Chapter 17
March 14, 1938: Hitler entered Vienna and was welcomed by ecstatic crowds.
In October, England and Germany signed the Munich Pact, giving Germany permission to annex the Sudetenland in Czechoslovakia. Chamberlain returned from Munich, waved the treaty and declared, “ … peace with honor. I believe it is peace in our time.”
My father telephoned. “Chamberlain has no backbone!”
“Chamberlain is just being realistic. I’m sure he’s just facing the reality that placating Hitler, bad as he is, is better than replanting the killing fields of the Great War.”
“If evil isn’t opposed, it spreads, like cancer. The more Hitler builds his military, the more we risk another war. Churchill is right.”
As usual, I let my father have the last word, so that even if things weren’t peaceful in Europe, they would be between us. Besides, how could I possibly win an argument against such a great litigator?
A week later, Ross suffered a severe knee injury in a football game. The next day he underwent surgery. Afterwards, the doctor told me and Sarah that Ross might limp for the rest of his life.
I looked at Sarah. “I told you I hate football.”
We went into Ross’s hospital room. Sarah held his hand.
Ross was pale. He smiled weakly. “Look at the good side.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t think the army will take me. You see Dad, in some ways I’ve become like you. What good are wars? If it wasn’t for the last one, we wouldn’t be in this mess now. I guess I’ll have to try fly fishing again. Maybe standing in a river, waving a rod back and forth, will start making sense to me. If it does, I hope I’ll never fish or cast as well as Everett. You know Dad, I think in a lot of ways I wasn’t a very good brother. I mean, I should’ve encouraged Everett to play sports with me and my friends. Maybe I did rub my ability in Everett’s face.”
“Ross, you were young. How could you know any better?”
“Dad, I want you to know, even though there were times I was jealous because you spent more time with Everett than with me, I want you to know how glad I now am you did. Now I see that spending more time with him was your way of leveling the playing field, so to speak.”
“Thank you for seeing that. I never meant to be unfair.”
April 1, 1939: The Barnharts sold an easement to New York State, giving all anglers access to Billy’s favorite pool. Frequently, Everett and I fished dry flies on the pool’s gently riffled tail. Often I thought of Billy and recalled the times we spent together, like the night I broke my ankle and he borrowed a car and took me to the hospital. Often I tried not to blame myself for his unsolved murder, but a part of me still did.
September 1, 1939: Germany invaded Poland. England and France declared war on Germany. On the Beaverkill, talk of war often drowned out the sounds of gurgling water, singing birds and rustling leaves. Would the war, anglers questioned, be as bloody as the Great War? Should we Americans turn our back on Europe and look away, no matter how evil Hitler was?
During the long winter, the opposing European armies didn’t fire a shot. Many people, therefore, said the war existed only on paper. If so, I hoped it stayed that way and was resolved peacefully.
Worried that it wouldn’t, I yearned for the opening day of trout season, for the day I could stand in the midst of nature and feel blessed by her beauty, even if the branches were bare, and the cold wind ripped down the river.
On opening day, Everett, Ross and I fished Ferdon’s Eddy. Ross whipped his new rod back and forth. The rod didn’t load. The line formed wide loops.
“Not so hard, Ross. Watch Everett.”
Ross watched for a few minutes and then cast back. The line unrolled and landed on the water behind him.
“Don’t pull your elbow back!” Everett yelled.
We fished for an hour without a take. Finally, Everett caught and released a small brown trout.
“I’m freezing,” Ross said. He waded toward the bank.
“Baby!” Everett yelled.
My legs were cold, my fingers almost numb. “Everett, I think it’s time we went home.”
“I waited all winter to fish,”
“The cold is very dangerous. It has a way of sneaking up on you, and then it could be too late. We have the whole fishing season ahead of us.”
“All right,” he muttered.
A few days later, Germany invaded Denmark and Norway. The so-called paper war became a real war.
May 10: Germany struck like lightning into France. Quickly they outflanked the “impregnable” Maginot Line, then sped north and cut off the English army at Dunkirk.
Hitler was on the verge of total victory.
How? The war was supposed to stop evil and serve a higher purpose. The Beaverkill, after all, was a battlefield of big fish killing insects and little fish. If it wasn’t for the killing, the trout would starve, the minnows would multiply and eventually devour all the plant life, then they too would starve. Yes, fish killed for good reasons. What about man? Surely it wasn’t for food. War caused hunger and disease and suffering. Is that what God wanted? Or was that what man wanted? But didn’t God create man in his own image?
To me, it seemed more like the other way around. But even if I was right, miracles still happened. Churchill somehow used the sea as a savior and evacuated his entire army from Dunkirk. But then France surrendered. England fought alone. Evil in the form of German bombs fell from the sky like rain. English cities burned; and my hope burned with them. Though I wasn’t ready to admit it to myself, deep inside I knew it was only a matter of time before America joined the war.
Suddenly Ross’s knee injury looked like a beautiful accident. Could Everett tear up his knee fly fishing?
Unfortunately, he didn’t.
December 7, 1941: Out of nowhere, seemingly, a swarm of Japanese planes bombed Pearl Harbor.
America declared war.
I walked into Everett’s room. He slept peacefully. I ran my hand through his curly, blond hair and kissed his cheek.
At least, I thought, he’s only sixteen. We have two years to win this war before he’s eighteen. Maybe I should be thankful for that. But what about all the other boys, boys who sat in my classrooms? How can I be thankful when so many of them will soon bleed into a thirsty ground?
The first boy I knew to die was John McGovern, a teammate of Ross’s. To pay my respects, I forced myself to drive to his house and park behind a long row of cars. At least I wouldn’t be the only visitor.
John’s parents seemed more drunk than sad. They served roast turkey, potato salad and warm beer. I remembered how, immediately after my mother died, I also didn’t feel sad. Shock, I told myself, was nature’s way of protecting people from terrible losses.
The next day, Everett asked if I wanted to go fishing.
“Not today Everett. Fishing just doesn’t feel right after I learned of John McGovern’s death. Everett, I want you to promise that you’ll never enlist in the army.”
“But a lot of my classmates want to fight for their country.”
“I don’t care about them! Promise me!”
“I’m not like you.”
“Like me?”
“Yes. You could’ve stood up to the Hermit, but you didn’t.”
“Fishing that stream wasn’t worth fighting for. You’re old enough to understand that now.”
“I’m old enough to understand that sometimes a person has to fight for what’s right. Didn’t you and Grandpa often talk about how evil Hitler is?”
Later I told Sarah about my argument with Everett. “Is it my fault, Sarah? How can he still not understand why I didn’t stand up to the Hermit?”
Sarah held my hand. “One day Everett will understand. Then he’ll thank you. You’ll see.”
“I hope so.”