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Second World War: St. Valentine’s Day

By Capper's Staff
Published on November 30, 2012

“Hello!” a feminine voice
said excitedly, “Hello, Johnny!” and I turned with an expectant
feeling of happiness. This was the first voice except Mama’s that had greeted
me by name in the two hours since my arrival home after four years of enduring
the travail of the second World War. It was St. Valentine’s Day, and my mind was focused on
thoughts of the gift I had come downtown to buy for my girl.

As I glanced casually at the
speaker, I froze momentarily, for the face before me was not in my memory bank.
In fact, it was so unnaturally beautiful my immediate reaction was one of
rejection. Looking into set blue eyes, lovely but expressionless lips and
smooth, porcelain like skin, an uneasy feeling stirred in the pit of my
stomach.

All too slowly, my eyes took in a perfect cheek and brow
such as I had never seen before. This was not a human face, but a mask. A
strange, beautiful, doll-like mask.

“Hello?” I queried, sincerely
hoping I had managed to suppress a momentary recoil. Sensing failure, I made a
weak attempt at smiling as the girl turned swiftly away from me.

“Nice to see you home, Johnny,”
she murmured before hurrying on, huddled in a bulky coat against the cold winds
of February.

Just after dinner that evening,
Mama drew me aside. I sensed there was something on her mind, and I welcomed a
discussion to relieve me of the shadow of my afternoon encounter.

“Johnny,” Mama said slowly,
“I’ve wanted to talk to you about Marie.”

“Marie,” I laughed
inwardly with a warm feeling of relief.

Marie was my girl. The girl of all
my days. The girl who had seen me through a war of unbelievable cruelty and
misery. As a nurse, she had followed me into battle and spent her courage
consoling me across the world. Thoughts of her had helped me survive long months
of imprisonment.

I could only grin with happiness.
Leave it to Mama to choose just the subject that would erase all wayward
thoughts. I spoke her name again, “Marie.”

Then I said, “You know, Mama,
I’ve been saving Marie for tonight. My special Valentine!”

“Johnny…” Mama’s voice
was laced with emotion, “About

Marie… There’s something we should have told you months ago…”

Mama’s voice droned on… “Bombs…
shell fragments… miracles… plastic surgery…” These were words I
didn’t need to hear. I knew them and was sick with remembering.

I remembered my girl on a
bomb-ridden Pacific
Island. My girl’s letters
written from a lonely hospital base. Just routine duty, she had said. But most
of all, I could hear my girl’s voice this afternoon saying excitedly,
“Hello! Hello, Johnny!”

Marie … oh, Marie! My one dear love!

retold by Sara Hewitt Riola

Lakewood, New Jersey