Sins of Omission Read online

“Fifteen going on sixteen. Same way you’re seventeen going on eighteen. I understand she’s a beauty. If you can’t think of anything else to do, you can talk her to death.”

  Daniel flushed again and changed the subject. “Does this country estate have a library?”

  “Don’t they all?” Reuben answered blithely. “I haven’t been to the château yet, but Madame Mickey’s told me a lot about it. When she’d make her rounds at the hospital we talked, sometimes for hours. The château has everything. We’re going there to live again.” Reuben’s heavy voice conveyed the somberness of his memories. “The trenches are something we’ll never have to see again. Shrapnel-seeded meadows, the jagged rubble heap of La Boiselle, the frostbite, the chilblains, jaundice—it’s all behind us. No more cold nights with just each other for warmth. We won’t have to carry a rifle and we won’t ever have to kill anyone again. We can bury our savagery here, outside the doors of this hospital, the day you’re discharged. We’ll be Daniel and Reuben again, starting fresh.”

  Daniel felt Reuben’s embarrassment at his outburst. He couldn’t remember Reuben ever showing so much emotion, even when they were first getting to know each other those many months before in boot camp, when he talked of being a boy from Brooklyn, shunted around from one family member to another until he struck out on his own and never looked back.

  “Well,” Daniel began, clearing his throat, “so she’s gonna teach you to drive, hey? I bet that’s not all she’s going to teach you.” He grinned beneath his bandages.

  This time, Reuben noticed, Daniel didn’t blush at all.

  “Hey, boy! Rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.” With a wave of his hand, he left his friend and found himself smiling as he threaded his way through the aisles of cots and wounded men to the great heavy doors that led to the street.

  Daniel lay quietly for a long time after Reuben left. If Reuben said he would be able to see again, then he would see. If Reuben said his shoulder would knit, it would knit. He was alive, and Reuben had both their lives under control. All this misery would become a memory. His thoughts came to life as the moans and groans of the other men in the makeshift ward faded. Thank God for Reuben.

  They’d been in boot camp together since day one, from the first he had recognized a kindred spirit in Reuben. Then they’d arrived in France and tasted the first bitter dregs of day-to-day combat. At night, groups of men had huddled together, speaking of their homes, their families, their sweethearts. They would ramble on and show pictures, and eyes would embarrassingly tear and voices break. Daniel would see Reuben’s expression change, become vacant. Hardened. The tall, handsome man would walk from the group determinedly, and Daniel would join him. They would talk about their own childhoods, about their lack of any kind of home that could compare with what the other men had.

  Daniel was an orphan, a fact he’d learned early on, scrambling in the orphanage for scraps of bread or fleeting attention. Reuben’s mother had died giving birth to him, and then his father had died when he was six. After that he was passed from one relative to another, winding up with an aunt, a destitute woman who had made it clear that with six children of her own to care for, she had no time for Reuben. Wherever they lived, Reuben and Daniel had felt extraneous. They were outsiders. Neither of them could remember a cozy Thanksgiving dinner in the bosom of their family—parents, grandparents, sisters, or brothers.

  The war had brought them together. In the trenches they became brothers to each other while the bitter realities of war embraced them in a cloak of death and destruction. Although there were times when it seemed life offered little more than a thousand ways to die, they’d survived by sharing rations and fears, past emotional traumas, and then almost identical physical pain—gassed and blinded in the same overwhelming moment.

  Daniel shifted on his cot, where he lay bandaged and broken. The one question he tried to push far away, to the very back of his brain, whirled in his mind. Will I be blind? Forever? A recent night in the trenches flashed through his mind. He could smell it and feel it, and his skin began to crawl. Speechless and trembling as the world crashed around them, they sat ankle deep in the muck, waiting out an unusually fearful blitz. Then he remembered the body of that boy landing on him, bleeding, open and steaming at the same time, and the smell of gunpowder and burning flesh. When Reuben had pulled him out they had stared at each other and voiced the same overpowering fear: that they would die on strange soil with no one but each other to care about them. They’d shared their youth, their dreams, and their innocence over the next few hours, looking deep into each other’s souls. When the sun came up, they shook hands in open acknowledgment of their brotherhood. Reuben had said, “We’re in this together, and, by God, we’ll get out of it together.” He would never forget those words and the unbreakable bond they’d formed that night.

  Daniel pushed his head deeper into the pillow on the hard cot. He had to believe in Reuben. Believe in Reuben…He dreamed of fluffy white clouds, soft warm breezes, and the slow, joyful unfolding of Reuben’s promises.

  Reuben stood beneath the portico of Soissons Hospital, an abandoned ruin of a chalet before French forces had marched into the valley and commandeered the building for medical facilities. Before coming here he and Daniel had been treated behind the battle lines. Dealing with the sick and wounded was more difficult for the Americans than for the French because there were no American hospitals, and only those men who were permanently unfit for further service could be sent home. Reuben didn’t know if Daniel realized they would surely see action again. It was this knowledge that made Madame Mickey’s invitation so attractive. On their own, Reuben and Daniel were doomed to return to the front. If someone could pull a few strings for them, for whatever purpose, why not?

  The cold made Reuben’s leg ache and the biting wind burned his eyes. The past weeks he’d forced himself to ignore such pain. He was alive, that was all that mattered. Time would heal his wounds. He leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette, trying to shrug deeper into his khaki tunic. He was colder than a well digger’s ass, but he wouldn’t move toward the barracks that were his temporary home until Madam Mickey had all the paperwork in order.

  Private Reuben Aaron Tarz, Co. D, 16th Infantry Regiment, a doughboy. On June 5, 1917, he’d been one of five million men registering for the draft, but he wasn’t one of the ones who shouted “Kill the Kaiser!” He’d enlisted for two simple reasons: three square meals a day and a roof over his head. For his efforts he’d received his pay, killed the enemy, lain in his own body filth, been sprayed for cooties, been blinded and wounded. More than that, he’d stood at attention when the bugles blew at four A.M., the time when a lot of Americans stateside were just going to bed. He’d slogged through sleet and slush, seen every horror there was. Eventually he’d hardened himself to the sight of maggots feeding on dead flesh, of rats that infested the trenches in search of food, any kind of food, even human corpses and gangrenous flesh. If he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget walking up the line, his eyes alert for the Krauts and for Daniel. The hateful cacophony of bayonets clanking against steel helmets, the mountains of dead bodies, the madness, the absolute terror of it all. The nightly muck sweats, the fear of dying, the fear of surviving. They called it a world war, but to Reuben it was his war, very personal and very much his own. It was his fight to stay alive.

  Reuben flicked his cigarette into a mound of slush. His feet were cold, his legs ached, and he had a terrible pounding in his head. Back at the barracks he would apply the drops to his eyes and gradually the headache would lessen. It was a hell of a price to pay for three meals that were more slop than food and for a cold roof of stars. But what choice had he? he reflected bitterly. All the ills of the world, all the wars, pestilence, and famine, were brought about by small men, small of stature and small of mind.

  With a muttered oath, he pulled his cap over his curly dark hair and yanked it down over his ears. By the time he’d made it halfway down the road to the barracks, the hard, sl
uicing sleet had soaked him to the skin. His head was pounding as he limped through the half-frozen sludge. Looking up, he squinted through the rain in the direction of the barracks. Another few minutes and he’d be inside, where it was warm. Things were looking up—the way his luck was going, his dreams might even come true. He could almost touch them, and it scared him; he kept wanting to look over his shoulder. But he had guts, he had chutzpah, and that chutzpah would make all the difference. He was going to succeed in this world. In the trenches, he’d climbed over dead bodies literally—now he’d do it figuratively if need be.

  Yes, he was Jewish, but only when it was convenient to be Jewish. During his year in the trenches he had passed for every nationality under the sun. Jews, he’d found out early, were not the most highly regarded of people. But when it came right down to it, he probably wasn’t anything except Reuben Aaron Tarz from Brooklyn, New York.

  A young man, angry still at his mother for dying during the first minutes of his life and then making him live through his first six years with his father, who had grieved over his wife’s death in granite silence until he, too, had succumbed. Those first six years, he believed, had taught him not to cry. He didn’t remember too much after that except arriving and leaving, then his aunt’s house in Brooklyn, and the years with her and her swarming brood. Those years, he believed, had taught him how to fight for his own space. Six loved children in a cramped tenement in Brooklyn and one begrudged child made that damned near an impossible feat. He’d been thrown out of that house after his temper had erupted once too often. And he had been on his own ever since. Often, in those early times in Brooklyn, he went hungry for days and had a bath and clean clothes only when he could finagle a deal. Soon trouble became his middle name. And trouble finds trouble. The local gang of street boys was well into a life of crime, running numbers and doing shady errands for local smalltime mobsters, by the time Reuben had decided that getting out meant living longer. He’d seen enough of what happened when the low men on the totem pole got into a disagreement. The ones on the ground got squashed. Life held no guarantees, but of one thing Reuben was certain: He’d never go back to Brooklyn.

  The long gray barracks were just ahead, low shadows in an already gray background. Only the yellow lights dimly penetrating the ice-glazed windows gave him direction. He couldn’t wait to get out of his wet clothes, clothes that would never dry. In the morning he’d have to put them on again and they’d stick to his body like leeches. Well, he’d worry about that tomorrow. Right now he was going to shed the wet wool, slip under his blankets, and pray for the pounding in his head to let up.

  No sooner had he opened the door than a chorus of voices surrounded him. “Here he is!”

  “Now we can feast!”

  “Come on, Tarz, let’s get it together here.”

  “Yeah! Lady Bountiful was here and left you a basket of goodies. Good, loyal soldiers that we are, we didn’t touch a thing. Divvy up.”

  “What do you have that the rest of us don’t, Tarz? That’s what we want to know.”

  Reuben grinned halfheartedly. His bunkmates had been riding him ever since Madame Mickey had made her first appearance at the barracks. At first he’d thought she was just another generous Frenchwoman who wanted to help the Americans. Then his buddy George had explained her mission. “My body!” Reuben had squawked. “She’s twice my age!” The first night in the barracks after her visit, the men began to talk.

  “What a knockout!” George had exclaimed.

  “Did you get a load of her legs? Sheathed in the finest silk stockings.”

  “That perfume of hers is enough to make you want to crawl after her on your hands and knees.”

  “She’s a fool for black hair and gray eyes. I heard her say your eyes were gray. ‘The color of the sky before a snowfall!’”

  “I’ll bet she’s got beds with silk sheets and monograms and the same kinds of towels. Real soap that smells nice and a telephone in the bedroom. White carpets…”

  “You’re making all this up.” Reuben had laughed with the rest of them.

  “No,” George said seriously, “Madame Mickey’s a living legend around here from what I’ve gathered. And I’ve been up and around longer than you have.” He pointed and flexed his healed arm. “She comes almost every day in a big sleek Citroën, bringing a mountain of goodies just like you’ve got right here. She’s got a warm word and a dazzling smile for anyone who needs it. And always, always, looks good enough to…”

  “Eat!”

  “Devour whole!”

  “Make love to!”

  “Get lucky with!”

  Each soldier had his own idea about what he would do if offered the honor of her company.

  “No problem for you, Tarz, right?” they’d heckled.

  He remembered how he’d laughed then, and his stomach churned. After that, her special visits to him became routine. She persisted. And persisted. Now he was still unsure of her intentions, but he was ready and willing to go along with anything she said. Why not?

  “Well?” the men chorused as they watched him undress.

  “Whooeee, look at those haunches! Check those sinewy thighs! And that big broad chest…whooeee!” they heckled.

  “Go ahead, eat whatever she brought. Just tell me how it tastes so I won’t have to lie.” Drops for his eyes. He needed them badly, so badly that his hands shook as he fumbled with the dropper. It was George who noticed his trembling, and with a wave of his hand he cut the heckling short and reached for the cobalt-blue bottle.

  “Jesus, you’re frozen. Toss me a couple of blankets. Now lie still and I’ll put these in your eyes. You should’ve said something, Tarz. Sometimes you gotta ask for help.”

  “How’s Daniel?” George asked. “Do they know yet if he’ll be able to see?”

  “They’re removing the bandages tomorrow. He gets the cast off at the same time. It could go either way.”

  “That’s pissifying,” George grunted. “I hope the kid’s okay.”

  Reuben lay quietly on his bunk, careful not to move his head. Within thirty minutes the pounding was only a dull ache. Maybe he could sleep. The others had moved to the far end of the barracks to allow him the quiet time he needed. They were good guys; he appreciated them and liked them. He knew he could have been tossed in with a bunch of hardnoses.

  Before he drifted into sleep, Reuben did something he would do only three times in his life: he prayed. This time it was for Daniel. Then he crossed his fingers for luck the way he’d done so often when he was a boy. Surely Daniel’s God would listen to a Jew.

  That night saw the end of the three-day sleet storm that had nearly paralyzed the activities at Soissons Hospital. Reuben thought it miraculous that Madame Mickey had ventured out in it to deliver the basket of treats.

  Rolling onto his side as the last notes of reveille died away, he was uncertain whether or not to leave his bunk. His buddies had cleared the barracks at the first sounds of the bugle and had filed out into the deep shadowy dawn. Even here the army had its regulations and methods for making a man miserable. He felt sorry for George and the other men; they’d soon be receiving orders to return to their divisions. Odd as it seemed, none of them appeared to resent the fact that their two comrades would escape a return to the front. Reuben supposed that in some vicarious way, Madame Mickey and her resources represented a kind of hope for all of them.

  It was warm beneath the blankets, but not as warm as Reuben would have liked. He was tempted to gather blankets from other bunks and wrap himself like an Indian, but he had a scheduled treatment for his eyes this morning, and at noon Daniel’s bandages were to come off. And at some point he had to get in touch with Madame Mickey to give her the news of Daniel. Now, that particular assignment deserved a second thought.

  George had warned him not to chase after the famous lady. He’d coached him for hours. Do this, don’t do that. Don’t fetch and carry, and for God’s sake, don’t appear grateful. Be stubborn. Parcel out your
favors. Flatter the lady, but always make her think you might be lying. Then look into her eyes and say something genuine, something soft and sweet. It had been all he could do to stifle his laughter when old George issued instructions on the exact way sweet talk was to be delivered. But because George was older and wiser in the ways of women, Reuben had listened. He stored away all the little nuggets of information and knew he’d probably have a use for them before long. He stretched his leg, feeling the tendons and ligaments pulling in the muscles of his thigh. He’d carry that scar for the rest of his life, one of the doctors had told him. To Reuben it was more than a scar; it was a sign that he’d survived. The long indentation where flesh and muscle should have been would remind him of the trenches, of where he had slept and ate and learned about a boy named Daniel.

  Throwing back the wooden shutter, he peered through the dirty glass out to the bleak light where the men were gathered for roll call. Today was a new day, a beginning of sorts. If he’d calculated, manipulated, and organized the coming events, he couldn’t have done a better job than fate had done. Madame Mickey was his first step toward where he wanted to end up. The only problem was he didn’t know exactly where that certain place was…yet. Time. Time was always the answer.

  The young sun struggled over the horizon, only to be blotted out by a cloud. That didn’t have to mean anything, he would never believe in omens. He’d had enough of that crap when he’d lived with his aunt. It was a new day, pure and simple, a good day for Daniel and himself.

  He washed his face and shaved with the new safety razor that King Gillette had issued to every doughboy heading overseas in one of the greatest promotional advertising schemes ever. As Reuben allowed his thoughts to travel back to Daniel, he grew jumpy and inadvertently nicked his chin. What if Daniel were permanently blind? He dunked the razor in the tin of water and at that moment reaffirmed a commitment he had made: he and Daniel were to be brothers.