Purple Hearts

by Michael Grant

  The German jerks, caught off-guard, and says, “Run away, you dirty woman. I don’t want your body.”

  “I have American cigarettes.”

  This stops the German in midstride. He glances back toward the camp, toward the pillbox just twenty or thirty feet away. Reassured, he finishes rebuttoning his trousers and says, “How would you come to have American cigarettes? Where did you get them? There are no Americans near here.” Then, under his breath, “Not yet, anyway.”

  “I have them here,” Rainy says, and levels the barrel of the Walther at him.

  “Ah, a Walther. You have good taste in handguns.”

  “Follow me or die.”

  “Follow you?” He laughs. “You think your little popgun frightens me? Do you think I fear death?”

  “I wasn’t thinking of killing you. I was thinking of shooting you in the legs.”

  “The legs?” He’s baffled.

  “Yes. Like your men did in Oradour. You shot the men in the legs so they couldn’t run. Then you burned them.”

  The tanks are all revving up now, getting ready to move out fast, before the American artillery or planes come after them again. Is it enough noise to cover the sound of her pistol? No. But it is enough to stop him calling for help.

  “I played no part in that,” he says.

  “No? Hand me your identity papers.”

  He hesitates, glances wistfully at the oh-so-near safety of the pillbox, then with a show of amusement he hands over a small, well-worn buff folder. She flips it open. His picture is there, smiling at the camera.

  “Adolf Otto Diekmann,” Rainy reads.

  “That is my name,” he says. “But you must understand, mademoiselle, I was shocked at what happened at Oradour. Why . . .” He laughs. “We later learned it was the wrong Oradour! We were meant to . . . to search Oradour-sur-Vayres. A silly mistake.”

  “Lie down on the ground,” Rainy says.

  “So you can shoot me?”

  “I won’t shoot you. I’d prefer not to die. I just want you facedown so I can run away.”

  It’s not the most convincing story, but Diekmann has no good alternative. Sighing as though he’s being asked to do something ridiculous but he’s playing along, he drops to his knees, says something about making a perfect mess of his uniform, and lies down.

  There’s a piece of concrete nearby, leftover spillage from the construction of the pillbox. Rainy lifts a big piece, a foot across, triangular shape, heavy, and slams it down with all her force on the back of Diekmann’s head.

  The blow sounds like a heavyweight’s punch. Not loud enough to carry over the sound of revving tanks. She waits, panting, until his breathing stops.

  “For Bernard,” Rainy says. “I liked that kid.”

  LETTERS SENT

  Hi, Mom and Dad and Obal,

  Well, we are all done with D-day. I imagine you’ve heard about it, and yes, I was there. Right on Omaha Beach.

  And Obal? Guess what I’m assigned to? A colored tank battalion! And since I can practically hear you asking, yes, I have been inside a Sherman tank and I’ve ridden on one. In fact, I’m sitting on a log right now and not fifty feet away is one of our tanks having a bogie wheel replaced.

  We are off the front line right now so I am helping to set up the aid station—mostly paperwork and unpacking boxes. I find it very boring, but dullness is welcome given the alternative. Anyway, the brass will probably move us up again soon, but please don’t worry. The Germans have been pretty decent about honoring the red cross, just like we do with their aid people.

  I was so sorry to hear that Daddy is unwell. I hope it’s nothing serious. Get better soon, Dad!

  Since you asked, Mom, I could use some things from home, but only if it’s easy, and only if it doesn’t strain the family finances. I would love a couple extra pairs of socks for myself. Also, if you happen to have any old, torn, or run stockings, those make excellent tourniquets. And this will sound crazy, but M&M’s, you know, the candy? I sometimes give a few to soldiers who are hurt. It calms them down and makes them think of home.

  Well, that’s it for now. Daddy, get well!!

  Love to you all,

  Frangie

  Dear Colonel Herkemeier,

  I am writing to you as the mother of a soldier. My daughter Elisheva (Rainy) Schulterman works for you, I believe. We have not had a letter from her in some time. I’m sure I’m just being silly, but could you ask her to write so I know she’s all right?

  Thank you,

  Ethel Schulterman

  Dearest Rio,

  I feel that our last meeting went badly and I am sure I’m entirely at fault. I’m afraid I get a bit keyed up before a mission, especially as the previous two had gone badly with my plane having to return for repairs. I apologize if I was beastly.

  Yesterday we had one of our socials, a sort of drinks-and-dancing evening in the village. All the guys were there and there were a lot of nurses and Red Cross ladies, but yours truly behaved like a perfect gentleman. I only danced with the old battle-ax who is in charge of the nurses, and I drank very little. You would have been proud.

  Even if I had been tempted to stray or let my eye wander I’d have had no chance, because all the fellows have decided that you’re the sort of girl who might come after me with that knife of yours. It’s become a regular thing to tease me about you.

  I don’t mind much because anytime they say your name I still see you not as you are now but as the girl I knew from back home in Gedwell Falls.

  Someday, hopefully soon, this will all be over and life can go back to normal. Maybe then we can get back to being regular old Strand and regular old Rio. I’d like to put all this behind me, and I know you must feel the same. We will need to put all this out of our minds and just be a man and his girl again.

  I guess we haven’t really talked much about after, have we? I suppose I don’t feel I have the right until the war is over. I don’t want to try and tie you down when anything could happen to me. But if we can turn the clock back someday, back to before, I think we’ll be fine. I sometimes daydream about it and picture heading off to work in the morning with your pancakes in my belly and your kiss on my lips. You can make pancakes, I hope? That’s a joke!

  Anyway, I love you and miss you.

  Strand

  XXX

  Dearest Lupé,

  I don’t know why I’m writing to you. We got the notice today. They sent an army chaplain to tell us since we don’t have anyone carrying telegrams out here.

  I guess you wouldn’t figure your old dad for the kind to cry. But I can’t seem to stop. I love you so much, and I am so proud of you. I guess I never told you that, but you know, I’m old-fashioned. My father—well, you never knew him but he was tough, and I guess I thought I had to be tough too. But my heart is broken, that’s the truth of it.

  I don’t know what to do, sweetheart. Everything is just all wrong now. I can’t bring myself to believe it. I still expect to see you come up the drive and I would rush out to greet you and we would throw the biggest barbecue ever with all the neighbors and the hands. That’s been the picture I’ve kept in my mind ever since you left.

  Now they tell me you won’t be coming home at all. There’s talk of a graveyard there in France. It feels wrong to me. I want you here. You should be with Gran Martinez and Pops and your mom.

  Baby. My baby. My little girl. I keep going over every time we ever disagreed or argued. I can’t help it. I just wish so many things had not been said, and so many other things had been said. I love you, Lupé.

  I know you are in the loving arms of Jesus, that’s what your mother would say if she were here. I’m writing this because I hope somehow you can read this letter from heaven. Someday Mama and I will be with you again. “In my Father’s house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you.” That’s what it says in the Book. “I go to prepare a place for you.” That’s what Jesus said, and I have to believe it or go nuts. So, baby, my
darling, my sweetest Guadalupé, you’re with your mother now, so the two of you just wait for me in that mansion. Leave a light on.

  All of my love,

  Daddy

  Jenou,

  I know you have other things on your mind, but I simply had to tell you. Your father and I have separated. I won’t go into the sordid reasons, but we have agreed to sell the house. I have rented a small apartment, just one bedroom, I’m afraid, from Mrs. Brannigan’s brother. Your father has moved to Oakland. I know nothing of his situation there. Perhaps he’ll write to you, but just remember this was not my choice. He’s the one who strayed. I just felt you should know, because when you get out of the army you’ll have to think about where to live.

  Mother

  Dear Maria,

  So your sergeant’s a terror, is she? That makes me laugh. What did I tell you? Man or woman, a sergeant is a sergeant is a sergeant. My old sergeant could curse the paint off a barn door, spit tobacco juice thirty feet, and keep us running until we all dropped dead on the ground and he was still running in place. Backward!

  Mother and Poppa are fine and so am I. Poppa and I got the old Ford running finally, and the weather has been glorious.

  Well, as you know I’m not a writer, so I best keep this short. Anyway, it’s pretty boring here and much more exciting where you are.

  Take care, Meemo, we all miss you here. And we are very proud, even Grandpa, though he won’t admit it and still mutters about it being unnatural and so on.

  Keep your head down. Come home in one piece.

  Your loving brother,

  Tommy

  Dear Mother and Father,

  I don’t have much time, I’m only in the rear to pick up replacements and give Beebee an opportunity to scrounge us up some smokes and booze and necessary items. But I wanted at least to get a note to you to say that I am all right. The landing was tough. And the fighting afterward has been tough. But the word is the Krauts are retreating and we should be in Paris soon. Maybe I can send you a bottle of perfume from there! Something alluring and foreign. (That’s for Mother, of course.)

  Father, I still remember you telling me to find a good sergeant and stick to him. And now I am the sergeant, though I don’t know that I’m a good one. To say it isn’t easy isn’t half of it. I don’t like it much, to tell the truth. My people still treat me in a friendly way, but it’s different. There are times when they don’t want me around because I’m “Sarge” now, not just “Richlin.” Even Jenou! No one warns you, but the higher up you go the more lonely it gets. It’s almost enough to make me feel sorry for Ike.

  I do have a quick funny story though. The other day while we were on a hike we came across some very full cows and no one to milk them. So me and one of my new privates did the job. I believe we set a speed record for milking! The smell really took me back and made me feel a little sad. And the taste was great too, though I happen to think our cows give a sweeter—

  Damn. Okay, my ride is here, and I think Beebee is anxious to make his getaway. I suspect the two big cans of peaches in his arms came from the officers’ mess, and I know for sure that whatever that is clinking in his rucksack did.

  Bye for now. Love,

  Rio

  PART II

  PARIS

  Arrested by the police of the Vichy government, accomplices of the Nazi occupation, more than 11,000 children were deported from France from 1942 to 1944 and murdered at Auschwitz because they were born Jewish. Never forget them.

  —Paris plaque remembering French Jews betrayed by Vichy

  19

  RIO RICHLIN, FRANGIE MARR, RAINY SCHULTERMAN—PARIS, LIBERATED FRANCE

  “I thought French men were supposed to be romantic,” Jenou says. “But they all look a bit, you know . . . small.”

  Rio sits with Cat and Jenou at a minuscule round table at the outer edge of a sidewalk café in Paris, at the corner of tiny rue de Saint-Benoît and the larger, grander boulevard Saint-Germain. They each have a beer. They have a demolished tray of salamis and cheeses. They wear clean, pressed uniforms, with polished boots and tightly knotted ties.

  And they get looks from the locals. The looks are baffled or reproachful or sneering. Paris, it seems, does not quite know what to make of women soldiers.

  Rio’s division did not take part in the triumphant march through liberated Paris, a fact for which Rio is grateful. The division that marched through Paris to an enthusiastic crowd kept right on marching up to the front, which is now rapidly approaching the German border.

  Instead, Rio’s division is quartered outside the city and profits from a generous policy on passes.

  “Jenou likes them over six feet,” Rio says, and Jenou nods agreement.

  “I like them over six feet away,” Cat says, smiling her upside-down smile so she doesn’t sound too hostile.

  “It’s fine for the men,” Jenou says. “Paris has plenty of whores. But what about us? Where’s my six-foot-two Frenchman ready to fulfill my every wish for a pack of smokes and a chocolate bar?”

  “No boy back home, Castain?” Cat asks.

  Jenou leans toward her, nearly knocking over her beer. Her fourth beer. “Can I ask you both something very, very, very important?”

  Cat withdraws, her mouth tightening. Almost as if she dreads the question.

  “Can we not stop this bullshit of calling each other by last names? I mean, when it’s just us, when we aren’t around the rest of the platoon?”

  Cat relaxes. “Okay, Jenou, no boy back home?”

  “No boy, Cat,” Jenou says. “And no home.” She pulls out a short letter and smooths it on the table for the other two to read.

  “Gosh, Jenou. That’s a kick in the teeth,” Cat says sincerely.

  Rio looks at her inebriated friend. She knows that Jenou’s home life has never been happy. She knows Jenou despises her father and holds her mother in cynical contempt. But she’s never known all the reasons. And on occasion when she has pressed, Jenou has always retreated into sour private smiles and a shaking head.

  “You can stay with us, you know that,” Rio says.

  “Us as in you and your folks? Or us as in you and Strand?”

  “Ha-ha,” Rio says. “My folks, of course.” She blushes and tries to hide that fact by taking a drink.

  A Frenchwoman with two little girls in tow comes by. The girls stop to stare, and Jenou says, “Bonjour.” The mother pulls the girls sharply away.

  “How is old tall, dark, and handsome?” Jenou asks.

  Rio shrugs. “Haven’t seen him since we landed.”

  “That’s what’s called being evasive,” Jenou informs Cat.

  “Can’t we just be tourists?” Rio complains. “All we’ve seen so far is one big church.”

  “Notre-Dame?” Cat says. “That’s what you’re calling ‘one big church’?” She shrugs. “Well, I guess it was big. Anyway, we’ve seen the Eiffel Tower; we drove right by it!”

  “Shit. Look!” Jenou jerks her head toward a man across the street. It’s Lieutenant Horne and two other officers, and they are walking down the street in a state of serious inebriation.

  “He’s not setting a very good example,” Rio says.

  Cat says, “Nonsense, he’s setting the perfect example.” She raps the tabletop with her knuckles. “Garçon! We need something more than beer. What have you got? Anything but Applejack, we drank our fill of that in Normandy.”

  The waiter brings three small glasses of Armagnac, which they dutifully down in a single swig.

  “Doesn’t look like the Frenchies have had too hard a time of it,” Cat notes sourly. “If even a single bomb has fallen on Paris, I’d be surprised.”

  “That’s the advantage of surrendering early,” Rio says with equal cynicism.

  Despite mostly warm welcomes in Normandy—despite the catastrophic suffering of locals caught in the crossfire—American soldiers are not quite happy with the Parisians, who they suspect of being collaborators with the Nazis. A rumor has
been going around about French women acting as snipers, defending their German boyfriends. Rio has seen no evidence of this, and she knows well that rumors are wrong most of the time, but it has created a chill between the Americans and the Parisians.

  Of course, drunk soldiers making crude approaches to decent French women have not helped either. But the general mood is that the French have not been properly appreciative.

  “So, we going to the big museum?” Jenou asks.

  “Jen, you don’t have to keep me company, you know,” Rio says, her tongue distinctly looser after the Armagnac.

  “Are you trying to ditch me because I’m not a sergeant?” Jenou asks.

  “No. No, no, just the opposite. I’m sure Dial and Molina are off having fun, probably with Cat’s two girls. Fun you can’t have with your sergeant lurking around.”

  “Ah, it’s lonely at the top, isn’t it?” Jenou mocks. “Come on, Rio, everyone knows we’re friends. They already won’t do anything with me because they figure I’ll tell you.”

  Rio frowns. This has never occurred to her. She is a drag on Jenou’s social life. She decides to try harder for cheerfulness. “Well, Cat, what is it we sergeants do for fun in the big city?”

  Cat considers for a moment, then she stands up abruptly. “Ladies, we are in Paris, France: let’s go look at paintings. Not because we want to, but because when we get home—touch wood—everyone will ask us about it.”

  Frangie Marr is looking at paintings but not in a museum. She is just a fifteen-minute walk away from Rio, Cat, and Jenou, standing with Manning and Deacon and craning their necks up in silent awe in the hushed interior of the Sainte-Chapelle.

  The church is not vast like Notre-Dame. It is Notre-Dame’s smaller, more modest, much more beautiful little sister. Stained-glass windows rise fifty feet all around them, separated only by graceful stone pillars. The arched ceiling is deep blue and decorated with stars so it seems to be a majestic, star-strewn night sky.