Kopp Sisters on the March

by Amy Stewart

  But now, after a few peaceful days in the infirmary, with Nurse Cartwright changing her bandages and washing her hair (what a pleasing sensation, to have another person’s hands in one’s hair), not to mention a smuggled box of chocolate wafers and a shared cigarette now and again as a reward for good behavior, Beulah felt entirely revived. She’d been going through life like a chipped teacup, broken in places and threatening to shatter at any moment if she wasn’t handled right, but she felt restored now, or at least glued solidly back together.

  It came as some disappointment, then, when Constance arrived to check on her, and Nurse Cartwright announced that she was ready to return to duty.

  Beulah’s hand flew up to her face. “Oh, but they’re all going to ask about my nose.”

  “You fell down in the commotion the other night,” Constance said. “Everyone knows that already. They haven’t missed the fact that you’re living in the infirmary.”

  “I saw the soldiers come in yesterday,” Beulah said. “Are they really closing the camp down?”

  “Not yet,” Constance said. “I had a telegram from Maude Miner this morning. She and General Murray will be back in a week’s time to give us something like a graduation ceremony and to officially close the camp. The families have all been notified.”

  “Are the soldiers still here?” Beulah said, rising gingerly from her comfortable hospital bed, as if her injured nose might prevent her from walking upright.

  “They’ve gone back to Washington. They’ll return after we leave to put the camp together the way they like it.”

  “All right, then.” Beulah went behind a screen to dress. When she was ready, Nurse Cartwright put her hands on Beulah’s forehead as if to take her temperature one last time and declared her well. “Come back once a day and let me look at that nose,” she said. “If it starts to bleed again, I’ll take care of it.”

  “It won’t,” Beulah said. “I’ve never been much of a bleeder.”

  “Well, then, you have that in your favor.”

  Constance looked at Beulah and the nurse, puzzled over the easy manner they had between them. After they left, she whispered, “Did you tell her?”

  “Nurse Cartwright? Oh, I told her everything. You have to, if you’re staying in her infirmary.”

  “I can’t keep your secret if you go around telling it to other people.”

  “She’s a nurse! She won’t tell anyone.” Beulah knew perfectly well that Nurse Cartwright would never say a thing. She’d never felt so safe around another person in her life. There was something so staunch and reliable about a gray-haired nurse who had seen everything. She couldn’t be surprised or shocked. How she managed to be so kind, and to keep a good humor, after all the malaise she must’ve witnessed over the years, was something Beulah couldn’t fathom, but she did marvel at it.

  “I hope you’ve had some time to think about what you might do next,” Constance said, “because we only have a week to go. I don’t want to just take you to the train station and drop you off.”

  “Oh, you won’t have to,” Beulah said. “I’ve decided to stay here in Washington for a while.”

  “But where will you go?”

  “I have a friend who wants me to come,” Beulah said. She wasn’t ready yet to tell Constance who that friend might be. She wanted to keep it to herself, for just a little longer.

  Constance studied her for a minute and said, “I have a word of advice for you. I think you ought to change your name.”

  “I’ve changed my name a hundred times! I won’t be Roxie Collins again. I was thinking—”

  “I mean that you ought to change it at the courthouse. Legally. So you don’t have to lie anymore.”

  “You mean like how married ladies change their names?”

  “Something like that,” Constance said. “You’d have to go before a judge, and they won’t all be sympathetic.”

  Beulah wrung her fingers together as she thought it over. “I wouldn’t know how to do a thing like that.”

  “I can help you with it if you’d like. I know my way around a courthouse. I’m acquainted with a lawyer or two.”

  “Well, then, I’ll think on it. My old name doesn’t belong to me anyway. It belongs to a murder trial. I can’t ever have it back.”

  “I’m sorry it has to be that way, but I do believe it’s the best thing you could do for yourself,” Constance said. “If you don’t find a judge here, I might know one in Hackensack.”

  “Is that where you’re going? Back to Hackensack?”

  “I’m still thinking about it.”

  Constance sounded like she knew more than she was willing to say, too. Let her have her secrets, Beulah thought.

  “Well, Miss Matron, what are we going to do in our last week of camp?” she asked.

  They were on the edge of the training field, looking down at the rows of tents. Constance put her hands on her hips and took a deep breath.

  “It’s my camp. We’re going to train for war.”

  47

  CONSTANCE NEVER DID find out how Clarence acquired the extra guns. He must’ve ridden some distance to collect them, because the trip took the better part of an afternoon. Whether they were requisitioned from a military depot or a farmer up the road was, she decided, not her concern. They were ordinary rifles like any country-dweller might keep on hand.

  Neither had she had any trouble convincing Clarence to fetch them. He’d been raised among sisters and was accustomed to women telling him what to do. Besides, he showed a fraternal regard for the women’s camp and its inhabitants.

  “Decisions are going to be made very quickly in the next few weeks,” Constance said when she put the idea before him. “Your own sergeant doesn’t think we’ve done anything here but entertain ourselves. I’d like to show him otherwise.”

  “My sergeant doesn’t think, period,” Clarence said, in the tradition of privates everywhere who love to complain about their commanders but would nonetheless follow them straight into the hell of war.

  “Then let’s finish our training,” Constance said, “and hold proper graduation exercises.”

  “Seems only fair,” Clarence said, affably, and went off in search of weaponry.

  As soon as she had the guns in hand, so to speak, Constance announced her plans to the campers. She kept them in the mess hall after dinner on a Tuesday evening to explain the last-minute addition of new courses on manual combat and marksmanship, a week before graduation.

  The announcement came as a shock to the campers, who thought that the war had granted them a reprieve and their final week would be more like a holiday. Plenty of them raised objections to the militaristic leanings of the new program.

  “I was told we weren’t to be turned into Amazonians,” complained Liddy Powell from a table in the back.

  “I hardly imagine we’ll be called upon to arm ourselves in Connecticut,” said Ginny Field.

  “Although I wouldn’t mind knowing how to throw a man down on the ground,” added Tizzy Spotwood.

  “But just who are you to teach us?” shouted Liddy.

  Constance thought those were reasonable questions and didn’t mind answering them. “A rifle is nothing but wood and metal. It won’t turn you into an Amazon. But if you don’t want to handle it, you don’t have to. You’re all welcome to learn how to throw a man down on the ground, or how to break free from a captor. It could be of considerable value to the girls going to France, but you might find a use for it in Connecticut, too. Clarence and Hack have volunteered to play the part of the attackers, as long as you go easy on them. And you’re right to ask how I would know.”

  She didn’t even pause before she said it. Beulah was right—she’d been ill-served by the mountain of shame and regret she’d shouldered since the election. What good had it done her? “I was a deputy sheriff in Hackensack. I carried a revolver, and I tackled criminals and put them into handcuffs, just like any other deputy.”

  That brought an excited murmur from the
crowd. One girl said, “I heard something about a lady sheriff who got fired last year.”

  “That was me,” Constance said. “The new sheriff said he couldn’t think of anything for a woman to do at the jail.”

  There wasn’t a camper in the mess hall who agreed with that sentiment. Every single girl signed on for rifle training, even the reluctant ones.

  The course began promptly at eight o’clock the following morning: not a minute could be wasted. The grass had grown long, and the dew was considerable, so that most girls rolled up their waistbands to raise their hemlines. Constance didn’t object, and in fact imagined that over in France, the women must be making all manner of impromptu adjustments to their uniforms.

  She’d conscripted Sarah Middlebrook as her assistant. The two of them took the first class and showed them how to stand with a rifle, how to check it for ammunition, and how to put a target in their sights. There would be no long nights in the woods rehearsing with wooden substitutes. These girls had to be taught quickly, out of necessity, which was exactly how Constance herself had learned to shoot, the first time Sheriff Heath put a police revolver in her hand. She flinched a little at the memory—what promise that moment had held!—but there was no time for reminiscing. Her class was ready to take aim.

  “I don’t know when I’ll ever need to do this,” said Liddy Powell, when Constance put the rifle in her hands, “but this might be the last time anyone offers to teach me.”

  She hit her target on the first try, gave a little yelp of victory, and went right back into line to take another turn.

  So it transpired that in their last week of camp, in every spare moment, a regiment of young women took part in the training that had previously only been offered to a few of their number, in secret, late at night. Marching practice was cancelled, as were calisthenics. Instead they rehearsed choke-holds and ground tackles. Target practice took place four times a day, with twenty girls at a time aiming at bottles on fence posts near the edge of the woods.

  There was simply nothing more glorious than to see what these girls could do, if they were allowed to be a little rough-and-tumble. After a month at camp, their inhibitions and pretenses had fallen away. The uniforms had an effect, of course: everyone was equal in drab khaki, and the differences between them faded away.

  As Constance walked among them on the training field, adjusting their stances, and checking that they had the target in their sights, she couldn’t help but feel, in some small measure, what it must mean to command a regiment. These girls were hers. They trusted her, and they counted on her to show them what they needed to know.

  Constance had the peculiar sensation, during that week, of knowing already that she ought to pack away a memory of those days when they were all together, in the pale lemony sunlight of early April, their feet planted firmly in the earth and their eyes squinted carefully into the rifles’ sights, with a round going off and echoing around the camp, to be greeted by cheers and applause from all sides. If there was anything in the world she wanted, it was this. She only wished she knew how to hold on to it.

  48

  “‘SUNDRY PERSONS HAVE come to the United States during the past year and a half with large foreign credits, by the help of which, it is alleged, fires have been started, factories have been blown up and men and instrumentalities have been subsidized. These credits, when in national banks, can be followed as they are paid out by the accounting and financial detectives in the service of the Government.’”

  Norma read the story aloud with great theatricality, then passed it with a flourish to Constance, who was, at that moment, standing on an overturned fruit crate in her petticoats as Fleurette repaired a split seam in her skirt.

  “An accounting detective? That’s dull work,” Fleurette said from behind a mouthful of pins.

  “At least the pay’s sufficient,” Constance said, having turned the newspaper over to finish the story. “It says here that the salaries for investigators begin at three dollars a day, with money for expenses. Experienced men of the highest class receive twelve dollars a day.”

  “Which means they will offer you a dollar a day, and their thanks,” Norma said.

  Beulah chortled at that. She was lounging quite comfortably on Fleurette’s cot, enjoying the sensation of a nose liberated from its bandages. It was turning gaudy shades of purple and green and was still quite tender, but the fresh air was doing it wonders.

  “I know all about a dollar a day and their thanks,” Beulah said. “Don’t settle for anything less than five dollars a day, even in service to your country.”

  Fleurette knotted her thread and ripped it deftly: she never bothered with scissors. “Step into it,” she said, holding the skirt up to Constance.

  Constance did as she was told. Fleurette buttoned the skirt around her waist and walked around, checking the seams. “Do you have enough room to perform your maneuvers? Let’s see you kick something.”

  Constance kicked her leg out half-heartedly, but she was still engrossed in the newspaper. “Listen to this. ‘Mr. Bielaski’s business is considerably more difficult than that of the ordinary policeman, inasmuch as the former must ferret out the criminal intentions of would-be violators of law and checkmate them before they can accomplish their purposes. A good example of this sort of work was his exploit in arresting a group of Germans in New York City who planned to blow up the Welland canal. Mr. Bielaski knew all about their plans but he waited until the last possible moment in order to obtain all evidence. Then he made his arrests and the canal today is safe.’”

  Fleurette found a loose button and pulled the skirt off. “You’ve been awfully rough on this uniform. I’m going to do all of these again.”

  “There’s hardly any point. We have only a few days left,” Constance said.

  “I might as well fix it up. You’re going to go right on wearing this uniform when we get home, I know you will.”

  “I do like a uniform,” Constance admitted. It dampened her spirits to hear mention of returning home. Was she really about to be back on the farm, in her old clothes, sleeping in her old bed again? It seemed impossible, with the war under way. Even congressmen were offering to resign their posts to go into the Army and Navy. It was stifling to think of shuffling back to Wyckoff.

  But there was Fleurette, down on the floor, her knees tucked under her, whipping a needle through a wooden button. It occurred to Constance that in every home across the country, siblings were looking at one another and wondering where the war might take them, and when they might again be together.

  “Roxanna’s made her plans for after camp is over, but she won’t tell us about them,” Constance said. (Beulah had by then come clean to Fleurette—it was impossible to keep a secret from her—but they’d agreed to stick to the habit of calling her by her assumed name so they wouldn’t slip up in front of the others.) “We don’t yet know what to do with Fleurette.”

  Fleurette gave her a sharp glance from her spot on the floor. “Someone has to mind the farm. You’ll find some sort of position with Miss Miner, and Norma will be off at an Army pigeon depot,” she said as she tied off the last button and shook out the skirt. No one quite trusted the notion that the Army was prepared to welcome Norma into its ranks, but they were all pretending, for the sake of peace within the tent, that she would depart for her military assignment immediately upon graduation.

  “Leaving you to mind the farm? You’re not going to stay out in the countryside by yourself, are you?” Beulah said. “Aren’t there wolves, and snow?”

  “There’s one but not the other,” Norma put in. “Fleurette should go to Francis’s.”

  “Oh, is that it?” Fleurette said. “You and Constance intend to find military posts, and I’ll help Bessie on washing day?”

  “Who are Francis and Bessie?” asked Beulah, who never did manage to learn much about the Kopp sisters’ past.

  “Our brother and his wife. They’re always trying to take us in,” Fleurette said. “He want
s the farm sold and the three of us tucked under his roof, or some roof nearby where he has more of a say.”

  Fleurette wrapped the skirt around Constance’s waist again, tested the buttons, and found them satisfactory. “I’ll make uniforms, of course. We’re so near the woolen mills, I expect they’ll set up shops and I’ll work in one of them.”

  There was an odd, uncomfortable silence around the tent. Beulah looked quizzically at Constance, who tried to catch Norma’s eye but was unable to do so.

  “Well?” asked Fleurette. “Isn’t that what you had in mind for me?”

  It was—Constance had to admit that it was—but she knew perfectly well that Fleurette had no intention of sitting out the war behind a sewing machine.

  49

  WHEN MAUDE MINER and General Murray arrived, a week later, for graduation, they found themselves treated as honorees at a parade. The gate was festooned with bunting, the flags were flying, and the campers lined up in rows three deep to wave them in. A newly expanded viewing platform sat at the edge of the field, where the guests could watch the graduation exercises. Some of the families had arrived as well, and every chair in the camp had been gathered so that they could sit alongside the platform and watch the proceedings.

  After lunch the visiting dignitaries climbed the platform and took their seats, along with Constance, the instructors, Nurse Cartwright, and another invited guest: Geneva Nash, still on crutches, but pleased to be asked back to observe the conclusion of the camp she’d opened.

  “Why do I have the feeling that I’m about to watch some sort of happening?” Miss Miner asked. “I was imagining that we’d be in the mess hall, handing out badges and patting each girl on the back.”