“Were you with him when he died?”
“No. That day we fought hard, pushing the Germans farther north. By the time darkness fell, we’d successfully taken back some of the French territory previously lost.” The day had been rife with casualties on both sides. Good men—soldiers who had become brothers-in-arms—had fallen before my eyes. “I lost track of Walter sometime during the battle. When the fighting was done, he wasn’t one of the survivors.”
Josephine’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “So you don’t know if he suffered or exactly what happened to him?” She moved to the chair, sitting on the edge of the seat.
“No, but I doubt he suffered. The bullets flew fast. Most men never knew what hit them.” This wasn’t exactly true. I’d held too many men in my arms and watched the life drain out of them. Almost always their last words were of their mama or wife. The last thoughts not of enemies or wars but of the women they loved. “The battle was brutal and confusing. We weren’t sure who we’d lost until it was over. There weren’t many who survived that day. I knew only that he was somewhere in the piles…of dead men.” My voice grew raspy with the effort it took not to break down in front of her. I didn’t want to describe the horrors of that day or so many others. In fact, I didn’t want to remember them. I did what I could to forget. That was my idea of survival.
Some of the men had been taken away by ambulance in the hopes they would live. Most were buried where they fell.
“There were men who came after the battles to bury the soldiers where they were killed. We weren’t expected to do that.” As those who fought, we weren’t asked to bury our fallen friends. An unfortunate group came after each battle to do so.
“I expected him to be there at the end,” I said. “He was tough. Strong and scrappy. Tougher than most, other than me.”
“Why? What do you mean?” The way she asked in a small but desperate voice, wanting to know more, broke my heart.
“I guess because of the ways we grew up. For me, being raised in the orphanage and Walter living as he did. On his own so young.” How much did she know about Walter’s past? I knew there had been lies or omissions by the questions she asked in her letters.
“I have something for you.” I reached into the breast pocket of my jacket and pulled out her photograph. I leaned forward to place it on the arm of her chair.
“Why was it in your pocket?” Her tone sharpened.
I flooded with heat. How did I explain that? I hadn’t thought that through, anxious to change the subject from the battle. “For safekeeping?” It came out as a question. “I’ll sound creepy but I wanted to make sure nothing happened to it until I could give it back to you.”
“How kind of you.” She brought the picture onto her lap and stared at the photo with such intensity I half expected it to catch on fire. “It wasn’t on him when he died?” Her chest expanded as she drew in a deep breath.
“No.” I hadn’t thought she’d ask that particular question.
She looked up at me. “Where was it?”
“It was in the box with the letters. I was the one who took it out of there. I’m sorry. I know it didn’t belong to me.”
She was quiet for a moment as she drew a handkerchief from the sleeve of her dress and pressed it against her mouth. “He said he kept my photograph in his pocket. The one next to his heart.” Her words were wooden and strangely calm.
I hesitated, unsure what to say. “He sometimes stretched the truth.”
Her head snapped up. “Why would you say that? What do you mean?”
“He used his charm to his advantage.” Leave it at that, I told myself. She doesn’t need to know about his deceit. Not yet. Not until she trusted me more.
“Do you mean he lied to me?” She set the photograph on the table next to her chair. “He did lie to me. This was not where he said it would be. If it had been, you would not have found it with the letters because it would have been with him when he died.”
“Maybe he was worried that it would be harmed.”
“No, he said specifically that it would be near his heart for protection. But why would he lie about such a thing? Numerous times.”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do. There’s more you’re not telling me. Your eyes are evasive.”
Feeling trapped, I muddled through, babbling like a brook after a storm. “He was captivating
and smart and he used that to his advantage. His charm was intoxicating. To me, too, in the beginning. But his intentions were not always pure.”
“Say what you mean,” she said.
“You were not the only one who wrote to him. Or that he wrote back to.”
She stared at me. Her bottom lip trembled. “How many?”