Doubt Thou the Stars Are Fire

By Alisha Yowell

Doubt Thou the Stars Are Fire is a historical novel where a young girl named Annette, who just survived World War II, must now take on the overwhelming task of uprooting her life in London in order to move to America. Annette struggles with harboring hatred for her sister since she caused their family to move, leaving her only friend. Annette also struggles with her own identity as her obsessive-compulsive disorder begins to develop and consume her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Jul 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796043150

Book preview

DOUBT THOU

THE STARS ARE FIRE

ALISHA YOWELL

Copyright © 2019 by Alisha Yowell.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Scripture quotations marked NIV are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved. [Biblica]

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 06/26/2019

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Contents

Part One England 1945

Tuesday 1 May 1945

Wednesday 2 May 1945

Friday 4 May 1945

Sunday 6 May 1945

Tuesday 8 May 1945

Friday 18 May 1945

Saturday 19 May 1945

Sunday 20 May 1945

Monday 28 May 1945

Tuesday 29 May 1945

Wednesday 30 May 1945

Sunday 3 June 1945

Monday 4 June 1945

Part Two America 1945

Monday June 18, 1945

Tuesday June 17, 1945

Wednesday July 4Th, 1945

Thursday July 5, 1945

Monday September 3, 1945

Friday September 28, 1945

Friday October 12, 1945

Part Three America 1950

November 1950

February 1950

November 1950

March 1950

November 1950

May 1950

November 1950

July 1950

November 1950

August 1950

November 1950

September 1950

November 1950

October 1950

November 1950

December 1950

Part Four Charlie

4 June 1945

8 June 1945

10 June 1945

13 June 1945

1 July 1945

3 July 1945

10 September 1945

8 February 1946

16 March 1950

9 May 1950

20 July 1950

24 December 1950

December 31, 1950

Part Five Annette

Joyce And Rose’s Home

The Hospital

The Police Station

Stapleton International Airport

The Anderson House

Epilogue

May 10, 1952

Then the Lord said to Cain, Why are you angry? Why is your face downcast? If you do what is right, will you not be accepted? But if you do not do what is right, sin is crouching at your door; it desires to have you, but you must rule over it.

Now Cain said to his brother Abel, Let’s go out to the field. While they were in the field, Cain attacked his brother Abel and killed him.

Then the Lord said to Cain, Where is your brother Abel?

I don’t know, he replied. Am I my brother’s keeper?

The Lord said, What have you done? Listen! Your brother’s blood cries out to me from the ground. Now you are under a curse and driven from the ground, which opened its mouth to receive your brother’s blood from your hand. When you work the ground, it will no longer yield its crops for you. You will be a restless wanderer on the earth.

Cain said to the Lord, My punishment is more than I can bear. Today you are driving me from the land, and I will be hidden from your presence; I will be a restless wanderer on the earth, and whoever finds me will kill me.

But the Lord said to him, Not so; anyone who kills Cain will suffer vengeance seven times over. Then the Lord put a mark on Cain so that no one who found him would kill him.

Genesis 4:6-15

Sensitive people usually love deeply and hate deeply. They don’t know any other way to live than by extremes because their emotional thermostat is broken."

—Shannon L. Alder

PART ONE

ENGLAND 1945

TUESDAY 1 MAY 1945

I n a word, she would sum it up as twisted. That night the clouds were in a rage, twisting and swirling like a vicious sea, constantly overlapping each other as a moon desperately tried to peer below; as if even the moon could sense the importance of what would take place that night. Unlike the moon, the trees grew stiff, each twig snagging and twisting so that the trees scratched and snagged on its own bark. Were they frightened, she wondered, at the events they knew must be coming?

Annette would even note that her parents also had the appearance of being bent in on each other as their words fling from one mouth and then the other, letting a few pieces of shrapnel hit the door of Annette’s hideaway. Joyce, with her twisted, braided, brown hair, always tamed by obnoxiously large bows, had been given some kind of chance to go to America. Annette’s mother insisted that it was a chance of a lifetime, but Annette’s father questioned every word out of his wife’s mouth, going on about the war, a war he did not even enter. This knowledge always left Annette feeling confused about her father. She knew he mangled his foot in the First World War, but the ferocity he has, and the hatred that fills a room when a war is mentioned, leaves Annette with the strangest feeling that he spent the whole battle trying to leave the war, not survive it. Was he a coward or a hero? Annette’s mother surely believed him to be both.

As she tried to tune out the low frequency of arguments, Annette’s ears found the high frequency of Joyce’s radio, causing Annette to be unwelcomingly aware of the shivering static that the radio next door continually heaped against the adjoining wall. As Annette sat at her window, illuminated by the shivery ghost of a candle, she could here Joyce’s anticipation as BBC announced the death of Hitler. It was an announcement that Annette felt was meant to be followed by a revered silence, but instead was accompanied by the screaming of parents and the squeal of a sister who had everything. A door flung open, slamming against the wall of Annette’s alcove, fanning the fire of her anger. Not even noticing the deep and heated tension, Joyce squealed her good news as the parents choked on their words. She could hear Joyce’s stupid smile through the door, and immediately knew her mother was crying tears of joy instead of anger, and her father was in a silent stupor. He would be conflicted now, Annette thought. This death could only mean the end of a war, which means he can no longer tell his erroneous and heroic tale as to why he was not in it.

Annette clenched her fists and hugged her knees to her chest. The favorite would now cause her whole family to uproot from their home in London in order to go to America. Her perfect, fourteen years old sister, who holds those two years of life experience constantly over Annette’s head, would be the soul reason for her misery. The static that still aired seemed to crash over Annette again and again. It was a wave pool of misery, and only the image of removing her sister seemed to be the only thought to soothe her poor twisting mind.

It was in that moment of complete and murderous despair that she glimpsed his figure. At first, she thought it to be a trick of the light, but when she looked once again, the shadow took human form, and was indeed walking past the dimly lit house. Gently resting her hands on the windowpane, Annette tried to get as close as possible, afraid she may miss a moment of this stranger.

Covered in a haze of Annette’s breath, the stranger walked slowly, as if greatly fatigued, and his back was greatly hunched, the weight of the world seeming to sit upon his shoulders. His great pale beard cascaded towards the ground, telling Annette of his ascending age. He was a mix of shadows and gray. As Annette attempted to relieve the glass of her breath, the stranger shifted, turning towards the window. His face was full of lines; wrinkles and crow’s feet mixed amongst each other, and his gray beard seemed to have pulled his face into a permanent frown. Reaching up a hand, obscuring the left side of his face, he pointed an arthritic finger towards her, his mouth silently pushing a word towards her:

No.

She was in such a state, that Annette practically tripped over her own legs to get to the door. She needed to know more, and by the time she had charged through the small study and into her parents’ verbal arena, and the shouting of her name, the door yielded nothing. The figure was gone, and Annette had not even had time to make note of his clothing, or why she felt so curious about his hand obscuring his face, for the wrinkles and shadows on his face were all too consuming.

Dropping to the floor, Annette no longer felt the heat of anger on her doorstep, but instead resignation. For this moment, Annette would accept her perfect sister and her uprooting of the family. For now, Annette would be content with the mystery of the man in the night that brought a series of twisted circumstances to a resigned state of obedience and dictatorial death.

WEDNESDAY 2 MAY 1945

A nnette sat outside her house, perching on the cut down stump of an old and sick tree that once thrived. The winter of her tenth birthday, Annette’s mother could not stand the sight of the thing, with its leaves forever missing, and the bark seeming to always be sickly pale. That was the winter Annette’s father, grumbling to himself—as he once loved this tree—took the tree down for good. Why Annette’s mother felt like sending a cripple out to cut down his favorite tree always seemed odd, but nothing more than that. If it had to be done, then Annette assumed it had to be done.

Joyce, on the other hand, was inconsolable. The kind and handsome neighbor, known as the local farmer’s son John, had walked her home. Even at twelve, Joyce had captured the hearts of many boys—sixteen-year-old John being one of them—and it was of course lucky for him that he got to generously consoled Joyce that day. When the sight of her cut-down-tree was too much for her to bear Annette was certain she was going to rip the poor boys shirt off in her clenched, weeping fists.

Shrugging off the memory, Annette went back to her usual task of picking off the bark of the stump, desperately desiring the entire surface to be smooth. It was a way to keep her mind busy as her sister took walks with the current handsome boy, dictated by girls older than Annette or Joyce, around town. It was not always the safest thing to do, and Annette had been forced to promise time and time again that she would not tell their parents. Maybe Joyce thought it made them closer, but each time Annette found herself on that stump her mind would swirl with rage. Why should her sister always be so fortunate with the boys, while also gaining the favor of their parents? Sometimes Annette would fantasize about telling her parents the truth, and that once they knew the real person Joyce was they would obviously favor Annette, telling Joyce to find a new place to live.

As Annette savored the fictitious look of despair on Joyce’s face, one of the pieces of bark unlatched in such a way as to leave a little bit, perfectly angled and executed, lodge into Annette’s thumb.

Bollocks!

That’s pretty strong language for a lady.

Annette swirled around, nearly throwing herself from the stump. A young boy leaned on his bicycle, his blond hair pushed back by the wind, and a soft rose crossing his cheeks.

Charlie… Annette groaned, looking at her thumb rather than her fried. Is there a reason you rode your bike over her right before dinner?

Charlie dropped his bicycle, grabbing Annette’s hand to clumsily get a look. Obviously I heard you were having a problem being lady-like. He chided, pulling the small splinter out. There, good as new!

Annette yanked her hand back, fighting the urge to push Charlie to the ground and go wash the blood from her hands. Taking a deep breath, she pushed out the whisper, Why are you here?

The boy’s eyes grew darker, and his knees slowly sank to the grass. For a while there no words, and after time, Annette would learn that his mute presence is what caused her to love him. Of course, Annette, young as she is, has no idea that love could spark for the boy at such a young age, but often when a seed is planted, the ones that grow overtime, thickening their roots, are strongest when they finally emerge.

Sinking back down on the stump, Annette focused on the loose thread of yellow that Charlie twisted anxiously around his finger. Annette never understood why Charlie would appear so chatty at school; yet, Charlie would sit so somberly, smelling tart and fearful, when he was with Annette. It was obvious that home was the last place he would want to be, and on the harder days—when Charlie’s shirts were dotted and stained with the smell of what Annette would think rotten apple-juice to smell like—he sought her ought.

Charlie still sat in his sullen when Annette thought she might know the answer after all. You heard about… him didn’t you?

As if an invisible string pulled on his arm, Charlie shrugged a shoulder, turning his head up towards his friend. It’ll be over soon.

Annette just nodded. Lately she had noticed Charlie smelled more like firewood than apples, but not until this moment did she realize how those things coincided with Charlie’s father entering the war. Annette grew uncomfortable. She had no source of reference for this kind of problem, as her father was always shuffling around town or the house. Annette never feared her father coming or going, and Charlie, she figured, dreaded the first.

Will you tell me a story? Charlie begged softly with eyes like warm cider, steaming-up just enough to tip over the edge.

Acting as if she noticed no source of emotion, Annette stood up, and with a swift brush of her skirt announced she would go grab her copy of Hamlet. Annette’s father taught at the local college, and one day brought home a torn and fragile copy of the play Hamlet. Since then, Annette was obsessed with the characters, and would often read it to Charlie anytime he came over.

No, no… Charlie cried, about to jump up from the grass. I don’t want to hear about that whiney Hamlet today. He huffed.

Slowly, Annette eased her way back down to the stump. What do you want to hear then?

I don’t know… just tell me a story.

Annette’s mind whirled. Stories were not something she was particularly good at making up, but realized Hamlet’s obsession with his father was probably too much for the moment. Okay. I’ll tell you about a man.

What kind of man? Charlie inquired, his tone leaning more towards annoyance than Annette particularly liked.

Clearing her throat and sitting up straighter, Annette explained, No one really knows.

Charlie seemed to like this answer. Turning around to face Annette straight on, he leaned back with his hands resting in the grass.

Annette then went on to explain what she saw last night. She explained how, when this man appeared, all of nature seemed to twist and shake. Then, as if by some kind of magic, he could point at a house, turning everything inside of it quiet and peaceful, but if you look away, even for a moment, the man simply disappears. Annette decided to omit herself from the story, fearing that Charlie would think her mad for seeing, or even saying such a thing, but Charlie was far from judgmental.

Wrapping his arms around his knees, Charlie looked up at her earnestly. Anne… you don’t suppose this man would ever come to my house, do you?

Sinking deeper into the stump than thought possible, Annette felt the entirety of the feelings of sadness and hope in Charlie’s simple question that she had no words. It was at that moment that she realized tears were slipping from her eyes, and Annette tried to immediately wipe them away. She did not want to think about the sad things that happened in Charlie’s house. She did not want to think about leaving Charlie alone, with no one to tell him stories. She did not want her sister to come home from the town. But, most importantly, more than anything in the world, she did not want to leave Charlie without hope.

Collapsing herself onto the ground, she wrapped her arms around the boy, whose own amber eyes softly leaked, and whispered her truest truth: He saved me last night, surely he can save you too.

After an uncomfortable and embarrassing ten minutes, Charlie and Annette, gently resting her shoulder against his, had gone back to sitting quietly. Annette fidgeted uncomfortably with the hem of her white skirt; Charlie, on the other hand, gazed emptily at the dandelions as they shivered against the breeze. They sat like this for some time; Annette embarrassed for having noticed and expressed such emotion, and Charlie quietly contemplating thoughts Annette was sure would make Charlie’s chink in his armor disappear.

As the sun began to dip behind the clouds, Annette began to wonder who would arrive home first. Her father usually came home just as the sun finally slipped behind the horizon, and her mother would normally be dragging home an hour or so later. Joyce had yet to come home, and Annette thought, finally, her chance would come. Joyce would not be home before their parents, and, without guilt to her conscience, Joyce would be caught and punished accordingly.

For a brief moment, a smile slipped onto Annette’s face. Surely, this is what would happen, and surely, Joyce’s punishment would be to stay here, in London, where Annette was comfortable, safe, home.

Whatever are you up to, Anne? Charlie asked. You look as if you just found a whole tin of biscuits. He remarked.

Annette paused for a moment. She wished in all of the world that she could tell Charlie what is was she was up to, but she also knew if her plan somehow failed, it would hurt more in the end. She shook her head with the plainest of expressions, It’s nothing, Charlie. Telling Charlie she had a plan to stay in London, and then not being able to would break her heart, she was sure of it. So sure of it, she instantly, in Charlie’s slightest hint of a shoulder shrug, decided she would tell him nothing about moving to America.

Standing up and brushing off her skirt, Annette informed Charlie that is was none of his business, and that if he’s a real gentleman he will respect her privacy.

With a smirk, Charlie took it upon himself to stand and give a sight bow. Of course, my lady. Please pardon my curiosity, it got away from me. Picking up his bike, and softly gazing back at Annette, gave a sigh. I should get home before it’s dark. Mum will be onto me if—

Oh, I can’t believe this is happening to me!

Annette turned to disappointingly find Joyce in a mess of tears. No doubt came to her mind that her sister had just told her current boyfriend she will be leaving for America. Charlie, escape while you can. She hissed, practically pushing him onto his bike.

Charlie gave a startled and concerned look to Annette, but to her relief, he rode his bike to the street and back home.

Oh, William was so perfect, Annie! She wailed, tossing herself dramatically on the front steps. I will be splitting my heart in two by leaving him!

Annette’s blood boiled. You’ve only been with him for a week! She screamed. And if you really want to stay then stop being the center of attention for at least one second and let us stay! You’re the one trying to uproot our whole family for you own damn pride!

Joyce opened her mouth to respond, but Annette had had enough. Stepping up and over, she climbed over Joyce, opened the door, and slammed it behind her. With tears threatening another ambush, Annette grabbed her dented copy of Hamlet and entered her quiet place of solitude. Huddled up against the window, Annette turned to the fifth scene of the first act. Charlie hadn’t been coming over as often, so their progress had been slow this time around.

Charlie sat at the edge of Annette’s mind as she read the lines of Hamlet. Quietly, Annette muttered to herself:

"Ay, that incestuous, that adulterate beast,

With witchcraft of his wit, with traitorous gifts-

O wicked wit and gifts, that have the power

So to seduce!- won to his shameful lust

The will of my most seeming-virtuous queen."

With a huff, Annette tossed the book to the side. Surely the villainous serpent that was Hamlet’s Uncle was exactly who Joyce was as well. Annette then wondered if she could truly be as brave as Hamlet was. Hamlet’s family caused him such suffering, and he had not even known the pain that was her sister. And, as if on cue, Annette heard the bemoaning again, probably to her father.

The high-pitched cries and low rumblings of their conversation seemed to get louder and louder to Annette. She could not make out the words, but the utter vibrations of sound began to race in her head, bouncing from wall to wall. Shoving her hands against her ears, Annette muttered to herself, I will not go to America. I will not go to America. I will not go to America.

Tears splashed onto her lap. The noise. The noise. She thought. Why is there so much noise? With a pitiful wish for hope, Annette glanced out the window as she had the night before. Her hands grew tighter, not only covering her ears, but also gripping each strand of brown hair in a vicious, murderous grip. Annette tried to breathe, counting quietly to herself, but her pulse began to race. Her head, previously filled with the noise and murmuring of family, was now accompanied by a pounding pulse screaming each noisy thought to a panicked rhythm.

Jumping up, Annette grabbed the white blanket, stretched evenly over her bed in a perfect pristine nature to shove under the crack in the doorway. Just as she dared to near the door, shoving as swiftly as possible, Annette collapsed onto the pile of sound reducing fabric in tears. Her mind was going at speeds she could not calculate. I need to stop the noise. She strongly told herself. Why is my heart racing so fast? she questioned, Why is everything always about Joyce? Will I ever be happy? If we move, can I really survive? Why is Joyce allowed to uproot our whole family? What if something happened to Joyce? Would I be sad? I think I would be relieved. What’s wrong with me? Make the noise stop. I should count, papa always tells me to count. 1…2…3…. Breathe. My head feels like a drum. Should I tell them? I can’t even handle their voices, I’d never be able to give them mine. 4…5…6… Why does the thought of Charlie make me so sad? We are only friends. Aren’t we? Joyce ruins everything. 7…8…9…. Breathe. 10…11…12…. Breathe. I’m okay. 13…14…15…. Breathe. Nothing is set in stone. 16…17…18…. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Annette sat crippled, breathing, breaking, for an hour. Finally, her breaths came easier. The pounding in her head sought refuge elsewhere, and her mind was able to focus on the room around her. Her small bed, neatly tucked before, now had ripples. Pulling herself up with sheer willpower, Annette re-made her bed. It took about four tries to get everything looking perfect, and the distraction of her bed helped keep her thoughts at bay. The bed has to be perfect. She whispered to herself. She did not always know why her bed had to be perfect, not even her parents made their bed everyday, but she felt impulse daily to keep everything organized and in its place, which included sheets and blankets. Maybe if I try really hard—if they see how good I am… she began to mutter, cut off by the threat of a growing heart rate.

Quickly brushing her current thoughts aside, Annette again approached her bay window. Cast off to the side, Hamlet lay splayed open, it’s spine seeming to grow weaker every second. Gently, she picked up her precious book, smoothing out the creases of the pages with a gentle caress. Get thee to a nunnery. She quoted to the book. I simply tear you apart don’t I? She muttered, stroking the cover with a quiet, almost reverent air. In a brief moment of insanity, Annette thought, if she truly must go, Hamlet would be in better hands if left with Charlie, but before she even knew how to process the thought, a gentle knock graced her door.

With a hint of a gasp, Annette quickly placed her Hamlet next to the window, as if a lover had been caught by his wife with another. Yes? She called meekly.

The door slid open as if there never was a blanket to hinder it, and Annette’s father, creased brow and worn glasses, stood within the gap. Rubbing at the graying stubble, he seemed to assess the situation. Annette stood awkwardly between her bed and window, obscuring the view of her precious play. She of course had nothing to be ashamed of, for her father was the one to donate the copy, but Annette felt protective of her aged pages of Hamlet and his revenge. Dinner is about ready, you may want to wash up. He stated. Annette’s father had a tendency to only speak in a monotone voice, which made Annette occasionally pity whoever had to sit in his classes at the University, but also had a feeling this tone was reserved for her. If Annette was not special, why should she expect her father to use anything but a monotone voice with her?

Annette nodded obediently.

Moving away from the door, her father hesitated. Looking back after a quick glance, he removed his reading glasses. You know… he softly added, causing Annette to subconsciously leaned in towards her father who now spoke in a secretive tone rather than monotonous. If I could pick a side, it would be yours. The words lingered in the doorway for a brief moment before they dissolved into carpet at Annette’s feet. With her father’s immediate absence, she reached a hand towards her face. Could it be that her own tears left marks to show others her weakness? She had no mirror in her room, but, once moved to the sink to wash up, she saw no clear lines. Her eyes were a brighter blue than normal, and seemed to be surrounded by a touch of pink, but she thought it only noticeable with a close inspection.

Washing her hands, Annette counted down from sixty and then back up before feeling like her hands were properly clean. With the numbers out of her mind, she pondered over what