Silent Star

by Tracie Peterson

  He found it hard to keep walking, knowing that he had no part in the warmth and love that could be seen there. He wished they would all just pull the drapes and close the shutters. It’s better not to even look, he told himself. It’s less painful not knowing what’s happening than to watch and know that I have no place.

  But even when the drapes were pulled there was the stark, unforgettable reminder of the blue and gold stars that represented those in the service. Blue for the living. Gold for the dead. Banners of recognition and pride. Banners of hope . . . and of sorrow.

  Andy knew a sort of fatal attraction to those silent stars. He watched for them—searching the windows of each house where he delivered those horrible little telegrams. He felt personally responsible for every gold star he saw that day on Chester Street, Washington Street, and all the others across the town.

  No wonder the residents of those houses hated the very sight of him. It was no different from when the Williams family, who lived across the street, had lost their three-year-old son to meningitis. Mr. Williams finally took down the swing where the boy had played, for the sight of it was too painful. Just as the sight of Andy was too painful. If they could remove him, Andy had no doubt they would do exactly that.

  The walk to the cemetery gave Andy plenty of time to consider his plight. He often thought of running away. After all, there were others who delivered telegrams, just as he did. There were other telegraph stations across the nation where other lonely 4-Fs worked to keep the lines of communication open. Someone would keep spreading the message if he decided to walk away. Someone would continue to bear the bad news. Why should it be him?

  But then he remembered how hard his father had worked to buy the house. “This will be yours one day, Andy,” his father had told him with great pride.

  And now it was his. His alone. Bought and paid for. How could he just walk away from it? Sell it and leave for another part of the country? He’d only find other mothers and wives who were dreading those horrible slips of paper just as much as they dreaded them in Haven, Pennsylvania.

  Andy opened the wrought-iron gate to the cemetery and shuffled through the snow. The uncleared path surprised him. The caretaker was usually quite good about tending the walkways. When he drew near to the place where his parents’ graves lay side by side, Andy cut across the field and came to stand directly at the head of their resting place.

  He cleared away the snow from his parents’ simple headstones. He gently traced the letters of each name.

  H-E-R-M-A-N G-I-L-B-E-R-T

  V-E-R-N-A G-I-L-B-E-R-T

  Placing the wreath between them, Andy spoke softly. “The war is still on. Our boys from the 28th have the proud distinction of being some of the first Americans in Nazi Germany. They’re fighting hard and no doubt they’ll be dying hard too.” He paused momentarily to adjust the piece of ribbon he’d tied to the greenery.

  “I’ll be delivering a lot of those telegrams,” he continued. “I’d just as soon not do it. But, Pop, you always said to see a job through to the finish. I don’t know when this war will end, but I’m trying hard to see it through and make you proud.”

  Somehow just talking to his parents like this helped Andy. He could almost imagine them sitting there listening, nodding and sympathizing.

  “The president tells us to keep our spirits up, but to be truthful, I’m having a real hard time with it. With both of you gone, I’m just not sure why it matters anymore.”

  “Excuse me.”

  Andy looked over his shoulder, stunned to find an elderly woman standing directly behind him. He jumped up and stared at her, openmouthed. She smiled sweetly.

  “I couldn’t help but notice you here. There’s no one else,” she said, waving her arm at the expanse of the small cemetery.

  Andy looked away, almost frightened by the woman’s pleasant voice and winning smile. She obviously didn’t know who he was. Of course, he wasn’t wearing his uniform and there was always the possibility that she was new to the area.

  “I’m sorry if I startled you,” she continued. “My name is Estella. Estella Nelson.”

  Andy looked up, still not sure what to say. Estella smiled and adjusted her scarf. “And you are?”

  Andy felt his mouth go dry. “Ah . . . I’m . . . ah . . . Andy. Andy Gilbert.” He couldn’t be sure, but he thought his voice cracked as if he were thirteen all over again.

  “Andy, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Who were you visiting just now?”

  He shifted uneasily, his feet growing colder by the minute. “My parents.”

  “I see,” she said, glancing past him to the stones. “You seem so young to be without them.”

  Andy nodded. He could think of nothing to say in reply. Thoughts flooded his mind, overwhelming him with questions, but words failed to form on his lips.

  “I was visiting my husband’s grave. He’s been gone ten years now,” Estella told him. “Some days it seems as though he left me only yesterday, and other times it feels like he’s been gone for a hundred years.” She smiled sweetly at him. “Is that how it feels for you—with them?”

  Andy still didn’t know what to say. This type of conversation was awkward and startling all at the same time. Even his mother’s dear friends had very little to say to him when they met him in the ration lines or at the bank. Harriet, in fact, had moved away just last week to live with her daughter in Milwaukee. She promised to write and keep in touch with Andy, but he doubted she would. That left just Miriam, and she had a house on the other side of town. It was not only inconvenient to go visiting, but the cold weather made it downright dangerous.

  “I’m sorry if I’ve intruded,” Estella said softly. “It’s just that I’ve only been back to Haven for about three months. I lived in Pittsburgh for almost ten years with my mother after Howard died. When she passed on a few months back, I came back here to the house Howard worked so hard for.” She looked around and smiled. “I thought perhaps you were in need of company as much as I am.”

  Andy shook his head. “You wouldn’t want my company if you knew who I was.”

  She chuckled. “Sounds intriguing.”

  “No,” Andy whispered. “It’s not intriguing at all. Just painful.”

  TWO

  Estella saw the anguish in the boy’s eyes. He was such a sweet-looking fella, red hair peeking out from beneath an overly large fedora. The hat had probably belonged to his father. A memento, she thought, of a man whose role the young boy hoped to fill.

  “I find that misery is eased when it’s shared with another,” she offered.

  Andy shook his head. “Not this misery.” He walked back toward the gate and Estella knew what she had to do.

  “Wait, please,” she called. Following him to the street, she smiled again. “It’s terribly cold out here. Why don’t you come home with me and have something hot to drink? I have plenty of coffee.” She watched the emotion play on Andy’s face. He seemed to want her company, but at the same time there was something about him that appeared uncomfortable in her presence.

  “I can’t,” Andy finally answered. He pushed his gloved hands down into his coat pockets and began walking away.

  “But it’s Sunday. Surely there’s nothing too pressing that can’t wait until later,” she added, hurrying to catch up with him.

  Andy stopped and stared at her for a moment. “You don’t understand.”

  Estella reached out and gently touched his arm. “Maybe not, but I’d like to.”

  He looked to the ground. “No. This isn’t the kind of thing you’d ever understand. No one does.”

  “Try me. It hardly seems fair to judge me by the standards of other people.”

  “Fine,” he said sternly. “Just remember, you are the one who forced this. Obviously you don’t know me or what I do.”

  “So tell me.” Estella had always been a woman who dealt with life matter-of-factly. Her husband said it was her Italian background, but she doubted it; she always figured it to be her ow
n nosiness.

  Andy struggled for several silent moments before he finally blurted out, “I deliver telegrams.”

  She frowned. It made little sense. She’d figured with the weight of guilt—or whatever emotion it was—that wore this boy down that at the very least he was some kind of confidence man. “I thought maybe you were a bank robber or a murderer,” she said in a joking tone. “Delivering telegrams is nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “I might as well be a murderer. I bring the news of death and people hate me for it. You have no idea how they avoid me. You couldn’t understand or you would never have approached me.”

  “Is that what this is all about?” Estella questioned.

  “Isn’t it enough?”

  Estella stamped her feet to warm them a bit. “I hardly think so. So you are the bearer of bad tidings. Someone has to do it. Surely you aren’t the only telegram delivery boy in town. How do the others feel?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Andy replied curtly. “I’ve never asked them.”

  “Hmm.” Estella nodded. “Then it’s probably fair to guess that they’ve never asked you either.”

  “Of course they haven’t.”

  She nodded again. “Then that would explain it.”

  Andy’s frustration was apparent. “Explain what?”

  “The fact that you feel so alone—so awkward in trying to explain this situation to me now.”

  “Look, it doesn’t matter. People fear me, turn away from me because I bring them the news that their child or husband is dead. They want nothing to do with me and neither should you.” He turned to walk away, and Estella let him proceed several paces before calling out to him.

  “I have some cream—it’s not much, but it would be enough for coffee.”

  Andy stopped in his tracks and turned. “Why?” The depth of his anguish rang out in that one word.

  “Why what? I offer you coffee and you ask why? Because I’m a lonely old lady and I like redheaded boys.” She grinned. “Do you need more of a reason?”

  He never even cracked a smile, and Estella’s heart went out to him. Poor miserable child. So full of pain and sorrow, so unloved and forgotten. God, I see now why you sent me out here on this cold day. This poor boy is dying from loneliness and the wounds others have inflicted on him.

  “Look, Andy Gilbert, you needn’t turn down perfectly good coffee and cream just because some people have made you feel unwelcome. They’ll get over it and so will you. You aren’t the reason their children are dead and they know this only too well. They are in pain, Andy, and people in pain often do not understand the wounds they give others. They lash out, cutting and maiming, mindless of their actions because they are blinded by the anguish that fills their souls. You mustn’t judge them too harshly.”

  “They’ve judged me harshly . . . and falsely,” Andy murmured.

  She smiled. “It happened to our Lord as well.”

  Andy shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about God. It’s His fault that all this is happening to begin with.” He met her face, his expression hard. “I don’t want any part of talking to God.”

  “I never said you had to talk to God, Andy.”

  He appeared confused. “But you said . . .”

  “I said they judged Jesus harshly and falsely. I was merely pointing out that you aren’t alone.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Mrs. Nelson. I’m very much alone . . . and I intend to stay that way.”

  This time she let him go. She watched him limp down the road, his left foot dragging along in the snow. Oh, the pain he suffers is so great, Father, she prayed. I could feel it just standing across from him. I could see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice. He’s slipping away from life, Lord. He needs your help. Maybe even my help. She moved down the street toward her own little bungalow, a plan formulating in her mind.

  ****

  Andy thought of the old woman the next day as he stood in line for his groceries. He couldn’t express how much it had meant to him that she would stand there and talk to him even after knowing about his job and the way other people felt about him. He had wanted so much to go with her—to share her coffee and cream. He could almost taste it even now.

  Andy didn’t recognize any of the people in line with him. He’d gone to a grocer on the other side of town where he wasn’t as well known. He’d kept his father’s coat tightly buttoned and hoped no one would notice his uniform pants. No one spoke to him much, but neither did they turn away from him. He blended rather obscurely into the crowd.

  “Did you hear the news?” one man asked the woman in front of Andy. “They say our boys in the 28th are stompin’ those Germans all the way back to Berlin. Let Hitler deal with that.”

  The woman smiled and answered in animated excitement, “I know, I know. My sister telephoned to tell me. Maybe the war will be over by Christmas. Wouldn’t that be marvelous?”

  The man nodded and stepped up to pay for his purchases. As with every other customer, the man had to present his ration book and identification. Finally the cashier tore out his coupons and told him how much he owed her. The procedure was repeated for the woman, and finally it was Andy’s turn.

  “You’re saving your cans for the war effort, right?” the cashier asked as she sacked several cans of beans. She was a cheerful sort with a heart full of enthusiasm.

  Andy nodded but said nothing. He gave the woman a weak smile.

  “There’s just so much we can do to help, you know. The ladies at my church are having a scrap drive. We have a box here in the store, so if you come back before the twentieth of this month be sure and bring any fabric you don’t need or old rags. Oh, and the Girl Scouts are having a clothing drive. There’s a box for that too.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Andy said, showing her his identification and offering his money.

  With sacks in hand, Andy walked back home. The store windows had cheerful displays, proof that owners were trying their best to rally everyone’s spirits. Amidst the routine accouterments declaring sales on various products there were also the ever-present signs of a country at war. A poster embracing the spirit of Christmas declared, “The Present With a Future—WAR BONDS” as a jolly Santa sprinkled war bonds down on the holiday houses below his sleigh.

  Since the house was paid for, Andy had used some of his extra money to purchase some bonds. He knew it was his patriotic duty, but more than this, he felt it was almost an atoning. He couldn’t be with his buddies fighting in the 28th, but he could help support them from afar.

  Knowing he still needed toothpaste, Andy crossed the street to the five-and-dime, finding the store surprisingly busy with customers. He edged his way through the crowd, quickly locating what he’d come for. He juggled the sacks to free his hand.

  “Andy Gilbert!”

  He looked up to find a young woman, long blond hair streaming. “Don’t you remember me? It’s Mary Beth Iseman. I was a year behind you in school.”

  Andy nodded, feeling very shy. “Yeah, I remember you.”

  “Well, I haven’t seen you in a long time. We moved into town from the country. We’re even going to a new church and everything. Poppy said we couldn’t make the long drive to our old church since he needs to conserve gas and tires for work. So here we are.” She barely paused to draw a breath. “Did you know that Sammy is in Europe with the 28th? They’re doing very well. We had a letter . . . well, actually Sammy’s wife, Kay, had a letter just the other day. She lives with us, you know.”

  “No, I don’t suppose I did,” Andy said, still completely taken aback by her chatterbox conversation.

  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and continued. “Sammy says everything is going really well. We don’t know exactly where he is, but he’s always trying to tell Kay with little coded words. They agreed before he left that certain words would be for some of the countries and such.” She lowered her voice. “I don’t suppose I should have said that. Just don’t tell anyone. Mama says it might
cause problems—loose lips and all, don’tcha know.”

  Andy looked around, feeling like someone was watching him. He spied Mrs. Iseman. She looked the same as he remembered from his school days. Sometimes Mrs. Iseman had actually come to substitute for some of the teachers. She’d always had a smile and kind word for everyone, but today she was reserved. Speaking in hushed covered-mouth whispers to the barber’s wife, Mrs. Davis, Mrs. Iseman nodded, all the while watching Andy. A sense of dread washed over him as the woman finally made her way toward them.

  “Mary Beth, what do you think you’re doing?” her mother questioned, coming upon them. Andy cringed at the tone in her voice.

  “Mama, this is Andy Gilbert. I went to school with him.”

  “Yes, I know who he is.” Her words took on a deeper meaning for Andy.

  “Can we invite him home for supper?” Mary Beth asked her mother. “I want to tell him all about Sammy and show him the letters.”

  “I’m sorry,” Mrs. Iseman said in a stilted tone. “I . . . well . . . it isn’t convenient to invite him tonight.”

  “But, Mama . . .”

  “Excuse me,” Andy said, pushing past the two women, “I need to be going. I have other plans.”

  He then exchanged his old empty tube for the new tube of toothpaste and paid for the purchase. He hurried from the store, not even bothering to bid good-bye to Mary Beth. Her gentle voice and sweet smile had brightened an otherwise dreary day. How long had it been since he’d seen her and talked to her? At least three years.

  The Isemans had lived on a farm just at the edge of town. It had been in the family for many generations, with Mary Beth’s father and uncle helping their father run the place. Mary Beth’s father, however, had taken an interest in running a freight service and gradually left the farm to his father and brother. After the passing of Mary Beth’s grandfather, Andy recalled there had been some concern that the farm would be sold to pay debts. The brothers, however, had rallied and managed to hang on to the place. Andy thought it sad that Mr. Iseman should find it necessary now to leave and move into town. He was no doubt freighting things for the government and military now, as the cost would probably be too prohibitive for civilians.