Authors: Marie Bostwick
River's Edge (20 page)
I felt my own throat tighten. How could they not hate me, I wondered. It was Germans who had killed Papa's brother, German bullets tearing his flesh until he was disfigured beyond recognition. My people had done this. Why didn't Papa hate me?
My father had spoken with pride about the glorious history of Germany in battle, of the beauty of sacrifice and the honor of duty. And though he was always distant, though he had sent me to live far from him, a part of me had always idolized my father. When I pictured him in battle, I imagined him in full dress uniform, riding a white stallion and leading his cheering men into battle, wading bravely into a sea of enemy soldiers, only to make them scatter and retreat in terror without him ever having to fire a shot. Father had never mentioned bullets, or barbed wire, or blood. Father had fought opposite Papa and his little brother, Gordy. He was assigned to a U-boat at the time, so they had not shared the same battlefield, but they had been enemies, just the same. And now he was fighting again. If America entered the war and Junior enlisted, he would be Junior's enemy, and they would be in the business of trying to kill each other. The thought was almost too terrible to bear.
Papa pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose before going on. “I wrote my mother a letter about Gordy, but I didn't tell her the whole story. There's a lot of things about the war I never told anyone before now.”
The room was silent as we waited for Papa to continue. He reached out and picked up his water glass and put it to his lips, but put it back down without taking a drink, as if he'd suddenly realized he had yet to finish the story.
“I was transferred to a hospital behind the line to see if I might regain my hearing so they could send me back into combat. I was there a long time and was on good terms with the hospital staff. Most of the patients were too badly injured to respond much, but my wounds healed quickly. Other than my hearing loss, I was pretty healthy. I felt ashamed and guilty just because I was alive. Sometimes I'd try to give the orderlies a hand just so I could feel useful.
“Over time, I became very friendly with one of the doctors, Dr. Markowski, a nice man from New York who was about twenty years older than me. He loved to play chess. So he'd stop by my room for a game almost every night. After he learned that I'd been preparing for the ministry before I'd enlisted, he took to calling me âRabbi.' ” For the first time since he'd begun relating his story, Papa smiled.
“He was a lovely man,” Papa remembered, “and an outstanding chess player. I never won a game against him, not one. Eventually my hearing improved, though it was never as good as it had been before. I'm still partially deaf on the left side. Almost everyone in my unit had been killed by the time I could hear again, but still I wanted to be sent back to the front.
“I begged Dr. Markowski to clear me and send me back up, but he wouldn't do it. âRabbi,' he'd say, âit's crazy to go back up there just to get yourself killedâand for no reason! Nobody is winning this war, and nobody ever will! There is no point in you dying over something so stupid! Go home, finish your studies, get married to a pretty girl'”âPapa glanced at Mamaâ“ âget yourself one of those black shirts with the round white collars, and make speeches telling people they should be nice to each other. That is a noble and important calling. God already saved you once, Carlâdon't test His patience!'”
Papa smiled a little at the memory.
“I was determined not to follow his advice. I just couldn't imagine coming home to Brightfield on account of a little deafness after my brother and so many of my friends had died. I couldn't imagine facing those dead boys' parents, knowing that every time they looked at me they would wonder why their son was lying in his coffin and I was still alive. Every day Dr. Markowski and I would play chess, and every day I would hound him to clear me for battle.
“One day he came into my room and handed me some papers. I was very excited because I was sure these were my orders to go back to the front, but I was wrong. Dr. Markowski had cleared me for duty, but not for combat. He had tried to get me a chaplaincy, but they wouldn't take me because I wasn't ordained. He did the best he could, but the only duty I was qualified for was working in the morgue.”
I gave a little gasp of horror. I couldn't help myself, it was such an awful thought. Mama reached across the table and squeezed Papa's hand while he stared hard into Junior's eyes and went on with his tale.
“It was my job to prepare the bodies of dead soldiers for burial, dress them in clean uniforms, put them into caskets, and nail the lids closed. Hundreds and hundreds of bodies, probably even thousands. Just before I would close the lid on the coffins, I would say a prayer over the dead man, even though I knew my prayers were too late. I wished I'd listened to my dad and finished seminary before enlisting. If I had, I might have been in a position to help the living instead of praying over those who were beyond help.”
Papa sniffed and looked kindly at Junior, who was sitting at the opposite end of the table, listening to his father's story with an expression of rapt attention and, I thought, a hint of respect that had been missing before.
“Politicians and blowhards speak of duty with such frequency and ease, just as they say that every war is the war to end all wars, but now we're fighting again.”
Junior shifted in his chair. “So, you're saying it is always wrong to go to war? That you shouldn't have fought?”
“No. Sometimes war is inevitable, and you've got to defend yourself and your friends, but not as often as we think. As pointless as that war was, and even knowing its outcome, I do believe it was my duty as a citizen to serve. But I missed my opportunity to be of any true value in the war because I was in too much of a hurry to think through what my highest duty was. If I had gone to the front as a minister, I might have put those years to good account. I might have died trying, but at least it would have been for a reason. Think of it, Junior! All those men, thousands of them, standing on the threshold of eternity! I wasn't able to offer the least word of comfort to themânot even my own brother.”
“Papa,” Junior said gently, “I understand what you are saying, I really do, but I'm not called to the ministry. It's different for me.”
Papa tipped his head slightly to the side, acknowledging that there was some truth in Junior's point. “Yes, but in other ways the choices you face are similar to the ones I faced when I was your age. Our duty in life lies in using our lives for their highest purpose. I'm not saying this just because I want to see you safe, though, of course, I do.
“But, it seems to me that God may be giving you some new ideas about where your destiny lies, and you ought to give that some careful consideration before you make any rash decisions.” Here Junior's eyes narrowed, and his brow furrowed, exactly the way Papa's did when he was searching for a response.
“Junior, have you thought this whole thing through? Have you really thought about what it would mean if you charged into a German battle line? You'd be fighting Elise's peopleâmaybe even her own father. Think what that would mean for the two of you!”
My eyes opened wider, and I stared at Papa, my jaw slack with surprise. What was he saying? How could he know? I looked at Junior and saw him swallow hard; the Adam's apple bobbed up and down in his throat.
“I can't pretend to know where your duty lies, son. It would be arrogant of me to pretend I did. But take some time to figure it out.” Papa's voice had an almost pleading edge to it. He took a deep breath and continued in a tone that was much more detached and businesslike, as though he and Junior were a merchant and middleman negotiating a price. “Son, I am asking you to wait one year before you make any decisions about enlisting. If you decide to join up after that, so be it. I've yielded on the idea of you entering the ministry and won't even insist that you go to college, though I'd prefer it if you did. I am willing to concede all that ground without another word if you will just do this one thing. I'm not asking you to do this for me. I'm asking you to do it for Elise, because if you care for her, this is a decision that you must make carefully. Think of how difficult this could be for her.”
His businesslike demeanor softened, and he smiled knowingly at his son. “And you do care for her, don't you?”
My heart warmed within me as Junior slid his hand evenly across the table and opened it to hold mine. He turned his face to me and repeated with that same honest certainty. “I love her. I think maybe I have for a long time, but I didn't know it until today.”
Even I was a bit surprised at his declaration, but I knew without a doubt that he was speaking the truth. Although we hadn't actually spoken about our feelings, I'd known from the moment I'd felt his fingertips, cool and soft on my cheeks as he'd drawn my lips toward his, that Junior loved me and I loved him; in some way, I had always loved him.
Papa opened his mouth to speak. For a moment I thought he was going to say we were too young and this was all happening too fast, but he couldn't seem to find the right words. He searched Mama's face. She smiled at him, and her brows lifted, as if to remind him of something that had happened between them along ago, something impetuous and unstoppable. Papa's echoing smile said, yes, I remember.
He turned back to Junior and tried to speak again, but his voice caught, and he had to clear his throat. “Well, son ... that's fine.” Up until now Papa had only looked at Junior, but now he shifted in his chair and fixed his eyes on me. “Because you'd be a fool not to.”
My cheeks grew warm, and I knew I was blushing deeply, partly from pleasure and partly from embarrassment. Papa was so dear to me. I knew he cared for me almost as if I were his own. His approval meant the world to me.
“Thank you, Papa,” I said sincerely. Papa smiled at me before turning to address Junior again.
“And so you'll do as I ask? You'll wait a year before you make any decisions about going into the service?”
Junior hesitated, and I could read the turmoil that was going on inside him.
Please,
I pleaded silently,
please listen to him.
My eyes begged him to think of how much our future depended on the next word he would utter.
Please,
I pleaded silently,
please listen to him.
My eyes begged him to think of how much our future depended on the next word he would utter.
“All right. I'll wait,” he promised.
The anxiety that had permeated the room gave way to relief. Papa gave a quick, approving nod of his head and said, “Good.”
Mama smiled and started clearing dishes from the table, despite the plates still being piled with food. Everyone had been so mesmerized by Papa's amazing tale and the drama playing out between father and son, we'd forgotten to eat.
I squeezed Junior's hand and smiled reassuringly at him. He smiled back, though his lips were tightly pressed and resolute. His promise had been given haltingly, but he would keep it. I hoped he would.
Cookie was still frozen to her chair. She bit her lips and blinked a few times, the same way she did when she was trying to solve a particularly challenging math problem.
Mama said she had a cake back in the pantry and asked if anyone would like some coffee to go with it. She put the kettle on to boil when Papa and Junior said they would.
I started to get up from my place to give Mama a hand when Cookie shouted, “Wait a minute! Am I missing something? Junior and Elise in love? But they've always hated each other!”
“I never hated Elise!” Junior retorted, seeming genuinely surprised by the accusation.
“Ha!” Cookie barked. “Then you did an awful good imitation of it.”
Papa laughed one of his big, booming laughs, and Cookie stared at him incredulously. Clearly, none of this was making sense to her.
“Cookie, haven't you heard the old saying that hatred is one step removed from love? Of course, they're in love. Anyone can see that. You'd be a fool not to!” Papa narrowed his eyes in a mockingly accusing expression and then trained them on Mama.
“Almost as much of a fool as your mother must think I am not to have noticed that something unusual has been going on around here today. Sophia,” he scolded lovingly, “did you think I'm a man so ruled by his appetites as to be distracted by a chicken? For shame! Trying to put one over on your own husband.” He clucked his tongue and sighed in feigned disappointment.
Mama put a slice of chocolate cake on a plate and brought it to him. “I wasn't exactly trying to fool you. I just wanted to wait to talk about it when we were alone.” She leaned down to put the cake plate in front of him. At the same moment a tremendous, heavy thump sounded from the floor above, followed by the glittery sound of shattering glass and a chorus of howling, accusing boy voices.
“What's going on up there?” Papa bellowed as he took three bounding steps across the kitchen floor and started to mount the stairs. “Boys! What happened? Are you all right?”
Above us, a stampede of feet galloped across the floor. Chuck opened the door and called out, “It wasn't our fault, Papa. Honest! If Curt had just stayed put like we'd told him!”
“What are you talking about?” Papa scowled in exasperation.
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