Читать книгу A Rendezvous To Remember - Geri Krotow - Страница 8

The heavy, leather-bound journal sat on Melinda’s lap. Pages jutted out from its frayed edges, added later or falling out from age. It was one of several books Grandpa Jack had given to her, all with Grammy’s writing.

Melinda ran her hands over the dark brown cover, as though she could somehow sense Grammy’s love, feel her presence.

God, she missed Grammy so much.

As an adult she should be past needing her grandmother’s affection. Most of her friends and colleagues had lost their grandparents far sooner than she.

Yet the long talks and the hours spent cooking and baking together were all woven into the fabric of her life with Grammy. She just wanted to be able to pull out that blanket one last time.

A tear slipped from her eye and Melinda blinked.

She’d cried enough these past few years, hadn’t she?

If not about Nicholas, then about Grammy.

Nicholas.

She glanced around the Victorian home they’d restored in the early years of their marriage. The floral wallpaper in the living room reminded her of her neglected rose garden, out back. She and Nicholas had made love there on more than one occasion, in the gazebo.

What had brought that memory to the surface?

She swiped at her tears. Maybe coming home to Buffalo hadn’t been the best idea, after all.

But Grandpa had called. And Grammy’s words called her now.

And no way was Grandpa going to let her stay with him.

Melinda pulled on the leather string that held the journal together. Despite the cracked condition of the book, the string ran soft and supple through her fingers. She whispered a quiet prayer, lifted the old leather cover…and saw a large cream envelope with her name written on it in Grammy’s shaky cursive.

Melinda

The envelope was fairly new.

Grammy had left her one final birthday card, perhaps? She’d turned forty a week ago, and Grammy had always made it a point to celebrate Melinda’s birthday. Even when she’d been on assignment in D.C. last year, Grammy had sent balloons and chocolate to her one-bedroom efficiency condo.

Melinda opened the envelope. The edge of the flap gave her a paper cut but she paid no heed.

This was no birthday card.

Grammy had left her a sympathy card. A white embossed dove rose from a pale blue background, and the words To Comfort You in Your Loss were written across the top in silver. Melinda read the message inside.

Dear Melinda,

This is a sympathy card because by now I figure you’re missing me a lot. Know that I am with you and I’ll always love you. As much as I’m confident that I’ll be having a grand time wherever I am, know that I must somehow miss you, too. Unless, of course, I’m allowed to haunt you. In the most positive way, of course! No, I haven’t lost my mind, I’m just losing my body and I wanted to write this before it’s too late. Please read the enclosed letter before you start my journal.

XOX

Grammy

The enclosed letter had dropped onto Melinda’s lap when she opened the card. Along with it wafted the scent of Grammy. Baby powder and roses.

Grammy’s hand cream of choice was always rose-scented.

Melinda couldn’t help laughing through her tears. Grammy never lost her earthy sense of humor, even when the cancer limited her world to her bedroom those last few months. She shook her head and unfolded the lavender-colored paper.

Dear Melinda,

By now I’ve been gone at least a month. I told Jack to wait until the dust had settled, not just on my grave but in your lives.

Melinda honey, we’ve shared the best of our lives with each other. You and I have been blessed with a wonderful bond these past forty years. As much as I’d be the first to wish your father had been more available to you and that your mother had lived, it’d be a lie to say that I regret the consequences. It was a blessing to me, and to Jack, that we were able to spend so much time with you. Being able to raise you as our own for so much of your childhood meant everything to us.

We struggled financially while your dad was young and weren’t able to spoil him the way we did you. But as you already know, spoiling you with material things wasn’t ever our main focus. We wanted to spoil you with our love.

I’ve worried these last couple of years whether we’ve spoiled you too much. When things got rocky with you and Nicholas, I thought it might pass. All couples go through rough spots—that’s just life. But then you picked up and moved to Washington, D.C., and your whole life revolved around Senator Hodge’s career and agenda.

Jack and I were happy when you went to college right after high school and got your degree. We were so proud! And it always seemed destined that you’d marry Nicholas. Ever since you met him at St. Bonaventure, your eyes held a bright light.

We thought you were proud of his service in the Reserves and understood that it meant he could be called away at any time. So when he was called to war and you took it so badly, we questioned our assumptions. You said you believed that if Nicholas loved you, he wouldn’t go. That he’d put family first.

Since you’d been unable to get pregnant I wondered if you worried he was leaving during the time you’d have left to get pregnant. Remember when I took you out for coffee and ordered you that huge maple scone? And you said, “I’m not supposed to eat refined sugar or wheat.” I was trying to get you to relax, to enjoy yourself.

You’ve worried about so many things in your short life, Melinda.

It’s clear to me that Nicholas is a true patriot and simply answered the call he always knew could come. Maybe he’s even relished the challenge, in the way only a warrior does.

But you took it personally.

I’m sorry if this sounds like a lecture, Melinda. I just hate to see you suffer, and to see you throw away what may be the love of your life.

I know what pain that brings, as there was a time when I’d lost the love of my life. It was the bleakest period of my existence.

As you know, I’ve always liked writing. I’m sure you recall the column I wrote for the Buffalo Evening News. But what you don’t know is that my greatest work is what you’re about to read. Mind you, I started it when I was young, idealistic and thought myself a cross between Jane Austen and James Joyce—unlikely though that sounds!

I kept the journal hidden throughout the war but, just in case it was stolen or fell into the wrong hands, I wrote in English. Even though I was fluent, I was speaking my native French daily, so you may find some errors.

Read my story—you’ll figure out quickly that it’s not just my story but also that of Grandpa Jack, and millions of World War II survivors. Read this with an open mind and heart. Finally, understand why I found my peace and love here, in Buffalo.

Think about coming back to Buffalo, dearest, so you can give yourself a real life. I’ll never believe that working in that rat race on Capital Hill is good for you, Melinda. You’re certainly smart enough to be there with the best of them, but I don’t want you to waste your heart on things that won’t mean anything once you’re my age. You were such a natural in the classroom. Your former students still ask about you.

I’m feeling bold, since you’re not here in person to roll your beautiful blue eyes at me. I want you to reconsider your marriage to Nicholas. Twenty years of love and laughter—including the fifteen you’ve been married—is a lot to throw away, Melinda. Trust me when I tell you that no one will love you the way he has. I’ve seen both sides of love and marriage, and what you and Nicholas share is real.

I want to write more, but I’ve given you enough to read in my journals. I’d say “read it and weep” but unfortunately, I know you probably will. It is my prayer that you’ll also find some things humorous, and that you may even find a reason to believe in love again.

XOX

Grammy

Melinda let the letter fall back onto her lap. Leave it to Grammy to think she could fix everyone’s problems, even from the grave.

But her problems with Nicholas were about more than not having a baby. Their communication had broken down when she felt restless as a high-school English teacher. She’d wanted more.

“Why don’t you write the great American novel?” Nick wanted to solve her problems for her.

“I’m not a novelist. I’m interested in politics, Nick. I really think I’m supposed to use my talents in this direction.”

“Honey, I’m not being patronizing. But don’t you think your restlessness is mostly due to your biological clock ticking away?”

Melinda had rejected his observation that this was all about her hormones. Sure, they’d been trying to conceive and nothing had happened, but it wasn’t the entire focus of her life.

Or was it?

Nick had made his decision without her. He’d chosen to take another tour in Afghanistan. And she’d decided to take the job in D.C. without his help. They’d stopped relying on each other’s judgment years ago.

All they had in common now was this house.

A house neither of them lived in anymore.

She plucked at the multicolored yarn on the afghan she’d snuggled into on the brown leather couch. Grammy meant well. She was a woman who’d always been with the love of her life, so Melinda understood the basis for Grammy’s opinions.

But Grammy didn’t understand that the situation today wasn’t the same as during World War II. Nick had a choice—whether or not to serve. Whether or not to break Melinda’s heart.

Esmée’s Journal

May 25, 1940

How can this be happening? How can men of intelligence bring us to our knees again? Haven’t we suffered enough?

I’ve spent my entire academic life studying the Great War and how it destroyed our beloved Belgium. My family’s strength, faith and resourceful nature are the only reasons I am able to write this entry today.

A scant generation later we’ve begun another ugly battle.

Ugly it is. The Germans have no room for anyone except themselves. They tolerate us, they use us. Over the past three weeks I’ve seen everything I’ve ever read about in my literature studies—and more.

Bloodthirsty warplanes bombed our capital, and smaller, tactical aircraft strafed my village’s cow pastures. Douglas DuPont, who owns the fields behind our street, was shot dead while he tended to a birthing cow. His widow and five children are heartbroken and see no justification for his death.

Only Nazi barbarism.

My parents are quite vocal about what we’re experiencing. They warn my sister and me of many years of sacrifice to come. Surely this won’t last as long as the Great War. The Allies are on the right side of morality, of justice.

I will keep this record, so the world will know what happened. I will write in English—for practice and security.

Selfishly I wonder if I’ll be able to continue my studies. I graduate in three weeks and plan to attend university this September.

The current situation may dictate otherwise. The simple act of taking the train into Brussels each day may well be impossible.

Does this mean life as I know it is extinguished?

July 15, 1940

Any hope of escape, of fleeing, is over now. I desperately wanted to run to the French border but Mother forbade it. Besides, with Elodie, who will take care of them? Elodie still can’t walk without a lot of help, even using her cane. The polio could have been worse. Maman says I could have contracted it as well. But none of us did.

Just poor Elodie. My sweet little sister.

She looks more like ten years old than sixteen.

Maman and Papa are fine right now, but from what I’ve heard, the war will bring us all up against tough times. We could starve, or get sick, or both. Grandmère and Grandpère told us so many horrible stories of the Great War. I thought it was something I’d never experience. Yet here we are.

Maman and Papa need me, but I feel sorrowful over the loss of my hope, my plan, to study English literature. I can keep reading, of course, but how will I find books? The Nazis are already censoring newspapers and even library books. There are rumors the schools may close, as they did during the Great War.

If I am destined to remain in Belgium for the duration, I vow to make a difference. Not just to Maman, Papa and Elodie. But to my countrymen. To the boys from my class who’ve been forced to work in German factories. To the boys who’ve escaped to fight with our allies.

I wish I were a boy so I could carry a weapon, too.

I will find out what I can do.

Melinda knew Grammy studied English as a girl and spoke and wrote it fluently by the age of sixteen. Her breath caught as she realized that Esmée had kept such a detailed account of her life in a foreign tongue.

Esmée had high aspirations for a girl back then.

Esmée’s Journal

September 14, 1940

My first wish has been granted. I’m officially a member of the Belgian Resistance! Maman and Papa are, too, but we associate with different groups. They’re working with the older folks, doing more in the way of disrupting our occupiers’ everyday misdeeds, like not cooperating when asked for papers or goods the Germans have no right asking for. But they have to be careful; if they anger the enemy and end up in jail, or worse, it won’t help any of us.

I’m in a more active group. Right now, we’re getting the local boys who stayed here in touch with their counterparts in England. Thank God for the radio. Still, we have to monitor each and every broadcast so as to not miss one clue the Allies might send us.

May 29, 1941

It’s only been a year, but it feels like ten. I worry for us all. Our food has been so limited. If this war lasts much longer, we may starve before we’re liberated from these evil bastards.

It’s my duty to provide for Maman, Papa and Elodie. We can’t expect Elodie to roam about the countryside looking for food or fuel to keep our house warm. Maman and Papa remain healthy but the war is wearing on them, and I see it reflected in the deepening lines on their faces, the sharper angle of their bent spines.

I pray for an answer.

Melinda took a sip of the tea that had grown cold and looked out the front window, past the Belgian lace curtains Grammy had ordered for her. It wasn’t dark yet, but hazy with the gray that comes before a late-autumn sunset.

Her surroundings, which she’d taken for granted only a few journal entries ago, seemed luxurious, even excessive. On her drive up from D.C. she’d actually complained to herself that her leather car seats weren’t heated.

Grammy had life-or-death issues to face when she was two decades younger than Melinda was now.

Esmée’s Journal

June 1, 1941

A miracle may have happened today.

I met a young man, recently widowed, who owns a farm a few kilometers south of here. It’s a little more rural than I’m used to, but the small town is familiar to me, as some of my schoolmates have gone there to live out the war with extended family.

His name is Henri. We met in Brussels at the Grand Place when I escaped to the city center, trying to remember what it used to be like. I was searching for some fresh vegetables for us, brought in from the countryside.

Henri handed me an apple.

He said he travels to Brussels to sell his produce as it comes in.

He’s lonely, I see it in his eyes. And he has food. Enough for all of us.

June 5, 1941

Henri took me bicycle-riding in his town today. We rode the train to the station, and walked to his home. I didn’t tell Maman and Papa what I was doing. They thought I was out doing Resistance work.

I was, but even Henri doesn’t know that. I told the leader of my group in Brussels that I may have an opportunity to move out to the countryside, to Le Tourn. He told me they’d be happy to have me working there, since that’s where many of the RAF insertions take place.

They warned me not to tell my new friend about my work. Just in case…

I can serve my country and keep my family fed with one simple vow.

June 10, 1941

Henri came by to meet my family today.

Maman and Papa were social enough, but I could tell this is not a man they’d ever trust. Nothing concrete, just an undercurrent of distrust. When he left, they fired their questions at me.

“How did you meet him? How do you know he didn’t find out you’re Resistance and isn’t going to turn you in? How can you be sure he’s loyal to Belgium?”

I can’t answer any of their questions without hesitation. But I know one thing—we won’t starve if I marry him.

He is kind and polite to me. He’s very interested in me, and although I’d normally not give his type a second glance, I have to be practical. I’ve never yet been in love, and with the war, I may never be. So why wait when I can marry a man who can provide for my family?

Henri? Grandpa’s name was Jack. Had she been married before? Had this other man been her first husband?

Intrigued, Melinda turned the page to Grammy’s next entry. She kept reading through 1941 and the start of 1942. Grammy married this Henri. The entries were bland at best, certainly no mention of undying love or passion. But nothing shocking, either.

Until she came upon an entry she’d never have believed Esmée Du Bois had written.

Esmée’s Journal

March 17, 1942

I hate him. As much as I’m relieved to write these words, I’m trembling that he’ll find me doing this. Or worse, he’ll find this journal and use it as another excuse to slam me up against the cellar wall.

He’s smart. He never hits me upstairs, where someone might see. No, he waits until I’m doing the laundry over the cellar fire, when I’m tired from the work and can’t fight back, as well. Then he comes up to me, a snake in farmer’s clothes, and sooner or later his hand reaches out and inflicts yet more pain.

If not for Belle, the Belgian Shepherd dog who showed up on our stoop last year, I’d have not one confidante. Henri threatened to get rid of her at first, but since she’s grown to ninety pounds he leaves her be. I make sure their paths don’t cross often. He’s incapable of compassion for any living creature.

I couldn’t go out to the market or see my family in Brussels for three weeks after the last beating. Can’t risk hurting them. If they see me they’ll know, even if they don’t see the bruises under my clothes. They’ll see the despair in my eyes.

I thought I’d done well for my family by marrying Henri. His kind words and thoughtful manner before our marriage seduced me, as did the food he’d provide for my family.

I never imagined what horrors awaited me.

Oh, Maman and Papa. Elodie! I miss them so much. They are also active in the Resistance and I fear for their capture. Yet they wouldn’t be my family if they didn’t do what they believed in.

And I’ve been able to keep them fed. Potatoes, beets, even some meat when Henri slaughters one of our remaining cattle. We have to stretch the meat, using a little at a time, but it keeps our bellies full enough. The hunger pains don’t hurt or distract as they did before I married this bastard.

Although, there are days I’m too nauseated to eat from the ferocity of his attacks.

April 16, 1942

The one good thing that remains is my Resistance work. He has no idea about it and never will. At first I didn’t tell him to protect him. Now I don’t tell him for fear of being killed, and all my work being for naught.

The group needs me. They need my information, my language abilities. I don’t speak fluent German but I understand enough to know when the bastards are planning another domestic raid. My English has improved, too, since I’ve worked with the RAF intelligence planted here.

Originally I’d thought that when I married Henri, he might support me in providing a safe landing spot for the spies England sends us.

I will never tell him about my Resistance work. It’s what sustains me, even more than protecting my family. When he’s smashing my jaw or I crack another tooth on a door frame from his strike, I just think of what our young boys are going through. We will persevere.

Belgium will be free again, thanks to our strength of will and our Allied angels.

Like manna from heaven they float down, infiltrate our society and use the information they glean to help the analysts back in London.

The war will end quickly.

Our Allies are strong.

If only I felt as strong. This morning, as he does every morning, Henri wanted me upon wakening. I’d prefer to keep our relations in the dark. It’s easier if I don’t have to see the devil when I have to suffer the weight of him.

And the brutality of his lovemaking. It’s not lovemaking; it’s forced violence. He rapes me every time. Except I don’t resist. What good would it do? He’d just knock me out with a blow and have at it anyhow. At least this way I can get up and do my best to wash away any chance of his seed implanting.

May 24, 1942

He’s angry. It’s almost a year and no whisper of a baby yet. At thirty-five he doesn’t want to wait. While I, at almost 21, pray he’ll die in his sleep, God forgive me.

I pray I can have babies with real love one day.

Even as I write this, I can’t say I believe love exists anymore. Not when my Jewish friends are being murdered, not when I’m beaten senseless for not making my pommes de terre tender enough.

I made a horrible mistake last week. In a moment of weakness, when Henri again mentioned his anger at no child from me, I suggested we could adopt. I have contacts. I didn’t tell him this, of course. With luck, we could adopt a Jewish baby. One whose parents have been sent away or will be soon. Several families in our town have adopted these babies, though it’s done quietly, without fanfare.

We could save a life and might even have a chance at saving our marriage.

At changing his heart.

He answered by shoving my head into the tub of water I’d used to wash the dishes.

“Do you desire a slow miserable death? That’s what the Gestapo will give us both if they hear your filthy talk. The only babies in this house will be mine.”

He kept ranting as he pulled on my hair, allowing me to gasp for air, then plunging my face back into the dirty water.

Sometimes I think of a different day, when I was young and looked forward to life and love. Before the Germans came back to our beautiful country and stamped out any hope of freedom.