Joe’s Boots

Patriotism has its place. But I’m so weary of war shortages. My only decent pair of summer pumps have a hole in the left sole. Am I unpatriotic to pass them on to charity? Two re-soles since Pearl Harbor, so I say, “Betty, you’re entitled to a new pair.” I’m not even fond of these pumps; at best, they’re functional and ugly.

I’ll give up my meat ration stamps for new, fashionable shoes. Besides, I buy war bonds every week. Oh, yes, I’m a contributing cog to the U.S. war effort. Mostly frugal, I buy nothing new unless 100% worn out and unfixable. True, I dress a notch above the average woman, never looking dowdy or out-of-date. I’m satisfied making do with basics but ugly shoes are not to be suffered this long.

I remember my shoes from every significant life event. Two sizes too big, high-button boots loaned by my English teacher for a college interview. White brocade boots for my wedding. Kitten-heeled Edwardian pumps of moss-green silk for my first high tea in our new house. Mohair flats with satin trim the day I learned I was a widow. Lemonade-splattered house slippers from a lawn picnic. Imported navy-blue leather t-straps for my daughter’s wedding.

Every season, war or no war, I study fashion magazines and Sears’ latest catalogue for new trends in shoe silhouettes and heel heights. My sister teases me for “high-falutin’ tastes” in clothing. In her latest letter, she chided me, “Even with the war, you manage to gussy-up dresses with lace collars. And, what in heaven’s name, is the secret for keeping your 3-year-old silk stockings from runs?”

Lordy, I’ve run the gamut from a bare-footed childhood to silk slippers. As a college freshman fresh off a run-down farm, my church thrift box shoes shamed me among well-dressed young ladies. Instead of a third re-sole of these tired pumps, I’ll treat myself at Sears to a sassy pair of red leather heels.  

Oh, look at the time! Must tidy up, its Tuesday!

* * *

Women friends from my neighborhood are gathered around my kitchen table, like every Tuesday morning.  We reinvent worn-out dresses with stylish godets made with salvageable sheets or fabric seconds. When cuffs wear out on a winter coat, one lady makes new ones from an old Pendleton blanket. Another uses an old chenille bedspread for an almost new bed jacket.

We always find much to chat about. Our hot tea has a spoonful of imported brandy from my secret trove stowed behind the washing machine.

I’m cutting up a lacy doily with precise, careful snips to create a new detachable collar. It’s a tricky affair, requiring patience to stitch up the newly snipped crochet before it unravels.

“Betty!  What on earth are you thinking?  Picking at that doily like a surgeon!” I look up from my snipping to see Florence unraveling used-up socks into yarn balls. The resurrected yarn will patch other socks, mittens, and winter scarves. Her face smiles like wrinkled dough, always inquisitive to all around her with a ready opinion at any time. “Betty, never play poker. We can read your thoughts.”

“In truth, ladies, I’m pondering whether to re-sole my ugly summer pumps. For the third time! Surely the war effort will forgive me for being weary of the same nondescript shoes worn three years straight.”

The mail slot clangs from the foyer when the postman leaves the morning mail. Rocking my generous bottom to and fro to rise from my chair, I scurry out of my kitchen to where fresh mail awaits.

My shriek from the foyer brings a clattering of chairs and worried voices call to me. I hurry back with flushed cheeks’ words rushing out in one quick spurt. “An envelope from the U.S. Army!”

I wave an official-looking manila envelope like a newly won trophy. A letter from Sammy? It’s pried open before I’m fully sitting down. Knowing dire news usually comes in a telegram or personally delivered by a chaplain, only good news in this envelope seems likely to me. Yet, I feel uneasy and slide my chair to be closer to my friends.

The envelope yawns open to reveal a letter-sized envelope deep inside, small and alone. It simply says: “To the family of Samuel Duckenwahl, Private, First-Class. Received by the American Red Cross on April 3, 1945, and respectfully forwarded by U.S. Army Command.”

“It’s from Sammy! A letter from Sammy!” I wriggle into my chair, ready to read precious words.

Inside the second envelope are two dirty pieces of paper, each covered in tightly written and cramped sentences. The paper is stained and crumpled, as if salvaged from a gutter. Words fill every available space of the sad pieces of paper, written by my only grandson.

My excitement pales. “It’s his writing . . . but, so tiny.” I look closer and see desperation between the words. This is not from an army base. Or a battlefield.

This letter is from someplace where writing paper is dear, salvaged by luck. Pencil marks are clear enough, then faint at intervals, as if Sammy stopped to sharpen the point of whatever he was using to capture his thoughts. I begin to understand his determination to get this letter composed. American Red Cross?  A harsh picture flashes in my mind. This letter came from a POW camp.

I start to read aloud but stop after, “Dear Grandmother . . .”

“I can’t. . . I can’t . . . Florence, read it,  please. I can’t . . .” Sobbing, I drop the letter to the table.

The women at the table reach for others’ hands. We sit in communion for a few moments; the kitchen overloads with dread. Florence picks up the letter and begins to read aloud.

“Dear Grandmother, Hope Army brass let you know. If letter makes it, send my love. Things not good. Wearing Joe Kelly’s boots. Beats all, he held onto them marching to prison camp. Joe was average-size – medium height/build, blends into group photographs. But big feet. A plus later for us schmucks. Can’t say Nazis treat us so swell. Plenty of grumbling about full moon when we left base. Brighter than arcade lights at Elitch’s on a summer night. Greenhorn idiot pilot dropped us in thick forest. Sharp branches waiting. Damn evergreens were a bitch. Sorry, Grandmother, guess Army made me rough around the edges. Trees = deathtraps. Some fellows still alive after jump. Easy to shoot them. Bright moon. Two buddies went quick, Jerry picked them easy, like shooting wooden ducks at State Fair. Stuck in branches, tangled chute lines around arms & legs. Some guys hurt bad when fell free from chutes. Broken legs/ankles. Screams. Panic. Yelling for help. Forget army training with busted leg, shoulder dislocated. Gave Jerry plenty to celebrate, boast over beer steins. Shitty jump orders, traitorous moon, hurt guys made capture easy. Unless you got shot. Might’ve been better, I’m thinking, sitting half-starved in cold mud, knees busted up & wearing Joe’s boots. Keep them on or risk guards stealing. Joe dragged from barrack croaking, ”Keep my boots, Alan, yours now.” Alan yelled, “I’ll keep ‘em handy for when you come back.” Camp doc said double pneumonia about Joe – like later with Alan. Machine gun fire from common yard in minutes if dragged out. Nobody questioned Alan got Joe’s boots. Pretending boots will go back to Joe. Helps us from despair. Honored hand-me-downs. List of owners grows – worn maybe a week, few days. No illusions about our fate. Accept Joe’s boots when they come your way. Fit me just dandy w/dead leaves stuffed in. Don’t worry, Grandmother. Skinny, but hanging on. Belt pants w/rope. Cough onto blanket so guards can’t hear. Hope doc stays away. Miss you, Grandmother, terribly. Denver’s far away, beyond my reach. In dreams, American soldiers march into this barrack, victorious & take me home. All my love forever, Grandmother. Stalag VII-A, near Moosburg in Germany.

Florence put the papers down on the table with a gentle touch and sits stone quiet. Nobody moves or speaks. I can’t find it within myself to believe everything will be alright.

I whisper only to myself. “He never calls me Grandmother. If he writes “Nana”, the Germans will know he’s Jewish.” My hands clamp on my mouth, and I shake, gasping.

* * *

While riding Colfax trolley to the shoe repair shop and a third resole, an abandoned Stalag VII-A near Moosburg, Germany has visitors. Private Samuel Duckenwahl is lying weak and starving in a filthy cot when victorious soldiers of the U.S. Army’s Armored Division walk into a now nearly empty barrack to take him home.

* * *

I stand cheering and celebrating Sammy’s homecoming with family, neighbors, and friends. I wear my special apron with embroidered cherries along the hem. Fresh-baked strawberry-rhubarb pie awaits him on the kitchen sill. Lemon-scented homemade soap is ready on his bathroom sink. Rolling up the walkway in his wheelchair, he salutes us all.

My cheers are silenced when I see a pair of battered boots worn below his knee bandages. Joe’s boots. A testament and mute witness, worn by brave young men in turn before meeting their fate in a prison camp yard. 

I look down at my resoled summer pumps and stare. They look beautiful.