Chapter 7 - The Brother We Left Behind
“July 14, 1945. Germany.
My Clara,
In the letters I mail to you, I tell you about the beautiful rivers of Germany, and how the summer wind smells of wild chamomile. I wrote to you that my squad is preparing for our final discharge, and that we are all healthy.
But I did not tell you about Thomas.
Thomas was my sergeant, Clara. He was a rough, loud man from Philadelphia who used to chew on dry cigar stubs and tell terrible jokes just to keep us from thinking about the cold. He was the one who pulled me out of the muddy water when we landed on the beach. He was the one who shared his last dry socks with me in the Ardennes.
He died three days before the ceasefire.
We were clearing a small wooded ridge near the border. The battle was almost over, the enemy already retreating. We could hear the distant radio reports of the peace negotiations. We were laughing, talking about the first things we would eat when we got home.
Then, a sniper’s bullet cut through the pine branches.
*Thomas fell into the snow. I lunged forward, grabbing his coat, dragging him behind the trunk of a massive oak tree. I screamed for the medic, my hands pressing hard against his chest to stop the blood. But the snow was already turning red.
He looked up at me, his hazel eyes wide and glassy. He didn't speak of his home or his family. He only reached into his pocket, pulled out his silver pocket watch, and pressed it into my hand.
‘Keep it running, Artie,’ he whispered, his voice barely a breath. ‘Keep it running for me.’
And then he was gone.
I have his watch in my pack, Clara. I wind it every morning at six o'clock, just as the sun breaks through the trees. But every time I hear the steady tick-tick-tick of the gears, a wave of cold, heavy guilt washes over me. Why am I the one who gets to go home to you? Why does Thomas have to stay under the dark pines of Germany while his mother waits for a train that will never bring him back?
I cannot tell you this when I return, Clara. If I speak his name, I feel as though the dam in my heart will burst, and the dark water will drown us both. I will keep his watch in my pocket, and I will keep his memory in my soul. But I will keep his name in this tin.”*
Clara’s hands shook as she reached into the small, zipped pocket of the canvas rucksack. Her fingers searched the bottom until they brushed against a heavy, round object.
She pulled it out. It was a silver pocket watch, its surface scratched and worn, the glass face slightly cracked. She held it against her ear.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
May you like
The watch was still running. For forty years, Arthur had kept it in his drawer, winding it every single morning before he walked down to his carpentry shop. Clara had always thought it was just an heirloom he had bought at an antique market.
"Thomas," Clara whispered, her voice cracking as she looked at the silver watch. "His name was Thomas."
