“Sure, Abie, it sounds lovely,” she said, putting several tablespoons of Maxwell House into the percolator. Her voice grew sharper, even as the tantalizing smell of fresh-perked coffee filled the room. “Oh, but Abe, please, not Grossinger’s.”

They looked at each and burst out laughing. Years before, when the twins were finally old enough to be left with their grandparents, Abe’s parents had sent Annie and Abe off to Grossinger’s for a week’s vacation. Annie had hated every minute of it (except, maybe, for the luscious food) — the mixed swimming and lack of tzniyus; the nonstop and, to her, brainless games and dances and sports activities, organized by overexcited, almost jittery social directors; and, worst of all, the loud and brassy social scene. They’d actually returned home two days early, when Annie couldn’t take the noise and overstimulation anymore. They’d told Abe’s parents that they’d missed the children too much. “Abe, please, not Grossinger’s,” had become a joke between the two, repeated whenever Annie needed a little quiet.

“Of course not, sweetheart. I’ll find the quietest and frummest and junkiest hotel up in the Catskills. We’ll go up on Monday, stay through Shabbos, go to the reunion on Sunday and then, back to work!”

The Manor House Hotel was certainly everything Abe had said it would be. Quiet? It was a bit early for the summer season, and aside from the Levines, there were only six or seven other guests. Frum? The proprietor, Henry Perlstein — “Just call me Chatzkel” — sported a large black silk yarmulke over his white hair, a strong Yiddish accent, and a welcoming smile.

Abe had also promised junky, and that was true as well: The hotel doors creaked, decades of summer sun had faded the green shutters into a depressing color reminiscent of mold, and the stingy drops of water dripping out of rusted shower heads were tepid at best.

For Annie, it was love at first sight.

The simplicity, the quiet tranquility. She loved watching the children climbing trees, walking back from the nearby woods with some early, rather greenish blueberries, and swimming in the lake’s frigid waters (“makes the shower seem warmer,” Artie joked). The food was unsophisticated, but it was generous and absolutely kosher; why, they even had a mashgiach kashrus on the premises.

Outside, listening to the birdsong all around her, staring into the depths of a sky far bluer than the one in Brooklyn, she felt she could take the anxieties of the past months — her worries about Artie and Marjorie and her fear of becoming a new mother at such a late age — and throw them up to Shamayim.

Only one thing marred her tranquil contentment.

War.

Abe was always busy with his pediatric practice during the year, and Annie had hoped for some quiet time to speak with him or just to relax together during their time in the Catskills. But somehow, with the upcoming reunion of his army buddies, his conversation often led back to those days when he’d been an officer fighting the Nazis, with Mutty providing an eager audience to Abe’s wartime memories.

Still, the week had been lovely. Now, Erev Shabbos, Annie was rocking in a brightly colored hammock, her favorite place in this blessed hotel. The younger children were flying around in a noisy game of tag, while Artie, Mutty, and Abe were sitting on the hotel’s uncomfortable wooden chairs, sipping bottles of Coca-Cola and chatting. Artie, of course, had his guitar on his lap. He was playing some gentle chords and singing quietly to himself, and Annie was happy to see that Artie was his usual self again, finding some — was it comfort? Satisfaction? Meaning? — in his music even after the date with Temmy went nowhere.

“Hey, Dad, do you think Sergeant Baker will be at the reunion?” Mutty asked, after taking a long and refreshing drink.

“Who’s that?” Artie asked, strumming a few chords.

“He was a sergeant who helped Dad out the time he threw a grenade in the Nazi tank, right Dad?”

“Sure, Andy Baker. Good guy. I lost touch with a lot of my men. They were transferred, and I”—that cloudy, almost dark look appeared in his eyes again—“I was wounded and shipped back home. Baker lived somewhere in the Midwest. It would be fine to see him again, but I’m not sure if he’ll come.”

Artie stopped strumming. “Dad, do you mind if I ask you something a little personal?”

“Sure. Ask away.”

“How did you feel, knowing you’d killed those people in the tank?”

Mutty broke in. “They weren’t people, Art, they were soldiers. Nazi soldiers, murdering Jewish children,” he said heatedly.

Abe put up a calming hand.

“It’s okay, Mutty, it’s a valid question.” He turned to Artie. “In the heat of battle, you’re not feeling anything. You do what you have to do to survive, and to keep your buddies alive. That’s it. And afterward….”

“Afterward?”

“Afterward, you learn to live with certain facts. The soldier you killed, the sniper, the tank driver, the guy driving a truck — well, maybe he’s an SS member or maybe he’s just some poor 19-year-old idiot draftee and his mom and dad’s only child — but if you don’t kill him, he’ll kill you. And if you don’t defeat him, his people will kill your people. You move on, Art.”

“Seems an awful way to settle a dispute.”

“War is awful, Artie. But it wasn’t exactly a dispute, it was the Nazis bent on exterminating every Jew. Me and you and every other Jew on this planet. Not to mention millions of others who wouldn’t worship their evil leader and who believe in democracy.”

Artie’s voice came out, a little vehement, a little sarcastic. “I’m not talking about the Nazis now. I’m talking about a bunch of peasants in a rinky-dink little country in Asia.”

“You mean Vietnam, don’t you,” Mutty said, his voice just as vehement as his foster brother’s. “I’m telling you, Artie, the war in Vietnam is necessary.”

Artie rolled his eyes and put his guitar down on the lawn. “Come on, Mutt, necessary? Necessary to keep sending more and more American troops? Advisors, they call them, but more and more I’m hearing about American soldiers coming back home in body bags. This isn’t World War II. We’re meddling in someone else’s affairs, and for what? To stop Communism? It’s half a world away — who cares?”

Mutty clenched his fist and his jaw tightened. “Communism is a threat, Artie! If we don’t stop it in Vietnam, it’ll spread like wildfire, and who knows where it’ll end up. Maybe even here. We can’t just turn a blind eye.”

“You heard Dad. War is awful. Maybe there’s another way to solve this.”

Mutty’s face reddened, his voice rising. “Another way? Like what, Artie? Diplomacy? Those Communist leaders won’t listen to reason. Sometimes, you have to stand up and fight for what’s right!”

Annie pulled herself up out of the hammock. Tranquility had vanished. Let’s put a stop to this.

“Boys, Ruchele, Shabbos will be here soon. Time to get ready!”

“Yes,” Abe added, “first one in gets the warmest water!”

The children raced into the hotel, shouting and laughing. Mutty glanced at Artie, who’d picked up his guitar and begun to sing. His cheeks reddened even more as he heard Artie quietly singing a song that was becoming more and more popular on the radio.

… how many times must the cannonballs fly / before they’re forever banned? / the answer, my friend, is blowin’ in the wind / the answer is blowin’ in the wind.

Shabbos passed, tranquility once again spreading over the family like a cozy and warm blanket. Annie always enjoyed Mutty and Artie’s graceful harmonies as they sang zemiros, but after that argument their blended voices seemed especially meaningful. They don’t have to agree on this crazy Vietnam war, she thought, as she relished the thick chicken soup with lokshen, it’s not something that will touch us.

Sunday morning brought a frenzy of decision-making, as the children had to choose whether or not to join Abe for his reunion. Annie had gently declined: “It’s our last day here, Abe, and I just want to rest up. You go. Enjoy your friends.” Mutty, of course, was the first to jump into the car, followed by the twins, who wanted to hear more stories about Daddy’s fighting. Ruchele decided to spend the morning with her dollies and her Mommy, and she joined Artie and Annie on the hotel’s porch.

But the quiet was broken by the roar of a powerful engine, and a bright-red Mustang that pulled up in front of the hotel.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 864)