I finally got up my courage and signed up to have the POWs come repair the barn roof. In the middle of all this, Hannah Dyer showed up at our door sobbing. She’d just received a telegram that her husband, John, was killed in battle. Can you believe it? He was such an intelligent young man with his whole life in front of him. The shock of receiving the dreaded telegram had thrown her into labor.
Mr. Roote was here, at the sheriff’s suggestion, serving as our chaperone while the POW men worked, and he and the girls made dinner for the Germans while I delivered the baby, another healthy boy. It makes you think about life and death and war. What are we doing, throwing away the best of our young men? It’s stupid, isn’t it? You told me it was, but still we can’t let heartless tyrants take over the world.
My heart is with you. Can you feel it?
Patience
55
December 24, 1942
Christmas Lights
This evening was filled with events that kept our minds off the fact that Dan is not with us and that John Dyer is dead. At five, just before sundown, Mr. and Mrs. Roote picked us up in their red Chevy. Though it’s a few years old, the children had never ridden in such a new car.
By the time we got to Liberty it was dark. Since the children never go to town at night, they didn’t realize how beautiful it would be. Most of the stores had some kind of Christmas lights, and the train station was decorated too. It was as gay as a Saturday before the matinee, with families walking up and down Main, some doing last-minute shopping.
We stopped at Bittman’s Grocery to say Merry Christmas. “I heard about John Dyer,” Lilly whispered. “Such an awful shame. I’m so glad B.K. can’t go to war. He has a bad back. . . . Here’s a present; I saved the last half dozen candy canes for your brood.” She handed me a wrapped parcel.
“We’re closing up the store for the lighting ceremony,” B.K. said. “You all going?”
“That’s what we came for,” Mr. Roote said. “How much for a dozen oranges?”
Back on the street we walk down Main admiring the pretty windows with their Christmas displays. Frequently, along with the decorations, I see a white banner bordered in red with a large blue star in the middle. The blue star, Mr. Roote informs me, represents someone’s son or husband serving in the military. The gold star means a man has died in combat. Some of the banners have more than one star. These must be the flags Hannah mentioned.
At Ida May’s House of Beauty, there’s one blue star on the banner, indicating that Ida has not given up hope that her brother, Annie’s husband, is still alive. At Farmers’ Lumber and Feed, the flag has four stars, three blue and one gold, and that sobers me. Dan knew all the fellows who worked there. Now one is dead.
Finally, at the end of Main, in front of the Saved by Jesus Baptist Church, we come to the live nativity scene. Under a wooden framed roof sits Mary and Joseph, dressed in traditional garb, played by Ada Mullins and her husband, Ollie, the one-armed veteran. Baby Jesus is the Mullinses’ six-month-old baby.
There are also wise men and shepherds in costume, some with pasted-on beards. A donkey eats hay, and two sheep rest in the grass. Above the whole scene is a wooden star, painted gold, hanging from a tree and illuminated with white Christmas lights. “Oooooh,” Mira says. “It’s so beautiful. When I grow up I want to be Mary.”
The children all pet the animals, then we reverse course back to the courthouse, where a considerable crowd has gathered for the lighting ceremony. On the corner, the Liberty High School Band plays “Jingle Bells,” and before Mira has a chance to get into her dance routine, I lead everyone up the steps, where we can get a good view.
All around me are familiar faces. Some look away, shunning the draft evader’s wife. Some observe me with pity. Others offer a hesitant wave. Danny sees Willie a few steps above us and heads that way to sit with his friend, but I call him back, afraid he’ll get in a fight with some bully who’ll taunt him and call his father a coward.
When the band takes a break, we hear sleigh bells and see, coming around the corner from First Street, a horse pulling a buggy, with Santa inside. The jolly old fellow waves and shouts “Merry Christmas!” and then turns on Main and disappears in the distance.
Finally, as snowflakes begin to drift down, the mayor plugs in a cord and minutes later we’re blinded by hundreds of colored lights. “Awwwww!” “Ohhhhh!” the crowd calls out.
“Well, that’s the show!” Mr. Roote says as we wander back to the car. “Only one more stop.” He has a big smile on his face. “Hop in, kids! It’s a surprise.”
Sing
Where are we going now?” asks Danny, clearly excited. Myself, I’m just tired. I still have a story to read to the children and presents to wrap and get under the tree.
I’m surprised when Mr. Roote turns south at the railway station and heads out of town, following a score of other vehicles, all going the same way, up Crocker Creek, which roars around boulders the size of small houses.
As we motor higher and higher, the mountainside falls away into darkness. It’s snowing harder now, flakes like chicken feathers that stick to the spruce bows, but not the road. Fifteen minutes later, we pull off the gravel road with the other vehicles, and wait. Mr. Roote looks at his pocket watch and rolls down the windows.
“Here they come!” he says to his wife as he gets out. The kids and I join him, looking around, but there’s nothing to see except other people, leaning on their cars, talking softly, and smoking cigarettes.
Then we hear tramping. We all strain our necks. Mr. Roote lifts the girls up on the hood of the red Chevy, where they can see. Men in denim uniforms and dark knit caps are marching six abreast, filling the road. “Eins—zwei—drei—vier,” they chant in rhythm. “Eins—zwei—drei—vier. Eins—zwei—drei—vier.”
A chill runs through me. What are we doing here in the dark next to the POW camp? There must be a hundred Germans coming toward us, with only four U.S. military policemen carrying guns. “Eins—zwei—drei—vier. Eins—zwei—drei—vier.” They march, ramrod straight, as if parading in front of Adolf Hitler himself.
The soldiers reach the autos. “Halt,” the leader commands. They turn with military precision and then, my heart springs open. “Herbei, o ihr Gläubigen,” the soldiers begin to sing in three-part harmony. It’s only by the tune that I make out the song. O come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant . . . Leopold, who stands in the first row, gives me a wink. Eckhart, two rows behind him, nods and his eyes shine.
Then Lou Cross, from somewhere in one of the cars behind us, runs out in the road with a little stick and begins directing. “Sing the second verse!” he yells, and hesitantly we Americans join the Germans, following Lou’s booming voice. “Sing, choirs of angels—sing in exultation . . .”
I put my arm around Danny as one of the army guards lays down his gun and pulls a coronet out of his knapsack. Two POWs get their trumpets out too, and as the trio begins to play, the golden notes rise, echoing from the white cliffs behind the camp. “Sing, all you citizens of heaven above!”
The smiling foreign men are no longer our enemies. They’re no longer Nazis. They’re farmers, shopkeepers, machinists, glass blowers, and carpenters, not so different from us. I know that now and when I look up, the clouds have opened and we can see stars.
December 25, 1942
Christmas
It’s the sound of the rain pounding on the side of the house that wakes me. I get up to look out, but the bedroom window is coated in ice and I can’t see a thing. This is weird, but it’s been a strange winter.
Since the house is getting cold and I’m up anyway, I go downstairs to throw another log in the fire and peek out the door. An inch of ice covers everything, the ground, the trees, the porch steps . . . and as the rain scrapes the house it instantly freezes.
When I return to the dark living room, I plug in the Christmas lights. That’s when I see them. The small white packages on the spruce tree, and I find the one that says Patience.
My husband said not to open them until Christmas, but it’s already Christmas morning, isn’t it? Slowly, I unfold the paper and inside find a red star. The star appears to have been made from layers of tape, perhaps bandage tape found in the infirmary, then painted red with Mercurochrome. Braided red suture serves as a chain, and I drop the necklace over my head and press it close to my heart.
Outside, the wind and ice slash the house again. The fire flares. I think of my love in his stone prison cell and the soldiers in their cold foxholes, then more wind and crash! The whole house shakes. “Mama!” Susie cries. “Mama!”
“I’m down here, kids!”
The children rush down the stairs and tumble into my arms. Danny goes to the kitchen and opens the back door. “Don’t go out, Danny! It’s an ice storm.”
“I’m just looking. The top of one of the willow trees just fell and crushed the whole porch.” Now we all go to see.
I let out a long breath and touch the red star that hangs over my heart. More trouble. I should have known it was coming. First the auto accident on top of the mountain, then the white hurricane and the destruction of the barn roof, now an ice storm and a tree falls on my house.
The clock on the mantel chimes five o’clock. “Look, Santa came!” Mira shouts, running toward her stocking. “We don’t have to go back to bed do we, Mama? It’s already Christmas!”
“Please!” the other kids echo.
“Okay. Okay. Go put your slippers on and I’ll build a fire in the fireplace.” By the time they get back, I have warm milk and ginger snaps on the low table, and for the next hour we take turns opening our presents.
The girls are happy with their paper dolls. Danny finds his punching bag in the pantry and they all want to try it. My present, from the children, is a colorful yellow and red flowered scarf that I tie around my neck. Finally we get down to their father’s small gifts.
“You know, kids, Papa doesn’t have any money in prison, so don’t expect much. Let’s start with the youngest. What do you think your pa gave you, Mira?”
“I don’t know! Can I open it now?”
“Be careful,” Susie says. “It might blow up!” Everyone laughs.
Slowly, Mira unfolds the square parcel. She looks puzzled. “Is it just a letter?”
“I don’t know. Let me see it. If it is, it’s still special. A private letter from your pa.” Mira scoots across the braided rug on her fanny and holds out her two sheets of paper.
“‘The Blue Fairy.’” I raise my eyebrows dramatically as I read. “‘Once, in a far-off land, deep in the forest, there was a tiny castle. It was so small it was hidden under a large white mushroom that kept off the rain. In the castle lived a tiny blue fairy, but she was very powerful . . .’ What do you think of that? Your father wrote you a story for Christmas!”
“Can I see mine?” Danny asks.
“Me too.”
“I can’t wait!” the twins cry, and each child carefully opens their pa’s gift.
In the end we have four stories: “The True Tale of Jack the Flying Horse,” “The Ice-Cream Princess,” “The Legend of the Talking Moon,” and of course, “The Blue Fairy.”
By midday, the rain stops, the sun comes out, and the world outside sparkles. Each twig and branch is covered with ice, and the ice-laden telephone wires droop. On the other side of the road, a broad-tailed hawk perches in an oak, looking surprised. Even the red bittersweet berries are coated in ice.
It’s a glittering world, but treacherous, and when the kids are dressed, before I can tell Danny to stop, he jumps off the porch and slides halfway across the yard. It looks like so much fun the girls try it.
I am more cautious. Carefully, holding on to my long walking stick, I traverse the barnyard toward the chicken house, but still I fall. No one has noticed, so I lay there a moment, recovering. I wasn’t always this way, but age and circumstances have changed me. I have to be careful; if I fell and broke something, with no Daniel to help us, we would be lost.
When the animals are fed we return to the house and I begin to prepare Christmas dinner. It was so nice of Sarah Maddock to give us a ham. I’d planned on chicken, but we have that so often.
Just as the girls are setting the table, the phone rings. I hope it’s not a woman in labor, but it wouldn’t be the first time I delivered a baby on Jesus’s birthday.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Mrs. Hester?” a man’s voice responds. “Mrs. Daniel Hester?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“This is Dr. Greeley from the Moundsville State Prison.”
Beating
Yes?” I say again, my heart pounding. Why is the prison physician calling? This cannot be good.
“First, let me reassure you, Daniel is resting peacefully in the infirmary. I’ve given him pain medication. There’s been an accident, but I believe he will recover fully in a few weeks.”
“What? What? Please explain.”
“Well, it wasn’t so much an accident as a beating. Daniel was the object of zealous patriotism. It happened in the shower, and the guards were not as attentive as they should have been. Dan has a broken arm and a few lacerations. The leader was a fellow recently discharged from the army who was sentenced for robbing a store. I probably shouldn’t be telling you this much.
“As luck would have it, another man, a really big fellow named Bones, broke it up. The warden was going to notify you, but I said I’d do it. Mrs. Hester . . . are you still there?”
“Yes . . . yes. When can I visit him? Can I come tomorrow?”
“I’m keeping Dan in the infirmary until he’s well, and I’m sorry there are no visitors here. Then the warden plans to transfer him to a federal prison, where there are special units for draft resisters and he’ll be safer. Don’t worry.”
“Where might that be? Where is the nearest such prison?”
“I’m not sure. The federal prison at Leavenworth is a big one. That’s in Kansas, and Ashland in Kentucky has a lot pacifists.” My heart sinks. Leavenworth! That’s where the Hutterite brothers died.
“If he would only sign for a conscientious objector we could get him out of here. We’ll do whatever we can . . .” There’s static and then the phone goes dead.
He’s Alive
Merry Christmas!” It’s Bitsy, standing at the front door. “Boy, what a mess. Did you see the telephone wire across the road? The pole just crashed over from the weight of the ice. And look at your porch. The top of the tree almost crashed through the window. Lucky it wasn’t worse . . . What’s wrong?” She can tell I’ve been crying.
“I can’t talk about it now,” I whisper. “Wait until the kids go out to play.” She gives me a sharp glance and heads for the kitchen to make tea. Then Lou Cross and Willie come in laughing. But that soon stops when Bitsy gives Lou a nod in my direction.
“Smells good in here,” Willie says. “What’s for dinner?”
“Willie,” Lou says. “Watch your manners.”
“The kids are upstairs playing, Willie,” I tell him. “Danny got a punching bag and gloves for Christmas.” Here I try to smile, but it’s a poor imitation.
“Nifty! I got a football. Maybe we can go out and play.”
As soon as he’s out of the room, Bitsy settles us with tea. “What?” she says. “Is it just the back porch? We can get those POW carpenters out in a jiff. Can’t we, Lou?”
“Sure thing.”
“No, it’s not the porch. I got a call from the prison this morning. Some patriotic thugs beat Daniel up in the shower. Must be pretty bad. He’s in the infirmary with lacerations and a broken arm.”
“Oh, no!” Bitsy exclaims. Lou is silent, but his jaw goes tight.
“Greeley, the prison doctor, says he’ll keep Dan safe in the infirmary as long as he can. He and the warden are trying to get him transferred to one of the big federal prisons, where they have better security and a whole unit for draft resisters.”
“They should have done it a long tim
e ago. I have a feeling they just liked having Dan around because he was helpful in the clinic and taught his reading classes,” Lou says.
“Getting him moved to a more secure place sounds good, right?” Bitsy tries to be optimistic.
“No, not really. The places they’re contacting are in Kansas and Kentucky.” Here the tears come for real “Now I won’t be able to visit at all. . . .”
My friend sits down next to me on the sofa. Lou walks to the fireplace and throws another log on the blaze. He paces the room like a tiger in a zoo until the boys tumble down the stairs, and then he goes out to play football.
“Oh, Bitsy, I’ve had bad days before, but this is the worst.”
“Let’s think of the good things,” Bitsy says. “Dan is alive. He’s safe today and you have us. . . .” This only makes me cry more.
56
December 27, 1942
Goodwill to Men
Yesterday was Saturday and I called Farmers’ Supply to see about getting the materials to fix the porch, but there was no answer; Sadie’s apparently taking an extra day off for the holidays. Today is Sunday and I know they’ll be closed.
I’m really in no mood for socializing, but I decide for the children’s sake, we need to go to the Hazel Patch Chapel for service. I still haven’t told the kids about their father being in the infirmary. What good would that do? Only make them worry.
When Daniel was taken away to Moundsville, I mourned for him. It was as if he had died. Never did I think he really might die, but this must be how women who have men in the war feel. They go to work at the factory or stay home and do the wash. They care for the children and all the time they’re sending love and light to shield their man. Every waking moment, now, I think of Dan, hoping he’s safe, and my whole body feels like a prayer.
The trip over to Hazel Patch is harrowing. The roads are still covered with ice and even though Danny and I took the time to put chains on, we almost slide into a ditch. Also there’s the problem of a fallen tree that we had to move and the drooping telephone wires to avoid.
Once a Midwife Page 31