by Mary Fahey
On the troop ship returning
to the states, with mustering out and back combat pay in their pockets and
little else to do, the soldiers gambled. Andy returned home in 1953 with
$8,000, the equivalent of two years pay for a working man. We rejoiced in his
homecoming. He said he wanted to take it
easy for a while and live off his money. We agreed that he should have a rest.
But the weeks turned into months and still he made no effort to find a job. He
became reclusive, rarely going out, spending the day watching TV or playing
solitaire with a deck of cards.
Andy center back circa 1950
His old neighborhood buddies came to invite him out, but
he always made an excuse not to go and finally they stopped asking. He had
nightmares. He jumped out of bed and threw himself on the floor yelling “Hit
the dirt.”
“Post-Traumatic-Stress
Disorder” didn’t exist in our vocabulary in 1954. The more prevalent attitude
proclaimed “Snap out of it. Straighten yourself out and get a job.” We didn’t
know how to help him.
During this time, Andy and I continued our friendship. We
sometimes stayed up ‘til two or three AM, just talking. During these talks he
told me about his Korea experiences, about the ambush and subsequent trek
through the mountains to get back to the American line, about the nights he
heard enemy soldiers taunting the American GIs to show themselves, about the
enemy sniper he always recognized by the distinctive ping of his rifle. He also
became more introspective. He believed in the soul. He said when he saw people
die, he felt that something left the body and he believed it was the spirit.
He
tried to explain abstract thinking to me. He raised a glass from the table, and
asked, “What did I just do?”
“Raise the glass,” I answered.
“How do you know that I didn’t keep the glass stationary
and move the rest of the earth downward?”
He explained about molecules and told me that everything
has molecules that constantly change position and theoretically if you struck
your finger against the table at the same spot, infinitely often enough, the molecules in your
finger and those in the table would rearrange themselves until your finger
could pass through the table. In his hermit life, he still taught me and I
still learned from my tormented brother.
Eventually his money ran out. We wondered how he could go
through $8000. (in 1950's money,) in less than two years? He paid $15 a week to
mom for room and board. He never bought any clothes and only went out
occasionally. I recently learned through
a cousin, that Andy had a gambling addiction. When he did go out, he went to
the race track or to the bookie. We didn’t realize it at the time, but in hind
sight I remember he poured over racing forms. He also taught me how to read a
tout sheet.
My mother moved to Florida and asked Andy if he wanted to
move with her or stay in the Brooklyn apartment. He opted to stay. I had
married by then and sometimes visited him after work. I needed to use my key to
enter the apartment. He wouldn’t answer the door bell. His appearance became
gaunt and disheveled. I no longer recognized the brilliant, strong brother with
movie star good looks I used to know.
He made soup from onions, the only thing left in the
house to eat. I saw no food in the refrigerator. I left to go shopping.
“What do you want me to buy?” I asked
Andy’s pride made him protest. “I have this soup,” he
said. He didn’t want my charity.
I said. “I’m hungry. I don’t want onion soup. I’m getting
something to eat.”
I bought enough so leftovers could sustain him for a
couple of days. I couldn’t offer him money. He would refuse, so when I prepared
to go home, I put a few dollars on the table. Eventually, the landlord evicted
him for non-payment of rent. My mother returned from Florida and paid his back
rent. She told him she would give up the apartment for good. He still refused
to go with her to Florida.
We pleaded with him to get a job before setting out on
his own again. “Don’t worry. I’ll get a job and find a place to live. I’ll let
you know where I’ll be,” he said.
And so, one day in 1955, with suitcase in hand and a few
dollars from my mother in his pocket, my brother Andy walked out of our lives.
Missing Persons Department could do nothing.
“He is an adult. He has the right to leave. There is no
evidence of foul play.”
My mother returned from Florida and roamed the Bowery
looking into the faces of derelicts huddled in doorways. She frequented the
soup kitchens and shelters of Brooklyn and New York, with a picture of Andy,
asking if anyone recognized him. No one knew him. We hired a private detective
who searched social security records, the armed forces, passport applications,
hospitals, institutions, jails and morgues. No trace of him.
I continue the search my mother started before her death.
Andy has never worked or received social security benefits under his old
number. He’s not listed in the Social
Security Death Index. He has vanished.
It occurs to me that I never told him that I love him. I
hope he knew.
When I meet people who ask if I have siblings, I tell
them I had a brother but we lost him in Korea. It’s easier than explaining the
whole story, and it’s not a lie, we really did lose our Andy in Korea.
