Love and Hate Page 16

  Always and forever.

  Your wife,

  Lilo

  I read the letter three times. And the tears came. I started crying hysterically for Lilo. I had never cried like this before. I was rocking back and forth, clutching the letter to my chest, heaving to catch a breath as I pushed out my grief with another sob, trembling. The pain was intense inside me, in my chest, in my soul. I was bleeding there like I never had before. It poured out that blood in the form of grief, and I cried and cried. Then a prickling sensation hit my entire body, painfully gathering up onto my scalp. I was horrified. Where was my child? Where were Lilo and my child buried?

  I ran out of the room to find Mr. Franz.

  Chapter 37

  Mr. Franz looked sad, like he felt my pain. He must have heard my wails, but out of respect he had remained sitting on his perch on the bottom step of the grand staircase.

  I petitioned him, frantically, “Where are they buried? How did she pass?”

  He looked at me sympathetically and said, “She was cremated and her ashes put in the fountain that I showed you that she so admired. She died in childbirth.”

  I despaired. “And my child, were they cremated too?”

  “Oh, your child—he is a boy, and very much alive.”

  “What, what do you mean?” I was angry, raising my voice.

  “You left before I could tell you when you first came here. You returned all my letters unopened. He is at the orphanage in town. We would have cared for him, but I am too old to be his custodian.”

  “I cannot comprehend your indifference; how could you send him to an orphanage?”

  Mr. Franz came up to me, all sympathy erased from his face. “Son, you left here without him. He was here when you came, right upstairs. You left, not me. I am old, and I visit him from time to time, and regularly send him money—I make sure he is all right.”

  “Well, why has he not been adopted after all of this time?”

  “This isn’t Nazi Germany, but being Jewish still carries a stigma.”

  I was numb. “I will go to him at once. What does he know about me?”

  “He knows nothing but that he was told that his father fought the Nazis and never came home.”

  “But I did come home.”

  He put his hand on my shoulder. “No you have just come home now. To your son. Welcome. I will take you to him.”

  We were in my car, driving to see my son. I was nervous as we pulled into the parking lot, a lot that I had been to as police director, investigating parents who had abandoned their children. I had abandoned my own child; the irony wasn’t lost on me. I sat there afraid to go inside. Terrified.

  “What should I say to him, Walter?” It finally seemed appropriate to call him that.

  “You should say the truth. Jürgen is a smart boy, he will already be suspicious. There is no reason for lies that he will soon find out are untrue. He has been through a lot, and the truth is best.”

  We entered the orphanage director’s office and were told that the boys were out playing football.

  “Police Chief Beck, I know you, and so you can take him home immediately. We can do paperwork tomorrow.”

  “Okay, well, could you get him and let me talk with him a while? But first, what is he like?”

  “He keeps to himself a lot, he. He is a smart boy, very smart. He does well academically, especially in mathematics and science. He is also very caring, but he craves affection. I think that Mr. Franz should be with you in the room—at least initially. He is fond of him and regards him as the only family he really has.”

  “Okay.” I looked up at Walter. “Could you initiate the introduction?” I pleaded.

  “Yes, I would be honored to.”

  We waited for several minutes before a tow-headed boy of eight years with tanned skin was brought into the room. He looked confused and peered up at the director after looking at me. He then looked at Walter and ran up to him, kissing him on the cheek.

  “Uncle Walter, it is so nice to see you. I love you, Uncle Walter.”

  “Me too, Jürgen. Jürgen, this is a man named Hans,” Walter said, turning toward me.

  The orphanage director used this opportunity to silently slip out.

  “Yes, well, what does he want, is he a friend of yours?”

  “Yes, yes he is...and a good friend too.”

  Jürgen came up to me and shook my hand. “It’s nice to meet you. If you are a friend of Uncle Walter’s, you must be a great guy.” He smiled.

  I had to master the tears collecting from falling down my cheeks. He looked like Lilo, just like her—high cheekbones, and his smile was hers. She was right—blonde hair and brown eyes. He just wasn’t a girl. He had my squarish jaw. I loved him instantly and naturally. I didn’t have to learn the love; it was immediate, fatherly love. I felt I had known him his entire life and that he was mine to love. I knew he wouldn’t feel the same way. But I had to begin the conversation.

  “Jürgen, could you please sit down for a moment?”

  “Sure, Herr...”

  “You can call me Hans.”

  “Sure, Hans.” He took his seat.

  “I am—well, I am your father.”

  He stared at me closely and carefully. “But my father went missing fighting the Nazis and is dead.”

  “Yes, well, I fought the Nazis in a way, but I am your father, and I have come to take you to live with me.”

  “I don’t believe you. You don’t even look like me. Even if it were true, why are you only showing up now when the war’s been over for so long?”

  “It is a long story, Jürgen. I will tell you all of it—but you get to leave this place and come home with me.”

  “I don’t know you, and I don’t want to go home with you. I’d rather live here and have Walter visit me. He is like my real father.”

  “Well, you will...”

  I paused. I was transported back to my adoption day. This wasn’t truly adoption, as I was his father. But it felt like it was to him, and I wouldn’t promise that he would learn to love me. I wouldn’t push my desires on him.

  “You have to try to come live with me, and if you don’t want to—you can return here,” I lied because I would not have my son living in an orphanage any longer. I would say what I needed to, whatever had to be said to have him leave of his own will.

  He got up without a word and said, “Well I won’t go, and if you make me—I will decide, I will decide to hate you more than I already do.”

  He got up to walk out of the room.

  Walter said, “Jürgen, no...”

  “Uncle Walter, I cannot believe you would do this to me.”

  We let him leave. I sat there with Walter and turned to him. “I think I should take it from here.”

  “Okay, well, you know where to find me, when and if you need me.”

  Walter ambled out the door, but before he did, I said, “Thank you, thank you so much—I can never repay you for your many kindnesses to my son and wife. I am sorry for being ungrateful.”

  “It was nothing you wouldn’t have done yourself. I know you, at least your character, the way Lilo described you, and your reputation in town. You would have done the same. Good luck. I will pray for this to go well.”

  I sat there alone, not knowing what to do next. The director came back in and said that Jürgen was in his room. They had actual rooms here. He said that he could force him to leave with me.

  I said, “No, I want to go speak with him some more, please, but thank you. Can you lead me to his room?”

  “I will, and you can take him home at any time today. I will just await your paperwork.”

  I followed the director down a hallway to a simple closed door. I heard soft crying through its thin wood. I knocked.

  “Go away.”

  The director opened the door and held it open for me. I walked in, and he closed it behind me.

  “Get out of my room!”

  “You are going to go home with me. It is
what your mother would have wanted, and if you don’t go, and at least try it for one day—well, I will make you stay with me forever.”

  He looked up at me. “For one day, and then I can come back here?”

  “One day, do we have a deal?”

  “Fine, I will do it for a day.”

  “Well, pack a day and a night of clothes, and let’s be on our way.”

  We drove in silence to my house. I had taken the week off from work in anticipation of his arrival. I had called in before we left Walter’s house.

  We didn’t say a word until inside my house. I showed him the spare room, which I now planned to be his.

  “You can unpack in here. And we will eat dinner in half an hour sharp. I expect you to be present and cordial for our one day.”

  He nodded and left to sit alone in his room. A few minutes later I saw him outside playing with a football. I had not recalled owning one until I watched him play with it.

  He was kicking it around while I finished frying the jägerschnitzel. I placed the food on our plates and walked outside to watch him with my arms crossed.

  “You wanna play?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, well who else is there? Of course, you.”

  “I am not very athletic, but I can kick the ball with you.”

  “You can fight and kill, but you aren’t athletic.”

  “It is not the same thing.”

  I faced him, and he kicked the ball to my right. I countered and followed up with a kick that hit nothing but grass.

  He maneuvered behind me and kicked the ball toward the house, shouting, “GOAL!”

  I laughed. “I told you I was not athletic.”

  “Oh, c’mon, you aren’t even trying. Your goal is the porch, the goal you need to protect.” He tore some grass up. “This is the goal that I need to protect, here, this patch of grass.”

  “Okay.”

  “Now, kick me that ball.”

  I kicked it to him, and it veered to his left.

  “Boy, maybe you are that bad at this.”

  He deftly maneuvered the ball to a kicking position, but I was ready for him. I had steadied myself for his attack. I had spread my arms and legs out, trying to block what was surely to be an immanent full-frontal attack on my position to reach the goal I was guarding. He looked as if he was going to kick it hard toward me; he even flung back his leg to do so. And then he tipped the ball to the side and gave it a light tap to move it and kicked it hard toward my side. The side I was not protecting. The ball passed me, but not without me stumbling over myself, trying to grab it and falling on my face in the grass.

  The boy laughed, and then I began to laugh too. And there we were feeding off each other’s laughter.

  I started laughing harder, and then he did, and he snorted out, “You are the most uncoordinated football player I have ever seen. And you tried, you tried, to get the ball after it had stopped rolling!”

  He laughed, heavily, and it must have hurt because he grabbed his throat like he couldn’t breathe.

  We both laughed that kind of laugh that only good friends and family laugh together. The laugh of kinship. But soon it subsided, and we just sat there staring into the woods.

  “Come, let’s go eat, the food is probably already cold.”

  “Okay,” Jürgen said.

  We were sitting down at dinner, quietly eating, our clinking forks and knives the only sound breaking the barrier between us. We didn’t even look at each other. However, every couple of bites I would steal a look at my sweet boy. My boy, whom I loved already, as if I had known him since the beginning of time.

  He asked me, “Mr. Police Director. Do you ever miss my mom?”

  I put down my fork and knife. “Every day. I miss her every day.”

  “I do too, I don’t even know what she was like, but I miss her. What was she like?”

  “Oh, she had beautiful brown hair, and...”

  He interrupted me, saying, “I know what she looked like. Uncle Walter has told me.”

  “And I suppose he told you what she was like.”

  “I want to hear what she was like from someone who loved her. You said that you loved her.”

  “I still love her. But yes, while she was alive, I loved her. I knew her through my love for her. She was soft and gentle, yet strong and forgiving...”

  I didn’t want to lose my composure, but talking this way, while looking at my son hungry for knowledge of his mother, I couldn’t help but pause. I needed to stop myself from crying. My broad shoulders sank, and I was saddened to tell him about his mother, who he would never have the privilege of meeting. I despaired and took a deep breath. I held it in until I could pull my speech back out of my closed mouth.

  The boy noticed something was amiss. “What is the matter? You look like you are gonna cry or something.”

  I lost my manly composure. A tear escaped down my face, followed by another and then more. Eventually, a stream silently rolled down my face, and I sat there not knowing what to do. If I spoke or moved, it would get worse. I tried to breath shallowly to regain control.

  His eyes brimmed with tears. “No! You didn’t love her, you just feel bad for yourself!”

  I breathed in and out, regaining enough control to say, “That is not true. I will tell you all that was wonderful about her.”

  “Do you believe that she is in Heaven?” he asked me suddenly.

  “I, well...”

  “You don’t think she deserves it? To be in Heaven?”

  “No, son, I do think she deserves it, more than anyone. I just don’t know if I believe in Heaven.”

  “Well, I do,” said the boy, sniffling. “I sure would like to see her someday.”

  I started crying uncontrollably. I made inhalations that were short and heavy, followed by exhalations full of grief, full of dark black, coughs of self-loathing. I was so sad, and despair was coming out of my mouth in coughs that wracked my body. I didn’t even see the boy through the tears that gave a watery perspective to the entire space that I occupied.

  I choked out, “Me too. Me too, I miss her too. I want to, I want to see her too someday...”

  I reached out for the boy. He came to me, and I held his shoulder and grasped his head to my chest, and we sobbed together, mourning my Lilo and his mother. His mother whom he had never met, but who he loved dearly. My dear Lilo, who I missed so much. But I also mourned the years the boy had spent alone because of my selfishness. Because of my cowardice.

  I said, “I am so sorry you were alone, that I was so selfish that I didn’t find out about you. I am sorry, and I hope you will forgive me someday, my son. I love you so much.”

  “Father, I forgive you, I forgive you.”

  Later that night, I watched my son sleep in his bed for the first time. His chest rose and fell every few seconds. I smiled. His father watching him. I was happy just watching him asleep and in my home. I was happy and warm with love for him. Only a father would understand.

  I thought about forgiveness and how easily he had forgiven me, how quickly, even though I didn’t deserve it. He was like his mother. He loved freely and easily and forgave quickly.

  But could I forgive myself? I walked outside and looked at the stars. Outside the city, there were millions of stars brightening the night that would be starved without the light. I stared at that light, and I thought of the war, I thought of Lilo and her soul and my love for her. I thought of the eternal nature of stars, how in some way my love for Lilo went on, and hers for me and Jürgen. I could feel her soul, and I knew then that souls were eternal and was sure that she was there, somewhere among the heavenly mass, looking down on me. I knew that she loved us. I prayed for her soul. I prayed for Jürgen and for my forgiveness.

  A strange thing happened then. I felt warmth wash over me. A forgiveness, not from Lilo, but from somewhere else. Was this the God that Lilo spoke of? I knew that Lilo was up there, somehow, somewhere—looking down at us, not with anger, but with grac
e. That grace was more than her; it was all around me, and I just had to accept it. I just had to believe that I was worthy of love, and then I could love Jürgen like he needed to be loved.

  Forgiveness is free, like the stars. You just ask for it. You must not only do good with your actions, but you must believe in goodness with your soul. Maybe there was a God. I smiled. I no longer felt like my soul was bleeding. I thanked God for that. I thanked God for Lilo. I thanked God for Jürgen. I stared at those stars and smiled, because I was forgiven, not just by Lilo, but by God. I was worthy of love and forgiveness. I chose Jürgen. I chose love. I left the hate behind.

  THE END

  Review

  If you enjoyed this novel please consider reviewing it on Amazon.

  About the Author

  Ryan Armstrong is a writer of historical fiction (mostly). He has a romance coming out soon as well as his contribution to the best selling anthology: "The Darkest Hour" - "Sound of Resistance" which is a prequel to "Love and Hate" that will be released in January 2019. You can find the link to buy that anthology below. He lives in Fort Worth, Texas with his wife and two boys.

  Read more at Ryan Armstrong’s site.

  About the Publisher

  LM Vintage Publishers

  We are a traditional, royalty paying publisher with a unique approach.