“He has been very kind to Danny.”
“I have a brother also named Daniel,” said Gordon as the phone rang.
“You may go in now,” he said, hanging up. “And thank you, Mrs. Friedman, for letting me talk from you today.”
“It was my pleasure,” she said, adding, “but it is talk with you, not from you.”
“I have trouble with that one. Many thanks.”
Bryce did not meet Tirzah at the door, as he usually did. She found him sitting with his elbows on the desk, his hands pressed against his eyes.
“What happened?” she whispered. “What’s wrong?”
He took a deep breath and pushed himself back against the chair, staring at her as though she were standing far away.
“I just had some news from home,” he said, dropping his eyes to the top of the desk.
“Colonel Bryce?” she asked.
He sat up straight, as if called to attention, and asked, “Is Danny all right?”
“Yes,” she said. “Although the reason I came to see you is because I must make a telephone call. The appointment must be changed. He cannot be seen until tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Bryce repeated slowly. “I see.”
“Tomorrow at exactly the same hour and in the same place,” she said. “I hope that will not be a problem.”
“I can’t imagine why,” he said, avoiding her eyes. “I’m sure that his visit will go as planned.”
Tirzah lowered her voice. “Please tell me, what’s wrong?”
A truck passed and the room filled with the engine’s roar. Bryce closed his eyes. “My son is dead. My second boy, the younger one.”
“Oh, no.”
“Influenza. Three years in the RAF and not a scratch on him.”
Tirzah’s eyes filled with tears.
“I leave on Friday.”
“I am so sorry,” she whispered, wishing that she knew for which of the young men in the picture he was grieving. Though, of course, he was grieving for them both now.
“I will take care of Danny’s appointment. Don’t worry about that,” he said as he reached for the phone again. Sh
e knew he could not look at her without breaking down.
“Shalom,” she said.
He did not stand up. “Thank you, Mrs. Friedman. And to you.”
She closed the door behind her softly.
In the outer office, Private Gordon rose to his feet.
“Your commander has had bad news from home,” she said, walking over to face him. “You must do … you will take care of him, I know.” She reached over to shake his hand. “Thank you.”
Shayndel was flying around the kitchen—stirring, setting out platters, and swearing at Tirzah, who had not shown up to prepare dinner. She had waited as long as she dared before starting on her own, but once she settled down to work, she began to enjoy herself. She used to hate kitchen work as a girl at home; the endless cycle of cooking and cleaning always made her want to scream with boredom. But taking charge of feeding more than two hundred comrades made her feel like she had planned and directed a battle. Best of all, it kept her occupied.