Miserable Joy

The old rickety bus was only about twenty or so years younger than myself. It creaked and groaned almost as much as I did. People only rode the bus if they couldn't afford the train and didn't mind the dismal view. But there were a few of us, Franz, Oskar, and myself, who rode the bus to remember. Like a silent language, we spoke without speaking of those hard days. We understood as few could, that some pain needed to be remembered.

Franz only rode the bus on Tuesdays and Oskar was currently down in Amsterdam visiting family, so I found myself missing them today. We passed the sad site of an old, fallen-in farmhouse that meant we were almost to town. 

"Fritz," muttered Ilene, from her place on my shoulder. "do you ever think about what life might have been like if the war had never happened?" 

I didn't look up from the window, but I squeezed her hand, wondering if I ever wished it hadn't. It was strange, I decided, thinking back on all that pain, and realizing I was grateful. "I don't think I would have liked that," I whispered, with difficulty. "I would have never met you."

I felt her smile on my shoulder. "I love you too."

The bus ride into town was quiet, save the rattle and hum of the old bus, and it gave me time to think. I watched the green foliage mingle with the remains of an old bombed-out bunker, as it whizzed past my window. Pain and sorrow still pierced my core at the sight of that violent memory, so many years ago.

"Those were hard years, Fritz." Whispered Ilene, in a gentle tone of admonition. "They deserve to be remembered."

"They were painful years," I muttered under my breath. But I still agreed with her, though perhaps more because she'd said it, than anything else. 

"Painful years that made you stronger." She whispered back, as she leaned her porcelain face on my shoulder and entwined her fingers with my old, gnarled hands. I didn't fight it. Instead, I embraced it, as we reminisced about a time before tragedy and heartache.

I enjoyed a few more moments of peace as the modern world began to resurface all around me. Eventually, we reached the bus station, and I mustered quite a bit of reluctant strength to haul myself from my seat. My old bones creaked in a painful sort of way before I picked up the bouquet of flowers on the seat beside me and shuffled up the aisle. 

“Have a good day, Mr. Schmit.” said the bus driver, Hans, as I stepped past him. “Going to meet up with Laura and the kids, today?” Hans had been driving this route for years now and knew when I usually got off. Today was different.

“No,” I smiled, softly, not really wanting to show my inner struggle. “I’ve got another visit planned for today.” I held up the bouquet, and he nodded in understanding. I turned and slowly made my way down the steps and out, onto the station. 

It was about noon, and the sun was shining warmly for the first time this week. Rain had been forecast for the majority of the week, and I silently thanked God for this small, somewhat insignificant tender mercy. Slowly making my way up the sparsely crowded sidewalk, I took the short stroll down to the cemetery gates. A monument had been placed near the entrance, depicting brave soldiers who’d fought for their country. I thought sadly of how these mere boys had given their lives for a cause that they couldn’t morally justify; they served without question in hopes that they were doing the right thing. I knew what they had felt and wondered yet again why I was not laying in the cold hard ground, there, with them. Why had I lived, when they hadn’t? But the bitterness had faded from my timeless inquiry; I only waited now, to join them.

Shuffling along through names and stones I had long since memorized, I made my way to a familiar grave, weathered by time, as I had been. I ran my hand along the cold wet stone, and read the familiar name, and felt the familiar heartbroken sorrow, though now numbed by years of a long life. Bending my aching knees till I knelt before her in the wet grass, I reached up with my old, gnarled hands, I caressed her name. “I love you, Ilene,” I whispered, sadly. “I remember your face every day, though I regret to say I’ve forgotten your laugh.” I smiled in a sad, almost guilty way, like a young boy who was caught by his mother. I imagined her gentle voice and tried once more, in vain, to recall her carefree laugh. I placed the flowers at the foot of the stone and sat for a moment, in silence, remembering her. 

We’d had about eleven years together, six of which would have surely been unbearable without the knowledge that she was at home, waiting for my return. We had one daughter, Laura, born in the spring of 1942, in the middle of the war. She was our pride and joy, though I only got to know her after her third birthday, a fact I would regret for a long time. Ilene told me we’d have all the time in the world to get to know each other after the war ended. But then in the fall of 1950, Ilene got influenza. She died that winter. Laura was only seven years old when her mother passed. She should have had a better childhood. I thought back to Ilene’s question. Was I really grateful for those hard times? But something told me I was; years of carefree life would have brought little joy, as a life of sorrow brings greater appreciation for the good. That made it in no way easier, however, to get through the pain.

I looked without really seeing it, at the letters that embodied so much life in lifeless stone. So many moments in a few words. The date read 17.12.1950. My eyes watered, and I felt a warm tear flow down my cheek, imagining her soft kiss on my forehead, and her calming whispers in my ear, wishing she were here. “I am old and tired,” I muttered. “But I still love you. I am waiting for the day when I can hold you again… When you can hold me, again.”

Her gentle fingers wiped my tears, as she took my face in her hands. “Don’t give up, Fritz,” she said, emploring me with her deep, loving eyes. “I love you, and I know you love me. We will see each other again.” she smiled in admiration, before enveloping me in a warm hug. I melted into her embrace, giving it all to God, and thanking Him for her brief, angelic life. “But until then, Fritz, don’t give up. Keep remembering me.” She pulled away, and kissed my forehead, softly. “I love you, Fritz. Remember that.”