3 - My Father's Hands

      Father had been gone for almost two weeks. Every day Mother asked out loud for the angels to keep him safe. One day, a lady came over to tell Mother that she had noticed our name on a hospital bed while visiting her son. Mother’s face turned white. Without a word, she grabbed my hand and we ran to the hospital as fast as we could.

      We waited for a long time in a hall filled with people, some lying on the floors, on cots and on blankets. More lay outside in the grass. A nun in a white habit finally approached us. In her wide winged headpiece, she looked like an angel. She led us so quickly down the corridor that I thought to myself, “If she walks any faster she will take off flying for sure!” She took us to a room set aside for burn patients and assured us, “Mr. Marchewa was badly hurt but he will eventually recover. He will be just fine.”

      Mother kneeled by the bed and cried, saying Father’s name over and over. His face was all covered with bandages and he did not respond to her at all. Sitting in a corner chair, I was getting chills every time he moaned. Finally, we realized he was trying to say something, but we could not make any sense out of his quiet pleas. Mother was trying to get up off her knees and somehow brushed his cover with her hand. He cried out loud and threw his hands in the air. To my surprise, they did not have bandages on them. I almost fell out of the chair with fright, but Mother ordered me not to run or cry. She wiped her tears, then gently put his hands under the covers.

      We waited until he was asleep and crept out of the room. It took us a long time to find a nurse. Mother told her that while the man has our last name, he does not belong to our family. Mother said, “He is not my husband and not her father.” On the way home Mother explained that the poor, suffering man’s hands had calluses and were very big. Father’s hands were soft and much smaller. I was finally allowed to cry all the way home.