The Redemption

Chapter 4

The Past is Present

        At the bottom of the trunk were more loose papers, letters, and several notebooks that looked familiar. The first one I examined was in my handwriting. This composition book contained my senior English papers with grades marked boldly in the upper right hand corner of the first page of each assignment: B, B+, A, C, B.

I read the one marked with the A. I remembered the teacher without recalling her name. I saw the kids’ faces and I knew some of their names. I don’t remember what I did with this notebook but it somehow ended up in the trunk with my mother’s apparent treasures. Maybe Grandma was responsible. Certainly not my dad.

I read some of the loose papers with no idea of what they related to. I retrieved everything off the top of the notebooks, putting it in my lap. I opened what was simply an envelope on the front side and a letter on the back. When you folded it back up it was its own envelope. How strange was that? It certainly saved on stationery costs.

After folding it back together, I found it was addressed to Robert Sorenson at this address. I’d seen the salutation inside, ‘Dearest Robert’. It wasn’t  my mother’s handwriting. Who else might think of my father as dearest?

Maybe it was from high school. I looked at the postmark but found none. I opened the envelope back up to look at the letter without ever thinking it wasn’t my right without inquiring first, but he’d offered the trunk to me with no stipulations. He’d only mentioned notebooks, not letters. Maybe he intended I read it.

Time meant nothing now. This had become a mystery I needed to solve.

Dearest Robert,

We are back on a ship and my men are settled in for the night. No telling what our destination is this time. I’m too busy to write most of the time, but mail was waiting for us once they got us below decks. Three of yours caught up with me, so someone knows where I am, or at least what direction I’m taking.

            I know you'd love to see Italy, and Montgomery’s boys made no secret they were continuing north from Crete. Shakespeare set Romeo and Juliet in Italy. Maybe I’ll get to say hello to them, but no telling where we’ll end up.

Patton’s been nipping at Monty’s heels since he knocked hell out of Rommel’s Africa Corp. They’re like a couple of roosters who both want to rule the roost. I guess that makes us the chicken in their barnyard game. I just wished we’d end this thing soon so I could get back where I belong with you and my biggest battle would be against mother nature. I long for the days all there was to fight for was the corn.

You are constantly in my thoughts at times like these when there’s time to think. It’s hard to believe so many men are so willing to kill each other for no reason that will ever leave any of the men doing the fighting a bit better off. When it’s all said and done the armies will go back to picking cotton and corn and the officers will go back to running things just as they’ve managed to run this world into war.   

            Best say no more than that or I may find myself in front of a firing squad. I got enough boys shooting at me, don’t need to have my own boys doing it too.

All My Love,

Sven

            I read the letter, but all that stood out was the salutation and how it ended. As history it fascinated me. The signature startled me and my face flushed with anger. Was this my namesake? Certainly I had the right to know the truth about who I was named after. The mystery only deepened.

What did it mean? It was a long time ago. I’d heard of letters sent by our founding fathers to one another long after liberty was attained. They were filled with affection and words that would have disqualified them for any office including dog catcher in this day and age.

            Then, there were the letters from Lincoln to Joshua Speed, a man he’d roomed with and slept in the same bed with for several years early in his career. Apparently this wasn’t unusual at the time.  That information and Lincoln’s flowery prose to Speed would have branded him an unelectable heretic today. These were different times.

            I thought about the men I knew and was close to. I knew nothing about how they felt. They made clear what it was they wanted me to know and it never occurred to me that I might ask them about their feelings. What they delivered as their truth went unchallenged, because that’s how it was. You learned to disregard the fantastic and accept what seemed plausible, but what did I really know beyond the sports bars and restaurants where we mostly met every few weeks? Since my divorce, few men had come to my apartment, and usually they were casual acquaintances who gave me a ride or worked on my stereo or television.

My thoughts did nothing to comfort me. Yes, it was another time, but it was long after the period when men could regard one another with affection in their letters. Today such a thing could only mean one thing.

Today such words would immediately bring suspicion about your manhood, but this guy was in a war. How much more manly did it get?  No, there had to be an explanation that made sense. Perhaps he was an uncle my father regarded with great affection. “All my love” was more than affection.

Who was he? Neither Uncle Junior or Uncle Ralph  had spoken of a brother Sven. My father never spoke of a brother Sven. My mother said I was named after an uncle, but my father didn’t marry my mother until years after the war. So, where did Sven come from and was he the same man responsible for the letters?  Could there have been two men with the name Sven?

It was another time and I decided to investigate further before allowing my emotions to get away from me. I didn’t know what it meant and before I confronted my father with something that made me look silly, I needed to know more. I was a journalist, and journalists investigated before writing their story. I picked up another of the strangely simple letter/envelopes.

            Once again it began, Dearest Robert, and ended, All My Love, Sven.

Men in America could once speak of their high regard for one another, but this was my father and the words expressed something that made little sense to me, unless they said exactly what they meant.

            My mother told me that my middle name, Sven, came from an uncle who died in the war. The war was always World War II. The Korean War was the Korean War, and Vietnam hadn’t entered the lexicon as of yet.

            Okay, this Sven died and therefore didn’t come home. Where did he come from? How had he become so fond of my father? How is it that I carried his name? Why had my mother lied? I knew her family. There was no Sven; perhaps a close friend that was referred to as Uncle Sven. I recalled an Uncle Jim who was no relation, but I was told to call him Uncle Jim. Was Sven something like that? I thought about the words. No, that wasn’t it. It didn’t fit any easy to explain circumstances.

Dearest Robert,

We’re on another beach like the last one only with more sand and fewer bullets. Since Sicily we haven't seen any action. The Italians don't want to fight and the Germans are heading north. There’s fighting just north of here. The German’s have the mountains and we’re lobbing artillery at them. The word’s come down that it’s a stalemate and we’re waiting to be called into the mix.

            Someone decided since we were on boats, we may as well take a trip on the water and after no time at all they were sending us ashore. No doubt by the time this gets to you the name Anzio will be familiar, but don’t worry, we came ashore unopposed. The only Italians we’ve met have offered to help us unload our supplies from the supply ships.

I guess they know what we're doing. Lying around is making all of us restless. It’s easier when we’re fighting; there’s no time to think.

I’ll write more once we unload this supply ship.

All My Love,

Sven

            The envelope was the last letter of this type in the pile. I looked once more into the trunk, but only notebooks lined the bottom. I opened the final letter. The writing was larger and it was neatly written and spaced. Where the others seemed hurried, tilted on the angle of whatever service he wrote upon, this one might have come from someone writing at his desk.

Dearest Robert

I can't help but think of you and wonder what you are doing back home. I sure miss the farm. Harvest time has come and gone again. I hope you have enough help. Lord knows I wish I were there to give you a hand, maybe sink my hands in the rich Iowa soil one more time.

I've only wished that a thousand times since I left you. It seems like a hundred years ago. With Ike running the show it can’t be too much longer. We’ve all started talking about when we get home now that we can see progress is being made. All my men sit and listen to me describing the farm, you, how the corn smells just before Harvest. One of my best boys, Raymond, is from Iowa. Didn’t figure he’d make it at first, but he’s turned into a fine soldier with good instincts. I only hope we all make it home.

Time to quit this. The more we think of home the more fear there is we won’t live to see home.  I know I lived a good life if my number does come up. I want you to go on with your life if it comes to that. I know we said we shouldn’t talk about that, but I figured I wanted to put that in here before I leave you yet again. Each letter makes me miss you more. Don’t forget your beloved.

All My Love,

Sven

P.S. If I do get back I’ll promise never to leave you again.  I’d sure like a cup of Jake’s coffee right now.

There was a journalist’s curiosity, a son’s confusion, but poignancy crept past my hurt feelings. The last letter in the pile sealed the deal. There was no question it was a love letter. My father had loved another man years before I was born. I’d like to have been mature about it, but my only thoughts were of my mother’s place in my father’s life.

Who was he?

Maybe my Uncle Junior or Uncle Ralph knew him? I should know what I was talking about before going off half cocked. My mother wouldn’t have lied to me. What had she been told. This thought brought me back to anger.

I held the letter as I went down the stairs. I picked up the phone and had to figure out the rotary dial left over from another time, not unlike everything in my father’s house.

I dialed my Uncle Junior first. He was easiest to get along with. I was sure he had the answer.

“Uncle Junior, who am I named after?”

“What? Bobby, you’re named after your father. Where are you?”

“I’m at the house. Who’s Sven?”

“You need to ask your father. It’s not my place to speak of Sven.”

“You did know him?”

“We all knew him. You need to talk to your father.”

The dead air on the phone left nothing else to say. I pushed down the button before dialing Uncle Ralph.

"Uncle Ralph, Bobby. Who’s Sven?"

"What? Sven?" Uncle Ralph said with a strange sound in his voice and then came a long difficult silence as I waited for some response.

I spoke again, "He was in the war. He was from here. Who was he?"

"How do you know about Sven? Are you at the house?" Uncle Ralph asked as if he lived here.

"Yes, sir, I've been here for a few hours. Dad is sleeping. I found these letters from this guy when he was in Italy. It's signed, All My Love, Sven. What's that about? Do you know who he is? Am I named after this guy?"

"Oh my god. Does your Pa know you're in his private papers?"

"Uncle Ralph, Daddy is dying. He gave me his papers to take with me. I was looking for the farm’s history he wrote down when his father was dying. I came across these letters. I want some answers. Who was Sven? Is that who I'm named after?"

"He was a special man we knew. He stayed on the farm with us for a few years. He helped save it after Pa was hurt. He saved your grandfather’s life. We loved him like family. That’s all you need to know. If it’s your name you’re worried about, if you are half the man Sven was, you’re a better man than most. Don’t you ever ask me about him again as long as you live. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

 “You best not bother your father with this. He’s dying, let him die in peace and let this die with him.”

I held the phone away from my ear with the click still echoing in my head. He was madder than a hornet. What’s that about?

Uncle Ralph verified most of what I’d assumed. The reaction from Uncle Junior and Uncle Ralph told me the letters meant what they said. They knew about my father and Sven. It couldn’t be anything else and yet it was difficult for me to grasp.

How did my mother fit into all this? The confusion persisted as I went back to the attic. My father and I would talk before I left. I looked at my empty wrist before going back up stairs.