Godspeed: A Love Story

PROLOGUE

St. Mary’s Catholic Church, Milwaukee

April 10, 2012

A young woman rises confidently as the funeral service nears its end. Father Eamon McGuire nods toward her and steps back as she takes his place at the pulpit. She is a tall, stunning blonde in her early thirties with startlingly intense blue eyes that are red now from lack of sleep and grief.

This is a story she has to tell. Not just for her grieving mother, head bowed and crying softly in the first row, but for her father, too, there in the casket. Especially her father…

She clears her throat and begins.

This is how it all happened…

***

CHAPTER ONE

Milwaukee, June 2, 1974

VIRGIL MAJESKI

They shouldn't allow funerals on a day like this.

There's never a good day, of course, for such a grim duty—unless it's tomorrow.

But especially not on this kind of day, the kind the poets and songwriters say is such a great day to be alive.

Cotton candy clouds bumped lazily against each other, sticking into languorous new shapes, wisps breaking off here and there to mate with each other. Neighborhood kids squealed and shouted at the playground just down the street from St. Therese Catholic Church. Two lovers strolled through the park next to the playground, arms around each other’s waists. Swallows chirped and scolded from their perches along the utility wires, against the backdrop of a sunny blue sky. Two neighbors in pincurlers, hanging out their wash next door to the church, traded recipes across the back fence. A dog barked in the distance. From several blocks away came the tinkling chimes of an approaching novelty ice cream truck.

It was a glorious June morning filled with promise, like the first day of vacation for a kid just out of school, an endless summer stretching ahead. All around, the world screamed life, while the family of Virgil Majeski prepared to bury him.

And what they would learn about this man they thought they knew so well would stun them.

St. Therese sat atop a small hill on a side street in an industrial section of Milwaukee’s ethnic South Side. It was an old church in a working-class neighborhood, a little tatty around the edges now in 1974, and a local landmark because of the ten-foot metal statue of St. Therese the Little Flower that stood halfway down the sidewalk between the street and the entrance. Out of habit, many of the mourners filing into the church this morning touched one of her outstretched hands as they approached, a simple gesture of faith and supplication that she would intervene one day when they needed some help, maybe even a miracle.

Inside, statues of the Holy Family and assorted saints and angels peeked out from dark nooks and niches. The archangel Michael, foot on the neck of a grotesque Devil, was poised to drive his spear home. On a side altar, another statue of St. Therese stared down at a bank of round red votive candles, half of them lit. Just off the vestibule, two freckle-faced altar boys waited patiently by the ropes hanging from the huge bell in the steeple belfry. Despite the solemn setting, they were hard-pressed to conceal their joy at being excused from school for the morning.

The bells were not yet automated, so this was the next-best part of drawing funeral duty—when it was time to signal that the 10 a.m. funeral Mass was about to begin, they got to pull on those huge ropes to activate the bell and clapper. If they timed it right they could soar ten feet on the upstroke, like Tarzan swinging through the jungle.

A large easel in the vestibule displayed faded snapshots telling of a family’s life and history. There were photos of small children at play, Virgil and Velma Majeski’s wedding portrait, shots of family trips and vacations, grandchildren, a young man in a military uniform, World War II service ribbons and medals, some yellowed newspaper clippings attesting to Virgil’s considerable skills as a semi-pro baseball player. There were photos and citations honoring Virgil’s involvement in civic organizations and charities. The easel was festooned with childlike drawings of flowers, created and placed there by Virgil’s granddaughters.

Virgil’s entire life was on display, except for one episode. There was no mention of that tragic day long ago when he and Tommy Molaski, both twelve, were hunting partridge, the day Tommy died when Virgil’s gun accidentally discharged while they were climbing through a barbed-wire fence. Everybody who knew Virgil knew about the incident. Everybody who knew Virgil also never brought it up. He carried the guilt with him until three days ago. It led to his drinking problem, it led to his immersion in community activities. Velma knew he hoped by helping others he might one day absolve himself.

Recorded inspirational organ music flowed through the public address system. The funeral director and his assistant, in hushed tones, gently and unctuously prodded the mourners to take their seats.

It was time. They solemnly and slowly rolled the draped gurney carrying the casket of Virgil Majeski, dead at 56 of a sudden heart attack, to the front of the church. An American flag draped the top of the coffin.

Family members filed in behind it, taking their seats in the front rows next to the casket. Velma Majeski, a stern-looking woman in her mid-fifties, was flanked by her daughter, Virginia, and her sons, Victor and Vernon, all in their late twenties, and their spouses. Over the years, some of their friends kidded the Majeskis about their fixation with the letter V. Velma would smile and flash the V peace symbol at them. Sometimes she even dressed her V children in identical clothes or colors, like a lot of mothers did.

Five small grandchildren fidgeted in the pews, wondering why they couldn’t be outside playing instead. Brothers, sisters, cousins and close friends of Virgil and Velma filled the nearby pews. The church was crowded; Virgil was a longtime resident of the same blue-collar neighborhood where he grew up.

Father Aloysius J. Bennett, who in three more weeks would mark his fiftieth year as a priest, would celebrate the funeral Mass. By now Bennett had presided over several thousand of these, and couldn’t muster much enthusiasm anymore. Unless, of course, the deceased was a major contributor to the collection basket, or a church officer, in which case he might get a slightly better sendoff into eternity, one with some extra oratorical flourishes.

The glorious sunshine had made it warm in the old church. As the service droned on, men removed their jackets and ushers opened windows and doors. Some of the women produced fans. A few of the fidgety smaller children were escorted to the back of the church or outside by a parent or aunt or uncle.

Virgil had been a faithful parishioner and contributor, but Bennett did not really know him well. As the Mass concluded he delivered his usual eulogy, working in the references the family had provided, brief but mundane recollections of Virgil as a pillar of the church and community.

Bennett repeated the familiar words of comfort and condolence that he had used so many times before, citing Scripture and Psalm in praising Virgil’s life as a husband, father, grandfather, Christian neighbor and parishioner. He reminded the mourners how difficult it is to try to fathom God’s plan when someone like Virgil is cut down in his prime.

But Virgil’s had been an ordinary life, an ordinary career, nothing much unusual about this man. A lifetime was being distilled down to forty-five minutes of Scripture, prayer and recollections.

It had all become so routine and commonplace for the veteran cleric that to his regret and embarrassment, he had long ago given up trying to create distinctive and unique eulogies for every occasion—there just had been too many funerals.

So he always was grateful for that moment at the end of the service when he could call on friends and neighbors to share some recollections. It was a tactic he had learned as a young priest—extend an open invitation to mourners to come forward and share their own memories and reminiscences. In Bennett's mind, this transferred the responsibility for a teary, emotional farewell to family and friends, where it properly rested.

But he knew from long experience not to expect much. Few are at ease in any kind of funeral setting. It forces them to confront their own fragile mortality. And fewer still are comfortable rising to speak in public. They’d much prefer to be fishing, or mowing the lawn, or even at the dentist, or maybe undergoing a leg amputation with only a bullet to bite on. About all most people can muster is to show up, make small talk and pay quiet respects. Indeed, Bennett had seen that poll claiming that the biggest fear of most people was speaking in public—ahead even of death.

So there was a long, awkward silence after he invited recollections from the mourners. The only sounds were nervous coughs and the slight shifting of bodies in the pews.

After a long moment, Virgil’s oldest son, Vernon, who had been appointed family spokesman, concluded that he would have to get it over with. He rose and walked to the pulpit.

Self-conscious and nervous, clearing his throat constantly, Vernon stumbled through some brief stories about life with Dad—a mildly amusing tale about a family camping trip, another about Virgil’s stint as a Little League coach, a story about his total lack of a fashion sense. His mother had a favorite little verse that she drilled into him as a kid—‘blue and green should not be seen,’ Vernon said. So he never in his whole life wore blue with green, even though blue and green were everywhere together. Especially in nature. I guess he never looked at the sky or trees.

Soft laughter spread across the pews, including nervous chuckles from the men looking down on blue shirts over green pants or vice versa.

Vernon took his seat. His colorful little story about color would turn out to be the high point of the recollections.

Because again there was a long, uncomfortable silence. No one would look at anyone else. Finally, Al Janowicz, a co-worker of Virgil’s, after being elbowed by Mrs. Janowicz, lurched to his feet. At the pulpit he was embarrassed to be the center of attention. He recalled nervously how he and Virgil had started together as welders at Brixton Tool and Die, then stuttered and stammered through a rambling anecdote about a hunting trip, then veered so far off down a meandering tangent about the intricacies of welding techniques that he couldn’t find his way back. He abruptly ended his story by conceding that Virgil was the best welder in the shop. Red-faced, he made his way back to the pew and the sharp elbows and frown of Mrs. Janowicz.

There was one more attempt to underscore Virgil’s virtues. Ed Teffington, an elderly neighbor, self-consciously told in halting terms how he and Virgil had once built a fence together. He tried to turn it into a humorous story about how good fences don’t always make good neighbors, but he was nervous and forgetful and had to cut his story short when he was overcome with emotion and his voice cracked. He stepped down and dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief as he made his way back to his pew.

Father Bennett looked around, even into the far reaches of the back pews, the refuge of the early departees.

Does anybody else wish to say anything about Virgil? This is your last chance. Bennett smiled to himself at his own feeble joke.

The family was hoping it wouldn’t all be over so soon. Can’t we all just sit here for a few more hours, telling stories, recalling all of the qualities and virtues that made him so endearing to us? They strained for a sound, praying to hear something else that would lift their spirits. They were disappointed. It was to be just another cookie-cutter funeral service.

No one else rose to speak. Another long, awkward silence descended. The only sounds again were nervous coughs and bodies shifting restlessly in the pews. The mourners, their eyes fixed on the floor or some object in the middle distance, were wishing themselves invisible, or at least smaller. They dreaded that they might be called upon, just like back in Miss Swanson’s ninth grade algebra class, summoned to the blackboard to solve an equation in front of a bemused audience of classmates who knew they didn’t have a clue.

An almost-visible cloud of embarrassment hung above the pews—a mutual acknowledgement of having nothing to contribute to this moment, Virgil’s final moment.

Bennett surveyed the crowd again, watching for some sign of movement, until it became obvious that no one else would rise to speak. He began to raise his arms, the signal that the final blessing was about to begin. Virgil’s forty-five minutes had run out.

Then, from the back of the church, a rustling, as heads turned in unison and bodies shifted to take note of the interruption. Striding down the aisle was a tall, bearded man in a black suit, probably in his mid-50s. His bearing was military, ramrod posture and cadenced steps. All eyes were on him as he made his way to the front of the church, one arm raised in the familiar gesture that signaled he wanted to speak. Virgil’s wife and children looked at each other in bewilderment. Who is this?

He paused for a moment on taking the pulpit and looked out over the mourners.

You don’t know me, he began, answering the universal question. My name is Fred Landau. You probably never heard of me. But I knew Virgil very well at one time.

Landau had a sonorous and soothing resonant voice, and a commanding presence at the pulpit. It was obvious that he was comfortable speaking before an audience. He had a slight accent, not identifiable but probably left over from a childhood in an ethnic neighborhood somewhere. A comb-over did little to disguise that his hair was thinning.

I’m in town for a convention, he continued. "I picked up the Ledger yesterday and out of idle curiosity was glancing through the obituaries. Virgil’s name jumped out at me and struck me hard. I served with a Virgil Majeski in Europe during World War II, but couldn’t remember where he was from. The newspaper provided enough information about his service record to satisfy me that this was, indeed, the Virgil Majeski I knew. We lost track of each other after the war. I am sorry to be reunited with him again under such unfortunate circumstances."

The Majeskis exchanged anxious glances, not knowing what might be coming next. Velma leaned forward, to hear better.

Virgil suffered a terrible tragedy as a boy, Landau said, guessing correctly that everyone in the church was familiar with the hunting story. It tormented him when I knew him, it probably tormented him his entire life.

Velma nodded, almost imperceptibly, remembering the many nights he had cried out Tommy’s name in his sleep, or got up and paced restlessly.

Landau looked down at the family in the first pews. Call it coincidence that I wound up here today, or call it fate, but I am going to tell you a story that you probably have not heard before. I did not see any mention of it on the easels out front. None of the previous speakers referred to it. You might not believe it. But I assure you that every word of it is true.

He looked again at the family, took off his glasses, and spoke directly to them.

This story should help assure you that Virgil absolved himself, that he made up for that terrible accident of long ago. Because in the end, he saved more lives than the one he took, and he brought immeasurable joy to hundreds of others.

Landau began a hair-raising story about a night in France in 1944 when he and Virgil hunkered down with the rest of their squad in an abandoned farmhouse as a firefight raged around them.

Suddenly, this hand grenade rolled through the open doorway. As all of you probably know, Virgil was an outstanding third baseman in his day. He reacted instantly, pouncing on that grenade like a Brooks Robinson in fatigues, bagging it like a hot grounder and in the same motion firing it back out through the door so fast that it exploded thirty feet away.

Velma Majeski and her children sat up a little straighter. Landau was right; they had never heard this story. Victor and Vernon looked at each other with arched eyebrows.

Landau had everybody’s attention. There was more to come from this stranger who knew more about Virgil than they did.

"Virgil and I also were together in a little town in France later in 1944. The Allied invasion was driving the Nazis back toward Germany, but they were leaving behind a trail of destruction and vengeance and retribution.

"In this little town they had executed the mayor and the local priest, among others, in reprisal for a sabotage campaign by the local French Resistance. A huge Nazi flag had flown atop city hall, replacing the French tricolor. Before they fled, the Nazis, in a last insult to the villagers, had destroyed every French flag they could find.

"This was the situation we encountered when we liberated the little village on the heels of the fleeing Germans. Because of his leadership abilities, Virgil had been put in command of our platoon after our lieutenant was killed. The first thing he did was order that the Nazi flag be hauled down and burned in the public square. Then he ran up the Stars and Stripes instead, and the cheers from the villagers probably could be heard all the way to Paris.

"But he knew that didn’t look quite right either. ‘Find me a French flag,’ he said to a corporal. But there were no French flags, of course. So Virgil ordered all of us to scour the town and countryside for donations of blue, white and red fabric.

Well, our guys brought in table cloths, sheets, dresses, draperies, blankets, even undergarments. A grandmother cheerfully and tearfully handed us the curtains from her farmhouse windows. I still remember one obliging French patriot, a man in his eighties, who stepped enthusiastically out of his red flannels when I told him about our mission, and handed them over with a salute and tears in his eyes.

The people in the pews laughed nervously, acutely aware that laughing mourners was an uncomfortable oxymoron. But even Velma and her children had to smile at Landau’s engaging and vivid depiction.

"Virgil found a local seamstress, who worked for days to fashion a huge French flag out of all this material. She was so proficient that even the trap door flap in that suit of red flannel underwear was sealed shut with invisible stitches.

"At one point, surveying the mountain of cloth that our guys had brought in, she protested in halting English, ‘There is too much material here.’ Virgil just grinned and told her to use it all.

When the flag was finished, he summoned all of the townspeople to the village square, where an accordionist and a violinist stood by to participate in an elaborate ceremony. As they struck up the French national anthem, La Marseillaise," Virgil ordered Old Glory be taken down and that enormous, home-made, blue, white and red tricolor hung instead. You can imagine the scene as ten of our guys, working from the roof, unfurled that giant patchwork banner so it draped the facade of city hall.

Well, I'm sure you could hear the cheers and the cries on the other side of the Alps. The villagers weren’t actually singing the words to the anthem; in their rapture and joy they were shouting them. The church bell pealed so loudly and so long that it came loose from its moorings and crashed to the floor of the belfry tower. Men and women and children were sobbing. There wasn’t a dry eye in the place, and that included our entire platoon. Bottles of wine appeared from secret hiding places. The musicians struck up a frenzied pace and the townsfolk danced in the street, in and out of buildings and taverns around the square, even into and out of the church. At one point I looked at Virgil and his face was bright red. I thought he was just embarrassed at all the attention. I looked closer and his face was covered with lipstick kisses. The party went on for three days.

Landau paused and smiled wistfully.

We sure hated to leave that place, he said quietly, lost for a moment in thoughtful reverie.

There wasn’t a sound in the church. The nervous coughing had stopped. Mourners looked at each other in amazement. This was the quiet, unassuming Virgil Majeski that they knew as a neighbor and friend all these years?

Landau answered their universal, unspoken question. You might not have heard these stories because like most veterans, Virgil no doubt was not eager to talk about his combat experiences. Even back then, Virgil was quite modest about his exploits, and I’m sure that was true throughout his life. His actions in France deserved a medal, but sometimes these things get lost or overlooked in the confusion and commotion of war.

Victor and Vernon looked knowingly at each other. Despite their constant prodding, especially as children, their dad would not say much about his wartime experiences.

The mood in the church was electric. The atmosphere had changed from one of somber acceptance, depression and regret. Now there was an air of upbeat optimism and pride. Velma Majeski and Virginia wept softly through soft smiles. Victor and Vernon beamed proudly through their own tears. Both were sitting straighter, chests farther forward.

This man was a true American hero, Landau continued. "He embodied the best of what his country stands for. He was admired and esteemed by his comrades, he was a leader, he was humble, he was a patriot.

Virgil and I came from similar backgrounds. He was the son of Polish immigrants. My family fled the growing Nazi menace before the war. During those long days and nights together in foxholes and in slogs across Europe, we often reflected on how fortunate we were to be Americans—our present circumstances excepted, of course.

A titter ran through the pews again. Landau smiled wanly at the memory of those long stretches of military boredom, punctuated by periods of sheer terror.

"We were proud to serve our nation and help repay the debt our families owed to the country that had taken us in. We were grateful for the opportunities and advantages our families had been blessed with.

Virgil was fascinated with the idea of the American dream. It had happened to his father, an immigrant who arrived here with nothing but his carpentry skills and ambition and became a prosperous home-builder. It had happened to Virgil, who carried on and built a career as well as a strong, happy, tightly knit family that feared no tyrant, no sudden knock on the door in the middle of the night, no repercussions for views that might be at odds with those of the government.

The Majeskis nodded, almost in unison. Virgil’s anthem to America had been a regular topic at the dinner table.

He saw America, with all its faults, as still the hope of the world, the promised land of opportunity, its people as the most generous on the globe. He often said it was no mystery why we have such a long line of people waiting to get in, or sneak in, while others have long lines waiting to get out.

The Majeskis nodded vigorously again. So did Virgil’s friends and neighbors. They had heard him say the same things often, at the V.F.W. hall, at Stosh’s Tavern, at the barber shop.

Landau was not quite finished. He had come well-prepared to tie together the many strands of Virgil’s life.

"Virgil was in awe of the adventurers who created this country—from that remarkable little band of Pilgrims who carved a civilization out of the New England wilderness, to the patriots who declared their freedom from a despotic empire, to the pioneers who moved westward and created a