War-and-Holocaust

It was a hot day when he came home. Our farm was sweating under the Mississippi sun, even though it was only May, and I was out feeding the chickens. It’s my job, being ten and the youngest of three. The war was over, I’d heard. All the newspapers were proclaiming that the Nazis were defeated. Of course, I was happy, but after a while the effect wore off. Mama was cleaning the house and singing. That’s what she does when she is glad. I could guess why, having been told joyfully something about my father coming home. Still, it was such a surprise when he actually did. I had only vague memories of him, having been six when he got drafted. My last image of him, before he drove away, was of him standing on our porch, staring blankly at a photo of Mama. I remember it had always been his favorite picture. In it my mother is standing in our overgrown garden, holding a tomato. He said she looked beautiful standing there. I remember when we took the picture with the family camera. My father was so happy that day. He was always happy. That was the main thing I remembered of him. I also could picture him, when I thought really hard. He had short, curly, black hair, a rosy face, and dark green eyes. He always used to say that we were alike as two peas in a pod, so I supposed we were, but our mirror had been shattered a year ago and somehow we still hadn’t replaced it. “Maggie!” an excited shriek sounded, “Maggie, he’s here!” The meaning of those words took a moment to register, but then I dashed inside the house. My sisters, Kathy and Linda, were already there. “Come on, we have to get washed up!” tittered Kathy. We all tore upstairs. I washed my face and hands, brushed my hair and put on a clean dress. Kathy and Linda were already scurrying downstairs, so I hastened after them. We all met at the landing. Kathy, one year older, and Linda, two, did not remember our father much better than I and we all exchanged fearful glances before walking out to meet him. We hurried down the driveway and there he was. He was hugging Mama and Mama was crying and laughing. We all slowed our pace. Kathy was chewing her tongue, a habit she had when she was anxious. Just then Mama spotted us. “Maggie, Kathy, Linda, it’s your father, it’s your papa come home!” she cried. “Maggie, Kathy, Linda, it’s your father it’s your papa come home!” she cried Papa—the word sounded strange. “Papa” looked our way with a grin; he was a changed man. As we got closer we could see that, despite his grin, his eyes were haunted and sad, his face taut, his body thin. We smiled uncertainly back. He opened his arms wide and we ran to them, not knowing what to say. He hugged us tight, as if to anchor himself to something. At last Papa let us go. He held us at arm’s length and scanned our faces. “Maggie, Kathy, Linda,” he murmured, and then his face grew glad once more, “is there anything to eat? I must say, I can’t recommend army food. I got some pork and potatoes for 20 cents when we arrived, but otherwise I haven’t had anything.” My mother, glowing, hustled us all into the house. “Maggie, Kathy, get some coffee ready and Linda, will you be a dear and get out the canned peas, the fresh ones aren’t ripe yet . . . oh, and see if there is any sugar left. When will this rationing stop?” Mama, Linda and Kathy sat down in their customary seats, but Papa was sitting in mine! Didn’t he remember that he sat to the right of me? I glared at his back, but sat down in his seat instead. The meal was a quiet one. Mama tried to keep the conversation going, but after a while, talk withered. Soon, silence presided at the table. Papa ate hungrily, his manners cruder than I remembered, and then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Mama immediately jumped to her feet. “Oh William, what was I thinking? You must be tired after such a long journey. Come, the bed is made up, I’ll awaken you for dinner.” Papa opened his eyes and allowed himself to be led upstairs, without saying a word. Kathy, Linda and I were holding a conference in the pigsty. “He seems so changed,” said Linda. “I know—I don’t know what to say to him anymore,” whispered Kathy. “He’s a stranger,” I said under my breath. No one heard. “But Mama’s happy, so we must be kind to him—and he is our papa,” proclaimed Linda dutifully. We all nodded, and that signified the end of our meeting because Linda was the oldest and usually got the last word. The next day, I woke up at three o’clock in the morning. I had a vague feeling that something exciting had happened the day before, but it took me a moment before I realized what it was. I shot up and got out of bed, careful not to wake my sisters, slumbering beside me. All I knew was I wanted to get outside, away from the stranger who was boarding free in our house. “I know where I’ll go,” I said to myself, “to the chicken coop!” The chicken coop was where I always went when I was upset. The quiet breathing and clucking of the birds soothed me. I slipped swiftly down the stairs and out the door, still in my nightgown. It was still dark outside and the fresh air greeted my nostrils with a pleasant tang. I walked down the path to the coop, glad to be alone, when out of the blue there formed a shape. As I got closer I could see it was