A Moment Forever
Page 53
“Time, Kitty. Just give me some time. I admit that I had culpability in keeping Will from his child, but you put the wheels in motion, and now I have to seek my own forgiveness from him.”
Kitty blubbered, her ruddy cheeks full wet. Lizzy shook her head and took in a deep breath, seeking to shift the atmosphere that had occupied the kitchen. She slid the seat closer to her sister, finally allowing the physical divide between them to be breached. They hugged. “I love you. I’m so sorry.”
“I love you, too, but that’s not the issue, and …” she turned her head, eyeing the box with its empty brown wrappers scattered. “And … your eating half my chocolates only further pisses me off.”
Kitty’s gaze followed her sister’s and they both chuckled. The ice melted ever so slightly.
They continued to turn pages, pointing and laughing until Lizzy said, “I’m glad I was obsessed with taking these photographs. I can give them to Will now, along with the photos of his grandchildren.
“What will you do? Will you go to see him … where he lives?”
“If need be, I will. I know it seems strange but part of me still feels like that twenty-year old. After reading our letters, so much has come back to me. I feel butterflies, thinking about the moment that I can see him again. The thing is … I love him still as much as I did all those years ago, and it’s not as if I’m in love with just a memory. I have always loved him as his soul mate, but we’ve been separated by time. I love him differently than I did John. I love him like the long lost piece of my soul has returned to mate with mine until my last breath. I just pray to G-d he won’t hate me when I tell him about Annette. And let’s hope he’s not married!”
Lizzy took a long draw from her glass, closing her eyes to the refreshing taste of the crisp white wine. She thought of John and the content of the letters.
“I know it may seem strange to you, Kitty. But I feel … released. John and I had a rich, caring marriage born out of convenience. It wasn’t the kind of love I had with Will. Very few ever have that kind of love. I feel blessed that now can be my time with Ducky—if he’ll have me. Maybe we can begin again and get to know one another as adults with experiences that shaped who we’ve both become.”
The front door slammed and the foyer light flipped on. “Mom? Are you home?”
The two sister’s eyes locked. “In here, darling.”
Annette walked into the kitchen, her smile turning to a frown when she noted the red eyes of her mother and aunt and the crumpled debris of Kleenex tissues upon the table. “What happened? Did someone die?”
Both sisters sniggered before Kitty said, “Your aunt Ingrid died, but we’re sure as hell not crying over that. Your mother and I were just reminiscing. You were such an adorable baby, such a little duckling.”
Annette pulled out a chair and sat facing them. Sliding the photo album across the table toward her with one hand, her other dove into the open chocolate box. “Gosh, you haven’t called me a duckling in forever. Wherever did that come from?”
~~*~~
Thirty-Eight
Haunted Heart
July 1, 1992
Will’s visit with Juliana and Jack extended well beyond a couple of beers over lunch. They had spent the next day together for a flight in his floatplane over the Inside Passage.
They hardly spoke of Lizzy, and he was thankful; instead, they spent the time learning about one another and it killed him to like Jack more and more. The young man’s personality made him a perfect fishing buddy. He had shared his worldwide travels, and Will especially delighted in conversation about Jack’s trip to Amsterdam the year prior. Together, the three of them also spoke of Louie and what he’d been going through since Lillian’s death. It hurt Will’s heart to hear of his brother’s sorrow and PTSD. Upon Louie’s return from China in late ’46, he never spoke of his experience in the Pacific just as Will never spoke of his experience in captivity, both acutely understanding that those particular segments of life were better left in the past.
It turned out that meeting Juliana was a delightful surprise. She had Louie’s humor and playful manner, and he could tell that, as he had once been as a young man, she just needed a little push to let herself free to enjoy life, live a little on the daring side. When Jack spoke of sailing, she held back, not quite committing, hedging with excuses for not going near the water. All it took was a flight on his de Havilland Beaver floatplane and she was as giddy as a schoolgirl when the plane skimmed the water on landing and takeoff. Her laughter was as infectious as Lizzy’s had been whenever she sped in the Zephyr or the roundabout. He could hardly believe it when his niece squealed a “woo hoo!” and clapped with excitement to go sailing when they returned to Long Island.
It was a miserably cold morning on the Sound and the stratus clouds hung low in the gray sky but that hadn’t kept Will from the task at hand—finally changing the oil on the de Havilland. Once again, he stood on the dock looking at the red, white, and black sleek lines of the plane as he held a steaming cup of coffee in his hands. Focusing on finishing the job seemed near impossible. With the old engine oil emptied and his greasy gloves tossed beside the float, he felt entirely uninspired to get back under the plane. The coffee break was unprecedented, maybe even a convenient excuse to re-visit the still unopened FedEx envelope now sitting on the coffee table. Lord knows, he had walked past it three times looking at it almost with fear only to promptly walk out the back door. Now here he stood and unless he finished working on the convenient transport to and from his home, it would remain out of commission in need of its replacement oil.
He walked toward the plane with resolve, took a sip of joe, then placed the mug upon the dock. The discarded gloves awaited him but, unfortunately for the plane, his curiosity over Al’s correspondence was finally winning the battle.
He thought of Paris and the intimation that Lizzy would be there, maybe waiting for him. Something was set to happen in that romantic city that had once been party to the deaths of thousands five decades ago. His niece felt strongly that it was important he be there to witness whatever Robertsen family event that was to take place. Traveling there was certainly do-able, but he didn’t want to revisit the Pletzl during the anniversary week of the Roundup. Will sighed, acknowledging to himself that it had been years since he paid a visit to the school he established in 1980 in his aunt’s former home—The DeVries School for the Handicapped. Perhaps now was the time to do so.
If Lizzy was to be in Paris, would she realize his impetus for the school?
He suddenly turned on his heel from the plane and coffee and dashed down the dock toward the house, only to stop on a dime midway, running his hand through his hair. “Arggh!” He groaned, frustrated by his indecisiveness and innate need to learn about the woman who broke his heart. The echoing comments that Jack had made on Monday piqued him. She never stopped loving you. I know this not because she told me but because of how she lived her life, the specific things she did with her life. … He was a Jewish war orphan, surviving the Holocaust, and my grandparents traveled to London to bring him to America.
Were her actions in life similar to those he made in her memory, honoring that which was closest to her heart? Nah, she most likely became a self-absorbed society wife forgetting, or worse, disregarding that informed, caring woman she had been blossoming into in ’42.
He paced for what felt like hours but was only two or three minutes, until he ran down the dock to the deck stairs, taking them two at a time until he flung open the back door to the cabin. Chest heaving and heart racing, his eyes settled upon the envelope and he sat before it, taking it into his hands.
“Do you want to see her again?” He asked himself. “Yes. I want to see her again. True home is where my heart has always been.” A slight tremble to his fingers seemed to beat in unison to his heart rate as the blood rushed filling his mind with a memory so clear and real it was as though it was yesterday when it occurred. There was no fog of war in remembering that day.
One could hardly consider the wood-chip filled mattress a bed, but Will hunched over his bunk folding the torn, threadbare blanket neatly, careful not to bang his head on the bunk above him. Of all the small blessings that found their way into his captivity, he was most thankful that his crew hadn’t been separated upon their arrival shortly after May 17, 1943. Following their capture, they had begun their “stay” in the South Compound and the Commandant had not separated McCarthy and him from the non-commissioned fellas of their crew. Apparently, even in a POW camp, officers and enlisted men were separated and the hierarchy functioned just as it did in an airbase. There were chains of command and a hope that you had a good commanding officer to petition the reasonable Commandant on behalf of his men.
Even in May, Barth, Germany on the Baltic Sea was cold and the men of the PPL were thankful for the kitchen duty he had secured for them, along with the coveralls and wood shoes he demanded they needed. They ate better than most and at least had clothing other than what they crashed in or what the Red Cross was able to bring them in ’44. After fifteen months in South Compound, it was more than any man could survive for the duration. He petitioned the Senior American Officer to transfer them to North 1 compound where they had running water and latrines. It only seemed fair, since they were among the first Americans to arrive at the, then, largely British camp. Small and big blessings and, as a Kriegie, you took what you can get when G-d sent them to you, and you were thankful for each and every one of them.
-What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get outta this shit hole, Skipper? Rocco asked.
-Kiss the concrete stoop before entering my father’s house.
No one but Al, also a Jew, knew it would have been a mezuzah he’d kiss if one had hung from the entrance door frame of his family home in Park Slope.
-Not me. I’m gonna take the subway up to Luigi’s Restaurante on Arthur Avenue and blow my back pay on a table full of lasagna, ravioli, and brachiole. Followed by the best damn crème puffs this Bronx boy has ever had and topped off with a jug of Luigi’s family recipe.
Will smiled, thinking of his mother’s Dutch apple cake.
The clock above the microwave chimed the hour in time with the bittersweet recollection causing his heart to clench. In May of 1945, he hadn’t known that his mother was dead, having passed in June of 1943 from a massive heart attacked following receipt of the War Department’s Missing in Action telegram. Thank G-d Louie had been on a nine-month training exercise following the Guadalcanal bloodbath and was able to come home. Yes, that was a blessing, but it accompanied the misery of knowing that his beloved mother might have lived had he been the mustard in the cockpit everyone expected him to be.
His hand smoothed the tattered blanket. Home. It was the first thing he thought of when coming to, following the engineless crash, and it was the last thing he thought of every night when he laid his head upon his other rolled blanket, now also in tatters. There were no thoughts of Lizzy in the camp. She represented the guilt he had for his crew being there in the first place. His sole focus was on bringing his men through their captivity. Although time and again McCarthy attempted to reason with him that on that low altitude mission over the Ijmuiden and Haarlem Power Stations in Holland, he was doubtful any of the 451st returned home and not because of some girl. Intense flak tore through every Marauder, and the PPL couldn’t withstand the barrage and the eventual equipment failure. The ship was tossed and shaken violently in the clouds from the impact of ack-ack. It wasn’t because of his flying ability or his distraction that brought them down. They did the best they could under the worst of situations on only their second bombing mission out. Hell, they probably had been one of the few able to drop their bomb load over the target before going down. Plain and simple, the PPL just couldn’t stand the heat and once the second engine blew, it was his skill that landed them all safely on a farm. Bringing her down was what he did best. Not to mention he was Lucky Bastard Martel.
Several of the men beside the coal stove coughed. Their bronchitis reverberated within the barrack that was usually filled with forty men, but now with liberation so near, many were in the communal rooms or on the football field where a game was taking place. Thankfully, the towering guard houses were now empty and they could open the shutters of the barrack for proper ventilation. Home was so close, but some of these men were in need of proper medical care before the Russians’ arrival.
Will’s men knew never to ask about going home to Lizzy. One drunken night in a pub in Rattlesden back in late April of ’43 informed them all that the PPL had crashed and burned. They watched as he took his Zippo to the snapshot once taped above the altimeter. Rocco didn’t need to ask if he was going to attempt to see his old flame when he got home. Truth though, now, standing in the middle of the barrack, realizing that home was so close, he wanted to see her and it upset him. Over the course of two years, he had pushed her deep within the hidden recesses of his heart and mind, only to have her resurface when faced with the reality of actually going back to New York, to a house he had purchased for their life together. The war was over for him and he’d have to begin again, but she was his home. Only she had moved on without him, most likely making a home with someone else.
No. He would never see her again. Never seek her out and ever speak of her. Seeing her would tear open the wound.
Will held the FedEx envelope in his hand and toyed with the paper tab. He held his breath with its sudden tear, pulling it open to reveal a thick stack of white paper as well as a couple of newspaper clippings. Carefully, he removed the stack from the tight-fitting sleeve. The top letter was addressed from Gardner & Gardner, Attorneys at Law.
Dear Will,
It was great to talk with you last week. Glad to hear that you’re considering coming east. After all these years, it’ll be good to see you again and we can catch up in person. It hardly seems like fifty years since our time in Germany together. The dreams we had as young men and how you had helped me to realize mine seem like only yesterday. Consider this packet just another way of thanking you for putting me through law school all those years ago, although that can never be repaid. I dug deeper than you indicated and I think you’ll be quite surprised by what you’ll find here. This Elizabeth Robertsen is a remarkable woman. I thought I recognized the name, and it turns out that she’s a major benefactor for the United Jewish Appeal Federation. Since 1951 her personal monetary donations to UJA exceed over eleven million dollars, spread out over the various divisions. Rachel knows her from the Women’s Philanthropy Division. Her main focus is on children and family services. Funny thing, she and her husband donated at least a half a million dollars to that private organization you flew for out of Holland, bringing the displaced into Israel. The late John Robertsen, then Vice President at Robertsen Aviation, now Zephyr Avionics, donated a C-47 transport plane. Small world? Is that how you know her?
No charge for the extra detective work—this one’s on me. I did find some curious facts about her family and Frederick Renner, but those reports are not included. Call it a gut feeling but I figure you knew about that already. If you want me to send them, just let me know. I’ll FedEx them out to you, otherwise they’ll end up in the circular file. Hard to believe it all. I thought that kind of stuff only happened in the movies.
When you get back to New York, you better get your ass up to Yonkers so that I can introduce you to the family. Let them meet the mensch who took this poor Jew out of the ghetto and helped me to make somethi
ng of myself. Take care, my friend, and give my regards for the best of health to McCarthy.
All the best,
Al
Will snorted a wry laugh. “Only in the movies? Yeah, right. Truth is stranger than fiction and Renner was a cowardly bastard.”
The letter acted as further confirmation that Lizzy had become so much more than he had feared she would as a society wife in affluent Long Island, wasting her vitality attending dinner parties and playing bridge with a group of upper-crust snobbish friends. It was also confirmation of what Jack had said about how she lived her life. Will never expected humanitarian, philanthropist, and forty years of serving and providing for Jewish communities in both New York and Europe. Was this for me or was it as she said in that fateful letter the night of their blissful, impassioned affair—atonement, reparation?
He skimmed through the pages, noting several articles from the Gold Coast Social Diary. About the third page into the stack was a type-written dossier outlining the specific events of her life. It seemed odd to view Lizzy through this black and white myopic prism. The spirited ingénue he once knew was full of color and vibrancy. Words to describe her shouldn’t be conveyed in a perfunctory Selectric typewriter courier font; she deserved flourished calligraphy in a palette made up of the many hues of her personality.
The pain and anger still remained as though it was Gordon’s christening in 1949 all over again, and he was seeing her with her Robertsen family for the first time. Jack was right; he had yet to forgive her for leaving him twice, for choosing a comfortable, predictable life of society.
Name: Elizabeth Marie Renner
Birth: February 22, 1922