“So?” he repeated, as if there was no need to explain anything beyond that single word. “So she meets men, handsome men, all the time! They’re always around her: actors, musicians, singers, dancers, conductors, producers, stage managers, music hall directors, composers, and others, all of whom have more in common with her than you’ll ever do!”
At hearing this, a sudden weakness came over me, which Ryan must have noticed, because his tone changed.
“There, there,” he said, and gave me a pat on the shoulder. “Do yourself a favor, don’t pray for a letter from her, much less faithfulness.”
I took a step back from him, mounted my bike, and bolted away from there, producing hellish noise for no better reason than to drown his advice, but to my dismay it went on rattling, rattling, rattling inside me.
I rode for a long while and when at last I came back to my quarters, surprise! There was an envelope on my pillow, and it was from my father.
My first thought was that by arriving here, this letter served to prove a point. It showed me that I was reachable. If you wanted to contact me, you could, which meant for some reason, Natasha didn’t. She must have stopped caring for me. What else could explain the silence of my muse?
My second thought was not exactly a thought. Rather, it was a jolt of alarm. I could see, quite plainly, that his handwriting had changed. It was with a shaky, trembling hand that my dad wrote,
Lenny my son, I wish I could go on keeping this from you, but at this point I can no longer do it. I’m in pain, severe pain, and it’s been wrecking me for the past three months.
You know me, I’ve always resisted—perhaps too stubbornly—to set an appointment with my doctor, because despite being a learned man, he can never help, and all he does, in my opinion, is rely on the wisdom of ignorants and prescribe drugs for them, drugs for which the unintended side effects are worse than the disease they’re supposed to cure.
At last the pain became unbearable, so I dragged myself, somehow, to his office, and after a long series of exams I finally got a diagnosis, and Lenny, it’s not good.
Too bad you’re so far away. I know that the Battle of the Atlantic is a crucial one. I heard Winston Churchill call it, ‘the longest, largest, and most complex naval battle in history.’
I know you’re doing your duty there, and for that I’m proud of you, son. Thinking of you I read the paper every day, but find myself too tired to cut clippings out of it and send them to you, which may seem to be a simple task, but for me, it’s daunting. Besides, there’s no real need for these clippings, is there, because you are right there, in the thick of things.
From listening to the radio I’ve learned a lot about the war. The Germans seek to prevent the buildup of Allied supplies and equipment in the British Isles in preparation for the invasion of occupied Europe.
This cause, fighting an evil enemy who threatens to overtake the entire world, is greater than both of us. So the last thing I would want is to take you away from where you are, by asking you to come back home to see me.
The words one last time did not appear on the paper, but I knew they must have been weighing on his heart. Perhaps that was why the letter was left unfinished.
In place of a signature he scribbled,
I miss you. Always remember—
Amazing Grace
Chapter 12
I was shocked to realize how gravely sick my dad was, and how long he had kept it from me. Hoping it was not too late for me to see him I went to the two officers in charge and requested permission for an urgent leave, which to my surprise I got, as soon as I presented his letter. Perhaps they were touched by what he had written, but on top of that they had another reason, beyond giving me a chance to see my father. They must have decided that my return to the States would serve a greater purpose.
“Permission granted,” said one officer. “You can go back home. You can even stay in New York for a couple of months and take care of your father.”
“But,” said the second officer, “before that, you’ll have to do one thing for us.”
“Yes sir,” I said. “What would it be?”
He didn’t answer at once. Instead he said, “I’m sure you know that the Allied forces have managed to damage many of the German U-boats, to break the blockade. We’ve done it at great cost. Many of our own merchant ships and warships have sunk, thanks to the navy of Nazi Germany, the Kriegsmarin, and thanks to the air force of their allies, the Japanese. Our casualties are mounting.”
Meanwhile the other officer turned to the back wall, where a naval map of the world displayed oceans, vast oceans layered with blues of varying intensity, in which I noticed a scattering of red pins.
“The USS Tucker, a destroyer,” he said, pointing at one pin, “struck a mine back in August, here, in the Pacific Ocean. The Kaimoku, a US cargo ship, was torpedoed here, in the Atlantic Ocean. And over there,” he said, pointing at another pin, “in the Battle of Guadalcanal, the USS Astoria was shelled by Japanese cruisers.”
“More recently, the George Tucker, a cargo ship on her maiden voyage, was torpedoed and damaged in the Atlantic Ocean, off the shores of Africa. Survivors were rescued by two Free French Naval forces. She burnt for days and sank on November the third.”
“Each one of these pins,” said the first officer, “represents more than a time and place. It represents men lost at sea. Few bodies were recovered.”
“I know it, sir,” said I. “Several of those who’ve trained with me have been brought back. They’re buried here, in England, with a simple mark on their grave.”
“Which brings us back to your mission,” he said.
“What is it, sir?”
“To escort a coffin.”
I hesitated to say, “Not sure I understand.”
But then, in a blink, I recalled a rumor. an odd, persistent rumor, suggesting that the Navy decided to dig up the remains of soldiers and send them back home, because of some film, a documentary that was shocking even to servicemen, let alone civilians, why? Because it included close-up views of the faces of dead soldiers as they had been being loaded into body bags. By some accounts it was unflinching in its realism, which had been unheard of up to now, in both fictional portrayals of war as well as newsreel footage.
The two officers noted my silence. They glanced at each other, then at me.
“You’ll accompany the coffin,” said on of them, “until it’s turned over to the mortuary of the family's choosing.”
And the other one said, “We must show the grieving families, and the nation at large, that the fallen are treated with dignity.”
“Yes sir,” I said. “I’ll do it.”
Yet my willingness to fulfill what was requested of me came with heavy doubts. In accepting it I felt as if I were flanked by trouble: anxiety for my dying father on one side, and for the fallen soldier on the other. Everywhere I went, everywhere I turned, there was the presence of death.
I kept telling myself that it didn’t matter. Whatever happened in my life was unimportant, it was negligible compared to all the casualties of this horrific war, all the damage inflicted not only here in London but also throughout Europe and throughout the entire world. The map was filling in with more and more red pins.
I was angry with myself for feeling lost. And what made it so much worse was the grim sense of living, somehow, in a void, which was all that remained once I realized that my affair, for lack of a better word, with Natasha was over. Perhaps it was never meant to be. Unable to stop thinking about her I convinced myself that she had made no effort to reach me. Given no reason to believe otherwise I grew bitter. I blamed her for the way I found myself now, alone and drifting.
I was not even planning on visiting her upon my return to the States. If she would come out I would not be there, would not make a fool of myself by waiting outside her fence. I'm damned, I said to myself, if I would try to break her door down. Instead I decided to move on, arming myself with the memory of that time, that one
evening when she played so beautifully, to tell me that to her I was everything in the world. Of course, I could only believe that it was a figure of speech, demanded by the lyrics of the song.
By now I had stopped sending letters and tried, as hard as I could, to forget her. I did my best to put her music out of my mind, to silence it.
But the more I tried the more I heard that echo, the echo of her voice coming at me, rebounding over and again, promising, “I’ll be waiting.”
In truth, why should I feel disappointed? Many of the soldiers around me were in the habit of betraying the trust of their dear ones and suspected they were, in turn, being betrayed. That was the way things were, and to believe otherwise was simply naive.
Perhaps in time, the pain would subside. My passion for Natasha would slowly be turning to ashes. It would lose the last tinge of color, of hope. There were the remains of a body in the flag-draped coffin that was about to be entrusted to me, and the remains of love in my heart.
❋
On my flight back to New York, a new worry occurred to me. I dreaded having to face the grieving parents. How I would I find the words to comfort them? What should I say if they ask if I had known Charlie, their son? What could I tell them about his last moments?
To prepare myself I ran over his story, over and again, in my mind. The details were rough, they were quite sketchy, because I had learnt them only a day ago, from a survivor of that battle.
He had told me, “That night, the seas were running a little high. It was kind of a bad situation right off the start. We headed to the rubber boats for a dash to the beach. For a while, we bounced around in the surf, then drifted ashore, because only three of the outboard motors would start. We braced ourselves for what was to come, as well-rehearsed plans gave way to improvisation.”
“Then, one of us accidentally fired his weapon, eliminating any hope of surprising the enemy. We lined up across the narrow strip of land and started walking. Soon we saw the Germans coming. We fired at them. They fired at us over a distance of 20 yards. Charlie was the first one to be hit.”
What could I tell his parents if they ask why, why did it have to happen to him?
Coming off the plane I noticed a group of three silent figures and by their deathly pale faces I recognized them: his mother, father, and pregnant wife. They stood together, strangely separated from the hustle bustle of the airport, waiting for me.
They watched in solemn silence as I wheeled the casket toward them. It was a tense moment. No questions were asked, no tears shed. The mother, still reeling from the shock of losing her son, did not cry. Instead she bit her lips, hard. The father wrapped his arm around her for support, but he was the one that seemed closest to the verge of collapse.
Then he steadied himself, somehow, and with a gentle motion, stroked the flag that wrapped the coffin.
“So sorry for your loss,” I said, feeling awkward for using a phrase that was too weak and all too common to convey what I was feeling.
He nodded his head to signal that he heard me, but neither he nor the mother could utter a single word. In their place, the soldier’s young wife came to me, holding something in her hand.
Softly she said, "When Charlie came home on his last leave, he gave me the Marine Corps emblem off his hat. At first I refused it, knowing that without the emblem, he risked not being readmitted to the base.”
I said, “Perhaps he had a premonition of what would come his way and wanted you to keep it.”
“Yes,” she whispered, clutching it to her heart. “I still have it. It's a cherished memento.”
Meanwhile, from out of nowhere, a lone bagpiper came by. In the midst of a busy airport he looked like an apparition from a different place and time, marching slowly towards us. As he strolled past the flag-draped casket I caught the music he was playing: it was an old song, written by an Englishman who in the early part of his life had been an outspoken atheist, libertine, and slave trader, only to find his faith after riding out a storm at sea in 1748.
Amazing Grace.5
The sound of it was magical. It quelled the noise of people fussing, people walking all about, rushing to and fro with suitcases and stuff. At the same time it calmed the silence, the angry silence in my heart, opening it anew to sadness and to joy.
It was then that the soldier’s wife took a step forward to the casket and placed the emblem on it, which for her meant the beginning of farewell, and for the fallen, the end of a long journey, the journey home.
Her voice trembled as she started singing for him,
Amazing grace... How sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me
I once was lost, but now am found
Was blind, but now I see.
Her voice was so soft, so heartbreakingly delicate, and yet it made the hair rise on my head and the flesh quiver on my bones. I felt—oh, I can’t explain what I felt! It was not only grief for this man, who was a brother of mine even though I had never come to know him, but also pity for his family and for all us, civilians and soldiers, the fallen, the wounded, the loved ones back home, all the lives forever changed by this horrific war.
In my childhood, my mother used to sing Amazing Grace to me in place of a lullaby, because it had always calmed me down before she tucked me in, before she said good night.
Through many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come
’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.
The music made me think of Natasha. In a complete reversal of emotion I found myself overcoming my rage, my sense of betrayal. Suddenly I realized that whatever had caused the break between us should be set aside. It was time to accept and be accepted in return.
I, too, was coming home.
And I could not wait to see my father.
To Find Myself Forsaken
Chapter 13
The smell of dank earth filled my nostrils as I stood over the open grave. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, there was Charlie, coming home. There were his parents, awash with tears. And now that my task to accompany him to his final resting place had been completed, my thoughts turned back to my father. It was time for me to come home, too. I prayed it was not too late. Was there still time to say, I love you, dad?
I could have learned more about his present condition had I called Uncle Shmeel, but the thought of doing so did not occur to me, even as I spotted a phone booth in the distance, opposite the cemetery. I went out of there and sped away on the clunky motorcycle I had rented upon my arrival. The night was calm, and there was barely any traffic on my way to my father’s apartment in South Bronx.
All the while I promised myself, with great fervor, that I would do everything my father had hoped for. I would register for the university, just as soon as my military service was over. I would get a degree, start a professional career, marry, and raise a family. If only I could see him one last time.
But unfortunately, this was not to happen.
When the door opened, there was Uncle Shmeel. I was shaken up to see him without his shoes, as was the custom in the old country to mourn for the dead. He didn’t have to say a word. Somehow I leapt to the realization of what must have occurred, which made me feel as if the earth fell from under my feet.
Uncle Shmeel opened his arms and hugged me to his heart. Then he told me that my father had passed away and had been buried in a small ceremony, attended by close friends, nearly a week ago, which happened, I figured, before my flight had even landed on US soil.
“Then,” I said, in a choked voice, “I came here for nothing.”
“What d’you mean, for nothing? Am I chopped liver?” he asked. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
“I meant—”
“No worry, I understand. It’s your father you wanted to see, not me. And not under these circumstances,” said Uncle Shmeel. “He knew you’d come.”
“Did he?”
“He asked me to apologize to yo
u for him, because he simply couldn’t take it any longer. He was in too much pain. It was time for him to give up.”
I found myself lost somewhere between grief, confusion, and above all, anger: anger at him for not waiting long enough and anger at myself for failing to arrive here sooner.
I said nothing.
“He left this for you,” said Uncle Shmeel, handing me a sealed envelope.
I took it. Still I said nothing.
“Well?” He nudged me. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
“I don’t know,” I muttered. “No, not now.”
❋
That night, after Uncle Shmeel left, I went into my father’s bedroom, opened his closet, and took out a metal hanger that held one of his shirts. White and airy, it reminded me of his presence. Stiffened with starch, the collar held its shape as if to fit around his neck. It smelled like him.
Gone was the anger. There was no one against whom I could rebel, which made me miss him even more.
I was glad that at long last, he had escaped the pain. I trusted, at that moment, that he was watching over me. The fabric swooshed this way and that, which made me feel him here, with me, around me.
Holding his shirt in front of me I glanced at the mirrored closet doors and saw much of him in myself. I hoped, I so hoped not to disappoint him in the future. He taught me well and expected great things of me.
I whispered, “I’m trying, dad. I really am.”
The next day I went through all his papers, paid outstanding bills, and set aside my letters to him, which were neatly filed in his desk. I donated it and most of the furniture.
With great care I dusted off each one of his books, read the pages that he had earmarked, and played his records—all except one that seemed to be new. I left it in its original, sealed cover, because if he would never listen to it, why should I?
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