sirens didn’t stop, she’d jump right out of her skin. Isaac promised her that he’d be safe. He wrote from France to say he loved what he was doing and there was no cause for worry. His job was exciting and important. He’d pick up the wounded from a dressing station that was way behind the lines and drive at terrific speeds over country roads to the hospital in Verdun. The dressing station itself was supposed to be a safety zone. It had a big red cross on the roof, the international sign for hospital. Instead, the Germans used it as a target and bombed it from the air, just as Isaac and another driver were loading a casualty.
The bus was lurching forward but her heart was beating fast and her underarms were slippery with perspiration. She was going to be late for the breakfast. And she’d forgotten all about the Gold Star Mothers badge! She found the velvet box in her needlepoint handbag and opened the top. She’d pasted Isaac’s military portrait on the inside cover so she could see him whenever she opened it. His hair was so short and plastered down and
parted neatly
, for the first time in his life. His smooth young face was half turned away so the eyes were looking back at her, gently sharing the sadness of their separation.
A loud buzzer sounded inside the bus and Minnie flinched. The young woman had pulled the cord.
“Your stop is next,” she told Minnie.
Minnie stood and hastily gathered her things, unaware that her fellow rider had glimpsed the soldier as he went back inside his box, and watched her pin the red, white, and blue badge on her dress. Minnie had all she could do to hang on to a strap as well as the cardboard suitcase and purse. When the bus jerked to a halt and the doors swung open, the young musician turned her face up to Minnie, who was swaying over her, and whispered shyly, “I’m sorry about your son.
Megn Got treystn du tsvishn der aveylim
.”
Minnie’s eyes were smarting. The Yiddish words
—May God consoleyou among the mourners
—were from the old, old Hebrew, said to mourners in order to reassure them that God will take responsibility for their consolation. The rabbi who came from Bangor when Isaac died told them that when you grieve, you are not alone. You are with God and everybody else who grieves throughout time. Minnie had stopped believing in that god, but she knew a miracle when she saw one.
And here was another: people were lined up behind her, politely waiting for the Gold Star Mother to be the first one off the bus. The young musician looked embarrassed, as if she were the reason for this alarming pause in the pulse of New York. She seemed unsure of what she’d said—if she had said it right, or if maybe it would have been better not to have said anything at all. Minnie let go of the strap and got her balance. She reached down with one hand and rested it tenderly on the woman’s head—on the hat, actually—as if she had been one of her children; as if she were giving her child a blessing.
“Here she is!” Cora Blake cried as Mrs. Minnie Seibert joined the table. She took Minnie’s hands in both of hers as if they were old friends. Their letters certainly had been intimate enough. As the first one to respond to her note of welcome, Minnie had a special place in Cora’s personal pecking order.
“How are you?” she asked. “How was the trip?”
“Tiring,” Minnie said.
“And your husband?”
“We’re still married,” Minnie said wryly.
“Did he understand?”
“All I can say is—I’m here.”
Cora smiled and touched her arm. “You’ll be glad. You’ll see.”
Minnie looked around. They were in the Dutch Room, a dining hall set aside by the Hotel Commodore for the pilgrims, a hodgepodge of ugly green chairs set around dozens of tables filled with several hundred chattering females making a din louder than the traffic in the street. She noticed there were Christian angels painted on the ceiling … but what else was new?
Still
The bus was lurching forward but her heart was beating fast and her underarms were slippery with perspiration. She was going to be late for the breakfast. And she’d forgotten all about the Gold Star Mothers badge! She found the velvet box in her needlepoint handbag and opened the top. She’d pasted Isaac’s military portrait on the inside cover so she could see him whenever she opened it. His hair was so short and plastered down and
parted neatly
, for the first time in his life. His smooth young face was half turned away so the eyes were looking back at her, gently sharing the sadness of their separation.
A loud buzzer sounded inside the bus and Minnie flinched. The young woman had pulled the cord.
“Your stop is next,” she told Minnie.
Minnie stood and hastily gathered her things, unaware that her fellow rider had glimpsed the soldier as he went back inside his box, and watched her pin the red, white, and blue badge on her dress. Minnie had all she could do to hang on to a strap as well as the cardboard suitcase and purse. When the bus jerked to a halt and the doors swung open, the young musician turned her face up to Minnie, who was swaying over her, and whispered shyly, “I’m sorry about your son.
Megn Got treystn du tsvishn der aveylim
.”
Minnie’s eyes were smarting. The Yiddish words
—May God consoleyou among the mourners
—were from the old, old Hebrew, said to mourners in order to reassure them that God will take responsibility for their consolation. The rabbi who came from Bangor when Isaac died told them that when you grieve, you are not alone. You are with God and everybody else who grieves throughout time. Minnie had stopped believing in that god, but she knew a miracle when she saw one.
And here was another: people were lined up behind her, politely waiting for the Gold Star Mother to be the first one off the bus. The young musician looked embarrassed, as if she were the reason for this alarming pause in the pulse of New York. She seemed unsure of what she’d said—if she had said it right, or if maybe it would have been better not to have said anything at all. Minnie let go of the strap and got her balance. She reached down with one hand and rested it tenderly on the woman’s head—on the hat, actually—as if she had been one of her children; as if she were giving her child a blessing.
“Here she is!” Cora Blake cried as Mrs. Minnie Seibert joined the table. She took Minnie’s hands in both of hers as if they were old friends. Their letters certainly had been intimate enough. As the first one to respond to her note of welcome, Minnie had a special place in Cora’s personal pecking order.
“How are you?” she asked. “How was the trip?”
“Tiring,” Minnie said.
“And your husband?”
“We’re still married,” Minnie said wryly.
“Did he understand?”
“All I can say is—I’m here.”
Cora smiled and touched her arm. “You’ll be glad. You’ll see.”
Minnie looked around. They were in the Dutch Room, a dining hall set aside by the Hotel Commodore for the pilgrims, a hodgepodge of ugly green chairs set around dozens of tables filled with several hundred chattering females making a din louder than the traffic in the street. She noticed there were Christian angels painted on the ceiling … but what else was new?
Still
Similar Books
