Long Way Home(32)
“Hey, I could use a smoke,” Joe said. “I think I’ll step outside, if you don’t mind.” The kitchen was quiet for a moment after the door closed. I could hear a vacuum cleaner running upstairs.
“Anyway,” the chaplain said, gathering himself. “The Nazis made their big counteroffensive that winter, and every available man was called in to fight them. Jim and I got separated, and I don’t recall running into him again after that.”
“I have the letters he sent home,” I said. “He fought in what the newspapers called the Battle of the Bulge, I think.”
Chaplain Bill stared off into the distance as if lost in his thoughts. Then he sighed and turned to me again. “Can I be honest with you, Miss Serrano? I don’t think I will be much help to Jim. Oh, I’ll be more than happy to drive over and visit him, but as far as offering spiritual help? I’m not your man. I mean, where was God when the world was burning and millions of innocent people were suffering and dying? How could He—?” Bill stopped and tugged at his clerical collar as if it was choking him. I waited, like Jimmy always did, in case he wanted to say more. “I’ve decided to set aside this collar for a while. I’m not the spiritual leader my church needs. I guess you could say I have a lot of questions for God right now, and so I’ve written my resignation. My wife isn’t very happy with my decision. She says I’m not the same man she married, and I guess she’s right.” He gave a nervous laugh, and I felt so sorry for him that I wanted to hug him. “Did you have any more questions for me? I don’t think I’ve been much help.”
“You’ve been a huge help. I know now that Jimmy was still his old self before that last winter of the war. But listen, do you think you can help me get in touch with some of the other men he fought alongside? I’m hoping that they’ll supply a few more pieces of his story. If I knew their addresses, I could write to them.”
He brightened. “Sure, I could help you with that. I’ll contact our company commander.”
“That would be wonderful! Jimmy’s two closest friends were Mitch O’Hara and another medic named Frank Cishek.”
“Frank Cishek. That name seems familiar for some reason. Let me write this down.”
“I would especially like to contact those two men. And also, any soldiers like Joe Fiore who give Jimmy credit for saving their lives. I think it would encourage Jimmy if they wrote to him and sent pictures of their families so he would know how many people he helped.”
Chaplain Bill fetched a pen and notepad from the telephone stand to copy down the names. I told him where the VA hospital was and that visiting hours were on Sunday. He promised to come next Sunday after his church service. I got out my little camera—a graduation present from Mr. and Mrs. Barnett—and asked Chaplain Bill if he would let me take his picture for the album I wanted to make for Jimmy. Then I wrote my name, address, and telephone number on the pad for him. “One more thing,” I said, pulling Gisela’s picture from my bag. “Do you know anything about this woman? Her name is Gisela. Was she one of the nurses Jimmy worked with, maybe?”
He studied the photo, rubbing his forehead as if concentrating. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before. Her name sounds foreign though, doesn’t it?” He handed back the picture.
I left feeling hopeful that he would do whatever he could to help Jimmy. But I also left Connecticut with a deep ache in my heart for Chaplain Bill.
8
Gisela
JUNE 1939
Sam and I spent much of our time gazing out at the endless expanse of ocean every day and wondering what would become of us. There were no signs of life beyond our ship, not even a bird in the sky, and the emptiness emphasized how abandoned and homeless we felt. We sailed for nearly a week after learning that the St. Louis was headed back to Europe, without any idea where we were going to land. Sam said prayers with his brothers, Vati, and the other men every day at sunrise and sunset, pleading with God for help. The passenger committee asked all of us for donations to help pay for the countless telegrams they were sending around the world from the ship’s radio room, pleading for help. The strain wore everyone down until we were drowning in despair. Captain Schroeder tried to toss us a life ring, addressing us in the social hall on Friday afternoon before Shabbat. “Whatever happens, you will not be returned to Germany,” he promised. It was enough to keep most of us treading water for a few more days. Saturday would mark exactly four weeks to the day since we’d set sail from Hamburg. Four weeks! And now we were nearing Europe once again.
Four more long, stressful days passed. On Wednesday, June 14, we were summoned into the social hall at 10 a.m. for a meeting. Captain Schroeder watched in silence as Herr Joseph from the passenger committee read the telegram that they had received:
Final arrangements for disembarkation all passengers complete. Governments of Belgium, Holland, France, and England cooperated magnificently with American Joint Distribution Committee to effect this possibility.
Our ship could land at last! We would be welcome in those four countries. Cheers and cries of joy erupted all over the hall. I huddled with my family as we wept and laughed and hugged each other. Sam’s family did the same. Herr Joseph waited for silence, then thanked Captain Schroeder on our behalf for keeping his promise. The St. Louis would be landing in Antwerp, Belgium, on Saturday, June 17, and we would be disembarking at last to be dispersed to our new host nations. We celebrated with a huge party in the social hall that night. Everyone rejoiced. I danced in Sam’s arms until the band finally put away their instruments and went to bed. Our prayers had been answered.