So how are you responsible?”

Head in his hands, he started talking, remembering the evening and filling in the details for Pauline.

I’d just retired from being a hobo and come back to the farm, you know, settled into the routine. I helped Pop prepare for winter, making repairs on sheds and equipment. During lengthening nights, we all talked about where I’d been and about riding the rails and people I’d met.

“You know, Connor, I really envy you,” Nora said one night when we sat alone by the heater stove, looking again at pictures.

“Why’s that, sis?” I asked.

Nora reminded him of all the places he’d been and the people he’d met. He could almost see her lower lip coming out in a pout when she reminded him she’d barely left the farm in all that time.

“So what’re you gonna do about it, Nora?”

“I don’t know. What can a woman do with just a high school diploma?”

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to go places—cities like Chicago, New York, and Paris.”

“Okay, then think about how you could do that.”

“I don’t know Connor!”

He’d kept on pushing her. He couldn’t be sure any more how he felt about the results—glad that she got to do something she really wanted, but scared for her safety, maybe a little responsible for getting her into danger.

“What do women do in those places? What kind of jobs do they have?”

“Just secretaries, Connor, and store clerks, and nurses—but I don’t want to be a nurse. Anyway all those things are boring.”

“So what could make it less boring?”

“I DON’T KNOW!” Nora glared at him.

“WELL THINK!”

“What are you two hollering about?” Claire asked, bustling into the front room.

“Oh nothing.” He gave her one of his broad, toothy grins. “I’m just trying to get Nora to solve a puzzle.”

“Connor, you and your puzzles.” She sat down and picked up her book. “Where’s your dad?”

“I think he’s out checkin’ things, makin’ sure the doors are all latched. We’re s’posed to get a blow tonight.”

 When Henry came back to the house, the family set a couple of kerosene lanterns on the table and settled down with their books, occasionally reading a particularly interesting passage aloud. After an hour or so, Claire went to the kitchen to make popcorn, stoking up the cook stove with just the right number of cobs. Henry headed for the cellar with a lantern to retrieve some apples. Nora looked up from her novel.

“If I could do it in Istanbul.”

“What?”

“You asked me what could make secretarial work less boring.”

“Oh. Istanbul?”

“Or Paris, or New York City, or Hong Kong.”

“Okay. That’s good. So how do you get a job being a secretary in those places?”

“I don’t know.”

“That again. Are you willing to flounder in ignorance all your life?”

“Damn it, Connor.”

“Well what’re you gonna do? Stumble around and be miserable?”

“What can I do?” she demanded, blue eyes flashing.

“You just told me you could be a secretary in any city in the world. So where are you gonna start?”

“Not Willow Grove, Nebraska.”

“What’s not in Willow Grove?” Henry asked, setting a bowl of apples on the table.

“Jobs. For me.”

Claire set the popcorn on the table as Nora grabbed an apple. She crunched off a big bite, glared at Connor, then looked back at her book. Connor sat staring at her, munching a handful of popcorn as she tried to chew. When she peeked up at him, he grinned.

“Nora wants to go to secretarial school.”

That remark started everything.

Connor looked up at Pauline. “See? I am responsible.”

“I don’t see that at all. Anyway, how did she go from being bored to Paris?”

“Well, I’d brought up secretarial school. Pop looked from one of us to the other, just chewing a handful of popcorn with that thoughtful look he gets. He glanced at Mom. She widened her eyes and shrugged. You know how she does. Pop swallowed. ‘I wonder how we’ll manage that.’”

“You know Nora. ‘Well, we don’t,’ she mumbled and I grinned at her. She’d taken a really big bite of that apple and could barely chew. She kept glaring at me, trying to keep from drooling.”

“She kept arguing, like she does even when she’s getting what she wants. She said she didn’t have any money for school. If I couldn’t go, then she couldn’t. That’s when I put my big foot in it.

“CCC sent most of my money home. I had no expenses when I worked in the Grand Canyon. so I’d sent most of that home, too. I told her I had a grub stake. I’d help her out.

“She argued some more, so I said she’d have to pay me back with interest, when she got a fancy job with the Foreign Service.”

“See, Pauline, not only did I goad her into going back to school and provide a way for her to do it, I’m the one who suggested the Foreign Service. I said the first thing that came into my mind.”

“Oh so what, Connor? She could have got a regular job. I offered to get her on here at Dutton Lainson.”

“You did? Really?”

“Yes, I did. But she had bigger fish to fry.”

“Boy, that’s the truth! When I said Foreign Service, she got that dreamy look she gets sometimes. You’ve seen it.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen it and once she gets it there’s no point in discussing reality.”

“She does get focused. Anyway, Pop wanted to know what the heck we were talking about, especially what the Foreign Service had to do with anything.

“Nora wants to see the world,” I said.

“Mom stared at her, ‘Nora?’ “

“’Well yes,’ said Nora, ‘I do. I love you and I love this place, but I want to know what’s going on in the world. I’m sorry Mom, Pop, but I don’t want to be a farmer’s wife.'”

Connor looked up at Pauline. “We all crunched and munched for a while. You know Pop usually takes a while before he speaks. Finally, He asked why Nora hadn’t said what she wanted and Nora said she didn’t want to hurt anybody’s feelings.”

“That sounds like Nora.”

“Mom wanted to know why Nora thought she’d be hurt and that’s when Nora finally admitted she doesn’t want to be like Mom and Pop.”

“Well, Mom never hesitated for a second. ‘But you are like me and your father. You love your family and you cherish the land. Did you think we had no curiosity about the rest of the world?'”

“Nora and I just stared at them. We’d never thought of them that way. ‘But you seem so contented here,’ Nora said finally.”

“‘Yes, and I suspect you’ll find that kind of contentment some time. But the time for contentment is rarely when you’re young,’

“Pop, of course, got right back to the issue at hand. He suggested we go to town and hunt up the typing teacher; see if he could help us find a school. Said Nora would probably have to work part time.

“So that’s what we did. I took Nora into town the next day to see the typing teacher, and also Everett at the Post Office. He told us what he knew about getting federal jobs—Civil Service exams and the like. And then things just happened and now Nora’s in France.”

When he finished, Connor looked up at Pauline. “So it’s my fault she’s over there with bombs falling on her.”

“Connor, that’s just plain nonsense. Nora’s doing what she’s always wanted to do—seeing the world and helping people. What could be more Nora than that?”

“But she’ll take risks—and get hurt.”

“I admire her for that.”

“Me too, Pauline, but I’m scared to death for her.”

“Well, my dear,” she said, taking his hands and pulling him to his feet, “Nothing we can do about it, so let’s go dancing.”

He rose and followed her out the door, still thinking about how Nora had lost those five years he complained about too—working like a dog and hardly ever leaving the farm. At least he’d seen some really magnificent country.

He settled Pauline in the car and walked around.

“What’re you all slumped over about?”

“Me?”

“Yeah. You walked around there like you’d kicked the dog and killed the baby.”

“I dunno.”

He started the car and headed for the dancehall.