by Dean Hughes
Peter stepped back to his right, so he was facing the sergeant, who was about three steps away. “No,” he said. “Leave them alone.”
The sergeant was a bulky man with a great, round head. He hadn’t shaved for a few days, and the bristles were thick across his chin. Peter could see that he liked this little game. He smiled and motioned with an easy wave of his hand for Peter to step aside.
Peter shook his head. “No.”
The other soldiers had collected around the sergeant, five of them, and now their rifles came up, all pointed at Peter. Peter knew all about Russian soldiers. He believed they really would shoot him. But it didn’t matter. He had no chance against all these armed men. They would do what they chose to do. But he wouldn’t watch it happen. He wouldn’t step aside and let it happen. He would die instead.
The sergeant waved him aside again, and Peter wondered why the man didn’t just step forward and knock him down. There was nothing he could do to fight off more than one of them, even if they didn’t use their weapons.
“Leave them alone,” he said again, in German. It didn’t matter to him whether any of them understood the words. They certainly saw that he wasn’t moving.
Rolf and Thomas had retreated to their mother and sister. Peter glanced over his shoulder. “Start walking,” he said. “I’ll do what I can.”
“No,” he heard Katrina say.
But now the sergeant was reaching for the holster on his belt. He unsnapped the leather strap and pulled out a pistol. Then he raised the gun, held his arm all the way out, and aimed at Peter’s head. Peter stared into the round opening of the barrel. He felt himself shaking, felt the panic, and he wanted to duck, to run, but he held his position and waited.
Again the sergeant spoke in Russian, and with his free hand he waved Peter aside. Then he pulled back the pistol’s hammer with his thumb.
All the rifles were pointed at Peter, too, at his chest.
“Please don’t shoot him,” Peter heard Katrina whisper. She was crying.
Seconds passed. Peter squinted and waited, expecting the worst, but his thoughts were simple and clear: I can’t stop this, but I won’t give Katrina to them.
The sergeant barked at Peter, and whatever the words were, clearly this was the final order. Step aside or die.
Peter had been so close to death before, and lately he had begun to hope for a full life. But he knew death well enough to accept that it had to come, sooner or later. He could do this. “Nein,” he said quietly.
Another second passed. Two. Three. Lord, help me, Peter was thinking. And he meant “help me to do this.”
And then the sergeant lowered his pistol. And he laughed. “You, a man,” he said. He gave Peter a nod, what seemed a sign of respect. Then he spoke to the other soldiers. They laughed. “Go back,” he said to Peter. “You. Frau. You go back.” He pointed to the east.
Peter nodded.
The soldiers returned to the truck. They climbed up and over the tailgate. When they were all on the truck, the sergeant stepped to Peter. He laughed, and he held out his hand. “You, a man,” he said again. Peter shook the Russian’s hand.
The sergeant walked to the truck and motioned for a soldier to toss him the flour sack. He handed it to Peter, and then he went back and got into the truck. Peter turned around to Katrina and the others. The starter on the truck whined, and the engine chugged a couple of times before it caught and roared. Gears clanked, and the truck rolled away.
The Schallers, all four of them, were staring at Peter, seemingly overwhelmed.
“Let’s start back to the east,” Peter said. “There’s a road north a little way back. We can head up that way and find a different road to the west.” But he saw the exhaustion, the fear in all their faces. “We can hide out until dark and then make our way west more slowly.”
But still they were staring. “I thought they were going to shoot you,” Rolf finally whispered.
“They were just trying to scare us,” Peter said. “Let’s go.”
Katrina was clinging to her mother. She had begun to shake and cry, but her eyes were on Peter. He could see what she was feeling, the relief, the gratefulness. It touched him, but it embarrassed him too. “Let’s go,” he said. “Other trucks could be coming.”
He walked past the Schallers and then walked ahead. He couldn’t stand to have them all looking at him the way they were. “That’s the bravest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” Frau Schaller said to his back, but Peter knew better. There had been at least as much cowardice as bravery. Death had seemed easier than regret at that moment. He had piled up enough regrets in his short life, and he had known very clearly that he couldn’t take on another one—not one like this. The Russians might have made him watch; death had to be easier than that.
So he walked on ahead, turned at the road to the north, and kept going. He was setting a rather fast pace, but he could hear the others behind him. The boys weren’t complaining, not even talking. They were certainly still shaken by what they had seen.
Before long Katrina increased her pace and came alongside him. He didn’t look over at her. He was still too self-conscious. “Thank you,” she said.
“They wouldn’t have shot me,” he said, trying to sound unconcerned.
“You didn’t know that.”
He didn’t answer.
“I think you love me.”
He certainly wasn’t going to answer that.
“I know I love you.” And then she took hold of his hand. He didn’t resist. He walked next to her, holding her thin little hand. But now the emotion had finally come. Fear was filling him, jolting through him like an aftershock, and at the same time, he felt weak from the relief. Those men hadn’t harmed her after all, and here she was holding his hand—after what he had thought was going to happen to her. But he didn’t say anything to her. He really couldn’t at the moment.
Chapter 27
Bobbi Thomas heard the commotion, people yelling up and down her passageway. She was sleeping in the middle of the day because she had been up all night. On the previous evening the ship had arrived in Manila Bay, in the Philippines, and the medical staff had worked much of the night moving patients to the Manila hospital. But now some sort of news was spreading, and Bobbi had never heard quite so much excitement on the ship.
She got up, slipped on her robe, and stepped to the door. “What is it?” she asked. “What’s happened?”
A corpsman was in the passage in only his trousers, without shirt or shoes. “I just heard it myself. I guess it came over the radio. We dropped some new kind of bomb on a city in Japan. People are saying it destroyed the whole place. One bomb!”
Bobbi had actually heard something about this possibility, that the United States, along with Germany at one time, had been working on a powerful new bomb.
“Everyone is saying that the war could be over right away, that the Japs can never hold up against a weapon like this,” the corpsman said.
Bobbi felt a kind of chill go through her. This was what she had looked forward to for so long. If the war ended soon, her whole life would change. She was committed to stay six months after the end, but maybe the navy wouldn’t really want her that long. Maybe she could be home by Christmas. And Wally—maybe Wally would be released. That was the best thought of all.
But it was all a little too good to be true. What if one of these bombs hit the city where Wally was—wherever that might be? Or what if, after all this waiting, the family finally learned that he had died long ago right here in the Philippines?
Bobbi went back inside her state room. She knew she needed to sleep longer, but she was too excited now, so she got her toiletries and walked down the passageway. She showered and quickly did what she could with her hair, and she got dressed and walked to the officers’ ward room. People were gathered there listening to the radio. But the same news was merely being repeated over and over. The new bomb was called “atomic,” and announcers said it had harnessed the basic power
of the universe, but no one seemed to understand exactly what that meant.
One doctor, a man named Nolan Healy, told the others, “It doesn’t matter. We destroyed Tokyo with fire bombs in March, and that didn’t stop the Japs. This won’t either. We’ll still have to invade those islands.” But others disagreed. This new bomb put a power in America’s hands that no one could hold out against. The story was that it had created an enormous fireball over the city and wiped out absolutely everything for miles around. The idea was startling, and frightening. Bobbi could hear the awe in people’s voices as they spoke of it.
Two days passed, but nothing changed. Radio broadcasts and newspapers were full of speculation, but no one knew much more than the rumors passed around that first day when the city—now known to be Hiroshima—had been bombed. But on August 8 Russia declared war on Japan. This was Stalin’s response to Japan’s unwillingness to accept the declaration announced at Potsdam, Germany, a couple of weeks before. Stalin had met with Truman and Churchill, and the three countries had issued a demand that Japan surrender unconditionally or face total destruction. Everyone seemed to feel that Russia’s declaration would also hasten the end. Russia could attack the Japanese in Manchuria and drive them out of China.
On the following morning word came over the radio that the Russians were doing just that. A massive attack had been unleashed all along the Manchurian border. And then, that afternoon, news bulletins filled all the radio stations: another atomic bomb had been dropped. This one had leveled a city called Nagasaki.
Bobbi found a crowd gathered around the radio in the ward room once again. Dr. Healy was still not convinced that the end would come soon, but he said, “I gotta hand it to Harry Truman. He’s a tough little cuss.”
Bobbi didn’t know, but the radio announcers kept talking about the devastation and probable death. No one knew the number, but certainly tens of thousands of lives had been taken.
Bobbi thought of Ishi—how she must feel about this. Maybe it had always been inevitable that Japan would have to suffer this way, but Ishi had family in Japan. She must be horribly worried.
Bobbi felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned to see Kate. “What’s happening?”
“We’ve dropped another atomic bomb,” Bobbi told her.
“I know. But what are they saying?”
“Just that. Another city was destroyed.”
Kate had a cup of coffee in her hand. She motioned for Bobbi to come with her. They walked away from the group and sat down at a table. “Do you think this is going to end the war?” Kate asked. She looked tired. Her short hair was messy, like that of a kid who had just gotten up from a nap.
“It’s got to speed it up—don’t you think?”
“I hope so.”
But Bobbi felt strange about all this. She kept remembering that kamikaze pilot who had attacked their ship, how she had hated him. He had attacked a hospital ship, killed her friends. So how could she celebrate now when whole cities full of people were being blown up? The people dying were not soldiers but ordinary citizens. “Kate, do you think it’s right to use a weapon like that?” she asked.
“Bobbi, if this ends the war, it just might be the thing that will save your brother’s life. Now multiply that by all the families that will see their sons come home. And it won’t just save our boys. In the long run, this will save Japanese lives. It’ll end the war so much faster.”
“I guess that’s right. But doesn’t it scare you a little—the idea of a bomb that powerful?”
“No. It doesn’t scare me a little. It scares me half to death.” She set her cup down and rubbed her hands over her face. “It’s one more monstrosity to come out of this war.”
***
After the atomic bomb had dropped on Hiroshima, the whole world had waited to see what would happen next. In America, the speculation on the radio and in newspapers—and across back fences—was that the war would soon be over. LaRue Thomas felt the excitement. She could hardly believe that the day she had imagined since she was twelve years old might finally come.
President Thomas had never said much of anything positive about Harry Truman, but he was praising the man now. “Roosevelt never would have had the backbone to use a weapon like that,” he told LaRue. “But this new bomb is going to shorten the war by months, maybe years.” Then the second bomb dropped, and the talk had changed. Maybe Japan would not capitulate. Maybe the leaders would allow the destruction to continue. Hiroshima had been struck on a Monday, Nagasaki on Thursday. All through the weekend, everyone waited and wondered. On Sunday evening a report came that the Japanese might have accepted surrender terms, but by Monday those reports had been denied. It was Tuesday, August 14, when the official announcement finally came.
LaRue was in her room alone that afternoon, listening on the radio. She had certainly hoped the declaration would come that day, but when the announcer broke into a music program and said, “Ladies and gentleman, we have an important announcement,” she assumed it would be another “development,” not the final word. And then a deep, serious voice said, “Word has just come from the White House. Japan has announced its unconditional surrender. The war is over.”
LaRue was too shocked to do anything for a moment, but downstairs she heard Beverly whoop with joy and then come charging up the stairs. When she appeared at LaRue’s door, her face was flushed and her eyes wide with excitement. “Did you hear?”
LaRue was already running to her. “Yes!” she shouted, and they threw their arms around each other. Then they hopped up and down, turning in circles. “It’s over. It’s really over,” both of them kept squealing.
When they finally stopped and looked at one another, LaRue said, “Let’s go downtown. Everyone’s going to be heading down there.”
“Maybe Dad will want us to—”
“Never mind about him. Let’s just go.”
“Okay. But we’ll need to get back before too long.”
“That’s fine,” LaRue said, but she had no intention of cutting the fun short. She had been waiting far too long for this moment. “I need to change my clothes first. What are you going to wear?”
“I don’t know. Just this, I guess.” Beverly looked down at herself, as though she couldn’t remember what she had on. It was an old cotton dress—something she wore around the house in the summer.
“No, no,” LaRue told her. “Let’s wear one of our new school outfits.”
Beverly suddenly smiled. “Okay,” she said, and LaRue was pleased. The two had shopped together this year, and LaRue was starting to make Beverly at least vaguely aware of clothing styles. “Which one?”
“Wear your pleated skirt, and one of your new blouses.”
“But if there’s a big crowd, I could get something on it. Mom would—”
“Hey, it’s okay. This war is only going to end once.”
“All right.” Beverly still looked wary but rather pleased with herself as she hurried off to her room.
LaRue changed quickly. It was a hot afternoon, and yet she put on the new cashmere sweater she had not planned to wear until school started. She didn’t put on the whole outfit, not the wool skirt she would wear with it in the fall, but she found a cotton skirt that went with it just as well.
In a few minutes Beverly was back, beaming with pleasure. Her skirt was cream colored, and her blouse a soft shade of rose. “You look pretty, Bev,” LaRue told her. “Come here. She took her sister to her bureau and had her stand still while she touched her lips with the same red lipstick she had just applied to her own lips. “Okay. Now press your lips together like this.”
Beverly was laughing too hard to do it for a moment, but she finally mimicked the motion that all girls knew from watching their mothers.
“Now blot it a little on this,” LaRue said.
“There won’t be any left.”
“Yes, there will. You don’t want it to show up too much.”
Beverly had worn lipstick before, but never in the daytime,
never when she wasn’t all dressed up. She obviously liked the idea of putting it on now.
“Do you think your friends will be in town?”
“You mean my boy friends?”
“All of your friends,” Beverly said, but she smiled.
“They’ll be there, sooner or later. But those boys are way too old for you.”
“Reed’s friend from the football team, Rulon Wilkerson, came to our MIA dances a couple of times this summer.”
“He didn’t ask you to dance, did he?”
“No.”
“See. He knows you’re too young for him. He’ll be a senior this year.”
“He talked to me once. He said, ‘So, are you going to start high school this fall?’ Then he started telling me I was going to be popular with the boys, like you. All my friends just about died when they heard him.”
“Don’t be popular like me, Bev.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know.” LaRue didn’t want to talk about it, not now—not when she was getting ready to celebrate.
“What’s wrong with the way you’re popular?”
LaRue walked to her bureau and got her little purse. She made sure she had enough money for the trolley, but when she looked up, Beverly was still waiting for an answer. “Bev, I act the way I think the boys want me to act,” she said. “I flirt with every boy who comes near me.”
“But I thought that’s what you liked to do.”
“I’m sick of it, if you want to know the truth.”
“I’ll never be popular. But I don’t care.”
“Don’t care, Bev. Really. Find some good friends—some nice kids. But don’t try to prove anything. Just stay the way you are.”
But Beverly looked a little disappointed with the advice. And when she said, “I know I’m not as pretty as you are,” LaRue decided she didn’t want to get into all that with her. LaRue suddenly thrust both her thumbs into the air. “Hey, never mind about that stuff today. It’s time to let loose. We need to have some fun.” She headed for the stairs, and Beverly followed her. They were almost to the front door when the phone rang. It was the Thomas ring on the party line, so LaRue walked into the dining room and picked up the receiver. “Hello,” she said.