Cold Determination Read online

  Cold Determination

  Jennifer Lyons

  Austin Macauley Publishers

  Cold Determination

  About the Author

  About the Cover

  Dedication

  Copyright Information ©

  Acknowledgement

  The Beginning at the End

  Rosie

  Papa

  The Flop House

  Summer and School

  The Cost of Warmth

  Christmas

  Another Loss

  Nils

  Falls

  Engaged

  First Love

  Graduation

  Training

  Sicily

  Injured

  Marguerite

  Battle of the Bulge

  Still Fighting

  A Dare to Hope

  A Long Ride Too Short

  Home

  About the Author

  Jennifer Lyons lives in upstate New York with the love of her life and their four incredible children who have grown too quickly. She finished her Master’s degree in History while raising her children and following her husband’s active duty military life. Her favorite things include her family, traveling, history, and the color red.

  About the Cover

  What made the “Greatest Generation”? Jurak wasn’t sure. He wasn't even sure why or how he could even be included. All he had done, his whole life, was choose to live. Born to immigrant coal miners, he understood life at an early age. By the time he'd reached five, loss and deprivation were no strangers to him. His mama taught him to survive with hope in his heart and the knowledge that life always, always worked out. Thanks to those early lessons, he answered the call of duty. His part in the Greatest Generation was extraordinarily humble. He never said, and possibly never knew, but he was something special. This is his story.

  Dedication

  I dedicate this to my favorite people, you know who you are and thank you for your light.

  Copyright Information ©

  Jennifer Lyons (2019)

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

  Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  Ordering Information:

  Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

  Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

  Lyons, Jennifer

  Cold Determination

  ISBN 9781645367529 (ePub e-book)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019912989

  The main category of the book — FICTION / General

  www.austinmacauley.com/us

  First Published (2019)

  Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

  40 Wall Street, 28th Floor

  New York, NY 10005

  USA

  [email protected]

  +1 (646) 5125767

  Acknowledgement

  I want to acknowledge my grandparents and their grandparents for the sacrifices they made throughout their incredible life journeys.

  The Beginning at the End

  He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her behind. He knew he could never warm her again but he couldn’t leave, not yet. His last gift was this bed—her final resting place.

  Against the wishes of his son and daughter, he had wrapped her in a blanket inside her coffin. It was soft, covered in her favorite shade of pink. His daughter had advised against it. She told him it was too expensive and his son pointed out it was impractical. He had ignored them both. It was freezing out, and he couldn’t bear the thought of lowering her into that unforgiving, hard ground without something warm to protect her. She was dressed in the same dress she wore on their wedding day. That had been June when it was warm and sunny. It was January now, sixty years later and too cold for such a dress, so he had insisted on the blanket.

  The funeral was over and all the people were gone. He had stood vigilantly guarding her for four long hours, not knowing how to leave. The sky was darkening, and it was getting colder. His face and ears numb, he turned and finally walked away. He told himself he wasn’t really leaving her—this was just a shell of her life. He reminded himself she was really safe and warm somewhere, surrounded with loved ones she had dearly missed. He imagined her with her favorite brother, sitting near a fire and talking about her life. No matter what he told himself, though, he couldn’t stop himself fearing how cold that hole in the cold ground was. The wind was strengthening, and her body—the body he had loved and cared for all these years—was being left behind. That’s all that mattered right now; she was gone from him and her body would stay cold.

  He turned and left that hallowed ground of resting corpses, afraid for the first time in a long time. Old fears took over as he hastened his step. Stones, far older than him, called to him from a past long forgotten. A few steps over, a soldier—only twenty—waited for the day of second life. At his feet, a baby slept, having lived for just two days. He lengthened his stride; he didn’t want to see these ghosts tonight.

  As he walked, he felt he should feel lucky for all the life he lived. It had been a good life; one most would have been proud of. His poor immigrant parents had taught him to overcome hardships through their hard work and tenacity. Nothing had stopped them, not even the depression of the thirties. Instead, it had deepened a resolve in them to pass on resilient traits. He had grown knowing how to work, to be content, and to overcome. These traits had served him well.

  Death had passed him by closely a few times, but he’d been allowed to live to see his children and even grandchildren grow.

  I should feel lucky, he thought again. In this instance, though, he felt only the disquieting reality of loss, reminding him how quickly life passes. His body had grown old. Ninety years had taught him a lot, but he hadn’t learned out to live without her. He didn’t want life without her. It was unbearable and his heart ached.

  For the first time during his long life, he felt old—he felt every one of his ninety years and hated this betrayal of his body. His hands shook, his back was bent, and his knees cried out in agony. Looking around, he realized he hated the betrayal of physical life. Nothing had saved this lot; nothing had saved his wife and nothing would save him. He tripped then, barely catching himself. He had seen something, causing him to lose his sure footing.

  He was sure he’d seen a cat, winding her way through the old stones. With his stumble, he’d lost sight of her and when he looked again, he couldn’t find her. He looked again, surely she’d be easy to spot amongst the dark stones with her white fur and bent tail. Try as he might, he couldn’t find her.

  Finally, he reached the car that had waited for him and he dropped into the seat, exhausted from loss and the frigid wind. Too tired to speak or even to think, he didn’t acknowledge the driver nor the road. Leaning his head onto the seat, towards the window, he allowed sleep to overcome his normally vigilant mind.

  Uninvited dreams entered his old mind. Unlike chaotic dreams of youth, these were sensible, full of light and meaning; they were easy to unravel. He recognized long lost family members, his childhood homes, and his war buddies. Locked between wake and sleep, his mind played back his life. As he watched, memories once
grayed from time were colorfully restored.

  Rosie

  I was only four and had never really looked at a baby before. Somehow, I sensed how important and precious the tiny bundle in my mother’s arms was. The bundle was quiet. The only sound in the room was Mama’s tired breathing. Peter and I waited to enter the room until she beckoned us. I was so happy and relieved to see her, I ran to her bedside.

  “Look, boys! Dziecko! Jesteś teraz wielkim bratem!” My mother’s strong Polish accent with her soft mix of English made the moment so much more special. All night, our mama had laid in this bed. I heard each frantic sound of our mother’s labor without understanding what was happening. Now, she smiled at us—she was alright. Papa gently put me up on the bed so I could lay beside her. He always understood just what I needed.

  Mama moved the bundle to her left, and I peered into a tiny, pink face. I had no idea what it was. I had never had a sister. She was wrapped head to toe in soft pieces of cloth. I couldn’t see any arms or legs, just a head with closed eyes and pink cheeks. There was no hair on that ugly little head. There was nothing really extraordinary about this little bundle at all. I fell in love with the still, silent thing. My older brother, Peter, peered at the bed and claimed the baby was beautiful.

  “I think this baby is ugly. I love it; can I hold it?”

  My father laughed gently, and Mama hushed me as the bundle was sat on my lap, secured by Papa’s strong arms. It hardly felt like anything at all, like I was holding a little cloud. Mama watched us proudly.

  Peter asked, “What is her name?”

  I looked at my mother, waiting to hear what we would call the bundle. “Her name is Rosie because she is pretty as a flower.” I could tell my mother, who I thought looked like an angel, was very proud of this bundled potato. I didn’t see any flowers. All I saw was a potato.

  I told my mama, “I think she looks like a potato but I still love her.” I kissed that ugly little head for the first time that day. Rosie, our potato-flower-bundle, stayed asleep.

  For the first few days after she was born, our house was mostly normal. It was too cold to go outside, and Papa kept our little house warmer than usual. It felt good as we had no need for extra blankets as we played near our mother’s bed on her floor. Peter and I were both good and quiet. No one told us, but somehow, we knew our new potato and Mama needed their rest. Every few minutes, one of us would run and peek into the top of the bed, seeing Mama and our potato baby sleeping.

  As those first days stretched into weeks, then months, I realized that Rosie wasn’t looking much like a potato anymore. After a couple of months, she could sit up when I helped her, and we would watch Peter do his funny dances for us. Rosie batted her small hands around, and I made sure she was safe. Her head had new hair that was curly and soft.

  Rosie grew, turning into the happiest baby I have ever seen. She loved watching Peter perform his funny dances. When Papa came home from the coalmines, she would wave and gurgle a toothless smile at him. He would rush to hold her but Mama chased him away because he was too dirty. I never thought it strange that Mama let him chase Peter and I with dirty hands but never touch Rosie. After all, she was the baby, the pretty little flower we all watched over. She didn’t need black smudges on her face, clothes, or blankets.

  In time, Rosie demanded more food than only Mama’s milk. Mama made her a thick porridge that Peter and I got to feed her in the evening while Mama fixed dinner. Rosie loved that porridge. She would howl impatiently, her toothless mouth wide open. After she finished the bowl, I carefully wiped off her pretty little face. I had to wipe off her hair a lot too. I didn’t think Rosie knew she was a pretty little flower because she sure could make a mess when she ate. “Sometimes, Rosie, you are still like a potato—happy to be buried in dirt,” I told her.

  The whole year went by very fast and our little potato-bundle turned into a baby that crawled when we let her down. Mama was extra careful to keep the house clean. She made Peter and I look for small things Rosie might put in her mouth.

  “We don’t want her to choke,” Mama would explain.

  I was horrified at the thought of our baby Rosie choking on something. Every morning before breakfast, I patrolled the whole house, looking into each corner and ensuring the floor was void of all small objects. Peter looked too, and we were very proud to keep our baby safe.

  As Rosie grew, the weather changed. First summer, then the days grew cold again and the nights long. We went to Mass on Sundays and knew it was Christmas season. Mama wanted our baby baptized before she turned a year old. I wasn’t sure about that idea. Rosie seemed fine without getting sprinkled with water in a cold church.

  I was happy to go to church, though. The town we lived in was actually a coal mining camp. It had a shop, a school, and houses but no proper church building. The church we were part of was a few miles away in a big town, and we rode a real trolley car to get there. I loved that car. It went on a track, loudly clanging a bell, and, even in the winter cold, it was fun to feel the air on my face. I never complained when Papa told us to get ready for church, thanks to that trolley car. Our family boarded the trolley early every Sunday morning and rode all the way into a town called Sheridan.

  The Sunday Rosie was baptized, the priest taught about the first Christmas a long time ago. He talked about the baby Jesus born in a stable with only straw to lie on. Rosie was big now, but I still remembered our little potato baby. I felt bad any baby had a straw bed. I wondered if that baby Jesus had looked like a potato. I glanced at Peter, wondering if he thought I looked like a potato when he saw me for the first time.

  After the priest told us about that baby Jesus, Mama and Papa brought Rosie to the front. It was hard to see what was going on, but we could hear.

  Rosie didn’t like being sprinkled. She also didn’t like the strange priest holding her away from Mama. I whispered to Peter, “See? I told you this was a bad idea! She’s going to holler now!” Peter just thumped my head lightly, shushing me.

  I was right. Rosie didn’t like the sprinkle, but I was wrong about the hollering. I guess Rosie knew we were supposed to be quiet in church, and I wondered if she had seen me get a thump. They finally finished and our family walked out into the cold, cold night. There was the bright moon and the sky full of stars; they seemed to be so close, I felt we could reach out to touch them. I was very excited to leave that church and ride the trolley again. It was cold, even for December.

  When we got off the car, Mama fussed over everyone, pulling down our hats and pulling up our coat collars. As we neared our little home, wolves howled near enough that Mama hurried our short legs along. She was worried, I could tell. The baby’s head even uncovered. Mama never let that happen; I think she was afraid of those wolves.

  Once inside, Papa took Rosie from Mama and took a chair near the hot stove. Mama rushed around, readying our dinner. I could see bread and a thick mushroom soup. I had helped Mama with both. Mama showed me where mushrooms grew by the creek, and I filled her basket. When it was time to bake the bread, I had sprinkled flour as Mama kneaded the dough. Now, my tummy rumbled with anticipation.

  Mama told us of Christmas in her old home, “Someday, moi mali synowie, I will make you the ciastko with the cukier sprinkled on top.”

  “You baptize the cookies, Mama?” I asked. Papa and Peter laughed, but no one answered my question. I didn’t know what sugar was.

  There were no gifts, and Peter and I wouldn’t have known what to do with them anyways. Our Christmases were humble affairs full of love, but no presents and no tree. We had our dinner, much nicer than normal, and Mama would tell us stories from her childhood. She always started with the dinner.

  It was an important, huge event; Mama was the youngest of nine kids and lived near all her relatives when she was little. Peter, my father, and I loved her stories. Our empty house soon filled with the smells and people from her past. I could hear my papa whisper that he loved the gifts of her stories. She flushed rosy red at his co
mpliment and paid it back with a kiss.

  Our bellies filled with warm soup and soft bread. Papa settled us into our bed, and Rosie was settled in the middle of us. Papa said it was going to be too cold for her cradle and she needed us to keep her warm. We didn’t mind—our potato had grown into a lovely soft angel, who reminded us of our mother. Rosie settled in quietly, her arm around Peter’s right hand and her head resting on my shoulder.

  “I won’t let her be cold,” I promised our father. He tucked us all in while Mama softly sang an old song in Polish, and, soon, we three were asleep.

  Papa had been right to tuck Rosie in with us; the next day, he could hardly open the front door—there was so much snow! Peter and I dashed around, not waiting for breakfast, to venture into a world covered in soft ice. Mama yelled for us to bundle up as we squeezed through the small opening between door and frame. We were too excited to notice Rosie follow.

  Peter and I ran to where our garden should have been and looked back. It seemed the snow was as tall as our house; at least eighteen inches fell throughout the night, and the wind caused huge drifts.

  The boys from the next house over joined us, and we built forts and played war games well into the afternoon. Finally spent, we ran home on tired legs with frozen faces. Mama admonished us for bringing in the cold and wet. Then, she told us how she had rescued Rosie from the cold snow.

  The little house smelled of our wet woolen coats. Mama tutted around, but we knew she wasn’t that angry when she put on more firewood and heated water for us. She served us warmed sauerkraut, and all was right in our world.

  We spent the next few days in the exact same manner. It was a lot of work on our bodies, playing so many hours in the snow each day. We would come in and tell Rosie all about our snow adventures, and Peter would dance his funny dances for her. We promised to take her with us when she got older. Soon after our dinner, the three of us were warm and fell sound asleep. Peter and I were so tired that nothing could wake us, and we never heard Rosie cough.