The Christmas Boutique

by Jennifer Chiaverini

  “You might want to try to get to know her better,” James cautioned on the day after Christmas. “You should find some common ground, just in case she becomes a permanent member of the family.”

  “Heaven forefend,” Sylvia declared, but she resolved to conceal her disdain for the sake of family harmony. Eventually Richard’s infatuation would prove to be nothing more than a passing fancy, and next Christmas, they would again celebrate with only the Bergstrom family, and Harold, since he always joined them. If Richard wanted to bring a friend home from school for the holidays, he should choose Andrew next time.

  In early January, Richard and Agnes returned to Philadelphia, and Sylvia began counting the weeks until he would return—alone, she hoped—for summer break. She tried not to make too much of a new tone in his letters, expressing not only his increasing affection for Agnes, but also his outrage and indignation for the rising animosity toward German Americans that was spreading throughout the country. By springtime, he resolved to enlist in the military and prove his patriotism by fighting the Nazis. Andrew, ever his loyal best friend, decided to join up with him.

  James and Harold raced to Philadelphia to stop them, fervently hoping that the young men would be sent away from the recruiting office with a handshake and a suggestion to return when they were eighteen. But Richard and Andrew were determined, and when Richard lied about his age and went unchallenged, Andrew did too.

  James and Harold arrived in the city too late to intervene—too late as well to prevent Richard and Agnes from marrying in haste, like thousands of other young couples faced with separation and an uncertain future. Agnes’s parents must have given their consent under duress, for they did not attend the courthouse ceremony and disowned their daughter before the ink dried on the marriage license.

  With two weeks to go before Richard was due to report for basic training, he escorted his young bride—beautiful but tremulous with joy and worry—home to Elm Creek Manor. Andrew and Harold accompanied them, with James as the group’s resigned and watchful leader. When the two young soldiers crossed the threshold, their innocent pride and excitement brought fresh tears to Sylvia’s eyes. “What have you done?” she cried, flinging her arms around her brother, barely hearing his spirited reply.

  That night as James and Sylvia prepared for bed, exhausted and drained by the week’s tumultuous events, he took her in his arms. “Sylvia, darling, there’s something I need to tell you.”

  “James, you mustn’t blame yourself,” she said, unsettled by the regret and apprehension in his eyes. “You tried. I know you would have prevented this if you could have. It’s in God’s hands now.”

  “Sylvia . . .” He sighed heavily against the skin of her neck, his embrace tightening. “I’m going too.”

  For a moment she couldn’t breathe. “What do you mean?”

  “I enlisted. Harold too. It was the only way we could be sure we would be placed in the same unit.”

  “James, no.” The room spun. Sylvia pressed a hand to her lips and sank down upon the edge of the bed. “You couldn’t have. You promised me you’d wait to be drafted.”

  James sat beside her and took her hand. “I had to do it. I can’t protect Richard from home. Now I’ll be able to look after him. I swear we’ll all come back to you safe and sound. You have my word.”

  She would have protested that it was beyond his power to promise her that, but the words stuck in her throat. What good were her protests now? He had enlisted; he could not undo that decision even if he wanted to.

  The next morning, Harold and Claudia announced that he had proposed, and she had accepted. Sylvia assumed that they would marry at the county courthouse before Harold departed, but Claudia said they would wait until he came home. Sylvia nodded, murmuring congratulations and feigning delight, marveling at her sister’s certainty that Harold would return from the war. So many other young men they knew never would.

  The men’s last days at Elm Creek Manor flew by with terrible swiftness. All too soon they reported for duty, and after eight weeks of basic training, they were sent to the Pacific, a cruel irony considering Richard had enlisted to fight the Nazis.

  Soon thereafter, Sylvia realized she was pregnant.

  Months passed. Letters from the men were infrequent and precious, despite heavy censoring that sometimes rendered them barely comprehensible. Sylvia and Claudia had dedicated themselves to the work of the home front since the war began, but now they redoubled their efforts, organizing scrap metal drives, buying war bonds, enlarging their victory garden, contributing Grandmother’s Flower Garden segments to the Waterford Quilting Guild’s raffle quilt for the war effort. Their work kept despair at bay and would hasten the end of the war, or so they desperately hoped.

  As the lonely, anxious weeks passed, Sylvia began to develop a grudging respect for her new sister-in-law. From time to time, Sylvia surreptitiously read over Agnes’s shoulder as she wrote to Richard, and she was surprised to find not one word of complaint in her letters, only loving encouragement and lighthearted descriptions of how she spent her days. Agnes joined Sylvia and Claudia in their volunteer activities, and although she couldn’t sew to save her life, she could knit with impressive speed, darning socks and mending sweaters so well that her repairs were nearly invisible. If she found a garment that had shrunk in the wash or could not be mended, she unraveled the stitches, wound the yarn into balls, and knit socks and washcloths for the Red Cross to give to soldiers.

  Perhaps this was the side of Agnes that had won Richard’s heart.

  Sylvia prepared for the arrival of her unborn child, praying that the war would end and James would return in time for the birth. But summer passed, and then autumn, and with each passing week it seemed less likely that their loved ones would come home to them soon.

  “Don’t worry,” Claudia told her. “Just this morning I heard on the radio that the Allies have made so many gains in Europe that the war will be over by Christmas.”

  Sylvia prayed she was right.

  December came, but while victory seemed increasingly likely, it remained elusive, impossibly distant. The first snows fell, soft and gentle, and before Sylvia knew it, the holidays were approaching. The joyful family celebration she had envisioned the year before was not to be; with the men away and her father recovering from influenza, their aunts and uncles and cousins had decided to stay home to conserve fuel and other scarce rations.

  It was a subdued, wistful season, and for a while that suited Sylvia’s melancholic mood, but two days before Christmas, her longing for her husband and brother became too much to bear. She sat in the front parlor listening to carols on the radio, stroking her rounded abdomen and brooding. Agnes sat in the chair closest to the fireplace, diligently knitting while Claudia cut templates for her bridal quilt and mused aloud about her wedding gown. Agnes nodded along, but for Sylvia, her sister’s chatter barely registered as she tried to imagine what James, Richard, Andrew, and Harold were doing at that moment, and then tried very hard not to imagine it.

  As the lyrics of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” broke into her reverie, Sylvia suddenly felt tears rising, anger surging. “Turn that off,” she ordered shakily. When Claudia and Agnes merely paused in their handwork to stare at her uncertainly, Sylvia hauled herself from her chair, crossed the room, and snapped off the radio. “I can’t listen to that anymore. They aren’t coming home for Christmas, so what’s the use of dreaming about it?”

  “Sometimes dreams are all we have,” said Agnes.

  Sylvia clenched her teeth to hold back a bitter retort. She could not bear platitudes, and she needed more than dreams. She needed James beside her. She needed Richard home and safe.

  “What we need is a Christmas miracle,” said Claudia. “For the war to end. If ever we ought to pray for peace on earth, this is the time.”

  “The war will end when we win,” said Sylvia sharply, despondent. “However long it takes, however many lives it takes.”

  Agnes shuddered,
her pretty features pinching up as if she might burst into tears. Ashamed of herself, Sylvia looked away and was about to turn the radio back on when Claudia said, “We’ve done nothing to prepare for Christmas around here.”

  “We sent the men their packages,” said Agnes.

  “I know, but we’ve done nothing for ourselves.”

  “No one’s coming to visit,” Sylvia reminded her.

  “Yes, but we’re still here.” Claudia set her paper and scissors aside. “We should bake Great-Aunt Lucinda’s cookies and make Gerda’s apple strudel.”

  Sylvia shook her head. “We don’t have enough sugar rations.”

  “We might have enough, and even if we don’t, we could still decorate.” Claudia rose. “Come on. We need something to remind us of the joy and hope of the season.”

  Dubious, Sylvia nonetheless felt a faint spark of interest. Their orchard had yielded an abundant harvest that autumn, so she knew they had plenty of apples. When she surveyed the pantry, she found that they had just enough of the other necessary ingredients to make one strudel. She went to tell Claudia and Agnes, only to find them in the foyer unpacking boxes of decorations they had brought down from the attic. Sylvia lent a hand, but first she returned to the parlor to turn on the radio, leaving the door open so they could listen to carols as they worked. A quiet happiness filled her as she unwrapped the familiar accoutrements of the holidays—Richard’s soldier nutcracker, the paper angels she and Claudia had made in Sunday school, Great-Aunt Lucinda’s Santa Claus cookie jar, and something unexpected: a pillowcase filled with segments of a quilt in rich hues of red, green, gold, and cream sewn by several Bergstrom women through the years but never completed.

  As she examined the pieces, marveling at the handiwork of her mother, her great-aunt, and her sister, Claudia and Agnes suggested she work on the quilt. Tempted, Sylvia nonetheless hesitated. “But the decorations, and the baking—”

  “We can handle the decorations,” Agnes assured her, “and the strudel can wait until tomorrow, can’t it?”

  “You should be sitting with your feet up anyway,” added Claudia.

  Sylvia was about to retort that she was pregnant, not ill, but it was the perfect excuse. Although she couldn’t possibly complete the quilt by Christmas Day, stitching a few blocks might lift her spirits. Perhaps she could plan to finish in time for next Christmas, when James would be home and they could snuggle their child in the quilt’s soft folds in the warm glow of the lights on the Christmas tree.

  Lost in reminiscences of Christmases past and dreams of the Christmas future she yearned for, Sylvia spent the hours in sewing and reflection. Later, when hunger beckoned her from the parlor, she discovered her home transformed by the loving attention of her sister and sister-in-law. All the old, familiar, beloved decorations adorned the foyer, the ballroom, and other nooks and corners where so many fond memories lingered. Candles glowed softly in the windows, and wreaths of holly and ivy graced the doors and banisters.

  Early the next day, Christmas Eve, Sylvia and Claudia taught Agnes how to make the traditional Bergstrom apple strudel from Great-Great-Aunt Gerda’s recipe. Perhaps enticed by the familiar, delectable aroma, Sylvia’s father insisted he felt strong enough to leave his sickbed and join them for lunch. “How wonderfully festive,” he declared as he descended the grand oak staircase, admiring their decorations from above. “I believe we’ll have a merry Christmas after all.”

  The following morning, he felt well enough to accompany Sylvia, Claudia, and Agnes to church. The mood of the congregation was more subdued than celebratory, more longing than joyful. Sylvia knew that nearly every person gathered there yearned for a brother, father, husband, or son overseas, or was grieving for someone lost to the war. Even the pastor had a brother serving in France, and before long his sermon turned to their absent loved ones and their longing for peace.

  “We must not give in to despair,” the pastor said, his gaze earnest and imploring as he looked out upon the worshippers. “We must have faith that the Lord who loves us will not abandon us. Though far too many of us have sewn gold stars on the service banners displayed in our front windows, though so many of us mourn, we must not believe that God has ceased loving us. He has not forgotten us. In our moments of weakness, we may fear that we walk alone, but we must never forget that God has sent us the light of his love and mercy. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness shall not overcome it.”

  Sylvia fought back tears, longing for her husband and brother so desperately that she almost could not draw breath for the pain in her heart. If James and Richard did not return to her, she did not know how she could endure it. She knew that she could not.

  “Today, my dear brothers and sisters,” the pastor continued, “we are confronted by darkness—the darkness of war, of tyranny, of oppression, of loneliness, of evil manifest in the world. Today, with the entire world at war, this darkness seems very deep indeed, but we must not forget that Jesus Christ brought the light of peace, and hope, and reconciliation into the world, and no darkness shall ever quench it. Each of us must bring light into the world, so that the darkness will not prevail.”

  Head bowed, Sylvia pressed her lips together to hold back a sob. She wanted the light the pastor described to shine through the darkness of her life, but she was afraid, and she had never felt more alone. The darkness surrounding her was so opaque she feared no illumination could penetrate it.

  Suddenly a hand clasped hers—Claudia’s. After a moment Sylvia reached out her other hand to Agnes, and only then did understanding dawn. Claudia and Agnes were lonely and afraid too. They had to be light for one another.

  The three women held hands for the rest of the sermon. They held hands still as they rose to sing the final hymn. As the last notes of the song faded away, Sylvia felt peace settling into her heart, and she whispered a prayer of thanks for her sister and her sister-in-law, whom she too often took for granted. They must sustain one another, whatever came, whatever darkness threatened them.

  Later, at Elm Creek Manor, Sylvia, Claudia, their father, and Agnes gathered in the parlor to exchange gifts, most of them homemade garments or heirlooms now passed down to one who had long admired them. Afterward, in keeping with Bergstrom family tradition, they read aloud letters from absent loved ones, none dearer than those from their brave soldiers, saved for this occasion so they would feel as if the family had reunited on Christmas Day. Sylvia had drawn upon her every ounce of willpower not to open James’s letter as soon as it had arrived a week before, but now she was grateful she had waited.

  The men had been promised a hot Christmas dinner instead of the usual rations, James had written, turkey with dressing, cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, green beans, and apple pie for dessert. “I’d give my last dollar for us all to be gathered around the table at Elm Creek Manor instead, enjoying our traditional Bergstrom Christmas feast,” he admitted, “but our little celebration will make us feel closer to home, and no king in his castle will savor his Christmas dinner more.”

  Other letters shared more news. Harold complained of a mild stomach ailment but assured Claudia that otherwise all was well. Richard sent his love and proudly announced that he was learning how to drive a tank. Andrew had written one letter for the whole family, thanking them for the pictures Sylvia’s father had taken of Claudia, Sylvia, and Agnes standing on the back steps of the manor. “I don’t have a sweetheart to write home to,” he confessed, “so I especially welcome your letters.” He promised to look after Richard and thanked Sylvia’s father for the memories of the best Christmas he had ever known. “Those memories are a comfort to me this year as I spend the holidays in the heat of the South Pacific, far from the snowy forests and fields of home.”

  “Next year we will all be together again,” said Claudia, with such resolve that for a moment they all shared her certainty. “Next Christmas, the war will be over and the boys will be home.”

  Sylvia prayed it would be so—but only part of her heartfel
t prayer was answered.

  The war did end before Christmas came again, but only Andrew and Harold lived to see it.

  When the telegram arrived to inform Sylvia that her worst fears had come true, she was so staggered by shock and grief that she miscarried. Soon thereafter, her father succumbed to a stroke. So it was that one terrible incident on a remote Pacific island claimed the lives of four members of her family, several days and thousands of miles apart.

  Later, months after Imperial Japan surrendered, Andrew paid an unexpected visit on his way from Philadelphia to a new job in Detroit. Anguished, he confessed to Sylvia how her future brother-in-law had been complicit in James’s and Richard’s deaths. Haltingly, every word paining him, he described the terrible scene he had witnessed from a bluff overlooking the beach, how Richard had come under friendly fire, how James had raced to his rescue, how he could have saved his brother-in-law with the help of one more man. Andrew had run down the bluff to the beach where his friends lay wounded, knowing that he would never reach them in time, while only a few yards away, Harold had cowered in the underbrush rather than risk his own life.

  Andrew had left early the next morning without telling anyone else what he had confessed to her. When Sylvia confronted Claudia with the terrible truth and Claudia rejected it as a cruel lie, a chasm split open the fragile ground between the two sisters, compelling Sylvia to flee her beloved home, never to return.

  Or so she had thought, all those years ago.

  Sylvia reached out a wrinkled hand and gently stroked Andrew’s cheek, lightly stubbled before his morning shave, the face dearer to her than she could have imagined when she had fled Elm Creek Manor in anguish, when he and her brother had gone off to war so full of pride and anticipation, when he had been a small, hungry boy longing for the sanctuary of a loving home. They had both found their happy ending, but she would have done so many things differently if only—

  Andrew’s eyes opened, and a slow smile spread across his face. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he said, clasping his hand over hers. “That’s a very serious frown for so early in the day.”