Sisters in Arms

by Kaia Alderson

  “Miss Jones, your mother informed me that you obtained an application from the downtown recruitment center two days ago.” Dr. Bethune paused. “Is that information incorrect?”

  How had Mother found out about that? Eliza thought she had been clever in going to the Army recruitment center in Lower Manhattan instead of the one a few blocks from the newspaper office near Strivers’ Row. She should’ve known better. As publishers of the Harlem Voice, the largest Negro newspaper in the city, her parents knew everybody in Manhattan, both white and Negro. Mother had eyes and ears in every corner of this city. Eliza was still figuring out how to approach her father about her desire to join the WAAC. Now she had to deal with her mother blabbing about it to the internationally famous women in their lives.

  If Dr. Bethune, who worked out of Washington, D.C., had known that Eliza had obtained an application the moment they became available after the newswire that announced the president had signed the new WAAC bill into law came into the newsroom, then her father definitely knew as well. Eliza tensed at that thought.

  She toed her bag again. She was not in the habit of lying to people, and she wasn’t going to start with the Mary McLeod Bethune.

  “No, ma’am. Your information is correct.” Eliza looked to the far end of the newsroom toward the office of the editor in chief. “But why would my application need to come across your desk?”

  “Because I am working with officials here in Washington to ensure that Negro women are included in this new opportunity to serve their country. They are planning for the first WAAC Officer Candidate School to start in July. They’re only allowing forty Negro women to be a part of that class. If you want one of those slots, Miss Jones, you must act quickly.”

  Eliza gulped. Yes, she wanted to do her part for the war effort. But she never thought that she’d have the opportunity to be a military officer while doing it. “I have completed the form and gathered copies of my birth certificate. I just need a recommendation—”

  “Done.” Dr. Bethune cut her off. Eliza gasped. She had been thinking about asking her old high school principal when she interviewed him the next day about the upcoming senior formal dance. But to have someone like Dr. Bethune vouch for her instead? She was as good as in.

  “Thank you.” She paused. “But I still need a copy of my college degree. My father has it.”

  Eliza paused again. How would she explain to the indomitable Mary McLeod Bethune that the last time she had touched her actual degree was minutes after the commencement ceremony ended, when her father had snatched it from her grasp? It now hung on the wall in his office at home, just beneath his degree from Columbia University and her mother’s degree from Jersey City State Teachers College. If she took it down, even just for a day, Daddy would definitely notice.

  “I understand. You forget, I know your father. The man is a piece of work. You attended Howard University, if I recall correctly.”

  “I did.” Eliza was stunned. This woman must have checked into her background already.

  “Excellent, I’m having lunch with the dean and his wife this afternoon. I’ll ask him about obtaining your records.” Eliza could hear the smile in the older woman’s voice. She winced as she remembered the C she had earned in a class on Chaucer during the spring semester of her senior year.

  “And I’ll take care of your recommendation. Personally. Now, how soon can you get down to an Army induction center for your psychological evaluation and physical examination?”

  ONCE SHE FINISHED her call with Dr. Bethune, Eliza completed her article before going to her father. She held up her fist to the thick wooden door. Her heart had made its way into her throat. She glanced at the article in her hand one last time. It was her best work yet. She knew the FBI was planning to announce its capture of the spies that evening. No newsman, no matter how he felt about “girl reporters,” could pass up a scoop like this. There was no way he could keep her on the society beat now.

  She knocked.

  “What?!”

  She pushed the door open. “Daddy, it’s me.”

  “What are you still doing here? You are supposed to be covering that church ladies’ luncheon at Abyssinian Baptist right now.”

  “I know. But I was working on this.” She shoved the article in front of his face. Eliza bit her lip as she watched him scan the headline. He snatched the paper from her.

  “German spies on Long Island?”

  “If you hurry, there’s still time to get it in the noon edition.”

  Her father didn’t respond. His eyes were glued to what she had written. “This is good,” he mumbled more to himself than to her. “Damn good.”

  “Thank you, Daddy.” Eliza whispered the words, but on the inside, she was screaming, Yes! “Does this mean I have what it takes to take on meatier stories now? Or that you’ll sign off on my war correspondent credentials?”

  Her mention of becoming a war correspondent was what broke her father from his trance. “Are you still blabbering about that? Goodness, girl, you’re like a dog to a bone, aren’t you? How about we talk about that later. Okay, princess?”

  Eliza bristled at his use of his old pet name for her. It had been cute back when she was still in petticoats. But she was twenty-three years old now. A grown woman. And here he was still calling her a little girl’s nickname.

  He brushed past her, her article still clutched in his meaty hand.

  “Daddy, wait . . .”

  “I said we’ll talk about it later. You’re late for that luncheon. Go. Now.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said to his back as she watched him hurry off down the stairs. He could be going to only one place. The typesetter in the basement. Yes! He was going to run her story.

  She all but skipped off to the social luncheon that she was now forty-five minutes late for, her conversation with Dr. Bethune forgotten. Finally, she was going to have a story on the front page. She was on her way. As far as Eliza was concerned, this was the last society function she was ever going to have to cover.

  LATER, WHEN SHE grabbed a copy of the afternoon edition, Eliza’s article was indeed the lead story on the front page. But her byline was nowhere to be found. Instead, the story had been credited to Martin Jones—her father’s name.

  Eliza didn’t have it in her to confront him. Nor did she go running to Mother as she normally did. Instead, Eliza Jones found her way to the downtown Army induction center with her WAAC paperwork in hand.

  Chapter 2

  ONCE SEATED ABOARD the subway, Grace chewed the inside of her lip as doubt overcame her. Joining the Army had nothing to do with Mama’s plan for her. A college degree? Yes. Get a fellowship into the best music school New York had to offer? Definitely. Tour Europe and beyond as an accomplished concert pianist? Absolutely. Mama was always going on and on about how it was her dream for Grace to play a command performance somewhere where culture was appreciated, like France.

  But to abandon it all for a stint in the military? No, no, no, no. Not even a consideration. Women weren’t even supposed to be in the military. Were they going to make her shoot a gun at people? This was a mistake. She should go home.

  Grace stood up to go back to the platform outside when the train car’s doors closed. She sat back down as the subway began to rumble away from the 125th Street station. She was stuck.

  I can always get off at 116th Street and backtrack home.

  Grace was still on the train when it whisked out of the 116th Street station.

  I can always get off at 110th Street and backtrack home.

  AN HOUR LATER, Grace was in Lower Manhattan, standing before the Army Building on Whitehall Street. She looked at her watch. It showed that it was a little before one o’clock. If she was lucky, she had arrived right before the after-lunch rush. It was now or never. Grace took a deep breath and entered the building.

  Grace wasn’t expecting to step into a whirlwind of people. There were young men everywhere both in civilian clothes and in uniform. Even though she was t
all, she could not locate the reception desk in the chaos swirling around her at first. A patriotic fire had sparked across the country after Japan attacked Pearl Harbor. Since then, every physically fit young man was itching to sign up and do his part to retaliate. She envied them. They had the sense of purpose that she had been longing for. Attending Juilliard was supposed to give her that sense of fulfillment.

  She tapped her fingers against her palm. Dammit, she was supposed to be back uptown filling out school enrollment forms right now, not here. She and Tony had had a plan. One that would take them on a faraway adventure. She as a musical sensation, with him as her manager. More important, Tony was supposed to come back. And now he wasn’t. Grace had no other choice but to move forward.

  Grace elbowed her way to the receptionist’s desk.

  “Hello, I’m looking for—”

  “Are you lost?” the woman interrupted while smiling at her. “The service entrance is just around the corner.”

  “No, I—I’m here to—to . . .” Grace stuttered as she almost said “play.”

  A wrinkle formed between the woman’s brows. “What?”

  “I’m sorry. I meant to say ‘sign up,’” Grace corrected herself. “I’m here to sign up for the new women’s army.”

  “Oh. Them.” The woman frowned, then gave her a quick up-and-down assessment. She pointed toward the row of elevator doors to her left. “They’re on the third floor.”

  “Thank you.”

  The receptionist sniffed as she thrust a form at Grace. “You’re the first Colored girl I’ve seen go up there. I guess they would be letting you all into the service too. I imagine someone has to be around to service the Colored boys.”

  Grace took the form and looked at it. It was an application. “Good day, ma’am” was all she could manage as a reply when she walked away.

  Grace’s hand trembled as she pressed the button to call down an elevator. The nerve of that woman. There was a huge WAAC poster in the lobby with the slogan FREE A MAN TO FIGHT on it, and she still had the nerve to insinuate that Grace was trying to become a woman of the night or something. She didn’t need this. It was bad enough that she was supposed to have been home by twelve thirty at the latest. Or to have at least called Mama with the news by now. She was going to be in so much trouble when she finally got back.

  One of the doors pinged right before opening.

  “Well, if I’m going to be in trouble anyway, I might as well make it good trouble,” she muttered to herself before stepping into the elevator car.

  “What’s that you say, ma’am?”

  Grace gave the elevator operator a quick smile as she stepped into the car. She shook her head once in acknowledgment of his question but said nothing more. She leaned against the wall. She felt her back muscles sigh in relief. It was only when the elevator doors closed that she finally let her shoulders sag.

  “Oh, you know, the usual.”

  “Which floor do you need?” He was a thin, dark-skinned man who reminded Grace of her grandfather, from the pictures that her mother once showed her.

  “Third, please.”

  He hesitated a moment before pressing the “3” button on the panel. She watched him study her as the elevator creaked its ascent.

  “Third floor? That’s where those women army folks are. Young lady, it . . .”

  Grace tensed. Not him too. “Please, don’t say it.”

  The old man cleared his throat. “I was going to say ‘it would be my honor.’”

  Grace felt her face break into a smile. “I wasn’t expecting you to say that. The receptionist just insinuated that I was a prostitute or something. Like I don’t have an education or useful skills to offer . . .” Grace stopped. What skills did she have to offer outside of her musical talents and a teaching degree that she had yet to use? Her chin fell to her chest. “Never mind,” she whispered.

  “Pay her no mind. These folks around here aren’t used to dealing with someone who looks like you whose job isn’t to clean up after them.”

  The elevator stopped. The doors began to creak open.

  The operator waved a nonchalant hand at her. “Folks like them are always going to underestimate folks like us. Now, go give ’em hell.”

  Grace smiled as she snaked her way around the line of men waiting to go into an office with PHYSICAL EXAMINATIONS printed on the door.

  “Excuse me. I need to get through . . .”

  A few of the guys in the line shifted so she could squeeze by. She noticed how very few of them even looked up to acknowledge her presence.

  “I said excuse me,” she repeated a little louder. She winced, hating how shrill she sounded to her own ears. Even so, two more of the men stepped to the side. But she didn’t miss how they were frowning at her like they were trying to figure out what her problem was. “Thank you.”

  She made her way through the still-too-tight space that was opened up for her into the large gymnasium-like area. There were people in line everywhere in there too. One line for initial interviews. Another for physical examinations. And then a third for psychological evaluations.

  This was the kind of place that made Grace feel claustrophobic. Her chest tightened and it became harder for her to breathe. Grace stopped. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to take a deep breath.

  Look for the rhythm. Look for the rhythm. Whenever she found herself stuck in the midst of chaos, it took finding the music in the situation to calm her. Look for the rhythm. She took another breath and waited.

  Then just like that she found it. It was an ebb and flow like the water crashing onto the shore, then pulling back out into the sea. It was almost musical, like a sonata. Her sonata.

  Instantly, she heard the music. The low, melancholy notes embraced her, each slow and deliberate. Centered, she opened her eyes, then fell in step with the rhythm of the chaos of bodies around her.

  She got turned around a few times with so many lines coming out of so many offices on the third floor. But Grace managed to navigate the flow of all those bodies like a composer wrangling the jumble of notes inside her head into something beautiful. Finally, she found a short line of about five other women near the far corner of the floor. None of these women looked anything like her.

  Grace got in line behind the last woman. “Excuse me, have you been waiting here long?”

  “Almost half an hour. They closed up shop for lunch. But someone should be back any minute.”

  Grace checked her watch again. One fifteen. She had promised Mama to be back by twelve thirty to help with a new shipment of fabric that was due to come in today. And then there was the new client fitting at two. How could she have been so irresponsible? Mama must be fuming by now.

  Who do you think you are? Mama’s words from over the years echoed in her mind. These folks ain’t never gonna let someone like you be better than them. You don’t even have the backbone to stand up to me.

  Yes, she should just go. Go and face the music once and for all. Grace turned on her heel and stepped out of line. Right into a stack of folders being pushed into her midsection.

  “Great, you’re here. I need you to take this downstairs to the typing pool.” An older woman who was wearing enough powder on her face to bake a cake gestured down the hall. The chain that was attached to her eyeglasses swung to and fro.

  Grace was momentarily stunned. “What?”

  The woman who had assaulted her with the folders frowned. “These induction files need to go down to typing. Snap to it.”

  She shoved the folders back into the woman’s arms. “I’m not the errand girl.”

  Grace stopped herself short as soon as she heard the bitter tone of her voice. She took a deep breath, mentally willing herself back into good, compliant Grace. She pasted a smile on her face that made her cheeks hurt.

  “I don’t work here. I’m an applicant.”

  The woman bunched her brow while looking over the rims of her bifocals. “I was mistaken. You don’t have to be rude about it.
”

  “I wasn’t . . .” Grace stopped herself. Going back and forth with this woman would only unnerve her further.

  “Oh,” the woman sniffed, as if realizing for the first time that Grace was standing there for a reason and not just for her health. “If you’re looking to join the WAAC, you’re in the wrong line. This one is for the applicants who meet the qualifications to become an officer.”

  Grace stepped back in line, now determined to do whatever it took to become a WAAC officer. Even if it meant standing up to Mama. Once in uniform, she would not be mistaken for someone who could be spoken to in any kind of way again. Everyone would know her qualifications no matter what they thought she looked like. She wasn’t going anywhere.

  “You’re mistaken once again. According to this letter, I’m right where I belong.” Grace fished the invitation letter out of her bag and showed it to the woman. She fought back a smile when the woman’s eyes widened behind her glasses. And then she remembered the elevator operator’s parting advice.

  Grace Steele was more than ready to give these people hell.

  Chapter 3

  EXCUSE ME, MA’AM. Are you all right?”

  Grace jumped as she blinked herself back into the here and now. There was a young brown-skinned woman approaching her. The first thing Grace noticed was how the woman walked with purpose. Each step she took was planted into the floor with such a sense of assurance that you would have thought she owned the place. Her shoulders were erect and thrown back as if she had not a care in the world. She held her chin up, so it appeared as if she looked down on everyone else in the hall despite her short stature.

  She took her place in line behind Grace, then gave her a friendly nudge as she leaned in and whispered, “I didn’t expect to see another one of us here. I’m so glad to see you.”

  The moment the newcomer smiled at her, Grace knew she didn’t like this girl. Grace looked her over from head to toe, then frowned. If asked, she wouldn’t have been able to name anything concrete that had tipped her off. She just knew.