I stayed close by his side, not fully trusting the walker, as he shuffled toward the gleaming oak table, whose battle scars were buried beneath the layers of furniture wax that Kimberly applied twice a week without fail. The diligent polishing made the food taste slightly of oil soap on occasion, but Kimberly insisted on maintaining the formality in dining that the residents had all been accustomed to in their earlier years. Though Dad didn’t exactly change into a dinner jacket and shined oxfords, he never left the room without a cursory glance in the mirror to ensure his hair was in place and he looked presentable. There were always cloth napkins and bright, heavy ceramic plates in a merry jumble of colors that made the table look as though the residents were celebrating some second-tier holiday. Not Lenox china and Baccarat crystal, but they showed respect for the meal.
The meal ritual attracted me to this place when I’d begun the hunt for a facility. Even when Dad took me to Disneyland when I was a kid, we sat down to full meals at restaurants three times a day. No gobbling down stale hot dogs and fluffy pretzels from carts for us. “I had enough three-minute meals that consisted of cramming down cold food from tin cans to last a lifetime, kiddo.” He rarely mentioned his time in the service, but when he did, it was usually to complain about the food.
“The lasagna looks good tonight, Dad,” I said, encouraging him as Kimberly placed the plate in front of him. The mozzarella was perfectly melted, with just the barest hint of browning. The garlic bread looked buttery but not too soggy. He glanced at the food with guarded optimism as the rest of the residents took their usual spots around the table. There was Mr. Griffith, the one nursing a bad gash on his ankle, who was just a couple of years younger than Dad. He always tried to pull anyone who would listen into a conversation about golf. There were Mr. and Mrs. Meyer, a lovely couple who still doted on each other after almost three-quarters of a century of marriage. They had a steady stream of visitors—friends, children, grandchildren, even great-grandchildren. Tonight was a rare occurrence in that they didn’t have a guest or three staying for dinner.
I was his only child, a surprise born almost twenty years into his marriage to my mother. I was childless and now single, so I was the only one who visited him with any regularity. At least here, the family of the other residents would include Dad in their visits when I couldn’t be there. I knew it wasn’t the same as being in a proper home, but it was the closest thing to one I could give him. It seemed like poor repayment for all he’d done for me in my life, but at least he was surrounded by love, and not the cold metallic beeping of machines that tormented Mom in her last days. Sometimes better had to be enough.
CHAPTER TWO
LETTERS FROM ASHES
MAX
June 25, 1942
Los Angeles, California
My pulse quickened at the sound of the low plane overhead. I looked up to see if I could identify the markings, but I wasn’t expert enough to decipher anything at such a distance. Mr. Ivey’s lips formed a thin line as he handed me change for the newspaper. His eyes turned skyward, rather than acknowledging me. His thoughts were the same as mine: Ours or theirs? Everyone along the West Coast shared that thought for a few seconds every time a plane flew over, and had done so since December. The attack on Pearl Harbor was horrific, and none of us thought the Japanese would stop there. There was nothing between them and Los Angeles, Sacramento, or Seattle except a whole lot of ocean.
The newsstand keeper lowered his eyes once more, convinced the plane’s intent was likely innocent. “Paul’s got his notice. He’ll be going over.”
Paul Ivey had been a classmate of mine in high school and had always been a nice enough guy. We’d lost touch when I’d gone on to college and dental school, but I’d heard he’d made a cracking trade of cabinetmaking. “Well, we can hope it’ll all be over before he sees action.”
Mr. Ivey stiffened a bit. “That would be a shame. He’s eager to do his share. He enlisted, you know. He didn’t wait for the draft like some boys.”
The accusation loomed over my head like a pitch-black storm cloud. You’re young, you’re strong, you’re able . . . where is your uniform? I couldn’t blame him. Those who had children fighting overseas resented anyone who could serve and chose not to. Every new soldier was a chance to end the war sooner and get their boys home safe.
“Pass my best on to Paul, Mr. Ivey. Tell him to save some Nazis for the rest of us.”
Mr. Ivey nodded, satisfied. I made no promises to enlist, but I implied my intent. He didn’t know what my parents had left behind to build a life here and why they were so adamant that I not willingly run off to a foreign country to risk my life. They’d seen their native Latvia in ruins after the Great War, and it sounded like their beloved homeland was well on its way to living through that fate again. They’d made it clear they didn’t want me involved in the war if I had the choice. I was a grown man, free to make my own decisions, but I could not treat their wishes lightly after all the sacrifices they had made on my behalf.
My parents’ families had been friends for generations, and so it was no surprise when my mom and dad married as teenagers. Together, they scrimped and saved, skipping meals and working every odd job they could find to pay for their passage to the States. They arrived in 1916, and continued west until they ran out of country, stopping only when they found a place where their accents and religion didn’t cause doors to slam in their faces. I came along the following year. Ma especially loved the community; she threw herself into every social or charitable event that could use a pair of hands. Dad’s tailoring business flourished in the neighborhood that welcomed them, and we had a good life here. They couldn’t fathom my leaving it for the sake of finding trouble.
It was because I didn’t want trouble to find its way here that I wanted to join Paul and the others in the fight. I couldn’t stand to think of this little version of paradise my parents and their friends had built being destroyed at the hands of madmen.
My parents’ house was three blocks south, and I began the walk, resolving with each step not to quarrel with them on the topic again. I’d made my case with them a dozen times. People looked down on me for not enlisting and waiting for the draft to call me up. Not enlisting could hurt my dental practice before it even got off the ground. I didn’t bother with the more philosophical reasons for joining up. Stopping Hitler’s expansion was just too nebulous an ideal to get my parents on board. Even the rumors of the atrocities against the Jewish people in Germany and the lands the Nazis invaded weren’t enough to light their fervor. “These stories can’t be half as bad as we hear, Max. The people wouldn’t stand for their friends and neighbors being treated so poorly.” I would try to argue, but Ma would claim a headache or Dad would order me to change the subject.
They wanted me to finish dental school before enlisting, and even then, they weren’t keen on me joining up before the draft board forced my hand. They reminded me of the sacrifices they’d made to put me through college and dental school, how they still gave me room and board to make it all possible, and that would shut down any arguments. I tried to see things from their perspective, but with each passing day, each new grim headline, it became harder. I glanced at the front page of the Los Angeles Times as I walked. British advances in Egypt. More damage by the Axis and their damned tanks. Nothing to give a person hope that the end of the war might be in sight.