Hello everyone! Today I'd like to share a short story I wrote a while back. It's a story set in World War Two, and shortly thereafter, about an Austrian who ended up fighting with the Allies. While not the best thing I've ever written, I'm proud of it, and since I recently finished a full-length draft of a novel based on it, I wanted to celebrate!
So, please enjoy my short story... "Rudy."
If this story started in any normal sort of way, I’d be telling you it starts in a cottage, quaint but beautiful, high in the green English Dales. But it does not. It begins on a street in the East End of London, with a dull and plain building rising alongside many others.
In short, it is the most unimaginative, uninspiring, and unromantic place in the whole universe. But it also happens to be the home of a certain fellow. This particular man lay flung across his bed, all with his day clothes from yesterday unchanged and a shoe slipping off one foot that would shortly fall off and wake him. This man’s name is Johannes Reims, and this story is mostly about him.
The treacherous shoe (bought a size too big on a clearance rack) finished its descent in a crash that would wake the dead. Needless to say, it woke Johannes. He bolted upright and realized in an instant that he'd fallen asleep in his day clothes again. You really ought to get someone to take care of you, Johannes. He couldn’t help recalling what Mr. Roman always was saying to him.
Once bathed and dressed freshly, he stood in front of the mirror trying in vain to brush his wild hair. He had fine hair, the color of wheat and so frizzy that it curled into a mound around his scalp. His eyes were hazel, and there were the dull beginnings of a beard on his chin. Most people probably wouldn’t believe it, but this man was a distinguished musician.
Well, as distinguished as a young immigrant violinist could be.
But more than that, he was a man of reputable character in a world of adversity trying to scrape by in a job that could never pay much, after having survived one of the worst catastrophes in history. Most people said he was crazy when he announced he was moving to London to join a theater company and play violin for the masses. The simple truth was, Johannes knew he was crazy. But only as crazy as anyone had to be to follow a plan laid out by almighty God. Besides, he wasn’t exactly known for making reasonable decisions.
Yahn started woofing, and Johannes snapped out of his thoughts. He left the bathroom and entered the largest of the three rooms in his possession. It was his parlor, kitchen, dining room, and study all rolled into one in that cramped space. He flicked on the radio as he passed it on his desk and went to open one of the cabinets.
A feeling of dread washed over him as he did so, just as it always did when he opened a cabinet, followed by despair. He’d forgotten to buy groceries again, and it was all but bare. With a sigh he pulled out a can of peach preserves, which was only a few months out of date and dumped them into a bowl that was probably clean.
He was going to douse the fruit with sugar when he realized his sugar dish was completely empty. He gazed up at the ceiling and muttered to himself. Yahn barked again, and he remembered why he’d come into the room in the first place. Upon opening his only other cabinet, he found he had not forgotten to buy Yahn’s food. In fact, it appeared he had bought Yan’s food three times over.
“I know vat you are thinking, der Hund,” he said to Yahn. “Johannes Reims really needs someone to take care ov him.” Yahn barked, his golden tail wagging. “Well, if you are, den you vould be correct, Yahn.”
Johannes poured a considerable amount of food into the golden retriever’s dish and washed his hands before sitting down at his desk. It was a minefield of random papers and envelopes, with some pictures standing out like the peaks of mountains amid the mess. Alongside the pictures there was a white card standing up that caught his attention. It was the obituary from a funeral he’d recently attended for the father of one of his friends and co-workers. It had been the first funeral he’d been to in some time, the last having been Rudy’s.
Ah, Rudy. The smartest man he’d ever known, and the most devout Christian too. Without him, Johannes wasn’t sure where he’d be in life. But the poor man had died when they we're missing in action together in Nazi occupied France. It had been one of the single most defining moments of his life, watching a man die in his place.
He shook the thought from his mind, willing the darker memory away.
The ancient alarm clock beside his bed went off just then, scattering his thoughts like Mama’s chickens, and he dashed to gather his things. It was time to go to work.
Johannes arrived at Roman Theatre just in the nick of time to see Mr. Roman himself standing on the top rung of a precariously placed ladder. He was putting up the sign for their next show, a rendition of Cinderella with a Shakespearian air, written by none other than Johannes Reims himself.
“Good morning, Reims!” exclaimed his boss, leaning a little too far back for comfort. Mr. Roman was a heavy man, and rather (for lack of a kinder word) plump. The ladder creaked in protest, and Johannes raced to brace it before he fell into the street.
“Good morning Mr. Roman. I see you haf started earlier den usual today?” he said, slightly annoyed. Why, oh, why must Mr. Roman insist upon doing this himself.
After the sign was in order, Mr. Roman and Johannes went inside the Victorian theater, and up to their office after Johannes had wrestled with the ladder for a few minutes to put it back in the utility closet. Anya Westwood, the leading lady of the theater company and perhaps the most beautiful singer in London, was already there pouring tea for Mr. Roman, and coffee for Reims. Unlike usual, she did not greet them enthusiastically, but Johannes knew why.
“Guten morgen, Anya,” he said cheerfully. She looked up at him, exhaustion written all over his features.
“I see you’ve got here on time this morning,” she said with a forced smile. Johannes smiled too, wishing he could cheer her. She had not exactly been herself recently.
“It is incredible to think that not long ago you, of all people, were having to deal with roll call,” said Mr. Roman as he dumped half the sugar bowl into his tea. “You must have been constantly getting infractions.”
“When in Rome, Mr. Roman. When in war, behave as if your very life depends upon your every move,” he replied, and added some sweetener to his coffee.
Ah, coffee. The pungent smell of coffee was not to be compared with anything. He had grown uncommonly attached to it during the war. The smell of it reminded him of the French countryside, airplanes and early mornings at Hadley Airfield in Yorkshire.
And of Rudy.
It had not been Pierre Reims' idea to let his oldest boy fight in a war meant for men. No, that had been Johannes’s idea, and he had quickly come to regret it. Hadley Airfield was out in the middle of absolute nowhere in the middle of, what was it called? Yorkshire. That was it.
The commanding officer, Colonel Lockheed, was a nice man. He’d known Johannes’s grandmother, Alice Fairchild, when she had lived in England and had accepted him into his tiny, rag tag RAF airfield based on this little piece of information.
Any other reason was not reason enough. He was Austrian. Worse, he spoke German at a time when Germans were despised and sent to prison camps. But being the son of a half-Englishman and the grandson of an English heiress made things easier for him than they might have been. Grandmother was not the sort of woman you could say no to and had quickly convinced the government to give her son and grandchildren British citizenship. Though, what the clerk who’d served them the day they’d received official citizenship had thought of them, it was best not to guess. What with his Papa being half French and English and he and his siblings being two quarters French and English and all the rest Austrian, and all thanks to a tangle of incredible romances taking place during and after the Great War. But the clerk hadn’t known that. In fact, Johannes was used to being stared at and wondered at for his painfully obvious strange heritage. There were, thankfully, now people who accepted him for who he was. One such person was Michael Matisse, who for some reason had nicknamed him Jojo even though his name didn’t have any j sounds.
“Hey! Jojo!” yawned Michael Matisse. He was a Frenchman who’d been evacuated just before the Nazi takeover of France and was now serving the Brits from Hadley Airfield. Being the son of a half Frenchman, Johannes could speak Michael’s language, and they got on exceedingly well together.
“Ou est le cafe?” he asked. Johannes handed him the cup of coffee and turned to pour his own. As he did so, he couldn’t help but think of Rudy Foster, who’d always been up before the sun to steep coffee for the three of them. He was also the man that had convinced him of God’s love to every man - even the men who were tearing apart the world as they knew it.
If God loves us so much, Johannes's thought, why did he let Rudy of all people die? Rudy was the kindest, most loving man of us all, and God let him die. Why would he let that happen to someone like Rudy?
That begged a thousand other questions. Like, why had God let his mother’s parents die in Nazi occupied Austria? Why had he let so many of his friends end up in ghettos, and prison camps? They had done nothing wrong. Why must there even be war? He noticed Michael looking at him, his brows drawn in concern.
“Jojo,” he said softly, using his favorite nickname for him. “Rudy would not hold anything against you. He loved you like a brother. He would be glad to know that by giving his life, he saved you and me and Paul and Eric and Eddie. He would want you to move on, Mon ami.”
“How do you move on from such a thing?” whispered Johannes in French. “And it isn’t just Rudy. It’s thousands of other people. Think of the Jews... the gypsies... all the people caught in the crossfires of this abomination called ‘war’. What did they ever do to deserve this? If what Rudy said was true, about God loving all people, why does he not end this?” Michael was silent, and Johannes felt bad suddenly. Rudy had meant as much to Johannes as he had to Michael. They had been like brothers, the three of them.
“Sometimes, Johannes,” sighed Michael, shaking his head. “I think we just have to suffer.”
“And die at the hands of injustice? Surely God, who created this all, hates these things at least as much as I do!” cried Johannes. “Why will He not end it?” The familiar lump in his throat appeared, and he turned away from Michael. But that only forced him to look at the old corner where Rudy’s bunk was, where all his old belongings still sat just as he’d left them the day they’d gone out on that fated mission that had led to Rudy’s death.
Back in the present, Johannes found himself looking at Anya. There were dark spots under her eyes, and she looked so tired from all the grief. Her father had recently passed away, and he had been the only family she had. The loss had done a number on her happy outlook on life. Looking at her, sitting silently at her own desk, he couldn’t help but recall that day at the airfield when he and Michael had been talking about death and pain.
“Mr. Roman,” the janitor stuck his head in the doorway. “You’re wanted downstairs.” With a huge sigh, and a longing look at his teacup, Mr. Roman departed. The silence that ensued was uncomfortable, as a nagging feeling bloomed in Johannes’s chest that he ought to say something to Anya. Finally, he gave in to it.
“Anya?” he said softly, coming over to her desk. Anya looked surprised, though it was not uncommon for them to talk. In fact, they were good friends and Johannes had known before anyone else that Mr. Westwood was dying. “I just wanted to ask... have you been doing all right?” Anya closed her eyes and lowered her head. Was that a tear? Anya rarely cried.
“No,” she whispered. “I... I just can’t understand.” Her voice broke, and Johannes waited a few moments for her to compose herself. He’d found this was sometimes a good tactic with his sisters when they were upset, and it seemed to work for Anya as well.
“Can’t understand what?” he asked softly, though he felt he knew already.
“Why God would let my father die,” she whispered. “He was all I had.” Those words sent
Johannes straight back to 1944.
Johannes and Michael stood by the headstone not far from Hadley airfield. It was just that, a headstone... Rudy had died many months before in occupied France, while on the run from Nazis and been buried by his friends in an unmarked grave. The short service was already over as Rudy’s family, his parents and sisters, stood a little apart, not sure if they wanted to speak to the Frenchman and the strange young man.
“Why, God?” whispered Johannes. “Why would you do this to us?” Michael, though shorter by a great deal, put a hand on Johannes’s shoulder.
“You see that verse on the headstone?” he whispered. Johannes did see it. It read: ‘For now we see as in a mirror dimly, but then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; but then I shall see fully even as I am fully known. 1 Corinthians 14:12’.
“What of it?” he asked.
“Rudy had hope, Johannes. He saw ‘in a mirror dimly’ when he was with us what lay before him, and now he sees it ‘face to face.’ His suffering here was nothing compared to what awaited him There, in the arms of his Savior.” Johannes was silent for a moment. He wanted to believe Rudy and Michael were right... but why did there have to be a war in the first place?
He would always remember sitting in the back of the army truck they had gone in and looking out at the open back at the graveyard and Rudy’s headstone. He saw suffering. The slumped shoulders of Rudy’s family as they gazed upon the empty grave of their beloved.
But that was just it. It was an empty grave. As if Rudy had never died, and this sorrow that weighed so heavy upon them all was nonexistent. What Michael had said was true. What Rudy had gone through here was nothing compared to what lay ahead for him. But what about the others? What about the people suffering in Germany and all over the world right now?
Johannes looked back at the grave, and for what felt like it must have been the first time, the sun came out and he noticed a thousand sprigs of white clover. There was beauty in the sorrow. Good things tempered the bad. Rudy was dead... but Johannes was alive to tell what he had taught him about loving others. The world they lived in was fallen, so there had to be suffering. But God gave grace in its midst, like the white flowers in the midst of the graveyard. And, perhaps, thought Johannes as they pulled away, these horrible things we see are meant to draw us closer to the only one who can save us from them and make us hope for what one day will be again.
In a moment, the truck was going up hill, and suddenly his eyes widened at what he saw. Below them was the graveyard, but in and around it all were young trees just beginning life, sparkling droplets of water shimmering in the afternoon sun. Something you could not see when you stood at the graveside. Not until Rudy’s life was over could he see the bigger picture, and the beauty of mercy woven in.
And for the first time, in a very long time, Johannes smiled.
Back in 1953, Johannes sighed softly. He could not change that Mr. Westwood was gone, but he could be here for his friend... and tell her what Rudy, even from beyond the grave, had been able to teach him.
“Death is not easy,” he admitted. “I know. I haf experienced much of it. But your father, Anya, had great hope. And anyway, now he no longer has to suffer in his illness.” Anya wiped her eyes, and looked up at Johannes. She smiled gently.
“We very rarely can see beyond the end of our nose, can’t we?’ she agreed. “But that still doesn’t mean we’ll always know why bad things happen. I don’t see why my father had to die now of all times, just when I need him most.”
“No. Now all we see is the bad of vhat ve haf experienced. But someday, Anya, ve vill see clearly the bigger picture. For now, all ve can do is let grief and hardship draw us closer to the only One who can see... and who cares about our pain.”
“Why, my dear friend, that is very wise. Who taught you that, Johannes?” she asked as she tried to compose herself a little more and rallied her strength. Johannes smiled and began to tell the story of a very wise man called Rudy Foster.
Hope you all have a blessed week and thank you for reading! Ad Lucem.
-L.E. Levens
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