by Dean Hughes
The announcer continued the account, and everyone listened. The Allies had gained a foothold, and the push into northern Africa—to reverse recent British losses—had begun. Meanwhile, on the island of Guadalcanal, in the Pacific, marines were driving forward, making steady progress against the Japanese.
Ralph had sprawled out on the kitchen floor. “Man, that’s what I want to be,” he said. “A marine. They’re the toughest guys out there.”
“No more than the airborne boys in the army,” Gene said. But he was also listening as the announcer continued. In Egypt and Libya, British and New Zealander troops were pursuing General Rommel, of Germany. In Russia, German troops continued to advance through the Caucasus. And on the other side of the world, Australian troops were fighting the Japanese on the island of Buna, off the coast of New Guinea.
“It all gets confusing to me,” Alice Shepherd said.
She was sitting at the kitchen table with LaDonna Bliss, who said, “I know. I can’t keep it all straight.”
Gene thought how different it was for him. He read the accounts of every war front, and he wondered every day where he might end up when his time came.
The broadcast ended, and President Thomas walked to the kitchen. Gene stepped back, and his father stood in the doorway. “I think the tide is going to turn,” he said. “We need to give the Germans a licking somewhere, and Africa is probably the place.”
Gene looked about the room and noticed how serious everyone had become. He had noticed in recent months that a change was coming over his friends—especially the boys. All the talk was that the draft would soon be extended to eighteen-year-olds.
“They need us East High Leopards over there,” Ralph said. “We’d kick the Germans around the way we did the Panthers today.”
“You got that right,” Del said, and the kids laughed.
“I wonder where you guys will be this time next year,” LaDonna said.
“From what the newspapers are reporting,” Gene said, “the Allies will probably land in Europe next year—and start pushing toward Germany. Some of us could get in on that.”
“We’ve got to take back a lot of islands in the Pacific,” Ralph said. “Some of us will be going there, I suspect.” There was a long pause, and Gene felt a kind of grim acceptance in the silence. But then Ralph grinned. “I plan to learn the hula-hula from some pretty girls in grass skirts.”
No one laughed—except Ralph. For a couple seconds, Gene thought someone might admit the truth, say something about the fears they all shared. But Max said, with too much volume, “When the class of ’43 arrives, we’ll polish off this war in no time.”
“That’s exactly right,” Del said, and the moment passed.
Gene had talked with his friends about his regrets that the war was going to disrupt their lives. Once he had even told Ralph that he wondered how many of the guys from their class would end up killed. But never had the whole group stopped to admit their worries.
It was President Thomas who said, “I hate, more than anything, to see you boys going out to fight instead of serving missions. It seems such a waste to me.”
“Maybe we can go on missions later,” Ralph said. There was something rather innocent—guileless—about Ralph. He was a huge boy, his brown V-neck sweater seeming to stretch a full acre over his vast shoulders, but he was also a kid. It occurred to Gene that there was something wrong with training him to go to war.
“I hope you can,” President Thomas said. “But the way I see it, you boys are going to do your missionary work by teaching your buddies. Who knows? The war might take the gospel to more lands, more people, than anything else could.”
“My brother gets teased about being religious,” Thora said. “Most of the sailors sound pretty wild, from what he writes us.”
“Well, sure,” President Thomas said. “But Wayne is still in San Diego, isn’t he?”
“Yes.”
“Just wait until those boys ship out, and they face the prospect of dying. That’s when some of them will turn to Him.”
“I guess so,” Thora said softly. But she was clearly thinking of her brother facing death, and not of his friends.
“We’d better get those root-beer floats going,” Gene said.
Sister Thomas stood up. “Yes. Before the ice cream melts.”
Gene did the dipping and Mom did the pouring, and everyone was soon eating—and laughing again. The boys began to talk about the football game. They traded tales of their great blocks, their crushing tackles, and no one spoke of the war.
Mom and Dad eventually disappeared, and the kids rolled back the rug in the living room and danced to music on the radio. The room was small for jitter-bugging, but they managed it anyway, or, more often, they stayed with the fox trot. Gene danced with Millie more than with the others, but he made a point of dancing with all the girls. A little before midnight, the gang all left at the same time—all except Millie. Gene would walk her home.
It was a cool night, and along the way, Millie grasped Gene’s arm and pulled herself close to him. “In case I didn’t tell you,” she said, “I was proud of you today. There’s not a girl at East High who wouldn’t want to be in my shoes right now.”
“You’re right about that. You do have nice shoes.”
She pinched him in the ribs, and he squirmed. “Gene, you hate being a hero,” she said. “That’s what I love about you.”
Millie had been saying those sorts of things lately, and sometimes she hinted that Gene ought to admit his feelings, but Gene didn’t want to get into all that. In the back of his head was always a feeling that life was up in the air, beyond his control. When the two reached Millie’s front porch, she turned toward Gene and looked up at him. She put her hand on his arm and said, “Thanks, Gene.” And then she waited.
Gene knew what that meant, but he said, “Sure thing. I’ll see you,” and he took a step away.
“I’ll see you at church,” she said. “Do you want to come over on Sunday, after dinner?”
“Yeah. I guess so.” But he was uneasy about her obvious attachment. As he walked home, along the quiet streets, he was surprised by the sadness that came over him. He heard leaves crunching under his feet, smelled the decay, and something in the sound and the smell reminded him of the fall days when Alex, and then later, Wally, had played football at East. He missed them, and he missed Bobbi. Gene had always loved to have his family together, especially for holidays, and now he wondered whether that would ever happen again. Thanksgiving was coming up soon, and the family would hold its usual big dinner, but he knew that the three people he wanted most to see wouldn’t be there.
When Gene got home he walked up the stairs to his bedroom, sat down on his bed, and took his shoes off. He was unbuttoning his shirt when he heard his dad say, “Gene?”
“Yeah.”
Dad opened the bedroom door. “I thought I heard you come in. Why didn’t you say something?”
“I figured you were asleep.”
Dad stepped into the room and leaned against the wall. He was wearing flannel pajamas, as he always did in the winter. He shaved very early every morning, so by this time of night his beard was stubbly and dark, his jowls seeming heavier. “I don’t go to sleep very easily these days.”
“Too many worries?”
“I do have a lot on my mind. It’s hard to keep the stake going the way I’d like—with all the disruptions.” He folded his arms over his chest. “But beyond that, don’t start thinking you’re old enough to come and go as you please. I want you to check in with me—even if I have gone to sleep.”
“Okay.” Gene smiled, and then he pulled off his argyle socks, balled them together, and tossed them toward a basket he kept in the corner. The socks came apart and dropped short.
“You need to get your shooting eye back before basketball starts,” Dad said, and he laughed.
This was a good sign. Gene knew that Dad wasn’t really all that upset if he could laugh already. “Basketball
is going to be fun,” he said, “but it about kills me to see my senior year of football come to an end.”
Dad nodded and said, “I can imagine,” but then he introduced the topic he must have come upstairs to talk about. “Gene, I get the impression that Millie is pretty sweet on you.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“And what about you?”
“I don’t know. I just want to be friends.”
“She is a wonderful girl.”
“I know. But nothing’s exactly normal right now. I think it’s better not to make any promises.”
Dad took a long look at Gene. “You know,” he said, “I always had to tell your big brothers things that you seem to understand on your own. You’ve been blessed with a lot of wisdom.”
“I thought my best quality was my swivel hips.”
Dad laughed. “Well, you’ve got those too, and you didn’t get them from me. We’ll blame that on your mom.”
“That woman does sashay around, doesn’t she?”
Dad smiled, but his mind was somewhere else. “Son, I was proud of you tonight. You played hard.”
“I just like to play, Dad.”
“That’s how it ought to be.” Dad nodded a couple of times, and Gene saw how satisfied he was. He and his dad had become much closer since the older kids had left home. “Well, good night.” He turned to leave, but then he stopped. “Gene,” he said, “I love you.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
Dad nodded again, and then he walked out. But Gene was surprised. Dad sometimes said something like that in a blessing, or in a formal situation, but this was spontaneous. And yet it was hard for him. Gene noticed how rapidly he looked away, and how quickly he left the room.
Chapter 11
Wally was improving steadily. He had actually gained a little weight, and most of the symptoms of his diseases were abating. He was eating regularly, if not all that well, and exercising. Gradually he was getting so he could walk for quite some time. He also tried to help the men who were coming into Bilibid for medical care. He especially devoted a good deal of time to Captain Bud Surmelian, an infantry officer who had lost his legs to a mortar shell in the Battle of Bataan. The captain was unable to get about, wash his clothes, and the like, and Wally liked to keep him company and take care of some of his chores.
When Christmas approached, a rumor circulated that the men were going to receive Red Cross packages—and maybe even boxes from home. Wally had never been allowed to write to his family, nor had he received any word from them, so he was eager to believe the rumor. He also listened with some hope to the other scuttlebutt going around, that American troops would liberate the Philippines before much longer. Wally was realist enough to doubt these stories, but it was hard to think that another Christmas might come around with him still a prisoner.
When Christmas morning came and no packages appeared, and when the day turned out to be exactly like every other, Wally felt the ache more than he wanted to. He knew that it was Christmas eve at home, since he was across the International Date Line, and he tried to think what his family might be doing. He wondered whether Alex might be in the service by now, and where he might be. Would the family gather at home in Sugar House on Christmas day? It was hard to imagine anything quite so wonderful as to hear all those people laughing and enjoying each other—and eating all that glorious food. He wondered what they knew about him, whether they knew he was alive.
Wally spent a couple of hours with Captain Surmelian in the morning. They talked about their homes, the Christmases they remembered as kids, and mostly about food—the subject the prisoners always talked about more than any other. It was almost masochistic to remember Christmas dinners and enumerate every specialty a soldier’s mother had cooked, but it was also the memory that preoccupied everyone. Wally found it interesting that when the soldiers had been well-fed back in the days before the war, they had talked mostly about getting drunk. And always about women. But now they talked about turkey and dressing, candied yams, sweet pickles, and pumpkin pies—and they described each delicacy in detail, as though holding the idea of the food in their heads somehow saved it from extinction.
Early in the afternoon Wally found Alan, and they took a walk in the compound. They were walking down the center roadway through Bilibid when a prisoner told them to hurry to the north compound. “Tell everyone to gather there,” he said.
“What’s going on?” Wally asked.
“Just hurry.”
Wally immediately thought of the rumor about the packages, but the north compound was the most distant from the administrative buildings; the guards rarely wandered up that far. It was highly unlikely that anything official would happen there. Still, Wally was happy to have anything out of the ordinary occur. He and Alan walked to the north end, where they saw nothing to explain what was going on. It was a nice day, the skies clear, and men were milling around, most of them confused about why they were there—and asking whether anyone else knew.
Then two men hustled along the wall, carrying a pole. They stopped, turned, and faced the men, and then they walked away from each other, unfurling a large American flag between them. By then the men could see the banner that was attached below the flag. The sign read: “WE’LL BE FREE IN ’43.”
An enormous cheer went up. Wally felt himself letting loose, whooping and shouting. “Yes. Yes!” Alan was yelling, and he was pounding Wally on the back.
But then someone shouted, “Guards!” and all the shouting stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Wally saw the guards running toward the crowd. He looked back to the flag, but somehow it had disappeared.
The guards approached, slowing as they neared, holding their rifles in front of them, bayonets in place, but the prisoners acted as though nothing had happened. The guards shouted questions in English, but no one answered, and so the men were ordered out of the area. As Wally and Alan walked back to their building, they laughed quietly. “I don’t know who did that, but it was a good idea,” Wally said.
“It’s going to happen, too,” Alan said. “We’re going home this year.”
Wally didn’t know whether he believed that, but he wanted to, and so he said, “That’s right. We’ll be free in ’43. We’ll be with our families next year for Christmas.”
But a little later, when he walked over to see Bud Surmelian and told him what had happened, the captain said, quietly, “I doubt it, Wally. I know a guy who hears radio reports every now and then. He says the Japs are in control of most of the Pacific. We’re just starting to make some headway against them.”
And those were the words that were on Wally’s mind when he went to bed that night—the night before Christmas back home. It was the first time since he had made it out of the jungle that he allowed himself to feel his homesickness.
***
The Stoltz family was living in an apartment in Berlin. With so many people displaced, apartments were not easy to come by, but many families were fleeing to the country, where they were in less danger from air raids. The Stoltzes found a small apartment on the top floor of a downtown building. It was not attractive to most people, since the escape to the basement was so distant and the vulnerability in a surprise attack was great, but to the Stoltzes it was a welcome change from all the dark they had lived with for so long. Peter had to sleep on a couch, but after sleeping on the floor at the Hochs’ for so long, that didn’t bother him.
Anna found it lovely to have a bedroom to herself, a place to be alone in the evenings. She was even thankful to have work, although she put in long hours at a munitions factory. Her father had created false papers for her and the family, and they had grown accustomed to their new names. More than anything, the Stoltzes wanted to attend church, but Brother Stoltz had contacted President Hoch—at his place of work—and the president thought it unwise for them to try. A few days after the Stoltzes had left the Hochs’ home, Agent Kellerman, from Frankfurt, had visited. He was certain that the so-called Hofmann family was the fami
ly he was looking for. President Hoch had stayed with his story, but Kellerman hadn’t believed him.
“The coincidence is too great,” Kellerman had told President Hoch. “The family I am looking for fits the description of these Hofmanns, and these people are Mormons, just as you are.”
“The Hofmanns told me they were protestants,” President Hoch had told him. “That’s all I know.”
And Kellerman had left. But President Hoch was convinced that the man had left only so that surveillance could continue. He had seen men watching the house, and twice Gestapo agents had come to church services. “Don’t contact me again,” President Hoch had warned. “And don’t come to church. I’m certain you’ll be spotted.”
So life was uneasy. Having identification simplified the Stoltz’s lives, but they rarely ventured out beyond their daily journeys to school or work. Brother Stoltz thought it would be wise to eventually slip away from Berlin, but for now they were better off not to change anything. Kellerman had lost their trail.
When Christmas came, Brother Stoltz paid a terrific price to buy a goose, and the family had a nice dinner. Anna said the blessing on the food, and she prayed that the family would be protected and that the Thomas family might be blessed that day too. She also prayed that peace might return to the world, but she knew within herself that the war was not likely to end for a long time.
It was at the dinner table that Brother Stoltz told his family he had someone coming over that afternoon.
“Someone coming? Who?” Sister Stoltz asked.
“I don’t know him personally,” Brother Stoltz said. “I found out about him through another contact.” He hesitated. “This could be a little dangerous. I need to tell you that. But it’s something I need to do.”
“Whatever are you talking about?” Sister Stoltz asked. Anna always felt insecure. She hated to think of her father doing something that might put them in deeper peril.
“A man came into our office seeking papers a few weeks ago—and I knew something was wrong from the beginning. He seemed nervous, and I caught him in some contradictions. So I sent him away, but then I followed him outside, and I talked to him. I told him what I suspected, and then I took a chance. I told him that I could help him. He was very relieved but unsure what to do. Finally, he told me I would be contacted.”
