Hope's Daughter

by Joani Ascher

  Jane did not answer, but she managed a sniffle to indicate that her bridegroom might be gone but was not forgotten.

  Mr. Dobbin, though, seemed much more accepting of the baby. While he sympathized with Jane, who still grieved for the healthy child she did not have, his quiet strength helped her stand up to the continued opinions that she should institutionalize her baby, given so freely by anyone who knew about his problem. “Jane,” he said, “you must do what is in your heart.”

  “Even if that means defying Dr. Mann and Mrs. McGill and the others?”

  “If that is what you want. You’re a good woman, and you are a good mother. Don’t worry about the others.”

  In another letter, written to Mr. Weaver two months later, Jane said:

  On April 28, the stock market dropped. I was worried I couldn’t keep your business open, because people seemed not to want to trade. But then the market turned around and it’s been in an up position since. We have more customers than ever, because your clients’ relatives all seem to want to invest.

  By the end of the year, the worthless stock Jane had been unable to sell finally turned a significant profit. Financially, she was able to take care of them all. Emotionally, though, both she and her sister were nervous wrecks. Their futures were too unclear.

  ****

  Mr. Weaver wrote frequently.

  Dear Jane,

  I know it has been difficult for you these last few months. Please know I have every confidence in your abilities. You were always very cautious and correct where speculation was concerned and your unerring sense never led to the wrong investments. My clients are in good hands.

  I’ve heard that one in particular, Hugh Canfield, is prospering during the war. His holdings included several key contributors to the war effort. I assume Mrs. Canfield is now covered head to foot in jewels. It’s strange, but I don’t think she cares much for most of them, unless they are like that cameo she once showed me. It was a lovely thing, something I think you would like.

  I wish I could tell you where I’ve been and what I’ve seen. Someday we’ll sit down and talk about it all. Just know the world is a much bigger place than you would ever have guessed. I suppose if I had followed my father’s wishes, I could have had a tour of the continent after high school. But I had more important things to do then, just as I do now.

  I was pleased to hear how well Dobbin’s factory is doing. I’m sure you are very much responsible for its success. Give my regards to him and Olivia. Until I return, take care of yourself. I miss you. P.

  Chapter Eleven

  May 14, 1943

  Dear Mr. Weaver,

  I cannot believe that it is nearly a year and a half since you left. Your letters are so sad, and yet often so full of hope, I never know whether to laugh or cry.

  I must tell you the latest. First, the business is having a good month. Many people are investing these days. You will be proud when you read my monthly report.

  Mr. Weaver’s letters to Jane were friendlier than Jane had expected. At first, when he went into the service, his correspondence was filled with instructions for her on how to handle various situations. He wrote just as if he were there in the office, teaching her as her employer. But the letters had increasingly become more personal, detailing for Jane where he had been, but without being one of those loose lips that could sink ships so many posters warned people about. He also spoke of his family—his mother, whom Jane had met once, on the day she came to visit her son’s office, and his sister, whose own husband was conscripted, serving somewhere in the Pacific. He never mentioned his father, but Jane was not surprised.

  Jane often wrote about their day-to-day life on the home front.

  The most amazing thing happened today. You may remember my talking about our landlady, Mrs. McGill. Today she made a huge sacrifice for the war effort. I found out about it when I came home, where I ran into her, as usual wearing her American Women’s Voluntary Services uniform, polishing the brass rail in the hallway. I know I’ve told you how much she loves that rail and how she thinks it sets her building above all the others on the street.

  She had tears in her eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked her.

  “The men are coming in a half hour to take my banister,” she told me. “I’ve donated it to the war effort.” She took her cloth and wiped another fingerprint, which I doubt existed.

  I told her how terrific I thought her donation would be and gave her a hug. It’s as if the war has changed everyone, mellowed them, somehow. I also told her how proud Olivia would be, even prouder than when Mrs. McGill took on the job of air raid warden for this district.

  Through her tears, Mrs. McGill managed a smile. Her regard for Olivia was evident, and she stood a little taller, watching me hold onto the banister, for the last time, on my way upstairs.

  When I got there, I found Olivia dancing around.

  Jane left out the part that it was with Z.Z. clutched in her arms, giggling. She sighed, knowing she could never share this part of her life with Mr. Weaver.

  She was following the steps on paper feet she had cut out. I guess used newspaper must not be on this month’s rationing list, or she would never have wasted it.

  The feet were numbered so that following them taught Olivia the newest dances.

  “You can’t wait for a man to practice with,” Olivia told me, seeing me stare. “They’re all overseas.”

  Olivia and Jane worked hard at conserving every possible resource. Olivia kept quoting those ubiquitous posters. “Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without,” she would say. Olivia wholeheartedly collected the tinfoil wrappers from her chewing gum and made her friends who smoked give her the foil from their cigarette packages. After FDR asked people to gather old tires, rubber raincoats, garden hoses, and bathing caps, Olivia went door to door collecting them. She also packed up Z.Z.’s old clothes the minute he grew out of them and brought them to a collection center for refugees and displaced persons.

  Olivia said Z.Z. was a wonderful partner, clutching him to her cheek as she twirled around. He giggled, a sound that sent Jane rushing to cuddle him. She told her sister about the brass rail as she dropped the latest bundle of letters for Olivia from overseas onto the side table.

  “Ooh!” Olivia exclaimed. “I’m going to be busy writing back.” She shuffled through the mail, as if searching for one letter in particular. A broad smile spread across her face as she pulled an envelope from the pile.

  “Horace?” Jane asked.

  Tears filled Olivia’s eyes, belying her smile. “Yes.” She glanced at her watch. “I hope I have time to read it before I go.” Without taking her eyes from the thin paper filled with tiny writing, she packed up the footsteps. Since Jane was home to care for Z.Z., it was time for Olivia to go off to roll bandages before she had to be at her factory job, where she now worked six nights a week. She had discontinued her education completely this year because there was such a shortage of workers in the war industries. Everywhere she turned there were posters for Rosie the Riveter, and she had felt she had no choice but to heed their call. She needed to help the nation manufacture the tools of war.

  Olivia had to travel all the way to Newark, New Jersey, but she declared that even though she had to go at night, so that she could watch Z.Z. during the day, it was worth it. It was for the boys overseas. She faithfully bought war bonds, and stamps toward war bonds, whenever she got paid. She had more energy than Jane had ever seen, and her eyes held a burning light, all for the war effort. No amount of war news on the radio could kill that light, no amount of hard work could make Olivia tired. “I left your dinner on the stove,” Olivia said, while she re-brushed her hair. “It didn’t come out exactly as I expected.”

  “What is it?”

  “It was supposed to be beef stew, but I had given most of our meat ration stamps to Mr. Johnson, because he really wanted a steak. He’s doing so much to protect our neighborhood, always checking the skies in case of an air
raid.”

  “It’s okay,” said Jane, “as long as there are eggs and milk for Z.Z.”

  “Oh, I would never give away anything he needs,” said Olivia, her eyes again filling with tears. She tore her eyes away from her letter and stared at Jane.

  Jane felt sorry for even suggesting such a thing. She knew Olivia adored the baby, even though he did not do anything the other children his age could do. It was as if he was in some kind of time delay. He had finally learned to roll over and could even sit alone, but he had not mastered crawling. Other children his age could already walk.

  Sometimes it seemed as if Olivia was so devoted to Z.Z. she only gave him to Jane begrudgingly. She seemed to think of him constantly, and had made trades for sugar and flour in order to make treats for him.

  Jane set Z.Z. on her lap, facing his aunt, and said, “Auntie O. is the best in the world, isn’t she, Z.Z.?”

  Olivia smiled, grabbed her purse and her already battered fiberboard lunch box, which had replaced her metal one since that was needed for the war. She turned for another look at Z.Z., and Jane waved his little hand at his aunt.

  After giving Z.Z. his bath, Jane cuddled her little boy for several minutes before she put him down on a blanket to play with a stuffed toy. He rolled around contentedly, stuffing the toy into his mouth.

  She opened the latest letter from Mr. Weaver. As usual, he did not say exactly where he was.

  Dear Jane,

  I hope this letter finds you and Olivia well. We have been working very hard. I could never have expected this. I’m sure you understand why I can’t be more specific.

  There was some time this week for quiet thought and speculation. I found my thoughts turning to New York, and I imagined myself back in the office again. You came to my mind, and I realized once more how extraordinary you are. I look forward to the day when I can see you again. There is something I will need to discuss with you at that time.

  I look to the future for happiness. There is little for me here but keeping the men in my command focused on the task at hand. They talk of their wives and girlfriends back home and the lives they’ll have. I find myself thinking of that too. We are all the same, these men and I. Quite different from the people I so often see in New York. I’m baffled by the cause of people’s prejudices sometimes, especially when we face the same enemy. It unites us all.

  I must go now. Think of me too. Prescott.

  Jane was touched by his confidences. She had never before seen the inner workings of his heart and found them harmonizing with her own. He was such a good and decent man, but it took these extraordinary circumstances for her to discover that.

  When Jane put Z.Z. into his crib, she noticed Olivia had left a little story book, one from her own childhood, on the dresser. Jane was touched by her hopefulness, reading to the little boy as if it would help him become more normal, but she was worried. As wonderful as Olivia was for working all night in the factory and slowing down her education so she could care for Z.Z. while Jane worked, she was very emotional about him. Luckily, he was remarkably healthy, given his condition.

  They had only called the doctor to the house a few times this year, mostly for colds. But he had warned them several times that Z.Z. should not get overexcited, since there was some weakness in his heart, and they were advised to keep him away from sick children.

  That had never been a problem, since Olivia did not like taking Z.Z. to the park. She had, twice, but both times came home in tears.

  “The other mothers all stared and made disparaging remarks, not even trying to lower their voices, as if I couldn’t understand them any more than Z.Z. can,” she had cried. “They treated him as if he was dirty, or diseased, and their children could get sick from him. I told them his problem wasn’t contagious, but they turned away. One mother scooped her baby up the second I put Z.Z. into the sandbox. That was when I left. We have our pride, you know.”

  So Z.Z. did not come into contact with many other children, and therefore had not caught any of the typical childhood ailments. No mumps or measles had sickened her baby, Jane realized with relief. The doctor had warned those could be very dangerous to Z.Z. There was also the ever-present summer danger of polio, a concept that frightened Jane more than anything else.

  Z.Z. was growing. He lit up Jane’s life, beaming his sunny smiles whenever she came home. But she worried about what the future would bring. She saw herself twenty-five years from now, doing the same thing, working and providing for her son. But she knew she could not ask Olivia to continue. Once the boys were back, she would marry and have a family of her own.

  Jane was glad that Horace was Olivia’s favorite. Her sister would make a wonderful match with him. He showed promise, worked hard, and possessed a level head, a good sense of humor, and intelligence. He was polite and caring. Several times he had offered to help around the house, doing the heavy chores. For Olivia, the future was bright.

  To Jane’s relief, Mrs. McGill had mellowed somewhat toward her little boy. One evening in May of ’43 she offered to sit with Z.Z., who slept from seven p.m. until morning. “You girls work so hard,” she said, “and you deserve an evening out.”

  Jane and Olivia went to the movies to see For Whom the Bell Tolls, starring Ingrid Bergman and Gary Cooper. Just before the house lights went down, a man wearing his WWI uniform went up onto the stage holding the American flag. Everyone rose and pledged allegiance. Then the theater darkened and The March of Time newsreels were run. There was aerial footage of the U. S. capture of Tunisia, and footage of the surrender of the Axis troops in North Africa. Jane thought of Mr. Weaver. His last letter, while as usual not explicit about where he was or what he had done, had sounded as if he had recently been through a very tough time. She wondered if he ever had a moment of enjoyment.

  Jane and Olivia thoroughly enjoyed the movie. Walking out into the spring air afterward invigorated them. Sometimes it seemed like there would be an end to the war, and life would resume.

  But it never would for Z.Z. or Jane. Her hope of a happy family life was gone. In the back of her mind, Jane had assumed that, after she had Z.Z. and a suitable time had passed, she might meet someone else and marry, for Z.Z.’s sake. It would be good for him, even if it were a marriage lacking passion, as Pearl had once predicted and Jane had resolved never to consider. But with his birth and the circumstances of his affliction, she knew that would never happen. No one would be willing to take on such conditions.

  Chapter Twelve

  Olivia finished daubing the makeup on her legs. “It really looks like stockings, doesn’t it?” she asked, holding the hem of her dressing gown up to show her handiwork. Silk had become a thing of the past, since the war, because nothing from Japan, or the region of the world it controlled, could be imported. Even if they had been able to get nylons, Olivia would have donated them to the cause, since both nylon and silk could be made into parachutes and tow ropes for glider planes.

  Jane tore her eyes from Z.Z., who at two was finally beginning to walk, to inspect her sister’s handiwork. “Aren’t you going to put a seam on?”

  Picking up the mascara pencil, Olivia contorted her body for a go at the back of her legs. “Good idea,” she said, her voice trailing off as she strained farther and farther. “I can’t reach.” She giggled. “Would you do it?”

  “We sure can, can’t we, Z.Z.?” said Jane, putting him into a sitting position on the floor. He chortled.

  “Stand on the table,” Jane instructed. “I want to be at a better angle.” She picked up the pencil and began her work.

  “I wish you could go with me,” said Olivia, her cheeks pink with excitement. “Tommy Dorsey’s band is always so wonderful.”

  “I just got home from work,” said Jane. “Z.Z. needs me here. I spend far too much time away from him.”

  “But he’ll probably sleep most of the evening. Mrs. McGill could watch him do that. And tomorrow is Saturday and you have off.”

  “We’ve imposed on Mrs. McGill
too much already,” Jane told her, while straining to make a continuous line up her sister’s leg. “Besides, she’ll enjoy seeing it with you.”

  Olivia rolled her eyes at Jane.

  “I saw that. Why, do you have a better date?”

  “Very funny. There isn’t a man within three thousand miles.”

  “Nonsense. There are plenty of men on the home front.”

  “Yes, married or 4-F, usually both, or…”

  “Not your type?”

  “That’s one way to put it. How are you doing down there?”

  “I’m done. But don’t look at it until you come down here. You might fall off the table.”

  Olivia got down to the floor and turned to look at her legs. “They aren’t straight,” she moaned.

  “They look more real that way.” Jane giggled. “You never could get them straight.”

  “That’s not tr—” The doorbell interrupted her protests.

  Jane opened the door and saw Mrs. McGill, who carried her usual polishing rag, even though it was unnecessary to wipe fingerprints off the wooden banister that had replaced the brass.

  “You’re early,” said Jane. “But come on—” The sight of the person standing with the landlady stopped Jane cold.

  It was a Western Union carrier. And he had a telegram with him.

  Mrs. McGill burst into tears. Jane was confused. Why would a war department telegram come there? She glanced over at Olivia, saw the color drain out of her face, and knew who it was.

  Horace. He had no family and would have listed Olivia as his next of kin.

  Jane took the telegram with shaking hands, and opened it. It said:

  THE SECRETARY OF WAR DESIRES TO EXPRESS HIS DEEP REGRET THAT CORPORAL HORACE P. FARNSWORTH WAS KILLED IN ACTION IN DEFENSE OF HIS COUNTRY OVER FRANCE SEPTEMBER 13. LETTER FOLLOWS. It was signed, THE ADJUTANT GENERAL.

  The paper floated out of Jane’s hands to the floor. Olivia sank to her knees along with it, buried her face in her hands, and wailed, then threw herself prostrate.