Somewhere in Germany

By Mark W. LaPointe

"Somewhere in Germany" is the story of a soldier's ultimate sacrifice during the Second World War and the resulting new reality for his wife and daughter in the aftermath of his loss. It chronicles their struggles and culminates thirty-five years later with the discovery of his letters written home to them during his service. While reading those letters together during the final week of her mother's life, a daughter finally gets to know her father for the first time and come to terms with his loss.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350956931

Mark W. LaPointe

Mark LaPointe is a singer-songwriter, artist and World War II living historian. He was born and raised in Amesbury, Massachusetts. As a songwriter, he has performed throughout the United States and internationally, including the Netherlands where his grandfather is laid to rest. He currently resides in Exeter, NH with his better half, Christine, and their cat, Ollie.

Book preview

Sunday

I knew one month after I married him that I had made a terrible mistake.

Her words struck me to the core as I sat wiping the sweat from her brow. The room was in darkness, all but for a small shaft of light that had found its way through the window draperies. Do you need anything, Mom? Are you in any pain? I asked. My mother was sixty-two years old, and she was dying. Cancer, insidious as it was, could have its merciful side. It could, after all, hasten the end to a life that had been very hard and filled with unimaginable sadness and regret.

I was my mother’s only daughter, and our bond was a strong one. I was going to be certain that I would do whatever it took, physically or emotionally, to ensure that her transition from this life was as peaceful as it could be. She had earned that.

There was no more to be done for her, and it was expected that she would succumb within the week. I had arranged for a small bed to be set up for her in the parlor of her home. This is where she would live out the final days of her life, surrounded by what few things brought her joy— photos of her grandchildren, her piano, and the moments spent with her children, now grown to adulthood with small children of their own.

I sat back in my chair and returned the damp facecloth to the small basin on the floor next to me. Your boys look so handsome, she said, ignoring my questions and looking at the photograph on the table beside the bed. Mark looks so much like your father; I see it in his eyes and in his smile. Your father was such a good man. He loved you so much. I’m sorry that I never told you about him. Your stepfather wouldn’t allow me to talk about him, not to you, not to anyone. Once we were married, that was it. I should have been stronger. I shouldn’t have allowed that, Donna. I’m sorry.

William Aubut—Bill—was my biological father. I was only three years old when he was killed in action during World War II, somewhere in Germany. Growing up, that’s all I ever knew about him. I had lived within the void created by his loss for as long as I could remember. It lent itself to feelings of insecurity and an insatiable emptiness that had become my companion. My mother did her best to normalize our life, but despite this, I always felt different. Even now, as a wife and a mother of my own, I was unable to put these feelings completely to rest.

I leaned forward and pressed my hand to my mother’s, watching her eyes grow heavy. This was the most she had ever said about my father, and I wanted to ask some questions, but I could see the fatigue weighing on her face. I wasn’t sure if she would answer anyway; she never talked freely about my real father.

The years immediately following my father’s death had been hard for her. My mother had done her best to support us on a widow’s pension of $78.00 per month. We’d lived in a cramped second floor apartment in a less than desirable part of Lowell, Massachusetts. I would hear her crying through the thin bedroom walls at night. There was no contact with my father’s side of the family. They had shut us out for some reason—one that, at the time, I was far too young to understand. My mother worked during the day as an operator for the phone company. This made me a Latchkey Kid, as I remember being called. I was to walk straight home from school and, using the key that was hanging by a string around my neck, let myself into the apartment and lock the door. If anyone knocked, I was not to answer. My mother came home from work by bus each evening at 6:00. We would eat dinner and listen to the radio. Sometimes, a song would come on, and there would be a far-away look in her eyes. I would say my prayers each night, and then be tucked into bed with a kiss, and she’d say, Tomorrow will be a better day. The sound of my mother’s tears was the last thing I’d hear through the walls of my bedroom before I went to sleep. That was our life.

When I was six, my mother went to a USO dance at Fort Devens. Her sisters thought it was time for her to start living again. She met a soldier that evening, and he became a part of our lives for the next year. He would have dinner with us when he could, and I’d watch him as he made my mother laugh. He was kind to me as well, reading stories as I sat on his lap. My mother played songs on the old piano that she had in the apartment, and they’d both sing. Seeing him in his uniform, I could almost imagine that this was what my father must have looked like. After he’d leave, my mother would float around the apartment, sometimes singing along to the songs on the radio. Absent now was the sound of her crying at night in her room. She was truly happy.

In the winter of 1948, my mother suddenly went away. She left me in the care of her mother and father and told me that she’d be back in three months. I didn’t know why she was leaving; it was never explained to me. She only said that she needed to go away for a few months but that she’d be back. She promised that my grandmother and grandfather would take good care of me until she returned. I was also told that my mother’s soldier would not be seeing us again.

My mother did return as promised, but she was not alone. She had a baby with her. She had adopted a baby boy, I was told, and I now had a little brother. His name was Paul. He had the most beautiful mop of blonde hair and crystal-clear blue eyes. We went back to living in the apartment, a bit more cramped now, but I loved having my new baby brother to help take care of. It was a nice distraction. My mother began to teach piano lessons as a way to meet the expense of having another mouth to feed. It was nice to have music in the house, and my brother would bounce in his crib to the sounds of it.

Life continued on, as it had before. The days blended together into passing months. Much like my father’s life, my mother’s happiness had been sacrificed for others. My own life also gave way to resiliency as I adopted the role of caretaker to my younger brother. I would often help with bathing him, feeding him and tucking him into bed at night. We worked together, my mother and I, with a common goal of survival. Most nights ended with her popular refrain: Tomorrow will be a better day. I was seven years old.

I remember being mad at the situation. So many men went off to war and returned home. Why was my father’s fate a different one? Why couldn’t he be here taking care of us now? It didn’t matter; he was not coming back. That was real, and the result of that was our reality. That would all change in a year, when I was eight.

There’s something about the start of a new year. The slate is clean, and possibilities are there for something different, perhaps something better. Every January first, my mother would sit me down and tell me this. I know that she wanted to believe it. I know I did as well, but how? So often, the year went on as it always did. But 1950 would prove to be different. That year would set in motion events that would leave an impact throughout the entirety of my life.

My mother attended a New Year’s Eve party with her sisters after they encouraged her to join them in having some fun. It was time for that. It was at that party that my mother met the man who would soon become a stepfather to both me and my brother Paul.

Al was a Navy veteran. Like my father, he’d also served in World War II. He worked at the Navy Shipyard in Portsmouth, NH. By all outward appearances, things were fine. He was handsome, hardworking, and he seemed to make my mother happy. There was a distance, however, between him and my brother and me. He struggled to show even the slightest interest in us. He treated us as if we were invisible. My mother would always try to dismiss it, saying that it would just take time for him to warm up to us. That never did happen.

My mother and Al dated one another for six months. One night, I remember being in my room after dinner when my mother knocked on my door. Al and I have something that we want to talk with you about, she said. They