Chapter 5 - The Gift That Lost Its Way
“April 4, 1945. Germany.
My Clara,
The war is winding down, they say. We have crossed into Germany, moving through towns that have been turned to rubble by our bombers. The white flags of surrender hang from every remaining window, but there is no joy in the faces of the people. Only a gray, hollow exhaustion.
*Yesterday, we cleared a small village near the Rhine. In the ruins of an old brick townhouse, I found a little girl. She was sitting alone on a pile of bricks, her face smudged with soot, wearing a woolen coat that was several sizes too large.
She looked up at me, and my breath caught in my throat. She had your eyes, Clara. Those same deep, intelligent brown eyes that look at the world with a quiet curiosity. Her name was Elsa. Her parents were gone, and she was waiting for a Red Cross truck that was supposed to arrive by evening.
I sat on the bricks next to her. I didn't speak German, and she didn't speak English, but we didn't need words. I pulled out my pocketknife and began to carve a small piece of pine wood into a toy bird for her.
As I worked, an old man—a local metal craftsman who had lost his shop—walked up to us. He looked at the little girl, then at my uniform. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, beautifully crafted brass brooch. It was shaped like a delicate, perfect snowflake, the metal polished to a warm, antique shine.
He offered it to me, pointing to my rations. He wanted to trade it for a carton of cigarettes and a bar of soap.
I didn't smoke, Clara. I had kept my tobacco rations in the bottom of my pack. I gladly handed them all to him, along with my last bar of lavender soap. I didn't buy the brooch for myself. I bought it because when I looked at the snowflake, I pictured it pinned to the collar of your green woolen coat. I pictured the way your eyes would light up when you saw it.
I wanted to give it to Elsa first, to let her hold it for the day, but the Red Cross truck arrived before I could. They bundled her into the back with the other children, her big brown eyes looking back at me through the dusty glass of the window.
I have tucked the snowflake brooch into the small inner pocket of my rucksack, Clara. I will bring it home to you. But I don't think I can ever tell you the story of how I got it. I don't want you to look at the snowflake and see the ruins of Germany or the sad eyes of a little orphan girl. I want you to look at it and see only my love.”*
Clara’s breath hitched. She dropped the letter, her hands flying to the canvas pocket on the inside of the old rucksack. Her fingers reached deep into the dusty fabric, searching the small, buttoned compartment.
Her fingernails brushed against something hard and metallic.
May you like
With shaking fingers, Clara pulled it out.
It was a small brass brooch, shaped like a delicate, intricate snowflake. It was slightly tarnished by forty years of attic dust, but as Clara held it in the palm of her hand, the warm Oregon sun caught the metal, making it glow with a brilliant, golden light.
