Illusions of Love (10 page)

was frustrated, but Like a good lieutenant he kept his objections to himself.

For three months he commuted to San Francisco each weekend. But as the weeks passed, the partings became so painful to his parents, he almost hesitated to go home. Finally Martin got his wish. One Wednesday morning he received orders for Fort Dix. From there he would be assigned to somewhere in England or Scotland, probably to prepare for the invasion of Europe.

Wanting to make his last weekend as happy as she could, Bess tried to set aside her own grief. There wasn’t a favourite dish of Martin’s that she didn’t prepare. There wasn’t a friend he enjoyed whom she didn’t invite over. Much as she tried not to, she couldn’t keep from following him from room to room, hovering over him as though he were a small boy.

Another time Martin would have resented her, but her attempted valour was too touching. It left him with an emotion so strong it was almost physical. If Martin had had any questions about his life, they had never concerned his having been loved. Until he was five his mother had been his whole world. He remembered when she’d come to his bedroom to say goodnight, dressed for the opera or a party. He knew he’d carry that picture with him always.

Bess tried hard to let Martin enjoy the weekend. The night before his departure she invited only Sylvia and her parents for dinner. Everyone did their best to be cheerful, but it was with a sense of relief that after coffee Martin was able to draw Sylvia out on the terrace.

In their absence, Mr. Lowenthal said softly, “I guess we’re in for a long siege. Terrible, simply terrible … it’s worse than the one we fought in.”

Julian got up, took a cigar from the humidor, clipped off the end, and lit it. Watching the thick smoke spiral up, he said, “Dear God, I beg you. Please bring Martin back to us whole.”

At that moment Bess looked across the room and saw Julian standing there with his eyes closed. She got up slowly and went to his side.

“Martin is going to be all right. So are we, dear,” she said, though she herself wasn’t sure she believed it.

Still, if they were going to survive they had to support each other.

Julian took Bess’s hand in his and whispered, “Oh, my dear, whatever would I do without you?”

“I’m not going to let you find out.”

Standing on the terrace overlooking the rose garden, Sylvia said, “Thank God some things never change. It’s so beautiful here even during the winter.”

“I never appreciated it as much as I have in the last few days.”

“Would you like to take a stroll?” she said, taking his arm.

They walked up the slight incline to where the cypress trees circled the lush green lawn. He could almost hear the sounds of his childhood.

He remembered the day his Aunt Matty had been married on this spot.

How old was he then? About eight maybe. He’d dropped the rings.

Smiling, he led Sylvia on past the greenhouse, across the broad stone patio and into the pavilion. It was filled with the fragrance of gardenias.

He remembered playing here with Sylvia. Suddenly he heard her soft weeping and took her in his arms.

“You mustn’t do that, Sylvia, dear.

I can’t stand hearing you cry. “

“I love you, Martin,” she sobbed.

“I can’t help it but I do. I always have and I would never have told you if it weren’t for you going away.

I have never loved anybody but you, Martin, never. “

Holding her close to him, he said, “You mustn’t say these things, Sylvia. It’s just the war. You don’t really mean them.”

“No, you’re wrong. It’s the war that’s made it possible for me to tell you how I feel.”

She kissed him with all her pent-up passion.

“Sylvia, please, you mustn’t do this. It’s wrong.”

“Wrong? Can’t you love me just a little, Martin?”

“But I do, Sylvia. I do love you.”

“Then why don’t you make love to me, Martin?”

“Because … But before he could finish she kissed him with such passion that he found himself drowning in desire. He could not stop himself as she sank to the floor, pulling him down to her. It was like falling through a bottomless sea. Wave upon wave of passion consumed him. But when it was over and they began straightening their clothes he was consumed with guilt.

“I shouldn’t have let myself get that carried away,” he said, trying to avoid her eyes.

“Please don’t say that, Martin. Please. I love you I want you to carry the memory of this night with you. But I want you to remember it with joy.”

“I will, Sylvia. Forever. But, dear, I don’t want you to be hurt because of this.”

“You could never hurt me, Martin. Never.”

Monday morning arrived with relentless punctuality. This time Bess and Julian accompanied Martin. At the last minute Sylvia drove up in her convertible and was welcomed into the Roths’ limousine. When they reached the station she stood back a little so as not to intrude on Martin’s goodbye to his parents. Bess was oblivious to everything but her son’s face. She didn’t see the other soldiers, the other agonized families who, like herself, felt a sense of privacy as they said those painful last goodbyes.

Martin looked at his watch. It was time to board. Suddenly he felt his mother in his arms; she seemed so frail and vulnerable. He’d never remembered her as being this small. He knew how much she was suffering. Then Julian embraced him, wanting to protect him yet knowing that the

boy’s assured safety was the one thing he could not buy.

Finally, Sylvia stood before Martin. It was time for their goodbye.

“Take care of yourself, Martin,” she said.

He nodded.

“I will. Thank you for helping my parents.”

She nodded. He kissed her with affection and boarded the train, where he found a seat by the window. He saw Sylvia and his parents trying to wave bravely. Then the train moved out.

The Roths stood for a long moment amidst the swirling crowds, staring into the distance as they watched the train disappear. They seemed old today as they clung to each other in their grief. Sylvia hoped she could help fill the void Martin’s going had created, but she doubted it. He was, after all, flesh of their flesh; their only son. She wiped her own tears away and gently said, “I think it’s time to go home now.”

During the drive back to Woodside, Sylvia sat lost in thought. The events of the past week had been more than sobering and Sylvia decided she had to be honest, at least with herself. She had daydreamed about Martin for years, but now she had to face the truth: she’d never had the slightest intention of marrying Maury. She understood that now.

“Be sure, Sylvia,” Martin had cautioned.

“Go slowly, maybe this is only a rebellion.”

Wise Martin, that’s really what it had been. Not only against her own narrow little world, but against Martin. She thought that she could make him jealous, perhaps force him to rescue her. But that had been foolish. She knew Martin didn’t love her. Of his deep affection she was more than certain, remembering how gently he had taken her last night. Perhaps in a relationship one person always loved more than the other. If there was a commitment to be made, she made it to herself.

Martin was going to love her. They were right for each other, meant for each other. When he came home, she’d make him realize that. They were both cut from the same piece of cloth, understood each other’s

worlds, spoke the same language as she and Maury never had. She trembled at the thought that to spite Martin she could have destroyed her life. She’d been tempted to explore her sexuality, but even at the height of her desire for Maury, she had held back. Martin had stood in the way even then.

It had taken something as catastrophic as the war for her to throw herself at Martin’s feet. But pride be damned. At least Martin knew how she felt. Sylvia was so lost in thought that she didn’t notice the car had stopped until Edward, the chauffeur, reached in to help her out.

As soon as they reached the house Julian said, “My dear, if you don’t mind, I’ll skip lunch. I have a headache and I think I’ll lie down.”

“Of course,” Bess said.

“I’ll have a tray sent up to you, darling.”

The women watched as he slowly ascended the stairs. When they heard the door shut behind him, Bess sighed and said, “Dear me. You must be famished.”

“Not especially. But I think you should have something, Aunt Bess.”

Bess looked at the girl she had known since birth, wishing that Sylvia were the daughter that she had never had. But then Sylvia had never been all that close to her own mother. Whenever she had a problem, it was Bess to whom she turned. Perhaps the tie between them was stronger even than blood.

Sylvia settled herself into the down pillows of the chair and looked about the familiar room. Thank God nothing seemed to have changed. She remembered the time Martin was twelve and had fallen off the library stairs reaching for a book. She had run to him and tried to help him up, but he couldn’t move.

“Gosh, Sylvia, wait a minute. I think I broke my ankle.”

“Oh, you couldn’t have.”

“Don’t argue with me, Sylvia. I think it’s broken.”

“How can you tell?” “Cause it throbs like hell.”

“You better not let your mother hear you say hell.”

“Sylvia, do me a favour. Go home.”

“After I’ve helped you up.”

Between Sylvia and the arm of the chair, Martin got up, hobbled out of the room and up the stairs. He sat gingerly on the bed, swung his leg over and then lay down. The pain was excruciating and his ankle was the size of a grapefruit.

“Holy cow. I really think I’ve broken it, Sylvia.”

“Okay, don’t move. I’ll go down and get Anna.”

She slid down the banister and ran to the kitchen to tell Anna, the Roths’ housekeeper.

“Anna, Martin broke his leg,” she said breathlessly.

“Now where does it hurt?” Anna said when she reached his bedroom.

“It’s my ankle. I think it’s broken.”

“I’m sure it’s no such thing,” she said, much like Sylvia.

“Because it hurts like hell.”

Anna’s eyebrows knitted together.

“What did you say, young man?”

“I said it hurts so much.”

“Well, I hope that’s what you said.” But Anna was concerned particularly since the Roths were away.

“Now don’t move, Martin. This may hurt for a moment, but let me put one of these pillows under your leg.”

He let out a yell as she lifted his foot.

“Now, Sylvia. You’ll have to step out for a while,” Anna said.

“Why?” Sylvia asked in mild defiance.

“I’m going to try and get off Martin’s pants and make him comfortable.”

“But why can’t I stay? I’ve seen him lots without his pants.”

“Have you really, young lady? Well, there’s much to tell when Mr. and Mrs. Roth come home. Now leave the room immediately.”

Sylvia glared at Anna and reluctantly obeyed. For the next week she sat in Martin’s room, since he was confined to bed with a compound fracture.

Her memory of those innocent days was interrupted by Bess asking, “Would you like a little sherry?”

“That would be nice.”

They sipped in silence. After awhile Bess said, “Remarkable how resilient we are. I never would have thought I’d be this calm. The one I’m worried about is Julian.

“There’s a strange thing about marriage, Sylvia. Even after all these years there are moments that cannot be shared. I suppose they belong between man and his God.” Bess looked at Sylvia’s concerned face and added, “My dear, you will never know how grateful I am to you for being here at this moment. You are such a comfort.”

“This is where I want to be, where I’m happiest. If you don’t mind, I’ve decided I’m going to be your houseguest for a while.”

“Mind? Oh, my dearest girl, I’m overjoyed. But as close as your mother and I are, I wouldn’t want your mother to feel that I was alienating you.”

Sylvia smiled.

“She already knows that and she won’t feel jealous.”

That night Sylvia sat down at the desk and wrote Martin a letter. Not a love letter, really, but one of nostalgia in the hope that memories of their happy childhood would give him something to hold on to, to support him during the terrible weeks and months ahead.

Long before Martin received the letter he was on ship bound for Italy.

Nothing in his life had prepared him for the horrors of years to come.

Nothing would ever erase the sounds and sights of the brutality and carnage. He saw the unburied dead rotting by the roadside, old people and

children starving, girls barely in their teens who knew just enough English to say, “Okay, GI Joe. You give me chocolate, I give you good time.”

In a back street of Palermo, after the Italian army had retreated, Martin watched as a drunken paratrooper and an emaciated thirteen-year-old girl climbed the rickety stairs to her bedroom while her little brothers fought each other for scraps of food in the garbage cans outside.

But nothing he saw in defeated Italy equalled Germany after WE Day.

Hitler had told the world exactly what he intended to do when he’d written Mein Kampf, but no one had believed he would carry out his final solution. Even the first stories that filtered back after the destruction of the Third Reich seemed too terrible to be true.

For centuries European governments had stood by while Jews were persecuted, but never had the civilized world been faced by murder on such a scale. Six million Jews. Six million innocent lives. The Allies rushed in to cover the shame of the denial. And no one felt more outrage than Martin Roth. Captain Martin Roth, assigned to locate and reunite survivors of Dachau, Auschwitz, Bergen-Belsen names that would make their instigators pariahs until the end of time.

Sitting in his makeshift office amidst the bomb craters of Berlin, trying to pair off names and sort the legacy of the dead, Martin thought at moments that he would die of grief and shame. How could he not have known as early as 1940? Every Jew in the world should have made it his or her business to have realized what was going on. Every family smugly writing checks to Zionist groups, to their local temple, should have raised a cry to heaven. But they had sat back and allowed genocide to be perpetrated on a scale never before seen.