by Terrie Todd
“I miss that man, Lord,” she whispered against the cold glass of the window, her breath creating a patch of fog. “You probably already know that, so I may as well admit it. I wish he were here to talk to. But he’s not, and I need your help and guidance. You’ve gotten us this far. Please don’t let them call me to testify, but if they do . . . show me what to say.”
Holy infant, so tender and mild . . .
Again, a picture rose to her mind of that awful night when her husband’s blows ended the life of her unborn child.
“But, oh God, please . . . please don’t make me say any more than I absolutely must.”
CHAPTER 44
Reuben knew his first sermon in Roseburg would be among his most important, no matter how many years he stayed. While it was tempting to pick the best of the messages he’d delivered in past years and deliver it again, he instead spent his walks to the church every day in conversation with God, asking for guidance. This congregation was different than the one he’d left behind in the city, and he didn’t know them yet. But God did. Show me what they need, Lord.
The fear surrounding the war seemed less tangible here, though there were certainly many young men from the Roseburg community who’d enlisted, and its people had experienced their share of loss. In general, Reuben’s observations told him people here were content with less, more committed to hard work, and less self-contained than their city counterparts. Everyone knew everyone, and for the most part a genuine, caring atmosphere prevailed. The only person in town he’d met so far who was less than friendly was Mr. Wittenstock, who ran the post office. He wasn’t unkind, exactly. He just didn’t go out of his way to be pleasant when Reuben stopped in to inquire about obtaining his own mailbox and key.
“You can have a mailbox, but they don’t even have doors on ’em, let alone locks,” he’d said. “No need for a key. If you don’t figger you can trust folks, I can keep your mail back here and hand it to you over the counter. Them’s your options, take it or leave it.”
“I’ll take a box, please,” Reuben had said with a smile. “No reason not to trust anyone.”
The man didn’t return the smile. “Never know who you can trust with this war on. Could be spies anywhere.”
Reuben paused, trying to decide whether the man was serious. “I’ll take my chances.”
“Your call. You can have number 57. It’s been available since ol’ Mrs. Rankin passed. That’ll be seventy-five cents for the annual rent, please.”
“Really?” Reuben hadn’t heard of such a thing before, but paid the man without argument.
Mr. Wittenstock filled out a receipt, stamped it Paid, and slid it across the counter. He watched Reuben stuff it into his wallet, return the wallet to his pocket, and reach the door before he said, “You have a letter.”
Reuben looked up, his hand already on the door handle. “I do?”
The man moved to the back of the room, found the envelope he was looking for, walked slowly to the mailboxes, and slid the letter neatly into box number 57. Reuben found the slot on his side and pulled out a plain white envelope with Charlotte Penfield’s name and Mrs. O’Toole’s address written in the corner.
“Well, I’ll be. Thanks, Mr. Wittenstock!”
The postman nodded almost imperceptibly, and Reuben could feel him watching until he closed the door behind him. He carried the letter with him to the church, where a corner room served as his office. His books already lined the shelves on one wall. A small window framed in white lace looked out onto the Roseburg cemetery, buried under five inches of snow. His simple desk held Reuben’s most prized possessions—his Bible, his typewriter, and the fountain pen his father had given him when he graduated from seminary. He took a seat on a rickety wooden office chair and opened his first letter from what he still considered home:
Dear Reuben,
It still feels funny to call you that. I trust you’re finding Roseburg to your liking and meeting lots of good people there and that you aren’t too lonely. We miss you here.
I took your advice and asked God for guidance and I’m now working at the Wrigley Children’s Center, caring for preschoolers whose mothers are working for the war effort. Darcy comes with me and stays on the infants’ side, where I can visit him on my lunch breaks. It’s working out well, and I wanted to thank you again for all your support. I hope I can pay it back to you some day. I am learning that a lot of people are not as kind as you are and I have to learn to let their comments go. I am trying.
Darcy is growing more each day and is beginning to smile and coo. Sometimes I am certain he really thinks he’s talking to me!
Maggie and Mrs. O’Toole both say hello. They are doing fine.
Yours sincerely,
Charlotte
Laying the letter aside with a smile, Reuben went to work on his first sermon.
On Sunday morning, Reuben stood in the pulpit and scanned the room. Bright winter sunshine beamed through the stained glass windows, coloring the ivory of the pump organ’s keys. The wooden pews were half-filled. Several of the faces were already familiar and most smiled up at him encouragingly.
“I don’t need to tell you that our world is at war,” he began. “We may not hear the air-raid sirens or see the bombed-out buildings. We don’t watch the constant movement of military personnel. No enemies are demanding our homes and farms for refuge. We don’t see the wounded and dying around us. Thank God we don’t.”
Several heads nodded in agreement, giving Reuben courage.
“But we have felt the pain of loss in this community. Many of our young men are away, as is true for every town and village across this vast country. You have suffered. Many have felt the deepest pain a family can know, as some have already made the supreme sacrifice. None of our soldiers will come home unchanged.
“Even more than that, though, is the war that continues to rage right here at home. A war no one can see because it is spiritual in nature.” Reuben paused to find the right page in his Bible. “In Ephesians, chapter six, the Bible says, ‘We wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places.’”
He looked up at his congregation; most appeared to be listening intently. “Our enemy is real and active and seeks to destroy us in the very core of our being. In times like these, he will use every trick he can find to make us hateful and suspicious of one another. If we give in to that, he wins the war.”
Reuben pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket and held it high. “How many of you men carry one of these? Go ahead and pull it out.” He waited while several men cooperated.
“Ladies, do you have a hanky in your purse? I have one here that Mrs. Schmidt was kind enough to loan me.” He held up a dainty scrap of white linen embroidered with delicate yellow flowers. The women in the congregation followed suit with their own handkerchiefs, then looked up at Reuben expectantly.
“When I was six years old, my father fought in the Great War. During that time, he was taken prisoner and held captive for many weeks. He was badly mistreated. Which nation’s army did this to my father is not important. What they did to him is not the main thing.
“What matters most is the attitude my father chose. He was returned to us, thankfully. He was never the same, physically or emotionally. But I say with confidence that my father came home a stronger man in every way that matters. Why? Because he chose to forgive. ‘The enemy can take away our land, our way of life, our families, and our dignity,’ he used to say. ‘He can torture us, maim us, and even end our lives on this earth. But there is one thing he can never do, and that is to make us hate him. The day we do, he wins.’”
Reuben paused to make eye contact with as many as he could.
“My friends, don’t be fooled. You are engaged in a battle every bit as real as our young men in the thick of the fray overseas. And every time you allow hatred or prejudice to cloud your thinking, you are waving a whi
te flag of surrender.” Reuben waved both hankies to illustrate his point.
“The enemy wins when you say a malicious word about your neighbor. He gains ground each time you think a suspicious thought or voice an unfounded opinion. His munitions are reinforced when you pass judgment based on others’ ethnicity and forget we are all made in the image of God.”
His hands came down and the little white flags ceased their waving.
“But when we allow love to rule our hearts and ask God to direct our ways, the enemy flees and cowers, for he cannot stand against it.” As he spoke, he folded the hankies and returned them to his pocket.
“The most powerful thing you can do right here, at home in Canada, to help win this war is to love one another. To stand united with your brothers and sisters, to lend a hand to all who need it. By God’s grace and by his power, we not only can stand firm against the destroyer, but we can also advance against the kingdom of darkness. He’s given us that privilege; the weapon he’s given us is called prayer. And when you engage, the Bible tells us, our enemy has to flee.”
A large man near the back let out an amen, and several others followed suit.
“Let’s not let him win, folks. Let’s not sit idly by, for to do so is to wave that white flag. Let’s be diligent, prayerful. Let’s watch our actions and rein in our tongues. Allow God’s army of holy angels to move into our community, to make Roseburg a beacon of light that no spirit of darkness can hide in, knowing he will be exposed. Let’s stand united in love and compassion and grace.
“I challenge you with this in the coming week: Each time you pull out your handkerchief, let it serve as a reminder of the battle we’re in and of the powerful weapon called prayer we’ve been given. Instead of waving that white flag, pray. One day, God will show us what happens in the spiritual realm when we pray. For now, we need to trust in what we cannot see. It’s called faith.”
Reuben closed with a benediction blessing, and as the organist began the strains of the doxology and the congregation rose to sing, he made his way up the aisle. In the foyer, he stood at the doors and greeted each person, matching many more names to faces and hearing “Fine sermon, Rev’rend” repeatedly, until the last individual had exited the building.
He could only hope and pray his “fine sermon” had reached more deeply than their ears.
CHAPTER 45
Christmas had come and gone. The war had taken the briefest of truces but now raged again until it seemed no country, no family had been left untouched. It almost seemed as if it would continue forever, until no human beings remained on the planet. Nineteen forty-three was rung in without fanfare and arrived without the prayed-for announcement of peace.
Reuben had finally received a letter from Maggie Marshall, and a most intriguing letter it was.
Dear Reuben,
I’m sorry this isn’t a proper Christmas card, but they come dear nowadays. I hope you are enjoying Roseburg and finding your work there fulfilling. Please give my greetings to Cornelia when you see her.
I am still working at the Fort Garry and have had to fill in for one of the cook’s helpers a time or two in addition to my baking. How people can still afford to eat at that grand place, let alone stay there, is beyond me. I can’t help being of the opinion that some folks, somewhere, are making money on this dreadful war, though I can’t explain how.
Can you believe it? Earl is being charged with arson with the intent to murder. Maybe that’s not the correct legal lingo, but my lawyer hopes to convince the jury that Earl believed I was at home in my bed the night he set fire to my house. Naturally, all of this has given me cause to ponder. If you and I hadn’t been chasing down Charlotte (“halfway across the country”), I most certainly would have been in my bed that night.
It’s not an easy thing to know someone wants you dead.
You might be surprised to know I went to church last Sunday. Not your old church, of course. And not that big old monstrosity of my in-laws, either. There’s this little church I pass on the way to work each day. I noticed it from day one. Finally stopped in one weekday, just to poke my head in the door. It was open, though no one was around. I sat in the back pew awhile and somehow felt quite peaceful there.
I stayed long enough to realize that I spent much of my adult life wanting someone else dead. Now that he is, my troubles have not ended, and I began to see that they won’t as long as I keep carrying bitterness around in my heart.
So I guess you could say the good Lord’s working on me. I can’t tell you I experienced any fancy sudden transformation, and I’m pretty sure bits and pieces of hate and resentment still linger in the dusty corners of my life. But I’ve asked God to shine his light into those corners and sweep them clean. I hope he does.
I am still waiting to hear whether I will be testifying at Earl’s trial. I appreciate your prayers and your friendship.
Charlotte and Mrs. O’Toole send their love. Darcy is growing like a bad weed. He can roll over by himself now and the little stinker does so every chance he gets.
Sincerely,
Maggie
It was lunchtime in the Schmidt family kitchen when Reuben walked in the kitchen door, stamping snow from his boots. The warmth of the room and the delicious smell that suffused it filled him with anticipation. This place was beginning to feel like home and these people like family. With a wooden spoon, Hilde stirred a big pot of borscht on the top of her wood stove, then laid the spoon down and opened the oven doors to reveal four loaves of bread. As he removed his coat, Reuben watched her set the fragrant loaves on a side table, then he stepped over to close the heavy oven door for her.
“Thank you, Reverend. Lunch will be ready in three minutes. Two, if you set the table for me.”
“Be glad to.” Reuben grabbed some bowls from a shelf and began laying them on the table. As he was pulling spoons and knives from a drawer, Heinz Schmidt entered by the back door and repeated the snow-stamping, coat-removing ritual Reuben had followed.
“More snow coming down,” Heinz said. “Maybe we should—”
But his words were cut off by a loud knock at the front door. “Ach. Wer ist da?”
“How should I know?” Hilde removed her apron and slung it over a kitchen chair as she walked toward the front hallway. “Nobody ever comes to our front door. Maybe we will have another guest for lunch.”
Heinz and Reuben followed.
Standing on the front step was the postman, Mr. Wittenstock. Like a statue, he neither moved nor made eye contact with anyone, but delivered his message in one word.
“Telegram.”
The only sound was a faint gasp from Hilde. Heinz took the piece of paper from the man’s hand, and Mr. Wittenstock turned and walked slowly away. Heinz closed the door, then rested his forehead against it. He reached his hand out in Reuben’s direction. The telegram hung from his fingers, as if daring someone to open it and discover its contents, which could not possibly be good news. Reuben could clearly see the words Canadian Pacific Telegraphs—World Wide Communications printed across the top in white print on a blue background.
“Maybe he is coming home!” Hilde sounded like she was trying very hard to sound hopeful.
“They would send him home only if he is badly wounded.” Heinz continued to hold the paper at arm’s length.
“Maybe you should sit down,” Reuben said. He took the telegram and guided Hilde to a sofa in their sitting room. Heinz sat next to her. Reuben took a seat on the closest chair, inhaled deeply, and quickly glanced through the paper’s contents while the couple watched his face and held on to each other.
MR. & MRS. HEINZ SCHMIDT
ROSEBURG, MANITOBA 1943 JAN 17 AM 10:17
10711 MINISTER OF NATIONAL DEFENCE DEEPLY REGRETS TO INFORM YOU THAT A107953 PRIVATE OTTO HEINZ SCHMIDT HAS BEEN OFFICIALLY REPORTED KILLED IN ACTION SIXTEENTH JANUARY 1943 STOP IF ANY FURTHER INFORMATION BECOMES AVAILABLE IT WILL BE FORWARDED AS SOON AS RECEIVED.
DIRECTOR OF RECORDS
“Ple
ase tell us he is only missing,” Hilde whispered.
Reuben looked up at their distraught faces. How do you inform someone their son is dead? He shook his head.
“I’m so sorry, Hilde. Heinz. Your boy has given his life.”
CHAPTER 46
Maggie picked up the copy of the Winnipeg Free Press that lay on a small table next to her chair in the waiting room of Jones, Brighton, and Jones. The front-page headline announced that Princess Juliana of the Netherlands had given birth in an Ottawa hospital. Holland’s royal family had taken refuge in Canada in 1940, following the occupation of their homeland by Nazi Germany, and Princess Margriet Francisca had been born January 19, 1943. The article went on to explain that the Canadian government had temporarily declared the maternity ward “extraterritorial” to ensure the newborn would be solely Dutch. Otherwise, the potential heir to the Dutch throne, by virtue of her birth on Canadian soil, would have become a Canadian citizen. Given the way the war was raging on, Maggie wondered whether it really made any difference. Would the princess and her family have a country to return to?
She laid the paper aside with a sigh. What news would Theodore Jones have for her today? The man seemed to be half lawyer and half private detective, digging for any bits of information about Earl he could use in Maggie’s interest.
She pulled from her purse her most recent letter from Reuben Fennel and opened it for at least the tenth time. It never failed to bolster her courage:
Dear Maggie,
Thanks for your letter. I am pleased to hear of the work God is doing in your heart and feel privileged that you chose to share it with me. I am praying along with you that you will not be called upon to testify at Earl’s trial, for your sake. But I also know that if you must, God will be with you and give you strength and courage for the task. He will guide your words if you ask him. Sometimes an experience like that can even bring healing and a newfound peace, because you are no longer alone with your secrets. Does that make sense? And whenever light is shed on truth, it is always a good thing. So you see, Maggie, God can turn this hard thing to good, and he will, in the end. That doesn’t make the journey an easy one, but he will see you through it. Trust him. You might find the book of Esther will encourage you.