The Aviator's Wife by Melanie Benjamin
Wrapping myself up in a warm robe, I emerged from the bathroom with flushed skin, damp hair, so ready for bed I could already feel myself surrendering to the feathery, bottomless mattress. Just as I was turning down my covers, Betty burst into the room without knocking; she was breathless, as if she’d been running.
“Do you have the baby, Mrs. Lindbergh?”
“No. Maybe the colonel has him?” Without replying, she had wheeled and was out of the room and down the stairs. After a moment, during which I could only stand, strangely rooted to the floor as if my legs had forgotten how to move, Betty and Charles came running to me.
“Do you have the baby, Charles?” I asked, still puzzled. Why were we looking for little Charlie, at ten o’clock at night?
My husband pivoted and sprinted toward the nursery. I followed, and for a second I held my breath, remembering that the night-light was still on. But then I saw that all the lights were on; my baby’s room was filled with cheerful light that revealed an open window, a curtain flailing about in the wind—and an empty crib.
“Mr. Lindbergh, you’re not playing one of your jokes, are you?” Betty was wringing her hands.
Charles didn’t answer; with a grim look, he ran back to our bedroom.
“I came in to check on him like I always do, and it was cold,” Betty babbled. “So cold! I went to the crib, but he wasn’t there, and then I switched on the light and saw that the window was open. Where is he? Oh, where is he?”
Seeing her wild eyes, I began to tremble. Then Charles came back, a rifle in his hand—and my knees buckled. My baby was not where I had left him. For the first time in his life, I did not know where he was.
“Charlie, Charlie, where are you?” I shouted it, running to and fro, picking up the oddest things—a handkerchief, a book—as if he could somehow be hiding beneath them.
I tore through the upstairs, dimly aware that Charles and Betty, and now Ollie and Elsie, were doing the same thing; we were all running from room to room, meeting and bumping in the hall, and for a moment I had the strangest urge to laugh, for we resembled nothing more than characters in a Marx Brothers movie.
Then we swarmed downstairs, peeking under tables, inside cupboards, even looking up the chimney.
We moved upstairs again, to the nursery, where suddenly we all stopped just inside the door, simply staring, and I finally registered the open window, and what it could mean. And I saw, for the first time, the envelope—a small white envelope, the kind I might use for an invitation to lunch, or a thank-you note—on the windowsill.
“Charles!”
In a flash he was by my side; he saw what I was pointing to, and his jaw set in an awful way. He started to the sill, but then, with a visible effort, stopped himself.
“Call the police,” he barked, and Ollie dashed downstairs.
“The police? Open the envelope! See what it says, Charles—if it says where the baby is!” Oh, how could he not be ripping it open? I lunged past him to do it myself, but he grabbed me by both arms and held me back.
“No! Anne, no! We can’t—we have to wait for the police. This is—this is evidence. They have experts who can examine it for signs, even for fingerprints. We can’t touch it until they get here.”
“Evidence?” A horrible realization was trying to worm its way into my heart, my brain, although I fought against it, fought for one last precious moment of innocence. Reluctantly, I turned to face my husband; behind him I saw the small, sobbing outline of Betty; the plump, uncomprehending face of Elsie. I forced myself to meet Charles’s gaze; I found no shelter from my growing knowledge in his eyes—muddy with doubt and fear for the first time in our life together.
“Anne, they have taken our baby,” my husband told me, and I felt his grip on my shoulders, ready to catch me as I fell.
But I did not fall. I only nodded, and felt a coldness in my heart and an emptiness in my chest where my child’s head normally fit cozily, helplessly. Oh, so helplessly—Charlie was just a baby, he needed me, surely he was crying for me right now—
I ran to the open window, leaning out into the black, cold night with the wind howling, no stars, no moon, no comfort anywhere for my baby—
I called for him, over and over, until my throat felt like sandpaper, until my eyes were raw with tears, lashed by the cold wind.
And when I finally stopped, collapsing back into my husband’s arms, the only sound I heard was the thumping of that shutter, banging relentlessly against the house in reply.
EVERY LIGHT WAS ON; the radio was blaring in the kitchen; the phone never stopped ringing; strange men trooped mud all over my new house. I sat on a chair in the upstairs hallway. No one paid any attention to me as they all followed my husband from room to room, the tail to his comet.
When they emerged from the nursery, one man had the envelope in his cotton-gloved hand; he pinched it between thumb and forefinger as if it were a foul-smelling rodent. They all trooped into the kitchen; I heard a murmur, then a shout, then a murmur again.
Meanwhile more police, carrying flashlights, stormed inside the house, their muddy footprints smearing the others on my new carpets.
No one asked me about the events leading up to this; no one inquired of me if I had any idea what might have happened. As soon as the doorbell rang and the first police officer showed up, Charles was the one to whom they turned. And I willed myself to stay still, out of the way; these men had a job to do, and it was to find my baby. If I interfered, they might not be able to do that job.
So I sat on the chair, my hands clenched in my lap, my jaw so tense my teeth ached.
“Mrs. Lindbergh.” I looked up; Elsie was there. “Drink this tea. It’ll make you feel better.”
I shook my head. Why should I feel better? Why should I have any comfort, when my son was—
“You need to keep up your strength. Not only for the baby missing, but for the one you’re expecting.”
And for the first time, I remembered. I was carrying a child. I must keep him or her safe, for Charlie.
I pushed Elsie away, bolted out of my chair, and ran downstairs, grabbing a mackintosh from the hall closet. Pausing in the kitchen doorway, I saw a contingent of official-looking men huddled around the table. Most wore muddy brown police uniforms covered in trench coats. Charles was at the head of the table.
“Charles, I’m—”
All faces turned my way; all registered surprise at my presence.
“I thought I’d go outside and help—”
“Anne, come here.” It was a command, and so I obeyed; I walked to my husband, who gave his seat to me.
“Anne, the expert has brushed the envelope—”
“Brushed?”
“Examined it, collected evidence, but there was no fingerprint. We’ve just opened it—it’s a ransom note.”
I nodded. By now it had thoroughly registered that my child had not simply wandered off, or been misplaced like a pair of spectacles. Something far more terrible had happened. It was confirmed, and now we needed to meet whatever demands they had and get him back. And it all seemed so logical; a kind of blanketing calm came over me for the first time since Betty had burst into my bedroom—how long ago? I glanced at the clock on the stove. It was ten past midnight. Only about two hours ago. A lifetime ago.
Someone—the expert?—pushed a small white piece of paper toward me. I was afraid to touch it, afraid somehow to contaminate it so it couldn’t be used. Leaning forward, I read—
Dear Sir!
Have 50,000$ redy 25000$ in 20$ bills 15000$ in 10$ bills and 10000$ in 5$ bills. After 2–4 days we will inform you were to deliver the Mony. We warn you for making anyding public or for notify the Police. The child is in gut care. Indication for all letters are singnature and 3 holds.
Where there should have been a signature were two blue circles. They were joined together by a solid red mark, punched with three square holes.
“Charles! We told the police!” I jumped up, shaking with anger. “Ho
“Anne, of course we had to involve the police. The fingerprints, for example—they’re dusting the nursery now, so they can compare any strange fingerprints against ours.”
“But—the note says!”
“Anne.” And Charles gave me a look; a stern look I knew too well; the impatient look of the schoolteacher trying to teach me celestial navigation.
“Yes. Yes, of course. So, we’ll give him the money. Then we’ll get the baby back.” I sat down again.
There were glances over my head as if I couldn’t possibly understand. I intercepted one—from a man who was bigger, better dressed than the others. Not in a uniform but a tailored suit; still, he wore a shiny badge on his lapel and carried a gun in a holster across his barrel chest. His gaze, unlike the others’, was not furtive; it was steady, pitying, and therefore terrifying.
“It’s not usually so simple,” this man said, not bothering to elaborate. Then he tipped his head toward me. “Colonel H. Norman Schwarzkopf, ma’am. Superintendent of the New Jersey State Police.”
There was something solidly steady about this stranger; he reminded me of a huge tree with deep, unfathomable roots, and his face was as craggy as bark, although he had a rather dashing salt-and-pepper mustache. His eyes were deep-set but alert, and he had a bulbous nose just like W. C. Fields. I found myself looking to him as the others began to discuss the note and all its implications.
“The thing to do is to search the perimeter again as soon as the sun comes up,” my husband said excitedly. “I should answer all calls—can you set up a switchboard in the garage, Colonel? We need some kind of headquarters, base of operations, like an airfield.”
No one contradicted him; everyone nodded eagerly. I looked around the table; all these policemen, Colonel Schwarzkopf included, were looking to Charles for answers. Shouldn’t it be the other way around?
“Airfield?” I couldn’t help myself. Charles cleared his throat and continued—ignoring me without even a look.
“We must not release this note to anyone—I know newspapers. They will try to infiltrate the household, so we must be vigilant. But that sign—the two circles with the holes. That’s the key. It’s how we’ll authenticate any communication from the kidnappers.”
“Exactly,” Colonel Schwarzkopf said with a nod.
“Colonel, you will be in charge of your men. I’ll monitor everything from the house, including all communication, incoming and outgoing. Anne”—Charles finally favored me with a look—“you write up some kind of list of things the baby would need—his diet, his schedule—in case the kidnappers ask how to care for him.”
They all agreed with everything he said; every plan, every list—my husband was a great one with lists—every rule he laid down: If anyone called or showed up with information, Charles himself was to see that person, no matter what. All interviews with persons of interest were to be conducted in his presence. No lead was to be considered too small or too inconsequential. Every tip would be followed up on.
I was to stay upstairs, out of the way, and rest, and think positive thoughts—he actually said this, in front of everyone. “Anne, I know you. I know you worry, I know you fear. But you can’t, do you hear me? For the baby’s sake, you can’t give in to such emotions.”
“But, Charles—” I tried to push through the icy waters that were slowly swirling over me. “What do you know about—”
I stopped. I couldn’t. I couldn’t contradict him, I couldn’t question him—I saw it in the adoring eyes of every man in that room. Charles was a legend; I was the child’s hysterical mother. It was written on every face.
Charles, however, was not only the child’s father but the greatest hero of our age. He was also eager, energized, in a way he hadn’t been in such a long time—not since our flight to the Orient. He was champing at the bit to get on with it—to command this mission, the most significant mission in a life full of significant missions. If anyone was going to bring our son home, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that it would be him. He was Colonel Lindbergh. The Lone Eagle. Lucky Lindy.
My heart plummeted; already I felt that my child was being forgotten in the eagerness to find, once more, in Charles Lindbergh the hero everyone needed in these dark, desperate times. No longer the boy who had crossed an ocean, now he was the man who would single-handedly rescue his son from evil kidnappers in the midst of a Depression.
“Anne.” Charles helped me up from my chair and bent down to my level. Now his eyes were clear and resolute—just as they had been the day I met him, and recognized him as the most perfect, capable man alive. His voice did not waver. Despite my inner turmoil, I drew strength from him, as I always had.
“Anne, they have taken our baby. But you have to trust me. I will bring him home to you.”
“Yes,” I said, marveling to hear my voice clear and strong—as strong as his. “Yes,” I repeated. “I know you will.”
It was a sacred, intimate moment, as if we were repeating our marriage vows. Only this time I wasn’t pledging my troth; I was pledging my baby’s life. We stood together, as close as we’d been since the trip to the Orient. And I gave my child over to my husband in front of these muddy state troopers, in this house so blazing with light it must be visible from five thousand feet up, in this darkness that whirled around outside, howling to come in once more, just as it had done already this endless day. Two hours—one lifetime—ago.
If I let the swirling blackness inside again, even masquerading as doubt, it would never leave; it would poison the two of us forever. At that moment, I was frantic to believe that we hadn’t already been ruined beyond recognition. So I nodded as Charles told me—so boyishly earnest, so heartbreakingly sure—that he would bring our son back home. And that there was absolutely no reason for me to worry.
I believed him, just as I always had, just as I always wanted to. Of course, I believed him; I was his crew. He was mine.
In that terrible hour, long past dusk, dawn an unimaginable miracle away, what other choice did I have?
CHAPTER 10
THE BABY WAS CRYING. I stirred in my sleep, an automatic reflex; kicking away the covers, I rolled over, eyes still shut but breath held, hoping he would stop. Of course, he didn’t. Now he was crying out, calling my name—my real name, how odd! Not Mama, but Anne. “Anne—Anne—”
I was crying, too. I was calling out his name, calling “Charles, Charles!” I had never called him Charles before; it was always Charlie, or Little Lamb, or Baby Boy. The poor thing! He didn’t really know his name. So how would he come, if I kept calling it? Now I was running; it was dark and something kept hitting against the house, the wind howling about, filling my ears with its primal moan. I called, “Charles, Charles!” and I realized he wouldn’t know it was me, I realized he wouldn’t understand his own name, if he could even hear it in the storm. But I kept calling.
“Anne! Anne!” But why didn’t he call me Mama? How did he know my name? Was he already lost from me? Had a lifetime passed, and he was grown up now and I didn’t recognize him anymore? Him, this stranger shaking me, calling out my name?
“Anne!”
“Charles!”
My eyes flew open; it took me a moment to realize I was in bed. My husband was holding me by the shoulders, and I was struggling against him, because I had to go to the nursery—Charlie was crying. That was what had awakened me. Charlie’s cry.
“Is he up already?” I asked, bewildered. Why was Charles still wearing the clothes he’d worn yesterday?
“Anne.”
“Did Betty feed him?” I yawned, rubbing my eyes—astonished to feel tears on my cheeks. I looked at my wet fingers, and knew that even as I did so, I was still crying.
And then I remembered.
“Oh. Oh!” And the grief was real and raw, as if all that had happened the night before
“Stop it! Let go of me!” I was shouting, and he looked uneasily toward the closed bedroom door, as if someone was standing just outside. “I mean it—let me go!” I actually kicked at my husband, allowing myself a tiny burst of triumph. It felt good, even for so childish a moment, to lash out at someone.
“Anne, hush. I woke you because there’s someone I want you to see.”
I stopped squirming instantly. I held myself perfectly still, allowing his words to penetrate first my mind, then my heart. Then I laughed, pure joy bubbling out of me; it had been a dream, after all!
“The baby? You found the baby? Oh, where is he?” I threw my arms about him. His body remained rigid; he plucked my arms from around his neck.
“No, no. Not the baby.” His eyes narrowed, as if I had somehow challenged his authority—no, his competence. “Pull yourself together, Anne. There’s a man outside I thought you should see—or, rather, he wanted to see you. He might have some information.”
“Oh.” I nodded, looking away; I couldn’t let him see my disappointment. “What time is it?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“You look terrible. Did you sleep at all?”
“No. We’ve been searching outside—although we couldn’t keep the reporters out, not at first, so quite a lot of evidence might be trampled over.”
“Did you find anything?”
“A ladder. Broken in pieces.”
I nodded, not really understanding. What did the pieces of a ladder mean?
“And some footprints, men’s footprints, on the ground beneath the—his—window. The press, of course, is having a field day. You’d better—well, I don’t know. You’ll find out anyway. If you want to read the newspapers, they’re in the kitchen. I would advise you not to. But get dressed now, please, for this gentleman.”
Charles joined whoever it was in the hall while I went through the motions; I splashed water on my face, ran a comb through my hair, and pulled on a housedress, only to find that I couldn’t get it all the way over my hips. I had to wear an ugly yellow-and-black checked maternity dress that I’d somehow thought to pack instead. The first one I’d worn for this pregnancy; I couldn’t help reflecting on the irony—that the new life I was carrying was making itself visible on this, of all days.