“Oh, honey . . . I’m just so sorry for the two of you.”
“You never told me that story about your first boyfriend, Mother,” Grace said. “The one your father didn’t approve of.” She had been unusually quiet since Suzanne finished telling her story. “What did you say his name was?”
“Patrick,” Emma said softly. “His name was Patrick.”
“And you fell in love with him before you married my father?” Emma nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak.
“Grandma, we found a love poem by Yeats in the back of your photo album. It was addressed to you. Was it from Patrick?”
“‘How many loved . . . your beauty with love false or true,’” Emma recited, “‘But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you. . . .’ Yes, it was from him. Jeff wooed you with drawings; Patrick wooed me with poetry. You and he would have gotten along well, Suzy. You both loved the graceful sound of words.”
“Whatever happened to him after you broke up?” Suzanne asked.
A warning sounded in Emma’s mind. She knew she had to be careful what she said. “Patrick wasn’t from Bremenville. He came there to work during the war. When we decided . . . when we knew we couldn’t be together . . . he left town. It was easier that way, for both of us.”
“Did you ever see him again?” Suzanne asked, sitting on the edge of her seat. “Did he ever get married? Do you know where he is?”
Emma wondered if talking about herself would help Suzanne forget her own pain. “Yes, I know where he is,” she said slowly. “Patrick is dead.” Tears pressed against Emma’s eyes, even after all these years.
“How? When? What did he die from?”
“What difference does it make, Suzy? He was the only man I ever loved . . . and now he’s gone. We’ll never get a second chance.”
Grace set down her coffee mug and leaned forward. “You mean you never loved my father? Not even a little bit?”
Emma saw the wounded look in Grace’s eyes and was reminded again of how her own mistakes had hurt the people she loved. “I tried to love Karl, for Mama’s and Papa’s sakes,” she said. “I thought our love would grow over time. But Karl never offered me enough of himself to love. And even if he had, it never could have measured up to what Patrick and I once had. You’ll never love another man, Suzanne, the way you once loved Jeff. You might meet someone else, you might even marry again someday, but you’ll never have what you had with him. Love like that comes only once in a lifetime.”
The lights of the neighboring houses blurred through Emma’s tears as she gazed into the past. She could almost see Patrick’s face, almost picture him the way he looked back in 1918—his smile, the laughter in his eyes. Almost. How could she make Suzanne understand what she and Jeff were throwing away?
“It has been more than sixty years,” Emma said. “Yet I would give anything to have Patrick beside me again . . . to be able to grow old with him.”
“Please tell us about him, Grandma. How did you meet? Why didn’t your father like him?”
Emma sighed. “When I think of the reasons why we didn’t marry . . . We were both children of immigrants, but I was German-Protestant, you see. And Patrick was Irish-Catholic. . . .”
TWENTY-SEVEN
* * *
Papa’s Protestant church and St. Brigit’s Catholic Church sat on opposite shores of the Squaw River, facing off like two boxers. We celebrated Reformation Day on October 31; they celebrated All Saints’ Day on November 1. We rang our church bell before Sunday services; they rang theirs before Mass. The German community never forgot how their fellow countryman, Martin Luther, had fought to reform the errors of the Catholic church. The Irish community never forgot how ā Protestant, Oliver Cromwell, had fought to annihilate their people and their religion. There was no love lost between the two faiths.
Growing up on the mostly Protestant side of the river, I viewed all Catholics as pagans. After all, didn’t they fill their churches with idols, like God’s enemies in the Bible did? Their priests wore flowing robes and spoke their strange incantations in Latin. They weren’t allowed to marry like Protestant ministers. Catholic women covered their heads when they went to church and had litters of Catholic children. Catholics ate fish on Fridays and stood in line for confession on Saturday. In our house, the very word Catholic was whispered.
Patrick didn’t grow up in Bremenville but came there to work in 1917. He was twenty years old, and I was seventeen. I met him for the first time the day the three Irish factory workers attacked my father. Patrick was the man who rescued Papa and me. One minute the bullies were holding me captive and I was scared out of my mind, and the next minute Patrick was pushing his way through the crowd, shouting at them to let us go.
Quick-tempered and quick-fisted, Patrick wasn’t afraid to brawl with any man—even if the odds were three against one—and he proved it that day. I’ll never forget how he nearly lifted one of the bullies off the ground by his shirt-front, saying, “You want to fight someone, Kevin, fight me, not a harmless man of the cloth!” Fearing his wrath, they eventually spat out their apologies and helped Papa to his feet. “Paddy,” as they called him, inspired fear when aroused to anger. You’d have never guessed it to look at Patrick, but he had a poet’s heart. Just as swiftly as it came, his anger could dissolve into gentleness. That day, he overflowed with concern for Papa.
“You ought to see a doctor, Reverend. Let me help you.”
“Thank you, but I’ll be fine.” Papa insisted that we forget the matter and go home.
But the following afternoon, I answered a knock on the front door of the parsonage and found Patrick standing outside. He bowed slightly and removed his hat. “Good afternoon to you, miss. I’ve come to apologize again for what happened yesterday and to ask how the reverend is feeling.”
“He feels terrible. Good day.” I had made up my mind never to speak to an Irishman again. I would never forgive them for hurting my papa. I tried to close the door, but Patrick wedged his shoulder in the crack.
“Pardon me, miss, but you’re doing the same thing Liam and Kevin did. You don’t even know me, but you’re judging me because of my nationality. Surely you don’t want to be like those narrow-minded bullies now, do you?” He said it kindly, and I heard laughter in his voice. I couldn’t resist his charm.
“You’re right, I’m sorry. Come in. Papa is in his study.”
They talked alone with the door closed for twenty minutes. I hovered nearby but couldn’t hear their words. When Patrick came out again he said, “Well, I’ll be going now. Good day to you, miss.”
“Would you like something cold to drink before you leave?” His smile lit up his face. “Thanks, I believe I will.” We sat on the porch while he drank his lemonade, enjoying the weather and the nice view of the river.
When Eva and I emerged from the Red Cross canteen the next day, we found Patrick leaning against a lamppost out in front, cleaning his fingernails with a pocketknife. He straightened up and slipped the knife into his pocket when he saw us, then fell into step beside me. “Good afternoon, ladies. May I walk with you?”
“Why would you want to do that?”
“Well, for one thing, the factory will be letting out soon, and I don’t quite trust the lads to—”
“We don’t need a bodyguard,” I said stiffly.
“Don’t I know that!” he said, chuckling. “Didn’t I see you standing up to them the other day? But I’m thinking the two populations of this town could do with a bit of understanding, you see. Since you’re such a brave lass, Miss Schroder—”
“My name is Emma,” I said, warming to him. He had that effect on me. “And this is my sister Eva.”
“Well, then, Emma, perhaps you’d be willing to help me set an example for the others to follow. If they see us walking together and talking in a civilized manner, maybe they’ll see that Protestants won’t bite their heads off, after all.”
Patrick radiated zeal like a coiled spring waiting to be released. I got the impres
sion that he yearned for fun or mischief—or both. He seemed familiar to me, as if I’d known him all my life. Then I realized that I did know him—his boundless curiosity and eagerness for adventure were just like my own. In spite of my misgivings about Irish-Catholics, I liked him. We started walking through town toward the bridge.
“I know why there is animosity between our two faiths in Ireland,” he said. “But why do the German-Protestants feel the way they do about us?”
“Well, I guess because Germany is where the Protestant Reformation began. The country has been bitterly divided ever since. Papa says there was even a Catholic political party.”
“Your father is a very intriguing man.”
“He isn’t on Germany’s side at all, you know, even though he was born there. He isn’t on either side. Papa hates war. He hates any kind of fighting, in fact. That’s why he wouldn’t defend himself against those men. He believes that Jesus would want him to turn the other cheek.”
We talked easily, freely, all the way to the bridge, bouncing questions and ideas off each other, hardly pausing for breath. Eva told me later that it was like watching a lively tennis match with a dozen balls in play. From that day on, Patrick and I could say anything and everything to each other and never be misunderstood or misjudged. We parted as friends, each of us hating to go our separate way.
The friendship continued like this for several months, seeing each other once or twice a week, walking together, talking nonstop. I found myself thinking of Patrick in between times, saying to myself, I must remember to ask Patrick about that, or Wait until I tell Patrick about this. I had never been in love—I had no intention of falling in love. I only knew that the time we spent apart passed much too slowly, and the time we spent together had wings.
* * *
“Hey, Eva, let’s borrow the Metzgers’ boat and row out to Squaw Island,” I said one warm spring Saturday in 1918. I had recently celebrated my eighteenth birthday. “We’ll see if the mushrooms are out and pick a mess of them for dinner.”
Eva had her nose in a book, as usual. “Not now, Emma. I raced through my morning chores just so I could finish this book. It’s all about—”
“Never mind. I’ll go by myself.”
Squaw Island was private property, but since the owner lived in the city and rarely used the log cabin he’d built on the island, I felt free to visit as often as I liked. That day, when I saw another boat already tied to the island’s dock, I almost turned back. Then I recognized the man sitting on the end of the pier, dangling his bare feet in the water. It was Patrick.
“Ahoy, Matey!” I called out. “Catch any fish?”
Patrick laughed and turned up empty palms. “Nary a one has jumped into my lap!” He stood and reached for my oar as I drew close, pulling my boat to the dock.
“What are you doing here?” we said simultaneously, then laughed.
“I’m trespassing,” I said. “I came to hunt morels.”
His eyes widened. “You mean . . . with a gun?”
I thought he was joking, then realized he wasn’t. His puzzled expression made me laugh.
“Morels are mushrooms, city boy. Want to hunt some with me?”
“Sure. What do I have to do?”
“Follow me. I’ve been coming out to this island since I was small. I know all the best places to look. Why are you here, by the way?”
“The owner is an old family friend from the city. He said I could use his cabin anytime. I’m spending the weekend.”
“Uh, oh. You won’t have me arrested for poaching mushrooms, will you?”
“Not if you let me taste some of them. That would make me an accomplice.”
We spent a glorious afternoon together, tramping through the woods collecting a large basketful of mushrooms. Once I showed Patrick what they looked like, he was quicker at spotting them among the dead leaves than I was. He had a key to the cabin, and when we’d picked our fill, we went inside to stand side by side at the cabin’s sink. With our sleeves rolled, Patrick worked the rusty pump while I carefully rinsed the morels. After sauteing them in a cast-iron frying pan, using a little bacon Patrick had brought, we sat outside on the porch steps and ate every last one.
“Delicious!” he declared, licking his fingers. “And definitely worth going to jail for.”
“They’re much better if you use butter,” I said, laughing with my partner in crime.
It never once occurred to us that it was improper for two young people to be alone on an island, unchaperoned. If it had, neither of us would have cared. I only knew that when we finally said good-bye and I rowed back to shore, I left part of myself on the island. That night in bed, I cried.
“What’s wrong, Emma?” Eva whispered.
“I don’t know,” I said. And I didn’t. If I could have put what I felt into words, they would have been that I wanted to spend every day of my life as I had that day—with Patrick.
* * *
We met on the island the following weekend, not by prearrangement, but because we thought so much alike we both ended up there. We walked beneath the canopy of budding trees, inhaling the rich fragrance of woods and the earth. We sat on the stony beach and listened to the restless sound of the rushing river, allowing our surroundings to feed our souls. We tramped all over the island again, no longer searching for mushrooms but for music and poetry to share with each other.
When we came upon a pair of white birds in a marsh, Patrick pulled me down beside him in a clump of weeds to watch. “Look, Emma, look how they walk, how they fly! They’re God’s poetry.”
“I think they must be herons or egrets,” I whispered. “And they’re building a nest. Geese mate for life—I wonder if these birds do too?” As we watched in silent awe, Patrick reached for my hand and clasped it in his own as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Your hands are cold, Emma . . . do you want my jacket?”
“I’m not cold, just my hands.” He cupped them in his and lifted them to his face, breathing on them to warm them. From that first time he took my hand in his, we knew that we were part of each other. We had become lost somehow, but now that we’d found each other again, we would stay together. Always. We were the same person, really—two halves of the same apple. Nature abhorred the fact that we had to row to opposite shores of the river at the end of the day.
“I’m going to the dance at the Red Cross canteen tonight,” I said as I climbed into the boat to row home. “Why don’t you meet me there.”
“All right,” he promised. “I’ll meet you there.”
Patrick held me in his arms for the first time as we danced together that night. “I should have warned you, I can’t dance,” he said.
“It doesn’t matter.” I enjoyed the warmth of his arms around me. “Just hold me close and pretend that you do.”
“Is that all there is to it?” he grinned. “That’s easy.”
For the remainder of the night, I turned all the other boys away. None of them could compare with Patrick. He was like a shining beacon that blotted out all the lesser suns around him. I needed his warmth, his light, to live. He also made me laugh. He may have been an Irish poet, but he was as full of fun and as restless for adventure as I was. The music and the laughter that rocked the canteen dissolved into the background as we danced together or sat at a table talking. We were causing a minor scandal—Protestant and Catholic holding hands—but we might have been alone in the woods for all we cared.
Late in the evening, while Eva danced with a boy from Papa’s church, Patrick and I slipped outside. The music grew fainter, the night sounds louder, as he led me to a shadowy lane behind the building. Then, holding me very close, Patrick kissed me for the first time. When our lips had to part again, I cried.
He didn’t need to ask the reason for my tears. He looked into my eyes and wiped my tears with his thumb and said, “I know, Emma . . . I know.”
The next day the sky fell. Papa summoned me into his study after the Sunday
services. All morning I had wandered around in a fog of joy, thinking of Patrick as I sat in church, recalling his kiss as I helped Mama prepare chicken and dumplings for Sunday dinner. But the sight of Papa in his clerical collar, seated stiffly behind his desk, gesturing for me to sit in the chair facing him jolted me like a bucket of cold water. I perched nervously on the very edge of the seat, waiting.
“Emma, I’ve been told by several concerned people from our congregation that at the dance last night . . . that your behavior . . . that you behaved indecently.”
My heart pounded faster. “I’m surprised that you, of all people, would listen to gossip, Papa.”
“People tell me all sorts of things, Liebchen,” His voice was gentle but firm. “It’s my policy not to believe any of it unless I have proof that it is true. I’m asking you for the truth.”
I lifted my chin, trying to sound braver than I felt. “I don’t think I acted indecently.” The peaceful tranquility of Papa’s study did nothing to quiet my growing uneasiness. My eyes darted restlessly around the room, taking in all of Papa’s neatly stacked books and papers. He waited until I met his gaze.
“Then, it isn’t true that you spent the entire evening dancing with a young man from St. Brigit’s Parish? That you turned away all the young men from our own church?”
“How is that indecent? Don’t I have a right to dance with whomever I want to?” I was skirting dangerously close to disrespect. Papa’s mouth formed a grim line.
“I was told that you openly held hands with this fellow all evening. And that you were seen together . . . kissing . . . behind the building.”