Family Interrupted (39 page)

“I’d never paid much attention to my sister’s friends,” he began, “until one day when Rosie dropped by to see Sarah. I’d answered the doorbell like I’d done a hundred times before, and there she was—dark, wavy hair with a curl on her cheek, and a smile so familiar to me, and yet, not familiar at all. I stared at her and couldn’t say one single word. Not a sound. Then she looked up with her big brown eyes, and my heart took off like a…”

“…a racehorse at Aqueduct,” chimed in Charlie.

Joe glanced at the soldier and laughed. Not very romantic, but…

“…and your heart took off like you’d never seen her before…” finished Eddie from Pennsylvania.

“That’s right,” Joe said softly, his laughter gone. “Like I’d never seen her before. And maybe I hadn’t.”

Twenty minutes later, most of the men had fallen or almost fallen asleep. Joe’s eyelids felt heavy, too. He stretched out on the cot, and in moments, he was with his Rose.

To: Sergeant Joseph Rabinowitz, 106th Infantry, U. S. Army; Belgium, Europe

January 21, 1943

Dear Joe,

Our beautiful daughter, Susan, was born yesterday in a real hospital, not in the house. We are both fine. Mama is very happy to have a granddaughter named after her mother of blessed memory. Shifra, so thank you for agreeing. Your parents have already visited. Susan weights six pounds, seven ounces and is a hungry little piggy, ready to nurse whenever I offer. I’m glad.

My brother, Aaron, took a picture of me when I was big in the family way so you’d be able to see what I looked like when you get home. God alone knows when that will be. My hopes rise and fall with every news report. The German defeat in Stalingrad last month sent my heart soaring again.

By the way, I did pay a visit to Charlie Shapiro’s parents. Amazing that he lives in the area but neither of us knew him. His parents were happy to see me and eager to hear any news from the front. They are an older couple, and Charlie has no brothers or sisters. I could feel the stillness in their house, as though time has stopped and they are waiting. I saw the fear in their eyes. Maybe they could see the same in mine. I’ll try to visit them again when the weather is better.

I’m tired now, but will write tomorrow and every day.

Yours forever, Rose

P.S. I’m giving baby Susan a kiss from you right now!

June 5, 1943

Dearest Joe,

Last night Papa and Edith came to visit me at our apartment. When I opened the door and saw their faces, I knew something was wrong. Mama is sick. The female-type cancer and Papa asked if the baby and I could go back to live with the family. Everyone else has to go out to work, and Aaron’s still in school. I hope you don’t mind, but I have to take care of her.

I will put our belongings in boxes, and to tell the truth, there’s not too much to pack. The money we get from the army I use for rent and food. Thank you for the extra coupons…

Rose paused in her writing to wipe her tears. Just a year and a half ago, she was the happiest woman in the world. Now her world had unraveled. Mama would not get better. She knew that simply by looking into Papa’s eyes. Maybe Joe would die, too. She tiptoed to the baby’s crib, leaned over and nuzzled her five-month-old daughter. Then she inhaled the distinctive fragrance of talc, shampoo and…baby.

“Sweet, sweet girl,” she murmured. “You’ll make your grandma smile, and maybe that will be the best medicine of all.”

She glanced at the framed photo of Joe that Aaron had taken before Joe had shipped out. He was so handsome in his uniform. She and Susan started every day with a “Good morning, Daddy,” and ended every evening with a good-night. When Joe returned, Susan would know her daddy.

##

Joe sighed and leaned against the wall of the foxhole, four feet beneath the surface. In his hand, he held a two-month-old letter from Rose that he’d received yesterday. It seemed his wife was fighting her own war on the home front. He prayed for her, his baby and his mother-in-law. He and Rose could find another place to live after he returned; in the meantime, however, his girls were better off surrounded by family. Certainly Annie Kaufman would be happy to play with her granddaughter regularly. In recent times, everyone focused on war casualties and yet death took its civilian toll, too.

He glanced around him noting his men stretched out along the deep trench. Surely not as comfortable as a barn, but his troops didn’t complain very much anymore. Their spirits were lighter since the day they’d made their pact.

His men had faced facts. In war, some would live and some would die. Joe’s platoon had agreed that if one of them died, the survivors would contact the family of the fallen soldier and attest to his quick death on the battlefield. An instant ending. No pain and no suffering—regardless of the truth.

Joe didn’t know who’d first voiced the idea, but he could picture the light that shone in the eyes of every man. He remembered the handshakes that clinched the deal and the spoken reminders before every military action since that time. The pact eased their hearts because, in the end, it would ease the hearts of the people they loved. And now every soldier kept a list of names and contact information with his belongings.

Maybe they’d all come out intact. Not likely, but who knew? Joe was optimistic again. It was summer now and much easier for the men to contend with heat rather than with the cold and snow. The North African campaign had gone well, and then an allied armada had invaded Sicily last month on the ninth of July. Last week, Palermo fell to the Allies. He believed Italy’s surrender would occur soon. One step closer to ending the war.

##

To: Sergeant Joseph Rabinowitz, 106th Infantry, U.S. Army; France, Europe

December 7, 1943

Dear Joe,

Our second wedding anniversary is a sad time here. Mama was buried yesterday in cold hard ground. I have no more tears left. But I think of you and my heart fills up with love, so maybe love is stronger than grief. Please take care of yourself and come home safely. Susan will run to you—if she can stop falling down every time she tries to walk! Nothing stops her. You’d be so proud.

It’s late but I can’t sleep yet. A lot of people came to Mama’s funeral, and of course, we are all sitting shivah. The house was filled with visitors last night and again tonight wanting to extend their condolences. I’m sure it will remain this way all week. You can tell Charlie Shapiro that his parents stopped by. I was surprised to see them since I’ve only visited twice. I guess you and Charlie brought us together. And of course, there’s Susan. They fell in love with her when they saw her last time.

On this street, black crepe hangs on two front doors. I saw one dreaded army telegram being delivered on a sunny afternoon when I took Susan outside for some fresh air. I don’t ever want a telegram, Joe. Please take care of yourself.

Yours forever,

Rose

##

Cold. He was so cold, he and his men. The army had issued boots, and that helped, but living in a foxhole was difficult in the winter. Two months ago, Eisenhower had been named Commander of the Allied Expeditionary Force in Europe, and Joe had thought they’d move forward. But now, in February of ’44, even after a massive bombing campaign of German aircraft factories, the enemy was still able to produce weapons.

France was occupied, and Joe and his men were in Belgium again, poised to go where most needed. He wanted action. He wanted victory. He was not alone.

If only he could write Rosie a letter! He always felt better getting his thoughts down on paper, sharing them with her, but his hands were too stiff from the cold to hold a pen.

From a little way down the foxhole, he heard a voice singing, “If you knew Susie, like I know Susie…” Someone else joined in and Joe smiled. Charlie Shapiro could sing, a real strong tenor. With a couple of others in the troop, he’d created an informal chorus. Great for when they had a twenty-four hour stay at a rest camp, but while hugging a rifle in a trench?

Maybe the younger man was sticking it to the enemy—in his own style.

##

To: Sergeant Joseph Rabinowitz, 106th Infantry, U.S. Army; Belgium, Europe

August 12, 1944

Dear Joe,

I hope you are able to get mail. After our boy’s massive landing on the French coast in June, your letters have been a rare treat. I continue to write each day, hoping some of the letters will get through.

Your daughter is a pistol. She can even raise a smile from her grandfather who has not smiled since Mama got sick.

Susan’s eyes have remained blue, and her strawberry-blond hair curls in ringlets. When she grins, a sweet dimple appears. More important, she says, “Da Da” whenever she sees your picture. Then she says, “Play!” and hits the photo. Susan and I will be waiting outside in the front of the house when you return. You’ll come walking down the street as handsome as ever, and we’ll run to meet you, lightning quick, before you get five steps from the corner. Can you picture the scene like I can?

Until that day, I’ll keep dreaming. And you dream, too.

Yours forever,

Rosie and Susan

Joe folded the August twelfth letter he’d been re-reading and put it in his back pocket. She’d have to dream for both of them now. It was December 15, 1944. He was in new territory, the Ardennes Forest on the Belgian-German border, and he had no time for dreaming. He looked around at the heavily treed woods. His was one of only three divisions holding the area—a thin line for the area they patrolled. But the staff commanders thought it wasn’t a likely spot for a German offensive.

Joe wasn’t as concerned about fighting as he was about the bitter cold. Snow was on the ground, flakes in the air. Some of the locals had called it the snowiest weather in memory, but he knew what to say to keep his men alive overnight: “Keep moving. Stamp those feet. Don’t sleep, or you’ll freeze your asses off.”

His unit’s heavy machine guns dotted the land. Every troop also had a rifle. He was proud of them. They’d worked together for a long time now, had met combat in France and then returned to Belgium where, last month, they’d had a twenty-four-hour break at a rest camp. Oh, that had been fine. An easy chair, soft lamps, warmth indoors—just to remind the men what civilization felt like.

Now they faced a chilly night in the Ardennes. What would tomorrow bring?

##

2007, Long Island, New York

Rose reached into the Dream Box again. She unfolded a piece of paper and spread it out on the desk.

WESTERN UNION

FROM THE UNITED STATES DEPARTMENT OF THE ARMY

WE REGRET TO INFORM YOUTHAT YOUR HUSBAND

JOSEPH RABINOWITZ

DIED IN THE SERVICE TO HIS COUNTRY STOP

IN EUROPE THE ARDENNES STOP

SINCEREST CONDOLENCES

She needed a cup of tea. Hot. Steaming hot. Gathering the Dream Box, the letters and the telegram, she carried them with her to the kitchen, placing them gently in the center of the table. Then she filled her ever-present kettle with water and turned on the gas stove.

Visiting the Dream Box usually exhausted her, so she hadn’t made a habit of delving into it in recent years. It wasn’t that her grief for Joe overwhelmed her anymore—her pang was for a young man she once knew, a fine man who’d died too soon, and that was the crux of her sadness. War heroes always died too young.

Would that be Matthew’s fate, too? The possibility made her heart almost stop beating. Her arm trembled as she lifted the whistling kettle. Boiling water splashed on the counter when she started to pour.

“Rosie, be careful!” Charlie rushed to her side and eased the pot to the stove.

Startled, she glanced up. So lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t even heard her son-in-law, Paul, and him come in.

Charlie glanced at the table. “The blast from the past almost did you in, Rosie.”

She shrugged. “I’m fine. I can take it. But I’m glad you’re here.”

His eyes warmed, his smile widened. He kissed her. “I’m glad to be here.”

There was a time, however, when her husband had hated the sight of the Dream Box, when it represented everything wrong in their marriage. Thank God those days were over.

“Oh, Charlie,” she cried, “I don’t want Lizzy to go through what I did.” She heard the anguish in her tone. The men heard it, too. Paul’s complexion paled—Liz was his only daughter.

“Don’t borrow trouble,” Charlie said sharply, reaching for the telegram, handling it with a gentle touch. “We didn’t know it at the time,” he continued, “but it was the Battle of the Bulge, and we suffered the worst losses of the war.”

“Thank God you survived,” whispered Rose.

“And God, alone, knows how.” Charlie looked directly at her. “It was a December afternoon, and I was standing less than ten feet from Joe, aiming my machine gun at the enemy, shouting at my squad. We were fighting hard, but our division took the brunt of the counteroffensive, and—“ he shook his head “—I heard him. I heard Joe giving orders, encouraging the men, and then…I glanced over and…I saw him take a hit. I saw him go down. His face…the surprise…but he died instantly. No pain. No suffering.”

Rose patted his hand. “I know, Charlie, I know. You’ve told me many times.”

“And I’ll never forget,” he said softly. “I lost friends, my buddies.” He paused, and Rose could hear his quick breaths. “I walked over five hundred miles after I was taken, and…and I saw things,” he whispered, “no one should ever see.”

Rose glanced at the table where she’d placed her and Joe’s wedding invitation, her pearl earrings, the picture of her pregnant with Susan, a lock of Susan’s hair in a glassine envelope, the folded letter Joe had placed in his pocket before he died and the army’s teletype message, still glued to the yellow paper it had been pasted on.

She tapped the telegram with her finger. “When this arrived, I didn’t hear the doorbell ring,” she said. “But when Edith came upstairs to get me and could barely speak…I knew my life was over.”