Christmastime 1945 Read online

  The crease between Lillian’s brow was slowly deepening – in puzzlement that Gabriel so clearly enjoyed such an environment.

  Gabriel took a bite of meatloaf, his enthusiasm increasing. “And when it’s slow, we go to his dictionary, one of those big ones. He said we have Doctor Johnson to thank for that. Then he says – ‘Gabriel, will you do us the honor?’ Then I close my eyes, flip through the pages, and land my finger on a new word.”

  Lillian remained speechless and looked from Gabriel to Tommy. Tommy shrugged and kept eating. “But what exactly do you do there?”

  “Help people. Well, at first, I was just sweeping and dusting and putting new merchandise out. But then I helped a few people to find things and Mr. G said he’d like to keep me on, after the holidays. Says I have a real knack for it. It’s fun to help people find things – it’s like a treasure hunt.”

  Lillian had only been in the shop once or twice but was drawing a blank as she tried to imagine Gabriel working there. “Find what kind of things?”

  He opened his hands. “It could be anything – a doorstop or candleholder, a lampshade – with or without fringe. An Edwardian cigar cutter, sheet music. An Aladdin’s lamp. Cut-glass water pitchers. Old buttons, vases, books. I know where everything is and can always help people find the perfect gift.”

  Lillian cast a concerned look at Tommy. He nodded. “It’s true. I was there when a lady thanked him for helping her find an Audubon book for her husband.”

  “And binoculars,” Gabriel pointed out. “I thought it would make a nice set. I learn all kinds of things without even trying. There are maps and globes and history books all over the place. There’s a periodical chart on the wall I’m trying to memorize, and posters on travel. Mr. G loves opera and plays them on the phonograph and tells me what happens in them. And old porcelain. Mr. G teaches me how to look on the bottom of them for marks – and you can tell where they were made. The place is full of treasures, Mom. Full of information. Mr. G says when I’m older he might even take me scavenging with him. Thinks I might have an eye for it. Modern day rag-and-bone men, he said.”

  Worry flashed in Lillian’s eyes as she imagined Gabriel sitting atop a rickety cart pulled by a poky old horse, scouring the city for the unusual and the curious…

  “And the people who come in to shop – actors and stage managers from the theater. Collectors and artists and – ”

  “Gabriel!” Lillian shook her head as if clearing it. She took a deep breath. “That’s enough for now.”

  She slowly buttered a slice of bread and wondered what to do. “The fact remains that you lied to me.”

  Now it was Gabriel’s turn to be upset. “No, I didn’t! I might have prevaricated, but I didn’t lie. Not once. I was careful not to.”

  “You lied by omission.”

  Gabriel sat back in his chair, rubbing his chin as he puzzled out the concept. “Lying by omission? Huh. I didn’t know there was such a thing.” He tilted his head, and slowly nodded. “Makes sense, though.” He opened his notebook and made a note of it. “I’ll have to ask Mr. G about that.”

  “Gabriel, you’re not taking this seriously.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Why didn’t you just ask me if you could work there?”

  “Because I knew you’d say no. Please don’t make me quit, Mom! I love it there. I can’t explain it. It’s my favorite thing I ever did!”

  Lillian was astonished to hear the passion in his voice.

  “Please, Mom.” Gabriel clasped his hands in supplication.

  She tried to think it through rationally, but with Gabriel nothing was ever straightforward. He was honest in his way and tried to do the right thing. He just marches to the beat of his own drum, as her mother would have said.

  “What do you think of all this, Tommy?”

  Gabriel shot him a look of hope.

  “Well, at first I was kind of against it. But everything he says is true. He’s helping people. He’s learning a lot. And he’s making money.” He shrugged as if it were all simple. “Plus, isn’t it better that he’s at The Red String instead of wandering around Central Park like he used to do?”

  Gabriel nodded vigorously, wondering why he hadn’t thought of that point.

  Lillian couldn’t deny Tommy’s argument. “Let’s be clear on one thing – no more secrets.”

  “Scout’s honor!” Gabriel said, giving the two-fingered salute. “So, I can I keep my job?”

  “You can work through Christmas as long as it doesn’t interfere with your homework. Then we’ll discuss it with your father once he’s here.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” He bit off a piece of bread with gusto and exchanged a smile with Tommy.

  *

  On Saturday, Charles took the Underground to visit Red. Though Red worked five days a week in London, he chose to lodge in a rooming house on the outskirts of the city, close to the veterans’ hospital where he volunteered most nights and weekends. Charles found it quieter than the city proper, though still bustling and its streets alive with the post-war activities of cleaning and rebuilding and getting on with life.

  Charles met Red at the hospital, and Red showed him around. They walked through floor after floor of wounded men in various stages of recovery, along with a good many who would never recover. Except for the new men being admitted, all the patients knew Red. In addition to helping process papers for the Yanks and Canadians, Red served as a volunteer counselor, encouraging the men, listening to them, offering advice and, when that failed, comforting them with gentle words.

  It was obvious that Red was well-loved, and Charles understood what important work he was doing. Life-changing, perhaps even life-saving. He saw the shift from despair to hope when the patients saw Red.

  Compared to them, Red was strong and vibrant. A slight limp was the only external sign of his previous injury, and now and then his eyes bothered him – he would stop in the middle of talking and rub them. Though he appeared cheerful and had a ready smile, Charles knew that he suffered from some unspoken sorrow. If he happened to catch him unawares, Charles noted the faraway look, the ever so slightly pinched eyebrows, as if trying to figure something out. The war affected men differently, depending on individual experiences. Red had a tough time of it in ’41 and ’42, losing buddies and being wounded.

  Charles suspected that Red was also still grieving the loss of Izzy. They had touched upon the subject over a year ago and Red had shared his regret, but he was a private person and tended to keep personal matters to himself.

  Rather than dwell on what he didn’t have, Red kept busy and experienced the euphoria of going home through the other men. He said his purpose now was to help the U.S. and Canadian boys get back home. Charles knew that Red had signed up with the Royal Canadian Airforce before the U.S. entered the war. It was obvious that he had maintained a strong bond with many of the Canadians.

  They concluded the tour and stepped out into the welcome sunshine and bracing air. Charles filled his lungs and exhaled deeply, happy to have made it through the war, through his bouts of pneumonia and other illnesses. Happy that he had a wife and family to go back to.

  Red took Charles to a small pub for lunch, not far from the hospital. They made their way through the crowded front, with several men stopping to say a few words to Red.

  One young Yank with a Brooklyn accent slapped him on the back but addressed Charles. “How’d you get this bum to drink with you? He always turns us down.” Then he turned to Red, throwing his hands up. “What are we, chopped liver?”

  Red laughed at the taunt. “Another time. I promise.”

  They found a table in the back, hung up their coats on the hooks of their booth, and settled in. Before they could order anything, a waiter arrived with two pints of ale.

  The waiter hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “From the Yanks,” he said, and walked off.

  Red raised his glass in thanks to the men at the bar.

  “You’re well-loved, Red. You’re
making a big difference in a lot of lives.”

  Red shrugged off the comment and took a swig of ale. “I miss being around guys like that. The typical New Yorker. It took a while for some of the Brits to warm up to me. You remember what they used to say about us Yanks.”

  “That you’re ‘overpaid, oversexed, and over here,’” Charles said with a chuckle. He took a drink of ale and looked around the pub. It was full of good-natured soldiers, a few civilians with their wives or girlfriends, and several elderly people with worn faces. At the table by the window sat a family with a small boy and girl. “Ah, there’s nothing like an English pub.”

  “Except maybe an Irish one,” Red said with an easy laugh.

  Charles observed the groups of men at the bar. “An interesting mix. Brits and Yanks drinking together with…” He cocked his ear, trying to make out the accents.

  “Poles and Czechs, for the most part,” said Red. “A few French.”

  They ordered sandwiches and filled each other in on the past year.

  “Do you have a picture of your daughter?” asked Red.

  Charles showed him the photograph Lillian had sent of her holding Charlotte with Tommy and Gabriel on either side of her, all with wide smiles. “I can hardly believe it, Red. Sometimes I think I’ve been dreaming, sure I’ve made it up – then I get out the photo to reassure myself. I can’t wait to see them.”

  They were soon talking about the possibilities of Charles getting home. He had an appointment to sign up for transport on Monday.

  “Let me know what you find,” said Red. “You’ll get passage on one of the ships, but it will take weeks. Not in time for Christmas.”

  “I expected as much.” After all he had gone through, this was a small setback. “Well, the new year then.” He took a bite of his sandwich and then lifted his ale.

  Red stared down at the table, turning something over in his mind. “I don’t want to get your hopes up, but there’s a chance I might be able to find you a flight – if you don’t mind a cargo plane.”

  Charles stopped mid-sip and looked up in surprise. “A plane?”

  “To Canada – Nova Scotia, most likely, but at least you’d be on American soil. Then hopefully, you could catch another flight to New York.”

  “That beats waiting for several weeks to set sail and then another ten to twenty days at sea. My God, Red, do you really think there’s a chance?” His heart beat in excitement. He had never considered being able to fly home.

  “I can’t promise anything. Let me look into it. I’ve gotten a few men home that way. The only thing is, you wouldn’t have much notice.”

  “I’ll be packed and ready to go at a moment’s notice. Thanks, Red. Even if it doesn’t work out, I appreciate the effort.”

  As they finished their sandwiches, the conversation shifted to the work Red was doing in London, Charles’s time in Ceylon and his trip back to England, and the attempt to get as many men home in time for Christmas.

  “Everyone’s hopeful of Operation Santa Claus,” said Charles. “Part of Operation Magic Carpet they formed in the fall.”

  “Such light-hearted names,” said Red.

  “Now that the war is over, I guess everyone wants a bit of magic and playfulness. And everyone wants to be home for Christmas.”

  “True. A lot of Yanks are spending Christmas with families here. The Brits are opening their homes to them. They don’t have much, but what they have they’re willing to share. It’s the next best thing to being home.”

  “What about you, Red – any chance of you coming home soon? It looks like your work here could last years.”

  Red took a drink of his ale. “I’m not sure what I’ll do, to tell the truth. I’ll stay as long as I’m needed and then – I guess I’ll go home. Take advantage of the GI Bill, finish my degree. Work at the family business or something else.”

  Charles accepted the fact that Red didn’t want to discuss Izzy.

  After talking about the rationing that was still going on in England, and the refugees all over Europe, Charles glanced at the clock. “You probably need to be getting back.”

  Red finished his ale and nodded. “They’ll be expecting me for the afternoon round.”

  They stood and put on their coats and hats.

  “It was so nice seeing you,” said Red as they stepped out into the street.

  “Depending on what transportation I find, I could be here for a few weeks,” said Charles, “or longer. If I am, we can hook up in London next time.”

  “I’d like that. And I’ll let you know as soon as I hear anything about the flights. But get your name down for transport all the same. The cargo flight is a long shot, I’m afraid.”

  Red watched Charles leave. Visiting with him had been like a bit of home – the ease of conversation, the familiarity with common things, the connection, however indirect, to Izzy.

  Red completed his afternoon rounds, and then, as he did every evening, he walked to a little park along the river, down from the main street.

  There was a bench where he usually sat, a peaceful spot set back under the trees. It was his favorite place to let go of the war years and enjoy the sunset. At this time of year, the sun sank just over the arched stone footbridge. He sat down and awaited the closing of day. The low clouds tonight would ensure a beautiful sunset. A few birds flocked around the water’s edge. People walked along the river path, some hurrying, others strolling. A few crossed the bridge to the other side.

  It had been good to see Charles. To see someone, a friend, who had made it through the war. Who had a family waiting for him back home. A slow ache filled his heart – he could be going home now too, to Izzy. But he had destroyed that possibility.

  What bothered him most about his marriage to the nurse, was how little he remembered about that month and a half. He remembered getting out of the hospital. Attending a service. Living in the back of a little house on a cobblestone street. But he didn’t remember his life there. He could barely remember her face. Red rubbed his eyes, his neck. He had been in a bad way at that time. Still, he should have known better. Done better.

  A single leaf drifted from above him and landed on his lap. He picked it up. A thin yellow spear. He wasn’t surprised when the marriage ended. It had never been right. He was going along with some wave that carried him along, barely keeping his head above water. Not long after the divorce, Myra had stopped by to say she was marrying someone from her old neighborhood. Red had felt relief. A chapter that could now be closed. He didn’t have to do anything. Make anyone happy. Shoulder anyone else’s pain.

  As he often did when he sat at the bench, he looked back at his time with Izzy – what they had, how they met, their recent letters. Sometimes, he would softly say her name aloud – “Izzy.” It made her seem more real.

  There was a place inside him reserved for her. If he was honest, all of it was for Izzy. He protected it by not letting anything else enter that sacred space. On the outside, he kept busy with his job and his duties at the hospital. Work, letters to his family, volunteering with the patients. Then, as if he were a husband going home after work, every evening he returned to Izzy.

  The trees rustled across the water, sending a few more leaves drifting down. Some landed on the water, others on the faded grass. The temperature was dropping. He tightened his scarf around his neck. The sun had dropped behind the clouds, turning them shades of pink and orange and a grayish purple.

  His mouth lifted into a smile. He often thought that Izzy would like this place. It was quiet in a way that she would like. Kind of a busy quiet. That was Izzy’s way. She would look at the trees leaning over the water, the ducks and birds. She would wonder where everyone was going at end of day – to families? To jobs? Out with a loved one to dinner, perhaps? Dancing? Yes. She would like it here.

  It had been good to see Charles, he thought again. A good man. An honorable man. He represented what they had all been fighting for – decency, kindness, family.

  Red m
ade it his mission to get Charles home in time for Christmas. He sat up straight, infused with a new source of energy. He would use every spare minute to make telephone calls, talk to people, and call in as many favors and pull as many strings as necessary to make it happen. Charles deserved it. And there was the thread of connection. To Izzy. Charles’s happiness would spread to Lillian. And her joy would touch Izzy. An indirect way of adding to her happiness.

  Red leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and rested his head in his hands. The war. God, he was glad it was all over. Charles had asked him about going back to New York. He would return home. But first he wanted to see the poor Brits get on their feet a bit. He wanted to see the rubble cleared, the orphans sheltered, and the fields once more full of crops. He wanted to see the shoreline cleared of barbed wire, and the waters cleared of mines. Like a sick, wounded, trashed-out body that needed help. He desperately needed to see that the world had righted itself. He couldn’t bear to think about the continent. Or Japan. Those were nightmares he could not yet look at.

  And if he was honest, another part of him was desperate for home. The part that wanted to forget about the war and misery and destruction. To be around happy, well-fed people, and green fields. And the future. That was it. He wanted to be around people who had a sure foot in the future. In tomorrow.

  He looked out over the river. The sun was sinking behind the footbridge, bathing it in diffused gold. He ran his hands over his eyes. His vision had never fully recovered. He didn’t need glasses – but sometimes his vision would suddenly blur, and it would take him a few seconds to rub his eyes in order to see clearly again. There was no explanation for this – and no remedy.

  He rubbed his hands together against the chill. What would he do with the rest of his life? Stay here? Go home? His family awaited him in New York, the family business awaited him there – all with open arms. Should he return?