Geri Krotow - A Rendezvous To Remember

Dear Melinda,

By now I’ve been gone at least a month. I told Jack to wait until the dust had settled, not just on my grave but in your lives.

Melinda honey, we’ve shared the best of our lives with each other. You and I have been blessed with a wonderful bond these past forty years. As much as I’d be the first to wish your father had been more available to you and that your mother had lived, it’d be a lie to say that I regret the consequences. It was a blessing to me, and to Jack, that we were able to spend so much time with you. Being able to raise you as our own for so much of your childhood meant everything to us.

We struggled financially while your dad was young and weren’t able to spoil him the way we did you. But as you already know, spoiling you with material things wasn’t ever our main focus. We wanted to spoil you with our love.

I’ve worried these last couple of years whether we’ve spoiled you too much. When things got rocky with you and Nicholas, I thought it might pass. All couples go through rough spots—that’s just life. But then you picked up and moved to Washington, D.C., and your whole life revolved around Senator Hodge’s career and agenda.

Jack and I were happy when you went to college right after high school and got your degree. We were so proud! And it always seemed destined that you’d marry Nicholas. Ever since you met him at St. Bonaventure, your eyes held a bright light.

We thought you were proud of his service in the Reserves and understood that it meant he could be called away at any time. So when he was called to war and you took it so badly, we questioned our assumptions. You said you believed that if Nicholas loved you, he wouldn’t go. That he’d put family first.

Since you’d been unable to get pregnant I wondered if you worried he was leaving during the time you’d have left to get pregnant. Remember when I took you out for coffee and ordered you that huge maple scone? And you said, “I’m not supposed to eat refined sugar or wheat.” I was trying to get you to relax, to enjoy yourself.

You’ve worried about so many things in your short life, Melinda.

It’s clear to me that Nicholas is a true patriot and simply answered the call he always knew could come. Maybe he’s even relished the challenge, in the way only a warrior does.

But you took it personally.

I’m sorry if this sounds like a lecture, Melinda. I just hate to see you suffer, and to see you throw away what may be the love of your life.

I know what pain that brings, as there was a time when I’d lost the love of my life. It was the bleakest period of my existence.

As you know, I’ve always liked writing. I’m sure you recall the column I wrote for the Buffalo Evening News. But what you don’t know is that my greatest work is what you’re about to read. Mind you, I started it when I was young, idealistic and thought myself a cross between Jane Austen and James Joyce—unlikely though that sounds!

I kept the journal hidden throughout the war but, just in case it was stolen or fell into the wrong hands, I wrote in English. Even though I was fluent, I was speaking my native French daily, so you may find some errors.

Read my story—you’ll figure out quickly that it’s not just my story but also that of Grandpa Jack, and millions of World War II survivors. Read this with an open mind and heart. Finally, understand why I found my peace and love here, in Buffalo.

Think about coming back to Buffalo, dearest, so you can give yourself a real life. I’ll never believe that working in that rat race on Capital Hill is good for you, Melinda. You’re certainly smart enough to be there with the best of them, but I don’t want you to waste your heart on things that won’t mean anything once you’re my age. You were such a natural in the classroom. Your former students still ask about you.

I’m feeling bold, since you’re not here in person to roll your beautiful blue eyes at me. I want you to reconsider your marriage to Nicholas. Twenty years of love and laughter—including the fifteen you’ve been married—is a lot to throw away, Melinda. Trust me when I tell you that no one will love you the way he has. I’ve seen both sides of love and marriage, and what you and Nicholas share is real.

I want to write more, but I’ve given you enough to read in my journals. I’d say “read it and weep” but unfortunately, I know you probably will. It is my prayer that you’ll also find some things humorous, and that you may even find a reason to believe in love again.

XOX

Grammy

Melinda let the letter fall back onto her lap. Leave it to Grammy to think she could fix everyone’s problems, even from the grave.

But her problems with Nicholas were about more than not having a baby. Their communication had broken down when she felt restless as a high-school English teacher. She’d wanted more.

“Why don’t you write the great American novel?” Nick wanted to solve her problems for her.

“I’m not a novelist. I’m interested in politics, Nick. I really think I’m supposed to use my talents in this direction.”

“Honey, I’m not being patronizing. But don’t you think your restlessness is mostly due to your biological clock ticking away?”

Melinda had rejected his observation that this was all about her hormones. Sure, they’d been trying to conceive and nothing had happened, but it wasn’t the entire focus of her life.

Or was it?

Nick had made his decision without her. He’d chosen to take another tour in Afghanistan. And she’d decided to take the job in D.C. without his help. They’d stopped relying on each other’s judgment years ago.

All they had in common now was this house.

A house neither of them lived in anymore.

She plucked at the multicolored yarn on the afghan she’d snuggled into on the brown leather couch. Grammy meant well. She was a woman who’d always been with the love of her life, so Melinda understood the basis for Grammy’s opinions.

But Grammy didn’t understand that the situation today wasn’t the same as during World War II. Nick had a choice—whether or not to serve. Whether or not to break Melinda’s heart.

Esmée’s Journal

May 25, 1940

How can this be happening? How can men of intelligence bring us to our knees again? Haven’t we suffered enough?

I’ve spent my entire academic life studying the Great War and how it destroyed our beloved Belgium. My family’s strength, faith and resourceful nature are the only reasons I am able to write this entry today.

A scant generation later we’ve begun another ugly battle.

Ugly it is. The Germans have no room for anyone except themselves. They tolerate us, they use us. Over the past three weeks I’ve seen everything I’ve ever read about in my literature studies—and more.

Bloodthirsty warplanes bombed our capital, and smaller, tactical aircraft strafed my village’s cow pastures. Douglas DuPont, who owns the fields behind our street, was shot dead while he tended to a birthing cow. His widow and five children are heartbroken and see no justification for his death.

Only Nazi barbarism.

My parents are quite vocal about what we’re experiencing. They warn my sister and me of many years of sacrifice to come. Surely this won’t last as long as the Great War. The Allies are on the right side of morality, of justice.

I will keep this record, so the world will know what happened. I will write in English—for practice and security.

Selfishly I wonder if I’ll be able to continue my studies. I graduate in three weeks and plan to attend university this September.

The current situation may dictate otherwise. The simple act of taking the train into Brussels each day may well be impossible.