I was fifteen when the first war ended. I don’t remember much about Armistice Day—my mother would not let me attend parades because she worried I’d catch the Spanish flu. I do have memories of my father saying he was glad he’d left Germany when he did, mostly because he understood the suffering that would befall the losers. (“To the victors goes the future,” he said, or something like that.) My pop was a conservative man, fairly risk-averse. We lived in a neighborhood we could afford surrounded by people who’d set up a small island of no-nonsense Germans in the middle of wild, lawless Chicago.
He called my mother his “Mäuschen” (little mouse). She did have a tiny frame and retiring demeanor, but also a tubercular cough, a sure hand in the kitchen and the kindest blue eyes I’d ever seen.
Occasionally she’d shave enough off the household budget to take me down to Marshall Fields & Co. for window-shopping and lunch at the Walnut Room. One day, a few months after the war ended, she told me to put on my best dress—we were headed downtown.
It was winter, but late in the season, when the sharpness in the air is replaced by the promise of spring. We strolled down State Street, arm in arm, and I remember thinking I was going to order the chicken pot pie, even though I always did.
But then we walked right past the department store. I tugged on my mother’s arm but she was surprisingly strong, pulling me over to where a policeman stood absentmindedly tapping his baton against his open palm.
“Sir, could you please tell me where I can find the Prison Special tour?” she asked in halting, overpolite English.
He leaned over her, I thought, because her voice barely rose above a whisper. Then I recognized the curl of his lip and the cruel gleam in his eye. It was the expression of a boy I knew at school who liked to push me in the mud.
“Go home, lady,” he said in a rough Irish brogue, poking at her shoulder with one thick finger. “Don’t be bringing your daughter to see those harlots.”
My mother turned seven different shades of red. “Come, Marguerite,” she said to me, and we wandered the streets of Chicago until we spotted a large, agitated crowd. Many had signs shouting “Votes for Women!” and “Suffrage Not Torture!”
A group of stern-faced women stood on a dais with a Prison Special banner flapping high above their heads. My mother fell into contemplative silence, so it was up to me to piece together what I was looking at. I stood very still and pitched forward, trying to hear every word.
After a while the circumstance became clear. These women had spent time in prison for exercising their first amendment rights. They’d been abused and humiliated. A few wore prison costumes—horribly rough calico dresses with rags pinned to the waist.
They exhibited more energy and passion than any women I’d ever met.
We listened, my mother and I, until the chilled earth seeped into our shoes and our cheeks stung with cold. When the speeches were done and the rally began to disperse, my mother placed one gloved hand on my arm, squeezing until I looked her in the eye.
“Sie sind nicht eine Maus,” she said.
You are not a mouse.
My mother would be so proud of what you are doing, Glory, as would your mother.
As am I.
Love,
Rita
March 30, 1944
ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS
Dear Rita,
My hands shake as I write this letter. The most horrible thing has happened. Well, not the most horrible thing. No one (close to me) has died.
But I went to a memorial for another boy I knew growing up. A neighbor of Levi’s. I felt I needed to go and support him. Levi cried silently through the service, his body steeled against the internal shaking. The grief and the shame radiated off him like August sunlight. I left the children with Marie, and as it turned out, that was a VERY good decision.
After the mass I held Levi close. Closer than I’ve allowed him in ages. We sat in the pews after everyone went down to our local coffee shop for the reception. He placed his head against my chest and I murmured empty words of solace. Right there in God’s house, I comforted him. All he could say was, “Why can’t I go? Why can’t I go?” and I cried, too. For him...and for the boy who died...and for Robbie. May he never be kept from doing anything he feels he must do.
Afterward, we went to a local coffee shop. (The proprietor closed it for the family whose house is too small. It was really so gracious. If there is one thing this war is doing it’s helping us be more human to one another....) I approached the boy’s mother to pay my respects.
And she slapped my face.
“I’d spit at you if I could, you tramp! Who do you think you are? Who do you think you are with your house high on your hill and your deeded ocean rights? Making speeches telling our daughters to go to work instead of staying home—which is their godly duty? JUST WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE fooling with a man who is not your husband while that husband is at war? We know you! We ALL know you!”
The room went dead silent. She shook with sobs. Her husband looked at me, and there was apology in his eyes which—I think—hurt me most of all. And then he ushered her out of the shop.
I began to walk...and then I ran. I ran, Rita. All the way home. Down Main Street. Through the rotaries, I ran where only cars should go. And then I ran up my private road to my house on the hill.
And she’s right.
Who do I think I am?
Glory
P.S. And, I’ve only just realized something that I hadn’t before. If this town knows, then Robert will find out. Oh, Rita. I’m in a big, fat mess. One of my own making, but a mess just the same.
April 3, 1944
IOWA CITY, IOWA
Dear Glory,
When I got your letter I truly hoped you’d found mine waiting for you when you returned from your walk. Consider it an embrace from across these many miles.
I can’t condemn someone for talking through grief. That woman felt her sacrifice gave her the right to speak to you in that manner, but it doesn’t mean her opinion is a correct one.
Even so, being slapped with someone else’s reality is still a slap. What did it awaken in you? An awareness of the harsh nature of cause and effect? In some ways you’ve allowed this woman to construct her opinion, and though it may be as flimsy and unstable as a house of cards, the deck was comprised of your actions.
So act differently. Those three teenagers dancing under an indulgent moon? They’re gone. Let them go. The fairy tales spun by the past have no bearing on our present. History is telling us to. Your current life demands it. That woman says she knows you? Impossible. You don’t know yourself yet. But you will.
You are capable of so much, hon. I don’t always agree with your choices, but it’s a sign of your growing spirit that you continue to make them...and cheer the outcome or suffer the consequences. Unfortunately, you are doing the latter right now, but in no way should that stop you from figuring out where you fit in this changing world.
And poor Levi. He needs to find his place, as well. This war has so many casualties, including his self-respect. It truly is the touchiest of topics, the boys who stayed home. I thought you were absolutely right in your observation, however ironic, that war gives so many opportunities for kindness. Can you find a way to be a good friend to Levi without wrecking your marriage? You must.
As for Robert, I believe honesty is ultimately the best route. That said, I haven’t always lived by that belief. Secrets are strange, volatile things, often bursting into the public sphere at the most inopportune times.
I’m seeing this play out before my eyes with Charlie and Irene. They’ve grown uncomfortable around each other since that ill-fated meeting with Mrs. Kleinschmidt. Charlie’s secret—whatever it is—is a knife scraping at the slender rope tying them together. I know Irene wants to ask him questions, but I fear she already believes the worst scenario her fev
erish brain can envision. For her, it’s more tolerable to suffer through this strange purgatory between a healthy and broken relationship than risk an actual confrontation.
Charlie’s got the itch to run. I can see it in the way he sits—back stiff, legs folded, feet on the ground, palms down and ready to push off. The thing is, it’s taken me a while to figure out what’s in his heart, but I honestly think there is good in there. Or at least the good far outweighs the bad. It’s only in the telling of his secret that the burden will release, for both of them. It’s up to you to decide whether or not releasing yours will do the same, for Robert, Levi and yourself.
So my advice for the day is this: brush your hair, put on lipstick and go into town for a walk. Hold your head high and your spirit higher. Remember the words of our venerable First Lady: “It takes courage to love, but pain through love is the purifying fire which those who love generously know.” (I snipped this quotation from her newspaper column years ago and keep it along with a bunch of others by my bedside. Sal teases me about it, but I’ve caught him reading them. I think he’s got a crush on old Eleanor. But then again, who wouldn’t?)
Take care, dear.
With love,
Rita
April 5, 1944
IOWA CITY, IOWA
Dear Mrs. Whitehall,
I’m writing to thank you. I have never seen something so beautiful as the baby clothes you sent. I’ll wrap Little Sal in the blanket on his christening day, which should be soon. I wanted to wait until Toby got back, but Mrs. Vincenzo said a new soul can’t go too long without the Lord’s blessing.
Everything is going all right, I suppose. I’m back at work in the kitchen with Little Sal to keep me company. Funny, I thought everything would change after he came along, but not much has. My daddy doesn’t pay me one lick of attention unless I have to take a break to feed the baby, then he hollers until I come back. It’s a miracle my milk hasn’t dried up. For the most part, the days go by the same way. I make the same old food. The same customers come and go. Some tickle Little Sal’s chin, but most act like he’s not even there.
Toby says I am an important person because I’m keeping the world even—he’s destroying God’s green earth in this war, and I’m adding new life to it. I felt good thinking about that until I got your letter telling me about Toby’s poem. It got me thinking that I haven’t done enough. I worry this new life is too far away from Toby to do him any good. Hiding away in the tavern isn’t helping him any, either.
Mrs. Vincenzo told me about your preaching. She says you’re finding your way through helping others. She said you have more love in your heart than you have people to give it to. I think that’s a good way to be.
Regards,
Roylene Dawson
April 11, 1944
Telegram to Marguerite Vincenzo from the Department of War, U.S. Government
THE ARMY DEPARTMENT DEEPLY REGRETS TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR HUSBAND SALVATORE ANTHONY VINCENZO COMBAT MEDIC FIRST CLASS WAS KILLED IN ACTION IN THE PERFORMANCE OF HIS DUTY AND IN THE SERVICE OF HIS COUNTRY. THE DEPARTMENT EXTENDS TO YOU ITS SINCEREST SYMPATHY FOR YOUR LOSS. ON ACCOUNT OF EXISTING CONDITIONS THE BODY IF RECOVERED CANNOT BE RETURNED AT THE PRESENT. IF FURTHER DETAILS ARE RECEIVED YOU WILL BE INFORMED. TO PREVENT POSSIBLE AID TO OUR ENEMIES PLEASE DO NOT DIVULGE THE LOCATION OF HIS BATTALION.
JOHN MCGOVERN, ACTING ADJUTANT
GENERAL OF THE ARMY
April 12, 1944
IOWA CITY, IOWA (VIA EXPRESS MAIL)
Dear Mrs. Gloria Whitehall,
My name is Irene Wachowski and I am a friend of Marguerite Vincenzo, as I believe you know. I’m sorry to bring such bad news in this impersonal manner. The enclosed telegram was copied in the office of Dr. Aloysius Martin. He owns a photostat machine.
On Tuesday afternoon, Marguerite did not show up for lunch. When I went to Dr. Martin’s office to investigate, he said she did not come to work, which is unlike her. Concerned, my friend Charlie and I walked to her home.
She was in a very bad state, as you can imagine. Apparently, the death notice came as she was having her morning tea. I found shards of the cup all over the front yard, a tea stain on the sidewalk and Margie locked inside the house with the curtains drawn. Charlie coaxed her into opening the door a crack, but she would not come out and would not let anyone in.
I offered to send a telegram to the Vincenzo family in Chicago, and to you, as I know you’ve grown close. She went hysterical at the idea of you getting a telegram, and made me promise not to send it.
After a while Charlie and I were able to get into the house. He sat with Margie while I slipped away, running back to the university with the telegram in hand. I went directly to Dr. Martin’s office and informed him of the tragedy. He immediately granted her a leave of absence. While in his office, I asked to use the photostat to make a copy of the telegram for Sal’s family in Chicago. I made an extra for you. I found one of your letters on Margie’s dressing table and copied down the address.
I asked to stay with her last night and she refused, quite violently, and pushed us from the house. She doesn’t want to speak with or see anyone. She said she was going to stay put and let the sunflowers grow over the house, blocking the doors and windows and light.
I fear for her mind, Mrs. Whitehall, and I’m not quite sure what to do. Mrs. Kleinschmidt is sitting watch on Margie’s front porch today. I’ll head over there after work with Roylene and the baby. Charlie will take the night shift. If she won’t let us in the house, though, we can’t help her much.
Marguerite had such love for him, and I can’t imagine the pain she is experiencing. Please write to her. One thing I can do is slip a letter under her door. At this point, I’ll try anything.
Sincerely,
Irene Wachowski
April 16, 1944
ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS (VIA EXPRESS MAIL)
Dear Irene,
I hope you don’t mind the informality of using your first name, but I feel as if I know you. All of the people in Rita’s life feel that way to me. Like close, close friends. So thank you. Thank you for letting me know about Sal. I did my grieving before I wrote these letters. Enclosed you will find one for Roylene. Will you give it to her? I’d appreciate it. And then a whole stack for Rita, too. I think your idea of slipping a letter under her door is a good one. I’ve expanded that idea (outlined below). Also, I’ve sent this package of letters via Express Mail. I hope they get to you swiftly.
Now, I’ve become quite the organizer of late, and I feel my skills kicking into high gear. I’ve concocted a plan of sorts.
* The first letter to Rita has a tiny “1” on the back of the envelope. Slip that under her door the first day. There are four more. Slip one under the door at the same time (I think morning is best) each day consecutively, okay? I hope this isn’t too much to ask.
* I need to write a letter to Toby. Can you provide me with his V-mail address? There is a part of the plan I need his help with.
* Can you and Charlie begin to work Rita’s garden? Work loud and joyfully so that she can see and hear you.
I think...pray...hope that my little plan works. She needs to survive this. She needs to survive it for Toby and for you and, well, for me.
I love her, Irene. I love her like she’s my own dear mother, or older sister. I don’t know when or how it happened but I don’t think I could go on if she wasn’t going on as well. My own friend Anna (an older woman who’s taken me under her wing) told me that Rita might be a “Soul Sister,” someone I’ve known through many lives. I believe it. Truly.
My first reaction is to come there. To get on a train, or in my car and just GO. Run to her. (I tend to run when I’m upset...) But I can’t. I don’t know how much Rita’s told you about my boy Robbie. But whatever she’s told you it isn’t the whole story. I’ve been shielding her a bit from the whole truth. She’s grown fond of hi
m through my letters, and there’s no need to spread sorrow around during these tearstained years, right? Well, he had a cold in late February which aggravated his heart condition. He spent most of March in the hospital under an oxygen tent. He’s recovering very slowly. But he is a pale boy who spends his time wrapped in blankets and staring out windows. He stares at the yard he used to run through with wild abandon. He presses his tiny hands against the glass.
I cannot leave him. And I cannot bring him. So I cannot come.
This said, I do believe we might have some luck with this plan of mine. (Started by a grand idea from you!)
I’ve enclosed money so that you can send any correspondence back via Express Mail, as well. Please don’t be offended by it. If you don’t need it you can just send it back...but I felt like this particular situation called for skipping a bit of etiquette.
Yours in peace, And with heartfelt thanks,
Glory
April 16, 1944
ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS
Dear Roylene,
Please write Toby another letter. He’s going to need you. His childhood is gone with his father dead. He needs a good reminder of who he is. I know you spent time with him before he left for training. Maybe you can help him recall a funny moment the two of you shared? A story he told you while keeping you company in that kitchen? Maybe something about the baby?
As for a response to the last, wonderful letter you wrote to me: Roylene, you have no idea how much I needed you to share with me that little bit of Rita’s thoughts. It’s like I’ve seen her through glass and you threw open the window and let me reach through and touch her. And if there were ever a time I needed a clear view, it’s now.
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