Waterbound Chapter 26: 1943 (Part 2), a titanic fanfic

July

The storm had finally relented as they approached the coast of Sicily but Tommy's sea sickness did not let up. He sat in the boat, feeling dizzy and nauseous, certain that he was going to be little more than useless. The sun had not yet risen and all he wanted to do was lie down and go to sleep. It seemed as though everyone else had managed to doze on the ship but the tossing and turning wouldn't let him. Instead, he laid awake, listening to their naval bombardment. It had lasted a good hour and he hoped there would be no one left alive once they landed.

As his boots sank into the damp sand, an immediate burr of machine gun fire shattered his hopes that they would be entirely unopposed. The man in front of him fell without a sound. Tommy tripped as he stepped over the body.

He ducked down behind a foredune. "Fuck," he muttered to himself. He closed his eyes and tried to take a deep breath, trying to keep from being sick. But his stomach recoiled at the acrid stench of gunpowder, the metallic tang of blood, and, beneath it all, rotting vegetation. He listened to the echoing booms of artillery as he pushed himself to keep moving. It would have been all too easy to hide until it was over.

He looked over the sandy ridge. The sun was just beginning to rise and he could see men moving about in the gray light of pre-dawn. One man stood in a rifle pit, firing toward the beach at the men rushing forward. Tommy raised his rifle to his shoulder, looked down the sight, remembered the weeks spent in rifle practice, and pulled the trigger. The first shot missed its mark, the bullet kicking up sand at the edge of the rifle pit. A second shot went wide. The third brought the man down.

Tommy climbed over the foredune. His foot slipped in the shifting sand and he fell, his hand catching on a barb from the wire stretched across the beach. Ignoring the sting, he wiped his hand on his pants as he scrambled to his feet.

John found himself on one of the last boats to land. The Italians had surrendered before his boots touched sand. Everything had gone smoothly despite the men lost, the men injured. Large equipment was already coming ashore: tanks and jeeps and the strange amphibious trucks known as DUKWS. Some men still worked to clear the barbed wire that had been strung through the sand. As he walked across the beach, his rifle slung over his shoulder, he kept his eyes out for Tommy.

John heard a man calling for volunteers to help bring supplies ashore. Not wishing to be one of them, he quickly joined a group of men heading into Licata.

The town had surrendered shortly after the beach had fallen. Seeing the amount of damage done by their navy, John wasn't surprised. He walked quickly past tangled wreckage that only vaguely resembled a train, stepping carefully among the rubble strewn across the ground. He had never been in a town like it before and he couldn't help but stare up at the tall buildings looming over the narrow street. People filled the balconies. None looked angry or afraid. One small child, looking down, suddenly smiled and waved. Without thinking, John gave a small wave in return.

He reached what looked like a town square. Other soldiers loitered about, the ones who hadn't yet been 'volunteered' for work. He spotted Tommy at once. His cousin sat on stone steps leading up to one of the buildings, his head resting on one hand. He looked asleep.

John saw the blood on Tommy's pants and frowned. "Tommy?" He called softly, taking a seat beside him.

Tommy jolted awake and made a face. "It's you."

"It is me," John replied. "You alright?"

"Fine." He held up his bandaged hand. "Cut my hand on a bit of barbed wire. That's all. You?"

John shrugged. "Everything was over by the time I got there. I was on the last boat."

"Lucky you."

"I'm sure I'll get my chance."

"You think we'll get to stay here for a while?"

"Doubt it."

Tommy yawned. "God, I'm tired."

"Should've slept on the ship like the rest of us."

"How?"

"I forgot about your seasickness."

"Yeah." Tommy returned his head to his hand and closed his eyes.

John felt a light touch on his arm. He turned his head to see a small child staring at him. "What do you want?"

The child just quietly stared.

"Oh, right. You probably speak Italian." He tried to think of any Italian he knew. "Cosa…uh…you cosa che?"

The child laughed.

"Okay, but was I close at all?"

A truck pulled up in front of them and the child scurried away. "You two," a man commanded from on top. "Go down to the port and help them unload."

"Yes, sir." John shook Tommy awake.

Tommy groaned. "What'd you want?"

"Work to do."

"I hate the Army."

"Me too."

There was no passenger travel running across the Atlantic–at least none that Cal could find. But there were plenty of troopships, battleships, destroyers, and submarines. He ended up buying a place on a troopship going there and return passage for all of Fabri's family with $25,000 in war bonds. It was an absurd amount of money–even for someone like him–and he thought he might've been able to get away with less but as he didn't know the sort of trouble Lelia might've been in, he didn't want to waste time negotiating.

The trip over was nerve-wracking. He may not have needed to worry about icebergs but there were plenty of U-boats hidden beneath the surface. He had heard multiple stories of ships being sunk before they even realized they were in danger and no one could forget the poor Lusitania. He landed in England then took a train to Geneva. It was unsettling to be surrounded by so many soldiers. It was more unsettling to pass through an occupied country. He felt at any moment war might break out around him.

Cal wasn't a stranger to Europe. He had spent time in all of the important cities when he was young: London, Paris, Naples. But he had never been to Geneva before. The city, without the massive crowds of people, the barricades and checkpoints at the entrances, the multitude of different languages being spoken, would look like any other old European city but the sheer amount of busyness gave it a chaotic energy that he found overwhelming. The thought that he would easily find Lelia seemed absurd under such circumstances and he had to fight the urge to stand in the middle of the street and yell out her name.

He decided to start with the telegraph office. He stepped inside and waited until the clerk had finished helping someone. "Excuse me," Cal stepped up to the desk. "Do you possibly remember a woman with auburn hair?" He realized, at once, how ridiculous his question sounded. "She may have had several children with her."

The clerk blinked at him. "A lot of people send telegrams. Many are women. Some have children."

Cal reached into his pocketbook and pulled out $20. "I don't have francs, I'm afraid," he said, sliding the bill forward. "Her name is Lelia de Rossi."

"Maybe you check with Camp des Charmilles," the clerk suggested, pocketing the money. "I heard they process all Jews through there."

"She's not Jewish."

The clerk shrugged. "Then check with the Red Cross. Now, are you sending a telegram?"

"I probably should." Cal knew that Kate would be worried every moment that he was gone. He took a blank form and wrote: 'ARRIVED SAFELY IN GENEVA LOVE YOU CAL.' He added Kate's address at the top, then handed the form along with another twenty to the clerk. "Where's the Red Cross located?"

"Go six or seven blocks to the left. It may be eight. Turn right then another two blocks or it might be three. I never counted. But it's second left after that. Be there in forty minutes."

Cal stared at him.

"Have a good day." The clerk turned his back.

With the clerk's directions, it took him only three hours to find the Red Cross headquarters. It was another half hour to find someone who looked as though they worked there.

"I'm looking for a woman named Lelia de Rossi," he asked the man. "She may have had children with her. She would've come from Italy maybe a month or two ago."

The man shrugged. "If they let her stay, she's likely in one of the reception camps or the refugee internment camps. We don't keep people here."

Cal sighed. "And where might I find these reception and internment camps?"

"All throughout Switzerland. There's maybe a hundred of them by this point."

He quietly swore.

"There are some people housed in a nearby school," the man offered. "You might start there."

"I have to start somewhere," Cal replied. "Thank you."

The school was easier to find than the Red Cross. It was packed full of people. He felt hopeful at the sight of quite a few families.

"Excuse me." He stopped a woman carrying a basket. "Lelia de Rossi?"

The woman shook her head. "Ich spreche kein Englisch."

Cal continued walking through the building, peering into rooms. Spotting a woman wearing a uniform, he stopped her. "Lelia de Rossi?"

"Don't know anyone by that name but there's a lot of people here," the woman replied. "If she was here, she may not be anymore. We're always trying to move everyone to one of the camps. It's more comfortable there for them."

"Of course." Cal was growing more frustrated by the moment. If he had more time, he could spend weeks searching through all of Switzerland. As he had promised Kate a week, he was quickly losing hope.

One more room, and then another. He kept walking through the school, peering into faces, looking for Lelia. He even scrutinized every child he passed, searching for any hints of Fabrizio or Lelia in their faces.

The final room used to be a classroom. His eyes were drawn to a chalkboard that still remained on the wall. The lower half of it was filled with doodles. Beneath a barely recognizable drawing of a person was scrawled 'Beatrice.' Cal stared at it. Hadn't Fabri had a daughter named Beatrice? His heart pounding, he scanned the people in the room. A woman sat in one corner. Her head was down as she read the book in her lap, her hair obscuring her face. Was the woman's hair auburn or was it a trick of the light?

After a moment, as though feeling his gaze, she lifted her head. Her eyes found his own and recognition crossed her face. "Cal?" She breathed out his name, disbelief and uncertainty behind it.

"Lelia?"

She began to cry.

Cal sat beside her and put an arm around her shoulder, holding onto her as she sobbed. "It's alright," he said quietly. "Everything's alright." He could feel every bone in her shoulder through the thin fabric of her dress and he wondered when she had last eaten. "Where's your children?" He wanted to ask about Fabri but seeing the exhaustion on her face, the shadows beneath her eyes, the grief, he couldn't bring himself to do it.

Lelia wiped her eyes. "They're around here somewhere."

He pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her. "Go find them and gather your belongings. I have a few rooms booked at a hotel." He glanced down and saw that the book on her lap was a bible but she hadn't been reading it. A photo from her wedding day sat on the pages. "I've also arranged passage home for the end of the week but I'm going to see if I can move it earlier." Kate would be pleased to know he found her so quickly.

She nodded, speechless.

The next morning, they ate breakfast in the hotel restaurant. The children sat at a table of their own on the far side of the room, leaving Cal and Lelia free to talk without them overhearing. Neither of them had, so far, mentioned Fabrizio but Cal knew something terrible must've happened. His friend wouldn't have abandoned his family.

Not wishing to put off a difficult conversation any longer than necessary, he made up his mind to get it out of the way. "Where's Fabri?"

Lelia stiffened. "They arrested him," she replied simply, not looking up from her plate.

"The Germans?"

She shook her head. "Mussolini's blackshirts."

Cal knew the name Mussolini but didn't know what else she was referring to. "Why?"

"Why not?" She drew the tines of her fork across her plate. "He didn't do anything wrong but that doesn't matter, does it? If you're in the wrong place at the wrong time or you send the wrong telegram…" She sighed. "He should never have sent you that telegram."

"The only telegram I've ever received from either of you was the one you sent from Geneva."

"I see." She set her fork down and pushed the plate away from her. "Well, it doesn't matter. They've arrested him and they'll never release him."

"Where is he being held?"

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"You want to know where he's being held so you can bribe someone to get him released."

"If I can–"

"Cal," she cut him off. "The men who took him aren't businessmen or politicians. You'll only get yourself arrested or worse if you try. Fabri is gone. He might even…" Her voice faltered. "He might even be dead."

"I'm sorry."

A burst of laughter came from the children's table. Cal was amazed at how quickly children could bounce back from trying situations. From the bits and pieces Lelia told him, he would've expected a group of frightened, timid children. Instead, they laughed and joked together, exclaiming over every aspect of the hotel and ordering the most expensive items on the menu for breakfast.

Lelia watched the children for a moment. The ghost of a smile flickered momentarily on her face. But then she sighed and the smile was gone. "I told him I wanted a divorce."

Judging by the tone of their letters over the years, Cal had known that Lelia wasn't happy for some time but he hadn't realized just how badly their relationship had deteriorated. "What did he say?"

"He said that he still loved me."

"I'm sure he does."

"Did."

"Does," Cal corrected. "Wherever he is, he still loves you. He's not dead."

Lelia reached across the table for his hand. "You know I can't thank you enough for this."

He gently squeezed her hand. "Fabri would've done the same for my family."

She smiled softly. "I know he would have."

They were only in Licata for a single night. Before dawn the next morning, they were pushed out, marching at a rapid pace. John thought someone higher up must've made a bet to see how quickly they could reach the other side of the island. It was far from being an easy stroll; there was just enough Italian and German resistance to keep them constantly on edge.

As they neared the tiny town of Favarotta, John found himself volunteered to scout ahead, accompanied by Don and a man called Bert. They veered off the road, climbing up the steep, stony hill to approach the town from the side. John, staying low with his rifle held tightly in his hands, moved carefully to the edge of a small outcropping. Favarotta teemed with soldiers. A small tank sat in the middle of the road leading in. John sighed. He hated tanks.

"Oh, would you look at that," Don said dryly. "Italian troops in an Italian city in Italy."

"Sicily," John replied. "And some of them look German."

"Close enough."

"At least it's only one tank."

"Two." Bert pointed.

Sure enough, John could just make out the muzzle of a second tank peeking out from behind a building. "Alright, let's go."

Just as they were starting back, there was a sudden burr of machine gun fire. Bert was struck in the head, crumpling without a sound.

"Fuck." John threw himself to the ground, scrambling for cover behind a large rock.

"Bert!" Don moved toward Bert's fallen form but John pulled him back.

"Don't. He's dead."

"Shit."

"Where'd you think it's coming from?" John asked. The machine gun had stopped firing the moment they hid behind the rock but he knew better than to think it was over.

"Somewhere above us, I'd say."

John carefully peered over the edge of the rock. Immediately, the firing started up again and he ducked back down.

"Now what?" Don's face was pale beneath freckles of Bert's blood.

"I don't…I don't know." John looked over at Bert's body. A portion of his skull was missing. He wondered if the man had felt anything when it had happened. Had he realized he was dying in the split second of his death? John looked down at his own hands. They, like Don's face, were also covered in blood. He tried to wipe it off on his pants.

"John," Don's voice was urgent. "What do we do?"

John took a deep breath. His first instinct was to wait for help to arrive. But would help even arrive? The company might assume they were lost and decide to go another way into Favarotta. Or if they did come looking for them, what was to stop anyone else from walking into the machine gun fire? He glanced up the hill. If only one of them could get behind the nest.

"Alright," John said at last. "I need you to cover me."

"What?"

"Just do it."

"You're insane."

"You want to end up like Bert? Do what I said."

Don sighed. He lifted his rifle into position, looked at John, then gave a resigned nod.

John waited until he heard the first shot ring out before he ran out from behind the rock. He hugged the uneven terrain, his heart pounding in his chest, as he circled around the hill, climbing higher with each step. He wasn't entirely certain where the machine gun nest was but he hoped he would come out behind it rather than in front. At every moment, he expected to be seen and at every moment, he sent up a silent prayer of thanks that he hadn't been.

Finally, he could see three men crouched behind a makeshift wall of sandbags, ducking down behind them against Don's rifle fire, waiting for a moment to begin firing back themselves.

John raised his rifle and pulled the trigger. The first man slumped forward. With a shout, the other two jumped up. They swung the machine gun toward him and began firing. Bullets whizzed past him, kicking up dirt and debris as they narrowly missed their mark. There was a sharp pain in his shoulder but John charged forward as he kept firing, taking the other two down. The hill went silent and he was finally able to breathe again. He looked at his arm and saw that a bullet had merely grazed him.

John half slid down the hill to rejoin Don.

"You're insane," Don said the moment he saw him. "How the fuck are you still alive?"

"I don't think they saw me leave from behind the rock." John looked at Bert's body and frowned. "We should bring him back with us."

"Yes, sir."

John slung his rifle over his shoulder as he moved to give Don a hand. The adrenaline had begun to wear off and the realization of just how dangerous his move was came over him. His mother would've killed him if she knew what he had done. Dottie as well. No, the thought came to him suddenly. Dottie would've been proud. Dottie would've done the same. He smiled.

"What's that smile for?"

"Just thinking of my wife."

JUST ARRIVED IN NEW YORK WILL CATCH 1900 TRAIN TOMORROW BE HOME THURSDAY AFTERNOON LOVE YOU CAL

Kate arrived an hour early in the slim hope that the train would also arrive an hour early. It ended up being fifteen minutes late and that hour and fifteen minutes of waiting felt like an eternity. But Cal was in the country and aside from the random chance of a train derailment, he was safe.

At last, the train arrived and she ran forward, pushing through the people trying to exit. She spotted him as he stepped down from the train, talking to the woman behind him. Without a word, Kate embraced him so hard, she nearly knocked him over.

"You act like you missed me or something," Cal said with a laugh.

"Stop it. Ye know I missed ye." She was nearly overwhelmed with relief. She had been so afraid she might lose him, that he may never come home. "Is this…are ye Lelia?" She had never seen the woman before and hadn't known what to expect. But what she saw was a tired, frightened looking woman clutching a bag tightly to her chest, surrounded by children. Where are we going to put them all?

"I am." She spoke softly. There was a quaver to her voice; she sounded close to tears.

"Alright." Kate tried to smile reassuringly. "How about we go home? I've been saving coupons all month so we'll be havin' a nice roast tonight and strawberry shortcake for dessert…assumin' Evy hasn't already eaten all the strawberries," she said as they walked to the car. "She wanted to come, ye know–she missed ye so much–but I didn't think there'd be room for her in the car"

"I can't remember the last time I've had a strawberry," Lelia said.

"They don't have strawberries in Italy?"

"They have plenty in Italy," Lelia replied tersely.

They reached the car and climbed inside. The four children took the back seat and Kate found herself squeezed between Cal and Lelia in the front.

"Did ye have a nice trip over?" Kate asked.

"It was fine," Lelia replied. "Crowded."

"I'm not sure how ye managed it. I think I'd be too afraid to be settin' foot on a ship."

"It was better than the alternative."

Silence fell over the car as Cal pulled out onto the road.

Kate looked at the woman sitting beside her, the bag still clutched tightly in her arms, and tried to think of something else to say. "I don't think I've seen Fabri in maybe twenty years."

Lelia flinched at his name.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…he was a good man."

"He's not dead."

"Oh. Is he comin' later–"

"Kate," Cal quietly cut her off.

"I'm sorry." Kate wished Cal could've filled her in beforehand as she knew she was missing something important. Fabri wasn't with them for a reason and that reason wasn't a good one. "We only have one spare bedroom at the moment," she said, trying to change the subject. "But I thought maybe yer son could go in Henry's room–Henry won't mind. Bridget and Evy are currently sharin' a room but I'm sure we could move another bed in there. Of course, that still leaves yerself and two of yer children, but there's also the sofa and—"

"I prefer we all keep together," Lelia interrupted. "None of us will mind."

Another uncomfortable silence fell over them. Lelia might have preferred being in a small room with four children but Kate was certain that her children might feel differently, particularly the older ones. But she knew better than to argue.

"Kate." Cal broke the silence. "Have you heard anything from Tommy lately?"

"We received a letter just a few days ago," Kate replied, grateful for the new topic. "He said he was fine in it four different times so I think he just might be doin' fine." She wanted to believe he was doing fine, but the more 'fines' he wrote in a single letter, the more she worried that he wasn't.

"I'm sure he's fine," Lelia said quietly.

"He is," Cal agreed.

The car pulled up in front of the house and Kate breathed a sigh of relief.

Tommy hated Sicily. He hated everything about it. He hated the dusty, rocky hills. He hated the cacti and scrubbly looking trees. He hated the way the sun beat down relentlessly without a single cloud offering respite. He hated the way that it wasn't just hot, it was damp, muggy, sticky. It was difficult to breathe. They walked for hours, always looking for the enemy, always expecting a fight. When their eyes weren't glued to the hills–a man had gotten picked off by a sniper earlier–they were glued to the ground, looking for patches of softer dirt that might conceal a landmine.

They stopped for a short break. Tommy found a solid-looking piece of rock and lowered himself onto it. He brought his sleeve across his face. Why did it have to be so hot? There were the beginnings of a headache building behind his eyes. If only there was a bit of a breeze. He picked up his canteen and shook it. It was empty.

"John," he called over to his cousin. "You have any water left?"

"A bit." John handed him his canteen. "You can take it. I heard there's water up ahead."

"Doesn't mean we'll get to drink any of it." The last water spot had been encircled by landmines. Tommy tipped back the canteen. The water was warm and did little to quench his thirst.

"You know, at least we're finally doing something," John said, sitting beside him.

Tommy handed the canteen back. "You mean, at least you're doing something," he said. "I heard about that machine gun nest. Everyone's talking about it."

John shrugged. "It's not that big of a deal," he said. "Someone had to do it or we'd still be stuck out there."

"Maybe, but Don didn't do it. You did." Tommy wondered if he would've been able to do the same if he were in his cousin's place. He didn't think he could.

"Could you not mention it when you write home next?"

Tommy grinned. "I thought it wasn't a big deal."

"It's not but I don't want anyone worrying."

"John, they're going to worry regardless. Might as well brag a bit. Fine," he said, seeing the look on his cousin's face. "I won't mention you charging straight at a machine gun or getting shot in the shoulder."

"I didn't go straight at it. I sort of went around it," John insisted. "And I didn't get shot in the shoulder. It barely broke the skin."

"Everyone up!" The command came suddenly.

Tommy inwardly groaned. He could've sworn their breaks were getting shorter. "You think they'd let me go home if my feet fall off?" He asked, returning to his feet.

"You could always step on a landmine and find out."

"I think I'd rather keep walking." He had seen what happened when someone stepped on a mine. Nothing was worth going through something like that.

August

Lelia hated feeling like a burden. Cal assured her time and time again that her family wasn't and that they could stay as long as they wished and he might've believed it. But he wasn't the one cooking for ten people or doing their laundry or cleaning up after them. Kate was the one shouldering the burden and no matter how much Lelia tried to help, it did little to ease her guilt. She learned almost at once that Kate had strong opinions and a very specific way of doing things and she always felt in the way.

Her children seemed to be adjusting better. They were still too quiet–she missed the sound of their laughter–and Beatrice refused to leave her side. But her older children seemed to have bonded with Kate's children, with Bridget, especially, taking them under her wing.

They sat outside in the hot summer sun. The older children were away watching a movie–the first movie in years for her own children–while Evy, Alice, and Beatrice played with the hose. Lelia glanced at Kate who sat beside her. She was busy letting down the hem of a dress while simultaneously keeping an eye on the children. Lelia hadn't seen her stop working for a single moment since she arrived.

She looked down at her own hands and wished she had something to do.

"It's really a lovely day," Kate said, not looking up from her work.

"It is," Lelia agreed. "Is that yer granddaughter?" The toddler had gotten hold of the hose and was currently chasing after the others.

"She is. I watch her a couple times a week while her mother's takin' shorthand classes." There was an unmistakable note of pride in Kate's voice.

"She's beautiful," Lelia said. "Her father is…?"

Kate smiled. "Tommy, me oldest. He's away in the Army right now."

"I'm sorry."

"What's it like over there?"

The question caught Lelia off guard and it took her a moment to gather her thoughts. "It's…" She thought of the deserters who gave her family shelter and food, the exhaustion on their faces, Piero and how badly he wanted to go home to his children. She thought of the tiny school in Geneva, the people crowded into it, all of whom had lost everything. She shook her head. "It's sad," she said at last. "I don't know how else to describe it.

"I hate thinkin' of me son over there. He writes as much as he can and tells me he's fine but it's hard not knowin' if he's tellin' the truth, ye know?"

"At least you know he's alive."

Kate lightly touched her arm. "Fabri's alive, I'm sure of it."

Lelia wasn't sure if she believed her. She wanted so desperately for her husband to still be alive but the rational part of her brain knew how unlikely it was. Why should he survive when so many others won't? God, she hoped he would survive. "I'm going to find him," she said quietly. "After the war's over with. I know that sounds impossible and I don't know how I'm going to do it, but I will."

"I hope you do."

Beatrice let out a happy shriek as Alice sprayed her with the hose and Lelia smiled. Her children were safe. Her children could be children again. That was all that really mattered.

"I'm sorry me home isn't bigger," Kate said.

"It's larger than any home I've ever lived in in my entire life." Lelia thought of the tiny two room tenement in New York and sighed. She would've happily gone back to living in it if only she had her entire family back. If only she had Fabri back.

Pat couldn't forget the look on Sarah's face when they talked about John's photo. He knew how desperately she wished she had one. He also knew that if he were to bring it up again, she would assure him that it didn't matter. It was in the past and it was best that she moved on. Which was precisely why he knew he was going to find her a photo even if he wasn't certain just how to go about it. But he did know someone who could make things happen.

Pat found Cal sitting outside his house, reading Alice a book. He waited until they were finished before approaching.

"Kate's inside," Cal said.

"Yer the one I'm actually lookin' for." Pat took a seat on the porch.

"Go bring this inside." Cal handed Alice the book, giving her a gentle nudge to the door.

"Okay." She ran inside the house.

"What were ye readin?"

"Velveteen Rabbit. It used to be Arthur's favorite when he was Alice's age."

Pat smiled. He missed the days of reading to Eileen when she was a toddler. "How does it feel to be a grandpa?"

"Strange and impossible to believe," Cal replied. "I don't feel old enough to be anyone's grandpa. What did you need me for?"

"Right, that. Do ye think ye could help me find some of John's family?"

"You mean, besides yourself?"

"Not that John," Pat clarified. "Sarah's first husband."

Cal was surprised. "You know that I hardly knew the man, right? We only spoke twice."

"Aye, but ye helped Sarah when they tried to take her house."

"I hardly stayed in touch with any of them."

"But ye could find them again," Pat insisted. "Yer good at findin' people. I mean, ye found Fabri's wife when all ye knew was the country she was in."

Cal sighed. "I got lucky when it came to Lelia and I'd hardly call myself good. I haven't found a single thing about Fabri."

"Ye've been tryin'?"

"Of course, I've been trying. But I've had no luck from here."

"Yer not thinkin' of goin' back over there?" Pat could only imagine what Kate would say if Cal left again.

"God, no. Don't even ask that. Kate would divorce me on the spot if she heard us talking about it."

"Do ye think he's alive?"

Cal hesitated before answering. "This stays between us but…no. I've heard some things and even if he was still alive at this precise moment, I can't see how he'll survive until the war is over."

"What sort of things have ye…wait, no. I don't think I want to know. Not with John and Tommy over there in the middle of it all." He always tried his hardest not to think about what might've been happening wherever they were. It was too frightening. Too painful. It was better to think of them somewhere safe and pleasant.

"So, John's family?" Cal changed the subject. "Why're you looking for them?"

"I want to find a photo of him for Sarah."

"You want to give your wife a photo of her first husband?"

"She doesn't have one and she's been worried about forgettin' him."

The door opened and Alice poked her head out. "Gramma says come in."

"Did she now?"

The toddler nodded. "Yeah."

"I'll be right there," Cal said. He looked at Pat. "I'll see what I can do but it's been thirty years. His family might not even be alive anymore. And even if they are, I wouldn't expect them to be too cooperative."

Alice made an impatient noise.

"I still have to try," Pat replied.

"I know."

They were entangled in a lemon grove and John didn't know why. It seemed like a terrible place to him. There was a steep embankment in front of them that led down to the beach. It had already bellied up two of their tanks. Behind them was a highway with a steep, rocky hill just beyond it. Germans were on either side, peppering them with small arms and machine guns, the thunderous roar of tank shells. They were pinned down, trapped, confused, waiting for an order to come. Hoping it would come before nightfall—the sun was already low in the sky.

John knew their ammunition was low. Twice men were sent down the embankment to retrieve more from one of the DUKWs just off shore but the men never returned. He dug into the grove while he waited. There was little use in firing his rifle until he knew for certain that he would hit someone.

Planes swooped low overhead and there was half-hearted cheering. But the relief was short lived as the bombs dropped onto their own artillery.

"Shit," John muttered. He could feel the heat from the burning wreckage. He heard the cries from the men who had been working them. Please let me get out of here alive, he silently prayed.

"Up the hill, now," the command came suddenly, forcefully.

John waited for the men nearest him to move first. He then turned to follow, climbing out of the shallow hole he had been waiting in. The lemon grove was a labyrinth of twisted branches and deep shadows. It felt larger than it had seemed when they first entered. He ducked his head as a grenade landed somewhere nearby but he didn't slow down.

At last, he broke out of the grove and onto the highway. The man beside him was struck twice and fell to the ground. The one in front of him crumpled as well. John stepped over his body—pushing aside his instincts to help the men on the ground. He knew he would've been shot as well.

He scrambled up the hill, grasping at shoots of grass and sharp rocks as he pulled himself up. More men dropped around him but he pushed forward. He couldn't stop. He couldn't slow. His breath came in ragged gasps as he reached the crest of the hill. He threw himself onto the ground, his chest heaving. It all felt so pointless.

Tommy found himself trapped near the blazing inferno of their artillery. He heard the order to move up the hill, to consolidate before they were overrun. Night was swiftly falling and with the towering pillars of flame and the choking haze of smoke, every lemon tree looked the same. Every lemon tree became a potential hiding place for lurking enemies. He pushed down the panic as he ran toward the hill. Grenades flashed like lightning in the darkness. The cries and groans of the wounded were everywhere. Shouts in English and in German seemed to surround him. The grove felt unending. He should've been out of it by now. Tommy stopped suddenly, the fear that he was running the wrong way overcame him. Where was the road?

"What are you doing?" A man gave him a shove. "Move."

"Which way—" Tommy started to ask but there was a sudden spray of blood and the man fell to the ground.

He tried to push down the panic once again and picked a direction. He ran forward, stumbling over the debris-strewn ground, tripping over roots, and rocks, and bodies. And, suddenly, pavement under his feet.

The relief was infinitesimal, if that. Tommy stared at a German soldier in front of him, at the rifle pointed at his chest. Time slowed to a crawl as he dropped his own rifle and held up his hands. His heart thundered in his ears, drowning out the sound of the battle around him. "Please…" He didn't want to die.

John looked around the hill. Quite a few men were already there. He could hear machine gun fire and grenade blasts coming from the grove as men still fought their way free. He spotted Don crouched low in a shallow hole dug behind a rocky wall and joined him.

"I heard the 7th's on their way," Don said at once. "Might be here by morning."

John nodded. "You seen Tommy?"

"There's a lot I haven't seen."

John pulled his helmet lower over his eyes. It was too dark to see anything happening down below even with the constant grenade flashes and it was too dark to see who else might be with them on the hill. Everyone was scattered and dug into the side, staying low and just hoping to survive. It was useless to worry until morning and the sun was up. Assuming they were still alive by then. Assuming the 7th arrived. "You have any ammo?"

"Not much," Don replied. "You?"

"Same." John let out a heavy sigh.

Don peered over the rocky wall, then shook his head. "If the 7th don't get here soon, at least we won't be suffering for long."

"That's one way to look at it."

Sarah had just set a kettle of water on the stove to boil when Kate suddenly let herself in through the back door.

"I just needed to get out of me house for a moment," Kate said. "If ye don't mind."

"I never do." Sarah took two cups from the cupboard. "Is everything alright?" It wasn't unusual for her sister-in-law to let herself into the house but it was unusual for her to rush inside as though she was being chased.

"Everything's fine. I just need a bit of quiet. There's ten of us in the house now, if yer countin' me. It's too many."

"I remember when there was eight in this house," Sarah replied. "That was hardly manageable. I can't imagine ten." With Hugh and the Depression and Pat being out of work…the year that Kate and her children lived with them was an unpleasant one that she preferred to forget.

"Ten's worse. Ten's uncomfortable. Every time I turn around, there's another child underfoot. And they're not me children. Now, don't get me wrong. They're good children but I'm always watchin' meself around them. I'm afraid I'll overstep if I ask them to pick up after themselves or set the table or anything of that sort," Kate said. "And if that's not enough for worryin,' their mother's always watchin' me watchin' meself. I've never seen anyone so fiercely protective of their children. It makes me feel like a terrible mother by comparison. I'm sure she never would've let Hugh…" She shook her head.

Sarah poured the tea into the cups. "That's absurd. You did the best you could in a terrible situation."

"Maybe." Kate took one of the cups. "I can't even talk to Cal about any of this because he's always talkin' to her."

Sarah recognized the note of jealousy in her friend's voice. "What's she like?"

"Lelia? She's younger than me and taller too."

"Most people are taller than you."

Kate shot her a look. "She's very brave and strong-willed and the fact that she managed to walk across all of Italy with four children at her side is one of the most impressive feats of humankind. Or so ye'd think by the way Cal talks about her."

"Maybe they could all stay here for a time?" Sarah suggested. "We have more room and you could have your house back."

Kate shook her head. "I'm sure Cal wouldn't allow it. I had already brought up puttin' them in a hotel but he put his foot down. Besides, that'd only be pushin' the burden off on ye and Pat." She sighed. "God, I shouldn't be callin' them a burden. I liked Fabri a great deal and I know he was Cal's good friend. I should be pleased to take care of his family and I'm a terrible person for gripin' about it. There's just too many of them."

"Why don't you stay here for a few nights then? A break might do you some good."

"But then that'd leave them…I mean, I couldn't put all of that on Cal. Ye know he can't use the stove without settin' something on fire."

"You do trust Cal, right?"

"Of course, I trust him," Kate replied defensively.

"Then why are you worrying?" Sarah reached across the table and gently squeezed her hand. "Cal loves you and I'm sure Lelia loves Fabri, wherever he is."

"I'm sure yer right." Kate traced a finger along the rim of her cup. "Did I ever tell ye how he managed to get over there on one of those troop ships?"

"I had assumed he bought his way on."

"He did. Through a $25,000 war bond."

"Jesus. You could buy a house for that." Cal had been a part of their family for so many years that it was easy to forget the sort of world he originally came from, the world where there was so much money that it had lost all sense of value and no one thought twice about spending it.

"Ye could buy five houses for that. I did the math. Well, I did the math once he finally decided to tell me about it," Kate huffed. "Of course, I'm sure none of them will be payin' us back any time…I shouldn't complain. They've gone through something terrible. I can't even begin to imagine what that was like and then losin' Fabri on top of it all…" She shook her head.

"So he is dead, then?"

"I don't know. He was arrested and that's the last anyone knows," Kate said. "I know Cal's been tryin' to find out more but the fate of one Italian prisoner is apparently low priority for the United States War Department." She finished the last of her tea. "I should go. I need to get dinner goin'. It takes a while to cook for ten, ye know."

"How are you doing it?" Sarah could hardly cook for four. Cooking for ten seemed impossible.

"Soups and oatmeal." Kate stood up. "Lots of soups and oatmeal."

After she had gone, Sarah stared at the cup in her hands. She thought of Pat and the way it had felt when he talked about another .It had been years since her name had last been brought up and, despite knowing there was never anything between them, she still couldn't think of the woman without a pang of jealousy.

The 7th had arrived at daybreak and while there was no need for a heroic desperate last stand, the Germans had slipped through them. Without a moment to rest, they followed after them, chasing them toward Messina. Chasing them and losing them. The Germans evacuated off the island as they marched into the town. John didn't care. It was over. Sicily was theirs. They could finally rest.

The first thing he did was take advantage of an outdoor shower, fighting over the one water spigot with a half dozen other men. It did very little as it was still over 100 degrees and the sun still beat down relentlessly.

Just as much as John tried not to think about the blisters on his feet, his aching shoulder, he also tried not to think about Tommy. He tried not to speculate or worry. He tried not to think about the telegram his aunt would be receiving. Missing. His body hadn't been found on the hill or in the lemon grove. It was possible that it had been overlooked—they hardly had time to search thoroughly—or maybe there was nothing left at all. Direct artillery strikes usually didn't leave much behind. He recalled the screams of the men who had been working the artillery when the planes had mistakenly targeted them instead of the enemy and shuddered.

John looked out over the harbor. He could see the low hills of Italy in the distance. He knew that was where they were headed next. He scooped up a loose rock and hurled it out over the water. He was supposed to keep an eye on him. He was supposed to keep him out of trouble. He should've stayed near him. He should've made certain that he made it up the hill. It wasn't right. It wasn't fair.

September

August 4, 1943

Dear June

I'm sorry I haven't written for awhile as we've been pretty busy. It feels like the war's finally begun with how busy they've been keeping us. My first day here, I received my first and, hopefully, only injury. I tripped on a bit of barbed wire within ten minutes of stepping onto the beach. But you don't need to worry. It was only a tiny cut on my hand. John thinks it might qualify me for a Purple Heart because we were fighting at the time. I don't think I want it to. It'd feel silly to be awarded for a scratch.

John's already got himself a Purple Heart and a well-earned one. He doesn't want anyone to know because he doesn't want anyone to worry so be sure to keep this to yourself. That crazy man ran straight into a machine gun nest and took it out single handedly. Anyone else would've died at once but all he received was a graze on his shoulder.

Anyway, you don't need to worry about me because I have no intention of doing anything so foolish. I prefer to avoid machine gun nests and anything else that might hurt me…including barbed wire from this point forward. All I'll be doing is keeping my head down, doing what I'm told, and trying my best to get home safe and sound.

I'm glad to hear that you've started taking shorthand classes again. I remember how much you used to enjoy them when you took them before. Could you tell Alice a bit about me from time to time? I'm afraid she might not know me at all when I finally get to come home. But only tell her the good things.

I think we're moving again so I need to end this letter. I hope you're doing well. With how quickly we're moving through [CENSORED], I'm sure I'll be home soon.

Your husband,

Tommy

Eileen hadn't known what to expect when it came to college. She had read the pamphlets, she had heard the stories, but seeing it firsthand with her own eyes and being there among the buildings was a completely different experience. Every time the bus wound its way down the wooded lane to reach the campus, she was awed. It was easy to forget that she was still in Spokane. It was all too beautiful. Beautiful and overwhelming. Overwhelming but exciting.

She met Richard for lunch on the first day of classes in a tiny diner that was filled with other students. She was relieved to see a familiar face but even more relieved to see that he had managed to reserve a table for them.

"Eileen!" He said the moment she slid into the booth across from him. "I ordered you a chicken salad on rye, if that's alright."

"It's fine," Eileen replied. Every time they've gotten lunch together, she had ordered the same sandwich—a chicken salad on rye—and she was inwardly thrilled that he had remembered.

"How are you surviving?"

"Fine so far," she replied. "I only got lost once."

"The day's only half done."

"How many times did you get lost?"

"None." He grinned. "But I've been here a week already. The perks of living on campus."

"Maybe I'll move into a dormitory next year." Eileen thought a dormitory did sound like fun but it was so expensive to live on campus and she hated the thought of her family struggling with money because of her. And, even if it wasn't for the money, the idea of living away from home frightened her more than she cared to admit.

"We could have dinner together if you did that."

"We can have dinner together right now. You know how to find me."

"I do," Richard agreed. He waited as the waitress set their food down. "You know," he said, picking up his sandwich—he had also ordered a chicken salad. "My economics class already gave us a quiz."

"Really? We've done nothing but go over the syllabi in all of mine." Eileen took a bite of her sandwich. "I wish one of them gave us a quiz."

"No, you don't."

"Well, maybe not a quiz but I'm paying for a day of doing nothing but reading the rules. I could've done that at home. I would've rather learned something."

"You're strange."

Eileen suddenly felt self-conscious. Ever since Richard had started talking to her, she had tried her hardest to not come off as strange or weird or unusual. She focused on the sandwich on her plate and wished she had never said anything.

"I didn't mean that in a bad way," Richard quickly said. "I like that you like learning. It's one of my favorite parts of you."

"I do like learning."

"Have you decided what club you're going to join?"

She sighed. "No." The one part of college she didn't like was the requirement to join at least one club or organization. "I wish I didn't have to join any. What are you going to do?"

"I think I might give tennis a try," he said. "And if you join tennis too, we could practice together."

"I think I'd be terrible at tennis. I don't think I've even seen a game."

"Match."

"Match?"

"They're matches not games."

"Oh."

Richard laughed. "There's also a hiking club that sounded interesting."

Eileen smiled. "I think I could hike."

"Then hiking it is."

It was only after she had agreed and the conversation had moved on to another topic that she remembered her family's disastrous camping trip. She hoped that whatever hiking she might have to do, it wouldn't be nearly as bad.

They started in Georgia and then were sent to New Jersey. From New Jersey to Florida. Arthur was tired of being moved around, tired of the interminable train rides, tired of having to adjust to a new location. He wondered if he would spend the entire war jumping from state to state, never leaving the country, never doing anything but train.

Florida was, at least, interesting and he wouldn't have minded staying there for a time. He was mesmerized by the unbelievably tall swaying palm trees and charmed by the tiny lizards that darted into the shadows whenever anyone approached. The heat might've been unpleasant and the humidity hardly bearable, but it wasn't the worst place to be.

At least the training was different. Taking advantage of the tropical setting and swampy interior, everything they did was related to water. They crossed streams and waded through swamps. They jumped off platforms and swam under fire. Arthur couldn't remember the last time he had been fully dry. Rumors swept through the group that they were training for the Pacific. Why else would they be in Florida? Why else would they be somewhere so tropical and wet? Arthur tried not to think about it. Like everyone else, he had heard horror stories from the Pacific—months of unceasing rain, an enemy that refused to surrender, death marches and fevers. He wanted nothing to do with it.

As much as he liked Florida, he hated the swamp. He hated trudging through chest deep water, warm and murky—concealing who knows what beneath the surface—his rifle held above his head. He hated the thick mud that threatened to pull him down with each step. He hated how with every step, he had to pause and wiggle his foot free before taking the next one.

The man in front of him suddenly vanished. He surfaced a moment later, sputtering and coughing. "Fucking mud," he muttered.

Arthur swatted at a mosquito as he carefully pushed on. Half of the company had been submerged at one point or another. He refused to join them.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something large slip into the water from a fallen tree. He twisted his head around to see better.

"Move." The man behind him gave him a shove.

"Did you see it?"

"See what? Go."

With one last look toward the tree, Arthur started moving again, carefully and cautiously. He looked down at the murky water and wondered what might be lurking beneath the surface.

"It was an alligator," another man said. "I saw it."

Arthur turned to see a young man staring at him behind a pair of thick glasses. The man had joined the company when they were in New Jersey but he still didn't know his name. "It was not."

"It was so. The Everglades are full of them," the man insisted. "Crocodiles too."

Bernie. The man's name was Bernie. "Do they eat people?" Arthur realized it was a ridiculous question but the thought of trudging through a swamp filled with alligators seemed just as ridiculous and, perhaps, a bit foolish.

"Only if they're hungry."

The rest of the march was nerve-wracking. With every step, Arthur expected to feel razor sharp teeth grab hold of his leg and pull him beneath the surface. Every stick and branch that brushed against his leg became the reptile's scaly hide. He was so focused on scanning the surface of the water that he forgot to pay attention to where he was stepping and he ended up submerged twice. He finally reached dry(ish) land and breathed a sigh of relief.

Arthur looked around for the young man from earlier and found him trying to dry his glasses. "Bernie," he said, coming up to him. "There aren't really alligators out here, are there?"

The young man blinked up at him. "Yeah, there are. And my name's Ernie."

"How would you even know anyway?"

"I'm from Florida," Ernie replied. He returned his glasses to his face. "I see them all the time."

"Oh. Is your name really Ernie?" He could've sworn it was Bernie.

"I told you my name before. I've said hi to you like thirty times."

"I see…sorry." Whether the young man had spoken to him so many times before or not, Arthur couldn't tell. He never gave the other men in his company all that much thought as he was more content to keep his misery to himself.

"It's alright," Ernie shrugged. "I know you've been homesick."

"I have not."

"I'm homesick too. Or was homesick. Who knew we'd be coming to Florida? My parents live about an hour from here."

"That must be nice," Arthur said without much conviction. As much as he would like to be closer to home, he could only assume that being so close would only make the training that much more difficult.

"It is nice. I'm going home this weekend. My mother makes the best pot roast you've ever tasted."

"That sounds nice."

"You want to come? She always makes too much and she's always telling me to bring someone along."

"I'm busy," Arthur quickly replied.

"Doing what?"

"Lots of stuff."

"What sort of stuff?" Ernie's eyes narrowed.

"I'm…" Arthur scrambled to think of something. "Writing a letter."

"To who?"

"My father and mother…and my brother." He wanted to say June as she was the only one he was writing letters to but the thought of saying it aloud made it feel wrong.

"You can write it at my parents' house. My father has a fountain pen that will change your life."

"I don't think–"

"You can mail it there too. Might even get to your parents faster because my father can take it straight to the post–"

"I don't want to go to your parents' house," Arthur snapped. "Leave me alone." He knew he spoke too harshly and that it was entirely unwarranted. Ernie was only being friendly, if a bit pushy.

"I'll pay you to come to dinner with me," the young man said suddenly.

"What?"

Ernie looked around as though making sure he wouldn't be overheard. "I told my mother that I've been making lots of friends. And she keeps insisting I bring one over for dinner," he spoke in a low voice.

"Well, we're not friends. I thought your name was Bernie until just a moment ago. Why don't you go ask one of youractualfriends."

"I…would…I mean…it's just…" Ernie stammered a response, his face growing red. "Alright, fine. I get it."

Arthur immediately felt guilty. "Fine. I'll go," he said. "Probably won't be able to get a pass though."

Ernie's face brightened. "I'm sure you'll manage. Remind me to show you my books once we're there. I have a great one on alligators and crocodiles and caimans–that's another type–and you can see the difference between them yourself."

"Great." Arthur was already regretting it.

"I have a sister too if you're look–"

Arthur walked away before the young man could finish speaking and before he could be forced into agreeing to anything besides the one dinner.

It felt unreal, impossible even. A constant, unending nightmare since that night in the lemon grove. Tommy had been so certain of his death, even closing his eyes and hoping no one would be sad for too long. Hoping it wouldn't hurt too badly. But then the soldier had merely pushed him along, the muzzle of his rifle pointed at his back. He was searched thoroughly. He was interrogated by a man with a heavy German accent, a man he could hardly understand. In his panic, he briefly forgot his serial number. Perhaps thinking he was being difficult on purpose, the man hit him. After that came a ferry, a train, and then a short walk to the camp.

Tommy had expected barbed wire and tiny prison cells, crowded with emaciated prisoners. But what he found were rows of low wooden buildings surrounded by a solid stone wall. If it weren't for the evenly spaced sentry huts, he would've thought he was back in training once again. Training if he were suddenly training with a group of men he had never seen before, overseen by German-speaking guards.

He took his two assigned blankets to his assigned hut. He stood in the doorway for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. The building was large and filled with bunk beds, stacked three high. Tommy walked through the room slowly, clutching the blankets tightly, looking at the men who were already there. Several dozed and a few played a game of cards. All who were awake turned to look at him as he passed by.

He stopped at a row of beds halfway through the room. A man read a book on the bottom but the top two looked empty.

"Middle one's taken," the man said without looking up. "Top one's free though."

"Okay." Tommy climbed up to the bed with his blankets still in his arms. He sat there, unsure what he was supposed to do next. How could he possibly be a prisoner? He tried not to think of home. He tried not to think of his mother. He tried not to think of John whom he hoped was nearby. Or, perhaps he wasn't. He wasn't sure how long the train ride was. He could've been in Germany for all he knew. He fell back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. A colony of bats clung upside down from the beam directly above him.

"You just missed chow," the man below him remarked suddenly.

"Oh." Tommy's stomach chose that moment to grumble. "How long until the next one?"

"Tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?" He sat up abruptly.

"We get one meal a day here."

Tommy ran a hand over his face. He didn't realize how hungry he was until that moment.

"When's the last time you've eaten?" The man asked.

"Um." Tommy tried to think back. The last proper meal was before the battle in the lemon grove. A kind German had given him a handful of stale crackers during the interrogation and another one gave him a slice of bread just before the ferry. "Two or three days, maybe? I had a few crackers and a slice of bread a day ago."

"You must be starving then. Here." The man tossed up a small box of raisins. "You can have them. I don't like raisins."

Tommy studied the box. "Where'd you get this?"

"Red Cross. We get a parcel every two weeks. It's supposed to be every week but that doesn't happen often."

"When was the last one?"

"Three days ago."

"Oh." He looked at the raisins in his hand and frowned.

"You'll be alright," the man said. "I know it seems impossible when you first get here but it'll get easier."

Tommy didn't want it to get easier. He wanted to go home.

"It's a shame you didn't get here a week ago," the man continued.

"Why's that?"

"The Armistice."

"I don't know what that is."

"Italy surrendered," the man explained. "This camp used to be run by Italians but then they scampered off and half the camp escaped."

"You clearly didn't." The words came out sharply and Tommy immediately regretted his tone. The man had been nothing but kind.

"I did but I escaped right into a group of German paratroopers. They marched me right back." The man stood up and stretched.

"Where're you going?"

"Outside to get a bit of sun. You should come. I'll show you around."

"I rather not."

"Suit yourself." The man looked at him curiously. "What's your name?"

"Tommy."

"I'm Daniel."

"You are not."

"I could show you my birth certificate. Well, I could have my wife mail me my birth certificate and then I could show you it."

Tommy turned away from him. It was all too much. He didn't understand how the man could be so calm, so accepting of their circumstances.

"I'll show you around later then," Daniel said.

After the man had gone, Tommy sighed. He opened the box of raisins and popped one into his mouth. He had never cared much about raisins before but he had never tasted anything so good. He thought about the man who had given them to him. Daniel. If Tommy had believed in fate, he would've thought more about the man sharing his father's name. But he didn't believe in fate. He believed in bad luck which he had plenty of. He ate another raisin. Hearing Daniel's name only made him think of his mother which made him more homesick than he ever thought possible.

Lelia managed to enroll her children in school. She had been afraid that they would've missed too many days and would've been too far behind. But the fears were unfounded as they were accepted without a question. She suspected Cal may have had some influence but didn't ask. She had already accepted enough charity from him. She couldn't bear to know about any more. None of her children were happy to be going back to school and she worried they would be bullied for being Italian but they needed an education. They needed their lives to return to normal. They needed stability. She needed normal.

While her children seemed to be adapting fairly well, she was having a more difficult time. For so many years she had dreamed of going home again, returning to her country, but now that she was there, she found herself missing Italy. She missed having a home. She missed having things of her own.

Since she arrived, she had been borrowing clothes from Kate and Sarah. None of the dresses fit well. Kate was shorter than her while Sarah was taller. Wanting something, just a single dress of her own, Lelia took the last of her saved money and walked to a store. But, once there, no one would help her. It took her too long to realize it was because she didn't have a ration book. She looked around at the other shoppers, their books with the colorful stamps held in their hands and felt foolish.

Lelia walked home slowly, wearing her borrowed dress, feeling entirely alone. Except it wasn't her home that she was walking to. She didn't have a home. She hardly had a family anymore. She managed to reach the house just as the tears started. She had tried to blink them back, tried to be strong, but there were too many. By the time she reached the sofa, she was sobbing into her hands.

She felt the sofa shift beside her and looked up to see Cal. He put an arm around her and held onto her as she cried.

Finally, the tears lessened. "I can't do it," she admitted.

"Of course, you can. You managed to walk your entire family out of Italy in the middle of a war," Cal said. "I think you can handle Spokane."

Lelia shook her head. "Your wife doesn't like me."

"Kate's under a great deal of stress and she can be a bit short at times. But I assure you, she likes you."

She scoffed.

"She does," Cal insisted. "And when the war's finally over and Fabri comes looking for you—"

"If Fabri's alive, you mean."

"I'm sure he's alive."

Lelia couldn't bring herself to speak. Cal sounded so sure that she nearly believed him but how could her husband still be alive? It had been months.

"Fabri survived the Titanic sinking," Cal continued. "Wasn't he in the water for the majority of the time?"

"I don't know." Fabri had told her the whole story but she couldn't remember if he was in the water or not.

"He was. And I think he can manage whatever the war might throw at him. He's the luckiest man I've ever known."

That she didn't believe. Nothing that had happened to them in the last few years had felt even the tiniest bit lucky. Maybe Fabri had been lucky at one time but that luck had run out long ago. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve…her borrowed sleeve. "I think I should find someplace else to live."

"Don't be absurd. There's plenty of room here."

"I'm sure your wife would disagree."

"Would you like me to speak with her?"

Lelia shook her head. "No, it's fine. I think I might try to find a job though. Save up for my own place. We can't stay here forever. And…" She took a deep breath and forced herself to believe the words coming out of her mouth. "When Fabri comes back, he'll have a home to come back to."

September 18, 1943

Dear everyone,

Florida is the strangest state I've ever been in. It's damp and humid and hot and every afternoon, a thunderstorm rolls through. None of that slows down any of our training which has mostly consisted of wading through swamps, swimming through swamps, jumping off platforms into swamps. I don't know why they want us to learn how to maneuver in swamps so badly but at least we know we won't be getting sent to a desert.

I saw an alligator the other day. It may have been a crocodile. I can't tell the difference but my friend Ernie tells me that the difference is as clear as day. Whatever it is, it looks harmless from a difference. It was sunning itself on a fallen tree. And then, so quickly it was a blur, it snatched a bird that happened to skim over the water nearby and dove into the swamp. Ernie swears they won't willingly eat a human but I've been trying to keep my distance (the best I can) nonetheless.

Lucky Ernie only lives an hour from Camp. He's forced me into eating dinner with his parents twice now. By the way his parents reacted when meeting me, I don't think he's ever had many friends. His mother insisted on taking my photo and his father gave me his fountain pen. Ernie's a bit of a strange guy. He talks a great deal and can tell you the latin name of every animal you see which he will tell you within five minutes of meeting you. But he's not a bad guy and it's nice to have someone to talk to from time to time. I don't think I mind being his friend.

Arthur paused before writing the next bit. He knew he needed to apologize for his behavior, apologize for ignoring their letters–all except for June's–but finding the right words was difficult.

I'm sorry I haven't written sooner. I've been busy. I mean, I never knew what to say. There's no allidiles or crocigators in Georgia to write about and the less said about New Jersey, the better. But I'm writing now.

Respectfully,

Arthur Hockley

Ps. I'm enclosing a drawing of the alligator in question. I'll try to send a crocodile in the next letter so you can compare the two.

THE SECRETARY OF WAR DESIRES ME TO EXPRESS HIS DEEP REGRET THAT YOUR SON PFC THOMAS BRANDT HAS BEEN REPORTED MISSING IN ACTION SINCE AUGUST 17 IN ITALY IF FURTHER DETAILS OR OTHER INFORMATION ARE RECEIVED YOU WILL BE PROMPTLY NOTIFIED

Kate stared at the words on the telegram. "What does that mean?" She saw the words, knew what it said, but couldn't wrap her head around their ?

"It doesn't mean anything yet," Cal said.

"Me son is missin'. How do ye miss a whole person? What sort of Army loses people just like that." It infuriated her that Cal was being so calm while it took everything she had to keep her voice level.

"Men get separated from their companies all the time."

"How would ye know?" Kate spoke sharply. "Ye've never been over there."

He took the telegram from her hands. "Let's look at all of the possibilities," he said calmly. "He was separated from his company and, in a few days, we'll receive another telegram or a letter saying he made it safely back. Or, maybe he was wounded and, in a few days, we'll receive a telegram saying which hospital he's in."

"Or he's dead and his body is lyin' in some mass grave," Kate supplied the third possibility.

"He could be captured," Lelia offered. "Maybe he's being held prisoner. He could be with Fabri."

Kate immediately pictured him being held in a dark, airless cell and she couldn't breathe. "No, no, no, no."

"It's better than being dead," Lelia continued.

"Would ye just go away? This doesn't concern ye," Kate snapped at her.

"Kate." Cal wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly. "There's no use in worrying until we know more, alright?"

She could feel his heart beating, a steady, reassuring rhythm. "But—"

"I'll go down to the Red Cross and see if I can learn anything more. And maybe you should go talk to Sarah. John might've sent a letter with more information." He kissed her forehead. "It'll be alright."

"If I could help in any way…" Lelia began.

"Ye can't," Kate cut her off.

She didn't see how it could possibly be alright. People just didn't go missing. Something terrible must've happened. But she went to Sarah's nevertheless on the slimmest hope that she might've received good news from John.

But that hope was short-lived.

"John hasn't sent a letter but we haven't had one in a while," Sarah said. "We're due for one any day."

"Assumin' yer son hasn't gone missin,' ye mean."

"I'm sure Tommy's fine," Sarah tried to reassure her. "It's like Cal said, he likely got lost and is making his way back as we speak."

As Kate hurried home, she wondered if Sarah would say the same thing if John were to go missing. It was much easier to be optimistic and calm when it wasn't your own son in trouble.

Cal had no news either. "They said we'll get the news when there's news to be had," he said. "And then they tried to sell me more war bonds."

"I hope ye said no. We're already financin' half of this war."

"I told them I've already done my part."

"And then some," Kate shot back. "So what are we supposed to be doin' now? They can't expect us to just go about our lives like nothin's happened."

"I'm sure we'll hear something soon," Cal said. "You know, the telegram was dated August 17. That's over a month ago."

"So he could've been dead for a month yer sayin'."

"He's not dead. And he's likely been back with his company for weeks now."

Kate wanted to believe it. She needed to believe it.

October

October 2, 1943

Dear Dottie,

I think I would've been a great deal happier if I had been allowed to skip high school altogether and go straight into college. I finally feel as though I'm among my own people. Don't get me wrong, there are still cliques and catty groups but there are so many more people, the unpleasant ones are easier to avoid.

There are several sororities on campus which are social groups that get together and do all sorts of fun things–I assume. I was on the verge of joining one but then I realized I'd have to dress up in a ridiculous costume and be laughed at to join. I just couldn't do it. I couldn't intentionally and willingly humiliate myself in that way. Richard said it was all in good fun and he did it to join a fraternity–the all boy version of a sorority–but I just couldn't. I am a bit ashamed to admit that I did laugh when I saw him all dressed up like a woman but you would've too. He borrowed my red dress for it…and my lipstick. I told him he could borrow it again for Halloween but he said he wasn't willing to go that far. I'm not going to lie, I wish I had a photo so I could look at it whenever I need cheering up.

Anyway, a group of close friends did sound nice but I suppose I don't need them. I've done fine by myself so far in life and I suppose I'm not even all by myself at all anymore. I have Richard and I have you even if you are far away. Are you still sorting mail? I hope they promote you to something better soon.

Have you heard about Tommy? I suppose John must've filled you in. It's terrible. I do hope he's alright. I bet he is. In my opinion, Tommy's always gone through life with one foot in complete disaster and the other in remarkably good luck. Everyone knows he always manages just fine in the end.

Write back soon. You know how much I love receiving mail.

Your sister,

Eileen

Ps. I don't mean I have Richard. Richard and I are friends and we have lunch together every Tuesday and Thursday between classes and occasionally we'll study together. And see the occasional movie but that's only when there's something really good playing. I don't have him. I do like him though. He really is great.

There were several tunnels in various stages of progress. Tommy learned of them almost at once. Nearly every hut situated near the wall had at least one hidden behind a row of bunk beds. The moment he learned of them, they were all he could think about. There was a way out. He could escape. He could go home. The war could be over for him. No more being hungry. No more being afraid. Freedom. He was so tired of never being able to sleep. He was tired of the bats, he was tired of the bugs that crawled into his blankets. He was tired of always waiting for a guard to drag him out of bed for a surprise inspection. He wanted to go home. He wanted to go through a tunnel.

He said as much to Daniel one day after a sleepless night interrupted by no less than three surprise inspections.

"You sure you want to?" Daniel asked.

"Other men have done it."

"And other men have been shot doing it."

"I want to go home."

"I know. But even if you get through the tunnel, you still have to walk through all of Italy without getting caught."

"But men have done it."

Daniel looked at him, sympathy in his eyes. "Alright. If you really want to do it, don't rush to escape. Wait until the guards are distracted—a thunderstorm might work. Move fast and stay off the roads. Don't let your guard down for a single moment. That's how I ran into the paratroopers. I wasn't paying attention."

"I can do that."

"You'll be tired and hungry the whole way."

"I'm tired and hungry now."

Daniel sighed. "I'm not your father and you hardly need my permission."

"No, I don't." At the same time, Tommy did want him to say it was a good idea. He wanted his approval.

"Just be careful."

His opportunity came one evening, a week later. He had been waiting, listening carefully to a distant rumble of thunder, hoping it would come their direction, when a fight broke out on the other side of camp. Several guards ran to break it up and he seized his chance.

Tommy rushed to the tunnel. Two other men were already there. Together, they pushed the heavy beds aside, revealing the narrow hand-dug tunnel.

"You first," one of the men said, clapping him on the back.

"Fine." Tommy threw himself into the tunnel and started to crawl. It was longer than he thought it would be. Unending, dark, suffocating. He had never realized how claustrophobic he was until that moment. How long did he have? If it started raining, would he drown? More than once he imagined the walls caving in, burying him alive. He picked up the pace, desperate for fresh air.

Finally, he reached the end and took a deep breath. He looked around and was dismayed to see how close he was to the wall. He was more dismayed to see a sentry hut nearly straight above him.

"Move," a voice urged from behind, jolting him back to reality.

Tommy had forgotten about the other men. He quickly climbed the rest of the way out of the tunnel, staying low to the ground, his heart pounding. He expected at any moment to be seen.

"Shit, it feels good to be out," the man behind him exclaimed loudly.

"Shut up," Tommy hissed to him but it was too late. A shout from the sentry hut shattered the silence. Without waiting for the others, he took off running. He could hear the other man following close behind.

Gunfire rang out, the bullets striking the dirt at his feet, driving him forward. He reached a small hill and half slid-half fell down it, stumbling into a shallow creek below. Ignoring the chill of the water, he followed it until he could no longer hear gunfire.

Breathless and alone, Tommy stopped running. He didn't know what had happened to the other man. The realization of what he did suddenly came over him. "Oh, shit," he muttered. "Oh, God. What did I do?Fuck." There was a rumble of thunder overhead and it began to rain.

Tommy pushed down the panic that threatened to overwhelm him. He had made his decision and there was no going back. He slowly climbed up the embankment and started walking. He hoped he was going the right direction.

September 8, 1943

Dear Mom, Dad, and Eileen

I don't have much time to write as they keep pushing us forward but I felt I needed to send a short note. I am doing fine. No illnesses, no injuries. No reason to worry about me at all.

The mountains are beautiful but they'd be more beautiful if we didn't have to cross through them. It also has not stopped raining in days and there's mud everywhere. Our road would be easier if the Germans would leave us a bridge or two but they burn each one as they cross over. Our engineers keep having to rebuild them. Which means we march like crazy and then it's two days of waiting around before we march like crazy once again. We're pushing through [CENSORED] so rapidly, I can't imagine the war lasting much longer. How could it possibly?

I have to mention Tommy. I'm sure you know by now about him. You may even know more than I do. But what I do know is that just because he's missing, it's not necessarily a reason to worry. He's most likely a POW which means he's out of the war. He's probably safer than me at the moment. And if he is a POW, Aunt Kate should have confirmation soon. The Red Cross is great at reaching out to families–or so I've been told. There's no need to worry. There's rules in place to protect prisoners. So long as Tommy keeps his head down, he'll be fine. But please let me know when any of you hear anything more about him or from him, himself. I know there's no reason to worry and I know he's fine and I'm not worrying because there's no reason to worry but I'd still like to know when you hear more.

Looks like the bridge is finished so I need to end this. The engineers built this one in six hours. They're the real heroes of this war. I'll write again just as soon as I can.

Love to everyone,

John

The sun came up and Tommy was still free. He could hardly believe it. Sometime in the night he had found a small dirt road; he followed along it, hoping it was going in the right direction. Daniel had told him to avoid roads but the road was much easier than traipsing through steep hills. So far he hadn't run into any trouble. He hadn't run into anyone at all aside from an old man walking beside a donkey pulling a cart. Tommy felt a momentary flutter of panic but the old man only smiled at him.

Every so often, his thoughts turned to his company. He wished he knew how to find them again. Were they still in Sicily? Should he walk toward Sicily? He wished he knew precisely where he was. He stopped in the middle of the road as he considered his next move. He could walk north and try to reach Switzerland or, perhaps, it would be better to go south and hope that his company was in that direction. He was terrified of making the wrong choice. He wished he had paid more direction in his Geography class.

As he was pondering, he spied an overladen persimmon tree situated on the side of the road and his stomach gave a lurch. All directions were momentarily forgotten as he plucked an orange fruit from its branches. He took a bite and the war, itself, faded into the background and all he could think about was its honey-like flavor and the way the flesh seemed to melt in his mouth. All at once he decided he had a new favorite fruit and wondered if persimmon trees would grow in Spokane. He wanted to plant a dozen of them. A hundred.

The sound of German voices broke him out of his reverie, snapping him back to reality with a jolt. He looked around but saw no hiding spots. The voices grew louder, closer. Tommy pulled himself up into the persimmon tree. It wasn't a tall tree but it was fairly leafy. He hoped it was enough to hide him until the men had passed by.

But they didn't pass by. The two soldiers stopped under the tree, each plucking a persimmon, and sat beneath it. They chatted amiably in German for a time as they enjoyed their snack. Finally, one pulled his hat down low over his eyes, leaned against the trunk, and dozed off. The other started chucking fallen persimmons at the road.

Tommy held his breath, afraid to move, afraid to make a sound. He shifted carefully on the branches, trying to get more comfortable. With a small thud, a persimmon fell from the tree. It struck the sleeping soldier on his head. The man lifted up his hat, looked up. His eyes fell on Tommy. He let out a shout and jumped to his feet. He pointed his rifle at the tree.

Tommy didn't know what to do. He froze on the branches, hoping against hope that they hadn't actually noticed him. But it was a foolish hope. Both soldiers pointed their weapons at him. Both shouted at him. He wished he spoke German.

"Alright, I'm going," Tommy said. "Don't shoot." He started to climb down but they shouted again. One fired into the branches, twigs and persimmons flying everywhere. Tommy instinctively put his hands up, immediately falling out of the tree and landing hard on the ground.

One of the soldiers kicked him in the ribs. The other forced him to his feet.

They marched him back to camp with his hands on his head, feeling sick and sore and afraid of what was to come. He expected an execution but, instead, was sent into close confinement, a tiny cell all to his own. No one to speak to. No daylight. Just him and his thoughts and his regrets.

Finally, after a week, he was free. Free from confinement but not free from the camp.

Daniel found him at once. "You made it longer than me," he said, tossing him a box of raisins. "So that's something to be proud of."

"I made it less than a day."

"Maybe, but I only made it three hours."

"Oh." Tommy ate a handful of raisins. It was disappointing to have failed so badly but he was more relieved to still be alive than anything else. He thought of the man who had escaped through the tunnel after him and nearly asked about him but thought better of it. It was easier to not know.

John Sr's sister had died two years earlier and his brother had moved back to England almost a decade before. But Cal had managed to track down a nephew who still lived in Spokane. He wrote the address down and gave it to Pat but told him not to expect much. Pat hadn't been around for the legal troubles surrounding Sarah and John's family but he had heard enough to know the sort of reception his request might receive. But he still needed to try.

He went to the address listed and knocked on the door. He shifted nervously as he waited for a response. Was he making a mistake? Cal told him he was being foolish.

The door opened suddenly, revealing a young man. "Can I help you?"

"Are ye Robert Clarke?"

"I am."

"John Clarke's nephew?"

The man's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Why are you asking? Who are you?"

"I'm sorry. I'm Patrick Murphy," Pat introduced himself. "I'm lookin' for family of John Clarke."

"That'd be me but I never really knew him," Robert said. "I only met him once when I was a child."

"Oh."

"How'd you know him?"

"I didn't know him at all but me wife was briefly married to him."

"Oh. The woman who orchestrated his death and stole everything he owned."

Pat felt a wave of anger run through him. "None of that is remotely true."

Robert shrugged. "I've always assumed the first part wasn't. Unless she single handedly steered the ship into an iceberg."

"John had written a will."

"Yes, the last minute handwritten will."

"It was found to be perfectly legal." Pat was starting to think the trip was a mistake.

"Is this what you want to talk about? Because I have no interest in arguing over any of this. Like I said before, I hardly knew him."

"No, I was…" Pat hesitated. He was there and there was no use in going back. "I was actually hopin' ye might have a photo of him that I could buy off of ye."

"You want a photo of Uncle John?" The suspicion was back.

"Aye."

"You want a photo of your wife's former husband."

"That's what I said."

Robert stared at him and, after a moment, sighed. "Come inside."

Pat followed the young man into the living room. The room was tidy and neatly decorated but there were no signs of a wife or children. The only photo he saw was a framed print of an older man and a small boy. He assumed it must've been Robert as a child and his father—John's brother. "I know how it sounds," Pat said, taking a seat on the sofa. "But me wife loved him a great deal and she's been worried that she's goin' to forget him."

"Most husbands would be happy if their wives forgot their first husbands."

"I suppose I'm not most husbands then," Pat said. "I'd prefer me wife to be happy no matter what that means and I can hardly feel threatened. The man's been dead for thirty years now, rest his soul. Are ye married?"

"No."

"Then ye can't understand." Pat looked him straight in the eyes. "If ye have any photos of John, ye owe her one."

"Me?"

"Yer family treated her terribly. She was here alone and grievin' and frightened and yer family did worse than turn their backs on her. She had just lost the love of her life and yer family tried to strip everything she had left from her."

"I didn't have anything to do with that."

"No, but it's still yer family that done it."

Robert looked uncomfortable. "My father never agreed with any of that. It was my aunt who didn't like her." He sighed. "When she died, she left us a box of photos and documents. Maybe there's something in there." The young man left the room and returned a moment later with a box in his hands. He set it down and began rifling through it. "I'm not seeing…oh, wait. I think this is him." He pulled out a photo and handed it to Pat.

The photo was of John standing on the porch to their house, smiling proudly. A set of windchimes hung over his shoulder. Pat could see John Jr. in his father's face. Sarah had been right. He looked just like him. He flipped the photo over and saw it was inscribed in pencil with, 'John at his new house, September 1911.' Less than a year before he married Sarah. Less than a year before the Titanic. Less than a year before he died. "How much do ye want for it?"

"You can have it," Robert said.

Pat looked at him in surprise. "Are ye sure?"

"I never really knew him. She should have it."

"Thank ye."

Robert hesitated. "Tell her I'm sorry for everything. She did deserve better."

"I will," Pat replied. "I know it'll mean a great deal to her." The photo, the apology, none of them could take back what she had gone through but it was a step forward, a step toward healing. At least, Pat hoped it was. He hoped he wasn't about to bring back painful memories that were best left alone.

Getting invited to a Halloween Party was nothing short of a dream come true. Eileen had never been invited to a party before. The fact that it was a much older college student hosting the party made it even better. Richard was, at first, hesitant to attend, worried that they would be the youngest people there, but after she said she'd go alone if necessary, he changed his mind and agreed to go with her.

She chose her costume carefully, wanting to avoid face paint or anything that might make her look ridiculous. She ended up settling on a short black dress, whose hem fell a bit too high on her thigh, and a pointed witch's hat. Knowing her parents would throw a fit if they saw her—it was too tight, too short, too revealing—she covered up with a long coat as she left the house, her black heels clicking behind her. She was pleased to see Richard staring at her legs when she later removed her coat.

"Wow, Eileen…you look…"

"Is there something wrong?" She slowly and deliberately spun around.

He grinned. He was dressed as a pirate and she thought the grin made him look a bit devilish but in a good way. "Not at all," he said. "You look great."

The party was intoxicating. Colored streamers hung from the ceiling. Loud music blared from a strategically placed radio. There were so many people—all with drinks in their hands—that she could hardly see the opposite wall.

Eileen turned toward Richard. "We should get a drink," she had to shout over the noise.

"Alright." He grabbed her hand and pulled her through the crowd to where a makeshift bar had been set up.

She watched the crowd of people and noticed that many of them were dancing. A close sort of dancing that involved more clinging to one another than moving.

"Here." Richard handed her a cold glass bottle.

"Schlitz," she read from the label. She had never drank before.

"You don't have to drink."

"It's a party." Eileen tilted back the bottle. It was terrible but she assumed it wasn't about the taste or no one would ever drink. She turned to, once again, watch the crowd of people. She wondered if Richard would ask her to dance. She decided that she wanted him to, even if she wasn't sure she could cling to him the way the other girls clung to their men.

"Eileen?" Richard touched her arm to get her attention.

"Alright," she replied, convinced he was asking her to dance.

"I'm going to use the restroom," he said. "I'll be right back. Don't move from this spot."

"Alright," she said again.

"I mean it. Don't go anywhere or I won't be able to find you again."

"I won't move. Just go."

He looked at her for a moment longer, as though afraid to leave her side, then left.

Eileen sighed as she drank her beer. It was still terrible but it was getting slightly less terrible with each drink. She wondered if she was drunk yet. She had never been drunk before and wasn't sure what it was like. She lifted the bottle to her lips, once more, and realized it was empty. She set it on the counter.

"Here, try this." A young man had sidled up to her. He held out a glass filled with a pink liquid. "It's better than Schlitz."

"What is it?"

"Tequila cocktail."

Eileen took a small sip. It was even more terrible than the beer and she made a face at the way it burned her throat. "It's good," she said aloud. She took another sip.

"Are you here with anyone?" The young man asked.

"My friend."

"And where's she at?"

"Restroom." She drank some more.

"Come dance." The young man took the mostly empty glass from her hand and set it on the counter.

"I should…" Eileen looked around for Richard but didn't see him anywhere. She had never been asked to dance before. "One dance," she said. She had always wanted to be asked to dance and the young man was handsome.

He pulled her out onto the floor, pushing his way until they were in the very middle. He put his hands around her waist, pulling her close. She could feel the warmth of his body. The warmth of everyone. There were so many people and they were all so close. She felt a chill run down her spine but she ignored it. It was only a dance. It wasn't so bad. One hand crept lower, sliding over her body, she pushed down the panic. It crept under the dress…it was too much.

"No." Eileen tried to push him away but he only held tighter. She wanted to slap him, to claw at his face, but her hands were no longer listening to her. "Richard!" She called out.

The man kissed her, roughly, unpleasantly.

She finally managed to push him away, slipping from his grasp. She fought her way through the crowd. She heard someone call her name but she ignored it. She couldn't stop. She reached a door and threw herself through it, emerging into the cold night air.

Eileen stopped at a metal railing that surrounded the porch. Her stomach heaved and she threw up in the bushes.

"Gravy girl?"

"Peter Rabbit," she murmured. Why was he always around? Why couldn't he go away?

"You alright?" He placed a hand on her back and she shuddered. The hand immediately withdrew. "Are you here alone?"

"There you are!" Another voice, pleased to see her.

She looked up eagerly but it wasn't Richard. It was the man from the dance floor. She wanted to run but she was in prison. She gripped the railing tightly. "Can you let me out?"

The young man approached her quickly, slipped an arm around her waist. "I was looking for you," he said in her ear. "You ran off so quickly."

"I didn't…I was…" Had she run? The ground suddenly swayed beneath her and her stomach lurched. "I was sick," she admitted. "I want to go home."

"I'll walk you home." His arm was still around her waist, too tightly around her waist.

"I came with someone." Where was Richard? He had told her not to move. She couldn't move or he wouldn't find her again.

"I know," the man said smoothly. "He sent me to take you home."

"Richard did?"

"Yes, Richard. He had to leave and asked me to bring you home."

"Oh, okay."

"Eileen? I don't think you should go with him." It was Peter's voice. Peter Rabbit. She had forgotten he was there.

"I need to go home," she said insistently.

"Right," the young man said. "Let's get you home."

"You need to leave her alone," Peter said.

"Mind your own damn business."

"Get your hands off of her."

"You with her or something?"

"He has a fiancée," Eileen said. "Ellie. Elsie." It seemed an important thing to say.

There was a sudden scuffle—it happened too quickly to process—and Eileen found herself on the ground. Her eyelids were so heavy. She couldn't keep them open.

"Eileen? Open your eyes." It was Peter. He lightly patted her face. "Stay awake. I need you to stand up, alright?"

The ground wouldn't stay still but she stood anyway, leaning on him. His arm was around her but not so tightly. He started to steer her back inside.

"No." She tried to dig her heels in. "Don't take me back. I don't want to dance anymore." She didn't like dancing. There was too much touching involved.

"We're not dancing," he said. "We're going to go find your friend."

"I'm not supposed to move."

"Well, I'm not leaving you outside. Come on."

There were so many people. Too many people. They all stared. She could feel their eyes. So many eyes. Too many eyes. They never blinked. Eileen blinked for them. The ground moved again and she clutched at Peter's arm, afraid she might fall over.

"Shit. There you are." It was Richard. Richard found her. She found Richard. "Who're you?"

"Peter Rabbit," she answered for him.

"You need to take her home right now."

"I threw up in the bushes," Eileen admitted. "I don't like your friend."

"What friend?" Richard looked confused.

"The one you want…you said…he was going to take me home."

"I think someone slipped her a Mickey," Peter said firmly. "You need to get her out of here."

"Right," Richard agreed.

Eileen leaned on him as they walked to the car. "I lost my hat."

"We'll find it later," he replied. "How much did you drink? I wasn't gone all that long."

She held up her fingers to count. "I had a beer and I had a tequita cocktail. And that's it."

"Tequila," Richard corrected. "And that's all?"

"A beer and a tequila cocktail," she repeated.

"That's hardly anything." He looked worried. "Maybe someone did slip you a Mickey."

"I don't feel well. What's a mickey?"

"I'll tell you later. Let's just get you home."

The car ride was over in a flash. A blink. She blinked but she didn't move. She was too tired to move.

"Eileen?" Richard looked at her. "You're home."

And, just like that, the night was over. She started to cry.

"What's wrong?"

"This was supposed to be a special night and I went and ruined it and I don't know why I even danced with him except no one's asked me to dance before and you didn't ask me to dance you just left and then he kissed me and I didn't want to kiss him and that's not how it's supposed to be." The words tumbled out in a rush.

"How you wanted what to be?"

"My first kiss." Her first kiss. Always gone. Always ruined. She ruined it. She ruined everything.

"I don't think that counts," Richard said. "First kisses should be nice."

She sighed and turned away. Inside the house, she saw a light turn on.

"Eileen?" Richard touched her arm to get her attention. "I would kiss you now but I don't think you'd remember it in the morning," he said. "I promise I'll do it later."

"You mean it?"

"Sure. But for now, let's just get you inside before your parents come out and murder me."

"Oh, alright."

He helped her out of the car and up the walk, up the porch steps. So many steps. The door opened before they reached it. Eileen smiled at the sight of her father. But, the smile immediately faded at the look on his face.

"I am so sorry," Richard said at once. "I'm afraid she had a bit too much to drink but, I promise you, she's fine."

"She's been cryin'," Pat said.

"Yes, she has and that's only because…" He looked at her, at a loss for words.

"I lost my hat," Eileen said. The tears started up once again but she didn't understand why. It was only a hat.

Pat's expression softened. "It's alright." He put an arm around Eileen, guiding her into the house. "I think we've all had a night like this at some point in our lives. Thank ye for gettin' her home safe."

When the door closed, her father looked at her. "I hate to tell ye this, Eileen, me dear, but ye are goin' to feel terrible tomorrow so ye best get some sleep now."

"Alright," Eileen agreed. "Do you think Richard likes likes me? Or do you think he just likes me?"

"Bed, now."

She sighed. "Fine."

November

John slouched low in a muddy hole dug into the side of the mountain. It was uncomfortable, damp, cold. A thick mist clung to the ground. So thick he could hardly see the men around him. It made him feel lonely, as though he were the only one on the mountain. They called it the Winter Line but he didn't understand why. He looked at his hands that gripped his rifle. His fingertips were wrinkled from being wet. It was always raining off and on. Just enough to keep them from drying out. Just enough to keep them chilled to the bone. He shifted his position in the hole, trying to get more comfortable. He wished he could sleep, if only for a few minutes. He was so tired. But a few minutes of sleep were all he ever got. The never tiring enemy refused to let them rest. It was a constant barrage of artillery that fell on their position day and night, sending up showers of rocks and dirt and mud. Three days of it, so far, and he wondered how much longer it would take before he started to hallucinate.

John looked out over the ridge. The mist was lifting in a few places, revealing jagged peaks beneath it. He recognized that if they weren't at war, the view would've been stunning. One of the most beautiful sights he had ever seen. But he was cold. He was hungry. He was tired. His nerves were stretched to their breaking point. The view was ugly and he hated it.

Twice men were sent down the steep slope to bring back supplies. Men who had to climb with their fingers dug into the rocky side as they half-slid their way down. Both times they returned eight hours later with packs full of food and water, but mostly ammunition. There was always more than enough ammunition. There was always less than enough food.

Why had he enlisted? He pondered the question as he sat there, praying the next artillery strike wouldn't land in his hole. He wanted to impress Dottie's parents. Except they still weren't impressed. They had thrown her out. He wanted to do something for himself. But he was hungry and cold and tired. He was hardly looking out for himself. He wanted to do something important. That was the biggest laugh of all. For five days they had been in the mountains, pushing slowly, agonizingly slow against the Germans and now they were stuck. Trapped beneath their barrage although the higher command called it 'holding it." John knew what it really was. They had gone as far as they could go and while they didn't have the strength to push forward, the Germans didn't have the strength to push them back. A stalemate. A cold, hungry, exhausting stalemate.

When they were, at last, relieved, they climbed back down the mountain in silence. Everyone was too tired to say anything and the climb was slow. Finally, they found themselves on the road to San Felice but still they walked in silence. John ran a hand over his face, feeling the stubble on his chin. He silently prayed for a bit of a break. Some warm food, a hot shower, a bed. He'd give anything for a bed. There was nothing he wanted more than to sleep for a week. He could maybe even do a year.

All he could think of was Lelia and the children. What had become of them? Was their home still standing? Had Lelia been arrested? Was she close by at that precise moment and he just didn't know it? Were his children thrown out onto the street to starve and beg for food? More than once, he wanted to ask someone but he was afraid. If none of that had happened, he didn't want to be the one to bring attention to them. He already blamed himself for so much, he couldn't add more.

Every day was the same bitter routine. No changes, no variations, nothing to differentiate one day from the next. Always hungry, Always cold or hot. Never comfortable. His cell was small and dark, the air stale and heavy. Everything hurt but he told himself it was only his age. He was in his fifties after all. It had been many years since anyone would call him a young man.

Then he was brought out into the yard with the other prisoners. He blinked in the bright sunlight. When had he last seen it? They were lined up. He shivered. The tree in the yard was without leaves and he thought it might've been winter. When had he been arrested? Was it winter then too. He couldn't believe it had been a year. How was he still alive?

He looked down the line at the other prisoners. They all looked similar. Shivering in thin clothes, their faces worn, thin, bearded. Tired. Every one of them looked broken. Dead. He briefly wondered if he looked the same then pushed the thought aside. He wasn't broken. Not yet.

He stared at the guards who walked along the line. They looked different. They talked differently. It took him too long to realize they were speaking German. Where were the Italian guards? Where were the men who had arrested him? He didn't understand. Something had happened and for a moment, he wondered if he was about to be released. The hope sputtered before it could take hold. Why would they release him? They didn't know he was innocent.

Two guards walked slowly down the line of prisoners, stopping at each one. At each man, a decision was made. Some were pulled out and sent in one direction. Some went in another. Others remained right where they stood.

He watched it all, curious and confused. The two guards neared. He wondered if it was better to remain where he was. Perhaps one group was being released. Maybe one group was being executed. He felt a tremor of fear as they stood in front of him.

They stared at him. Studied him. Spoke to each other in German. One nodded. The other shook his head. They spoke some more. One grabbed his arm. He resisted the urge to pull away. To step back. To flee. Finally, they seemed to agree. He was pulled from the line and sent to one of the groups. He wished he knew the difference between the two. One must've been better than the other. Or maybe they were the same. He watched as the men who had remained in line were sent back inside.

Maybe they were the lucky ones.

November 22, 1943

My dear John,

I get to go overseas. Yes, you read that correctly. Your wife will no longer be sorting mail in Fort Bragg. She will be trained as a switchboard operator working in London. That's right. London, England. I get to go overseas. And I know you're going to worry but London is perfectly safe. The Blitz was years ago and I've been told that absolutely nothing has happened since. I know you're still going to worry but please try to be excited for me as well. I know I'm excited. A new country and a job that feels important. John, your wife is going to matter. How wonderful is that?

I should admit that while I truly am excited, I'm also a bit nervous about the trip overseas. I've been on a boat out on Liberty Lake plenty of times but I have a feeling a ship crossing the Atlantic might be a bit different. I hope there's no storms. Are there usually storms at sea? I suppose I'll already be there by the time you receive this letter and have time to write me a response.

I hope I have time to do a bit of sightseeing while I'm in London. I'd like to see if Big Ben is really as big as the name implies. And, could you imagine me getting to meet the Queen? I suppose that would be unlikely but a girl can dream. I bet only the highest ranking WACs get to meet her.

I hope you're staying safe. And I hope you know how much I love you and how much I miss you. It makes me glad to think that we're about to be closer to each other. I don't know where you are but at least an Ocean won't be between us any longer.

I love you immensely,

Dottie

Xoxxxooxo

Cal read the telegram aloud: "Based on information received through the International Red Cross, your son PFC Thomas Brandt, previously reported missing, is now reported prisoner of war of the Italians. Any further information received will be furnished by the Provost Marshal General."

"But we're not at war with Italy anymore," Kate said. "Why's he bein' held by the Italians?" She looked at Lelia as though the woman would have an answer.

"Why are you looking at me?" Lelia replied. "I'm not holding him prisoner."

"I'm sure they mean in Italy," Cal said.

Kate fell into a chair. She clutched her hands together to keep them from trembling. Her son was a prisoner.

"Prisoners of war are protected by the Geneva Convention," Cal continued. "Honestly, he's probably safer now than he was before. He's not fighting. He's not getting shot at. He's getting plenty of food. We may even be able to send him letters. Tommy's alright."

Kate nodded. It seemed so difficult to believe.

A week later, they received a letter from the Red Cross, stating he was being held in Camp No. 59 in Italy.

Cal immediately tracked down a Red Cross Bulletin that included more information. "I subscribed to them so we should receive one every month. I figure it's the best way to know what's going on."

Kate took the bulletin and flipped through the pages, looking for anything about Camp No. 59. Finally, she stopped on a page of updates. "In a report on Italian Camp No. 59 in our August issue, it was stated that most of the approximately two thousand prisoners of war in this camp were British and that the American prisoners numbered 445—comprising 77 noncommissioned officers and 368 enlisted men. A later report indicated that a substantial number of British prisoners had been transferred from No. 59 to work camps and that the number of American prisoners in Camp No. 59 had more than doubled." Kate frowned as she read it. "That tells me nothin' except it must be crowded."

"At least he's not lonely," Lelia said.

Kate turned on her. "I suppose that makes it all alright, then?"

"No, I was just…" Lelia started to cry. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything."

Kate felt guilty for snapping at her. Lelia was far from home. Her husband was in prison as well.

She was about to apologize when Cal spoke up. "Kate, she was just trying to be kind."

Her guilt immediately turned into irritation. She was in her own home and Cal was going to admonish her. Of course, he would immediately be on Lelia's side. She dropped the bulletin and left.

Outside, it was chilly. Leaves blew across the ground. It had been months since she last heard from Tommy. The Red Cross said he was in prison but how could she be certain? How could she trust them? Her son might've been dead or dying or sick. What if he came down with the same thing that killed his father? He needed her. For all of his independence, she knew that he couldn't go through such an ordeal alone. He shouldn't have to. She felt a wave of frustration well up inside of her. Cal had been so quick to help Lelia but he hadn't done a thing for Tommy except pick up a Red Cross Bulletin.

"Kate." Cal had followed her out. "Lelia didn't mean anything by her comment." He touched her shoulder but she pulled away. A look came over his face. "Alright, what did I do?"

She couldn't bring herself to reply because she knew that he hadn't done anything wrong. But knowing that did nothing to lessen her frustration and anger.

"Kate, I've clearly done something wrong but I don't know what it is so please tell me so I can make it right."

"I don't want her in me house any longer." She felt like a monster for saying it but she needed space to worry. She needed her husband to herself. It was all too much otherwise.

"You want me to throw her out? And her children?"

Kate shrugged.

Cal crossed his arms. "And how are we going to explain to Fabri when he comes back that we threw his family out onto the street?"

"Fabri's dead," she said quietly. "Ye know that."

He let out a heavy sigh. "Why don't you like her? Lelia's a good person."

"I'm sure ye think so." Leliawasa good person. Everyone knew it. Kate knew it. She was a better person than her.

"What's that supposed to mean?" He asked. "Why don't ye trust me?"

"I do trust ye," she replied quickly. "I really do. It's just…she's younger than me and prettier than me and stronger than me and ye spend so much time with her."

"Kate—"

"Tommy is gone. First he was missin' and I thought he must be dead. And now he's a prisoner and they may be mistreatin' him. I know he's alone and frightened and I'm frightened as well but I'm not alone. I'm not alone because me house is filled with people who have been through worse than me. And they don't complain so I can't complain and it's all too much. I can't even speak with ye about it because I never get ye to meself and when I do, how can I be upset and worryin' when she's so strong with everything she's gone through?" There was a tightness in her throat and she could feel the tears forming in her eyes.

"Kate, I am so sorry." Cal gathered her in his arms. "I am in awe of everything you've gone through and overcome and put up with. You are the strongest person I've ever known but you don't always have to be strong. It's okay to worry and be afraid and you can even break down if you want because that's what I'm here for."

She cried into his shoulder.

"I will hold you up and put you back together and keep you going because you're my Kate." He kissed her. "Lelia is a good person—who is deeply in love with her husband, by the way, whether she's willing to admit it or not—but she doesn't hold a candle to you. I mean, do you know how long I've been in love with you?"

"A couple of years?"

Cal laughed. "A bit longer than that," he said. "We've been together for, what? Ten years now?"

She nodded.

"Well, I've loved you for twenty." He kissed her again. "Now come back inside. I have an address for Tommy so we can write to him."

"We can?"

"We can write and send packages—although I think there's strict rules on what we can send him," Cal explained. "I know you're worried he's going to be alone but I promise you, he won't feel that way."

"I hope yer right."

December

December 1, 1943

My dear June,

I'm sorry I haven't written in a while. They keep moving us around and I'm always so worried I'll miss one of your replies. So I've been waiting until the moving stopped. Well, I'm afraid it finally has. Or it will. They're sending us to England. I suppose it'd be naive to assume that would be our final destination but they rarely tell us things in advance. At least now you'll have an address to write to: APO 872. It will always be that, wherever I am. I'm supposed to trust that any letters sent there will find me.

Please keep writing to me. I cannot tell you how much I need your letters. I cannot tell you how often I reread them. Whenever I'm feeling low, I pull them out and go through them word by word. I miss you so incredibly much. I feel as though I have no one to talk to, no one here who really cares about me. But then I receive a letter from you and it's as if the sun has broken out on a cloudy day and I feel I can do anything. Write to me and I can make it through this war.

I wish I could hear your voice. I wish I could feel the touch of your hand. I know you're married to Tommy. I cannot possibly forget that you're married to Tommy. It'd be wrong of me to ask you to leave him. Please know that I would never do such a thing. That doesn't stop the smallest part of me always hoping, always wondering. If Tommy were to meet another woman, would it be so terrible? Perhaps there's a way everyone can be happy.

I shouldn't be writing any of this. Please forgive me for even suggesting such a thing. You are a wonderful, kind, good person. I never wanted to put you in a difficult position. All that matters is your happiness. I'm sorry if I've written anything wrong.

Every night I pray that you and Alice are doing well. Every morning, I pray the same thing. Please take care of yourself. Please don't let your mother bully you. I know you love her but she doesn't know everything. I can't wait until I can come home and see you again.

I miss you so much.

Love,

Arthur

The boredom was worse than anything. An endless, unceasing monotony. The same routine day after day after day after day. There were random searches—some in the middle of the night, the occasional Red Cross parcels, the once a month letters from home—all had already been opened, but even those lost any newness or excitement after the first month.

It didn't help that he hadn't yet received any letters—pre-opened or otherwise. He didn't know if anyone even knew he was a prisoner. Maybe they all thought he was dead?

"Still nothing?" Daniel asked over his own letter.

Tommy shrugged. He refused to let it bother him.

"Hm. Makes me wonder if they're not getting your letters either," Daniel pondered. "Or maybe it's from your escape attempt. I know they've withheld mail before but they don't usually do it this long. When's the last time you sent a letter?"

"I haven't sent any."

Daniel looked at him in surprise. "You haven't written to your family?"

"What would I even say? Sorry, I screwed up once again like I always do and now I'm a prisoner."

"How about…I'm alive. I'm okay. I'm well-fed, well-rested, and having a great time."

"All of that would be a lie."

"So? I bet your family's worried sick over you."

Were they worried? All Tommy could think about were the years of trouble he had caused everyone. The years of arguments, the anger, the skipping school, getting arrested, June. He had been so unfair to his mother. So unfair to everyone.

Tommy put his face in his hands and forced himself to take a deep breath. Maybe they weren't worried. Maybe they were relieved. What if they had forgotten him entirely? He suddenly couldn't breathe.

"Tommy?" Daniel put a hand on his shoulder.

"What if they're not worried about me?" He asked. "What if they've forgotten me? Or they're happy that I'm…I'm…" His voice faltered.

"You're alright," Daniel said softly. "I promise you, you're only feeling this way because you're not getting enough to eat. Of course, your family worries about you. All of our families worry about us. Write the letter. There's no shame in getting captured. It's better than being dead or having a limb blown off." He shook his head. "Guy in my company stepped on a landmine right in front of me. Both his legs were blown off." Daniel gestured around the camp. "I'd take this any day over that happening to me. Anyway, you're okay. You can trust me. I've been here a lot longer than you, which means I know more."

Tommy studied him. Daniel was older than him, possibly late thirties, too old to have been drafted. He must've volunteered like John. He wondered whether he regretted it, considering where he ended up. Inexplicably, his thoughts drifted to father, the man he had never had a chance to know. "My father's name was Daniel," he said without knowing why.

"Was?"

"I never knew him. He died a month before I was born," Tommy explained. "He fought in the first war. He fought for years and never got captured and he never had any legs blown off. I was here for seven months, I think, and look where I am."

"Sure, but speaking as a father, myself, I bet he'd prefer to have you in here than out there," Daniel said. "You might be hungry and the guards are a bunch of bastards, but it could be worse."

Tommy didn't see how that was possible. "Is that what you keep telling yourself?"

Daniel smiled. "It is and if you say it enough, it starts to feel a bit like the truth. Now, write the letter. That's an order."

"Yes, sir," Tommy responded without thinking. "I mean, I'll consider it."

November 21, 1943

Dear everyone,

We have a bit of a break at the moment although I know better than to expect it to last long. They never do. Or, rather, they're supposed to then something changes and before anyone knows what's happening, we're marched out double time. But I hope this break lasts a few weeks. I'm tired and could use a bit of quiet. I'm glad to hear that Tommy is alright. He's probably the lucky one. His time in the war is finished and he'll be getting to go home before too long.

God, I wish I was home right now. Has Eileen picked out the perfect tree yet? Remember the year that I insisted on choosing it? I chose one that was already home to a squirrel. It took two days to chase it out of the house. Eileen never chose one with a squirrel. Did Aunt Kate make Thanksgiving dinner like she usually does? Remember when Mom tried to make the dinner? The food may not have tasted great, but that was the year we got Moose. That was a good turkey. I wish he was still around. We don't really get Thanksgiving or Christmas dinners here. I mean, we'll get a better than usual meal for both of those holidays but it's never the same as eating them at home. Without being surrounded by family, what's the point?

Speaking of food, it's chow time. I think it's chipped beef on toast today. It has another, more accurate, name but I won't write it here. I hate having to end this letter. Writing it almost feels like being home.

Love,

John

Ps. Forgot to mention that I'm doing fine. I am fine. I'm only tired but that's not from being sick or unwell. That is simply from being in the Army. There's no need to worry about me. Everything's fine.

It was a subdued Christmas with John and Dottie gone. Everyone stayed in their own homes as no one's home was large enough for everyone. No one complained. Sarah suspected that Lelia wasn't in the mood for celebrating and with Tommy a prisoner, neither was Kate. There was simply too much worrying and not enough family for Christmas.

They had received a Christmas card and letter from John, both dated a month earlier. The card was a birthday card with 'birthday' crossed out and 'Christmas' written in its place. A note inside the card read, 'Sorry, this was the only card I could find. Merry Christmas. I miss everyone and wish I was there. Xoxo John.' Sarah thought it was perfect. The accompanying letter was bleaker. She could hear his homesickness and loneliness beneath his words. There was no mention of beautiful mountains. No mention at all of anything he might've been doing. He only reminisced about home and past holidays.

By way of Christmas presents, Sarah had given Eileen her typewriter. It was immediately moved into her bedroom so she could easily type her school papers. Someday, when she moved into a home of her own, she'd take it with her. John was sent thick wool socks and a pair of wool mittens. No one knew where he was but she didn't want him to be cold in case he was somewhere with snow on the ground.

With everything rationed and difficult to find, Pat and Sarah had agreed on no gifts to each other. The only thing she wanted—all of her family to come home—she couldn't have. Everything else was perfect as it was.

"I actually did get ye something," Pat said as they sat together in front of the fireplace. Eileen had already gone to bed.

"We said no gifts."

"It didn't cost me anything."

"That doesn't matter. It—" Her words failed as she stared at the photo in his hand. There was John just as she remembered him, standing in front of her house. There was that smile she had loved so much. She had forgotten how that tiny bit of hair on the side of his head would never stay in place. It used to drive him crazy. She could almost hear his voice through the photo. Before she realized it, she was crying.

Pat put his arm around her. "I didn't want ye to cry," he said softly. "I wanted ye to be happy."

"I am happy." She kissed his cheek. "This means…it means so much to me."

"I know it does."

Sarah kissed his cheek a second time. "I'm going to go put this in my box. Don't move from this spot."

She ran up the stairs to their bedroom and pulled the box from its place in the back of her drawer. She carefully laid the photo in it, next to the letter and the rings and the feather. John was going to be so happy to finally see a photo of his father. Assuming he came home safely. He had to come home safely.

She looked at her late husband once again. "John," she said quietly. "I don't know if any part of you is still around. But if you are, please keep our son safe." She managed a small smile. "I suppose if you are still around, you're already doing that." She took a deep breath. "I miss you."

Sarah carefully put the lid back onto the box and returned it to its drawer. She paused, briefly, at the mirror to wipe the tears from her cheeks and straighten her hair. Then she hurried back downstairs to where her husband waited.