“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men AND WOMEN are created equal.” Imagine! See what they don’t teach us in school? I swear Corrine will grow up knowing what she’s made of.
As for my garden, well...see for yourself. I’ve enclosed a photograph. The black-and-white won’t do it justice, but just look, Rita! Look at how lush it is, with the sea peeking out from behind the tall sunflowers at the back. I’ve named those sunflowers. I call them Rita 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7 and I say good-morning each day.
Sending you love and prayers for peace,
Glory
P.S. I just got another letter from Robert. His division will be moving from Sparta to New York. I should be happy, right? Because I’ll surely see him, then. But I know that being stationed back near the coast will mean that he’ll go overseas soon. I wish he could be with Toby or Sal. Maybe we can write to them and tell them to try to take care of one another? I know Toby and Sal are not fighting on the same fronts, but what if you petition them to be nearer? Can we do that?
There’s so much I don’t understand about this war. So much I wish I knew.
Oh, well. I suppose I just have to keep learning. And writing letters.
June 17, 1943
IOWA CITY, IOWA
Dearest Glory,
Thank you for accepting my letters with such grace. I’ve been in such a state these past few weeks, and your words act as a balm to my frayed nerves. Sometimes I wish the censors would attack domestic letters with the same ferocity they do those going overseas. I’m certain my ravings would merit a few slashes of black ink!
So, to address your most important question: my stockings look like they’ve been in a gunfight at the OK Corral. I will gladly accept any charitable donations to my lingerie wardrobe. I can repay you in heirloom seeds and advice.
I’ll give you an advance on the advice—make sure your children know who their daddy is. We don’t know how long this godforsaken war is going to last, but we do know that our guys are in it for the long haul. I don’t mean to depress you, but that baby of yours could be walking about singing “The White Cliffs of Dover” by the time Robert returns. Levi should be Levi. Papas are Papas.
But then, I don’t know if someone like me should be handing out advice like a regular Queen Bee. I’ve behaved shamefully, Glory. Remember my friend Irene? Well, Irene is a real plain Jane, if I’m being honest, and she’s not one for mixing. In warmer weather, the university hosts a social outdoors near the Old Capitol Building. I convinced Irene to go, and promised I’d join her for moral support. Turns out I’m the one who needs help in the morality department.
As you could guess, the women outnumbered the men ten to one. We hens stood in clusters, some tittering about nothing in particular, others wondering why the men who did attend weren’t in uniform. I caught Irene staring at one of them—a tall, cowboyish sort, with thick, straw-colored hair and an easy smile. I gave her a nudge, but like I said, she isn’t the mixing type. Irene shook her head and started sucking down her ginger ale, like it suddenly required all of her effort and attention.
With a quick apology to Sal—I swear!—I sauntered over to that man, completely brazen, and asked him to join us. He did. We introduced ourselves. (He’s probably only in his mid-thirties, but called himself “Mr. Clark,” so we went by Miss Vincenzo and Miss Wachowski, like a couple of coeds.). Then darn if he didn’t reach into the pocket of his suede sport coat and pull out a flask. Irene just about keeled over.
“Ladies first,” he said, and poured a couple of thumbs into what was left of Irene’s ginger ale.
He turned to me and I didn’t have a glass. With one raised eyebrow he watched as I took hold of that flask and knocked back a shot! I haven’t done that since before Mr. Roosevelt was in office. Irene’s eyes grew big and her mouth pursed tight as a fisherman’s knot.
Well, I talked for both of us, and the next thing I knew I’d invited him over for dinner next Wednesday (with Irene, of course). I’m not sure what I’ve gotten her into, but I’m calling it a date. Irene doesn’t show it much, but she’s excited. I swear, she’s asked me six different times if she should roll her hair up or not.
I love my husband, Glory, but I can’t tell you how nice it is that a man will be admiring my cooking and the way I keep my house. Your suffragette women would probably give me a good pounding if you told them I said that, but it’s true. I suppose what I’m saying is I understand why you have Levi around, it’s just you must understand there are lines we can’t cross.
Warm regards,
Rita
P.S. I haven’t seen Roylene since our trip to Ohio. I didn’t embarrass her or Toby that morning, but I think she suspected I knew what went on. She stared out the window the entire return trip, and scurried off as soon as we arrived in Iowa City.
P.P.S. I haven’t gotten any V-mail at all. Not one letter from Toby or Sal. I think the postman is afraid of me. Every afternoon I nearly tackle him as he approaches our mailbox!
July 4, 1943
ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS
Dearest Rita,
I know it’s been a while since I wrote back to you. So many things are happening right now and I don’t quite know what to do with myself. The earth moves and I’m trying to find a foothold.
First things first. This letter is inside a box of all sorts of stockings. I hope you like them. I also included a jar of strawberry jam I put up. (If you knew me really well you’d know what a surprising thing that is!) But I wouldn’t have any strawberries, or any garden for that matter, if it wasn’t for you.
Thank you for that.
I’m purposely writing this letter today as it is the birthday of this great nation. The one we sacrifice for every day. One town over, in Gloucester, we have a parade and then bonfires on the beaches. And I took baby Corrine and Robbie. Corrine is getting so big now. She’s a smiley baby with fat cheeks. She soothes me so. I put her in this fancy new pram Claire gave me (she’s a good one for presents, that Claire...), and Robbie helped me push. We were a bit early so I strolled them over to the beaches that Levi, Robert and I made our magical paradise as kids. There were bonfires already starting even with the sun not quite set. And that’s when I saw him. Levi, staring out over the ocean. I’d invited him to come with us...but he told me that the three of us (the children and I) should be spending more time as a family. That happened right after I asked him to stop encouraging Robbie to call him Papa. I’ve known him long enough to know I’d hurt his feelings.
“Papa!” Robbie shouted as he ran down the beach. Levi caught him and threw him up in the air. Two dark shadows against the setting sun, laughing as if they didn’t have a care in the world.
As they walked toward me, I heard Levi talking to Robbie.
“I’m not Papa, I’m Uncle Levi. You have a daddy who is fighting for our nation. He’s a hero, and we want to remember that every day, okay, pal?”
Robbie looked up and nodded.
“Want to come watch the parade with us, Levi?” I asked.
“You bet,” he said, and put Robbie on his shoulders as he found a place for us in the crowds.
The parade itself was beautiful. As well as the celebrations afterward. And to be quite honest, I’m not usually a fan of parades.
It was the strangest thing. The celebration felt many layered. Like a quilt of sorts. See, some of the families are beginning to get notices more and more that their boys are gone. I don’t know how you do it, with both your men out there. Everywhere I looked there were people waving their small paper flags and crying. And I know they were tears of joy and pride...but tears just the same. Tears don’t belong at parades and bonfires.
No word from Robert about when he might be going overseas. It’s the not knowing that kills me.
And because of that, I started to cry, too. Levi took Robbie down from his shoulders and pulled me into a hug. It shoul
dn’t have been awkward...we’ve hugged lots of times. But his embrace felt different. Painful as well as safe. I can’t really explain, except it scared me a little. When he released me, he tucked an errant wisp of hair behind my ear. Oh, Rita. In that moment I felt what you must have felt at that dance. Like a woman. A young, attractive woman. And it felt wonderful.
Anyway, I’ve missed your stories. So write back and tell me what is going on in your life. And maybe a new recipe? I’m getting darn tired of my own.
By the way, guess what I did? I went down to city hall and changed my affiliation. I am now a proud member of the Democratic party.
Father and Mother are turning in their graves!
With much affection,
Glory
July 8, 1943
V-mail from Marguerite Vincenzo to Pfc. Salvatore Vincenzo
Sal,
I got your letter yesterday. You didn’t ask for my opinion, but I’m going to give it anyway (surprise, surprise).
What happened on that battlefield might be your fault, and it might not. It’s definitely Hitler’s fault. He started it.
I’m not making light, but I don’t think you should beat yourself up for decisions made on only a second’s worth of thought. Mistakes will happen. Yes, I do realize we’re talking about a boy’s life, and I know what a slipup can mean, but if you hold yourself to the standard of God, you will forget what it’s like to be a regular old human.
And what has prepared us for this? The Depression? We had our hard times, and we pulled through. Did we find out we were made of tougher stuff than we thought, or did circumstance breed heroism? I’m not sure. This war is certainly forcing out the best in everyone, so it follows that a little bit of the worst will squeeze out, too. Even from you and me.
I love you, and more important, I believe in you,
Rita
July 13, 1943
IOWA CITY, IOWA
Dear Glory,
I was so glad to get your letter, kiddo. For a minute I’d worried I’d lost you to the uncertainties of this damn war. And I need a friend more than ever. Iowa City clears out in the summer, our population dipping to half of what it is when the college students are here. The sun shines so mercilessly on these empty streets, I can’t go barefoot on the cement for more than a second.
So, thank you for the stockings. I hope you don’t mind, but I gave a pair to Irene. She was desperate, about to surrender to the last resort of swabbing her legs with tea bags and tracing the seam with a kohl pencil. I believe Irene is knitting a chic beret for the baby as a thank-you gesture. I’ll send it along when she’s done, which should be sometime in 1963.
I sincerely hope you’ve gotten more information about Robert’s shipping out. Being kept in the dark is tough. Before this war I felt like if I needed to know something I could find a way to know it. But so much is unknowable now, completely beyond my grasp. Sal’s letters make me question if I’ve ever truly understood anything about human nature.
Including what’s been happening these past few weeks. I don’t wish to distress you, hon, but this letter might do exactly that, so I apologize in advance. It’s just that I’ve been keeping everything inside me, and not having anyone to talk to is starting to do some internal damage. Does it help to know I feel better confessing my sins to you instead of Father Denneny down at St. Mary’s? At least I know you aren’t going to make me say any rosaries.
So.
Remember the big dinner with Irene and the cowboy?
Irene came over early. The poor girl’s hands shook so hard she couldn’t hold a bobby pin to save her life. I rolled her hair and helped with her makeup. She looked very presentable. Maybe not pretty, but polished, put-together. A guy could do a lot worse.
The cowboy was on time, I’ll give him that. Turns out his first name is Charlie, which surprised me. I thought it would be Tex or Hank or some other rodeo name. He brought a bottle of wine with him and that same easy smile. Irene kept her lips glued together so I yapped and yapped until I had to take care of the meat loaf. I poured them each a glass and disappeared into the kitchen.
I must have been gone a while because when I came back half the bottle was gone and Irene’s face looked like the beets I’ve been pulling from my garden. Charlie sat in Sal’s chair, his long legs splayed out so far the tips of his boots nearly touched Irene’s ankles. Their laughter filled my house, every nook and cranny, leaving no room for the sadness I’d been cultivating.
I hated them, Glory. That’s a strong word, hate, but it overtook me. Those two had nothing to worry about. The Germans weren’t going to march into their living rooms, crushing their hearts to bits. The Japanese weren’t dropping bombs in their backyards. How dare they? I wanted to kick at his stupid feet and shake Irene until her teeth rattled.
Instead, I walked back into the kitchen. I got what was left of Sal’s bourbon and had a nip, then two. I drew a few breaths, brought the food to the dining room and called them in to dinner.
When they saw my cooking their faces just about melted with gratitude. I used all my rations to buy beef, veal and pork, so I could make the meat loaf right. I boiled some carrots with the early potatoes, and you would have thought I was serving caviar.
The guilt crept up on me, but when I tried to make up for my terrible thoughts, I overdid it. I ate too much, laughed too hard, polished off Sal’s bottle. Charlie was open and polite with Irene, but he kept an eye on me, wary almost, like I was the bomb about to go off and shatter the evening.
I don’t think Irene noticed, so taken was she by this cowboy. When I saw the stars in her eyes I grew even more ashamed. This was my friend, and she deserved a little fun. I collected the plates and excused myself, retreating for the safety of the kitchen.
I took my time washing and drying. When I heard Irene’s tinkly laugh I took the pan out back to add the grease to the Mason jar on the patio. (Mrs. K., who is only talking to me out of a sense of patriotic duty, is in charge of lard collection for our block.)
In Iowa, the summer nights are still as can be. I heard him walk through the kitchen. I heard the match strike and his first deep drag on the cigarette. When the screen door slammed it sounded like a gunshot.
“Everything hunky-dory?” he drawled.
“Where’s Irene?” I said in place of a real answer.
“Powder room. She was feeling a little queasy.” Everything he said was outlined in humor. I didn’t know if it meant he was basically kind or inherently mean-spirited. It was impossible to tell.
He sat next to me on our patio and balanced his cigarette on the edge of the cement. Then he leaned back, reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a pressed handkerchief.
“Give me that,” he said, and caught my wrist with one large, rough hand. He wiped the grease from my fingers, one by one, slow and methodical.
Oh, Glory, I didn’t stop him. After he’d cleaned my hand, he stuffed the kerchief back into his pocket like it was nobody’s business, picked up his cigarette and went back in the house.
I sat on that patio until Irene came out to tell me Charlie was going to take her home. She slurred her words, and I should have talked her into staying the night. But I didn’t.
After they left I sat on my bed, picking at the chenille with my fingernails. I yanked at the threads, over and over, talking to Sal in my head and blaming him for everything. He’s forty-one years old, like me. At that age he could have waited out the lottery until the end of the war. There is no reason for him to be in a strange land, the grim reaper holding him close, saying, “Yes, today is the day,” or “No, not yet.”
We were having a fight right there in the bedroom, a fight we should have had a year ago, and he wasn’t even around to defend himself.
I went to bed with my clothes on, on top of our ruined bedspread. Before I fell asleep I tried to think of what North Africa was like, to im
agine it, Glory, but all I could think about was those rough hands pulling the grime from my fingers.
I woke up early the next morning feeling pretty low. Before putting the kettle on, I got pen and paper and wrote to my husband, telling him about my sunflowers and the broken shed lock and funny stories of Mrs. K., strengthening his tie to me and our life together. That is my job, right? To comfort him. To keep the portrait of what he left behind intact. Isn’t that a woman’s duty during wartime?
I’ve confessed all my guilty thoughts to you, but I’m going to devise my own penance, if that’s all right. Toby’s asked me to check up on Roylene, but I’ve been avoiding the tavern. I walk past the dingy windows with my head down, staying clear of that sad, skinny little girl. I need to make an effort. My Toby is fighting for the world’s freedom and he asked me to do one simple thing. I might as well try to do it.
Love,
Rita
P.S. I used the last bit of corn syrup to make a War Cake. Do you know it? I’ve included the recipe. I figured it’s the least I could do after unloading all my neuroses on you. Instead of butter I smeared your wonderful strawberry jam on it. Heavenly!
War Cake
1 cup molasses
1 cup corn syrup (light or dark can be used)
1½ cups boiling water
2 cups raisins
2 tablespoons solid vegetable shortening
1 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon ground cinnamon
½ teaspoon ground cloves
½ teaspoon ground nutmeg
3 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
2 teaspoons baking powder
Directions:
In large pot, combine molasses, corn syrup, water, raisins, shortening, salt, cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg. Bring to a boil. Remove from heat and cool to room temperature.
Preheat oven to 350°F. Sift together flour, baking soda and baking powder. Combine with molasses mixture and beat well.
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