The Americans Strike

I graduated from the Canadian Academy in the spring of 1942. My reports were sterling and my parents were bursting with pride. My English was much improved, my Japanese satisfactory, and my grades and accomplishments noteworthy. The ceremony was understated and brief because of the tense political climate. Paps and Mutsch shared with me their hopes that I would attend college in the United States.

Paps said in earnest, “Whatever the cost it’s of no concern for you. You’ll go to school in America at any university you choose. We want the best for you.”

Later that summer, I remember Paps and Uncle Hans rushing in the door one evening. They were late for supper, very late. Mutsch and I had set the table hours ago. For the past half an hour Obachan already had been trying to keep the vegetables warm and the rice from coagulating into a solid ball. Kikuchan had been distractedly dusting and sweeping even though everything had been neat and tidy since late afternoon.

“Where have you two been?” Mutsch asked as Paps strode toward her and kissed her forehead.

Uncle Hans set his briefcase on a chair. “Sit! Sit! There’s news!”

We rushed to our places at the dining room table. Obachan placed the food in front of us and Kikuchan poured sake for the adults. Once we were seated, the four of us joined hands, lowered our heads, and sat in silence for a few moments. For some time now we had been offering thanks and prayer without speaking. Obachan returned to the kitchen. Kikuchan sat on her tatami mat.

“Tell us what’s happened!” Mutsch said excitedly.

I looked over at Kikuchan. She was mending a pair of silk stockings.

Paps blurted out, “There’s been an attack. Around noontime a small squadron of American planes bombed Tokyo!”

There was unadulterated glee among us!

“Will this be the beginning of the end of the war?” Mutsch wondered.

“I don’t know,” Uncle Hans said. “We were sitting at our desks, everyone in the office as busy as bees when we heard the chatter from the short wave radio.”

Paps rushed to say, “Perhaps this will convince the Diet and the Emperor that further aggression and the continuation of war are now futile.” At the mere mention of the Emperor I noticed Kikuchan twitch. She understands us perfectly I thought.

I interrupted him, whispering, “Es ist am besten wir sprechen Deutsch jetzt.”³¹

As the words came out of my mouth I saw Mutsch glance over at Kikuchan. My mother understood my meaning but my father seemed perplexed.

Mutsch said, “That would be rude, Lorechen.” But then she said, “Kikuchan, please go and help in kitchen.”

The little mouse on her mat in the corner looked up, smiled, stood, bowed, and then left the dining room.

“What was that all about?” Paps asked.

Mutsch grabbed his wrist. “It makes Kikuchan uncomfortable when we speak ill of her Emperor.”

“I see,” Paps mulled.

Uncle Hans continued, “It’s a tremendous feat, so brazen and one accomplished with such authority!”

We understood the meaning of the raid. While it was true that it had caused comparatively little damage, it made the Japanese border look permeable.

Uncle Hans said, “The Japanese government is embarrassed. The Japanese people are astonished such a thing has been accomplished against what they believed was the impregnability of their homeland.”

“And,” Paps added, “the daring feat will be a tremendous morale booster for the Americans.”

The shadows of frustration and fear soon descended upon us again. Rationing took hold. The prices of groceries and household items tripled and quadrupled. Several months later, the items became scarce and prices increased as much as ten-fold. Paps had to consider dismissing Kikuchan and Obachan. He chose not to dismiss Kikuchan because he felt Mutsch still needed help with the daily tasks and upkeep of our home. I wasn’t so convinced. I was beginning to be suspicious of Kikuchan. Nothing specific came to mind but I couldn’t help myself.

“We must keep Obachan, too,” he said, “she can make the limited food we have edible.”

Our daily meals invariably were scant, we were always hungry. Mutsch had begun to store extra foodstuffs and supplies in a closet in advance of the rationing and we were fortunate to have them. The canned goods were stacked like bricks—I vowed to never eat another can of salmon as long as I lived. When our stock eventually ran out I came to know the idiom “be careful what you wish for.”

There was a flourishing black market especially out in the country where farmers would offer produce and eggs at outrageous prices. We rarely partook in these covert transactions because we were frightened the Japanese authorities would catch us. Once we emptied Mutsch’s larder, our dietary staple was rice. Unscrupulous merchants would short weight our purchases by adding pebbles to the burlap bags of rice.

I saw Kikuchan eating insects to stave off the hunger. This was repulsive to me. I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

Then the Japanese government devised evacuation plans for all the major cities. Everyone was encouraged to flee.

Uncle Hans often would come to our home after his workday. He and Aunt Eva lived several kilometres down the road so whenever he had time he would stop in for a visit. Usually Paps would already be home and we would have eaten our paltry supper of rice. Hans would refuse Mutsch’s offers of food because he was well aware of the near-famine conditions. Like us, he and Aunt Eva had very little. He would stay to drink a glass or two of sake, tell a joke, squeeze my cheek, say his goodbyes, and continue on home. During his visits he would relate to us what he had heard during the day, not only from his colleagues but also on the short wave radio. Paps’ duties had kept him out of the office lately so he, too, was eager to learn the latest news. Uncle Hans’ opinion of the mindset of the Japanese military, the war-bent political aspirations of the Axis, and even of the Emperor himself were ungenerous, to put it mildly.

Holding his glass high for emphasis, he said, “The Japanese soldiers are savages. The reports of the atrocities committed by them in China, Korea, and on the islands in the Pacific are horrendous.”

Mutsch and I cringed.

“Doesn’t the government understand the hopelessness of war with the Americans?” he asked in disbelief. “Soon they’ll see their sacred islands overrun.”

More sake. His face now beet red, anger and frustration visible on his tensed body. His eyes opened wide. “And the Emperor,” he shouted, “what’s to understand? He’s oblivious to everything. His advisors must be denying him the reality of the ardent Americans, their might and resolve. He’s a puppet at best.” More sake. “He’s divine, all right,” he belched, “with his imperial head in the clouds.”

A few days later Uncle Hans was arrested and interned. We were terrified.

“Don’t worry,” the authorities told a frantic Aunt Eva, “soon your husband will be released.” This was no small comfort to us. We didn’t know what soon meant. In confidence, Paps said, “Perhaps it’s just the typically polite response of the Japanese to someone’s anxiety.”

Every day Aunt Eva went to see Hans where he was being held at a compound not far from the outskirts of Kobe. She brought him small amounts of food and some clothing and books. She told us that he was comfortable and well-treated but for the time being he wasn’t allowed to leave.

“Hans seems fine,” Aunt Eva told us. “He exercises, can shave and bathe, and he reads his books.”

Herr Griesbach and Paps appealed to dozens of government officials for Hans’ release. For weeks Paps didn’t receive any explanation for Hans’ internment. Many of the Japanese office managers where Hans and Paps worked pulled every string they could but they, too, were stonewalled with polite smiles and bows.

“If it’s because he’s German,” Paps reasoned, “or if it’s that he’s a Jew then why haven’t I suffered the same fate? There must be another reason.”

It was Kikuchan.

Our little mouse had overheard Hans’ ranting and railing. Although he often spoke in German, the effects of the sake inexplicably caused him to shout in English much of the time. I knew how much Kikuchan understood. At the Canadian Academy I was considered a quick learner for my rapid grasp of both English and Japanese. Kikuchan learned swiftly as well.

We found out later that she had reported Hans to the local police. She was most offended by what she felt were his unforgiving and offensive remarks concerning the Emperor. The authorities questioned her repeatedly and, based on her testimony, they decided to investigate him and his business.

Several Japanese officials arrived at the office. They questioned some of Hans’ and Paps’ colleagues. No one said anything disparaging about him. Demanding to see the company’s books they encountered an annoyed Arthur deCouto, the company’s accountant. “I had no choice but to submit to their request to review the ledgers. Not that it mattered of course since there was nothing to hide.” The police used this inquiry as the basis to arrest Hans as a matter of municipal security. Kikuchan had convinced the authorities that Hans’ anger and hatred would manifest itself in some sort of action against the Emperor. This accusation was completely unfounded and untrue. Uncle Hans had difficulty disciplining his dog.

Six weeks later he was released. He told us he had been questioned about the company. As Gerber was a major supplier of goods needed by the Japanese army this tactic was a dead end for them. He said he had been treated well, never threatened.

From that day on I worried that Paps would be interned since he was the company manager. But neither he nor any of the other administrators and lower-level employees at Gerber were ever accosted or taken into custody.

Kikuchan was dismissed summarily. We were not sorry to see her go.

It was only a few days later that we heard the thrilling and exhilarating news of the Allied invasion of France at Normandy. This eerily coincided with the bombing of Japanese cities on Kyushu. Would our island Honshu be spared? We didn’t think so. The Americans and their bombers seemed to be everywhere.

In November of that year I recall approaching our home after a morning-long visit at a friend’s to find the curtains drawn in my parents’ bedroom. I dropped the spray of wildflowers I was holding and rushed into the house.

Mutsch was hunched over on the couch. There were soiled hankies on the floor. She looked up at me and I saw the overwhelming concern in her eyes. “Your father,” she said slowly wiping the tears from her face, “had to be escorted to the hospital by Uncle Hans and me. His headache was paralyzing him.”

I gasped. I rushed to her side. Frantically I asked, “Is he all right now?”

“He’s resting,” Mutsch whispered.

There was something else. I knew it. “Tell me, mother,” I begged.

She tucked a hankie into the end of her shirtsleeve. With a serious look on her face, she reached over to touch my shoulder. “Your father is very sick. After examinations and consultations with several doctors and specialists the preliminary diagnosis is a brain tumour.”

My breathing instantly became rapid. Chills burrowed up my spine. I nearly fainted. “What can we do?” I was pleading.

“Nothing now. There’s no room at any of the hospitals. There are too many wounded Japanese soldiers. All the beds are taken. Many suffer on mats on the floors and in the hallways. The doctors tend only to them.”

We didn’t say anything for quite some time. Then I asked, “Is there medicine or other remedies?”

“No,” she wailed, “your father is very ill!”

On 9 March 1945, almost five months later, we heard the welcome news that three hundred Allied bombers had pummelled Tokyo. Several other major cities were hit the following day: Nagoya, Yokohama, and Osaka. We knew it wouldn’t be long before Kobe was hit.

And so it was.

As the first bombs fell on Kobe on 16 March, Muschi disappeared. No calling, no promise of her favourite food, no shaking of her favourite toys, absolutely nothing would lure my adored cat from her hiding place, wherever it was. I was terrified that she might be injured. We turned all of her usual hideouts upside down. She had vanished.

Our home wasn’t damaged. We were on the outskirts of the city, far enough away from the manufacturing and industrial areas. Yet, the whistling of the bombs as they fell sounded as if they would land in our backyard. At times I could feel the ground trembling. In the city, fires raged everywhere.

Paps and Mutsch, along with many of our neighbours, realized our hilltop homes were no longer safe. It was decided that we would move to Bunkamura, a small village a two-hour train ride from Kobe. We were to run for our lives, again.

While my parents packed as many of our belongings as was practical, I kept on looking for Muschi. What will happen to her? Will she starve? Will she be hit by a bomb and die?

“Lorechen,” Paps said the day before we were to go, “we have to get out of here. Once you and Mutsch are safely settled, I promise I’ll come back to find Muschi.”

“But how will you do that?” I asked.

We hugged. “Leave it to me.”

When we arrived at our tiny Japanese-style house in Bunkamura we were relieved to find that it had running water and a gas stove.

“It’ll only be a matter of time before our utilities are reduced or terminated,” Mutsch said dejectedly.

She was right. Within a few days the water was cut off completely and then restored for one hour each day. When it was available we would scramble to fill every empty vessel. Soon the gas was discontinued. After that, we cooked whatever food we had on a hibachi. When the charcoal disappeared from the stores we used wood gathered from the surrounding forests.

As food became scarcer, Bunkamura proved to be an island of hope because it was flanked by farms. Sometimes we would barter for eggs, fruit, and vegetables and on very rare occasions we would obtain a chicken. There were figs there, too, and I couldn’t resist pulling them off the heavily laden trees. However, most of our meagre food supplies came from ration centres set up by the government.

Aunt Eva and Uncle Hans were steadfast in their desire to remain in their home. I remember Hans saying to Paps, “Your decision to leave is premature and unfounded.” Soon after, our home in Kobe, not far from his, was hit and destroyed. Miraculously, Hans’ home was spared.

One night Paps tried to sneak into our house in Bunkamura just before Mutsch and I were about to help Obachan present some rice and vegetables to the table. We saw him tiptoeing in. He was carrying a sack. “Is that food?” Mutsch asked. Suddenly, we saw the burlap bag in his hands moving of its own accord!

True to his word, Paps had travelled back to what was left of our home in Kobe. He found Muschi cowering in a hollow formed by the upended roots of a fallen tree. She was dirty and thin but her eyes were bright. I didn’t know who to hug first, Paps or Muschi! I was so appreciative that my father had come to the rescue, again.

“Your father took a tremendous chance,” Mutsch said, petting the cat.

Muschi was with us for the remainder of our stay in Japan. She was happier in Bunkamura than in Kobe because there were plenty of field mice to catch and bring to us as an offering. When we refused to have her bring her gifts in the house she sulked. Eventually she knew what to do with her captives. She would find a shady spot outside and then indulge herself. She never went hungry.

After our beautiful hillside home in Kobe was destroyed I realized how difficult life had been for Mutsch. When we left Berlin I was an adolescent, as resilient and as naïve as any other, Mutsch was in her mid-thirties more or less set in her ways. She had run from the Nazi wolves, she had kept me safe while she watched out for a husband who suffered from debilitating headaches, and she had dragged our baggage and me across half the world for months on end, only to arrive in an alien society. It must have been incredibly taxing. What was even more traumatic was that she had had to leave her in-laws, her siblings, and her friends behind each time.

As the homemaker, no matter where she was—in Charlottenburg, Wilmersdorf, in Kobe in our villa or in our hillside second house there and now in Bunkamura—she was expected to organize, maintain, and supervise the living conditions. But those tasks never overwhelmed her. Even though Mutsch always had been uncomfortable with change her strength enabled her to persevere.

My father was more fortunate. Because he remained in the employ of the Gerber Company most of his days in Japan were similar to his days in the Berlin office. He travelled a great deal, but when he was home with us he only needed to check in at the office in Kobe once or twice a week. I knew that he was constantly worried about the safety and well-being of Mutsch and me.

We lost touch with Mr. and Mrs. Dimitriev, our former landlords; with Herr Waldstein, the accomplished cello player; and, with my tutor and his wife, Mr. and Mrs. McKenzie. Kikuchan was gone. Because of the daily threat of bombing Aunt Eva rarely left her home so we didn’t see her for months at a time. Uncle Hans visited our humble house in Bunkamura on occasion since sometimes his duties and Paps’ overlapped and they would travel together. Hans would stop by briefly before returning to Aunt Eva in Kobe. To my displeasure, I seldom saw the handsome and intriguing Arthur deCouto anymore.

May of 1945 was a particularly worrisome month. The Allies were intent on ending the war posthaste. They persisted in their efforts to bring the Japanese people to their knees. The bombing went on and on, in Nagoya, in Tokyo, and in many other coastal cities. Every night, the glow from fires lit up the night and the ground shook. Amid the explosions we heard horrid screams of suffering. Much of the still air was smoky. It reeked of destruction and death.

We didn’t learn of the long-awaited news until 10 May 1945. Our hearts were lightened. Our hopes and dreams were rekindled. Nazi Germany had surrendered. The war in Europe was over.

My parents and I returned to Uncle Hans’ home in Kobe. It had managed to remain unscathed from all the bombing. The structure stood incongruously amid the flattened rubble of nearly every other building within a two or three kilometre radius. Aunt Eva was convinced that God had placed His hand over it.

A few of Uncle Hans’ friends, our family, and some colleagues from the Gerber office gathered together to celebrate. Uncle Hans’ servants prepared a wondrous buffet. From where they were able to acquire the abundance and variety of the foodstuffs presented I don’t know. There were small candles lighted everywhere. Flowers adorned the tables. Everyone was in a joyous yet cautious mood. For the first time in many weeks I heard laughter. Even Boya, Uncle Hans’ dog, was content, busily munching on a bone.

“Lorechen,” Uncle Hans asked me, “would you be interesting in helping my friend Per Bjorstedt care for his children? His wife died a few months ago giving birth to their youngest. The little one is just an infant. There are three little girls. Per is desperate.”

I was stunned. My mind raced as nearly every memory I had of Gerta taking care of me flashed before my eyes.

He went on. “He needs to continue with his duties as Swedish Consul. He has a wonderful staff in his home at present but he wants someone he can thoroughly trust and who can help educate his little ones.”

I remembered all that Gerta had taught me. I also thought of how Gerta would reprimand Hansi for singing too loudly during my lessons.

He reached for my hand. “I recommended you highly to him. Think about it. It’s a big responsibility, but a rewarding one. You’ll need to discuss it with your parents.”

I smiled. “I’m certain they’ll allow me to.”

“Well,” he cautioned, “remember you would be living closer to Kobe than you do now. Everyone’s aware that the air raids are becoming more and more frequent.”

Over the next few days I discussed the proposal with my parents. They reasoned it would be good for me as well as good for the children. “It’s an opportunity for you to do what’s been done for you,” Mutsch said.

Paps was troubled. “The Americans will continue to bomb Kobe and your mother and I would never forgive ourselves if we put you in harm’s way. Without you . . .” his voice trembled, “. . . without you we’d be lost.”

Mutsch was stoic. “When we can we must try to make the world a better place.”

“Maybe it’s something I was meant to do,” I said.

The next day, arrangements were made for me to go to Kobe to be in the employ of the Swedish Consul. I would live with Per and his children. Paps had mixed feelings about the plan. He cried as we embraced. “You’re my angel,” he said over and over.

Paps escorted me to Per’s home. My introduction was quick because Per was on his way to work. He was an extraordinarily handsome man. His children were three of the most gorgeous little girls I had ever seen.

Paps and I said our goodbyes, both of us crying. Per led me inside. My enormous bedroom was on the second floor of his majestic home. I was expected to watch over the children, do some limited housekeeping tasks while supervising the Japanese servants, and devise and implement a rigorous course of general studies for his two older children, ages seven and five. He insisted that I always speak to them in English. I was to oversee the care of the baby as well.

Little did I know that my responsibilities would also include many nights spent dragging the children and the household staff to air raid shelters.

What my parents wanted for me was to mature, to become an adult much the way Gerta had during the years she was my governess. Few jobs could have done that better or more rapidly. I found it difficult to cope with the anxiety and assume the responsibility of my appointment. Indeed, I had to show Per I was worthy, responsible, and capable.

After a few weeks I found myself becoming more and more enamoured of their father. He was tall and athletic-looking, his dark blond hair wispy and always clean. I would stare at his face, studying its proportions; his dimpled chin below his soft slightly ripened lips a lithe punctuation mark between his lovely cheeks; his nose straight and thin; and, his eyes so strikingly crisp and clear. The whiteness of his perfect teeth was stunning. I noted his strong hands and artistic fingers, often the subject of my thoughts as I dreamed of him placing his hands in mine.

Each weekend I would go home to my parents in Bunkamura. At times it was a harrowing experience. On several occasions the train would stop suddenly and everyone would be instructed to jump off and dive into the ditches as American planes soared overhead. Another time the train I was on was shunted to a sidetrack to allow for a train full of Allied prisoners of war to pass. I remember hearing their voices through the open windows. I saw their exhausted eyes. They were dirty. Some had bandages about their heads, a few still blood-stained. They looked hungry. And yet there were smiles. Many were waving their hands, brandishing the V sign.

“Lorechen,” Paps said when I told him that I had returned the V sign to the soldiers, “I thought you had more sense. We’re sympathetic to the Americans’ plight and we empathize as best we can with their condition but you must watch for Japanese soldiers. If they had seen you, you might have been arrested. Please,” he begged me, “you must be more careful.”

“No one saw me,” I assured him, “but I’ll be more careful in the future.”

For weeks I worried that the police were coming for me.

On 6 August 1945, I awoke to a very quiet house. I believe it was around 9:30 or so. I was fully rested and refreshed but surprised to find that I had been left to sleep so late. Immediately I snapped to. Where were the children? Who was watching them? I put on my robe and hastened downstairs.

The two older children were seated at the table eating breakfast. The infant was asleep in a cradle nearby. Per’s cook and the housekeeper were attending to them.

I spoke in Japanese. “Why did no one wake me?”

The cook bowed and then whispered, “We were told to let you sleep.”

I surveyed the two youngsters at the table. They were shoving spoonfuls of cooked eggs and pats of butter into their mouths while the baby slept. “Very well,” I said.

Per knew what a task it had been to care for his children these past few months. The infant was a constant drain. Even though I felt a strong bond with her, she was fussy and unappeased when I wouldn’t immediately attend to her. The older girls were the same, relentlessly vying for my care and assistance. But my tutoring sessions with them provided me with opportunities to rest while they worked on activities.

Just then the front door was pushed open with such force a painting mounted on the wall in the entryway crashed to the floor. Per burst through the door looking distraught.

“Is everyone safe?” he demanded.

“Yes, yes,” I said pointing to the children. “What’s wrong? Are you all right?”

He went to the girls at the table. Although happy to see their father they kept on wolfing down their food. He placed his palms on their heads. “Thank heavens,” he murmured. He looked to the baby and then exhaled loudly.

Next, he came to me. He embraced me, his large hands pressing against my back, forcing my chest into his. “I’m grateful you’re safe, too.”

I felt my heart flutter. “But why are you home?” I stammered, looking up into his chestnut-brown eyes.

He released me, stepped back, and then drew his hand across his forehead. “About an hour ago there was a tremendous explosion at Hiroshima. The initial reports are of total destruction. The city has been levelled. Tens of thousands of people are dead.”

“Was it the American bombers?” I asked.

Per stared at me. “No,” he said, “there are no reports of a phalanx of planes. It is supposed that it was a single plane but that most certainly cannot be so because no one bomber could have caused such destruction.” He drew in his breath. He was pensive. “I’ll direct my servants to watch the children while I escort you to the train station. You’ll return to Bunkamura. If your parents haven’t heard the news yet they soon will. They will be beside themselves with worry.”

Quickly, I dressed, packed my rucksack, said goodbye to Per’s staff, and then hugged and kissed the children. “I hope to be back soon,” I said.

Grabbing my hand, Per dragged me through the house, out the front door, and into the back seat of a large chauffeur-driven black automobile.

He ordered the driver, “Proceed immediately to the train station.”

In the back seat, even with the large space between us, I could smell tobacco on Per’s shirt. The odour was pleasing, a bit acrid yet woodsy, an aroma I relished as I inhaled deeply.

The driver sped through the streets, the tires squealing as he negotiated the turns. At one intersection the car veered to the left and I slid a few centimetres into the chasm between us. He responded by extending his hand, palm up. I placed my hand in his. He then rested his other hand on top.

“I’m so grateful for what you’ve done for me,” he said with warm sincerity. “I don’t know what I would have done without you all these months.” My heart raced. “When you came to me I thought it was the best decision for my children but now I see that it was best for me as well.”

His eyes were searching mine.

“Thank you, Per,” I said.

He pressed my hand between his palms. “Ever since my wife died I have been in want. It’s been so difficult,” he said.

The blood was rushing through my veins. My pulse was churning like the wheels of a locomotive.

Suddenly the car stopped. Per and I were thrown forward, we released hands to brace ourselves against the front seat. The driver yelled a stream of obscenities and then stomped on the accelerator. We were pushed back into our seats.

“Per,” I said, placing my hand on his knee, “I feel the same way. You have been special to me.”

He looked as if he were about to cry. “Thank you, Ingelore. I’ve been lonely, depressed at times. I have felt without purpose since my wife passed away and I have been looking for something to fill a hole. I must say—”

“—Yes,” I interrupted him, “yes, I’ve been lonely, too.”

“—your presence in our home and the way my children have taken to you, the work you’ve done with them and the way you cared for them while I was away from them has renewed in me the need to go on. But not alone. And so . . .”

I waited impatiently for the words, his pledge of eternal love and everlasting devotion to me and then the notice of his intent to ask Paps for my hand. Please, I screamed inside my head, please let this be so!

He coughed. “. . . and so I have decided to return to Sweden. Their grandparents miss them immeasurably. But we will be so sad to leave you.”

My heart sank, my hopes deflating by the second. I heard the broken pieces of my heart crash at my feet.

“Parting is difficult because, in a way, we are family. I will always cherish my memories of you. And my children will as well.” He looked at me quizzically, alarmed by what he saw. “Are you feeling ill?”

I inhaled deeply. To calm my nerves and to prevent my blood from boiling, I exhaled as slowly as I could.

“I’m fine,” I said dizzy with melancholy. “I’m fine.”

The car arrived at the station. Per extended his hand to help me out. When I grasped it I realized my palm was moist with perspiration. My fingers almost slid away of their own accord. After handing me my bag, he placed both his hands on my shoulders. He looked down at me, studied my face for a few seconds, and then leaned toward me, his eyes closed. I closed mine, tilted my head up, and pursed my lips. Chills of frustration ran through me as I felt his kiss upon my forehead.

“Travel safely to your parents,” he said.

“Yes, I will,” I mumbled.

My hopes were dashed. When I boarded the train I realized that my life had been changed again and for the first time my heart, my tender and giving heart, had been broken.