Maybe it was best not to remember. Kay tried not to remember. She had stayed with her mother all that spring, trying not to remember, but you cannot unlearn, overnight, the very skills that kept you alive. So Kay was forever hiding things—her hat, her gloves, her handbag. She couldn’t leave anything out in the open—even in her home, even in her own room, she would stuff things under rugs, under pillows, tape them to the underside of drawers. Kay remembered the first time they had had steak—thick, juicy steak—and Kay had eaten half of one and carefully wrapped up the other half, asking her mother to keep it for her, to save it for tomorrow, for the next day.
“Land’s sake, child, save it? We have more, we have plenty. You only had a bite.” And then her mother had been crying at the table, not understanding, thinking that Kay didn’t want it, that she didn’t like her mother’s cooking anymore.
Kay had tried not to remember, tried to be normal again, to fit back into society—but every time someone offered her a cigarette at a party, she thought of the homemade dobies they had smoked in camp; or of how the civilian internees had burned the Japanese lieutenant with their cigarettes as he writhed on the ground after the Americans shot him, the grenade he was about to use on them rolling harmlessly from his hand, an American private picking it up and putting it in his helmet before walking quickly out of camp.
She had tried to be normal, but small things, unexpected things, tripped her up. There were mosquitoes down by the church carnival, and Kay couldn’t ignore them like everyone else did. She couldn’t let them land on her skin, couldn’t convince herself that they didn’t carry malaria, that she didn’t need quinine, didn’t need it to turn her skin yellow.
Mount Carmel had changed. No, Mount Carmel had stayed the same and Kay Elliott had changed. She was not the same girl who had gone off to the big city to join the Army, to be a nurse. When she finally heard how the United States took back Malinta Tunnel—how the Japanese had detonated explosives, had caved in the laterals around themselves rather than surrender—she couldn’t join in everyone else’s excitement and celebrate that American victory as she ought. She shuddered violently instead. She knew what it was like down there—she had been trapped down there for so long. What a terrible way to die.
Kay had re-upped just when everyone else was leaving the Army. Her friends, the nurses from her class were all leaving but it was the only place she fit in anymore. Brooke Army Medical Center at Fort Sam Houston; St. Elizabeths in D.C.; Letterman General in San Francisco; Walter Reed in Maryland. Anywhere she could find training, she did. This was all she had. This was all that was left of her.
But it wasn’t this way for everyone. The Army was a strange sort of a home, Kay knew that—a home without a fixed house, a commanding officer for a father, a head nurse for a mother, and no children—never any children. Kay’s very soul felt barren—she had lost that part of herself—but she knew it wasn’t this way for everyone. It wasn’t this way for Jo. Kay had gotten the letter, taken leave already (she had it coming, she’d never used up a single day, she could take a week, take two). She was taking time off in between this and her next assignment, between this institution and the next, one hospital, one single bed looking very much like the last. Jo had written that she’d found that man, or he’d found her, but somehow they were together again, they had been married. Kay had missed the wedding last year. It had been during her clinical rotations for anesthesia; she couldn’t miss a day of rounds, let alone the week it would have taken her to get to Scotland and back. But she wouldn’t miss this now—the christening of Jo’s first baby. Jo had given her plenty of warning so she could make it, writing to her in her sixth month; she hadn’t even had her baby yet, but sometime this month it would come, early next month at the latest. She’d have her husband telegram Kay as soon as the baby arrived, they’d hold the ceremony when she got there. If it was a boy, they were going to name him Johnny. If it was a girl, Regina. And Kay was to be the godmother.
We’ll be together again, after all this time. We will be strong again together—just as we had to learn to be strong apart.
A secretary stepped out, catching Kay’s eye.
“Miss Elliott, you will be seen now.”
The secretary was buzzing her in; the door unlocked and Kay had to push it open, entering the inner office, stuffy and noisy with air heat.
“Good morning, miss, sorry to have kept you waiting, my first appointment took a little longer than I had expected.”
Kay saluted, then shook hands with the man who would decide her fate. She sat down.
“Not at all, sir.”
He rambled on about a friend of his in the Pacific. He had known someone at Santo Tomas. Did she know a Karl Thompson? No? Maybe it was Thomas. No, maybe it was Thomas Carlson, that was more like it. Or something like that. Kay nodded, or shook her head, or raised her eyebrows at the right time. The man liked to pontificate. She cleared her throat but the man took no notice, so Kay nodded encouragingly and he kept on talking.
Finally he began to run down, like a clock. He shifted through some papers in front of him.
“—busy, miss, I can see you’ve been very, very busy. Twenty-six weeks psychiatric nursing at Brooke—good Lord, in the heat, in Texas no less—fifty-six weeks anesthesiology here at Fitzsimons; you’ve gone above and beyond Army requirements . . . Presidential Citation, Bronze Star,” he mumbled, flipping over the pages of her file. “See you were promoted one grade, miss. Looks like I’ll actually have to call you ‘Lieutenant’ when we get rid of relative rank in the spring,” and he laughed conspiratorially, as if it were a joke, a game they would all start playing. “And you’ll be eligible for a base pay raise to, let’s see, my, my—$166 per month. Don’t know if I make that, miss,” and he laughed again, showing his tobacco-stained teeth. “As well as a 5 percent bonus for staying in as long as you have, plus food, plus housing allowances . . .” The man reached the last page, turning it over to make sure there was no more.
“And just what can I help you with today, miss?”
“I hear there’s a VA hospital opening up in Mount Alto. In D.C.”
“Yes, miss.”
“I’d like to serve there. I need your recommendation before I can.”
He looked at her, expressionless.
“I feel I’ve helped a lot of these boys get this far, I don’t want to leave them now, sir.”
The man bit his lower lip, as if trying to keep himself from saying something. The wind rattled at the windows, making a low whistling sound that rose and fell. Finally, the man spoke.
“Miss, I’ll be frank with you. No one is denying the good work you gals did during the war. But the war is over. This is a man’s world, a man’s Army. You’ve applied for the GI Bill, and in doing so, I don’t know if you realize, you would be taking funds away from real veterans, you know, men who really fought in the war. That is what it was intended for.”
“Sir, I am a veteran.”
“Excuse me, miss,” the man said, raising his voice, “but no woman won the Combat Infantry Badge, and that’s what makes a veteran in my book.”
The man was clearly flustered. He took a sip of water, without offering Kay a drink, and when he spoke again his voice had a forced calmness about it.
“C’mon, miss. You’ve done all you could do, done yourself proud even. Don’t you think it’s time you went back to—pardon me—but back to being a lady? You know, marriage and a family and all that?”
Kay thought of Aaron, of her baby for a moment, but only for a moment.
“Sir, this war took away everything. My youth, the only man I will ever love—”
The man snorted loudly. “Now, come now, miss,” he pooh-poohed.
“—the one thing that kept me going all those years was my determination, not just to survive, but to do my duty as an Army nurse. If I could do something—something meaningless maybe, to you—to help those around me, I did it. And I want to keep on doing it now.”
Kay sat up
straighter in her chair.
“I’m a military nurse, sir.” She grimaced slightly. “This time, I know what I’m in for. I’m good at this, this is where I can do the most good.”
The man had put down her file, the pen he had been playing with; he was looking at her now.
“This is my fight now. Marriage, children, whatever you called it, ‘being a lady’—once, maybe, that might have been for me. But I’m a lifer. This is my life, and with my experience, I could teach others what I learned the hard way. You say this is a man’s world, sir, and I am not so naive as to disagree with you. But”—here Kay leaned forward, staring the man straight in the eye—“if the world of men ever tears itself apart again, it will take an army of nurses to put it back together.”
The room was quiet. Even the wind, the snow, had stopped.
The man regarded Kay silently for another moment; then he slowly shook his head.
“If I can’t persuade you otherwise, miss?” and he let his voice go up at the end, raising his eyebrows hopefully. “No?”
He looked at the last page of Kay’s file. Then he picked up his pen. “Well, then,” he sighed. “In light of your record, Miss Elliott, I will recommend you for transfer to the new veterans’ hospital.”
The man gave her a cheerless smile as he handed her the form, shrugging his shoulders as he turned back to his paperwork. She left his office, passing the secretary scowling at her typewriter. Kay’s heels clicked loudly on the waxed linoleum. She walked down the long, antiseptic corridor that smelled like every other corridor of that hospital, of every hospital she had or would ever work in. Long, fluorescent bulbs buzzed overhead, one flickering spastically as it gave off its sickly light. She paused in front of a stainless steel door, the one that led to the patient floors, to the hospital wards. Kay looked down at the floor without seeing it, pausing for a moment, remembering the past. She exhaled sharply, tugging down the front of her jacket resolutely; then she pulled open the door and stepped into her future.
Acknowledgments
Having an author in the family is a lot like having chicken pox. Like chicken pox, a sudden attack of writing can strike at any time without warning, is often uncomfortable, and always inconvenient. My family has stood by patiently during lengthy interviews, listening to me tell the same stories over and over again (oops, I’m sorry, it wasn’t on, could you just say that again into the microphone?). Very often, when I should have been grading their math samples or conjugating Italian verbi with them, I was, instead, researching obscure German medical terms, drawing elaborate plot diagrams, or sketching out a realistic world for Jo and Kay to inhabit. I think it is a testimony to the mutual respect and support inherently found within our family that—much like the times I supported them in their respective desires to become a champion bowler, learn to unicycle, run the mile in five and a half minutes, or sleep on the top bunk at summer camp—when I decided to write a meticulously researched historical fiction novel, everybody hitched their wagons to that star right along with me, no questions asked. While today many people are immunized against the varicella zoster virus and will never get to go through that itchy rite of passage, there are currently no vaccines available to guard us against lady novelists. That being the case, first and foremost, my thanks must go to my family. I love them more than life itself.
Next, I owe an enormous debt of gratitude to the historians and veterans of World War II who gave me the factual data and feedback that allowed me to create an authentic work of fiction. World War II reenactors—especially those in the medical tents—helped bring history to life for me. Once they knew what I was about, they let me photograph and handle original equipment and supplies. (I have held in my own hands Queenie’s quarter-grain syrette, Jo’s cardboard box of penicillin.) Evelyn M. Monahan and Rosemary Neidel-Greenlee’s All This Hell (University Press of Kentucky, 2000) was an invaluable resource documenting the fate of imprisoned military nurses in the Pacific. Their excellent counterpart, And If I Perish (Anchor Books, 2003), took that level of factual research and detail and applied it to nurses serving in the European theater of war. Both books gave me a firm grasp of the topic, spurred me on to further research, and sparked my desire to meet real veterans from that era. I would like to thank two in particular here. Evangeline R. Coeyman (Second Lieutenant, 59th Field Hospital 90th Infantry Division), nearly ninety years young when I met her and sharp as a tack, sat with me in an old field hospital and showed me the ropes, teaching me everything from the evacuation chain to where the X-ray machine used to stand in the tent, to how the nurses washed their hands before surgery. More than just imparting this firsthand medical knowledge however, she also exuded a pride in and enthusiasm for her work and her country that was contagious, and had not diminished in three-quarters of a century. To me, she will always remain a hero.
Another veteran I would like to thank personally is Eugene Chovanes (Staff Sergeant, 1123rd Engineering Combat Group). One of the few Battle of the Bulge veterans alive today, Gene literally swept me off my feet, remaining my all-time favorite swing dance partner. I treasure our conversations about the war and about his life. I will never forget the late nights we spent in his stately old home (where he still lives with his lovely war bride, Claire), the grandfather clock chiming out midnight, one in the morning as he compared my book to his recollection of the war, this world to the one he knew. He read my entire manuscript before its publication, verifying for me as few people living today could have done, yes, this is exactly right, how are you doing this? How could you know? Not just the dates and places, but the nuance, the feel of the thing, this is just what it felt like, just how it was. I knew at the time how invaluable that experience was—and how irreplaceable our friendship would become. Today, our lives intersect like two circles in a Venn diagram, just barely overlapping—he a teenage boy at the time of the Ardennes Offensive, I a grown woman in the twenty-first century. But our friendship is no less sweet because it is fated to be short. It is a joy and a blessing.
The business of publishing books is just that—a business—and I would be remiss indeed if I did not thank the people who saw promise in my work and helped promote it in a highly competitive field. I thank my aunt, Dr. Eloise Messineo, who first brought my manuscript to the attention of Diane Volk, philanthropist, activist, and supporter of the arts. Diane is my very own Lady Catherine de Bourgh (of Pride and Prejudice fame)—if Lady Catherine had been nice, that is. Much like Mr. Collins, I claim Diane as my “patroness,” and owe nearly all my success to her. Diane handed my manuscript to Greer Hendricks (late of Simon & Schuster, now a talented author herself), who, in turn, introduced me to my literary agent (Gráinne Fox, Fletcher & Co), who sold my book to Rachel Kahan at William Morrow (a HarperCollins imprint). I will forever remain indebted to Rachel for taking a chance on a debut novelist, and for doing it with so much enthusiasm. She is an incredibly gifted editor, and I look forward to a long and mutually rewarding relationship with her. I would also like to thank my literary attorney, Kim Schefler, for her unfailing guidance and advice.
How does one become a writer? Well, usually there are the teachers and mentors who first recognize and then nurture a latent talent, and my story is no exception. First among these, I must thank my parents, Salvatore and Maria (Chiaramonte) Messineo, who provided a safe and extraordinary environment for me to spread my wings in and try out my creativity. In the ’70s, my parents ran their own Dharma Initiative–style school, and I enjoyed every minute of it. While I freely admit now that most of my formative years were spent feeding gerbils, riding tricycles, and operating an enormous movie-reel projector, what I gained from that experimental schooling experience proved invaluable later in life. The innate belief that I could do absolutely anything. Learn a foreign language? Birth four babies (without pain medication)? Write a novel in my spare time? I never once wondered if I could do these things—doubt never entered my mind. If anything, I’ve been slightly bemused all my life that the rest of the world didn�
��t just jump in and try crazy things along with me. I mean, if you cannot fail, what can you possibly stand to lose? So, for that punch-drunk take on life I thank them, with all my heart.
I would like to thank Carroll McGuire, who, when I was an impressionable college kid, told me I’d be a writer one day. Not just that I could write, but that I would be a writer. To me, the distinction between the two was enormous, and I took every word he said as gospel truth. Did he have incredible foresight, or did it just become a self-fulfilling prophecy on my part? Either way, he was a most welcome prophet in my life—a man who literally changed the course of my future—and I am forever indebted to him for that.
I would also like to thank two of my college professors (both of DeSales University), Dr. Stephen Myers and Dr. Joseph Colosi. Dr. Myers, a journalist at heart, pushed me to become a better writer, challenging (and rewarding) me by the caliber of his classes. Dr. Colosi, while not a humanities professor himself, nonetheless taught me the true meaning of Humanity, capital H, and no story of my personal search for meaning and its expression would be complete without reference to him. Stepping backward in time, I must thank my two high school English teachers—Sharon (Wright) Winter, who introduced me to some of my greatest literary loves, and Sister Jonathan Moyles, SCC, to whom this book is dedicated.
More than anyone else, Sister Jonathan held my fate in her hands, and this book most certainly would not have come about without the positive impact she made on my life. When I first appeared in Sister Jonathan’s Sophomore Honors English class (I was fifteen years old and had never spent a day in a school desk), she asked us to write an essay on a book we had read. Creative to a fault, I handed in a free verse on spiders. Not one to be trifled with, Sister called me up to her desk after class. I can still see myself standing there—gauche, inexperienced, wearing my school uniform sideways because I still hadn’t figured out anything in this weird world of “real school.” Sister reiterated that she had requested an essay, not a poem. And then I asked her, “What’s an essay, Sister?” Here, dear reader, is where everything hinges, where my academic life could have been spent from that point on in remedial classrooms, or catapulted (as it eventually was) to a full college scholarship. “What’s an essay, Sister?” Either I was the rudest, cheekiest kid to ever walk into her classroom—or, incredibly, here was a fifteen-year-old female student with little or no conventional schooling who had no idea what an essay was. “It’s an introductory paragraph, main body where you flesh it out, recap it in a closing paragraph. You’ve got until tomorrow, Teresa, or you’re out of here.” The next morning, she read my essay (on Arthur Miller’s The Crucible) aloud in class. I can still feel my cheeks burn, as I was certain this humiliation heralded the end of my brief career as an honor student. When she was done, the other students asked who had written the essay, and Sister joked that she, herself, had penned it. “No, I’m just kidding,” she said at last. “It’s that new girl, in the back of class.” She handed back our papers and, amazingly, there was a 98 on mine with “Super!” inscribed in red ink in the top right-hand corner. From that moment on, I went from one academic success to the next, never looking back. Twenty years later, when I told this story to Sister Jonathan herself, expressing my gratitude for the second chance she gave me, she commuted my grade and gave me the extra two points. This book is for her.
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