It looks like I have only one stamp left, and that means only six pounds of sugar this month. Each person—man, woman, and child—gets one pound, which doesn’t go far if you want to preserve fruits and berries. Still, we have some crystallized honey Mr. Dietz gave me for delivering their baby a year ago and some maple syrup that Mr. Mattock made from his stand of maple trees this spring.
At 1:00 P.M. sharp, I pick Mildred Miller up in Hazel Patch. Dan is home mucking out the barn and he’ll watch the children, so Mrs. Miller and I will have time to do our shopping and then report to the Liberty First Methodist Church for bandage wrapping. It will be Mildred’s first Red Cross meeting. When I pull up to her neat log home, she waves me inside.
Stepping into the large living room with oak bookshelves against the log walls and the gently worn velvet sofa and high-backed easy chair they got at the flea market along the road in Delmont, I see that the Millers have restored their home to its former comfort and warmth.
Ten years ago, I first met Grace Potts, the old colored midwife, in this very room, when Mildred’s daughter, Cassie, was having her first baby. I’d been called to assist with a hand presentation and with a little reflection and a lot of help we were able to get a healthy baby out.
Across from the front door is a newly painted bright-yellow kitchen with a pale-green enameled high-backed gas stove, and on the round oak table is a finished quilt, in a red, white, and blue pattern, wrapped up with twine.
“Do you think the ladies will like it?” Mildred asks, running her brown hand over the white background.
“You’re bringing it to the Red Cross meeting? It’s so pretty.”
“Yes, I read about a woman in Texas who donated one to the Red Cross because she didn’t have money and they raffled it off for fifty dollars. Fifty dollars would buy a lot of bandages. The lady has three sons in the army and wanted to do something helpful. I don’t have any sons in the war, but all God’s young men are my sons. . . . I finished it last night.”
“I’m sure it will be greatly appreciated. The local chapter is always having fund-raisers.”
It isn’t until we enter the community room in the basement of the Methodist Church that I realize that since I’ve been coming to the Red Cross meetings I’ve never seen a colored woman there. What was I thinking? This is a potential disaster.
“Who’s the chairman?” Mildred whispers to me, smiling.
There’s no way out of this now, and I lead her to a table in front. “Mrs. Goody, this is my friend Mrs. Mildred Miller. She’s here to volunteer for the Red Cross.” Mrs. Goody stands up and the silence is broken only by Ida May’s smoker’s cough.
“I think we have something in common besides concern for the soldiers,” Mildred Miller says. “We’re both pastors’ wives. You may have heard of my husband, Reverend Miller.”
“I heard you moved away,” Mrs. Goody responds coolly. “You’ve returned?”
“Yes. We’re back in our own home in Hazel Patch. There was quite a bit to do, but we had help and now my husband is working part-time at the woolen mill.” Mildred smiles my way. All the other women watch like owls in a tree, waiting to see what will happen next.
“I brought something I thought the Red Cross could raffle off at a fund-raiser for the war effort,” my friend says, opening her canvas satchel. The women lean forward as she pulls out the quilt.
“Ohhhh!” they all say.
“What is it?” Lilly Bittman whispers.
“A beautiful handmade quilt. Do you want to see?” I ask her.
Mrs. Miller places the elegant blanket in Lilly’s lap. Since the redhead is blind, she runs her fingers over the material, feeling the stitches.
“It’s made of red, white, and blue diamonds in a star pattern,” I explain.
“Beautiful,” Lilly agrees. “And such workmanship. You’re very talented, Mrs. Miller. Here, sit next to me. We welcome you.” The blind woman pulls out a chair beside her and everyone relaxes—everyone but Mrs. Goody, who frowns and tightens her mouth.
Soon we are all making bandages, gossiping, and laughing. This time I work slowly, so I can show Mildred what we do.
“First, using the white adhesive tape on the tables for a guide, we cut the long pieces of gauze into four-inch-wide strips,” I explain. “Then we roll the strips tightly. At the end, we fold the gauze into a point, so it won’t unravel, then tie it with one of these pieces of string. Forty-eight rolls should fit in a box.”
“Yes, the Army Medical Corps is very particular about their bandages,” Mrs. Wade warns. “Each soldier is supplied a roll to keep in a special pocket of his haversack so that if he’s wounded and a fellow soldier comes to his rescue, he’ll know right where to find it.”
The image of the wounded soldier sobers the ladies, and Ida, from Ida’s House of Beauty, reminds us that we forgot to say a prayer about our work. “Would you like to say the blessing, Mrs. Miller?” Mrs. Wade asks. “Since you’re a pastor’s wife.”
It doesn’t seem gracious to put Mildred on the spot at her first meeting. No one has ever asked me to pray, but Mildred doesn’t miss a beat.
“Surely,” she says. “What a nice idea . . . Our blessed Lord,” she begins, just like she’d prepared for the occasion. “We ask you to accept this small Red Cross effort, knowing that we live comfortable lives while others around the world exist under a rain of bombs and bullets. We are not soldiers or nurses, we are mothers and wives and working women who keep the home fires burning. Bless our fingers as we roll tight bandages. If we can save one life we will have done your work. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
“Amen,” the women whisper, and I see Mrs. Goody raise her eyebrows at Mrs. Wade, apparently impressed by how calm and eloquent Mildred was.
Two hours later, the bandages are packaged and rolled, the coffee cups and spoons are washed, and plans have begun for a harvest celebration. Ida May knows a country band that will play for free and a square-dance caller who will come. Mrs. Miller’s quilt will be auctioned, as well as cakes and pies and any other items people donate.
Bold as anything, Mildred asks, “Will colored folk be welcomed and allowed to eat with the group?”
My heart does a thump. Everyone stops and waits. Who is to answer this question?
“Yes, of course!” Ida May replies.
“Sure thing,” Lilly follows. “We’re all trying to help the war effort. Why not?”
“The more the merrier.” I laugh, trying to make light of the moment, a significant one in Union County. Though black and white miners have worked underground together for years, have trusted one another and relied on one another, there hasn’t been much socializing between families . . . except on back porches in the dark.
33
August 10, 1942
The War to End All War
Daniel is leaving us for two days. He promises it will only be two. He’s taking a trip to Aurora, Ohio, near Cleveland, a ten-hour drive in the Olds, which is our best vehicle. The purpose of the trip is to visit a small intentional community called Ahimsa, which he explains means nonviolence to all living things.
According to Dan’s Quaker friend in Philadelphia, Ahimsa Farm is home to a number of pacifists, and he wants to discuss with them what they’re going to do about military service. Some, he’s heard, like him, are refusing to register for the draft. While he’s gone, I will have to tend the gardens, the animals, the kids, and myself.
Last night, at bedtime, Dan told the children where he was going and why. “Kids,” he said, “tomorrow I have to go to Ohio to visit some men who I hope will give me some advice.”
“Is it about a sick animal, Pa?” Danny wants to know. “You could just telephone.”
“No, it’s something else, and I need to see them in person. It’s about the war.”
“Are you going to be a soldier?” Susie asks. “Please don’t go. Soldiers get killed. Our teacher reads the names of the dead heroes from West Virginia
out of the newspaper every Friday and we have to say a prayer for them and sing ‘America.’”
Mira stands, puts her little hand over her heart, and belts out the first few lines of the song. “My country, ’tis of thee, sweet land of liberty. Of thee I sing!”
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to be a soldier,” her father says. “I did that once before and I’m not going to do it again.”
“I don’t understand,” Sunny says, looking concerned. “What if you get drafted like the men at the feed store?”
“Well, I’m not going to get drafted, because I don’t plan to sign up for the draft.”
“You can do that?” Danny asks. “I thought there was a law that you had to register.”
“There is a law,” his father answers him. “And I’m breaking it.”
Susie starts to cry and Daniel takes her in his lap. “It’s okay, honey,” he says.
“No, it isn’t!” Danny yells. “You can’t do that, Pa! I don’t want to be the son of a draft dodger!”
“Danny! Stop it. You can’t talk to your father like that,” I scold him. “Just sit down and listen; your pa will tell you a story about the last war.” I nod to my husband as if to say, You’ve started this, now finish it, before our family explodes like a bomb dropped by the Japanese over Pearl Harbor.
He takes a long breath and lets it out slowly. “When I was young, the Great War started. I didn’t really understand what it was all about, except that England, France, and Belgium were in a scrap with Germany, Austria, and Hungary. Then I heard that America was going to jump in too. I was all excited about it, like you and Willie are excited about this war, Danny.
“I knew nothing about killing or death. I just figured it was a good chance to fight for freedom, so I enlisted right out of high school and was sent to Europe as part of the infantry. All my friends and neighbors congratulated me, made me feel like a big guy, a hero.
“The reality was another thing.” He goes on to tell about the first battle and how he had to shoot a German kid about his age who looked almost like his best friend, Tom, from high school. Then he tells about the thousands of dead horses and how after a while he couldn’t see the point of the war anymore.
“In the end, the smell of death was everywhere and the enemy wasn’t some evil man, like in the cartoons, with a turned-up mustache, bushy eyebrows, and a black helmet with a silver point on the top. He looked just like me. So, the long and the short of it is, kids, they called the Great War the war to end all war, and I vowed I would never do it again. The Selective Service knows where I am, but if they come for me . . . well, they still can’t make me fight. They can’t make me kill.”
BEDTIME IS A solemn affair. I ask each child if they want to pray about something. Sunny prays the usual, Now I lay me down to sleep . . .
Mira prays for Jesus to keep the soldiers and the horses safe. “On both sides,” she says as an afterthought.
Susie asks, “Was Papa crying?”
“Yes, honey. I think he was. Your father is worried about these things. He says he won’t go to war, but the government might not see it that way.”
When I go into Danny’s room, I find him lying on his bed, playing with his wooden bomber.
“You doing okay?”
“I hate him.” Danny turns away from me.
“Oh, Danny, you don’t mean that.” No answer. “You’re just disappointed. Everyone wants to believe that the war we’re fighting is true and good. Everyone wants to believe that our soldiers and the Allied soldiers are going to save the world from evil. You want your father to be one of them, a hero.”
“What will the other kids say if they find out?”
“Well, sticks and stones can break our bones, but names will never hurt us.”
“Ma! I’m serious.”
“So am I. When I was young, I marched in the streets so that women could have the right to vote. We were called suffragettes, and men who didn’t want women to vote called us Bug-Eyed Betties, Fishwives, Fire-Eaters, and Battle Axes. Sometimes the men would throw rotten tomatoes at us or spit on us. But we held our heads high and marched anyway. Inside I would tell myself over and over, ‘Sticks and stones can break my bones, but names can never hurt me . . .’ Do you want to say a prayer?”
Danny rolls over with tears in his eyes. “No.”
Outside his room, I lean against the cool plaster wall. Though I try to understand my husband’s point of view, I’m angry with Daniel too. Why can’t he just make this easy for us and sign the damn registration papers? The silver river we call the Hope is dark with trouble.
August 13, 1942
Ain’t Gonna Study War No More
Last night, when Dan got back late from his trip to Ohio, he asked how we’d fared in his absence.
“Okay,” I said as he peeled his town clothes off and crawled into bed. “No big problems, except Danny Boy was a terror. He even back-talked me when I asked him to close the chickens in their coop after dark.”
“That’s not like him. I wonder what’s up.”
“Daniel!” I said, rising up on my elbow and facing him. “You know what’s up. He’s angry about your refusal to register. Is that still your plan after your visit to that place, the Ahimsa House?”
He takes a long breath and pulls me to him. “I missed you,” he says. “You smell good.”
I push him away. “So . . . ?”
“So what?”
“You know what. Any change in your thinking?”
“No, Patience, but I realize now . . . if I’m arrested . . . it’s going to be hard on everyone.” A cold chill runs through me.
“Arrested! Surely it won’t come to that. Maybe the draft board will just make you do community service or something.”
“One of the fellows at Ahimsa has already been sent to prison. He was apprehended in June. The usual procedure, it turns out, is they take you to a local jail before you go to court. Some men are released on bond if they can afford it, but if I’m going to serve time, I’d rather get it over with, not drag it out with a long legal battle. Other men plead guilty and read a statement about why they’re resisting, then they go to a state facility and in a few weeks or a few months they’re sent to a federal prison.”
Listening to him, I feel the cold in my stomach grow from a snowball into a blizzard.
34
August 16, 1942
Viper
In the five days since Becky and Isaac loaded up all they could carry in their Pontiac, locked up the little house with the blue door, and headed for Washington, D.C., I have secretly cried three times. They’re on their way to work at Walter Reed Hospital, and all they left us (except tears) was their old dog, Three Legs, some furniture, and their address.
When I turn out the light and crawl into bed, I can hear Dan outside, sitting on the porch in the moonlight, playing his harmonica. “I ain’t gonna study war no more. Ain’t gonna study war no more . . .”
Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. I knew our friends had both lost their jobs and also that Sally was going to be stationed in Washington, but it all happened so fast. Even now, thinking of it, a stone sticks in my throat. The next thing I know Bitsy will say that she and Willie are getting on their Indian motorcycle and heading out west to sell war bonds. It’s as if someone has switched off the joy button. I lie in the dark listening to the mournful music through the open window and wet my pillow with tears. Becky and Isaac are gone.
SUNDAY MORNING I go over to Bitsy’s. I haven’t been there for a few weeks. We sit in her living room on the red flowered sofa that Mrs. Stone donated. A large American flag is tacked on the wall behind it. “This is so nice and homelike. . . .”
Just then we hear screams. “Ma! Ma!” It’s Willie outside, running toward the house.
“What is it, Willie? What’s wrong?” Bitsy yells from the front porch.
“Snake! A snake bit me.”
“Stop where you are. Don’t make another move. Sit on the ground,�
� Bitsy commands. “Running will spread the poison.” The two of us gather around the frightened boy, Bitsy kneeling.
“First we need a tourniquet. Where’s the bite, Willie?” Bitsy asks
“Here’s my belt,” I offer.
“Ow! Ow! Ow! My ankle.” Willie pulls up his pant leg as Bitsy tightens the tourniquet just below his calf. There are two purple puncture marks.
“Are you sure it was a snake? Not a briar or a piece of barbed wire or a nail?” I ask.
“I’m sure. Ow! Ow! I saw the snake slither away. Am I going to die like the outlaw on The Lone Ranger?”
“Not if I can help it,” Bitsy growls.
By the time we make it back to the farm, we’re fortunate to see Daniel strolling across the barnyard with two pails.
“Help!” I yell as I roll down the window. “Help us. Snakebite!” He sets the pails of warm milk on the porch and runs around back to throw open the door to the Baby Cabin.
I’m the first out of the Olds. “It’s Willie! A snake bit him, probably a copperhead. We have a tourniquet on.”
By now the poor child is delirious, whether from fear or the venomous poison, I can’t tell. Bitsy steps aside to let Dan carry him into the cabin. First thing, Dan removes the belt from around Willie’s calf. He checks the circulation, waits a few seconds and tightens it again. “The leg is still warm. That’s good,” he says. “You did the right thing. Do you have a rubber syringe, Patience?”
I hand him one of the ones I use to remove mucus from an infant’s mouth and he takes a scalpel and makes a cut between the two fang marks. “Three drops of venom will kill a grown man. If we even get one drop out, it may save his life,” Dan says, using the syringe to remove bloody fluid. I take the boy’s vital signs. His blood pressure is low and his pulse is very fast.
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