Between on Heartbeat
and the Next: Part 2

Disclaimer: The characters and situations of the TV program "Big Valley" are the creations of Four Star/Republic Pictures and have been used without permission. No copyright infringement is intended.

Marie came back a week later. When Jarrod told her he had someone looking after the children, she insisted that they hire her as a full-time nanny. When she met Rachel, she briefly changed her mind, noting the girl was more beautiful and younger than she was. But when she saw how well Rachel took care of the children, and when she realized Jarrod didn’t seem interested in her (at least not in THAT way), she changed her mind again. However, Jarrod said no. She argued. Still he said no. She pouted, which usually meant getting her way. No again. She started to throw a tantrum, her final weapon in her vast arsenal, although she only used it when necessary. This would get to him, she knew. It did, but not in the way she had planned.

"Keep acting like a child, and I’ll treat you like one, young lady. I won’t hesitate for a moment to take you over my knee. I mean it, Marie." He said it so sternly, Marie stopped her foot mid stamp. She paused for a long moment as Jarrod continued to regard her with a glacial stare. He watched the emotions on her pretty face change: first outrage, then indignation, then a surprise: the devastatingly, startling look of keen intelligence which had caused him to fall in love with her in the first place.

"Jarrod, are you refusing me just to thwart me? Or to have a test of wills? Or do you actually have a reason you could share?"

Jarrod had a look of self-reproach.

"I’m sorry Marie. Maybe I’ve approached this all wrong. I suppose I just wanted you to do what I asked, for once, without an argument. That wasn’t quite fair, was it?" He sighed. "And yes, you have every right to know why I think we shouldn’t hire her. To tell you the truth, I have a feeling that Miss Hoffman is going to be Mrs. Barkley, one way or another. So we can’t treat her like a servant."

"Now was that so difficult, that you couldn’t just tell me?"

"I’ve never known you to care what my reasons were, when you wanted something."

Marie lowered her green eyes, thinking. Suddenly she brought her attention back to Jarrod.

"But you said she’s Jewish," said Marie.

"And?" said Jarrod, the severity returning to his voice.

"And how do you know she would want to marry a Christian?"

Jarrod considered himself a perceptive man, and he thought he knew his wife well. Yet twice today, she surprised him--pleasantly. Marie was right. He had never even considered that Rachel would object. What an arrogant ass he was, to think that any girl would say yes to a Barkley proposal, just because it was from a Barkley.

Jarrod heard Marie talking through his musings. "So who’s in love with her?" she was saying.

"What?" said Jarrod.

"Which of your brothers?"

"Gene. But I know Nick finds her attractive. He’s going to be disappointed."

"But how long have they known her? A couple of weeks, right? And they both are in love so quickly? I don’t know Jarrod, are you sure?"

"She’s a remarkable girl, Marie. I hope you and Audra have a chance to spend some time with her. I’d like you to spend time with her, actually."

"I will Jarrod," she said, glad to be back in his good graces, and secretly thrilled he had been so strong. She gave him a long, deep kiss, which promised more to come. Jarrod made a mental note to speak to his wife sternly more often, if this was the result.

Victoria watched Eugene disappear to the front portico off of the parlor. Jarrod and Marie, Nick, Heath, and Audra were playing with Jay and Vicky. She paused, then unobtrusively followed her youngest outside.

"I was hoping you would come out here, Mother," Eugene said.

Victoria smiled at him, glad that her youngest wanted to speak to her alone. Ever since Tom died, she had tried to shelter him. Jarrod used to accuse her of over-indulging him, worried he would grow up spoiled. Of course, according to Jarrod’s standards, most people were spoiled. Nick complained that she babied him and that he would grow up to be a sissy. And, according to Nick’s standards, well, Nick was Nick. But she had remained close to Gene, knowing he was more sensitive than the others. So it surprised her and hurt her when he left home for so long, without keeping in close touch. But she was proud, too. Her youngest son, the one who had run to her so often seeking comfort, had turned out to be the most self-reliant of all of them. Still, she missed knowing his innermost thoughts, as she once had.

From the parlor, they heard Jarrod say sternly, "Victoria Marie! Come here!"

"You know, I think Jarrod was meant to be a parent since he was about nine years old," said Victoria.

Gene chuckled.

The watched the sun set in silence.

"It’s a lovely night," she said, looking out at the deepening twilight.

"It’s always beautiful here, mother."

"Have you made up your mind if you’re going to stay in Stockton, Gene? We could use a good doctor here, one with the latest knowledge of healing. I know it might not offer the same sort of excitement and sophistication of the other places you’ve been, but you would be needed."

"Mother, I could have a full practice here just patching up Nick and Heath."

It was Victoria’s turn to chuckle.

"Seriously, Gene, you would be appreciated. And," here she paused for a moment.

"And?"

"I didn’t want to influence you Gene. You know I never interfere with the decisions my children make, but I am going to exercise my right to state my opinion. You’ve been gone from us too long, Gene. We’ve missed you. I’ve missed you. There, I’ve said it."

"My staying may be decided very soon."

"Decided how?"

"On whether I’m accepted."

"By Rachel?"

"By Rachel."

Again, Victoria paused.

"You don’t approve, Mother? I thought that out of everyone, you would be the one I could count on."

"I didn’t say I didn’t approve."

"But you don’t."

"She’s a beautiful girl, Gene. In every way possible. I would have been surprised if you hadn’t fallen in love. And of course, because of the religious differences, there will be many problems you will face, but I’m sure you can overcome them."

"So…"

"Are you going to ask Mr. Hoffman for her hand first?"

"Of course, Mother. They are from the old world, I need to do everything correctly. I’d planned to ask Herr Hoffman’s permission tomorrow."

"Have you considered the possibility Mr. Hoffman will not give you that permission? Or even Rachel herself, do you know how she feels?"

Gene’s face softened. "Rachel will accept me, mother."

"Then I give you my blessing, Gene. But I ask that you honor Mr. Hoffman’s wishes."

"He’s a gentleman, papa."

"I’m sure he is, libchen, I have no doubt. But he is not one of us. You cannot continue this relationship."

"But papa, his is kind, he’s a scholar and a doctor. And a good man. He would be a husband I would honor all of my days. Do you think that just because he is a Gentile, he cannot be a good man?"

"Rachel! When have I ever taught you that there are no good men among the Gentiles? Or no bad ones among the Jews? That is not the point. He is not a Jew. You are. You must marry a Jew."

"Then why papa? Why did you move us here where there are no Jews? Why did you insist I mingle with Gentiles? Why papa?"

Simon Hoffman looked as if his heart would break. "I didn’t want our being Jewish to define our whole lives. I thought there were ways of being in the world, while still staying Jewish. I’m sorry, libchen. I see that I was wrong. And you, my poor child, are going to be hurt the most by my mistake."

"Papa, it is not a mistake. God led us here, and he led me to this man. Why would God bring me to this love, only to have me renounce it? You said yourself, papa, no love is greater than God’s. Then why would He do this?"

"I don’t know, Rachel. There are many things that we cannot understand, for which God does not provide an answer. I, too, do not have answers for you."

"I’ve asked him over for dinner tonight, papa."

"Your mother knows?"

"I know all about it, Simon. Let the young man come. Let us meet him. But Rachel, this is all too soon. You are too young, and you haven’t known this man long enough. But we will have dinner with him. All we ask is that you wait. You need time to get to know him better."

"But I do know him, mamma. I know his heart beats as mine."

Sophy Hoffman laughed. "The romantic notions of the young! Real love, a life together, is much more than romance in a garden, Rachel."

"But how long did you and papa know each other before you were married?"

"You know that Rachel. It was an arranged marriage. We didn’t know each other at all."

"And yet you love each other, without knowing each other at all. I’ve known my love for a month!" She smiled, well aware of the profound intelligence of the foolish reasoning. Both her parents smiled as well.

"We will all pray on this, Rachel, and we will wait for God to tell us his will," said Mr. Hoffman.

Eugene came down the stairs, whistling. Nick, Heath, Audra and Victoria were in the parlor, talking as they waited for dinner to be served. Jarrod, Marie, and the children had returned to San Francisco, since Jarrod had matters to attend to there. Friday suppers were usually early, since most of the family so often had other plans for the evening.

"Well, don’t you look like a pretty boy!" said Nick.

"Why thank you, big brother. But not as pretty as the lady I’m having dinner with."

"Huh! Do I know her?" Nick expected Gene to blush. After all, mother and Audra were in the room. Would he dare to mention Miss Judy?

"I’m having dinner with Miss Hoffman," said Gene.

"Rachel? YOU?"

"Nick! Even if I live to be an old, old lady, I’m certain my last words will be ‘Nick, lower your voice,’" said Victoria.

"But Gene and Rachel? When did this…how did you managed to get invited…"

Silas came to the door. "Dinner is ready, Mrs. Barkley."

"Thank you Silas. Come along Nick," said Victoria.

Heath put a hand on Nick’s shoulder. "After dinner, I’ll take you out to the Red Rose and buy you a drink. Let’s eat."

Eugene waved a merry good-bye as he walked out the door.

Zeke Johnson sat at the bar, barely able to keep his head up. His money was almost gone, soon there would be no more drinks. Or a bed, for that matter. All because of those Jews. Those Jews and those Barkleys. He could cry, really. Life was so unfair. Always had been. It felt stuffy in here. He needed to get out.

"Where ya going, Zeke," one of his fellow degenerates called to him as he swayed towards the door.

"Going to fix those damn Jews," said Johnson. His buddies mockingly raised their glasses to him as he passed.

Eugene was in the backyard of the Hoffman’s helping Rachel pump water. Delicious smells wafted from the kitchen.

"You look lovely, Rachel," said Gene. And she did. She was dressed in a white dress, trimmed with cherry ribbons. It stood in contrast to her dark hair and eyes.

"Thank you, my beloved," responded Rachel. At first she looked at him shyly, not sure if she should say such a thing. Then she remembered her actions in the conservatory, and smiled broadly.

Inside, Mrs. Hoffman came into the studio.

"Almost done, Simon? It is almost sundown."

"Could you help me, Sophy? I just need to put the chemicals back."

They moved to the makeshift darkroom off to the side. The window was covered with a black cloth. Mr. Hoffman lit several of the kerosene lamps, then started putting the collodion in jars, while Mrs. Hoffman began pouring the other flammable chemicals into pans, which would then be covered. But as she was pouring it, some spilled all over her dress.

"Sophy, be careful!" said Simon. They could never be too careful working with these highly flammable chemicals. More than one photographer had met an unthinkable, incendiary death from carelessness. A professional hazard of which the Hoffmans were always aware, and always on guard.

"Where would you like to go?" asked Heath.

"Aw, I don’t care. Maybe we should just go to The Red Rose. Maybe Miss Judy will be lonely tonight."

"You just keep on hoping, Nick. Let’s go."

The two went into the saloon together.

Zeke Johnson’s buddies began hooting when the Barkleys came in.

"What’s your problem?" said Nick, going up to the table. They immediately backed down.

"What’s your problem," Nick repeated.

"Nuthin. Just you Barkley’s fired poor old Zeke. Poor old Zeke, he didn’t do nuthin."

"Is that a fact?"

"Yeah."

"And where is poor old Zeke tonight?"

"Gone to fix them Jews, once and for all."

"What’d you say?" Nick grabbed the drunk closest to him, then shoved him back, walking towards the door.

Heath was way ahead of him.

Zeke Johnson stumbled as he approached the Hoffman studio. He picked himself up, picking up a rock as he did so. He pulled his arm back. The lights were on in the studio; he could see the outline behind a dark cloth covering the window. He sent the rock flying. "Damn Jews," he shouted at the top of his lungs.

"Johnson, you son of a bitch, God damn you…" roared Nick, approaching. The sound of glasses shattering. Then an explosion, a flash of light and heat.

Nick grabbed Johnson, intending to punch him, but that was too good for him. Using the back of his gloved hand, he slapped him and slapped him, and slapped him again.

"What happened?" Zeke was screaming. "What happened? I didn’t mean to hurt anyone! Just scare them." He started screaming. Nick dropped him in the street, disgusted. Then he started to run to help Heath put the fire out. But the entire front of the building was engulfed in flames, so sudden was the explosion. In a panic, Nick realized Eugene was in there too. But the flames were so intense, all they could do was stand back. They ran around to the back of the house to see if there was a well and an entrance there.

Eugene was trying to hold Rachel back as she tried to run towards the house.

"No, Rachel, stay here, I’ll go in," said Eugene. He turned to go, just as Nick rounded the corner, Heath behind him. They had just enough time to see Eugene enter the house. Rachel was right behind him. Nick grabbed her, stopping her. Heath ran into the house after Eugene.

"There was nothing you could do, Gene, nothing any of us could do," said Heath. He had dragged Eugene back out, just as the interior collapsed. He continued to hold Gene, who stared over Heath’s shoulder, watching the house burn. He could feel the intensity of the heat on his face as he watched. In the distance, they could hear the little bells from the fledgling Stockton Fire Department. Faintly, they could hear Johnson still screaming. It would be so easy, Eugene thought, to start howling too. Just to give in and scream. But he knew he couldn’t; he knew he had to turn around and go to her. But how? Her parents had been burnt alive. Those gentle, kind people. At the rate the fire was burning, they probably wouldn’t even find the bodies. He was trained to heal people. But he didn’t know how to heal a shattered soul.

He approached her. In the dark, he could still make out her white dress, though it was streaked with ashes and soot. So was her white face.

She was sitting on a small barrel, shaking, but not crying. He went to her. And as he approached her, he knew the truth, as surely as he knew the sun rose in the east, as surely as he knew her parents were dead. Ignorance isn’t the father of hatred, it’s the son.

He looked into her eyes. And between one heartbeat and the next, he knew. He knew that even so, love is possible.

He went to comfort her. Instead, he fell to his knees and buried his head in her lap, sobbing as he had never sobbed before, and never would again.

April, 1945. Hospital Field Unit attached to the 7^th Army, somewhere outside of Weimer, Germany

Captain Eugene Barkley was reading a letter from his mother.

"Oh, and darling, such wonderful news. I’ve organized the Ladies Preservation Board. Our goal is to save the old Barkley Ranch. And you’ll never guess, we plan on making it a historic sight. Your cousin Denton is trying to get legislation passed. But it will take so much money! But guess who they put in charge of fund raising? Can you imagine, dear? They picked me. I’m so honored.

"And you know what else? We’ve had everything in the old mansion appraised. Now we have to make a decision. There’s an old red velvet settee, and it turns out it is worth more than the mansion itself! Imagine that. Anyway, if we sell the settee, we will have enough money to restore the house and the grounds. But some of the ladies feel that it is part of the house. We just live in such difficult times."

The whole time he was growing up, Eugene Barkley had avoided his mother’s constant chitchat. Now, he lived for her letters, a brief glimpse of sanity and normalcy, a peak into a life he had once known. His mother's silly social affairs, when you came right down to it, were really the fabric that held everything together.

He smiled as he thought about the red velvet settee. That must be the one in his grandparent’s wedding picture. His grandmother, so beautiful and serious, and his grandfather, with his arm around her. And his great Uncle Nick, the best man, glaring out at the world, as if daring anyone to question the marriage. He hoped they wouldn’t sell the old sofa.

His grandparents.. He spent most of his childhood at his grandparent’s house. As the youngest son and his grandfather’s namesake, he knew he was the favorite. In his own home, everyone was too busy for him; his father was an important surgeon, his mother, the dutiful wife with her luncheons and church charity causes; two older brothers, Gregory and William, active in school and sports. But he always knew he would be the center of attention at his grandfather’s.

Once, his brothers had started teasing him, the bookworm, the boy who couldn’t throw a ball straight. His grandmother had said, rather sternly for her, to leave him alone, he was sensitive. "Ooo, you’re so sensitive," his brothers had mocked. His grandmother had just stared at his brothers, saying nothing, just continuing to stare. Not only had the teasing stopped, but never again did his brothers try it.

His mother never got on with her mother-in-law. Eugene supposed it was because his grandmother never took part in any of his mother’s church causes; for that matter, he had never known either of his grandparents to go to church, unless for a wedding or a funeral. Which was yet another reason why he used to like to spend Saturday nights there, so he could sleep in on Sundays.

What he wouldn’t give to talk to his grandmother right now. He knew her people were German, but she had never spoken about them. Several times, he had asked her, but she had changed the subject, asking him about his math test, or the girl he had a crush on. As a young boy, he had seemed nothing unusual about being the center of his grandmother’s world, and hadn’t returned to the subject. Now he regretted it. He wanted to understand these people; maybe his grandmother could have shed some light. Because he really didn’t understand. He was ministering to these people as the Allies conquered town after town, but the people were so serious and quiet. Even the children. He looked in the package his mother had sent; yes, thank goodness she remembered, candy for the children. He liked to give it to them, as it was the few times he would see a smile. As he went into these German cities, or at least the rubble of what was left, he felt the enormity of something nameless, but he couldn’t identify it. Something.

"Hey, doc, do I need to take Betty down? Are we staying or leaving?" said Johnson. Captain Barkley glanced over at Corporal Johnson, who was standing on his cot, beginning to take the tape off his precious Betty Grable poster.

"Not sure, yet, Johnson, we haven’t got the final orders."

He smiled. Johnson had managed to keep that poster with him for almost the entire time he’d known him. Most of the boys acted as if they worshipped her. And since they were a group of men living together, they all needed to state at various times what they would do to her if they were ever alone with her.

Not Captain Barkley, though he would never admit it openly. He’d gladly trade a night with Miss Grable to just be in his grandmother’s kitchen once more, waiting for chocolate chip cookies to come out of the oven. Before he had ever heard of Allied Forces, or Nazis, or fascism. He had a feeling that most of the boys, given the same choice, would make the same decision, though they also wouldn’t admit it, either.

His grandmother’s ktichen. Warm and inviting, he would always remember it with sun streaming through the windows. A place where you suddenly found yourself admitting confidences you thought you would always hide; a place where you found a kind and understanding heart, always. His grandmother’s kitchen was never empty; people from all over town found their way to his grandmother, finding the same comfort young Eugene found. His grandfather, a general practitioner who treated just about every elderly person in Stockton, once told him that his grandmother probably healed more people than he did, just by listening to them. At the time, Eugene hadn’t really understood what he meant. Now he did. He wished he could talk to someone about the last two years. But he knew he could never again confide in anyone. No, these things would remain in his heart, and his heart would always be closed; he would never open it again. He would never again be that boy in his grandmother’s kitchen.

Another note fell out behind his mother’s letter. From his father himself! He could count the number of times his old man had sent him something directly, usually to tell him about how well his brothers and cousins were doing.

"Eugene, I hope all is well with you. I wanted to let you know myself that while your mother and I were out to dinner last night, the mayor came over to tell us how proud he was of all the Barkleys, doing their duty to God and Country. He said you were Stockton’s All-American Golden Boys. Have you heard your cousin Tom is going to get a purple heart from the President himself for his bombing missions in the South Pacific? Bombed the hell out of those Japs. And your cousin Peter has been promoted to second vice admiral. The mayor said we Barkleys have taken our cowboy grit and know-how to help win the war. He also said how proud we should be of you, too, saving the lives of our boys. He’s planning on having a parade just for the Barkleys when the rest of you return—William will also be included, even though he’s home now and your mother is doting on them. And most importantly, did you hear the good new? Gregory is getting some sort of award from the national press corps for his stories for the AP.

"And Gene, I want you to be thinking about what you will do with your life when you return. I’ve already spoken to Dr. Duncan, and we can find you a position at the hospital. Of course, you would just start out as a staff surgeon, but with my influence, it wouldn’t be for long. And your mother and I would like you to think about finding a nice girl and settling down. Please be think about it, son. We’ll talk about it more when you get home. Simon Barkley, M.D."

Glad you signed your name, father, or I would never have figured out it was you, thought Eugene, disgusted. When I get home…not even if I get home, huh father? But of course, the Barkleys would get home. Nothing would happen to the Golden Boys, now, would it? No, nothing bad ever happened to the Barkleys. Well, father, what if I marry Fujiko Myimoto from high school and decide to drive a truck for a living? Have some slant-eyed brats for children? How’s that for your All-American, golden boy?

But then, Fujiko had been rounded up with the rest of her family and sent to a camp somewhere and he didn’t know how to drive a truck. So that won’t quite work out, now will it?

His father. Why did he let his father do this to him? He looked at the note again, and recalled the last time he had been with his grandfather—so very different from his father. It was hard to believe his father was his grandfather’s son. His grandfather had lived to be a very old man, and he knew when his time was near. He had requested that Eugene interrupt his studies at Berkley Medical School to come and seen him, and Eugene was thankful, because otherwise he might not have had a chance to say good-bye.

When he got to his grandparents home, his grandmother met him at the door and told him to go upstairs.

The blinds were drawn in his grandfather’s room, but they were not completely shut, so that the afternoon sunlight filtered into his grandfather’s room. His nightstand was filled with medicine bottles.

"Gene, is that you? I’ve been waiting for you, my boy."

"I’m here grandfather. Can I get you something?"

"Yes. Ten more years."

They laughed, although his grandfather’s laugh was shallow, and he coughed at the end.

"I wanted to tell you a secret before I go, Gene. You are the only one who will understand what I need to tell you."

Eugene thought of reassuring his grandfather that he wasn’t dying, but didn’t. The man was very old, and he was a doctor. He knew.

"Yes, grandfather, I’m listening."

"I’ve been hearing all this talk of God and Country and Duty. Don’t believe it."

"Grandfather?"

"In the end my boy, in the very end, all you have is love. Not even God. Just someone to love, right here, right now. That’s all you can ever count on."

Eugene could feel the sting in his eyes.

"I love you, grandfather," he said softly.

"And I you, Gene. But I don’t think you understand. I don’t know how to make you understand."

"I understand, Grandfather. You look tired, though. Let me visit with Grandmother for a while, then I’ll come back."

"Remember Gene, you only have the moment. Find someone whose heart beats as your own, Gene. That’s all there is."

His grandmother went upstairs when he came down.

His grandfather died later that afternoon; Eugene never had the chance to speak to him again. But his grandfather had lived a long and active life, and Eugene accepted that it was his time to go.

But he was inconsolable when his grandmother died two days later.

Stunned friends and family grieved, but comforted themselves by saying it was for the best. They shared anecdotes of other couples who had lived a long time together and died within a week of each other. Eugene knew his grandmother had been very ill, and though she couldn’t have been shocked by his grandfather’s death, actually realizing he was gone must have been very hard on her and taken its toll. That’s what everyone said, and for the most part, Eugene believed it. But in the back of his mind, he knew his grandmother was a doctor’s wife. She knew about medications; she had access to his grandfather’s office.

Stockton had closed down for the funeral, and even the governor came. The death of a Barkley was big news, especially the death of one of the Titans from that first generation. In addition to all the Barkleys running the many Barkley enterprises, there were Barkleys in various branches of the government and civil service, not to mention the Barkleys who had gone into journalism, like his brother. Because the Barkley family had not speculated in the 1920s, they made out better than most during the Depression, and due to their famed noblesse oblige during this time, there were Barkley foundations and endowments funds. Plus great Uncle Nick had insisted the family invest in the fledgling moving picture business. Barkleys were linked with movie stars and studio heads. His own Aunt Sophy, his father’s sister, had once been a silent screen starlet.

At the time, Eugene was proud that so many people came to bid his gentle grandparents good-bye. He thought that between the two of them, they were taking to the grave most of the dark secrets that had lived in the hearts of that small city.

Now, he knew better. He figured most people just wanted a day off from work.

As he thought of his grandfather’s last words, he bitterly realized that they were merely the sentimental ramblings of an old man, the last outpouring of a dying brain slowly being deprived of oxygen. What did his grandfather really know? He had lived a quiet and happy life among people who loved him. He could never know about the things Captain Barkley had seen, never even imagined them.

I’m sorry grandfather, thought Captain Barkley, but love is not for me, not even for a moment, there’s not enough love in the whole world to go around. He knew he was saying it to a cold universe. To no one, really.

"Hey, Captain, did you get some Hershey Bars in that package? What about sharing?" Corporal Johnson interrupted his thoughts.

"Yeah, but I like to save it for the kids," said Captain Barkley.

"What kids? I thought the place we’re going to is a labor camp," said Private Calamita.

" Yeah, but just in case. You never know with these Krauts," said Captain Barkley.

"What’s the name of this place anyway?" said Calamita.

"I know," piped in Johnson, "it’s called Buck and Walls."

"What the hell are you talking about, Johnson?" said Calamita.

"You know, buck," (and here, Private Johnson mimicked riding a bucking bronco), "and walls," (here he pointed to the wall where his beloved poster hung).

"Johnson, swear-to-god, you got shit for brains," said Calamita.

"And you got mozzarella for brains, you dago," quipped Johnson back.

Everyone laughed good naturedly, as they always did at Johnson. His black humor had helped everyone make it through the really hard times. Captain Barkley truly admired him. While he tried to clean up the mess the war made-putting bodies back together, or amputating arms and legs, it was Johnson’s job to clean up after him—taking out the dead bodies, getting rid of the limbs, cleaning up the blood. During one of the first battles Captain Barkley covered, soldiers were coming in faster than the unit could possibly hope to treat them. Captain Barkley had become the detached, indifferent physician, making life and death decisions. Yes, this one could be saved. Well, this one could be saved, but probably not, so try to help someone else. After hours of surgery on boys he didn’t know, one after the other, mostly amputees, his energy had suddenly failed him. He had looked around with a sudden clarity at the absolute monstrousness of the situation, and couldn’t move. Johnson had seen him, and come up to him.

"Hey Doc, need a hand? I’ve got plenty…or how ‘bout a foot? Or an elbow? I’ve got a bag right outside."

Captain Barkley had laughed then, right from the belly. He had been able to go on for the rest of that hellish week. Yes, Old Shit-for-Brains Johnson had made a difference.

"Really, Doc, where are we going tomorrow," said Private Calamita.

Captain Barkley grabbed the paper with the orders.

"Someplace called Buchenwald," he said, and shrugged. Meaningless.

Captain Barkley was dreaming. He was dreaming that huge gray ashes were falling from the sky like rain. They were thick and heavy, and Captain Barkley felt it was hard to breathe, like he was suffocating. As the ashes fell, some landed on the ground, but most of them gathered into a mound, as if they were attracted to it. Then the flakes of the ashes grew larger, and as they were coming down, Captain Barkley could see faint images on the flat sides, as they flashed his way, images of haunted, emaciated faces. The ashes became larger and larger, and the mound started taking on the shape of a figure. The ashes continued to attach themselves to the figure, creating a cloak, like a Madonna might wear. Then the figure slowly opened the cloak of ashes. It was his grandmother. Not the grandmother he had known, with her lavender-rinsed white hair and heavy sensible shoes, but a radiant, beautiful, luminous woman, as she must have been on her wedding day. Her lips did not move, but she was trying to tell him something with her eyes. It was something very important, urgent, something that couldn’t wait…it was imperative that he know….

Captain Barkley woke up with a start.

And in that moment between sleeping and waking, between one heart beat and the next, he knew. He knew.

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