Dedication
For Daddy,
thank you, for everything
And in loving memory of Carmen H. Washington,
whose Grace and Steele inspire me still
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Telegram
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Telegram
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Acknowledgments
P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*
About the Author
About the Book
Praise for Sisters in Arms
Copyright
About the Publisher
* * *
Telegram
WA WASHINGTON DC 5 23 PM JULY 9 1942
MR. & MRS. ERNEST STEELE
DEEPLY REGRET TO INFORM YOU THAT YOUR SON CPL ANTHONY STEELE US ARMY IS PRESUMED DEAD IN PHILIPPINES ISLANDS.
SMITH, THE ADJUTANT GENERAL
* * *
Chapter 1
New York City
July 1942
YOU CAN BEGIN whenever you’re ready.”
Grace opened the folder that should have contained her sheet music. She would have cried had she been able to produce any more tears. She put the folder down and dug through her bag again. She found nothing else but her coin purse, her keys, and a letter she had grabbed from the mailbox on her way here.
“Is there a problem, Miss Steele?”
“I, uh . . .”
Grace Steele never left anything to chance. She always double-knotted her shoes. She always looked both ways before stepping off the curb to cross Lenox Avenue. She tuned in to her favorite radio show, Our Gal Sunday, five minutes early so she didn’t miss the beginning. And she never, ever waited until the last minute to put her sheet music into her bag.
But today wasn’t a normal day. And this wasn’t any ordinary gig. This was her audition to get into the Juilliard School of Music.
Grace glanced at her watch, a gift from her brother, Tony, during the last Christmas they had all spent together as a family before he enlisted in the Army.
“Now you have no excuse to not make time for your music,” Tony had said, snatching a nearby pillow and using it to protect his face against Grace’s wrath. Unlucky for him, that position left his rib cage exposed. Grace landed an ineffective jab to his side. “Hey, is that any way to treat your favorite brother?”
She’d shaken her hand to dissipate the stinging pain in her knuckles. “You’re my only brother, smart-ass.”
He’d laughed, then wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “Merry Christmas, kiddo.” He’d kissed the top of her head despite her squirming to get out of his embrace. Had Grace known what was to come, not only would she have cherished the feel of his arms around her, but she would have held on to her brother as tight as she could and never let him go.
“Is everything all right, Miss Steele?”
“I—” She gulped and immediately scolded herself for doing something so unladylike in front of the president of the Juilliard School of Music. The man was not only an esteemed pianist, composer, and conductor in the classical music world, but he was also her idol. “I seem to have left my sheet music at home.”
“You left your sheet music at home. How disappointing.”
Now the corners of Mr. Hutcheson’s mouth fell. With that gesture, Grace knew all was lost. Forgetting to bring your sheet music to your audition at a highly respected music school was an unpardonable sin. Especially when it was for a competitive, all-expenses-paid fellowship to study with her idol at said music school. A fellowship she would never get now. It was an understatement to say Mama was going to hit the roof when she found out.
“However”—Hutcheson leaned back in his seat, bridging his long, elegant fingers—“improvisation is as necessary a skill for a pianist as is sight-reading the classics. Let’s not make this a total waste of time. Surely there’s something you can play from memory.”
Grace blinked back tears. He was giving her another chance to prove herself. She swallowed. “Of course.”
It was now or never. The problem was that her mind was drawing a blank. Without the sheet music as her guide, she knew only bits and pieces of her Handel audition piece. Mama had insisted upon it because of its complexity. Now that complexity was proving to be her downfall. Grace should have never let Mama have her way. Again.
The walls of the cavernous room began to feel like they were closing in on her.
Grace’s lower lip trembled as she stared at the baby grand piano before her. It was magnificent. A Steinway with all the bells and whistles, no doubt. She hadn’t seen anything like it since the one time she had performed at a holiday recital at the Apollo Theater.
She lifted her hands and let her fingers glide up the keys in a practice scale. Then her left thumb slipped on the last note. Her head whipped up, horrified.
“Sorry, I . . .” She quickly closed her mouth before she foolishly let it slip that uniformed visitors had come to her family’s door the night before. And that a gold star now graced her home’s window. Tossing out excuses was not in Grace’s character. She wouldn’t start now just because her brother was dead.
“It happens.” Hutcheson didn’t bother to hide his pity anymore. “It’s natural to be nervous. How about you forget that I’m here? Pretend that this isn’t an audition, that we’re not at Juilliard. You’re at home. Just relax and play. For yourself.”
Her fingers froze at the suggestion. Home was the last place she wanted to be. And playing for herself would mean letting this man hear one of her compositions, opening up the most inner parts of her musical self to a stranger, sharing the jazz-inspired pieces that only Tony and his friends at the clubs had been allowed to hear. She could imagine her mother’s face souring at the very idea of her daughter befouling the hallowed halls of Juilliard with that “trash music.” Grace wouldn’t dare. She would rather leave now, having played nothing at all.
“This is for you, Tony,” she whispered. Grace closed her eyes, praying for the magic to return to her fingers. To just forget the words on that telegram that had shattered her world. Mama’s grand plan for her aside, Grace was the one who chose to be here today. She came here to play. Mama’s voice echoed in her head: Steele women do not fail.
She would not fail. “And for you, Mama.”
Now, play something.
She took a deep breath, culling her mind for something appropriate that she knew well enough to play on the fly. Her fingers began to move at the first thing that came to mind: Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata.
She breezed through the opening notes of the piece. She smiled. The magic was back. But that magic took her only so far. She made it through the meditative first movement with no problem. After that, the piece sped up to a frenetic pace. Her out-of-practice fingers stumbled over the first refrain. And the next. Then her thumb slipped again. There wa
s no hiding her clumsy playing now.
She looked up. Hutcheson was pursing his lips. Finally, he held up his hand.
“Maybe it would be better if we ended the audition here.”
Grace’s insides deflated, but she willed her spine to remain straight. She returned her hands to her lap. “Okay.”
She gathered her things, including the useless folder, and stood to leave.
“When should I expect to receive your decision?”
Hutcheson smiled at her kindly. “I’ve heard too many people who I respect rave about your talent, Miss Steele. Your performance just now was . . . let’s just say it was a disappointment. However, there is no denying that you do have talent. I would offer you a fellowship to study with me, but I don’t think your heart is in it.”
No! “Oh, but it is. Let me get my music and come back. I can do better,” she pleaded. Tears overwhelmed her eyes. She no longer had the will to keep them at bay. “You must give me another chance. Otherwise, my mother will . . .”
The words stopped because Grace did not want to imagine what Mama would do. What she did know was that life with Loreli Steele was about to become even more unbearable once she came home without a Juilliard fellowship in hand.
“Miss Steele, I have been at this a very long time. I can see when a pupil has the fire in them to become a concert pianist . . . and when they do not. Success in this world does not boil down to talent alone. It comes down to the heart. And I can see that your heart lies elsewhere.”
“I’m sorry to have wasted your time, sir.”
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Steele. Come back to me when you are ready to focus.”
Grace forced a smile at him, then nodded. “I’ll see myself out.”
Grace hurried out of the building. A passing car splashed a puddle onto Grace’s feet. Thankfully, Grace’s dark blue rain slicker was a workhorse and her clothes stayed dry. But the insides of her galoshes were soaked. She was now humiliated and wet. She didn’t think this day could get any worse.
Grace tightened her grip on her purse strap as a black Oldsmobile drove slowly past her. It was too late in the morning for a desperate Upper West Side housewife to still be on the prowl. But in Harlem, there was never a safe time of day for a Negro woman to let her guard down.
Grace had completed an education degree the year before, but the demand for teachers of any kind had been in short supply for a long time. For teachers who looked like her, even longer. Unlike the demand for Negro women in domestic work, which had never been higher. She couldn’t stand on the corner of 125th Street and Lenox Avenue without at least one white woman pulling up to the curb and offering her a quarter an hour to clean her Central Park West apartment.
It was only when the Olds continued down Broadway without stopping that Grace relaxed. With her other hand, she pulled her head scarf tighter around her neck.
But she still had to go home and face Mama. First Tony and now this. To make matters worse, Daddy didn’t know. He was out on another trip on Mr. Pullman’s railcars. It would be up to Grace and Mama to deliver the blow when he returned home in a few days.
She looked across Broadway down 122nd Street, where, on the other side of Harlem, her mother waited. In that moment, she resolved to do two things. One, she would delay going home for as long as she could. And two, after the way she humiliated herself, she decided it was time to find another dream besides the piano.
The dream to become an international concert pianist had begun with Mama. Grace had gone along with it because, to her, it was a way to get out of New York, out of her mama’s house specifically, and see the world. It had been Tony who had introduced her to the world of jazz and the freedom it represented. In time, it had become all that Grace wanted. Her dream for herself was to be free.
That was when she remembered the letter in her bag. The return address had read “The War Department.” Why would it be sending anything directly to her? Grace’s only connection to the military had been Tony. It had already sent its official notification of his passing to her parents. She fished the envelope out of her bag and ripped it open.
The contents had nothing to do with Tony or his death. Oddly enough, they mentioned only her. Inside was an application and a personal letter from Mary McLeod Bethune, inviting her to join the U.S. Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps. Dr. Bethune’s letter instructed her to go to the Army Building downtown for an intake interview and exam with WAAC officials.
A women’s army?
Above, the approaching IRT subway rumbled. Grace was tempted to run up the stairs and escape to wherever the train took her. She tapped her bag. There was nothing in it except for her empty music portfolio. She had no change of clothes, no money, nowhere to go, and no plan.
But, according to this letter, she now had another option. Grace wondered what this women’s army uniform would look like, what she might look like wearing it. She couldn’t imagine that the military would send women into active combat. But surely when the war was over, they’d need to have support overseas from someone like her?
The rumble was getting louder as the 1 train came closer. If she hurried, she could make it up the stairs to the platform in time.
Or she could play it safe and take the crosstown bus home to face the “music” of Mama’s wrath.
She stared at the steelwork that adorned the station. Next to the entrance, an Army recruitment poster challenged her with the question WILL YOU ANSWER AMERICA’S CALL?
She started jogging up the stairs. Grace had an answer all right: she was in no rush to go home anytime soon.
On the other side of Harlem
ELIZA JONES CONTINUED to type even though the phone on her desk had been ringing nonstop for the last three minutes. The only people who called her at work were her soft-spoken mother and some slightly less soft-spoken ladies—her friends giving her the scoop on the next “must attend” social event for Eliza’s newspaper column.
She eyed the pair of white wrist-length dress gloves beside her that she would need shortly for one of those events. With rain clouds threatening, oppressive humidity was all but a guarantee today. She was not looking forward to subjecting her hands to that cotton prison. She could barely breathe as it was in the tailored lavender suit she was wearing for the occasion.
But all of that could wait. The article she was polishing was more important. She had received a tip through one of her high school classmates that four German spies had been captured on the beach on Long Island. If she could just concentrate on punching up the headline a little more, Daddy would have to put her down as a war correspondent candidate for the Associated Negro Press. Surely, now that the Army was forming a women’s branch, he would see the value of her having military press credentials. He couldn’t keep her on the society pages forever . . .
“Will somebody answer the damn phone?!” Daddy’s voice bellowed from his office on the other side of the small newsroom. She jumped, hitting the wrong key in the process.
“Damn.”
“And watch your mouth, young lady.” He slammed the door to his office closed.
Everyone else quieted instantly. Eliza could feel all eyes on her back. She turned around and stuck her tongue out in the direction of Daddy’s office.
The phone started ringing again.
“Eliza, will you please answer that phone before your father has a heart attack,” said the reporter at the desk next to hers. Herb was their sports reporter. Eliza noticed that his desktop was empty, and it appeared that he wasn’t in the middle of doing anything.
She yanked the handle out of the receiver. “Harlem Voice.”
“Is this Miss Eliza Jones?”
“Yes, that’s me,” she told the operator.
“Please hold for a call from Dr. Bethune.” Oh no, she mouthed to herself as she waited for the operator to complete the connection. Daddy was going to have a fit for sure now. Why was the Mary McLeod Bethune calling her? If this was who had been ringing her phone off the
hook for the last few minutes, she would never hear the end of it. Eliza riffled through the stack of notes on her desk, trying to recall if there was an upcoming social function in town where Dr. Bethune was expected to appear.
“Thank you for holding, Dr. Bethune. You are now connected.”
“The WAAC needs you, Eliza Jones.” No “hello” or “good morning” greeting had been given once the operator had made the connection. She was lucky that it had been a booming voice on the other end of the line. Otherwise, she never would have heard her caller over the loud background noise of the newsroom floor.
Eliza straightened in her chair as if the caller could see her. “Dr. Bethune?”
Dr. Mary McLeod Bethune was a legend in the Negro community. This powerhouse of a woman had not only founded her own school down in the Jim Crow South, but she had also served as an adviser to the last three presidents of the United States. If Dr. Bethune and the current president’s wife, Eleanor Roosevelt, weren’t the best of friends, they were darn near close to it. Eliza had heard that she was close to FDR’s mother as well. While Dr. Bethune was friends with her parents, Eliza’s own interactions with the woman had been limited to polite hellos whenever she came by the house for a quick visit when she was in town. She had no idea why she would be on the busy woman’s radio antenna.
“Of course it’s me, dear. Now, when should I expect to receive your completed WAAC application on my desk?”
The tone of the woman’s voice made her feel like a schoolgirl who had been caught doing something naughty. That was ridiculous. She was twenty-three years old. She made herself slouch back into her chair before speaking.
Eliza racked her brain for a safe answer. The new women’s auxiliary had caught her attention. But when she had mentioned the announcement of the new corps casually to her father, he had gone off on a tirade about how “those girls” were going to be used as nothing more than bed cushions for the “real soldiers,” and she never brought it up again.
“I . . .” Her foot tapped the large handbag on the floor underneath her desk. Inside it was a folder containing all her application paperwork.
Sisters in Arms Page 1
