Don't Tell Him

“I took my gun and vanished...”

- The Partisan, as sung by Leonard Cohen

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Dear mom,

I’m sorry that you have to hear about my going in any way but from my own lips. If I had waited to tell you, if I had waited until you awoke, you might have talked me out of it. Talked some sense into my damned fool head, made me stay at home. Stay where I would be warm and safe and fed.

That was a risk I couldn’t take. I hope you understand, as you sit at the scarred wooden table your father made and read my words, please don’t focus on my tears that stain the page now between your fingers.

Know that if I felt I could, I would have stayed at home. I would have married Maria and fathered grandchildren for you to dote on. I would have taken that acceptance to the University and sent what monies I could home to you.

But I’ve been called away, I don’t fully expect you to understand. And I’m going to answer, have already answered as you read this. You’ll notice that grandfather’s rifle is off the wall, if anyone asks, tell them that I took it when I fled. Yes, say that I fled. It’s important that they think I’m gone, run away where the conscription officers cannot find me.

It’s the only way I can think of to keep you safe in my absence. The only way that the invader won’t connect you to the partisans in the hills. The only way to make sure you are spared, somewhat, horrors of our occupation.

You, though, you deserve to know the truth. You deserve to know that your son is not a coward, that he did not run away from his duties or his obligations. If I survive the war, then I’ll come home and make good on all the pleasant dreams we’ve always dreamt for me. I promise you that.

If I don’t then... think kindly of me, please. Put my photo on the memorial next to my uncles who fell in the last war. Say my name at Solstice and burn incense to honour my memory. Remember when we lived and loved and laughed together, under the summer sun or amidst the winter snows.

Hopefully I’ll see you again. Hopefully when the parades march through our home to celebrate our liberation, you’ll run forward and pull me out of line into a warm embrace. I look forward to the day when you’ll stain my tunic with joyful tears at our reunification. And if not, if I’m carried home to be laid to rest under the old tree beside grandfather, don’t exclude me from your prayers.

Cry happy tears that I gave my life for you for us, as you once risked yours to gift me my years on this Earth. The boy you reared, and taught to love, has become a man and that love now burns in his soul. A love of country, yes, but more so a love of you, of our little farm and the bells ringing at festival.

You know I could never sit by and watch as our world is destroyed. They poured across the border; you remember when the news broke in the town. You remember the fear and the anger. You remember the way that the priest told us the bells would ring until noon, then remain silent until we are free.

Those bells will ring again. They’ll ring to announce that we’ve won. They’ll ring to announce that I’m coming home. Or, when the fighting it done, they’ll ring to say that I am gone. To buoy me into the hereafter. To finally put me and your tears to rest.

One request I have of you, dearest mom. One request only, even if you deny me the space on our memorial, and carve my name from your heart for being so foolish as to go. For being the kind of man who ran into the jaws of death and the howling screams of war. Please don’t tell dad where I’m going.

Don’t tell him that I march away to war.

Don’t tell him that I’m going into the teeth of the storm.

Don’t tell him.

Don’t tell him that the little boy he once carried on his shoulders to watch parades is gone, and a soldier now stands where that boy once waited for father to come home. Please, mom, spare him the pain of waiting by the door for me as I once waited for him. Spare him the knowledge and the sleepless nights by the fireside, waiting to hear my boots on the path to the home he built for us.

Let him believe that I am far away. Let him think that once the war ends, I’ll return with a foreign bride and stories of my success. At least until the end. Until the war is over. I’ll come home if I can, and if I can’t, you’ll know it because I won’t come home.

But until that day, let him believe I am safe. Let him think that I am coming home.

His heart would shatter, becoming a wreck of a man waiting on a ghost if he knew before the end. Spare him what he can be spared from. Don’t tell my dad I’m going to war. Let him live with his memories. Let him imagine that that little boy he taught to climb trees is somewhere safe from the bombs and the bayonets.

I am sorry to leave this lie in your hands. I am sorry that I could not save you also from the fear of not knowing whether I live or not. I will send letters when I can, but I don’t know when that will be. So, if you do not hear from me, do not think the worst.

Live in hope of my safe homecoming. Live in joy, knowing that I fight to protect you and my sisters. Live, please live, and remember me. Remember the joy on my face when I blew out my birthday candles. Remember the feeling of holding me against your shoulder as I wept over a broken heart.

Remember the boy I used to be, instead of the partisan who had to march away from you. But please, mom, it will quiet my soul as I fight the invader from our lands, it will help lay me to rest should I die as a partisan, if he doesn’t know the danger into which I charge.

Tell him only that I had to go away. But not where I had to go. Tell him that I’m safe from the terrors of the trenches. That is not a lie. We hide in the mountains where he taught me to thrive and hunt; among the trees he taught me to climb. We live among the rivers where he taught me to swim. Tell him only that I had to go away, but never where I had to go until his little boy comes marching home in our victory, or doesn’t.

If I can, I promise, I’ll come marching home. You’ll be so proud of your soldier when he comes marching home. Victory cries on his lips and tears in his eyes. But you can’t tell dad where I’m going. I’m sorry to put the burden on your shoulders, but please... please don’t tell him.

I love you.

I’m sorry.

Angelo

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This is part 1 of 4 of a series of related but not sequential vingets. I hope you enjoyed :)

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4