Long Way Home(109)

“Do you suppose she’s the woman in the photograph?” Mrs. Barnett asked.

“She has to be,” I replied. “She signed the picture ‘Love, Gisela.’ If something happened to her, it must have broken Jimmy’s heart.”

“There wasn’t anything else in his bags about this marriage?” Mr. Barnett asked. “No papers or government forms or letters?”

“Just the photograph,” I said. “But I’ll go through everything again with a fine-tooth comb now that we know what we’re looking for.”

Mr. Barnett pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. “Those first weeks that Jim was home, he acted so strangely, remember? I wouldn’t be surprised if he destroyed all the evidence.”

“But he didn’t destroy her picture,” I said. “That must mean something.”

“I don’t understand why he didn’t tell us about her,” Mrs. Barnett said. “He didn’t say anything in his letters about meeting someone, much less marrying her. We’ve always been a close family. You would think . . .” She shook her head.

“Jim’s a grown man, Martha. Not a little boy. Whatever happened, it must have been something he felt he couldn’t talk about.”

“Should we bring Gisela’s picture with us to the hospital and see how he reacts?” Mrs. Barnett asked.

“No, we’d better not,” I said, even though this was none of my business. “If we’re shocked by this, imagine how he must feel. I think we should search through all of his things again. Maybe there’s something we missed.”

But there wasn’t. After turning every drawer upside down and searching every corner of Jimmy’s room and closet, the only loose end I found that had no explanation was the address in Brooklyn that Jimmy had printed in the back of his Bible. We couldn’t ask directory assistance for a telephone number because there was no name, just the street address. The mystery ate away at me. I couldn’t get it out of my mind.

“I want to go to that address in Brooklyn tomorrow and see what I find,” I told the Barnetts at dinner on Saturday night.

“Do you want one of us to come with you?” Mr. Barnett asked.

Part of me did. In the past, I had relied on Joe to go with me and help break the ice. He had navigated our way to all the places we’d visited and bolstered my courage. But maybe it was time I grew up and learned to speak for myself. “No, I think it’s more important for you to visit Jimmy tomorrow,” I said. “The trip to Brooklyn could end up being a complete waste of time. But can you help me figure out how to get there? I’ve never driven to New York City before.”

“It would be easier to take the train,” Mr. Barnett said. “We can drop you off at the station in Beacon on our way to the hospital, and the train will take you right down to Grand Central station. They can give you information about which bus to take to Brooklyn. Or maybe you can take a taxi from there. I have a city map here someplace.” He stood and rummaged through the kitchen junk drawer. “Don’t worry. We’ll help you get there.”

The train I boarded the next day followed the winding Hudson River south to the city. Stunning views of the water and the mountains filled the windows of my passenger car. In one wide section of the river near Croton, I saw the Mothball Fleet—row after row of huge gray Navy vessels left over from the war. Dozens of them, lined up like toy ships with no place to go. They were a vivid reminder of the immense effort that had gone into winning the war. And now it was over. I wondered how many young men there were like Jimmy and Joe who hadn’t been able to put aside the war and rest peacefully like those ships at anchor.

I was too nervous to enjoy the trip. My biggest fear was of getting lost. I had never gone to New York City alone before. Yet I knew this was something I had to do. Pop and Donna had finally helped me see that it was time for me to grow up and move forward with my life. I also knew that I needed to learn to trust God to help me, not Joe or Jimmy or anyone else.

Grand Central station was so overwhelming that I nearly turned around and got on the first train home. I took deep breaths and wandered through the vast space, following the signs until I ended up at an information booth. I must have looked lost and frightened because the woman in the booth took pity on my stammering explanation of where I needed to go and said, “Listen, honey. This is what you need to do. It’s not hard.”

And it wasn’t. A city bus took me down to the southern tip of Manhattan and across the Brooklyn Bridge. I watched for my stop in Brooklyn Heights, then got off and consulted my map to walk the rest of the way. I only got mixed up once, but the iconic bridge looming in the background over the East River helped me find my way again.

The Brooklyn Heights neighborhood was like a foreign country to me. For one thing, the streets bustled with people—not at all like a quiet Sunday afternoon back home. We had blue laws in our town, so stores and banks and restaurants had to be closed on Sunday. But all these stores were open and doing a very brisk business. So busy, in fact, that I kept bumping into people as I walked along, trying to read the house numbers and find the correct address. Most of the women wore longish dresses or skirts and covered their heads with scarves. Bearded men in white shirts and dark suits had skullcaps on their heads. I tried not to stare at the small boys I passed wearing long, dangling ringlets in front of their ears.