Sew in Love

by Debby Lee

  Stella shook her head. “Here, Mama. I’m going to see if they found anything yet.” Stella handed her mother the cup of steaming coffee.

  “Will you meet me at the hospital later today to visit with your father?” Mama asked.

  “Yes, of course.” Stella donned her overcoat. “Give me just an hour at most at the airfield, and I’ll meet you and Colleen at the hospital in time for Papa’s breakfast.”

  Stella kissed her mother on the cheek. The color in Mama’s face and her heartier appetite made Stella’s heartache a little lighter as she stole out the front door.

  She walked as fast as her shaky legs could carry her to the airfield. She had to find out if there was any word regarding Irving. Someone had said the odds were slim, but she refused to believe it. The pilots she’d spoken to had said they couldn’t fly at night, butstill, there might be some kind of news.

  Perhaps a fishing boat had rescued them during the night.

  For all she knew, Irving was sitting at the airfield joking with his crew about another close call with death.

  Then again, maybe not. She pushed the troublesome thoughts from her mind.

  The air was crisp that morning, almost savage, as if it too wished to torment Stella. She was strong enough to survive on her own, so why did the thought of living without Irving cinch her heart tight with raw pain?

  The word love bounced off the walls of her heart, but she couldn’t make herself say it aloud. Was it a means of shielding herself from heartbreak if he didn’t come home? What if he came home in the same shell-shocked condition as her father?

  She passed by the blue house with the white shutters and flower boxes. Time and weather had peeled layers of paint from the shutters so that they weren’t nearly as white as they once had been. A myriad of weeds had burst from the flower boxes and cascaded down the windowsill. For Stella to see her childhood home in such disrepair caused tears to brim in her eyes.

  At one time she’d believed that once Papa came home he’d take care of her and Mama, and living in the blue house once again would be a real possibility. But her father’s hospitalization and his state of mind caused her to toss the dream aside like a scoopful of well-used coffee grounds. Her family depended on her now, and with or without Irving, she needed to step up to the challenge.

  With a waning glimmer of hope, she stepped into the office at the airfield. Several enlisted men hunched over typewriters. One, with a clipboard in hand and a pencil nestled behind his ear, stepped forward to greet her.

  “Is there any news of the plane that went down yesterday afternoon? Have the patrols found any survivors?” Stella squared her shoulders and squelched her tears.

  The man flipped through the pages on his clipboard, cleared his throat, and refused to look her in the eye when he spoke.

  “I’m terribly sorry, miss. We’ve found pieces of wreckage miles from their charted course, but we’ve found no survivors.”

  Stella trembled, prayed her legs would support her.

  “Wh—” Her voice wavered. “What’s being done about it now? There are still patrols out looking for the men, aren’t there?” She swallowed hard, a gritty, rock-sized lump in her throat. From somewhere within, she found the strength to continue. “Captain Morgenstern is the best B-17 bomber pilot in this outfit. You can’t give up on him. You just can’t.”

  The fear, despair, and anguish that had whispered to her all night now returned, only this time they shouted their evil taunts. Stella fought to keep them from shoving her into the abyss of hopelessness. Still, her voice cracked when she spoke. “You can’t give up, please.”

  The man lowered his clipboard and looked at her with eyes full of sorrow. “Yes, we know that, and we’re still looking. But even if they survived the crash, they’ve been out all night on the ocean, and even in the summer, it’s cold. Even if they’re in a life raft and have their Mae Wests on, it’s still like looking for a needle in a haystack. I’m sorry, miss, but there really is little hope.”

  The voices screaming in her ears nearly deafened her. He’s dead, he’s dead.

  Stella slapped her hands over her ears. “No!” she cried. She turned and prepared to flee the office, but General Valens stepped through the door.

  “Miss McGovern, I’ve been meaning to find you.”

  This was the man who’d ordered Irving to go on his mission. The man seemed to care most about his own status, and his pompous air made her stomach roll. What could he possibly have to say to her?

  “Captain Morgenstern asked the chaplain to give you this in the event he didn’t return. The chaplain is busy writing letters of condolence, so I’m giving it to you now.” He held out a plain white envelope.

  She recognized Irving’s handwriting. With a shaky hand she reached out and took the missive. “Thank you,” she said.

  The general saluted her and expounded on the virtues of the captain and his crew and the nobility of dying for one’s country. Stella should have been more polite, but instead she bolted from the office. She sprinted toward the beach, the same rocky shore where she’d walked with Irving only a few nights ago. The same shore where they’d faced gunfire and survived. The same rocky beach where they’d nearly shared a tender kiss.

  Bracing herself against a large boulder and gasping for breath, she allowed the tears to stream down her cheeks. She tore the envelope open. A quilt block fell from the pages of the letter. The block had only eight squares, and Irving’s initials were embroidered into the upper-left hand square. The lower right square was missing.

  She slowly read through the letter.

  My darling Stella, if you are reading this, then something must have happened to me. I want you to know I grew to care a great deal for you the past few weeks. Our walk along the moonlit beach made my heart smile. I wish we could have spent a lifetime together, but God holds all our days in His hands, doesn’t He?

  I admire your virtue, your goodness, and your willingness to work with your hands. You extend your hand to the poor and needy. You watch over the ways of your household and you don’t eat the bread of idleness. Don’t blush at these compliments, my dear Stella. You are a woman who fears the Lord, and you deserve praise. You are everything a Proverbs 31 wife would be.

  Someday, some man will be lucky to have you. Just make sure he’s worthy of you. I wish I could have been that man. Take this quilt block to remember me by, and know that I’m carrying the missing square, with your initials, into eternity with me.

  Please keep sewing quilts for the soldiers, and please take care of my Bible for me. It’s in my footlocker. One last thing. Don’t grieve my loss too much. I’m singing praises with Jesus.

  Until we meet again in heaven,

  All my love, Irving

  The very core of Stella’s soul writhed in an agony she’d never experienced before and prayed she’d never feel again. She dropped to her knees and emitted a primal cry of wretched pain.

  Irving was gone.

  The same fear, anguish, and hopelessness that had haunted her earlier now formed a circle around her heart as if she were a maypole, and then, instead of dancing in celebration, they stomped on her dreams, her hopes, and her soul.

  In a high-pitched, whiny voice, they chanted their tormenting lyrics.

  “He’s dead, he’s dead. He’s dead.”

  And she had no strength left to fight them.

  More than twenty-four hours adrift on the open ocean. An icy coldness seeped into Irving’s very soul and threatened to freeze him solid. Never had he been so cold. Shivering accomplished little. Next to him in the life raft rested the young Private Worley. Jack occupied the other raft with a badly wounded Private Ormond. They had fished two Mae West life vests from the water and placed them on the enlisted men. In Jack’s raft, which was tethered to Irving’s, poor Ormond teetered on the verge of delirium.

  The rest had gone down with the plane, God rest their souls. Should he say a few words, a scripture, perhaps, as some sort of memorial service?
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  Irving gripped the side of the raft and fought the urge to vomit. Hunger, seasickness, fear, all three? He knew the search planes wouldn’t have looked for them during the darkness of night, but now a healthy shade of pink colored the eastern horizon with a promise of a warm summer sun. Irving refused to give up hope of being found alive.

  Supplies held within the pockets of the life rafts included bars of chocolate, fishing hooks, a jackknife, and a compass. Several tins of water would help keep them alive.

  A small wooden crate bumped against the raft. Irving tore into it and found, of all things, a can of Spam and two boxes of crackers. Four small tins of water were at the bottom of the crate. With icy hands that were stiff from cold, he opened one and gave each man a few sips. Next, he handed each man a small cracker. Lord only knew how long it would be before they were found. Best ration the meager supplies.

  Waves battered the tiny boats, nearly swamping them. Irving led his men in the Lord’s Prayer for the umpteenth time. He was just as frightened as they were, but he didn’t want them to see his fear. He had to be strong for them.

  They were close to Japanese territory. He half expected to see a Zero fly overhead and fill the life rafts, and the Americans, with bullets.

  Sharks circled the rafts, likely hoping for a quick and easy meal. Freezing as they were in the tiny boat, it would be colder in the water. In the lifeboats, they had a chance. In the water, with the sharks, none.

  Irving pulled the soggy quilt square from his pocket. He ran his scarred fingers over Stella’s initials. Would he ever see her again? The chaplain had probably given her his letter by now. What would she do with the unfinished quilt block he’d left her along with the letter?

  “I’m cold.” Ormond’s voice was barely a croak. “And thirsty.”

  Jack tucked his coat around the man and said, “If we’re not rescued soon, I’ll see about giving you another few sips of water.”

  “And whatever you do, men,” Irving added, “don’t drink the sea-water. It will make you sick.”

  A few minutes later, Irving heard an airplane. He strained his eyes to see if it had a bend in the wings like the American Corsairs, or straight wings like the Japanese Zeroes. It was much too high to tell, but that didn’t stop them from yelling and waving their arms in hopes of being seen.

  To their dismay, the airplane flew into the sunrise. There was no way to tell if it had seen them. Irving’s heart sank like the wrecked fuselage of his plane.

  Silence engulfed the men, and then Irving heard a quiet sob from Ormond. Unable to stand the hopelessness threatening to overtake them, he decided to sing.

  Together they sang “The Star Spangled Banner” and then “Amazing Grace.” From there they pieced together some mismatched lyrics from three hymns, “The Old Rugged Cross,” “How Great Thou Art,” and “In the Garden.” When Worley belted out a rowdy tune that would have burned Stella’s ears, Irving had to chuckle.

  Oh, the bawdiness of men.

  The sun climbed higher in the sky, toward its zenith. As cold as it was at night, days proved to be baking hot. Thirst drove poor Ormond closer to madness, while Worley seemed to manage all right. This had to be rough on the new recruit.

  Over time, Irving’s skin burned, but there was no more sunscreen. He didn’t care. He could survive a sunburn.

  The outline of a gray ship emerged over the horizon.

  “Help,” Irving yelled. He waved his arms and did his best to attract attention without his movements overturning his raft. After everything they’d been through, the last thing he wanted was to become shark dinner.

  Jack held a mirror in the air and flashed it back and forth.

  Rescued! They were going to be rescued. They were going to make it. Irving fought the urge to cry. Twice now he’d cheated death. A laugh escaped his lips, and he would have cried real tears had he not been so dehydrated. The Lord must have something really big in store for him to be spared, not once, but twice.

  The ship sailed toward them.

  It finally got close enough for Irving to see it in more detail.

  His heart lurched to a stop.

  Attached to the highest mast of the vessel, a Japanese flag.

  Chapter 10

  Three days Irving’s plane had been missing. Stella’s mother and Colleen had brought her into the doctor’s small office for privacy, to tell her of a recent discovery, one that could put a final end to her questions. She stared at Mama and her friend in sheer disbelief.

  “I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you, really I am,” Colleen said. “Maybe it’s time to let him go.”

  The anguished faces of her mother and her friend told Stella they did care and would be there for her, but the heartache was too raw to process at the moment.

  Everything in her field of vision blurred, from the medical books on the shelf to the stethoscope on the desk. She wailed and fled the room.

  “Stella, wait!” Mama tried to run after her, but Stella wanted to be alone. The thought of Irving dead exploded in her soul like a mortar shell, creating deep, gaping craters. Wounds, she was sure, that would never heal. She wished she’d told him more often just how much she cared.

  She burst through the hospital’s exit doors and out into the warm early June sunshine.

  “It’s not true! It’s not true!” The mantra hammered in her heart as she ran. Her lungs ached, but she compelled her feet to keep moving. Sickness roiled in her stomach. Tears streamed down her cheeks. But she had to know for sure, had to hear it for herself.

  Minutes later, she pushed through the doors of the main office at the airfield. Two men looked up from their typewriters. The officer she’d talked to two days ago, the one with the clipboard, spun in his chair to face her.

  Gasping, she sputtered, “I heard you, you found, found …” Bile once again rose from the depths of her stomach. She choked it back.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the officer said as he stood up. “We’ve recovered a few bodies, or, rather, what’s left of the bodies. We believe they were local boys, but we’re not sure. The doctor is trying to identify them as we speak.”

  Stella stood in disbelief and stared at him. How could he be so matter-of-fact?

  “You have to let me see them, please,” Stella begged. She’d know if one of them was her Irving. Tall lanky frame, blond hair, scarred hands.

  The officer shook his head. “We have to assume the rest have been eaten by crabs, fish, maybe even sharks.”

  One of the men bent over a typewriter coughed so loudly the noise bounced off the interior of the building. He shot a glare at the officer and then went back to typing.

  The officer continued. “We’ve been ordered to call off the search. General Valens is speaking with the chaplain about funeral services with full military honors. They’ll all be given medals.”

  Stella thought of Irving’s family. How soon before they received one of those dreaded telegrams? Yes, Irving was a hero, and she prayed the medal would be a balm to their aching hearts, but no medal, full military honor, or commendation could take the place of him in person. Of course the family would want him buried in close proximity to their home. She couldn’t begrudge them that, not that she wanted to, but she at least wanted to say goodbye.

  “But please, if Irving Morgenstern is one of them”—she gulped—“let me see him, to say goodbye, please?” She placed her hand in her pocket, the quilt block soft and smooth to the touch. The block hadn’t left her hands since she’d discovered it in Irving’s final letter to her. She ran her fingers over his initials sewn into the corner.

  Is this the closest she would ever be to him again? She had fished his Bible out of his footlocker. She kept it on her nightstand during the day, but at night, she clutched it to herself. It was almost like holding him close. With the exception of his Bible, was this patch of material the only thing she’d have left to remember him by?

  The officer cleared his throat. “Miss, I really don’t think you should see him, or
what’s left of him, considering the condition he’s in. Providing one of the bodies is really his.”

  Stella’s middle twisted as she fought to maintain her composure. This was possibly her Irving the man spoke of. But maybe he had a point. Perhaps it was best if she remembered him the way he was, full of patriotism, compassion, and faith.

  Trembling overtook her. She’d come back later when she could think more clearly. And she’d bring her mother or a friend for support. Lord knew, she’d need it.

  Once again, Stella bolted from the airport hangar office. Once again she raced down to the water’s edge. She leaned against the same boulder where she’d read his last letter to her. A lone, silent tear of resignation meandered down her cheek.

  She pulled the quilt block from her pocket and used it to dry her eyes. She would sew the block into the quilt they had worked on together, minus the section he’d taken with him. Rather than give it away, she vowed to keep it forever.

  This time he was gone. Really gone. The mantra in her head switched cadence and played a mournful tune. Melancholy mixed with denial. Colleen’s words echoed all around her.

  Let him go.

  From his earliest memories, Irving had prided himself in obeying the rules and being a law-abiding citizen. He’d never picked on other kids at school, never rebelled against his parents, and never received a parking ticket. He couldn’t think of a time he’d so much as jaywalked. He reminded himself that being a POW was no crime, but still, staring at the world through bamboo bars was both a mystery and a shock to him.

  The fact that Irving and his comrades hadn’t committed a crime didn’t stop the Japanese from treating them all as if they were criminals. Not a day went by they didn’t remind him of it. For the first five days he’d remained stoic as they’d pummeled him and, in broken English, shouted curses enough to make a seasoned sailor blush.

  Now Irving gripped the small square of fabric he’d managed to hang on to. He’d been searched upon arriving at the camp, but he’d folded the four-inch square in half and in half again and placed it between his teeth and cheek. It was a wonder his captors hadn’t discovered it. He still feared they would. The fabric reminded him of Stella and helped him hang on to his sanity while adrift in this desolate place.