by Dean Hughes
The man nodded and laughed. “Yes, yes. I can do that. Why not?” He set off across the street, walking rather briskly for an aged man.
Brother Stoltz was moved. The German people knew how to endure. He might have helped the Allies cross the Rhine, but that had not changed his loyalty to his own people. He loved their dogged determination to survive. As he walked down the street, however, he could see another fire, and as he came closer, he saw that it was his boarding house, and the houses around it, that had been struck this time. Everything was burning. He didn’t have much, only a few clothes and his borrowed Book of Mormon, but all of it was certainly gone. He stood on the street, feeling like an orphan, with nowhere to go.
Outside, his hausfrau was watching the place burn. Brother Stoltz walked to her. “Was anyone inside?” Brother Stoltz asked her.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I hope not.” But she wasn’t crying. “I expected this long ago, but here at the end, I began to hope that the old place might make it through.”
“Have you a place to live?”
“Yes. I’ll go to my sister—unless her place is gone too. What will you do, Herr Stutz?”
“I don’t know. It will soon be time for me to go to work at the bakery. I suppose I can sleep in a storage room there, for now.”
“Yes. That will be warm enough. Best of everything to you, Herr Stutz.”
“Yes. And the same to you.”
Brother Stoltz walked to the bakery. He had felt like a man without a country for quite some time, but this loss seemed to teach him the truth. Every German was an orphan now—with the country so devastated—but the fact was, the homeland wasn’t in the buildings. It was in that little girl’s spirit—the one who had clung to her little brother. And in the people’s will. He felt more hope tonight than he had in a long time. But he wanted his son back. Once this last act of the war was finished, then he had to find Peter. He had some will of his own.
Chapter 19
When Anna Thomas came home from work, her mother met her at the door. “Anna, a telegram came for you this afternoon,” she said. “I would have brought it to you, but I knew you would be home soon.”
Anna took the telegram from her mother’s hand and hurried to her room. She had received a letter from Alex a few days before. He would be coming to London, he had said. This was surely about that. But it was hard not to fear a telegram. Maybe this was to say that he couldn’t come after all—or that something had happened.
She shut the door behind her, then quickly opened the envelope. Her breath had stopped. But it was what she wanted to hear: “will fly to london today. arrive, heathrow, 1800. train to victoria station. meet me if you can.” Suddenly, Anna was breathing too hard.
“Anna, are you all right?”
Anna opened the door. “He’ll be at Victoria Station in . . .” She looked at her watch. “An hour, probably less.”
“Oh, Anna. This is such good news.” Sister Stoltz took Anna in her arms, but Anna pulled away quickly. “What can I wear?” she asked. “I look so terrible.”
“No, no. You look pregnant, and he’ll think you’re lovelier than ever.”
Anna put her hand over her mouth. She didn’t have time to cry. She had to get moving. She only had two dresses she could wear now. She put on the lavender one that felt like a sack to her, and she ran a brush through her hair. In ten minutes she was on her way to the Baker Street Underground Station, but she reached the platform just as her train pulled away. She caught one ten minutes later, but by the time she reached Victoria Station, an hour had passed, and she was worried she had missed him. Perhaps he had taken a taxi or had caught the Underground and was already heading toward her apartment.
She hurried through the great hall. As she walked, she looked at the big boards on the walls and tried to locate the track for trains coming in from Heathrow. When she found the correct gate, she studied the schedule of arrivals. She was looking up, still reading, when she heard a voice close to her, more a whisper than a call. “Anna.”
And there he was. “Alex,” she said, and she reached for him, but he was already taking her in his arms. He pushed his face against hers. He kissed her and clung to her, and he kept saying, “Anna, Anna.”
She felt the front of her, so big and awkward, and it was all so different to be held apart this way, not fitting together the way they always had. But then she felt him sliding down to his knees, still with his arms around her. Her first thought was that he was fainting, but he pressed his face to her belly. “Hello, hello,” he said, and he laughed. “It’s your daddy. You do have one, you know.”
There were people everywhere, moving past them in a stream, and Anna was vaguely aware that they were looking at her, some smiling. She didn’t care. She was moved by this tender touch, this love toward the baby she already loved so much herself.
Alex got up, and he kissed Anna again, and then he looked into her face. “You’re so beautiful, Anna.”
“No, I didn’t have time to—”
“Sometimes, when I’m out there, I start to think I’ve made you up—that no one could be so pretty—and then I see you, and you’re more beautiful than I remembered.”
“It’s all in your head,” she said. “But I’m happy you see me that way. I love you so much.” She had slipped into German; she felt closer when she used her own words. “But Alex, I don’t like the way you look. You’ve lost too much weight. You look so tired.”
“I am tired,” he said, and the words seemed to double his weariness.
“Alex, the war will be over soon. All the papers say it. Any day now it could end. And then you can rest.”
Alex didn’t want to tell her yet that he had to go back, that he wouldn’t be in London when the baby was born, that he could still be sent to the Pacific to fight again. “Anna,” he said instead, “I have enough money to rent a hotel room. I want to see your mother, but I want some time alone.”
“Of course. My mother already told me this is what we should do. But Alex, I don’t want you to see me. I’m so round and fat. I laugh when I look at myself in the mirror.”
Alex hardly knew how to say what he was thinking. She had no way of imagining what he felt. To hold her in his arms, to sleep next to her, to look at her over a breakfast table, to touch her skin—it was all more than he thought his senses could endure. And the truth was, he was frightened. A terrible nervousness was shaking him, and he didn’t know why. He had the feeling something inside him was letting loose and that he might sink to the floor at any moment.
“Are you all right?” she was asking.
“Yes. I just . . . don’t know how to do this. I’m nervous, or something. I’m not exactly sure.”
“You’ll be all right. I’ll take care of you. We’ve made it through, Alex. The worst is over, and now we just have to get better.”
Alex didn’t know that. What he felt was that some “worst” was still ahead, and he didn’t know why all this dread and panic was in him just when he ought to be so happy.
“Let’s go, Alex. Let’s take a taxi. I must go back to our flat and get my things, but I won’t do that now. Let’s find a hotel first.”
“Okay.” And something in the act of moving, of doing something, seemed to pump a little confidence back into him. All these emotions—all at once—had gotten to him, he told himself, but he would be fine in a few minutes. He hoisted his duffel bag onto his shoulder.
And then, suddenly, Alex was on his face. He was curled up, his arms grasped against his chest, his knees pulled in. He knew already that it was a mistake. Someone had dropped something, a book perhaps, or a box. It had slapped on the floor and sent a popping noise through the hall. He had responded automatically.
Anna was on her knees, next to him, and people had begun to crowd around. Alex was humiliated. He got up quickly, looked about. “I’m sorry,” he said, and he ducked his head.
Anna took hold of him. “It’s all right,” she said. “Everything is going to
be all right now.”
For the next twenty-four hours Alex and Anna hid from the world. Anna called her office and arranged not to work. They ate nice meals and went for a walk, but they spent most of their time in the hotel room on Regent Street, not far from Piccadilly Circus.
Alex was struggling. He didn’t want Anna to think he was about to fall apart, so he went through the motions, tried to be himself, but the truth was, he felt as though he were looking at the world, even Anna, through clouded glass. He told himself that he loved the warm bath he took, the smooth sheets, and Anna in his arms. But none of it seemed real, and all of it seemed muted, as though he were anesthetized.
But he couldn’t say that to Anna, and he didn’t want her to feel it. He kept telling her he was only tired, and it was true that he took brief naps all day, falling off for a few minutes almost every time he sat down. But what Anna didn’t know—at least not fully—was how little he had slept since he had come out of Germany. Sleep frightened him. It was an act of letting go, giving up control of himself. Sleep also meant dreams. On his honeymoon he had awakened in a sweat, yelling, and then breathing desperately as he tried to calm himself. He didn’t want to do that now. He didn’t want to worry Anna, and he didn’t want her to fear their future together. He needed to get himself together and show he was a man, that he was someone she could rely on, not some sniveling casualty of war.
But on the second night in bed, he was startled in the night by someone grabbing his shoulder. He twisted from the danger, and he flung his arm out to protect himself. What he struck was Anna’s chest. She wasn’t hurt, not seriously, but she struggled to catch her breath for a few seconds. Once she could talk, she told him that he had been talking in his sleep, moaning and gasping, and she had only meant to shake him a little to awaken him.
He got up and turned on a light. And then he sat down on the bed. “Are you sure you’re all right?” he asked her again.
“It didn’t hurt very much. It only took my breath away.”
“I’m really sorry. It’s just a reaction from sleeping out in foxholes. I’ll get over it before long. I’ll be fine.”
“Alex, I know this is a bad time for you. I see it in your eyes. I know how hard it is for you to hold still, even for a few minutes.”
Alex nodded, and then he lay on the bed next to her and stretched out on top of the covers. He was wearing only his military underwear—the only kind he had with him. “Anna,” he said, “don’t worry. I’ll be okay. I’ve been on the alert, ready for danger, for a long time. I can’t let go as quickly as I’d like. But I’ll do it.”
“I’ve read articles in magazines, Alex. Doctors say this is exactly what wives should expect for a time.”
“I did all right when I was in the field, Anna. I didn’t like any of it, but I did what I had to do. I wasn’t one of those guys who just hunkered down in his foxhole and cried.”
“I know that, Alex.”
“I’ll be better fast, too. I just feel jittery right now.”
“Alex, I’m lucky that I know what you’ve been doing this last month. Most wives would never know this. I understand better than some would.”
“Anna, you know, but you don’t know. Things happened—things I’ll never tell you.” He sat up again, then stood up, but he didn’t know where he was going.
“I know your partner died.”
“Yes. But—”
“Alex, don’t think I’m so delicate. Tell me anything you want. You know my worst nightmare—what I did to Kellerman. It helped me when I told you. I feel like I want you to lean on me a little. It’ll bring us closer together.”
Alex walked across the room. He thought of sitting in the big upholstered chair, but he felt too distant by the time he got there, and so he walked back to the bed. “Anna, there are things that happened that I don’t want to tell anyone, ever. I just need to let some time pass, so I can put them out of my mind.” He knelt down by the bed, then bent and placed his head against her shoulder. “I don’t want any of this stuff in your head, Anna. You shouldn’t have to know.”
“Alex, I know about war. I know what happens.”
Alex didn’t know what to say. Flying from France, he had sat by a civilian who worked for the army. The man had talked about the nation being weary of war, of how hard it was to go without sugar and coffee and new tires. “There’s more black marketing now,” the man had said, “more cheating the system than there used to be. Everyone is just fed up with doing without for such a long time.”
Alex had said nothing. He knew that if he had started, he might not have been able to control his voice. He wanted to ask the guy if he had any idea how those words sounded. Were the people back in the states tired of freezing in foxholes, living in mud? Were they tired of seeing their best friends blown into bloody shreds of flesh? Tired of feeling that any second, any time—day or night—a bullet or a mortar or an artillery shell could strike? Tired of looking into the eyes of frozen corpses, knowing that their own bullets and shells had taken the lives of teenaged kids? Into Alex’s mind had come the image of that military policeman Otto had killed. He hadn’t been able to stop seeing that—the flesh of the man’s throat dividing—and he asked himself how that compared to going without new tires or a new refrigerator.
Anna had had to cut a man’s face once, had defended herself, and she had survived dozens of bombing raids, so she understood more than most. But if he told her all that was going on inside him, he wondered whether she could possibly feel confidence in him. Sometimes, in his dreams, he would wash his hands, and then he would realize that the stream coming from the faucet wasn’t water at all, but blood, and that he had been throwing it over his face, spreading it up to his elbows. He could tell his mind over and over that he was not guilty for the things he had done, but his soul didn’t believe it.
“Alex, you’re a hero. You should—”
“Anna, don’t say that. That’s one thing I don’t want you to think or say—not ever.”
“Why?”
Alex didn’t know. He sat down on the floor, next to the bed, turned his back to it. He tried to think. When she reached and touched the side of his neck, he wished she wouldn’t for the moment. He really wanted to sort this out. “All your life you’re taught what’s right and wrong. And then someone says, ‘Now it’s different. Bad is good. Don’t let it bother you. If you hurt people, you’re a hero.’”
“Alex, you may have done things you didn’t want to do, but you are good. It’s the thing I’ve known about you since the first time I met you.”
Alex tried to think about that. He didn’t want to believe he was a bad person—didn’t believe that. But evil was in him, on him, like that blood in his dreams, and he didn’t know how to cleanse himself.
Another day passed, and Alex did sleep a little better the next night. He realized that the things he had said to Anna had helped a little. And yet he was careful not to go back to the subject. The radios and newspapers were bursting with reports that the war was about to end, that the Germans were going to surrender soon. He kept reminding himself how much he had longed for that day to come, and he tried to concentrate on a better future. Maybe his service in Germany, once the battle ended, would keep him out of the Pacific, and that might save his life. He had been through some ordeals, and it was only natural for his body and mind to require some healing time. He told himself a hundred times a day, “I’ll be all right. I’ll be all right.”
On April 13, early in the morning, Alex and Anna were both awake early, Anna uncomfortable now as she was about to begin her eighth month of pregnancy. It was a cool morning, but clear, so they decided to walk to St. James Park before breakfast. As they passed through Piccadilly, with all its busyness, Alex saw a crowd of people gathered at a newsstand. He glanced over a man’s shoulder to see the huge headline across the top of one of the newspapers: ROOSEVELT DEAD.
Alex was stunned. It seemed impossible. He grabbed Anna and said, “It says that President R
oosevelt is dead. How could that be?”
“Was he sick?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think so. It must have been a heart attack or . . .” For a moment Alex wondered whether the president could have been assassinated. He stepped forward, tried to get closer to the newsstand, but people weren’t moving. They all seemed as shocked as Alex was.
What would this mean to the country, to the war? How could the president bring the country this far, this close, and now, just as victory in Europe was in sight, miss the chance to share it with his people? He would have given such a fine speech, Alex was sure; he would have helped Americans understand the meaning of what they had accomplished. FDR had become a symbol of the people’s will—like the flag or the Statue of Liberty.
Alex finally got a chance to move in closer. He picked up one of the papers, paid for it, and then stepped back to Anna.
“What will America do now?” she asked him.
Alex was glancing through the article. Roosevelt had apparently been more ill than anyone had been allowed to know. “I don’t know,” Alex said. “What’s-his-name—that little guy from Missouri—will be the president. Truman. I don’t see how he can step into such big shoes.”
“Are you all right?”
“I don’t know. I feel like someone in my family just died.”
“But your father won’t feel that way. He didn’t like Roosevelt, did he?”
“This will hurt Dad too. He disagreed with Roosevelt’s politics. But this is going to touch him. Everyone in the States is going to feel it.”
“Here, too. Look.” Anna pointed at the people, standing, still not walking away from the newsstand, gazing at the front page and talking in hushed tones. The crowd was growing all the time, and as people approached, they would ask, “What is it?”
“It’s Roosevelt. He’s died.”
A hefty woman in a gray dress with a scarf over her head, probably on her way to work, said, “Oh, dear, no. What will happen now? Maybe the war isn’t over after all.”
