Silver Stars (Front Lines #2)(114)

“It’s not lunchtime yet, is it, Pip? Oh, you don’t have a watch? Not invented in your day, eh? Well, sorry, old fellow, but I don’t think they’d like me painting one on for you.”

Two minutes later a very damp and somewhat out of breath Herkemeier knocks on her door.

“How are you today, Rainy?” he asks, a standard greeting—they have set titles aside for now—but that is not a standard expression on his face. Herkemeier has something he wants to tell her, and it shines from him.

“What’s going on, Jon?” she asks.

He lays his briefcase on a side table, opens it, withdraws an envelope, and draws out several sheets of paper.

“You might want to sit down,” he says.

She takes his advice and sits in a remarkably uncomfortable but no doubt valuable antique chair.

He remains standing, unfolds the pages, and begins to read. “The President of the United States, authorized by act of Congress, has awarded the Silver Star to Sergeant Elisheva Schulterman, US Army.”

He lowers the paper to gauge her reaction. When she stares blankly he goes on.

“Sergeant Schulterman parachuted behind enemy lines in North Africa during . . .”

He reads and Rainy stares, first at him, then at the rug, then up at Pip, who is amused, as always. The citation begins with her parachuting behind enemy lines in North Africa. Then it talks of a secret mission that had her landing in Italy months before the Allied invasion at Salerno. This part is short on detail—secrecy, of course—so there is no explanation of the nature of her mission, only that it was of “the greatest importance to the war effort.” And it mentions heroic resistance to capture, and resistance to torture at the hands of the Gestapo.

Torture. She hates hearing that word.

Her hands tremble on her lap. Tears blur her vision. Words are impossible.

“It’s a first, Rainy. There’s never been a female Silver Star recipient.”

She nods.

“They’re flying you to England to get the award. Probably from some general. They’ll make a big deal about it in the press, it being the first time women soldiers have—”

“There are others?”

He nods. “Word is three women are getting it. You and two others.”

She takes this in and nods again. “That’s better. I don’t want to . . .” But her thoughts trail off and leave her words hanging.

“This is a big deal, Rainy. This will mean something.”

She nods, yes, yes it is a big deal, she understands that.

“They’ll probably ship you home, have you do interviews and sell war bonds for the duration, and—”

“No.” It comes out fast, automatic, uncensored.

“No? What do you mean no, you can’t refuse a Silver Star!”

“I’m not shipping out,” she says. “I’m not going home.”

Now Herkemeier takes a seat, pulling a chair close to her so their knees almost touch. “Rainy, you’ve been through hell. You’ve done enough, more than enough. My God, a Silver Star is barely adequate to—”

He stops when he sees that she is shaking her head, side to side.

“I’m not quitting,” Rainy says. “I’m not quitting. I didn’t enlist to sell war bonds and talk to reporters.”

“Rainy, listen to me, this is the sort of thing that advances the cause of women in the military, not to mention . . .”

She holds up a quieting hand. She tries to master her emotions and fails, so her voice is heavy with feeling and all too near to tears. “I am not done, Jon. I am not done.” The second repetition rises in tone and volume. “You think I’m going home? You think I’m just going to go back to my old life? You think I’m going to run? Like those bastards have licked me?” Tears stream down her face, unnoticed by her, but her voice is hard, even harsh. “I’m not done, Jon. I am not done!”

“Rainy, what do you mean?”

She leans forward until her tear-streaked face is within inches of his. Her eyes are bright and feverish. She knows what she must look like, what she must sound like, but she doesn’t care.

“I came to kill Nazis,” she grates. “I came because I thought killing Nazis was the right thing to do, the good thing to do, but that’s all over now, because it’s not really about right or good, is it? I’ve seen what they are. You haven’t. All due respect, I’ve seen them, I’ve seen them.” Her voice rises again, edging toward hysteria. “I’ve smelled the evil stink that comes off them. I’ve—”

Herkemeier leans back, unable to face her intensity, not knowing what to do or say in the face of this combination of rage and tears.

“Day after day, and week after week, I watched those bastards murder people, people whose blood drained down and I saw it, and I heard it, and I listened to the screams and sometimes I screamed too. I screamed and I cried, and I told myself if somehow, by some miracle, if I ever . . .” Sobs break up the flow of words. “I swore. There was a woman, Jon, they raped her, night after night. And an Italian partisan, they tore his fingernails out and . . . him screaming and crying and those bastards laughed.” She stops herself, mastering her emotions, trying to find the old Rainy, the controlled Rainy, the calmly determined Rainy. But when her words come they still tumble out, forming no sentence, and making only the rawest emotional sense. “I swore. It was a holy oath. I don’t care if . . . It was a holy oath. If I ever . . . I would not stop. Never, never, never, never! I would chase them. To hell. I would . . . I would find them . . . I would kill them. I would kill them until there were none left to kill!”