Crossing Stones
Page 3
have turned to calluses, and I guess we’re all
as ready as we’ll ever be for what comes next.
Tell Ollie thanks for helping on the farm.
Tell Muriel—Why has he crossed that out?
My love to everyone, Frank.
2:25
Muriel
One good thing about Mama’s working:
I’m the one to meet the mailman
at 2:25 this afternoon while Grace
is taking her nap. Dear Muriel, Thank you
for your letter. I meant to apologize
for my behavior on the train platform.
I’m glad to see you aren’t holding that
against me. I don’t know what came over me—
you looked so pretty in that yellow blouse, I guess
I got carried away. Well, we’re in France now,
and I’m afraid there’s not too much to write about,
unless you’re interested in trench shovels,
mud, the sound of other fellows snoring
all night long. You’re not? I didn’t think so.
How’s everyone at home? Tell Grace
I liked her picture, and she can draw me
standing with the rest of you on that last stone. That’s
where I see myself whenever they give us time
to think of home. Which isn’t often.
Yours, Frank.
Seeing Things
Emma
Everywhere, I’m seeing
things that make me think of
Ollie. The red geranium in Grace’s
playhouse window—his last day, when
he knew he’d be leaving, but I did not. A hay
bale’s wisps of hay stick out like Ollie’s hair—I
reach out to tuck them back into his hat. The cat,
lost for three days, comes home skinny—even that
makes me wonder: Is Ollie eating well? When a fly
lands on my arm, I remember Ollie’s arm, the way
he’d flex his muscle, showing off. The white hen
is laying three or four eggs every day in places
she never has before: Wouldn’t Ollie love
an omelet? (He is only sixteen!)
Careful
Muriel
Papa slaps the newspaper down on the table.
They’ve gone and done it. Now it is, in fact,
against the law for Muriel to speak her mind
as freely as she’d like. I read the article:
Congress has passed an abominable law,
the Espionage Act, which threatens punishment—
twenty years in prison! a ten-thousand-dollar fine!—
for arguing against the war. It’s now illegal
to mail newspapers, or even letters, that give arguments
against the draft. Does this mean Aunt Vera can’t write to us
like she always does, telling us about her suffrage
meetings and why she and her friends are angry
about the war, especially the draft—remember
that article that called it “a new kind of slavery”?
Papa paces, door to table, table back to door.
I don’t know, he says. They’re not likely to arrest my sister,
but the worst of this is—this! Exactly what is happening
right here in this room, right now. Mama
doesn’t see it the way we do. She listens and then
puts in her two cents’ worth: Be careful, Muriel,
in what you write to Frank. I glance at her—
how does she even know about our letters?
Most likely from the nosy postmistress
who sorts the mail and shares our party line;
I bet she listens in on my private conversations
and tells my parents things she’s heard me say
to Emma. As for Mama’s admonition
to be careful, I have to smile—the letters
Frank and I exchange could hardly
be more careful than they are.
Adventure
Muriel
Frank writes letters to Emma and his parents—
Emma shows them to me—cheerful,
hearty: he’s having an adventure
he can’t wait to tell them all about
when he gets home. He’s met people
from all over the world! Soldiers from India
who don’t use helmets—they wrap their heads
in turbans! Scottish soldiers who wear kilts
that look like skirts. Frank hopes to visit
Scotland when he gets a few weeks’
leave, probably three months from now.
How are the crops? Is everyone well?
He’s proud to serve his country.
Don’t worry about him, he’s doing just fine.
Frank Writes to Me
Muriel
I’m surprised they even sent this letter,
after censoring so much of it. I read what I can,
then hold it up to the light and guess the rest.
Frank must have written something
other than what he knows he is allowed
to say, but now he’ll think he’s told me
things I haven’t read—it’s frustrating, like trying
to carry on a conversation through a thick curtain.
Dear Muriel, Thank you for writing to me.
I bet it’s hard on you, trying to keep up
with all the work. (Did I complain too much?)
Don’t go burning down the house, now.
I’m glad you don’t sugarcoat things
when you write to me, Muriel—
I’ll try to do the same, though as you know,
all our letters have to pass through censors,
so I can’t tell you everything. To tell the truth,
it’s a mess over here, and no one can say
when this war might be over. Death smells like
rotten fish (Is that word “fish”? He went fishing?),
and sounds like a rabbit with its foot caught in a trap.
I hate to tell you all this, Muriel. I want you to
think of me laughing, on a Sunday picnic
with you and Ollie, Emma, and little Grace—
I was surprised, when I was home, to see how tall she was!
If you tell me about your days there, and I
tell you about mine over here, we’ll know
each other better by the time I get home.
(I would like that.) I think of you more
than I should, I suppose. (How much
should we think about each other?)
I’m beginning to wonder if you might be right
in some of your opinions—that’s all I’ll say.
You’ll know what I mean. From your good friend, Frank.
P.S. Tell Ollie NOT to sign up for this unless
they draft him and he can’t get out of it.
(“NOT”? “drift”? or “draft”? I can’t make it out.)
I’ll do my best to get the job finished
before he’s old enough to join me here.
I don’t show Frank’s letter to anyone.
I spend long hours weeding the garden,
picking peas and thinning rows of beans,
letting my mind go where it will—which is,
most often, straight to Frank and Ollie:
What makes boys go to war? Did Ollie sign up
because Frank did, or does he honestly believe
the president is right? If those speeches about democracy
are true, why do they censor the soldiers’ letters home?
Let our boys write and tell us what they know.
Let us write back and tell them what we think.
Blisters
Ollie
Latrine digger, message boy,
pot scrubber—not exactly my idea of
life as a soldier.
Almost everyone at this training
camp is faster and stronger than I am—they’re all older
by several years. I can’t get out of this. I should have waited
two and a half years, until I am nineteen—except by then, Frank
could be home. (Will I see him over there?) By that time, maybe I
would have missed the whole war. Okay. Don’t think about home.
Too late now to go back. Time to lace up my boots, strap on
my pack, and move out into formation. My socks are
damp and muddy. Bloody blisters on both heels.
Right, LEFT, right … Could I kill a man?
(Not man. Enemy: Enemy Soldier.)
What if Muriel is right?
Courage
Muriel
I try not to look as if I’m waiting, but it must
be obvious: here comes the mailman, smiling—
A letter for you, Miss Jorgensen, and one
for your parents. One from Frank for me?
Ollie’s for all of us? I’m right about Ollie—
but as it’s not addressed to me, I put it aside.
My letter … is not from Frank. Familiar
handwriting I can’t quite place—Aunt Vera?
Why would she write to me, rather than to Papa?
Dear Muriel (small, careful script), I’m writing
to you because I’m about to embark on a journey
some might consider foolhardy, and many
are suggesting could be dangerous.
I sent your family, as I always do, the most recent
issue of Suffrage News, but it was returned—
the post office will no longer deliver what the government
deems unpatriotic. (Come to think of it, it is a long time
since we’ve heard from Aunt Vera—no letters,
no newspaper clippings, no political cartoons
from the Chicago papers.) It is not right that women
should have no voice in these matters of great
concern to us. President Wilson has his mind
on the war at the moment, but I, and many others,
refuse to let him ignore our cause—universal
suffrage for all adult citizens, in all states.
I am going to Washington to join the picket line
in front of the White House. (Have you heard
any news about this?) I am writing to say
I am doing this for you, Muriel, and for
Grace—for all the girls yet to be born. I expect
to be in Washington for one week. I’ll stop to see you
on my way home so that I can speak to you in person
about the reasons for what we are doing.
You give me courage, my dear Muriel.
I look forward to seeing you soon.
With love, Aunt Vera. I read the letter
over and over—foolhardy? dangerous?
She says I give her courage—how
can I give what I don’t have myself?
Fifteen Words
Muriel
Dear Ma and Pa,
I’m fine. Could you send me some socks?
Your son, Ollie.
Papa pores over the Sears catalog
as if he’s ordering a tractor.
What do you think, cotton or wool?
What size? How many pairs?
Mama spends the weekend furiously
knitting—and finishes two pairs of socks by
Monday morning. I bake oatmeal macaroons
and Grace draws a detailed portrait of the cows
to add to the parcel we send off to Ollie.
No one says what we’re all thinking:
fifteen words after three weeks does not
sound “fine.” Could I board tomorrow morning’s
train—to Chicago, and from there to Kansas—
and take these socks and macaroons to him myself?
If, as I suspect, Ollie is not fine, could I tell
someone he’s too young to go to war?
Could I bring my brother home?
Politics
Emma
I’ve never really understood
why Muriel gets herself so involved
in politics. I don’t know why she’d want
to vote. When I look at all the things women
have to think about already—cooking, mending,
laundry, gardening, babies, keeping house—I don’t
know when we’d find time to decide who’d be the best
man (or maybe woman!) for president, and for all the rest
of the government. Voting and expressing myself won’t
change anything. Will it keep the army from sending
Ollie overseas? Will it bring Frank back home any
sooner? And what if I’m wrong? I simply can’t
be as sure of myself as Muriel, so resolved,
so certain of what’s right and good.
A Long, Low Moooooooo
Ollie
Guess they got my letter. It’s great,
getting this package from home the day before
we leave. New socks (clean and dry!); oatmeal cookies;
long letter from Ma, Pa, and Muriel; one from Emma; and
a picture from Grace—I think it’s Rosie and her new calf. She
drew a big smile on Rosie’s spotted cow-face—I could swear I
heard a long, low moooooooo when I unfolded the paper, and it
occurred to me: if I tuck it into a pocket of my knapsack, with a
few of Muriel’s macaroons, it will be like a window to home. I
may run into Frank over there—he’d love to see these things.
Strong as all this hard training has made me, I still feel like
me—and I’m afraid that’s not saying much. The sun is
setting on our last day in America. Am I up to the
test I’m about to face? I don’t know.
Like a Rain-Soaked Wool Jacket
August 1917
“Kaiser Wilson”
Muriel
I’m not sure we should let Muriel read it,
Mama says to Papa as I walk in the door.
After milking Rosie, feeding the chickens,
and helping Grace find a dozen eggs,
then bandaging a cut she got on her knee
when she fell off her swing onto a piece
of broken glass—suddenly, now, I’m a child?
What is it they’re not sure I should read? Papa
answers me before I ask: It’s a hard letter
we’ve received from Aunt Vera, Muriel. She
was injured as she held a banner in front
of the White House. Mama purses her lips.
If you’re going to tell her, tell her what
the banner said. I already know. I saw it
in the newspaper, although I didn’t know
Aunt Vera had been holding it.
The paper called it the “Kaiser Wilson
banner,” accusing President Wilson of being
like the Germans we’re fighting in the war.
HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN YOUR SYMPATHY
WITH THE POOR GERMANS BECAUSE THEY
WERE NOT SELF-GOVERNED? the banner asks,
then declares, for the president to read
every day when he walks by: 20,000,000
AMERICAN WOMEN ARE NOT SELF-GOVERNED.
It goes further than they’ve gone before,
true, but they have a point. Mama is outraged:
What do they expect? It’s a slap in the face
to all our boys and everything we’re fighting
for. Ollie, her own nephew, is on his way
to fight the Germans—those women are undermining
him, and Frank, and all our boys. It isn’t right.
If you ask me, she says (though no one has), Vera
should expect exactly this, and worse. She
looks at me,
daring me to disagree. I hold out my hand to Papa
for the letter. How badly was she injured?
He gives it to me. Not badly enough to keep her
off the picket line long enough to stay out of prison.
Now she’s been arrested. I read the scribbled note
on the outside of the envelope: “I’m giving this
to Ruby Madsen, to mail to you. I don’t expect
I’ll be writing any letters for a few weeks.”
Bluebird
Emma
Saturday afternoon. A bluebird
flies against our kitchen window. Mother
says, Keep that window closed! Don’t let it in.
When I go out to look beneath the window, I find
the bird on the ground, stunned but warm, still living.
I hold it in my hands and sing a lullaby, some psalms,
and other songs I know by heart, until its wings spread
against my hands, and it flies. I go on kneading bread,
the bluebird’s heartbeat in my fingertips, my palms.
This evening, slicing into the fresh loaf, I’m giving
some to Father (pumpernickel, his favorite kind)
when a warm breeze moves across my skin.
Look: the bluebird, on the screen. Neither
Mother nor I breathe, or say a word.
In the Night, Through Towns
Ollie
Dread weighs me down
like a rain-soaked wool jacket.
We move in the night, through towns
where little girls like Grace must be asleep
in their warm beds, through countryside where
cats toss mice around in dark corners of the barns.
One thing bothers me: I don’t know the overall plan.
None of us do. They’re moving us to the battlefront,
that’s obvious. I’m sure they have a strategy for us to
win; maybe they’ll fill us in. To tell the truth, I don’t
care as much about their lofty goals as I do about
seeing my family again—there’s a man on a
bike, pedaling into morning, bringing
bread home to his family, I bet.
A Few Eggs, Five Peaches, All the Peas
September 1917
Restless
Muriel
I’m glad not to be going to school this year—no more