I’m not sure if this is a true story or just a tale… Fact or fiction… But I want to believe that such happy coincidences really happened in life. At least, I heard it the way I’m going to tell it now.
…In a little village, there lived a woman named Mary. She buried her husband before the war. He had fallen through the ice in early spring, managed to get out, but then fell ill with a terrible fever and didn’t survive.
She had three sons. The eldest was twenty-two, the middle one nineteen, and the youngest a year younger. The eldest was already thinking about marriage, while the younger ones were still flirting with girls and not speaking of marriage yet. Then the war came… And they all left. They went off to fight. The eldest and the middle one went almost immediately, with the youngest following in 1942.
Mary received just one letter from the middle son, saying they were fighting the Fascists and to take care. It didn’t say much, but she was relieved to hear anything. There was nothing from the eldest. He left as if he had vanished… She waited, but there was no word, no line…
The youngest, though, did write. Rarely, as the war allowed, but he wrote. Then, a notice came for the middle son, Alex, saying he was missing in action. From the eldest, James, there was still nothing. She became numb.
Neighbours told her, “You’ve still got Andrew, he’s alive, by God’s grace, he’ll come back… We have nothing to hope for…”
At the end of the war, Andrew wrote saying he was injured, lightly in the leg. “Don’t worry, Mum, I’ll be demobilised soon and be home. Wait for me!” So she waited. And eventually, the war ended.
She ran to every train that came through the station. It wasn’t nearby… But Andrew wasn’t on any of them. And then one train came, and she saw her son walking on the platform! He leaned on a stick. His injury seemed not so light after all. She rushed to him, hugging and crying… “Oh, Andrew, my dear son…” But then he said, “Mum, why do you call me Andrew? I’m Alex…”
She felt faint… Alex! She had stopped waiting, prayed for his peace. The sin she’d taken on her soul… Both standing there, crying.
He explained that he was badly shell-shocked in battle, and they must have thought he was dead. He came to, crawled away and reached the outskirts of some village. Thankfully, a local woman found him and hid him, even though it was risky with the Germans in the village. Later, she managed to get him to the partisans. Memory had blanked… He remembered having a mother and brothers, but couldn’t recall names or where home was. He kept saying, “I was a farmer’s assistant, I remember the fields…” They didn’t fool around in the partisans. They checked him out, unsure if he was an enemy in disguise.
Later, he went on missions, planted mines on railways – he did it all. When the territory became theirs again, he asked to join a unit. Many joined the Regular Army from the group. He was assigned to the tanks because of his farming skills. First a mechanic, then a driver-gunner. Reached Berlin. Was injured again, his leg. Memory came back in small pieces. First the names of his brothers, then his mother. Then, later, remembered his village. But the war was over by then. He wrote a letter, but it must have gotten lost…
Mary found a cart to take Alex home; she persuaded the driver. Alex could not walk that far. But the driver was heading to the next village, so they had to walk part of the way. Slowly they went, Alex’s leg still pained him. By evening, they arrived; it was getting dark. She noticed someone in the yard! A stranger… Smoking a cigarette, its glow visible. The dog didn’t bark… She had a good dog, though a bit old, from before the war.
Mary was scared.
“Alex,” she said, “Wait, there’s a stranger there…”
But Alex, oh those young eyes, looked carefully, then quickly went to the house, dropped the stick, and despite limping, almost ran.
And from the house, the “stranger” threw away the cigarette and ran towards him, almost knocking down the gate…
They embraced tightly, and then Mary recognized… She gasped, “Andrew!” but couldn’t move, her legs buckled. She sank to the ground.
Andrew had arrived in a truck, not by train. Someone advised him to get off at a particular station, saying it’d be faster. He arrived, but his mother had gone to greet a train. They missed each other.
From the eldest, there was nothing… Years passed. The sons got married long ago, Alex built a separate place, and Andrew expanded the family home. Grandchildren were running around, growing up…
On the ninth of May, they gathered around the table. Though it wasn’t officially a holiday yet, they celebrated. What a day it was! One place was never occupied – there sat a shot of whisky covered with bread, and beside it, mum placed a pickle on a plate. Over the years, they searched, asked about James – nothing. Everyone sort of came to terms, except mum. Every evening, she lit a candle by the icons, whispered something, and prayed to God…
James’s girl, whom he intended to marry before the war, never wed. She held onto hope, believed he’d return. She came on the ninth of May too. They wouldn’t drink to the deceased, only for hope. Yet hope dwindled each day, each year…
One day, Alex was asked to deliver feed to a neighbouring farm. Since he was a farmer, he agreed. He unloaded the feed… One man helped him – a rough-looking fellow, long beard, silent. Something struck Alex about him… What, he didn’t know. He asked around about who he was? They said the man had been working at the farm for a while as a shepherd. Lived in a neighbouring hamlet, rented a corner from an old woman. Said little, only what was needed, revealed nothing about himself. Even his name wasn’t clear. They simply said, “Ask the shepherd or call him ‘Old Man’…” People there didn’t sport beards.
Alex didn’t bother his mother with this. But told Andrew. They decided to check the man themselves. One day, they showed up at the farm, like they had business there. Alex pointed out the man from afar. The man was busy shovelling manure, never looking back.
Andrew couldn’t hold back, approached. The man didn’t even turn… Andrew stood behind a bit, then said:
“Jim… Brother…”
Only a small flinch, not turning. Bowed his head, spoke over his shoulder:
“Mistaken identity… Leave, mate…”
But Andrew stayed, saying:
“Mum’s waiting… She’s cried her eyes dry, prays to God you’re alive…”
The man hunched more, suddenly stabbed the fork into the ground, turned entirely:
“Waiting? For a convict?…”
Here, Alex joined in:
“Jim!… Recognized you when we met unloading feed… She’d wait for any! Missing limbs, any!… And you’re whole, why the secrecy? You taught us, brother, ‘Fear no one, nothing!’ Maybe we survived because we recalled your advice!
And Jane is waiting, still waiting for you! Others courted her, you know!”
James lowered his head, tears flowing… He stepped forward.
They embraced, all three, their tears mingling…
James recounted how he’d been wounded in battle, captured. Ended up in a concentration camp in Poland. The number-tattoo remained… Endured hunger, cold, beatings, mockery, back-breaking work… Tried escaping, dogs shredded them, his legs scarred. Beaten so badly, wished for death… When their forces liberated them, ended up in another camp – theirs. Investigated. But released eventually. Left with nothing – no passport, no ID, just an issuance of liberation. Pulled towards home irresistibly! Saw everyone cautiously, from afar – brothers, mum, Jane. Bit into his pillow at night. Too ashamed to reveal himself… Others returned heroes, yet him… Had they not recognized, he’d have left, gone far to avoid soul torture…
They decided to prepare his mum gradually. First mentioned there might be leads but uncertain. Mum perked up, came alive. Kept asking when it’ll be confirmed? Wives prepared Jane and were themselves ready. The ninth of May was nearing. Mum set the table as always, the shot of whisky. She seemed sad. Another holiday, yet her son still wasn’t there…
Everyone gathered, only Andrew was late. Waiting for him.
Then Alex suggested:
“Mum, don’t cover that shot. And the plate, include some cabbage, potatoes too… We’re expecting a guest…”
About to ask, what guest? Thought it’d be just family…
And in walked Andrew, and behind him, “the guest”… Shaven, in clean clothes. Mum started to scold Andrew for being late but studied the “guest” closely…
And her legs gave way…
“Ji-im! My son!”
Her heart skipped, she felt weak… Good thing the daughters-in-law were ready – with ammonia and heart drops. Jane also needed tending…
… I don’t know if this is true or just a tale. Fact or fiction. But I recounted it as I heard it from the son of James and Jane, who believes his father – a hero too, despite no medals…
And I really want to believe it’s all true…
