Long Way Home(51)

“Gisela, listen.” He waited for our neighbor to brush past us and hurry down to the foyer before holding my shoulders and looking into my eyes. “There are two things I want for you, my love, and they are more important to me than anything else. First, that you finish your education. I’ve seen how much you’ve enjoyed your classes, and I know you’ll make an outstanding nurse. And second, I want you to be safe. The Nazis could burst into our apartments at any time and do whatever they want with us. You’re being offered a safe place to live and study, and I want you to take it. I’m sure your parents will want that for you, too.”

“But you and I have never been apart for more than a week since we first met on the St. Louis and—”

He pulled me into his embrace. “We’ll figure out a way to see each other, I promise. Accept their offer, Gisela.”

We were still talking on the landing when another neighbor burst through the front door bringing a gust of wintry wind with him. “Have you heard the news?” he asked breathlessly as he hurried up the stairs.

“What news?” Sam asked.

“The Japanese attacked the United States. They destroyed one of their military bases in Hawaii and sank all their ships. The Americans have declared war. They’re joining our fight at last!”

Could it really be true? Sam and I hurried inside to tell Vati the terrible, wonderful news.





13


Peggy





JULY 1946

Before church on Sunday, I picked a handful of the wild daisies that were blooming among the weeds and rusted cars in our backyard and laid the bouquet on my mother’s grave in the churchyard. I hadn’t seen Pop visit the grave since Mama’s funeral, nor had he purchased a headstone. A flat iron marker, nearly buried in the wiry grass, told me where Mama and our baby had been laid to rest. Maybe Pop, like a lot of other people, didn’t like visiting cemeteries because they raised so many questions about life and what happened after death. And maybe that was why this cemetery and so many others were in churchyards—so we’d have a nearby reminder of heaven and God and the promised afterlife.

This church, which I’d been attending ever since Mrs. Barnett invited me years ago, was a neat white clapboard building that seemed to point to heaven like a beacon. Arched stained-glass windows in the front and along both sides curved to a point on top like an invitation to look up. Smaller arched windows above the doors also pointed up. Even the steep, peaked roof gestured to the sky. And the glorious bell tower, housing bells that were now clanging their Sunday morning invitation, was topped with a tall, central spire along with two smaller spires for good measure. Every week, the architecture reminded parishioners of the promise of heaven.

I remembered how hard it had been to carry my grief after Mama and our baby died. I had stumbled through the flat, lonely days all alone until Buster came along to console me. Jimmy probably mourned for Mitch and countless other friends who had died in the war, but who had consoled him? I could come to the cemetery to grieve and lay flowers, but he had no place to lay his grief. It suddenly occurred to me that Jimmy had tried to kill himself on May 30—Decoration Day. Several young men who had died in the war had been honored with a small ceremony in this cemetery that day. Jimmy might have known them.

Decoration Day had been mild enough for me to open our windows. I’d heard the drum cadence, carried on a breeze as mourners walked to the cemetery. A bugler had played taps. There’d been a military salute with gunfire. And less than an hour later, I’d heard sirens as the volunteer ambulance corps arrived across the street.

Now, all of these thoughts distracted me from the Sunday service. I couldn’t have said what the sermon had been about. I nearly walked straight past the horse trainer from Blue Fence Farms, standing alone outside the church. It would be rude to ignore him a second time, especially since no one else seemed to have noticed him. I pushed past my shyness and greeted him, knowing it was what Jimmy would have done. “Good morning, Mr. Dixon.”

“It is a great morning, isn’t it? How are you today, Miss Serrano?”

“You can call me Peggy. And . . . and I’m fine, thank you.” But obviously terrible at making small talk.

“I hope you’ll call me Paul. Mr. Dixon is my father, who, by the way, doesn’t know the front end of a horse from the rear.” He grinned and so did I, but my smile didn’t last long as my thoughts returned to Jimmy. I didn’t know what else to say, so I waited to see if Mr. Dixon—Paul—could think of something. He was gazing out at the view of the distant mountains, turning the brim of his Sunday hat around and around in his hands. “This is such a pretty little valley,” he finally said. “I could look at those mountains all day. But I suppose people who’ve lived here all their lives don’t even notice them anymore.”

“I do. I notice them. And I’ve lived here all my life.”

“Someone told me I should drive up to the hairpin turn and the lookout to see the view from the top.”

“You should. I love it up there.” Did that sound like I wanted him to invite me along? Why hadn’t I just kept quiet? “I-I’m sorry to rush off again, Mr. Dixon—”

“Paul.”

“Yes. Paul. But I’m on my way to visit a friend in the hospital and . . .”