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She was quiet for a long moment as we sat holding each other. “Do you think we’ll ever see Vati and Mutti again?” she asked in a tiny voice.
“Only God knows. But no matter what, we still have each other.”
I ended up staying through the night. Ruthie and I talked and reminisced, and we both dozed for a bit, curled up on the broad window seat together. Whether Sister Marie forgot about us or whether she was giving us a few hours together, I would never know. But I was grateful. A different nun came in the morning and told Ruthie it was time for breakfast. We hugged and said goodbye, and I left. I needed to go home, bathe, and change my uniform for my day shift at the hospital. My rumbling stomach reminded me I hadn’t eaten.
I had to walk through the ruined streets for a long way until I found a trolley line that was still intact. As I stood waiting to board, I realized I didn’t have a token. I hadn’t thought to bring money or a purse as I had rushed out of the hospital to climb into the ambulance. The conductor looked at me and seemed to take in my disheveled condition.
“You been helping out?” he asked. I could only nod. He gestured for me to climb aboard and he let me ride without paying the fare. I made it home and then to the hospital in time to report for my shift. A news vendor was hawking papers in front of the entrance and I paused to read the headlines. The Nazis were gloating, of course, that the Americans had missed the factory and destroyed a Belgian town. They listed the grim statistics in huge font: thousands had been injured. Nearly ninety were still missing. More than nine hundred people had died so far, including two hundred children. Four schools had been hit. Out of the 3,700 homes in the village of Mortsel, more than 3,400 had been destroyed or heavily damaged.
Later, when it was time for my lunch break, I went into the hospital chapel and knelt on the carpeted kneeler as I had been taught to do. There had been many, many times when I’d been angry with God for everything that my family was suffering. Times when it had been impossible to pray. But today I needed to thank God for sparing Ruthie. A simple school outing to the forest had saved her. Maybe a miracle would save Sam and my parents, too.
I looked up at the man being tortured to death on the crucifix. A Jewish man named Jesus. And I thanked God that this Jewish man’s followers were helping us.
