Nightingale (4 page)

She lit a match, turned on the heat to the stove, poured herself a glass of milk from the icebox, and then cut herself a piece of bread, standing at the counter to tear it into pieces, watching a squirrel contemplate its way up the cottonwood outside.

“Oh, Esther, you're back.” Bertha came into the kitchen carrying a fresh stack of starched table linens. In her midfifties, dark-haired and solid, the woman had long ago mastered English, although her native German still spiced her words. She routinely refused to speak about the family—a mother and two sisters—she'd left behind in Germany when
she'd immigrated at the age of seventeen. “Did you see the letter I left for you on the bureau?”

Esther stopped chewing, the bread caught in her throat. She reached for her glass, washed the bread down, meeting Bertha's eyes. “Letter? Is it a…”

“Och! No!” Bertha caught her hand. “Nothing like that. It's just a letter.”

Just a letter. “I haven't heard from Linus in almost two years.” No, he'd sent her to his parents and forgotten her. Not to mention Sadie.

“It's not from Linus.” Bertha picked up the linens.

Not from Linus? Perhaps her mother… But she hadn't written to her since Esther informed them, as succinctly and gently as she could, that she'd defied everything they'd ever taught her, and God too, and given herself away.

She turned off the heat to the bubbling porridge, finished the milk, and returned to the hallway.

There it lay in the center of the bureau, white and bold, with red and blue striping on the sides—an aerogram. She'd walked right past it as if she were blind. She picked it up, studied the handwriting. Crisp, neat, the addresser clearly possessed an education.

The return address read Fort McCoy, the base just thirty miles north of Roosevelt.

A soldier.

The envelope felt bulky, as if it contained something else.

She opened the flap, probably too fast, for the paper ripped, and out dropped another letter. It hiccupped on the floor, twice folded and grimy, a plain brown envelope. She stared at it, her heart jammed into her ribs, climbing up her throat.

No.

She just…wouldn't pick up it up.

Just leave it on the floor. Just put her foot over it. Just… But she bent down and scooped it up, her breath turning to razors. Fingerprints on the outside, brown and ruddy, and a smell, the faintest tang of blood—or perhaps sweat—rose from the paper.

She held both letters in her hand, not sure, unable…

Oh, God, please—no…

She dropped the aerogram on the bureau and unfolded the brown envelope. Read the words scrawled on the front.

To Esther, upon my death
.

Esther stood outside the door to Linus's room, the door closed, her hand palming the smooth walnut.

Downstairs, Bertha fried cabbage and onions for lunch, a dish she'd brought over from Dusseldorf, back when the Hahns paid her way across the ocean. The tangy enticement of onions frying in butter nearly detoured Esther back downstairs.

She touched the letters—Linus's still unopened—curled together in the pocket of her apron. She'd read the letter from the soldier, the one who'd been with Linus during his last hours.

Linus's letter, however, remained sealed.

What if he'd poured out his heart to her? Told her that only she kept him alive? His silence over the past two years had actually loosened the stranglehold of guilt around her heart. Until today.

What if he truly had loved her?

Perhaps that, more than anything, made her a harlot.

Are you sure?

Oh, she should have said no. Why didn't she say no?

She gripped the brass door handle. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to hear Linus's voice. Soft and low, with an edge of husk, and luring her into dark places, it had sent a forbidden thrill through her when he bent close on the dance floor.
There isn't another as beautiful as you, Esther Lange
.

Ah, there he was, lurking on the outskirts of her heart. She grabbed at him, clinging, hoping for the appropriate fist around her heart. She turned the handle, the moment ripe, and entered his past.

His mother made Bertha dust his room once a week, and Esther had barely moved the books from his desk, never removed the clothing from his closet, or even peered into his dresser drawers. No, for three months she'd lived out of her tattered suitcase, reading Linus's vast collection of Hardy Boys, listening to
Fibber McGee and Molly
, Benny Goodman and Bing Crosby,
The Adventures of Ellery Queen
on his Emerson—anything, really, to fill the hours.

Finally, six months pregnant, she'd gone to the hospital and begged Dr. O'Grady for a job. And she'd moved into the attic.

Now she stood in Linus's room and drew in his scent—Old Spice, only now stewed with the boyhood smells of leather footballs and starched cotton. His letterman's sweater hung in the closet, and on the floor, side by side, his polished loafers.

Linus never seemed more of a mystery than the day she first sat on his patchwork quilt and ran her hand over his child inside her.

Pennants from Notre Dame and more locally, the University of Wisconsin, hung on the wall over his bed, and on the shelf beneath the
night table lay copies of
Argosy Weekly
, with a picture of Zorro swashbuckling in a green Spanish conquistador's outfit and a red matador's cape gracing the top cover.

She lowered herself again to the quilted bedspread—the springs squealed—oh, how she'd frozen in horror the first night, realizing every movement squawked her unwelcome presence down the hallway and into his parents' bedroom.

She picked up the boys' magazine, paged through it.

“He sprawled right there, the first Tuesday of every month, when that came in the mail, and read it cover to cover.” Bertha stood in the doorway. “And then I'd find him in the backyard, the next day, acting it out. Zorro, or the Lone Ranger. He had such an imagination, that Linus.” She came in, closed his closet door. “Already I see so much of him in Sadie.”

Bertha saw Linus in Sadie? To Esther, Sadie seemed her own unique, perfect imprint in the world. She put the magazine back and turned to find Bertha handing her a picture.

“One of my favorites. He was two. Same as Sadie.”

Esther stared at the picture, traced her finger along the pudgy cheeks, the twinkle in his eyes, the high and tight crew cut. She cupped her hand around the face. Yes, there, of course.

Sadie.

The fist tightened. Yes. Linus had deserved a woman who loved his fascination with comic book heroes and teenage sleuths. Had deserved a woman whose letters contained not the trivial, but passionate petitions to return home to her arms.

Had deserved to watch his daughter grow up in his likeness.

The pain came swift, sharp, grabbed her by the throat, burned tears in her eyes.

There,
finally
. She closed her eyes, surrendering to it.

“What is it?” Bertha said quietly, removing the picture.

Esther wiped a tear from her cheek. Shook her head.

Bertha pressed her hand to the glass of the picture. “I know. I pray every day for his safe return. And now that the war is over, perhaps my prayers have been answered.”

I suspect this letter is quite late…

No. In fact, it had clearly preceded the army's cruel telegram, or even a visit from Reverend Myers. At least now she had a warning, could plot her words, her exit from their lives.

And, until then, she would say nothing. She had no right to destroy their world, having already unraveled it enough.

Esther turned away, looked out the window. Overhead, the sky celebrated victory with a glorious blue, not a hint of cirrus, the sun triumphant upon the day.

Of all days, she longed for rain, tears upon the windowpane, a chill that might embed her bones and cause her to steal the quilt from his bed, inhale his scent, and let his loss hollow her.

And, for Sadie's sake, it could.

She drew a breath, wiped her tears, turned to Bertha. “How long have you worked for the judge and Mrs. Hahn?”

“They paid my passage over when I was sixteen. Mr. Hahn's father is my father's second cousin.”

She saw her then, the black hair, dusted with gray, pulled tight into a bun, the sinewy, strong arms, the day dress protected by a gray apron, sensible black shoes, a woman in shadow. “You've worked for them since you were seventeen, haven't you?”

“I worked for Judge Hahn's parents first, but when Mr. and Mrs.
Hahn married, they asked if I could come and work for them. Of course I did. I practically raised Linus.”

Something about the way she said it, with a downy fondness in her voice, made Esther pause….

Linus's death would rip a gash through Mrs. Hahn, through the judge, through even Bertha that nothing could repair. Their only son, lost on the battlefield.

Only Sadie left to balm the wound.

Bertha set the picture back on the shelf, pressed her fingers to it, as if leaving behind her affection, and Esther's breath lodged in her lungs.

Sadie belonged to the Hahns.

Even if Esther left, the judge and Mrs. Hahn would never allow her to take Sadie away. Judge Hahn would see to that—whatever it took.

“Are you all right, Esther? You look pale.”

Esther rocked up from the bed, steadying herself on the side table, finding her voice, the one she used in the ward when talking to the soldiers. “Everything's fine. I—I just had a long shift, and I'm rather hungry.”

“Your porridge is downstairs. I dished it up for you to cool.”

Esther turned to the window, her eyes blurry again. She couldn't decide why. “Thank you.”

Sadie and Mrs. Hahn skipped up the walk, their hands swinging between them.

“Are you sure there is nothing wrong?”

Esther's fist curled around the letters in her pocket. Maybe he wasn't dead. After all, they hadn't received a telegram. Not even an MIA…

She closed her eyes, hearing the door squeal downstairs.

“Mama!”

No one had to know. Until they received an official telegram, no one needed to know.

There'd been enough desperation for one day.

May 1945

Green Lake, Wisconsin

Dear Miss Lange,

I am not sure how to answer your question. Obviously, I could begin with the facts. I believe he may have shattered all the bones in his leg, including the thigh bone or femur and both bones below the knee, the fibula and tibia. I worried about the blood flow to his foot, due to the cyanotic color. I also feared that he might have at numerous broken ribs, due to the instability of his chest. He also had an open wound that extended into the chest cavity. I did my best to seal it. Because of the darkness, I was unable to determine further bruising or swelling on his body. I also believe he may have had a concussion, because at points he lost coherency and reverted to his childhood as I talked with him.

As to how his injuries occurred, I cannot accurately ascertain. As I mentioned in my previous letter, I came upon him quite unexpectedly, assigned instead to assist two other solders in the same location. When I discovered his wounds, of course I attended them after determining
the other two solders under my care had been sufficiently tended. I can only guess at the circumstances that wounded him.

The German army had fortified the Seigfried Line, the southern flank of Field Marshall von Rundstedt's stronghold. Admittedly, it seemed an impregnable defense, located beyond the Our and Sauer Rivers, now torrent with the spring thaw. I remember the night of February tenth, when the attack commenced, an icy rain dripped through the coniferous forest and down the back of my coat. I worried my medic pack might be saturated.

Then, the German line exploded. The 80
^th
Infantry coordinated their attack to light up the pillboxes that fortified the steep incline from the rivers, and in the eerie glow of the flames, I could see the infantry charging up through the rocks, hitting the dirt as screaming meemies, tore open the forest, churned up the ground. Assault boats swamped in the river, and the German line littered the onslaught with artillery and machine gun fire. The world turned to fire, despite the hounding drizzle.