Christmas 1945
Germany, British Occupied Zone
"Here's where you're off, mate."
The German soldier exits the vehicle. Dragging a pair of crutches from the backseat, he gives a curt smile to the British truck driver.
"Thank you."
"Give my love to your mum!" He grins, one of his front teeth missing.
The German pats the door as the engine revs and bumps away down the road. He stands on one leg in a cloud of exhaust. The frigid air swirls with frost. Tucking the crutches under his arms, he makes his way into the village. Violet veins touched with silver race along the scant bare sky to the west, beckoning twilight above the spiny tree tops. In the faint light of the street lamps, he pauses by the village's town hall. The wall facing the street is covered in papers. Photos of men, woman; all missing. Dog-eared and crinkled, yellowing from months of sun, he searches them until one nearly strikes him to the ground.
Reaching out with gloves rife with holes, he peels his likeness from the cacophony of faces. It was the last picture of him taken before he had left for the front in '42. He was in his uniform with his expression unsure; eyes narrowed and mouth half downturned. He never was good at smiling in photos.
Leon Wagner folds it into his coat pocket and continues down the Main Street. Every store front, every town house, as familiar as a book from childhood. He could have been blinded and still made it home without any assistance. Some of the buildings are shells. The town isn't very big but still not exempt from the ravages of war. After all he has witnessed in his home country, he's numb with surprise to see that the village wasn't burned to the ground.
He stops hard. The front half of the building has caved in and its innards picked clean from looting. Part of word 'Bank' is etched into the stone that remains above the former front door.
"Hey you."
Leon pivots towards two British soldiers patrolling the town, their mouths glowing with cigarettes. The truck driver, whom he had rode with since Hamburg, had given him the first smoke he's had in months. He still tastes the smoke curling gloriously on the back of his tongue. Leon's eyes skitter to the ground.
"Papers?"
They are aloof and cool, nothing like the American GIs to the south. The truck driver's jovial nature had been a complete shock to Leon. He'd even told him his name; Charlie Dunham from Canning Town, London.
"Here." Leon grunts after situating his crutches to dig out the wrinkled pages.
One of them holds up a flashlight and studies them intently. He waves the light over Leon's face. He squints into the glare. Satisfied, the soldier hands them back to him without another word.
"Welcome home." He smirks before they both set out down the street.
Leon lets out his breath, scanning the sky overhead. The snow is letting up, but the cold is deadly. He's lived in the area long enough to know when a bad winter is shaping up. He continues through the near silent town, too scared to hope for what he will find at home.
Christmas 1945
USA, Pennsylvania
My mind has wandered. The tune of Jingle Bells draws me to the present as the newsreel rolls.
"All over the nation, bright and shining presents can be seen packed into shop windows for all the family. American youngsters are on their best behavior as they wait in line to sit on the knee of good ol' Saint Nick."
I blink at the black and white screen. A blonde boy in a peacoat presses his nose against a window, watching the line of children move closer to the department store Santa Claus. The scene cuts away to a narrated montage of toys popular this year. It's the usual fare; dolls, hobby horses, train sets.
"My nephew is itching for one of those." Ned Maguire, Joe's friend from high school, whispers as he pulls his arm around my shoulders.
Distracted by his touch, I only catch the words 'war relief' on the title card for the next segment. Involuntarily, I flinch farther away from Ned. He doesn't notice. A Priest surrounded by a group of children bearing canned goods speaks about the misery around our war torn world. His words don't make a dent to the teenagers in front of us who are throwing popcorn at each other.
"Pipe down, will yah!" Joe whispers harshly, drawing forward.
One swivels to say something in retaliation but bites his lip at my brother's deadly glare. The kids turn and eat their snacks in silence. I smirk and shake my head in Joe's direction. With a snarl still on his mouth, he winks at me before settling back in his seat and situating his arm around his date.
"…to strengthen the wasted and worn bodies of other children throughout the world who are suffering and starving. We hope to bestow goodwill through this charity to the suffering people, wherever they may dwell this Christmas season. During this week, every Catholic parish in the United States will be a receiving station for canned goods…"
I wonder if any cans from our family's parish, St. Mary's, will make it to Europe. Perhaps Germany, the northwestern corner where the British are in control. I have the address memorized, the place on the map circled in my old Atlas from high school.
The movie starts. I have been anticipating it all day, even if it means enduring a running commentary from Ned Macguire hot in my ear. It's a colorized musical; State Fair. It rings of everything for which our boys fought and died.
As the first musical number begins, I shift uncomfortably in my seat. A busy family of four in a quaint pastoral landscape prepare to attend the fair. The parents aren't worn beyond their years or grief stricken. The daughter is well-kept with silk stockings and a pouty red mouth. Her mother chides her for moping. The son is healthy, his eyes are alive and he has all his limbs. I file through my thoughts and try to think of a family that appears this whole. Perhaps that's why they make movies like these nowadays; so we can learn to pretend to be this happy again.
"Excuse me," I whisper, peeling Ned's arm off my shoulders, "I need to go to the Ladies room."
He props his elbow on the seat back, smacking his gum as he admires the actress, "Sure thing, honey."
I wince at the pet name. I have only been on three dates with him. I don't know why I am on this fourth one. Joe throws me a concerned glance that I brush away as I trudge up the aisle.
The main female lead sings her first song. She is restless with life, unsure of the next step. Sitting at her window, she stares longingly into the distance. I hesitate at the exit. Resting my hand on the door frame, I peek back at her bright, perfect face. The song strikes a nerve. It's only a movie, but I understand her intimately in that second.
"I keep wishing I were somewhere else, walking down a strange new street. Hearing words that I have never heard, from a man I've yet to meet."
I can see it in my mind's eye as though it's what is playing onscreen. A strange street, rubble ridden and chilled by years of war, with a man who is missing a leg below the knee. Haggard and care worn with the sharpest of blue eyes, he pivots towards me. The scene fades. I've envisioned it a thousand times.
For the remainder of the movie, I am too distracted to follow the storyline. It's a blur of vibrant color and cheerful show tunes, not a uniform in sight.
"Ruth. Ruth." Joe leans across the table and snaps his fingers in my face, "Ruthie, hello!"
I jolt, my gaze snapping up to him from my egg cream. I have been swirling the streaks of chocolate syrup into the soda with my red striped straw. Again, my thoughts have drifted far away from the drug store where Ned, Joe, his date Mary and I sit. Mary giggles lightly, resting a freckled cheek on the heel of her hand. I manage a grin.
"Where have you been? You've been dreamy all evening." Ned comments, picking up his hamburger with one hand.
He has his arm once again around the back of my seat. I wish he wouldn't act so possessively. We aren't even going steady. Though I know our mothers would be thrilled for that to take place. Two nice, Irish catholic kids always make plenty of babies for the eager grandparents.
"Spring fever, even though it isn't spring." I reply dryly, quoting the song from the movie.
The other two chuckle. I look across at Joe who is studying me with narrowed dark eyes. I shirk away from his gaze. He knows me too well. I don't feel like explaining myself tonight.
"So Ruthie," Mary chirps, using my nickname even though she has only just met me, "Joe tells me you were a nurse over in Europe. That must have been so exciting!"
"Exciting is certainly the word for it." I lift my eyebrows as I take a sip from my straw.
"Were you close to any action?"
"A couple times."
"Were you ever scared?"
The kind of fear in the heat of combat where there is a real danger of losing your own life; no. The kind that pierces you to the core because you will never forget the face of a teenager from Idaho bleeding out on a stained stretcher; yes. But I know I can't say this with Christmas carols playing on the radio and the druggist hanging holly along the window frames. So I shrug.
"Sometimes but I knew I was safe." I bite my lip.
"Did any of the boys you nursed ask you the marry them?" She grins.
I sense Ned's posture stiffen as he tears a bite from his burger. I shake my head.
"But you're such a pretty girl! None of the soldiers tried to romance you even once?"
I scoff and take a long drink of my soda. I shove away the image of him leaning against the canvas wall in the summer sun with his shirt buttons loose at the neck, studying me like he knew my soul at first glance. I swallow and fashion a smile.
"Thank you. We were awfully busy."
"Oh I should have thought it would have been terribly romantic." Mary twirls a strand of red hair around her pointer finger with a sigh, "I would've joined up but my Pa forbid it."
Mine did too but I did it anyway. I don't say this either.
Outside the drug store, Ned says he'll call me later that week. I nod and attempt a smile. He kisses me on the cheek after giving me a light hug. Tugging his toboggan over his jet black curls, he tucks his hands in his coat pockets and trots towards his father's Chevy. After we drop off Mary, I stay in the back seat. Biting my thumbnail, I count the Christmas trees visible from front windows as we drive through town. It snowed yesterday and it's beginning to look like the season.
"Ruthie, talk." Joe commands from the front, peering at me in the rear view mirror.
"Hmm?" I break away from my thoughts and meet his gaze.
"You have been loopy all night. Actually it's been going on a lot longer."
"You aren't a social butterfly either, why are you criticizing me?"
"I'm not criticizing," Joe sighs, turning the corner sharply in our family car, "I'm concerned."
His troubled tone pricks at my heart. I realize once again how much I had missed him. It's happened many times since I got home in October.
"You don't have to be, I'm fine."
"The hell you are." He growls, shaking his head.
"Oh? And you're Mr. Happy?"
"I'm doing pretty well actually," He chuckles, "Do you like Mary?"
"She's nice."
"You'd don't."
"Not really."
"Well, it's not like I'm going to marry the girl."
"Then why date her?"
"Why are you with Ned? You planning on getting hitched anytime soon? Should I mark my calendar for a June wedding?"
I shift in my seat, crossing my arms tightly across my chest, "It's been difficult to acclimate. I'm doing the best I can. Honest, Joe."
Joe pulls into our driveway. Mom has left the lights on in the front room. The prickly silhouette of our own tree is dark against the glass pane. He switches off the engine with a sigh.
"I know you are, Ruthie." He swivels around but keeps his eyes on the passenger side window, "You are doing a good job. I know Mom and Pop are proud of you. I am too."
"I'm proud of you too, Joe." I grin as he glances over with a shake of his head.
"C'mon, mom mentioned something about helping decorate around the house tonight."
He gets out of the car. I hand him his crutch from the back seat floor before he shuts the door. I remain immersed in the silence of the empty cab. Closing my eyes, I inhale deeply. I dare to conjure Leon Wagner's face from my memory once more. I am thankful for the copy of Faust and the letters he left behind. Without them, he'd be even more spectral. I have been sleeping awake since he left. Nothing seems real. And he is the most dreamlike of all. That is why I haven't been able to mail the book and letter to his mother yet. Without them, it would be as though he had never existed. The man haunts me and I don't even know if he's dead.
I step out of the car and try not to slip on the black ice slicking our front walk.