“And I love you, Kitty.”
He ran to the end of a line of marines waiting to board ship. Ignoring an officer, she ran over to him. She pulled a daisy from her hat. “Here, to remember me by.”
He smiled as he opened his jacket. Next to his heart was a dried daisy wrapped in a small piece of cloth, to which he added the daisy from her hat.
“Could that be…?”
He nodded. “That’s the daisy you picked for me the day I told you I loved you.”
“Oh, my darling.”
She flung her arms around him, and he picked her up off the ground. They clung to each other fiercely until the line began to move.
“I must go,” he said, setting her down.
She crossed her heart. “You will be here, as you always have been. Godspeed.”
She watched until he was out of sight, then walked to the far end of the pier to get as good a view of the ship’s rails as she could. She scanned them diligently, but with a thousand men crowded there, she could see neither Vittorio nor Charles.
She waited until the ship sailed from the harbor, until it became a tiny speck on the horizon, a floating city she couldn’t board but which carried her entire life—her husband and the man she loved.
Chapter 41
The daily details and shipboard maneuvers helped the time pass on the mammoth ship that carried Vittorio and Charles to war. With thousands aboard ship, the two did not cross paths until the end of the voyage.
Both men dutifully performed their assignments; both listened to their shipmates, exuberant in their naïveté, as they sang “Over There” and “Oh, How I Hate to Get Up in the Morning,” and joked about how quickly they would subdue the enemy. Both hoped that the rest of the troops were right, and the war would be over soon.
Both men thought every day of Kitty. Charles missed the domestic routine of Kitty making the morning tea, greeting him at the door in the evening, or combing her hair at night. He missed making love to her in the darkness of their room.
Having seen Kitty again, Vittorio was ecstatic to know she loved him but was beside himself that she belonged to another man.
The men finally saw each other the last day of their voyage, at a prayer ceremony, each man kneeling and praying for a safe return home. Charles noticed Vittorio first, his head bowed, in deep meditation, and experienced a profound jealousy. In the few moments when he’d observed the meeting between his wife and this man, he understood what he had dreaded all along but could not admit, that Kitty had no passion for him. Quite simply, she loved another man, and Charles was looking at him.
Vittorio looked up from his prayer and saw Charles quickly look away. He forced from his mind the thought of Charles and Kitty in bed together, making love; the image brought him intense pain.
“Dear Lord,” he prayed, “thank you for bringing Kitty and me together before I left for war. Though I don’t know if either Charles Lawrence or I will come back, I have hope. I believe you have brought us together so we know our love is still alive. It makes me want her more than ever. I want to come home and make her mine. She belongs with me.”
Alone at home, Kitty spent much of her day thinking of each man. Every evening she wrote two letters, first to Charles, then to Vittorio. Her letters to Charles were light, telling him of her daily life, sprinkled with anecdotes about Doughboy, who was her constant companion, protector, and comfort. She ended every letter telling him she missed him and prayed for his return. She knew she should have written that she loved him, but she could not bring herself to say more than the truth. As she sealed his envelope, she was accosted by guilt. Forced by circumstances, she was, nevertheless, a married woman. Charles more than loved her; he lived for her, yet she couldn’t wait to pour her heart out to another.
Her letters to Vittorio unlocked the passion she felt for him. “I can’t break my vow to Charles,” she wrote, “but I want you to know that I love you, that I never stopped loving you, and that I will love you forever. Like an eclipse, we melted together again after so long a time, and though we may be apart now, I have to believe that someday we will be together again. I live for nothing more than that day.”
Spurred by a desire to help the war effort in some small way, Kitty took Charles’ advice and joined other doctors’ wives in wrapping bandages and knitting socks to send overseas. As they worked together in a hospital basement room, a woman would read a letter from the front or an article in the newspaper, and conversation invariably turned to war. Women shared letters from husbands and sons, knowing that others were hungry for news that might reassure them their loved ones were safe.
“I’ve a letter from my son,” an older woman announced, pulling the letter from her pocket. Kitty and the others stopped chatting and hung on every word.
Dear Mom,
I want you to know I’m fine. The rations are nothing like your home cooking, which I miss a lot. The Red Cross brings us coffee and doughnuts, and the socks you’re knitting for us. They are most welcome.
Kitty and the other women responded with smiles of pride.
I want you to know, Mom, that I was grazed by enemy fire, but I am recovering fine. Don’t worry, I’ll be good as new in a few weeks.
Kitty put her arm around the woman as she faltered over the words “grazed by enemy fire.” It was the disaster she and the others feared. The women reassured each other at the conclusion of the letter, but news of the wounding left them shaken.
Kitty had several letters from both Charles and Vittorio while they were aboard ship, but the letters dropped off once they reached France, and she had not heard from either man in two months, a worry that she coped with alone. Except for Doughboy, who faithfully followed her around the house, it was deadly quiet there. She began to think again of her father and Dermot and decided she would no longer be without them, too.
Kitty began taking driving lessons on Charles’ Ford. “Why didn’t I do this before?” she wondered as she drove around Boston, loving the freedom that driving gave her.
As soon as she was confident about driving, she told the women not to expect her at the hospital for a week or two, piled a suitcase and Doughboy into the car, and headed for New York.
The open road exhilarated Kitty. She loved controlling this powerful machine, feeling the wind in her hair, and watching Doughboy sit proudly beside her tasting the wind in his face. She found a guest house that would take Doughboy, spent the night, and was on the road early the next morning.
Traffic in New York had increased since she’d left. As she wove her way down the streets of lower New York, crowded with vitality, a wave of nostalgia swept over her. This was her home, the home she had known for nineteen years. As she pulled in front of her house, she sat in the car, looking at it. It hadn’t changed, and she was glad it was as she remembered.
“Stay, Doughboy.” She emerged from the car, ran her hand over her hair, and walked up the steps. She was about to ring the bell when the door opened, and Dermot and she nearly collided.
“Dermot!”
Dermot stood there open-mouthed but was about to shout. Kitty put her finger to her lips and then threw her arms around him.
“Dear Dermot,” she crooned.
“I knew you’d come back. I told Papa you would,” he said into her shoulder, keeping his arms folded around her waist. They hugged a long time, recouping lost years in those moments of fierce affection.
“Where’s Papa?” she whispered. Dermot pointed inside. The two of them walked silently. Liam was asleep in a chair, the newspaper fallen at his feet. He had aged since she last saw him. His hair was now completely white, his ruddy cheeks drawn. Even in sleep he looked incredibly tired. On a table next to the chair stood three photographs, one of Maeve, one of Dermot, and one of Kitty. Seeing how her father had aged and noting her photo on the table, she was doubly glad she had come.
“Papa, it’s me, Kitty.”
He opened sleepy eyes, then started. “What…?”
“It’s me,
Kitty.”
“Saints preserve us, you look so much like your mother I thought I’d seen a ghost. Strange, too, I was just dreaming about the two of you.”
“May I sit down?”
“Come, sit down. I hope you can stay for a visit. Dermot misses you so.” He coughed. “I do, too.”
“Oh, Papa.”
Kitty threw her arms around him. “This means so much to me.” He patted her on the back awkwardly until Dermot ran over and hugged them both, and Kitty laughed and cried at the same time.
“Dermot, will you make some tea for us?”
Kitty looked at Dermot, her eyebrows raised.
“I can do it.” His pride showed in his grin.
Liam sat back and surveyed his daughter. “So you’re a married woman, are ye? And—what do they call them?—any bambinos running around?”
“I didn’t marry Vittorio,” she said. “Didn’t you get my letter?”
Liam shifted in his chair and looked away. “I didn’t. Blazes, Kitty, I did get it, but I tore it up without opening it. God forgive me.”
“That’s past now, Papa.”
“What’s this, you didn’t marry Vittorio? He came around after you left, trying to talk to me. I thought after marrying you against my wishes, he wanted to make up. I told him you made your choice and that was it.”
“That explains it.” She sat up stiffly, trying to push back her rising anger. “He thought you meant I had chosen not to marry him.”
“Well, I don’t understand. I hope it’s all for the best. Did you marry a good Irishman?”
“No, Papa.” Seething, she tried to draw a calming breath. “Charles is English.”
“A bloody Englishman!” Liam half lifted himself from the chair, his face a volcano. “You couldn’t have done worse to me. It’s like ye’re driving a knife into me heart.” He began to cough convulsively.
His hatred infuriated Kitty. She took time to calm herself, then spoke slowly and deliberately. “Be quiet now, Papa, and listen to me. If you don’t let me speak, I’ll never come back. I promise you, you’ll have seen the last of your daughter.”
He looked at her wide-eyed, and a cough died in his throat. They had argued many times before, but her quiet determination shocked him. He nodded and sat back.
He hung on her every word, groaning and covering his face with his hands when she told of her months in the hospital alone, not knowing who she was.
“You see,” she said, “Vittorio came here to speak to you because he didn’t know where I was, and from your answer, he assumed I had chosen not to marry him. When I finally recovered, I looked for Vittorio, but he had moved to Boston, and an old landlady mistakenly told me he had married someone else. I had to marry Charles. I had nowhere to turn. I couldn’t marry Vittorio, I thought, and I couldn’t come home.”
Liam sank deeper into his chair.
“He saved my life. I owed that much to him. If it weren’t for an Englishman, I wouldn’t be alive today.”
The blood drained from Liam’s cheeks as he listened to her. “Good Lord, forgive me. Maeve in heaven, forgive me. Kitty, my only daughter, can you ever forgive me? I don’t deserve it, but can you find it in your heart? I never meant to cause you such pain.”
She rose from the sofa to go to him. “No, no,” he said with a wave of his hand, struggling to rise from his chair. They stood facing each other for a moment before he bent and kissed her hand.
“Papa, of course I forgive you.”
Tears filled his eyes, and he brushed them away. “ I don’t deserve a daughter like you.” They stood there, their arms around each other, until Dermot came into the parlor, juggling three cups of tea on a tray.
“Look, Kitty,” he said, holding up the tray to show her.
“Oh, Dermot, you’re wonderful.” She took the tray from him and set it on the table.
“Will you stay with us?” Dermot asked.
Kitty looked at her father.
“Please,” he said.
“In that case”—she grinned—“I’d love to. I have my suitcase in the car.”
“Please, will you take us for a ride?” Dermot bounced on the sofa in anticipation.
“First I want to taste your tea, Dermot. Then I want to show you my dog, Doughboy.”
“A dog!” Dermot’s excitement rose.
“And then”—she paused for effect—“let’s hit the open road, us and Doughboy, too.” She joined Dermot in bouncing on the sofa until they collapsed in each other’s arms.
****
Vittorio saw no more of Charles once they landed in France. As part of the First Division, he was transported by railroad and truck to Cantigny, a well-fortified village that the Germans held and used as an observation point. His division was to launch an offensive and take back the village. They were short on arms and ammunition, and the men waited for days for a delivery of French rifles. In the meantime, Vittorio and the men dug trenches. He worked all day, after breakfast at sunup until the light faded, when he fell bone tired into the trench to sleep. While they waited and worked, the men traded stories and shared their lives.
Vittorio developed a friendship with a big Pole named Stan Wisneski and a burly Irishman, Robert Buckley. They joked to pass the time as they labored during the day, and in the darkness of the trenches, they shared stories of their families, their loves, and their dreams.
“Get up, Rossi, this is it.” Wisneski gave him a poke in the ribs, jolting him awake. Vittorio strapped on his backpack and scrambled out of the trench to report to his commanding officer.
“The Germans have themselves well fortified,” he said, standing before a thousand or more men, “but we have the manpower and the knowhow to overrun them. Let’s show them that the Americans can fight.” That became the rallying cry, passed from one to another. “We’ll give them what for.” “Let’s show them Yankee power.” “Never met a German we couldn’t whip.”
The enthusiasm carried the troops as they moved from one line of trenches to another, then finally toward the hilltop town, under heavy fire from the entrenched German troops.
With sheer determination, Vittorio and his two friends swept up the hill, staying low, sometimes crawling on their bellies, shuddering at blasts from the howitzers and explosives that competed for brilliance with the rising sun.
Vittorio had not imagined the sound of battle, the shouts of the men, the cries of the wounded, the screams of artillery, the blasts of explosives. It was a bizarre symphony of man on man, a terrifying cacophony of life fleeing death.
Reaching the village, they tore for cover, down alleys and into buildings, only to meet the enemy there, hand to hand, to kill or be killed.
After a day’s fighting, an unsettling quiet descended on the village. Vittorio and his friends cautiously reconnoitered to meet up with other Americans, greeting each other with joyous handshakes and pats on the back, thankful to be alive, averting their eyes from the corpses, German and American, that lay, unseeing, in the street. The men rested in groups, sitting on the ground, their backs propped up against the empty homes.
“We did it, eh, Vittorio?” Robert Buckley’s toothy white grin lit up his soot-blackened face.
.”I don’t know.” Vittorio felt the silence ominous. “Maybe they’ll regroup and come back.”
Wisneski shook his head. “There were a lot of them. A hell of a lot.” They fell silent until Wisneski stood up. “Don’t feel right about this. I’m taking a look.” He walked to the end of the building and, his hand shading his eyes, looked down the cobblestone street. Vittorio would long remember him standing tall, silhouetted against the setting sun. A shot rang out, and Wisneski lurched forward, his body crumpling as he fell. The single shot was followed by a fusillade.
Vittorio and Buckley raced toward their fallen comrade. A rain of shells made them fall to their bellies, but Vittorio had to reach his friend to save him if he was alive. He was the first to scramble to Wisneski. He fell to his knees to grab him under the a
rms. A mortar exploded ten yards from him, a hellfire red, spewing earth, bricks, and rocks as deadly projectiles. Buckley remembered the flash and the ferocious heat—like hell, he thought, as his body was thrown to safety. Vittorio saw none of it. His world instantly went black.
****
“Where will I sleep?” Dermot asked Kitty as she helped him pack for the trip to Boston. “You’ll have your choice of two guest rooms, but I bet you’ll choose the one with the birch tree outside the window. A beautiful family of birds built a nest in the crook of the tree, and you can almost reach out and touch them from your window.”
“I want that one.” Dermot grinned in anticipation.
After a week’s stay in New York, Kitty was anxious to go back, hoping to find letters from the front. They piled into the Ford, her father next to her and Dermot in the back with Doughboy, who had immediately taken to her brother.
As they pulled up to her home in Boston, her father gazed at its graceful lines—to him, it was a mansion. “Kitty, this is your home?”
“Yes, Papa, but let’s not stand around outside. Let me show you everything.”
As they settled into their rooms, she ran through the mail. Her heart quickened when she saw two letters, one from each man. Her father walked down the stairs unnoticed as she tore open the letter from Vittorio.
My dearest Kitty,
We have just arrived in France and have a few moments to rest before beginning our assignments. The trip over was fine. Everyone is confident that we can finish this war quickly and get home. Our men have such spirit. How is it that we are originally from Poland and Ireland and Italy and England and who knows where else, but we all have the same spirit? No matter who we were, we are Americans now. We will make short work of the Germans, and then I will come home to you.
I know what you are saying, that you are married. I do not know how we’ll be together, but we will. I love you more than ever. I hate the fact that you are married to another man, but I understand why. I ache for the time you were in the hospital and I wasn’t there for you. I never want to be apart from you again. I love you so.
Choices of the Heart Page 27