***
June 5, 1944
The sun shines in the clear sky. The light wind moves at the pleasant speed of a caterpillar, barely a whisper. I don’t know whether the summer temperature has caused my delighted mood or if I am finally coming back to myself.
Today marked my return to the Production Corps. Lauren and Beth were thrilled to see me and caused such a ruckus that Mrs. Beattie stepped in to quieten the reunion, though she did so with a slight smile upon her lips.
After sewing, we celebrate at the Fountain with milkshakes, French fries, and apple pie.
Music plays in the background as Lauren dips her French fry into mustard, her signature move.
“I think we should make a plan,” Beth says, scrunching her nose at Lauren’s mustard antics.
“What kind of a plan?” I sip my thick strawberry shake.
“One that keeps us on the right side of this unrest.” Beth shrugs.
“Keep each other healthy, happy, and together?” Lauren asks.
“Yeah. Like that.” Beth says.
By the end of the evening, we have planned activities to keep our spirits up. We’ve promised to share our sweethearts’ letters and to be honest with one another, even when we can’t be honest with ourselves. But we’ve also agreed that, depending on the situation, we may have to tell half-truths to keep one another afloat. Our plan morphs into a life raft, and as we say goodbye, we forge a stronger bond, one that can withstand chaos, war, and even, if need be, death.
Friday, May 26, 1944
Dearest Violet,
I hope this letter finds you well. This may be my last chance to write for some time. Activity is heating up, and though nothing specific has been said, I can feel the pressure building, like when the air changes before we see the storm coming across the prairie sky. We are in a holding pattern, but I suspect the day will arrive soon.
I am in love with the coast of England and hope to bring you here one day. The ruggedness has lit a fire deep within me, and I want nothing more than to share the experience with you. I know you would appreciate the region as much as I do, Vi.
We are now surrounded by hordes of British and American ships. The villagers must feel like they have already been invaded, rather than protected. Men in uniforms dominate the region. I am keeping well, and my strength is good. My shoulders have almost doubled in size since I left Cedar Springs.
Thank you for the photo. You look beautiful as ever. I was in need of a replacement, as the previous photo has taken a beating. I pull it out of my pocket several times a day.
We are mighty and we are strong. I believe we can win this war, after all.
You are in my thoughts and prayers always.
Love,
John
***
June 6, 1944
The radio plays softly in the living room. I share the news from John, and the Smiths allow me to read the letter he sent them. We talk about the length of time between his letters and the secrecy about his special training. We theorize about what type of mission he might be involved in and invent stories of Allied troops swooping into Berlin. The stories are bittersweet, and we can taste the difference. Though we all are desperate to win the war, the necessary means sticks in our throats.
We reminisce late into the evening, telling stories from childhood up to John’s last day in Cedar Springs. Mother Smith remembers him as a quiet, soulful boy, who preferred a tranquil spot among the trees to the activity of the town center. She talks about his sweet nature as a young child, telling tales of generosity and kindness.
Father Smith tells about John’s fishing excursions. “He is a fabulous fisherman,” he says proudly. “He is patient as the day is long. He caught fish on almost every outing he went on.” Father Smith pauses as he pats his wife’s knee. “He never brought a single fish home, though, not until I asked him.”
“What? What do you mean?” I ask.
“He threw them all back, told me he couldn’t stand to end the life of a fish. After I told him that eating the fish was as much a part of the experience as casting the rod, he brought home a fish every three or four times he went out.” Father Smith chuckles. “I think he started bringing them back just to please me. He is a good boy, without a doubt.”
“He threw them all back?” I never knew that about John. What did he think war was going to be like?
I settle myself on the sofa with a blanket and pillow and spend the rest of the night awake, pondering the delightful and amusing mysteries of John Smith.
***
June 7, 1944
“CBS World News reporting. We interrupt this program to bring you the latest on the Allied effort. Berlin radio is reporting that an Allied infiltration, which they are calling ‘the Invasion,’ has hit German troops in the northern region of France’s coastline. Although several German radio stations are reporting on this attack by Allied forces, there are still no reports from the Allied Force Headquarters in London. We remind you that Germany is indeed capable of this kind of psychological warfare, and until confirmation arrives from Allied Headquarters, all reports must be viewed as unconfirmed.”
The news arrived in the wee hours of the morning, after I had succumbed to a fitful sleep. I become aware of the commotion when I arrive at the office. Jim and the others gather around the radio and tilt their ears toward the static.
First, the news trickles in from German radio sources. Once confirmed in a live broadcast by General Eisenhower, Supreme Commander of the Allied Forces, the news of the attack floods the radio airwaves. Excitement builds in the office, and everyone cheers as the announcement is translated into different languages for all of Europe. Giddiness fills the air as we hug, laugh, and cry at the news. The Allied Forces are on their way to victory.
Little business takes place as we all hover over the radio. Beyond the large picture window, the town streets are alive with uncertain but hopeful faces.
I step outside the back door. I need to say a prayer for John. Right now, my prayers are the only way I can help him. I know he is in that force. He is fighting through France, and I can’t help but think we may win the war, but I may lose John.
I wipe a rogue tear from my eye, jut my chin forward, and hold my arms tight at my sides, hands curled into fists. I must stay strong and believe he will be safe. I will hold that as my new truth. I will not let fear delude me. I will not let this war beat me down any longer. I am strong. I am capable. I am the one John clings to and I to him.
I open the door and step inside the hallway.
“There you are,” Jim says. “Mr. Smith is here to see you. He ran all the way from the bakery.”
I find Mr. Smith immersed in excited conversation with another Realtor.
“Violet,” he says, out of breath but exuberant. “Can you believe the news? This is what John wrote about. A real attack. One that’ll show those Germans what we are made of.”
I smile at him, sweet as ever, enthusiastic face dusted with flour. “Sure is incredible news. That is for certain.”
“I’m running home now, got to tell the missus. She doesn’t put the radio on till the evening, you know. She’d be sour as a crab apple if I didn’t tell her what our John was up to. We are gonna win this war, Violet. John will come home. You’ll see.”
“Yes. Yes, he will.” I am surprised that I, too, am willing to embrace this notion. Fresh tears, but happy ones, spring to my eyes as Mr. Smith wraps me in a quick hug before he grasps the door handle and runs down the street to spread the news.
***
January, 1945
The holidays come and go. I sent a package to John, filled with sweet treats, homemade jam from Mother, and a fresh batch of handkerchiefs sprayed with my favorite perfume. I hope my gift reached him, though I have not received any correspondence since before Christmas. He apologized for being unable to send a gift.
The few letters I have received over the last several months are polite and kind, but I sense a shift in him, one I can
only blame on the war. I know this time away has cost him a piece of himself. He doesn’t tell me of the horrors he has seen, and for now, I respect his decision. There will be time enough to heal when he comes home. “When he comes home,” I murmur.
I leave the apartment and stop at the mailbox on my way to the office. I place another letter into the slot for pickup and slide on my mittens before I step outside into the frigid air.
Monday, January 29, 1945
Dear John,
I hope this letter finds you healthy, safe, warm, and fed. I haven’t received a letter from you in some time, but I do hope you are receiving mine. I will continue to write every few days in the hopes that a few will reach you.
Your mother and father are both fine, as are your siblings. I’m sure you’ll be surprised by how much little Edward has grown. I suppose I should stop calling him “little” now that he’s at my waist. He still prefers to sit on my knee, though, when we listen to radio programs or when I read to him. He remains the cuddly one of the bunch.
Work at the office continues as usual. We spend most days with the radio on now. The news bulletins keep us up to date with how the Allied troops are managing. I’m not sure if you hear news of what happens elsewhere in the war. Allied troops are moving forward and victory is within reach. I think of all the people displaced from their homes, of them and their children hiding in the woods, and I thank God you are putting those atrocities right. You’re giving them back their homes, their lives, and their country. You are a brave and fearless man, John Smith, and I couldn’t be prouder of you.
I almost forgot to tell you that Jim, from the office, is engaged to be married. Can you believe that? The old bachelor is exchanging his one-room apartment for a home with his love. He and Frances plan to wed in late spring, after the ground has thawed. He purchased a small home a few blocks from the office. They plan to host the reception there, as the garden will be in full bloom. This wedding is one of the rare happy events that I look forward to. Jim is beside himself with glee, and Frances is such a lovely girl. I’d be honored if you would attend as my date. Given that spring is still a ways off, I am hopeful you will be home to join me.
I’d better warm some soup before I turn in. Please be safe and know that you are loved.
All my love,
Violet
I meet Lauren and Beth for tea at the Fountain after work. We see each other almost every day now, and I have grown to love these two women like sisters. We sip our tea and nibble on a plate of onion rings. We tell each other about work and family and share details of our sweethearts’ letters. We giggle like schoolgirls, our voices climbing above the diner’s music. These are the moments we strive to create. We need to find a bit of normal and to keep our spirits up so we can stay strong for those overseas.
I am in the middle of a story about Edward’s shenanigans when Helen enters the diner. I pause mid-sentence as my eyes meet hers. My mouth falls open, and I gape at her frail body, her dress hanging limply from her frame.
“Helen.” I search my brain for an appropriate comment, unable to take my eyes off her sunken cheeks. “Good to see you.”
Helen walks to our table. She doesn’t light up with a smile, but she doesn’t frown at us either, which I take as a good sign.
“Helen,” both Lauren and Beth squeal in unison.
Helen looks out of place as she twists the handle of her purse between both hands. “Hello. Nice to see you.”
“Please sit.” I slide over to make room, though unnecessary for her skeletal frame.
“No,” she says. A sharp tone cuts through her willowy voice. “Thanks.” Her eyes drop to her shoes, and I sense that she would rather be anywhere but here.
“Helen, please. Join us,” Lauren says. “We haven’t seen you in ages, and we want you to know we are here for you.”
Helen nods with a brisk tilt of her head toward the door. “I’m only here because Mother made me come.”
“You aren’t up to a visit yet?” I ask, in a soft soothing tone, like she were a frightened animal.
“To be honest,” she says, a stricken expression creeping over her hollow face, “I’m not up for much these days.”
She offers a weak smile before she pivots on her heel, brushes past her mother and escapes out the door.
We sit and stare at our fingernails for what feels like an eternity before Beth clears her throat. “Robert passed a year ago. I don’t think she is herself yet.”
“I’m worried for her,” Lauren says.
“I’ve known Helen since high school,” I say. “She could be a little solemn, but I’ve never seen her so unhinged.” I choke up as a familiar thought enters my mind. “Promise me you won’t let me get that way if John doesn’t come home.”
“Never.” Beth searches my eyes.
“Of course not,” Lauren says. “We wouldn’t let that happen.”
I nod and cling to their words of encouragement. Our pact is to keep each other strong, no matter what. Even when that means lying to keep us sane.
***
February 1945
A week and a half after our encounter with Helen, Mrs. Beattie enters the sewing room. She closes the door behind her and apologizes for the interruption. “Helen was found early this morning,” she says. “She drowned in the semi-frozen lake on the Parker property. Her and Robert’s favorite picnic spot.” Her lip quivers. “It is undetermined whether her death was accidental. All I know is she was found cloaked in Robert’s favorite sweater, one his mother knit for him.”
Mrs. Beattie’s tough outer shell cracks as she hugs each of us. A sob escapes from her lips, and she retreats to the common room, leaving us to deal with yet another blow from this wretched war.
The news of Helen hits each of us differently, and yet the blow strikes our core. Lauren, nervous by nature, turns her attention to the sewing machine, out of desire to keep her hands moving, I suspect. Beth, a devout Catholic, finds a corner of the room and prays for Helen’s soul. The drumming of the sewing machine mixed with Beth’s murmuring electrify the uneasiness within me. The horrid thoughts questioning my inner strength surface like lily pads in an overcrowded pond.
We all need to collect ourselves, so we retire early from sewing and promise to meet again the next evening.
Tea at the diner is replaced by sewing at the hall. We meet every night. We have little to say, but we are determined to be present for each other and for Helen. Our love for one another remains, though our paths through this unchartered water take us deep into our own thoughts. We attempt to make sense of our own grief, while also trying to dissect Helen’s. Most often, I am either questioning my sanity or deep in prayer, not only for John’s safe return, but also for Helen’s soul.
The funeral is set for a week after her death. The three of us gather at the graveside, keenly aware that the pit of despair now lies a bit closer to each of us. Grief exhausts us, and after Helen’s funeral, we collapse on my sofa. We lean against one another in comfortable silence and remain there while the afternoon passes. None of us want to be alone on this day, yet we aren’t quite ready for real life to begin.
These past two weeks have felt like months. They drag by while I put on a brave face, as I imagine Mother would do. Helen never did that. She never pretended to be okay. Maybe the pretending is what eventually makes life manageable. Or maybe I am delusional and am in as much trouble as Helen was. I hope to never know which is true.
***
February 23, 1945
Friday sweeps in to greet me before I can grab hold of the week. Jim kindly allowed me a few days to gather myself, but I’m returning to work today. I’ve wandered about my apartment in a fog since the funeral, so this morning I am panicked as I pack my overnight bag for a weekend with the Smith family. I run out the door, bag in hand, determined to leave the grief behind and arrive at work on time.
The radio plays news in the background as I file papers and answer phone calls. The radio has become such a cons
tant companion to our workday that I often tune out the noise. My ears only come alive when a song I am fond of airs.
The day is chilly. I make several cups of tea, and before I am aware, the winter sun has set. As I prepare the office to close for the weekend, I hum along to Bing Crosby’s “Don’t Fence Me In.” My imagination conjures the image of John and me together on a front porch, surrounded by children and farmland.
I continue to hum the song as I walk to the Smith house, moving with purpose to stave off the winter frost. In times like these, I allow myself to dream. My dreams help me cling to the notion that John will return safe and sound. At the moment, the dream is all I have. There has been no correspondence from John since before the holidays, but instead of worrying over the silence, I heed his advice from a previous letter. “Don’t go worrying yourself sick,” he wrote. “Worrying won’t change the future, but praying sure might.” A smile lingers on my lips as I think of the no-nonsense way he conveys facts he feels to be common sense. He never skirted around a point, so I take his words to heart, along with everything else he ever told me.
Friday evening at the Smith house begins with tea in the living room as Mother Smith and I catch up on news from town. These days, the dialogue is often fraught with sadness as we learn of another neighbor lost to the war effort. Though we never utter the words, I’m certain we both thank God that John is not the topic of conversation. We talk about the tragedy of Helen’s death and how the funeral was even sadder, with only Helen’s mother, Robert’s parents, Lauren, Beth, and myself in attendance.
My mood lightens as I play with Edward before dinner. His preference is often a book or the Chutes and Ladders game he got from Santa. I am invigorated by Edward’s four-year-old enthusiasm for life. He lives from moment to moment with little thought of the past or future. Childlike banter is a blessing, one I cherish in these heavy days.
Becoming Mrs. Smith Page 9