“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” their mother managed to reply, but she spoke without smiling and with no trace of warmth. No mention was made of Lenny returning; no invitation was extended for another family meal.
Before he left the apartment, he made one last plea. “I want you to know, Mrs. Kaplan, I think that Millie is a terrific girl.”
This time, their mother didn’t bother to respond.
Ruth almost felt sorry for him. He wasn’t the worst young man her sister had dated. But he had no education and no plans for a career. He didn’t come from money or even from a respectable family. No matter how much he liked her sister, Ruth knew their mother would never accept him.
When Millie left with Lenny to walk him down to the street, Ruth braced herself for her mother’s commentary. It was as swift and as harsh as she’d known it would be. “An entire evening wasted! Wasted on that bum! I’m supposed to be impressed by a man who delivers hats for a living?”
“It’s an honest day’s work, Florence,” Ruth’s father said. “He’s still a young man. At least he isn’t a criminal.”
“He’s worse than a criminal! At least a criminal has a full wallet! This one has nothing! No education and no ambition!”
“Florence, stop shouting—you’re going to wake the babies. Calm yourself down. Soon enough, they’ll break it off.”
“Vos gicher alts besser. The sooner the better.”
After twenty minutes passed without Millie returning, their mother began to pace the living room floor. “How long does it take for a person to say goodbye?”
Arthur cleared his throat and pointed out the window. “They seem to be having a prolonged farewell.”
Ruth rushed to the glass and pushed back the curtain. The September moon was so bright that it lit up the sidewalk, illuminating the pedestrians out for their evening strolls. Just below the window, Millie and Lenny stood together, their arms wrapped around each other and their lips pressed close.
“Morris!” their mother shouted as soon as she saw. “Morris! Do something!”
In order to minimize the scene, he asked Ruth to go down and break up the show. Lenny didn’t make a fuss when Ruth approached, but Millie yelled at her sister as soon as he was out of earshot.
“Why did you make him leave? Did you have to embarrass me?”
“I embarrassed you? The whole neighborhood could see you! Our parents are mortified.” Ruth grabbed her sister by the elbow and pushed her into the entryway of their building.
“Let them be mortified. I don’t care!” Millie yanked her elbow free and crossed her arms in front of her chest. Her voice echoed off the vestibule’s dark walls, and Ruth worried that the whole building could hear them arguing.
“Millie, come on. He’s a handsome guy, sure, but you must understand how wrong he is for you.”
“Why? Just because our parents don’t know his family? Get out of my way; I don’t want to talk to you.” She started walking up the stairs, with Ruth following behind.
“That’s the least of it, Mil. Lenny didn’t finish high school; he barely has a job.”
“That isn’t true—he has plenty of jobs!”
“Different ones every week! And who knows how long they’ll last? Lenny isn’t responsible, he isn’t—”
“I’ll tell you what he isn’t,” Millie interrupted. She stopped on the top step and whirled herself around. “He isn’t boring!”
“Millie, please.” Ruth lowered her voice and tried to speak calmly. “I’m worried for you. People will talk if you keep acting like this. A nice boy wouldn’t grab you in public like that. You need to find a man who can control himself, a man who is steady, someone more like Arthur—”
“Like Arthur? Ha! It’s not like he has a job! All he does is polish his glasses and do his stupid homework.”
They had reached the third floor; the door to their apartment was at the end of the hall.
“You know Arthur has to study because he’s in graduate school,” Ruth said. “And Arthur is a gentleman—he would never have dreamed of kissing me in public like that.”
“Well, maybe I don’t want to be with someone like Arthur! Did you ever think of that? Maybe I don’t want to be like you and marry some fat, dull man who only cares about memorizing formulas! Maybe I’d rather be with someone who wants to kiss me!”
Ruth heard the slap ring off her sister’s cheek before she realized what she had done. She had never hit her sister before, not so much as a shove, not even when they were little. Millie’s mouth hung open in disbelief.
“At least Arthur is kind,” Ruth said. She entered the apartment before Millie could respond, and in one quick movement, she slammed the door shut.
Millie
Springfield, Massachusetts (June 1942)
Millie’s first day of work was not what she had expected. She didn’t mind the physical exam, but she found the fingerprinting unpleasant. The sensation of the ink on her skin, the way the technician forced her fingers into position, the nagging thought when the card was filed away that her person and existence had somehow been reduced to ten blurry orbs—all of it left her slightly nauseated.
She felt even more uncomfortable when they gathered her together with the other new hires to take the oath of office. It wasn’t that Millie objected to the words—supporting the Constitution, defending her country—she believed in all of it. But saying the pledge out loud brought back memories of her first and only Girl Scout meeting, when Barbara Frankel’s mother singled her out with a nasty comment right after the troop learned to recite the Girl Scout promise. When Millie returned home from the meeting, she told her mother she wasn’t going back.
“You can’t quit,” her mother pleaded. “I already paid for your uniform.”
“I’ll pay you back.”
Millie’s mother closed her eyes and shook her head. “You’re going to put me in an early grave, you know that?”
“Ma, those girls aren’t nice, and neither is Mrs. Frankel. She told the whole troop my uniform was too tight up top and that I had to wear a cardigan over it from now on.”
“You’re being too sensitive. Mrs. Frankel is very civic-minded. She told me she organized a community project for the troop next week.”
“You know what the project is? We’re all supposed to meet at Frankel’s Butcher Shop and help them clean the back room!”
“So? It’s a mitzvah!”
“Ma! All Mrs. Frankel wants is unpaid labor! And she humiliated me!” Millie flung herself on the bed while her mother left the room, muttering something about trying to get a refund for the uniform.
* * *
It was only after taking the oath, while they were standing in line to have their photographs taken for their identification badges, that Millie began to relax. There were at least fifteen people in front of her, most of them women. She had been afraid of standing out, of being too young or too old, but as she examined the other faces, Millie realized that there were men and women of every age in the windowless room. Behind her were two high school girls, chattering loudly about their new jobs as messengers. Next to her was a stout woman in her forties, holding a cloth-covered picnic basket, and farther in line, a man who could have been Millie’s grandfather.
From the front of the room, an announcement was made. There would be a short delay while one of the corporals was sent for more film.
The woman ahead of Millie placed her basket on the floor.
“Careful,” she warned. “I wouldn’t want you to trip on that.”
“I won’t,” Millie said. “You were smart to bring lunch. I didn’t think of it.”
The woman chuckled, revealing oversized dimples and a playful smile. “There’s no lunch in there, cara. Believe me, I wish there was. It seems like we may be here for a long time.”
“It does,” Millie agreed. She must have looked back at the basket a little too long, because the woman lifted it from the ground and removed the cloth cover to reveal the contents. Tiny glass
jars of oregano, minced garlic, and dried basil were tucked inside, along with a dozen other jars of herbs and spices Millie did not recognize. The smells wafted toward her, fragrant and savory, flooding her nostrils with the scent of old memories.
“I’m starting work at the cafeteria today,” the woman explained. “So, I brought all my spices.” When she unfolded the cloth, Millie saw that it was an apron.
“You’re a cook?” Millie asked.
“That’s what they tell me! But the cafeteria just opened, and I don’t know what’s on the menu. All I know is, I can’t cook without an apron, and I like to wear my own.”
“Wearing someone else’s apron is like wearing someone else’s shoes.”
The words came out before she could stop them, and Millie was sure that the cook would think she was crazy. Instead, the woman smiled as if she understood. She took one of Millie’s hands in both of her own. “I know just what you mean.”
“I’m Millie Fein.”
“Arietta Benevetto. Any chance you’re working in the cafeteria too?”
Millie shook her head. “They’d never want me—I’m useless in the kitchen. But I had a neighbor back in Brooklyn when I was young—Mrs. DeLuca—and she tried to teach me. She was the most wonderful cook.”
The people ahead of them began to move. “They replaced the film,” someone announced.
The line went quickly after that, and soon the photographer was ready for her. One of the assistants handed Millie a card to hold beneath her chin with a five-digit number printed on in it bold type—“The number for your badge,” the photographer explained. He told her to smile, but the scent of garlic that lingered in the air made her think again of Mrs. DeLuca. There was an instant directly after the flashbulb went pop—when the promise of blindness turned everything black—that Millie let herself imagine her neighbor’s face. But the colors of the world intruded quickly on the darkness, and the picture in her mind faded too soon.
When the photographer was finished, Arietta waved at her from across the room. “Come visit me in the cafeteria,” she called out. “I promise to cook something delicious for you!”
* * *
On the other side of Federal Street, the inside of Building 103 smelled like lead and steel, sulfur and grease. The molten hum of machinery was everywhere at once, high pitched and low, rolling and relentless. Millie felt it in her chest when she entered the room—a warehouse-sized space filled with tables, machines, people, and parts. The tangy taste of metal crackled on her tongue like Coca-Cola bubbles. She felt her fingers tingle from knuckle to tip.
The gang boss noticed her hands before she even began. “Tiny,” he noted. “Perfect for triggers.” She was told to leave all jewelry at home, to tie up her hair, to wear comfortable shoes. Some of the women wore coveralls, but trigger assembly didn’t require special clothing.
She was given pamphlets on safety and was warned about accidents—lost fingers and limbs, hair caught in the teeth of unstoppable gears. She was lectured on nutrition, on staying healthy for work. Every missed day in the shop means less equipment for our troops.
Just when she thought the orientation was over, another officer was brought in to speak to them. Never discuss your work at the armory—you never know who might be listening. As soldiers of production, we must guard against saboteurs and foreign spies. Loose lips sink ships. Always be vigilant.
By the time Millie was shown to her place at one of the wooden tables, there were only a few hours left on her shift. Her assembly station was crowded with wooden boxes filled with the different components that made up the trigger mechanism of the rifle. The woman at the station to her right was to be her instructor, but for the next two hours, Millie never once looked up from the table to see her face. The woman’s voice and her hands were all that existed, both smooth and certain, synchronized and calm. The woman’s fingers and lips tapped out their own rhythm, and all Millie could do was to follow along.
Here, this is the housing. No, hold it like that. Ejector spring clip—it’s tricky, I know. The trigger guard here. Now you line up the holes. The safety, the hammer, the pin, is it flush?
At first, Millie wasn’t convinced that she was up to the task. The metal was cold, and the pieces fought against her touch. But by the end of the shift, her hands began to make peace with the parts. She promised herself she would go faster tomorrow.
Millie only knew the shift was over because the woman to her right said so. She knocked her knuckles on the wooden table, gave Millie a pat on the arm, and said, “It’s three o’clock now, dear. Time is up. You’re done.”
Only then did Millie look up to see the woman’s face. She was older than her voice, with round cheeks and soft wrinkles under dark brown eyes.
“Hello,” the woman said. “I guess it’s time we met?”
Millie let out a groan. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “I can’t believe I was so rude. I got so caught up, I didn’t even introduce myself—”
“Oh, don’t worry.” The woman laughed. “It happens all the time. The first day of work is like that for a lot of people.”
Millie stood from her chair and held out her hand. “My name is Millie Fein. Thank you for all of your help.”
“I’m Delores,” the woman said. “Welcome to the armory.”
PART TWO
Ruth
Springfield, Massachusetts (July 1942)
Over time, a carefully choreographed routine evolved between the two sisters. The dance was wordless and intricate, full of side steps and skirting, avoidance and circumvention.
When Millie was in the living room, Ruth usually avoided it. When Ruth sat on the porch, Millie stayed inside. Millie kept clear of the kitchen while Ruth prepared dinner, and Ruth helped the girls with their homework while Millie did the dishes. They listened for each other’s footsteps, each heeding the heartbeat of the other.
“I’m glad you’re getting along better,” Arthur observed.
“We stay out of each other’s way, that’s all,” Ruth corrected him.
“I think it’s more than that,” Arthur said. “You seem more relaxed.”
Ruth supposed he was right. A person could get used to anything, really. The suffocating sensation she woke with in the morning began to dissipate slowly as the weeks went on. But she suspected that the change had more to do with her nephew than with her sister.
It didn’t take long for Michael to get used to her. In just a few days, he was giving her shy smiles, and after a week, he insisted on sitting next to her at breakfast. He looked so darling when he woke up in the morning, with his messy curls and baby-pink cheeks. Her heart almost broke when she saw the threadbare pajamas he wore, his round little knees visible through the thin striped cotton.
One day after breakfast, he wrapped both of his arms around Ruth’s neck. “Roof,” he cooed, nuzzling his head into her shoulder. Ruth’s heart swelled as she kissed him on the cheek.
“He asks for you in the mornings now, when he wakes up,” Millie told her.
Ruth didn’t answer, but when Millie and Michael were both out the door, she stood in front of the kitchen sink and cried. For the rest of the day, she could smell Michael’s hair and feel the press of his small body against her own. She imagined her father and Michael together—the sweet little boy on his grandfather’s knee. She wondered whether she should encourage Arthur to spend some time with him, but she worried about the consequences that might result.
That afternoon, Ruth took a walk to clear her head. The twins had been invited to a friend’s house after school, so she was in no rush to get home. She followed State Street toward the river and made her way to the entrance of Forbes and Wallace on Main Street. Ruth rarely shopped at the department store. She found its eight floors—each as wide as a city block—overwhelming, and it was much too expensive for everyday purchases. But something—guilt or restlessness—propelled her through the front doors.
“No, thank you,” she repeated as she pushed her way past
the saleswomen offering eye creams and lipsticks. A labyrinth of glass cases filled with powders and perfumes occupied the front half of the first floor. The constant chatter of overeager customers was magnified tenfold as it bounced off the walls. When Ruth finally made her way to the back of the store, she asked the elevator operator to take her up to the boys’ department. With its dim overhead lighting and carpeted floors, it was a haven from the chaos below.
A middle-aged man with neatly parted hair showed her the selection of boys’ pajamas. Ruth chose two sets—one in pale blue cotton for summer, and one in forest-green flannel with white piping for fall. Both looked like shrunken versions of the pajamas Arthur wore—collared shirts with buttons on the front and drawstring pants, cuffed at the bottom. The salesman folded the miniature clothes with such precision that Ruth was mesmerized. After wrapping each set in crisp white tissue paper, he tucked them gently inside a glossy cardboard box.
It was only when she was outside that she began to have doubts. The pajamas were too expensive … she should never have spent so much … the flannel might be itchy … Millie might refuse the gift. The walk home felt endless, and when Ruth finally arrived, she ran upstairs and hid the box in the back of her closet. That night, she could barely sleep.
The next morning, Ruth brought the box straight to Millie’s room. If she waited, she knew she was sure to lose her nerve. Millie wasn’t quite dressed when she opened the door, and Ruth handed the box to her before she could speak.
“I bought these for Michael yesterday,” Ruth blurted out. “Two pairs of pajamas. I thought he might need them. I hope you don’t mind.”
The look of surprise on her sister’s face filled Ruth with shame. “Of course I don’t mind,” Millie answered. “Thank you.”
Millie
Millie thought about telling her sister the truth on her first day in Springfield. She had already surrendered so much of her pride by arriving with nothing but a half-empty suitcase. What difference would it make to give up what was left, to say to her sister: Our mother was right about him all along?
The Wartime Sisters Page 8