The Wartime Sisters

by Lynda Cohen Loigman

  Millie emerged from her bedroom an hour or so later, once most of the visitors had already arrived. Her bluish-green eyes were heavy with tears, and she had tied back her auburn curls. With her impeccably pale skin and sorrowful expression, she was a vision of heartache, a goddess of grief. Their father’s pinochle group cleared a place for her on the sofa, and a half dozen relatives flocked to her side. Mrs. Shapiro from the synagogue brought Millie a plate of kugel, and Mr. Gluck offered her a freshly made cup of coffee. It was Great-Aunt Edna’s funeral all over again, with everyone praising Millie’s sweetness and sensitivity. Ruth stood to the side, rearranging the napkins. She was a mourner forgotten.

  “There you are.” Lenny’s brother, Murray, had snuck up beside her. “Please accept my condolences. Your parents were fine people.” Murray’s expression was stony, but when he shook her hand, his fingers were warm. A gold watch peeked out from underneath the cuff of his shirt, and his fingernails had been buffed to an impeccable shine.

  Ruth didn’t know that a man could have such well-groomed hands. In his black silk suit and matching black tie, Murray seemed accustomed to attending funerals. Ruth wondered about what her father had told her. What kind of business was Murray in really?

  “Thank you for coming.”

  “Your father was a mensch. I’ll never forget his kindness when I told him about our mother.”

  “He was a compassionate man.”

  They were interrupted by sobs from the center of the room, where Millie held court from her seat on the sofa. A new crowd of mourners had gathered around, patting and consoling her as if she were a pet.

  “Millie seems to be taking it awfully hard.”

  The look on her face must have given her away. Maybe she rolled her eyes inadvertently, or maybe her cough was a little too abrupt. Whatever it was, Murray took notice. His lips curved upward into a small, sly smile.

  “I understand completely. Don’t forget: I happen to be the older sibling too. I know what it’s like to be the responsible one.” He motioned around the room and lowered his voice. “I’m assuming that you took care of arranging all this? You planned the funeral and the burial, yes? The little one was probably too distraught to help you?”

  Ruth stared into Murray’s unblinking eyes. How was it possible that this man should be the first person to understand?

  “I don’t mean to overstep,” he continued, “but I’ve been through this before. I’m the one paying the bills, helping Lenny find jobs, smoothing the rough spots so he doesn’t get upset. ’Course, I’m eight years older than him, so that accounts for some of it. I forget sometimes how young he is.”

  “I’m only three years older than Millie.”

  Murray took a step closer and whispered into her ear, “I imagine sometimes it feels like more, though, doesn’t it?”

  His breath was too warm, the gesture too intimate.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to brew another pot of coffee.” She had been caught off guard; she had revealed too much. Her mother would have cautioned her to be more careful. Don’t air your dirty laundry in public, she used to say.

  Once the coffee was made, Ruth slipped down the hall and into her parents’ bedroom. Her father’s felt slippers peeked out from under his side of the bed, and his pipe waited patiently on top of his nightstand. Ruth lay on top of the bedspread and breathed in the scent of the Blue Carnation perfume that clung to her mother’s pillow. She felt the hum of activity on the other side of the door, but inside the bedroom, it was quiet and peaceful. How many days had it been since she had slept? Two or three now? She couldn’t remember. Her eyelids fluttered shut, and she let sleep overtake her.

  She hadn’t been out for long when the door swung open. In her half-awake haze, Ruth recognized the voices of Arthur’s cousin Gary and his wife, Sheila.

  “Oops!” Sheila whispered. “Ruth is resting in there.” Sheila thought she had shut the door, but the latch didn’t click, so Ruth could hear the rest of the couple’s conversation from out in the hallway.

  “That room could do with a good sprucing up.” Sheila’s voice was low and raspy, her tone condescending.

  “Shhh! What if Ruth hears you?”

  “She’s asleep! Trust me, Gary, she can’t hear a thing. I suppose they won’t be keeping this apartment for much longer. Millie can’t live here alone—she moved in with Ruth.”

  “Lucky for Arthur.” Gary whistled.

  Sheila’s chuckle filled the air like cigarette smoke. “There’s no way I’d let a girl like Millie live with us. Too much temptation. Of course, Arthur is different. After all, he married Ruth, didn’t he?”

  “Even so,” Gary said, “he’s still a man. Did you see him comforting Millie at the cemetery? How he put his arm around her? I’m telling you, Sheila, it’s only a matter of time. Come on, let’s get out of here. I need to find that bathroom.”

  The conversation was over, but Ruth didn’t budge. A blanket of dread spread itself over her, weighing on her chest so that she could not move. A few days ago, when she’d been told of her parents’ accident, she had felt as though her worst possible fear had come true. But now she understood there were even worse fears lurking, lying in wait for just the right moment. Now she understood there were further places to fall.

  Though far too premature, the death of her parents was part of the natural order of life. But the horror that Sheila and Gary predicted was neither natural nor inevitable. If it ever came to pass, it would be more than Ruth could bear—a terrible culmination of all the smaller indignities she had suffered over the years.

  Ruth struggled against the doubt that wrapped itself around her, flung it aside, and rose from the bed. From inside her mother’s closet, Ruth pulled out the jewelry box, opened the lid, and removed the black velvet pouch. She smoothed back her hair and pinched her cheeks for color. By the time she left the bedroom, the crowd in the apartment had thinned.

  She found Lenny in the dining room, leaning against the wall, deep in conversation with her father’s pinochle buddies. Her fingers rubbed against the soft velvet pouch in her pocket. In her mind, the ring inside it was a talisman of hope, a gem that had traveled across oceans and decades to guide her toward her future and guard her from harm. If her great-grandmother were alive, surely she would agree.

  “Come with me,” she told Lenny. “I have something to give you.”

  Millie

  Millie had never felt more alone than when Ruth walked out the door the night their parents died. Lenny had sobered up quickly after Ruth revealed the news—Millie was vaguely aware of him asking if she wanted tea, giving her his handkerchief, bringing another blanket. She was unable to answer; she kept her eyes closed. Eventually, she fell into a nightmarish sleep, dreaming of a childhood outing with her sister.

  Ruth had just turned twelve and Millie was only nine when Gertrude Ederle became the first woman to swim across the English Channel. The newspapers couldn’t get enough of her—she was only twenty years old, and a real New York girl, like Millie and Ruth. When Ederle returned to New York from England, her home city planned a ticker tape parade in her honor. The sisters begged their father to take them into Manhattan, but their mother was afraid one of the girls might get lost.

  “I’m taking them, Florence. It’s a historic event. Besides, the girls have never been to a parade,” their father said.

  “So what?” their mother snapped. “I’ve never been to prison. But that doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.”

  The crowd was enormous—over two million people—and the ticker tape fell like snow in the summertime. At first, Millie loved it, her father holding her high in the air as he walked up Broadway. But when he got too tired, he put her down and she had to walk. She was too small to see anything—she could barely see the sky.

  The walk back to the subway was the worst part of all. Their father said he’d go in front, to clear a path through all the people. He told the girls to stay behind him, to hold hands and stick together. B
ut after a while, Ruth got frustrated with Millie’s slow pace and let go of her hand. Millie screamed for her sister, but Ruth didn’t look back.

  Eventually, a policeman saw her crying and put her up on top of his shoulders. Millie spotted Ruth’s yellow dress half a block ahead of them, and the policeman ran through the crowd to reunite the trio. Afterward, their father bought ice cream cones for them and made them promise not to tell their mother what had happened.

  * * *

  The day after their parents’ death, Ruth came over early in the morning. “I’m sorry I had to leave last night,” she said. “But you’ll stay with us for now, and then we’ll figure out what to do.” After she helped Millie pack a small bag of clothes, the two of them left for Ruth’s apartment.

  Millie liked sleeping with the twins in their bedroom. Their steady breathing was a comfort, and she felt less lonely. But once the funeral was over and the week of sitting shivah had passed, Millie wasn’t quite sure where she fit into the household’s daily routine. Ruth was moody and difficult to read. Arthur was kind, but he was preoccupied with preparations for his new job in Springfield. Millie assumed she would move with Ruth’s family to Massachusetts, but her sister hadn’t said much to clarify the situation.

  The first Friday after the mourning period ended, Ruth invited Lenny over for a family dinner. The invitation caught Millie entirely by surprise. “I thought you were still upset with him. Because of the way he showed up at the apartment that night.”

  “No,” Ruth assured her. “Lenny has been wonderful. Look at how he took care of you. Mama and Papa would be grateful.”

  Millie’s eyes began to tear. “Do you really think so?” she asked.

  While Millie ruminated, Ruth began swiping at the furniture with a feather duster. She had been unable to sit still since the day of the funeral. “Millie, I need to tell you something,” she said. “I didn’t want to bring it up before, but I think it’s time now. The night Mama and Papa died, when they called me on the phone to say they were coming home early, Papa said some other things too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe he got caught up in the wedding festivities—you know how everyone is always so happy at weddings…” Ruth mumbled her words from behind the china cabinet. “And he ran into someone too. Some man who knew Lenny’s family.”

  “Oh?” Millie answered. “What was his name? Can you come out of there, please? It’s hard to hear what you’re saying.”

  When Ruth finally emerged, her face was red. “Cobwebs,” she stammered, waving the duster in the air. “I don’t remember the name, but he must have said something nice about Lenny’s mother. Anyway … before he got off the phone, Papa told me that he thought Lenny might be a good match for you.”

  The hairs on Millie’s arms stood on end. “That’s what he told you? Those were his exact words? A good match?”

  “I think so. Anyway, he said he thought he could convince Mama to give Lenny a second chance.”

  Millie wished Ruth would stop cleaning for a minute. Was it possible that her father had liked Lenny all along? Had he been so afraid of contradicting his wife that he had kept his thoughts to himself? Had he wanted Millie to make up her mind on her own? Either way, Millie was stunned into silence.

  “I know it’s surprising,” Ruth said, without looking up. “But now that they’re gone, I thought you should know.”

  * * *

  A few weeks later, Lenny invited Millie to dinner at a restaurant—not one of the shabby joints he frequented with his buddies but an elegant establishment known for its white linen tablecloths and crystal chandeliers.

  When Lenny arrived to pick her up at Ruth’s apartment, he wore a new silk tie and a freshly pressed suit. There was an impish grin on Ruth’s face when he came to the door, a funny little smile Millie had never seen before.

  “Have a nice time, you two!” Ruth sang out when they left. Her voice was so high pitched that she sounded like someone else.

  At the restaurant, the maître d’ held Millie’s chair out for her and, once she was settled, laid her napkin on her lap. A waiter filled their water goblets from a sterling silver pitcher, slowly, so as not to spill a single drop. Millie marveled at the crystal, the flowers, and the china. She had to stop herself from touching the rose-shaped mounds of yellow butter—she couldn’t imagine who had sculpted them and how much time it had taken. Another waiter appeared with a bottle of champagne she didn’t remember Lenny ordering.

  “I think there’s been a mistake,” she murmured, confused. But when she turned to ask Lenny, he was already kneeling on the carpet. The ring he held out to her caught the light from overhead so that the center opal appeared to be glowing from within. The stylish patrons surrounding them turned their heads and gasped before a reverential hush fell over the dining room.

  It was a scene taken straight from one of Millie’s mother’s fairy tales, at once surprising and hauntingly familiar. Only after the applause, when the ring was on her finger, did Lenny explain to her the story of the gem he had given her. It had belonged to her great-grandmother, and Millie’s mother had been saving it. “Your sister gave it to me,” Lenny told her. “She said your father would have wanted me to give it to you.”

  Once order was restored, the waiter returned with the steak for two: a massive hunk of meat that he carved right in front of them. Millie turned her head away as the knife cut through the flesh—it was too rare for her taste, soft and undercooked. With sterling silver tongs, the waiter served them both, but Millie left her portion untouched and nibbled on a roll. Eventually, she transferred the slices to Lenny’s plate; he devoured them quickly, as if he had somewhere else to be.

  By the end of the meal, the other diners lost interest in them. The butter roses were whisked away, and the leftover champagne grew warm and flat. Millie tried to find the waiter to refill her water goblet, but she couldn’t catch his eye, no matter how many times she tried.

  Later, when Ruth asked about her evening, Millie found it difficult to find the proper words. She tried to picture the restaurant in her mind so she could describe it to her sister—to recall the maître d’, the waiters, and the patrons. But when Millie shut her eyes to summon the scene, all she could see was a cold pool of blood, left from the steak, on her white china plate.

  * * *

  They were to be married in one month, in the rabbi’s study at her parents’ synagogue. Millie wanted to wait, but living alone in her parents’ apartment would have caused a scandal, and moving to Springfield temporarily didn’t make sense. Besides, Lenny begged her to have the wedding as quickly as possible. “I don’t want us to be apart anymore,” he insisted.

  Millie wished her parents could be there to walk her down the aisle. She wished she still had some close girlfriends to serve as bridesmaids at the ceremony. She knew her reservations were normal under the circumstances. But she was plagued by other doubts that were more troubling: she wished Lenny would get a steady job, she wished he sounded more interested when he spoke with Ruth and Arthur, she wished he cared less about baseball and more about his career.

  At night in her cot, listening to the twins’ breathing, misgivings clouded Millie’s mind and kept her awake. She stared at her ring finger—the finger of a stranger—and wondered how she had come to this place in her life. A year ago, she had been a confident young woman. But now, contemplating her marriage, she felt like a frightened child.

  Lillian

  Springfield, Massachusetts (February 1943)

  It was a quarter to eight when Lillian and Patrick made their way up the steps of the Springfield Auditorium. Though they were among the first to check in for the On to Victory dance, guests would be arriving at all times throughout the evening. To ensure that all defense workers could attend, the event would be in full swing until three in the morning. Armory workers on the 11:00 P.M. shift would go directly from the dance to their jobs in Federal Square. The people they relieved would change out of their coverall
s and arrive at the auditorium by midnight.

  Before Lillian and Patrick passed through the sculpted bronze doors, they stopped to watch a spectacle unfolding on the street below. A horse-drawn wagon overflowing with hay had just pulled over at the bottom of the steps. When the horses came to a halt, a handful of men in jackets and ties jumped off the bales and onto the pavement. The women, hindered by their dresses and evening shoes, shimmied slowly out of the wagon with the help of their escorts, taking care to remove any stray bits of straw from their hair and décolletage.

  Patrick chuckled at the sight of the group. “I suppose that’s one way to get around the gasoline rationing.”

  Inside, the massive hall was filling up quickly. Jack Teagarden’s fourteen-piece orchestra was on the stage, and people who weren’t dancing were tapping their feet to the music. Women wore anything from formal gowns to skirt sets. Some men were in uniform and others in suits—a few were even decked out in shiny tuxedos. Volunteers walked around selling raffle tickets for war bonds, while others carried clipboards and took down names for the jitterbug contest. During a pause in the music, an announcement was made that one lucky young woman would be chosen as the Women Ordnance Workers girl of the evening.

  By ten o’clock, Lillian was desperate to sit. The dance floor was packed, and her feet had been stepped on by more strangers than she could count. Patrick walked her upstairs to the balcony, where they found some empty seats overlooking the dance floor. Once she was settled, he promised to return with Coca-Colas for both of them.

  A group of young women sat in the row behind her—dateless, it seemed, and hoping to be noticed. Between bouts of nervous laughter, they spoke longingly about the young men they wanted to dance with. Their conversation reminded Lillian of all her high school dances—the ache of anticipation and the inevitable disappointment.