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The aching regret in his voice made Matthew reach for the medal that had been heavy in his pocket since he’d taken off his uniform. He hadn’t known what to do with it; he certainly didn’t want it. Not after Henck. Not after he’d realized what he too was capable of. He’d had six months with the wretched thing pinned to his chest, a constant reminder of his failure. “I want you to have this,” he said, and offered the Distinguished Service Cross to Tom, who blinked down at it in surprise.
“What… I didn’t know… why were you given it?”
“For an interrogation I did, after V-E Day.” The words burned in his chest, along with the knowledge. “It doesn’t matter.”
Tom was quiet as he ran one finger over its crenelated edge. “And why would you give it to me?”
“You fought more than I did.” As he said the words, he realized how true they were. “Six months of hard fighting.” Tom had been among those to climb up the banks of the Waal, straight into enemy fire. He’d fought through the streets of Nijmegen, had been there for the horrendous surprise attacks at the start of Ardennes. Somehow, in the midst of it all, Matthew had forgotten all that. Now he remembered.
“It’s yours,” Tom said.
“No,” Matthew answered, meaning it. “It’s yours.” He didn’t want it. And Tom deserved something for his courage. He realized he didn’t blame Tom for a moment of madness—hadn’t he had one, as well? Weren’t they both as guilty and as innocent as the other?
Tom’s fingers closed around the medal. He looked strangely moved, a throb of emotion in his voice as he spoke. “Thank you.”
The rain has drenched his overcoat and hat. A woman next door keeps coming to the grimy window and shooting him suspicious looks from behind some dingy net curtains. Without his uniform, he is nothing more than a vagrant, just one more hollow-eyed man who wanders through the city, looking as lost as he feels. Is this all that is to become of them?
He should ring the bell. He wants to. He has lifted his hand more than once, only to have it fall back limply to his side each time. What if she sees the emptiness in him? What does he have to offer her now? And yet he longs to see her. He longs for it with a desperation and an urgency that he thought he hadn’t had it in him any more to feel, but he realizes now, to both his gratitude and terror, that he does.
The last six months he has discovered more than he has ever wanted to know—about his country, about the camps, about the fate of his family, and about who he is, or at least who he could be. The knowledge has transformed him, as surely as Jekyll into Hyde. Even if no one else sees it, he knows he always will.
And yet… there is Lily. There has always been Lily, the hope of her waiting for him, believing in him. But believing in the man he was, or the one he is afraid of becoming? Could she possibly be waiting for him as he is now?
And then the decision is taken out of his hands. The door opens, and she is there. He blinks and then drinks her in—those soft brown eyes, the gently curling hair. There is a streak of premature gray by her temple now. Her dress is worn and frayed, and she looks tired, but she is smiling, if just a little.
“I was waiting for you to come in,” she says. “But then I decided I wouldn’t wait any longer.”
“Lily.” He can’t say any more.
He can’t tell her of all the things he’s seen and felt and done. Of war, and Wobbelin, and the smug face of Henck, the matter-of-fact descriptions given in the Nuremberg trials that made him feel as if his soul could claw its way out of his body.
He can’t tell her about how he feels as if he has lost himself, forgotten something essential and elemental that everyone else takes for granted. A heart, perhaps? Maybe a soul.
He can’t tell her any of that, at least not yet, even though, as he looks at her, he realizes he will one day, he will want to, and she will understand. She will accept and forgive.
And even in this moment, when he has said nothing but her name, she understands already, and he doesn’t have to speak another word.
Lily steps forward, and then her arms are around him, drawing him in, like a tender mother with a child, but also a woman to the man she loves. His head rests on her breast and his shoulders shake, as, for the first time since he can remember, he weeps.
He is home.
