Then came night. We crawled into our two-tiered bunks, I on top of the unknown soldier below.  A terrible loneliness enveloped me. In fact, you could feel the emptiness and isolation throughout the barrack. I wanted to cry.  The lights went out, and with the last murmur, there was then silence, until, in the darkness, the boy in the next bunk was crying – for all of us.

After the tears was the bravado, the release from home or from wherever else the barrack men came. For we were all men now, not teen-agers. I thought how proud my mother would be to see me in my loose fitting uniform, in my fatigues. I shined my combat boots in preparation for something about which I could not know. Then it happened, the recognition that here was a new reality, that my mother’s tears would perhaps never dry, for they carried in them the entire family; but for me they would fade for some time until their significance would become this story.

The sergeant called me, told me to follow him. We walked silently toward the mess hall. Inside stood morose, well-fed men. The sergeant said, “See those two. Take them back to the stockade.”

They were German prisoners of war. They were taller, more muscular than I. I know German but my orders were, “Don’t talk to them.” So silently, I between the two, imagining what if they decided to escape, how would I stop them – they could easily overpower me. Yet, silently, suspiciously, we slowly walked toward the high barbed wire fences where a guard took over and led them away. I had met a defeated enemy. Yet, they scared me. Why hadn’t they died? Why me? To this day, I cannot explain that encounter, except that I thought these were the men who wanted my brothers dead, who attacked my Uncle Joseph, Elena, even all those left at home.

***

“It’s Joseph.” His name was all that was necessary.

“What are you saying?” Jocelyn felt her heart skip beats.

“Joseph has been with the British army in North Africa.” Elena was looking straight at Jocelyn.

“What?” It was an incredulous moment for the family.

“He’s been with them for a long time. He’s a very brave man.” Her eyes teared more, and she did not know whether she could withstand the strain.

“But he can’t be. His letters.” Jocelyn almost shouted.

“They’re diversions. They have been all along. Do you want me to go on?” Her voice was calmer.

“You have to now. I can’t believe it. How could we all have been so deceived?” The tone was accusatory.

“It’s quite easy. I know. It’s very easy.” She laughed to herself of how dangerously clever she had been.

“He always was strange. I can’t believe it. Yes, I can. But why should he

deliberately . . .?” Jocelyn clearly understood.

“Now listen to me. Each of you. Listen.” She hesitated, sobbed slightly. “Joseph is missing.”

Jocelyn moved away from her. “What are you talking about?”

“He’s missing. He was thought to be a prisoner, but now he’s missing. I don’t know what to make of it just yet, and I couldn’t turn to anyone else. I think, I hope, he’s escaped. But who knows? Don’t cry. Please. Not now. I need your strength.”

***

Matthew walked back in the plane to the passengers, thinking of Elena. He contemplated these people, remembering their faces, their expressions, imagining what they were thinking, calculating their chances of return. . . He tried not to ask, “Why do you do it?”

No one answered.

He looked at them sadly, at their silence and their acceptance. “What must Elena have thought?” There were times Joseph and he talked about her decision, disconcertingly.

“My aunt did this,” he said quietly.

They glanced at him. No one asked what happened.

He was sorry he said anything, breathed deeply, rose, and started for the rear. He was standing over the bomb bay when the shelling began, tossing the plane in anti-aircraft puffs and reverberations. The pilot banked. A shell exploded nearby. The doors flew open. The air sucked at Matthew. He fell quickly. Instinctively he raised his arms. One hand grasped a metal cross bar. A passenger shouted; a crewman communicated forward. The pilot veered a bit more and straightened the plane. Matthew grasped at the metal. His gloved hand hurt terribly from the wrenching and he wanted to let go, but he was able to lift his other arm and to grasp with his other hand. Quickly he judged how long he could hold on. He thought of his sketches and of the faces he would draw of the stone workmen of England he had watched, of their walls, and he saw Kathryn, his mother, and imagined his child. He gripped the bar more tightly, the pain in his upper arms almost unbearable. The plane swayed. Someone yelled to him. A passenger stood above him, then stooped and reached.