Notes: First of all, I'm really sorry this took so long. I'd kind of hoped after school finished up things would slow down but they've actually gotten crazier lol I'm determined to finish this story and have a lot of stuff written up, it's just a matter of bridging the gaps. Hopefully the next update won't take two months :P

Second, it's with a large amount of reluctance that I do this, but if I want the writing to be realistic then I don't have a choice. There's a fair number of anti-Semitism in this chapter. It made me sick just looking up slurs to use, let alone actually including them in something I created and I want to make it perfectly clear that nothing expressed in this chapter is meant to offend anyone. Every word is used purely for creative purposes. I apologize in advance if anyone is offended. If anyone needs definitions please either PM me or search Google.

Huge thanks to everyone who's reviewed! Happy fourth of July weekend to my American readers! Enjoy ;)

Chapter Three: Songs of Joy and Peace

It's the season of possible miracle cures
Where hope is currency and death is not the last unknown
It's the season of cold making warmth a divine intervention
It's the season of scars and of wounds in the heart
Of feeling the full weight of our burdens
It's the season of bowing our heads in the wind
And knowing we are not alone in fear
Don't forget I love you, I love you
- 'The Atheist Christmas Carol' by Vienna Ting

Tillburg, Holland December 24, 1944

Carols echo through the streets so loud you can't escape them. The ward swims with warmth, candlelight, the mingled scents of pine and roasted pigeon. For a while I sit in my room, rereading letters, trying to block out anything that even remotely feels like Christmas. It doesn't seem fair this way. Joe in a forest someplace without so much as K rations or ammunition to defend himself. Sam in some crowded cathedral or school house, up to her knees with injuries that are quickly turning fatal, dead bodies that have no place to be buried. And me, in a hotel with a hot meal and fireplace waiting downstairs. The thought drives me mad with injustice until finally, I can't stand the walls around me any longer. Grabbing my coat and whatever spare food I can fit within its pockets, I start out into the night.

It's snowing lightly and the streets are quickly growing slick with it. Bells toll every few blocks in the chapels and cathedrals. The open doors are full of warm candlelight and ethereal echoes of voices being lifted unto the Lord. There is so much reason to sing here now that the Germans have finally been pushed out and somewhere, in a distant corner of my being, I am happy for the Dutch. But my eyes can hardly bear to turn and look, let alone stop or listen. It rings too familiar of Christmas at home. Of the last time I saw Joe. Keeping my eyes ahead of me, I carry on.

The chill that breaks out across my skin is comforting because I know this is how the men must feel in the forests of Belgium. This same night air is the only voice for miles in Ardennes, the same overcast sky their only blanket. But Tillburg is no forest. It's impossible to miss the advent lanterns hung up in every window. The enormous pine tree decorated with holly and ribbons at the center of town square. The wreaths hung on every street lamp. You'd think it was the first Christmas in a hundred years. With a grim smile, I climb the steps of the Anderson's front stoop, realizing it must feel that way.

Surprised to see me, Mrs. Anderson offers me a place in the living room. Peeking in I smile softly when I notice two of the Cohen boys playing on the floor there with beat up tin soldiers. In the dim, warm firelight they could actually pass for something like healthy. I would love to go and sit with them, to make up stories about their figurines and laugh by the fire. But I'm here for their mother. Thanking Mrs. Anderson anyway, I head upstairs.

Dinah, the eldest daughter, is sitting at her mother's bedside, helping her eat what she can. Though Mrs. Cohen is sitting up, her skin is still terribly pallid and there are lines of fatigue lining her eyes. I'm relieved, for this is a tremendous improvement from just a couple of weeks before.

"Prettig Kerstfeest." I smile at both as warmly as I can, setting out the food I brought on the bedside table. It isn't much, but Dinah's eyes light up like a lark's at the first hint of spring. Between her siblings and mother, I doubt there was much Christmas dinner left for her. As she thanks me profusely in perfect English, my smile swells alongside my heart.

This is what being a nurse of the Red Cross should be about. These people are the reason I was meant to enlist. I just didn't realize it at the time. Though that time feels as though it could be just a haunting dream or a memory from my past life, the images burn bright in my mind as I sit and tend to Mrs. Cohen. They refuse to dim or blur and letting them in is painful, but I can't seem to stop myself.

Aldbourne, England March 1944

The dancehalls get overheated fast. Between slow running fans, heavy crowds, rivers of alcohol and nonstop dancing, it hits you over the head like bricks as soon as you step off the floor. Suddenly, the air around you isn't moving and everything feels heavy. Each lungful of air seems like an accomplishment. But even before I get halfway through my glass of water at the bar, vengeful hunger pains for more are wrapping around me like vines.

Laying a few pence pieces on the bar counter, I whip around and take one last deep breath, eyes ablaze with the dim, burning glow of the dance floor. And then, just as I'm about to take my first step, the world implodes. Each head of perfectly coifed curls, all the stiffly pressed uniforms, every swirling skirt glides apart for a handful of seconds, giving me a dead shot view to the wall on the other side of the club. It's a little darker over there without the stage or house lights shining overhead, but I see him there. Back against the wall, hunching a little as he lights a cigarette. The dark of his eyes glows with its embers as he takes a drag, lifts his head to laugh at something one of his friends said. Even in that dim light, I can make out the paleness of his skin. The contrast of thick, dark hair and sharply angled features.

It's not that I fall in love with him in that moment, but begin to feel a black whole open up and suck me in. It's that I know I'm going to, whether he loves me back or not. It's that, in that moment, I desperately want to fall in love with him.

"Who is that?" I murmur to Sam as she comes off the dance floor, breathless and laughing, smiling over her shoulder at a tall, blonde man with ghostly blue-eyes. It's only on account of her incessant begging that I even snuck out tonight in the first place. Every man in this room would agree with me, it's impossible to say no to Samantha. After making her promise him at least one more dance before the evening is over, this latest suitor lets them drift their separate ways.

"Who? Buck?" She quirks an eyebrow, gulping the beer set down in front of her by the bartender. Looking around, I try to find the man that just arrested all of my attention not two minutes earlier. It doesn't take long and when our eyes lock for half-a-second a shock of electricity rips through me. Something inside of me just instinctively seems to know. The question is, know what? What could this random American soldier possibly mean to me?

"Him." I motion with my eyes as she turns 'round, trusting her to catch on. Sam's quite clever when it comes to reading my thoughts. It's the only reason I found myself so quickly bonded to a Yank nurse far too excited to go to war for my taste. Still, crazy American or not, she knows exactly who I've got my eyes on and laughs under her breath as she turns back for another gulp of mead.

"That's Joe." She smirks into the glass. "Miserable little bastard. You would go for him."

Smacking her arm, I lean back against the bar and try not to find him in the crowd again.

"He can't be that awful." I'm not looking for him, I tell myself as my eyes scan the room, I'm not looking for him. Still, I can't help feeling slightly disappointed when chance fails to bring our eyes together again.

"Are you already defending him? You haven't even met." The smirk grows to an amused grin and I shake my head. Americans can be so ridiculous.

"I only meant…he seems…" Shrugging, I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and watch the couples flowing in and out of each other on the floor. The song, 'Straighten Up and Fly Right' just hit the radio waves a few weeks ago and it's been a smashing success ever since. The band on stage tonight is no King Cole Trio, but they've got enough swing to make the song work. Absently, my hips sway to the beat, dress swooshing lightly around my calves.

"Devastatingly handsome in his Class-A's? Don't they all?" Laying the back of her hand across her forehead, Samantha pretends to swoon, mocking me something awful. Shaking my head, I roll my eyes to the ceiling this time and turn my gaze away from her.

"You Yanks, I swear…" But just as my eyes find the crowd again, it's parting to make way for Joe. Suddenly he's right in front of me and the amusement on my face has fallen away from surprise. Swiping the cigarette from between his lips, he holds out his free hand to take mine, smiling with a kind of gentle confidence that makes my heart stutter.

"You wanna dance?" He asks, leaning down so I can hear him over the music. The rough warmth of his hand in mine swirls through my senses with the scent of his aftershave cologne and I know then I'm down for the count. With a soft smile I nod, trying not to look too much of anything. Surprised. Demure. Flirtatious. Naïve. Willing. Somehow it all seems so obvious on my skin anyway. Joe however remains completely unphased. Stubbing his cigarette in a tray on the bar, he leads me out onto the floor. Glancing over my shoulder, I catch Sam's eyebrows flicking upwards suggestively just before the crowd drags her out of my line of vision.

I've danced with over a dozen men tonight. All of them American, all looking to get lucky for the evening. Each pick-up line has been dismissed with an apologetic smile, shot down with an airy laugh. But from the moment Joe's hand finds my waist, this feels different. I love that he isn't playing games with me, isn't trying to dress this up. He knows what he wants and he's fearless about the chase. 'The Way You Look Tonight' begins to play and everything else melts away. Neither of us speaks for the longest time, just sways and studies the other.

He's even more beautiful close up. I find myself jealous of his perfect complexion, so fair it's nearly exuding a light of its own. The curve of his flushed pink mouth is fascinating and I can't help thinking I've never seen lips that look softer. Dark brown eyes set off his high cheekbones. They seem far older than his boyish face and slight frame, make me wonder what he's seen and in how many years. His neck is long, almost elegant, sculpted from the same luminous milk as the rest of him. The more I take in, the more lost I feel myself become. It takes a great amount of self-control not to reach up and trace the sharp angles of his face with my fingertips.

"You alright?" Suddenly, I'm yanked back to earth as he chuckles, looking me in the eyes with a smirk that pulls me out of everything I thought I knew. The cynical talk I'd been hearing all my life at home, the prejudice my parents had passed on to me about the war and Americans alike, the surefire ignorance that Britain needed nobody but itself.

"Yes, I was only…sorry." Trying to stop my cheeks from growing hot with embarrassment is like trying to keep the tides from changing. But I give it a go anyway. Reaching between us, he lifts my chin so that I'm unable to keep looking down.

"I just wanted to know your name." He explains and I feel an even bigger fool for realizing I had been completely oblivious to him asking me anything. But with the way he's looking at me, touching my jaw line with a tenderness he really doesn't look capable of at first glance, it's hard to hold on to any sense of resistance.

"Rebecca." I tell him effortlessly. "Rebecca James."

"Rebecca." He repeats the word with a satisfied smile, straightening his back as his hand returns to my waist. A tiny rush of adrenaline hits me at the sound of my name along his lips. If I could have any wish then it would be to hear him say it over and over again, a thousand different ways for the rest of the night. "I'm Joe."

"S'very nice to meet you, Joe." I smile back, relieved with myself for reclaiming any sense of grace. As the slow dance around us begins to slip into the full-hearted swing of 'It's Only a Paper Moon'.

"You mind if I buy you somethin' to drink?" There's something adorably unrefined about his accent and I can't stop myself from smiling.

"That would be lovely." Folding my hand into his again, we drift back to the bar before finding a booth. I'm sure we mean to get up and dance again. Find our friends at some point. Hell, get more drinks. But once we start talking, it's like a dam has been broken and a river inside of us (one we hadn't been aware of) is rushing free, completely out of our control. All that's left inside either of us is relief and hope and the desire that this will never end.

"Do you miss him?" Dinah's gentle voice knocks me out of my daydream and I gasp a little, looking to my right. She's pulled up a chair, rocking her youngest brother as he sucks his thumb, head tucked into the crook of her shoulder. As impressive a surrogate mother as she makes, I wonder how severe the consequences will be further down the road. She'll never get her innocence back, her childhood. Once you've had to pretend you're the adult for long enough, there's no shifting back out of that role. I know that all too well.

Aldbourne, England Fall 1939

I may not be the scullery maid, but it's my job to take Father his tea. It's always mildly nerve-wracking because if anything spills it'll be my head. Knocking on his study door while trying to balance the tray is always a cumbersome ordeal but I've become pretty adept at it over the years.

Inside, it's the usual scene. Rain on the window panes, fire in the grate, Father hunched over his desk muttering about the farms whose crops we're in change of. It's been hard lately, rationing and the war effort has left us with less of everything, particularly labor in the fields. Every able bodied son and father have been called to join the ranks. The only reason mine hasn't is because of his polio. But usually this feels like more of a curse than a blessing. Especially now, with Mother taking up a job as a seamstress in town to help pay the bills and keep food on the table. With her gone the only person left to run the house and wait on my father is me.

"Can you believe this?" He spats, throwing a letter down at his desk forcefully while I pour his tea. Clearly he's in one of his nastier moods. I make a mental note to warn Mother when she gets home. "They want us to host some of those God damned Crikey children that are coming on that…that train."

"The kinder-transport?" Setting his tea in front of him, I do my best not to show any signs of disgust at his language. I have no idea if his beliefs about Jewish people are right or wrong, I'm only fourteen and hell, he's my father. But I do know that he doesn't have to use such offensive words.

"Yes." He growls, mixing the tea again even though I've already done so. "As if we don't have enough of our own problems as it is."

From the bits of BBC broadcast I've been able to pick up, from the talk I've heard around town and the news headlines in the square, I'm quite sure that Germany's Jews have much bigger problems on their plate than rationing and solicitations for war bonds. But I know better than to say anything even remotely suggestive of their plight. My father simply won't allow it in his house and wouldn't hesitate to backhand me if I tried. Instead, I just nod and ask him if there's anything else I can get for him.

"I'm fine." He waves me away, "Go look after your brother."

Nodding again, I slip out, trying to ignore the slurs I can hear him mumbling under his breath as I leave. It's always been this way and growing up in a house full of hate can blur the lines between right and wrong. But lately, with the Nazi party rising up just a few hundred kilometers away and all the rumors about ghettos and trains…I don't even know what I believe any more. I just know that when my father talks like that it makes my stomach churn with an icy unease. But I'm not sure I want to host Jewish children in our house any more than he does. So how much less of a monster can I be than him?

"Who?" All I have to offer Dinah is a quizzical smile as my heart sags with guilt. I wonder if life wouldn't have been easier for her and her siblings if someone in England had sponsored their passage on the Kindertrain.

"The man you think of when you smile like that." She responds as if it's obvious, as if I can't honestly think I'm fooling anyone. "Mama used to smile like that, when she was thinking of Papa."

I'm trying so hard not to cry that my whole face hurts. I desperately wish someone would have reached out and saved these children from witnessing the horrors that they have. Maybe they would have ended up at my house and my father would have been forced to wake up to the truth. That we were all just human beings. That none of us deserved to be so frightened of one another or tortured like science experiments.

"I do." My voice is a whisper as unshed tears constrict my throat, but I'm still forcing some semblance of a smile. Talking to this girl now fills me with a guilt I'm all too familiar with. A guilt I sat with for weeks, months even, before finally listening to my heart. The fact that I had ever even hesitated in rejecting my father's views made me want to be sick. But I had, and those memories were perhaps the worst of all.

"You think he'll be there next week?" I'm nearly skipping down the dark road, lit only intermittently by a few streetlamps. The aid station is located inside the airfield, which happens to sit down the same country lane that ends with my house. I've had crushes on boys before, but this is different. This is like flying on the ground and I feel as though I could laugh myself to sleep.

"Probably." Sam shrugs, taking another sip of the water she'd snatched on our way out. "But sometimes they have night marches and field exercises. All sorts of silly war things."

"Oh…" As my bubbly attitude deflates from this news, she backtracks a little, hoping to salvage my love struck drunkenness.

"Well, he'll come back 'round eventually. They always do. 'Specially when they meet a girl worth coming back for." With a suggestive wink, Sam nudges me playfully and I feel myself start to float again. Then she really does it. Goes and tears the light in my veins to pieces. "I just can't believe of all the guys eyeing you tonight you chose the hard-ass, skinny Jew."

She goes on down the street, nursing her water and cigarette, laughing with drunken enthusiasm. But I'm frozen in place some yards back, guts twisting painfully against the confines of my abdomen.

For three weeks I decline Samantha's invitations to go out on the town with her and the boys. Nothing should change after our conversation about Joe…but it does. Suddenly I feel paralyzed, terrified to make a move in any direction. How can I look at Joe and not hear every hateful thing Father has ever said to me about 'his people'? How could I sit there and pretend anything normal might exist between us with a family like mine and a heritage like his?

Either way, he's still a soldier. Nothing but another trigger-happy, crass young American. And he'll be leaving soon, what could possibly make me want to get attached? Probably just the fact that nothing had ever swayed me so profoundly as Joe had the moment my eyes found his across the dance floor. I didn't trust myself to be around again and resist my feelings. If I went out and saw him that would be the end of everything I had ever known and was expected to stay loyal to. So, like a coward I stayed put in my home and waited on my father. But those three weeks were like torture.

"Did they take him too?" Dinah's pale forehead wrinkles with disheartened sympathy and she reaches out to take my hand. I'm amazed at the warmth still bright and alive within her after having her hometown invaded by the Germans. After her own father went 'missing'. After being forced into hiding and the role of mother at such a young age. None of it seems to have stained her faith or darkened her light.

"No." I squeeze her hand in mine, forcing a smile to surface even as the tears continue to wage a battle for dominance. "They would have. But his mama protected him, like your mama protected you."

Aldbourne, England May 1944

Fights start in town nearly every night. It's been that way ever since the Americans rolled in and I'm quite sure the old folk here couldn't hate it more. We're a traditional lot in Aldbourne. Keep to your business and let us keep to ours. But for months now it's been the Air Force antagonizing the Paratroops, the Yanks having it out with the Brits, the boys just getting knackered and brawling for the hell of it. Tonight it's the 82nd Airborne ruffling the feathers of the 101st.

"What d'you suppose it is those eagles are always screaming?" One of them wonders out loud, staggering through the pub with his friend.

"Help me! Help me!" The other cackles loudly, sloshing his ale down the back of one of the boys, who I've come to know only as 'Wild Bill'. Big mistake. In seconds half a dozen of them are throwing punches and pretty soon it's absolute chaos inside. Men being thrown against tables, glasses breaking, the stale smell of beer staining everything.

Sam and I make it out onto the cobblestone street fairly quickly, though it's still slippery from the day's rain. She lights a cigarette, mumbling about what a bunch of idiots men can be and I'm laughing along, kind of glad to exchange the smoke and heat of the pub for a cool, fresh breeze. In fact, I'm about to point this out, but my eyes snag on the window and all speech seems to break apart into meaningless mush.

Joe's in there, trying to take on three guys at once and getting through with fair success given that he's one of the leanest guys in his company. Honestly, you take one look at him and everything inside of you yearns to feed him. But watching him like this, seeing the rough and tough talk he's always dishing out burst into something real is awakening a whole different set of yearnings inside of me. Get to him, protect him, love him. When one of them finally twists Joe's arm behind his back, their punches are dealt in rapid succession and I nearly rush the door. Samantha's hand is the only thing keeping me back and thankfully, all four of them get kicked out a few moments later.

With a sigh, Sam lets my arm go just as Joe catches sight of us. He's wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking down at it in disgust. It may be pitch black out, but I'm not stupid, I know what's all over his hand and lips. And just in case I didn't…

"Hey, how's that blood taste snip-dick?" One of them shouts, all three stumbling down the street like toddlers. Their drunken laughter follows and it takes the combined strength of Sam and myself to keep Joe from going after them.

"You wanna taste some, I'll be more than fuckin' happy to help you out!" He screams back even as she struggles to pull his arms and I to push his chest. He's not exactly know for having the best temper in the world, but I've never seen him this angry before. I'm sure I'm going to hell for liking it, but there's something beautiful about the red flushing his cheeks and neck, the passion that burns in his bruised eyes, the way he can't seem to stay out of the fire no matter how badly it burns him. Still, I have to wonder what on God's green earth has him fighting so venomously.

"Joe, come on. They're just a bunch of drunk, pigeon wannabes." I mumble, trying to get him to focus on me as they throw more insults and slurs down the street after us. He barely hears me, forcing my feet to shuffle backwards a little as his own press on. But I'm not backing down. "Hey, look at me. Forget them."

For the first time in fifteen minutes his blood begins to come down from its boiling point. When his eyes find me there's the slightest bit of calm wrestling with the wild animal still raging around inside of him. Laying a hand on his cheek, I can't help but notice he's still breathing heavy.

"Come on, you can't go back to barracks like this. Let's get you cleaned up."

Though she's let go of Joe's arm by now, I can sense Sam's frown in her voice.

"Um…I guess I'll just…see you guys tomorrow." She looks between us for a moment before making her own way down the road, catching up to a few other nurses along the way. With Joe's hand in mine I barely even realize she's left, or was even with us to begin with. All I know is that his hand is warm and calloused and the knuckles are bruised. Fighting an embarrassing smile, I lead him around to the back of the bar and have him sit on the back steps while I dash inside for ice and napkins. One of the cooks is a good friend of my father's and doesn't even ask questions if I pretend to be interested in how his children are doing. By the time I get back outside, Joe's lighting up his second cigarette.

"I was beginning to think you'd left me back here for the sheep." He chuckles as I kneel in front of him, motioning to the grazing fields just over my shoulder.

"Well, it's a good thing you decided to light up a cigarette then." I smile softly, wrapping a handful of ice in some napkins and leaning forward to lay the bundle gingerly over his rapidly swelling eye. "They can smell blood."

I whisper the last bit as though it's some kind of dangerous secret and we share a laugh that feels wrapped in electricity. In the moments that follow, we're both quiet, the same way we were during that first dance. I'm wetting napkins and dabbing at the blood that's still fresh across his skin. I can feel his dark eyes watching me and it's making my skin feel a size too small, itchy and hot even in the cool night air of an English spring. It's clear that we have feelings for one another, but between my own stupid hesitance and his field training, this is only the third time we've met. Somehow, it doesn't feel that way. All at once, I could swear we were just introduced and have been friends for half-a-dozen lifetimes.

"You clean a cut pretty good for someone who doesn't wanna be a nurse." He teases me. We've had this conversation a few times. He doesn't really understand my aversion to the war, particularly the Red Cross and I can't say I blame him. 'Aren't you pissed off?' He always asks, 'How can you let them take so much from you without even trying to fight?' That's the difference between me and Joe. I was brought up to run from a fight. He was brought up with the fight always running after him.

"What was that they were calling you?" It's my nature to change the topic of conversation if I start to feel uncomfortable. Joe picked up on it a while ago and usually laughs to himself when I do, before calling me out. This time however, he just shakes his head and looks over my shoulders toward the sheep and moonlit hills. I can see the outline of his jaw more prominently as it clenches together. When he's finally able to string words together, they're little more than a frustrated mumble.

"Just gettin' on me about bein' a Jew. Story of my fuckin' life…ahhh." Pulling away from my touch, he hisses a little as my wet napkin hits open wound. Sitting back on my calves, I toss it to the side, picking up a new one and starting to get it wet.

"They shouldn't say things like that." I mumble, though I'm not sure how much it really counts. I avoided Joe for three weeks after finding out about his heritage. I still don't speak out against my father when he spouts off about them. Even as the words are leaving my mouth, I can't even look Joe in the eyes. But his own anger keeps him blind to the fact.

"S'not as bad as it could be." His eyes are still on those hills. "Not as bad as what they're doing to guys like me in Germany."

"How do you know that?" It's a knee-jerk reaction from years of listening to my parents oppose Churchill and turn a blind eye to Hitler's tyranny. Anyone with ears and eyes knows the Nazis are making life hell for the Jews and guilt sets in the minute the words have escaped my mouth. But a lifetime brewing in the hatred of my own house can't be shed overnight. Looking up, I open my mouth to apologize but he looks so lost I lose all capability of speech. For a few moments we just sit there with each other and our own private wars.

When he speaks his voice is quiet, almost vulnerable in a way I've never thought possible. Joe's a lot of things, but vulnerable has never seemed like one of them. Until now.

"I have family there."

"Oh…" The pieces start to fall together and I struggle to keep my hands working steadily as though this doesn't change things. I'm not sure what to say, grappling around and spitting out the first thing that comes to mind. "Have you ever been?"

"I was born there." He tells me quietly. This time my hands stop their work and my thighs fall to rest back on my calves. Looking up at him, I blink a few times before reaching out for one of his own hands.

"God, I'm so sorry."

His eyebrows crease together, but I can tell he's just confused. I don't know how really, anyone else would be sure that I'd just pissed him off. Somehow I know better, somehow I'm sure.

"For what?" Even his voice sounds like vinegar. There's nothing inside of me that's afraid of him or entertaining the possibility that I've upset him. I'm not sure how that confidence manifested but it's there all the same and allows my hand to stay loyal to his.

"That you had to leave. No one should be forced out of their home that way."

"Germany is not my fuckin' home. It never was." Standing suddenly, his hand slips out of mine. From the sound of him you'd think that I just attempted a cruel joke. In his defense, it probably feels something like that. Grabbing the napkins, both bloody and clean, I stand and offer a few silent nods of my head. Reaching inside his pocket, he grapples around for a cigarette but finds only an empty cartridge. Not a surprising fact given that it's Saturday and the Americans get just seven packs per week. It might be enough if Joe didn't smoke more than a chimney and use them to gamble with. But as it stands…

"One second." Holding up a finger to indicate that I'll be right back, I dash into the kitchen again and beg Terry for whatever he can spare. Within less than a minute I return successfully, handing Joe two home-rolled fags accompanied by an air of vainglorious pride. He takes them, cheeky smirk in tow, mumbling his thanks as he resumes his seat on the back steps.

This time I invite myself to sit beside him. For a moment I just sit there, captivated by the way he flips his lighter open. By the way the spark ignites the black of his eyes. The way he tucks his Zippo back in its pocket while simultaneously letting out a puff of smoke. He's all grit and dirt, but there's a an elegance to this one little action. I'm not sure I'll ever tell him that, but I'll sure as hell never tell him to stop either. When I finally get something like clear, conscious thought back, I can't keep the curiosity from jumping off my tongue.

"How come you left?" I don't have to remind him of what I'm referring to. He's painfully aware. I can tell this is something he doesn't usually like to get chatty about. But when we're alone, it's surprising what we'll admit to one another. What we seem to want the other to know.

"My parents got scared. Ma mostly." He shrugs like it's nothing to get excited about. But I can see it in the way he's avoiding my eyes, the memories are weighted down with fear and guilt and the kind of chaos no one likes to get caught up in. The kind that swoops in like a whirling dervish and rips away every foundation you thought you could trust. "You know the really fucked up thing about it?"

I stay silent, giving him the space to say what he needs to and trying not to get too drawn in by the cynical chuckle that drips from his lips as he blows out another puff of smoke.

"I really didn't believe her. None of us did. We all thought she was fuckin' nuts…" Shaking his head, he takes another drag and looks down at his hands. Picks a bit of dirt from under a nail. "…It was her God damn brother we stopped hearin' from first."

Without really stopping to think about whether I should or shouldn't, I curl my hands around his arm, lay my head on his shoulder. Whisper a useless apology. But he seems grateful, reaching over to squeeze one of my hands hard enough to hurt just a little. We sit there for a long time, letting the words he's spoken and the night sky sink into us. I finally feel as though I understand why he asked someone to put a gun in his hands and teach him how to kill. I get why he's always on me about joining the effort. And I think once and for all, I've shed whatever ignorance my parents tried to pass on to me.

I remember then, I brought a few candles for the attic and begin to fish them out. It's been a long time since candles have been easy to find in Tillburg and I try to sneak as many out of the station as I can for both the Andersons and the Cohens. Tonight, Dinah's usual gratitude is accompanied by an idea.

"We could use them to say a prayer." She smiles, eyes brightening before I even light the wicks. "I know one for those recovering from an illness. And for the wandering lost."

Nodding, I take the last candle burning and use it to light the others as Dinah murmurs her thanks for her mother's slowly returning health.

"Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the Universe, Who bestows good things on the unworthy, and has bestowed on me every goodness. May he continue to bestow on us every goodness. Selah." Her eyes flutter closed for a moment and I can almost see her sending the words up to heaven. I can't help wondering how anyone could see evil in such strong faith, such pure grace. When her eyes open again, she looks to me and tilts her head curiously. "Your husband, what is his name?"

I don't have the heart to correct her, nor the strength to beat away my own bashful smile. It's not as though I've never entertained the idea of marrying Joe, but to hear it out loud like that, as if it's already a sure thing…that's the best Christmas present anyone could give me.

"Joseph." I tell her, still trying to reign in the exuberance splashed across my face. Letting his name play on my lips only makes it worse.

"Then this is for Joseph." She assures me, still gently rocking her younger brother. "May it be Your will, Lord, our God and the God of our ancestors, that You lead us toward peace, guide our footsteps toward peace, and make us reach our desired destination for life, gladness, and peace. May You rescue Joseph from the hand of every foe, ambush along the way, and from all manner of punishments that assemble to come to earth. May You send blessing in his handiwork, and grant him grace, kindness, and mercy in Your eyes and in the eyes of all who see him. May You hear the sound of our humble request because You are God Who hears prayer requests. Blessed are You, Adonai, Who hears prayer."

A deep breath fills my lungs as her words wrap around me and though I know he's still in danger, though my arms still cry out to wrap around him, I feel more peace than I have in months.