by Dean Hughes
But Mom seemed to think the whole thing was funny. “We look like newlyweds, if you ask me,” she said. “We don’t have to claim the girls. We can say they were just a couple of hitchhikers we picked up.”
Beverly rolled her eyes. Mom loved to say things like that. But joking was one thing, and sliding across the seat so she was sitting almost on top of Dad was another. Beverly groaned, and then she did slip down, far enough so she could peek out
and then duck if anyone was on the street. But Dad took his time driving home, especially with all those rocks rolling around in the hubcaps, and Mom kept singing “The Last Waltz.” Beverly was just glad that she didn’t see anyone she knew.
***
Earlier that night, Wally had been overjoyed by his safe escape. He told Lorraine, “I’m glad Dad let me take his car. I didn’t want to drive all the way down State Street in that Nash, with all that stuff written on it.”
“I’m just glad we don’t have to stop somewhere to clean it up.” Lorraine was sitting close to Wally on the front seat. She took his arm. “Everything was nice, wasn’t it?” she said. “It’s been such a nice day.”
But the words had a strange effect on Wally. He hadn’t realized until that moment how nervous he was. “Yeah, it has been. Just about everybody came.”
“I couldn’t believe that some of my relatives drove clear down from Idaho. We were lucky the weather’s been so nice.”
“That’s for sure.”
But then she said nothing, and Wally couldn’t think of anything either. He was starting to realize that the Hotel Utah wasn’t all that far away.
“Charles Gardner—you know, my cousin—he and his wife Bonnie didn’t come. I wonder where they were.”
“Something must have come up, I guess.”
And then again, silence.
Wally stopped at a stoplight and shifted, waited. Half a minute went by.
“Mel wasn’t there. But he told me ahead of time that he couldn’t make it.”
“You mentioned that.”
The light changed. Wally drove on, a block, two blocks, and neither spoke. “Are you okay?” Wally finally asked.
“Sure.”
“I want to be a good husband, Mrs. Thomas.”
“You will be, hubby.”
But now Wally was pulling into the parking lot by the hotel. He and Lorraine had put their suitcases in the trunk of the old Nash earlier, and Wally had made sure his sisters had seen him do it. Later, they had secretly moved the baggage to the Hudson. When Wally parked, he got out, walked around, and opened the door for Lorraine, and then he opened the trunk and got out the two suitcases. Lorraine walked next to him, grasping the sleeve of his suit coat, until they reached the side entrance of the hotel, where a doorman took the bags. Wally wasn’t used to such things, not having stayed in a lot of hotels in his life, and he wondered how much he should tip the man. He gave Lorraine his arm and followed the doorman to the front desk in the lobby. What he felt, however, was that the doorman knew—that everyone who looked at them knew—that he and Lorraine were newlyweds.
“Mr. and Mrs. Thomas,” Wally said to the night clerk at the desk. “We have a reservation.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late, sir. We’re all filled up.”
Wally was stunned. “But I made a reservation. I told the girl I’d be getting in late.”
By then the desk clerk was smiling. “Just teasing you, sir. We have your room. I believe you rented one of our nicest suites.”
At least he didn’t say “the bridal suite.” “Yes, that would be right,” Wally said, and he tried to smile, but he wasn’t feeling as playful as the desk clerk seemed to be. He filled out the registration book quickly, and then the clerk rang a bell on the desk and a bellboy appeared. “Let’s see, you’re another guy,” Wally said. “I guess I owe something to that fellow on the door.”
“If you like, sir, you can give it to me and I’ll take care of him.”
Wally wondered whether that’s how things were normally done, but he certainly wasn’t heading back to the door to tip the other man. He took hold of Lorraine’s arm and followed the bellboy to the elevators.
“Have you and your wife stayed with us before, sir?” the young man asked. He was in his early twenties, probably a soldier just home from the war.
The question was appropriate enough, but Wally heard the tone, saw the little smile, and he wanted to tell the guy to lay off. “No. We haven’t.”
The bellboy gave a rundown on the accommodations, the dining room on the twelfth floor, the Empire Room with dancing and dining on the main floor, and the coffee shop at the lower level. When the elevator stopped on the tenth floor, he led them, a suitcase in each hand—held loosely in his white gloves—to a room down the hallway. He used the brass key the desk clerk had handed him to open the door, and then he reached in and turned on the lights. Then he made rather a long and grandiose show of explaining the details of the room—the radiators, the windows, the room service and maid service they might expect. Wally kept nodding and saying, “Good. That’s fine.” And he noticed that Lorraine was standing more or less behind him, where the bellboy couldn’t look at her directly.
Finally the boy approached Wally and handed him the key, but then he had the nerve to say, “Have a wonderful stay with us, sir,” with a glint in his eye that was clearly suggestive.
Wally got a dollar out of his pocket and handed it to the guy. He knew it was more than he should have given, but he had no quarters in his pocket, and he didn’t want to ask for change. He just wanted the guy out of the room.
When the door finally shut, Wally turned and looked at Lorraine. Her face was flushed. “I wish you hadn’t even tipped him,” she said.
“Don’t pay any attention to all that. It doesn’t matter to us.”
But now they were facing each other, alone in the room. Lorraine looked away, gazed about the room. “It’s so beautiful, Wally. You shouldn’t have spent so much.”
“It’s okay.” Wally wasn’t worried much about the money. The room had cost over ten dollars, with tax, but it was just one night. He wouldn’t be so extravagant on the rest of
the trip. They would be driving to Palm Springs, California, the next day. Wally had arranged for a nice motel there, but not one that was so expensive.
“Lorraine, I just want to tell you one more time how much I love you.”
But the words seemed awkward, and Lorraine sounded distant when she said, “I love you too, Wally.”
“Are you glad you married me?”
“Of course.”
They finally looked into one another’s eyes. It struck Wally that he had been with her all evening, but he had never really seen Lorraine—only a bride, only a beautiful woman in a lovely dress. Now he had her eyes, and the tension, rather suddenly, passed away. He took hold of her shoulders. “Lorraine, I can hardly believe this is real.”
She nodded. “I know.”
“I used to imagine you. There was a little daydream I would allow myself sometimes. I would picture myself coming home and finding out you were still single. I would ask you to marry me, and you would say yes. But no matter how many times I imagined it, I never believed it.”
“I would think about it too, Wally—even when I knew I shouldn’t.”
He pulled her to him. “Sometimes, when I first wake up in the morning, for a second or two I have this horrible idea
in my head. I think that I’m still in Japan and I’ve only dreamed all these things. And then, when I convince myself that everything is real, I have to pray—just to tell God one more time how thankful I am. I’m going to do everything I can to make you happy, Lorraine. I promise you that.”
“It’s going to take all my effort just to be good enough to be worthy of you, Wally.”
“Oh, no. Don’t say that. That’s just not true.”
“You’re the best man in the world, as far as I’m concerned. And I mean that. It’s not just something to say.”
He pulled back enough to look at her for a moment, and then he kissed her, loving the delicate touch of her lips. She held him, kissing him in return. And then she whispered, “I’m going to go get my nightgown on.”
Wally took a deep breath and nodded to her, but he wasn’t nervous now. Everything seemed exactly right.
Chapter 14
Alex Thomas drove his jeep to the little village of Langen, outside Frankfurt. A group of Mormon refugees from Poland had settled there and were in great need. President Meis had met with them a time or two and knew that they were getting by on very little. He had provided what he could for them, but the resources of the members in Frankfurt had been limited. Now, however, food was supposed to be coming soon, along with blankets, clothing, and coats. Word was reaching German leaders—and had come directly to Alex from his father—that President George Albert Smith had met with President Truman to tell him that the Church had relief supplies ready to ship. President Smith had promised to help fellow Mormons but also to provide supplies for members of other churches. President Truman had apparently been impressed with the plan, but the shipments had sat waiting as red tape had needed to be overcome before all the governments involved would let the Church send the supplies and a representative to distribute them.
Now, at last, Apostle Ezra Taft Benson was in Europe. He was traveling throughout the continent, reestablishing missions, visiting branches and districts, distributing the food and supplies, and trying to help the members get the Church organization back in full operation. At some point he would be coming to Frankfurt, or to some nearby city, and the members would be called together for a conference, but word on the date for that meeting had not yet come. Everyone understood that travel in Europe, and especially in Germany, was still difficult; many railroad lines were repaired, but operations were spotty and unpredictable.
Alex found the Saints in Langen living in a barracks built of rough, unpainted lumber. When he knocked, the woman who opened the door was skeletal, colorless. She wore a ragged dress made of coarse, thick wool, and instead of shoes she had burlap bags wrapped around her feet and ankles, tied with heavy string. Even the burlap was worn and dirty. She looked at Alex blankly, except perhaps with a hint of suspicion.
“My name is Brother Thomas,” Alex said in German. “I’m in the branch presidency of the Church in Frankfurt. The president sent me to see how you’re doing.”
“Come in,” she said. “Can you help us?”
“I have a little food in my jeep, and some blankets. More things will be coming before too much longer—much more.”
“Bless you,” she said, and now he saw a softness appear in her face.
The little building was divided into sections, and in this first room were a surprising number of people—fifteen or so, counting all the children. Most of them were lying on bunks or sitting on the floor. But there was almost no motion in the room—the children were not even playing—and the only light was from a bare bulb hanging over a little table. Alex couldn’t see very well, but everyone looked as empty and worn as the sister who had come to the door.
“Are you Sister Diederich?” Alex asked.
“Yes.”
“You spoke to President Meis before?”
“Yes.”
“He told me that you walked all the way here, pulling a wagon.”
“That is true.”
“How far was it?”
“I don’t know. It was very cold, very bad. Very long. Hundreds of kilometers. Can you bring the food in now? And the blankets?”
“Yes. Surely.”
So Alex walked back to his jeep, and he made three trips carrying boxes. He feared that the people might grab for the food, but only one younger couple got off their bunks to come and look. They thanked Alex. What he had brought was rice, potatoes, cans of vegetables, and some canned meats. Alex heard the man whisper to his wife, “This might save our Dieter.”
Alex shook hands with the man and told him his name. “We’re the Hahns,” the young man said.
“Is Dieter your son?” Alex asked.
“Yes. He’s worn out, and very sick.”
“How old is he?”
Brother Hahn wore a threadbare black coat that had lost all but one of its buttons, and trousers that were frayed at the cuffs and caked with mud. “Seven,” he said. “Soon eight. He wants so much to be baptized. But he’s walked all this way with us, and there’s not much left of him. He might not live.”
Alex knew what had happened to these people. Many millions of ethnic Germans had lived in Poland and eastern European countries before the war. They were citizens of these lands, but when the war ended they had been forced to “return” to a country where most of them had never lived. They were leaving a trail of blood across Europe, millions of them dying from starvation, illness, and exposure, but a world weary with war and trouble was paying little attention. “Did the Russians hurt any of you?” Alex asked.
“No. We left when they told us to. Some of us in the Church tried to help each other. We walked together and shared what little food we had. We made it to Berlin
and thought our journey might be over, but there was no food in Berlin. Then we heard there was a place where we could stay. The Moderegger family, here, was helping Mormon refugees. But we had to walk again, and some of our people died along the way.” He looked at Sister Diederich.
“My children died,” she said. “A baby girl and a little son. My husband was killed before, in the war.”
“I’m so sorry.” Alex looked at the floor. He couldn’t believe the heartache this woman must feel.
“Please, sit down,” Sister Hahn said. “We don’t mean to be impolite.”
Alex sat down at the little table in the center of the room. Sister Diederich sat across from him on the only other chair. “Could I open one of these cans?” Brother Hahn asked quietly. I know it isn’t time for a meal yet. But my son needs something.”
“Yes, of course,” Alex said. “You don’t have to make this food last very long. Go ahead and eat it, and I’ll get more to you as soon as I can—this week.” Most of the food was from the army, and Alex had hesitated to take more from the base, but seeing these people, he knew that he would do it again.
“Oh, thank you,” Sister Hahn said. Her husband reached into a box and took out a silver can marked “Applesauce.”
“There’s an opener in one of the boxes,” Alex said. “I didn’t know whether you would have one.”
Brother Hahn searched in the boxes and found the opener, and then he walked to the far end of the barracks. His wife said, softly, “Dieter will like it. He loves applesauce.” But then, as she walked away, she added, “I hope he can hold it down.”
“Are you going to be all right, Sister Diederich?” Alex asked. He could see her a little better now that his eyes had adjusted to the dim light. She was younger than he first thought, perhaps thirty or so.
“I didn’t think so for a time, but yes, I will manage.”
“I don’t know how you kept going after what you’ve been through.”
“When my baby died, and we had to dig into the frozen ground to bury her, I only wanted to lie down and die too. Still, I told myself that I had to live for my son, to help him through. I tried so hard to keep him going, but he would cry as he walked, and I was too weak to carry him very long. Some of the men tried to help, but they had children too, and everyone was so tired and hungry and cold. My little Manfred walked all one day, and then he went to sleep, out in the snow and cold. He didn’t wake up the next morning.”
Alex thought that Sister Diederich would cry now, but she only stared past Alex, as though she could see the scene in her mind.
“I couldn’t leave him out there like that, but we had no shovel, and the ground was frozen harder by then—hard as stone. I had a spoon and nothing else to dig with, so I broke the ground that way, and some of the others helped me. We dug deep enough to put him in. And we prayed over his grave.”
>
Alex reached across the table and put his hand on her arm. “My little brother died in the war. I was in a hospital, wounded, when I got the word. I had to lie there and think about it—and I couldn’t go home to my family. It’s not the same, I know. But at least maybe I have some idea how you feel.”
“So many have died.”
The simple understatement struck Alex hard, summarized far too much of what he felt. He gripped Sister Diederich’s arm a little tighter.
“That night, after I had buried my son and then walked all day, I almost gave up. What I wanted was to take my own life—just go with my family, where they all are. But a voice in my head told me, ‘Pray. Ask the Lord for help.’ So I did. I knelt in the snow and prayed, and the Lord filled me up, made me warm. I knew he was still with me. Then I thought, ‘I’ve lost everything—my husband, my children—but not my Father in Heaven.’ So I was all right. I could continue.”
“It must be very difficult, still.”
“No. Not so difficult. I know what most people don’t know. God loves me. He’ll help me through this life. And then I’ll be with my family again.”
Alex nodded. “That’s right. That’s what we have to remember.”
“This food is a great blessing, Brother Thomas. All of us here know that the Church hasn’t forgotten us. Most people don’t have such people looking out for them. We’re fortunate in spite of everything we’ve gone through.”
Alex tried to remember those words as he returned to Frankfurt. He told himself that he still had Anna and his little son Gene—even if he had never seen him. He knew that was something he had to remember. What he hoped was that little Dieter would live, that the dying would end now, at least for one little group.
A few days later Elder Benson came to Frankfurt. When he met with the LDS Servicemen’s group, he told of the miracles that had occurred to open the way for him and his companions to travel throughout Europe. What he had sought, in coming
to Frankfurt, was permission from General Joseph McNarney to travel not only through the American zone but through the other three zones in Germany and Austria, as well as through areas in Czechoslovakia. But General McNarney’s aide, a major, had told Elder Benson that he couldn’t meet with the general for a few days—and was very firm about it. Elder Benson and his traveling companions had left the office and then found a place to pray together. After the prayer, Elder Benson had felt prompted to return, so he had gone back to the general’s office, where he had met another aide. This officer had been willing to arrange a brief visit with General McNarney. But the meeting had turned into a long discussion, and the general was greatly impressed that the Church had whole warehouses of food and supplies ready to ship. The general had told Elder Benson at first that travel through the occupied zones was impossible, but the more he listened to the Church plan, the more impressed he became. He agreed to do the paperwork and write the letters of introduction that would be needed. The only proviso was that Elder Benson and his assistants travel at their own risk. Elder Benson had accepted that risk, and he told the servicemen that he wasn’t worried; he knew he was on the Lord’s mission.
