Page 93 of All We Thought We Knew
A slow smile lifted the corners of Dr. Sonnenberg’s mouth. “Ever the student,” he said with a chuckle. He laid aside the hateful note. “I do not believe I will be able to return to sleep. Shall we begin now?”
TWENTY-EIGHT:MATTIE
DELANEY HORSE FARM
DECEMBER 1969
Mama’s cry woke me.
The sky outside my window was black, shrouding the farm in dark shadows. The glowing hands on the small clock on the bedside table told me it was half past four.
Should I see if Mama needed something?
The murmur of Dad’s voice sounded. Their door creaked open, and I heard his soft footfalls as he padded to the bathroom. Running water, the click of the bedroom door, and then all was quiet again.
Despite closing my eyes, sleep wouldn’t come. With a sigh, I sat up and turned on the lamp. Blinking until my eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness, I contemplated what to do. It was too earlyfor breakfast. A cup of hot cocoa would be nice, but I didn’t want to go downstairs and make noise.
My gaze drifted to the old shoebox on the desk.
Nash and I hadn’t finished reading the letters. An emergency arose with one of the horses, and he and Dad spent hours in the barn working with a gelding that had injured its leg. I stayed with Mama, but she dozed most of the time. In her sporadic wakeful moments, she wanted to hear about Fred’s accomplishments or what we’d had for dinner. Delving into her mysterious past would have to wait.
I tiptoed to the desk, avoiding a loose floorboard, and retrieved the box. Although I’d rather read the letters with Nash by my side, now was as good a time as any to go through the remaining notes from Gunther. Then I’d be ready to talk to Mama about them once the sun made its appearance.
Settled with the stack on my lap and my feet tucked beneath the covers, I picked up an envelope. The postmark was from Bismarck, North Dakota, dated January 1944.
Dear Ava,
Thank you for your letter. I’m glad to hear all is well on the farm. Your descriptions make me wish I could have seen it while I was in Tennessee.
Dr. Sonnenberg and I are studying the New Testament in the evenings while the other men play cards or chess in the casino. I am learning much about Jewish traditions, but I fear I am not a very good teacher when it comes to explaining why I believe Jesus Christ is the Messiah. It has made me want to spend more time reading God’s Word. I can only pray that he will overcome my inadequacies and bring understanding to my friend.
We experienced our first blizzard last week. We could not leave the hospital for three days. Snowdrifts reached the eavesand covered doorways, and icicles more than six feet long still hang from the roof. I am grateful for brick walls, furnaces, and wool socks.
I hope your new year is full of blessings.
Your friend,
Gunther Schneider
I returned the letter to its envelope and reached for the next one in the stack. The content was much the same, only this time hints of spring gave Gunther hope that frigid weather would come to an end soon. A third letter told of his disappointment that Dr. Sonnenberg was no longer allowed to work in the hospital, but they continued their religious studies at night.
A long breath pushed past my lips.
There was nothing in Gunther Schneider’s correspondence that made me believe he was anything more to my mother than a friend. Not one word of admiration or hint of attraction was exchanged, at least on his part. The missives were friendly, newsy, and nothing more.
I glanced at the three remaining envelopes.
I’d wait to read them with Nash, but I felt confident now that Mama hadn’t had a romantic fling with the foreign man. Why she felt I needed to know about him was still unknown, but I was satisfied I had nothing to fear.
With that settled, I tossed all the envelopes back into the box. I was ready to carry it to the desk when my eyes fell on the partially hidden cover of the old Bible. I lifted it out.
Die Bibel.
The faded gold lettering and leather binding told me it had once been lovely. With gentle care, I opened it and read the handwritten inscription.
Für meinen Sohn, Ehre Gott immer. Ich liebe dich, Mutter.
I sounded out the strange words as best I could. “Fur meanin’ Sohn. For my son.”
