Part 6 – “What We Carry”
The call came just after lunch.
Lena answered it in the kitchen while Robert rested in the living room, a blanket over his knees and Max curled beside his feet.
When she hung up, her face was pale with something between wonder and disbelief.
She walked over, crouched beside her father, and laid a hand on his arm.
“It was her,” she said.
Robert looked down slowly. “Who?”
“Elena Reyes. Silvano’s niece. She got the letter.”
He sat up straighter.
“What did she say?”
Lena swallowed. “She cried. Said she never knew much about her uncle—just fragments. Her mother didn’t talk about the war. But she always kept his photo. And his name.”
Robert stared at the wall for a long moment, his hand twitching slightly against the blanket.
“She wants to talk to you,” Lena said. “Would that be okay?”
He nodded, eyes glassy. “Yes.”
That night, they spoke by phone.
The voice on the other end was soft, thoughtful, but strong. A teacher’s voice.
Elena asked gentle questions—about Silvano, about the letter, about the promise.
Robert answered slowly, his voice cracking only once.
“I should’ve come sooner,” he said.
“You came,” she replied. “That’s what matters.”
They talked for an hour. At one point, Elena said, “He used to write poetry. Did you know that?”
Robert smiled. “No. But I believe it.”
They ended with a promise to meet—someday.
When the line went dead, Robert stayed still for a long while.
Max didn’t move.
Only the firelight danced.
May 1942 – Camp O’Donnell
The dead were stacked in rows now.
Typhus, dysentery, malnutrition—each man claimed by something that didn’t fire bullets.
Robert survived on rice water and willpower.
He remembered a chaplain coming once, passing through the barracks, laying hands on the dying and offering something like peace.
Robert had asked him, “How do you forgive men who do this?”
The chaplain said, “You don’t forgive them. You survive them.”
He gave Robert a wooden cross no bigger than a matchbook.
Robert kept it for years—until Miriam died.
Then he buried it with her.
She had forgiven more than he ever could.
The pain came back that week—worse than before.
Lena drove him to the clinic.
The doctor, younger than his granddaughter would’ve been, read the chart and spoke with careful sympathy.
“Degenerative changes in both knees. Spine, too. Classic osteoporosis with joint degeneration.”
Robert just nodded.
“This isn’t from the war, per se,” the doctor added. “It’s age.”
Robert gave a small, dry laugh. “So is memory.”
They prescribed a different pill. A newer one.
Robert didn’t take it.
At home, he moved slower.
Max stayed closer.
One morning, he dropped a coffee cup—his favorite one. It shattered on the floor.
Robert stared at it, unmoving.
Lena came running. “It’s okay, it’s just a cup—”
But she stopped.
Because he wasn’t looking at the cup.
He was looking at his hands—shaking, open, helpless.
“I carried men,” he whispered. “Back then. On my back. Now I can’t hold a cup.”
Lena knelt beside him.
“You carried their names. Their memories. You held on longer than anyone else did.”
Max nudged his elbow with his nose.
Robert reached down, brushing the dog’s soft fur with fragile fingers.
“What we carry,” he said softly, “is never just weight.”
That night, he asked Lena to help him take down the map.
They placed it on the table and unfolded another—one of Missouri, worn and warm.
“This is the path I walk now,” he said.
She smiled. “Not alone.”
“No,” he agreed. “Not anymore.”
He tapped two spots on the map. “Here’s where we start. And here’s where it ends.”
“Where’s the middle?” she asked.
He smiled faintly.
“Where Max walks.”