A Tender Victory

  Mrs. Burnsdale put her gloved hands to her ears, and began to rock on the chair in the ancient movement of grief. Dr. Stevens stared at the floor, his cigar dead in his hand. He seemed ill and stricken, and Johnny went to him, concerned. “Dr. Stevens?” he asked anxiously. “Are you all right?”

  The old man said, “I’m just wondering whether God will ever forgive us, any of us, anywhere in the world. I’m not too sure, Johnny.”

  Johnny said, “Neither am I. Well, there’s just baby Emilie to talk about now. I think she spent every day of her life, until she escaped with the others, in a concentration camp, and she never learned to talk at all until I taught her. Five years old, I should judge. She has something wrong with her heart, and she may never grow up. I’ve had the best army doctors examine her. They think she was used for some experimentation by the German doctors. A guinea pig, as they say. Her blood was full of some obscure drug; it’s almost eliminated now, but her heart’s twice the size it ought to be. Dilation. She can’t sleep lying down; she has to sleep propped up on pillows. She cried only in her sleep, whimpering like a puppy. There may be a chance for her life, if she finally is convinced someone really loves her and cares for her.”

  He walked up and down, up and down, and now he wrung his hands in the way Max wrung his. “Before I could bring the children here they had to have a series of injections. The needle was brought to Emilie. She collapsed when she saw it. We thought she had died. It took oxygen, over several days, to bring her around. Only a baby, and she almost died of fright. We had to give her an anesthetic, which almost killed her, before the injections could be given. So much for Emilie.”

  He lifted his hands, let them drop. “Only five children. Think of the millions of them who died, just as these children might have died, for the same reasons. I don’t know how they were spared. I don’t even know how they got together in Salzburg. I only know they were living together, in any abandoned, bomb-shattered building they could find. I only know that they trust each other, understanding each other. And all I know now is that they’ll have to learn to trust me, and everyone else, or they’ll surely die.”

  His face was gleaming with sweat. He passed his hands distractedly through his hair. “I can’t tell them about God. Not yet. You see, it was ‘Christian’ people who did these things to them. I baptized them myself, but I didn’t explain what it was all about. If I tell them about God they’re going to have some very pertinent questions to ask, and I’m not ready to try to answer them. It’s still too much for me.”

  Mrs. Burnsdale got to her feet. She said, in her loud voice, “It’s nearly nine o’clock, and those children are still in the kitchen. You men should be ashamed of yourselves! What about their baths, and their beds?”

  She pulled off her coat, gloves, and hat, and glared at the two ministers, mumbling to herself. Then she marched out of the library.

  Johnny, anxious again, started after her. But Dr. Stevens said, “How in the name of all that’s holy did you finally get them here?”

  The young man smiled darkly. “Oh, I had some time, believe me! I had to fill out hundreds of forms. I had to sponsor them, as my foster children. I had to put up five hundred dollars apiece as bond, to the U.S. Immigration Service, that they wouldn’t become public charges here. I had only half the money, myself. But the fellows in the Army helped me. They raised the rest. And there was a lot left over, about two thousand dollars, to help me along with the kids when I got them here.”

  Dr. Stevens said, “I’m not a rich man, Johnny. Before you leave here I’m giving you a check for the children, for one thousand dollars. And I’ll help at any other time.”

  Arm in arm, they hurried to the kitchen, then paused on the threshold, incredulous. Mrs. Burnsdale had taken command. She had known shrewdly, at once, what to do. She was speaking slowly and firmly: “You, Kathy. Emilie will have her bath first, and you’ll give it to her. Then you’ll take one yourself. Kathy, I’m depending on you as my helper.”

  Kathy stood up at attention, prim, ready, and competent. To the men’s astonishment she bent her head politely at Mrs. Burnsdale and said, “Yes, Mutter.” Dr. Stevens and Johnny gaped at each other for a moment. Kathy placed her hands on Emilie’s little shoulder and said severely, “Come. Bath.” Emilie slid from her chair, obediently, staring, and Kathy gripped the infant hand. “First of all,” said Mrs. Burnsdale, “you say good night to your Papa.”

  Johnny could not believe it. Kathy was actually curtsying to him, as if remembering an old lesson. Then she was curtsying to Dr. Stevens. “Good night,” she said, in a well-bred little girl’s voice. Then she took Emilie, without any further nonsense, out of the room.

  The boys were as dumfounded as the two ministers. So, thought Dr. Stevens, it is a woman they need. The boys turned their heads slowly to the ministers, baffled. Johnny laughed. “You see, fellows, when the ladies take over you don’t ask questions.”

  Mrs. Burnsdale said, “They’re only children, and they’re going to mind me. You’re Jean, the big boy. All right, dinner’s over. You take that one—Pietro, is it? Good. You give him his bath, then take one yourself. And if you let him run around the house afterward, you’ll hear from me, young man! I’ve got a hard hand. Raised four children of my own.” She displayed a large hand under Jean’s astounded nose, and then he nodded meekly. “Yes, Maman,” he murmured. He dragged himself to his feet and seized Pietro’s arm. The little boy resisted. “Come—on,” said Jean, scowling ferociously. Pietro howled, half under his breath. But Jean dragged him from the chair, and they went out together, Pietro protesting, but not convincingly.

  Now there was Max. Mrs. Burnsdale approached him, stood by his side. He stared vacantly before him, his lips moving. “Max?” said the woman. He shivered, did not answer. “Max,” said Mrs. Burnsdale. “Say good night. To your Papa, Max. To your Papa. He never went away.”

  Max’s face remained empty, stupefied. Then Mrs. Burnsdale bent her thick body over him and kissed him on the forehead, and put her arm about his neck. He started wildly. “Papa?” he screamed. “Papa!”

  Johnny went to him. “Here is Papa, Max,” he said. He lifted Max in his arms, and the boy wound his arms about his neck, sobbing. “Papa will give Max his bath, and put him to bed,” said Johnny, and he carried the boy from the kitchen, murmuring to him.

  Mrs. Burnsdale and Dr. Stevens looked at each other for a long moment. Then she said decidedly, “You’ll have to find another housekeeper, Dr. Stevens. I’m sorry. But that young man needs a woman’s help, and where he goes I’m going too. No matter where it is. That Edith!” she added, looking at the heaps of dishes on the sink and table. “Just when I need her. But she was never any good, honestly. Well, I’ll wash the dishes when I’ve got the children safe in bed. Too bad,” she continued, on the way to the door, “that I can’t hear their prayers.”

  Dr. Stevens was alone in the huge hot kitchen. He pondered. Then he took off his coat and his tie. He found a large towel and tied it across his plump middle. He found the dishpan and soap. He began to hum to himself, his face brightening. He plunged his hands into suds, and his humming grew louder, as if some pain had eased in him.

  4

  The Reverend John Fletcher, standing on the parsonage steps in the early hot August day, surveyed his flock thoughtfully. And they surveyed him as thoughtfully, for this was the first time they had ever seen him in his clerical black. As he had hoped, the discarding of his uniform had given the children a little more confidence in him, for inevitably they had associated that uniform with the terror that had all but destroyed them.

  The clothing the UNRRA had been able to produce for them had covered them adequately, but that was the best that could be said about it. His blue eyes began to sparkle. Pretty dresses for the girls, American T shirts and blue jeans for the boys, and nice Sunday clothes! Why, in the right kind of clothing these children would be indistinguishable from American children! Johnny firmly believed that while clothes did not make the
man they certainly helped him to become a man.

  Traffic streamed by, aroar with cabs and automobiles and crowds, the sun shattering back from a thousand wide, hot windows. Thank God for New York, thought Johnny. Though the children were dressed in a most peculiar fashion, standing about him on the brownstone steps, no passer-by stared at them inquisitively. People minded their business in big cities. In fact, no one had peered at the children in Rome or Paris, or even London, that most proper place. He, Johnny, had thought of buying regulation clothing for “my children” in the smaller city where they would eventually live, and then he had remembered that smaller cities are more curious, more censorious, than mighty cities. When they all arrived—somewhere—they would look just like all the other children, and who cared about the expense? God would take care of His own, thought Johnny, trying to forget the concentration camps and the executioner’s house.

  Pietro reached out his brown prehensile hand and touched Johnny’s black coat. He was very still, and he had begun to frown. “Yes, son?” asked Johnny. The boy looked up at him with those fathomless eyes of his; a spark glittered there. A spark of memory of some old priest in that forgotten village? “Padre?” murmured the little boy uncertainly. Johnny felt his heart lift. “Padre,” he replied. Pietro laughed wildly, but his hand still clutched Johnny’s coat. It was the first time he had ever touched the young minister voluntarily. His feet shuffled, as if dancing. Now Jean was studying him. His lips worked. Then he burst out, triumphantly, “Abbé! Abbé!” “Abbé!” answered Johnny, and to himself he said, “Thank You, Father.” He glanced hopefully at Max, but Max was like a dreaming statue of a homeless boy. Little Emilie, so pale and pretty in the sunlight, with all that mass of tumbling curls down her small thin back, and her great pale-blue eyes watching the boys, clung to Kathy’s hand. Emilie was all wonder. Kathy studied Johnny, pursed up her lips, meditating. Then her round face lighted up. “Fadder!” she exclaimed triumphantly. “Fadder,” Johnny answered, nodding at her. She hugged Emilie. “Papa—Fadder,” she explained severely. Emilie looked confused. “She’s just a baby,” Johnny said. “She doesn’t know anything yet. We’ll teach her, won’t we, Kathy?”

  “Baby,” agreed Kathy. Her right hand was tightly closed about something, and Johnny knew it was Mrs. Grant’s compact. He said, “I’ll buy you a bag today, Kathy, and you’ll put the mirror in it.” He hesitated. “Why don’t you let me put it in my pocket, honey?”

  She withdrew from him, her round eyes narrowing, and she shook her head so violently that her braid swung from side to side. Some of Johnny’s hopefulness left him. His eyes turned to the big brownstone church next door, its brazen cross afire in the sun. He pondered. Was it too early to start teaching the children something? He said after a few moments, “See that? It’s a church. Let’s go in.” He knew that he would never preach there now.

  “Church?” said Jean. His cheekbones were very white, like naked bone, in the sunlight. Johnny repeated, “Church. God’s house.” He looked for some response in Jean, in Kathy. Nothing answered him but blankness. Yet, they had said “Abbé” and “Fadder.” They did not remember a church, then—any church—but only some priest who, probably a fugitive himself, had tried to give them comfort before he had died or had been dragged away. “God,” repeated Johnny anxiously. The children shook their heads at him, and, as they always did when they did not understand him, they retreated and formed a small pack together. He held out his hand to them, struggling for words. He said, “Dio? Dieu? Gott?” Four of the children, Max, Emilie, Kathy and Pietro, looked confused and uncertain. But to Johnny’s horror, Jean began to snarl, under his breath, and his face became a distortion of hatred. Ah, thought Johnny, so he remembers a little, and he remembers that there was no help anywhere, deep in the subconscious recesses of him. He said to the boy, “Not Dieu, not God, Jean, my son. Only men. They shut you away from Him.” Jean’s snarl was louder, but he blinked, and shook his head as if trying to recall something. Now the children, following Jean, their leader, began to mutter, and Johnny knew that he would never get used to that dreadful sound. He took Kathy’s hand hastily. He said to Jean, who was glaring at him with those hot and hating eyes, “Remember, Jean? You take care of the boys, Max and Pietro. You’re my oldest son. I’ll take the girls into the church, and you bring the others. Mind, now.” He gazed at Jean sternly, staring him down.

  Jean stood in silence, the yellowish-brown lock falling over his forehead. He was obdurate, and Max and Pietro stood on each side of him, just as obdurate. Then Kathy spoke up in her new schoolteacher voice, and peremptorily: “Jean—big boy. Jean bring little boys. Follow Papa and Kathy and Emilie.” Johnny turned to her in grateful surprise. She was eying the boys coldly. She was younger than Jean, but masterful in her maternal way. “Follow,” she repeated. She tugged at Emilie, and marched toward the church with determination. Johnny laughed weakly. “What can we fellows do when a woman tells us what to do?” he asked.

  Pietro giggled. Max had gained a little life. He smiled faintly. Jean glared after Kathy. “I’m oldest,” he said, and the awful light went out of his eyes. He warned Pietro and Max with a glance, seized Pietro’s hand and Max’s arm. Then he looked at Johnny again, and his eyes wandered up and down the black coat and fixed themselves on the white clerical collar. “Papa—Abbé—first,” he said.

  Well, thank You again, Father, thought Johnny, humbly. He went down the parsonage steps. Would the boys really follow? There was a silence behind him. And then, in gratitude, he heard the small feet shuffling close on his heels. Johnny waited till a clot of people passed, then hurried. The boys kept together, not glancing at the men and women who rushed by them unheedingly. They never looked at people if they could avoid it.

  Kathy drew Emilie aside as Johnny approached the big polished brown door of the church. The boys stood below on the steps. A notice had been fastened on the door. “Services every second and fourth Sunday during July and August, at 10 A.M. Communion on last Sunday.” Johnny, his hand on the doorknob, looked at the notice for several long moments, then his face darkened. So God was available in this church, His church, only on certain designated occasions, was He? He wasn’t needed except “every second and fourth Sunday during July and August—at 10 A.M.” Let a man falter in despair, or an anguished woman contemplate suicide—they’d just have to wait for the second or fourth Sunday.

  “Papa’s church?” asked Kathy, curious as to why Johnny still stood there.

  Johnny looked at the church. “Not Papa’s church, I’m afraid, dear,” he said. Nevertheless, he turned the doorknob. The door was locked. He stepped back and studied it. “Definitely not Papa’s church,” he added. He was sick at heart. He had seen so many cathedrals and churches all over Europe, and they had always been open. He had forgotten that most Protestant churches are closed except on Sundays and on special occasions. He had had only one church and congregation himself before he had become a chaplain in 1940. A little humble church—but the door had never been closed, in spite of the protests of the board and the sexton.

  He did not know what to do. He had wanted to introduce the children to a church for the first time. He was frustrated. His angry eye wandered down the avenue, then halted suddenly. In the distance was another cross against the fierce blue sky of summer. “I think,” he said, “we’ll just go around—looking for God. We might find Him somewhere.”

  He went down to the street again, the children following closely.

  “Dresses?” asked Kathy hopefully. “Shoes?” demanded Jean, pulling the boys with him.

  “First,” said Johnny, “we’ll see if God is anywhere around. There’s just the slightest possibility He is. I want you to meet Him, and the clothes will come later.”

  “Don’t want to meet God,” protested Pietro. He was becoming excited by the sights and the noise of the city. Johnny said, “Well, in a way, I don’t blame you. But I have a feeling He wants to meet you, Pietro.”

  “Max afraid of God,” s
aid Max, in his low, wandering voice. He pulled away from Jean and began to cry soundlessly. “God want to kill Max?”

  Johnny sighed. He had taken Emilie’s other hand. The children waited fearfully for his answer. Tell me what to tell them, Lord, he prayed. He said, “You know I love you, don’t you?” He looked from one small face to another. “You know I’ll always love you. Sometimes you forget, and you hurt me, right in here.” He put his hand over his heart. Max stopped crying. They all watched Johnny solemnly. “You know what it means to hurt in here. Well, that’s the way you hurt me. Do you like to hurt me?”

  Jean glanced away, embarrassed. Then he said, “The boys—don’t like—to hurt Papa.”

  He smiled at them tenderly. “Well, you do, often. You keep forgetting. I’m your papa. But who is the Papa of all of us, me as well as you? Who loves all of us, everybody in the world, in spite of all the people’s badness? Well, God! God is our Papa. The world often forgets Papa, our Father, and does wicked things, just as you do them. But I don’t forget you, and I never stop loving you. That’s the way it is with God—our Papa, our Father.”

  They listened, but they did not believe. He could see the wary flicker in their eyes. No one had helped them but this man. They doubted if anyone else ever would. So, Papa was lying to them, and if he lied to them he was not to be trusted. Fear whitened their faces.

  “I tell you what,” said Johnny. “I’ll let you meet God, and if you don’t like Him we’ll go right away. How’s that?”