Five Brides (39 page)

“Yes, ma’am,” the young officer replied. “Name, please.”

“Ruby,” she said, pushing thin strands of dark-blonde hair from her face. “Ruby Shaw.”

Her eyes grew large as two or three others approached and the soldier asked their names.

Joan wrapped her hand around the young woman’s arm and pulled her a few steps away. “Do you have your luggage ticket?” she asked.

“Oh, dear.” She sighed, opened a small brown handbag, then pulled a red ticket from the satiny inside pocket. “This?”

“That’s it,” she said. “And your ID. Do you have that?”

Ruby raised a gloved left hand holding an envelope matching the one Joan had received the night before. “Right here. Do you think that’s all we’ll need?”

“Well,” Joan said, “that’s all they
said
we’ll need, so I imagine so.”

Joan allowed her gaze to roam across the platform. She stood on a dock in Amsterdam.
Amsterdam.
Beyond where the ship had docked and the water lapped in gentle waves, the city churned with life. Even from where she stood, she felt the beauty of it. The quiet majesty in the gray- and red-bricked buildings and the blacktop of the streets, where men and women whizzed by in squatty autos and atop bicycles. The scent of salt water blended with the aroma of fresh-baked goods and cooked meat.

“I’m Ruby,” the girl next to Joan said. “Ruby Shaw.”

“Yes, so you said,” she answered. “I’m Joan Hunt.”

“I’m from Michigan.”

“Oh,” Joan said quickly. She pointed to herself. “Chicago.”

“
Chicago?
You sound—”

“I grew up in England,” Joan told her. “But I’ve lived in Chicago for the last—”

“Listen up,” the young man in uniform spoke to the small group. “I am Sergeant Daniel Martin. You may address me as Sergeant
Martin.” He paused. “We’re going to head over to where your luggage should be by now. We’ll match you with your belongings and then walk to where the bus will pick us up. From there, we’ll head to the train station. If anyone needs to use the facilities, please do so before we gather your luggage. Questions?”

A woman standing on the opposite side of Sergeant Martin raised her hand like a schoolgirl. “And then we get on the train to Heidelberg?”

“That is correct, ma’am.” He looked around. “The train to Heidelberg will take about five hours with a brief stop in Düsseldorf. You will
not
leave the train. Questions?”

Joan shrugged, wondering if there should be questions. To her way of thinking, his instructions seemed so simple to follow.

Chicago

Pat insisted on a sooner-rather-than-later wedding, which gave Betty’s mother precious little time to plan . . . and Betty a series of sleepless nights.

She stared at the clock by her bedside, happy that, at the very least, Inga wasn’t there to be disturbed. “Two a.m.,” she muttered, drawing herself up from the warm blankets and quilts. She pulled the chain of the bedside table lamp, reached for the steno pad and pen she kept at hand, and jotted a few notes about flowers.

Flowers. Of all things to worry about in the middle of a January night.

She threw the covers back, slid her feet into her slippers and arms into her robe as she walked to her closed bedroom door. As she stepped into the hallway, she noticed light creeping from beneath Evelyn’s doorway. Betty wondered if she’d fallen asleep with the light on.

Once she got closer to the kitchen, however, she knew that Evelyn
was awake. She found her, standing at the counter, pouring milk into an orange-juice glass. The only light in the room came from the open door of the Frigidaire.

“Can’t sleep?” she asked, flipping on the overhead light.

Evelyn jumped. “You scared me,” she whispered. She glanced toward Magda’s closed door. “I was trying not to wake anyone. I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t wake me,” Betty whispered back. “I have too much on my mind, I’m afraid.”

Evelyn reached into the cabinet for another glass.

“Thank you,” Betty said. “Let’s go into the living room,” she added after Evelyn handed her the filled glass.

A minute later they sat, side by side, their legs covered with the handmade throw Evelyn’s mother had sent during the Christmas holiday, the muted street light shining through the curtains.

“Are you excited?” Evelyn asked. “Is that why you can’t sleep?”

Betty nodded. “A little, I guess. Mostly, with Pat wanting such quick nuptials, I can’t seem to relax on the details.” She took a swallow of the cold milk. “And my mother is no help. She keeps making mountains out of every molehill.”

“Still,” Evelyn said, gripping her milk, “to be planning your wedding . . .”

Betty remained quiet, hoping to say the right thing. “Evelyn, I—”

“Don’t feel bad for me, Betts.”

She didn’t. Not entirely, anyway. She’d warned Evelyn time and again about George, but the young woman refused to believe anything she said. Evelyn clung to the hope that George Volbrecht would change. That he would fall passionately in love with her. That he would ask her to marry him. But Betty knew George better than that. He was a spoiled little boy who liked getting his way. And on those few times when he didn’t . . .

“Does George know, Evelyn? About Pat and me?”

Evelyn took a long swallow of her milk, her eyes focused on Betty’s, and nodded. “But I wasn’t the one who told him.”

“I wonder who—never mind. I know who did. My mother called his mother, I’d bet.” Betty shook her head. “What do you think, Evelyn? What’s going to happen between you and George?”

Evelyn smiled. “In my wildest dreams? He’ll ask me to marry him on Valentine’s Day. And we’ll live happily ever after in that lovely house up in Highland Park.”

The one he’d purchased while banking on Betty’s acceptance of his marriage proposal.

“But in my nightmares,” Evelyn continued, “we’ll still be dating ten years from now and I’ll realize, finally, that I will never be good enough for him.”

Betty turned to look at her. “Listen to me, Evelyn Alexander. You
are
good enough for him. In fact, you are
better
than him; do you hear me?”

Evelyn’s eyes shimmered with tears.

“George Volbrecht—or any man, for that matter—would be blessed beyond measure to have you. You’re smart. Funny. A godly woman who deserves a godly man. Seriously, Evelyn.” Betty placed her hand on Evelyn’s. “Think about that.”

“I will,” Evelyn promised.

Betty drained her milk. “So, what got you up?”

Evelyn swiped at the tears pooling under her eyes. “It’s hard to sleep without Joanie.”

Betty nodded. “I understand. About the time I get used to Inga being gone, she’s home for a few days.”

Evelyn’s shoulders visibly sagged. “Inga . . . have you noticed lately . . . ? She’s different somehow.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Does she say anything to you?”

“We don’t chat a lot. Inga is a fairly private person.”

“Hmm . . . I guess, if we thought she was moody before, she sure has been this past month.”

Betty stood, taking half the afghan with her. “Maybe she has love problems.”

Evelyn stood too, taking the afghan from Betty and tossing it over the arm of the couch. “Who doesn’t? Apparently even wedding planning can keep you up at night.”

Heidelberg

The European countryside sped by in a sea of colors—green, yellow, red, and blue—with flatlands and hills rolling toward the jagged peaks of the Alps. Joan sat next to the window, drinking it all in, and Ruby occupied the seat next to hers. Occasionally, Joan glanced over to find her clutching the strap of her handbag with gloved hands.

They approached Heidelberg slowly, as Joan thought it should be. She leaned as far toward the window as possible, craning her neck, widening her eyes, waiting for the moment that Heidelberg Castle came into sight. When—at last—the jutting and ancient fortress arose from an ocean of lush foliage, she gasped. The structure stood exactly as she’d envisioned, either from photographs seen in library books or from her own imagination.

The train slowed as they neared the station, past narrow streets and alleyways where the devastation of war lingered like old bones—dry, brittle, and gasping for water. But even from her seat on the train, Joan recognized the efforts of rebuilding and starting anew. One more time.

By the time they disembarked and gathered for their next set
of instructions, the slow rumblings of hunger percolated in the pit of her stomach. As if on cue, Ruby leaned close and whimpered, “Do you think they’ll feed us soon?”

Joan smiled. “I certainly hope so.”

Minutes later, Sergeant Martin guided them onto a bus covered in German words and advertisements, which drove them to what had once been a swank downtown hotel, but had since been commandeered for US Forces use.

The bus pulled in front of the building, whose face had grown gray and forlorn. Blank eyes for windows stared down at narrow cobblestone streets glistening with age. Joan exited the bus with the others, who shuffled inside without speaking. She gazed up, reverently observing the pockmarks of battle and the more recent attempt at painting over those injuries.

Ruby scurried close on her heels, taking two steps to each one of Joan’s, until they’d all gathered in the lobby and the single door had clicked shut. Joan’s luggage—one average-size case carried in each hand—seemed somehow heavier now than when she’d first carried it to the porter on the ship, and the small hat she’d worn since early that morning felt more like a vise than an accessory.

When they were told, “Wait here,” Joan set the luggage at her feet and looked around.

The lobby—a large, dark square with high ceilings—showcased a wide carpeted staircase leading to a landing before curving upward to the second floor. Dark paneling surrounded her and thick, square supporting columns rose from the scarred marble floor to the faint remainder of a frescoed ceiling. She studied it closely—the light pinks of cherub faces, the blues of the sashes covering their nakedness—and wondered what it might have looked like in another time. A better day.

After receiving their room assignments, they were handed keys
and told to return to the lobby “at eighteen-hundred hours. That gives you almost two hours to unpack, freshen up.
This
,” Sergeant Martin said, glancing around, “is your home for the next two weeks.”

The civilians trudged up the staircase, no one speaking. Instead, Joan noticed, they looked at their feet, at the worn, bloodred carpet. When they reached the first landing, the group gathered in front of the glass panes of a massive window, and they peered at the world outside and below where the maimed buildings served as fragments of another time. Clusters of children played in an alley, and uniformed soldiers marched to the beat of their own drum.

They continued to climb, inching their way around and up another flight until they reached their assigned floor to face the thick, dark-stained doors that would open to reveal their new homes.

For all of two weeks.

Joan wrote to Evelyn as soon as she could spare ten minutes.

On the one hand, life here is desolate and sad. On the other hand, the students have returned to Heidelberg University, bringing with them hope and renewed vigor. They don’t look at what used to be nor seem to notice that it’s been fragmented by the war. Rather, they see what can be in the future. Their futures.

They will rebuild fully here in Germany, just as England will rebuild, and one day we will all wonder if the horror that was World War II ever really existed.

Though I’m sure we’ll know it did. How could we ever forget, really? How can we move forward successfully if we forget the degradation of this blight in mankind’s history?

I must tell you of a mouse of a girl I met nearly the moment I got off the ship and onto the platform. Her name is Ruby. She is from Michigan. Evelyn, I am more amazed that she came to Germany—that she ever boarded a train, and a ship, and now dwells in a hotel used by US Forces in the heart of Old Town (German word is “Altstadt”) Heidelberg—than I ever was that you left Georgia. She often seems too frightened to leave her tiny room in the morning for our day’s planned activities, much less leave the safety of her mother and father’s home. She must be bright—she is here, after all—but she sure is timid and she has attached herself to me.