The Wartime Sisters

by Lynda Cohen Loigman

  “Who was that, Mommy?” her youngest whispered.

  “Nobody, sweetheart. Just an old friend of my father’s.”

  * * *

  As a child, Lillian had been dragged to more military events than she cared to remember. During World War I, her father had been gone for over a year, and when he finally returned, there had been parades, presentations, and dinners of all kinds. In an effort to save money, her mother sewed most of their dresses. She worked late into the evening, cutting fabric, pinning pleats, and ironing seams. Some mornings, Lillian would find her hunched over the sewing machine, snoring softly next to a pile of muslin. Only later did she realize that her mother hadn’t fallen asleep there by mistake—that even a pillow of pins, if located far enough away from her father, held secret comforts a young girl couldn’t comprehend.

  When Lillian was twelve, there had been a banquet her father insisted they attend. He hadn’t said what it was for, but from the way he went on about it, she knew it was important. Lillian’s mother worked on their dresses for a month—long formal gowns in complicated styles.

  On the evening of the banquet, Lillian and her mother got ready in Lillian’s bedroom. Lillian was allowed to wear a drop of her mother’s perfume, and by the time she was zipped into her pale blue gown, she felt like a princess. Her mother was stunning in long-sleeved green brocade, perfectly cut to showcase her slim figure. While they waited for Lillian’s father, hope hovered in the air between them. Surely he would be complimentary; surely he would be proud to escort his wife and daughter to the officers’ club that evening.

  But when Lillian’s father finally entered the living room in his dress uniform, he barely looked at them. He made his way over to the bar cart in the corner and poured himself a full glass of scotch. Prohibition was in effect, but he still had his sources. “Why are the two of you dressed like that?” he asked.

  There was a long stretch of silence, so deep that Lillian felt she might drown in it.

  “We’re dressed for the banquet,” her mother answered. “It’s tonight, isn’t it?”

  “Of course it’s tonight. But it’s for officers only.”

  Her mother lit a cigarette with shaking hands. “Last month, you said Lillian and I were expected to attend. You said the event was formal and that we’d need gowns.”

  Lillian’s father shrugged. “The general changed his mind. His mother-in-law is ill, and his wife went to California to take care of her. I told you before, it’s officers only.”

  “You most certainly did not tell me. If you had told me, Lillian and I wouldn’t be dressed like this. If you had told me, I wouldn’t have spent the last three weeks sewing gowns that would never see the light of day.” Lillian’s mother began pacing across the living room floor, taking puffs from her cigarette.

  “I don’t appreciate your tone, Evelyn. I’m positive I told you. If you think I’m going to apologize just because you’re too flighty to remember our conversations—”

  “Flighty? That’s a first. I haven’t forgotten one word you’ve said to me, ever. Believe me, there have been plenty of times that I wish I had.”

  “I said to watch your tone.” Lillian’s father was practically growling now, stepping closer to her mother with long, lurching steps. His eyes were unblinking, fixed on Evelyn with a furious glare. Lillian watched her father put down his drink, watched his fingers curl into fists, watched his pupils turn black as he took another step—

  Lillian jumped up from the sofa and grabbed her father’s arm. “Daddy, don’t you like my dress? Didn’t Mom do a wonderful job?” She spun around and around, feigning delight in the swish of her skirt and the lift of the ruffles. The twirling made her sick to her stomach, but she forced herself to smile.

  “You’d better take it off before you ruin it,” her father said. He downed the rest of his drink in one quick gulp before depositing the empty glass on the bar cart. There was no further mention of the dresses or the banquet. He didn’t even look at her as he made his way toward the foyer. “I’ll be home late,” he snapped just before he slammed the door.

  Ruth

  Ruth wished she didn’t have to sit on the platform for the award ceremony. She would have preferred to stand in the crowd with her colleagues from the payroll department, but all the other wives had places on the dais. The truth was, she was more at ease with her coworkers than she was with the women she saw at Lillian’s weekly meetings. Her office mates admired her for the qualities she was proudest of: her attention to detail, her painstaking efficiency. But women like Grace Peabody didn’t care about those things; they were more interested in her hairstyle and her housekeeping skills. Sitting next to Grace, self-doubt nagged at her, causing even more discomfort than the folding chair beneath her.

  From her elevated seat, Ruth spotted her sister in the crowd, engrossed in conversation with a full-figured brunette. The woman was older than Millie by at least fifteen years, but they seemed content in each other’s company, like old friends. Ruth assumed the woman was Arietta, the cook from the cafeteria whom Millie had mentioned.

  From a distance, Millie’s beauty was more evident than ever: her copper curls, her complexion, her hourglass figure. She wore a green knit dress—the first new clothing she had purchased in years. When the afternoon clouds parted, a narrow patch of sunlight fell across Millie’s face, illuminating her from above. She threw her head back and laughed, unaware of Ruth’s gaze. It was the freedom of her movement, the simple joy in her laughter, that made Ruth remember the girl Millie once was and the woman she might have become if their mother’s dream had come true. Who would Millie be now if their parents hadn’t died? Who would Millie be now if Ruth had told her the truth?

  “That’s your sister, isn’t it?” Grace pointed into the crowd. “Over there, in the green?”

  Ruth stiffened. “Yes, that’s Millie.”

  “I saw her at the pool last month. Or didn’t she tell you?”

  Something about Grace’s tone made Ruth hesitate. “No … Millie didn’t mention seeing you there. I do know Michael enjoyed swimming this summer.”

  “Swimming in the pool reserved for officers, you mean?” The tone was unmistakable this time.

  Ruth didn’t answer. The last thing she wanted was an argument. Her social status was fragile enough—a battle with someone as outspoken as Grace Peabody would only reinforce her position as an outsider.

  It was easy enough to stay silent during the program, to clap when the others clapped and to smile at the speeches. Ruth could ignore Grace then; she could overlook her sideways glances and pursed lips. But she dreaded the moment when the ceremony would end. She dug her nails into her palms and tried to think of a reason to leave early—a migraine, perhaps? Some kind of appointment? But though she racked her brain, she knew it was hopeless. She would have to stay in her seat until the speakers were finished.

  Afterward, Grace wouldn’t leave her alone. “Has Arthur told you anything more about the fire? Fred doesn’t believe what they’re saying about an accident. He’s convinced it was arson.”

  “Arson? What do you mean?” She was grateful they had moved on to a different topic, but she couldn’t think of where this new conversation was headed. The fire was old news as far as she was concerned. It had happened weeks ago, and the cleanup was well under way.

  “Arson. Sabotage. Most likely by German sympathizers. Fred thinks it was probably someone new to the armory. Someone with access to the shops and the square. Maybe even a resident.” Grace’s eyes drifted back to the crowd on the lawn, back to the area where Millie had been standing.

  “A resident? But the only residents at the armory are officers and their families.”

  “And their guests, of course. People who come to stay for extended periods of time.”

  Ruth’s head began to pound. She could feel her knees shaking.

  “By the way,” Grace continued, “isn’t that the Italian cook your sister is with? Your sister seems awfully chummy with her.”


  “The cook? I’ve heard that she’s very popular with the cafeteria customers; she sings for them at lunchtime. She’s supposed to be quite talented.”

  “I couldn’t care less about how talented she is. Tell your sister to be more careful about the company she’s keeping.”

  Millie

  Springfield, Massachusetts (October 1942)

  Every month, Millie looked forward to the day The Armory News came out. Some of the younger women she knew flipped right to the personals pages, where engagement and wedding announcements flooded the columns. But most read the monthly booklet cover to cover—even the armory bowling team scores. The first few pages consisted of updates on the war: recent battle news and pieces about the troops. But further in, there were all sorts of hand-drawn cartoons, poems, and essays about armory life.

  Millie’s favorite articles were the ones about her coworkers: spotlight pieces accompanied by photographs. She was fascinated to learn that someone in the heat-treat department was, at one time, a world-renowned harpist. And that the armory’s very first female bus driver spent her life before the war driving across the country.

  “There should be a piece about Arietta in the newsletter,” Millie said the next day, to no one in particular. In the trigger assembly area, conversations bounced around like baseballs during team warm-up—carelessly tossed and dropped at random. Millie’s days were filled with chatter that was interesting enough to move the day along but never particularly significant or personal. No one pressed her for the particulars of her life in Brooklyn or for any of the details about her husband. Building 103 wasn’t the place for intimate discussions.

  “Why Arietta?” The voice came from behind her, but Millie didn’t turn around. She kept her eyes on the hammer springs at her fingertips and moved the small, steel spirals into place the way she had been taught.

  “She has such an interesting background,” Millie answered. “Did you know Arietta’s father helped to build the Poli theater? It used to be a vaudeville house, and she sang there when she was younger. I can just picture her in costume, standing under the lights on that stage.”

  Another voice, from Millie’s left, joined the conversation. “I can only picture her on a milk crate in the cafeteria.”

  Someone to her right chuckled. “Me too.”

  From the station across from her, Delores chimed in. “The News is always looking for story ideas. Go over and talk to them. See if they’ll do an article.”

  The next day, Millie couldn’t stop thinking about Arietta. If it weren’t for her, Millie never would have found the library on State Street, and she and Michael never would have discovered the zoo in Forest Park. Arietta was always looking out for her—pointing out sales for whatever Millie needed and bringing her to the stores where she’d find the best deals. At the Morse and Haynes Shoe Shop, Arietta secured a discount by pointing out Millie’s armory badge. “I’m sure you don’t charge defense workers full price,” she said to the owner. The next thing Millie knew, he’d taken 10 percent off her bill.

  Millie had had girlfriends before, but none like Arietta. In fact, the more she thought about the girls she had been friendly with in high school, the more she realized how little most of them cared. Not one of them visited after her parents died. Not one of them sent a card when Michael was born. In the back of her mind, Millie had always known those girls were happier to see her fail than succeed.

  Of course, Millie hadn’t necessarily been a wonderful friend either. She’d been caught up with the DeLucas and, after them, with Lenny. She hadn’t gone out of her way for any of the girls she’d known back in Brooklyn. But now, Arietta’s example made her want to do better. She would make a visit to the newsletter editor tomorrow, and then she would invite Arietta over for dinner. It was the least she could do to repay her friend’s kindness. Ruth had discouraged guests, but Millie would be firm. She had spent her first few months in Springfield trying to fit into her sister’s life. She had folded herself up like a torn scrap of paper, end over end, making herself small. She had tiptoed and whispered and confined herself to corners, all the while taking up as little space as possible. But she was done with all that. It was time for a change.

  After all, how much more could she possibly lose?

  Arietta

  Across the street from the armory’s main gate, Federal Square bustled with activity. Three separate shifts kept the shops running twenty-four hours a day. People came and went in a steadily moving stream, with no differentiation between daylight and darkness, and the city of Springfield was happy to accommodate them. YMCA dances began at midnight for those working the three-to-eleven shift. Movie houses showed films at nine in the morning for people just getting off work. Federal Square was never silent and its people never still. A small, grassy courtyard greeted workers upon entry, but the area consisted mostly of manufacturing buildings—enormous brick structures that shivered and groaned with movement and sound.

  In contrast, Armory Square was an oasis. Every time Arietta walked the grounds, she marveled at the manicured lawns, the spotless walkways, the space, and the quiet. The center was an open field, while the north and south edges were lined with small buildings. Most were individual homes occupied by officers and their families, but one served as a hospital, and another held shared quarters for lower-ranking personnel. The storehouses and garages, larger and less charming, were tucked behind the houses and gardens, hidden from view.

  The house Millie lived in was more spacious than Arietta had imagined, with high molded ceilings and patterned parquet floors. She wondered whether all the houses in Armory Square were as nice as this one inside, but she decided to keep her questions to herself.

  From the instant she met Ruth, Arietta could see that her assumptions had been wrong. She had thought the two sisters would look more alike—have the same mannerisms, perhaps, or share certain features. But where Millie was soft, Ruth was all edges. Ruth was attractive in the way certain women could be with enough time and effort, but natural beauty like Millie’s eluded her. If she had met them separately, Arietta would never have guessed that the two women were related.

  Ruth apologized for Arthur’s absence. “He’s been working so late these days that he almost never makes it home for dinner. But I’m sure the children would love to hear about your career on the stage. How old were you when you first started singing professionally?”

  “I sang at my church when I was very young, but my father wouldn’t let me sing in Mr. Poli’s shows until I turned fifteen.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “I did, for a very long time. Of course, my experience was different from a lot of the other performers’. I didn’t travel as much as most of them—my father wouldn’t allow it. I worked out of New Haven until we moved to Springfield, and then my travel was limited to the Northeast and New England. When my father got sick, I stopped singing so I could take care of him. My mother died when I was born, so there was no one else to help.”

  “It must have been difficult for your father when your mother passed away.”

  “Yes.” Arietta paused, unsure of whether she should continue. “Millie mentioned that you lost both of your parents in an accident a few years ago. Please accept my condolences.”

  “Thank you,” Ruth mumbled. Silence settled over their meal like a dense gray fog.

  Twenty minutes later, Ruth excused herself from the table and went upstairs to lie down.

  Arietta took a second helping and made a few jokes to lighten the mood. Dinner at Millie’s was turning out to be more complicated than she had expected. When Millie told her about the tension she’d been having with her sister, Arietta had assumed that the problems stemmed from tight living quarters. But after seeing the house, she knew space was not the issue. Surely, the sisters’ struggles weren’t born from proximity.

  In fact, from everything Arietta observed, the conflict between Millie and Ruth began long before Millie’s arrival in Springfield. The pain in R
uth’s expression ran too deep to be new. The hurt on Millie’s face wasn’t novel or fresh. It had evolved over time, with a scar-like permanence. Dinner didn’t last long after Ruth left the table. The children were cranky, and Arietta didn’t want to overstay her welcome.

  She made it back home just in time for her favorite radio program: The Victory Parade of Spotlight Bands. The familiar bugle call echoed through her living room as the announcer introduced the guest for the evening.

  For the fighting sons of freedom, the Coca-Cola Company presents The Victory Parade of Spotlight Bands! Tonight, tomorrow night, every night, Monday through Saturday, the Coca-Cola Company sends the greatest bands in the land to entertain the soldiers, the sailors, the marines, and war workers.

  The program was a diversion, but even after it ended, Arietta found herself still thinking about dinner with her friend. She closed her eyes, trying to recapture the moments around the dining room table. There was something in Ruth’s furtive glances and in Millie’s agonized avoidance that bound the two of them together in a way she hadn’t first noticed. There was an ache behind their smiles, a palpable longing—the same expression her aunties used to have before her father broke his silence and finally decided to speak openly about her mother. It was then that she realized the burden the sisters shared: each had a secret she was keeping from the other.

  Lillian

  For the most part, Lillian enjoyed living at the armory. She took comfort in her volunteer work, in the meetings, and in war bond drives. But there were certain aspects of being the commanding officer’s wife that she did not enjoy. Dealing with women like Grace Peabody was one. Business dinners with manufacturers were another.

  Patrick’s position at the armory meant that the two of them were forced to entertain more often than they liked, not only with military higher-ups who badgered Patrick with impossible quotas but with civilian businessmen who pestered him for contracts and then tormented him with overdue shipments. Tonight, they would be spending their evening with the latter.