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“Don’t cry, Dafne. Please.”
”Don’t tell me not to cry. I have to.” She scrunched both of Hal’s coat lapels in her hands and buried her wet eyes in his tie.
“I always thought Glenn was silly for joining the army. You weren’t so stupid, but it doesn’t make any difference.” She lifted her eyes. “How can they take you, too?”
“If they hadn’t drafted us, they never would have found enough men,” Hal said. “But cheer up, sugar.”
She dropped her face back to his tie.
”Glenn will clean up the Germans before I ever get there. I’m just going to Carolina to sweat through training and drink nasty moonshine.”
She laughed between her sniffles. “I hate the Germans.”
“No, you don’t. You love our boys, and we just happen to be fighting the Germans.” He kissed her. “I have to catch the train.”
She drew away from him. “Write me.”
“I will.”
“Promise!”
“I promise.”
“Okay.”
She waited for another kiss. Instead he pinched her cheek. “Hang in there.”
He bounded down the apartment steps to his taxi. Dafne sulked back inside, fell on the couch, and wept bitterly. Was there any other girl who had lost two men to this horrible war?
She sat up in a sudden rage. Going to the kitchen, she poured a finger from the whiskey bottle Hal had left there. She drained it in one very unladylike swig. Then she marched to her record cabinet, took out a Beethoven album, and smashed each record, one by one, on the tile floor. Next, she took a Strauss and crushed it on top of the shards of the first German composer’s records.
”What are you doing?” shouted Elsa, rushing down the stairs.
”Getting rid of our German things.”
“What good could that possibly do?”
“The Liberty Bond man said it was how we could support our boys.”
“Do you know how ridiculous that sounds? I always thought you were so clever. What has become of you?”
Dafne had taken Mozart’s “The Magic Flute” out of the record cabinet but hesitated. She began to feel embarrassed.
“That is our favorite opera,” Elsa said. “Mozart was not even German, and he died over a hundred years ago.”
Dafne’s face hardened in determination. She hurled the record set to the floor. Elsa gasped as the beautiful music was destroyed.
“Okay, Miss Graham, show me how much you love your country. Send your German servant away. Better yet, call the police. They can drag me to prison like so many others. I am sure you can think of a pretense. It is not very patriotic of you to employ the enemy.”
Dafne’s mouth hung agape, even as tears rolled across her lips into her mouth. She had never seen Elsa so angry.
“Oh, Elsa, I’m sorry.”
She ran to her servant across the shards of broken records. Elsa slipped away from her attempted embrace. “Get away from me.”
She marched up the stairs. Dafne curled up on the couch and wept.
* * * * *
The romance and purpose of a soldier’s life, which had been Glenn’s passion for over a year, disintegrated the moment he landed in France to the sound of German bombs. Two days later, when he joined the small number of American companies that had preceded him in Chaumont, the misery of the war struck a hard blow to his pride and patriotism. All his moral values and priorities had been reduced to one—survival.
The Atlantic crossing had been nerve-wracking for all the men. Nobody put voice to the fear of the German U-boats. But they’d known at any moment they could be killed by the unseen enemy lurking beneath the ocean’s surface. However, English radio technology had grown sophisticated enough to detect the submarines. Not a single American military transport ship was hit.
The fear on the ground in France, however, was tangible and graphic.
This war—extolled and debated in so many cabinets, pressrooms, and tearooms back home—wasn’t a war of politics, but a war of survival for the suffering and starving people of Europe. Glenn felt not like the messiah that General Pershing made him and the other soldiers out to be, but a perpetuator of the pain—a reinforcement who would make the war last a little longer. Could a battle of misery really be won, or merely be lost less terribly by one side than the other?
For the first few weeks, Glenn and the other Americans waited, billeted in the lonely villages behind the lines, hosted by people too poor to flee the danger. He hardly spoke a word during that time, other than to give or to respond to a military order. He sat alone, tolerating the poor rations and struggling to understand the French culture. The sooner he got to the lines, the better. He felt he could better endure the company of soldiers better than the decaying population in these French towns. The Germans hadn’t even reached this far, yet the advance of want had killed more on each side of the front than soldiers ever could.
The status quo of misery amazed Glenn. After the initial German surge, two vast trenches had stabilized the battle lines. In some places the armies faced off as a single row; sometimes they zigzagged across the terrain, now at a distance of a few hundred yards and then coming as close as fifty. Stumps, barbed wire, and bones of those three years dead filled the charred earth of the no-man’s-land between the trenches. An advance of a quarter mile was considered a key victory.
The introduction of the machine gun had caused the stalemate. Neither side could gain an advantage. Instead, each poured more men into the trenches to take the places of the dead. If a new trench was built after an advance, the old trench served for the reserve. If in retreat, the new trench became a ready-made grave.
The military strategists who planned this war had been baffled by the modern methods of warfare. These men had been trained in the tradition of the Napoleonic wars. The older ones had seen action in the Franco-Prussian war, or in Crimea. At the first offensive, France sent its finest soldiers forward on horseback with swords drawn, as if advancing for Napoleon himself. The German machine guns ended cavalry warfare forever within the first weeks. Germany, for their part, marched ahead with tightly packed infantry—the old way to invade—only to have entire companies mown down by machine guns or torn apart by the French 75 artillery. Even after trenches stretched from Flanders to Switzerland, generals tried to counter the stalemate with bayonet charges, stubbornly believing that war could be won with sheer bravery.
The glory of conquest, so long a European ideal, had devolved into a sport of annihilation.
In the fall of 1917 the western front was the last place of true contention. Serbia had fallen. Austria-Hungary had fallen. Revolution had put an end to Czarist Russia. The Ottoman Empire was crumbling. The English had placed a viselike grip on the seas all around Europe. The Kaiser had expected the U-boats to end the war in Germany’s favor, but England’s radio development turned the sea advantage back to Britain. But on the western front, the scene of Germany’s first advance, the war raged on. For three years artillery was hurled back and forth, with small forays made into no-man’s-land, cleaning out the trenches for younger men.
The civilians of Europe had come to accept a state of total suffering. They put up with the obstinacy of their leaders only because they had grown as accustomed to war as they had once been to peace. How else could the leaders of Germany and France convince their peoples to go on with so little hope of victory?
Glenn quickly forgot what the fight was for. Those lofty phrases of President Wilson and the propaganda publications from home were rendered meaningless. His only hope was that America’s entrance in the war would end it quickly. There was no other way to stop the suffering.
The fear he saw in the French people wasn’t what he’d expected. It was not a fear of the German army sweeping through and slaughtering them in their sleep. Rather, it was a fear that tomorrow the food would run out, or that next winter they wouldn’t be as easily spared from influenza as last year. There was a far more brutal army at work than either the Allies or the Germans . . . and that army had already won the war.
Everyone Glenn had known who lived in privilege thought they knew what suffering was . . . but they’d never seen it. When they did, if nothing else, they realized how far they were from really understanding. Glenn felt he knew Elsa a little better now. She had told him about her youth and the hardship her family suffered. Looking into the eyes of the starving French, he glimpsed something of what she had endured.
Glenn would never forget that first march to the front. Leaving the village where his company had billeted, he felt eager to start. But as he got nearer to the battle line, fear began to enter his bloodstream like a sour poison. He was marching into hell.
The American “doughboys,” as the British dubbed them, didn’t take well to the idea of burying themselves in the mud of the trenches, yet that was exactly what was expected of the first companies. They were the fresh bodies—the artillery fodder for continuing the carnage. The French and English soldiers, pale and weak, many infected with dysentery, looked warily on the newcomers. They would have preferred for America to send ships filled with fresh clothes, food and medicine, rather than eager Yankees.
The stretch of trench assigned to Glenn’s company had been maintained by the French for over a year. It was fortified by wood planks set into the walls and by sandbags above ground. More wood planks covered the bottom of the trench, but it made a sorry floor. Once the first rains started, it was quickly covered in a thin layer of mud that oozed from the sides of the trench. A soldier had to keep his provisions well-guarded each night against the rats. Looking out across no-man’s-land, Glenn could see evidence of another trench before a retreat had brought the line to its current position. Several planks stuck out among the barbed wire and bones.
He wrote to Elsa for the first time after arriving at the front, sitting in a bunker dug into the dirt behind the front line and fortified with concrete blocks for a roof, where his company had waited through heavy German shelling the night before. A crude electric light swung over his table.
Dear Elsa,
Neither my training nor my worst nightmare could have prepared me for the horror of trench warfare. I have only been in this squalor three days, yet I feel at my wits’ end. Some of those around me have endured this for three years.
I have not yet seen a battle, but the artillery barrages are as sinister as any advance. Fortunately, our dugout is well built. It was hit last night and held. Earlier yesterday they signaled a gas attack, and we all wore our masks for an hour before they told us it was a false alarm. Not only is there no progress, but there is hardly even an attempt at progress. Still, men die almost every day. I do not understand it. This is not a fight. It is a mutual execution.
But the most painful sight to me was the state of the French towns and countryside we passed through on the trip from the coast. The horror of the war reaches far beyond the battle lines. Innocent people are dying every day from want. This is the true tragedy of the war
Why does God permit such evil to be wrought upon his people? I know now that the Germans across the field are not the evil ones. They are frightened men just like me. The evil is in Berlin, Paris and London not to find the mercy to end this war. Truly, God did give the world to the devil for his own. No man could have imagined such terrible times as these.
Oh Elsa, if only I had known I would not have had the courage to enlist. Yet that would only have delayed the inevitable. I have made my choice, and God will give me strength.
How I miss our carefree days in Lindenhurst. Restless as I was, I only remember the joy and pleasure the three of us shared. Do not resent me for having been the one to end it. We all should have known it could not last. Instead of pining for a time gone by, I hope I can remember those days as the best time of my life and use my memories to encourage me through the dark days I have embarked upon.
Pray for me,
Yours, Glenn
Pray for him, Elsa did. She read the letter again as she sat in the back of St. Mark’s Lutheran Church, long after the weekday congregation had left. A sacristan dusted the pulpit and altar rail. A large, empty wood cross rose above the nave. She had been coming to the Lower East Side more frequently in recent months. She wanted to spend as much time with her mother as possible. In lives such as theirs, all time was precious, and nothing was certain. After moving to Lindenhurst, Elsa had gone four years without once seeing her mother or sister. She wanted to use this time when she could see her mother to full advantage.
Her visits to the south end of the island were a good connection with her past. She never thought she would want reminders of that life, but time had a way of putting even the most difficult events of her past into perspective. Being here was a good reminder of where she had come from . . . and where she might once again go. She was no longer so naïve as to assume her position with Dafne would last forever.
Nobody in the church recognized her today. There was a new pastor, but many of the people were the same. Elsa knew that her own appearance had changed dramatically. Even if someone thought they recognized her face, they would talk themselves out of their memory.
The congregation was smaller now, and despite some familiar faces it was no longer a German parish—hardly any Germans were left in the Lower East Side. There were few Protestants of any nationality. The neighborhood was dominated now by Eastern Europeans who were either Jewish or Catholic. Each year there was a larger Chinese contingent in the neighborhood as well.
Even if St. Mark’s had still hosted a German majority, the decision to hold services in English was wise. No German Americans wanted to draw attention these days to themselves.
Sitting by herself in the empty church, Elsa prayed both for Glenn’s physical safety and for God to protect his spirit. Even if he escaped the war alive, many others would return broken and bitter. She loved Glenn for his pure mind and good heart. To lose those would be the worst tragedy this war could bring to him.
Her eyes fixed on an etching on the altar of the suffering Christ carrying the cross toward his execution. The artist had rendered Jesus’s face with uncanny realism. Elsa knew that whoever carved it had suffered. The moment captured a man who knew he was taking the final walk of his life. She had often stared at this etching as a young girl. The expression on his face made her think he was hungry but didn’t have the energy to notice.
How often she had experienced that same feeling. This image of the suffering Christ always encouraged her. However much she suffered, she knew that Jesus had suffered worse—not only in hunger and pain but also in rejection and loss. Knowing what he had gone through made her feel good about being a Christian and took away the temptation to blame God for the suffering her family endured.
Now Glenn was living through worse hardships than she ever had. He would know that look in the etched Christ’s eyes now. He wouldn’t have understood before. She felt closer to him, even from so far away.
She allowed herself a selfish prayer as well. She knew that the price of this war could come calling to her. She wasn’t privy to Dafne’s communications with her parents, but surely Mr. and Mrs. Graham were reassessing Dafne’s expenses. An apartment in the city, along with her own salary, were the type of luxuries people had been asked to sacrifice for the good of the cause. Dafne herself didn’t seem concerned, but Elsa didn’t want to be unprepared for the possibility of a change.
What would happen to her if Dafne had to return to Lindenhurst? The Grahams wouldn’t need her services anymore. If they had a new servant, then that was that. More likely, they were getting on fine with Chris’s help. Katherine was old enough to help now as well. Mr. Graham’s business had also changed. They would give her a good word to help her find another position, but families weren’t hiring servants now like they were a few years ago. Times were changing. She had no assurance of finding similar work.
How wonderful it would be if she could go back to Lindenhurst. Her years there had been the best of her life. But those years were finished. Glenn had said as much in his letter. There was no sense in holding onto what could never be expected to last.
Today’s reminder of her past wasn’t only a memory. It was a haunting possibility for her future. There was always work to be had sewing uniforms. What a sad step backward that would be.