by Sally Laity
He made another attempt to read the same page, then gave up and closed the book.
Barely ten minutes elapsed before Stella breezed in. “Oh, no. I missed Mom and Dad, huh?”
“You got it.”
“Rats.” Without removing her cardigan or hanging her shoulder bag, she plopped on the couch adjacent to his chair, letting her head fall back in defeat, her hands crossed atop her abdomen. “I got held up past quitting time at work. And I really need more practice on that new choir number for Sunday, too.”
Nelson cocked a brow. “So what do you want from me, a piggyback ride?”
Straightening, Estelle leveled a glare on him, one that gained heat by the second. “If you must know, I don’t want anything from you,” she snapped. “You’ve been nothing but a pain since you came home, and I’ve about had it up to here with that poor-me attitude of yours.” With a huff, she rose to her feet.
He opened his mouth to respond, but she didn’t give him a chance.
“I had a bad day at work—or at least Mary did—and now I’m missing church because of it. So I’d appreciate it if you’d just—just—”
“Wait a minute, Sis,” he cut in calmly, raising a palm like a traffic cop. “What happened at work? Why don’t you calm down and tell big brother your troubles. It’ll make you feel better.”
Her expression gradually softened, turning to a blush with her sheepish smile. “Sorry for blowing up, Nelse. I didn’t mean what I said. I promise.”
He gave an offhanded shrug. “I know. But I probably deserve it. Everybody else is walkin’ on eggshells around me. At least you level with me, get honest once in awhile.”
“Honest, maybe, but hardly tactful.”
“Hey, that’s what sisters are for, right? But for now, the subject is you, not me. So what happened at work?”
Estelle moistened her lips. “It concerns Mary, really. She’s been trying hard to make her production quota—”
“And?” he probed, impatient, yet not knowing why.
“Well, the thing is, she finally did it this afternoon. She was so proud.”
“So? What’d they do, throw the girl a party? Is that why you’re late? I thought you said this was a bad day.”
“This would be a little easier if you’d quit cutting in,” she reminded him.
With a repentant grin, he gestured for her to take the floor once more.
“Anyway,” she continued, “I watched her working all day long, saw the pile growing higher and higher in her basket. I know she made her quota, if not better than that. . .only, when she went to turn it in, someone had snitched a good half of it, if not more.”
Nelson raised both eyebrows this time, but did not say anything.
“Mary was absolutely white with shock. Old Lady Hard-wick was her usual magnanimous self, full of tea and sympathy. Ha! Insults and insinuations were all that came out of that mean mouth. She upped Mary’s requirements two extra dozen. And she has to do it by Friday or she’s out of a job. That’s only two days from now.”
“The woman’s all heart. Sounds like my old drill sergeant back at boot camp.”
Estelle almost laughed but turned serious again. “But you know what surprised me the most? Mary. She just squared those shoulders of hers and said she’d work harder. She’d made this quota, and she’d do that one, too. It’s the strangest thing. I was mad enough to spit nails at whoever took advantage of such a sweet-spirited girl. And there she is, telling me Mrs. Hardwick has a boss, too, and depends on the rest of us to keep her level of production high.”
“You don’t say.” Nelson rubbed his jaw with a thumb and forefinger, trying to envision that wisp of a gal holding her own before the hard-nosed supervisor of Olympic Sewing Factory. No wonder Stella had been so upset with him for being such a smart alec.
Again he felt there was something indefinable about that Polish beauty. Mary seemed on a higher plane than most of the other girls he’d known. And her eyes. . .they had a haunting quality that caught at a person’s heart. Coming from Poland, she had to have known a fair amount of suffering—especially if the rest of her family no longer existed. In all likelihood, her loved ones had met their ends at the hand of some beast of a Nazi.
And he’d lost only a leg.
Maybe a guy could afford to take a few lessons from Mary Theresa Malinowski.
four
Curled up on her couch in a flannel robe, her hair wrapped in a towel, Mary smiled at the banter between Jack Benny and his man, Rochester, issuing through the radio speaker. Even when she couldn’t quite understand the jokes, she tried to enter into the spirit of the audience’s laughter. After all, the more exposure to English, the better. She figured eventually she’d catch on to American humor. She kept the radio on most of the time she was home to help banish the awful stillness of the apartment, a quiet so deep she doubted she’d ever get used to it.
During the musical interlude between the end of the program and the beginning of the next, her thoughts drifted backward to the day’s events at the factory. Someone else, among the throng of women who toiled long hours at Olympic, must have had a desperate need to reach a quota. But in dredging up the sea of faces which were still only vaguely familiar, Mary couldn’t imagine who might have stolen her work.
In the death camp, poor performance resulted in a short walk to the ovens. . .an incentive for putting forth one’s best efforts. But here at the factory the task of attaching cuffs to sleeves had finally become automatic for Mary. She had not the slightest doubt she’d be able to produce enough to keep Mrs. Hardwick satisfied.
It had been thoughtful of Estelle to stand up for her, though, and then, later, to suggest she come to another family meal. Listening to her friend’s father reading Scripture after supper made her realize how much she missed the nightly readings she’d grown to rely on in the Ravensbruck barracks. She’d spied a Bible on the night table in Estelle’s room and another on a bookshelf in the parlor. Perhaps on her next visit she might actually touch one, even open it. Let her eyes feast on the written words that had given her strength to survive.
Footsteps outside, followed by a knock on the door, startled her out of her reverie.
Mary got up and turned off the radio. Clutching the throat of her robe, she padded to answer the summons. “Who is outside?” she asked before turning the latch.
“It’s me, Veronica.”
“And Christine,” a second voice supplied.
With no little relief, Mary let them both in, then glanced around for the girls’ parents.
“It’s just us,” Veronica told her. “Mother and Father wanted to visit a sick friend from our parish, and we convinced them to drop us off on the way.”
“We hope you don’t mind,” her sister added. “They said they wouldn’t be too long.”
“Mind!” Mary grabbed their petite forms in a huge hug. “Being alone I mind much more. Please, sit down. I change quick.” She dashed to the bathroom, where tomorrow’s skirt and blouse hung in readiness for the morning. Seconds later, she emerged dressed, with her damp hair fastened in a barrette at the nape of her neck.
“We stopped at the corner for some ice cream,” Veronica said, holding out a small brown bag. “Chocolate, just for you.”
“How well you know me, my little sisters. Oh, so glad to see you I am.” Accepting the treat from the older girl, Mary stepped to the tiny kitchenette off the main room. She set the pint onto the sink’s drain board and made short work of dipping the contents into three dishes.
“How is your new job?” Christine asked, delving into hers the minute she was served.
“Fine. It is fine. Sleeves I make. For men’s shirts.”
Veronica turned up her pert nose. “Sounds boring.”
“A living it is,” Mary responded quietly. “To learn to sew is good.” She took a leisurely spoonful of ice cream and studied the dear little faces she so sorely missed. Veronica’s rich brown hair was as shiny as ever, parted in the middle with bangs.
And Christine’s braids sported bows that matched her navy jumper. In many ways, the tiny blond resembled Mary’s dead sister, Janecska, which she found strangely comforting. “Everyone is well at your house?” she asked the younger girl.
She nodded. “Only it seems like someone is missing, without you.”
“Have you made any friends, Mary?” Veronica placed the spoon in her empty dish, then set it on one of the lamp tables bracketing the sofa.
“Yes. One.”
“A handsome man?” she teased, grinning.
For a split second, the face of Nelson Thomas taunted Mary’s consciousness. She opened her mouth to offer a negative reply, but Christine spoke first.
“Mother told us not to be nosy,” she rebuked Veronica, then turned to Mary. “Sissy only thinks about boys ’cause she’s got a new boyfriend.”
Her sibling gazed up to the ceiling. “Jason’s not my boy-friend. Besides, he has too many freckles.”
“My friend is from work,” Mary blurted in an effort to restore the peace. “Estelle is her name. To her house I went last night for visit. We make cookies.”
“I hope she’s nice,” Christine mused.
Mary nodded. “Very nice family she has. Friendly.”
“Any brothers?” Veronica asked, that impish sparkle back again.
“Not of your age,” she said with a wry grimace.
Christine made a face at her sister, then turned. “What’s it like to work in a factory, anyway?”
For the next few minutes, she entertained the young pair with the lighter aspects of being new on a job, relishing the carefree sound of their girlish giggles.
But all too soon another knock signified the end of the visit, and Mrs. Chudzik came to collect her daughters.
“Some tea you would like?” Mary asked after returning the plump little woman’s warm embrace.
“No, thank you, Dear. The girls need to get to bed for school. Perhaps another time. Everything okay with you?”
“Fine, yes.”
A round of kisses and hugs and good-byes, and the lively bunch took their leave.
Mary held onto the knob as she watched the threesome head for the car parked out front. She mustered her brightest smile and waved down at Mr. Chudzik, then closed the door once again, not wanting to see them drive off.
Not wanting to hear it either, she hurried to the radio and turned it on, sighing when “Little Brown Jug” brought yet another reminder of Estelle’s brother.
❧
Ho ho ho, you and me. Little brown jug, how I love thee. Nelson whistled under his breath to the accompaniment of the Glenn Miller tune as he shucked his shirt and trousers and slipped between the cool sheets, his crutches on the floor beside his bed. Not in the mood for a recanting of how wonderful the church service had been or how he should have been there, he had purposely retired to his room before his parents came home. Even with his bedside radio playing, they were considerate enough not to disturb him, which suited him just fine. He doused the light.
Cupping the back of his head, he gazed up at the darkened ceiling. He’d barely been out of this house in the three months since he’d been home. His friend Jon had been trying to persuade him to go out with him to a movie or a baseball game, and his mom and dad were forever after him to start going to Sunday and Wednesday services again. But Nelson couldn’t abide other people’s stares, the looks of pity—or worse, eyes averted altogether. He had plenty to occupy himself right here. Books, board games, daily crossword puzzles, radio programs. One of these days he might even tune in to Stella Dallas or Pepper Young’s Family. . .see what Mom thought was so wonderful about soap operas.
A grim smile tweaked one side of his mouth. Some exciting life. And a far cry from the career in engineering which once had been his dream. He rarely allowed himself to indulge in poignant recollections of the bustling office where he’d apprenticed before going into the army. He could still picture that place, cluttered with rolls and stacks of blueprints, drawers filled with stubby drawing pencils and slide rules, hard hats perched atop file cabinets. That life was for the able-bodied, not someone who was half a man.
Even as he lay there, he felt a nagging tingle in his missing foot, as if nobody had informed his brain the shattered limb had been left behind in some field hospital across the ocean. The doctors at rehab alleged that those phantom itches would eventually subside. Nelson hoped it was true. He rolled onto his side and punched his pillow to a more comfortable shape.
Was Stella right? Had he sat around with a chip on his shoulder since coming back from the war? If so, it was a wonder his family could put up with him. He’d make a better effort at being cheerful from now on. Be more like. . .Mary.
Nelson made no attempt to banish visions of the fair, golden-haired beauty that drifted across his mind’s eye. His family loved him and naturally sympathized with him over the wounds he’d suffered on the battlefields of France. But Mary Theresa was probably the only one who could really understand the depth of his loss. That conviction caused a peculiar expectancy in his stomach, an eagerness which pressed up against the underside of his heart.
Maybe she also needed someone to talk to. . . .
❧
“Hey, Mare, you can stop now,” Estelle quipped a whole minute after the noon bell.
Mary nodded. Her shoulders sagged, and she ceased pumping the treadle. “This sleeve I wanted to finish. That is all.”
Estelle eyed the growing stack in Mary’s basket, then scrunched up her face. “You work any faster, and you’ll even beat me!” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Then the old bat will raise everybody’s quota! Honestly,” she added with a mischievous smirk, “the woman’s stocking seams are so straight, her garters must hang from her shoulder blades.”
Unable to stop a self-conscious grin as she unwrapped her sandwich, Mary met her friend’s gaze. “To make only my quota I want today—plus one more. I do it; you will see.” She bit off a corner of the bread.
“I believe you will. I’ve been watching you hunched over that old machine all morning without even stopping for a breath. Where in the world did you get such determination?”
If you only knew, Mary thought. “Hard teachers I had.”
“I had no idea Polish schools were so strict.”
“Not Polish,” Mary corrected. “In Germany, the hard teachers.” At the confusion clouding her friend’s face, she sought a change of subject while she filled her thermos cup with steaming tea. “Some company I have last night. My American little sisters.”
“Oh,” Estelle breathed. “Your host family. How nice.”
“Yes. To see them is good, Veronica and Christine. They bring ice cream. Chocolate, my favorite.”
Her coworker smiled. “It’s very considerate of those people to keep track of you, make sure you’re doing okay. Speaking of favorites, Mom says she’ll make some pasties next week. Tuesday, perhaps. Will you come for supper?”
“I will come.” The words popped out of their own accord, before Mary could muster a refusal.
The rest of the afternoon passed so swiftly, she remembered only a blur of white fabric passing from her left to the workbasket on her right. The quitting bell caught her by surprise. But she knew she’d made her goal—that, along with not just one, but two extras. With no little satisfaction, she clipped the threads on the final sleeve and added it to the others. Then she stood, easing the kink in her back.
“Good going, Mare!” Estelle murmured at her side. “Wait’l Hardwick checks your total today.”
Mary picked up her work and straightened her shoulders, smiling all the way to the production counter.
Later that night, in her bed, she tried not to dwell too much on next week’s meal with Estelle’s family. She dared not let herself become attached to people. It only hurt later, when they were no longer around. She would simply enjoy each day as it came. Be thankful for the present, as Corrie ten Boom would have said.
And, her conscien
ce admonished, no doubt Corrie would do whatever she could to encourage a soul who still suffered from the cruelties of war. . .like Nelson Thomas.
Even if he did happen to be a man.
The realization lingered on the edges of her heart.
five
Despite her misgivings about becoming too attached to Estelle’s family, Mary couldn’t help counting the days until Tuesday arrived. Home-cooked meals were a real treat in light of her limited cooking ability, and she was curious to see whether Mrs. Thomas’s meat-and-potato pies were as tasty as her friend alleged.
She selected an emerald jumper from her wardrobe, plus a complementing print blouse with dark green piping around the collar and sleeves. The ensemble would look fairly presentable by the end of the day—at least, so she hoped. There was no reason she needed to dress up, she told herself, but a guest in someone’s home should at least look neat.
Her skill and performance at the factory had continued to improve since she made her quota, which increased her confidence. But it was the friendship with Estelle that made her look forward to each weekday, especially this one. She relished even the smallest chance to spend time with her wavy-haired coworker. Lunchtimes seemed far too short in comparison to the hours when the noisy atmosphere precluded any real communication.
Humming as she uncovered her Singer, she smiled at Estelle and stowed her lunch bag and purse in the machine’s bottom drawer.
“Ready for a bright new day?” Estelle asked cheerily, sweeping a glance around the dreary facility already filling with employees.
Mary’s gaze followed the same course. “A place to work, it is.”