When my father retired from the army, he’d come to America every two years to visit me here in my little town. He loved flowers and tending to the garden, and I always looked forward to his visits.
My father didn’t speak often about the war, and I didn’t like pressing him too much about it. But I remember one afternoon, during one of his visits, that I found the courage to ask him about those years long ago. I was in my early thirties and my husband had just taken our eight-year-old daughter to a small carnival for her birthday.
‘Papa? Can you tell me about the war?’
The afternoon was hot. As I was sipping my cup of tea, I watched my father from the kitchen window. He wore a white shirt, loose khaki pants, and braces. He was stooped; his useless arm dangled at his side; his good hand worked the pruning secateurs. As I watched the limp, dying roses fall to the ground, I thought about the death of my friend Hava. I thought about the bombs I had heard dropping from Nazi planes. I thought about Sergeant De Waden trying to kiss me.
I placed my tea cup on the counter, opened the back door, and stepped down from the porch onto the fresh grass.
My father had commanded thousands of men, had earned the Croix de Guerre twice, and had been a powerful man in the ranks and heroics of his country, yet there he was, gently pruning flowers. I noticed a shovel by his side, and I smiled.
‘Papa?’
He turned slowly from his private waltz with the rose bush, squinted, and said, ‘Yes, Simone?’
‘Papa, can we talk?’
He turned for a moment to look at the abandoned rose bush, turned again, and pulled out a white handkerchief from his pocket. I smiled, thinking that the general was waving a surrender flag. He wiped the small beads of perspiration from his brow.
‘What is it, Simone? What’s the trouble?’
‘No, Papa. No trouble. I just want to ask you a question.’
My father slipped the secateurs into his pocket, the same way I had seen him slip his revolver into his holster before he left the house for the day. Generals wore uniforms and revolvers strapped to their sides . . . and now secateurs.
‘What is it, Simone?’
‘Papa. Can you tell me about the war? About when you went away?’
My father looked back at the rose bush, then said, ‘Let’s sit on the grass.’ He extended his good, right hand. As we walked a few steps, I felt the stiff bones in his fingers intertwined with mine.
‘Here,’ he said as he leaned down, then carefully sat in the middle of the lawn.
‘We were afraid,’ I said. ‘The Nazis were approaching Brussels. You grabbed your briefcase, Papa, then you kissed me and suddenly you were gone. Hava and I were so afraid we took a train, trying to escape the Nazi invasion. You were gone for four years. You never told me much about those four years.’
‘Perhaps, Simone, some memories are like dead flowers. It’s better to dead-head them from memory.’
As my father and I sat on the grass in the sun on that summer afternoon, I remembered the flower that had been my best friend Hava. I remembered the dangerous journey we had shared on a train to Dunkirk; the SS officer dragging Hava by the hair to a waiting truck. I had spoken about Hava Daniels often during the rest of my life, and yet my father rarely spoke of the war, the prison camp he endured in Spain, the beatings he endured, the starvation he experienced.
‘It was a time of survival, Simone. War is a curse, a wound in the history of our souls. When I looked at the blood oozing from my arm, when I heard the thunder of grenades and the agony of others, I made a promise to God: if I was spared, I would fight ugliness in silence for the rest of my life. You ask about the war, Simone. Listen to the peace here in this garden. That is victory enough for me.’
‘Hi, Mom! Hi, Grandpa. Hey, Mom! We’re back!’ I turned to see my daughter running towards us.
‘Daddy said he’s getting the mail and will be right back. The carnival was great; the best birthday present. I loved the big wheel and I had cotton candy.’
My daughter sat down between my father and me, like a new rose in the garden. ‘Grandpa, you look sad.’
‘No, no, my sweet. Just getting ready to get back to work.’ He stood up, pulled out his secateurs, made two quick snip, snip sounds with the tool in his good hand and walked back to the edge of the garden.
‘And Daddy and I both had funnel cake.’
‘I’m so glad, my darling, that you had a good time with your father. I’m so glad.’ I reached into my pocket. ‘Here, darling, a small birthday gift for you. Open your hand.’
My daughter opened her little hand and I placed a necklace in her palm, right where it belonged. A gold necklace.
‘It’s so pretty. Such a pretty star. Can I wear it now?’
I nodded and fastened my long-ago friend’s gold chain around my daughter’s neck and watched as the Star of David hung gently on her chest.
‘Thank you, Mommy. I love it.’
‘You’re welcome, Hava. I love you too.’