Long Way Home(61)

“I hope you won’t feel that we’re insulting your faith or your religion, but to safeguard your new identities, Sister Veronica believes it would be best if you attended Mass with the other nurses and pretended to be Catholic. And, Ruthie, the orphanage and girls’ school where you’ll be hiding is run by Catholic sisters, like me.”

Ruthie looked up at me and I saw her alarm. “She’s right, Ruthie,” I said. “We have to do whatever we can to blend in.”

Sister Mary Margaret gave me a prayer book and a set of rosary beads and spent a few minutes teaching us how to make the sign of the cross and other things we would need to know. “I’m sorry to say that your survival depends on your ability to look and act like Christians. You won’t need to go to confession or partake of the sacraments,” she said. “Just kneel quietly and pray. You should probably memorize our Lord’s Prayer, too. It’s here in the prayer book.”

She showed me where to find it and I read the words silently: “Our Father which art in heaven . . . Thy will be done . . . Give us this day our daily bread . . . Deliver us from evil . . .” They were words that a Jew could pray—and perhaps I would have, if I hadn’t been so upset and confused by what God was doing. And not doing.

“It may also help you to know,” Sister Mary Margaret said as we neared our destination, “that Jesus, the man you see dying on the crucifix, is Jewish like you. He was also persecuted, even though He was innocent.”

The orphanage seemed like a lively place, with girls in clean uniforms laughing and skipping in the hallways. The head nun showed Ruthie her bed in the dormitory and the matron found a uniform that would fit her.

When it was time for me to go, Ruthie clung to me, sobbing her heart out. “Don’t leave me here all alone! Please, Gisela!”

I thought my own heart would break. “You know I would never leave you if there was any other way to keep you safe,” I told her. “I’ll figure out a way to visit you whenever I can. In the meantime, I need you to keep this for me. It belonged to Mutti’s grandmother.” I took off the string of pearls that Mutti had given me for my sixteenth birthday—the day our world began unraveling—and gave them to her. “They’ll remind you of Oma and Mutti and me. We owe it to them to stay alive.”

Ruthie looked so forlorn as she stood on the orphanage’s steps, weeping and waving goodbye, that I nearly changed my mind about leaving her. We were both alone now.

*

On a November day soon after I had turned twenty years old, I happened to notice the newspaper headlines on my way to the hospital. The Nazis had captured and executed eight members of the Resistance movement in Antwerp.

I stumbled into the hospital chapel and knelt to pray for these eight men. And for Sam. I couldn’t pray, “Thy will be done.” But my unending prayer for all of us was “Deliver us from evil . . .”





15


Peggy





JULY 1946

The letters and pictures from Jimmy’s Army buddies started arriving in the mail. Mrs. Barnett and I read them together every day as we sat at her kitchen table and drank coffee. Some of the letters made us cry. “Is this too hard for you, Mrs. B.?” I asked.

She pulled a hankie from her apron pocket and wiped her eyes. “It is hard. But at the same time, it helps to hear how much good Jimmy did during the war. How much he meant to all of these men. It’s just that . . . I want my son back.”

“I know. We all do.”

I chose portions of three letters that I wanted to read to him when I visited on Sunday, and hoped he would read the others himself. I had purchased a photograph album when I got my roll of film developed, and I stayed up late on Saturday night to create a scrapbook, using little black corners to hold the pictures in place and writing captions on the black pages with white ink.

It was raining when I woke up on Sunday morning, and that gave me an idea. After church, I knocked on the door of Pop’s office where Joe was sleeping. I hated to wake him, but I figured he owed me for all the times he woke me up with his nightmares. Buster solved the problem by squeezing past me through the door and licking Joe’s face. Joe groaned and wiped his cheek, then opened his eyes as I grabbed Buster’s collar and pulled him away.

“I’m sorry for waking you up, Joe, but—”

“What time is it?” He sounded groggy. The office smelled terrible, with the combined stench of Donna’s cigarettes and Joe’s sweat and alcohol. It was hot in the office, and Joe had been sleeping in his clothes.

“It’s past noon. Listen, I’m going to visit Jimmy today and I need your help. I know it’s hard for you to go back to the hospital, but you won’t have to go inside. I promise.”

He sat up and ran his fingers through his dark hair, then scratched the shadow of dark stubble on his face. “What do you need me to do?”

“I want to take Buster to visit Jimmy again. He was so happy to see Buster the last time, remember? Anyway, it’s raining today, so I’m hoping that none of the orderlies will want to go outside. I’ll take Jimmy out to one of the benches with an umbrella. Meanwhile, you can sneak around the long way with Buster. Hopefully, no one will see us.”

I made coffee while Joe shaved and changed his clothes and swallowed some aspirin. I listened to the sound of the wipers swishing and Joe’s gentle snores as I drove, all the while doubting myself. Was I doing the right thing? Was I really helping Jimmy? Or would reliving the war through his friends’ letters make matters worse?