As celebration of the Armistice we have been given permission to write. Not knowing if a letter would find you, at first I hesitated to write it at all, yet concern overcoming uncertainty I pray this will reach you.
The wounds of war lie heavy upon the land. Memory of its carnage dismays the soul. Now many question the very root of their faith, finding no satisfactory solace to their need in prayer, many are convinced all is a lie. Nursing Sisters, such as we who attended the wounded, were often placed in juxtaposition to what we represent and what the maimed and dying expected, even demanded of us. Not simply the ministering to their flesh but for answers that in some way might restore their faith; if not in the goodness of man, then in the Almighty Saviour of man.
A nun’s habit is such a visual presence of the Church that often we in ours represented an affront to soldiers who had come to doubt its very existence. Over such destitute souls one cannot pray. Having care that our rosary did not swing against their mattress, for by chance if it did it so upset them, they cringed from our touch as though repulsed by our advertised sanctity. Yet during these endless years of war whenever that ultimate moment came to summon the priest—they welcomed his presence with the need of innocent children, afraid to be left alone in the dark.
Now, we search for food for the many who come to us for bodily resurrection. Their physical hunger is such that it obliterates all other hungers. I am afraid it will take much time before we are once again able to feed their faith. A starving child makes mockery of cloistered sanctity. A sin to voice, yet one that propels me on, to prove it is not so. Four years of war have only strengthened my faith in the innate goodness of man and his creator, not destroyed it.
The Spanish Influenza appeared so rapidly amongst us that we were often helpless in the face of two calamities at once. I pray that you and yours were spared—though being so far away you may not even be aware that such happened. Here two of our Sisters died of the infection, six others were spared and are recuperating blessed with a resurgence of health through prayer.
Do respond, tell me of your life. The war did not touch you, I believe and that is good. We all cheered the arrival of your brave American boys were so grateful that they had come. We nursed many here. One who was blinded said he came from the city of Detroit and when I told him my very best childhood friend lived there he told me of all its many splendors. I know I’m not allowed to remember, but it cheered him to speak of home.
Your letter announcing the birth of a son reached me before war was declared. He is included in my prayers. Now that postal service has been reestablished—please respond—I await impatiently for news of you and yours.
Yours in God,
Sr. Marie Luke, O.S.B.
Jane placed Teresa’s letter into the shoebox next to the first, looked to the children, her house, finished Mrs. Sullivan’s and her newly engaged daughter’s party dresses—and when the day was done—everything tidy—everything accomplished—all the children asleep—she took out her precious letter and read it again.
Michael, spinning his top on the front porch, saw him first, ran the three blocks over to tell Hannah, who having sensed her Ebbely’s approach was already outside looking for him.
“Ah! Two of my favorite people! The smallest and the tallest!”
“Ebbely! Ebbely! So long you take and so tin! Come, come quick put down de patchkas—first a nice cup of tea exactly how you like. Den I got still warm just-out-of-de-oven strudel, time enough to schlep from de Lizzie to inside later.” Propelling him down the hall towards her kitchen she suddenly stopped, bent down, threw her arms around the little man, gave him a crushing hug, set him back on his tiny feet and pulled him into the kitchen.
Trying to catch his breath, Ebbely gasped, “Sparta! Sparta would have made of you a goddess! My dearest Hannah either you have gained in strength or I have become even more depleted than I knew. I brought you some things, just allow me to …” And he started back towards the hall.
Hannah barked, “No! First you sit!”
Ebbely knowing that tone, sat.
“Ah, it’s good to be home.”
In one big rush of welcoming breath, Michael lisped, “Uncle Ebbely, I have a new brother, his name is William, I call him Billy—he is too small and I have to wait ’til he’s growed to play—Gregory is dead and Gloria is dead, Mama is not and Papa is working and Uncle Johann took everybody far away and I got a new string for my top, want to see?”
Ebbely said of course, a spinning top was just the thing a weary traveler needed to celebrate his return to those he loved. And so with a deft flick Michael demonstrated the gyratory magic of his wooden toy, beamed at Ebbely’s enthusiastic appreciation of his skill, then calmed down significantly to consume a healthy portion of still warm strudel.
The news of their favorite shrimp’s return spread so fast that by suppertime Hannah’s dining room was filled once again with her boys, expectant of her superlative cooking and Ebbely’s oratory talents.
Neither disappointed them.
Ebbely held court as only he could, but, remembering the last such occasion, only after clearing the subject of his dissertation with the master of the house.
“Fritz, my dear friend, knowing your penchant of the proper, the utterly pure in all things, I hesitate to recount my Iliad for fear you will deem it your necessary duty to interrupt such sections of it that might disturb, even be considered slightly shocking for the shell-like ears of your Lady and John’s so admirable wife. Although I personally find nothing that could in any way distress, remembering our past encounter, I must defer to your judgment before I can commence.” And turning away, Ebbely helped himself to more stuffing.
His friends groaned. Knowing exactly what Ebbely was up to, John ate, trying to look serious.
“Well, really Ebberhardt, such a fuss you make over nothing!”
“Nothing, Fritz? You call, though inadvertently, shocking your sainted wife and an impressionable Jane nothing?” Without looking up Ebbely continued eating.
Thoroughly flustered, his friends looking daggers in his direction, Fritz capitulated, “Okay—so tell already whatever you have to tell, I won’t stop you. But …”
“Yes … Fritz?” Ebbely’s tone was ingenuous to a fault.
“Oh, nothing.” The table exploded into laughter. Relieved that they had escaped banishment, Hannah and Jane sat down with the men. Both having noticed a new fragility about Ebbely that worried them, they welcomed this display of his usual pixielike teasing—its exaggerated liveliness seemed suddenly necessary.
“Well, how shall I begin? Tragedy never suits the retelling of it. One must experience it to know it well! And from what I have been told it has touched many of you at this table—far deeper and far more heart-wrenching than my saga of personal survival.” As though not wishing to insult the sorrow of others by his less sorrowful tale, Ebbely hesitated.