Something to Remember You By Read online

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  To my friend Tom Cole,

  award-winning playwright and screenwriter,

  who died at seventy-five of multiple myeloma at his

  home in Roxbury, Connecticut

  CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright Notice

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Also by Gene Wilder

  About the Author

  Copyright

  ONE

  Bastogne—December 25th, 1944—A white and red Christmas

  At 3:00 a.m. they woke in their foxhole after the ground shook from the explosions that had started up again. The water in their canteens had frozen. Because of Nazi flares the soldiers in the foxhole could see that they were surrounded by a blanket of snow. Yesterday, Cpl. Tom Cole, their medic, poured disinfectant into the stomach wound of Private Papales and then bandaged him, but the private was still bleeding. Their sergeant had been killed and Privates Lancy and Eggert were bleeding from rifle shots to their chests, their clothes wet from the snow and their faces freezing.

  At the first sign of dawn, they heard the Nazi tanks starting to roll again.

  “We’ll never get out alive, will we?” Private Papales asked softly, crying like the young boy he was. Tom Cole held the boy’s hand but didn’t answer.

  Private Steen, who had not been wounded, screamed his lungs out at the approaching tanks, as if they could hear him: “Fucking Nazis—I don’t wanna die like this!”

  The tanks drove back and forth over all the foxholes they could see, trying to crush the men inside, until a huge morning fog settled over the whole area. It allowed the 501st Paratroop Division to move in with their bazookas without the Nazis seeing them. When the bazookas started firing, the Nazi tanks left as fast as they could. Cheers rang out from all the scattered foxholes like a hundred-man chorus. Tom lifted himself up and thought the coast was clear enough to get his wounded men out of the stinking hole they were in. He lifted Private Papales out and laid him flat on the ground, telling him, “You’re going to make it now, Timmy.”

  Tom went back into the foxhole and started to lift Private Lancy, who was still bleeding terribly, but a German tank suddenly came from out of nowhere and ran over Private Papales. Tom crawled up and looked at the private’s crushed body and head. Tom then pushed his own head into the young boy’s body and couldn’t stop crying.

  “Forgive me, forgive me,” he whispered.

  TWO

  A week later, just after the overhead lights were turned off, Nurse Joy Hobbs walked down the aisle of the Brighton England Royal Army Hospital pushing a small cart as she checked on each patient and said good night to those who were still awake. When she reached Tom Cole’s bed she spoke quietly.

  “You look terribly sad, Tom.”

  “I’m all right. I’m just a little—”

  “You’re in pain and don’t say you’re not. I brought some morphine, so lie still.” Joy gave Tom another injection and put the used syringe into the stainless steel tray on the cart. She looked around the room at the sleeping soldiers for a moment, and then sat down next to Tom on his bed.

  “How in the world did your hip get so badly infected … you’re a medic, aren’t you?”

  “One of the fellas in the foxhole was in too much pain to put his bayonet away, and I was too busy trying to stop all the bleeding around me to worry about my little scratch.”

  “This isn’t a little scratch. And why did they make you a medic, anyway?”

  “I’m a cellist, but they didn’t have any room for cellists when I was drafted, and they didn’t think I’d be any good in a tank or in the infantry, so they trained me to become a medic and sent me to Bastogne.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.”

  “You didn’t. Have you ever been to New York, Joy?”

  “I spent a glorious two weeks there, before the Nazis began bombing England. But then I wanted to go home so I worked my way as a nurse on the Queen Elizabeth.”

  “I used to live in New York before I was drafted. May I ask how old you are, Joy?”

  “I’m thirty-nine, and I don’t date young boys. How old are you?”

  “Twenty-five,” Tom said.

  “Well look at that—I’m only fourteen years older than you. And when I’m sixty you’ll be forty—six. Perhaps that’s a little older than you thought, eh, Ducky? Tell me, do you have a girlfriend in the States?”

  “Not anymore. I adored one girl and wanted to marry her, but I was very shy then, and stupid, and kept waiting to ask her to marry me until she married another guy and invited me to their wedding.”

  Joy leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “You’ll find a girlfriend soon, of that I’m sure. Good night. Please try to sleep.”

  THREE

  The next day, Tom received a visit from his commanding officer, Col. William Hartley.

  “How’s it going, son? And tell me the truth—I’m from Missouri, so don’t fuck around with me.”

  “It’s going … pretty rough, sir.”

  “Are you still in that much pain?”

  “It isn’t physical pain, sir. It’s just that I can’t get Private Papales out of my mind. He’d be alive now if I had just left him alone for five more minutes. The tanks would have been gone by then.”

  “Oh, you’re a psychic now.”

  “I don’t mean to whine, Colonel.”

  “Then don’t whine. You’re putting all your eggs in the wrong basket, son. If you hadn’t tried to get those boys out of that foxhole they would have bled to death, and you would have been a pretty rotten medic. Yes?”

  “I know, sir.”

  “No, you don’t know. Grow up! You don’t seem to know the difference between a hero and a jerk. Listen to me: I’m giving you a one-week convalescent leave beginning next week, but I want to put you to work right after that. You’re smart, and I like smart soldiers. And you’re damn brave, so I’m promoting you to lieutenant junior grade. I was thinking about the Intelligence Service for you, but tell me if you think there’s something you’d be better at. Clear
?”

  FOUR

  On the morning of January 14th, Joy said, “Excuse me, Lieutenant, sir, but you just received your new army uniform this morning, with a beautiful Eisenhower jacket.”

  “How could they know my exact size?”

  “Because I told them. And here’s a letter to you from the Home Office. I wonder if they’re going to make you a colonel this time.”

  Tom opened the letter and read it out loud:

  LT. THOMAS COLE

  ROYAL ARMY HOSPITAL

  BRIGHTON ENGLAND

  Dear Lieutenant Cole,

  You have been granted a one-week convalescent leave—January 15th until January 21st—but please report to Colonel Hartley at 1300 hours on the afternoon of January 18th for a brief visit. The address is 1408 Whitehall, London. There are a series of tunnels, sir. His office just says COL. H on the door.

  Best wishes,

  Sgt. John Morris

  Asst. to Col. William Hartley

  “Well, aren’t you the cat’s meow?” Joy said. “Your commanding officer certainly sounds like a good man. You want to hear my advice?”

  “Of course.”

  “Leave your brain alone for a while, Tom. Go to London and see some shows. Some of them will make you laugh, which is what you need right now.”

  “They’re putting on plays even with the bombing?”

  “Absolutely. If the bombing gets bad the people in the audience can rush down to the Tube if they want, but the actors still continue on with the play, regardless.”

  “I wonder what the people in New York would do if the bombing ever happened to them?”

  “They’d run down to the subway station, Ducky.”

  * * *

  AFTER LUNCH, Joy handed Tom a list of plays to choose from. She underlined Strike It Again, with Norman Wisdom. “Mandy Adams is my cousin and she has a house on Lower Sloane Street and she’s got a nice room for you, free of charge if you want it.”

  “Why free of charge?”

  “Because she’s my cousin.”

  “And you told her what a charmer I am.”

  “Something like that. But she’s married, so be careful.”

  “Where do I go and how do I get there?”

  “Here’s her address and phone number. Take the Express train to London Victoria station, which is just one hour flat, and then a cab. Mandy’s expecting you tomorrow morning between ten and eleven. And after you and Mandy say hello and have a nice hot cup of tea with a scone she’ll have made, take a cab to the Prince of Wales Theatre to see Norman Wisdom. The Shepherdess Café is right around the corner if you want to eat something after the show. Matinee is at two-thirty, and I’m sure it’ll be crowded, so get there early.”

  “How early do I have to be at the theater to buy a ticket?”

  “It’s already reserved for you, Lieutenant Thomas Cole.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  FIVE

  Tom put his duffel bag into the small, but very pleasant, room that Mandy showed him. She was warm and friendly, just like Joy, and after they had their tea and scone together Tom washed up, combed his hair, and got into the waiting taxi that Mandy had called. He waved a thank-you kiss to her as the taxi drove off.

  When he arrived at Coventry Street the cabbie stuck his arm out and pointed: “Right there, sir.” Tom paid him and walked quickly to the box office of the Prince of Wales Theatre. As he started to take out his wallet the attendant said, “It’s on us today, Lieutenant. God bless ya,” and handed Tom his ticket.

  What in the world did Joy tell that man, Tom wondered.

  Strike It Again was a wonderful show, and he loved watching Norman Wisdom sing and dance, but Tom couldn’t bring himself to laugh. He kept picturing his life in the foxhole only a few months ago, helping men who were bleeding to death and seeing that tank crush Private Papales’s guts out, and here he was watching an entertainer make people all around him laugh their guts out.

  SIX

  When the show was over, Tom walked around the corner to 33 Coventry Street and through a door with long, overlapping curtains, which were used to keep any light from getting out. All the windows inside the Shepherdess Café were covered with pretty curtains that hid the thick black curtains behind them, almost exactly the way he saw them in Brighton Hospital every evening, to keep Nazi bombers from seeing the lights.

  Now that Tom was inside he thought that the Shepherdess Café was charming. It was lit only with candles and a pianist was playing popular wartime songs, mostly ones that Vera Lynn made popular. On one of the walls there was a reproduction of a well-known portrait of King George VI in his dress uniform. Everyone was dressed warmly. Most of the women were wearing cardigans and shawls, and all of the men wore neckties and sweaters under their jackets. This was January, after all.

  A few yards in front of Tom there was a young woman sitting alone at a very small table. The café was so packed that, despite how hungry he was and how wonderful the smells emanating through the room were, Tom turned and started walking toward the entrance to get away from the crowd. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a short, middle-aged man, wearing black trousers, a white shirt, and a cloth apron, started pulling Tom toward the small table with the young woman, who was still alone.

  With a strong cockney accent, the waiter said loudly, “Please, sir, this way if you don’t mind, sir, and I have a nice seat for you right here at this lovely little table with this lovely young woman and I’ll be back quick as a wink,” he said in one long breath as he handed Tom a huge menu and almost tripped over his own feet as he hurried away.

  “Oh, waiter,” the young woman called out, but he was already halfway across the room by the time she said it.

  Seeing her up close, Tom was taken with how lovely she was. Hers was a simple loveliness. She had the fresh skin and raspberry cheeks of a child and beautiful long auburn hair with a pink bow in it.

  “I’m sorry for intruding,” Tom said. “But would you mind very much if I share this tiny table with you? It’s actually an order from your waiter, and since I’m a soldier I have to obey orders,” Tom said, hoping that he wasn’t coming on too strongly.

  “Of course, please do. I was only trying to tell the waiter what I wanted to eat,” she said with a little laugh, and with an accent that Tom couldn’t determine. “I can’t see for sure in this light, but are you a captain?”

  “Thank you for the promotion, but I’m just a lieutenant. My name is Tom Cole, and I’m making a guess that you’re Swedish?”

  “Very close. I’m Danish. My name is Anna Rosenkilde.”

  “And do you prefer if I call you Miss or Mrs. Rosenkilde?”

  A smile played upon her lips as if she were quite used to young soldiers coming on to her. “Since you’re American I’m sure you would prefer to just call me Anna … is that right?”

  “Well … yes, I guess I would. Have you studied this gigantic menu, Anna?”

  “I have.”

  “And do you know what you want?”

  “I do.”

  “I’m not very familiar with London restaurants,” Tom said, “so please tell me what you’re going to have and then I can just say, ‘The same for me, please.’”

  “Certainly. I am going to have sautéed octopus with some raw tuna to begin,” Anna said.

  “Well, maybe I should take a peek at the menu,” Tom said.

  Anna began giggling. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant. That was a joke. We Danish are jokers, you know. Now I tell you the truth; I’m having Dover sole with roasted potatoes … if our waiter should come back.”

  “I suppose I can either laugh or cry, falling for that one,” Tom said.

  “I don’t like crying, Lieutenant, so if I have a choice, would you please laugh?”

  Tom tried his hardest to laugh, but it wouldn’t come out. He kept making the strangest sounds, which made Anna laugh out loud. The crowd sitting nearby turned to look at Tom and started giggling themselves, which made Anna laugh louder. Pretty
soon the whole café started laughing. Tom looked at the crowd laughing at him and suddenly burst out laughing so hard that tears began to pour out of his eyes.

  “Thank you, Anna,” Tom said as he wiped his eyes. “I haven’t laughed in a long time.”

  “It’s good to laugh. Good for your liver, good for your heart. So now, Lieutenant—what shall we do about our waiter? Should we just not wait any longer?”

  “No, ma’am, we’re both starving,” Tom said as he got up and walked through the crowd and straight into the open kitchen where he saw at least eight or nine people cooking food while others were washing or drying dishes.

  Tom shouted so loud that the pianist stopped playing and the whole café could hear him: “My name is Lieutenant Thomas Cole and I’ve just come back from Bastogne, Belgium, where I was fighting the Nazis with my English friends. My lovely date and I are starving, so please, could we have two orders of Dover sole with roasted potatoes and a little white wine?”

  Silence for a moment, and then one of the kitchen staff started singing, “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” Then the rest of the staff joined in. By the second round, everyone in the café joined in as they applauded Tom.

  Tom became so embarrassed that he lowered his head as he walked back to Anna, shaking hands with most of the men in the crowd who wished him, “God bless you, son,” and getting hugs from several of the women. When he finally arrived at Anna’s table he said, “I don’t know what got into me.”

  Anna got up and gave him a hug. “You are also my hero, Tom,” she said, calling him “Tom” for the first time, and giving him a kiss on the cheek.

  “Oh, my, thank you,” Tom said. “Was that just because I made a fool of myself hollering my lungs out, or was the little kiss because I called you my lovely date?”

  “No, you silly, it was for getting us our dinner,” Anna said, giggling at her joke.

  SEVEN

  After they had finished eating and were sipping the last of their bottle of wine, Anna said, “What did you do before the war, Tom?”

  “I lived in New York and I played the cello fairly well, but I decided that I wanted to become a conductor—not a train conductor, Anna—”