Long Way Home(113)

“I have a scrapbook filled with pictures of his friends,” Peggy continued. “And all the letters they sent, saying how much he helped them. If we can show Jimmy how much everyone loves him, maybe he’ll start believing that God loves him, too.”

I hoped she was right. But it would take much more than that to convince me that there was a God who loved me. I lay awake for most of the night and had a headache when I got up in the morning. Peggy’s bed was empty. She’d told me that she had to rise early to do her chores at the animal clinic. Jimmy’s father was just hanging up the phone in the front hallway when I came downstairs for breakfast.

“It’s settled,” he told us as we ate. “I talked to Dr. Morgan and told him we would be arriving later today to bring Jim home. Of course, he protested. He says Jim’s discharge will be against medical advice. I told him we didn’t care, and they should have him ready to leave when we got there at noon.”

I didn’t recognize Jim when I first saw him, sitting on an ugly chair in the hospital foyer. He was thin and haggard-looking, and his clothes hung on him as if they belonged to someone else. Peggy had warned me that he rarely spoke, so I was surprised when he struggled to his feet and said, “Gisela? What are you doing here?”

I hugged him tightly, not caring how many people stared at us. “My uncle lied to you, Jim. I never said all those things he told you. I never would have sent you away. I had no idea that you came to Brooklyn to find me until Peggy came to my uncle’s apartment yesterday. We’ve both been believing a lie, Jim.”

Peggy held one of his hands and I held the other as we walked out of the hospital. The view from the parking lot of the shining river and distant mountains was so beautiful that I stopped to savor it for a moment. I made Jim stop and look at it, too. Later, we stood at the rail together on the ferry ride across the Hudson River and I thought of my time with Sam on board the St. Louis. Sam and Jim would have liked each other. Sam would be grateful to Jim for saving my life.

Jim’s father and Peggy left for their afternoon rounds when we arrived home. I helped Jim’s mother pick the late-summer peas in her garden, then Jim and I sat talking with her on the front porch while she shelled them. Peggy’s dog refused to leave Jim’s side, sitting contentedly at his feet. The rhythmic creak of the rocking chairs and the pinging of the plump peas as they fell into the pot were soothing, as I told Jim’s mother about my long journey from Berlin to America. It was the first time I was able to talk about any of the things that I had endured, even to my aunt and uncle. Somehow the weight of the past seemed lighter after sharing it with her.

“My uncle Aaron just gave me your letter yesterday,” I told Jim, “with the address of Sam’s commanding officer in Palestine. I need to write to him.” His mother gave me stationery and an airmail envelope. I walked to the post office to mail it with Jim and Peggy and Buster after Peggy finished work. The tiny village was quiet and a little shabby-looking. The American flags that hung from the porches of many of the homes barely rippled beneath the warm afternoon sun. It was so peaceful here compared to the city. I wished I had brought Ruthie with me.

Peggy had a letter to mail, too. “It’s a note to Jimmy’s friend Chaplain Bill,” she whispered to me. “I told him Jimmy is home and that he should come for a visit.”

Jim remained quiet and distant all day, so unlike the warm, soft-spoken man I knew. At bedtime, when he went outside with his father to shut the barn doors and close the chicken coop, his mother took Peggy and me aside. “Jim had terrible nightmares before he went into the hospital,” she said. “He would wake up screaming and trembling. Gordon thinks we shouldn’t leave him alone at night. He thought maybe we could take turns watching over him. I’ll stay with him tonight and—”

“No, Mrs. Barnett,” I said. “I am Jim’s wife. I will stay with him tonight. And every night until he’s well.”

We would be companions in the darkness, watching for the dawn.

*

I slept so lightly that I heard Jim moaning in his sleep and was able to awaken him from his nightmare before he cried out. He sat up in bed and leaned against the headboard, his eyes wide-open as he stared into the night. It would be a while before dawn. “Sorry I woke you,” he said.

“I was already half-awake. I don’t sleep very soundly.” I understood his reluctance to go back to sleep and return to the world of troubling dreams.

Jim’s bed was too narrow to hold two people, so we had carried in the extra mattress from Peggy’s room to make a bed on the floor. Jim and I had disagreed over which one of us would sleep in the bed, so Peggy had settled it by flipping a coin. “You can swap places on laundry day,” she’d said. I was glad that I’d won the floor. I rose now and rolled up the shades on both bedroom windows so we could watch for the dawn. Then I sat cross-legged on my mattress looking up at Jim.

“What do you see in your nightmares?” I asked. He shook his head, reluctant to reply. “Jim, I saw the same things you did during the war. I helped care for bombing victims in Mortsel. And I wasn’t just a nurse in Buchenwald; I lived there. I understand why you can’t talk about these things with your parents, but you can talk about them with me.”

“Then you’ll relive them, too.”

“I already do. Every day and every night. I wonder, sometimes, if they will ever go away. But when we sat on your porch yesterday, and I told my story to your mother . . . I can’t explain why, but it did seem to help. I think if we keep holding all the poison inside us, it will kill us. An infected wound has to be lanced and cleansed or it will never heal. That’s a very painful process, but you know how necessary it is.”