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Rainy swallows desperately, swallows and swallows until she coughs.
More soldiers, more voices, more blurry, shifting faces.
“Are you real?” Rainy asks in a hoarse whisper.
The soldier flashes a smile. “You do speak English.”
“Are you real?” Rainy insists.
“As real as I can be,” the soldier says. She sits on the floor cross-legged and cradles Rainy’s head with her hand, lifting her just a little to take more water. “Who are you?”
Rainy has been asked the question hundreds of times, each time telling the same not-quite-true answer, the answer that would not identify her as a Jew. Now she has a hard time making herself say her name. She has endured hell for her secrets.
But the soldier, the impossible American soldier, leans down over her and says, “Listen to me, honey. You’re safe. You’re safe.”
Rainy cries without tears and sobs, her body shaking with the emotion of it. The GI is patient, waving off an officer who seems to want her to move on.
At last, after so long that Rainy is certain that the soldier will leave if she doesn’t speak, she quells her sobs long enough to say, “Sergeant Rainy Schulterman. US Army.”
LETTERS SENT
Dear Mother and Father,
A friend is writing this for me since I banged my hand a bit and the fingers are stiff.
I know you must have been very worried since it’s been quite a while since I was able to write. But please don’t worry, I am perfectly fine. In fact, I’ve run into some old friends from Africa, one of whom, Jenou Castain, is writing this down for me.
Someday I will tell you all about my adventures over these last couple of months.
No time for more right now, they have me hopping! Just know that I am all right. And that I miss you terribly and remain your loving daughter,
Rainy
Dear Mom,
I am sending this letter by way of Pastor M’Dale because I don’t want Daddy to read it. You’ll know from the letter I sent addressed to you both that I am in England now, having been slightly wounded. What I did not mention in that letter is that Harder is here working as an orderly.
I don’t quite know how to say what I need to say next. So I guess I’d better just blurt it out: Harder told me what happened during the riots. I understand a lot more now than I did. I understand why Daddy can’t deal with Harder, even though I wish he could. And of course I understand Harder better too.
But most of all I feel I understand for the first time how hard your life has been. Mother, I am so sorry for any time I vexed you. I am so sorry for so many things. I know you forgive me, you always do, and if you would rather we never speak of this again I will honor your wishes.
But since you aren’t here to shush me, I want to say something. You kept us safe from all the pain you’ve felt. You kept all that bottled up, and because of it I got to grow up happy. If I am a mother someday I hope to do half as well.
Please don’t worry about me, I am well away from the fighting, completely healthy aside from a very itchy cast on my leg, and I doubt I will be near the fighting again. You must never worry on my account.
Harder is fine, full of all his usual passion and wild ideas. But he is liked and respected here, though he’s only an orderly. He still has a way about him that draws people.
Well, that’s it for now. I won’t mention Harder in the letters I write to the whole family. But if you wanted to write to him you could send it to me, and I will pass it along to him.
Pray for me.
Your loving and grateful daughter,
Frangie
PS: Pray for the boys and girls I care for too; they need it more than me.
Dear Mother and Father,
