Sisters in Arms

by Kaia Alderson

  “What?”

  “Wait, Eliza didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what? Jonathan, I haven’t spoken to Eliza at all since I left France. What did you do over there to get me out of that court-martial and save me from a dishonorable discharge?”

  Jonathan paused again. “That wasn’t me. That was your friend Eliza.”

  Harlem, New York

  March 1946

  IT WAS THREE months before Grace was able to confront Eliza about Jonathan’s revelation. Part of the delay was because Grace wasn’t ready to let go of her bitterness over how everything went down in France. While she had been more forgiving in the immediate aftermath, resentment hit Grace once her ship back to the United States had set out to sea. And now that she knew Eliza had interceded on her behalf? Well, Grace wasn’t quite ready to not be mad all over again.

  Grace showed up unannounced at the Strivers’ Row office of the newspaper that Eliza’s family owned.

  “I’d like to see Eliza Jones, please.”

  The office receptionist stared at Grace like she had walked in off the street and demanded to see President Truman. The old Grace would have never shown up without having an appointment set up. But she wasn’t that person anymore. And since her afternoon music composition class had been canceled, she had had the time.

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you without an appointment. Perhaps I can set you up for a later time?” From the way the woman was frowning at her, Grace doubted the sincerity of her expressed helpfulness.

  “I’ll wait.” Grace backed herself into one of the wooden chairs in the waiting area. If there was one thing that she had learned during her time in the WAC, it was how to remain focused no matter the discomforts at hand.

  The receptionist’s mouth flattened into an annoyed line. “Suit yourself.” She then picked up the phone receiver and covered her mouth. From what Grace could make out from the woman’s whispers, it sounded like she had called someone high up in management for guidance on how to handle Grace’s request. Eliza’s father was Grace’s guess. From the bits and pieces Eliza had shared about him over the years, the man had sounded like a real piece of work. She imagined she was about to get a face-to-face confirmation of that assessment.

  Shortly after, an immaculately dressed woman emerged from what she imagined was the executive office suite. She walked up to Grace with her hand extended and a smile on her face. Grace, while surprised, returned the smile. It was Eliza’s mother.

  “Grace Steele, I thought your name sounded familiar. How are you, honey?”

  Grace took her hand. “Mrs. Jones! It’s good to see you.”

  Lillian yanked her into a hug. “Where have you been? You shouldn’t have taken so long to come see me.”

  Grace stepped back. “I got the impression that you weren’t a part of the newspaper’s daily operations. I was actually looking for Eliza.”

  “Yes, Veronica”—Lillian gestured toward the receptionist—“told me. I’m sorry, hon, but Eliza isn’t here. She’s home packing.”

  “Packing?”

  “I’m sending her down South on assignment.”

  “You’re sending her? But I thought your husband ran the editorial side of things here.”

  “He did. But he put his back out playing golf over the weekend. He’s at the house too, resting. That means I’m in charge for now.”

  “Wow, a woman editor in chief. My how times are a-changing.”

  “Yes, they are. Although it will probably take hell freezing over for my hardheaded husband to finally retire and let me take over full-time.” Lillian grinned. “Now, why don’t you come on back to my office and tell me how I can help you?”

  Grace was reluctant to talk to Mrs. Jones about what had happened back in Rouen and her daughter’s role in it, but she was able to summarize enough without completely ratting out Eliza.

  “I’m afraid Eliza hasn’t shared anything about your situation with me since she’s been back. As you can imagine, it’s been an interesting adjustment for all of us to get used to living with each other again. I gave the Army my little girl and they sent me back a grown, independent woman who, like her father, doesn’t like to tell me anything.”

  “Does that mean she hasn’t told you about Noah?” Grace might not tattle on Eliza about almost getting her court-martialed, but she wasn’t going to miss out on the chance to dish about Eliza’s personal life with her mother.

  “Well, let’s just say he made himself known to us before she had a chance to keep him a secret from me. But enough about that. It sounds like the two of you have some talking to do. And I need my child on the seven forty-five P.M. train tonight that’s heading down South.”

  Mrs. Jones pulled out a piece of notepaper from her desk. On it, she wrote down an address in the neatest handwriting Grace had ever seen. “Here’s the house address and the directions to get you there. Hurry up, and don’t make her miss that train!”

  Luckily, the Jones home was within walking distance of the newspaper office. From the outside, the Jones family’s brownstone looked like a palatial estate compared with the cramped apartment Grace shared with her own family.

  “Well, this explains her Miss Priss attitude when we first arrived at Fort Des Moines,” Grace muttered to herself as she pressed the buzzer. She expected a maid in uniform to answer the door. But it was Eliza herself who opened it.

  “Grace,” Eliza gasped, her eyes widened in shock. “How did you find me? What are you doing here?”

  “I saw your mother down at the paper. She sent me.”

  The corners of Eliza’s mouth turned down into a frown. “Of course she would. And this would also be the one time she wouldn’t call ahead to let me know you were coming.”

  “Why does it matter? Were you trying to avoid me?”

  “No. I’ve been wanting to reach out to you. I just didn’t know how.”

  “I guess I never got around to giving you my address.”

  “It wasn’t that. Some mail arrived for you right after you left Rouen. I took the liberty of writing down the permanent address on your directory card when I processed it to come back to the States. What I meant was, I didn’t know what was the best way to salvage our friendship.”

  “I’ve known for a while that you came back with Charity in December. I just wasn’t ready to see you until now.”

  “Well, come on in. I’m afraid I’m on my way out of town, though. I leave in a few hours.”

  Eliza led Grace into a lavish sitting room with plump furniture that looked like it belonged in a museum. She did notice, however, one well-loved chair that had a worn spot on the seat cushion. It looked like even the rich had to make do without certain luxuries as well while the war was on.

  Grace sat down on the sofa at Eliza’s direction and cleared her throat. “I know you’re short on time so I guess I’ll just get right to it. Jonathan told me it was you, and not him, who cleared my name in France.”

  A trace of the innocent woman-child Grace had first met almost four years ago flashed across Eliza’s cheeks. “He did, did he?” She said the words carefully, as if she was deliberately not going to confirm or deny whether it was true.

  “He did.” Grace nodded. “What I want to know is how. You busted me in a way that no one could get me out of, not even Charity with all of her connections.”

  “Oh, that.” Eliza waved her hand flippantly. “That was easy. You forget, Captain, we were the ones who controlled the flow of mail coming in . . . and going out.”

  “Go on.”

  “So, what if, say, Jonathan had written a resignation letter to his superiors before you and he saw each other? As you know, letters get lost in the mail and then turn up miraculously all the time . . .”

  Grace finished the thought for her. “Then it would mean that he couldn’t have been ‘fraternizing’ with me because he no longer worked for the government. Oh my goodness. That was a genius move, Eliza.”

  Eliza grinned at her like the cat tha
t got the cream. “Exactly.”

  “But why?”

  “Because I was wrong. It was my big mouth that got you in trouble. So I did what I had to do to get you out of it.”

  A stunned Grace stood up and threw her arms around Eliza.

  “Thank you, thank you, my friend. I was able to keep my benefits for school. I’m now living my dream, and it’s because of you.”

  “Let’s just say I owed you one.”

  GRACE LEFT SOON after, citing Eliza’s impending train trip as an excuse. Eliza had been reluctant to let her go. She had missed her friend. Reconnecting and clearing the air had been everything. Eliza would have to thank her mother for her scheming ways today.

  The top of the steps creaked. Eliza looked up to see her father attempting to come down the stairs.

  “Daddy, no! You’ll hurt yourself. Let me help you.” She rushed to cradle his arm. She pretended to ignore how much thinner he had become in the week since he’d injured himself at the golf course.

  “Let me go, Eliza. I wasn’t going to risk it. I just wanted to catch a glimpse of your visitor.”

  “Who? Grace?”

  “Yes, her. That’s your Army friend that your mother was telling me about. The piano whiz. I believe we saw her play at Adam Clayton Powell’s church a few years before the war. I hated that she stopped. That girl there had talent.”

  “Yeah, she’s pretty amazing. But enough about that. Let’s get you back to bed, Daddy.” Luckily, her parents’ bedroom was only a few steps away from the top of the stairs. She led him to his bedside. He flapped his arm until she removed her hands from his elbow.

  “Let loose of me. I can do this.”

  Eliza’s arms tensed at her sides. She made herself not reach out as she watched him gingerly lower himself back into bed.

  “That’s a fine girl there. If they were letting girls like that into that Women’s Army, then I guess you were in good company.”

  “Yes, Daddy, I was.”

  “Then I guess I owe you an apology. I was wrong to put up a fuss when you first told me that you wanted to sign up.”

  Eliza went still. She didn’t think she had ever heard her father apologize to anyone, for anything. “Daddy, I don’t understand. What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying that since I’ve been laid up in this damn bed that I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and a lot of listening to what all goes on around here. I see now that I’ve been a real hardhead to the two people who mean the most to me. And in doing so that I’ve been standing in their way.”

  Eliza’s mouth fell open. There was no way that she was hearing him correctly.

  “I’m getting too old to lead this paper by myself. Normally, I would have found a man to take my place, preferably a son-in-law.” He stopped to give her a pointed look.

  “Now, Daddy, don’t you start that again. Noah and I are just friends. Yes, I like him a lot. But with him still in the military and stationed back in Alabama, we’ve decided to take things slow.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. But he’s such a fine young man. And a doctor too.”

  “Exactly. Doctors don’t stop doctoring to run newspapers, Daddy.”

  “That’s why I’m going to ask your mother to take over. I’ve seen the changes she’s put in place in my absence. I like them. Even better, circulation is up. And this trip down South she’s sending you on to cover meatier stories . . .”

  “Now, Daddy, don’t you start.”

  “Let me finish now. I was going to say that I like it. It’s not like you’re going down there ignorant. You went to school down there for four years, after all. Besides, I know that doctor and his family are there to look after you. It doesn’t hurt to get to know your future in-laws better before you all, you know, take the next step.”

  “Daddy . . .”

  “And when you get back, we’ll see about getting you on some even better beats. Maybe even a foreign one.”

  “Are you serious? Daddy, do you have a fever?”

  This time, Eliza didn’t hold herself back from reaching out to palm his forehead. He swatted her hand away.

  “Back up, girl. I told you I feel fine. A bad back don’t cause no fever. But there’s one condition. I won’t have you running wild all over Europe by yourself. You might be grown, but you still need someone to look after you. Someone trustworthy. Like a chaperone. Someone with some sense.”

  Eliza thought back to what Grace had said about Jonathan setting her up on a jazz tour through Europe that coming summer once her spring classes at Juilliard ended. Eliza looked at her father again. Just how long had he been listening to their conversation?

  “Let me get this straight. When I get back, you are going to send me back to Europe, with pay and expenses covered, to write stories for the paper. But only if I have someone else tag along with me?”

  “Yes, baby. The letters you wrote to your mother while you were away overseas, that was some mighty fine writing. But only with the right person.”

  Eliza fingered the notepaper that Grace had given her with her phone number on it and smiled.

  “Okay, fine. I think I know the perfect girl . . .”

  Acknowledgments

  THEY SAY IT takes a village to raise a child. Well, it took a whole lot of people to help me “raise” this book.

  I humbly thank God for blessing me with whatever it is that wouldn’t let me give up on writing this story. Even when life gave me reasons to set it aside numerous times. Especially on those nights when I tried to tell myself that nobody wanted to read this “stuff” anyway. And my thanks for putting people in my path who believed in this project and in me.

  To my editor, Tessa Woodward, and my agent, Kevan Lyon, thank you for wanting to read this “stuff.” And for your understanding when my life became chaotic. I appreciate you and everyone on your teams for their contributions to this project.

  To my partner in crime Heather, who tolerated me for hours as I droned on about Black women’s history before politely suggesting that I shut up and write the book already.

  To my husband, Diallo, for being my sanity in general and for holding it down so I could write.

  To my daughter and my angels, you are the reasons why I do this. Each of you inspires me to be a better version of myself.

  To my sister, you are amazing.

  To my mom, who passed away while I was finishing this book. Because of you, I do fearless things despite being scared as hell.

  To my dad, if not for you putting that Black history book in my hands, none of this would have ever happened. You’re the best thing that has ever happened to me. I love you.

  A special thank-you to my high school honors English teacher Judy Legenhausen. When I wanted to drop your class, you lectured me about quitting. That has always stayed with me. Yours was one of the voices that kept me going when I wanted to give up on this book.

  I must also shout out my Destin Divas for having my back, front, and sides; the Lyonnesses for your kindness and encouragement; the Cooper family; Rosemarie Harris; my Depressed Elephants crew; my VONA Popular Fiction cohorts; Marita Golden, gurrrrrl, you saved me for real; my sister in WWII nerddom Stephanie Baker; Mat Johnson; Marjorie C. Liu; Kevin Powell; Beverly Jenkins, I stand on your blood, sweat, and tears; Nathasha Brooks-Harris, you gave me my start in this writing game, I’ll never forget it; the Anointed 2 Fly Spelman College Class of 1998; Aunt Pam; Myrna Scott Amos; and Cheryl Day.

  Thank you to Jack Porter of the Fort Des Moines Museum in Iowa and Elizabeth Skrabonja of the Orangetown Historical Museum & Archives in New York for opening your museums and archives to me.

  I am also grateful to Colonel Edna Cummings, Ret., and the Lincoln Penny Films team for sharing your resources. All of your assistance was invaluable to my research for this project. I hope the remaining 6888th veterans have their Congressional Gold Medals in hand by the time this book goes to print.

  Last but not least, to the ancestors on whose shoulders I stand. I do this because of
you and to honor you. But mostly because I miss you all so much.

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*

  About the Author

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  Meet Kaia Alderson

  About the Book

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  Behind the Book

  Reading Group Guide

  About the Author

  Meet Kaia Alderson

  KAIA ALDERSON is a women’s historical fiction author with a passion for discovering “hidden figures” in African American women’s history. Her specific areas of interest are women’s military history, popular music, women in sports, upper-middle-class African American society, and women’s international travel. She holds a sociology degree from Spelman College and a master’s degree in education from the University of West Georgia.

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  About the Book

  Behind the Book

  This book started more than thirty years ago as a middle school social studies assignment. I was tasked with interviewing an older relative about her experiences during World War II. I called Aunt Carmen, my grandmother’s cousin. She told me that she worked as a civilian Army clerk in Manhattan during the war. A shocked fourteen-year-old me asked, “They let Black women work in the military back then?”

  “Ha!” She laughed into the phone. “The only reason my supervisor hired me was because he had ‘never seen a Colored girl with a college degree before.’”

  That “Colored girl with a college degree” line came back to me the first time I saw a World War II–era picture of Black female soldiers. They were turning the corner of a French cobblestone street. I knew Black women had served back then, but the location in the background was a surprise. I didn’t know any had served overseas. Thanks to Google, the story of the 6888th Postal Battalion—the Six Triple Eight—became a part of my life.