Oh, Glory!
The postman delivered a letter this morning—from Toby! It’s dated the third of December, days after that horrible battle, so he is alive!
I danced in my front yard until Mrs. K. came out, cross as the dickens, wondering why I’d gone stark-raving mad. When I told her the good news she ran into the house and came out with two small glasses of kirshwasser and we drank to Toby’s health at ten o’clock in the morning!
I think Mrs. K. holds a sweet spot for him. She always yelled at Toby when his ball bounced into her yard, but then, on Christmas, we always found a new ball on the front porch with a very formally written card from “Your next-door neighbor.” Before he left for training, Toby did pay his respects to the woman, and I know she worries about him, even when she is making voodoo dolls of me.
Speaking of dolls, I hope the children received my package. I’ve been in such a daze I didn’t mail it until last week. Corrine’s doll is wearing a dress I made myself, and Robbie’s ball was once Toby’s. I hope he can chuck it into the neighbor’s yard very soon. I also hope my Lebkuchen traveled well. I included the recipe in the box as it doesn’t require sugar, just honey.
Oh, it’s been a good, good day, Glory.
Roylene stopped by for lunch. Her gift to me was the sublime pleasure of feeling my grandchild kick a Morse code greeting against my open palm.
Later, Charlie and I talked Irene into skipping midnight mass and heading out on the town instead. A few miles from my house there’s this real juke joint—Sal and I used to go when we first moved here. Back then there’d be folksy singers holding court and communists meeting in the beer garden, yelling about the evils of capitalism to the stares of wide-eyed students. Like everything else, though, it’s changed.
The place was done up in red, white and blue tinsel, and the folk singers were gone, replaced by some real swingers, a five-piece band made up of guys serving stateside who’d gotten leave. They were in uniform, and it was a sight to see. The holiday had everyone full of cheer, and the drinks were flowing, lighting faces up like the Christmas tree suspended from the rafters! Yes, it was hanging there like a children’s piñata! The barman said they didn’t have room for it anywhere else. We laughed like crazy!
At the end of the night, when everyone got red-faced and sentimental, the band started playing “When the Lights Go on Again, All Over the World.” They had no singer, so we all took over, every person in that tavern, holding on to one another’s shoulders. I had Irene on one side and Charlie on the other, belting away, and I could feel the heat of their bodies through their clothes and the sweet smell of liquor on everyone’s breath and the hope in that room lifted me up, up, up till I felt like that Christmas tree, hanging over the world, twinkling like the stars.
I’m drunk, though more with happiness than whiskey.
Toby’s alive, Glory. And my Sal. And Robert and Robbie. Corrine and Levi and Mrs. M. and Mrs. K. Irene and Charlie. Roylene and the baby she is carrying. Us. We’re alive!
The Merriest of Christmases to you and yours, my beloved East Coast friend, and may 1944 treat you well. It will bring Victory, and our heroes will come home. I just know it.
Love,
Rita