Treasure in a Tin Box (Wall of Silence Book 1)

by Dorey Whittaker

  Ruth and I watched as Sulley and Whippoorwill struggled to trust God to keep their boy safe. We also watched as Karl and Gladys feared for their two boys. Karl, Jr., and William had been reared to look at black people as being no different than themselves—a viewpoint that was not tolerated in the 1930s. Karl had always wanted to push back the color barrier, daring to risk his own safety to do so, but now his boys were standing in harm’s way. Frustrated whites believed that “If you’re not one of us, you’re no better than the blacks.” To break their long-standing code meant facing their wrath. Karl had always been more militant on the subject then I had been. He had always been willing to put his job on the line to stand for what he believed in, but now Karl wouldn’t be paying the price; his boys would be the ones paying the price.

  Ruth and I loved all three of these boys as if they were our own. We watched them grow up, and now we were seeing them face the same issues my Grandpa Samuel had to face back in 1865, what I had to face in 1918, and now they were facing in 1940. I realized that nothing was ever going to change if a change were not forced. Karl had been saying this for years, and even though all of our children would be in danger, I realized that the world could not remain as it was. I had no idea how that change would come about, but I decided I would begin praying for change.

  Becoming political and demanding our rights as human beings went against everything I had ever been taught, and taking that stance did not settle well with me. I had always been taught to keep quiet, work hard, mind my own business, duck and shuffle aside, and be respectful. Back in the day, these rules were lifesavers. My grandfather came out of slavery at the age of twenty. None of our people were prepared for freedom. They did not know how to make a decision, nor did they know how to earn a living. They did not even know how to express how they felt without having the dreaded fear of calamity overtake them.

  Ruth’s father believed we should be good citizens and spread the gospel. He believed that if we did this, God would clear the path for us and bless us. I too believed the path he chose to be true. God had always watched out for me and those I loved, yet I was now wondering if that was all that God required of me.

  Seventy-five years had passed since our people had been emancipated. I was tired of watching our sons and daughters being treated as if they were still ignorant slaves. Ms. Pearl knew the answer was education. She always said, “Once a black child is given the gift of reading, there is not a door that will remain closed to him.” But doors were still closed, and I was not even knocking on those doors. I was standing at those closed doors, expecting God to open them for us; I knew that was wrong. Oh, I knew it would take all of God’s power to open those doors, but I had to begin knocking before He would open them. But on which door should I knock first?

  Karl, Sulley, and I were all in our early forties and began to pray for wisdom, realizing we were looking ahead to the next generation. We did not want our children to live under the same rules we had lived under. We wanted them to experience a freedom we could only dream of having.

  In the summer of 1941, we learned of a city-wide group of pastors who were gathering together, praying together, and seeking God’s wisdom. They were asking God to raise up godly leaders. The very idea of joining forces with such men thrilled my soul and drove away all of my doubts. I had been meeting with these men for six months when the news came of the attack on Pearl Harbor. That Sunday everyone was in shock. Every church prayed for all of the boys who lost their lives that morning so far away from home. No one was talking color that day. Those were our boys. Those were our ships. We had been attacked, and we all wanted to go after our enemy that day.

  As we listened to the President on the radio, I worried about our boys. We all knew we would not be able to keep Karl, Jr., or Van from signing up first thing Monday morning. Karl and I both knew what it was like to be eighteen-years old during a time of war. Gladys was thankful that her Billy was too young to sign up. “One boy at a time is all I can take.”

  Sulley quietly hoped that his boy would be rejected because of his size—as he had been. He assured Whippoorwill that this would be the case, but when Van returned home and said he had three days to report for duty, Sulley was beside himself. He tried to hide his disappointment, but Van was so excited, and he knew he had to let his boy grow up. Ruth slipped a Gideon Bible into both boys’ duffle bags. Van joined the Marines, while Karl had decided to join the Navy.

  The men’s prayer group I had joined so many months earlier now became a prayer vigil for all of the boys heading into harm’s way. We all joined the war effort. Now, more than ever, Sulley’s Mercy Gardens were needed. He changed their names to “Victory Gardens” and prayed for every family who had a son serving overseas.

  After boot camp Van was shipped off to the Philippines. Sulley worried that his son would be a large target and that Van’s gentle spirit would be broken by the horrors of war. As Van’s letters began pouring in, we were encouraged by his accounts. I, for one, was glad to read how Van’s military experience seemed to be quite different than mine. He talked about his buddies, and it was obvious that he did not feel like a second-class Marine. I read and re-read his letters, trying to understand how these same boys, who, in a foreign land under constant threat of death, could treat Van as a brother, but back home would probably not blink at hanging the likes of him.

  Karl, Jr.’s, letters were far fewer. Where Van’s letters were short and often, Karl’s were fewer, but pages long. Out at sea for months on end, his letters took on a daily diary style. He was somewhere in the vast Pacific Ocean, and he was seeing lots of combat. Gladys could not wait to receive one of her son’s letters, yet she dreaded the daily accounts of his war experiences. During these years, while watching our best friends suffering the terrible waiting game every parent must go through, Ruth and I actually felt grateful we did not have a son. We witnessed the daily dread of an unknown car pulling up to the house, the all-consuming anticipation of the daily mail delivery, and then the heartache of finally getting those precious letters—only to have the cold reality of what their boys were going through become very real.

  Sulley began to notice a hardening of his boy. Van’s letters took on a cynical tone. The war was changing him, and Sulley feared it was not for the best. After one such letter, I remember Sulley’s saying, “Tobias, some men are just not made to take a life. I fear my boy might come home so broken in spirit, he won’t ever be the same again.” Then Sulley stopped for a moment and added, “That is, if we get him home at all.”

  By 1942 the newspapers were filled with accounts of what they were finding all over Europe. Even though the news sickened us, we felt compelled to read every article. Our young men were seeing, both in Europe and in the Far East, the worst of what man is capable of doing to his fellow man. We knew that Van was part of the forces fighting to defend Battery Point on the island’s north coast, facing Bataan. The newspapers, which were filled with stories of Bataan, Corregidor, and the Philippines, sent Whippoorwill to her bed. Sulley refused to have a newspaper in the house anymore. Even though they were sure their son was not on Corregidor, hearing the reports that were coming over the radio of the valiant battles, but the great loss of life and our eventual surrender, became too much for Whippoorwill.

  For two long months, none of us heard anything. No one could tell us where Van was or even if he was still alive. Eventually Sulley got word that Van had been taken prisoner in the Philippines, but reports were that he was alive. They learned that Van had never been on Corregidor, and for that news, we were all grateful.

  Sulley tried to keep the news of how the enemy treated their POWs away from Whippoorwill. “Honey,” he kept repeating, “at least he is alive. We have to hold onto that hope right now.”

  In February of 1944, the news we had all been dreading finally came. Ruth happened to be at Gladys’ house when the black car pulled up in front, and two uniformed officers walked up to the front door. Several neighbors came running from their h
ouses; everyone knew what that car meant. One of the women took off running for the train yard, knowing Karl needed to get home quickly. Karl’s face turned ashen as he started running for home. I didn’t even stop to clock out that day. I tried to catch up with him before he reached his house, but just as we turned the corner, we could see the two officers walking back toward their car. Karl simply stopped running and stared at the men who had broken the worst news a mother can receive, and he collapsed to his knees, crying, “Not my boy. Please God, not my Karl.”

  There are moments in your life when the wind shifts, and everything that ever was—is forever changed. Looking at my friend, I knew that his faith would hold true, and he would not turn against God for allowing this terrible loss. I knew it as assuredly for Karl as it would have been for me. I also knew that Gladys’ faith, after twenty-one years, was just as rock solid. I knew they would endure this heartache; however, I knew they would never be the same again. Pain like this puts a mark on you that can never be removed. As I stood there praying for my friend, I could not help but think of the tens-of-thousands of other parents, on both sides of that terrible war, who had been, and were yet to be, visited by such news. How do any of them survive this experience without God’s love and mercy? I had seen so many turn hardened and cold, their joy and hope of any future drained away, leaving only an empty shell in its wake.

  I walked over to Karl, helped him to his feet, put my arm around him and guided him into his house. That day, more than any other day of my life, I was thankful it was not my responsibility to make everything right again. Ruth and I were simply to weep with those who weep. We knew that God was there in the midst of all that pain, and that He could be trusted. Although they would be scarred for life, He would bring our friends through this trial; it would not destroy them.

  We learned that Karl Junior’s body would never be coming home. His ship went down out in the vast Pacific Ocean, and all but twenty bodies went down with the ship. Gladys was the one who insisted upon having a memorial service. “I learned an important lesson by losing my brother, Charlie. Do not throw away his whole life in the grief of his loss. I want to remember my boy’s life, all twenty years of it. I refuse to focus only on that one day when he died.” Karl Carter, Jr., had a wonderful memorial service.

  CHAPTER 37

  The Gift of Wise Counsel

  AFTER JUNIOR’S MEMORIAL service, Aunt Ruby invited Karl and Gladys, and Sulley and Whippoorwill to our house for dinner. No one wanted to sit at home alone that evening. During dinner, Gladys asked, “Ms. Ruby, I know you and Pearl both endured heartbreak that would have destroyed most people. Is there anything you can share with me that will help me endure this pain?”

  Aunt Ruby leaned forward, put her elbows on the table, cradled her face between her aged, wrinkled hands and smiled. “Gladys, you know how much my sister, Pearl, loved and admired you, right?”

  “Yes ma’am, Ms. Ruby, I do, and the feeling was mutual. Your sister was an amazingly strong woman.”

  Aunt Ruby leaned back and smiled. “Will you allow me to tell one of my favorite stories about my sister?”

  The whole dinner party chimed in together, “Of course, Ms. Ruby, please do.”

  Ruby took a drink of water before starting. This needed to be a night where she would use all of her storytelling gifts. These friends were hurting and needed to hear this lesson.

  “We have all heard the story of how Pearl lost both little Caramel Hannah and her husband, Joseph Lagolaei. I was not here for Pearl during the worst of her suffering at this great loss in her life. I came back home almost three years after it happened.

  “During those three years, Pearl went to work caring for Estée Washington, while she nursed her grief. Because Pearl was a strong woman by nature, she endured her grief by sheer willpower, but a large part of Pearl had been buried with Joseph. By the time I came back home, Pearl was an empty shell; I hardly knew her. No spark was left in her. Oh, she had accepted God’s will in the matter, and she did not blame Him for taking Joseph, but there was no life left in her.”

  Gladys interjected, “I know how she felt, Ms. Ruby. I dare not turn to hate against those who took my boy’s life. I have gone down that path before, and I know where it will take me. But this new path scares me just as much. I can’t stand the pain I’m feeling, but to get rid of it, I fear I must die inside to quiet it. What did Pearl do, Ms. Ruby?”

  Ms. Ruby reached over and picked up her well-worn Bible and opened it to one of Pearl’s favorite verses. “Gladys, I will share the path that God took Pearl down to bring healing to her. This was quite a private path she walked, but because I know how much she loved you and if she were still with us, she would be the first one to share it with you. I pray what I know of her journey will help you.”

  Ruby Shares Pearl’s Healing Story

  Estée and I watched helplessly as Pearl kept retreating into her grief. We did not know what to say to her. Pearl had always been our fearless leader, so we prayed for God to guide us. One day the book peddler came by the house while Pearl was at work, and I was out on an errand. Estée had never been able to walk out front by herself, let alone talk to the white book peddler, but her love for Pearl gave her the strength that day to open the front door and step out onto the front yard. She asked the peddler to pull the cart into the yard so she could look through what he had for sale. As she leafed through his books, she prayed. She came across a collection of poems and songs written by Frances “Fanny” Crosby. The foreword talked about how this woman, who was born in 1820, had been blind since birth but had become an inspiring public speaker and champion for the education of the blind. Knowing how much Pearl loved education, Estée bought the booklet for her.

  At dinner that evening, Estée gave Pearl the booklet and asked her to pick out one of the poems and to read it out loud. The first poem in the booklet was titled, “Blessed Assurance,” written back in the year 1873. In the margin, someone had written a Bible verse—Psalm 22:3—so before Pearl read the poem, she opened her Bible and read, “But Thou art holy, O Thou that inhabits the praises of Israel.” ” Below the poem, that same hand had written, “God inhabits the praises of His people.” Then Pearl read the poem that God used to start her healing:

  “Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine! Oh, what a foretaste of glory divine!

  Heir of salvation, purchase of God, Born of His Spirit, washed in His blood.

  This is my story; this is my song, praising my Savior all the day long;

  This is my story, this is my song, Praising my Savior all the day long.

  Perfect submission, perfect delight, Visions of rapture now burst on my sight;

  Angels descending, bring from above, Echoes of mercy, whispers of love.

  Perfect submission, all is at rest, I in my Savior am happy and blest, Watching and waiting, looking above, Filled with His goodness, lost in His love.”

  That night Pearl re-read that poem three times before saying, “I need to be filled with His goodness, and I want to be lost in His love. Perfect submission, all is at rest, I in my Savior am happy and blest.” She turned to Estée and me and said, “The Bible says that God inhabits the praises of His people. I know I cannot sing a note, but I am going to sing anyway, ‘all the day long,’ until He has filled this empty shell with His love and mercy. I want my God to inhabit my being.”

  Turning to me, Ms. Ruby chuckled, “By the time you came to us, Tobias, Pearl had become a rather good singer, but at first it was quite painful to the ears. Pearl did not care what note she hit, she was focused only on the words. Words were always special to her, and God was using them to heal her empty soul. Eventually, she began to improve, and all three of us would work around the house singing our favorite hymns.”

  Gladys smiled at Whippoorwill, “So singing hymns that praise the goodness of God will change these pain-filled hearts of ours. We have all witnessed what it did for Pearl, so I can trust that God will also do it for me.”

  My Ruth le
aned over and placed her hand on Gladys’ arm and said, “Our God is so wonderful. He used the change in your heart to convince Pearl that He could change the hearts of others. He is now using the story of how He changed Pearl’s heart to convince you that He can be trusted to fill your heart with His perfect delight again.”

  Although not overnight, Karl and Gladys surrendered their pain to God. I watched as God used their understanding of pain and surrender to become great comforters to Sulley and Whippoorwill. They understood their friend’s agony better than anyone. Not once in the twenty-two months that Van was a POW did they ever chide them with, “At least your boy is still alive.”

  Those two couples were bound together in mutual grief, praying, not only for Van’s safe return, but for the safe return of all young men still in harm’s way; just as Ruth and I had to learn how to be sincerely happy when others were blessed with babies we would never have, Karl and Gladys were able to celebrate with pure hearts the day the news came that Van had been liberated and was on his way home.

  It was late August of 1945 before Van reached home. Two years of suffocating heat, rice and boiled cabbage had taken its toll on Van. He had lost so much weight he could not walk very far without resting. He was just shy of twenty-three and had already lost several teeth.

  Whippoorwill, Gladys and Ruth set about putting some weight on him, while Sulley and I focused on his spirit. I had seen that same look in the eyes of so many young boys in France—eyes that had seen too much death and agony. I was happy to see that Van still had that Gideon Bible Ruth had tucked into his duffle bag. It was well-worn and never far from Van’s side.

  At first, Van was reluctant to talk about his experience. One day Sulley invited me over to the house, hoping I might get his boy to open up. I asked, “Van, how were you able to keep your Bible in the camp?”