Prologue

A son comes home from Vietnam to find some truths waiting for him.

War, not the wondrous adventure I'd imagined as a child, while waiting for my father to return. I'd never thought much about what happened to him during that time, and he never mentioned it. I remember my mom referring to him as "traitor" or "coward", but I never found out why, about a lot of things. I thought all this calmly while I screamed in pain as a branch of poison spikes broke one of my legs and impaled the other. Out of nowhere a Viet-Cong jumped me, the force detached me from the branch and brought me to the ground. A knife, pain in the vicinity of my waist, a warm tingling wetness. My heart was pounding, pumping poison dangerously through my body. Two loud noises, a wet substance splattered my face, and a sudden dead weight.

"William!" Greg, an old friend and army medic I'd happen to get lost with a week ago, called. Truthfully, at the time of separation I wasn't sure whether we had lost the platoon or the platoon had lost us. The weight was lifted and all the pain flooded at once.

"Dear God, don't let me die like this!"

"What was that? Was that even English?" I'd apparently shouted in German, but this thought didn't remain a priority in my mind for long. "We need to get you to a hospital." Greg quickly bandaged my legs, splinting the broken one, and wrapped my waist. When he helped me up, the surrounding jungle spun, blurred, and blackened.

I woke up laying on a cot in a hospital tent, Greg stood at the foot of the cot.

"You're awake, I was beginning to think you were in a coma. You were delerious for a day, mumbling in some language, then you went real quiet." I now had a choice I could say this in English and the whole thing would be forgotten, or I could say it in German and cause an extremely awkward conversation during which I'd probably make my best friend hate me. English.

"Danke." I mentally kicked myself.

"What language is that anyway?"

"German."

"How do you know German?" This was the moment I'd dreaded since I'd met Greg. Somehow he'd managed to not hear any of the various rumors that filled the town for years after we arrived; probably due to his mother. The most christian woman I had ever met she did not hold with gossip and never allowed it in her home. Anyhow he had never heard the widespread rumor of our origin.

"I was born in Germany, when my father came back from the war we moved to America."

"Your dad's a Nazi?" A shiver ran up my spine at the word. While a look of disgust crossed his face as he stepped back from the sickbed of a Nazi's son.

"Get that look of disgust off your face, Greg!"

"Sorry." A long awkward silence. "I stayed 'cuz you lost your dog tags, without them no one would know who you are here."

"Thanks." I tried to push myself up to retreive the tags from the side table, I was unable to do as little as that. “I’m getting too old for this.” I stated jokingly, feeling a sarcastic smirk pull at my mouth, one that returned in kind. Looking back, I probably should’ve thought twice about renewing my enlistment. I hadn’t quite been thirty when I’d enlisted, but that was six years ago, and it was beginning to catch up.

"Well now that  you're awake and can speak for yourself, I should get back. We're probably MIA by now. See you home-side when all this is over. Oh, could you give this to Liz?" He held out a sealed envelope.

"Sure." With that he left. Later, after having eaten, I again attempted to sit up; pain shot through my waist. Falling back, I discovered my midsection wrapped liberally in bandages.Two days later I was found stable enough to go home on medical leave, permanently. Before I could leave I had to check in with my commanding officer, according to him I was still MIA. Greg hadn't made it back to base camp.

The plane that carried me and forty other guys, some in worse shape; others going home, their tours finished and their faces still covered in mud; and the inevitable some going home in wooden boxes, their names written in marker on the lid, piled in the back; landed in California. While I waited in the terminal for the New York dispatch plane I saw a newscast on about protestors of the most unpopular war in the country's history, what a great welcome home. One idiot yelling behind the anchorman held a sign stating "Down Mars, up Eros!", a ridiculously mutated line from Ben-Hur.

When I got on the smaller plane to New York, a casket and the escort were already on. There's a certain silence that comes over an enclosed space when a corpse is one of the occupants.

After two hours I finally got up enough gall to say anything. "Goin' to New York, huh?"

"Yeah."

"Where to in New York?"

"Uh... Somewhere named, Flichmans."

"You mean Fleischmanns."

"I guess. Poor devil, the jeep he was in hit a landmine on the way from a hospital unit. So, where you off to?" The detached coolness with which he said this struck me; although for years men like him had escorted bodies to families, they then had to be desensitized.

"The same. Who was he?" I found my way over, supporting myself with the cast and the seats. Written on the lid was the name:

Gregory Clark

I felt myself lower to the floor. He was dead, if he hadn't stayed he would still be alive. Liz will be absolutely devastated.

"You knew him?"

"Yeah," was all tight throat could manage. There comes a time, I suppose, when all the horror and locked up sorrow bursts its boundaries and all the emotions which had been held flood at once and are experienced in agonizing unison. I spent the remainder of the trip sobbing uncontrollably before the coffin.

I was standing outside the house and had been for probably five minutes. When I reached the point where the New York mountain winter was freezing my hands to numbness, I knocked. My father opened the door and instantly stopped dead in his tracks.

"Hello Father, Esther. Merry Christmas." For what seemed like an eternity no one moved. That's when Esther took control of the situation.

"Come on, let's get you out of the snow." She said leading me into the house. "Frank, close the door, it's freezing out there." He closed the door and followed behind us. In the entryway hung a crucifix next to a star of David, if you stood at the right angle, shadows revealed the names inscribed on them. From what I saw the house was decorated the same way as it always was this time of year. In the living room the tree glowed, stockings hung on the mantel, on the other side of the fire place a menorah sat surrounded by gifts, against one wall hung a paper banner reading "Merry Christmas", and opposite of it was another reading "Happy Hanukkah".

She took me to the the table and sat down on the other side with my father. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." A very long and extremely awkward silence ensued. "Was this the strüdel?" I asked pointing to the annual disastrously blackened mound on the tray in front of me.

"Yes." answered Esther. My concentration directed back toward my father. Esther said something about food then left.

"We were told you were missing." That's all he said an open statement, I was left free to explain or ignore it.

"I'd gotten lost and ended up in an army hospital a ways from base... Do you remember Greg Clark?"

"Yes,you never left each others' sides. Elizabeth has been coming over on occasion while Greg was gone."

"He died, Liz got his body a few minutes ago." My hand was shaking on the table, the more I focused on it the more it shook, it finally stopped when I clenched it into a fist.

"What happened to your..." he trailed off on the last word.

"I sprung a trap that sent spikes into my legs. They said at the field hospital that the poison causes paralysis, if I'm lucky the effects will be similar to that of a mild case of polio." I could have sworn that his face blanched when he heard 'polio'. His mouth was pursed tightly, and eyes downcast, the conversation was over.

At that moment Judy, my youngest sister, walked down dressed in sweatpants and a sweater.  She walked past me, to the coffee maker. Taking a sip of the fresh coffee she began walking back upstairs.

"Judy!" I called. She turned to face us, her eyes slightly less glazed. When my face registered through her overworked collegic mind the mug in her hand tilted dangerously.

"William!" A stream of steaming coffee poured onto her socked foot, apparently she didn't notice. "Oh my God, I was so afraid you were dead!" She hugged my neck, while I stealthily removed the mug from her grip and my vicinity. When she released me she was wide awake, freed from the burdens of college life for the moment.

"Judith, where's Joseph?" Asked our father.

"He's out drawing buildings around town." Judy replied, searching for her coffee, and continuing to hold fast to my arm.

"That boy has been doing nothing else since he got back." Esther announced with a tone somewhere between annoyance and amusement.

"Architect study going well, then?" Even before I'd left, Joey had been fascinated with architecture. I'd have known he'd gone into that study even if he hadn't written me announcing his choice of college major, enclosed with a carbon copy of a drawing.

"It's great to see you, William! I think I'll go have a chat with the rabbi. I've got to tell him!" I almost laughed, when Judy said 'chat' she meant a lengthy in depth conversation, in Hebrew. She's amazing with languages, by thirteen she could speak at least seven languages fluently and working on five others. When Aaron was studying for his Bar-Mitzvah she was learning along side him, at the age of nine. She'd even sent me a letter written in Vietnamese, I'd had to find one of the English speaking village people to read it for me. "Why is my foot soaked?" She wondered aloud, as she squelched upstairs.

A few hours later Joseph came home, carrying four sketchbooks and a box of drawing pencils. When he came into the living room the whole armful fell to the ground. "William! Hey, you're alive! How are you?" He shook my hand so vigorously that I thought I'd need a cast for that too.

"I'm doing well. How's school going for you?"

"Oh it's goin' great! I was wondering if you could ask about an internship for me at the construction company?"

"Joey, slow down. I've been gone for seven years, I don't even have a job there anymore. But when and if I do, I'll ask."

"Thank you, thank you!" And he went bustling off picking up the books from the floor.

That night my father gave me my personal effects that had been sent over. It was all in a beat up cardboard box labeled for medical supplies. Inside was all the stuff I'd had around my bunk: a spare uniform, one pair of socks, a single lone sock (I recall that the other had caught fire), the six volume history of the Second World War by Winston Churchill, ten issues of "Stars and Stripes", and a photograph of seven people, I was three or so held by my mom, it had been taken shortly before the war. On top of the whole thing was a letter from my commanding officer.

 Captain Frank F. Vogler,

My uncle, Russell Stewart, often spoke of you as a good and honest man who greatly valued his family. So I wholly regret to inform you of your son, Sergeant William Vogler's, disappearance.

He has not been heard from for several days and has so been declared MIA. His whereabouts and fate are unknown. I will not insult your intelligence and experience with false hope. The jungles are thick with trees, guerillas, and booby traps. We do not have the resources to send out a search party, which in all likeness has less of a chance of returning with your son than he has in finding his own way back.

As a capable and knowledgeable man I have no doubt that he can care for himself if no ill-luck befalls him. My sympathies go to you and your family, as my prayers go to him.  As you appeared in my uncle's war stories, William will be a part of my own.

Once again I express my sympathy and all my hopes that he will return.

    Sincerly,

Colonel James R. Davis

Small stains marked the page where tears had fallen in its reading. I had never seen my father cry, and this evidence in front of me seemed strange.

I had trouble staying still over the next two days, I had to be doing something. On Christmas Eve I made my way over to see Liz. Jamie, their oldest, opened the door.

"Hi, Mister Vogler."

"Hi, Jamie. Can I see your mom?"

"Yeah, she's in the den. Come in." She led me to a small room, the sound of sobbing came from the open door. "She hasn't stopped crying.... Mom, Mister Vogler's here."

"This is really sweet of you, Frank, but I really don't feel up to... William." Her eyes were red and puffy from lack of sleep and crying, she was hugging the triangle fold of flag given to families of the departed. "I didn't know you were back."

"I got here yesterday, with Greg's.... He saved my life over there," How do you tell your best friend's widow that you're sorry? You can't, words just don't exist for that."He was the greatest friend I could have wished for." I searched my pockets for the letters I'd come to give her in the first place. One was the letter he'd given me at the hospital, the other, a farewell letter that each of us had given the other to mail if something were to happen to the us. A moment after I handed the letters to her, she was sobbing into my shoulder.

"Oh William, what do I do without him?"

"Hey, hey," I said holding her at arm's length, "you've still got all those adorable kids of yours." A single tear ran down her chocolate brown, tear-streaked face. A few moments later it seemed she had some hold on herself. "Would you like to come over for Christmas dinner?"

"We planned on just having a small family dinner this year, my parents are coming down from Buffalo. Thank you though, say hello to everyone for us."

That night Esther spent an hour trying everything within her power, short of knocking me out and strapping me down, to get me into a wheelchair.

"How do you expect to walk again if you don't rest?"

"How are my legs supposed to heal if they're not used?"

"William, get your butt in this chair before I put it there!" I ended up in the wheelchair, I was injured enough as it was. Everything was so much taller from that height. I now had to look up at Esther, something I was not at all used to.

Christmas day was a confusing rush, and I seemed unable to do anything without getting in Esther's way. By three o'clock I was hustled into the library. Esther was working in the rest of the house, and my father was out in the wood shed working on something. Sitting on one of the end tables was The War of The Worlds next to a pair of glasses, I never could figure out why that was my father's favorite book. With nothing else to do, and no interest in finding something from a shelf, I picked it up. Inside, written above most of the words, was the German translation. I suddenly grew curious, searching the shelves for the one book in German we had, A Collection by Heinrich Heine. Above the words, in a different handwriting, was the English.

I'd never noticed that the window seat was a wooden chest with a cushion on top. The hinges squeaked, it had not been opened for who knows how long. Within I found a German flag folded like the one Liz had; a stack of letters, all containing names unknown to me, one written in a varying but single hand; a roughly carven rosary threaded on strips of torn cloth; and an old photo of a family of four, two adults and two boys.

I sat in the library, reading, for another hour before I was bustled into the living room shortly before the first person arrived. Little, or not so little now, Debbie arrived at five o'clock, a man came through the door behind her.

"Mom, Dad! We got the letter about William, I'm so sorry!" She gave each a hug. When she let go of Esther she looked around for somewhere to place the dish in her hand. That's when she saw me; the dish hit the ground with the sound of a bomb, causing three of us to jump noticeably. "William!" She managed to hug tightly around my waist despite the chair I was forcibly confined to, her thick curly blond hair muffling my face.

"Autsch!" I winced. That was the one word I could never get the hang of in English, and it was understood in the family as one of those eccentricities of speech.

"Sorry! Are you alright?" She asked, worriedly making a very unnecessary fuss over me.

"Debbie I'm fine." From up close I could see small dots of multi-colored paint speckling her face. Paint had always been her favorite medium, there had been a time when I had barely finished carving something than she was at it with a brush. "Why don't you introduce this guy behind you."

"This is my husband!"

"You're married?" Last I had seen her she was seventeen, and last I'd heard she had just started an art studio.

"Yeah, last month." That would explain my ignorance, the letter containing this information was probably still bouncing its way to Vietnam only to be sent back.

"Sorry the surprise! I've heard a lot about you. Name's Steve." He had an army grip, I'd felt in the men who'd gone through military training. "So, how's 'Nam?" He asked, sitting down on a couch.

"The same Hell it was when you were there." He looked at me for a moment amazed at how I'd known, then laughed humorlessly.

"That it was. My first year of combat was '67, after '68 I vowed when my tour was over I'd request a desk job." He responded with a grim smile.

"How's the war going?"

"Don't you know?"

"We don't get much news over there." From my experience in the States so far, everyone knew more about the war than those fighting it.

"Well that's a good thing for morale."

"That bad, huh?" But my question went unanswered, the doorbell rang. Aaron arrived bringing up the rear of a small herd, two identical toddlers ran around the legs of Sarah holding a little baby girl, all led by their oldest, who must be Jonathan. The moment they'd passed through the family greeting and hugging line I was rushed as enthusiastically as a newly met stranger, which I was to them.

"We thought you were..."

"It appears bad news travels faster than good. You  must be Sarah, I wish you a very belated Mazeltahf."

"We're so glad you're alright." Sarah said giving me a sisterly kiss on the forehead.

“Who’s this little brood of yours?”

"This one’s Jonathan." Jonathan came forward from the surrounding crescent.

"Hi Jonathan, aren’t you a big boy." He stuck out his chin with pride, his brown eyes lighting up.

"I'm four!" He announced holding out four fingers.

"Four?!" He nodded vigorously, then backed up to hold his dad's hand. "And  the rest of them?"

"Well these two mischievous ones are Joshua and Samuel.” He said; grabbing the dark-haired, blue-eyed rascals by their collars. “And this little darling is Ruth."

A beeping came from the kitchen.

"Dinner's ready." Esther announced. "Everyone let's get to the table." When we all settled Esther, Sarah, Judy, and Debbie brought the food out to the table. We bowed heads and Father led a prayer that satisfied both faiths present. As soon as hand-holds broke and heads raised Aaron spoke on behalf of his stomach.

"Dad, cut the turkey, let's eat!..... Ow!" He clutched his foot under the table while a satisfied smile crossed Sarah's face.

"Aaron!" Debbie supplied the scolding, while Esther glared at him for his rudeness.

"Aaron, just be thankful we're all here and we've got a turkey." I don't know why a simple statement like that, a very typical one for him, triggered such a reaction from me. "There are people dieing half way across the world and we're just sitting here as though nothing's happening!"

"William, we are not having this conversation at the table."

"But Father, it's true!"

"I know it is, but I will not have this discussion at this table." He never talked about war, any war, he avoided the topic like the plague. He had never faced anything in his life, he'd been dishonored in the war, and instead of standing up for himself he'd run to America.

"You know what, Father, I finally figured out what you are, and Mom was right you're nothing but a..."

"Wilhelm, sit down!" He shouted in a voice bearing the sharp, clipped accent that voiced every Nazi movie villain.

The rest of the meal went on without a hitch, the way it had every year, until everyone had finished and silence had fallen over the table.

"Grandpa, what's these numbers?" The relaxed, full silence suddenly became thick. Beside my father Jonathan stared curiously at his exposed forearm, where numbers in blue ink were tattooed. I excused myself and wheeled into a different room.

When I returned the kids were attacking the wrapped gifts around the menorah. A strange silence stood around the adults.

The party broke up when all the kids had tired themselves out and lie hugging a new gift on the floor. Everyone said goodbye, promising to make it for the Fourth of July, and appointing a house for the Easter/ Passover celebration.

That night I slept fitfully, a strange mixture of memories making up my dreams. I was wandering around, lost in the jungles of Vietnam. Off in the distance above the trees was a glimpse of the mountain of Germany I grew up on. As I ran, trying to reach the far off summit, out of the bushes came the Viet Cong. I was a little kid the night my father came home, pale and thin.

I woke up as the door squeaked quietly and the floor creaked under new weight. I was becoming quite paranoid. I closed my eyes trying to fall back into the restless sleep. Someone stood beside my bed. Quietly, gradually rising to just above a whisper the deep voice of my father sang a German lullabye, the way he had when I was little, it wasn't exactly good but it was gentle and homely. I quickly fell asleep.

The next morning I went to Greg's funeral with Esther and my father. That small part of the cemetery was a sea of black busy with ships of uniforms floating upon it. Once the service was over and the casket was lowered into the hole people crowded around Liz, like ravens to an Edgar Allan Poe reading, while Esther and my father went to talk with the pastor and Greg’s mother. When I eventually got to Liz she smiled weakly, she'd held up amazingly well over the whole occasion, not something I can say about the kids who'd been crying heavily and were now in the arms of various attendants.

"How are you?"

"I'm not too bad but the kids are taking it hard, I guess it's all real to them now." Tears began to run slowly down her cheeks again.

"If you need anything..."

"Thank you."

I came into the kitchen the next week and saw my father sitting at the table with the typewriter. When he noticed me he picked up the machine, went into the library, then came out for breakfast. Nobody brought up the appearance of the typewriter.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In late January, 1973 US troops were fully withdrawn from Vietnam, minus over 2,500 missing men.

I found a job for the time being, as a cashier at the town grocery, and helped Liz in her bakery during free time. I had planned originally to move back to New York City, but since the war I'd most certainly lost my job and apartment and was not in the financial position to get another one, I couldn't even afford one of the apartments in town. As the time went on I found myself spending more and more time with Liz and the kids, I felt a certain obligation to take care of them as much as I could.

In late April the leg cast was removed, the newly revealed leg was as thin and weak as the other still was. When I tried to stand my legs buckled immediately. I was helped back onto the table, where the doctor tested my reflexes and nerves. I couldn't feel the rubber mallet hit my knee and no involuntary movement occurred, and the pin sent only the tiniest tingle of pain up my leg. With a great amount of effort I could move my legs a little.

"Those people in government should be ashamed of themselves, doing nothing for you boys. They make war to line their pockets but don't want to bother with the carnage."

"I'll be able to walk, right?"

"At worst the paralysis could worsen and you're loookin' at a completely paraplegic life, at best you're lookin' at a similar situation as FDR, limited mobility and standing ability. You'll need physical therapy."

Over the next months I wheeled over every evening for two hours after work and helped Liz. By June I could stand for a minute, four when supported by a cane. I managed to find an affordable one story house to rent.

July came around and the family gathered for the town Fourth of July celebration. Esther made apple-pies, and we all sat in town square to watch the fireworks, that had been confiscated by the town police to be set off on the Fourth. We found out that Debbie was pregnant with their first baby. The next day was a family picnic, which made it almost a continuation of the previous day. Overall it looked to be a good year.

I was helping at the bakery, sitting behind the counter. It was the slow hour right before closing and Liz was making the dough to rise that night.

"William."

"Yeah?" I replied, maneuvering the bulky chair to see her. Her dark skin was dusted in flour and smears of it crisscrossed her face.

"Tomorrow's Jamie's birthday and we're going to the town festival, and I accidentally got an extra ticket," I knew what was meant by 'accidentally' and it was more like automatically, "and I was wondering if you wanted to come?"

"I'd be happy to!" Guilt prickled me, I felt like I was walking into Greg's place.

The next evening I met them on the way to the fairgrounds. The fair was more crowded and had a higher population of rides Than I remembered. Quickly arms were filled with an assortment of stuffed animals and other prizes.

"Mr. Vogler, come ride something with us!" The small herd of children pleaded.

"I can't, I wouldn't fit.” Indicated the chair. “You go 'head."

"Oh gosh! I didn't realize, you can't go on anything."

" Don’t worry about it. Just watching them is good enough. Kids are so innocent, the troubles and strifes of the world seldom affect them." By the time we left, little Andy was sitting on my lap, tired of walking.

"Mom, can we go see a movie?" Jamie asked.

"What movie do you want to go see?"

"Jesus Christ Superstar!" She said almost immediately.

"Ok, let's go see when the next show is."

"9 o'clock." It was obvious she had planned this encounter to the letter.

"Well that's in 15 minutes, so we'd better be going  hadn't we. William, do you want to come?"

"Sure. Besides, I've still got one of your kids." Andy had fallen asleep on my lap. A day of excitement tends to do that to six year olds.

During the movie I found myself relating to Mary Magdalene, my feelings toward Liz confused me and I felt guilty for them. At the appearance of military tanks and planes I stiffened, all too easily my mind replaced the barren desert with a lush thick jungle. I felt Liz touch my rigid arm, a tingle of warmth traveled up my spin. Liz smiled meekly.

By August, I could take a few, stiff-legged, steps if supported by a cane. When December came around I could walk awkwardly across a room with the cane, which I was using annoyingly often, but at least it wasn’t the wheelchair.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Liz and the kids, all five of them, were coming to Christmas this year. Was I just imagining the sparkle in her eyes as she answered? She greeted everyone like family, which made me wonder if she'd come every year while Greg and I were gone. For the first time in, well ever, we had edible strudel on Christmas, Liz brought it from her bakery.

Jean, the tiny new addition to the family, made her way around. The table was fuller than I'd ever seen it, apparently it could extend to seat six more people. The dinner was the usual mix between traditional Christmas and Hanukkah food. The meal continued fairly uneventfully, a couple more conversations were begun due to the fact that Thanksgiving had been celebrated without a family party, and more time had gone by since we last caught up. Thanksgiving had been skipped due to the incapability of several people to come. Yet a certain tentative awkwardness hung around, probably because of the events of the previous year. Dinner concluded in surprise at the sight of a strudel that had remained intact. Andy and Jonathan struck up a friendship almost immediately. The kids threw themselves onto the gifts, paper flew for several minutes. Jonathan searched for any present he may have missed. Crawling out from under the tree he carried a rectangular gift.

"Mommy, who's it for?" He asked holding it up to Sarah.

"To William, Aaron, Deborah, Judith, and Joseph." She handed it to Debbie who was standing next to her holding Jean.

"It's for all of us?" She looked at Aaron and I questioningly, Aaron shrugged.

"Open it, open it!" Jonathan started, the twins joining in the chant.

"Well, are you gonna open it or let them shout all night?" prodded Steve. Debbie brought it over to the couch and we each took a part of the paper. Inside was a pile of paper typed out on a typewriter. We shared looks of confusion.

"Dad, what is it?" Debbie asked curiously.

"It's a story. You can go into the library." He took it from Debbie and handed it to me.            "William I want you to read this to your brothers and sisters, you can explain some things they may not know." I was perplexed but we followed his directions. When we settled into chairs in the library, we shared one more confused glance.

"Well, we might as well start." I began reading the first page aloud.

Author's Note

This needs help. So please, offer and suggestions to its betterment.
PS: If you're thoroughly confused by this family, I managed that much successfully, all will be explained in due course.