The Wartime Sisters

by Lynda Cohen Loigman

  The cheers were so loud and the foot-stomping so heavy that it felt as though the ground were shaking beneath them. Even Lenny loosened his hold on her for a moment to listen to the broadcast. But soon his interest faded.

  “Lead the way, Mil. Let’s go to Ruth’s house and pick up my ring.”

  “I don’t live with her anymore. I live somewhere else.”

  “With a fella, you mean?”

  “Of course not! I live with a married couple. They’ve been very kind to me, and their children are nice to our … well, they’re sweet.” She stopped herself from speaking about Michael out loud. She didn’t want to remind Lenny that there was something other than the ring that he might want to claim as his own before he left Springfield.

  “Terrific,” he said. “Where do they live?”

  “There.” With her free hand, Millie pointed to the commanding officer’s house. It stood directly across from them, five hundred feet away. Even in the dark, there could be no mistaking the size or the grandeur of the building.

  “I don’t have time for jokes,” Lenny said. “Which way do we go?”

  “I’m serious,” she insisted. “That’s where I’m staying. My friend Lillian’s husband is the commanding officer of the armory.”

  “You got a key?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’re sure no one is home?”

  “They’re all at the concert.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  Millie stepped toward the house as slowly as possible, trying to formulate a plan along the way. But the walk was too short, and her mind was a blank. Panic and fear formed a lump in her throat, and she wondered, when the time came, whether she would be able to scream.

  “Let’s go, let’s go,” he said, pushing and dragging her until they reached the front door. He let go of her arm so she could find the key in her purse, and when she opened the door, he whistled long and low. “Man, if I had my truck and a couple of guys, we could clean this place out in ten minutes flat. There’s gotta be plenty of good stuff in the bedrooms.” He walked through the foyer and glanced up the stairs, but before he reached the steps, Millie screamed.

  “No!”

  “What did you say?”

  She had never shouted at him before. But the thought of Lenny in Lillian’s bedroom made Millie physically ill. She had not imagined that her plan could have such a consequence—how foolish she had been to not think it through. He was a wrecking ball of a man, equipped only for destruction.

  “You don’t need to go upstairs because the ring is down here. In Colonel Walsh’s office.” She pointed to the door on the right side of the foyer. “In there.”

  “Fine,” Lenny sulked, “but after I get it, I’m going upstairs.”

  Millie suspected that the office impressed Lenny more than he let on. The bookshelves and papers, the plaques on the wall—all were the signs of a successful, well-respected man. Lenny would never have an office like this one. He would never earn a medal or receive a letter of praise. As he wandered around the room taking everything in, Millie wondered whether he had any regrets.

  “So, where is it?” he grimaced. “This place gives me the creeps.”

  “It’s locked in the cabinet. Let me get the key.” She cleared the massive desktop, moving binders and books to reach the blotter underneath. When Millie lifted it up, the brass key was still there, solid and shiny, silently waiting. She stole a glance at Lenny out of the corner of her eye, but he was busy examining a framed photograph on the wall. He was still occupied when she felt the lock of the wood-paneled door click open.

  Lenny would have no way of knowing that the rifle wasn’t loaded. Colonel Walsh had said she was a natural, and the months she’d spent at the shooting range had given her confidence. She would release the safety, keep one finger on the trigger, and hope Lenny would run when she aimed at his head. She took a slow breath as she pulled open the door, but when she looked inside the cabinet, the weapon was gone.

  “Let’s have it already,” Lenny said impatiently. “I don’t have all day.”

  As her scheme unraveled, desperation sank in. She had no alternate plan; she was out of ideas. All she could do was tell him the truth.

  “The ring isn’t here.”

  He crossed the room in three steps, his stride fueled by rage. “Whaddya mean it isn’t here? What the hell are you talking about?”

  “It isn’t here,” she repeated. “I don’t know where it is.”

  He grabbed her again, this time by the throat.

  “You sold it already, didn’t you? You sold it and took all the money for yourself!”

  She tried to shake her head, to form the words to protest. But he was squeezing too tightly and she couldn’t get enough air. “No,” she managed to say.

  “Where is it then?” he shouted. “Tell me where it is!” He pushed her to the ground and stood over her, scowling.

  She sputtered and coughed, gasping for breath. The air scratched her lungs as she struggled to speak. “I want to, but I can’t,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  On the night he’d first hit her, Millie had known the slap was coming. Before Lenny had struck her cheek, she had felt the shift of air, she had intuited the disturbance in his movement and his mood. She felt similarly now, prescient and aware. She felt the heat of his anger before she saw his twisted grimace, she sensed him reaching into his pocket before she saw the knife, she knew just where he would stab her before his arm was raised. The violence she would fall victim to felt predetermined and inescapable. There was too much malice in him for it to end any other way.

  She forced herself to look at him, to keep her eyes open. His once beautiful face was frenzied and raw. An unfamiliar tranquility descended upon her as she braced herself for the pain she knew was to come.

  When the gunshot rang out, she didn’t even scream.

  Arietta

  The announcer warned her to keep her coat on, but she insisted on taking it off. Folks wanted to see a glamorous performer, not some middle-aged cook dressed for the tundra. Besides, she stopped feeling the cold as soon as her feet touched the stage.

  From her vantage point on the platform, the audience seemed much larger than from the ground. Even with all her experience, the sight of so many people gathered together elicited a flutter of nerves in the hollow of her stomach. She placed her hand over her diaphragm and inhaled slowly. The last time she’d felt like this had been a lifetime ago.

  Arietta had been six years old when the choir director at her church in New Haven arranged for her to sing at a hastily planned wedding ceremony. No one had explained the circumstances to Arietta, but the request for a young soloist came directly from the father of the bride. It was his belief that the wedding should be blessed by the voice of a child to soften God’s heart toward the baby already growing in his daughter’s womb.

  On the morning of the wedding, before the ceremony began, the Aunties pulled Arietta into the ladies’ room to retie her sash and tidy her curls. It was there that she got her first glimpse of the bride—a sullen young woman in a tight, shiny dress. When Arietta said hello, the bride scowled and stomped out. The Aunties tried to smooth things over, but the encounter left Arietta feeling apprehensive. She still hadn’t recovered by the time the wedding march began to play.

  “I can’t sing,” she said. “I’m too nervous.”

  She felt one of the Aunties whisper in her ear. “Listen to me, and I’m going to tell you what to do. Don’t worry about all these people. Don’t even look at them. Pick someone in the crowd, and sing your song to that one person.”

  Arietta had scanned the pews, searching for a friendly face. After a few moments, she settled on one—a woman in her thirties, with kind brown eyes and a flowered hat. Arietta never told anyone, but from the time the music began until the last note was played, she pretended that the woman she had chosen was her mother. She sang with such feeling that by the time she was done, most of the wedding guests had their handkerchi
efs out. When she sang the final note, the lady in the hat beamed at her.

  After that day, Arietta continued the ritual. Whenever she felt nervous, she chose one person to sing to. Until the age of twelve, she chose only women she imagined might resemble her mother. She sang her heart out to all of them, and they rewarded her with their tears. When they clapped, it was as if her own mother were clapping, and she imagined their joy to be her own mother’s pride.

  As she grew older and love songs made their way into her repertoire, she chose handsome young men and sang only to them. They were never as moved as the women had been, but she liked looking into their eyes and wondering what it might be like to kiss them. As time wore on, she expanded her choices, picking octogenarians or girls her own age—whoever seemed to fit the song she was singing.

  Tonight, Arietta scanned the crowd for Fitz. He had pushed his way to the very first row, and his height made him easy to spot from above. With her eyes glued to his, her hesitation evaporated, and she ruled over the stage the same way she ruled over her stove. Her timing was perfect, and every movement was effortless. All too soon it was time to sing her final song of the evening.

  She had never performed “Why Don’t You Do Right” before, but Benny Goodman had made it famous, and she suspected it would be a big hit with the crowd. The only hitch was that she couldn’t sing a song like that to Fitz—“Do Right” was about a good-for-nothing lout, and in order to do it justice, she wanted to focus on a stranger who looked the part.

  The music had just started, slinky and slow, when she found the perfect match. It was clear that he’d once been a handsome man, but his good looks were spoiled by the scar on his cheek and a face full of bruises. Unlike the rest of the people around him, he appeared thoroughly uninterested in the concert and the spectacle. As the melody poured out of her, Arietta imagined that the words told the stranger’s true story.

  The man never realized she was looking at him. But after the second verse, his bored expression changed. At first, he looked surprised and then almost gleeful. She watched his thin lips curve into a satisfied smile and saw him push through the crowd at breakneck speed. He was moving like a man who wanted to catch up to someone.

  The man’s abrupt departure shouldn’t have bothered her, but something about his smile sent a chill up the back of her neck. The wind shifted in the trees, and a sudden gust surprised her, ruffling her hair and causing her fingers to stiffen. From the moment Arietta had started her set that evening, she had felt perfectly warm on the raised platform; but now, all she wanted was her coat and her scarf.

  For the first time in her life, she couldn’t wait to leave the stage.

  Lillian

  Lillian’s youngest daughter, Margaret, had been whining ever since she’d arrived at the concert. First, her brothers were bothering her, then her shoes were too tight, and then the music was so loud that it hurt her ears. Lillian stopped paying attention when Margaret claimed she couldn’t see; the Walsh family had the best seats in the house. They were on the side of the platform, hidden from the audience but with a clear view of the stage.

  The next complaint came just a few minutes later.

  “Mommy, I’m freezing!”

  “If you had brought your coat like I told you to, you wouldn’t be cold.”

  “It covered up my dress; it didn’t look pretty.”

  Lillian’s patience had long since run out. But when Margaret’s teeth began to chatter, her maternal instincts took over. “Come sit on my lap and I’ll warm you up,” she offered. “After Arietta sings, I’ll run home and get your coat.” Frances offered to fetch her sister’s jacket, but Lillian shook her head. “There are too many people in the square tonight, and a lot of them have been drinking. I don’t want any of you walking around without an adult. Your father is checking on the guards for a bit, but I’ll be back in ten minutes—fifteen at the most. Now stay up here, please, and promise to behave.”

  “We promise.”

  Lillian wove through the maze of production crew members, equipment, and tables until she reached the back of the stage. Then she descended the makeshift steps and made her way across the dimly lit square in the direction of her house.

  She knew something was wrong when she reached the front door. She was certain Patrick had locked it on his way out; he had told her as much when he met her at the concert. But the door wasn’t locked. It was slightly ajar.

  As quietly as possible, she pushed the door open. Two voices were coming from the direction of Patrick’s office. The first was a man’s—unfamiliar and angry—and the second she recognized immediately as Millie’s. Lillian left her shoes on the porch and tiptoed inside the foyer, sticking close to the wall where they wouldn’t be able to see her. “So, where is it?” the man demanded.

  “It’s locked in the cabinet. Let me get the key.”

  The tone of Millie’s voice made two things perfectly clear—the man was unwelcome and Millie was terrified of him.

  If she’s unlocking the cabinet, she must want Patrick’s rifle. But it isn’t there.

  Lillian’s senses were amplified, her nerves on heightened alert. With Millie and the man both facing away from the doorway, she scurried past the office and bolted to the kitchen. From the back of the pantry, hidden behind a sack of potatoes, she retrieved Patrick’s rifle. He had brought it to the kitchen the night before for cleaning, but he’d been lazy and hadn’t returned it to his office. That morning she had meant to put it back herself, but she’d gotten distracted with preparations for the concert.

  Lillian rummaged frantically through the drawer next to her stove—somewhere inside it, she remembered, she had seen a single round. Patrick had confiscated it from Thomas months ago, and had slipped it into her junk drawer for safekeeping. She would have a talk with her husband later about how unsafe that was, but for now, all Lillian wanted was to find it. She groaned as she pawed through the safety pins and scissors until she saw a flash of metal behind some broken pencils.

  Lillian’s pulse quickened as she placed the lone bullet into the empty chamber, making sure to move her thumb out of the way before the bolt snapped shut. She couldn’t remember how many years had passed since she had last fired a rifle, but she hadn’t forgotten. Her father had taught her before her mother died. It had been one of the few times he had showed any patience with her, perhaps the only time he had taken any real interest. They had both been shocked to discover what a good shot she was—so good, in fact, that for the briefest of moments, her father seemed proud of her. Lillian had given up shooting shortly after that; she had been unable to stomach the thought of her actions bringing her father any kind of joy.

  Once the rifle was loaded, she crept back toward the foyer. “Tell me where it is!” she heard the man shouting. When she peered around the corner, he was in full view, with both of his hands wrapped around Millie’s throat.

  Lillian released the safety on the rifle and waited. Maybe he would stop. Maybe he would leave. She sucked in her breath as the man threw Millie to the ground. Then she heard her friend whisper, “I want to, but I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  When the man raised his knife, Lillian took aim and fired.

  * * *

  The week before she died, Lillian’s mother cleaned the house from top to bottom. She arranged the books on the shelves in alphabetical order to ensure that each volume was easy to find. She cleaned out every closet and drawer, tossing out all the old underwear and donating piles of Lillian’s too-small dresses and coats to the church clothing drive. She organized the pots in the kitchen according to size and finally set up the spice rack that had been languishing in the hall closet. She neatened her sewing area, polished the silver, and bought Lillian a new box of colored pencils.

  The night before, she cooked Lillian’s favorite Sunday dinner: homemade fried chicken, biscuits, and mashed potatoes. She made extra so there would be leftovers for Monday, enough to serve Lillian’s father in the afternoon. The officers’ club was closed o
n Mondays, so Lillian’s father always ate his lunch at home.

  On what would become her final morning with her mother, Lillian was running late for school. She ate her breakfast quickly, ran to her bedroom for her books, and opened her jewelry box to grab her favorite silver necklace. But when she pulled the necklace from the box, the chain was full of knots, completely enmeshed with two other pieces. Lillian handed her mother the tiny pile of jewelry and pleaded with her to untangle it. The next thing she knew, her mother’s eyes were bright with tears.

  “Mommy, why are you crying? What’s wrong?”

  Lillian could see that she was trying to smile. “I’m fine, sweetheart. I don’t have time to untangle these before the school bus comes, but I promise to have them ready by the time you get home.”

  “Can’t you try, Mommy? Please?”

  Instead of scolding Lillian for whining, her mother kissed her cheek and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her daughter’s ear. I want to, but I can’t. I’m sorry. She hugged Lillian tightly until the bus honked twice from the end of the driveway.

  When Lillian came home from school that afternoon, something was wrong. Her father shouldn’t have been back from work so soon, but there he was, sitting by himself at the kitchen table. Lillian couldn’t remember ever seeing him alone in the kitchen before. He always left the room as soon as he finished eating.

  “Where is Mommy?”

  He stared at her without answering. She was accustomed to seeing her father angry or upset, but the look on his face was different this time.

  “Why is the table over there?” The round wooden table had, in fact, been moved, pushed to the side of the room so that it was no longer centered underneath the chandelier.

  “Your mother moved it.”

  “Why?”