Children of the Promise

by Dean Hughes

  “It is a worry, Mildred,” Anna said. “But for every boy who’s lost, there must be ten who make it back just fine. Or twenty. I don’t know. There’s no use thinking the worst. The war, at least in Europe, really is nearing an end.” But Anna was saying this for Mildred. Her words couldn’t relieve her own mind.

  “I don’t want to think the worst,” Mildred said. “It’s just that he’s the only one left in my family.” She looked off toward the kitchen window, which was filled with dull gray light.

  “I know. I understand,” Anna told her.

  Sister Stoltz reached across the table and patted Mildred’s hand. “We both understand,” she said.

  Anna thought what an understatement that was. She and her mother actually had more reasons to worry. But she didn’t want to talk about any of that. She wanted to get away now. If she couldn’t tell them what she knew, she didn’t want to tell them anything.

  “I know you’ve already gone through more than I ever will,” Mildred said. She, of course, knew some of the stories about the Stoltzes’s past.

  “No. That isn’t so,” Anna said. And she suddenly felt ashamed. “You have already lost much more than we have. We still have hope for our family to return.”

  “But for me, it was over in an instant. And then I knew what I had to face. You’ve faced such a long ordeal.”

  “It has been long,” Anna said, and then she walked to her room. She sat on her bed and thought of it all. July, 1941. This coming summer it would be four years since she had fought off Agent Kellerman, four years since her family had been forced to go on the run. Since then, never a day had felt normal.

  Fear and worry were so much a part of Anna’s life that it was difficult to remember what she had been like as a young woman. She knew that she had been smug, even disrespectful, and sometimes she felt a certain gratefulness for the changes that had come to her. But she couldn’t think that way today. What she wondered was how much more she could take. She knew that if Alex made it back, she would ask for little more out of life, but now the odds seemed so greatly diminished. She wrapped her arms over her bulging middle, tried to feel the little soul inside her. But it only made her angry to think that she and her child could be left alone, and that Alex had had a choice not to go on this mission. She thought of his last letter, and now, for the first time, she understood some of what he had meant.

  She got up and walked to her desk, where she took the letter from a little bundle she kept in a drawer. She read it one more time.

  Dearest Anna,

  I’m sorry I didn’t write for a few days. A lot has been happening. I’ve been moved again, but I’m not allowed to tell you more than that. I hope you understand.

  I want you to know that I may not be able to write for a time. Don’t let that worry you. In certain situations it is difficult to mail letters. I tell you this so you won’t think something is wrong, and so you won’t be alarmed when my letters don’t come. Anna, it could even be weeks before you hear from me again.

  I have some things on my mind tonight—things I don’t say much about, usually, but some things I want to tell you. I’ve thought a lot about the war lately. I’ve had a little more time to do that than I usually do. Sometimes, on the battlefront, the politics seem to mean nothing, but tonight, as I consider the whole thing, I do believe that what we’re doing is right and necessary. I hesitate to say that the war is a struggle of good against evil; there’s too much evil in all of us to make that kind of claim. But if Hitler or Tojo, or both, were to hold the power in our world, all possibility of justice would end. Evil would be placed in a position of control. America has its faults, just as dear old England does, and Stalin is a dangerous man himself, but Hitler would take away our humanity, given the chance. He does have to be stopped. No compromise is possible with him, no truce. We have to fight this out to the end.

  I say all this only to tell you that what I’m doing is worth it and must be done. I’ve doubted that all winter, and at times even concluded that I didn’t believe it. But for the last few days I’ve stepped back and tried to look at the meaning of the war—not just the immediate experience—and I’ve felt better about what we did in Bastogne, for instance. American troops are mostly a bunch of civilians who got pulled into this thing, not trained warriors, but what we believe turns out to run pretty deep in us. Right now, what I remember about Bastogne is mostly the snow and cold and misery, but we held our own when things looked really bad, and once I have time to reflect, I think I’ll be proud of that the rest of my life.

  What I’m thinking about tonight, as I’m sure you can tell, is the cost of everything we have gone through. I know I’m not the same man I was, and I don’t like some of the changes. I sometimes wonder what you will think of me, whether you will want me back. But what I ask myself so often is whether or not this is all worth it, especially if I don’t survive. I want you and our baby to know, if that should happen, that I’m feeling at this point that it is. That would be something for my son or daughter to know, to cling to, if something did happen to me.

  But don’t misunderstand. I plan to get back to you. And I hope it

  won’t be long before that happens. During the time you don’t hear from me, remember that. I have a picture in my mind that never leaves me entirely, and keeps me going. I see you from a distance, and I run to you. I grab you up in my arms—and know that it really is all over. And then I just hold onto you and feel absolutely nothing but your body in my arms. From that point, I just put all this behind me, and I never think about it again. I hope that will be soon, and I hope when it happens, you’ll still be round and schön so I can be there when our baby is born. Let’s think mostly of that. Please don’t worry about the other things I’ve said.

  I love you,

  Alex.

  Anna understood the letter now, but she wished that she didn’t. The tone of this letter was different from most that he wrote, and a little strange, and when she had first read it, she thought she noticed some confidence between the lines. Now, knowing where he was, she saw the letter the way he must have seen it. He had told himself, “If I don’t make it through this mission, what kind of letter will I want Anna and my child to have as my last statement to them?” He had wanted to sound noble, wanted to convince her that his sacrifice had been worth it. But she found that infuriating. She took out a sheet of her stationery and wrote:

  Dear Alex,

  I am angry tonight. Angry at you. I shouldn’t say that, I know, but it is what I feel. Today I was doing my work and I heard your voice. Do you understand what I say to you? I had no idea you were doing something of this kind, and then, there you were. Now I’m angry about the things you said in your last letter. I want no good-bye letters from you. I want you to come home.

  Maybe you think I should be angry with the army, but I know more than you think I do. I know where you are. You had a choice, and you decided to go. Don’t tell me why the war must be won. I knew this long before you did. What I know is that you have given three years of your life. It’s enough, Alex. It’s time to think of us. Me and your baby.

  You may think me selfish, but I don’t care. I’m tired. Here in London I see the soldiers who work in offices, who go each night to drink in the pubs or spend the night with their English girlfriends. I have heard them joke about the war, say what a good time it is. Those are the ones who should be doing what you are doing. They should have their turns.

  I know everything you would say to me. I know the way you think. You put your duty first. But that means you put us—me and your baby—last. Alex, I don’t want to be alone. I don’t want to raise our child by myself. Think what you owe to us, and don’t tell me about evil. When this war is over, evil will still be with us. It will be forever, no matter how many wars we fight. I want to find a place where we can make a family and we can try not to be evil ourselves. That’s the only war we have a chance to win.

  But now she was crying. And so she put her pen down, cupped her
hands over her eyes, and blocked the tears from running down her face. She didn’t want to cry; she wanted to stay angry. But she couldn’t cling to that. She sobbed for a time, and when she picked the pen back up, she wrote:

  Alex, I go too far. I’m sorry. I do think you have done your share, and more, but I also know the truth. I’m angry because your heart is pure. You are like the young warriors in the Book of Mormon who fought with pure hearts. You tell me this is not so. But I know you accepted this mission because of who you are. Don’t tell me about Hitler or politics. You had to go because you knew that if you didn’t, someone else would. That’s your goodness, and I wouldn’t love you so much if you weren’t this kind of person. But, Alex, I do want an end to all this. We’ve given enough to this war, and I don’t want to give any more.

  Anna sat back. She couldn’t send this letter. It was all a muddle, and if Alex ever read it, she would regret some of the things she had said. But she couldn’t put it aside without ending it the way she knew she should:

  Alex, please find a way to get back to us. All my anger is only because I can’t stand to think of living without you. I love you.

  Anna

  Suddenly she was angry with herself, not at Alex, not even at the war. She didn’t have to be so weak; it wasn’t what Alex needed now. She tore the letter into shreds and threw it away. Then she stood up and tried to think what to do—how she could get through these coming days. There would be no letters now, perhaps for quite some time. And she would know nothing, have so much to worry about. She had to think of a way to deal with this.

  Suddenly, on impulse, she walked to the kitchen and said, “Mildred, would you like to go for a walk with me?”

  “No. I don’t think so,” Mildred told her. “I’m tired tonight.”

  “Please. We need to get out. We need to do something. I would take you to a pub and buy you a beer—except that I don’t go to pubs and I don’t drink beer.”

  Mildred laughed. “I’d settle for a nice bit of chocolate—if we could buy one.”

  “No. I doubt we can do that. But we could walk in the park.”

  “Yes, and look at the roses, all gone wild.”

  “I know what we can do. Let’s go to the cinema. All three of us. Let’s take the Underground to the West End—and see something silly.”

  “Abbot and Costello,” Mildred said, and she brightened.

  “You two go,” Sister Stoltz said. “I don’t understand those two. It all makes no sense to me.”

  “Then we’ll find something else—one of those tap-dancing movies. Fred Astaire.”

  Sister Stoltz smiled. “I do like those,” she said. “I don’t understand what they say so well, but I like to see the dance.”

  “Then let’s go. We’ll stop somewhere for fish and chips so we won’t have to cook tonight.”

  “Oh, yes. Now I like this,” Sister Stoltz said, and she laughed.

  “And Mildred,” Anna said, “if you see a nice-looking soldier, and want to flirt with him, you don’t need an old lady and a pregnant woman with you. We can walk away.”

  Mildred denied any thought of that, but she was laughing now, too.

  And so everyone got ready. They took turns in the bathroom, each quickly fixing her hair, applying a touch of lipstick. As they headed out the door, Sister Stoltz said, “Anna, this is a wonderful idea. I’m glad you came home in such a happy mood today. It was just what we needed.”

  Chapter 13

  Alex and Otto slept in the woods the first night after their escape from Brünen. They didn’t know how avidly they might be sought, but they felt that if they could avoid detection for a few days, they had a good chance of surviving. What they knew was that the invasion was coming soon. The OSS had been unwilling to give them an exact date. If they were caught, it was better that they not have that information. Still, everything they had heard convinced them that the drop wasn’t more than a few days off. A bombardment from airplanes and big guns across the river was likely to come a day or two before the invasion. Then the airborne troops would drop behind the German front lines, attack toward the river, and provide support for the Allied troops who would make the crossing. If all went well, Allied soldiers would occupy this area around Wesel and Brünen in less than a week, and then Alex and Otto could approach an outpost and make themselves known.

  The problem for the moment, of course, was that they had nothing to eat. For the first night and day the fear of being caught outweighed their hunger, and they stayed in the dense, overgrown spot they had chosen for a hiding place. By the second night their hunger was becoming the more pressing matter. Otto wanted to find a village and break into a grocery store or a Bäkerei. “That’s a sure way to get ourselves caught,” Alex told him. “Let’s find a farm. A chicken coop. A few raw eggs will hold us over.”

  “I’ve got a better idea. I have matches. Let’s snatch a chicken. We can make a fire and cook it.”

  “I think we’d better stick with the eggs—or maybe some vegetables from a root cellar, if we can find one. We don’t want to light a fire that could give away our position.”

  “Raw eggs and raw potatoes?” Otto laughed. “I think maybe I’ll try a Gasthaus. I’d rather eat Wienerschnitzel.”

  By the time the two approached a little farm north of the spot where they had been hiding, however, Otto wasn’t laughing. As they drew close, they got down and crawled on their stomachs. The moon was fairly bright, and Alex could see the yard behind the house. “I don’t see a chicken coop,” he whispered.

  “What? No raw eggs?”

  “What’s that in back of the house? A rabbit hutch?”

  “It could be.”

  “Maybe we could take a chance on a little fire—and cook a rabbit.”

  “That’s the kind of talk I like.”

  “But we’ve got to go right up to their house, and there’s a light on upstairs. What if they have a dog?”

  “Chances are, they do. Let’s move in a little more. If it barks, we can slip away.”

  And so the two nudged themselves forward a little at a time. They crossed a rock fence and then worked their way across a garden that was plowed but not yet planted. There was no sound of a dog, and now, if one did set up a fuss, the two were too close to make a quick getaway.

  “If something happens, don’t go back the way we came,” Otto said. “The back fence is closer, and there are some trees to hide in, just beyond it.”

  “All right. I just hope these rabbit pens aren’t empty.”

  They crawled a little closer, and then, very carefully, Alex stood up. The moon illuminated things quite well, but inside the hutch, he could see nothing. When he turned the wooden latch, however, and opened the wire door, he heard something move. He waved his hand inside, felt fur, and grabbed on. But he got a leg, and the rabbit, in its panic, put up a wild fight. It kicked and squealed and thrashed against the wood and wire.

  In only a moment, Alex had the rabbit tight by the throat, and after a fierce squeeze, the flailing stopped. The animal twitched a few more times and then went limp and silent.

  Alex stood his ground and listened. No dog. But then he heard something—just a subtle creaking sound that might have been a screen door opening. He waited, didn’t move. A little breeze was blowing, and he wondered whether the sound had been something outside.

  He waited a full minute, perhaps, before Otto whispered, “Let’s go. Move slowly. Head to the back.”

  Alex stepped toward the end of the hutch and was about to walk around it. Just then a firm, low voice said, “Halt. Halt or I shoot.”

  Alex froze. He felt Otto bump into him and then hold, tense and still.

  “Step out a little,” the voice said. “I want to see you.”

  As Alex stepped forward, he could see a man’s silhouette against the white stucco of the house, but not his face. It crossed Alex’s mind that some Gestapo agent or military policeman had traced them here. But the voice said, “What are you doing behind my hou
se? What is it you want?”

  Alex was trying to think what to say when Otto said, “Food. We stole one of your rabbits—because we’re starving.”

  “You don’t look underfed to me,” the man said.

  Alex and Otto were under the moonlight, not shaded by the house the way the farmer was. He could see them better than they could see him. Alex wondered whether the man would really shoot. Maybe they should rush him now, before he called the police.

  “I’ve killed a rabbit,” Alex said. “I’m sorry. But we’re hungry.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Soldiers,” Otto said. Alex decided he would let Otto make up the story. He had a better knack for it.

  “What are you? Deserters?”

  “Yes, we are. But many are running. You can’t believe what it’s like at the front now. It won’t be long until we’re all overrun. You will have Amis tramping across your land before another week goes by.”

  “Maybe they will have their own food—and won’t be stealing my rabbits.”

  “My friend, we’ve spent years at the front. We were in Russia and East Prussia. Both of us were wounded there. The army let us heal a little and then sent us to the Ardennes. You have no idea what we’ve been through. We’ve had enough. Call us cowards if you want. Maybe we deserve the name. But a man can only take so much. I’m sorry about the rabbit, but we’re desperate. We haven’t eaten for days.”

  The man was quiet for a time. Alex couldn’t see his face at all, so there was no way of knowing what he was thinking. It seemed to Alex that Otto had gone a little overboard, and the man might not believe a word of the story. But finally he said, “Come inside. I’ll give you food. Walk to the side of the house and then stop at the door.”

  Alex and Otto did as they were told, but when they reached the door, the farmer stepped in front of them, making himself vulnerable had either one wanted to knock him down. He opened the door and yelled, “Berta, I’m bringing two soldiers inside. They’re hungry.” And then he said to Alex, “Drop that rabbit there by the step. Don’t mention it to my wife.”