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ii: THE LAWYER AND THE POET

MASTERS OF THE AIR
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THORPE ABBOTTS,
EAST ANGLIA 1943

       || CELINA OCCUPIED HERSELF BY TRYING TO MAKE FRIENDS WITH THE LOCALS. Or at least, she tried too. Mrs. Hutchison was quite adamant in keeping the young Pole occupied in the company of others. Rather than letting herself rot away in the lonely depths of her room. Celina had felt like giving up most times, as many blatantly ignored her.

Though most were accepting and greeted her with endless kindness. Especially Helen, they both just kinda clicked—it was that friendship where one was outgoing and the other was reserved. Yet always found a way to make ends meet. Though it was rare for them hang outside of the base.

Whereas Celina's brother Alesky spent his time around the RAF Polish squadron—as he preferred being around their naive country speakers. Frankly, not all of the crew was Polish as there were some among the crowd from Czech.

Alesky had a different look on the world, deeming himself more of thorough thinker. Or atleast, he tried to say that. As well, he was frustrated with himself in trying to fight back the urge of loyalty to one's country and that of wanting a peaceful life. But the Germans made that decision for him in 1939. Perhaps that's why he never once took off his Polish dog tags. Feeling he was still connected to his country in some way.

Celina traversed the serene expanse of the sandy brim encircling the lake. One that adorned the forefront of the stately manor she and Alesky had embraced as their abode. Observing with keen interest, she beheld the local denizens engaged in their daily pursuits from a distance—some gallivanting on horseback, while others labored diligently to cleanse the cobbled streets of grime.

Assuming the mantle of overseeing Mrs. Eleanor's progeny, the young Pole reveled in the melodic sounds of laughter that permeated the atmosphere, emanating from the gleeful youngsters cavorting in a spirited game of tag. Innocence enveloped these little cherubs, accepting her as their confidante without a shadow of doubt.

Opportunity presented itself for Celina to refine her command of the English tongue, indulging in the intricacies of linguistic instruction with the juveniles, who proved to be more receptive and less censorious than the austere adults. A symbiotic relationship blossomed wherein she evaluated their progress in language studies, providing a nurturing environment for both educator and wards.

Upon the conclusion of the language drill, the trio of diverse ages imparted a deferential bow before departing on account of the respite decreed by Celina. Standing in contemplative repose, she unfastened the strap of her satchel, caressing the timeworn leather with a delicate touch that invited reminiscence to flood her senses. A flicker of nostalgia danced in her eyes, swiftly subdued by the exigencies of the present moment.

Gathering her resolve, she relinquished the contents of her satchel onto the verdant carpet of grass, the items arrayed in a symphony of cherished possessions. Each artifact, eloquent in its silence, bore witness to a past tinged with bittersweet recollections. With a resolute exhale, Celina commenced the meticulous task of sorting through the relics, a testament to endurance amidst the ebb and flow of time's inexorable passage.

Celina was fervently engaged in an activity that transcended the bounds of mere leisure. With a slender pencil poised over pristine paper, she immersed herself in the timeless art of poetic refinement, delving deep into the recesses of her creative mind.

The verses that had once sprung forth from her soul were now subject to meticulous scrutiny, as she sought to breathe new life into them or perhaps, with a heavy heart, excise certain phrases that no longer resonated with her aesthetic sensibilities.

She delved deep into the recesses of her mind, where old poems lay dormant. With deft strokes, she embellished them further, or excised certain lines with a decisive hand, breathing new life into the words that once lay dormant upon the page.

However, as the afternoon waned, a restlessness began to gnaw at Celina's soul. The poems, once a source of endless fascination, now seemed to pale in comparison to the tapestry of sketches waiting to be unfurled. With a languid movement, she retrieved the weathered sketchbook from the depths of the leather satchel—its cover embossed with scratches and stains.

Within its faded pages resided a gallery of characters brought to life by her nimble fingers. Each face bore the imprint of her artistry, captured in smudged charcoal and ethereal strokes. Beside each portrait lay a verse, a testament to the meticulous attention she paid to every detail, from the curve of a smile to the flicker of a gaze.

Scouring her meager supplies for morsels of charcoal, Celina's eyes alighted upon a visage that beckoned to be immortalized on paper. An elder, with silvered hair and a gaze that seemed to pierce the very fabric of reality, became her muse. With bated breath, she dipped the charcoal in reverence and began to sketch, each stroke a dance of shadows and light.

It had been a considerable span of time since Celine had indulged in the intricate art of sketching, a passion she nurtured alongside her daily ritual of weaving verses into timeless poems. The strokes on the paper felt foreign at first, hesitant and unsteady, but with each erasure and recommencement, a familiar sense of adeptness rekindled within her.

As she delved deeper, a peculiar ambiance enveloped the air around her. The children, with their innocent countenances and ethereal presence, encircled her as if drawn by an unseen force, their melodious voices echoing strange lullabies that stirred a nostalgia within Celine's soul.

Amidst the bewitching dance, a curious phenomenon unfolded before her very eyes. It was as though her hand, guided by an otherworldly essence, diverged from the intended path to trace the visage of a figure morphing with each passing moment. The sharp contours of the elderly man in the distance metamorphosed into the gentle features of the pilot whom she had encountered merely days ago. From the jawline and the soft, searching eyes bore an uncanny resemblance.

A profound sense of disconcertion washed over Celine as she beheld the unexpected transformation taking shape on the parchment. Her cheeks flushed with a crimson hue of embarrassment, betraying the tumultuous emotions coursing through her being, before she swiftly closed the sketchbook with a resonant snap, startling one of the young girls from her reverie.

"Are you quite well?" the girl inquired, her voice a mere whisper that resonated with an uncanny understanding beyond her tender years. Celine met her gaze with a nod, her lips pursed in a resolute line as she struggled to comprehend. "Ye...yes..." she was able to stammer out rather hastily, swallowing the bile that formed within.

THORPE ABBOTTS,

Meanwhile, back at the base, in the starchy atmosphere of the cafeteria, Lieutenant Rosie's disdain for the culinary creations laid before him was palpable. The insipid heap of scrambled eggs mocked his refined palate, prompting him to wield his fork in a futile attempt to discern any semblance of flavor amidst the blandness. Indeed, he mused internally, he would sooner partake of the earthy richness of soil than subject himself to such abominable sustenance.

As his sapphire gaze darted absently towards the towering double doors, Rosie's thoughts invariably drifted to the enigmatic young woman who had ensnared his curiosity. A vision of ethereal beauty, her features bore the delicate hallmarks of her Polish lineage, a fact that had not escaped Rosie's discerning gaze. Days of relentless inquiry had revealed morsels of information about her background.

Rosie had uncovered morsels of information about her familial ties to the RAF Polish squadron, a brother...

Yet, amidst his musings on the captivating blonde whose memory lingered like an unresolved melody, Rosie's keen eyes chanced upon a figure that caused his heart to quicken its pace beneath his crisp uniform. A familiar insignia emblazoned upon a blue uniform belonging to the Red Cross glided past the threshold, drawing Rosie's attention like a moth to a flame.

In a flurry of determination, Rosie abandoned his meal with an abruptness that surprised even himself, discarding the white napkin that had rested like a shroud around his collar.

Navigating the bustling throng of uniformed personnel and clinking pans, Rosie pursued the brunette that exuded an air of purposeful grace. The lieutenant found himself breathless upon reaching the hut, his words momentarily escaping him as he attempted to regain his composure in the face of this unexpected encounter.

He stood there, his figure slightly bent over, hands gripped firmly on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Beside him, Rosie observed the Red Cross tents, their presence blending harmoniously—each adorned with carefully planted flowers, to exude an air of familiarity and comfort.

As the gentle breeze carried the sweet scent of blossoms through the air, Helen emerged from one of the huts, gracefully carrying a basket brimming with towels nestled against her side. Her steps were deliberate and measured, mirroring the tranquility of the serene setting. However, her moment of solitude was abruptly interrupted by the unexpected appearance of Rosie, who stealthily emerged from the shadows, nearly startling her out of her wits.

"Good Lord, Rosenthal!" Helen exclaimed, her voice breathless with a tinge of annoyance. She narrowed her eyes at the perplexed lieutenant who stood before her, sheepishly placing his hands on his hips.

"Forgive me. It was not my intention to startle you," Rosie murmured apologetically, his eyes reflecting a genuine contrition.

Helen shot him a pointed glance, a mixture of exasperation and amusement dancing in her eyes, before releasing a heavy sigh and proceeding with her tasks. Yet, Rosie was not deterred by her dismissal and fell in step behind her, his insatiable curiosity propelling him forward.

"wait a minute..." he began tentatively, extending a hand in a feeble attempt to pause her hurried pace. "I have inquiries regarding..."

"Celina?" Helen interjected abruptly, finishing his sentence with a knowing look. Rosie nodded hesitantly, his lips pressed together in a tight line—his expression betraying his genuine interest.

Helen, on the other hand, rolled her eyes with a hint of incredulity, emitting a soft scoff as she continued her stride. "Oh, spare me..." she muttered dismissively under her breath.

However, the facade of nonchalance gradually faded from Helen's countenance as she realized that Rosie, the American pilot, was being earnest in his inquiry about the Polish woman. "Are you speaking in earnest?" she inquired, a glimmer of curiosity igniting in her eyes, as she turned to face Rosie, awaiting his response with a sense of intrigue.

The brunette haired maiden of the Red Cross stood—holding the half folded towel. Frankly, Helen wasn't in the least thrilled to see Rosie intrigued by Celine. She was young and had been sheltered her entirely.

" I want to know more about her." He finally spoke. But Helen only shrugged, humming a lone hmm from her mouth. How many times had she been asked this before? How many times had she been catcalled and asked about? More than enough...

The brunette's silence was deafening to Rosie. Then again he never had much luck with the ladies, as in, he never got out much. So he had the hardest time reading their body language.

"Well, I must say thank you for sticking up for her." Helen finally says with a soft smile, giving a gentle pat upon his shoulder. There he found himself yet again, quite puzzled by the mannerisms of this unique woman. Mainly, it being where had she come from? "Where can I find her?" He stammers out without much thought.

Helen pauses a moment, looking slightly over her shoulder— "I mean... I just... don't know when she'll come around again..." Rosie says immediately after, trying to bridge the awkwardness.

The brunette ponders a moment, finger to her lip—before a smile graced her features. " Celina stays at the manor just outside the base. One where they send all the battle worn pilots too." Helen couldn't believe she had just outed where her friend was to this man. But Rosie's soft demeanor and gentle nature quite caught her off guard.

"Thank you..." Rosie remarks with a smile, before turning to head away. "Not going with your boys later?" Helen asks, wondering if Heath would be there. Rosie shook his head, " No I won't be. But you know who will be there..."

It didn't take long for him to hitch a ride from one of the Mail men, explaining he needed to take visit by the manor on serious matters. It was quite the drive, going through town and over lovely springs.

Celina continued her poems, instead of the drawings,  well into midafternoon, the time when the orange colors mellowed into the dark sky. She sat with her legs overlapping one another, most unladylike, is what her mother would have said. Especially after sitting her dress with the likes of charcoal.

Swiping to a new page, Celina wrote the date followed by a black line under. Then, tapping the end of the pencil against that of her chin, she began formatting the entry like she would have for any other

Unbeknownst to the young Pole, the Lieutenant Robert Rosenthal had his eyes on her and was determined to see her again. Though it was easier said than done, as for entering the grand estate—it was quite vast. Rosie was particularly confused as to why there were airmen ordered to ride horses and play golf as a way to escape.

Nevertheless, he cast aside the nagging thought, a fleeting wisp in his determined mind as he disembarked from the jeep. Eagerly, he leaped out, his hand delivering a gratuity to the driver with a genteel tap of his hat, before he began his awkward perambulation around the premises. Most of the ladies, be they visitors or workers, cast captivating smiles and delicate giggles his way.

Rosie, with nonchalance, slipped his hands into the pockets of his trousers as ge promenaded along the grounds—uncertain of his destination. He had turned his back on the conviviality of his comrades at the local public house, forsaking their merriment in favor of exploring these uncharted environs.

As he meandered aimlessly, lost in the labyrinth of unfamiliarity, a beacon of hope shone through the darkness. An aged woman shuffled back and forth, laden with fresh provisions in her arms. Rosie quickened his pace, eager to engage with someone. With a subtle wave of his hand, he attempted to catch her attention, yet the woman seemed impervious to his overture, steadfast in her daily tasks—-as though he were a mere phantom passing through her world.

In a bold move, Rosie cleared his throat, closing the gap between himself and the woman, waiting expectantly for her acknowledgment. Swiftly, she reappeared, only to be startled by his sudden presence. Her hand flew to her lips in a gasp of astonishment at his unexpected appearance. "Pardon me, ma'am," Rosie murmured, apologetic tones betraying his desire to not cause any further consternation to the elderly lady, who seemed taken aback by his sudden materialization.

"Oh, me boy! You yanks need to learn how to approach," the woman chided in her melodic Scottish brogue, a hint of amusement twinkling in her eyes as she continued to gather fresh produce into her basket. The vibrant hues of the vegetables contrasting against the soft, golden rays of the setting sun.

Rosie gathered his wits, his heart beating a steady rhythm of anticipation as he pondered his next words carefully. With a courage born of duty and a touch of uncertainty, he addressed the elegant lady before him.

"Um... Pardon my ignorance, I'm Lieutenant Robert Rosenthal. I'm looking for someone that lives here," he ventured, his voice carrying the weight of his purpose yet softened by a respectful deference befitting a man of his station.

Rosie's inquiry lingered in the air, a delicate thread weaving its way into the fabric of a moment pregnant with unspoken secrets and hidden truths. The old woman regarded him with an expression that spoke of depths unknown, her gaze a tapestry of wisdom.

The aged dame halted in her task, a worn broom in hand, and cast a discerning look towards the visitor, her timeworn features etched with impatience. Placing one hand upon her ample hip, she emitted a disapproving scoff, "Please, do you know how many people live here? You'll need to be more specific."

Rosie, taken aback by the woman's demeanor, fumbled for words as he attempted to respond, but ere he could utter a syllable, Mrs. Hutchinson pivoted on her heel, causing her wispy skirts to rustle, and continued her domestic toil with a palpable air of authority.

However, ere Rosie could make his petition known, the venerable matron wheeled around once more, fixing her sharp gaze upon the intruder; her voice resonated with a no-nonsense cadence, "I am Mrs. Hutchinson, a woman with a schedule teeming with engagements. Therefore, i need to get onward."

Though the gentleman endeavored to comply by advancing a pace, the formidable countenance of Mrs. Hutchinson did naught to dissuade his resolve. Undeterred, he trailed behind the formidable dame, only to be confronted by a pair of attendant maids who appraised him with a curious scrutiny. "I am in pursuit of a fair-haired lady, one of Polish descent," Rosie ventured to declare.

At these words, Mrs. Hutchinson's focus snapped to attention, her weathered countenance exhibiting a rare intensity as she interjected, "And what would you want of my dear girl?" Her voice, rich with suspicion, resonated through the chamber, as she drew herself up to her full stature, her bearing commanding respect. "Nothing in that nature ma'am," Rosie hastened to clarify, extending his palms in a gesture of innocence.

"Verily, you Americans bear ill-fortune," Mrs. Hutchinson pronounced vehemently, gesticulating with fervor. Despite Rosie's protestations of goodwill, the resolute mistress of the estate remained steadfast in her resolve, her demeanor unwavering as she endeavored to usher him forth.

It was at that moment that one of the maids, a youth with an impulsive tongue, interjected, "Celina? She's down by the lake..." The clamor of their discourse abated as Mrs. Hutchinson fixed a penetrating glare upon the young maid, conveying a mixture of reproach and censure that silenced the burgeoning tumult within the chamber.

But Rosie merely smiled at the maid before bowing at Mrs. Hutchinson. "Thank you." He says, before tiling the brim of his officers hat.

Unlike the boisterous camaraderie of his fellow soldiers, Rosie chose to maintain a discreet distance, observing her with a quiet reverence.

Celina was deeply engrossed in her own pursuits, her attention consumed by the task at hand. She remained oblivious to the watchful eyes of Lt. Rosenthal, unaware of the silent admiration that lingered in the air like the faint whisper of a forgotten sonnet.

The children frolicked around. Their innocent laughter filled the air—as Lt. Rosenthal, resplendent in his crisp uniform, approached Celina with a tentative step. The one girl and two boys, their eyes widening in delight at the sight of the dashing pilot—greeted him with gleeful waves and infectious giggles.

A shadow soon fell across Celina's parchment, drawing her attention to the figure standing before her. For a fleeting moment, she dared to hope it was Mrs. Eleanor. Alas, it was not to be, looking up from her task, her eyes meeting Lt. Rosenthal's with a mixture of surprise and trepidation.

"Hello, Ms. Celina," he greeted her with a soft voice, his mustache curling ever so slightly. The blood rushed to Celina's cheeks, painting them a vivid shade of crimson. She felt her heart flutter like a startled bird, her words caught in the swirling tempest of emotions that pulsed through her veins.

The wind whispered through the oak trees as Celina drew in a long and steady breath, the stifling fear clutching her heart. A parched croak escaped her cracking lips, shattering the fragile moment of silence, leaving her vulnerable to the dread of inevitable ridicule.

Her delicate eyelids descended shut, for she was convinced that this, indeed, was the defining moment of failure. The searing anticipation of mockery clawed at her fragile self-esteem—tormenting her with visions of scornful gazes and derisive snickers that had plagued her adolescence.

The tormenting silence was shattered by a gentle touch upon her slender arm, an unexpected gesture that caused her to shudder. Her lashes fluttered, hesitant to unveil the scene unfolding before her. There, beside her, sat the dashing pilot, his countenance composed and understanding—a stark contrast to her inner turmoil. He bestowed upon her a gentle pat, a gesture so rare and unfamiliar to her fragile senses, that she found herself rendered speechless in its wake.

"It's quite okay," his voice, like a soothing balm upon her frayed nerves, resonated with an unanticipated warmth. His eyes, ones of empathy and kindness, met hers with an unwavering gaze that spoke volumes of genuine compassion. The dissonance between his benevolent presence and the harrowing expectations she harbored left her overwhelmed—the weight of his reassurance lifting an invisible burden from her trembling shoulders.

Celina tentatively cracked open one eye, then the other, uncertain of the reality before her. The pilot's steadfast presence beside her and his considerate demeanor melted the frost of her apprehension, granting her a sliver of hope that she had long deemed unattainable. A flicker of gratitude ignited within her, as she dared to glimpse at the book that had once been a source of solace, now illuminated by the flickering light of empathy.

In a world that had sought to diminish her worth, his simple act of kindness resonated with the significance of a thousand unspoken truths, ushering in a newfound sense of belonging in the unlikeliest of places.

She flashed him a bright smile so genuine and sweet, embodying that touch of shyness. One of absolute as she gazed upon the soldier of another place beside through her peripheral vision. The little girl beside Celina, couldn't be bothered to look upon the man—as she only focused herself on the grass.

Rosie could barely suppress his smile as he looked upon Celina. "The kids around here never fight." He softly spoke, to which she immediately responded in the best English she could muster, " Sometimes, sometimes when you see them play. They always fight." She lightly chuckled, fidgeting endlessly with her fingernails.

He took note of her anxious behavior, "Are you afraid of me?" He solicited, pointing to the way Celina was licking at her nails. "No." She replied instantly—still holding that lovely smile upon her lips. Rosie doubled his sight back to her, " If I'm scaring you, I'm deeply sorry."

Celina did not hesitate to answer back a no, which Rosie, being a lawyer, somehow didn't believe. Her mannerisms spoke louder than her words did.

"Why?" He queried, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The Pole slightly shrugged, " Be—because you look—look army." She fumbled over her words as she nervously laughed. Rosie only shook his head as he spoke, " I look army uh," he smiled before glancing down at his uniform, " That don't matter, it doesn't matter."

But Celina had been warned countless times by Mrs Hutchinson on the minds of men, especially those in the air corps. Well, Americans that is... So seeing him, there had to be something this pilot wanted. There was a moment of silence between them, where Celina had to admit to herself she was quite intrigued by this soldier of another world. And he hadn't done nothing but watch her innocence and wondering self with calm eyes.

But the sudden sounds of children playfully yelling jolted the young woman—making her quickly retract her gaze from him. Her eyes widened vastly as she turned towards the source of the incoming noise—worried something may have happened to one of them. But by the tales of utter happiness of the children approaching, she assumed nothing did.

Then there, a woman dressed in the finest clothes approached—green with little blue and yellow flowers embroidered at the bottom. Mrs. Eleanor was back, vastly walking as the children dragged her along by her hands. Her raven hair bunched back with Bobby bins holding it in place.

"Hello Celina, I see the children are in good spirits." She graced, before her eyes landed upon the American pilot.
After a moment of awkwardness shared amongst them, " you must be?" The middle woman exclaims, holding her hand out towards him. Rosie immediately stood to his feet, wiping his hands off—before taking her offer.

" Rosenthal , Lt. Robert Rosenthal, at your service Ma'am." He exclaimed before raising his other hand up to his hairline—saluting her. Eleanor narrowed her eyes at the young soldier that stood before her. She retracted her hand back away from his before focusing her sight upon Celina.

Eleanor stood there, her hands firmly placed upon her hips, a quizzical expression adorning her delicate features as she regarded the gentleman before her. With a perfectly arched brow, she spoke with a touch of curiosity in her voice, "And if you don't mind me inquiring, what brings you to this place?"

Young Rosie, caught off guard by the sudden inquiry, felt a chill of unease creeping down his spine. Why was it that his associates seemed to effortlessly converse, while he found himself at a loss for words, as if facing a relentless interrogation?

Not wanting to appear dismissive, the gentleman straightened his posture and replied with a hint of urgency, "I am merely paying a visit to Miss Celina. I offered my assistance to her on a previous occasion and felt compelled to ensure her well-being." His words flowed forth without hesitation, his gaze averted, avoiding direct contact with Miss Eleanor.

Detecting a subtle lack of interest in engaging further with the American gentleman, Miss Eleanor graciously placed a reassuring hand on Celina's back, offering a warm smile before guiding her companion away—towards the grand edifice looming ahead.

Just as they began to depart, Rosie's voice rang out in the crisp afternoon air, a note of hopeful longing laced within her words, "Might our paths cross again in the future?" Celina's head swiveled back abruptly, a fleeting smile dancing upon her lips. Which was swiftly extinguished by a gentle nudge from Miss Eleanor—urging her to focus on their path ahead.

As the duo and the children vanished into the shadows of the venerable structure, the American man stood alone, his thoughts a whirlwind of curiosity and desire. Rosie pondered as to why this Polish woman stirred his heart and intrigued his mind. Little did he know that this serendipitous meeting would set in motion events that would intertwine their fates in ways unforeseen.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE
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WHOOP, WHOOP BESTIES I FINALLY UPDATED THIS STORY.

Now, it took ME forever to write this as I was interested in finishing AMOR VINCIT OMNIA first

Who's ready for more Rosie and Celina????