Winds of Change

by Gilbert, Morris

  “I’d like to meet her myself.” She held Jesse tightly, kissed him, and said, “God is good to bring our son back.”

  “And to bring him back knowing the Lord—that’s a miracle! Thank God for it, and for that young woman, and for Clint. Those two really prayed him through, I think.”

  “Yes, and now we’ve got to keep on praying.”

  Carol locked the door of the library, turned, and walked along the sidewalk toward the street. She got into her car, started it, then pulled out and drove slowly along under the huge elms that lined the street. Her day had been long, for Mrs. McCracken, the librarian, was away on vacation and Carol had manned the desk constantly. Her mind was on the multitude of details that went with keeping even a small library going, but she managed to remember that she was almost out of gas. Stopping at Ed Hathcock’s Gulf Station, she waited until the burly owner came to her window saying, “Fill ’er up, Carol?”

  “No, Ed. I don’t have enough coupons. Just five gallons.”

  “Sure. Be good when this blasted rationing is over. I get tired of dribbling gas out with an eyedropper. Check that oil?”

  “Yes, you’d better.”

  Carol sat quietly as Hathcock serviced the Hudson, thinking idly of what she had at home to fix for supper. Guess I better stop by and see if Safeway has any good steaks. . . . She calculated the number of ration stamps she had, for this had become a way of life during the war. It was almost impossible to imagine going into a store and buying all the butter and meat you wanted without having to add up the government stamps in the small books everyone was issued. Someday the war will be over, she thought, and things will be for sale again.

  Then she blinked and shook her head imperceptibly, for every time she thought of the war, she thought of Clint—and that was what she had tried to keep away from her mind. But thoughts can’t be restrained, and Carol sat on the worn seat unable to stop the flow of memories that came with a rush. She thought of how miserable she’d been with Harry from the first—and of the nights she’d awakened him crying until he’d grown edgy and had shouted and raged at her. She thought of how she’d read the newspapers fearfully, dreading the constant flow of statistics that meant death for so many American fighting men. The news from the bombing raids over Germany had been the most difficult, for she’d lived in an agony of fear that Clint might be one of those who never came back.

  “Quart low, Carol.”

  Startled, Carol blinked and turned to see Ed Hathcock’s face framed in the window. “Oh—please put in some, Ed.”

  “This old heap ain’t gonna make many more miles. Better let me look around for a trade.”

  “Yes, I think you might do that, please.”

  Carol watched as the proprietor added the oil, then slammed the hood down. She paid for the gas and oil, and Hathcock said, “Looks like the war’s goin’ good. All the boys will be coming home soon.”

  Instantly Carol glanced at the burly man’s face, for she was sensitive about what people thought. But then she remembered that Ed Hathcock was new in town—that he could not possibly remember that she’d left her husband. Not unless someone told him! The thought came quickly to her mind, but she saw nothing in Hathcock’s expression other than friendly interest.

  Shifting into gear, she nodded, saying, “That will be good, Ed.”

  A pale sun was setting as Carol drove slowly down the street, but she could not get Hathcock’s words out of her head. All the boys will be coming home soon.

  For some time, shortly after she had left Harry and returned to her home, Carol had experienced a vivid dream that she and Clint were still married. But when she had awakened, she had wept—for she had no real hope of any such thing.

  Letters had come from Clint, but Carol had been so ashamed that she had never answered them. She still kept them, however, and as the months had worn on, she came to the grim realization that no happiness lay in her future. Several men had tried to take her out, but she had curtly refused, so that finally such offers had ceased. She had gotten her old job back at the library, and her life consisted in her work and keeping her house. Her father had left her the house free of debt, in addition to a moderate sum from his life insurance, so that she did not have to worry about money. When she’d come home from Chicago, she’d become a recluse for a time, but slowly had forced herself to face the world. Her church had been receptive, so that she had been able to attend services, though she was still too ashamed of her behavior to take an active part.

  As she pulled up into the carport and shut the engine off, Carol felt the usual relief that came each day at this time. Home—and now I don’t have to wear a fake smile. She entered the house and went at once to her bedroom, undressed, and took a long shower. Afterward she put on shorts and a light top, then went into the kitchen to fix supper. But she was not hungry and decided to make only a salad.

  She listened to the local radio station as she cut up carrots and shredded lettuce. Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters were soon singing “Don’t Fence Me In,” followed by the Ink Spots with “Till Then.” She hummed along as Judy Garland belted out “The Trolley Song,” thinking of the new record player she was planning to buy.

  As she set out the iced tea and crackers and sat down at the large dining room table, a plaintive song came over the station—Frank Sinatra singing “I’ll Be Seeing You.” As the baritone sang the words, which were simply a reflection of a lover who was saying that one day he and his sweetheart would meet again, Carol’s throat grew thick and tears came to her eyes.

  “I’ll—I’ll never be seeing you, Clint!” she whispered. Dashing the tears away, she rose and changed the station, then walked shakily back to the table. She could not eat, for memories came flooding through her again, and rising abruptly, she left the dining room and went into the living room where she lay down on the couch.

  For a long time Carol lay in the silence of the room, nerves crying out in despair like a fever. This had happened many times. As the tears ran unheeded down her face, she was overwhelmed by grief. Finally she turned her face to the back of the couch and buried it against the rough upholstery.

  Sleep came and the welcome fading away of memories. She fell into a fitful state, almost waking at times, but then forcing herself back into the comalike doze. She jerked violently as the doorbell rang. Sitting upright, dazed and confused, Carol stared around the room, then rose to her feet. She had few callers, mostly salesmen or bill collectors, and decided not to answer the door. Going back into the kitchen, she sat down and stared at the salad, now limp, and the glass of tea, which had only a few slivers of ice.

  But the doorbell rang and rang—and finally with a gesture of impatience, Carol rose and left the kitchen. Probably someone selling waterless cookware, she thought, for several salesmen of this product had come to her door recently. She brushed her hair back, thinking of how awful she must look, but then shrugged. What does it matter what I look like? The salesman won’t care.

  Opening the door, Carol blinked with confusion for the sun was behind the tall man who stood there, shadowing his face. All she could see was an outline, dark and tall, so she said, “I’m sorry—I don’t need anything.”

  “Hello, Carol.”

  The voice ran like an electric current through her! She clutched at the door frame for support. The kind of weakness ran through her that one feels after narrowly escaping a serious automobile crash. Her lips were numb so that she could not speak, and a strange light-headedness caused her to sway.

  “C-Clint! . . .” She managed to speak that one word, then could not have pronounced another syllable if her life had depended on it. Time seemed to stop for her, and without volition she stepped back—as if she would turn and flee.

  “Can I come in?”

  Carol mutely nodded; then as he stepped inside, she heard herself saying, “Yes, come in, Clint.” It was as if another person had spoken, and she had the strange sensation of being a spectator watching herself from a distance. The
numbness that had frozen her lips spread to her mind, for she could not think properly.

  He looks older. This thought came to her, and she saw lines in his face that had not been there before. The ridiculous thought came, My hair—it’s all messed up—and my makeup is smeared. Ineffectually she touched her hair and shook her head in a slight gesture of futility. Then she realized that he was looking at her with an expression she could not define.

  I wish he hadn’t come. The thought came dully, and Carol could not bear to look at him nor to see him look at her. “I didn’t know you were home,” she said, her voice tense and tight with strain. She turned and walked stiffly away, adding, “Come into the living room.”

  Clint nodded and followed her; then when she turned to face him, he said quietly, “I’m glad to see you, Carol.” He waited for her to respond; when she remained silent, her eyes fixed on his, he added, “You’re looking fine.”

  “You, too. Are you all right?”

  “You mean was I wounded?” Clint smiled almost grimly. “No, I’m fine. Lots of good men got hit, but somehow I made it through without anything serious.”

  “I-I’m glad.”

  Clint had pictured this moment for a long time, but now that it had come, he found himself feeling awkward and tense. Carol had lost weight, and the set of her back and the way she held her mouth in a tense line told him that she felt as awkward and tense as he. But he had not come this far to be put off and said quietly, “Let’s sit down.” He moved to the couch and noted that she kept herself facing him—almost as if he were her deadly enemy. Her fists were clenched and there was a pathetic weakness in the manner in which she held her head high. She had been crying; he could see that, for tear stains marked her smooth cheeks.

  Taking a deep breath, Clint said, “I wasn’t always sure I’d make it home, but I always promised myself one thing—” he hesitated, then shook his head slightly, “and that was, if I did make it home, the first thing I’d do was find you, Carol.”

  Carol flinched as if he’d struck her. “You shouldn’t have come, Clint!”

  “Why not? It’s the one thing I wanted to do.”

  Tears leaped to Carol’s eyes and she let them run down her cheeks, making no attempt to reach for a handkerchief. Clint’s eyes were gentle, and she could not bear that. For months she had struggled with her guilt, and the thought of how she had betrayed this man cut her like a razor. Turning from him, she whispered, “I can’t go back to what we were!”

  Carol’s voice was no more than a thick sob, and she tried to rise, unable to continue. But Clint reached over suddenly and pulled her into his arms. Her face was buried against his chest, and the touch of his arm around her broke the resistance in her completely. She began to weep, great ropy sobs wracking her body. Clint held her tightly, his face pressed against her hair, his hand caressing her back gently. She seemed very small, and the helplessness of her surrender made him fiercely protective.

  Finally Carol’s weeping grew mild, and Clint pulled back and looked down into her face. Placing his palm on her cheek, he said, “I love you, Carol. I always will.”

  And then Carol knew what she had to do. Taking a deep breath, she said, “I’ve got to tell you what I did, Clint.”

  “I don’t need to hear it.”

  “But I need to say it.” Her eyes were filled with grief, but she knew that guilt must be confessed—and that this was the moment for saying all the tormenting things that she had kept in her heart. She began to speak, and for what seemed like an interminable time, she related the entire episode of her sin. From time to time, she had to stop, to struggle for control—but always she kept her eyes fixed on Clint’s.

  Finally her voice grew still, and she looked up to see his face. She expected to see disgust—even hatred—for that was what most men would have felt. But it was not so. Clint’s expression was gentle and he took out a handkerchief and gently wiped her tears.

  “I’m glad you told me this,” he said, putting his handkerchief away. “Not for my sake, but for yours, Sweetheart. We have to say these things. Sometimes to someone else—and always to God. Have you asked him to forgive you?”

  “Yes—but what I did was so awful!”

  Clint shook his head almost abruptly. “I’ve found out that we can never keep God from loving us. He knows our whole life, past, present, and future. We can grieve him, but he never turns away from us when we come to him with all our wrongs. . . .”

  Carol listened with wonder as Clint spoke quietly about how God forgives. Then he spoke of how bitterness against her had threatened him. “I was crazy with anger—but I knew feelings like that would kill me quicker than an enemy fighter! So I put it before God—all my anger and bitterness—and he took it all away.”

  “But, Clint—how can you ever forget?”

  “I think God helps with things like that.” Clint lifted his hand and held it up. “See that scar? I cut that hand wide open when I was fifteen. It hurt like nothing ever had—but it doesn’t hurt now. I don’t even think about it.” Clint’s arms tightened as he said, “God has forgiven us—and we have to forgive one another.” He saw her doubts reflected in her eyes and said quietly, “Carol, I may let you down sometime in the future. Will you hate me if I do? Or would you forgive me?”

  “Oh, Clint—I’d forgive!”

  “Well, I forgive you—and that’s the end of it.” Clint pulled her close, and she came to him at once. Her body was soft against him, and her lips trembled—but her arms went around his neck in a gesture of abandon. Fiercely she clung to him, savoring the strength of his arms and the firm pressure of his lips.

  Finally when they parted, she whispered, “Oh, Clint—I’ve always loved you!”

  The two sat there quietly, speaking softly, and finally Clint said, “I’ve come home to a wife—and now we can begin living.”

  Carol’s heart seemed to swell, and she nodded, her eyes bright as she said, “Yes, Clint—let’s begin all over again! . . .”

  EPILOGUE

  President Franklin Roosevelt did not live to see the end of the Second World War—did not live to share in the world’s horror over the full extent of Nazi atrocities. He died on April 12, 1945, and Vice President Harry S. Truman became the President of the United States.

  American fighting men won the battles in the Pacific and in Germany. The end came on August 6, when the atomic bomb destroyed Hiroshima. On September 2, Japan signed a formal surrender on the USS Missouri.

  The most devastating war in the history of planet Earth was over.

  Now the healing could begin.

  Countess Kunigunde von Richthofen opened the door and stood speechless for one brief moment—then she cried, “Adam!” and reached out her hand.

  Adam Stuart ignored the hand, stepped inside, and pulled his grandmother into an embrace. He kissed her cheek, then said, “You’ll have to forgive us rude Americans, Grandmother. We don’t have fine European manners, but I’m so glad to see you again.”

  The countess flushed at the sudden gesture of familiarity, but then she laughed. “You are a fool! But I like it! What are you doing here?”

  “I went to Schweivnitz, but the Russians have taken it over.”

  “Yes, after the war ended, the Russians took that sector. We moved to West Berlin to keep out of their clutches.” She looked at the young man who was wearing a suit instead of a uniform and said, “You are no longer in the army?”

  “I was just discharged a week ago. I’ve been in the States teaching in a flying school.” He paused and said, “You’re looking fine.” He looked around and said, “This is a nice place. I had some trouble finding you. I finally located Karl, and he told me he’d found this house for you and Maris.”

  “Yes, it does very well.” There was a sadness in her voice and she shrugged. “I miss my home, of course. The war has cost me that, but it has cost others more. Come in; sit down.”

  “Is Maris here?”

  The countess smiled. “I thought you
might be asking that, but I thought it might be later.”

  “I’ve come all the way across the ocean to find her, Countess.” He looked at the old woman and said, “I guess you knew I’d be back.”

  “I always did. Maris is not as sure as I, but then I am older than she. She is in the garden, out through that door. We raise some of the vegetables we eat, you know.”

  Adam took her hands and held them, saying, “We’ll have lots of time to talk. I want to tell you about myself, and I want you to know who I am.” He hesitated and then said, “I want you to be proud of me as my father’s son.”

  The old face glowed, and suddenly the countess leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “I will be that—I already am,” she said. “Now, go to her. She will argue with you, but your father was a firm man. Don’t listen to her excuses. You love her, and I know she loves you.”

  Maris had been working in the garden, but she had stopped, and she was sitting on a bench watching the sun go down. She had heard a car pull up in front of the house but had thought that it was Karl. She expected to hear his voice, for he usually came to see her, but when she heard “Maris” spoken behind her, she leaped to her feet and turned around. “Adam!” she whispered, her throat suddenly going dry. She watched as he came toward her, wearing a charcoal-gray suit and a wine-colored tie. He looked different from when he had been in uniform, but he was the same Adam. He took her hands and kissed them, then put his arms around her. “Don’t tell me I shouldn’t do this because I’m an American and you’re a German,” he said, his eyes dancing. “I’ve crossed the Atlantic Ocean to kiss you, and I’m going to do it!”

  Maris stared at him, then said, “Why don’t you do it then instead of talking about it?” She reached up, pulled his head down, and kissed him firmly. She held to him tightly, and even during that moment of embrace she knew that all of her excuses were false. She had told herself over and over again that he would never come back—but even if he did, they could never be happy together. Now she knew that she had been deceiving herself, and she clung to him as if she were drowning.