The Wartime Sisters

by Lynda Cohen Loigman

  Attendance at all Littlefield School dances had been compulsory and regarded as essential to every girl’s social education. Dresses had been scrutinized for appropriate necklines, and white gloves had been required. The first time a young man approached Lillian at one of the gatherings, he stuttered so badly that she barely understood him. She thought it would be cruel to ask him to repeat himself, so she stood and took his hand, hoping that his mumblings had been an invitation to dance. His palm was warm and damp, like the wet socks her roommates left on the radiators in their dorm room.

  Littlefield held most dances with its brother institution, the Wolcott Ellsworth Academy, just down the road. Unlike some of her classmates, Lillian didn’t roll her eyes when a boy stepped on her foot or lost track of the music. She never made faces when a young man approached, no matter how many pimples he was plagued with or how far his ears stood out from his head. As a result, she became a popular partner, especially for the shyer of the Wolcott Ellsworth young men.

  There had been only one instance during all her time at Littlefield when Lillian had refused a young man asking for a dance. It had been in the fall of her senior year, during an event with the Farragut Military Academy. The Farragut upperclassmen had traveled north from Virginia for a tour of West Point, and a dinner dance in Connecticut had been arranged by the headmistress.

  Lillian’s head began to ache when she heard the news; her father had attended the Farragut Academy. On the morning of the dance, she visited the nurse, but her temperature was normal, and she was sent back to the dorm. “I’m sure you’ll perk up,” the nurse told her with confidence.

  Lillian wore her least-flattering dress and refused the other girls’ offers to help with her makeup. “At least brush your hair,” they begged. But Lillian had no interest. “It’s fine the way it is.”

  In the end, it hadn’t mattered. There were twice as many boys as girls in attendance, and in the bright light of the gymnasium, there was no place to hide. Before long she caught the attention of the very group of boys she’d wanted most to avoid: the wisecracking ones—the ones who took sips from the flasks they had hidden in their pockets and returned from the bathroom smelling of cigarettes. Before she could blink, the tallest and handsomest of them was standing in front of her.

  When asking for a dance, the boys from Wolcott Ellsworth were always polite. They bowed at the waist, extended an arm, and stuttered their way through May I have the honor? or Would you care to join me? They wore braces on their teeth and navy suits with scuffed shoes.

  But this boy, in his uniform, was a completely different species. His teeth and his shoes were of an equal, blinding shine. He did not bow or even bend, and he kept his hands in his pockets. His invitation to dance was more command than request.

  Lillian searched the boy’s face before she answered. There was something familiar about it, but nothing redeeming. “No, thank you,” she said finally, assuming he would retreat. But he stood there and glared, eyes blazing and furious. “I’m not feeling well,” she said, to try to save his feelings.

  Before she could say more, the other boys from his group formed a circle around her and stared, open-mouthed, at the girl who had dared to refuse their friend.

  “It’s fine,” the boy announced, pretending to be gracious. “I didn’t really want to dance. I was just being polite, since we grew up together.”

  “What do you mean?” Lillian asked. “Do we know each other?”

  “You are Lillian Guilford, right? We went to school together. My dad was the doctor on base.” He paused and narrowed his eyes. “You honestly don’t remember me?”

  “I’m sorry, but no.”

  She couldn’t figure out what bothered him more—her refusal to dance or the fact that she’d forgotten him. He ran his hand through his hair and flashed an angry grin. She knew from his expression that something cruel was coming.

  “You know,” he said, stepping closer and feigning concern, “you seem really confused. You should probably go to the infirmary or something.” He turned his back on her then and motioned for his friends to follow. “Her mother was nuts too,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Hung herself from a rope off their kitchen chandelier.”

  Later, at the infirmary, the nurse took her temperature again. “One hundred and three,” she announced, sounding surprised. “I guess you were coming down with something after all.”

  Arietta

  Arietta felt guilty leaving Millie to go to the dance. But she had been looking forward to her date with Fitz all week, and she worried that if she canceled, he’d be too discouraged to ask again. She was grateful when Millie insisted that they go.

  The truth was, Arietta had never had much luck with men. The ones she met backstage were always waiting for the chorus girls, and even when they complimented her singing, she knew the roses they carried were not meant for her. There had been that one time, back in New Haven, when a greasy-haired young man handed her a half-crushed bouquet, but only after the girl he’d been waiting for breezed by on the arm of an older patron wearing an expensive silk suit. Embarrassed, the young man had pressed the flowers into Arietta’s empty hands. But before she could thank him, he’d bolted for the back door.

  Her Aunties assured her that the right man would come along one day to sweep her off her feet. “If he can lift me,” Arietta would joke, patting her round hips and forcing a smile. By her teens, she had managed to slim down considerably, but she would never have the long legs or wispy waists the dancing girls had. Their fringed flapper dresses, meant to hang loose and sway, pulled tight around Arietta’s stomach and tugged at her thighs.

  When she turned twenty, the Aunties passed away in a single sad month, like a row of trees cursed with fast-moving blight. As she watched them wither away, she was left with a newfound appreciation for her own powerful figure. She wondered whether her size might be the font of her musical abilities and whether an attempt to reduce it might diminish her vocal gifts. Eventually, she stopped comparing herself to the girls in the chorus.

  She took to the stage with a renewed sense of confidence, singing of heartache and lost love so believably that her audiences were moved to tears. She didn’t need a real broken heart to convince them. And while she certainly longed for a love of her own, the adoration of the crowd helped to dull her disappointment.

  When her father took ill, she stopped performing to care for him. Before his last breath, he squeezed her hand. “One day you will meet a good man who loves you the way I loved your mother.” She hoped he was right, but by the time she began working at the armory, she was certain he’d been mistaken. Good men didn’t look at her that way, and the bad ones didn’t either. She was forty-two years old when Fitz began looking, and all she could do was hope that he was one of the good ones.

  They had a bit of a choppy start when she arrived at the armory restaurant. “Only the fellas call me that,” he said when she had referred to him as Fitz. “I’m not sure folks will go for something so exotic,” he insisted when she had told him about her lasagna. But once the awkwardness passed, they had settled into a routine. Now, no matter what she was doing—checking the stove or rinsing pots, she could feel his protective gaze upon her. If she raised her head to smile at him, his neck and his ears turned red from embarrassment.

  That man is forty-five if he’s a day, Arietta thought. What is he so afraid of?

  Every Monday, Arietta prepared piles of biscuits and mountains of baked beans for the lunchtime crowd. The kitchen usually smelled of warm molasses and Worcestershire sauce. But one Monday in February after she pulled the pans from the oven, she was overcome by the smell of limes and sandalwood. It didn’t take her long to figure it out: Fitz was wearing a new cologne.

  He looked different too. His eyebrows had been tamed, and he’d taken special care with his shirt. When he tugged at his tie, Arietta had an inkling. She tried to look encouraging as he struggled with what to say.

  “I was hoping … you’d go to
the dance with me this Friday.”

  “The ‘On to Victory’ dance, you mean? I’d love to.”

  “You would?”

  “Don’t look so shocked.”

  “Sorry. I’m happy you said yes, that’s all.” He’d been shuffling his feet, staring down at his shoes, but after Arietta accepted his invitation, he took a step closer. Fitz took her hand in his gently, as if he thought he might break it.

  Arietta’s apron was stained, and her hair was mussed, but the warmth of Fitz’s fingers made her feel beautiful and young. She closed her eyes for a moment to savor the sensation. When she opened them, she could have sworn that the biscuits smelled like roses.

  * * *

  Arietta’s gown for the dance was uncharacteristically plain—a muted shade of blue without sparkle or embellishment. She kept her curls loose, framing her face, and the makeup she chose was soft and subdued. There was no need for false eyelashes or a costume this evening—all she wanted was to be an ordinary gal out on the town with her date. She relished the feeling of Fitz’s arm looped through hers as he guided her carefully to the middle of the dance floor.

  “Front and center,” he said, smiling shyly. “That way everyone can see my dance partner.”

  For a man his size, he was surprisingly light on his feet. After thirty minutes, Arietta grew winded, but Fitz spun her in circles without missing a beat. When her toes turned numb, she begged for a break. “Can we take a breather, just for a bit? I’d love to freshen up,” she told him.

  “Of course,” Fitz said. “I’ll grab us some drinks.”

  The ladies’ room was even more congested than the dance floor, with women of all ages swarming the small wall mirrors to neaten their hair and powder their noses. Arietta was reapplying her lipstick when a well-dressed blonde squeezed in beside her and stepped on her foot. Instead of apologizing, the blonde jostled Arietta further, pushing and elbowing as if Arietta didn’t exist.

  “Excuse me,” the cook said, catching the woman’s eye in the mirror. “If you give me a little room, I’ll finish up in a jiffy.”

  The woman in the mirror glared back but didn’t budge. A flicker of recognition passed over her features. “You’re the cook from the armory cafeteria, aren’t you?”

  “That’s me, all right. Have we met before?”

  “Certainly not. My husband is an officer.” The stranger’s tone was belligerent, but Arietta made an effort to remain polite. “Well, then, maybe you recognize me from the Walshes’ Christmas party?”

  “I didn’t go, and my husband left early. Fred said the entertainment was awful.” She smirked.

  The insult, combined with the mention of her husband’s first name, left no doubt in Arietta’s mind as to who this stranger was. She had to be Fred Peabody’s wife, Grace.

  The wisest course of action would have been for Arietta to walk away—to find another mirror or another bathroom entirely. But Fred Peabody’s threats still rang in her ears. She could picture his angry face; she could hear his slurred voice. You say one word to Walsh, and I’ll make you wish you hadn’t.

  “Funny,” Arietta said, her brown eyes glued to the reflection of Grace’s blue ones in the mirror. “I remember your husband staying late that night.”

  “You must be thinking of someone else.”

  Arietta should have stopped, but she couldn’t help herself. “I don’t think so. I’m good with names. Captain Fred Peabody—tall man, dark hair. He had too much to drink, but that probably doesn’t surprise you. He made some very inappropriate remarks to my friend Millie.”

  Grace snapped her compact shut. “I’m good with names too, and I know Millie Fein. There’s no way Fred would have been talking to her. He knows better than to waste his time on trash.”

  Arietta pushed forward to reclaim her spot at the mirror, intentionally knocking Grace off balance. Grace’s compact exploded as it hit the tile floor; bits of glass and powder flew into the air like shrapnel. Grace scowled and pointed a gloved finger at Arietta. “You’re going to regret this,” she said. “And your friend is too.”

  Millie

  It was easy sometimes to forget about the war. Easy to let a tiny tragedy in an ordinary day eclipse the greater horror of a global calamity. Easy to let the fear of a personal confrontation obscure the vaster dread of battles halfway across the world.

  It was easy to forget, when men and women were dancing and orchestras were playing, that other men and women were fighting and dying. Easy, when she held a sleeping child in her arms, to forget the other children awake in places she’d never heard of, children who were hungry and frightened and cold.

  It was easy, much too easy, to think only of herself and the smaller war that waited on the other side of her sister’s front door.

  * * *

  The air in the foyer was heavy with frustration. Ruth’s hair was in disarray, as if she’d been tugging at it, and she was still wearing the apron that she’d worn to cook dinner. She looked several years older than she had that afternoon.

  “Where have you been? I’ve been worried to death!”

  “Shh. Michael is asleep. We were at Arietta’s for dinner.”

  “I thought maybe Lenny came back for you, that he hadn’t left town after all—” Ruth paced the floor as she blurted out the words.

  “I need to put Michael to bed. We can talk about this in the morning.”

  “This can’t wait until tomorrow. Come down when you’re done.”

  What was it Lenny had said? There you go again, ordering everyone around.

  When she returned, Ruth had made her a hot cup of tea—a kind of peace offering, Millie supposed. But she would not be taken in by the sweet, fragrant liquid, no matter how inviting or comforting it was. She carried the cup to the sink and poured the contents down the drain. Then the sisters stared at each other across the wide kitchen table, each waiting for the other to break the peace first. Their truce had come to an end—there was no way around it—and the only way forward was to barrel straight through. Millie decided to wait for Ruth to begin.

  “You should have called to say you’d be late. I don’t think you understand how worried I was.”

  “You didn’t seem worried before, by the gate. Calling the guards and threatening to arrest Lenny. You seemed awfully sure of yourself then.” Millie thought Ruth seemed surprised by her tone.

  “You can’t possibly be angry that I told him to leave!”

  “I’m not. I wanted him to leave as much as you did. Which is why I begged you to give him what he came for—to give him my ring so he’d leave us alone.”

  “I couldn’t do that.”

  “Why? Why couldn’t you? And what did Lenny mean by all those things he said? What have you been hiding?”

  “What have I been hiding? You’re the one who lied about Lenny joining the army! You’re the one who lied about your husband being dead!”

  “I didn’t lie to you when I wrote that he enlisted. Lenny went to the recruiting office, just like I said. I put my letter in the mailbox before he came home.” Remembering that day, Millie’s eyes filled with tears. “You should have seen how excited he was. He promised to be back early so we could celebrate together, but when he finally came home, it was late and he was drunk. They said he had a heart murmur, but I knew he was humiliated. We had a terrible argument—he hit me, and then he left. He had disappeared before, so I was used to it by then. But after that night, I knew he wasn’t coming back.”

  “He hit you?” Ruth leaned forward and put her head in her hands. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Tell you? Are you joking? All of my life you made me feel like a failure. You waved your report cards in my face. You laughed at the magazines I read. You were good at everything. I thought I could be good at marriage, at least. How could I admit that I had failed at that too?”

  “If you had told me what was happening, maybe I could have helped. I could have visited—”

  “Visited? You never came back to Brookl
yn once after our parents died! You left the day after my wedding and never looked back. You didn’t even come when Michael was born! I wrote you long letters, and you sent me back postcards. The only time you seemed interested in us was when I wrote that Lenny enlisted. After that, I was afraid to tell you the truth because I didn’t want you to freeze me out again.”

  “So, you’re saying it’s all my fault? You’re blaming me for your lies?”

  “What if I am? You’ve been blaming me for my looks since the day I was born!”

  “Do you think it was easy having you as my sister? Do you think it was pleasant having relatives and friends and every boy I ever dated forget I existed when you waltzed into the room? Do you think I liked fixing all your homework and cleaning up your messes?”

  “I never asked you to do those things! I was a child!”

  Ruth pounded the table with her fist so hard that it shook. “You were eighteen when our parents died! You got to grieve! You had the luxury of mourning our parents and running to your room whenever you felt like crying. I was left alone to make all the arrangements—to speak to the rabbi, to tell all the relatives. And I did it all with two toddlers on my hips. Do you have any idea what it was like to pick out coffins for our parents? Of course you don’t, Millie, because I did it for you!” The words flew out of Ruth’s mouth like arrows rushing toward their mark.

  “I didn’t know how to do any of those things—”

  “I didn’t either, but I did them anyway! That is what it means to be an adult—choosing to be capable when you’d rather fall apart; forcing yourself to stand and speak when you’d rather lie down and cry; taking care of your little sister because everyone knows that she’s the sensitive one and you’re the cold fish.”

  Millie stared at Ruth, wide-eyed. “I didn’t ask you to take care of me,” she mumbled.