War Bride A Biographical Novel Based on the life of Anna Resch Larsen By Linda Larsen Larsen i Table of Contents Thesis Studies and Support Material ....................................................................................................... ii Weber State University Masters of Arts in English Program Experience .................................................. iii Genesis and Evolution (Biography vs. Biographical Fiction) ............................................................................ v Challenges ............................................................................................................................................................................. vi Story Structure ................................................................................................................................................................. viii Where From Here? ............................................................................................................................................................. x Directed Readings Summary ......................................................................................................................................... xi Directed Readings Bibliography ............................................................................................................................... xii Related Readings and Research Bibliography .................................................................................................... xiii War Bride, A Biography Based on the Life of Anna Resch Larsen ................................................ xv Introduction ........................................................................................................................................................................... xvi A Seat at the Table – Layton, Utah, May, 2007 ...................................................................................................... 1 Fashing Gift – Zwiesel, Germany, November 11, 1919 ....................................................................................... 6 A Family Formed – Debrnik, Germany, Spring 1924 .......................................................................................... 9 Poison – Bayrischer Wald, Germany, Spring 1931 ............................................................................................ 13 Dust - Ephraim, Utah, June 1931 ............................................................................................................................... 19 Silence Falls - Zwiesel, Germany, Thersiental, Germany 1935 .................................................................... 24 Alma’s Son – Ephraim, Utah, Summer 1935 ......................................................................................................... 32 The Games – Munich, Germany, Spring 1936 ...................................................................................................... 38 Horizons – Ephraim, Utah, Fall 1936 ...................................................................................................................... 41 Knowing Pain – Regenhut, Germany, Winter 1937 .......................................................................................... 46 Remnant – Zwiesel, Germany, July 1940 ............................................................................................................... 47 Delores – Ephraim, Utah, September 11, 1941 ................................................................................................... 54 Winter Train – Eastern Germany, December 1942 .......................................................................................... 55 Wings – Zwiesel, Germany, Fall 1946 ...................................................................................................................... 64 Larsen ii Thesis Studies and Support Material Larsen iii Weber State University Masters of Arts in English Program Experience I can’t address my masters experience without telling a little about myself. Originally an accounting major, my clothes simply didn’t fit after attending fiction writing classes from Dr. Allred and literature classes from Dr. Wiese. The fact that I had, and probably would, continue to earn a living with numbers did little to deter my passion for language. I have always loved to write. The stimulation and personal competition for me was like gasoline on a fire. Thus, I became an English major, a writing lab tutor, Metaphor contributor and editor, and a presenter at early versions of the Undergrad Literature Conference. My time as a non-student at the university, between 1995 and 2006 did little to curb my enthusiasm and creative tendencies, so I was one of the first to enroll in Weber’s Masters of English Program. Returning to Weber State ten years after my undergraduate work was more than a little exciting. I have always been an advocate for offering higher tier English courses at Weber, largely because my undergraduate experience was such a positive one and the fact that the faculty talent for masters level courses was evident. To my great delight, rather than being a stodgy setting reviewing the dusty dictates of old scholars and the often banal contemporary offerings, I was afforded the opportunity to ply my avocation (writing) and let my creativity and critical thinking romp in wonderfully fertile settings. While my research capabilities were amped up, the products of my research was unencumbered, for the most part. I followed style and citation demands and produced some decent papers, but my real joy came in what I learned from the opportunity to model what I was studying and put what I had learned into a context that worked for me. As part of my study of Thomas Hardy, and with the Pre-Raphaelites, I wrote a short cycle of poems in response to their Larsen iv work, which required a firm knowledge of style and form, and let me expand and apply my poetic nature as I envisioned what their poetry might have been like had it been written today. No matter what course I was taking, there was usually a way I could apply my studies or present information in a creative way. My fascination for language found good utilization when I took Stylistics. There, I found ways of looking at texts that I hadn’t done before and even did a breakdown of my own writing style that was very useful in understanding why certain things work for me and others don’t. Some of the credits I earned towards my degree were supportive of my thesis effort. I used directed readings as a vehicle to do some of the research necessary to breathe life into my project. This too enhanced my experience and brought a different kind of studying into play. Although the subject of my thesis is one person, in order to tell the story, I felt I had to immerse myself in the times and places she lived. I created a timeline to help me keep the facts of history in line with the events Anna’s life and that added a good deal of texture to the work. It also helped as a catalyst for other questions during interviews and credibility and clarification. Since my Directed Readings course, I continued to read historical and personal accounts and fiction of WWII Germany to add depth and help with the timelines and contexts of the interviews, and to verify as much information as possible. I have included those additional readings (although it is probably not inclusive) after the directed readings list. Overall, my masters experience has been a positive and enriching experience, one that has added to my reading arsenal and strengthened my study, application, and critical thinking skills. All these things give me more tools to further whatever I tackle in the future. Larsen v Genesis and Evolution (Biography vs. Biographical Fiction) Originally, War Bride was titled Anna’s Heart and was intended to be as factual as possible. Had the project been started earlier in Anna and Slim’s lives, that may have been possible. In looking back, I’ve determined that all biography, unless the subject lives a very public and well documented life or has been an extremely honest and diligent journal writer, is, to at least some degree, fictional. There is no way to know with certainty that every little detail that adds to the reality of a story actually occurred. The best we can do as writers is to make it feel real. One of the first chapters I wrote is titled “Winter Train”. I remember when Oma (Anna) read it; the first question she asked was, “How did you know I pulled my socks up in my boots?” Of course, I didn’t know. How could I? But as I was writing about her, I was her, and I remember wearing boots in the snow and how my socks seemed to get shifted and rubbed down. Keeping socks up was just part of wearing boots, so it went into the story without my thinking about it. Writing a biography is about keeping the facts straight. Writing biographical fiction is keeping the facts straight and making it feel real by putting in details that fit. The other advantage to writing biographical fiction is that you can bend the less important or non-verifiable facts to make the story flow better. After all, the same story told by two different participants would probably have some very different aspects. As a writer, making the reader care about the characters is more important than asking about every little detail. Biographies can only be as accurate as memory. Fictional biographies can be much more. Larsen vi Challenges There have been several challenges involved with this project. First, lack of time. Oh, to sit at my computer and write all day long . . . I work full-time, teach half-time, and I have many passions that take me away from writing, so I’ve often had to utilize snatches of time here and there – not good methodology for flow and consistency. I also found myself getting so caught up in my coursework that this writing was often shelved due to literary conflicts. Still, I’m happy about how it’s worked out and often those little snatches of writing have provided little gems I could expand on later in the process. Second, putting the story together. This was a giant puzzle, and the approach changed several times in the process. I’ll elaborate on that separately. Third, no matter how much you study and look at the historical facts and recorded lives, they are other people’s facts and lives. The experience of a small town girl from Zwiesel can be very different from someone who lived in Berlin, Munich, or some other mainstream Germany city where much of the historical information is based. Consequently, finding supporting narratives to the one I was getting in my interviews, although interesting and nurturing to the project as a whole, was not accomplished. Lastly, I started this project in earnest two years ago. Anna Resch Larsen will be 90 this year. She still lives alone, still wants to feed you when you visit, and is still a wonderful and gracious hostess, but getting clarity on questions that have arisen in the process of writing her story has become increasingly difficult. No matter how many notes or how many hours of interviews you have to work with, I will always have questions for her. Some days she is very willing to talk. Others she sits silently in her own world and won’t let me in. There is always a wall about some events. This has required me to be particularly mindful of every little detail and Larsen vii shift in how she tells an event. There is most definitely a protective part of her that keeps me out, no matter how much I’ve tried to build trust and confidence. It becomes a lot like trying to connect the dots when you don’t have all the dots – you do what you can with the dots you have. After all, how does one interpret silence? Perhaps silence itself has much to say. I think I will always have questions. The silence that tells me I am missing some of the dots has been my greatest challenge. Larsen viii Story Structure There have been multiple changes to the structure of this book and it’s finally congealed with its present form: chapter title, place, and date. I originally intended to do a straight story from start to finish from Anna’s point of view and follow her life as it happened. That didn’t work out for a number of reasons. I didn’t get the information in a linear way. The events of Anna’s life do not stand alone. As I learned more about Slim, I wanted his story told as well. It seemed to me that the story would have more impact if the reader could see the contrast in living in a small town in America with living in a small town in Germany. Since that was just about all Slim and Anna had in common to begin with, I found it to be one of the most intriguing aspects of their relationship. Not only was Anna nine years older than Slim, she had certainly a great deal more life experience than he did when they met. Telling the story using place and date in the chapter titles helps the reader follow the two stories that eventually converge. So, while it is basically Anna’s story, it’s Slim’s as well. As the stories of Slim and Anna were getting fleshed out, I found Anna’s life was getting fictionalized (whether I liked it or not), I thought about having the narrator and the narrator’s story become part of the overall book. That has been a story of its own, but this was just a temptation. As I played around with the idea and wrote a little with that in mind, I realized since I was basically the narrator, I would have to re-create myself on the page or become an integral part of the story – not appealing to me, and I felt a fictional narrator would take the story too far afield from its biographical roots. Additionally, some of the early vignettes were written in first person and the focus later worked better in third person. This required quite a lot of changes and shifts in focus and approach, but third person seemed to give me a lot more room to fill in the blanks. Another idea Larsen ix I kicked around for a while was telling a “framed” story. Chapter One is a result of that idea. By setting the stage in which the interviews took place, I was able to let the reader in on the relationship between Anna and me without disclosing too much, and show who Anna is today. The idea was that by showing who she is today, it would open the door to questions about who she was. It’s all questions, really. From beginning to end, from me to you to someone on the other side of the world, it’s all questions. That’s the joy of it all, of writing I mean. If even one question is answered for someone somewhere, there’s a connection, a duality of being, an understanding between lives. Larsen x Where From Here The concluding chapters are still down the road, and I’m not sure exactly how the whole story will unfold, but that’s half the fun. I’ve researched the market a little, and plan on submitting the completed manuscript (when that exists) to publishers who have done well with historical biographies. I figured I might as well start at the top. I will send query letters to the following publishers:  Simon and Shuster because they’re about the biggest and they publish Ursula Hegi and Isaac Asimov (nice contrast)  Harper Collins, because they publish Michael Crichton and Doris Lessing  Viking because of their literary history  Random House because I relate to the randomness of life  Alfred A. Knopf because they published Zusak’s The Book Thief. Any company who publishes a story narrated by Death is ok by me. Larsen xi Directed Readings Summary Linda Larsen Preface This directed reading was requested as an opportunity to earn credit towards my masters degree while doing background research for my thesis (a biographical novel to be completed by Spring 2007). Components included reading historical texts addressing German social and historical issues during the period of 1920 through 1946; a survey of literature already published with similar contexts; and conducting interviews with the principle subject of the thesis project. Methodology  Readings: Eight generalist works about social and historical issues were studied, as well as three specifically written concerning women’s issues. The contemporary works of German born author, Ursula Hegi, were also read to add depth and personal experience to the study fiction and biography of the period. Most notable among Hegi’s works: Stones from A River.  Survey Results: The contemporary novels for this era are largely Holocaust-based fiction and military themed texts. Hegi’s works, while socially and personally oriented and applicable to this thesis, focus mainly on personal and women’s issues, and less on historical contexts and their relationship to those issues, a main focus of my text. While there may (and probably are) other texts applicable to this study and research, those will not be the focus of future readings as this background has been sufficiently satisfied.  Interviews: In preparation for thesis work, many hours of interview have been conducted and transcribed, totaling 120 pages of notes currently being classified and organized. Semester Successes  Solicited members (to whom I owe a great debt already) for my thesis committee comprised of: Dr. Gordon Allred, Chair Dr. John Schweibert Dr Michael Wutz As well as valuable support and input from: Donna and Merlin Cheney (A copy of this summary will be distributed to these supporting faculty)  Compiled bibliography for future reference (see attached).  Documented key events, resulting in large chunks of useable drafts for final work.  Made decisions concerning the nature of the storytelling (framed).  Composed a rough outline of the story line and, although subject to considerable revision (attached to this summary). Larsen xii Directed Readings Bibliography Fulbrook, Mary, Ed. Twentieth-Century Germany, Politics, Culture and Society 1918-1990. London: Edward Arnold Ltd., 2001. Gellately, Robert and Nathan Stoltzfus, Ed. Social Outsiders in Nazi Germany. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2001. Gerstenberger, Katharina. Truth to Tell, German Women’s Autobiographies and Turn-of-the- Century Culture. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2000. Hegi, Ursula. Floating in my Mother’s Palm. NY: Schribner, 1990. Hegi, Ursula. Stones from the River. NY: Schribner, 1994. Hegi, Ursula. The Vision of Emma Blau. NY: Schribner, 2000. Hillman, Roger. Unsettling Scores, German Film, Music, and Ideology. Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2005. Stephenson, Jill. Women in Nazi Germany. London: Longman, 2001 Stephenson, Jill. Women in Nazi Society. NY: Harper and Row, 1975. Stern, Fritz. Dreams and Delusions, the Drama of German History. NY: Alfred A. Knopf, Inc, 1989. Wildenthal, Lora. German Women for Empire, 1884-1945. Durham & London: Duke University Press, 2001. Larsen xiii Related Readings and Research Bibliography 458th Bombardment Group. <458bg.com/crewba6gilbert.htm> Bessel, Richard. Life in the Third Reich. NY: Oxford University Press, 2001. Evans, Richard J. The Third Reich in Power (1933-1939). NY: Penguin Press, 2003. Gross, Inge E. Stanneck. Memories of World War II and Its Aftermath, Vol. I, 1940-1954. Eastsound, WA: Island in the Sky Publishing Co., 2005. Gsell, Gudrun M. A Time to Laugh, A time to Weep, History Experienced: My childhood Memories of Growing up During the Third Reich, World War II, and Foreign Military Occupations. Baltimore: Nobel House, 1998. Hunt, Irmgard A. On Hitler’s Mountain, Overcoming the Legacy of a Nazi Childhood. NY: Harper Perennial, 2005. Johnson, C. A. Nazi Terror, The Gestapo, Jews, and Ordinary Germans. NY: Basic Books, 2000. Owings, Alison. Frauen, German Women Recall the Third Reich. New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1995. Peukert, Detlev J. K. Inside Nazi Germany, conformity, Opposition, and Racism in Everyday Life. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1982. Riefenstahl, Leni. Triumph of the Will, Special Edition. DVD. Second Cavalry Association Regimental History Center. <http://history.dragoons.org> Shrier, William L. The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, A History of Nazi Germany. NY: Simon and Schuster, 1960. Straubing, Harold Elk. A Taste of War, Eyewitness Accounts of World War II. NY: Sterling Publishing Company, 1992. Larsen xiv Utah State History. <history.utah.gov> Zusak, Markus. The Book Thief. NY: Alfred A. Knopf, 2006. Larsen xv War Bride A Story of Ordinary People in Extraordinary Times Based on the Life of Anna Resch Larsen Larsen xvi Introduction The first winter of peace after World War I brought with it the birth of many German children, who spent their early years in a country under the thumb of French victors, their middle years in a state where economic turmoil made subsistence living a daily task, and their teenage years in a country run by terrorists who expected them to gladly overflow their boundaries for the glory of the Third Reich. Such a child was Anna Resch. In these pages, I attempt to convey the true life story of one German girl from the small mountain town of Zwiesel, in the Bavarian Forest, near the Czech border. Born at a time of peace between wars, she and her family understood the war raging in the hearts of a beaten people, a people who would not be defeated. Anna’s life, her loves, her losses, are an intricate filigree on the patchwork of historical events. One cannot be told without the backdrop of the other. Much has been written on the history of this period, so that is not what you’ll find here, except as it affects the story and the persons involved. Larsen War Bride 1 A Seat at the Table Layton, Utah - May, 2007 Her hands tell the story of her life: the fingers long and thin, muscled sinew moving with firm resolve; the nails, like old porcelain, chipped and stained, but steely-clean; the skin a translucent reflection of what her eyes have seen, brown-blotched with dark memories; each muscle, each tendon, each bone and joint, yes, every cell bears its own portion of her 87 years -- each lends strength and purpose to her continuance. It was only a meal, but these remarkable hands moved in reverenced rhythms, ritualed, like lighting a candle, like crossing herself, like saying a prayer. I sit and watch her from my assigned place, a chair at the kitchen table, and today, for the first time, I am not a stranger. I’d sat at this table many times, perhaps hundreds, maybe even thousands, over my thirty-plus years as a daughter-in-law. Now, it’s just the two of us in her German-flavored house; we are finally, thankfully, blessedly, able to share something we never had before. We have become friends. I ask her how she’s feeling, if it’s rained, who’s been to visit this week. She answers: “Notsobad.” “No. Justallota wind.” “The usual: Rose visits on Tuesday, Mike on Wednesday, Marianne on Thursday, and Steven on Friday. Das es allas.” These are the kind of answers I expect, the routine, the stuff we have to get out of the way before we can really talk – like the meal itself, a lot of formality and ritual preceding the meat of the visit. The table was set long before I arrived; Bavarian music plays softly in the background, the meal has been planned, salads made, meat carefully portioned and prepared, potatoes peeled – a kind of security in a changing world, a way to measure time. I’m drawn back to her hands as she peels cucumbers and grates them into a bowl. She salts them down. Her hands mash and turn the fine slices in their salty brine, and she sets them Larsen War Bride 2 aside, “to weep,” as the story ritual begins. “You want a beer?” I say, “No,” and think, a beer would really taste good with those wursts. “It won’t hurt you,” she encourages. This is the cue that meal preparation is at a pausing point and she can start the real conversation. Once I accept the beer, the stories begin. It’s a way of opening the door. I found out, through many meals, that whether I actually drink the beer or just hold the cool glass and admire the label, the effect is the same. I submit, “Okay.” She brings the beer to the table on shuffling feet, small steps to “…mach me sure.” Two beers are set before us and, sighing into the chair, she gives her head a quick shake and flashes me a smile, “It’s a bitch to get old!” I smile back, turn the glasses up, and do my part by twisting off the caps. We pour bottles into our tilted pilsners, take a big gulp in unison, and I search her eyes for clues to where we might be headed today. She smacks her thin lips, “German beer. Machs da blood strong,” she grins. “Makes everything strong,” I offer. “Ya!” We laugh a little and I watch her eyes. Once a deep brown, they are now veiled, slightly, in gray, the way her life seems to be veiled in memories. She looks away, and I can almost see her sorting, wondering which story wants to be told, where to begin, what to hold back; it’s like that. I listen to the music and watch and wait until the meat secretly calls to her. “Oh my Gott! I forgot to set da ding!” She gets up and moves to the stove, grabbing her mitt on the way as naturally as I pick up my keys before heading to the car. “You never burn anything,” I offer. It’s a pointless bit of coaching, I know. Something Larsen War Bride 3 prompts her, keeps everything in its place, keeps the food from burning, keeps her life going. “Relax,” I encourage. She ignores me and examines each pan with the same urgency as always, before pronouncing, “Just right!” “It always is, Oma.” “But you never know,” she chides me. “Dat’s da way it is. Dat’s life. If you’re not careful, its ruined, wasted.” “Das var,” I agree. That’s true. I love using that expression. I’m not sure if it’s German or Bayrish, but it’s one of the few comments I’m comfortable with. A story was emerging, congealing with the cooling steam as each dish was shuffled to the table. Now that I’ve figured out how to make it work, I can be patient. I wait for the moment to drop a casual question, a non-threatening prompt; I listen for a cue, a topic to emerge and I fashion the proper tool to pry open her treasure box; it’s like a secret diary. You have to be invited. Every part of meal preparation holds a story, even the silverware and glasses. I pick up a glass, “The table always looks so nice, Oma. You make me feel like a guest, not just family.” She’s up again, back to the stove with that shuffling agility; I marvel at her sense of time and the value of things. She turns from her cooking and chides, “Family are guests. The best kind!” Pointing her wooden spoon at me, “No one’s more important than family. You remember dat.” “I know, Oma. I just hate to see you fuss.” I smile. “I like to fuss.” She stirs, tastes, smacks, and with a short contemplative pause, Larsen War Bride 4 pronounces, “It’s done now.” A potholder is wrapped around the handle in one hand and she carries another one in her other hand to put underneath on the table. I quickly set down the glass and try to scoot my chair back. It drags on the carpet and almost tips. “My God! Don’t scare me so.” Sets the pan in order in the center of the table, and sinks into her chair with her head in her hands. “It’s fine. I’m sorry. What can I do to help?” She looks up, tears held in check. “It’s not the food.” “What’s wrong?” I sit back down, leaning across the table and patting her hand. “Oma, what’s wrong?” She picks up a napkin and wipes her eyes, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Everyday, something reminds me. Every day, dings come back.” Her eyes glisten as she stares into the past. “What kinds of things, Oma?” “Everyding. Home. My family. The War. Slim. Everything.” She stiffens. “Nuttin’ you can do.” Then she flashes me a smile. Her eye sparkle now, almost mischievously, “It’s a bitch to get old!” she declares again. She heads back to the stove and I agree with her, as I bring the rolls and butter. I tell her again how lucky she is to be so healthy and to have such a clear mind. Once we’ve settled in again and our plates are full, I venture, “So, the chair tipping reminded you of something?” “My little brother.” She avoids looking at me and talks toward the window. “He was only two. No, not even two.” She’s lost in thought and I pick at my food, waiting. Larsen War Bride 5 “I’m eighty-seven now. Can you imagine?” “Your little brother was two?” “Ya, only two, maybe two when it happened.” She lifts a forkful of fried potatoes to her mouth, “Eighty-seven.” She puts the fork down and this time, really looks at me. “Do you ever wonder why dings happen? It could make you crazy. Out of ten children, only me, and Kurt, and Hilde are left. I’m the oldest, you know.” She shakes her head. “Doesn’t’ make sense. I’ve had five husbands. . .” She returns to her dinner and then, almost on cue, “Eat. Güt potatoes.” I agree, “They always are, Oma.” Larsen War Bride 6 A Fashing Gift Zwiesel, Germany November 1919 The people of Zwiesel, like Johann Resch, considered themselves Bavarians first and Germans second. For Johann, even more important than being Bavarian or German was being Resch. Though proud of his service during WWI, he was nonetheless eager to get out of the uniform and back into his loden coat, back to his family, and back to the trade he’d worked so hard to master. Working in glass was a huge source of pride for all the Reschs. Johann had always been interested in every aspect of glass manufacture, from the raw materials colorings, to blowing and cutting fine crystal. He’d even honed skills as a leading specialist like his father. Most of the church windows in the area had been created, repaired or enhanced by Resch hands. Getting home to hills, forests, and family was all he’d dreamed of during his years in France. On his return, only part of that dream came true. “Fate has played some interesting tricks on me,” he used to say into his beer. A philosopher of sorts, Johann marveled that he’d survived the Western Front and thought perhaps losing his first family in such a strange way was the price he had to pay for being alive. Anna, his first love, and mother of two sons, was left with Johann’s parents when he went to war. When he returned, he found he had been replaced. His wife had suffered the loss of not only her parents, but her brother as well from the devastating flu epidemic. She was desperate and alone, and Johann couldn’t fault her for pretending he was dead and finding someone to help raise the boys. Still, after working so hard to stay alive, it seemed pointless now. His young sons Wilhelm and Johann, had to be introduced, and although Anna promised to explain it all when Larsen War Bride 7 they were older, hearing his four and six year-olds call a stranger “Papa” was the deepest wound of the war. Johann set off to get drunk, get over it, and get laid -- in no particular order. A few months later, he found himself at the altar, marrying a childhood friend, Theresa Feder, who held Johann’s future inside her. He towered over foot above her as they were pronounce man and wife, his lean height and striking dark hair contrasted dramatically with Theresa’s ample five-foot frame and ash hair. Johann’s dark hair and moustache, and roughed features were classic and distinguished; hers round and plain. Still, her gentle grey eyes warmed him like an afternoon on a summer meadow, and he knew this woman; she was a good friend. Things could have been much worse. The priest blessed their marriage on a spring morning as the sun bent colors across the floor from a window his grandfather had fashioned many years before. It seemed right. His daughter was born in an upstairs room of her grandparents’ house, at the beginning of Fasching, November 11, 1919. In Bavaria, Fasching is carnival time -- die naerrische Zeit (the Foolish Season). It is celebrated with costumes, drinking, dancing, and making fun of all things serious. This Fasching, like most Faschings, Johann wanted to be in the center of it all, beer in one hand and a willing frau in the other, but this Fasching was different. As he thought of sacrificing for blessings, he thought of the blessing he held in his arms that evening – a little girl, not much bigger than a loaf of bread, but already staring Johann down and crying loud and demanding as he rocked her. That night, he did not feel like being foolish or that he had been foolish. He knew as he looked into the eyes of this new life, he was looking into his new life. He was a bit disappointed at having a daughter, but he would make the best of it. That night, he watched his new wife fall asleep and held his new child while he thought of the foolish Larsen War Bride 8 things he might have been doing. He began to think about what he should do next and vowed he would be a good husband. There was no use looking back or wishing for what might have been, even though regrets gnawed at him. This was, after all, a new beginning. His tiny baby was the first postwar child born in the little Bavarian town of Zwiesel, The war was over; he still had his hands; he and Theresa would build a life. Johann named his little girl Anna Theresa Resch, and he never told his wife the Anna he was thinking of was not his mother. Larsen War Bride 9 A Family Formed Debrnik, Germany Spring 1924 Theresa promised to bear him sons, and she did. They lived with Theresa’s parents so they could save money for a place of their own and it seemed she was habitually pregnant the four years after having Anna. But, their first son died shortly after birth; the second came early and was stillborn; the third, Max, was at last old enough to sit in a high chair and thoughts of what kind of man he would be started creeping in conversations. Max was rowdy and healthy – a delight for Theresa and a curiosity for Anna who loved to help take care of Max and feed him. Max had blond hair, almost white, and large blue eyes that were continually filled with wonder, a stark contrast to Anna’s brown eyes and critical expressions. Anna was strong-willed and dominating, but she thought Max was a great playmate even before he could crawl. Anna read picture books to him and told him stories in funny voices. She helped quiet him when he fussed by pulling faces at him and the two of them always ended up laughing so loud the grandparents complained, which gave Anna sly satisfaction. Theresa felt their family was at last coming together, and, except for the intrusions of her mother, life was good. For Johann, living with Theresa’s family was a problem which had to be fixed soon. As long as they lived with them, he could not be head of his own home. He went back to work at the glass factory where he’d apprenticed with his father. It felt good to be working as a craftsman again and he saved every penny he could as his delicate skills promoted him to a position of honor and esteem. Except for going home to a house he didn’t not own, Johann rose above the war years, counted his blessings, and moved forward little by little. He’d grown to love and admire Theresa. She had pragmatic strength and purpose and Larsen War Bride 10 loved the children as much as Johann. They worked in tandem in those days. Even after losing two children, Theresa could smile and hold him just as tenderly as that first night. Theresa was a blessing. His little Anna, however, was a pride and a treasure Johann had not expected and, truth be told, he did not know quite how to handle. Looking at her gave him strength. She reminded him of what he’d lost and how young and strong he felt then. Now, at four, Anna’s dark hair and eyes brought more joy to Johann than anything else, despite Theresa’s efforts. He suspected she knew how important Anna was to him, but they never spoke of it. When Max came into the world, Johann thought the worst was over. It was a short-lived thought. As soon as he was big enough to pull himself up, Max required extreme vigilance. While Max sat in his highchair, he continuously pushed himself against anything his sturdy legs could reach. He loved to make his highchair rock and move across the floor to the sound of Anna’s laughter. Both of them got scolded about the rough play and more than once Papa and Mutti rushed to catch him or some tipping furniture. Anna was playing downstairs with her Opa’s chessboard when she heard her mother scream. She ran upstairs and saw her mother holding Max’s unconscious body, the highchair lying beside them. Max’s head was swelling even as she cradled him against her breasts. “Run to the factory and get Papa! Tell Oma to come help me!” She began a slow rocking motion and began to weep. “Es stimmt nicht!” “This isn’t happening!” Anna ran down the stairs and out the back door. Oma was in the garden but already taking off her apron and heading inside. “Oh my God. Oh my God,” She breathed as she pushed past Anna. Larsen War Bride 11 “I’m getting Papa!” Anna announced as she ran back through the house and down the front steps. Anna made the journey across town in no time – a pigtailed blur across the cobblestones and through the factory doors. “GET MY PAPA!” She demanded when she got there, and no one questioned her command. That evening, the family sat around Theresa and Johann’s bed. Max lay in the center, barely breathing. The harried trip to the doctor’s was pointless. He sent them home. “There’s nothing we can do,” he informed them. The examination showed severe brain trauma. The doctor had no doubt little Max would die. And so they sat. They sat staring at an eleven-month-old baby who looked as if he was just sleeping peacefully. They sat and they prayed. They knelt and they wept. They hugged each other and they sobbed. Except Anna. Anna stared, too, but Anna let them cry without her. She let them pull her into the circle sometimes, but she didn’t cry. She didn’t cry until the next day. That was when she saw that Max’s chest had stopped moving. Then she knew. Then it was time to cry. In their grief, everyone went crazy for a while. A mere week after the funeral, too soon to put lives back together, Theresa’s parents accused her of being a bad mother for letting the highchair tip. Johann promised he would make things right, and he hugged Theresa and Anna as he never had done before. Then he left. He was gone for two and a half weeks. On his return, Johann seemed reborn. Head held high, he marched into the house. “This is not Johann Resch’s house. Johann Resch’s family is going to live in Johann Resch’s house.” Larsen War Bride 12 Theresa flew to his side. “We have our own home?” Her parents stood near the kitchen door and stared across the furnishings with accusing eyes. Arms folded arms, eyes unflinching, their plump bodies mirrored each other’s stance and they looked a set of souvenir salt and pepper shakers – glassy mirrors of Theresa’s build, stiff, but hardly intimidating. Anna squealed with joy at Papa’s return and marveled at his defiance. “Papa!” Theresa’s parents waited soberly, softening slightly. Johann was unruffled by this question. “Well, no. Not yet. But as soon as I can, we are moving out. Out! Do you hear me?” He grabbed Theresa around the waist. “Until then, you will not speak to my wife disrespectfully.” Everyone knew lines had been drawn. It was just a matter of time before the split was permanent. Theresa felt his warmth and leaned into him. She didn’t care if she lost her mother and father for this man. Anna stood solidly at Papa’s side, her head almost to his waist and her small frame as orderly as his commands. She folded her arms across her chest and quietly nodded an affirmation, her long dark braids framing her oval face and her dark eyes looking past Oma and Opa Feder. That day the Resch family became a single unit. Larsen War Bride 13 Poison Bayrischer Wald, Germany Spring 1931 The sunlight seemed to sneak between the boughs of thick pines, showing itself only now and then through the deep shade -- an intruder in the silent depths, just visiting. It was always like this – early morning in Bayrischer Wald, pilz (mushroom) hunting while dew still freckled the tawny tops and caps on plump stems. They seemed to be waiting to be plucked like nested eggs left unguarded. A woodcock fretted in the meadow below the hill and a jay chattered at Anna from above. Other than the company of birds, Anna was completely alone in the silence. She enjoyed the mushroom hunting trips, and even though the hike was a fairly long and strenuous one, Anna always marveled that she was alone, that no one else was searching the woods for these little gems. The only exceptions were the times when she went with her father. Johann was the one who showed the way the first time Anna gathered them; he was the one who taught her which mushrooms were edible and which were poisonous. That’s where she learned her first major lesson in life – that looks are often deceiving. The most delectable looking mushrooms were often the most poisonous. Anna remembered the first time she spied a radiant red-capped mushroom standing about four inches above a bed of pine needles. It stood like a fairy story illustration in the middle of a circle of smaller mushrooms just like it. She ran to it anticipating a great victory and even thinking how proud she would be to show Mütti what she’d found. But, just as she bent to pick it, “No, Annal!” Papa shouted at her, “That’s the witch’s hat. It will make you very sick.” He was striding toward her, even as he scolded. Anna was disappointed, but obeyed and waited. Larsen War Bride 14 “See the red cap?” Anna nodded as Papa picked what she was forbidden to touch. “Here.” Anna watched intently as Papa brushed the gills of the mushroom across his finger, and she could see tiny green particles dusting his skin. He dropped the mushroom and explained, “These green spores help you know this is not a good mushroom. Good mushrooms have white or tan.” “Yes, Papa.” “Stay close to me today.” He brushed his hands off and picked up the sack he’d set down while instructing. “Yes, Papa.” “It will take you many times before you know which mushrooms to take home, and which to leave alone.” How true that was. In the spring there were mushroom almost every morning. Sometimes they were hard to find because with the early morning dew there was often low lying fog. At times the whole wood was misty; other days there were just patches of mist caught among the trees. The fog could also be sinister looking, especially if she heard a wolf. The childhood stories of children getting lost in the woods and hexenringes (fairy rings) making people disappear who wandered too close to them made her wary. But she was with Papa, so little by little, Anna came to know the woods as a grocery cart for the family and a place where the quiet sat like a blessing spirit. The spring Anna was six, she went with Papa on every trip to the forest. They left the house before it was fully light, so it was hard to climb out of bed in the dark, get dressed, and Larsen War Bride 15 pack some breakfast to eat along the way, all before the sun came up. Some days, Papa was cheerful and they sang all the way; sometimes he was so quiet and serious Anna worried. Even on the serious days, Papa became happier when a bird or an interesting find helped break his quiet mood and Papa once again became the forest teacher Anna loved. She learned about the little brown-capped mushrooms, leps, that could be found almost anytime. They were good to eat, but nothing special. She learned about the funny-looking tobe mushrooms that grew on tree trunks, their stems sometimes twisted into corkscrew or odd bends. They were not much to taste, but they added body to whatever they were put into and had a nice texture. She learned about chantrelles, the delectable golden orange capped wonders that sprang like little trumpets from spongy pine needle beds. Those were like gold to take home. They didn’t eat many because they were a great trading commodity. Everyone loved chantrelles. It was never hard to find a buyer and word spread quickly when Papa and Anna brought home a big haul. They were much more plentiful in the fall and that worked out just fine going into winter. And, Anna learned about morels. She remembered wondering what Papa was thinking when he called her to him and showed her the ugly, wrinkled mushroom, and said, “Anna, here is a wonderful mushroom you must know.” “Is that a good one, Papa? It looks all dried up.” “This is a morel, Anna. You’ve eaten these. They’re delicious.” She had eaten morels many times and not known what they looked like uncooked, so she didn’t recognize it when she went to the woods. Morels were never eaten raw. They had to be well-cooked or they could make you sick. Anna was still a bit dubious. “Are you sure, Papa?” She hated doubting him, but it didn’t look like anything she should want to eat. Larsen War Bride 16 “Yes, Annal. Do you remember the story about the old woman who went to the woods and came across an old man. She was rude to the man and wouldn’t share her lunch with him when he asked?” “Yes, Papa.” “Do you remember what happened to her?” Papa’s eyes twinkled, as he saw a remembrance come to Anna’s face. “Papa? Was this the story about the devil?” “Yes, Anna. The old man was the devil. He was angry with the old woman for not sharing and turned her into a mushroom. Look. You can still see her wrinkles!” He held it up and pointed to the dark and wrinkly cap and they laughed. “But, Papa. If the devil did it, why wasn’t she turned into a bad mushroom?” Anna reached for the mushroom but just fingered its uneven cap. “Ah,” said Papa. “The old woman had a good heart. Her heart told her he was not to be trusted, so she kept her food to herself.” “She didn’t do anything bad?” “No, Anna. Sometimes the devil can get good people. But she had a good heart,” He put the morel in his bag, “so she is a good mushroom.” He patted the bag gently. “Poor old woman.” Anna offered. “What could she have done, Papa?” Papa was serious now. “You must learn to see evil before it sees you!” He pointed a finger in his face for emphasis. “Then stay as far away as you can.” Anna’s bag was half full and she wished Papa was here to make the time go faster, but he was working, and that was always good. The sun rose higher and the chill of the morning started Larsen War Bride 17 to subside. Anna would hunt further from home than usual and would have to get back soon to milk the goat. She didn’t mind, though. Having their own place at last was wonderful and since Anna was the only girl, she had her own room. After Max died, Theresa had two more boys, Hans and Heinrich. They were only eleven months apart, and she was so busy with the boys that Anna became the public face of the Resch family. She did the shopping, she took her little brothers to school or to the doctor, and sometimes she even went to work with Papa. Johann’s father had passed away between the births of Johann’s two boys, and the loss of his father was a hard blow to him, until his mother gave him his father’s clothes. Somehow, wearing the apparel of the man who had taught him so much gave him a new resolve. It was particularly evident when he wore his father’s coat. Perhaps the heritage of the very making of loden surrounded the coat. Perhaps the coat made him feel his father’s strength. Whatever the cause, there was definitely a change. For Anna, Papa became liquid energy in that loden coat. Some mornings it was hard for her to keep up with his long strides, but she loved being with him and getting attention from their neighbors and the townsfolk. Her Papa had, in effect, become his father. He wore his father’s coat and hat, and he carried himself much as his father had done, the same erect posture, same left hand in his pocket, walking stick, same air of purpose and finality in everything he did. His hair was already almost fully gray by the time Heinrick was born, and he waxed and curled his long mustache and twirled it when in deep thought. Johann had gone from a thin bare-faced soldier of no particular distinction, to a man of position known for his wisdom and far-reaching knowledge of the world. He had grown up with relatives in Russia and Czechoslovakia, so he could converse freely in either language. As the war started, he used his affinity with languages again and learned French. He used to tease that Larsen War Bride 18 he wanted to make sure he could get a warm loaf of bread or some company if the opportunity presented itself. Being knowledgeable and independent were matters of pride for Papa, and when he moved his family out of the Feder’s house into their own home, he felt he had finally achieved both. His new-found confidence accentuated the esteem others had for Herr Resch, and Anna, although already feeling the advantages of having a respected father was, even at twelve, becoming knowledgeable and independent as well. Sometimes a boy or girl from the town asked if they could go with her to pick mushrooms. Anna was more than willing to take them, but no one ever got up early enough to meet her before she left. Of course, she never waited for them. If they really wanted to learn, they would have been at her front door early, ready to go. Anna decided early on that Resch people were workers. They worked hard because they loved hard, and because being part of a family meant being responsible enough to work. Her confidence grew as she started to label those who wished for things they didn’t work for as ‘lazy.’ Now, picking mushrooms on her own, Anna took pride in what she’d learned and how she was using it. The forest had other treasures she brought home as well. In June, she knew where wild raspberries grew. She picked wild onions and garlic and herbs, fennel and burgamot and other herbs. Some were good for cooking; some were used in home remedies. She even gathered firewood during the dry seasons when there wasn’t much food to harvest. Anna loved the forest. She decided the stories that frightened children were a good way to keep out those who shouldn’t be there. Larsen War Bride 19 Dust Ephraim, Utah June 1931 Summers are dusty in Ephraim. Mixed with the dust from the roads, the dust of the fields, and the dust of Old World heritage, swirled the newest dust, a dust from the endless rows of turkey hutches and run pens, punctuated with low uneasy consult, as they moved about aimlessly, pecking now and then some small morsel or even a piece of one of their fellows. Dust was a part of Slim’s life. It was a part, even at six years of age, that , Slim thought about overcoming. Both of Slim’s parents were from Scandinavian descent, as were many families in the area. Everyone either knew or was related to everyone else in Ephriam, and the turkey runs always made Slim wonder how that all worked. Listening to the constant mumbling of the turkeys reminded him of family outings and community activities. He had aunts and uncles galore, and his Danish heritage was evident by the stories that dominated family history, and, as far as his father, Alma, was concerned, that was the core of the families identity. Alma was particularly proud of one ancestor, his grandfather, Christian Larsen, whose portrait hung in the Historical Society’s Pioneer Museum. He was a colorful, ancestors, including the fact that he was the richest man in Ephraim during his time, largely because of his bootlegging activities. So while he was a well-known mason, who was involved in building area churches and municipal buildings, the name he was locally known by was “Whiskey Larsen”. A convert to the Mormon Church, “Whiskey” never quite bought into the strict doctrines about strong drink and tobacco. He often urged the men of the community to take a break and give up “the cares of the harvest and hay field” so they could enjoy the life of the spirit. He did concede to giving up coffee on Sunday, to show his devotion, although it seemed to him that all Larsen War Bride 20 things came from God, and "Not all the goot tings," as he put it, "should be left to the yentiles." Christian liked to boast that Brigham Young needed their strength to build Zion, so he gave them a “special dispensation” that allowed them to Mormon and still be Danes and Swedes. Admiration of Christian “Whiskey” Larsen was one topic Alma and Slim had in common, but for different reasons. Alma liked that he was stubborn and colorful. Slim identified with his status as a “black sheep”, a little outside of society. Thinking of Whiskey always brought a smile to Slim’s face. Other black sheep characters and anti-heroes in books also interested Slim. He always felt there was something in him that didn’t fit where he was. With dark hair and being downright skinny, Slim was a far cry from the thick and hardy fair folk he was related to. As far back as he could remember, he’d been branded as “less than”. His siblings didn’t do anything to alter his self perception. They seemed to enjoy reminding him of all his faults and shortcomings, like the time he got his arm stuck in the wringer washer. “You was hollerin’ like crazy!” his older brother, Duwain would laugh. And then his sister would chime in, “I didn’t think we’d ever get you out.” Then Slim had to listen to a play by play of the day’s events. The story wound its way through a derisive narrative that somehow involved each member of the family, and eventually ended when Dad was summoned from the barn. “He had to take the whole top piece off and unscrew ever’thing just to get you loose.” Duwain usually gave it a hard belly laugh at this point and Vera was giggling. Slim always felt trapped by that story, a story about an event he didn’t even remember. He knew the final comments had to be made before Duwain and Vera would leave him alone. Once the story got started, protesting was pointless. At last, Duwain would report, “When they finally got you loose, Mom said she couldn’t Larsen War Bride 21 figure out how you could have got in there in the first place and Dad said there must be somethin’ wrong with that kid.” “Yeah,” Vera invariably added, “somethin’ wrong upstairs!” Then she’d make a circular gesture near her temple and the two of them would laugh some more. After three or four teasing sessions, Slim adapted by distancing himself mentally. He’d picture birds flying or think about something he wanted to invent someday and before long he had created a perfect “out” for himself. He only had to respond occasionally to their nudges and poking to satisfy them. A couple of “Don’ts” and “Leave me alones” was all it took. Being third-born brought with it plenty of comparisons. Not as big, strong, or helpful as Duwain was at that age. Not as good at school, bright, or funny as Vera. But, Slim dealt with it. Even getting branded as “just not right” upstairs eventually had benefits. Slim found he could sneak off and do whatever he liked for long periods of time and no one even noticed. It was a surrender to a competition he wanted no part of. The deck was stacked, anyway. He was small in comparison to Duawain, five years his elder. It was just easier to be a little useless when it came to taking care of the farm. His mother, Pearl, usually slopped their sow and fed the chickens. Alma and Duwain did all the tilling and planting work with the tractor, so staying out of the way was as much a help as anything else Slim could offer. They did use him to pick plums off their fragile tree in the fall. Since Slim didn’t weigh much, and there was often a lot of fruit to be picked that a spindly child had no problem reaching as he wound his way through the brittle branches. Everything was somewhat brittle on the farm. Rainfall was sparse, and even the most vigorous weed often shriveled in the summer heat. By autumn, trees showed as much scorch as they did fall color, and the fields had bleached out to a pale yellow, so pale they looked almost Larsen War Bride 22 white when the sun was overhead, like the faded, sepia-toned portraits in their parlor. In Slim’s quest to stay out of the way, he began climbing more than fruit trees. He climbed the barn, inside and out. The barn stood well above the adobe house, maybe fifty feet at the peak, but it still wasn’t high enough. Slim loved to climb out on the roof, clear up to the peak and just sit there, trying to look over the horizon. He watched the geese fly past and sometimes land to pick through the stubby fields. He watched the sparrows flick in and out of the barn rafters, and occasionally he saw a hawk. His mother and father got in the habit of looking up to the peak of the barn before looking for him at dinnertime. “It’s a good thing he’s so skinny,” his father used to say, “the wind can blow right past him instead of pushing him off.” “Alma, I worry about him.” Pearl would admit as she put her hand over her eyes to shade them. “I don’t think there’s a blessed think he can hold on to once he gets up there.” Alma would scratch his gray-stubbled chin, and push Pearl back into the kitchen. “He don’t need nuthin’ to hold on to. He likes it that way.” And then taking another look, “At least we know where he is.” From Slim’s vantage point, the house looked very small and his parents were just an animated pair of overalls and a big apron. His mother was always in a dress, but it was always covered by an apron. Slim could tell it was them by the way they moved; he couldn’t see their faces, but that didn’t seem to matter; to Slim, they always looked the same, and the overalls and apron followed their same patterns day after day, so he didn’t look down much. Sometimes he didn’t come down until dusk, and he missed dinner all together. Sitting on that peak did something for him, something that nurtured him more than food. Slim watched the Larsen War Bride 23 sky and listened to the wind, and hoped the dust wouldn’t swirl into his lofty perch. Up there, the air was clear and fresh, and most days the top of the barn kept him out of work, out of the sameness, out of the dust. Larsen War Bride 24 Silence Falls Theresiental, Germany October, 1935 Johann Resch, was a master craftsman. He worked in glass for as long as he could remember, as did his father. The only time he was not working near the furnaces was during WWI, when he served as an infantryman. That was heat of a different sort. He was man a tempered, a man crafted by many fires. Strength, resolve, and patience usually stayed hidden beneath a casual exterior. The village saw him as older and wiser than his years, perhaps because of his premature gray, perhaps as an easy interpretation of his quiet nature, but likely as not, it was because of his profession. Glassmakers were held in high regard. It was a matter of pride and heritage for the entire region, and Herr Resch was a master crystal maker. Everyone knew and respected him, even when there was no demand for gold in-laid schnapps glasses or hand-cut brandy snifters. The depression had taken its toll on the glass factory and everyone else. Papa did whatever he could to help keep his family fed and to keep his personal pride as long as possible. Traveling to procure goods and food was part of that effort. The sun had gone down hours ago. Mama waited. She sat, quietly sewing a tear in her husband’s work shirt, with her chair facing the window, so she could see Papa coming. At last she saw the glow of his lantern, coming down from the forest hillside as he made his way to the side door. It was not unusual for him to make the trek from Czechoslovakia through the Bayerischer Wald late in the day. He knew the forest as well as any; he’d made the trip many times, but now, Mama worried more. Things were changing so quickly. Nothing was the same; nothing was safe. Even the children felt it. At fourteen, Anna was excited about every trip her father made and she waited up for him. She was supposed to be sleeping, but she stood behind Larsen War Bride 25 her bedroom door, listening. Papa blew out the lantern before stepping inside and setting his rucksack on the chair by the fireplace. “I’m back, Mama.” “So I see,” Mama smiled as she clipped the thread from the fresh knot and folded up the shirt. “Ya, Ya.” He took off his loden coat and hung it up on the hook by the door, then bent to open the ruck. “I got something special this time.” Mama’s eyes lit up. “For us? Or to trade?” Papa smiled, “Perhaps both.” He gently pulled a sock from his sack that was wrapped tenderly around a delicate treasure. “Look.” Mama had already left her chair and peered over his shoulder as he gently unwrapped the object. “Beautiful!” she gasped. In his hand lay a small glass Christmas ornament, a golden bird. Inside the bag, there were many more soft cloth bundles. “Papa, you have more?” The two of them went through the ruck, all the way to the bottom, almost reverently placing the amazing ornaments on the table. None had broken. These were the kinds of luxuries that were so hard to come by now. They also represented memories of how life once was. Now, such extravagance was not to be tucked away, as it spoke of possibilities, of security, of tomorrows. At last he reached for the large side pocket and pulled out a brown loaf of bread. “Radek and Verushka send their love.” Larsen War Bride 26 Mama clapped her hands, and grabbed the loaf away. “That’s just what it is!” She held it to her face and breathed in the blend of rye, wheat, and oats. “No one makes bread like Verushka. Are they well?” “Ya. Seems so.” He heaved himself into the kitchen chair and sat at the table, suddenly exhausted. He’d left the house before dawn and was halfway through the forest before the dew had even started to dry. Now, the day’s treks to and from Prasily weighed heavily. “I’m sorry, Papa. Let me get you something to eat.” Mama went to the stove where she had kept dinner warm for him. She didn’t mind using a bit of fuel to have hot food for a cold husband, and the heat took the chill off the house as well. Papa looked up to make sure the door was closed and listened. The house was still. Only the sound of Mama and the dishes. Anna froze and felt herself press into the door. “It’s happening all over Germany,” he whispered, his eyes searching his wife’s thin face for some response. “No one wants to talk about it.” They spoke in the abbreviated text they’d become accustomed to. “Radek’s radio.” Mama accused. She knew it was more than a few disappearances disturbing Papa. She brought him a cup of weak coffee and a bowl of soup. She spoke quietly too. “What’s there to do?” she sat down as well. “We have our own family to worry about. There’s nothing, nothing we can do.” “But the Jacobsohns have been part of our town since I was a child. I’m worried about them. What about the Saltzmans and the Brenners?” “What about Anna, and Hans, and Kurt? Our children? And, we have another child on the way, don’t forget.” She fingered the loaf of bread sitting amid the ornaments. “They should leave.” She was talking more to the bread than to Papa. “No one can help them. We cannot Larsen War Bride 27 help them. I’m afraid it will get worse for them.” She folded her hands as if in prayer. “Don’t think about it, Johann.” She looked into his eyes, took his hand, and placed it on her bulging stomach. “We have this new house and we have privileges that help us survive.” There was a tension in her voice and her words rose against her will. “I know. I know.” Papa patted her hand. He could see her gray eyes moistening with fear. “Don’t worry, Theresa. Our family will be fine. We are strong. We are smart. We will get through this,” he assured her. Then he pulled back and held his cup with both hands. While he silently ate, he wondered what was going on, what was happening to his town, and what had happened to his friend, the Bürgermeister. Since the Nazi takeover, he was not the same man. It was as though Herr Mueller had died and someone who looked like him had taken his place. The new Bürgermeister Mueller no longer spoke to Herr Jacobsohn, or any Jew, unless it was to insult them. He walked the main street in town every day, sometimes in the middle of the road, like he wanted everyone to see him. Since his change, local gypsies were locked up, even though they had traveled through town many times before, trading wares and doing odd jobs. Now, whole families were locked up and their possessions confiscated. Everyone wondered what would become of them, what Herr Mueller would do next. “Maybe you should stop visiting your friends across the border.” “If there’s work, I’ll go. Only if there’s work.” “Good.” Papa looked around at their small, but nice, home, a home they would not have had without the Nazi takeover. Hitler had done much to improve their lives. He built lots of homes, just like theirs, for families with two or more children. He provided livestock for those who were willing to care for them, and training in home skills and gardening. Women all over Larsen War Bride 28 Germany learned skills through women's clubs that help them make the most of what they had. They learned to knit, and harvest feathers, to grow vegetables and care for geese and goats and cows. Everyone who worked was rewarded. But there was a price. Mandatory military service was instituted. Compulsory compliance in thought seemed to be expected. “We are part of this now,” Papa murmured. “We have no choice. Don’t talk about things.” Mama pushed the bowl of cabbage soup a little closer to him. “Eat. You’ll feel better. Maybe next time I’ll have some meat to put in the soup. Maybe some potatoes, too.” The couple fell silent. Anna crept back to bed. The next morning Papa was out early. He took two ornaments with him. Mama showed the rest of them to Anna before tucking them away in a trunk with her linens. “One of these,” Mama announced, “should get you a pretty new dress, Annal.” Anna felt tense and a little stiff from the night before. She wanted so badly to ask her mother about everything. She wanted to have someone to talk to. Still, she couldn’t help but be excited about getting a new dress. At sixteen, clothes were becoming not only more important, they were necessary as Anna blossomed into womanhood. “Can I ask Elsa about it today?” “We will let your father take care of that.” Mama, closed the lid to the chest and put her apron on. “I’m going to the garden. There are a few cabbages still and some carrots that I need to dig. You get the goat milked before you leave for school.” Mama was out the door. Anna grabbed the pail and headed to the little shed. She hated being reminded to milk the goat before she went to school. Didn’t she always milk the goat. Didn’t she always smell of goat when she got there? She was tired, grumpy, cold, and she could barely see in the early Larsen War Bride 29 morning hour. It was cloudy. Maybe it would snow today. Then at least I could ski to school, she thought. By the time she finished milking, her brothers were up and Mama had bread and milk for them. Anna stuck her bread in her coat pocket and grabbed her books. “Good-bye, Mama.” She stopped. “Mama, there’s new rope in the shed. Did Papa get it for a reason?” She tried to be nonchalant about it, but this rope was thin and brand new. She’d never seen rope of that type before and had no idea why Papa would bring something like that home when they would much rather have had something different to eat. It looked as if it would be another long winter of cabbage and potatoes. Mama was taken aback by Anna’s question, but tried not to let it show. “I’m sure Papa has a perfectly good use for that rope. Get to school.” By the end of the week, Papa had made two more trips to Prisely. The ornaments had been taken from the linen chest and traded. All except two. They stayed in the linen chest until Christmas -- a special surprise for the children. Papa kept the golden bird and the round one that looked like a shiny yellow-green cabbage or some kind of flower. A busy silence fell on the house. Like the rest of the village, people came and went and busied themselves with the needs of each day and talked very little. The congenial chats over mugs of beer had been reduced to inconsequential nods and comments about the weather. No one shared news, no one shared ideas, no one shared lives. Almost overnight, friends became strangers. No one had really changed, but no one knew who they could trust, and those they trusted today might be their undoing tomorrow. Talk was awkward and strange and stilted. Nothing had really happened, except the arrest of the gypsies, and they had been forgotten. Larsen War Bride 30 The Jews were especially vigilant. Everyone knew it was good for them to be careful, but no one talked about it, except the Bürgermeister. He had all his speeches ready-made by the party. When he approached the townsfolk with his claims about the Jews causing all the misfortune of the nation, most just nodded politely or responded, “Interesting, Herr Bürgermeister,” “What does the chancellor say, Herr Mueller?” or “What news from Munich, Herr Bürgermeister?” A question was the best way to deal with him, as most of the townsfolk soon realized. Questions were an open invitation for him to speak, and speaking was what he like to do more than anything. To stay in his good graces, all one had to do was pretend to listen. The Johansohns had been avoiding him for some time. That worked to their advantage. He didn’t miss them until he finally noticed their shop closed. Later, he realized it had been closed for several days. The Brenners and the Saltzmanns avoided people altogether. Anna began to see her friends join in name-calling when any Jew was around, and more and more Anna threw herself into helping the family secure food from the local farmers and making friends exclusively with people who could help them trade. She found herself living separately from the other girls in Bund Deutcher Mädel. When they called her a snob or teased her about milking goats, Anna just smiled and said, “I’m just a good German girl, helping my good German family.” Every day, Anna milked the goat and everyday she looked at the hook where the rope hung. Some days it was there; some days is was not. She never saw Papa use the rope, but one day, after she was finished milking, she noticed the rope looked extremely dirty and muddy. It had rained the night before, and there was no moon. The forest was always dark, but when it was cloudy or there was no moon, it was as black as a cave. She couldn’t imagine where Papa Larsen War Bride 31 would go in that bad weather, in the dark, but he must have. She was drawn to the rope and found herself holding it, running her fingers along its length, feeling the tiny breaks in the fibers and occasionally the stickiness of pine sap. It reminded her of the first time Papa took her into the forest to pick mushrooms with her little brother. He tied the two of them together on their waists so they wouldn’t wander off and get lost. He told them the story of Hänsel and Gretel and warned them of wolves in the forest who would eat those who wandered off. Anna still believed those wolves were waiting. Mama and Papa hardly spoke during this time. Everyone seemed to use their voices only when it was necessary. Even her little brothers’ loud playing became quiet as their parents entered the house. By the end of October, all the Jews in town were gone. Just gone. The silence remained. Larsen War Bride 32 Alma’s Son Ephraim, Utah Summer 1935 “Come on, Boy!” Ten-year-old Slim obediently grabbed his hat and headed out the screened porch. It was a hand-me-down and a little big on him, especially with his newly shorn summer haircut, but he pulled it down, hoping it wouldn’t fly off and followed orders. His overalls were a little big too, and about two inches too long, but Slim tightened the straps as much as he could and managed pretty well except where he walked on the backs of the pant legs. He’d tried rolling the bottoms into cuffs to keep them from dragging, but the fabric was too soft from wear to stay folded and usually melted back into the ground after only a few steps. His father, Alma, was already hunched over the wheel of the aged tractor, his straw hat shadowing his face. “Those fields won’t plow themselves,” he growled. Slim was used to his father’s commands. They were blunt, all-business, and impersonal. “Boy” was used interchangeably with his sons’ names and eye contact was rare. The task at hand seemed to require all Alma’s attention, especially since the large turkey farms moved in and Alma’s back was too bad to help his brother at the mill. What could be scratched from the ground was what they ate. There was little to sell or trade and even sending the children to school seemed an expensive luxury. Slim climbed up behind his father obediently, the tractor coughed, and Alma let out a “Sonofabitch!” before letting off the clutch. The tractor lurched forward and Slim grabbed his dad’s overall strap to keep from flying back. The angle of his father’s back was interesting to Slim, and he wondered what his father would have looked like without it. How tall would he be? Would he be more cheerful? Would he still be a farmer? Larsen War Bride 33 Alma Larsen wasn’t always bent and sour. A picture of him in his uniform sat prominently in the parlor and everyone thought he’d been an infantryman in WWI. In the photo, his arms cross over the barrel-end of a bolt-action carbine. Other than that, Alma was a mystery to Slim. Alma kept his childhood, his war years, his history to himself. All that seemed to matter to him was getting the day’s job accomplished. It wasn’t that he was an energetic worker, or that there was even great pride of product. Alma was just doing what had to be done, plodding along at an even pace and stopping to nourish his leathered and sinewy body when he had to. Alma seemed to have become part of the landscape, a landscape of hard work and sacrifice. His life was like the seasons there, a short spring and a long hot summer full of long hot work. Truth was, Alma was in the Quartermaster Corp, assigned there because he could work with horses and help keep the wagons rolling. His main duties were the same kinds of things he did on the farm – he took care of hooves and harnesses, fed and bedded down livestock, mended wood and leather, and packed and unpacked ton after ton of equipment and supplies. He was strong and capable and steady – a draft horse in human form. The rifle in the picture was a photographer’s prop, but Alma was issued one. He kept it on the wagon most of the time and only took it out when he had to. There were times when he wished he could keep it closer, just for security, but it was not his favorite tool, and the only time he shot with any fervor was the day he’d taken a bullet through the fleshy part of his left arm. It was enough to say he’d been to war. The details were not a matter of grand stories or reflections. Slim could feel the heat of his father’s skin, even though Alma sat well in front of him. Larsen War Bride 34 His father’s body seemed as hot as the tractor’s engine, even before they got to the fields. Slim braced himself, determined to learn whatever his father wanted to teach him, but he found himself watching the sky as they rode down the weedy road. Slim tensed when they got to the gate to the field; today he would learn to drive the tractor. His father had never taught Slim anything. He did tell him to do a variety of chores from time to time, and, of course, there was all hell to pay if Slim didn’t do them as expected, but it was pretty much trial and error for Slim. Nobody ever showed him the “right” way to accomplish a task. There was an unspoken expectation that Alma’s sons should have watched him enough to “catch on”. So, when Alma said, “Go get on the tractor. You’re gonna drive today.” Slim cringed. Once they got to the gate, Alma climbed off and said, “Get up there.” Slim climbed over the metal saddle seat and scooted up until he could reach the pedals. The steering wheel was almost two feet across and when Slim reached for the pedals, he had to lean back with the wheel hitting him just below his armpits. He’d watched carefully all the way to the field, and he’d figured out the tractor had three gears and that you had to push down on the clutch before you could move the shifter. He knew the right pedal was the gas. Alma walked away and pushed the gate open without a word. Slim tensed and tried to visualize how Alma made the tractor move forward. The engine seemed to wheeze and pant a little as it sat there in neutral, almost expectant of the novice about to take control. It wasn’t quite seven in the morning, but it was already starting to warm. Slim felt the ball of the shifter, still moist from his dad’s hand, and he felt his left hand squeezing tight to the wheel as he tried to steady his odd position. Larsen War Bride 35 Alma turned and leaned against the open gate. “Ok, put the clutch in and put it in first,” he called. Slim stretched his left leg and pushed the clutch in. It was a stiff push and his calf felt the pressure. “Is it in?” Slim wiggled the shifter and nodded. “Now, put your right foot on the gas and give her some gas as you let up on the clutch.” Slim concentrated and closed his eyes for a second. Ten acres seemed like a million miles worth of holding on, but he clenched his jaw and muttered, “Sonofabitch,” to simulate Alma’s approach. The engine raced a little, he let up some, and then let off the clutch, “I’m doin’ it, Pop!” Slim yelled. Alma only nodded as the tractor and cutter rumbled past him, “Take ‘er easy. Turn. Straighten ‘er out.” Slim was sweating. The turns took all the muscle he could manage and he had to hang on and pull at the same time. He cursed his height and kept stretching as Alma walked alongside. “Now put your foot on the clutch and let off the gas. Put ‘er up a gear.” Slim figured that meant move the shifter up, so he did. “Give ‘er some gas and let off the clutch.” Slim did as he had before and, magically, the tractor managed to keep going, despite a little bucking. His father had quickened his strides to keep ahead of the cutter, “A little more gas,” he yelled. “Take ‘er down to the end of the field and stop there,” Alma ordered as he slowed his step and moved away from the cutter. “I’ll catch up with you there.” Larsen War Bride 36 Slim felt a chill as he lost sight of his dad and he tried to look over his shoulder, but it was too hard to hang on, keep his foot on the gas, and look back at the same time. The end of the field seemed a long way off and he began to feel like the cutter he was pulling was actually chasing him. He pushed harder on the gas, his speed increased, and at last Slim felt he was doing all right. Just about then, his hat began slipping down over his eyes and his back was starting to hurt. It was hard to stay in position and hold tight. Slim leaned his head back so he wouldn’t have to reach for his hat, but it got harder and harder to see out from under the brim. Finally, he gave in and reached to push it back. When he did, he had been holding on so tight, the wheel lurched to the right. He tried to take his foot off the gas, but his pant leg was caught on the pedal, and he realized he couldn’t stop. He was going to put the tractor in the ditch. Slim began stomping madly on all three pedals with both feet and yelled, “I can’t STOP! I CAN’T STOP!” Alma was trotting behind and trying to catch up. The infamous hat had slipped down again and Slim let out, “SHIT!” just before the front wheel bounced over the ditch bank and lunged into the water. Slim was pitched over the front of the tractor and landed on the far side. He lay there with his eyes closed. His head ached and he thought he could feel a knot rising on his forehead. The cool ditch water was soaking through his clothes from his waist down, and it felt nice as he listened to the blades still spinning on the cutter. “Slim!” His father’s voice demanded a response, but Slim’s eyes didn’t want to open. His body didn’t want to move. “Slim!” Larsen War Bride 37 His dad’s voice was louder and more demanding, now. Slim still couldn’t get his body to obey. Then he felt his father pick him up. Slim awoke hours later in his bed. The first thing he saw was his overalls draped over a chair with a big rip in one pant leg. The room had that dusky feel, not quite daytime anymore and not night. His head was throbbing, and he reached to feel it, but his mother’s warm hand stopped him and she tucked his arm back under the covers. “You lie still,” she coaxed. “Rest now. You’ll feel better in the morning.” Slim closed his eyes, but what had happened came back in flashes and he felt nauseous. He knew he wouldn’t feel better in the morning. He wanted to show his dad he could be a good son, a good farmer. This was bad, very bad. He remembered the sound of the spinning blades and his head pounded pain with each swish. He remembered the peace of that swishing sound and he longed cut free from tomorrow. Nausea and an inner darkness enveloped him. He turned toward the wall as a tear rolled into his pillow. Larsen War Bride 38 The Games Munich, Germany Spring 1936 There were still patches of gray snow here and there as Anna rode the train into Munich that day. The cold of a harsh winter was already pushed back in her mind. At sixteen, spending the summer in the big city would be a wonderful adventure. She was sick of cabbages, potatoes, and nights of only reading about the world – now she was going to see some of it. Even though her true task was to work and earn money to send home to the family, Anna knew there would be much more in store for her as summer came. The Olympics in Berlin brought tourists from all over the world to all the major cities in Germany, and Munich was no exception. As she reached the station, Anna could see banners advertising the games, as well as “Willkommen nach München” “Welcome to Munich” and “München begrüßt Sie” “Munich Welcomes You”. There were colorful banners all across the platforms and here and there throughout the area, and it seemed there was a flag hanging in every possible space. Window boxes were already alive with color and many windows were flanked with even more flags. It was a lot to take in as Anna pulled her letter from her coat pocket. Inside were instructions on how to get to her aunt’s house. She would be expected, but if no one was home, the key was under a pot near the door. The aunt Anna would stay with was her father’s sister. Inge Becker was never close to Johann, but times were tough and she wrote him with her proposal, “Families must help each other” she urged, and Johann reluctantly let his Annal go. Frau Becker had secured Anna a position running a kiosk in a popular park. With all the visitors in the city, there was a need for more vendors. Herr Becker was in the military somewhere, and Inge saw Anna’s arrival as a win-win situation. She would give Anna a place to stay and Anna would pay rent. Larsen War Bride 39 Anna made her way through the city and tried to look purposeful as she went. She did not want to be seen as a lost little girl, although sometimes she felt like one. Twice she had to stop and look at her map. Three times she found the street signs and directions did not quite match. Still, with the address in hand, and some determination, Anna made it to Frau Becker’s building. It was late and Anna was tired. No one was home, but the key was right where she said it would be. Anna went in. The place was small, but looked comfortable. Anna found some bread and cheese, and made herself a sandwich and then fell asleep in a chair. She woke stiff and sore, and heard someone bustling around in the other room. “Tante Inge?” Anna called. “Ya, get up!” her aunt answered. “Time to go to work.” Soon the plump Tante Inge was in the room moving quickly on her small feet. She made rhythmic thumping sounds as she moved about the room, straightening this, moving that, throwing open the window. She clapped twice impatiently, “Get up!” Anna must have been more tired than she thought and had slept in through the night in the chair without even hearing Inge come home. “Gut morgan?” Anna offered. “Get up!” Inge commanded again. “You must get to work or you’ll lose the position I got for you. Are you ungrateful?” “No, Tante Inge.” Anna thought of her family and wished at that moment she hadn’t left home, but she w soon behind a cart with an array of buns and containers of milk and other offerings. Anna was glad she was a quick learner and good with numbers. Her new employer, Frau Raeder, only spent a few minutes showing her what she needed to do and instructing her on procedures to get Larsen War Bride 40 the most for the time she was there. Anna was good at bartering and trading, so selling was easy. Goods were available; prices were set; she could do this. She’d had a blunt transition from the green hills for Zwiesel to the cold home of her aunt, but the park was green, too, and Anna felt more at ease here than with Tante Inge. In the months that followed, Tante Inge would become Tante Hexen (witch) to Anna. Today, however, everything was new and bright and she felt happy to sell buns. That first day on the job Anna was getting a little bored as the afternoon warmed and she had not sold as much as she’d hoped. She must have looked a little despondent when the young man in the red cap leaned across her cart and asked, “How much for a smile?” Anna had noticed the same red caps here and there when she walked from the station to her aunt’s Friedrick was one of many young men who found public service jobs abundant in preparation for the Olympics. His job was to make the city more palatable to outsiders. His job was to make sure anti-Jew signs were taken down. Larsen War Bride 41 Horizons Ephraim, Utah Fall, 1936 Ephraim was a lonely town for a kid on the outs. The town was mostly farms; the farms were far apart; and the kids on the farms were either in school or working most days. Slim’s decision to quit going to school separated him from his peers, his family, and made him a dangerous commodity. Since his little brother’s death, it seemed everyone agreed with his family that Slim really was “not right.” Slim blamed himself, too. The front gate to the farmhouse faced the highway and the kids were continually yelled at to keep it shut. Slim was the last one to go out the gate that day, and he really couldn’t remember if he’d latched it or not. At two, little brother LaRell had certainly learned to figure things out, and there was always the possibility he’d pushed the latch up himself. Still, even though they didn’t say it, Slim was sure they blamed him. So, when his teacher gave a lecture on road safety the following week and included the phrase, “Some folks don’t have the common sense God gave a pig.” Slim was especially sensitive. He’d taken to staring down at his desk during class, and when he looked up and saw his teacher was looking right at him, Slim just slid out of his chair and left. The wringer washer? The tractor? Of course it was his fault. He never told his family about school, about the teacher, or about how he’d been singled out for humiliation many times even before LaRell’s death. He just didn’t go to school anymore. He got up, got dressed, and left every morning with his older sister and brother, but when they went in, he kept walking. No one ever said anything about it, not even Duwain and Vera. Larsen War Bride 42 Slim spent the first few weeks free from school exploring. He walked into Manti more than once, and sometimes he hung out at his uncle’s sawmill between the two towns, but one day, he wandered down the highway, south of town, past the old cemetery. That’s when he heard the most wonderful sound of his whole life -- a small plane was coming in for a landing in a mowed field, right in front of him. At first he couldn’t see where the sound was coming from, and then he spotted it, just a small yellow spot coming down from the glare of the morning sun. As the spot and the sound grew, so did Slim’s focus. It was liquid music to his thirsty hears, and, as the small plane neared the ground, the pilot circled and tipped his wings in recognition of his audience. Waving with all his might from the edge of the dusty field, Slim watched it land and slowly taxi back to the end of the field near him. The pilot wasted no time popping the small door open and pulling himself up from the seat, and he began chuckling as Slim dashed toward him. “Hey, kid! I thought you might take to the air yourself the way you were flappin’ yer arms.” “Gosh, mister, that the most beautiful plane I’ve ever seen,” Slim panted as he reached the tip of a wing. Harvey Draper climbed out and gave Slim a rather quizzical look, “Seen lots of planes, have you?” Slim came to a complete halt and swallowed hard. “Well, no.” Then, straightening himself, “But I know what I like!” “Ya got good taste, Kid,” Harvey laughed as he patted the control panel and slid out of the cockpit. “Her name’s Delores.” Larsen War Bride 43 Slim was in awe, but he tried to sound as matter-of-fact and serious as he supposed any grownup would be in that situation, “Good name for her.” Then, he walked right up next to engine and tenuously patted the engine housing. “She sounds good.” “Careful!” Slim had pulled his hand away from the hot metal almost as soon as he touched it. Harvey talked to Slim while he went through his usual routine of assessing Delores’ chaise. “What do you know about engine sounds, Kid?” Slim was at his elbow now, watching every move he made as he went through his inspection, “I know this engine sounds a whole lot better than my dad’s tractor.” “That probably doesn’t take much.” “You know it,” Slim laughed. “It makes all kinds of noises when you start ‘er up, and chugs along like it’s gulping for air once you get ‘er going.” Harvey was a 30 year-old crop duster by trade who also used his two-seater Piper Cub to deliver goods and people whenever there was a chance to make a buck. Delores was taxi cab yellow and was the culmination of years of hard work. Harvey used to joke that he couldn’t afford a wife because of his mistress (Delores). Keeping everything running smooth in the air, and taking care of maintenance and business on the ground was beginning to cut into his air time, so Harvey mad Slim an offer. “What’s yer name, Kid?” Slim finally took his eyes off the plane and straightened to his full four-foot-ten inches, Lyal Larsen, Sir, but everybody calls me Slim.” “Slim, huh? Fits.” Then Harvey walked to the front of the plane, “This engine, Mr. Larsen, is a continental A-65-8 air-cooled, flat four. She has 65 hp and wraps at 2,350 rpm. She has a maximum speed of 76 knots, and a range of 220 miles. Not only that, she can climb to Larsen War Bride 44 11,500 feet.” Harvey leaned toward Slim, his smile accentuated by a thin dark moustache. “I love this lady.” He took the prop like he was holding a hand and kissed it. Slim wasn’t quite sure what to think of Harvey, but he knew exactly how he felt about Delores. “Can’t blame ya, mister.” Harvey winked at him, “You know, I could use a guy with some engine savy and a love for the wild blue…How’d ya like to work for me, Slim?” Slim’s eyes grew wide, “Sure, mister!” he grinned excitedly, and then with a little less eagerness, “Would I be working on plane stuff? I mean, I WANT TO LEARN ALL ABOUT YOUR Continental A-65-8 air-cooled, flat four with 65 hp, uh…and all that other stuff…” Harvey patted Slim on the shoulder. “Sure ya would, Kid.” Then he started walking around the plane again, “I’ll show you how to gas ‘er up and put in oil, and you can check the tires, all kinds of stuff.” Slim was taggin along, his heart pounding and his fingers itching to touch Delores’ smooth yellow skin. At last, when Harvey stood still near the tail, Slim reached out, “Sure, sure, mister. I can do that.” Then Harvey lowered his voice, suddenly suspicious, “Hey, wait a minute,” He eyed Slim thoughtfully, “Shouldn’t you be in school?” Without waiting for an answer, Harvey started walking back toward the center of the plane. Slim looked down and didn’t move. “I quit goin’.” He stared at the ground, waiting for Harvey to tell him the deal was off. After a pause, Harvey put his hands on his hips and turned back to him. “No kiddin? You seem like a smart kid. What do you do all day?” Larsen War Bride 45 At this, slim thought about losing his chance with the beautiful Delores, set his jaw, looked Harvey straight in the eye and declared, “Anything I want.” “Hah! You’e my kinda guy.” Then Harvey reached behind the back seat to a small storage area, pulled out a small canvas tool bag, and tossed it to Slim. “Welcome aboard!” Larsen War Bride 46 Knowing Pain Regenhut, Germany Winter 1937 Pain has a strange romance to it. It disturbs our sleep, alters our mood, stops us in our tracks, but through it all, it does something more, something powerful, something reassuring – it lets us know we’re alive. The bone protruded through the skin just below her knee and, as Anna pulled the rest of her leg from the hole in the snow, she could see the muscle had contracted and the rest of her leg was at an odd angle. Helga was screaming, “Oh my God! Oh my God!” Anna found herself assessing the situation, a little detached, even though she felt nauseous, and the blood stain in the snow broadened as she forced herself to think through the pain. “I can’t stand.” She finally announced. “Get Papa.” “Oh my God!” was all her friend could muster. “Ski down to my house. It’s Sunday. Papa should be there.” Anna instructed. “Get someone!” Anna saw her friend still standing as if half dazed. “GO!” Helga left in a flurry of ice crystals and Anna took a deep breath. It came out in foggy puffs as she coughed a little. There was nothing she could do but wait. Larsen War Bride 47 Remnant Zwiesel, Germany July 1940 Shifting her weight restlessly, Anna shaded her eyes as she looked down the tracks, anticipating the train bearing her husband. She shushed her nine-month old baby girl and bounced her a little on one hip as she walked back to the shade of the loading platform where her family and friends were also waiting. A little more than a year ago, Anna saw Heinrich off at this same station. He was excited and a little nervous, and they both were angry that the war ruined plans for their new life. Not long ago they shared the joyous news that they would soon be parents. Then he was forced into the German Army and they knew they would probably not be together when the baby came. It was a good-sized crowd; most of Zwiesel was there, waiting for the first of theirs to return from the war. For too many of them, it had not been that long since they saw the comings and goings of World War I. Unity of blood, of culture, of loss was a natural part of German families, and it extended easily to friends and neighbors. And so, united, they waited for the train from the Western Front. "Anna, let me hold Marianne for a while." Mutti too the infant, cradled her grandchild in one arm and gently placed the other on Anna's shoulder. "It's so hot. Stay in the shade or you'll get sick." It was hot, unusually hot for their climate. It was as though the heat of the war was rising up from the land below and there could be no escaping it. Her eyes were fixed on the distant end of the track. "I'm all right, Mutti." Absently, she found herself walking toward the edge of the platform again, as the train appeared, laboring Larsen War Bride 48 sluggishly up the hillside. Slowly Mutti and Papa and, one by one, the rest of the crowd, clustered to her side as a breeze, uncannily like hot breath, moved across their moist brows. The whistle sounded and the bell rang dully as the soot-colored engine pulled into the station, its brass trim much less shiny than the day Anna and Heinrich kissed goodbye. An official-looking sergeant, who had been standing on the car's landing, hopped off and addressed the crowd, "Anna Schmidt?" Papa stepped toward him, ushering Anna along. "Mrs. Heinrich Schmidt?" Anna stared blankly at the soldier as he opened his leather pouch and produced some papers and a pen. Papa took them. "This is Mrs. Schmidt." The young man shifted his weight, clenched and unclenched his jaw, "She has to sign for him," he explained, looking apologetically at Papa. And then to Anna, "It's the rules." He was uneasy and anxious to be done. Anna numbly obeys her father's silent orders, as her father placed the pen in her hand, and upon compliance, the sergeant deposited a small envelope in her hands in exchange for the document. “Thank you, Frau Schmidt.” He offered a short bow, and motioned to another soldier. As the freight doors opened, a putrid stench assaulted those waiting to receive the cargo. The older members of the funeral procession already had handkerchiefs covering their mouths and noses. The pallbearers were storm troopers, members of the SR, in full dress uniform, who arrived with the body. Heinrich’s coffin would be the wooden crate he was shipped in. Larsen War Bride 49 Anna watched in horror as they wiped their hands after loading the crate onto the funeral wagon. "My god, it's leaking." She pressed the envelope to her breast and felt the ground giving way beneath her as the full realization of her husband's death slammed down on her. "No," came Papa's firm voice. He held her full weight with his arm around her waist. "It's all right. What could they do? It is summer, and there are no mortuaries at the front." She swallowed to keep from throwing up, closed her eyes for a moment, and let her father’s strength bleed into her until at last her legs regained their function. Papa loosened his arm and turned to face her, his gray eyes moist but stern. "You must do this, Anna," he commanded, though his voice was soft and reassuring. "I know, Papa, I know." Anna’s face was drawn and pale against her long dark hair. The heat seemed to have washed all the color from it. Mutti sang softly to the baby as they walked behind the wagon, up through the center of town, to the cemetery. As they made their way silently along the main street, even the gentle clopping of the horses’ hooves on cobblestones seem muted and the wagon wheels hushed, as though letting Anna have time for her thoughts and feelings to sort themselves. My love. My husband. Our time is gone. Our first meeting seems like only minutes ago. I was babysitting for your sister. I thought I was alone with the children, and then you came romping down the stairs. You always took two or three at once, always in such a hurry. I must have looked pretty stupid. You startled me so, but you stopped short and bowed most ridiculously with your hair all mussed. "I beg your pardon," you said. "I've never seen a vision before." I giggled a little and blushed. "I've never been called a vision before." Larsen War Bride 50 "Well, perhaps you aren't a vision, but you'll have to prove it to me." And then you crossed the room and took me in your arms. "You feel real enough." You looked into my eyes, and I thought I would die right there from the way you looked at me. You pulled me closer and kissed me long and hard. I had been kissed before, but never like that. My very soul was caught up in that embrace. You felt my arms. The children were laughing and pointing, but I didn't care. Then you took my hand. "I think you are real. An angel right here on earth in the same room with me." You went down on one knee, "You must marry me. I shall die if you won't marry me." I remember trembling and thinking this was some kind of joke, but when I looked down at your set jaw, your clenched hands, and into those soft, brown, pleading eyes, I didn't laugh. I just stroked your hair back. My mouth opened, but nothing came out except my breath, short and quick. Soon you were kissing me again. Papa had warned me and my brothers about falling in love, with the war so near, but in that moment I was a woman and my heart ruled. We saw each other secretly for several weeks before we told Papa. He was very angry and told us we were making a mistake and talked of bad timing, as though we could undo our feelings. There was no stopping us. The more we were together, the more we wanted to be together. We couldn't get enough of each other. We were so happy and when we found out a baby was on the way, we were happier still. Then your notice came. You were so nonchalant about it, "Oh, by the way, I'm going to war. Don't worry. It's just another job. I'll go and do my part and be back soon." We were having dinner at the time. I lost mine. Larsen War Bride 51 You weren't back soon. I had the baby without you, our little girl. I sent you her picture in a tiny frame on a chain. All the time you were gone, we wrote and made plans for our future. The Allies must not have known that, when they dropped that bomb on your unit, or maybe they did know, and it just didn't matter. Marianne is only nine months old. Here we are, Marianne, and me, and you, and our bad timing. Papa was right. Our world has been undone. The clopping stopped as they reached the grassy hill, just below the mountain. The graying markers were the honor guard, waiting in reverence. WWI had supplied plenty of markers and losses that still felt like fresh wounds for the town’s families. The summer sun amplified the fetid smell of decay surrounding the crate, and the two were taking their toll on the mourners. Some were sweating profusely; some seemed to sag under the weight of their own hats; others looked so limp they could hardly stand at all. Anna stood between Papa and Mutti. The ceremony was brief. Even the Burgermiester, usually so long-winded at such occasions, was eager to make an end of it. The priest said a prayer, everyone crossed themselves silently, and it was done. The crowd backed away from the gravesite almost too quickly, and Anna leaned into Papa's side as the crate disappear under shovels of dirt. "I can't think of him like that. I can't think of him in there." She stared in disbelief. Even with the crate covered, the air felt heavy with the sickening smell. Papa hugged her. "Good. You shouldn't remember Hienrick that way. Remember him when you look at the sunset, or when you walk in the rain, or when you feel happy about something." Larsen War Bride 52 She looked up at his gray eyes and gentle mustached smile. "Yes, Anna. You will feel happy again. Maybe not right away, but you will." They walked home well after the crowd had disappeared. It was finally starting to cool off, just a little. Mutti and their friends would have dinner ready. Anna hoped there would not be too many people stopping by to pay their respects. No matter. She would do what she had to do. That night, her feather bed felt especially soft, like the gentle caresses she would miss. The breeze coming through the window whispered in Hienrick's voice, and the moon shone with the kind of glow she felt when Heinrich knelt and implored her to marry him. He was such a romantic. So full of life. He had made her fall in love with life, and live for love. She was floating blissfully between exhausted sleep and savored memories when a loathsome duty brought her to full wakefulness again. The envelope. She had never opened the envelope. It was probably just his identification, but it was one final thing she had to do. She had collapsed into her bed more than two hours ago, fully dressed after far too long an evening of dutiful communion with friends and townsfolk. Now, she slipped out of her skirt, upon rising, and slowly unbuttoned her blouse as she crossed the room to the dresser where she had laid the envelope earlier. She picked it up gently, as though she were taking his hand. At the window, she sat on the floor in the moonlight. Slipping one arm out of her blouse, she ran her finger under the paper flap of the parcel, and then disrobed the other arm. She sat, bathed in the moonlight, compelled to go on and trembling at the finality of the act. Larsen War Bride 53 A deep breath, then she dumped the contents into her lap. Only two items fell out. The identification tag, which proved it was his body in the crate she had buried, and a small framed picture on a chain, which proved their love was more than just a poorly-timed dream. Anna picked it up. A fine black powder encrusted the textured edge and made the tiny picture barely discernable. She rubbed it a little with the front of her undergarment. Clearly it was Marianne's picture. A sudden panic swept over her. Running to the crib, a sigh of relief escaped her trembling lips as she touched the blanket. There, sleeping contentedly, was the daughter he had never known and would never know, a very real remnant of their love. The bed embraced her once more, as hot tears finally burst their dam and Anna surrendered to total and complete expulsion of the agony of the day. She held the picture and chain close and breathed his name in quiet sobs. Eventually the tears subsided. The breeze whispered to her again. The moon moved on, and the room was cloaked in darkness. She wrapped herself in her quilt, looked toward the silent crib, and vowed that she too would move on. For now, sleep was a welcomed friend. Larsen War Bride 54 Delores Ephraim, Utah September 11, 1941 The airfield was nothing more than an open field mowed short and kept clear of vehicles and farm animals, but to Slim, it was a majestic, even magical place, one he approached with all the reverence of a cathedral, the solemnity of a battlefield, and the excitement of a first kiss. Slim had dreamed of flying as far back as he could remember. More than once, he’d suffered the consequences of jumping from the peak of the hay barn into the haystack below. No matter the sprains or bruises, the feeling of being airborne was worth it – that moment of freedom where he could imagine himself free from the confines of the crowded adobe farmhouse, the never-ending fields of sparsely-productive land, the future of working the land and finding himself following the indelible footprints of generations of farmers eking subsistent living from the soil six days a week and longing for the embrace of Sunday, more for the rest offered than out of reverence. The fact was, Sundays were often spent praying that the problems of the week past would be somehow conquered and that the week to come would be better. Home had been a joyless place as far back as Slim could remember. Now, for the first time, Slim was simply glad to be alive. Harvey Draper was going to teach Slim to fly. Larsen War Bride 55 Winter Train Eastern Germany December, 1942 What a cold sound, the steady click clack-click clack of the wheels on the tracks, sweetly numbing the senses in a jostling rocking rhythm. The winter train rumbled on through a land scarred with war and the remnants of war and the open wounds of war. No one was left unscathed. The rallies and the raucous laughter of pre-war Germany echoed softly in Anna’s memory as the click clack-click clack made the hard wooden bench-seat seem almost comfortable. It had been five hours or more since she said good-bye to Mutti and boarded the train to see her wounded brother. A soldier, all gray-green, dozed off next to Anna, his head rested lightly on her shoulder. She stiffened her back to support him and looks at his young face. Maybe her brothers, her husband, her men needed shoulders too and maybe someone let them sleep as she did. It was a nice thought. The bare trees and fields coated in white sped past, almost shining in the morning light. Hans, how we cried when we heard you were lost at sea. Mutti cried and cried and cried, until she had no tears left, and she set about cooking or something and didn't say any more. Papa was quiet, so quiet. He sat at the table and drank his morning cup and stroked his mustache and stared out the window, so quiet. None of us knew what would happen next. Almost every family in Zwiesel has lost someone. I suppose most of Germany has lost someone by now. But that was months ago, and now, we hear you are alive and in the hospital in Wiesbaden -- so far away, with things as they are, but I had to come. Mutti will watch over my little Marianne while I am gone. And I will enjoy the train, and flirt with the soldiers. You never know what will come of it. It's just as well that this one has Larsen War Bride 56 dozed off. Too young. Marianne needs a father. This awful war has taken hers and perhaps will give me another in his place. Anyway, it never hurts to flirt a little. I have many gray-green friends. Hans, If I talk to you in my mind, maybe it will keep you safe until I get there. Remember when you came to see me in the hospital after I had broken my leg? It snapped like a twig when I fell in that hole hidden under the snow. You were on leave and although you came to see me, all you did was talk about yourself and how weak you felt. You said you had been sick. So I gave you the key to the little drawer by my bed and let you have the brandy one of my friends had sent me. What a trip back to your unit you had with my bottle of brandy. I read your letter to the nuns at the hospital. Always a Casanova. You visited a lot of beds and barns on your way home! They laughed and giggled and blushed. Some tried to look stern, but none of them walked away while I was reading. It was my best day in the hospital. My bone was broken so badly that I could not be moved. Do you remember Hans? And when the air raids came, I couldn't go to shelter. It was so hard to just lie there and listen to the bombs and the sounds of the city shattering all around while the world was collapsing. The bombs seemed to be coming closer, and I was trapped. The room was dark, and dust clouded down on me with each shock. Glass was breaking, and the building seemed to groan under the stress and terror of the night. And then, one of the nuns, I forget her name, but I think she was the one that blushed at your letter, she came and laid the upper part of her body across my head and chest. She said, "Don't be afraid." And I wasn't. I don't remember when I stopped being afraid. You don't think. You don't feel. You just do. Larsen War Bride 57 "Raus! Raus! Raus!" Out! Out! Out! The high pitched engine noise of the dive bombers shot adrenalin through even the most deeply slumbering passenger and sent him scuttling off the train. Everyone knew the best thing was to get as far away from the train as fast as you could before the hail of bullets started. Anna grabbed her package of precious gifts and lunged for the door. It was all a blur of sights and sounds; uniforms, coats, rifles, baggage, bodies, gear clanking, yelling, cursing, and praying. The wind was blowing, and the people sounds were lost. Somehow everyone got out and Anna was lying, face down, in the snow. Raising her head, she held her windswept hair out of her face and looked back toward her car. A heavy woman, wrapped in wool tripped getting out and cowered near the step. Snow sprayed up in front of the engine as the pilot pummeled his target before starting his ascent. A soldier threw his body across Anna as the plane passed. It was one of the soldiers Anna had flirted with. "He'll make one more pass, I think. Keep your head down." Anna raised her head a little. "You should hide yourself." "Didn't you tell me you had a little girl? If I die, here’s as good a place as any." One more pass, a lifetime, the shrill engine, the peppering, the ascent. Then, it was over. Without a word the soldier got up, brushed himself off, and pulled Anna to her feet. They headed toward the train as small streams of steam hissed from the engine's sides and disappeared in another gust of wind. She mouthed something, as the soldier handed her package to her, but her words were lost in the noise of voices running to inspect the engine. Some damage, but the train could be fixed. The passengers waited, waited in the car, in the wind, in the cold, of the winter train. Larsen War Bride 58 Some soldiers gambled, joked a little, and smoked. Some read letters kept in flapped pockets, some stared blankly for long periods out windows, some repeatedly checked their gear, as if they had lost something. A woman wept quietly, a small child clung to his mother, an old man scratched his head. Perhaps they all had lost something. Anna checked her package, too. The gifts for Hans. Mutti had made stollen (Christmas cake) and cookies, and there was a scarf and some knitted socks. Soldiers always needed socks. As if on cue, the passengersheaded back toward the train. They had places to go, eventually, and there was no reason to stay in the snow. Yes, the cars were cold but it was shelter. They would fix the engine, and Anna would be on her way to see Hans once again. A porter yelled. The train shuddered and groaned, and then came the familiar click clack-click clack. The train was moving. Only four hours late. Not too bad for these times. Before the war, you could leave Zwiesel at 5:00 a.m. and been in Frankfurt by mid-afternoon. At mid-afternoon, they were just past Nürnberg. More than half way to go. Anna would be there by evening -- if there was no more trouble. The snow was lovely through the window. There were vineyards resting there, between other fields, and everything was white. It would soon be Christmas. In Zwiesel, the Christmas mass was the best part the season. Everyone walked the crisp streets, in the lamplight, in the snow. It was quiet and exciting. Then, a trumpeter would start playing "Silent Night" from the top of the church on one end of the town, and a trumpeter in the top of the church on the other end of town would join in. The notes would echo in the mountain valley, and the whole of Zwiesel would be wrapped in a blanket of reverence. That was Christmas! Larsen War Bride 59 "Raus! Raus! Raus!" The train had not even stopped, but people started jumping off as it slowed. It was getting late, and the wind was relentless. A sliver of moon watched their dash from the cars in the darkening day. Bare bushes provided a partial windbreak, but no real cover. There were several dive bombers this time, and once they started their runs, everyone seemed to be caught in a thunderstorm of bullets and deafening engines. Close. So close. The wail of the wind seemed to amplify their tumultuous beatings, and passengers clapped their hands over their ears. When the bullets stopped and the engine sounds faded away, a collective sigh escaped and was lost in the wind. The engine had been demolished. Some of the men nearest it had been wounded, perhaps from the bullets, but just as easily from the shredded mass of metal that was once the engine. Remarkably, none were killed. It was mid-morning of the following day before they replaced the engine and started again. Later that night, as the train clacked along, Anna noticed one of the soldiers had a very full looking pack with him, and the little pouches on his belt looked full, too. "What do you keep in all those little pockets?" she asked. He smiled, "Military secrets, Fraulein." "I like secrets." Anna smiled, as he stood and offered her a spot next to him. "But can you keep them? You might be a spy." They laughed for a while, and shared small talk, as she often did, and soon he shared his rations. It was a relief to Anna. She had not planned on eating until Wiesbaden and the cake and cookies she carried were tempting. But they were for her brother, even if they were smashed crumbs by the time she got there. She used to feel guilty for flirting food out of men, but that Larsen War Bride 60 time was long past, and the soldiers she met always seemed to enjoy pretending with her – pretending they could be something to each other, pretending there was more to their conversation than a train ride, pretending they weren’t soldiers, but men, and pretending there was no war. Their conversations like this were always similar. They talked about their families, the things they loved, the things they hoped. Sometimes they shared a kiss. Sometimes more. It was all right. It was something. Having someone, anyone, even for a moment was, after all, was better than nothing. Anna felt like an awful flirt sometimes, but it was natural for a Resch, according to her little brother. Once, when Hans went to the hospital to see Anna when she had her broken leg, there was a young girl in the ward who had lost both her legs from a train accident. Hans teased her and told her jokes and made her very happy while he was there. He said seeing soldiers hurt didn't bother him, but for a young girl like her, it just wasn't right. She remembered what a Casanova he was and how happy he made women feel. He was good for her right then. He even flirted with the nuns a little, too. Click clack-click clack. They started again. Should be in Wiesbaden in time for dinner. Click clack-click clack. "This is your stop, I think." One of the nameless, gray-green soldiers helped Anna to her feet. She stooped and pulled her sagging socks up in her boots, so she wouldn't have to walk on any folds, and stretched the sleepiness out of her joints. Her once broken leg had stiffened considerably and caught her up short as she tried to leave. The handsome soldier helped her off the train with her package. They were all handsome. Marianne's father, Heine, who was blown up. Her half brother, Joseph, who died of tetanus from his uniform collar chafing raw on his Larsen War Bride 61 neck. Her brother Heine, who was in a prison camp in England, and her brother Hans. All handsome men. Through the fractured pavements and sullen buildings, she asked directions and made her way. In some areas of Wiesbaden, the streetcars were still running, bun not here.The thought of seeing Hans was overshadowed by the thought of reporting his well-being to Mutti. Goal in sight, she hurried the last half mile down the street to the hospital, her brother's hospital. Her heart was pounding from exertion and excitement. She and Hans would share adventures and laugh and he would eat his stollen and cookies and they would wish for some wine to have with it. But the nurse at the desk turned her away. He had been transferred to the rehabilitation hospital in Rüdesheim. Waves of fatigue and hunger joined with her disappointment and crashed over her. "You can't go on tonight. You can sleep in the lobby, and I'll see if I can find something for you to eat." The white uniform left and Anna sank into a chair of disbelief. By morning, her resolve had returned, and once more she set out to find Hans. Rudesheim was not that far away, and in return for an eyelash flutter and a flash of white teeth ride offers that made traveling the extra distance only a minor inconvenience, and she picked up a few cigarettes to trade in the bargain. Graying buildings stood along the main street. Of Rudesheim. There was very little snow here, and what there was, looked gray, too. The Rudesheim Rehabilitation Hospital was little more than a conscripted boarding house A foreboding fell upon her even before she entered the door. Larsen War Bride 62 "I'm here to see Hans Resch. Could you tell me where I might find him? The duty nurse in Wiesbaden said he was transferred here." Her words met an empty pair of eyes behind thickly lensed glasses, and Anna hoped the head they belonged to was not equally thick. "Let me check," came the businesslike reply. Anna felt a tension in her neck that crept down and saturated every nerve. She strolled around what served as a lobby, a little nervous. Here and there a soldier was sitting, one with a wrapped leg, another with both arms wrapped. A third, who seemed uninjured physically, walked back and forth, a distance of five or six feet, near the wall, over and over and over again, muttering something unintelligible. Anna's eyes were following him when the white uniform returned. "He's gone," she reported, in an impersonal voice. Anna rushed to the desk, almost dropping her package, "Dead?" "No.” The woman drew herself straighter. “Russia." "When? How?" Tears welled up. The white uniform looked over her thick lenses, "The Wehrmarcht needed men. We had some.” She went back to her desk work as she finished. “He left for the Russian front days ago." "But he was a Marine," Anna offered. The nurse continued reviewing her records through her answer, "Doesn't matter. He's gone." Anna slowly turned and pulled her coat collar up close to her cheeks and started for the door. Larsen War Bride 63 Halfway there, the nurse looked up briefly, "You forgot your package." She motioned to the parcel sitting on the floor by her desk. Anna stepped back to it. "Thank you." She picked it up, thinking it was funny she hadn't heard it fall. Noticing a soldier on crutches, just making his way through the front door, she gently stopped him and tucked the package under one of his arms. "Merry Christmas." Click clack-click clack. The train and Anna headed home, home to Mutti and Papa and everyone. The trip home seemed too fast, too smooth. The wind was blowing again, and the windows were frosted over. Anna rubbed the frost and made a spot to see through. Yes, that was better. The fields gave way to trees. The Regensberg station was coming up soon, and then the long walk home to Zwiesel, in the Bayrischer Wald. Anna had traveled many times for the family, trading her trousseau of crystal and linens to the farmers of Bayern for food, but she had never come home empty-handed. How could she tell Mutti? The wind was blowing a little less harshly now, and light snow was beginning to fall as Anna set off, up the hill, to her home. She stopped to pull up her socks again, and then wrapped her coat more tightly around her as her boots crunched and sank in the deep snow. Halfway up the hill, she stopped and looked down at the station. The winter train waited for the next group of passengers, and the wind blew. Larsen War Bride 64 Wings Zwiesel, Germany Fall 1946 It was one of those easy days after the war, a day when the normalcy of daily visits to the wirtshaus for coffee and chatting with a girlfriend seemed eternal, a day when it felt, even if just a little, as though there were possibilities again. Anna and Frieda were savoring the quiet of the afternoon at a corner table, a place formerly coveted as a vantage point to watch the door in times when conversations were much more self-conscious, much more careful, much less open.