Becoming Mrs. Smith (Volume 1)

by Williams, Tanya E

  Watching him play, I am reminded of Iris’s joyful self-expression. Though at fifteen going on sixteen, I think the time has long since passed for her to step into the role of a young lady, a role she resists with enthusiasm. Mother’s persuasions, like mine, have had little impact on her. Our last discussion on the topic resulted in a heated debate, which left a wedge between us. Sometimes I wish I could adopt her carefree nature, even for a little while. I’d like to feel her ease about the world around her.

  I head into the kitchen to work alongside Mother Smith and John’s sisters as we prepare dinner. I often share my leftover rations with the family. I can stretch a pound of butter with ease, but for a large family with children still on the grow, rations are trickier to manage.

  After dinner, we shoo John’s parents to the living room to enjoy their evening tea, and his sisters and I clean up the dishes. I am happy to help with the chores, as their including me in their family has been a welcomed experience. This time, too, is precious. The three of us discuss the latest movie pictures, radio broadcasted soap operas, and of course, the local boys they happen to be fawning over at the time. They are still young enough to be wrapped up in their own teenage worlds, but aware enough to know the real world is a bundle of change. They treat me like an older sister, and I dole out advice, only when asked, never overstepping my role in their lives.

  With the kitchen tidy, we join the rest of the family in the living room. Father Smith switches on the radio, and our favorite evening broadcast begins. Edward snuggles beside me on the sofa, and the minutes fly by as we listen to the antics of Fibber McGee and Molly. Tonight’s episode has Fibber McGee determined to tune the family piano. His efforts have little success, however his attempts elicit laughter and applause. When the musical interlude begins, Edward jumps down from the sofa and thuds against the floor on two flat feet. He pulls his mother’s hands to hoist her out of her chair, and they dance around the room while the rest of us watch and clap to the music.

  With the Smith children all tucked in, Father Smith turns the radio on once more. The three of us sit huddled closer to the fire and listen for updates from the war office.

  “World News Today. This is CBS News reporting. Earlier this evening, around eight o’clock Eastern War Time, we received a bulletin reading, and I quote, ‘The war authority is confirming that the U.S. First Infantry Division has successfully attacked and fractured the Siegfried Line and have fought across the Rur River.’ The Rur River flows through Belgium, Germany, and the Netherlands, however ninety percent of the river is situated within German borders. This is another giant step forward in the Allied effort to gain control of German-occupied regions.”

  “First Infantry Division?” I say. “That—that could be John.”

  “Did they say any casualties?” Mother Smith kneels in front of the radio. If she could, I imagine she would crawl inside the radio to get a little closer to her son. I know how she feels. The butterflies in my heart flap their wings in rapid succession.

  “Hush, Mother.” Father Smith raises the radio volume.

  We listen for another hour, before Father Smith shuts off the broadcast. “No more news tonight, I’m afraid.” He guides John’s mother, exhausted from worry, toward bed.

  ***

  March 2, 1945

  Another week passes, though the hours feel longer than they used to. Every day this week, I have tucked my lunch under my arm and braced myself against the frigid winter air. I walk the four blocks to the bakery to meet Father Smith as his workday ends. He has visited the war office every day this week, seeking news of John. Little information has been available, and I balance the dreadful task of deciding where frustration ends and outright terror begins. Yesterday, the war office directed him to speak with the Red Cross. Perhaps they would have the time and resources to determine John’s status.

  Though I will see the Smiths this evening, I don’t have the patience to wait another four hours for news of John. My prayers battle each other as I walk, chin stuffed into the warmth of my collar. I crave information, any kind of update. But I know that not all news is welcome.

  Father Smith sees me approach the building through the bakery window and greets me at the door. He pulls me in from the cold and shuts the door behind me. The smell of fresh-baked bread embraces me. He places a fresh slice of bread into my mitten-covered hand, and my tummy rumbles in response.

  Hunger wins out over politeness. My teeth sink into the soft bread. I tear at the browned crust, still warm from the oven. “What did the Red Cross say?” I ask with my mouth full.

  “They did some preliminary research before I arrived. The war office had notified them I would be on my way.” He reaches for another slice of bread from the counter. “All they can say for certain is that John is missing.” The news hangs in the air before he hands me the other slice of bread.

  “Missing? What does that mean?”

  “I suppose they don’t know. Day-to-day operations are chaotic over there.” He shrugs. “Troops are moving about. The situation is changing at an even faster rate now than before they crossed the Rur. They promised to keep a lookout for him, but they said no news should be considered good news, at least for now.”

  My heart sinks and my legs tremble. I brace myself against the window’s ledge. I hadn’t considered missing as an answer to my questions. I shake my head to my illusions, acutely aware of how much is beyond my control.

  I feel Father Smith’s concerned eyes on me as he surveys the damage this news has done.

  I thank him for his time, the bread, and the information and gather myself enough to abate his worry. My hunger evaporates and I leave the bakery still holding the second slice of bread.

  The walk back to the office, though just as bitter, is slow as I try to make sense of this new knowledge.

  ***

  March 9, 1945

  I stuff down the panic that rises within me at the slightest thought of John. We have been able to discern little from the radio broadcasts, though I am aware that the reports won’t say, “John Smith, safe and forging ahead.” We take solace in the knowledge that the Allied troops move forward in what we are told is successful progress. I have a difficult time reconciling the notion of progress and war in one sentence. Neither word is suited for the other, in my opinion.

  When I arrive at work Friday morning, Jim is leaning on my desk, newspaper in hand.

  “Did you see this?” He holds the paper above his head.

  “See what?” I hang my bright green spring jacket on the hook.

  Jim reads aloud from the paper. “‘Allied army across Rhine.’ They’ve done it, Violet. They’ve captured a bridge and are moving deep into German territory. We’re almost there. I can feel victory in my bones.” His grin is wide and contagious.

  I reach for the paper and read the first few paragraphs before I return the pages to him. “Good news, I suppose.” I’m uncertain whether I should try to convince Jim or myself. Without contact from John, the days are challenging to navigate.

  Jim’s face adjusts in response to my lack of excitement. “No news?”

  “No news,” I say. “War office won’t confirm or deny. Red Cross still doesn’t know much, but they’re looking into his whereabouts for the Smiths. Mr. Smith has been down at their office every lunch hour for almost two weeks.” I shrug and try to shake off my worry. “No news is good news. At least that is what they tell me.”

  “You all right? I mean, you holding up and all?” Concern edges into the lines around Jim’s eyes.

  “I’m well as I should be. Word is they lost many in the Ardennes Forest, but I imagine quite an effort is required to sort out who is alive and all that.” My voice trembles. I shuffle papers around my desk until Jim gets the idea that I am all out of small talk. Or any other kind of talk for that matter.

  I go through each day in a daze. I whisper to myself the mantra I have held dear since receiving John’s last letter before Christmas. “John is healthy and well
.” I repeat my affirmation with a little more intensity. “John is healthy and well.” I take a deep breath and calm myself as uncertainties try to sneak past my sturdy guard, and I repeat once more, “John is healthy and well.”

  The calamities of war have put me on a path from one horrific experience to another. Each time, I am certain that I have now found the most difficult aspect of life amidst war—until another new circumstance presents itself, far worse than anything I have ever known. This pattern repeats as I survive this life consumed by war. Right now, the waiting for life to begin again is what I deem the hardest of all hardships. And so I wait.

  ***

  May 7, 1945

  The news filters in over the radio airways. “Germany has surrendered unconditionally.” Though we’re still waiting for confirmation from the White House or the Allied Headquarters in London, celebrations begin all over town. This must be the most excitement-filled Monday I have ever experienced. Strangers run up to me on the street and hug me as we share in the liberation. The streets are crowded, and radios have been moved closer to windows and doorways so the news echoes throughout the alleyways and over the rooftops. Joy and relief flood the streets, reaching everyone within earshot.

  Lauren, standing in front of her family’s hardware store, sees me from across the street. She waves and dashes through the crowd to meet me. She hugs me with such force that I feel as though I might be crushed. “Isn’t this grand news?”

  “Incredible,” I say, though I’m aware my voice conveys other emotion. “What do you expect will happen now?”

  “I don’t know. I can’t even imagine past this moment. After all we’ve been through, Violet, we have to let this soak in so no matter what happens, we’ll remember that hope existed on this day.”

  “Hope exists.” I squeeze her hands in mine.

  We hug again and promise to meet at the diner on Wednesday.

  Jim is dancing around the office with Frances. The radio in the doorway booms at full volume. Each time the announcer speaks, the window rattles against the sill.

  “Violet!” Jim grabs my hand and pulls me into their dance. “We’ve beaten the Germans. I told you I could feel victory. We’ve won.” He spins us around until we tumble against the office furniture, dizzy with relief.

  We laugh as we collect ourselves. I smooth my hair into place and head toward my desk.

  “No. Not today,” Jim says with an authoritative tone. His words tumble out faster than I can register them. “The office is closed. In fact, we will close for the week. Go. See your family. Celebrate with John’s. Go to a movie. Heck, I don’t care what you do. Promise me you won’t come in to work this week. Don’t you worry about your pay. You’ll still earn your weekly salary. I insist that we all take this time to live a little. This might not be a complete victory, but we’re halfway there. That has to be worthy of celebration. Can you do that? For me?”

  “Why yes, Jim.” I wrap him into a hug fit for an older brother. “I can do that for all of us. Thank you.”

  I step outside the office and pause to consider where I should go first.

  “Violet.”

  I hear my name but cannot place the caller within the noisy mass of people scattered about the street.

  I scan the crowd until I see him. Father is dodging people, making his way toward me. “Violet, I was on my way to collect you. We’re all to meet at the church. Come on now.”

  Unable to hold a conversation with all the commotion, I hug him tight before we venture into the throng of overjoyed town folk.

  There is only standing room by the time Father and I arrive. Mother and Iris are seated alongside the Smith family. I wave and catch Iris’s eye.

  “Today is a day of celebration.” Reverend Campbell’s booming voice captures everyone’s attention. “Though a celebration of such magnitude does not come without loss, and for those who left this earth far too soon, we pray for their souls.”

  A stifled cry squeaks out from a pew to my left and I see Mrs. Boyd, supported by Mr. Boyd. My heart lurches. Nothing, not even an end to war, can repair the damage left in its wake.

  My thoughts go to John, and I plead with God to tell me he is safe. Then, I decide better of it and instead call on the bravery I have lacked and pray for whatever outcome God wants me to know. Whatever the news, I will adapt. I will heal. I will learn to walk without fear. I will learn to live again.

  “I call on you, as a congregation, to continue your prayers for those yet to return. The war in Europe may be over, but our boys are not yet home safe in our arms.” Reverend Campbell is moved to song. “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me.”

  The congregation sways and sings, and I can’t help but notice that the sun outside shines a little brighter through the arched windows of the church. A glimmer of hope is sparked within my chest, and my butterflies take flight.

  ***

  May 31, 1945

  Saturday, May 12, 1945

  Dearest Violet,

  I hope this letter finds you well. I imagine you have heard the fortunate news that the war, at least in Europe, is over. These past five months have been a grind. There was little time or tools to write, and for that I apologize. We had made such good headway that our orders were to stay the course. We just had to keep on. We had those Germans on the run, Vi, and it was a good thing we didn’t stop, or we might not be celebrating this victory.

  Know that you were never far from my thoughts, and for that I will be forever in your debt. You pulled me through this filthy, stench-infested, miserable war. I’m not sure what will happen next, but for the most part, the fighting has stopped. Some say we’ll be sent to England. Others say we are to seek medical attention elsewhere. Not to worry, love, I’m not injured. A military precaution is all. A little R and R would be most welcomed by all of us.

  I don’t have much time, as I need to get this letter out with the military mail. I want you to know I am healthy and well, and as always, you are in my heart and on my mind. Please give my love to Mother and Father. I promise to write them as soon as I can.

  Love,

  John

  This is the news I have been desperate for. I sit at the bottom of the stairs. My knees shake as I breathe in gulps of air. Relief runs through my blood, and my body shivers. He’s alive. He is really alive. I laugh and call out for anybody who is near, “John is alive!”

  I slam the mailbox shut and run into the street. I don’t stop running until I’ve reached the Smith house. Mother Smith must have seen me from the window, because she is already on the front steps.

  “Violet dear, what is it?” Her voice is stretched thin with worry, and I am glad to give her good news.

  “He’s alive!” I laugh with hysteria. “John’s alive.”

  Her eyes squeeze shut. She holds tight to my shoulders as I tell her all I know.

  “Thank the Lord,” she says.

  “He’s alive!”

  She hollers out again, louder this time, and I see Father Smith running toward us at full speed.

  “Mother?” He gasps for air as he reaches her side.

  “He’s alive. John’s alive.”

  They collapse into each other’s arms, laughing and crying. I step back and allow them some space. Happiness fills my every pore as the family I have come to love as my own begins to come alive again right before my eyes.

  ***

  Saturday, March 2, 1946

  Today has been long overdue. I stand in front of my bedroom mirror and smooth out the pleats in my skirt. The sleet outside my window, though messy and unpleasant, can’t touch the joy vibrating inside me.

  I paint my lips with my favorite color of red, certain to leave a mark on a worthy cheek. I smile at my reflection and run the brush through my wavy hair once more.

  A knock at my door hurries me into action. I mist the air above me with perfume and let the scent cascade over me.

  I grab my jacket and purse off the bed and bound to the door.r />
  “Hello, darling. All set?” Father guides my arms into my jacket sleeves.

  “I’ve never been more ready in my life.”

  “Shall we go see a man about a horse?” He extends his elbow for me to take.

  We arrive at the train station—Father, Mother, Iris, and myself. The station is crowded with other anxious townsfolk. The crowd hums with electric conversation as everyone waits for their loved ones to arrive.

  I scan the crowd for the Smith family. Ten months ago, I thought John would be home, safe in my arms within a month or two. Though the Germans surrendered to the Allied forces in early May and to the Russians a few days after that, the Japanese decided to fight on, dragging out the messy and arduous war for several more months at the cost of many more lives. When mid-August arrived, the Japanese agreed to an unconditional surrender, and on September 2, 1945, the agreement was formalized and World War II was officially over.

  John’s letters became more frequent as he left Germany and returned to England for rest, recuperation, and other service details. I breathed much easier with letters arriving every other day. Once he finished his service in England, John informed me that he would travel to the east coast of America on a ship that was to carry German prisoners of war. How odd that must be, I thought, to sit alongside the men who he, only a few months before, had been at war against.

  Today, though, is the most wonderful day of all. His letter arrived seven days ago confirming that he would be on the train scheduled to pull into this station at one o’clock. This will be the first time he has set foot on South Dakota soil in almost three years. I am so full of excitement, I feel as if I might burst. I fan myself with both hands. Despite the cold temperature, my cheeks are flamed red with anticipation.