Long Way Home(74)

I tore up the pharmacy application when I got home and hugged Buster. “It’s going to be okay,” I told him. “I’ll start looking for a place for us to live.” I wanted to thank Joe, but I wasn’t surprised when he didn’t return home after the memorial service.

I went to work at the clinic the next morning, and Mr. Barnett showed me some of the tasks I would be doing from now on, like keeping patients’ records and sterilizing glass syringes and needles. A local farmer brought in his dog who had tangled with a porcupine, and Mr. Barnett showed me how to remove the quills from the poor dog’s snout. We talked about Jimmy as we worked, and he agreed that it had been an encouraging sign when Jimmy had chatted with his friends yesterday.

“Keep doing what you’re doing with all the letters from his buddies, Peggy. I think it’s working.”

I went home for lunch at noon and found Joe in the garage with Pop. “I have a job!” I announced. “A full-time one! And I have you to thank for it, Joe.”

“At the drugstore?” Pop asked.

“Forget the drugstore,” I said. “Mr. Barnett hired me to work at the clinic full-time. I’m now his veterinary assistant.” Nothing could dent my happiness, not even Donna, who marched out of the office as if headed into battle.

“Did I hear right?” she asked. “You gave up the chance for a nice, respectable job at the drugstore for . . . for that?” She gestured toward the clinic across the street.

“Gladly!”

“You’ve been his servant long enough, Peggy, doing all his dirty work.”

“I love what I do.”

“You love shoveling horse manure?”

“I do more than that. I delivered a foal the other day. And it was a difficult birth.”

“Can’t you see how those people have used you all these years?”

“No. That’s not what I see at all.” She would never understand, so there was no point in trying to explain it to her. “I’ll be moving out as soon as I find a place,” I said. I turned away with Buster at my heels and headed toward the apartment to fix lunch. From now on, I would pack my lunch in the morning and eat it among friends. I was almost to the stairs when I heard Joe calling my name.

“Peggy! Wait up!” I halted so he could catch up with me. “Hey, don’t listen to that old bat. You do what your heart tells you to do, okay?”

“Thanks, Joe,” I said, smiling. “And thanks for talking to Mr. Barnett for me. You’re my hero!” He laughed as I gave him a hug.

“Hey, it was nothing. Remember how you asked what I liked about being a firefighter? Well, the best part of all was rescuing people.”





18


Gisela





MAY 1943

A month after Mortsel was destroyed, I received a letter from the nursing school in Antwerp. I held my breath as I tore open the envelope. Inside was a handwritten note from Sister Veronica.

Dear Gisela,

I’m afraid I have difficult news. I contacted Father Damien, the priest from the parish near your parents’ apartment, and asked him to try to find the answers to your questions. He talked to your former landlord, who relayed some of the tragic news. I’m very sorry to tell you that your father was too ill to go into hiding or to survive deportation to a labor camp. Your mother wouldn’t leave his side. Before the Nazis raided the building to take everyone away, your parents chose to die together, rather than allow the Nazis to take their lives. I am so very sorry. You will be in my prayers.

Sister Veronica

I felt too stunned to cry. It didn’t seem real. How could I accept such terrible news? And how would I ever tell Ruthie? Why hadn’t Sam helped them or insisted that my mother escape? It wasn’t like Sam to allow this to happen—unless something had happened to him as well. I closed my eyes and finally let my tears fall, remembering how hopeful we had all felt as we’d stood on the deck of the St. Louis in the tropical heat, gazing at Havana in the distance. We’d ridden high on that wave of hope, but like a ship in a storm-tossed sea, our hope had sunk when the St. Louis had been forced to return to Europe. Hope had risen again when we’d landed in Belgium, then sunk when the Nazis invaded. Now I was drowning in a tidal wave of grief. I vowed never to allow my hopes to rise again.

Of course, I knew I had to go on living. Unless I wanted to give up like my parents or let despair send me overboard like Max Loewe, I had to continue getting out of bed every morning and putting one foot in front of the other. If Sister Veronica had told me that Sam had been taken away on the transports or had died with the Resistance fighters, I would have had no reason to continue living. But she hadn’t. She had said nothing at all about Sam. And I still had Ruthie.

*

Months passed, and then one day I was surprised to realize that nearly a year had slipped by since I’d last seen Ruthie. I had been mailing a letter to her every week, hoping Sister Marie was giving them to her, never knowing if she had. Then in the spring of 1944, I received a note from Sister Marie, asking me to come to the orphanage. I remembered how thin and fragile Ruthie had looked and I feared the worst. I went as soon as I could.

Mortsel was still in ruins. The horror of that day came rushing back to me as I walked through what remained of the town. There had been bombing raids near other Belgian cities and towns since then, and we’d treated many civilian casualties in our hospital. But nothing had been as disastrous as the bombing of that village last April.