Dark Angel

Liverpool, 1939 Sitting on the maple-tiled balcony floor of their three-story Victorian home, which overlooked a tree-laden road leading to the beach, was 12-year-old Mary. “Daddy, if there is going to be a big fight, will you have to go?” asked Mary innocently. Even children weren’t insulated against the swirling rumors of the oncoming war spreading rapidly throughout the country. Yes, some were eager to go and give Germany a good ‘thrashing’ once again, but he knew better. Staring back at his daughter’s big brown, piercing eyes, he could only hope good would prevail. It was one of those moments that, as a father, he wanted to lie. He wanted to tell his child everything would be okay; that the world was a beautiful, innocent, safe place and she would never have a worry. But the stark, difficult fact was that in all probability he would have to go to war, and the likelihood of him coming back was small, so very small. He looked at his daughter and realized that since he may never come back from this war, now may be as good a time as any. “Mary, I’m going to tell you something and you have to promise never to tell anyone. Now promise me one of our special handshakes.” She smiled and agreed, shaking his hand with her little finger. He patted his knee and she jumped onto it, eagerly gazing into his eyes with anticipation. “No matter what, always keep your family close and trust no one outside it. When you’re all grown up just remember that.”