3 GRACE CAHILL 1942

GRACE CAHILL 1942 by Gordon Korman 1942. Most of the world was at war. In every corner of the globe, people were fighting and dying for one cause or another. And what was Grace Cahill doing at this critical moment in her planet's history? Changing diapers. Not diapers— nappies, she corrected herself, deftly fastening a large safety pin at each of the child's small hips. Here in Europe they used the British term. Baby Fiske burped loudly and tried to wiggle out of her grasp. Grace held on with a firm hand. Parts of the lawn at their family's villa in Monte Carlo were so steeply sloped that a wayward toddler might roll all the way down the bluff and drop into the sparkling waters of the

Mediterranean. She called him Kamikaze sometimes, after those crazy pilots from the other war— the one in the Pacific. Fiske always seemed to be looking for some great peril to hurl himself into. The little stinker was walking, so it had become nearly impossible to keep him out of trouble. He was a year old now. Grace could scarcely believe it had been that long since… She had gotten good at fighting back tears. Her stomach, though, was harder to control. She recognized the feeling from her flying lessons— the sensation of hitting an air pocket and dropping five hundred feet in a matter of seconds. She experienced it on solid ground every time she thought of her mother. "You have a healthy baby son," the doctor had informed James Cahill, "but your wife…" He said more, but their father's raw, tortured breathing filled in the blanks for Grace and her older sister, Beatrice. Father shed not a single tear over the death of his wife, but he was never the same. His reaction seemed more appropriate to a record- setting marathon run than an expression of grief

—hyperventilation and drenching sweats. Not that the Cahill daughters had much opportunity to develop an instinct for their father's emotions. The time he had spent in Monte Carlo since the funeral could be measured in days, possibly hours. James Cahill was so devastated by the loss of his wife that he wouldn't even look at his newborn son. He had turned to travel, as if trying to outrun his grief. The family had not heard from him in months, save for the occasional postcard from exotic locales— Rio de Janeiro, Baffin Island, Ulaanbaatar. Baby Fiske yanked a croquet hoop out of the ground, and Grace barely managed to wrest it from his hands before he could plunge the ends into his eyes. How was it possible to love a child so deeply when he was the author of all the suffering in your life? His birth had cost Grace her mother. And it was costing Grace her father, too. The picture of James Cahill walking out the door was permanently imprinted on her retinas. He'd claimed to be leaving on business "for a few days." But his vast pile of luggage— enough to require a second taxi to follow him to the airfield

revealed the lie. She could still feel Father's arms around her as he said goodbye. He'd seemed like a drowning man holding on to a life preserver. Beatrice had noticed the same thing. Then he was gone— without so much as a sideways glance at the bassinet that held his infant son. Fiske reached for the croquet hoop, howling in frustration as Grace held it just beyond his grasp. She scooped him up in her arms and carried him, kicking and screaming, to the main house. Someday, she told herself, her brother would be a contributing member of society. Just as someday this war would be over, and someday Father would come home. That was what her life had become: too many somedays; not enough nows. "How can you take care of that little beast?" came a sharp voice behind her. Grace wheeled. She hadn't seen Beatrice standing by the doorway. "Someone has to," Grace replied. "Giselle won't. Leave it to Father to abandon us with a useless governess."

"How dare you speak that way of Father?" Beatrice snapped. "Did you expect him to go on as if nothing happened? He lost his wife." "And we lost our mother," Grace put in. Beatrice pointed an accusing finger at her brother. "Thanks to him!" Grace hugged Fiske, shielding him from the acid in their sister's words. Could Beatrice blame a baby for what had happened to their mother? Or was it that the older girl was so miserable herself that she had to make everybody else miserable as well? The sisters had never been close. Yet since Edith Cahill's death, the chasm between them had grown even wider. Didn't Beatrice see that Grace was suffering, too? That Grace would have given anything to reverse the events of the past year— to bring Mother back, to undo the pain that was tearing the family apart and had already driven Father away? The one thing she wouldn't change was Fiske. How could Beatrice not love this bundle of giggles and mischief? Motherless— and basically fatherless, too. James Cahill hadn't bothered to

name his only son. He had left that to Beatrice. Fiske. It was Beatrice's secret revenge on her brother, condemning him to a childhood of fistfights and taunting. Grace ran her fingers through the little boy's fine blond hair. This hellion was the only good thing that had happened to them in a long time. Fiske repaid the sentiment with a kick to her stomach that sent her reeling. His feet were already pumping like pistons by the time she dropped him. Teetering unsteadily, he ran out the door to his croquet hoop and who knew what other dangers. With an apologetic glance at her sister, Grace followed. Sleep did not come easily to Grace these days. It had started with the bombing across the border in France. They were safe— Monaco was neutral so far, and even France had quieted under German occupation. But slumber continued to elude her. Clad in her nightdress, she gazed out the window at the dark Mediterranean. From the