I don’t know if this tale is fact or fiction, truth or fantasy, but one wishes to believe that such happy coincidences really happened. At least, this is how I heard it and how I’ll recount it.
Once upon a time in a village, there lived a woman named Mary. She had buried her husband even before the war began. He fell through the ice in early spring, managed to survive, but soon fell ill with a terrible fever and didn’t make it. She had three sons: the eldest was twenty-two, the middle one was nineteen, and the youngest was a year younger than the middle one. The eldest had decided to marry, while the younger two were still courting and not thinking about marriage. Then the war came, and they all left to fight. The eldest and the middle went almost immediately, and the youngest followed in ’42.
From the middle son, John, she received a single letter, saying they were fighting the enemy and to take care. That was all he could write, and she was grateful for even that small message. But from the eldest, Paul, there was nothing. He left and it was as if he vanished… She waited, but no word came. The youngest, Tom, did write, though not often, as the war allowed. Yet he wrote whenever he could.
Then Mary received a notification about John—missing in action. As for Paul, there was still nothing. Her heart turned to stone. Neighbors would tell her that she still had Tom, who, God willing, would return. Yet their own hopes had long since faded.
As the war drew to a close, Tom wrote to say he had been wounded, but not seriously in the leg, and told her not to worry. He would soon be discharged and home. So she waited. When the war finally ended, she ran to meet every train at the station, which was quite a distance away. And still, Tom didn’t arrive. One day, as a train pulled in, she saw her son on the platform! He walked with a stick, which showed his injury wasn’t as light as he said. She rushed to him, hugged him, and sobbed, “Tommy, Tommy, my dear son…” But he looked at her and said, “Mum, why do you call me Tom? I’m Jack…”
She nearly fainted. Jack! She had stopped waiting for him, thought him gone, prayed for his soul. It was such a burden on her conscience. Both of them stood there crying.
Jack explained that he had been seriously concussed in battle and was mistaken for dead. He woke up and crawled to a village. A kind woman found him and hid him, risking her own life, as the enemy was in the village. Later, he was smuggled to the partisans. His memory was gone… He could remember having a mother and brothers, but no names or places. He only recalled working as a tractor assistant, with faint memories of a field. The partisans didn’t trust him at first, questioning him, suspecting he might be an enemy in disguise.
But he proved himself in operations, laying mines on railway tracks, and was later accepted into the regular army due to his skills with machinery. He reached Berlin, was wounded again in the leg, and gradually his memory returned piece by piece. First his brothers’ names, then his mother’s, and eventually his village, but the war had ended by then. He wrote a letter when he remembered, but it was lost somewhere on the way…
Mary found a cart to take Jack home, as he couldn’t manage the long walk. The driver couldn’t take them to the village, as he had to turn off to a neighboring one, so they walked the rest of the way slowly, his leg still aching. As dusk approached, Mary spotted a stranger in her yard, smoking. Her dog didn’t bark, though it was a good but aging wartime dog.
She got scared. “Jack,” she said, “stop, there’s someone there…”
But Jack, with his young eyes, looked more closely and suddenly headed toward the house, threw down his stick, and rushed forward, limping heavily. The “stranger” rushed towards him, tossing his cigarette, running through the gate.
They embraced tightly, and she recognized him… “Tommy!” she gasped, but her legs gave way, and she sank where she stood.
Tom had arrived by a truck, not by train. Someone advised getting off at an earlier station for a faster journey. He arrived home, but his mother had gone to the station. They missed each other.
Years passed without a word from the eldest brother. The sons married, Tom built his own house, and Jack added an extension to their parents’ home. Then grandchildren played and grew. On the 9th of May, everybody gathered around the table. Although it wasn’t yet a holiday on calendars, it was celebrated nonetheless. Such a significant day! One place was left untouched at the table—a glass of whiskey was covered with bread, and Mary placed a cucumber slice next to it on a plate. They searched and inquired all these years, to no avail. Everyone came to terms with it, except Mary. Every evening, she lit a candle by the icons, whispering prayers.
Paul’s girlfriend, Emma, never married another, faithfully waiting for him, believing in his return. She visited on the 9th of May too. They drank not for the departed, but in hope. Still, hope dimmed with each year…
One day, Jack was asked to deliver feed to a neighboring farm. As a tractor man, he took the job, unloading everything with help from a reclusive bearded man who said little. Something about the man pricked Jack’s memory… He asked around about him, discovering he was a recent hire as a herdsman, living in a rented room with a lonely old lady in a nearby village. He spoke little about himself, and no one knew his name. They called him “the shepherd,” “old man with a beard.”
Jack hesitated to worry his mother but told Tom. Together, they decided to take a look at the man. Arriving at the farm, Jack pointed out the man from afar as he cleaned, not looking around. Tom couldn’t resist and walked over. Even then, the man didn’t turn… Tom stood behind him, and finally said, “Paul… Brother…”
Only then did the man’s shoulders tense, but he still didn’t turn around. “You’ve mistaken me,” he said over his shoulder, head bowed. “Move along, mister…”
Yet Tom pressed on, “What are you doing… Mum is still waiting, crying her eyes out, praying for you every day…”
The man hunched over more. Suddenly, he thrust his pitchfork down, turned fully and said, “Waiting? A prisoner? Is she really?”
Jack joined in, “Paul! I recognized you back when we were unloading feed… She would wait for anyone, even if they came back without arms or legs. But you, you’re whole, what are you hiding for? Remember how you taught us, never to fear anything or anyone! Maybe we only survived because we remembered your lessons! Emma is waiting too, though others have already proposed to her!”
Paul lowered his head, tears streaming down his face. He stepped towards them. The brothers embraced, all three of them, their tears mingling.
Paul recounted how he was wounded in battle and captured. He was in a concentration camp in Poland; the number tattooed on his arm remained… He endured hunger, cold, beatings, insults, impossibly hard labor. They attempted escape, but the dogs tore into them, leaving his legs scarred. Beatings were so bad, death seemed merciful… When finally freed by their own troops, he ended up in another camp, their camp, for checking. Despite being released, He had nothing—no passport, nor any documents except a release paper. His longing for home was unbearable! From a distance, in hiding, he saw everyone—his brothers, mother, Emma. Nightly, he bit his pillow in shame. Everyone else came home a hero, but him… If they hadn’t recognized him, if they hadn’t approached him, he would’ve gone far away, torturing his heart no more…
They decided to prepare Mary gently. They told her vague news, something they were not sure about yet. She brightened, asking continuously when there would be certainty. The wives were informed to break the news to Emma and be ready themselves. May 9th approached once more. Mary laid the table, as always. A glass with whiskey still untouched, bread covering it, a sorrowful air surrounded her. Here was the holiday once again, yet no son…
Everyone gathered, waiting for Tom, who was running late. And at that moment, Jack said:
“Mother, don’t cover the glass this time. And put more than a cucumber on that plate—some cabbage and potatoes too. We’re expecting a guest…”
She was about to ask about the guest since it seemed like a family celebration…
Just then, Tom entered, followed by their “guest”—clean-shaven, in neat clothes. Mary was about to scold Tom for being late but then looked harder at the “guest”…
Her knees buckled…
“P-Paul! My son!”
Her heart skipped; she felt faint… Yet the daughters-in-law were ready—they had smelling salts and heart drops prepared. And Emma needed her own comforting…
I don’t know if this tale is fact or fiction, truth or fantasy. But I relate it to you as I heard it from an older gentleman, one of Paul and Emma’s sons. He believes his father was a hero, despite not having medals…
I fervently want to believe it’s all true…
