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  She touched the letters—Linus’s still unopened—curled together in the pocket of her apron. She’d read the letter from the soldier, the one who’d been with Linus during his last hours.

  Linus’s letter, however, remained sealed.

  What if he’d poured out his heart to her? Told her that only she kept him alive? His silence over the past two years had actually loosened the stranglehold of guilt around her heart. Until today.

  What if he truly had loved her?

  Perhaps that, more than anything, made her a harlot.

  Are you sure?

  Oh, she should have said no. Why didn’t she say no?

  She gripped the brass door handle. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to hear Linus’s voice. Soft and low, with an edge of husk, and luring her into dark places, it had sent a forbidden thrill through her when he bent close on the dance floor. There isn’t another as beautiful as you, Esther Lange.

  Ah, there he was, lurking on the outskirts of her heart. She grabbed at him, clinging, hoping for the appropriate fist around her heart. She turned the handle, the moment ripe, and entered his past.

  His mother made Bertha dust his room once a week, and Esther had barely moved the books from his desk, never removed the clothing from his closet, or even peered into his dresser drawers. No, for three months she’d lived out of her tattered suitcase, reading Linus’s vast collection of Hardy Boys, listening to Fibber McGee and Molly, Benny Goodman and Bing Crosby, The Adventures of Ellery Queen on his Emerson—anything, really, to fill the hours.

  Finally, six months pregnant, she’d gone to the hospital and begged Dr. O’Grady for a job. And she’d moved into the attic.

  Now she stood in Linus’s room and drew in his scent—Old Spice, only now stewed with the boyhood smells of leather footballs and starched cotton. His letterman’s sweater hung in the closet, and on the floor, side by side, his polished loafers.

  Linus never seemed more of a mystery than the day she first sat on his patchwork quilt and ran her hand over his child inside her.

  Pennants from Notre Dame and more locally, the University of Wisconsin, hung on the wall over his bed, and on the shelf beneath the night table lay copies of Argosy Weekly, with a picture of Zorro swashbuckling in a green Spanish conquistador’s outfit and a red matador’s cape gracing the top cover.

  She lowered herself again to the quilted bedspread—the springs squealed—oh, how she’d frozen in horror the first night, realizing every movement squawked her unwelcome presence down the hallway and into his parents’ bedroom.

  She picked up the boys’ magazine, paged through it.

  “He sprawled right there, the first Tuesday of every month, when that came in the mail, and read it cover to cover.” Bertha stood in the doorway. “And then I’d find him in the backyard, the next day, acting it out. Zorro, or the Lone Ranger. He had such an imagination, that Linus.” She came in, closed his closet door. “Already I see so much of him in Sadie.”

  Bertha saw Linus in Sadie? To Esther, Sadie seemed her own unique, perfect imprint in the world. She put the magazine back and turned to find Bertha handing her a picture.

  “One of my favorites. He was two. Same as Sadie.”

  Esther stared at the picture, traced her finger along the pudgy cheeks, the twinkle in his eyes, the high and tight crew cut. She cupped her hand around the face. Yes, there, of course.

  Sadie.

  The fist tightened. Yes. Linus had deserved a woman who loved his fascination with comic book heroes and teenage sleuths. Had deserved a woman whose letters contained not the trivial, but passionate petitions to return home to her arms.

  Had deserved to watch his daughter grow up in his likeness.

  The pain came swift, sharp, grabbed her by the throat, burned tears in her eyes.

  There, finally. She closed her eyes, surrendering to it.

  “What is it?” Bertha said quietly, removing the picture.

  Esther wiped a tear from her cheek. Shook her head.

  Bertha pressed her hand to the glass of the picture. “I know. I pray every day for his safe return. And now that the war is over, perhaps my prayers have been answered.”

  I suspect this letter is quite late…

  No. In fact, it had clearly preceded the army’s cruel telegram, or even a visit from Reverend Myers. At least now she had a warning, could plot her words, her exit from their lives.

  And, until then, she would say nothing. She had no right to destroy their world, having already unraveled it enough.

  Esther turned away, looked out the window. Overhead, the sky celebrated victory with a glorious blue, not a hint of cirrus, the sun triumphant upon the day.

  Of all days, she longed for rain, tears upon the windowpane, a chill that might embed her bones and cause her to steal the quilt from his bed, inhale his scent, and let his loss hollow her.

  And, for Sadie’s sake, it could.

  She drew a breath, wiped her tears, turned to Bertha. “How long have you worked for the judge and Mrs. Hahn?”

  “They paid my passage over when I was sixteen. Mr. Hahn’s father is my father’s second cousin.”

  She saw her then, the black hair, dusted with gray, pulled tight into a bun, the sinewy, strong arms, the day dress protected by a gray apron, sensible black shoes, a woman in shadow. “You’ve worked for them since you were seventeen, haven’t you?”

  “I worked for Judge Hahn’s parents first, but when Mr. and Mrs. Hahn married, they asked if I could come and work for them. Of course I did. I practically raised Linus.”

  Something about the way she said it, with a downy fondness in her voice, made Esther pause….

  Linus’s death would rip a gash through Mrs. Hahn, through the judge, through even Bertha that nothing could repair. Their only son, lost on the battlefield.

  Only Sadie left to balm the wound.

  Bertha set the picture back on the shelf, pressed her fingers to it, as if leaving behind her affection, and Esther’s breath lodged in her lungs.

  Sadie belonged to the Hahns.

  Even if Esther left, the judge and Mrs. Hahn would never allow her to take Sadie away. Judge Hahn would see to that—whatever it took.

  “Are you all right, Esther? You look pale.”

  Esther rocked up from the bed, steadying herself on the side table, finding her voice, the one she used in the ward when talking to the soldiers. “Everything’s fine. I—I just had a long shift, and I’m rather hungry.”

  “Your porridge is downstairs. I dished it up for you to cool.”

  Esther turned to the window, her eyes blurry again. She couldn’t decide why. “Thank you.”

  Sadie and Mrs. Hahn skipped up the walk, their hands swinging between them.

  “Are you sure there is nothing wrong?”

  Esther’s fist curled around the letters in her pocket. Maybe he wasn’t dead. After all, they hadn’t received a telegram. Not even an MIA…

  She closed her eyes, hearing the door squeal downstairs.

  “Mama!”

  No one had to know. Until they received an official telegram, no one needed to know.

  There’d been enough desperation for one day.

  CHAPTER 3

  May 1945

  Green Lake, Wisconsin

  Dear Miss Lange,

  I am not sure how to answer your question. Obviously, I could begin with the facts. I believe he may have shattered all the bones in his leg, including the thigh bone or femur and both bones below the knee, the fibula and tibia. I worried about the blood flow to his foot, due to the cyanotic color. I also feared that he might have at numerous broken ribs, due to the instability of his chest. He also had an open wound that extended into the chest cavity. I did my best to seal it. Because of the darkness, I was unable to determine further bruising or swelling on his body. I also believe he may have had a concussion, because at points he lost coherency and reverted to his childhood as I talked with him.

  As to how his injuries occurre
d, I cannot accurately ascertain. As I mentioned in my previous letter, I came upon him quite unexpectedly, assigned instead to assist two other solders in the same location. When I discovered his wounds, of course I attended them after determining the other two solders under my care had been sufficiently tended. I can only guess at the circumstances that wounded him.

  The German army had fortified the Seigfried Line, the southern flank of Field Marshall von Rundstedt’s stronghold. Admittedly, it seemed an impregnable defense, located beyond the Our and Sauer Rivers, now torrent with the spring thaw. I remember the night of February tenth, when the attack commenced, an icy rain dripped through the coniferous forest and down the back of my coat. I worried my medic pack might be saturated.

  Then, the German line exploded. The 80th Infantry coordinated their attack to light up the pillboxes that fortified the steep incline from the rivers, and in the eerie glow of the flames, I could see the infantry charging up through the rocks, hitting the dirt as screaming meemies, tore open the forest, churned up the ground. Assault boats swamped in the river, and the German line littered the onslaught with artillery and machine gun fire. The world turned to fire, despite the hounding drizzle.

  My world, then, became a blur of dodging bullets, pulling the wounded to safety, assessing them through triage, dressing their wounds, only to repeat this, hour upon hour.

  The 80th broke through the Seigfried line sometime that night and pressed forward through Wallendorf, in house-to-house, hand-to-hand combat. It was in the middle of this desperate hour that I found myself in Linus’s company.

  To be sure, I didn’t care for his nationality. Only knew that, after hours of dodging mines and mortars, chewing dirt, the rain and blood seeping through to my skin, my ears numb with the thunder of artillery and the moans of my compatriots, I hated this war.

  I still hate it. With everything inside me, I long for the hot Iowa sun on my face, the earthy lure of freshly turned soil. The melody of the breeze over the fields.

  As to your other question—did Linus speak of you in his fading hours? You must know that talking with such injuries as I detailed was difficult. However, he did talk of Roosevelt and his love for his family, how he missed fishing in the Baraboo River. He mentioned someone named Bertha, for whom I believe he holds great affection. He spoke of her in his delirium, those incoherent moments when he believed himself a child. And, when he cried—perhaps you shouldn’t know his weakness, but the truth is, too many men cry when peering at their final hours—he called out for her. He spoke of others, although their names began to blur as the night progressed.

  I can also assure you of the great depth of emotion in his tone when he asked me to give you his note. I can only imagine you are a childhood sweetheart, one perhaps whom he had forgotten until the war. Or maybe you are a cousin. I myself have fond affection for my cousin Shelby in Mason, Iowa, with whom I once accidentally burned down my uncle’s hay barn.

  I wish I could deliver a happier account to you. I know your friend must be greatly missed, and I am happy to answer any further inquiries, although I confess, I try to revisit that night as rarely as possible.

  Best,

  Peter Hess

  Medic

  Glenn Miller’s “Little Brown Jug” bee-bopped into the night as Esther opened the doors to the Germania building-turned USO Hall off Main Street. A Red Cross VICTORY! banner hung across the back of the hall, over the community band ensemble—a trombone, drums, trumpeter, and bass player—including, much to her surprise, Dr. O’Grady on the saxophone. Ladies dressed in v-necked swing dresses, a few with real stockings instead of the line drawn up the back of their legs, and men in uniforms lindy-hopped around the wooden dance floor.

  The room pulsed with a cheer that no longer felt manufactured. Indeed, the entire country seemed to be rejoicing, the Ladies’ Auxiliary wild with planning the Fourth of July pie social and parade. Mrs. Hahn nearly wore a hole in the kitchen floor linoleum next to her telephone.

  Esther hung her trench coat on the racks by the door then, glancing into the mirror, fixed her hair back into its snood and pressed her hands to her cheeks. Her bones seemed to protrude even more and shadows hung, traitorous under her eyes.

  “There you are!” Caroline bumped up next to her, rolled out a shade of siren red lipstick, smoothed it over her lips. She seemed brighter than usual tonight, her creamy brown hair parted Veronica-Lake style, pincurled into waves, and she wore a floral wrap dress that restored what remained of her figure, as bombshell as she could manage.

  Caroline drew in a long breath. “Tonight, I’m going to dance.”

  “Indeed. Where did all these service men come from?” The soldiers milled around the punch table, some seated at tables, most of them gaunt, wounds in their eyes. But they tapped their feet, eyeing the women who’d dressed their best for their heroes.

  “It’s a victory party.” Caroline stepped back, surveyed Esther. “Why are you wearing your uniform?”

  “I have a shift at eleven and I didn’t want to go home to change.”

  “Horsefeathers. You don’t want the judge and the Mrs. to know you’re here.”

  Esther pressed her lips together.

  Caroline turned her to the dance floor, hooked her arm around Esther’s. “You have to tell them, you know. You can’t keep Linus’s letter a secret. It’s been two weeks.”

  “I’m waiting for a telegram.”

  “What if he’s lost—what if they never find his body?”

  It seemed a betrayal to speak of him without so much as a spark of warmth. She lowered her voice. “Then they’ll eventually declare him dead.”

  Caroline rounded on her. “Are you kidding me? That could take years. They’re still trying to locate missing soldiers from the Great War. You’ll wait for decades in limbo, locked in their attic, waiting for Linus to be declared dead!”

  “Keep your voice down. I don’t think the entire town heard you.”

  Caroline narrowed her eyes. “You don’t want to tell them.”

  Esther met her narrowed eyes with her own. Then looked away.

  “Why not?”

  “Because as soon as they find out that Linus is gone, they’ll throw me out. I need time.”

  “Come and live with me. There’s room in the boardinghouse.”

  “I need to go farther than that. If they find me, they’ll come after Sadie.” She said it softly, but the words still made Caroline clamp her mouth shut, as good as a slap.

  “They wouldn’t.”

  “They would. How many times have you told me you wished you and Wayne hadn’t waited, that you’d gotten pregnant with Wayne’s child so you’d have something of him? Sadie is all they have of Linus. Of course they’d keep her. And why not, I hardly blame them.”

  “She’s your daughter.”

  “Yes. And she’s Linus’s daughter. And their granddaughter.”

  “Which means you’re going to spend the rest of your life locked up in their attic?”

  Esther closed her eyes. “I didn’t come here to fight with you. I wanted to show you this.”

  She reached into her jacket, pulled out the aerogram then handed it over to Caroline.

  She took it, read the address. “It’s from him.”

  “I just got it.” Esther ran her slick hands down her hips, drying them. “Today. I got it today.”

  Caroline had already opened it and was scanning it. “I can’t believe you wrote to this GI.”

  “I just thought that maybe if I knew what Linus was thinking… Maybe he didn’t love me either. Maybe…”

  Caroline held up her hand, cutting off Esther’s words, her eyes glued to the page.

  Over Caroline’s shoulder, Esther noticed two wide-shouldered servicemen eyeballing them from their café table. “Uh, I think I’ll have some punch.”

  She shuffled Caroline—still caught up in the letter—to the punch table. Rosemary poured her punch, handed her the cup, her smile stiffening, not even bothering to h
ide her resentment. And why not? Rosemary had more hours, more seniority, and yet, more often than not the doctors chose Esther as their surgical nurse.

  Still, something about her—perhaps her too-bright smile—moved a place inside Esther. She would have liked to have made friends with the redheaded nurse.

  Now, Esther ignored Rosemary and guided Caroline to a table.

  The men had turned away, perhaps watching them in their periphery. The band started in on “Don’t Sit under the Apple Tree.”

  “He doesn’t even mention Sadie. What kind of man doesn’t mention his daughter on his—” Thankfully she cut off the rest of her words, although Esther could guess “deathbed.” Caroline put the letter down, shook her head, those brown eyes so wide that Esther wanted to hug her. “And who are you?”

  “I don’t know. The friend. The cousin. You tell me.” She leaned forward, taking Caroline’s hand in hers, crushing the letter. “But don’t you see—maybe he didn’t love me! Maybe he thought back to that night and cringed too. I don’t know, I guess I was thinking that if I show this to the judge, he’ll understand the entire thing was a big mistake, and that Linus and I just… ”

  “Sinned?”

  Esther jerked. Took her hands away. “Yes. Sinned. But I can only ask their forgiveness so many times before it feels futile.”

  Caroline shook her head and folded the letter. “That’s not what I mean, Es. I know you’re sorry. And frankly, I understand.” She handed her back the letter, not meeting her eyes. “Wayne and I were terribly tempted before—well, that’s why we wanted to push up our wedding date and get married at the base.”

  “Sadie is my entire life. I won’t lose her.”

  Caroline smiled, waved to a huddle of nurses who walked in the front door. “Then show the judge the letter. You’re right, if Linus didn’t love you, then maybe they’ll stop holding on so tight.” She turned back to her. “What did his letter say?”

  “I haven’t opened it yet.”

  Caroline stared at her, words on her face that Esther had no trouble reading.