The Forgiving Heart (The Heart of Minnesota Book 1)

by Riker, Becky

  To my sister, Holly.

  You’re a ferocious prayer warrior,

  A loving admonisher,

  And an awesome friend.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Oswiecim, Poland, June, 1943

  The German soldier did not stop along the road, but the rough terrain forced him to slow his vehicle. This was just the sort of thing the girl needed. Karlijna Bergstrom squeezed her eyes shut, clutched her small bundle more closely to her chest, held her breath, and jumped from the overhanging branches of the tree, wincing at the sound her feet made in the wooden bed of the truck. She didn't take the time to celebrate her landing but scrambled as close to the cab as possible. Huddling down behind the sacks, she prayed she would not be noticed by the driver. The sixteen-year-old had no idea where the vehicle was headed – just that it was traveling in the opposite direction from where she had come. That thought alone had allowed her peace enough to fall into a dreamless sleep.

  Sometime later, Karlijna awoke to find she was traveling through a town. Was it minutes or hours – days? She had no way of knowing. Even the sky gave no clues. It was not pitch black, so she knew it was not the dead of night. It was gray now, but every day was gray – the same dismal gray as the one before. Even the sun could not penetrate the shadow of war that covered the entire earth.

  This town looked the same as all the German villages she had passed while riding the train a month before. War-damaged residences lined the road. Some of them may have been nice at one time, but now, in 1942, the people had better things to do than to busy themselves with the upkeep of their homes. Shadows, passing as citizens, slipped through the streets, functioning but not living. What horrors had these people seen to strip all expression from their faces? Even their eyes were soulless.

  Realizing that she had sat up to view her surroundings, Karlijna hurried to flatten herself back into the bed of the moving vehicle. The canvas tarp that usually covered the rear portion of a transport was missing. Karlijna neither knew nor cared why. Though it would have protected her hiding spot, its absence had allowed her easy entry.

  The young stowaway hoped her unwitting liberator would not stop anywhere before she was able to slip of off the end. As long as the vehicle remained in motion she felt confidant nobody would take note of her small form tucked between the large sacks.

  To her dismay, as they entered the center of town, the truck slowed, turned a corner, and stopped in front of a large brick building. Karlijna held her breath, willing her heart to stop beating so loudly. Surely, the pounding could be heard by the few passing on the street. After the pains she took to escape, she was now to be caught and returned to the camp or killed immediately.

  The truck door opened with a loud groan. Karlijna heard the soldier’s feet hit the hard, cold ground below. The truck shuddered with the slamming door. Karlijna instinctively folded over her arms over her head as if that would protect her now.

  “Tag,” The German greeted someone on the street.

  The girl peeked over a heap of bags. She could see nobody else on the street. She crept toward the cab and peered cautiously around the corner. The driver was standing with his back to her and speaking with a man who seemed to be waiting for someone to come out of the building. Karlijna scrambled to the end of the truck bed, took a deep breath, glanced down the street, and jumped noiselessly to the ground below.

  “I need to get these bags into the commandant, Hans.” The soldier rapped on the hood of the truck as he spoke, “It was good to see you again.”

  Karlijna dropped to her knees, clutching her precious bundle to herself. Had she hesitated even one minute she would have missed her only chance of escape. Karlijna shook her head, not wanting to acknowledge the consequences of such a thing. Trembling, the child waited until both men disappeared from view before leaving the protective shadow of the vehicle.

  The nearby alley beckoned her. Karlijna moved as quickly as she dared, fearing someone would happen to look out their window as she passed. Once she arrived at her destination, she sank behind a row of garbage cans and buried her face in her hands.

  Karlijna was far too wise to believe she was safe yet. She didn’t even know where she was. She wondered if she was back in Germany or still in Poland. Certainly, she had not made it back home to Belgium. What her next step should or would be, she had no way of knowing.

  The familiar burn of hunger seared through her abdomen. Karlijna pressed a hand to her belly, knowing there was as little hope of putting something in it today as yesterday or the day before.

  A rain barrel stood nearby. Casting glances around herself, she scooted to it and used her hands to take a drink. She could feel the fluid hitting her gut, but it was better than an empty stomach. The water was not very clean, but it did not have the stagnant flavor of the camp water. She lifted her hands to take some more.

  A shuffling noise to her right brought Karlijna to attention. She started, her eyes wide as she met the curious ones of an old lady. The individual spoke, obviously a question, but in a language Karlijna did not understand. She shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.

  “Oh,” the woman spat – now in a language Karlijna understood, “You’re German. Well I can speak your language even if none of you bother to learn ours.”

  Karlijna recognized the anger in the tone and shrank back, pressing herself as tightly to the brick wall as possible. “No, no,” she denied, “I’m not German. I’m Belgian.”

  The lady raised her eyebrows, “Belgium? How did you get here?”

  Karlijna ignored the question, knowing the story was too long and horrible to interest this stranger, “Where am I?”

  The answer was a hoarse cackle, then, “You’re in Eblag, “the lady paused and leaned forward with a whisper, “They still call it Poland, but it is more like Hell than anything else.”

  Karlijna nodded. She had seen only one other place in Poland, and she would agree. It was Hell.

  The old woman held out a hand, “If you don’t know where you are, you probably don’t know where you’re going either. Come with me.”

  Karlijna hesitated. This woman seemed to be trying to help, but the girl knew from first-hand experience that appearances could not be trusted. In these times, allegiances could be bought for a pittance. The woman seemed to understand the predicament.

  “My neighbors were Jewish. They tried to hide, but his boss – a man who had called him friend for twenty years – turned them him. You can’t trust anybody these days.”

  Karlijna took the outstretched hand and rose. She was going to have to take this leap sometime or another. She prayed this was the right time.

  Mrs. Polaski, as she introduced herself, led the way to a small apartment. Thankfully, it was nearby. Karlijna was beginning to feel weak from hunger and fear.

  “It’s just my husband and me here now,” the woman offered as she cut a slice of bread. “Our two boys went off to fight the Nazis in 1939. They never came back,” she placed the plate of food and a glass of water in front of Karlijna. “We don’t know if they were killed or captured.”

  Karlijna’s heart went out to this woman. For four years she and her husband had wondered about their sons’ fate. She took a minuscule bite and chewed slowly. The woman turned back to the counter and wiped the crumbs.

  “I’m sorry,” Karlijna finally whispered.

  Mrs. Polaski spun around, fire in her eyes, “Those Germans are a scourge on the earth. They’re all hateful, evil people, and I wish God would strike them dead.”

  Karlijna frowned. She didn’t wish to further upset her hostess, but the attitude was too similar for her comfort to
that of Hitler’s opinion of Jews. She did not pursue the subject.

  Karlijna rose and cleared her dishes, “Thank you for the meal, Mrs. Polaski.”

  “You are welcome. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more, but food is so rationed these days and my Hubert needs food to continue work.”

  Karlijna shook her head, “I am grateful for what you have shared.”

  Mrs. Polaski insisted that Karlijna clean herself, whether it was simple kindness or that Karlijna smelled so bad, the girl couldn't know. Either way, the sponging felt wonderful.

  “We’re not supposed to run the bath more than once a week or I would let you have a good soak,” the older woman said as she helped Karlijna scrub her short blond hair. “I’m surprised you don’t have head lice after being in one of those places.”

  Karlijna looked up in surprise.

  “I’m sorry,” the woman stammered, “I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

  Karlijna shook her head, “It is fine,” she smiled sadly, “I don’t have bugs because they shaved all our heads,” a choked sound that was neither a laugh nor a cry erupted from her throat, “I had never had my hair cut before that.”

  The woman put Karlijna to sleep on a cot that had probably belonged to one of the Polaski boys. It was hard and narrow and in the middle of the room where Mrs. Polaski was working, but it was the most comfortable Karlijna had been in five months.

  London

  Lieutenant Michael Gunderson walked slowly back to his post, sorting through the mail he had received that day. There were two envelopes from his mother – probably carrying notes from his sisters and father as well – one from his buddy, Wally, and three from Melba.

  Michael smiled as he looked at the last ones of the bundle. If someone had told him a year ago that he would enjoy hearing from her, he would have laughed in their face. Indeed, the first few letters were read with great trepidation, but she had turned out to be a good correspondent.

  He looked at his watch before sitting down to read the news from home. Removing his hat and running a hand through thick brown hair that had grown too long, he remembered his last meeting with Melba.

  “Hello, Michael,” Melba Foster stood at her front door as he trotted up the porch steps. “I was hoping you would stop by.”

  Michael’s grin came easily, “I couldn’t go without seeing you, Melba.”

  “I was kind of expecting you a little earlier,” she led him to one end of the porch and perched herself on the edge of a white painted wicker chair, “but I suppose you had a lot of packing to do.”

  Michael wondered at her tone. It almost sounded as though she were put out, but she was wearing a small smile.

  “Not really,” he decided he must be imagining the irritation in her tone, “I just had lots of other friends to say goodbye to.”

  “Oh?” a fine eyebrow arched upwards. There was that tone again.

  “Yes,” the young man cleared his throat, as he took the seat next to her, “I didn’t want to leave without seeing everyone. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”

  Melba took a hanky from her apron pocket, “Please don’t talk about it, Michael. I can hardly think of it without crying. It is just too much.”

  Michael reached out and took the hand of his childhood friend, “Don’t cry, Melba. There’s no sense in it. You’ll only make it harder.”

  The girl turned her hand in his and gave a squeeze before, wiping her eyes, “I’m sorry it will make it more difficult for you to leave,” she tried a small smile, “I’ll try to be brave for you.”

  Michael cleared his throat, “I don’t like to see you sad, but I meant it would make it harder for you. Worrying won’t bring all the boys home sooner. If you burst into tears every time one of us leaves, you’ll be one endless stream of sobs.”

  He hadn’t meant to be harsh, but she should hear the truth now before anyone else came to bid farewell. Dozens of school chums had already left with many more certain to follow.

  “Oh, Michael,” she sniffed a little and stuck her lower lip out in a pout, “I don’t cry so easily as that. It’s just different with you.”

  Michael wondered why but let the comment go.

  “Have you heard from your brother lately?”

  Melba dabbed at her cheeks again before answering, “Yes, we did. Yesterday, in fact.”

  Michael leaned back in the chair with a wide grin and folded his arms across his chest, “How’s he doing?”

  “Jon is doing fine,” Melba’s answer came quickly – almost sharply.

  “Good,” Michael had always admired Melba’s older brother. “When do you expect him home?”

  “Not for a while yet. They want him up and walking before he leaves the hospital.”

  The young lady leaned toward Michael, “I would rather not talk about Jon right now.”

  Michael nodded as he remembered how difficult the news of Jon’s injuries had been for the Foster family.

  “It is really hard for you isn’t it, Melba?”

  He reached for her hand again, “Jon’s strong, though and has a lot of determination. I’m sure it would take a lot more than losing a leg to keep Jon Foster down.”

  Melba took hold of the young man’s hand with both of hers, “Thank you for that, Michael. I know Jon would appreciate your words, but I just don’t want to talk about anyone else tonight. Just us.”

  Understanding hit Michael full force in the gut, making him suddenly ill. How had this happened? His mind raced with possible solutions to his predicament, but nothing suitable came to mind.

  Finally, he choked out, “Us?”

  She didn’t seem to notice how his normally tan face had paled to the color of the chairs in which they were seated.

  “Yes, Michael. I thought you were here to ask me to promise to wait for you, but then,” she gave a little smile, “I suppose you know that I will.”

  The young woman rose and walked to the porch banister, “There will never be anyone else for me, Michael.”

  Michael rose on trembling legs, feeling a bit lightheaded at the effort, “Melba, I didn’t mean to give you the impression that I. . .um. . .”

  She turned around, a joyous expression on her face, “I know, Michael. You probably knew my answer, so you didn’t feel the need to ask. Still,” she stepped a little closer to him and smiled up into his face, “A girl likes to hear these things from time to time.”

  Michael closed his eyes and turned around. He had to think fast. Melba was a nice girl, but he had never once considered her more than a friend. He had never sought her out, had never danced more with her than with the other girls, had never spoken to her in a manner intended to draw her affection.

  “Melba,” he turned back to her, “I think we need to have a serious conversation about this.”

  The young woman looked as though she could float on air at this announcement.

  “We’re too young to get married.”

  Melba’s eyes twinkled at him, “That’s what mother says too. Of course, she was married at eighteen so I don’t know why she would argue with me doing so at nineteen. And father was twenty-one. That’s a whole year younger than you.”

  Michael wondered if Mrs. Foster was under the impression that Michael had proposed already.

  “It isn’t just our age, Melba. . .” he started, but she interrupted him.

  “Our age won’t be an issue when you come back. Mother will have no problem with me getting married when I am twenty or twenty-one.”

  Michael wondered if he was having a bad dream. This couldn’t be real.

  “Actually, Melba,” he tried again, “Even if the war ends in two years, which I doubt, I won’t be back that soon. I’ve enlisted for four years.”

  Melba scowled at him, “How could you, Michael? And without discussing it with me. All the dreams we have for our future to be put off like that. . .”

  He feared she would continue if he didn’t put a swift end to this, “What dreams, Melba? “

  Me
lba looked up at him in shock. He forced himself to continue.

  “It isn’t just our age. I’ll be gone a long time, and you may find someone here to marry. Even if my feelings were different, I couldn’t – wouldn’t – ask you to wait for me.”

  Melba grasped his forearm with both hands, “You don’t have to ask me, Michael. That’s what I’m saying. I’m doing it for you because I know you are too noble to ask it of me, because I love you.”

  Michael gently removed her fingers from his sleeve, “Please don’t say that Melba.”

  Melba sat down hard in her chair, “Don’t say. . .?” her voice was an anguished whisper.

  Michael did not sit back down, “I never meant to hurt you, Melba or make you think that there was more to our friendship than,” he paused for a moment to find the right words, “well, than just friendship.”

  Michael felt the best thing to do would be just to leave. Staying could only cause further discomfort for both of them.

  “Will you write to me?” Melba’s voice called to him as he descended the steps.

  He turned back, “I don’t think that would be a good idea, Melba.”

  She rose and came to him, “I’m sorry about the. . .misunderstanding,” she swallowed, “I should have known. I should have realized you would have said something earlier if you. . .” she stopped and looked away.

  Michael hated to see the tears pooling in her eyes but knew only time would repair the damage he had unwittingly caused, so he opted to remain silent.

  “You’ve been a good friend to me, Michael. I would hate to lose that too.”

  Michael was unsure of the proper thing to do. He prayed for guidance, “I’ll tell you what, Melba. You think about this for a month. If you feel you can look at me as just a friend, then write. If you do, I’ll write back.”

  The heartbroken girl tried a weak smile, “Thank you Michael.”

  After a month, Melba did write to him. The letters were no more intimate than the ones from his sisters. The young man was quite pleased the lady had gotten over him so quickly. It was for the best on both sides.

  Thinking this, he decided to open her letter first.