by Cat Gardiner
“That will never happen as long as you live in this house. You do know that whatever we embark on, we have to keep a secret. Father would never stand for three of his daughters involved in the war effort. He’ll flip his wig and then you’ll never get to date your flyboy because he’ll never let you out of the house again!”
“Yes, to some degree you’re right. He is getting worse. It was evident by his objections to both William and Louie. He snapped his cap in the study, claiming he ‘didn’t like the look of those GIs’. His disrespect and ideology is so contrary to most of those in our circle, with the exception of Ingrid, that it baffles me. I won’t even repeat the disgusting things she said poolside on Saturday.”
“It’s that Mr. Gebhardt.” Kitty adjusted her leg braces. “He has been spending too much time at Meercrest, and I see the way Ingrid is all goo-goo eyed at him. They never even notice when I’m in the room. I suppose being the cast-aside Renner has its advantages since they seem to think I’m another piece of furniture.”
What could Lizzy say to that? It was true. Everyone but her, Lillian, and Mrs. Davis ignored Kitty’s presence—or worse, teased her. She offered her sister a contrite smile. “Yes, I’ve seen the way Ingrid watches and listens to Gebhardt, too. He’s too old for her, not to mention trouble. He made a pass at me the night of the lawn party. If it wasn’t for the lieutenant, I’m sure I would have had to slap him, but William arrived just in time.”
Kitty’s hand went to her mouth in shock. “What happened?”
“Well, it was my own fault really. I never should have gone down to the boat landing in the dark, but mother was very drunk, and I knew Father would want to stop her himself before she made a real scene. As it was, she was repeating some of his gobbledygook about the purity of the Germanic bloodline and then I noticed Dorothy Whitney cringe, refuting Mother with some comment about how that superior bloodline’s Luftwaffe was bombing the heck out of the English countryside. Kitty … I didn’t even know the extent to which England was being bombed. I swear where have I been?”
“Having a good time with all your deb friends.”
“Hmm … yes, I suppose you’re right.” Lizzy paused thoughtfully. “Anyway, I got to the Odin and of course it was dark due to the new blackout restrictions, but that didn’t stop Gebhardt with his lit cigarette. I saw him standing at the bow, looking out on the Sound and I asked if Father was within the cabin. He threw his cigarette overboard and came to stand very close to me, said something base about how the Renner woman are all so alluring. He ran his hand down my arm and his fingers brushed against my bosom!”
“What did you do?”
“I tried to leave the dock, of course, but he grabbed my wrist. I struggled and raised my voice, saying something to the effect that I considered him a smarmy creep and to get his hands off me. I don’t care if he’s handsome with those piercing eyes. He’s a wolf of the worse kind. Just then we both heard the lieutenant’s voice bellow, causing Gebhardt to drop his hold upon me.”
Kitty cooed a romantic sigh. “He was your knight in shining armor. How romantic!”
“Hardly that at the moment. He was madder than blazes and told Gebhardt if he didn’t let go of me he would pop him one in the kisser!” Lizzy opened her gold cigarette case, offered her sister a Chesterfield then took one for herself. Taking a deep drag, she blew out the smoke in a long, smooth stream away from the wheelchair. “Oh, what was romantic was how he took my arm, rubbed my wrist where Gebhardt had violated it, then escorted me back to the house.”
“And … and …?”
“And nothing. I thought he’d ask to take me out for a date, or at the very least to write me but he didn’t. He simply thanked me for the dances and a lovely afternoon then said good-bye.” She bit her lip and flicked her ashes into the crystal ashtray.
“I know you’re disappointed, Lizzy, but mark my words he won’t be able to stop thinking about you. He will write you.”
“I hope you’re right, dear, because William Martel is everything a man should be.”
~~*~~
Six
Over the Rainbow
June 1992
His beloved mother often said that silence is golden, and well, after his wife Lillian’s death two years ago, he decided to remain so. Seventy-three year old Louie Martel simply had very little worth saying or even the desire or wherewithal to say it. Lillian had always spoken for both of them, and when she died, his voice went with her. He didn’t expect what would follow, but in her absence, left alone to his devices and thoughts, his carefully hidden and deliberate attempt to gloss over his war experience was for naught. His silence was no longer maintained by grief; post-traumatic stress had become the dominant deterrent.
Sitting on the balcony of his luxury apartment—in of all places a senior community!—his granddaughter basked in the sun, reading one of the many letters she brought with her. He watched Juliana’s profile from inside his kitchen as, every once in a while she smiled at the words Lizzy had written to his brother so long ago. Louie remembered how Lillian’s letters had the same affect on him whenever mail made it to the Pacific islands.
Gordon’s daughter was the apple of his eye—a lovely, good girl, of whom he was extremely proud. It was a shame she resembled his daughter-in-law so much, but Juliana’s spirit and heart were entirely different and that accounted for so much more. Her name alone—Julien and Anna—embodied her essence. She was his treasure, and he hoped to live long enough to see her become someone else’s treasure. Valued and cared for like the special jewel she is, even if she doubted that.
Louie placed her steaming cup of coffee beside his ashtray on the table separating two Adirondack chairs. He took the seat beside her, facing out onto the East River and Roosevelt Island. He loved this view of the aerial cable car shuttling commuters high above the Queensboro Bridge.
“Grandpa, are you sure you have nothing to say about your brother? I mean even the tiniest remark? You could write it down. Hell, I’ll even settle for a grunt—one for yes—two for no—anything. Here, let’s give it a try … do you know if Lizzy wrote him a Dear John letter?” Her eyes studied his, waiting for his grunt. “Okay, that obviously wasn’t juicy enough to elicit a response.” From her backpack, she removed a clear sheet protector, guarding the preserved remnant of what looked like a burned letter.
“How about this … What did Lizzy mean when she wrote, ‘You know that what we did?’ Was this the reason for their break up?”
He couldn’t help but to smile. Staying silent, watching her delve into Will’s life with such determination was priceless. His brother would hate his privacy being invaded so, but he brought it on himself. Juliana needed this and the family did, too. Enough of his brother’s foolishness! Things needed to be set right before they both died, and she was the only one to do it. In the past, he didn’t have balls enough to track him down and go and get him. He should have forced his hand to make amends and heal the family, but this one—this little slip of a girl, who blossomed into a woman with purpose and a newly found voice, could do it. But, getting her to unfold it all, connect the dots and learn from the mistakes made five decades ago would have so much more impact when done on her own than if he were to find his voice to tell her. Simply put, unforgiveness left unchecked is life-changing, and she was headed in that direction with her mother.
Louie looked behind him at the large, wilting bouquet of flowers displayed in the entry hall. A similar one had arrived two years ago when Lillian died. This one arriving with the same sentiment for Gordon—with sympathy. How did he know?
Juliana sighed, and he could see the frustration setting in those cool blue orbs of hers when she continued to stare at him pointedly. It was obvious, she was goading him when she said, “I met with Susan the other day. She thinks you’re senile, you know, and she’s jealous of the money and Primrose Cottage, of course. I can tell that she’s eaten up with it.” Juliana chuckled wryly. “I think those contacts of hers turned green. Anyway
, I told her she could stick it where the sun doesn’t shine. You’re not senile, and I’m never going to forgive her no matter how hard she tries to explain herself. Mistake! She actually said I was a mistake!”
Louie reached over the small space separating them and took her delicate hand in his. He toyed with the jade ring on her index finger, given to her after his wife’s death. It had been a gift to Lillian when he returned home from China in late ’46.
Juliana squeezed his hand, and he fought the urge to wince. Five years ago, that didn’t hurt—arthritis was a bitch, but he’d never let her see his pain. It was just her nature to become overly concerned, and she had enough on her mind, skinny thing she had become thanks to that other bitch.
He hadn’t noticed the opened letter sitting upon her lap. With her free hand, she picked it up and read aloud,
“June 23, 1942
Dear Will,
I arrived safely a couple of days ago. My G-d what a long, boring transport—apart from the trip through the Panama Canal. Almost three weeks of tedious drills, card playing, reading, and catching up on correspondence. Of course, I wrote my girl and Mom and Dad, quickly posting them after the 1st Marine’s debarkation. Sorry, to get this off later to you, but I just didn’t have too much to say so I waited until we arrived at camp—in the rain! You’ll be in Florida by the time you receive this. Heck, I can’t even be sure if you’ll receive it by the time you leave for Europe. I am so far down under that it’ll probably take a good two months before the mail catches up to you. Speaking of letters, I expect to hear from you in regard to Lizzy. You may fight with your logic and reason on this, but she’s perfect for you and as of yet, the only cookie I’ve seen who can spar with you and win! Gorgeous, funny, and a real live wire—need I say more? You do know that Mom and Dad would love her, don’t you? Don’t be a meatball—stop thinking too much about it and write the girl.
About N.Z, the transport arrived at the docks to cold weather, cheering children, and waiting wagons loaded with fresh milk. Damn, if the last two didn’t do my heart good. I stopped drinking that armored heifer after two weeks on board. Once we made our way to camp, they replaced my Springfield with a Reising submachine gun. Now I’m ready and it’s a good thing, too, because rumors say we won’t be here for very long.
Well brother, take care of yourself and don’t forget to write me. I’m counting on you to keep me sane and focused during our family’s separation. I expect your letter to be filled with good news about you and the girl, and, I expect you to ante up after the National League loses in the All-Star Game on the 6th. Two smackers, Mr. Die Hard Dodgers fan. I’ve got news for you, old man, DiMaggio and Williams are gonna’ win this one for the AL.
Affectionately,
Lou”
Louie sat listening to his letter. The remembrance of writing it, clear as day. He never did get those two dollars from Will. Hopefully, his jewel will help him get it with interest.
He slid his hand from her grasp when Juliana handed the letter to him.
“I found your picture, you know. The one of you at Peleliu. It was in William’s footlocker.”
Well, now that really got his attention. His head snapped up from his preoccupation of looking at his youthful handwriting.
“Ha! I knew there would be something to break you out of the world you’re sitting in. You were very handsome. Still are, but back in the day you must have been a heartbreaker, a real dreamboat.”
Clever girl, sitting there hiding her smirk behind that coffee mug. He wanted to say something to her, but he wasn’t sure if he could now even if he wanted to. So, he just smiled a wicked little grin, hoping she would understand his meaning. Lillian would have had quite a story to tell, and he would have laughed, even then remaining silent as she animatedly told the tale of how he seduced her in the horse stable at that U.S.O camp in ’42. Ah, 1942—when it all began—the year he gave his heart away.
“You were womanizer, weren’t you?”
Louie lit up a smoke, expecting the requisite balking that always followed from his granddaughter’s lips, but it didn’t come today. Only the exaggerated fanning of her hand before her face, then the cough—the fake cough she made sure drove home her message. G-d, she was just like her grandmother.
Juliana withdrew a handful of snapshots from the Tiffany blue box she brought with her, offering them, one at a time for his review. “Look, here’s one of you, one of you and your brother in your uniforms, look—one of Lizzy, and Lizzy again. Do you remember Lizzy, Grandpa? I think you dated her sister at one point. Here’s a photo of Uncle William, also known as Fuddy Duddy, and looking so handsome beside his airplane. Lizzy had a ton of nicknames for him, Ducky being her favorite.”
He burst out laughing.
Juliana jumped in a start and dropped to her knees before him. “Oh, Grandpa! Say something, anything! You laughed! That’s so much better than a grunt!”
Stamping out his cigarette, he continued to chuckle, having had no idea that Lizzy nicknamed his stoic, straight-laced brother “Ducky.” That girl was a pistol. His knobby knuckled hand clasped Juliana’s tiny one, and he rose from the chair, pulling her up with him.
“Where are you taking me?”
Today was a good day. She made him feel twenty years younger every time she came to see him. They passed the flowers in the hall, and he snorted a laugh. Ducky. More like Vaporhead.
“Who sent you those?”
He shrugged in reply.
His bland bedroom looked devoid of anything special other than photographs of his Lillian and a few other special mementos. Since moving in, he didn’t even consider decorating it. What was the point? Therefore, as it stood, it looked like a model home, nothing special and everything newly purchased—no memories or antiques. All of those things were at Gordon’s apartment or left in Park Slope when he sealed the house following Lillian’s death. Even the Sony television looked uninspiring now that his favorite shows were vanishing one after the other. He loved that MacGyver show but that, along with Johnny Carson went off the air the month prior. Thankfully, there was a ginger-haired beauty who he cared about on the fourth floor. She needed a snuggle now and again, so Johnny’s role of putting him to sleep had been effectively replaced by a little slap and tickle. Thank G-d, he had enough vim in his vigor to still do that.
His granddaughter sat on the edge of his wasteful king-sized bed, picking up a throw pillow her grandmother had sewn. She held it close to her chest, breathing in its familiar scent as though remembering how much she was loved by the woman she affectionately called Mimi.
Yes, for herself she needed to seek out her grandmother’s family. Lord knows, he wasn’t getting any younger and soon Juliana would find herself alone. She needed cousins, aunts and uncles—she needed a family, and he and Lillian—G-d rest her soul—had denied her that by protecting the Martels from the Renner legacy. His treasure should never be alone.
“Grandpa, I wish I knew more about Mimi. Susan said she was with the Red Cross, but no one has ever said anything. I regret that Grandma never told me about her life before you, who she was, what her childhood and family were like. My evil mother has me thinking that Mimi was orphaned or, worse, a runaway. Someone with terrible secrets that she took to the grave.”
She did run away in a sense and we vowed to never speak of her family, he thought brushing his finger down her pert nose and smiled wistfully before turning his back to her.
He reached up into his bedroom closet, moving around a few items and small boxes until he found what he searched for—a worn Florsheim shoebox. Bringing it down, he held it out to her.
“What’s in it?”
He motioned with his hand and she complied, lifting the dusty lid.
Photographs, more than he remembered, lay within among many denominations of beautifully detailed Japanese Yen, occupation money, and various other pieces of ephemera pertaining to his wartime service. Also stashed away were his Marine medals, Presidential Citation, insignia pa
tches, and the small diary he kept hidden throughout the war. A black matchbook lay on top of the contents, its design read, “Strike ’em Dead, Remember Pearl Harbor.”
Staring down into the relatively small container, Louie marveled at how it held the biggest most powerful four years of his life, and there it all sat stuffed into a box that once held brown wingtips. He shook his head in amazement, uncharacteristically feeling melancholy at the thought of it. Fifty long years had passed. Maybe Will had been right—we should never forget, but Will’s wartime experience hit way too close to home. Fighting in Europe and his internment for two years by the Germans had deep significance where he was concerned.
Try as Louie might, though, his own fight in the Pacific couldn’t be buried forever. Over the years, he had never truly forgotten Guadalcanal, New Britain, New Guinea, Peleliu, and Okinawa, but Lillian had helped him to pack the memories away, just as he helped her conceal her own past. Together, side by side, they looked to the future and lived in the joys of the moment, certainly not the horrors of the past. It was only after her death that the horrors came back, creeping in during his sleep. Without her there to rub his back or soothe the occasional tremor, the memories of those five months on Guadalcanal came back every night. That was his first battle and by the time it was over, he was nearly a different man from the one who entered.
Suddenly, with the letter’s introduction, the photographs, and now the box of mementos, it seemed important, something he had to share with Juliana. Again, he thought of his brother’s running from his past and the painful memories associated with it, much like Lillian. Will’s heated words from the week before Gordon’s christening came back.
-You disgrace our legacy, our very history, and you dishonor the memory of Grandfather and Aunt Estella when you forget.
