Jenny's Choice (Apple Creek Dreams #3) (14 page)

“How soon after the attack on Pearl Harbor did you join the Marines?”

Reuben paused for a moment and then went on. “We left for basic training on Monday, January 2, 1942. We went down to the train station with our suitcases and climbed aboard a troop train along with a bunch of other guys—just kids. They thought they were on a picnic. They didn’t know that the moment they disembarked from the train, they would be stepping into an entirely different world.”

“Was it that bad, Papa?”

“Well, we arrived at Parris Island in the morning. We climbed
off the train and were just lounging around, laughing, smoking cigarettes—you know, just a bunch of kids away from home for the first time. A couple of jeeps pulled up, and these really tough-looking Marines piled out. Within a few minutes we were running as fast as we could from place to place while being screamed at and made to feel like the know-nothing kids we were. They ran us to the chow hall and then down to sickbay. We rolled up our sleeves and walked down a row of Navy corpsmen and doctors who stuck needles in our arms, checked our eyesight, and drew blood.”

Jenny scribbled furiously on her notepad.

“Then it was off to Administration for paperwork, dog tags, ID cards, allotments, service record books, and the all-important serial number. On the way between the meal and the dog tags, we were introduced to the base barbers, who buzzed us bald and sent us on our way. Quite a shock for a somewhat vain young man who thought his long dark hair made him look like a movie star.”

Jenny snickered at the image.

Reuben looked at her. “What’s funny about that?”

“Oh, Papa, it’s just that I can’t imagine what you must have looked like with your head shaved. And were you really that vain?”

“Yes, he was,” came Jerusha’s voice from the kitchen. “But rightly so, for he was the handsomest man I had ever seen.”

Reuben smiled.

“What happened next, Papa?”

“We received our new clothes, our rifles, and our first PX issue of personal items. Then they put us into platoons of between forty-eight and sixty men, and just when we thought it couldn’t get any worse, we met our drill instructor, Gunnery Sergeant Edgar F. Thompkins.”

“Is that the man you told me about—the one who saved you in the battle?” Jenny asked.

“Yes, he is. Ed Thompkins and I didn’t get along at first. He thought
that because I came from an Amish family, I wouldn’t fight when the going got tough. And I must admit I had my doubts. We were out on patrol one day, and a sniper killed one of our men. I was on point, so I was closest and had the clearest shot. When I got the guy in my sights, I couldn’t pull the trigger. Ed crawled alongside me and shot him. The noise next to my ear made me jump, and I pulled my trigger at the same time, so it looked like I shot him too. But I didn’t really, and Ed knew it. But he didn’t give me away.”

Reuben reached into his pocket and took out his wallet. He fished around in the back section and pulled out a piece of paper. When he turned it over, Jenny could see that it was a photograh, wrinkled and stained. A young Japanese soldier stood at attention in full dress uniform. Seated next to him was a beautiful Japanese woman with a small child in her lap. She was looking up at the man with love and admiration in her eyes. A tiny smile on her face broke the formality of the photo.

“I took this off the body of the sniper after we shot him. I’ve had it with me every day since then. It reminds me always that Jesus was right when He said killing is wrong. This young wife never saw her husband again, and the little boy grew up without a father. I carried a lot of guilt for many years—until I found out that Jesus would carry the guilt for me. But it still doesn’t make what I did right.”

Reuben looked down at the photo again. Jenny watched as a shadow passed over her papa’s face. Jerusha came in from the kitchen and put her arm on her husband’s shoulder.

“I think that’s enough for tonight, Jenny. Your papa wants to help you, but I know that in all of us there are some wounds that never quite heal. He will talk to you again, but not tonight.”

Reuben looked up gratefully and pulled a handkerchief from his shirt pocket. He blew his nose and then got up and walked into the kitchen. Jenny heard him clinking some cups around in the cupboard.

“Is there any coffee made, Jerusha?”

Jenny went into the kitchen and came up behind her
daed
and slipped her arms around his waist.

“Thank you, Papa. I know that was hard for you, and I won’t ask you any more about it.”

Reuben turned and took Jenny’s face in his hands. Jenny could see the strong emotion working in his face.

“No, Jenny, I want you to know what happened. I’ve never told anyone about that last battle, and I need to put it to rest. You and your mother and I will sit down soon, and I’ll tell you all about it. Just not tonight.”

Jenny nodded. “Thank you for helping me, Papa. I think it will be a good story, and I’m praying that it may help others who went through some of the things our family did.”

“Then you will need to write the story of you and Jonathan too,
dochter
.”

“Maybe someday, Papa. But I don’t think I’m quite ready to tell it yet. It’s too soon.”

“Well, I hope you don’t keep your pain locked up as long as I have, Jenny.”

Jenny picked up her pad and paper and went to her room to type up her notes. She sat at her desk and looked at what she had written. She thought about what it would be like to tell Jonathan’s story. Then she put her head down on the desk and cried.

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

Uncovering

J
ENNY AND
J
EREMY SAT AT
their table in the back of the small coffee shop around the corner from the Wooster library. Jenny’s latest chapter was spread out in front of Jeremy, who was going over it with the dreaded red pen. Jenny sat and sipped her coffee and thought about the friendship that was developing between Jeremy and her. Over the weeks, as they worked on the book, they had created a neutral territory where they could spend time together without any complications. But the growing closeness of their relationship was troubling to Jenny. In a way she felt as if she were being an unfaithful wife. But then…

Someday I have to come to grips with the fact that I’m not a wife anymore.

She tried to look at the positive side of their relationship. Jeremy was handsome, engaging, and very solicitous of Jenny, yet when it came to writing, he was a consummate expert and uncompromising editor. So as far as she could see, their relationship was strictly a professional one. But he was a man and she was a woman…

Don’t even go there, Jenny Hershberger!

She waited anxiously while he finished looking at the last pages.

“Well, how am I doing?” she asked when he looked up from his editing.

“You’ve got a good chapter here, but it needs more meat. I think the whole idea of an Amish man who goes to war is brilliant—a real enigma. But it needs more details. And I want the whole story, not just the beginning and the end.”

“You don’t understand, Jeremy. This is a very difficult area for my papa. He’s an Amish man who still battles with a deep sense of shame for going against the tenets of his faith. He’s also a human being who was dropped into the middle of one of the most horrific battles of World War II. You don’t have to be Amish to have nightmares about an experience like that.”

“I understand, Jenny, but we’re talking about a book that needs to hold a reader’s attention all the way through. I don’t want people who buy this book writing me letters asking what really happened.”

Jenny sat silent for a moment. Then, choosing her words carefully, she spoke. “It’s not just about my
daed
, Jeremy; it’s about me too.”

“How so—or am I being too personal?”

“You are being personal, but for now I’ll let it pass and tell you what I’m feeling. My papa said he would tell me the story of his experiences in the war, but I could tell by the way he said it that he doesn’t really want to. And then I thought about what it would be like to try writing about Jonathan. I’ve written about his smile, his singing…I’ve even recorded my memories of being with him and the things he taught me. But to go through our whole story step-by-step and write it down…I don’t know if I could do that—at least not now. The other night I thought about what it would be like to write that book, and it almost made me hysterical with grief. No, I couldn’t tell that story.”

“I understand. But how does that relate to your father?”

Jeremy looked frustrated, so Jenny tried to explain herself.

“If it is so painful for me to write about the terrible things that have
happened to me, then it must be the same for him. And I don’t know if that’s something I want to ask of him.”

Jeremy took a sip of his coffee. “Now can I tell you how I see it?”

Jenny felt an uncomfortable stirring in her heart. “All right, but be careful.”

“Jenny, I believe that good writing helps people to access memories and emotions that may have been buried for years—some of them good, some of them bad. If someone reads what I’ve written and says, ‘I remember feeling exactly that way’ about something positive in their life, I’m doing my job. It’s the same with the bad memories. Sometimes when something terrible happens to us, we take that memory and build a wall around it. But that doesn’t make it go away. Instead, it festers in the dark and can poison our lives. As Christian writers, it’s our job to help people bring those dark and terrible events into the light of Christ so we can see the truth about them and be set free. That’s why I think it would be good for your father to tell his whole story.”

“Jeremy, I understand what you’re saying, but do you really know the Amish mind? We don’t think like that. I thought you knew that. You know, you haven’t really told me about your faith. You know I’m Amish, and so it’s pretty plain where I stand, but what about you?”

Jeremy smiled at her question. “I’ll tell you about that when we finish talking about this.”

“But—”

Jeremy pressed on. “So for your father, it’s my guess that if he can set this experience down on paper and get it out of the place he has held it for so many years, it will be extremely liberating. And I would say the same about you.”

A great crushing weight began to press down on Jenny. “I don’t think I want to go where you’re taking this, Jeremy. I’m not ready.”

“Look, Jenny, it’s been a year and a half since your husband died. I think it’s time you started to think about moving on with—”

Suddenly Jenny was standing, her chair knocked over by the abruptness of her movement. “What do you know about it, Jeremy? How can you tell me how I should feel?”

Jeremy sat in stunned amazement.

“It’s none of your business what I do with my life. You’re my editor, not my father—and you’re not my husband! I’ll get over Jonathan when I’m good and ready, and you don’t have anything to say about it.”

Jenny gathered up her papers, grabbed her bag, and stalked out of the shop, leaving a very disconcerted Jeremy King and several other customers staring after her.

Jenny burst into the house and went straight to her room. She had been seething inside all the way home from Wooster.

The nerve of him—who does he think he is to tell me when to stop mourning? Oh, Jonathan, why did you have to…to…to die?

When she got in her room she slammed the door and threw her bag down. She pulled off her
kappe
and undid her hair. It fell loosely about her shoulders. When she looked in the mirror, she felt as if she were staring at a mad woman.

“I don’t want to do this!” she cried aloud. “I don’t want to feel this! Jonathan, why did you leave me! God, why did you take him?”

Jenny collapsed on her bed, sobs wrenching her soul.

After a while there was a gentle knock on the door. “Jenny, may I come in?” Jerusha asked.

Jenny didn’t want to see anyone, but by a supreme effort of will she swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat that way for a long time.

“Jenny? Are you all right?”

Jenny climbed to her feet and went to the door. She opened it to her mother and then returned to the bed without saying anything. Jerusha came and sat down by Jenny. She brushed the tangled curls away from her daughter’s tear-stained face.