But the travel had been grueling, and Ruth had been difficult to read. The next morning had been no better, and Ruth’s hasty goodbye left Millie no opening in which to tell her story. By the end of the second day, Millie had forgotten the speech she had practiced on the train ride.
A few days later, the words came back to her: He could never keep a job. We could never hold on to an apartment. When he started working for his brother, things only got worse. Half the time, he didn’t come home in the evenings. When he did, he was drunk. After Michael was born, he promised to change. When he left to enlist, I thought things would get better.
She wanted to tell the truth, but with each day that passed, she became more confused. At first, Ruth’s demeanor made Millie believe that there was no chance for a sincere reconciliation between them. Ruth was offering shelter, but not a real home. And then, Ruth surprised her with those pajamas for Michael. It wasn’t just the gift, but the thoughtfulness of the gesture. It was the tone of Ruth’s voice and the kindness in her eyes. It was the way she looked at Michael, with such love and delight, so that for the first time in years, Millie felt hopeful. If it truly was possible to repair the rift between them, Millie didn’t want to risk ruining that by bringing up the past.
* * *
After a month in Building 103, Millie was as fast as Delores. They had been right about her hands—they were nimble and quick. Over time, the calluses on her fingers hardened and her smooth palms turned rough.
Eventually, she learned the other women’s names and stories. She was not the only single mother, she was not the only younger sister, she was not the only person who had come from somewhere else. Together at the tables, the women formed a kind of sisterhood—their hands moved in unison, and there was safety in synchronicity.
At least once a week, a group of them purchased lunch in the new cafeteria. Millie didn’t go for the first several weeks—she hadn’t wanted to spend the extra money when it was just as easy to bring a sandwich from home. But after a month, she grew desperate for a change of scenery. The others promised that the food was cheap and delicious. “They have the best macaroni and cheese—come with us, you’ll see.”
When they reached Building 111, Millie could hear the clapping and foot-stomping even before they walked inside.
“Arietta must be singing,” Delores explained. Millie knew that the Works Progress Administration arranged for lunchtime concerts all around the armory, but she had never heard the WPA musicians receive such loud applause.
Inside the cafeteria, a stocky brunette stood on top of a milk crate, blowing cheerful kisses to a raucous crowd. Millie recognized her as the woman she had met her first day of work, the one holding the basket of spices on the photography line. Cheers of “Encore! Encore!” filled the small space.
“Enough now. Silenzio!” The singer laughed. “This next one will be my last song for today.” The tune was slow and easy, the words like honey on her tongue.
Although some people say he’s just a crazy guy
To me he means a million other things
For he’s the one who taught this happy heart of mine to fly
He wears a pair of silver wings.
Her voice took the crowd away from the industrial lighting and the smell of frying meat. It made them forget the monotony of their jobs and the aching of their muscles. It made them worry less, for a moment, about their sons and nephews, their cousins and their friends, all fighting far away.
Who cooks in a cafeteria with a voice like that?
Arietta held the last note like a lover in her arms. People forgot what they were eating. They forgot they were supposed to be eating at all. Millie closed her eyes and imagined she was at one of the nightclubs in New York she had read about in magazines—the Copacabana, maybe, with its red velvet chairs and candlelit tables.
When she opened her eyes, Arietta was in front of her, smiling from ear to ear. “Well, look who’s here!” Millie couldn’t remember the last time someone seemed so happy to see her.
“You said you were a cook!” Millie said. “Not a singer!”
“I’m a cook who sings,” Arietta admitted. “Or maybe a singer who cooks. It’s Millie, right? How’s the new job? When you didn’t come in, I thought maybe you had quit.”
“Oh, no, I’d never do that. The work has been good. And I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. It’s been so busy.”
Arietta flashed a conspiratorial grin. “Don’t worry, cara—I know all about that. Listen, I’ve been working on something new for the menu. If you come back next Wednesday, it should be ready to try. I think you’re going to like it.”
“Of course I’ll come.”
“Sorry to run, but if I don’t turn off the oven, my biscuits are going to burn. See you next week!”
By the time lunch was over, Millie’s stomach was full and her heart was lighter. On the walk back to the shop, there was a spring in her step and a grin on her face. If Ruth had seen her from a distance, she wouldn’t have recognized her.
For the first time in a long time, Millie had something to look forward to.
Arietta
Arietta Benevetto was born in New Haven, Connecticut, on December 31, 1899, ten minutes before midnight. Her father’s employer, the prominent theater owner Sylvester Poli, shared her New Year’s Eve birthday and took a special interest in her. When he received word of her mother’s departure from the world a few hours after Arietta’s birth, Poli shook his head in sorrow and allowed his tears to fall freely. “In the short time that she has been alive,” he sighed, “this motherless child has aged a century.”
Arietta’s father was one of Poli’s most valuable builders. He was told to take all the time he needed—paid, of course—to arrange for both his wife’s funeral and his daughter’s continued care. Between family, friends, and the wives of Poli’s employees, half of the Italian women in New Haven lined up to help. They passed Arietta from lap to lap, smothering her with kisses and tears, while her father, bewildered and grieving, found himself drowning in a sea of polenta and new marriage offers. He accepted the former and rejected the latter with all the grace he could manage.
Meanwhile, the women couldn’t get enough of the baby. Each tiny coo that escaped from her lips made their sympathetic hearts burst with pity and pride. Every woman who saw her insisted on holding her, and every woman who held her insisted on feeding her. Not one of them thought about keeping track of how many bottles she was offered, however, so by the time Arietta was two months old, she was the fattest baby any of them had seen. Her extraordinary size only made them love her more.
Her father never remarried. Instead of igniting desire, the steady stream of women in and out of his small house made him tired. He longed for quiet days when he could be with his daughter alone, away from the flock of women that surrounded her. As the years went by, the number of ladies pledged to care for Arietta dwindled to a devoted group of three. These women were affectionately known as “the Aunties” or, as they taught Arietta to say, Le mie zie.
Arietta was five years old the first time her father heard her sing. When he opened the front door one Friday afternoon, he heard music coming from the back of the house. Assuming it was the radio, he followed the sound to the kitchen where the Aunties sat around the table on a set of mismatched chairs. No one noticed him at first. The radio was off, but there was his daughter, standing on top of a wooden milk crate in front of the stove, singing with her eyes closed. The Aunties had curled her hair and topped it off with a pink satin bow.
Arietta’s voice was light and comforting, like summer rain on a cottage roof. It was not the voice of a child but that of a natural performer—expressive but precise, swelling to crescendo at the perfect moment, dropping to a whisper when the melody required. It was impossible to listen and remain unmoved.
By the time the song was over and Arietta opened her eyes, her father was weeping. The sight of him in distress frightened her, and she began to cry as well. Wet round tears rolle
d down her pink cheeks, and in her haste to go to him, she teetered on her wooden box and fell to the ground. He was at her side in an instant, lifting her from the floor into his arms.
“Papa, why didn’t you like my song?”
“I liked it very much.” He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and tried to smile.
“Then why are you crying?”
The Aunties shuffled in their seats, uncomfortable bearing witness to such an intimate scene.
Arietta’s father was a simple man, but he had always tried his best. He read his daughter stories and took her on walks around their neighborhood. He bought her dolls when he could afford them and slept on a chair beside her bed when she had trouble falling asleep. Still, he had never spoken to her about her mother before. It had always been too painful.
“I’m crying because the song you sang reminded me of your mother.”
For her whole life, Arietta had been afraid to ask any questions about the woman who had given birth to her. Sometimes the Aunties spoke of her, but always in hushed tones and never when they thought she was listening.
“Mama liked to sing?”
The excitement in Arietta’s voice, the simple pleasure she took from saying the word Mama, broke her father’s heart all over again. “Of course. You get your beautiful voice from her.”
Arietta buried her face in her father’s shoulder. At the table, the Aunties held each other’s hands and mouthed silent prayers of gratitude.
* * *
When Arietta first met Millie, she was overcome with the desire to make the girl smile. There was something about her—a worn-out sadness that was only magnified by her shabby attire. And that look on Millie’s face when she talked about her apron! It was enough to break Arietta’s heart. When Millie mentioned her childhood neighbor’s cooking, Arietta decided that the best way to cheer her up would be to start with her stomach. After all, weren’t the women from her church still talking about the time her lasagna cured Father Bianchi? The doctors at the hospital insisted the priest would be dead from pneumonia in a matter of days, but after two helpings of Arietta’s lasagna, his cough disappeared and his temperature returned to normal. If lasagna could bring Father Bianchi back from the brink of death, who knew what it might do for a healthy young woman?
The problem was, Millie never showed up at the cafeteria, and Arietta had no way of tracking her down. She knew the girl’s first name, but she didn’t know which shop Millie worked in or where she lived. After weeks went by with no sign of her, Arietta figured she’d probably never see the melancholy young woman again.
She kept busy with work—the cafeteria manager hadn’t known he’d gotten a cook and a singer when he hired her, but he caught on soon enough. “I’m two for the price of one,” she told him. “People used to pay good money to hear me sing, back when I was young and on the circuit. I may be older and my dress size may have gone up a few notches, but believe you me, I can still belt out a tune.”
Any skepticism the manager had was dispelled on Arietta’s first day. Not only did the customers praise her cooking, but they loved the entertainment as well. On the days she performed, people bought extra food so they could stay longer to listen. Workers in dusty jumpsuits ate their lunch standing against the wall because all the seats were filled. “You’re better than any singer on Broadway,” one of the older men told Arietta. She was fairly certain the man had never been to Broadway, but she was touched by the sentiment just the same.
Millie finally walked into the cafeteria a month after they first met, while Arietta was in the middle of one of her favorite songs. Arietta spotted the girl on the hot food line at the beginning of the second verse. Millie looked a little better—her face had filled out some, and she stood a bit taller. Still, sorrow flickered in her eyes like a half-hearted flame. Arietta wished there had been more time to talk, but she made Millie promise to come back the next week. “I’ve been working on something new for the menu,” Arietta said. She could have sworn the girl’s mouth curved upward then, the closest thing to a smile she had seen on Millie’s face yet.
The next day, Arietta approached her manager, Mr. Fitzgerald. “Listen, Fitz, I’ve got a new recipe for next week. Lasagna. It’ll be a big hit, I promise.”
Mr. Fitzgerald raised a pair of bushy eyebrows. “What did you call me?”
“Fitz. Isn’t that what everyone calls you?”
“Only the fellas call me that.” Fitz straightened his tie and rubbed the top of his balding head. He was at least six foot three, but he was pouting like a child.
“Oh, come on.” Arietta winked. “I thought we were friends by now.”
“I guess so,” he said. “Listen, is it spicy? I’m not sure folks will go for something so exotic.”
“You never had lasagna before?”
“Nope.”
“I’ll make some at home and bring it in tomorrow. Once you taste it, I guarantee you’ll be begging me to put it on the menu.”
That evening, Arietta adjusted her recipe. She knew Fitz would give her grief if she told him how much meat she would need—between rationing and costs, he would never agree to it. So, she cut the beef in half and used store-bought noodles instead of homemade. As she layered the ingredients, she pictured the Aunties shaking their heads at the modifications.
After her shift the next day, she set a large piece of lasagna on a flowered china plate that she had brought from home. Fitz traced the edge of the dish with his index finger and whistled. “Where’d this plate come from?” he wanted to know.
“That’s what you’re looking at? How about you look at what’s on the plate?”
“I feel like I’m eating in a fancy restaurant.”
Once she realized he was trying to pay her a compliment, Arietta’s irritation with him faded. “I wanted you to be in the right mood when you tasted it—to feel like you were having a home-cooked meal.”
“That was awfully nice of you.”
“Yeah, well, I happen to be a very nice person, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Fitz blushed then, the blotchy red of his neck rising slowly to the tips of his ears. “I’ve noticed,” he said. He didn’t say another word until the lasagna was gone.
* * *
“What do you think?” Arietta asked Millie the next Wednesday. “Is it as good as your neighbor’s?”
“Better! How did you learn to cook this way?”
“Oh, cara, that’s a long story—too long to tell during my shift anyway. Hey—how about you and me head over to the Loew’s Poli for a movie on Friday night? Or maybe the Paramount? Then after, I’ll tell you how I learned to cook.”
“I’d love to, but I have a little boy at home. He’s almost three. I don’t go out much in the evenings.”
“Maybe your husband could stay home with him and let you have a night to yourself?”
Millie held her fork in the air, as if she had forgotten what to do with it. When Arietta realized, she sucked in her breath.
“I’m so sorry—what a dope I am! No wonder you’ve been so blue. Listen, bring your little boy on Friday, and we’ll go see a picture together. The Bijou is always showing Abbott and Costello films—he’ll love it. Or maybe one of the new musicals.”
“I’ve never taken Michael to a movie before. You really wouldn’t mind if I brought him along?”
“Of course not!” Arietta smiled and stood from her chair. “Time for me to head back to the kitchen. I’ll meet you and Michael in front of the Bijou on Worthington Street, Friday at six. And after the movie, I’ll tell you all my secrets.”
Lillian
Well after midnight, Lillian woke to the sound of sirens. Patrick bolted out of bed and down the stairs to use the telephone. Within seconds, the children burst into her room, the younger ones wide-eyed and the older ones confused. Margaret and Peter got under the covers with her while Frances and Thomas stared out the window and tried to figure out where the flashing lights were headed.
After the phone call,
Patrick hurried to get dressed. “I need to go,” he said, pulling on his trousers. “The field service building is on fire.”
“What? But they didn’t even finish building it yet!”
“They think a tarpaulin caught fire from one of the lamps—half of the building is in flames already. They called in the city firefighters because we can’t contain it on our own.” He was still buttoning his shirt when he walked out of the bedroom. “Don’t wait up,” he called out. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”
The sirens kept coming, one after the other, so that Lillian was sure every fire truck in Springfield had been called to fight the blaze. She lost track of when the children finally fell asleep, though she guessed it was somewhere between two and three in the morning. She was making coffee in the kitchen when Patrick finally got home.
“It’s a mess,” he told her, his voice gravelly and tired. His eyes were ringed with dark circles, and the lids were swollen. A filmy layer of ash coated the top of his head, and the smell of stale smoke wafted off of his clothes.
She wished there were something she could do to help him. “You need to take off those clothes and eat some breakfast. Do you have time for a few hours of sleep at least?”
“There’s too much to do. I’m heading up to shower, and then I’ve got phone calls.”
“Should I cancel my meeting? It’s Tuesday, remember?”
But Patrick shook his head. “Don’t change it for me. I’ll be out of the house until late tonight anyway.” He took a swig from the coffee mug she’d pressed into his hands. “Besides,” he said, doing his best to make light of the situation, “if you cancel, Fred Peabody’s wife will have a fit.”
* * *
The Wartime Sisters Page 9