A Rendezvous To Remember. Geri Krotow

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ period of my existence.

      As you know, I’ve always liked writing. I’m sure you recall the column I wrote for the Buffalo Evening News. But what you don’t know is that my greatest work is what you’re about to read. Mind you, I started it when I was young, idealistic and thought myself a cross between Jane Austen and James Joyce—unlikely though that sounds!

      I kept the journal hidden throughout the war but, just in case it was stolen or fell into the wrong hands, I wrote in English. Even though I was fluent, I was speaking my native French daily, so you may find some errors.

      Read my story—you’ll figure out quickly that it’s not just my story but also that of Grandpa Jack, and millions of World War II survivors. Read this with an open mind and heart. Finally, understand why I found my peace and love here, in Buffalo.

      Think about coming back to Buffalo, dearest, so you can give yourself a real life. I’ll never believe that working in that rat race on Capital Hill is good for you, Melinda. You’re certainly smart enough to be there with the best of them, but I don’t want you to waste your heart on things that won’t mean anything once you’re my age. You were such a natural in the classroom. Your former students still ask about you.

      I’m feeling bold, since you’re not here in person to roll your beautiful blue eyes at me. I want you to reconsider your marriage to Nicholas. Twenty years of love and laughter—including the fifteen you’ve been married—is a lot to throw away, Melinda. Trust me when I tell you that no one will love you the way he has. I’ve seen both sides of love and marriage, and what you and Nicholas share is real.

      I want to write more, but I’ve given you enough to read in my journals. I’d say “read it and weep” but unfortunately, I know you probably will. It is my prayer that you’ll also find some things humorous, and that you may even find a reason to believe in love again.

      XOX

      Grammy

      Melinda let the letter fall back onto her lap. Leave it to Grammy to think she could fix everyone’s problems, even from the grave.

      But her problems with Nicholas were about more than not having a baby. Their communication had broken down when she felt restless as a high-school English teacher. She’d wanted more.

      “Why don’t you write the great American novel?” Nick wanted to solve her problems for her.

      “I’m not a novelist. I’m interested in politics, Nick. I really think I’m supposed to use my talents in this direction.”

      “Honey, I’m not being patronizing. But don’t you think your restlessness is mostly due to your biological clock ticking away?”

      Melinda had rejected his observation that this was all about her hormones. Sure, they’d been trying to conceive and nothing had happened, but it wasn’t the entire focus of her life.

      Or was it?

      Nick had made his decision without her. He’d chosen to take another tour in Afghanistan. And she’d decided to take the job in D.C. without his help. They’d stopped relying on each other’s judgment years ago.

      All they had in common now was this house.

      A house neither of them lived in anymore.

      She plucked at the multicolored yarn on the afghan she’d snuggled into on the brown leather couch. Grammy meant well. She was a woman who’d always been with the love of her life, so Melinda understood the basis for Grammy’s opinions.

      But Grammy didn’t understand that the situation today wasn’t the same as during World War II. Nick had a choice—whether or not to serve. Whether or not to break Melinda’s heart.

      Esmée’s Journal

      May 25, 1940

      How can this be happening? How can men of intelligence bring us to our knees again? Haven’t we suffered enough?

      I’ve spent my entire academic life studying the Great War and how it destroyed our beloved Belgium. My family’s strength, faith and resourceful nature are the only reasons I am able to write this entry today.

      A scant generation later we’ve begun another ugly battle.

      Ugly it is. The Germans have no room for anyone except themselves. They tolerate us, they use us. Over the past three weeks I’ve seen everything I’ve ever read about in my literature studies—and more.

      Bloodthirsty warplanes bombed our capital, and smaller, tactical aircraft strafed my village’s cow pastures. Douglas DuPont, who owns the fields behind our street, was shot dead while he tended to a birthing cow. His widow and five children are heartbroken and see no justification for his death.

      Only Nazi barbarism.

      My parents are quite vocal about what we’re experiencing. They warn my sister and me of many years of sacrifice to come. Surely this won’t last as long as the Great War. The Allies are on the right side of morality, of justice.

      I will keep this record, so the world will know what happened. I will write in English—for practice and security.

      Selfishly I wonder if I’ll be able to continue my studies. I graduate in three weeks and plan to attend university this September.

      The current situation may dictate otherwise. The simple act of taking the train into Brussels each day may well be impossible.

      Does this mean life as I know it is extinguished?

      July 15, 1940

      Any hope of escape, of fleeing, is over now. I desperately wanted to run to the French border but Mother forbade it. Besides, with Elodie, who will take care of them? Elodie still can’t walk without a lot of help, even using her cane. The polio could have been worse. Maman says I could have contracted it as well. But none of us did.

      Just poor Elodie. My sweet little sister.

      She looks more like ten years old than sixteen.

      Maman and Papa are fine right now, but from what I’ve heard, the war will bring us all up against tough times. We could starve, or get sick, or both. Grandmère and Grandpère told us so many horrible stories of the Great War. I thought it was something I’d never experience. Yet here we are.

      Maman and Papa need me, but I feel sorrowful over the loss of my hope, my plan, to study English literature. I can keep reading, of course, but how will I find books? The Nazis are already censoring newspapers and even library books. There are rumors the schools may close, as they did during the Great War.

      If I am destined to remain in Belgium for the duration, I vow to make a difference. Not just to Maman, Papa and Elodie. But to my countrymen. To the boys from my class who’ve been forced to work in German factories. To the boys who’ve escaped to fight with our allies.

      I wish I were a boy so I could carry a weapon, too.

      I will find out what I can do.

      Melinda knew Grammy studied English as a girl and spoke and wrote it fluently by the age of sixteen. Her breath caught as she realized that Esmée had kept such a detailed account of her life in a foreign tongue.

СКАЧАТЬ