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Authors: Marie Bostwick

River's Edge (30 page)

BOOK: River's Edge
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“When she was fired from that job, she took over the running of our home and the care of my sons, freeing up my oldest daughter to work making uniforms for our troops and my wife to tend to the spiritual needs of nearly every family in this town by visiting sickbeds and mourning with bereaved wives and mothers. This beautiful young woman is the most gifted musician I've ever known. She came here tonight after hours and hours of practice, to share her gift with you, as an offering and support to our sons in uniform, including my own.” He paused for a moment before continuing, his tone quieter and more intense than before.
“Elise wasn't born into our family, but she is as much my child as any born of my body. If anyone is going to call her a name, he'd better come down here and say it to me first.” The room was dead silent.
“No takers?” he asked in a loud voice. “Good. Now, let's get on with the concert.” Papa clapped his broad hands together, and Mama, beaming at him from the far side of the platform, echoed him as the crowd took up the signal and scattered applause rang though the sanctuary and grew in strength.
Papa turned and walked toward the door where I was standing. He held his arms out and enfolded me in a tight embrace. I leaned my head into his chest and whispered, “I can't do it, Papa. They hate me! I can't do it.”
He kissed the top of my head and pushed me back, taking my chin in his hand and looking me in the eye. “Elise, you must. You need to.
You
need to,” he repeated. I understood.
I had to play. Not for them and not to prove I was one of them, but for myself alone. If I didn't, I would be afraid from that day forward.
Papa smiled. His words and countenance were gentle, but he was as firm in his resolve as my own father would have been. He waited on the sidelines, ready to catch me if I fell, but I was standing alone in the middle of the ice. There was no other choice.
I walked to the piano. Papa brought up a chair to replace the broken bench. I sat down at the keyboard, closed my eyes, and played.
It was like that first time again, like the day when Mother had perched me atop a pile of books, told me to play, and showed me a part of myself I'd never known before. I felt her presence in the room, in the keys and pedals and hammers that shuddered and pulsed under my touch, taking everyone within hearing to the place of my choosing. The journey was mine alone, but they could come along if they liked, and if they didn't, it didn't matter. I knew the path without opening my eyes. I had no fear of losing my way. My hands and mind and soul were sure.
My fingers stretched apart as I neared the destination, spreading wide, reaching beyond myself to sound the last chord. Pain like penance surged through my fingertips, turned liquid, a river flooding the secret caverns, soothing and salving the raw, hidden places. I was a little girl again—powerful and magical, curing all diseases, erasing all scars, binding the wounds of the past with healing music. I was a woman—mature enough, survivor enough, brave enough to pour my past into each note and phrase, releasing them into the air for everyone to see and understand, or judge, or not. It didn't matter. For the moment I was whole again.
Chapter 19
T
hat night, I slept deeply and awoke refreshed before the sun was up. I put on my robe and slippers and crept down the stairs, careful to avoid the creaky spot in the next-to-last step. My plan was to make a special breakfast to celebrate Papa's homecoming. The chickens were laying well, so there were plenty of eggs. I would scramble them with a little chopped ham and onion. The Christmas ham that was allowed in this week's ration would stretch far enough to allow that, I was sure. With some fresh-baked popovers, cinnamon apples, and chicory coffee, it would be a real feast. There was so much to celebrate—Papa's arrival, the first morning of his surprise Christmas leave, and Christmas Eve. Tonight Papa would preach the candlelight service, and everything would be like before. Almost. I thought of Junior. Was it already Christmas in Italy? Had he gotten the package with the dozens of rum balls I'd baked, using a whole month's sugar ration so he'd have enough to share? Cookie and I had made him a pair of gloves, she the left and I the right, and, miraculously, they'd come out exactly the same size. Our stitches were perfectly matched. Would the gloves fit? After I finished the breakfast dishes, I'd write him a letter and ask.
As I reached the bottom of the stairs, I heard low, urgent voices, Mama's and Papa's voices. I turned around, not wanting to disturb them, but this time I forgot about the step, and when it creaked under my foot, Papa asked, “Who's there?”
I opened the door. “It's me.”
Mama and Papa looked up and tried to smile, but there was something false in their faces. Mama's eyes were red and swollen, and Papa had lines around his eyes that hadn't been there the night before.
“I was coming down to start breakfast. I didn't know you were down here. Sorry,” I apologized as I turned to go.
Mama urged me to stay. “It's fine, Elise.” She sniffed and got up from her chair. “Let me give you a hand with breakfast.”
I should have minded my own business, I know, but I had never seen Mama like this. Without stopping to think, I blurted out, “What's the matter with you two? What's going on?”
An image of Junior flashed into my mind. My mouth was suddenly dry and my tongue fat with fear. “Is it bad news?” I whispered.
“No!” Mama and Papa assured me in unison. Papa went on.
“Nothing like that,” Papa insisted. “It's good news. I finally got the transfer I've been asking for. With a combat battalion in Europe—where I can do some good.” He cleared his throat and looked at Mama, waiting for her to speak.
She nodded silently, drew in a deep breath of air, and let it out again. She looked pale and small. Her eyes were focused on the ticking wall clock, but I didn't think she really saw it.
“Mama?” I inquired, reminding her we were still there.
“Yes,” she said and bit her lip. “We've decided.” She walked to the window and peered out into the blackness. “It's dark as night outside. Winter can fool you that way. Makes you think morning will never come, but it's not true.” Papa came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders. She leaned into him and stayed very still for a moment, as though resting herself for what would come next. Then she lifted her arm and laid one hand on top of his.
When she turned around to look at Papa, her eyes were smiling again. “Nearly seven o'clock,” she observed. “Help me with the breakfast. Let's not waste time.”
 
The Christmas Eve sermon was Papa's best ever, but I can't tell you exactly why. In some ways it was similar to many other messages I'd heard him preach over the years, but there was something different about that night. Everyone there thought the message was just for them, and in some ways they were right. It was a message for me, too. But only I knew that Papa had prepared it with Mama in mind. It was his love letter to her, a renewal of the vows they'd made to each other and to God many years ago, a promise and reminder that no matter what happened, their future was sure.
Papa stood tall, his big hands gripping each side of the pulpit confidently. The light from the candles warmed the sanctuary and smoothed out the lines of worry on the faces of the congregation as Papa issued the proclamation: “And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round them, and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, ‘Fear Not.' ”
Papa took off his reading glasses, closed his Bible thoughtfully, and looked up at the congregation, as though he'd just noticed them sitting there. “Why were the shepherds so afraid?” he asked as he looked around the room to see if anyone might be willing to venture a guess.
“I think it was because they were people not so different from you and me, and like you and me, they had a natural fear of the unknown. In other words, the shepherds were startled by the unexpected appearance of something they did not understand and they were not prepared for, because, like us, they possessed a natural human fear of the unknown and uncertain.”
Papa paused a moment and looked out over the people he knew so well, whose weddings and births he had celebrated, whose loved ones he had buried, whose deepest secrets he had kept. He turned his head toward Mama and looked straight at her, for just one moment not sharing himself with anyone but her.
“I know,” he said tenderly, and then, lifting his head, said to the congregants, “I know that there are unknowns and uncertainties in your life now. On the verge of a new year, in a world at war, with loved ones far from your touch and protection, there are uncertainties in your future. But for all these unknowns, God has a message for you: ‘Fear Not!'
“Whatever fear you have tonight, God wants to rescue you from its control. And that is the nature of fear—it controls you. But it doesn't have to be that way. We have a choice in life, and it is this: we can be controlled by God's peace, or we can be controlled by fear. You will be controlled by one or the other, but the choice is yours.
“God understands your fear. He does.” Papa gripped the pulpit tighter and leaned forward, wanting to convince us of this truth.
“He doesn't promise that none of the things you fear will come to pass. In fact, He knows that some of them will. This time next year, some of us will be gone. Some of our loved ones will have left us. In time of war or in time of peace, it has always been that way. God understands that you are afraid of the unknown, but nothing is hidden from Him—the unknown is known to God. He will be with you through your worst fears. He won't abandon you or those you love.” In these last two statements, Papa for a moment dropped every trace of oratorical grandeur and looked directly at Mama, as though the two of them were having a private conversation. He smiled at her widely, reassuringly, and, I saw Mama out of the corner of my eye, smiling back.
Her smile seemed to give him new energy. He spoke with such wholehearted conviction and passion that I began to listen in a new way. I'd heard Papa speak similar words in sermons before, but now something inside me finally began to really understand what he was saying—as though I'd been trying for years to read in a dark room and suddenly someone turned on the light, making sense of words and phrases that had been blurry, indecipherable typeface only a moment before.
“God sent His only son to earth as a sign of His love,” Papa proclaimed, “because He wants to make peace between you and Him. As He declared through Isaiah, God says to you, ‘Fear not, for I have redeemed thee. I have called thee by thy name and thou art mine. When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee. When thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee. For I am the Lord, thy God.' ”
He stopped for a long moment to examine the faces that examined his. He turned his eyes directly to mine and said solemnly, almost pleadingly, “Dearly loved of God, be at peace tonight. Invite God to dwell with you, to walk with you through the waters, rivers, and fires that will come, and, no matter what happens, He will be with you. Believe, and fear not.
“Amen,” he said.
“Amen,” I echoed, and believed.
Chapter 20
November 20, 1944
Luxembourg
 
Dear Ones,
 
Thanksgiving will have passed by the time this letter reaches you, and I only have time for a short letter today, but I want you to know that I have a special reason to be thankful this year! At long last my request for a new assistant has been approved. He seems to be an efficient and dedicated young man and has a good sense of humor, though at times he can be a little sassy, as all of you know so well! Still, I am overjoyed and so grateful to have Lt. Carl Muller III assigned as my official Chaplain Assistant!
 
You may be wondering how I managed to secure Junior's transfer to our outfit. Well, all I can say is it involved an unnamed General, some cards, and an amazing string of good luck. Don't scold, Sophia! God works in marvelous ways His wonders to perform—and maybe that good officer will learn something about the evils of gambling.
 
He's just been here a few days, but Junior has already been a real help to me, getting me caught up on my correspondence and helping organize a new mid-week prayer service. I know he says he isn't called to the pastorate, but he would make an awfully good minister. The men love him. Well, we'll see. In addition to his office duties, Junior serves as my bodyguard. Not too much need for that right now, thank Heaven. Winter has arrived in full force, so I don't imagine we'll see much action until things warm up again. I'm happy for the sake of the troops. They've barely had a chance to catch their breath since D-day. It'll be nice to winter in someplace and let the boys get some rest. Junior and I are making big plans for our Christmas services. I am looking forward to receiving the Christmas stockings you spoke of in your last letter. Cookie and Elise, thank you so much for organizing the women at church to fill all those stockings. They will be a wonderful treat for the men.
 
You needn't send anything for me; I have already received the second greatest gift I could hope for, being reunited with my son at Christmas. The greatest gift would be to be together with all of you at home again. Pray God it will be so next year.
 
With All My Love,
 
Papa
“Papa won Junior in a card game!” Cookie's disbelieving eyebrows were pasted high on her forehead, and she laughed out loud and everyone joined in. “I hope word of this doesn't get out to the deacons!”
Mama held the letter to her chest and smiled. “They'll be together for Christmas!” She picked up the open envelope and looked at the postmark.
“He mailed it the very next day. But it took a month to get here,” she mused. “He didn't know they were going back into action.”
“Well, Mama, nobody did,” said Chuck, our resident expert on troop movements and frontline positions. He read the papers and listened to the radio reports every day to make certain we were up to date on the war news. The twins had put up an enormous map of Europe on their bedroom wall and filled it with various colored pins and flags to indicate the placement and progress of the army. It was such an intricate display that you'd have almost thought they were planning the battles themselves.
“Papa couldn't have known the Germans would attack, especially not during the winter. Everybody thought they were done for,” Chuck informed us.
“Goes to show how desperate they are,” Chip sneered. “They've had it.” He lolled out his tongue and pretended to hang from an imaginary noose.
Cookie glared at her brother, shooting him an admonishing look as he jerked his head in my direction. “Chip! For gosh sakes!” His siblings echoed their disgust, and Mama looked irritated, too.
Chip's neck and face turned red. “Gee. Sorry, Elise. I ... I didn't mean it the way it came out,” he stammered.
“It's okay, Chip,” I shrugged. “Don't worry about it.” I got up from the sofa and started collecting empty coffee mugs. We'd all gathered in the parlor to enjoy the warmth of the fireplace and cups of warm milk while Mama read Papa's letter. “I'm just going to take these into the kitchen and rinse them off.”
“Here,” Mama said, rising from her chair. “Let me help you.”
“No, no!” I motioned her back into her seat. “I'm fine. It won't take me five minutes to clear this up.”
“Sorry, Elise,” Chip said again and paused awkwardly. “Have you heard from your father yet?” Cookie's eyes bulged, and she practically hissed at him, but I gave Chip what I hoped was an encouraging smile. After all, not talking about it didn't make things any better.
“No, I haven't, but thanks for asking.”
“The war can't last much longer, Elise. You're bound to hear from him then,” he said sincerely.
“I'm sure you're right,” I replied and carried the dishes out to the kitchen, leaving Chip to deal with the trail of hissed reprisals left in my wake. They were more worried about me than I was about myself, more worried about Father than I was myself. I ran hot water over a cup as I stood stupidly and watched a milky pool rise from the ceramic bottom and spill over the edge and into the sink, like watercolor washing from a canvas and running down the drain. I was so ashamed.
I hardly thought about Father anymore. When the letter had come from Bonhoeffer, frightening, unsolvable clues concealed in a candy box, I had worried. I worried that he was hurt and that I'd have no way of knowing it. I worried that he was already dead and that I was such a bad daughter, who knew him so little, that I wouldn't even sense his absence in the world. Sometimes I would wake up in the night and lie very still, waiting to see if a premonition would grip me in the darkness, almost hoping one would, just to prove I wasn't as heartless as I feared. And then one day, I wasn't sure when or why, I stopped worrying. I didn't have the energy for it anymore.
No. That's not true. I decided to stop. One day in August of 1944, I decided to stop worrying. I decided he was already dead. I decided it was better that way.
I had worked outside all that morning, hoeing weeds in the victory garden and harvesting carrots. The boys were at the movies, and Cookie was at work. Mama got up early to drop Cookie off at the factory so she could use the car to visit Betsy Semple in the hospital. Betsy Semple was now Betsy Rohleder. She and Ernest were married right after high school graduation. They'd only had a three-day honeymoon before Ernest shipped out, but it had been enough. Betsy had delivered a seven-pound boy a few days previously.
After seeing Betsy, Mama planned on going to clean the church so it would be ready for Jim Flanders's funeral the next day. Actually, it was a memorial service, because they'd buried Jim in France. Jim was the son of Mr. Flanders, who owned the five-and-dime. He'd been killed at Normandy on D-day, along with three others from Brightfield, including John Harkness. No one had known what happened to Jim until almost two months later. Mr. and Mrs. Flanders received a telegram saying Jim was missing in action. It turned out he'd been shot and crawled under an embankment, probably trying to shield himself from more gunfire, but he'd died there, and no one had found his body for several weeks.
It was a grisly picture to imagine—terrible to think of him bleeding and dying alone thousands of miles from home, waiting for help that came too late. Everybody said it was too bad, but that it must have been a relief for the Flanderses to know the truth at last. Maybe it was. I wasn't so sure. Better to imagine the best than know the worst. That's how I felt, anyway.
I finished pulling the carrots, got up off my knees, clapped my hands together to shake off the chalky dust, and told myself to think about something besides Jim Flanders. There had already been so many funerals.
I went inside and lay down on the sofa in the parlor to rest. It was cooler in there than in the rest of the house. I'd intended just to rest my eyes for a minute before getting up to run a bath, but I fell asleep on the sofa.
I heard the door between the parlor and the kitchen creak open and heard Mama calling my name, but I was too groggy to answer right away. The sun sat low in the sky, shining directly into the parlor window and my eyes. How long had I slept? I lifted my hand to my face, blocking the light to give myself a chance to adjust to the glare.
Yawning, I blinked myself awake and was about to answer Mama's call when I heard her say, “Hmm. I guess she went to the movies with the boys. Well, Carolyn, it looks like we've got the house to ourselves. Sit down.” A kitchen chair scraped the floor as it was pulled out from the table. “We don't have any tea. Would you like a glass of ice water?”
“That'd be nice.” It was Mrs. Scholler.
“Thanks for helping me with the cleaning. It sure goes faster with two.” I could hear Mama moving around the kitchen, taking down glasses from the shelves, opening and closing drawers.
“Don't mention it. Least I can do. I made a pound cake for tomorrow. What time is the service again?”
“Two,” Mama replied. “That's the only time Dr. Holbrook could do it. It's such a long drive from Harmon.”
Mrs. Scholler grumped disapprovingly. “Well, I guess he's better than nothing, but I'll sure be glad when that husband of yours comes home and we can hear some real preaching.”
A cool sound of water being poured, ice cracking, another chair being pulled out as Mama sat down. “Carolyn,” Mama reproved gently, “Dr. Holbrook is a fine preacher. It's awfully good of him to interrupt his retirement and fill in for Carl like this, driving all this way every Sunday. And for funerals, too.” A brief silence and ice clinking as Mama took a drink. “That being said, I'll be glad when Carl is home, too.” The two women shared a moment's laughter.
“I can't stay long, Sophia. Want to get home and check on Vince. I keep tellin' him he's too darned old to be working tobacco in this heat, but he don't listen to me. Says it's his patriotic duty. Bah! He just don't wanna be cooped up in the house with me.” She chuckled. “Well, I don't much relish the idea of having him underfoot, either, but you'd think he could take up a hobby. I told him he oughta try horseshoes or boat building—something proper for a man his age.”
“What did he say to that?” Mama asked, but it sounded like she already knew the answer.
“Something I can't be repeating to the minister's wife, that's what,” Mrs. Scholler cackled. “Naw, he'll keep working till it kills him. Nothing I can do about it. Did you know that after Milda Ludwig died, God rest her soul, he was actually thinking about making an offer on her place.”
“Really?”
“Can you believe it? At his age! Thinking of taking on sixty more acres! Breaking up new fields! Old fool,” she grumbled admiringly. “Say, speaking of Milda. Did I tell you about that day I went to see her, not too long before she died? About that letter she got?”
“No,” Mama said. “I don't think so.”
“Well,” she said eagerly, and I heard the chair scrape again. I pictured Mrs. Scholler leaning in for a good gossip. “This is what happened—I brought her some soup that day because I heard she'd caught a cold. I knocked, but there was no answer. I was worried, so I started pounding on the door and calling her. Finally, I hear her yellin'. She said, ‘Elise! Go away! I said I don't want to see you today! Come back tomorrow!'
“So I hollered back it was me, and she finally opened the door. I could see her eyes were all red and puffy, like she'd been crying. I knew Milda for forty years and I'd never seen the trace of a tear on her, not even when Joe died. But that day she was awful broke up. I asked her what was wrong, and she invited me in and fed me coffee and cake. She made a fresh pot—like I was company or something.”
“Milda?” Mama asked wonderingly.
“I know! She never was much for hospitality, but I think she just needed to talk to someone. Awful upset, she was. She told me she got a letter that day from one of her great-grandnephews back in Poland. One of her brother's grandsons.”
BOOK: River's Edge
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