Long Way Home(39)

“A pastor is supposed to speak for God,” he said. “And to God. I can’t seem to do either.”

“I can see how much the war affected you. You and Joe and Jimmy—it seems like your souls are filled with grief. I felt that way once, after my mama died. I was eleven years old and my pop started drinking a lot, and I felt all alone. I could have used somebody to talk to who understood my grief. I’ll bet there are kids in your church who’ve lost their fathers in the war. Maybe some wives who’ve lost their husbands, too. And parents like Jimmy’s who are all torn up inside. Everyone is hurting in big ways and small ways, and we need someone who understands and who will pray with us and cry with us. Please don’t desert them, Bill. They need you now more than ever.”

“But that’s the problem, Miss Serrano. People come to me every day asking how God could have allowed so much death and sorrow and destruction, and I don’t have any answers for them.”

“Maybe you don’t need to have answers. I mean, I’m no expert with things like this, but . . . maybe you could just listen to people and cry with them and admit that you’re hurting, too. That’s what Jimmy always did best—he just listened. And that helped me more than anything else.”

Bill was quiet for a long moment, staring at his shiny black shoes. “You’re right about Jim,” he finally said, his voice soft. “That’s why everyone always turned to him. He listened to them.”

I pulled a handkerchief from my purse and wiped my eyes. I missed Jimmy so much! If only I could talk to him about Donna and Pop and ask him to help me figure out what I was supposed to do with the rest of my life and where Buster and I were supposed to live. Jimmy was my best friend and I wanted him back. And more than anything else, I wanted to listen to him talk about what was tearing him up inside.

“I think I’m still really angry with God,” Bill said.

“Me, too.” It was the first time I admitted it. I cleared my throat. “But that’s okay. All the people who’ve lost loved ones are probably mad at Him, too, if they’re honest. I’ve been reading the Psalms at night when I can’t sleep, and it sounds like some of those writers were also pretty mad. But they had it out with God and shouted their heads off. Even Jesus felt like God had forsaken Him, remember?”

Bill took my hand and squeezed it for a moment, then stood. “Thank you. You’ve been an enormous help to me.”

The Barnetts and I stayed until visiting hours ended. When we hugged Jimmy goodbye, he embraced us in return. It seemed like a good sign. We were all encouraged when I told them on the way home how Jimmy had thanked me and said my name. But we had also noticed that Jimmy seemed confused and disconnected from us some of the time as if he were sleeping with his eyes open. When his mother talked about home, he’d gazed into the distance as if trying to remember a place he’d once visited a long time ago.

Joe’s motorcycle wasn’t in front of Pop’s garage when we arrived. I hoped he hadn’t gotten lost along the way. I trudged upstairs, my heart heavy with grief for Jimmy and Joe and Chaplain Bill. Donna was getting a beer out of the fridge, and the first thing she said to me was “Did you two have a fight or something?”

“What?” It took me a moment to figure out what she meant. “You mean Joe and me? No. He wanted to leave the hospital before I did, so I rode back with the Barnetts.”

“Well, it sure looks like a fight to me. He came tearing in here without you, packed his bags, said thanks for the beer and everything, then tore out of here before I could blink.”

“So Joe is gone?”

“That’s what I just said, isn’t it? Looks like you missed your chance, Peg.”

Maybe I had, but not in the way Donna meant. Joe seemed like a broken man to me, and I had hoped that by helping Jimmy, he would be able to heal, too. I took Buster into my room and closed the door. It was a long time before I could stop crying.





10


Gisela





MAY 1940

The May morning was still dark when I awoke to an explosion that rattled the windows and shook the room. It was followed by another and another. In between the blasts, I heard a roaring, growling sound that I couldn’t quite place at first. It grew louder, closer. When I realized what it was, my heart seemed to stop beating—the drone of airplanes. Hundreds of them.

Belgium was under attack.

“Oh, God, please . . . no,” I whispered.

Months had passed after France and Britain declared war on Germany last September, and not much had changed for our Jewish community in Belgium, aside from a growing uneasiness about the world situation. We observed Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, and then Sukkot. My family had celebrated my seventeenth birthday in November, but we didn’t speak of the horror of Kristallnacht just one year earlier. In December, every Jewish home lit candles for Hanukkah, brightening the cold, winter nights for eight days.

Then in early April, a month ago, the Nazis surprised the world by invading and occupying Norway and Denmark with the same lightning warfare they’d used when invading Poland. Their tanks and planes had been unstoppable. The Nazis seemed determined to swallow up all of Europe. Even so, Passover brought us the reminder of God’s deliverance from slavery.

We understood firsthand what freedom meant after escaping from Nazi rule, although we would all breathe easier once we were allowed to immigrate to the United States. We were still waiting. In the meantime, I was looking forward to starting nursing school. Sam hadn’t been able to enroll in the university, but he was deep into his Torah and Gemara studies at the synagogue and worked part-time.