Long Way Home(65)
“I didn’t mind going. And yes, everything went fine. I was able to help one of the mares who was having a difficult labor.”
She gave me the hug I’d been longing for, and we sat down at the kitchen table to open the letters. One of them was from Chaplain Bill, who’d sent a new batch of addresses. He also explained the plans for Mitch O’Hara’s memorial service, which were taking shape. Mitch’s family lived in a small town outside of Binghamton, only a few hours’ drive from here. All we needed, Bill said, was permission for Jimmy to be released for a day so he could attend.
Another letter was from Dr. Morton Greenberg, who turned out to be one of the doctors Jimmy had worked alongside in Bastogne. In short, concise sentences, he wrote about their experiences there and how the tragedy had affected him. He urged Jimmy not to let the war destroy his faith in God or mankind. “Maybe Dr. Greenberg remembers the name of the Belgian nurse who was killed when the aid station was bombed,” I said when I finished reading. “Maybe she was Gisela.”
“The mystery woman in the photograph?” Mrs. Barnett asked.
“Yes. So far, none of Jimmy’s friends has recognized her. But if Gisela is that nurse, maybe we can hold a memorial service for her at the same time that we honor Mitch.”
According to the letterhead on the doctor’s stationery, his medical practice was in Bergenfield, New Jersey. I wanted answers, and waiting to send and receive another letter from him would take too long. “Do you know where Bergenfield, New Jersey, is, Mrs. Barnett? Maybe Joe and I could drive there tomorrow.”
“Gordon keeps some road maps here in the junk drawer,” she replied. She stood to dig through it and found one for New Jersey. We unfolded it and spread it out on the table. Bergenfield was about seventy miles away.
“May I borrow this map?” I asked.
“Certainly.” We were trying to refold it and laughing about how impossible it was to get it flat again, when Mr. Barnett arrived home.
“Thanks again for helping today, Peggy. Very well-done! Paul Dixon was impressed with your skill.”
“I learned from the best,” I said, smiling at him. “And I’m glad to help, anytime.” We chatted for a few minutes and Mrs. Barnett told him about Chaplain Bill’s plans for the memorial service.
“We need to get permission for Jimmy to leave the hospital for a day,” I added. “Do you think that’s possible?”
“I’ll call Dr. Morgan today and ask for an appointment. He never gave us a follow-up report after starting the shock treatments. If you’re able to come with Martha and me, you can explain about the memorial service.”
The thought of explaining anything to the fearsome Dr. Morgan gave me the willies, but I nodded and said, “I’ll be happy to come.”
I pulled Joe aside to talk in private when I got home, and he agreed to take me to New Jersey on his motorcycle tomorrow. We would sneak away early so I could avoid an argument with Donna. The job at the pharmacy could wait one more day.
*
Riding seventy miles on the back of Joe’s motorcycle left me jangled and stressed. But I never would have gotten past the busy doctor’s receptionist without Joe. He could talk the apples right off the tree with his charm and good looks, and he convinced the fluttery young schedule keeper to sneak us in for a quick chat between patients.
Dr. Greenberg was older than I’d expected, in his forties I guessed, with alert brown eyes and thick black hair that he combed straight back. He and Joe had never met, but as soon as I mentioned Corporal Jim Barnett, he gave us his full attention. “How is Jim doing?”
“He isn’t any better, I’m afraid. Thank you for writing to him. We came today because you mentioned working with Jimmy in Bastogne. Another medic told us there were two Belgian nurses who volunteered there and that one of them was killed.”
“Yes. A terrible tragedy.”
“I wondered if you remembered that nurse’s name? The reason I’m asking is because Jimmy carried this picture in his rucksack and we’re trying to figure out who she is and if she played a part in his breakdown.” I took it from my bag and showed it to him. He put on a pair of dark-framed glasses and took his time studying it. I could tell he was searching his memory.
“I don’t think I recognize her. I’m sorry. Those were long, desperate days, so it’s hard to remember many details. But I don’t think this is the nurse we worked with.” He handed it back and removed his glasses.
“It says on the back that her name is Gisela.”
He slowly shook his head as he thought about it some more, then suddenly said, “Renée! The Belgian nurse’s name was Renée. I remember now. The soldiers gave her a parachute to use for a wedding gown.”
I had reached another dead end in my search for Gisela. We thanked the doctor for his time, and he let me take his picture for Jimmy’s scrapbook. I was about to leave when I turned back and said, “May I ask you one more question? You saw the same things that Jimmy did day after day—how were you able to get past the war and resume your life again? Because Jimmy hasn’t been able to do that.”
Again, he took a moment to reply. “It helped that I had a job and a family waiting for me back home. Both required my full attention and didn’t leave me much time to contemplate the horrors I’d seen. I’d also had the unfortunate experience of losing patients before the war. It never gets easy, but it destroys any illusions one has about the permanence of life and the finality of death. Jim may not have been prepared for those lessons.”