The Sleeping Night Read Free Page B

High laughing in her mind. She looked at the stars and Isaiah wept. Angel held his hand in the darkness, feeling something big and sad move inside of her. But instead of tears, she held on to the thought of Jordan High in heaven, laughing with God.
    After a time, there came the flicker of torches and flashlights through the trees, winking in the darkness of thick pines. Isaiah dried his eyes and let go of Angel’s hand. He stared at the silent crowd. A hardness drew up his face as he watched the pinpoints of light weave toward them, and Angel had enough sense to know not to say a word.

PART THREE: DARK
     
How arrives it joy lies slain
And why unblooms the best hope ever sown?
—Thomas Hardy “Hap”
When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as child: but when I became a man I put away childish things.
—I Corinthians 13:11

— 3 —
     
Mrs. Rachel Pierson
#2 Old Farm Road
Gideon, Texas
June 29, 1945
Dear Isaiah High,
I went yesterday to Corey’s store, for Parker is not well. There I saw your mother and, when I asked after your health, she shared the news that you have decided to stay in Europe for a time. She gave me your address when I said I might have a job for you to do, if you are interested.
It has been a long, difficult war and you must be very tired (I remember well the exhaustion of the soldiers in our last war) so, if you cannot do this thing for me, I will understand.
My wish is this: that you would see for me if there are any of my sister’s family remaining alive. They were Jews from Holland, and I had hopes I might hear from them when the war ended, but I have not. There was my sister, her husband, and their daughter, who will now be in her middle twenties. I will be happy to pay you what ever you wish. I want only to know if any of them are still alive so that I do not have to spend the rest of my life worrying if one of them is starving. If you find any of them alive, I will take them in here.
Please let me know at your earliest convenience if this is a task you wish to undertake.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Rachel Pierson

— 4 —
     
    Gideon, Texas
    May, 1946
    By the time the train reached Texas, Isaiah felt like he’d been traveling a thousand years. He was weary of sitting and wanted a meal that filled him even more than he wanted a night’s sleep. His temper had been boiling for thirty-six hours and, if he’d had any doubts that he could return home for any length of time, riding Jim Crow through the South, where his uniform with its bars meant nothing at all, had disabused him of that notion.
    He had been in Europe for more than four years, first in England, then across France and into Germany. He’d understood that his service had changed him. Until he’d been forced to board the colored car at the Mason Dixon line, he had not realized that it might be impossible to return to the Jim Crow South, to fit himself back into the rigors of a system that now seemed antiquated and peculiar.
    However much he and his fellow soldiers had changed, it was clear the South had not. Companions warned him with stories of the beatings that soldiers received when, after long years away, they forgot themselves and tipped counter girls or filled paper cups with water from white water fountains.
    Some of them, naturally, were young men who wanted to test the walls upon their return, soldiers full of themselves and the guns they’d held and the freedom they’d discovered on foreign shores.
    Most had just forgotten. A grandmother in a blue calico dress warned Isaiah that there were always those willing to remind a colored man of his place.
    “Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Thank you kindly.”
    Isaiah worried over Gudren, up front in the white cars—worried about her being alone in her frail state, with her accented English. He’d found her in a refugee camp, half-dead, and it had taken several months before she’d been well enough to travel. Those months had given her some dignity,