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“I guess it finally got to him, you know?” Joe said quietly.
“But that’s just it,” Bill said. “He didn’t let anything get to him. Not when I knew him, anyway. He was convinced that nothing could harm him unless God willed it. He used to quote that psalm to me... How does it go? Something about all our days being written in God’s big black book? No, I find it very hard to believe that Jim would try to take his own life.”
“That’s not the Jimmy I know, either,” I said. “That’s why I’m trying to piece his story together and figure out what happened to change him so much. Something must have.”
“The war was—” Bill stopped and I saw him swallow hard. “None of us are the same after what we saw. And did.”
“Hey, we did what we had to, you know?” Joe said. He was getting restless and fidgety, jiggling his foot and tapping his knuckles against the table. He probably wanted a beer, but it was much too early in the day to start drinking.
I turned back to Chaplain Bill. “Can you remember when you last saw Jimmy and if he seemed like himself?”
“Let me think. It must have been in the late fall of ’44. We were fighting our way toward the Rhine, and Jim and I worked together in the battalion aid stations. I offered comfort and he helped the overworked doctors.” He ran his hand through his thinning hair. “I-I confess that I would freeze sometimes, if someone was badly hurt and was afraid of dying. Jim often did a better job of praying with them than I did, I’m ashamed to admit. I told him he should be the chaplain, not me.” Bill gave a nervous laugh, but I could see that the memories haunted him. He looked at me as if pleading with me to understand. “I mean, what do you say when someone asks, ‘Am I going to die?’ and you know they probably are. What do you say?”
“That must have been terrible,” I murmured. “I’m so sorry.” The words felt meaningless, even to me.
“Hey, I could use a smoke,” Joe said. “I think I’ll step outside, if you don’t mind.” The kitchen was quiet for a moment after the door closed. I could hear a vacuum cleaner running upstairs.
“Anyway,” the chaplain said, gathering himself. “The Nazis made their big counteroffensive that winter, and every available man was called in to fight them. Jim and I got separated, and I don’t recall running into him again after that.”
“I have the letters he sent home,” I said. “He fought in what the newspapers called the Battle of the Bulge, I think.”
Chaplain Bill stared off into the distance as if lost in his thoughts. Then he sighed and turned to me again. “Can I be honest with you, Miss Serrano? I don’t think I will be much help to Jim. Oh, I’ll be more than happy to drive over and visit him, but as far as offering spiritual help? I’m not your man. I mean, where was God when the world was burning and millions of innocent people were suffering and dying? How could He—?” Bill stopped and tugged at his clerical collar as if it was choking him. I waited, like Jimmy always did, in case he wanted to say more. “I’ve decided to set aside this collar for a while. I’m not the spiritual leader my church needs. I guess you could say I have a lot of questions for God right now, and so I’ve written my resignation. My wife isn’t very happy with my decision. She says I’m not the same man she married, and I guess she’s right.” He gave a nervous laugh, and I felt so sorry for him that I wanted to hug him. “Did you have any more questions for me? I don’t think I’ve been much help.”
“You’ve been a huge help. I know now that Jimmy was still his old self before that last winter of the war. But listen, do you think you can help me get in touch with some of the other men he fought alongside? I’m hoping that they’ll supply a few more pieces of his story. If I knew their addresses, I could write to them.”
He brightened. “Sure, I could help you with that. I’ll contact our company commander.”
“That would be wonderful! Jimmy’s two closest friends were Mitch O’Hara and another medic named Frank Cishek.”
“Frank Cishek. That name seems familiar for some reason. Let me write this down.”
“I would especially like to contact those two men. And also, any soldiers like Joe Fiore who give Jimmy credit for saving their lives. I think it would encourage Jimmy if they wrote to him and sent pictures of their families so he would know how many people he helped.”
Chaplain Bill fetched a pen and notepad from the telephone stand to copy down the names. I told him where the VA hospital was and that visiting hours were on Sunday. He promised to come next Sunday after his church service. I got out my little camera—a graduation present from Mr. and Mrs. Barnett—and asked Chaplain Bill if he would let me take his picture for the album I wanted to make for Jimmy. Then I wrote my name, address, and telephone number on the pad for him. “One more thing,” I said, pulling Gisela’s picture from my bag. “Do you know anything about this woman? Her name is Gisela. Was she one of the nurses Jimmy worked with, maybe?”
He studied the photo, rubbing his forehead as if concentrating. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen her before. Her name sounds foreign though, doesn’t it?” He handed back the picture.
I left feeling hopeful that he would do whatever he could to help Jimmy. But I also left Connecticut with a deep ache in my heart for Chaplain Bill.
