Only a Paper Moon [ Band of Brothers ] 3

Chapter Twenty-Two

November 20, 1946

Dear Don,

I've been doing some reflection since your last letter. You talked about your difficulty reaching out to Faye, and I figured, maybe it would be good for us to think about better times. I've been doing that a lot. Thinking about what I used to want, before the war.

Do you remember that time in Aldbourne after D-Day, when Harry, George, Buck, and Bill stole that dart board? I yelled at them for five minutes straight; I swear. Bill and George just laughed at me. At least Harry had the decency to look a little sheepish.

Children. That's what George and Bill are. Absolute children. Even now, when George is in a stable relationship and Bill's got a son. I only hope that I can raise my child to be a bit more sane than them.

Remember when you insulted me for being a girl on the first day we met. It still makes me laugh, remembering your faces when you realized I was awake. It really was hilarious. Of course at the time, I already didn't like that I had to work with all of you. But now it just reminds me of how far we've come.

I grew up wanting to be a mother. I had this image in my mind, in those days in Hamburg and Paris, of me sitting at a piano while a little white cat wearing a pink bow slept on top, a husband at the table with a newspaper and a daughter next to me just trying to reach the keys. I think I still want that.

I do still want that. I just don't know if I can have it.

But we have to try, right? That's what we have to do. We have to try for those who can't. We don't move on, but we do move forward with their love at our sides. That's what I'm learning every day.

I'm still scared out of my mind though.

With love,

Alice Nixon

December 9, 1946

Dear Ron,

I can't believe it's been nearly a month since I talked to you last. Not going to work was boring, but now I'm just glad I don't have to do anything during the day. I swear that being pregnant is more painful on my body than all the parachute gear I had to wear. It is terrible.

I'm looking forward to when this child is no longer in me. For a long time, I was worried about being ready. I still am, to be honest. I'm not sure how I'm going to hold him or her in my hands without remembering the blood I spilled. I'm not sure I can make some good any more.

That's why I stopped my art. At least Caravaggio's darkness had a purpose, to draw attention to the light. The things I painted are just darkness. There's a group here in New York that reminds me of my art, though they are brighter. Pollock and Rothko, among others. Rothko reminds me a bit of Caspar David Friedrich. Marc's middle name is Caspar.

These days I can't really sit at the piano. My back hurts too much. But it has made me think a lot about what I want. I keep hearing about the "return to normalcy" when I go out. I don't want a return to normalcy. My normalcy has always changed. I want stability.

You probably think I'm crazy. I know you're enjoying time off. Hopefully we have a while before the next time the army will be called to active duty. But I don't think you'll ever stay in one place. I want that, though, Ron. I want a home.

Maybe I'll get that, with this child. Maybe.

Say hello to your sisters for me. I enjoyed the picture you sent recently of your nephews! Send another when you can. Hopefully I can send one back to you of the newest Nixon when he or she arrives.

With love,

Alice Nixon

January 19, 1947

Dear George,

Hope you and Del are doing well! I wanted to put this message into a letter as opposed to over the phone because it feels like something that needs to be written. There's power in having something in writing. That's something I've learned since realizing I have no link to my life before the Airborne that is physical. Nothing except the beret that I keep in my dresser, locked away.

I've had a lot of time to think while sitting at home with this baby. A lot of reflection. And I know I said it before, but I never wrote it. I wanted to thank you.

You didn't have to talk to me on that train. You could've ignored me. Now I know you've told me many times it was because I was pretty and spoke in a French accent and I have no doubt all that is very true. I know you enough to know that's definitely part of it.

But whatever the reason you sat down, you stayed there because I was tired and didn't want to sleep when I was alone on a train. And I think that says a lot. It's one thing to see something or someone interesting and check it out, to be curious. It's another thing to stay when the curiosity has been satisfied.

And you did. Always.

I never thanked you for that night in Austria when you defied my direct order to stand in front of my gun. I could've shot you. Ron's told me since that he was still in the hallway, and could see what happened. He wasn't going to stop me. But he told me he was glad you did.

I am too. I wasn't then, not really. I wanted that man dead, and I wanted to do it. But I am grateful now.

I've been trying to wrap my head around how I'm supposed to hold a child. I keep thinking about how many lives I've taken since 1940. Too many too count. But I never took one off the battlefield if it wasn't in self-defense. And that's only possible because you stepped in front of that gun.

I'll be able to hold my baby a little easier knowing that, I think.

Lewis says I have to pick a Godparent. Blanche is the godmother. Would you be the godfather? I can't think of anyone else who I would rather choose.

With love,

Alice Nixon