Page 114 of All We Thought We Knew
I gasped, as though someone clicked on the proverbial light bulb in my brain. Suddenly all the puzzle pieces fit.
Without explaining my actions, I ran upstairs. When I returned, I handed the old book from the shoebox to him. “Your mother gave this Bible to you. A German Bible.”
A sheen of wetness filled his eyes as he reached for it. He smoothed the cover, tenderly, almost reverently. “I have not held this in many years. I wanted to dispose of it, but Ava insisted on keeping it.Muttergave it to me before I left for America. She was a God-fearing woman.”
“What does the inscription say?”
He turned to the first page. “Für meinen Sohn, Ehre Gott immer. Ich liebe dich, Mutter.For my son. Honor God always. I love you, Mother.”
It felt surreal to hear my father speak German, reading something his mother—my grandmother—wrote years ago when he was a boy in Germany. “Is she still alive?”
Dad shook his head slowly. “I do not know. After the war, I wrote to many people, seeking information. A neighbor told methat my brother had movedMutterto Berlin in 1944. So many people were lost in the bombings. I gave my address to some trusted friends in case she returned to our hometown, but I never heard from any of them.”
My heart grieved for the grandmother I never knew. “And your brother? Did he survive the war?”
Shame registered in Dad’s eyes. “He survived, but he was arrested by the Allies. Rolf was tried for war crimes and executed in 1947.”
I told him about the photograph in the back. Tears filled his eyes when he saw it. “This was taken many years before I left for America.Muttersold the car so I could buy passage on a ship.”
He went on to tell us about his time at Fort Lincoln, about Dr.Sonnenberg, and how he gave up on life after his friend was killed.
“The only thing that kept me alive was my love for Ava.”
His quiet words crushed me. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I’m sorry for blaming you for everything. I didn’t know. I didn’t know you.”
We hugged for the first time in years. I couldn’t imagine how I’d gone all this time without my father’s strong arms around me. I clung to him and wept.
When we parted, he finished the tale, explaining that once he and Mama married, he found refuge on the farm. He avoided going to town, afraid someone would suspect the truth about his German heritage. He’d worked hard to correct his accent, but some words simply wouldn’t come out right, no matter how hard he tried. He apologized for not attending school events and church with us, and for leaving most of the parenting to Mama.
“I wasn’t the father you and Mark deserved.” Regret filled his voice. “But I want you to know I’ve always been proud to be your dad.”
“I wasn’t the daughter you and Mama deserved,” I said, sniffling.
He reached to touch my cheek. “I love you, Mattie.”
“I love you too, Dad.”
We turned in early, exhausted from the emotional day. When I entered my room, the shoebox on the desktop drew me.
I had yet to read the last letter from Gunther.
I carefully unfolded it. With amazement, I read the words of love my father wrote to my mother many years ago.
My Dearest Ava...
EPILOGUE:MATTIE
DELANEY HORSE FARM
APRIL 1970
Dad, Nash, and I waited in the farmyard, ready to welcome the first official clients to our experimental horse therapy clinic.
After our success with Fred, word spread through the veteran community. We soon had former soldiers arriving, wanting to learn to ride a horse. Men came from as far away as Atlanta, and we’d had to quickly come up with a program and a schedule. Nash contacted the VA hospital for advice, and while they couldn’t formally approve the clinic for treatment, the doctor in charge told Nash—“off the record, of course”—it sounded fantastic and wished us the best of luck.
Because Granny Gertrude left the farm to Mama, stipulating in her will that it had to pass to Mark or me upon Mama’s death, I suddenly found myself the owner of Delaney Horse Farm. Daddidn’t mind. He said Gertrude never approved of him, often referring to him as “that Nazi,” so he was happy for me to inherit the property. A friend of Dr. Monahan’s came by in January and bought two of our best horses, giving us enough money to cover Mama’s medical bills and put some aside for the future. Moonlight Sky delivered a healthy foal last week—a filly that looked just like her mama—and my mind was already alive with ideas of how to improve the bloodlines of our stock.
After we discussed the idea of a horse therapy clinic, Dad immediately drove to Nashville and came home with a stack of thick medical books. Anatomy. Physical therapy. Psychology. Amputations. I often found him at the kitchen table, studying long into the night.
