Chapter 6 - The Confession of Fear
“May 8, 1945. Reims, France.
My Clara,
The war in Europe is officially over. Today, the bells of every cathedral in France are ringing, their heavy bronze voices shaking the ancient stones. The streets are flooded with people dancing, singing, and throwing flowers. My buddies in the barracks are drinking champagne and shouting until their throats are raw. They are packing their bags, talking about the girls they will kiss and the jobs they will return to.
I should be happy, Clara. I should be dancing with them.
But tonight, as I sit in the quiet corner of the empty motor pool, a cold, heavy hand is pressing down on my chest. I am terrified.
I am terrified of going home.
*The boy who left Eugene, Oregon, in the winter of 1942 is dead, Clara. He died in the muddy water of Normandy. He was buried under the frozen snow of the Ardennes. The man who is boarding the transport ship next month is a stranger. My hands are still rough, yes, and my eyes are still the same color, but my soul is full of cracks.
I have spent three years learning how to survive in the dark. I know the sound of a mortar shell before it hits; I know how to sleep on a bed of frozen pine needles; I know how to look at a burning town without blinking. But I have forgotten how to live in the light.
I am afraid of the silence of our home, Clara. I am afraid that when the wind rumbles through the pine trees, I will throw myself onto the floorboards of our kitchen, looking for cover. I am afraid that when you look into my eyes, you will not see the boy who used to write you love poems. You will see only the smoke of the battlefield.
I write this to you because I cannot bear the thought of seeing the disappointment in your eyes when I return. I want to be your husband, Clara. I want to be the man who builds you a wooden swing under the oak tree. But right now, I am just a soldier who has forgotten how to be human.
Please, pray for me. Not to survive the war—for that is already done. Pray that I can survive the peace.”*
Clara held the yellowed paper against her chest, her shoulders shaking as she let out a soft, aching sob. The memory of Arthur’s return in the autumn of 1945 rushed back to her with a sudden, painful clarity.
May you like
She remembered how he had stepped off the train, his eyes hollow and distant. For the first two years of their marriage, he had been prone to sudden, terrifying silences. He would wake up in the middle of the night, his body drenched in cold sweat, and quietly walk out to the porch, sitting in the dark until the sun rose. Clara had tried to ask him what was wrong, but he would only shake his head, press his warm, rough hand against hers, and say, "I'm just tired, Clara. Just tired."
"Oh, Arthur," she whispered into the quiet attic, her fingers tracing his faded handwriting. "You were carrying the whole war in your chest, and you never let me help you lift it."
