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ONE DAY IN APRIL, MR. Olsen finally trusted Twila to close the café. Well, sort of—he had no choice.
Early that afternoon, his wife Thelma heard that her mother hung on the verge of death down in Cedar Rapids. A customer offered his extra gas coupons, and they left around three before the supper crowd wandered in.
Monday was a slack evening because most folks ate leftovers from yesterday’s big meal. And it wasn’t close enough to the weekend for folks to be traveling through Halberton—two of the reasons Mr. Olsen thought Twila could handle this responsibility.
“Got meatloaf and baked potatoes in the oven, so all you have to do is take orders and serve. Plus take people’s money and close up. Think you can manage?”
She most certainly did, but tried not to sound too confident. That had gotten her nowhere in similar situations, so she kept her reply short, “Yes, I believe so.”
He scrutinized her as Thelma appeared at the door, nervous as all get-out. “Come on, Olsen—we’ve got to get on the road—it’ll be dark before we know it.”
With a heavy sigh and a few final warnings, he took off, but a few minutes later, poked his head back in. “If you have any trouble, run over to the Mercantile. They’re open a half hour later than us, you know.”
Yes, she knew. What did he think would happen, anyway—a modern-day Bonnie and Clyde appearing to rob the entire 15 dollars from the till? But Twila bit her tongue and waited until the Olsen’s ’36 burgundy Studebaker finally chugged south out of town.
About five o’clock, two single customers ordered the special. Then a couple she had never seen before parked out in front. An hour later, she locked all the doors and scrubbed the kitchen floor while the man and wife finished meal. Mr. Olsen specified both doors must be locked because “down on your knees like that, you wouldn’t even know if somebody came in.”
Twila planned to ask where the couple came from, but when she refilled coffee, they paid no attention to her. Even through hushed tones, the gist of conversation came through. son turned 18 in August, and his brother had joined the Navy after Pearl Harbor.
A phrase from the wife struck a chord. If only Daniel could be spared. Like Butch, deployed to North Africa. Even though he’d been so anxious to go and so confident, March news reports of the fight for the Mareth Line had sounded grim. They still hadn’t heard exactly where he was—even that much information would help.
Every once in a while, he sent a postcard that lined up with Dad’s on a string stretched across the glass doors of the kitchen cupboard. Each one brought a taste of Butch’s exuberance:
Rode a camel with a buddy—the humps make it a little different from horse riding.
Closest buddy here got a care pkg yesterday and we ate the contents in five minutes.
The greasy burners and the oven door resisted her cleaning efforts as she kept peeking out at the couple in the dining room. The husband held his wife’s hand now—they were in this together, like Dad and Mom. Wouldn’t it be nice to end up with someone you could talk to about everything?
After they paid bill, she pulled the wide front shades for the night. Out by the curb, the man held the car door and his wife smiled up at him. Dad followed the same practice, and Mom often said, “Manners matter, Twila. Your father’s always courteous, no matter how much he has on his mind.”
They talked about everything. No wonder thick letters to and from California helped keep the U.S. Postal Service in business.
Down the two-block Main Street, most businesses had closed already. A faint lamp still shone in the jewelry shop, veiled by black out drapes, but then, the Liberski family lived in the back. Otherwise, seven p.m. showed no sign of life.
Just then, Lonnie spun around the corner with a blonde sitting close. His arm lolled around her shoulder—probably thought driving with one hand made him look like a big man. Funny how she’d never noticed that when her shoulder had been involved.
With a huff, she cleaned up the strangers’ table and discovered a quarter. What a generous tip—Twila wished more folks would stop by on way to somewhere else, since the locals rarely left even a nickel.
Still wondering where those customers hailed from, she pocketed the treasure and swept up the day’s dust and crumbs. With the boss gone, her breath came easier. No one knew if she hit every corner or changed the water halfway through. She did change it, of course, but savored the sensation of being alone, being in charge.
Nobody asked, “You’re sure you added sanitizer?”
The result of her labor—a sparkling clean floor—meant more this way. Mr. Olsen would inspect everything early in the morning and be pleased. But what really mattered was her own sense of satisfaction.
Ever since Mrs. Harmon mentioned following one’s passion, that word had tantalized Twila. To be passionate meant giving something your all, but even though she gave her best and Mr. Olsen had increased her hours, no strong emotion accompanied her here at the cafe.
Could being in charge qualify as a passion? How could it fit into her desire to contribute more to the war effort? Hadn’t Mrs. Harmon said something about growing into being a leader?
The image of Mom supervising all those workers arose. Wasn’t that what Mom did, lead the people on the lines?
Twila smoothed Butch’s class ring on the chain around her neck, recalling the fragile moment when he entrusted it to her before leaving for boot camp. He’d been packing his duffel bag when Mom and Dad took her over to say good-bye.
Uncle Marvin and Aunt Edna hovered over him, along with his two younger brothers and sister. But Butch radiated excitement—he couldn’t wait to leave.
At one point, he drew her aside. “Hey there, Twi. How’s my favorite cousin?”
She could barely answer.
“Hey, no tears now! I’ve seen enough for two lifetimes already. I wanted to ask if you’d mind watching over my ring while I’m gone?”
He set the golden treasure in her palm, and she closed her fingers around it. “I promise.”
Memories from her first few weeks of high school engulfed her. She’d been so frightened and shy, but Butch always acknowledged her in the hallways. But in his first year at Iowa State, he’d signed up with the army.
“I’m in the Army now, Rod.” Butch’s voice had a lilt to it. “Leavin’ on the early train for Burlington and on to Fort Leonard Wood—they’re building that place for the likes of me.”
“Wish I could go, too. Stay safe, now.” Rodney’s wet cheeks testified to his sincerity.
“Once they whip us country boys into shape, we’ll be a force to be reckoned with.”
Dad shooed them together like chickens for a photograph. He captured Butch in his smart new Navy uniform with Rodney and Twila flanking him, and that photo hung on the string with postcards.
No one had any idea that a year later they’d all be saying good-bye to Dad down at the depot—the most painful leave-taking of all. A group of friends gathered, and Rodney and Sharon brought three-year-old Lilly to see him off.
Lilly’s silken hair provided the perfect spot for Twila to bury her face. But even at the conductor’s last call, when Dad hurried down the wooden platform toward the door, Mom controlled her tears. Not long after that, she started working longer hours.
Now, the quiet café absorbed a heartfelt sigh. “Everyone’s doing part except me. I just have to find some way to serve.”
Yesterday’s sermon went over her head until the pastor read several firsthand accounts of divine intervention during the Dunkirk evacuation. As she checked her list of closing duties on the counter, the tales sifted back.
“All of our lives, we’ve heard that prayer can change things. But our friends in England have learned firsthand the effectiveness of asking God for help. With entire army hemmed in by the Germans in the Battle of France, the whole nation bowed heads, and in amazing ways, the Almighty answered.
“You know the story, but it bears repeating. Using every available boat, public or private, the majority of trapped British, Belgian, and French soldiers made it back to England. Operation Dynamo, they called it, and dynamic, it surely was.
“We must heed this example of our Creator still at work through His people. Prime Minister Churchill called the entrapment a colossal military disaster, as ‘the whole root and core and brain’ of Britain’s army seemed about to perish or be captured. But his idea to employ private citizens in the rescue made all the difference.
“Afterward, we all listened to his We shall fight on the beaches speech. Even the Prime Minister, not necessarily a man of faith, branded the rescue a miracle. And all because ordinary people stepped up to offer what they could.
“Private fishing boats sailed across the Channel with the Navy. Women banded together to prepare bandages, feed starving returnees, and aid the wounded. Everyday women and men—regular citizens like you and me made ordinary contributions to accomplish something extraordinary.
“We, too, throw in our lot with our boys over there, knitting sweaters and socks by the ton, sending packages and writing letters. Some of you take the place of younger men in fields and factories. All over our great nation, the winds of patriotism stir us to band together.”
Suddenly, Twila realized she had never asked for help figuring out her passion. The shiny milkshake machine made its final, graduated wail when she turned the OFF switch. She sank into a leather booth and folded her hands like when she was a child, praying with Dad before bedtime.
Her whisper emerged hoarse. “I’ve been a poor follower the past few years, but...” A gaggle of erroneous choices paraded before her. All of that wasted time with Lonnie, lying to Mom, neglecting her schoolwork—what right did she have to pray?
“I do believe, though, and I want to help our troops. Please show me what I can do.”
***
IRREVOCABLY, WHEN CARLOS and Cap were resting, Stan was drawn back to fourth or fifth day in the climb to the highlands. Tonight, these memories invaded again while he kept watch.
They’d been making good progress—if they were going the right direction. But they never really knew for sure. Carlos hunkered down beside Stan a little off the trail, and behind them, Cap whispered, “What can you see?”
Carlos squinted. “The Bay. Sparkling.” He held up his hand and mouthed, “Hear that?”
Ears like a lynx—in a few seconds Stan and Cap heard it too, a steady swish. But from which direction? This insular jungle made it difficult to ascertain distances. They might have glimpsed the bay, but in reality, it was days away.
Marching. Troops marching. The vibrations grew stronger, spiraling alarm through Stan. Lots and lots of men. He slipped down beyond the trail they’d hacked through the jungle and soundlessly crept toward the sound.
Soon, bursts of Japanese mingled with a few halting words of English. He waited...waited some more. It was all he could do to keep from swatting at flies the size of pencil erasers, but he controlled the urge.
The swishing grew closer. Closer. And then, within a few feet, GI uniforms tucked into frayed leather boots came into view. Those boots scraped against stone and tripped over roots. Higher, men with shoulder blades ridged under shirts fought to keep balance.
They’d held onto Bataan against impossible odds, even after the Japs repeatedly broke through the lines. Cursing the enemy, these captured soldiers remained steadfast. But now, defenseless, they could only moan.
Over sixty miles of brutal slopes all the way from Mariveles, in the south of Bataan, the Nips must have marched them. Several fell and endured rifle butts shoved into ribs.
Enemy curses resounded as sweat dripped down Stan’s back. Driven like stunned animals to Camp O’Donnell, these GIs were his people.
Their downcast eyes and posture spelled disaster. It seemed impossible that General MacArthur had approved the surrender, but how do you fight when your supplies are cut off and men are already dying in droves?
A little later, Carlos and Cap sneaked behind him. Finally, the ghastly parade dwindled off into the jungle, and Stan started up a trail in the opposite direction. The others followed, but not five minutes later, Cap stumbled and fell against a tall acacia tree. Carlos dribbled a little water down his throat.
He squeezed his eyelids shut—that intense pain behind his eyes must have returned, worse even than that in his joints. This attack resembled the two he’d suffered during the night.
But they dared not stop, though Carlos whispered, “Did you notice his gums are bleeding now, and his nose?”
“He’s burning up.”
“Yeah, but the fever might be gone soon, right?”
“Or it might last three more days.”
“Let’s pull him behind that stand of bamboo. Maybe with a little rest...” But they both knew rest would change nothing. The next minute, Cap’s skin could turn cold and clammy, or he might hallucinate and cry out in terror.
“We’ve got to stay together, but also find help.”
“Si. Y esto es.” He’d taught Stan a little Spanish, and this was something like, and this is it...
Carlos positioned his arms under Cap’s left shoulder, and Stan did the same on his other side. Lugging his buddy up the overgrown trail, his silent prayer floated up through the dense foliage canopy.
Please send help for Cap.
No immediate answer, but his silent cry still brought a measure of consolation. A few feet at a time, they dragged Cap along.
And then, he startled them by spouting, “Unus pro omnibus, omnes pro uno... Alexandre Dumas.”
Carlos looked to Stan for an interpretation.
“All for one, one for all....”
“Si,” Carlos grinned. “He’s still with us.”
That period was as close to desperate as Stan had felt, and he couldn’t seem to stop going over those days in his mind. Things were far better now, although Cap’s bouts of fever never seemed to stop. In fact, they were growing more frequent.
