Chapter 14 Moment of Truth
MOMENT OF TRUTH
I woke to find myself alone in bed. Had I slept too late? Mrs. Stark would certainly think me a spoiled princess if I lolled about in bed! Why hadn’t Joe woken me?
Oh. My watch said it was not quite six, and the house was quiet. I listened, but could hear nothing. Where was Joe?
He’d told me that what I’d said at dinner had been fine, and that he loved me, but he’d been restless all night, and he hadn’t made love to me, either, which made the first evening he hadn’t done so, other than during Meine Tage—my bleeding time.
I’d assumed married couples always made love at night—why wouldn’t they, when it felt so lovely?
—but he’d said he felt uncomfortable doing it in his parents’ house.
He’d held me instead, but I’d felt the tension in his arms. Had I embarrassed him after all, then?
Or was he worried about suffering the same outcome as the night before?
I longed to address that, but wasn’t sure how.
If he’d woken this early, though … perhaps it was more than the lovemaking? Perhaps he was walking the streets right now, his mind in turmoil. About me? Was he wondering, now that he saw me in his childhood home and realized how poorly I fit here, whether his parents were right?
I lay there a minute more, not sure of what to do, then said aloud, “But this is foolish,” and got out of bed.
My makeup gave me a bit of pause—the bruise had fully bloomed now, and it wasn’t easy to cover it well.
I looked perhaps a bit artificial in the daylight, but that was better than the alternative.
I headed downstairs—I wasn’t even cold, for the entire house seemed to be heated in some miraculous American fashion, and the warm air was lovely—and moved cautiously toward the kitchen.
I’d find Joe, for surely he would be in the house somewhere, and he could help me make a cup of tea, as I was equally sure that Mrs. Stark wouldn’t take kindly to me rummaging about in her cupboards.
I heard voices from the kitchen and stopped, for one of them was Joe’s, and it was raised.
“I told you,” he said, “I don’t need to talk to anybody. I had a bad dream, that’s all. I know you shrinks like to make a federal case out of every twitch, but I’m not one of your patients. I’m not neurotic. I never have been. I’m fine.”
David’s voice, then, for surely it was his, low and patient. “You know your folks are concerned about you.”
“I know it, all right,” Joe said, almost savagely.
“Dad asked me last night if I was regretting my marriage! That if I’d slapped Marguerite, well, he was sure she’d given me reason, but that didn’t make it right, and it would be better to admit I’d made a mistake and move on.
I just about slapped him for that. He’d be glad to get me out of it, he said.
Pay her off, he meant, and send her to some divorce ranch in Reno, as if Marguerite isn’t the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
She’s what’s held me together since I got home, and she wasn’t even here! How much better is it now that she is?”
“And yet you did hit her,” David said.
“For the last time,” Joe said, “I didn’t hit her on purpose. I wouldn’t hit her. I couldn’t. Oh, God, how do I convince you? And everybody else?”
I wasn’t listening to this anymore. I stepped into the kitchen and said, “Good morning, David. And to you, darling. And yes, I heard, at least the last bit. I think, you know, that I should be part of this discussion, for I know the truth of how Joe’s behaved, and I need to know the truth of how he’s felt. ”
Joe said, “I told you. It’s nothing.” Between his teeth.
I hesitated a moment, then came forward and sank to my knees before him, my hands on his thighs.
If that was an unseemly display before Joe’s brother-in-law—which it almost certainly was—I wasn’t afraid to be wrong, not if it came from love.
“I don’t know the right way to be a wife,” I told him.
“I believe we all saw the proof of that last night. I’ve had very little practice, you see, and I don’t have a mother to ask, but I must trust what I feel.
We must trust what we feel. Perhaps I’m wrong to put myself forward, but I think I must. Darling, if you’ve suffered, if you’re not feeling able to hold yourself together—this isn’t one bit like you, and I don’t think it will go away so easily. ”
Joe had a hand in his hair now. “I can’t do this. I can’t.”
“You can,” I said, loving him so much, my heart hurt. “You’re the strongest man I know. You can do anything.” I took his hand and kissed it, then rose. “Tea, I think. Tea is very helpful when one needs comfort.”
A few minutes, and we were all sitting at the table with our tea. David looking compassionate, but in a professional sort of way, like Dr. Becker when treating a patient, and Joe looking beleaguered.
Nothing to do but tackle it. I said to David, “It sounds as if you’ve seen these problems before.”
“Only in about every third GI,” David said.
“We saw it plenty during the war, too. It was more than a full-time job over there behind the lines, figuring out how to help the guys who cracked up. Some of it was pretty simple. A good two-thirds of the time, all they needed was a drug to make them sleep for a couple of days, a clean uniform, a shower, and a hot meal, and they were back in business. But the rest of the time …”
“None of which happened to me,” Joe said. “Never. I was with the guys at Dachau, and if I didn’t crack up then …”
“Mm-hmm.” David had taken a pipe and a pouch of tobacco from his pocket.
I’d been right! “It’s a funny thing. Battle fatigue, we call it in the moment, but sometimes, we’re still not sure why, it only crops up later.
We used to think it happened because the guy had a weak psychological constitution to begin with, but—”
“But I never have,” Joe said.
“That’s right,” David said, concentrating on tamping the tobacco into the bowl of his pipe with his thumb.
“Psychologically, I’d call you a pretty healthy specimen.
That’s how you could liberate Dachau and not end up visiting the boys in the white coats.
Maybe you’ll let me tell you a little more about what I’ve seen. ”
Joe raised his hands, then dropped them. “Fine. Since you’re determined to.”
“And since I’m determined to learn more about this,” I said, and took his hand. “How much did you help me, Joe? How strong have you been for me? Let me be strong for you, too. Let me help you.”
“All right,” Joe said. “I said all right.” Then sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m treating you badly.”
“No,” I said. “You’re … frustriert. How do I say this?”
“Frustrated,” Joe said, and squeezed my hand. “Yes, I am. Sorry.”
David went on, speaking deliberately. “What we’ve learned is, men can only handle being at the front lines, in the thick of it, for thirty days or so before their performance starts dropping off significantly.
At forty-five days, most are in real trouble, and it’s not physical.
It’s mental. I’ll bet your unit got a breather after a month of combat, didn’t they?
Two weeks or so on other duties before they sent you back up? ”
Joe said, after a moment, “That’s about right.”
“Because it happens to everyone,” David said. “Except some guys who are put together wrong in a different way.”
“How’s that?” Joe asked, which was progress, wasn’t it?
David made a business of lighting his pipe.
When it was drawing and the sweet scent filled the air—it reminded me of Dr. Müller, and I got a sudden, sharp stab of longing for his gentle voice, his incisive questions, his calm acceptance of human frailty—he said, “We call it ‘psychopathy,’ though it’s not really a diagnosis as such.
Some men don’t seem to have the sensitivity to others’ pain, or to their own fear, that makes combat such a difficult experience for most. They’re often very successful in war; that’s the irony of it.
They were made for it, you could say—as long as you don’t give them the handling of any prisoners.
And in other cases, they’re completely antisocial.
Lawbreakers, thieves …” He glanced at me.
“Rapists. War criminals who don’t care much who they shoot, because they enjoy inflicting pain.
You’ve probably known a few of those, and I’m guessing Marguerite recognizes the type, too. ”
“Yes,” I said. My hand was trembling a little in Joe’s, but that was good, wasn’t it?
He drew strength from comforting me, as I did from comforting him.
“There were many like that in Germany, in the Gestapo and SS in particular. Not so much the Wehrmacht, I think, but oh, yes, some there as well. They were … attracted, I believe, to positions where they could exercise cruelty. Where cruelty was encouraged. It wasn’t just men.
It was women, too. And among the Americans … ” I paused.
“What?” Joe asked. “Did something happen to you over there? After I left?” Truly alarmed now.
“No,” I said, “not to me. But I heard stories. Terrible stories.”
“No country holds the patent on war criminals,” David said. “The Germans just fed the beast more than most.”
“The Germans,” I said, “and the Soviets. The Russian troops, to women … they were very cruel.”
“Well, that’s not me,” Joe said. “What does any of this have to do with me?”