“Let’s go, boys. I pulled Bitsy’s cycle out of the ditch and I think I can finish fixing it before she gets home. You can help me.”
“I want to help too,” says Sunny.
“Well, come on then!” That’s Dan.
Two hours later there’s a dark-green Plymouth in the drive and the children are tumbling down the stairs to see who’s here. I watch from the kitchen window as a man in a black tweed jacket and black beret gets out of the vehicle and courteously opens the passenger side for Bitsy.
He walks her to the front porch and we all run through the living room to see. “Shhhhhh!” I say to the children as I open the door.
“Hi, Patience. This is Mr. Louis Cross, my foreman at the mill. He was kind enough to bring me home,” Bitsy says, her light-brown face flushed rose.
“Won’t you come in, Mr. Cross?” I say just to be hospitable, expecting him, since it’s Christmas Eve, to respond that he needs to get going.
“Well, thank you, ma’am.” The foreman steps into the living room and takes off his beret. He has thick brown hair, a cleft in his chin, and wide brown eyes. “I believe we have a mutual acquaintance, Becky Meyers. Nurse Becky we call her at the CCC camp.”
I look at Bitsy, unsure what to do next, but Daniel walks in just then and makes the decision. “Sit down, Mr. Cross,” he says. “We’ve met before, at the memorial service for the victims of the fire.” (There is no need to say which fire. In Union County, everyone knows he means the wildfire of ’35 that destroyed 10,000 acres of forest and took nine lives, including Sunny and Sue’s mother, father, and baby brother.)
The foreman removes his tweed jacket, revealing clean gray coveralls over a white shirt and a red, white, and blue tie. He chooses a seat on the davenport, scratches Sasha behind the ears, and smiles at the girls, especially Mira, who sits down beside him as if they’re old friends.
“Are you the little girl that was in the paper?” he asks.
“Me? I was?”
“Yeah, there was even a photo. I’ve got a copy in the car. I’ll give it to you later. Nice home,” he says to me as he takes in the blaze in the fireplace, the stockings hung for Santa, the lighted Christmas tree, and the upright piano against the wall. He stretches out his long legs. “Who plays?”
“Both Patience and I,” Dan informs him. “How long have you worked at the woolen mill, Mr. Cross?”
“Since I got back from the Spanish Civil War in ’39.” Daniel takes a seat and leans forward, interested in what the veteran has to say about that earlier war against fascism.
“Why don’t you stay for supper, Mr. Cross?” my husband asks. “We have plenty, don’t we, hon?”
“Aaaah . . . sure,” I say, wondering what Bitsy thinks. I imagine she wants to be off duty and get rid of the man. Too late for that now. “It’s just simple fare, Mr. Cross, but you’re welcome.”
“Call me Lou,” the man says.
“I’m Dan. Dan Hester.” My husband rises and shakes the fellow’s hand and that’s when I notice the scars up his arm.
“Injured in combat?” Daniel asks, holding the man’s right hand for a moment as a doctor would.
“Yeah. That’s partly why Old Man Vipperman hired me. With a major war on the horizon, he knew if the U.S.A. got involved, I’d be 4-F and wouldn’t be called.”
“What happened?” Danny asks in his forthright way.
“Well, I made it through the Union County wildfire without losing a hair and then came the Battle of Jarama. . . . Have you kids heard about that?” The children move in, ready for a story, and Lou Cross is a natural storyteller. This is better than the Lone Ranger on the radio.
“You know about the Spanish Civil War and the Lincoln Battalion volunteers?” Mr. Cross asks us.
“We learned a little about it in school,” Sunny says.
“Yeah, well this good old boy from Union County, along with another four thousand Americans and Canadians volunteered to go. We had big ideas. Gonna help the Spaniards fight General Franco, the fascist.”
“Did you fly a plane?” Danny wants to know.
“No, I drove a tank. That’s how I got blown up. I was just coming out of the hatch when one of Franco’s devils threw a grenade. I tried to chuck it away, but it exploded. I’m lucky I didn’t lose my hand.” He stares at his scars, which are like the bark on an elm tree. Mira reaches over and touches them with one finger.
“Honey!” I say, thinking she’s being too forward, but Lou holds out his arm so all the children can see.
“You know the song about the Jarama River? It’s to the tune of ‘The Red River Valley.’ Can you play it, Dan?” The man is so relaxed, he acts like one of the family.
“I’ve got it here somewhere,” Dan says, looking in the piano bench and pulling out a little yellow songbook, American Favorites. He sits down and plays a few bars of the familiar tune and Lou begins to sing just like Roy Rogers.
“There’s a valley in Spain called Jarama. It’s a place that we all know so well. It is there that we gave of our manhood. And so many of our brave comrades fell.
“Now let’s all sing together,” Lou leads us. “There’s a valley in Spain called Jarama . . .”
December 25, 1941
Silent Night
This afternoon, we had our community Christmas party at the Blums’, which was nice because Dan and I didn’t have much to clean up afterward. Everyone was there, including two new friends of Becky’s who have no family: an elderly lady, Mrs. Stone, and her neighbor, Mr. Roote, whom I recognized as one of the old vets who marches in the Fourth of July parade every year.
We had dinner and dessert and then sang carols. Before Bitsy left, I took her outside and gave her a wooden fighter plane wrapped in tissue for Willie, and the little mantel clock. She said it was the loveliest thing she’d ever owned and before she drove away with Willie, she handed me a copy of the newspaper Mr. Cross mentioned the previous evening.
“You won’t like the story,” she said. “The picture is cute, but the reporter made it sound like Mira ruined the whole Christmas program. He called her a six-year-old exhibitionist. Don’t let it get under your skin. Cut out the picture, but burn the article.” (I did what she said, determined not to let my irritation ruin the holiday.)
Now Christmas is over. The children are all tucked in bed, the girls with their stuffed felt bunnies under their pillows and their wooden planes on their dressers and Danny, with his fighter plane and a basketball under the covers. Daniel came through, after all, with a new brown-and-white pony, a trade for work he’d done for Mr. Dresher, his German farmer friend and client.
“Did you hear Sally Blum got a job in Torrington at the munitions plant?” he says as we sit together in the dark looking at the Christmas tree lights. “The Blums are upset she dropped out of high school. Isaac wanted her to go to college.”
“Almost all of the boys over eighteen have dropped out and enlisted. No surprise that some of the girls are dropping out too,” I comment. “Becky’s usually so conservative, I was shocked that they let her go, but she confided to me that it was either let her work in the munitions plant in Torrington or let her work at the Westinghouse plant in Pittsburgh. At least she has a roommate in the Torrington Boarding House for Women, someone she knows from school.” I look up at Dan. “I’d hate for one of our kids to work making bombs, wouldn’t you? So dangerous.”
“Life is dangerous, Patience. Want a rum toddy?” Dan asks.
“Sure.” I smile, catching his eye.
While he’s in the kitchen I survey our parlor. The room is dim except for the colored lights on the tree. It’s been tidied of all the wrapping paper, and a fire crackles in the fireplace. I take a big breath and let it out slowly. The holidays are always so hectic for me. I never get ready ahead of time, like Becky.
“What did you think of Churchill’s speech on the radio?” Dan asks, coming back with two mugs of the sweet warm drink. “He’s spending the holidays in the White House with the Ro
osevelts.”
“I guess it gave me comfort. I liked what he said . . . ‘Here in the midst of war, raging and roaring over all the lands and seas . . . we have tonight the peace of the spirit in each cottage home and in every generous heart.’
“It does seem like a world of storm, doesn’t it?” I rest into my husband’s warm body.
“Like a fierce blizzard, and it will only get worse,” Dan interjects. “With a blizzard, you know in a few days it will end and you can dig yourself out, but this madness . . . we don’t know where it will stop.”
“What if the Japs and the Germans win, Dan? They can’t win, can they? They can’t take over the whole world.”
“I’d like to say, no, Patience, but the U.S. is starting from a disadvantage. We’re a rich and resourceful country, but our army is the same size as Sweden’s. Our factories are just starting to produce bombers and tanks instead of Maytags and Fords.”
“But if every man and woman in the U.S. made the grand effort, we could triumph, couldn’t we?”
“Not every man, Patience.”
“What do you mean?”
“I told you before. I won’t go.”
“Well, you won’t have to. You fought for the country once already.”
“I don’t know if it will be that simple. . . . Shh . . .” He kisses my palm before I get on my soapbox.
Daniel and I never used to talk politics. Our children, our work, our animals, and the farm have defined our lives. He knew I’d been a socialist, went to radical meetings, marched for women’s rights, and once had union ties. And I knew, in a general way, that he was against killing and greed. Now the shadow of the war hangs over us.
“Let’s sing,” he says.
The rum toddy is having a pleasant effect. “The kids are asleep!” I giggle.
“We’ll be quiet, I promise.” And so we sit down on the piano bench together and I begin to play softly . . .
“Silent night. Holy night . . .” Outside it’s snowing again and the flakes swirl like white embers.
12
January 7, 1942
The Good Cause
CITIZENS OF UNION COUNTY ASKED TO SAVE TIN CANS, reads the headline of the Liberty Times. And underneath there’s an impassioned plea, penned by the newspaperman, Billy Blaze.
“Many an unsuspecting West Virginia housewife helps Hitler and the Japs every day,” he writes. “One look at the city dump demonstrates why. There, in the melting snow, lay thousands of cans that could be reclaimed for the U.S. war effort.
“Two tin cans contain enough tin for a syrette, which is used to administer morphine to wounded soldiers on the battlefield. Tin is used on airplane instrument panels, and since tin is the only metal that isn’t harmed by saltwater, it’s used to ship food overseas . . . Save your cans, citizens, and win the war.”
Even the school’s gotten involved. The first day back from winter break, the kids were told they would be required to bring something that can be reused for the war effort every week. The first collection was rubber. Since the Japanese have cut off U.S.A. supplies from Asia, we have no choice but to reuse rubber products while scientists are developing a substitute.
It was an effort, but yesterday the children and I finally found one old tire in back of the barn that Daniel said was past the point of repair, and all four of them carried it in to Mrs. Archer together. Willie, however, went to all the abandoned houses in Hazel Patch and found four tires—a gold mine!
Now the assignment is copper, and I tell you, I’m at a total loss. Where do you get a piece of spare copper? Susie was so worked up about not having any to take to school that she peed herself again. Apparently, if you don’t bring something for the drive, you get a bad mark.
The one good thing in her having another “accident” was it gave me an opportunity to address her urinary problems.
I TAKE SUSIE into to my bedroom to change her underpants. “Honey, I’m not mad at you. Here are some clean bloomers. Do you know what’s causing you to pee when you get scared?”
“No,” she says, sniffling.
“Does it happen often, like at school or anywhere?”
“A few times it happened when I was called to speak in class, but only a little bit and no one knew, but then one other time it was awful. Mrs. Archer got mad at me and made me stand in front of the class for a long time. I was so scared a whole bunch of pee came out and I ran away. She chased me down the hall and slapped me. She thought I did it on purpose. Now she never calls on me at all, but I’m glad.”
I wince. Lordy, what are we going to do? “I’ll talk to Mrs. Archer, Susie. She must not understand how shy you are.”
The fact is, I don’t know what else to say to Mrs. Archer. If I make a big issue out of it and reprimand her for slapping Susie, she may go to the school board and try to get Susie kicked out.
“Do you think it would help if you wore a pad?”
“Like a diaper? That’s for babies!”
“No, I meant just a little pad. Like ladies wear.”
“Ladies wear pads?”
“Ladies and older girls like your big sister, Sally.”
“I guess. If Sally wears them.”
I don’t tell her I’m thinking of cutting down a Kotex napkin. It’s an expense, but if it will help her stay in school, I don’t mind.
“Did the other kids say anything to you about what happened? Did they tease you?”
“Only one boy. He called me Wetty Pants!” Here she starts crying again. “But Willie punched him and then he stopped.”
“Willie punched him?” I wipe the smile from my face before she can see. Good for him! I think. Bitsy was worried he might be too backward, but when push comes to shove, the kid has guts.
“Yep! And he told the boy that if they ever laughed at me again, he would punch him harder.” Now Susie smiles.
“Okay,” I say. “Fighting at school isn’t allowed, but it was for a good cause.” I pull Susie into my arms and give her a hug. Her white-blond hair smells like flowers.
“Like having a war is bad because of killing?” she says. “Unless it’s for a good cause.”
January 24, 1942
Mourning
Today, when we got up at six A.M., everything was covered in frost. White on the fence rail. White on every branch and twig. White on the grass so thick it looked like snow. I was cooking oatmeal when Daniel reminded me that today the Pettigrews were having a service for their son who died during the attack on Pearl Harbor.
“Did they finally get his body back?” I ask.
“No. The army sent an American flag and a letter that said their son’s remains will be returned after the war is over . . . if they can find him.”
“What do you mean if they can find him?”
“Well, they’re doing their best to bury everyone close to where they died, but war is chaotic and sometimes when men die far from home bodies get mislaid. I saw it firsthand, Patience. Sometimes we just had to dig a trench and lay ten or twenty men in, but the chaplain would always say a prayer and we made sure everyone had their dog tags on. Anyway, do you think we should take the children?”
“Yes,” I answer without hesitation. “They need to know the consequences of war, especially Danny. He thinks it’s all battles in the sky with fighter planes and actors like John Wayne. He forgets that the soldier who dies is a real person with people who love him.”
AFTER BREAKFAST, DAN gathers the children around him. “This afternoon we’re going to a memorial service in Liberty for one of the men killed in the attack on Pearl Harbor. Thousands of soldiers and civilians died that day, and they were someone’s brother or someone’s son.
“This is just one sailor who happens to come from Union County. His name was Jimmy Pettigrew and I’ve known him since he was a boy your age, Danny. He was only nineteen when he died, just a little older than your sister Sally, girls. Now he’s dead and we’re going to the Saved by Jesus Baptist Church to support his mom and dad and to say pr
ayers for the other servicemen who have died.”
“It was the Japs that murdered him!” Danny exclaims. “We should kill as many of their boys as they kill of ours. An eye for an eye, it says in the Bible.”
“It isn’t that simple, son,” Daniel says. “The Japanese and German soldiers have mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers too. If we go on with ‘an eye for an eye’ each time someone dies, wars will never end.”
LATER IN THE afternoon, following our usual trip to Bittman’s Grocery and the Farmers’ Lumber and Supply Store, we all file into the church. Isaac and Becky arrive soon after us and are seated about three rows ahead.
I’m surprised when Bitsy and Willie come in. Willie is still limping and they are escorted up the stairs to the colored balcony. They’re the only ones up there, as far as I can see, and no one makes a fuss that Willie is white.
When I turn around and catch Bitsy’s eye, she gives me a nod, then I remember that the Pettigrews’ older daughter, Maggie, works with Bitsy at the woolen mill. Bitsy told me they often have their noon meal together.
Up front, there’s a carved oak cross on the wall behind the white pulpit and an American flag on a stand to one side. In the center of the dais is a wooden table with a photo of Jimmy in his uniform, a photo of him on his prize horse on the farm, and another American flag folded and placed in a triangular wooden case.
Just when the children start squirming, Preacher Goody in a long black gown, followed by a contingent of the National Guard from Delmont, marches in and an organist plays a few bars of “America the Beautiful.”
“All rise,” the pastor intones. The Reverend Goody, tall and balding, with eyes so dark they seem almost black, is familiar to me. He’s of the fire-and-brimstone variety.
The assembly stands and sings along with the choir. Even the children sing, and this time Mira behaves and doesn’t try to steal the show. “America! America! God shed his grace on thee . . . And crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea.”
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