While he takes time to answer, the rest of us put our heads down, look at the table. Rudy reaches for my hand. “It was really hard. Especially at first. After dinner that night, we walked back to our barracks and saw just empty bunks. It was terrible. Their bedding and belongings—all traces of those men—they were gone, as if they had never been there. It was the same in the newspapers, here and back home. No one wanted to talk about those planes and those men. They said it was bad for morale.”
“Sometimes it’s hard to be left behind too,” Neal says.
I think of the tangled bedding in our bedroom at home.
Rudy rubs his eyes. “It is hard to be left behind. My crew still had our thirty-five missions to go, and we understood the risks now. The next day, those of us left in our barracks sat in a circle. We made a lot of promises to each other . . . we would never again take life for granted, we’d make every day count. And we sure as hell would never again fight to be put on a mission list.”
He flashes a bit of a rueful smile, then stands and opens the door. “I just need a few minutes. I’ll be back soon.”
I stand too. My impulse is to follow him, but Neal puts his hand lightly on my arm. “Think about it—usually it’s better if the men struggle with their own ghosts,” he says. “When he returns, I have a place to take him where we can all go.”
I move to the largest window, watching the figure, slightly bent over, walk slowly to the runway. How different this is from our other trips. In other places we go sightseeing together; here Rudy goes soul-searching alone. I can only watch him try.
One of the veterans who had been a mechanic here stands behind me, puts his hand on my shoulder. “It was always so hard to see those young guys go up in that sky. This is pretty hard too.”
A half hour or so goes by before Rudy returns. He seems sturdier, but no less sad. Neal drives us to the rectory of the parish church where we meet the sacristan. He knows Rudy has come to visit the spire, but first he brings us into the church, showing us carefully stitched covers on each kneeling bench, and a bank of lighted votive candles.
“The embroidery pieces are from American families of your troops, sent to thank the village for taking care of their young sons. The candles are lighted even now by villagers, thanking you for what you did here.”
WE have brought with us a set of letters to share with Neal, perhaps copy for the library. In each one, Rudy writes Mutti, his German stepmother, and Papa, the Hitler loyalist, telling them what he can about his life, trying to reassure them, but, following censorship rules, not revealing his location or missions. Each is handwritten on lined paper torn from a notebook. One is dated 24 December 1944, from England, three months after the Kassel Mission.
Dear Mom and Dad,
Just a few lines to let you all know I’m thinking of you and to tell you all that I am alright.
I guess I couldn’t let tonight go without writing you, for as you can see it is Christmas Eve. It’s just about 9:30 and after I finish writing this, I’m going to get dressed and get ready for the Midnight Mass. Out of all the times in the year, I’m sure this is the one when I miss home the most. For some reason, all afternoon I’ve been looking at my watch and matching the time against what I would be doing if I were home. All those memories of our past Christmases together keep coming back to me, and I just can’t seem to realize that we are 3,000 miles apart.
To many families in their homes here in England I suppose Christmas is very real. The night is cold and clear. The air is crisp and clean, and there are a million stars flashing and glittering up in the deep blue. The moon is in its first quarter, and someone with an imagination as vivid as mine could easily assume that its silvery light shed over this English countryside is a thin blanket of snow.
Even though it’s the same barracks, the same guys, and our same Army clothes, there still is the feeling that tonight is very different. No carols, no tree, no surprise packages, no soft lights or pungent smells of candles and pine needles here. But it’s still Christmas Eve and I guess it always will be for me no matter where I am.
I hope I haven’t bored you with my thoughts tonight, but it feels so much better to put in writing what has been turning over in my head all day. So I’ll leave you for now, with the sincere wish that you both have a happy Christmas together. Let’s hope that next year we’ll be able to resume our Christmas of old. Till the next time, then, good night.
Your Son, Rudy
He is twenty-three years old this night. I am two months old, celebrating my first Christmas. At my house there is a tree, surprise packages, soft lights, carols.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE OLD RADIO HAS MORE CRACKLE THAN CONTENT, BUT IT is the only link between today’s fiftieth anniversary celebrations and our small Provence kitchen this night of June 6, D-Day. I have my French-to-English dictionary ready, but the words from the radio flow within a storm of emotion, tears, cries as French men and women, older than I but not by much, tell of that night and of that day in 1944.
We know the numbers. One hundred sixty thousand Allied troops came across the sea that night; ten thousand lost lives or independence. Today the older Allied veterans of the battles invade France once again—some in parachutes, most in tour buses—to honor their fallen comrades. In Avignon this morning, I stopped at a newspaper stand to buy commemorative editions for Rudy, whole newspapers with photos and full-page banner headlines. “Men of War Celebrate Peace in Their Time,” one says. “Merci beaucoup, Allies,” another shouts.
On the radio tonight, one woman speaks in a mix of French and English. I silently thank my high school French teacher, for I can understand a bit. “I was child, child sitting on a hillside, watching boats come in. I was afraid they come to hurt me. My mother said, ‘No, no, these are friends. They come to save.’ I know now. They friends, come to save me.”
In other interviews, the phrases repeat: “Merci, merci,” they say one by one, “Merci pour lives, merci pour liberté.”
I translate what I can for Rudy, for nearly an hour. “The French are so grateful.”
“I guess I needed to be with them, to hear that,” he says.
“I don’t understand. Of course they’re grateful.”
“Well, it’s not as simple as that. In war you meet death so many times. You bring death. You have to keep convincing yourself that you’re really bringing life. I liked hearing about the little girl.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
CRUISES: DIPPING DOWN INTO THE BUCKET
OVER TIME, AND IN A SLOW PROCESS, MULTIPLE FORCES conspire to erode the enforcement of Rudy’s Rules. The first is unplanned exposure to cruise ships.
We arrive in Seattle on a summer day, poised to board the Alaskan ferry for a weeklong journey with my mother and niece, Cindy. I call to confirm our reservations.
“You must have missed the news,” the operator says. “The ferry workers have been on strike all week.”
I begin my lamentations promptly and loudly.
“Ma’am, ma’am,” she tries to interrupt. “Take a deep breath. You know, 1 . . . 2 . . .”
How does she know about that?
“The cruise ship, The Sun Princess, is accepting your party.”
All of us except Rudy are jubilant at the approximately one thousand percent free upgrade.
“I can’t believe this is happening to me,” he says. “You know how much I want to ride the ferry.”
I do know. I have watched him pack for the ferry like a Boy Scout, adding a canteen, small bedroll, and down jacket to his wardrobe of faded jeans and plaid shirts. He has read that in order to have the true Alaskan experience, one must sleep on deck under the starry skies.
I respond sympathetically. “We need to get to a mall fast and find a Nordstrom. We each have to have at least one good outfit. There’ll be a captain’s dinner and—”
“We need to take two cars.”
Rudy has a shopping destination he will not reveal, and I suspect his cruise attire will
be found at K-Mart. I am wrong. The local thrift store has a rack of six-dollar navy blazers, and if you roll up the sleeves and pin them just right, no one is the wiser. A limp almost-white shirt and one red tie complete the outfit.
“This is the last cruise I’m ever going on,” he explains, “so I can’t invest in clothes. Cruises are so artificial—people spend two hours in a Mexican tourist trap and claim they’ve seen the country.”
This opinion is rendered before he boards the cruise liner and finds the seafood buffet, the midnight chocolate spread, and a husband for Cindy.
JOHN, the handsome British deck steward, sees us on deck, all lined up in our chaise lounges, wrapped in warm blankets and ready to sail. He notices Cindy first, of course, then Rudy who is reading Cornelius Ryan’s The Last Battle. A conversation starter. After their joint analysis of Ryan’s works and much of naval history, Rudy gets to the point.
“Have you met our niece?”
And to Cindy, once the young man reluctantly leaves us to attend to customers: “That nice man really likes you. You should find him and talk to him.”
Anyone who is a student of Cornelius Ryan would clearly make a perfect life companion.
My mother has the gift (or curse?) of prophecy. Before this day ends she is asking herself, and us, just how she will explain to Cindy’s father that the girl has run away to sea.
Beginning the next year, after the wedding, Rudy finds that cruises can occasionally help him reach down into the bucket where the list resides. He never succumbs to those floating cities called megaships, but rather selects barges that float leisurely down the Ohio and Mississippi, crafts that squeeze through the Erie or Panama Canals, or mid-sized ships that sail among glaciers or islands or fjords.
THESE new compromises of the Rules are suiting me well. Perhaps I was born to float in luxury. I have come a long way since the goat on the Luxor ferry ate my sandal, and the barge crew in Mexico fished me from the sea. Standing today on the deck of the small ocean liner, leaning over a rail, I relax and study Tahitian turquoise waters, enjoy the peacefulness of a cruise ship securely docked and without any people. The other passengers, including Rudy, have left for Bora Bora day trips. Some struggle to master diving gear, others snorkel, still others like Rudy circle overhead in small, perilous helicopters. I have chosen standing on the top deck as the safest of options.
“No,” I told Rudy earlier this morning. “I’m not going on a helicopter trip. I haven’t forgotten the Kauai copter.”
“Kauai copter” is code for “all-time most terrifying travel experience I will not repeat.” Nearly ten years ago on that island, Rudy persuaded me to take my first helicopter ride over admittedly lush landscape.
“It’s the only way we’ll be able to see the Na Pali coast,” he had said then. “It’s a natural treasure. You can’t miss it.”
I need to tell you that in order to see that beauty, you must open your eyes. That is something I could not do that day. The middle-aged copter shuddered as it rose hesitantly from its pad. Seated behind the young, casually attired pilot, I realized he did not keep eyes on the cliffs looming ahead nor hands on the controls. The copter bobbed about while he talked and laughed with co-pilot Rudy and the male passenger beside me. The three were having fun. I was not.
A few minutes after liftoff, my complex moral dilemma arose. I had been accustomed to managing fear, or even terror, but this situation had an added dimension of social responsibility. Just behind my left ear a soft rattling noise grew louder and louder until it came to a high pitch, sounding much like a large bolt being shaken in a glass jar. A very fragile glass jar. As we flew on, the pilot never turned to check for the source of the sound. The copter just kept bobbing, getting closer and closer to the steep cliffs of Na Pali. I spent the flight, eyes closed and deep breathing in progress, pondering my responsibility to the pilot, to Rudy, to the other passenger. Should I warn them that an essential part was loose, that we were about to plunge into the sea? Perhaps he and the passenger had young children.
An element of social sensitivity was also involved. If we were to survive after my call to alarm, it would be embarrassing. I had a lot to weigh in my decision, finally concluding that it was better to feign bravery and spare any insult to my pride. After all, my knowledge of helicopter parts was rather limited.
I lived through the Kauai copter experience. When we landed, neither the pilot nor I spoke of the bolt. But now here in Bora Bora is Rudy, rushing across the ship’s deck toward me, calling my name, interrupting my reverie.
“Aren’t you back early?” I ask, struggling to keep disappointment out of my voice. I had so looked forward to peace and stillness. “I thought your flight was at least an hour.”
“Oh, Mare, I had to cut it short so I could come get you. You have got to see this place from the air. It is the most beautiful lagoon in the world. You can’t miss it. Forget Kauai. This will be so different. It’s a new helicopter and the pilot is mature, seems to be some kind of navy captain.”
This has my attention. I have to admit I have heard the islets surrounding Bora Bora are extraordinary, and from the ship they look only like pale pancakes spread on water. And besides, I am touched that my spouse would cut his own trip short to come get me, and that he would find a navy captain to carry us safely.
It is true. The helicopter is new and the pilot is a middle-aged man attired in a navy military jacket with multiple stripes and medals, surely signifying bravery and competence. He stands at attention beside the copter door, then helps me into the backseat, salutes me.
“See, hon, I told you this would be a safe ride,” Rudy says proudly.
As advertised, we fly gently with seabirds over the bluest of blue lagoons, shades of the color shifting, mixing below us. Rudy grins, points out one heart-shaped islet.
One hour later, we land with soft precision on an open beachfront strip.
“This will be another picture for your Victory Shelf,” Rudy says, readying his camera. We started my Victory Shelf at home to display my moments of untoward bravery, times I have conquered fear and mistrust. The shelf is a little bare so far, displaying three photos, one showing the day I was five and sat upon a pony, another celebrating my climb all the way to the top of Saint Peter’s roof, the third picturing me afloat in a zodiac amidst Alaskan glaciers. This would be photo number four. Full disclosure: Once you set foot in St. Peter’s staircase, there is no turning back—it is one way, so despite your cries, you climb. As for Alaskan zodiacs, they are far less threatening if you wear two life vests and drink one glass of wine.
Rudy takes my picture as I smile, give a thumbs up, show no worry creases.
I climb out of the backseat of the helicopter just in time to see our captain take off the navy jacket with the shiny medals and return it to a man waiting for him on the beach.
RUDY sees an ad for a British ocean liner, one combining renowned lecturers with English high teas and unique itineraries. “Papa talked about sailing to Spitzbergen,” Rudy says, “and I’d love to spend time with the Brits. We need to take this trip.”
What I need to do is read itineraries more carefully. If I had, I would not now be surprised that the ship travels on open seas for two days, sailing far past the tip of Norway, above the Arctic Circle. I blame the trip brochure; it shows the journey in three inches, picturing the far northern destination just around the corner from Tromsø. Every few hours, I visit the gleaming blue globe in the ship’s library, trying to ascertain just when we will find the destination sitting at the top of the sphere. In his daily briefing over the ship’s microphone, our captain announces that we are traveling in and out of satellite transmission, so there will be no emails, faxes, or phone calls, and a “somewhat altered” ship’s navigation system. “This is quite a unique voyage,” the captain says. “I find it very interesting. I’ve never been this far north myself.”
Consumer confidence takes a dive except in our cabin. “Wow—he’s never been here,” says Rudy. “
That makes it so much more fun.”
The cruise is advertised as “The Journey of the Arctic Tern” in honor of Spitzbergen’s summertime residents—slender white birds with dark heads and markings, seasoned travelers that fly 25,000 miles each year to winter at the tip of Antarctica. The crew warn us against wearing anything white ashore, lest the feisty birds mistake us for enemies. “You don’t want those little birds to think you’re a fox or polar bear,” they say. “You don’t want them pecking holes in your head.”
We agree that if we had to fly 25,000 miles every year, we’d be a little touchy too.
Passengers are told not to approach the tern nesting areas, for the birds are also known to have strong maternal instincts. Besides their skills of aerial bombing, they are especially talented at defending their newborns by camouflage. Rudy and I watch quietly while a tern works to distract us from what appears to be her nest by first dancing around us, then posing for photos right at our feet. We are charmed and flattered at the time, but when we get home, we see that the tern’s renowned camouflage leaves us with no decipherable bird image in the developed photo. Clever.
But not even clever terns can distract Rudy from wartime memories that accompany this British ship now sailing back toward Dover. I still want to believe that World War II is long past—it is, after all, the year 2005. But most of our fellow passengers are Rudy’s age. The battles may have ended sixty years ago, but the war is today for the British we meet.
Rudy’s affection and respect for the English runs deep. I see it in his focused blue eyes, in the way he leans forward during each conversation to catch their every word. Rudy saw the life they lived then—the bombings, rubble, shelters, rationing, and London children transported to farmlands. The British passengers in turn want to know what it was like for the young American assigned to England, and then to the skies filled with enemy fire. I see that in a short time they understand far more about Rudy in those years than I ever will.
Rudy's Rules for Travel Page 13
