The Wartime Sisters

by Lynda Cohen Loigman

  “And you’d like me to sing at it?”

  Lillian smiled. “Well, with all your professional experience, I was actually hoping that you might help me to plan it.”

  Arietta threw her head back and laughed. “Shows you what I know,” she said. “I thought you were going to ask for my lasagna recipe.”

  Ruth

  Springfield, Massachusetts (December 1942)

  After Arthur left Springfield, Ruth couldn’t sleep. Her husband was halfway across the world, facing dangers she couldn’t even imagine. The less she slept, the more anxious she became. Her concerns became clouded, and the nonspecific nature of them only agitated her more. In the past, she had always known where to focus her energy—what exactly to worry about and when to worry most. But her husband’s new life was too unpredictable. Should she worry about the airplane, the gunfire, or disease? She had no way of knowing where to focus her feeble prayers.

  When Arthur’s first letter arrived, she devoured it in minutes, then read it repeatedly until she knew every word. He wrote of the weather, the people, and his daily tasks. His words, like her worries, were vague and unsatisfying, but too many details would never get past the censors.

  The second letter was like the first, but by then, she’d realized that the contents didn’t matter. An envelope from Arthur meant that he was alive, that his base hadn’t been attacked, that he hadn’t become ill. She saved the two letters in her top dresser drawer, and at night, in the dark, she put them under her pillow. In the mornings, she was irritable and curt with the children. Not only with the twins but with Michael as well. The affection she had earned from her tiny nephew was eroding bit by bit, like stones at the shore.

  The girls turned to Millie for their small daily needs. She became the one to pack their lunches and to braid their hair in the mornings. Hurt and relief twisted together in Ruth’s chest, and she was filled with an unfamiliar sense of gratitude toward her sister.

  In the payroll office, the other women tried to be sympathetic, but they weren’t sure of what to say. It seemed to them that Arthur was in a unique position of privilege and safety. Their own friends and relatives were overseas too—enlisted men, not officers—bound to go and do whatever they were told. Ruth couldn’t bring herself to complain or share her fears about her husband’s post. She tallied the numbers on her lists and ate lunch alone at her desk.

  A few weeks into Arthur’s absence, at the beginning of December, Ruth’s colleagues began discussing their preparations for Christmas.

  “We’re picking out a tree this weekend.”

  “I swear I have no idea what to get for my mother-in-law. She’s impossible to buy for.”

  “Steiger’s is having a sale on perfume. I get that for Jerry’s mother every year. The bottles are pretty too.”

  “When is your holiday, Ruth?” one of the younger women asked. “What’s it called again?”

  “Hanukkah. It’s … oh my … the first night is tonight.” How could she have forgotten? “It lasts for eight days,” she explained.

  “I remember now. And you light all those candles. Well, at least your husband isn’t away for Christmas. Now that would really be awful.”

  Ruth didn’t respond.

  The longer she sat at her desk, the more guilt she felt about forgetting the holiday. She had always prepared a big family dinner for the first night of Hanukkah, with potato latkes, brisket, and her mother’s honey cake for dessert. One year, she had even tried to make a batch of homemade sufganiyot, but the traditional jelly doughnuts had come out greasy and flat. The honey cake was easier, and no one seemed to mind.

  She and Arthur gave the girls a small gift for each night. They were nothing elaborate—a rag doll, a jump rope, a book, or some hair ribbons. But with Arthur away, she had forgotten to buy presents. She hadn’t even purchased the small bags of chocolate Hanukkah gelt the girls loved so much.

  When her shift ended, Ruth put away her pencils and shook off her lethargy. She pulled her coat tight against the icy December wind and walked west on State Street in the direction of the river. Main Street was crowded with holiday shoppers. Outside Johnson’s Bookstore, a young mother consoled a weeping toddler. “You’re too little for that now,” she told him. “Maybe when you’re older.” He’d been pointing to an archery set on display in the window, but his mother took his hand and led him away.

  Inside Johnson’s, young children in various stages of anticipation waited for a chance to meet Santa Claus. A line of weary parents attempted to maintain order, drying tears for some and begging for patience from others. The older children gave up their turns to sit on Santa’s lap—they had come solely for the gold-painted keepsake coins that the store gave out every Christmas. A picture of Santa was on the front side, and the back read, Lucky Coin from Santa Claus, Johnson’s Bookstore.

  Ruth picked out books for the children—Betsy-Tacy and Tib for Alice, The Moffats for Louise, and Make Way for Ducklings for Michael. She bought two watercolor paint sets for the girls and a wooden pull toy that the clerk suggested for her nephew. The line at the cash register was longer than she had ever seen it, so by the time she completed her purchases, it was already past five o’clock. The butcher on Dwight Street seemed as far away as the moon, and Ruth was too tired to attempt the trek so late in the day. Dinner would be leftovers—no brisket, no latkes.

  She practiced her excuses on the long walk home: the rush at work, the crowds, a sore throat that still nagged. She would promise a holiday feast for tomorrow. The girls would be disappointed.

  But when she opened her front door, she heard laughter coming from the back of the house. The unmistakable smell of frying latkes filled the foyer, and the dining room table had been set with her good china. Her mother’s silver menorah was displayed on the sideboard, polished to an unrecognizable shine.

  “Mommy!” Louise called out happily. “We’re teaching Arietta how to play dreidel! Come see!” Inside the kitchen, the children were gathered around the table, each guarding a small pile of peanuts for the game. They held their breath as Millie’s friend spun a small wooden top. When it fell to one side, the children cheered.

  “That’s the nun again, right? So I get nothing?”

  “Nothing!” Michael yelled, and the girls giggled.

  At the stove, Millie was tending to an enormous batch of potato pancakes. She lifted the last of the latkes from the oil with her spatula and laid it on top of a heaping golden pile.

  “When did you learn how to make those?” Ruth asked. “You never used to watch when Mama made them.”

  “I’ve had a lot of holidays on my own.” Millie shrugged. “I had to learn.”

  Ruth’s lower lip began to quiver. “I forgot about Hanukkah,” she confessed. “If one of the girls at work hadn’t asked me about it, I never would have remembered. I rushed to get a few presents, but the stores were so crowded—I almost gave up. It doesn’t feel like a holiday without Arthur here.” Ruth felt a sob rising up in her chest, threatening to ruin the holiday mood.

  Millie put down her spatula and took Ruth by the hand. “Not in front of the girls,” she said. They had barely reached the dining room when Ruth began to cry—tears as unexpected as the meal her sister had prepared. If Millie was surprised by her sister’s rush of emotion, she hid it well. “Arthur will come back to you,” Millie insisted. “I know he will. In a few months, he’ll be back and it will feel like he never left.”

  “I’m sorry.” Ruth sniffled. “It’s not fair for me to cry to you about my husband being away. You haven’t cried or complained once since you moved here. If something happened to Arthur … well, I wouldn’t be able to handle it as well as you have. I don’t think I could ever be as brave as you’ve been. I don’t know how you do it.”

  Millie let go of Ruth’s hand and smoothed her apron over her skirt. “Surviving isn’t the same as being brave,” Millie said. “Sometimes a person doesn’t have any other choice.”

  Millie

  H
anukkah ended a few weeks before Christmas, just in time for the Walshes’ annual holiday party. Millie hadn’t planned on attending—the party was only for officers and their wives—but Lillian insisted. “If it weren’t for you, I’d have no entertainment,” she told her. “Besides, I want you to be there.”

  Millie wasn’t convinced that Ruth felt the same way. She’d been grateful to Millie for helping her with the girls, but the tension between them hadn’t fully evaporated. Like mist after a rainfall, it hung in the air.

  Still, Millie agreed to go, if only to hear Arietta sing. “First, come over to my house,” Arietta encouraged. “We can look through my dresses together and pick something to wear.”

  The day before the party, Millie visited the house on Walnut Street. “It’s so unfair.” Arietta grumbled, poking through her closet. “All a man needs is one uniform. You put him in that, and poof—he’s ready! Meanwhile, women have to fuss to find just the right outfit, and there’s still no guarantee that anyone will notice.”

  “Mr. Fitzgerald certainly notices you,” Millie said.

  “Ha! Fitz only cares about the cafeteria sales. Sure, he might glance my way when I’m singing. But that doesn’t mean anything; everybody looks when I sing.”

  “It’s not only when you’re singing. Last week, you were chopping onions when I came by—you should have seen how he was looking at you then.”

  Arietta popped her head out from behind the closet door. “While I was chopping onions? Are you sure?”

  Millie winked. “It could have been carrots. Potatoes, even. Come on now, go back in that closet and find something to wear. You said it yourself—everyone watches when you perform. You have to look perfect.”

  Arietta laughed. “You think I’m looking for a dress for me? I already know what I’m going to wear. I’m looking for you. Last year, the nicest young woman rented out the front bedroom—pretty, well dressed, and exactly your size. She ran off to get married and left a stack of clothes behind. I asked around for an address, but I never could find one. I heard she’s living on a dairy farm up in Vermont, so I guess she doesn’t need her fancy dresses. I gave a few of them away, but I kept the best two. I just need to find them.” Arietta’s head was back inside the closet. “Here they are!”

  She pulled out two cocktail dresses—one in brilliant blue and the other in black satin with padded shoulders and a fitted skirt. “The blue is gorgeous with your eyes,” Arietta insisted. “You’ll really stand out.”

  “In that case, I’ll wear the black. I’d rather blend in.”

  * * *

  Downstairs, the babysitter had just arrived. Ruth was upstairs, still getting ready, so Millie gave the sitter a few instructions and kissed the children good night. “We’ll be right across the square, at the commanding officer’s house.”

  She called up the steps. “Ruth? We should get going!”

  Ruth descended the stairway like a slowly sinking ship. She had touched up her makeup, but there was no disguising the bags under her eyes. There had been no letter from Arthur that week. Colonel Walsh had assured her that the outpost was safe and that Arthur and the others were making steady progress. Still, even with his reassurance, worry took its toll.

  “You look beautiful,” Millie said, but the compliment didn’t improve Ruth’s mood. They walked across Armory Square without speaking, heels tapping on the paths and the patches of frozen grass. A waxing winter moon hung silently above them, lighting up the old arsenal like a medieval fortress.

  The Walshes’ lengthy porch railing was draped with garlands of pine. Guests crowded together near the entrance, removing coats and stoles. Men in uniform lingered by the door, patting each other on the back, while their wives walked farther into the entrance hall for warmth.

  “Ruth!” A tall man carrying a taller glass of whiskey bent down to give her sister a kiss on the cheek. “What’s the news from Arthur? How’s our man doing?”

  “Nice to see you, Fred. From what I can tell, they’re keeping him busy. His letters don’t say much, just what you’d expect.”

  “Well, they won’t keep him long. Try not to worry too much. He’s the smartest of all of us—he’ll work out all the kinks and be home before you know it.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Now, who is this lovely young woman you’ve brought with you?”

  “This is my sister, Millie. Millie, Fred Peabody. You may have met his wife, Grace, at one of Lillian’s meetings.”

  Fred’s smile was too wide, his teeth were too white, and Millie didn’t like the way his eyes lingered on her chest. He held her hand tightly, running his thumb back and forth across the top of her wrist. When she pulled it away, his smile vanished. “That’s right,” he said. “I remember Grace mentioning something about your sister.”

  “We met at the pool,” Millie murmured. “She was there with your daughters.”

  “The girls love to swim. Or at least they used to—toward the end of the summer, they stopped going to the pool. In any event, Grace isn’t here. She decided to take the girls to her family in Boston for the weekend.”

  “What a shame that she’s missing the party,” Ruth said.

  “It’s probably better this way.” Fred drained his glass in one long swallow. “Now I can talk to all my colleagues, stay as late as I like. Take time to get to know some of the new faces.” He stared at Millie as he spoke.

  “Ruth, shouldn’t we find Lillian now, to say hello?”

  “Yes, of course. Enjoy your evening, Fred.”

  Millie whispered in Ruth’s ear as she led her away, “I don’t like that man. There’s something about him…”

  “Fred likes to drink. I’m no fan of his, but Arthur works with him, so I try to be congenial.”

  The dining room overflowed with potted poinsettias and tall white candles. An untouched bowl of eggnog sat in the center of the table, along with trays of stuffed celery sticks and platters of canapés. A glossy smoked ham, beautiful but forgotten, rested on a silver tray next to a crystal dish of olives.

  “It looks like a magazine photo,” Millie observed. “Not a meal.” She wished she had eaten something before she came. Ruth nodded and gestured toward the others in the room. “Have you seen the size of these women? They don’t eat anything.”

  “Mama would hate this party.” Millie laughed. “Too much liquor and not enough food.”

  “She’d leave early for sure,” Ruth agreed. “And then go home and make a casserole.”

  Millie couldn’t remember the last time she had shared a joke with her sister. It finally felt like the two of them were on the same side.

  * * *

  When Ruth said her goodbyes only one hour later, the disappointment Millie felt took her by surprise. “Don’t leave,” Millie entreated, but Rose was firm. “I’m tired, but you should stay and hear your friend sing. Enjoy the rest of the party.”

  Soon, Arietta sat down at the Walshes’ grand piano. It was impossible to believe that she was the same woman who had been baking biscuits in the cafeteria kitchen just a few hours earlier. Instead of a faded apron, Arietta wore a taffeta dress the color of garnets. Silver satin heels took the place of her dull brown loafers, and her hair was swept up with rhinestone pins instead of her Women Ordnance Workers bandanna. Millie held her breath as Arietta began. The shopworkers in the cafeteria loved Arietta on their lunch breaks, but who knew how the officers in Armory Square would receive her?

  She needn’t have worried. The minute Arietta’s fingers touched the keys, the room fell silent. The gems in her hair sparkled in the candlelight. When she began to sing, even the most cynical of guests fell under her spell.

  When she was finished, Millie made her way over to congratulate her. “You were fantastic!” Millie crowed. “They absolutely loved you! Did you hear how they clapped?”

  “Aw, thanks, Mil, but it might just have been the champagne. There’s nothing like a few drinks to loosen up a crowd.” She lowered her voice. “Take that one, for
instance, over there by the bar. The music is over but he’s still swaying.”

  Millie turned to see Fred Peabody filling another glass. “Oh, him,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I met him earlier. His wife is out of town, and he’s making the most of it.”

  “He certainly is. I don’t like the look of him.”

  “Would you be upset if I headed back home? Ruth left a little while ago, and I don’t want to stay too long.”

  “Don’t worry about me, hon. Mrs. Walsh wanted to introduce me to a few people. I’ll do a little meet and greet, and then I’m heading out too.”

  * * *

  On the walk home, the cold air helped to clear Millie’s head. She thought about Ruth and their interaction that evening. After a childhood of bickering and a hostile adolescence, they had entered adulthood almost estranged. Was it possible that now, with so many losses behind them, they could enter into a new stage of acceptance?

  Millie was so lost in contemplation that she didn’t hear the footsteps gaining speed behind her. The night sky had grown cloudy, and the path ahead was difficult to see. When a hand reached for her shoulder, she spun around and screamed. Even in the dark, she recognized his teeth.

  “Mr. Peabody!”

  “Call me Fred,” he said, still smiling. He didn’t apologize for frightening her half to death. He didn’t acknowledge that there was anything strange about following her outside and grabbing her in the dark.

  “I saw you duck out early, and I thought I’d … walk you home.”

  “That’s really not necessary. My sister’s house is right over there. Practically spitting distance. She’s waiting up for me.”

  Fred Peabody shifted in his uniform, cracked his knuckles twice, and flashed what he must have thought was a charming grin. “It’s still early. Maybe you’d like to get a drink. I know a place we could go.”