From Dust and Ashes (20 page)

Michaela clenched her hands at her sides. “Peter, please.”

Peter stopped his pacing. For a second Michaela almost talked herself out of what she had to say. Then she thought about Marek and Kasia and the members of her father’s church. Her church family. She thought about her promise … and her calling.

The anxious feeling that rose in her chest reminded her of the day when, as a little girl, she’d been separated from her mother in the market. Horror had choked her heart when she realized she was following the wrong swishing blue skirt. The woman’s face was kind but not the right one. Michaela felt the same despair now, realizing she had been clinging to the wrong dream.

She winced at the confusion etched on Peter’s face. “I’m so sorry. I cannot allow us to get carried away. I can’t begin a relationship with you—anything more than friends. I’ve known all along. Deep inside I’ve always known.” She turned away from him, unable to face his look of disbelief.

Michaela wrapped her arms around her stomach. “I have to go back to Poland. My father’s church is in shambles. The families there need me. They need to hear the Word of God preached again. I want to help rebuild what has been torn down.”

Peter’s voice rose behind her. “They need you? What about your needs? You’re still weak. You’ve been through so much. You need someone to take care of you.” Peter caressed her shoulders and gently turned her to face him. “I want to be that someone.”

Michaela cringed at his tender touch. “God will take care of me. He will—”

Peter interrupted with a harsh laugh. “Just like He took care of you in the camps? Just like He took care of all those people who are now ash? I have a hard time believing that.”

Michaela placed a hand over her mouth, trying to hold back the sobs that threatened to break forth. It was no use. The emotions she’d tucked away refused to be silenced any longer. Michaela’s knees weakened.

“I’m sorry, Michaela. I’m so sorry.” His arms wrapped around her.

“It has to be this way. It has to.”

Peter helped her to the chair and eased her into the seat. He kneeled before her, and she rested her head on his broad shoulder.

“We’ll talk about this. We don’t have to make a decision now. We have time. I’m so sorry I hurried you.”

Even as the tears flowed, Michaela knew time would make no difference. What she had to do would not change. The stirring inside had confirmed God’s calling. There were people at home who needed to hear the good news of Jesus, especially now.

And even as she cried into Peter’s shoulder, Michaela knew she was making the right choice. Though she mourned the thought of leaving this wonderful man, a steady peace settled in her heart. She would return to Poland with Marek and Kasia. She would pick up where her father had left off.

Twenty-Three

JULY 28, 1945

T
he day of the wedding finally arrived. After Michaela’s decision to journey back to Poland, only one commitment kept Peter in St. Georgen. He had promised to be Josef’s best man.

Though he had worked hard at helping the Americans prepare to leave St. Georgen, every turn down every street bent his thoughts to the large yellow house. Was she considering the “what-ifs” as he was? Knowing that Michaela’s decision was a hard one didn’t make living with it any easier. His friends, who’d celebrated the fact that Scotty had finally found a girl, had remained distant after he broke the news. Peter knew they were uncertain of what to say, and he was equally uncertain about what to do. All he knew was he had to get out of this town, out of this country, off this continent.

Peter rose from his bed and wandered down the hall of the newly liberated house he shared with some of his men. Josef stood in the tiny kitchen, pressing his dress uniform. The heavy iron swished back and forth almost effortlessly, and Josef whistled a little tune. Two other GIs sat around the dining room table playing cards, drinking, and swapping war stories.

The whistling and conversations stopped when Peter entered.

Peter shook a fist in the air. “I’m going to knock you guys on the side of the head if you keep that up.” He punched Josef’s shoulder. “How would you feel if every time you entered a room it immediately fell silent?” Peter pulled up a chair. “Life goes on. I don’t want the whole world miserable just because I am.” He strained to smile, and it seemed to work. Josef resumed whistling, and the card game started up again.

“Hey, buddy,” Peter said, digging into his pocket. “Do you have a wedding band?”

Josef smirked. “Not yet. I promised Lelia we’d get one in the States. She’s not worried about it. I’ve assured her she’ll be well taken care of. My mother told me to bring home a good Jewish—” Josef stopped when he saw Peter pull a tiny ring from his pocket.

“Will this work?” With a flick of his wrist, the band of silver flipped from Peter’s fingers, landing on the ironing board.

“Scotty, no. I can’t take this.”

“What am I going to do with it?”

“But Scotty—”

Peter rose. “I won it in a poker game last week. It’s just a simple band. Really, I would consider it an honor if you used it.”

Josef held it up to the window. It glimmered in the sunlight. “I don’t know what to say.” He slid it on his smallest finger. “It’s so tiny. It’s sure to fit Lelia.”

Peter patted Josef’s shoulder. “See you at the church.”

Josef’s smile broadened. “Yeah.”

The church
, Peter thought. The place where he and Michaela had spent that wonderful afternoon. The chapel where Michaela would be standing next to Lelia, and he next to Josef. It was the last place Peter wanted to be. But he had no choice. He’d go, and laugh, and dance. And behind his happy facade, he’d ache at the sight of her.

“There, now, let me get a good look at you.” Michaela took a step back and held Lelia at arm’s length. “Good gracious, you look like one of those American film stars.”

Michaela’s days had been consumed with catching up with Marek and Kasia and in helping Lelia with her wedding preparations. It was hard to believe the day had arrived, the church was filled, and Lelia would soon be married.

Lelia blushed. She was seventeen, but she looked twelve. Her face was still too gaunt, her hair too short, but those things were insignificant compared to the gleam in the young woman’s eyes.

“Helene did a fine job helping you with that dress,” Michaela said, taking in the light-yellow checkered pattern with bows at the bodice and waist.

“Did you see the shoes?” Lelia asked. “One of Josef’s friends brought them as a gift. A little tissue in the toes and they fit fine.” Lelia lifted her foot and pointed her toe to give Michaela a better view.

“White leather. They’re beautiful.” Michaela pulled Lelia into an embrace. She hoped the emotions building in her chest would stay hidden until she could be alone. Lelia had been her constant companion for almost all of the past four years. Caring for the girl had kept her going.

“Your parents would be so proud,” Michaela said in Polish, touching Lelia’s cheek.

“You think they would be pleased?”

“Tak jest
, of course. You found a nice Jewish boy who loves you and will take care of you. And you’re having a traditional wedding besides. They would be very happy.”

“I’d give anything if they could be here. To see them, hear them—”

“A gezunt ahf dein kop,”
Michaela said in Yiddish.

“Good health to you too,” Lelia said.

Michaela patted Lelia’s cheek. “I’m sure the rabbi will have a more appropriate prayer, but that’s the only Yiddish I remember.”

Lelia laughed. “Health is good,” she said. “Good indeed.”

Helene burst into the room. Her blonde hair was swept up in a twist at the nape of her neck. Her face glowed. “You should see it out there. The church is packed. And such excitement. After so much pain, a real wedding to celebrate!” She took a deep breath. “It was a good idea sending word to the DP camp.”

Helene produced two white gardenias. She tucked one behind each of Lelia’s ears. “A finishing touch.”

A man’s voice came from the doorway. “Greta Garbo, watch out!”

Michaela whirled around and spotted Peter. Josef stood at his side, transfixed and speechless.

“I was wondering if you were here.” Helene gave Peter a one-armed hug. “We’ve missed you.”

Michaela repositioned the flowers in Lelia’s hair.

Josef approached tenderly. “Are you ready?”

Lelia nodded and slipped her arm into his.

“I’d better check on Papa and the baby.” Helene fled the room in the direction of the sanctuary.

Michaela turned to Peter. “We should get out there.”

“You look incredible,” he said in a hushed tone. “There’s just something about you—”

“Thank you.” Michaela smoothed her sky-blue dress with her palms. “The dress is Helene’s. She’s letting me borrow it.”

“Blue is your color.”

Michaela felt as if she could read a story in Peter’s eyes. A longing for love and an uncertainty of where to find it. She quickly looked away. “It’s almost time for th
e Aufruf.”

“Aufruf?”

“The Shabbat, the holy prayer offered before the wedding. Josef and Lelia will bless God for the reading of the Torah, and then the guests will throw candy to wish the couple a sweet life together.”

“Ouch,” Peter said.

Michaela squeezed his arm. “They’re supposed to throw gently. And besides, Josef will use his
tallith
, or scarf, to protect his bride.”

They paused at the door to the sanctuary. “You know a lot about their customs,” Peter said.

Michaela chuckled. “I’ve been to a few Jewish weddings. And Lelia has been my life for many years.”

When they entered the sanctuary, Michaela was pleased to see the
cbuppah
set up and the rabbi—who not long ago had been a prisoner himself—standing under it.

Peter leaned close to her ear. “This is so different from what I’m used to,” he confessed.

A young boy started playing a violin before Michaela could answer. She focused her attention on the bride and groom. Lelia and Josef would soon be bound together as man and wife. But Michaela knew a different path awaited her.

Lelia and Josef passed under the chuppah. With slow steps Michaela walked on Lelia’s left side and Peter on Josef’s right. Marek and Kasia watched from the front row.

The violinist’s bow moved gracefully over the strings as if it had a mind of its own. It played a tune of celebration, but the melody also held a note of mourning.
Yes, this is a time to rejoice—
the music seemed to
say—but let us not forgot all who are gone
.

Michaela also felt a deep mourning in her soul. Not only was she turning Lelia over to another’s hands, but she was also doing the same for herself.

I will follow
, her heart cried to God.
Lead me, and I’ll follow
.

The ceremony continued, each part taking on a deep meaning of faith, love, and commitment. And as Michaela watched her friends’ union, a private ceremony seemed to be taking place within her soul.

Before she knew it, Lelia and Josef were pronounced husband and wife, and the celebration and dancing began. The
hora
and other Jewish dances were taught to all, and soon the lawn outside the church was filled with bodies in motion.

During one dance, Michaela found herself face-to-face with Peter. He bowed, and she curtsied in return. Their hands clasped and released; then they moved on to other partners. When they were reunited, Michaela murmured a quick thanks, then released her hands with a flourish as the dance ended. She was free. She felt it deep inside. Free from her commitment here. Free to return to her homeland.

While the music played, Michaela scanned the room in search of Marek and Kasia. The time to plan their journey had arrived. Poland was calling her home.

Peter picked an empty glass bottle off the street and threw it against a low brick wall. It shattered into a flurry of pieces. Shards flew through the air like the wedding candy had done only hours before. Someone shouted from behind, but Peter didn’t care. If he were a drinking man, Peter knew he’d find comfort in a bottle such as the one he’d just thrown. But there’d be no comfort in a bottle. No comfort anywhere.

Music poured from the courtyard behind him. It filled the streets with song. Peter kicked at a clump of grass that grew through the sidewalk.
Why can’t I find that kind of love?
He swore under his breath.
What’s wrong with me?

Peter stared at the celestial canopy above. How many nights over the past year had he counted those stars? In silent foxholes with ears attuned to the slightest sound, he’d counted them and had considered the God who put them there.

He pressed his fists deeper into his trouser pockets. The sky didn’t even seem right. Nothing was right in this new world of light and color, civilians and soldiers. In the former land of blackout curtains and open fields, the sky seemed closer, more real. Too much light flooded this new world. It somehow seemed foreign. False light had filled his soul with false hope.

Peter passed a local tavern, and English voices mixed with the music behind him. He pressed the palms of his hands to his ears and quickened his steps.

I have to get out of here
. At the wedding Peter had announced his plans to leave Austria. He would be permanently stationed in Germany, near Landsberg, as if “permanent” meant anything in this place. But even that was not far enough away.

The house where he was staying was just ahead. Peter charged past a buddy who was smoking a cigarette on the porch. In his room, he flung open the door to the wardrobe, where his clothes hung neatly. Peter yanked his army bag from beneath his bed. Clothes, canisters of film, letters from home, other mementos. Into the bag they went.

Peter paused when he came to a small stack of photographs. In one, three smiling female faces peered into the camera. In another, a small girl was picking flowers in a yard while her mother hung laundry in the background.
Anika. Helene
. He murmured their names, then returned the photos to the stack.

The final picture in his hand was worn around the edges and creased from being carried around in his jacket pocket. Soft black curls framed Michaela’s face. A white ribbon was tied in her hair. Her clothes were ill-fitting but clean. Her eyes were filled with happiness. Peter shoved it in with the rest and pulled the cords on the top of his bag, tying it closed.

When he tramped back outside, his roommate called to him. “Hey! Where you heading off to at this hour?”

“Anywhere that offers a ride,” Peter said, stalking through the gate and down the street. “Tell Josef I’ll write him in a few days,” he called back as an afterthought.

The image of Josef laughing and dancing with his bride, her arms intertwined with his, flashed through his thoughts. Peter’s long stride became a jog.