July 1942

"…there doesn't appear to be anything physically wrong with her. I think she's just in shock due to the…"

"…when she wakes up, you're going to have to force her to eat. You know she won't, Shelby. You know she closes down when something upset her. You'll have to…"

"Rachel, darling, wake up."

"…give her more time. She'll be okay. She's strong and tough and she's a fighter…"

The voices faded in and out as Rachel drifted in and out of consciousness. She could tell that she was in the bedroom, tucked under quilts in the bed she shared with Sam. Her husband's face appeared in her mind and before she could cry, she slipped back into the dark oblivion, the voices around her fading again.

When she finally opened her eyes hours later, a single lamp lighted the room and her mother was sitting in a chair by the bed, her eyes trained on her daughter.

"Mother?" Rachel rasped. "Water, please?"

Shelby nodded, handing Rachel a mug full of water. Rachel took a small sip, closing her eyes as the cool water eased her parched throat, and then she looked at her mother. "How long have I been asleep?"

Shelby sat the mug on the table beside Rachel and began fidgeting with the covers, re-arranging them and tucking them back in around Rachel's body. "Nearly twelve hours, darling. Dr. Moskovitz has come and gone. When you fainted, we called him to make sure that you and the baby were okay."

Rachel's hand dropped to her belly and she splayed her palm over the bump as her eyes filled with tears. Gazing up at her mother, she eked out Sam's name before tears began pouring from her eyes. Shelby was by her side in an instant, cradling her as she sobbed into her mother's dress.

"Shhh," Shelby soothed, her hand running over Rachel's now messy hair. "Shhh, baby… It's going to be okay."

"How?" Rachel sobbed, her fingers gripping her mother's arm. "How will it ever be okay again?"

Shelby pressed a fierce kiss against Rachel's forehead and then tucked her head beneath her chin, tears slipping down her own cheeks as she tried to absorb her daughter's grief.

"You're strong, Rachel. You'll be okay. You've got all of us here to care for you. And you have to be strong for that baby. Trust me, darling, you'll get by."

Sobbing, Rachel could only listen to her mother. When she squeezed her eyes shut, she blocked out everything but the memory of Sam. His touch, his smile, his laugh – all the things she adored about him. How she would ever get past such a loss, she had no idea.

After Sam died, Noah was in a fog. He wasn't sleeping and his appetite was gone. Every time he drifted toward sleep, he saw Sam, his eyes glassy and blood leaking from his mouth. And then he'd picture Rachel and he'd reawaken with a start, nearly jumping out of his bunk and disturbing the men around him. Luckily, the guys in his platoon and even the platoon sergeant seemed to understand what he was going through and gave him a wide berth, allowing him to miss maneuvers.

Noah spent the first day after Sam died wandering the small village where they were quartered, his mind full of random thoughts that he couldn't get to connect into a sensible thought pattern. He couldn't believe that Sam was gone. They hadn't even made it into combat yet. Nobody was supposed to die in the middle of those peaceful moors. And definitely not somebody like Sam. He had his whole life in front of him still with Rachel waiting for him back home, a baby on the way.

Slowing his gait and eventually dropping to sit on a rough, rocky wall, Noah stared up at the cloudy sky. Unlike the day before when it was sunny and hot, that day was chillier, the clouds spitting rain. They hit his face but he didn't seem to notice, his mind across the ocean on a tiny little row house in Mineola, New York. When he saw Rachel's face smiling in his mind's eye, he forced himself to stand up and head back to his bunk. He had a promise to keep and he was going to start keeping it immediately.

July 11, 1942

Ma,

I don't know if you've heard yet but Sam Evans was killed two days ago. It's still fuzzy on how it even happened but I guess a shell wasn't packed right and it exploded. I was with him when he died and I can't get it out of my head.

Check on Rachel, Ma. I know she knows by now and I hate that I can't be there. I promised Sam that I'd take care of her and I intend to. I know I can't do much from over here but will you drop in on her? She'll have her parents and Sam's around her but I just really need her to know that we're there for her, too.

Write when you can.

Noah

After the letter was done, he shoved it in an envelope and posted it quickly. When he walked back to his bunk, he grabbed a new sheet of paper and started to write another letter, this one to Rachel.

He stared at the paper for what felt like an hour, the pen clicking against the book he was using as a makeshift writing surface. Despite his attempts, the page stayed blank because he had no idea what to say. Did he tell her that he'd promised to take care of her? Did he tell her how Sam died? He had no idea how to write a letter to a grieving widow who also happened to be someone that he'd cared about for a very long time.

Realizing that he had no words that didn't sound childish or downright stupid, he stuffed the blank sheet inside his book and shoved it down into his footlocker. He'd try again later.

…

For three more days, Noah started and stopped on his letter to Rachel. He never got more than a few words down before he gave up, folded up the paper, and put it away again. By the third day, he realized that he needed to rejoin his platoon and start focusing. Hitler wasn't going to stop just because his friend was dead. So he went back to early morning drills and 20-mile runs and he pushed himself harder than he had before. The more exhausted he made himself, the easier it was to not think about Sam or Rachel or the fact that back home, she was heartbroken and he couldn't do anything about it.

One morning, Noah dreamed of Rachel again. She was in her wedding dress as she usually was in his dreams but this time, she had tears streaked down her face. He took her in his arms and kissed her softly, telling her it would be okay. She was just about to open her mouth when he awoke with a start, breathing heavily and frustrated. Grabbing his watch, he realized that it was only 3am. After making sure that he didn't disturb the guys, he quietly reached into the footlocker, removed his paper and his book, and pulled them under the blankets with him. Snagging his flashlight from his musette back, he stretched out on his belly, pulled his blanket over his head, and flipped the flashlight on, holding it in his mouth after directing it toward the paper. Without overthinking, he began to write.

July 14, 1942

Rachel,

I've been trying to write this letter for days but I didn't know where to start. I finally decided just to sit down and get it out.

I'm sorry about Sam. I was with him when he died. I don't know how much you want to know so I'm not going to tell details unless you ask. I don't want to put you through more than you already are.

I hate that I can't be there for you, Rachel. I hate that I couldn't do anything to save Sam. I've never been so helpless in my life and if this is what war's really going to be like, I'm not sure I want any part of it.

I know you're sad and I'll understand if I don't hear from you but if you could at least let my Ma stop by so she can check on you, I'd appreciate it. She can tell me you're okay if you don't want to write back.

Again, I'm so sorry,

Noah

When he was done, he re-read the letter. Satisfied that he wasn't going to be able to say anything better, he addressed it, slid it under his pillow, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

She just wanted to be alone. Ever since she'd received the telegram, Rachel hadn't been by herself. First her mother never left her side and then Sam's parents converged on their house, too, followed by Quinn and more of Sam's relatives. Women from the synagogue, including Noah's mother, Miriam, began bringing casseroles and taking care of the house, dusting, doing dishes, making sure the lawn got cut and the garden weeded. While Rachel appreciated the help because her mind was full of grief and exhaustion, after nearly a week, it got to be too much. All she wanted was total quiet to sit and think and cry.

Her mother had forced her to have a lunch of tomato soup and a sandwich and then Rachel excused herself, telling everyone that she was tired, and retreated to her room. Desperate to drown out the sound of the voices, she turned her radio on and listened to the soothing voice of Mary Lee Taylor give out the directions for the latest delectable recipe she'd tried. Changing out of her dress, she stood before the mirror in her brassiere and panties and molded her hands along her round stomach. Because she was such a petite woman, the swell of her stomach was relatively small. But because she was so small and the baby was growing at a rapid rate, her whole body seemed to change with the pregnancy. Sliding her hands across the stretched flesh, they settled right above where she believed the baby's head to be. Her eyes filled with tears as it did every time she allowed herself a moment to stop and really think about the fact that she was now 22, pregnant, and had no husband.

A tired sob escaped her lips and she turned from the mirror, slipping her nightgown over her body and pushing back the blankets with one hand while she used the back of her other hand to swipe at her tears. Once she was in bed, she pulled the blankets up high and let them settle around her, despite the fact that the bedroom was slightly warm. Blanking her mind of anything but the monotone voice coming from her radio, she began to drift off to sleep. Minutes later, the door opened and the sound of the outside world filtered into her bedroom once again, forcing her awake.

Rachel sat up quickly and glowered at Quinn, who was standing at the door. She bit her lip and glanced at the floor before stepping further into the room and closing the door behind her.

"Do you need anything, Rachel?"

Rachel sighed. She just wanted to be left alone but she was far too proper to tell Quinn to let her be so she shook her head and said, "No, Quinn, I don't. I just want to sleep."

Quinn nodded and Rachel breathed a sigh of relief until Quinn moved toward Rachel instead of back out the door. Sitting down on the bed, she picked at the duvet.

"Quinn?" Rachel questioned, her patience growing short.

"D—do you think Noah's okay?" Quinn finally asked.

Rachel's face fell and her heart clenched, her hand reaching out to cover Quinn's. "I'm sure he is, Quinn. I think…" She swallowed hard, her eyes tearing up again, and said, "I think it was just an accident and Sam… Sam was the victim."

Quinn nodded, her eyes on the pattern of the duvet. "It's just… I haven't heard from him in a while. I'm sure he'll write and I'm sure he's going through a tough time himself. I just… I worry about him."

"Have you written him?"

Shaking her head, Quinn said, "No. I wrote him nearly three weeks ago now and I haven't heard from him since."

"Well then write him again, silly. I'm sure… I'm sure he's just been distracted. You know that he, too, has to be grieving," Rachel said, letting out a small gasp when it occurred to her for the first time that Noah might have been nearby when Sam was killed. Her hand flew to her mouth and she looked at Quinn with wide eyes. "Quinn? What if they were together at the time? Oh, Noah," she sighed. "That's horrible if that's the case. I hope he's okay."

"I'm going to go home and write him a letter," Quinn decided after a moment of silence. "I'm sure he's upset but I just need to make sure he's okay." Standing up, Quinn looked at Rachel nervously before bending and pulling her into an awkward hug. Then she turned and fled quickly, clearly determined to get a letter written.

Once the door clicked closed again, Rachel slid back down beneath the blanket, briefly hoping that Noah was okay before she fell asleep again.

On July 15, Rachel received the letter from the War Department that the earlier telegram had been promised.

July 11, 1942

Dear Mrs. Evans:

You have no doubt been notified via telegram of the death of your husband, Private Samuel G. Evans, who was killed on July 9 while training in England. While this was no doubt a shock to you, I wanted to send our sincere apologies for your loss. Private Evans was a fine man and a good soldier. An investigation has concluded that a faulty shell exploded when it was being moved by your husband.

We hope you find comfort in knowing that your husband received full military honors and religious rites pursuant to his faith. He is residing in a beautiful, well-kept cemetery. Full details on the address and location of burial are below. Also, you will be receiving information in a separate correspondence regarding Pvt. Evans' life insurance policy.

We sincerely regret that this letter must bring so much sorrow into your life and family. You have our deepest sympathy.

The letter concluded with the messy scrawl and typed title of someone that Rachel gave very little regard to, her eyes instead on the fact that he'd already been buried. "This is absurd!" she shouted, pointing at the letter.

Shelby wrung her hands and stared at her daughter, waiting for Rachel to elaborate.

Rachel shoved the letter at her mother, angrily pointing at the second paragraph. "He's already been buried, Mother! I was expecting to receive notification that they'd send his body home so that we could bury him here! He's… he's not coming home!"

Rachel flung her hands in the air and stomped away from her mother before coming back again. "How am I being denied the right to bury my husband as I see fit? He's buried in some cemetery in some town in England that I've never heard of and that I'll certainly never be able to visit. How is that fair?" Her pacing stopped so she could face her mother, her eyes shining. "I wanted to have a funeral, Mother. I wanted to be able to say goodbye properly. I thought that all of us – me, you, Daddy, Sam's family – deserved the right to say goodbye to him. He was taken from us so suddenly! How do they expect us to be able to cope without even the opportunity to bury him like we want to?" Rachel blinked twice before a tear slipped down her cheek. "This is infuriating."

Nodding, Shelby glanced back at the letter. "Darling, I'm sure they have their reasons. You have to remember that we're at war; things are different now. I'm sure that's not what they wanted to do, either. It's probably what they've had to do, given the circumstances." She paused, skimming over the letter again, before adding, "But it appears that he had a nice burial."

"Mother, I don't care about that. It doesn't help me at all. It doesn't help any of us. I find it absolutely appalling that—" Rachel cut herself off mid-sentence, her hands flying up and then her eyes widening. "Regardless, I'm planning a memorial service for him just the same. We may have no body to bury but I will not be denied the chance to say a proper goodbye." Rachel met her mother's eyes boldly and said, "Call Sam's mother and ask her to come over, please? I am positive that she'll feel the same way."

Seeing the determined look on her daughter's face that she recognized well, Shelby nodded and reached for the phone.

July 14, 1942

Dear Noah,

It's been weeks since I've heard from you and I'm admittedly worried. Are you okay? I know that you're grieving over Sam just as we all are and I hope that you're okay.

I've been with Rachel a lot. She's holding up the best that she can. She cries a lot, sleeps a lot, and seems like she has a short fuse most days. Her house is full of people most days and I think it wears on her.

Please write when you can.

All my love,

Quinn

Guilt assuaged Noah as he read Quinn's letter. Since he'd mailed the letter to Rachel, he'd kept his mind occupied. This letter, full of Quinn's obvious concern for him, made him feel like a horrible beau. Most of his thoughts, admittedly, had been on the grieving brunette instead of the worried blonde. He carried the letter around in his pocket all day and as soon as chow was over, escaped back to his bunk to write a letter to Quinn.

July 28, 1942

Quinn,

I'm sorry I haven't written in so long. As you guessed, things have been tough. I was with Sam when he died and it hit me hard.

You said Rachel was holding up and I hope that's still true. I know Sam was your cousin so how is your family holding up?

I'll write again soon. Until then, take care of yourself and please be there for Rachel.

Finishing it, Noah signed the letter and read over it. It was the shortest letter he'd ever written but try as he might, he had no interest in making small talk or discussing anything other than Sam or Rachel. At that time, it was consuming him.

The First Presbyterian Church of Mineola was packed on the Saturday afternoon that Sam's memorial service was held. Because Sam's family wasn't overly religious and Rachel's entire side of the family was Jewish, Rachel had demanded that the service be less about faith and more about Sam and the kind of man he was. The minister, despite his initial protests that the service need to be full of references to the Christian faith of the Evans family, backed down once he'd encountered the steely, determined glare in Rachel's dark eyes. So instead, Reverend Phelps spoke of Sam's character and devotion to his job, his family, and ultimately, to his country. One of Sam's childhood friends, a small man named Artie Abrams, rolled to the front of the church and talked about how he'd been in a wheelchair since he was a child and all the other kids growing up where cruel to him except Sam. "But Sam," Artie explained, his voice wavering as he fought the emotion welling up, "didn't care that I was different. He just cared that we both collected comic books and that we could spend hours talking about the characters and making up our own adventures. It was almost as if he never really noticed that I wasn't like him. He was like that with everybody."

Rachel dabbed at her eyes with a white kerchief edged in lavender tatting while Artie spoke. And then Quinn stood up and told an amusing story about the time, as children, that she and Sam had gotten locked overnight inside an abandoned factory. Laughing through her tears, Rachel discovered, was an oddly wonderful emotion. It was there, listening to everyone else talk about her husband, that she decided she needed to think more about how he was when he was alive and not just of the fact that he was dead.

When it was her turn to speak at the close of the service, Rachel took to the podium with gusto. "I had a lot of things planned to say and honestly, I don't feel like saying any of them. I don't have to tell you about the kind of man that Sam was. You're all here because you already know. Just as Artie said, Sam never let the differences in people bother him. He made me feel beautiful and loved, all while entertaining my somewhat erratic streak that makes me speak my mind more than I probably should." Members of Rachel's family let out knowing chuckles at her statement and she found herself giving them a tearful smile before continuing. "And while we're all here to say goodbye to him in the best way we can without giving him a proper funeral, I just want to thank him." Rachel let herself breathe through her nose for a moment, fighting the burn of tears in throat. Once she was composed, she said, "He changed my life and I'll be forever grateful. While his time was cut short, he's given me a gift that I'll cherish forever. Thanks to our child, he'll live on. So please, let's remember how he lived and not how he died. I think that's all he'd really want us to do."

Before she could cry, Rachel stepped away from the podium. As she sat back down and listened to the Reverend say the closing prayer, she wiped at her tears and took measured, careful breaths. Inside, she felt lighter, clearer – like maybe there was still a life to be lived. Her hand unconsciously settled on the swell of her stomach and rubbed as if to comfort the child within. When she realized what she was doing, she grinned and pressed both hands against her belly. We'll be okay, she thought. So when she stood at the back at the church minutes later, receiving hugs, kisses, and exchanging small stories with the mourners there to honor Sam, she allowed herself to laugh and smile. It was, she knew, what Sam would want.

…

The letter from Noah sat on Rachel's table for three days before she had the strength to open it. She knew that most likely, there would be details that would cause her to weep and lose any of the strength she'd developed since she found out that Sam was dead. But finally, curiosity got the best of her. After the memorial service was over and she'd finally convinced everyone that she would be fine, she was left alone for a few hours of total peace and quiet. She grabbed the letter off the table, turned the volume down on the radio, and tucked herself beneath an afghan on the davenport.

Her fingers shook as she opened the letter. Fear of what details may be revealed in Noah's messy scrawl sent a chill through her. Once she started to read, though, tears prickled her eyes. She was so relieved that Noah had spared her any details of Sam's death. She knew from the letter she'd received from the Army that a shell had exploded while it was being moved and that was what had killed him. But the actual details of his last minutes, she wasn't sure she could handle. Leave it to Noah, she thought, to spare me from further pain.

Touched by his thoughtfulness and concerned for his own grief and well-being since he witnesses Sam's death Rachel finished the letter and set it aside. In a few days, when she felt stronger, she would respond.

August 8, 1942

Noah,

Thank you for your letter. I will admit that it took me several days to open it because I was scared of the details it contained. Thank you for not divulging any information on what transpired. Maybe some day, I might ask. Right now, though, I think it is best that I don't know exactly how it happened. However, it gives me comfort to know that he was with you when he died because your friendship meant so much to him.

I'm surviving. Each day, the pain seems to lessen. Well, that's not the right word. The pain is still very much there. I suppose the right thing to say is that I'm learning to function despite the pain. The doctor has been by several times and he assures me that the baby is fine, despite the worry that I've been under. I honestly don't know what I would do if something happened to the baby. It's a connection to Sam that I'll always have.

Once I found out that Sam's remains were buried over there instead of being delivered home, I had a bit of a fit and then organized a remembrance service for him. It was beautiful and I wish you could have been there. It might have given you some closure. In fact, if you know where Sam's buried, you might find it beneficial to go say goodbye. It won't take away the pain but I think it will help.

Please, Noah, promise me that you'll take care of yourself. I know that this war is going to claim a lot of people but I can't stand the idea of losing you, too.

Warmly,

Rachel

Noah read Rachel's letter several times, searching for clues about her mental state. He'd expected her to gloss over how she was feeling because she wouldn't want to burden him with it. That's exactly how she was. But her letter told him, at least, that she was learning to cope. Long after he'd put the letter away, her words haunted him. It touched him that she was worried about him, too. Just the thought that she cared made his heartbeat race right up until his brain caught up with his heart to remind him that he was thinking about his dead best friend's widow inappropriately again.

The frustration and guilt he felt added to his grief and worry and put him in a bad mood. Two days after he received Rachel's letter, he got into a fight with another private in his platoon. He wasn't even sure how it happened. The guy was been making jokes one minute and the next, Noah's fist was in his face. He knocked the guy to the ground and grabbed him by the shirt before punching him squarely in the jaw. The sickening crack of his fist against the guy's face sent pain through him and it was almost a relief to feel that much pain. It took two guys to pull Noah off him and once they finally broken up the fight, he was sent for extra drills and KP duty as punishment. Running an extra 10 miles in a torrential downpour the next morning was a bitch but it gave him time to think and by the time he'd returned to his barracks, muddy and soaking wet, he'd decided that Rachel was right.

An hour later, he was excused from an artillery drill to make his way to the tiny church on the outskirts of the near where village they were billeted. The cemetery looked centuries old; some of the graves were unreadable due to decades of weather wearing the stone away. Near the back of the small enclosure, under a tree, was a fresh grave with a simple cross over it.

Noah wove his way toward the grave, taking careful steps along the way, until he stopped at the edge of the still-mounded dirt. He could see the name "Evans" scrawled on the side of the cross that served as a temporary tombstone until the Army could put in a permanent one.

Standing still, he thought about Sam and how they'd become such close friends due to their shared admiration of the same woman. He shoved his hands in his pockets, shifted his weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably, and finally began to speak. "Uh… hey, Sam. Rachel said that I should come say goodbye and that maybe it would help." Pausing when the wind kicked up, he listened to the leaves in the tree above Sam's grave rustle before he continued. "I…uhh…shit, you know I'm no good with words. But look, you asked me to take care of Rachel and I promise that I will. I…I always kinda wanted to, anyway. And that makes me the shittiest friend in the world, I know. I never shoulda felt about her like I do, especially after she married you. But I guess I always felt that way about her a little bit even before you showed up. And you made her so happy that I didn't want to mess that up because all that really ever mattered to me what that she was happy, even if I wasn't the one that made her that way. She deserves to be happy and you did that, man. You made her so happy. And I promise that, if I have anything to do with it, she'll never have to worry about anything. I'll take care of her and the baby." Pausing again, Noah dug his toe into the fresh dirt slightly and then pulled his hands from his pockets. "I know I'm not you and I never will be but I hope that maybe someday, I can make her happy, too." He glanced up into the tree above the grave and then back down at the rich, dark dirt of the grave. "That's all I wanted to say. And I'll miss you, buddy. I will."

He stared at the dirt a little longer, a knot in his stomach full of guilt and sadness, and then slowly turned away. Although he didn't feel any better yet, he hoped Rachel was right. Maybe saying goodbye really would give him closure.

…

August 24, 1942

Rachel,

I was happy to get your letter. Ever since Sam died, all I think about is if you're okay or not. I guess I'm just worried. I just keep thinking about how happy you were with Sam and how I'd never seen you that happy. I just want you to be okay.

I'm doing as well as I can. I got into a fight the other day. I'm not even really sure why. I think I've just been so angry since Sam died that I needed to beat somebody up. It actually felt really great. I forgot how much I used to love fighting. Sure, I felt bad for the guy but he shouldn't have been running his mouth or I wouldn't have had to pop him. But before you can yell at me, I promise you that I got punished for it. They don't let you get away with that kind of thing here.

I took your advice. Sam's buried in a little cemetery next to a church outside of town. His grave is under an oak tree and it's really nice. I think you'd be happy with how nice it is there. I told him goodbye, like you said. I got to say some stuff to him that I never got to say before and it was hard but I think you were right about how it would help. I'm really going to miss him.

I heard from my Ma and she said she'd been at your house a lot. I hope she wasn't making you nutty. You know how pushy she can be. Everybody's really worried about you is all.

Quinn's written me a couple of letters. I've got to get back in the habit of writing as soon as I hear from her. I don't need her upset at me on top of everything else.

Let me know how you're doing,

Noah

Next up: The baby arrives and Noah sees combat.