Long Way Home(43)

Three children who lived on the first floor came out of their apartment just then and started playing a game of tag on the steps, running up and down and jostling us as they passed. “We have no privacy anymore,” I lamented. “Remember our special place beneath the lifeboats on board the St. Louis? And now with you being gone . . . I don’t want us to grow apart.”

“That will never happen, Gisela. We may not be together as much as we’d like, and we may even become separated in the future—”

“God forbid!” I said, holding him tighter.

“But no matter what happens, our hearts are one. Your soul and mine are fused together, and nothing and no one will ever keep us apart.”

“My parents’ families have all been scattered,” I said, remembering my aunts and uncles, “and yours has been, too. That’s what I fear the most, Sam—that we’ll become separated and we won’t be able to find each other again. The world is such a huge place, and it seems like everywhere we turn for help, people hate us.”

He released me and took my face in his hands, our foreheads touching, his breath skimming my skin. “I’ll find you, Gisela. If it takes the rest of my life, I’ll find you. Let’s promise that we’ll never stop searching for each other. Promise?”

“I promise,” I whispered. Sam ignored the squealing children and sealed our pledge with a kiss.





11


Peggy





JULY 1946

The week stretching ahead of me, until I would be able to visit Jimmy again on Sunday, seemed very long. Donna didn’t want my help or advice in Pop’s office, so I spent a lot of time across the street with the animals or visiting with Jimmy’s mother or sometimes sitting alone in my room with Buster, talking to God the way Jimmy taught me to do. I told Him that it seemed like Jimmy would take tiny steps forward each week, responding to people and to Buster, but then he would forget all about us a week later after his shock treatments. I worried that the electric shocks were hurting him, not helping him. Dr. Morgan said he was no closer to coming home. Chaplain Bill had promised to send me the addresses of Jimmy’s friends, but I hadn’t heard from him. I had counted on Joe Fiore for help, but he’d vanished, and I was beginning to think that my crazy idea of writing to Jimmy’s friends was a dumb one. What made me think I could do any good if the doctors couldn’t? And on top of all that, I was no closer to figuring out my own future. “I could really use some help here, God,” I muttered aloud.

I decided to take Buster for a ride into the countryside to cool off on Wednesday afternoon. Maybe we’d stop by the bridge on the way home so he could splash in the river’s rocky shallows. I checked the mailbox one last time before leaving—and there was a letter from Chaplain Bill! I hurried around to the backyard, tearing open the envelope as I went, and sat down on the rickety chair to read it.

Dear Miss Serrano,

I’ve been thinking about your wise words to me when we spoke at the hospital last Sunday, and I was reminded of the book of Job in the Bible. Job suffered unimaginable losses, and the friends who came to visit him thought they had to have answers for him. They tried to explain why God had allowed Job to suffer, but all of their pious explanations were flat-out wrong. The best thing they could have done—the only thing they should have done—was sit with him and mourn with him. God’s reply to all of their wrong-minded reasoning was that we can’t possibly understand what God is doing. His ways are beyond understanding. But we do know that He loves us and that we can trust Him. I have a meeting with the church consistory this afternoon, and I’ve decided to rethink my resignation. Thank you for helping me reach this decision. You were a godsend.

Enclosed is the address for one of the men you mentioned, Frank Cishek, who lives in Milford, Pennsylvania. He gave his address to me right after we were discharged and said that since we didn’t live very far away from each other, we should get together sometime. We haven’t managed to do that yet, but maybe he and I can visit Jim together one of these days.

I’ve contacted the Army asking for the addresses you requested, and I’ll be in touch again as soon as they send them to me. I would like to help you write letters to all of these men, if you’ll allow me to. I think your idea is a wonderful one and that it will be a great encouragement to Jim. Perhaps we can also ask the men who live far away to send photographs to help jog Jim’s memory. Let me know what you think.

Thank you again, Miss Serrano, for helping me get back on track.

Sincerely,

Reverend Bill

I read Bill’s letter a second time and then a third, unable to stop smiling. I couldn’t decide which was the best news—that Chaplain Bill wasn’t quitting after all or that he thought my idea was wonderful and was going to help me or that Frank Cishek lived only fifty miles or so away from me. I was trying to decide when I heard the rumble of a motorcycle coming up the road. It stopped out front, revving the engine twice before shutting off. I leaped up and hurried around to the front of the garage with Buster. And there was Joe. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to hug him and tell him how happy I was to see him because now I wouldn’t have to visit Frank Cishek by myself, but Joe spoke first.

“Hey, sorry for taking off without saying goodbye, but I had to clear my head, you know? I hope your pop isn’t mad at me or anything.”