Buffalo Seminary - Seminaria Yearbook (Buffalo, NY)

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SEMINARIA 1944 21 Good evening, said the stranger. Evenin', was the reply. They both automatically looked up to where the moon shone luminous, almost as if she were a beacon for the enemy planes. Looks like a good bombing night, remarked the stranger thoughtfully, not removing his eyes from the galaxy of the heavens above. True, mused Ockley. They would soon be over, he thought, like monsters whose huge mouths opened only, to emit those projectiles of death which had proved so costly to the villagers. That medal, asked the stranger, referring to the decoration above Ockley's heart, is it yours? No, 'tis my only son, Ted's, but 'e can't wear it now. Oh, I'm so sorry, but it is a flying medal, is it not? Yes, to be sure. Ted, 'e got nineteen Jerries, 'e did, before leaving this earth. You must be very proud of him. That I am, and so would Edie be, if she were still here. Edie? My wife. Oh, There was a pause here. Both men looked skyward. Tell me, pursued the stranger, you don't sound bitter at all. What has sustained you after your family's death? Well, he thought for a while before answering, I guess you'd call it faith. Faith? There are many kinds of faith. I 'aven't exactly got a name for it. It is a faith in God, though. It's a faith in justice, too, I think. In justice? Pray go on. , Well, the way I figure it is, that whatever is done to us is in order to even up the scales of justice. And that's the way God wants it. And you can apply that theory to this disaster. The stranger swept his arm around to include all the destruction and ruin that had been wreaked upon them. Yes, you see, I feel that all these bombs are falling on us now for all the

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20 SEMINARIA 1944 The Stranger and Mr. lllzkley LOWER CLASS PRIZE STORY The wail of the siren pierced the cool early spring air. Once again the inhabif tants of the village lifted apprehensive faces skyward as trembling fingers extinguished the numerous lamps. Soon all was in darkness as the families retired to their various places of shelter-some to that special room in the cellar, others to the sandbagfreinforced corrugated huts that had sprung up like mushrooms after that first raid that had caught them so unprepared. Those who were traversing the small village streets were guided to the public shelter by a small middlefaged man wearing an oflicial raincoat and a dented helmet. The street was dark and empty now, although the siren still echoed in the night air. The warden stood at one corner. He glanced up at the starfstudded sky and then down at the small watch he had extracted from a vest pocket. He muttered . . ought to be 'ere soon. He walked the length of the street he knew so well. Now this village happened to be quite old and was purposely made to look much older for the benefit of the American tourists who were quite en' chanted by its quaint charm. The streets had kept their old cobblestones, but were now dotted by huge craters. It seemed odd to see the old and the new worlds thus represented. Some of the now dark lamp posts were excellent copies of the originals with their tall black shafts and carved arms from which hung high' powered electric bulbs encased in heavy glass covers adorned with iron trim' mings. The house fronts were old too. Mrs. Murphy's Sweete Shoppe was idenf tilied by a suspended wooden slab over the entrance that announced in quaint Old English her trade. There were other spaces for stores on the street, but they were coffms now-cofiins for masses of entwined steel girders and splintered beams with only red bricks for a collin cover. This was the case also of Jerningf ham's Department Store, which had suffered a direct hit. Ockley paused before the former store site and removed his dented helmet. The dent was a battle scar signifying his closest call yet. Under his helmet was the tight navy blue beanie that Edith had knit to keep his head and ears warm on these lonely vigils. She had knitted the last stitch barely a day before she died. He put the helmet on his head and walked back to his original post. Suddenly, from nowhere, a stranger appeared dressed in a somber gray suit and black gloves. Ockley, who prided himself on knowing everyone round about, was sure he had never seen this man before. He was rather undescribable. A gentleman, of course, and one whose disarming manner immediately broke Ockley's reserve.

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22 SEMINARIA 1944 bombs that fell on the helpless Czechs and Poles that we did nothing about then and that our dead balance all the other European dead that we did not avenge when we should have. You understand? Quite It is a faith in God's justice, shall we say. Yes that's it. A faith in God's justice. And with this faith you have been able to surmount the tragedy of personal injuries. But yet, you would not be sorry to be away from it all? No-- he deliberated a moment, no, I would not be sorry to be away from it all. j As Ockley turned to the stranger, he discovered that he had gone as mysterf iously as he had appeared. Then he noticed one of the stranger's black gloves on the cobblestones. He stooped to pick it up, but all this time he had been oblivious to the steady droning coming closer and closer and then -- They found him in the morning where he had been thrown clear of the bombed building. The villagers were amazed at the serenity of his countenance. They could easily see that this man had passed from the world most peacefully. But what struck the onlookers as being extremely odd was that clutched tightly in the dead man's hand was a small black glove. -BETH BOWMAN, '46 PROCESSIONAL Forth from the river, Up from the grass, Down from the pasture, Sung by ev'ry lass, A welcome Gt for any king But chanted for our wilesome spring: Chirped by the robins, Rustled by the trees, Hummed by the meadow, And whispered by the breeze. -JEAN Kuoci-nz, '44