The Tomorrows

By Katlyn Charlesworth

Vivian Faber plays the diligent eighteen-year-old student during the day, but at night she is one of many “Swing Kids”––rebellious teenagers who partake in the illegal support of swing clubs. When a young Nazi soldier begins to take an interest in Vivian, her façade begins to crumble, and keeping her dangerous nighttime activities from colliding with the security of her mundane life becomes much more difficult––not to mention precarious—than ever before. Eager fascination becomes a struggle between the fresh and fragile relationship with the friend who has loved her for years, and the blue-eyed stranger she can’t seem to get out of her head. Soon, she starts to realize that there may be a connection between the soldier and the disturbing murder of her friend’s sister, Alice, leaving her to wonder what secrets truly lie hidden beneath those enticing blue eyes…

Love can be a deadly thing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jan 6, 2014
• ISBN: 9781304774743

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Copyright © 2013 Katlyn Charlesworth.

All rights reserved.  No reproduction, re-distribution, copying, or use of this work is allowed without express permission from the author. Please respect the work of this author. The names depicted in this novel are works of fiction.  Any relation to real people or places is purely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-304-77474-3

Cover design by Katlyn Charlesworth. Photograph courtesy of Morguefile.

Research used for this novel came from various Internet resources.  No copyright infringement intended.

For my mother.

Thank you for giving me the courage to pursue my writing.

It is because of you that I chose to write this novel… And I think it may just be my best one yet.  I love you.

The Tomorrows

Preface

IN THE YEAR OF 1939, wild tales of the American prohibition era transformed into distant memories, and swing music rapidly became the tabooed ‘drink of choice’ for the German counterparts.

So many things had changed.  You could taste it in the grey air, you could see it painted on the landscape, and you could feel it burrow deep in your bones.  Like a cancer.

Crimson sheets of paper lined the walls of crumbling brick buildings.  The black ink ran slightly in the damp air of the Spring rains, making the disfigured apes’ fur of the Degenerated Music posters look like it visibly stuck out of the propaganda itself. 

Cloth swastikas hung from shop windows and green soldiers sported red bands and black slashes on their uniforms as they clung in small groups, standing to the sides of streets, watching.  Always watching.

People hardly noticed these things anymore.  It took work, but you could block out pretty much anything if you tried hard enough.

With enough practice, you could walk down the Berlin streets and the propaganda would blend into the grimy bricks, the waving scarlet flags were but part of the breeze, and the Nazis’ watchful militant eyes transformed until their stares felt only as cold and alarming as a schoolmaster’s hollow gaze.

But there’s only so much you can close the eyes to.  It’s still there, and no amount of practice in the art of ignorance can change that.

By the time people realized all of these things were not going to disappear with the bricks, and the wind, and the blinks of eyes… it was too late.

Part 1

Words are the children of reason and, therefore, can’t explain it.  They really can’t translate feeling because they’re not part of it.  That’s why it bugs me when people try to analyze jazz as an intellectual theorem.  It’s not.  It’s a feeling.

– Bill Evans (American Jazz Pianist)

Blue Eyes

WITH THE BOOTH DOOR CLOSED, the horn of the gramophone blasting, my head thrown back, eyes closed, and knee bouncing—I was in musical ecstasy. 

Duke Ellington’s composition buzzed across my skin and tickled my bones.  I could feel my feet tapping and skidding across the floor in a patterned anxiety.  I wanted to start jumping around to the tune, but I didn’t think Cliff would appreciate my enthusiasm all over his shop.

A tap on the glass thrust me out of my trance, and Darlene’s oval glasses and raised eyebrows stared back at me through the fragile door.

Gesturing towards the shop door dramatically, she started yelling,  Viv, let’s go!  We’re gonna be late!

Alright, alright!  I’m comin’.  Shifting the needle off of the record, I slipped Duke Ellington back into his ersatz Beethoven’s Violin Concerto sleeve, the thin white inner-paper rustling against the unfamiliar intrusion. 

Pushing open the sound booth door, I made my way to the store counter where Cliff flipped through a newspaper, distractedly.

I laid the record on the scratched, yet polished, wood in front of him,  Thanks, Cliff.

Without glancing up his fingers slid the square slip into a box below with a muted thump, his hip pushing the mismatched collection of music back onto the shelf.  All the while, his eyes never left the slightly smudged ink of the morning news.

Vivian!  Darlene huffed at my back.  Her arm was shoved up against the doorframe and the gap between the entrance and the wall let a cool breeze into the stuffy store.

I shivered lightly,  "Don’t blow your wig, Darlene.  I’ve gotta get my bag. Running back to the booth, I squatted down to grab the satchel below the bench, before turning and trotting towards the door,  Okay, let’s go."

Darlene rolled her eyes and started down the cracked walkway,  You know, I don’t know why I let you talk me into coming down here before classes.  She shook her head like a disappointed mother tittering over a disobedient child,  You always make me late.

Slipping my arm through hers, I grinned,  Aw, Darling, you know you love me.  Besides, we’re in our last year—they couldn’t kick us out now!  We’ve been in worse trouble before.

You mean you’ve been in worse trouble.  Her pursed lips slipped and then curled into a smile.  She could never stay mad at me for long when I used her nickname, ‘Darling’.  It had been that way for as long as I could remember. 

Ever since I had decided to bring the toad I had found in Krumme Lanke pond into the classroom at Rothstein, Darlene had been the one to pull me out of sticky situations. 

After watching the slimy creature hop down the aisle between our desks, Mrs. Milford let out a squeak, leaping partway onto the top of her desk as the rest of the class laughed at her antics.  When I scrambled onto my knees, my hands cupped and bouncing up and down on the floor in futile attempts to catch the toad, Mrs. Milford had blamed me for the entire fiasco. 

And though her accusations may have been based in truth, Darlene came to my rescue, claiming the toad had been found on the edge of the pond and was dying, hence I had brought him to the school for some rest and recuperation.  Although elaborate, rather than melt the heart of our castigator, her tall tale of watching a pale amphibian slowly stick its limp pink tongue out in the direction of a passing insect only rendered the Headmaster speechless.

His fuzzy eyebrows shot above his glasses and his lips were set in a funny line,  How… fascinating, Miss Baum.  Thank you for enlightening us.

Darlene only stared back at him seriously.

Turning towards me, the Headmaster continued,  However, I’m afraid this little interruption gave Mrs. Milford quite a fright, Miss Faber.  I will have to give you some sort of punishment… He shifted his eyeglasses up on his long, bony nose,  I suppose an afternoon of writing a report on the anatomy of an amphibian should be fitting enough.

Standing up from his desk, he placed a hand on each of our shoulders; leading us towards the door,  Report to me after class ends, Miss Faber.  Good day to you both.  I hope I do not have to see you in my office for such an incident in the future… However, I think these visits will be a common occurrence with you, Miss Faber. And slowly turning to go back into his office, I swear on my vast record collection, the Headmaster had a hint of a smile on his face.

Walking the few minutes time back to class, Darlene and I became fast friends and we stayed that way ever since.

Hellooo?  Vivian, are you in there?  Darlene made a faux knocking motion with her fist on my forehead.

Yes, sorry.  I’m a little distant this morning.  Rubbing my eye, I sighed,  I didn’t sleep very well again.

Darlene rolled her eyes,  Well, it probably didn’t help that you stayed out until God-all-hours of the morning listening to a bunch of horns squeaking and trumpets blaring.

Hey, I happen to like those squeaking horns and blaring trumpets.  I broke my lecture for a moment as we skittered across the street to the broken buildings on the other side,  I can’t help it if you don’t appreciate good music when you hear it.

Oh, God!  Not that again!  She shifted her bag onto her other shoulder with a long swing,  I don’t hate it, Viv.  I just can’t… Her eyes grew distant and watery,  I don’t want to end up like Alice.

I put my arm around her shoulders, leaning my head next to hers,  I’m sorry, Dar.  I know you’re right.  I grinned,  You’re always the wiser of the two of us.

Darlene sniffed and smiled.

We both were silent for a moment, each reminiscing of our own times with Alice.  It had been almost two years since Darlene’s older sister had been taken away in a wooden cart to God-knows-where.

I just can’t help it.  I mean, when I hear Duke or Glenn or Benny, I just… Sighing, I closed my eyes and started swaying my hips, my shoulders wiggling in anticipation.  A miniature record played on endless repeat in my head.  And I just couldn’t ignore the music.  I started singing along.

Vivian!  Stop it.  Darlene’s voice was solid and cold, incredibly unlike her and enough to make my eyes split open.

I looked at her with confusion and a little bit of hurt,  What?  I shoved my hands on my hips.

Her wide eyes darted towards a group of people across the way, my face fell and my skin prickled.

A gathering of what looked to be young men in their very early 20s, maybe even younger, stood in a half-hearted circle.  Their green uniforms looked crisp and unused.  Their cropped blond hair was slicked back and their gazes flicked back and forth between each other and our two forms.  Their lips moved in hushed exchanges.

One of the men leaned casually against the chunky military car, his hand slowly touching a cigarette to his face, his lips releasing white smoke as his striking blue eyes caught my own. 

He was young.  Maybe a few years older than Darlene and I, the man was tall and his jaw was strong and thick.  His hair was as blonde as the rest of them, but had a unique tinge of amber in it—making me think of Alice and her unusual bob.

He was the biggest of the group, and