A Pledge of Silence

by Flora J. Solomon

  Through the slightly open door, she heard music and laughter. Through the crack, she saw a man and a woman dancing cheek-to-cheek, their bodies pressed together, the man’s hand low on the woman’s back. Margie said, “Knock, knock,” and stepped inside.

  The woman turned, revealing a flawless complexion and cornflower-blue eyes. Dark red nail polish matched what was left of her lipstick. She smiled, smoothed her blond hair, and held out her hand. “Hello, I’m Evelyn Ross. This here’s Garth.”

  Margie shook Evelyn’s outstretched hand and mumbled her name, but she couldn’t take her eyes off the man. He was old. His face was a roadmap of wrinkles, his hair was gray-flecked, and his teeth were yellowed from cigarettes.

  Evelyn wiped a smear of lipstick off her friend’s craggy face and poked him in the chest with a manicured fingernail. “If you’re playing poker tonight, you better scram. Thanks for the lift. Tell my little brother he’s a marked man.”

  “I wouldn’t want to walk in Little Brother’s shoes,” Garth chuckled.

  Evelyn glanced at Margie, explaining, “My brother promised to drive me here today, but he stood me up.” She turned the radio down. Rummaging in her purse, she took out a mother-of-pearl lighter and a pack of cigarettes. She offered one to Margie.

  She had never been offered a cigarette before. Smoking was sinful, according to her minister back home, who preached about the evils of cigarettes and alcohol—steps down the slippery slope. “Uh, no thanks.”

  Evelyn addressed Garth: “Want me to walk you out?”

  “I can find my way down the stairs.”

  She said, “Well, watch out for Anita Man.”

  He threw his head back and laughed merrily.

  Evelyn chuckled while lighting her cigarette, then opened the door and nudged Garth through it. “Get a wiggle on, guy. Go see if you can cheer up the killjoy in the lobby.”

  He left with a wink and a wave.

  Evelyn sat at her desk, her foot jiggling in time to the music. She tapped her cigarette on the rim of a silver ashtray, and smoke spiraled upward.

  Margie perched on the edge of her bed, watching Evelyn smoke and wondering how she was going to live with a roommate so unlike herself. Feeling awkward, she didn’t know how to sit, or what to say. When the song ended, she mumbled, “Um . . . was that your . . . um, boyfriend?”

  Evelyn exhaled smoke through her nose and looked at Margie as if it were a ridiculous observation. “No. He’s just a friend of my father’s.”

  “Oh!”

  A smile twitched on Evelyn’s lips. “Employee, rather. He drove me over here on short notice. Least I could do was say thank you.” She stubbed out her cigarette. “Would you mind helping me with this luggage?”

  Annoyed by Evelyn’s condescending attitude, she hesitated at first, but then thought it better not to get off on a bad foot. They hefted the heavy suitcases onto Evelyn’s bed, and Margie shyly offered, “You want help unpacking?”

  They shook wrinkles out of skirts, blouses, and jackets and put them on hangers. Evelyn placed purses on the top shelf, and Margie put matching shoes on the closet floor. She had never seen so many beautiful clothes. Caressing the softness of a cashmere sweater, she said, “You and your mother must have shopped all summer.”

  “My mother died when I was thirteen. Dad traveled a lot. My brother and I were pretty much on our own except for the housekeepers. I could tell you stories about that string of creepos.”

  Caught off guard for a moment, Margie was tongue-tied. Thoughts of her mother’s warm embrace came to her mind, and she couldn’t imagine being without it. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered.

  “My mother was a nurse-midwife,” Evelyn said proudly. “She taught women in the slums of Detroit about diet, hygiene, and birth control. Men gave her grief about that. She caught influenza from a fourteen-year-old patient who was pregnant by her brother.”

  Pregnant by her brother? Margie caught her breath, appalled by such open talk about an unmentionable subject. She felt warmth rising to her face, and she pretended to brush lint off her skirt so Evelyn wouldn’t see her embarrassment.

  Evelyn snatched two plain garments from the bottom of the suitcase. “And last but not least”—she held them at arm’s length—“a lovely pink shirtwaist dress. And this exquisite white cotton apron. Notice the two-inch waistband, the four-inch hem, and the patch-pocket detail.” She wrinkled her nose at the probationary uniform. “Can you believe these things? Pink?”

  Margie laughed. She felt the same way about the ugly pink uniforms. “Why do you want to be a nurse?”

  “It’s as good as anything. I like people. I want to travel. I need adventure. My uncle is a rear admiral in the navy. He said if I got the education, he’d get me a job in a naval hospital. The navy has bases in exotic places all over the world.”

  Travel? Adventure? Margie had never equated nursing with anything but drudgery.

  Life as a student nurse kept Margie busy from the six o’clock wake-up bell to ten thirty lights-out. She took classes in anatomy, chemistry, bacteriology, and nursing arts, and then worked long hours on the wards, where nursing instructors monitored her progress. Rules and dress codes dictated her conduct, and random room inspections stripped her of privacy. She wrote Abe long, maudlin letters complaining about domineering instructors and the endless days.

  He wrote back about his own trials, living at home in a town he felt he’d outgrown. His dad continued to pressure him to give up his job at the airfield and to concentrate on his studies. The battle over his major course of study was ongoing. But all that had changed. After a big blowup with his dad, Abe had joined the army. She opened his latest letter.

  Fort Sam Houston, Texas

  My Dearest,

  I think I made a horrible mistake by joining the army. I feel like I’m in prison. All around me is a wire fence, and my world consists of a chow hall, a store, a head, a drill hall, and two dozen oversized doghouses called barracks, a.k.a. home. My days are all the same. Up at 5:30 a.m., to the drill field for PT (physical torment), then to breakfast, inspection, and Colors, followed by military training and lectures. I’m becoming proficient at hand grenades, bayonet drills, and saluting.

  Part of every day includes policing the grounds; cleaning the heads; washing, drying, and rolling clothes; and shining shoes. Evening is free time for letter writing and such. Then “Taps,” the highlight of my day, when I can check out of this hell for a few hours. I’ve never been so tired and sore. The food is vile, and the water is putrid. To add more misery, I’m being inoculated against tropical diseases, and the shots make me feel sick for several hours.

  I took a series of tests for flight-training school. I have to make the cut. I’m having nightmares about being assigned to the infantry with a sadistic sergeant who finds my background in art and design offensive. There are some real bozos here, Margie. Hicks, hobos, and psychos. One good old boy won’t shower, and another saves his cigarette butts in a can under his cot. The smell of those two makes me gag.

  I’m sorry about this sad-sack letter. Wish me luck and please write. Your letters are the only bright spots in my days right now.

  Love you forever,

  Abe

  She kept his letters in a growing stack in her drawer to reread on nights when she was alone and listening to love songs on the radio. Mrs. Abe Carson, Marjorie Olivia Carson—she dreamed about their future together.

  It was a bad day on the ward. Margie had slopped bathwater from the basin onto a patient’s bed in the morning. It was a capital offense, according to the instructor, who was on her case for the rest of the day. Margie ambled to her dorm room, found a red pen, and then X-ed out February 28 on the calendar and flipped the page. She sighed at the realization—only six months done, twenty-eight long ones to go.

  Stepping out of her uniform, she threw it on the floor, too exhausted to remove the button studs and collar and shove the cardboard-like garment down the laundry chute. She tumbled into bed, needi
ng sleep.

  A while later, Evelyn bounded in. “Hey, roomie! Wake up, kid.”

  Margie stirred and reluctantly opened one eye. “What?”

  Evelyn danced a little jig. “I’ve got us dates. Two premeds I met in the lobby while I was discharging a patient.”

  “You picked them up while you were on duty? Are you crazy? You could be expelled.” Margie pulled the pillow over her head.

  Evelyn yanked it away and plopped down on the bed. “Only if I’m caught, and that won’t happen. Come on! It’ll be fun!”

  Margie sat up. She was exasperated with this roommate who was always on the edge of trouble, even sometimes sneaking out at night and coming back reeking of alcohol. “I can’t go out with anyone. I’m going steady with Abe—remember?”

  “Margie! It’s just a hamburger. I didn’t see you at dinner, and you have to be hungry. Get your glad rags on.” Evelyn rummaged in her closet, throwing expensive clothes on the floor.

  Margie looked on with resentment as a silk blouse got kicked under the bed—if only she could afford such a luxury. Her stomach growled with hunger, and a hamburger sounded good. Remembering her bad day and the despotic instructor, she changed her mind about going out and got dressed. “Let’s get out of here,” she said, slamming the door behind her.

  The premeds were waiting in a booth by the time the girls arrived at the diner. Evelyn scooted in next to the blond one, and Margie sat next to the one wearing glasses. He offered Margie a cigarette, which she accepted. They ordered Cokes and smoked while they chatted about classes and dorm life. The blond said, “We can get into a frat party. Are you girls interested?”

  Evelyn perked up. “Of course we’re interested, aren’t we, Margie?”

  Margie felt three pairs of eyes on her. She didn’t want to go to a frat party. She heard they were wild affairs. “I can’t. I have to work tomorrow.”

  Evelyn said, “Come on, live a little. I’ll get you back before curfew.”

  “I’ve got a car,” the blond said.

  Feeling pressured, Margie said, “All right, but we better be back by curfew.” She shot Evelyn a withering glance.

  The fraternity house was jammed, a sea of bodies drinking, singing, kissing, and dancing close. Smoke from cigars and cigarettes floated to the ceiling, and the walls vibrated with sounds of shouting, laughter, and Duke Ellington booming from the Victrola.

  Margie found herself enjoying the din, tapping her feet and swaying to the beat of the music. Her date walked over with two beers. She accepted the bottle and pondered what to do. Her parents wouldn’t approve. Shrugging, she took a sip and found it bitter; she couldn’t help her lips from screwing into a pucker. Her date laughed and nudged forward a bowl of pretzels.

  Nibbling on pretzels made the beer taste better. Soon a warm, fuzzy feeling came over her that reminded her of Abe’s kisses. Missing him and becoming morose about it, she sniffed back a tear. When she emptied the first bottle, her date gave her another. She snuggled into his neck and downed the second drink as they slow-danced in the crowded living room. He proved to be a good dancer, and when he held her close she pretended he was Abe. He provided a third beer, which she drank as they cuddled on a couch. Her vision was swimming and she couldn’t help but giggle when he kissed her forehead and nose and put his hand on her breast.

  She heard, “Hey, lover girl. We gotta split.” It was Evelyn. “Get your coat on. We’ve got the car started.”

  Carrying her coat and stumbling, she followed Evelyn to a car waiting at the curb. Evelyn slid in beside a man whose hair was gray at the temples.

  Margie looked around. “Where’re our dates?”

  “Who cares? Get in.” Evelyn said to the old man, “Put the pedal to the metal, guy.”

  “Sure enough, babe.” He put his hand on her knee, and she slapped it away.

  They made it home with minutes to spare before curfew.

  Standing on the sidewalk, a cold wind whipping their coats, Evelyn instructed, “Take some deep breaths. Pick a point on the front of the desk and don’t take your eyes off it. Just walk. Try not to wobble. Can you do it?”

  Margie took a deep breath. “I think so.”

  “Okay. No giggling. Here we go.”

  Sober-faced, they walked through the door straight to the desk where Miss Anita waited to check them in. Tonight the matron wore a striped blouse, and to Margie’s eyes the stripes were moving in swirls. Her stomach lurched, and she quickly covered her mouth with her hand. Miss Anita looked sharply at her, but just then the telephone rang and diverted her attention. Evelyn signed both their names in the log and the time, 9:55 p.m. The girls tottered arm in arm through the double doors and up two flights of stairs to their room, where they fell on their beds and giggled until Margie almost peed her pants.

  She spent the night with her head in the toilet. Headachy and queasy the next day, she mulled over the evening before—drunk! The things Evelyn got her into! And who was that old man?

  So she asked. “Why the old guys?”

  Evelyn smiled. “They’re a little dangerous. Doesn’t that excite you?”

  A little dangerous? Margie found the response chilling.

  Margie had a research paper on the benefits of massage due for her nursing arts class in the morning. She was half done typing the final copy on her portable Remington—a high school graduation gift from her parents—stopping only to consult one of the nursing journals stacked beside her.

  Evelyn came into the room and sat on the edge of her bed, her shoulders slumped and brow furrowed. “Have you ever wanted to resign from the human race?” she asked.

  It was an odd question from Evelyn, whom Margie considered a caring nurse who offered comfort and hope to her patients with her sympathetic ear and optimistic attitude. She liked that about Evelyn. Concerned, she said, “Are you all right?”

  “I just read something that made me feel sick.” She waved a Time magazine she was carrying. “The Japanese army invaded China’s capital city, Nanking, and raped and slaughtered over three hundred thousand men, women, and children. Three hundred thousand! Even babies and pregnant women. A Japanese newspaper kept a running account of the number of heads severed by two soldiers, like it was a contest.”

  She opened the magazine and showed Margie a picture of a naked child sitting in the middle of the street with beheaded corpses strewn all around him. Even a quick glance was disturbing to her, and Margie quickly turned her head away. “It’s foul. No one could be that vicious.”

  “Yes they can. My uncle has been there. He says Japanese soldiers are trained to be brutal from childhood.” She held out the magazine to Margie. “You want to read about it?”

  “No.” She knew if she read the ghastly story it would haunt her during the day and work its way into her dreams at night. She resumed her typing, but found it harder to concentrate.

  By senior year, woes over unyielding instructors and long workdays were replaced by concerns about the bad economy and the lack of available nursing jobs. Many hospitals had closed their doors, while others staffed their wards with senior-year students.

  Margie sent out a dozen applications, and all were rejected or ignored. Private-duty nursing required experience and contacts, of which she had neither. Some of her friends opted to stay in school to specialize in midwifery or psychiatric nursing, but she cringed at the thought of more years as a student.

  Evelyn said, “Come with me, kiddo. We’ll join the navy together. My uncle will get you in.”

  “He’d do that for me?”

  “Of course. You’re my best friend.”

  The thought exhilarated Margie, but she had to decline. She and Abe were planning to get married as soon as he finished flight training in December.

  She and her classmates attended a reception held by the American Red Cross, which was compiling a roster of nurses for the army and navy to draw upon in times of war or local disaster. After cookies, punch, and aggressive persuasion, most of the class filled o
ut an application for a reserve nurse position.

  “What was I thinking? I’m planning a wedding,” Margie later said to Evelyn.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Evelyn advised. “With more than twenty-two thousand nurses in the pool, nothing will come of it.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Little River, June 1939

  The auditorium at Grand Arbor Hospital hushed as Miss Denver stood to welcome families and guests to the graduation ceremony and introduce the speaker, Dr. Herbert P. Steele, director of medical services at the University of Michigan.

  He kept his speech blessedly short. The graduates, he said, had sacrificed the freedom of their young lives to prepare to enter one of life’s noblest professions. He counseled them on faithfulness, sympathy, tact, and cheerfulness, and then warned them of the undesirability of gossip. He advised them to minister to their own needs by reading good literature, taking walks in the open air, and spending a jolly evening with friends.

  The auditorium was stifling hot, and Margie, struggling to stay awake, snapped alert when she heard, “May I close by wishing you Godspeed.” The audience applauded. She stifled a yawn, wondering what century the old guy came from.

  At the lively reception, people milled about and joyous cries rang out when families connected. Standing on tiptoes, Margie searched the crowd for her parents.

  “Hey, beautiful,” she heard.

  Turning, she was face-to-chest with an army uniform. “Abe!” she cried as she clutched him in a bear hug. Pushing him back, she looked into his face, the best sight she had seen all day. “What are you doing here?”

  “Waiting to squeeze you,” he said, lifting her off her feet and whirling her around. “My leave coincided with your graduation. I thought I’d surprise you.” He kissed her lightly. “Are you surprised?”