The Great Boot Exchange and the Blessing of Small Feet

 The first time I heard my husband Bud tell about his experiences during World War II was on our honeymoon.  We’d rented a small rustic cabin painted a bright yellow at the beach near Newport, Oregon. 

How it started I don’t know. But after supper, in a whimsical mood, we sat down on the floor to see whose feet were the larger of the two. Imagine our surprise when we discovered that my feet were the longest.

“It doesn’t seem quite right,” I said. “I mean the husband’s feet should be bigger than the wife’s don’t you think?”

Bud’s reply was to throw his head back and roar with laughter.  “Well, I have good reason to be thankful that I have short feet.”

“And why was that?” I asked.

“I was serving in the Battle of the Bulge when I was taken prisoner by the Germans. On the march to the prison camp the guards took a good look at our combat boots and decided because our boots were of a much sturdier quality than theirs, we should exchange shoes.” 

A faraway look shadowed his eyes and for a moment I felt him slip away into a world I did not know. Bud, Bud, my thoughts cried. Come back to me. Please, come back.

He continued on. “And so we did the shoe swap. But no one could wear mine, they were much too small. As a result I suffered only minor frost bite.  But some of my buddies who were using the German boots, which were lined with metal, ended up with lost toes. Others lost the use of their feet. It was a tragedy.”

He got up and looked out the window then opened it so that we heard the roar of the waves as they came towards us.  We stood there a long time.

Our next words were about the songs of the sea.  So beautiful, so perfect, it stole our hearts and we went on to other things.   

A Blue, Blue Day and a Dark, Dark Night

            The matching blue blouse and pants my friend gave me warmed my soul. Even though pantsuits were no longer in style, it was exactly right for me and I could hardly wait to show it off to my husband.

           

Just thinking about him made me feel sad. A recent accident on the freeway had sent the two of us plunging across the crowded freeway. My husband who was driving had swerved to avoid an object in the highway, lost control and flipped us head over teakettle three times before landing on the other side shoved up against the guard rail.

            Although I was untouched except for a bruised arm, I had to be cut out of our car with the Jaws of Life. My husband however suffered a severe cut on the top of his head--he was literally scalped, and his neck was broken.

            This man of mine who loved to drive became a prisoner of the neck brace he had to wear 24-7.  He spent five days in the hospital then we brought him to our youngest daughter's home.  Later we brought him to my eldest daughter's place where there was air conditioning to combat the summer's heat.

            It was a blessing that Bud was able to walk and move with a broken neck.  Beth and I worked together to do what we could to help him gain back his independence. Although we encouraged him to do the exercises the nurse who came to see him twice weekly assigned, he was uncooperative.

            A few month's later we returned to our own home. Still weak from his injuries he spent his days sitting in a chair in the living room. However he boldly proclaimed his freedom to do what he wanted. “If I have to use a walker and not be able drive I'm not going anywhere, and you can't make me.” He said it several times through clenched teeth.

            But blue is his favorite color and I do look pretty, I thought.  I smiled at my reflection in the mirror and smoothed the blue collar into place. I hope he likes it.  He loves blue and he loves me.

            If only I could bring forth a smile from this man I had married so long ago. But as I entered the room where he sat I saw something I'd never seen before. Hatred poured out of his eyes. His hand stretched out like a fan. His lips twisted into a snarl. “Stop” he shouted. “Don't come one step closer.”

            “Bud,” I cried. “I'm your wife. I—I love you.”

            And then I was beside him, heard him say, “Honey, I'm so sorry.  I—I thought you were the German soldier who poked me over and over again in the butt with a bayonet.” And then our arms were around each other.

            Tears came as we wept together.

            Later we talked about it.

            “I don't remember all the details,” he gasped, “but I do remember that the place they took me smelled of urine and vomit and was as dark as a dungeon. They used the whip and the bayonet for hours on my bare back and buttocks. Sometimes they even hit me in the face. But no matter what they did, or what they asked, I refused to give them any information that might incriminate my cell mates, or put our country in danger.”

            Once again his arms went around me. “I'm sorry, so sorry I hurt you. But—but I thought. . .”

            “You thought I was the soldier dressed in blue who tortured you and I understand. Really I do. I'll not wear this outfit again. I promise.”

            I experienced a sense of relief later that day as I folded it and put it in the bag I'd set aside for those in need. Somewhere, somehow my blue outfit would make another woman who needed a touch of a beauty happy.

            A touch of blue. 

            I stood and pushed the curtain aside, then watched in awe as a shaft of sunlight filtered through the trees surrounding our home. For a moment it flashed gold flecks onto the path and suddenly I knew.

 

            In spite of dark days and nights of terror we had God's promise; He who makes all things beautiful in His time would never leave or forsake us. With God we could move forward with confidence and expectation.

            We could do it, one step at a time.

A New Red Dress

The photo above is of my husband and his buddies when he was in the army.  He was a sweet and handsome man.  We were married when I was just 18 years old.  Our first child, Beth, was born a year later.

Trips to Portland were something special when I was a young mother.  But today was different. Our oldest daughter, Beth, had reached the golden age of six and Bud and I had decided she should have a brand new dress on that special first day.

It wasn't that she needed clothes, she had plenty what with all her cousins and their generous supply of hand me downs.  But she needed a store bought dress. In my mind I saw it as bright red with ruffles at the neck and on the sleeves. Would I find one at the Meier and Frank store which towered 12 stories high over our heads?

We needed to get a good deal and that's why we chose to come to town for their special Friday Surprise sale in the basement. The sidewalk was already crowded with eager shoppers milling around waiting for the doors to open. Some were even elbowing their way into the line. An over eager woman pushed her shopping bag into my face and then whopped her purse against my back side. Others pounded on the locked doors hoping to be the first to enter.

I turned back towards my husband but he was no longer there. As I searched the sea of faces I spotted him on the other side of the street. I waved frantically then headed towards him through the crowd.

“Why did you leave me?” I cried when I reached his side. 

“I—I couldn't stay,” he said.  “I had to get away. The lines, the crowds. For a little while . . .

And then I knew. I saw the crowds and a ruffled red dress, but he stood beside me and saw the lines the prisoners were forced to form in the prison camp at Bad Orb. 

I pictured them outside the barracks. So many youthful boys and yet they had to act like men in a world turned upside down. 
 

I reached for Bud's hand and he took it. We stood close together but the blank horror in his eyes told me he was in another world. A world of hate and terror. A world where boys were forced into situations they had never before seen or even imagined. 

 I lifted my head as he started to speak. “Standing in line we were at the mercy of the Germans. When they told us to repeat our names some were snatched from the line-up and taken away.

“When they came to me they said I had to go with them. But then one of them said the prisoner standing next to me was the one who should be taken instead. He pushed me back into line then grabbed the man, the two of us, shoulder to shoulder. 'You come with us,” the German ordered.  'He has Jewish name. This other one, he just American. Maybe next time.'

“And I was pushed back into line.  Waiting, waiting, for what I did not know.” He bowed his head and pressed his fingers into his forehead. His voice fell to a whisper, “I never saw him again. But several days later I smelled something awful in the air. It smelled like flesh burning.  It was horrible and deep inside I knew. The Jewish prisoner with whom I had stood side by side was no longer with us. He who had been taken instead of me had been cooked to death in the ovens.”

“Is that why . . .” I couldn't finish my thought, it was too sad. “I'm sorry,” I whispered.  “Please, let's, let's just go home. The children, they just might need us by now.”

“But there will be no red dress for our Beth.” 

And then we saw it—a candy shop displaying a tray of red and white candy in the window.  Bud reached for the door and we were inside. The pungent smell of peppermint and yummy chocolate permeated the air. We smiled at each other. 

“I don't think we need to worry,” he said as he reached for a white paper bag. “Let's fill 'er up. We're going to have a party!”

And we did. 

Eventually we found and bought that pretty red dress with ruffles at the neck for dear little Beth.