And yet there was such a void. A black ugly void created by the war, created by Francis’s death, and the unknown. Would her brothers come back? Would they win? Or would the Germans bomb them and take over, as they had done throughout Europe? A vision of smoky rubble, tattered figures, and scorched farmland filled her mind.
No. Germany would not win the war. The Japanese would not win. They were being pushed back. This is our war now, she thought, and we will win. If the armed services were made up of men like her brothers, then victory was sure.
Ursula tested the water, and added a few drops of lavender oil. Then she lit a candle and turned off the overhead light. The candlelight and the faint scent of flowers helped to soften her world. She eased herself into the water.
From downstairs came the voices of her mother and sister, Jessica finding something to giggle about. Ursula was glad to have some time alone, to sort out her thoughts.
The face of the German prisoner had filled her mind all day, though she had tried to rid herself of it. Friedrich. It would have been better if he had remained nameless. She slowly shook her head in disbelief at the earlier memory of him – one that had haunted her for almost two months now.
The memory of that day remained fresh and clear in the front of her mind, perhaps from going over it so many times. It had been in October. They had driven to town, giving Shirley and her mother a lift. While Kate and Mrs. Bloomfield ran their errands, Jessica and Shirley shopped for fabric, dragging Ursula along with them to help them choose. When they finished, they waited on the main street outside the drug store, where they all planned to meet.
Ursula had idly observed the traffic. With gas rationing there was less of it, and yet the roads were busy enough with people going about their business. Jessica and Shirley chatted about the harvest dance, and giggled over stories from school, while Ursula listened to Mrs. Kryzinsky, who stopped by to say hello. Soon the older woman was talking about the rationing, then about what was happening “back in old country,” her memories of Poland, and what she feared it must look like now. The weight of war was everywhere.
Ursula had turned her gaze to the town square where the tall trees released their leaves to the sunlight – dazzling maples in orange and red, yellowing birch, their leaves falling slowly, like feathers. Then a sudden gust shook the trees and filled the air with shimmering leaves! Ursula felt a rush of longing and hungered for the beauty of the day. She inhaled the scent of dry leaves swirling about, and took in the rustle of wind in the high trees, the flock of dark birds that rose with the gust and scattered among the branches. Then calm once again suffused the day. She closed her eyes and let the sun’s rays warm her, wondering at her sad tranquility. It was not the raw pain that had consumed her since Francis’s death, but a distanced melancholy. A sad resignation at the ways of the world and her small place in it – set against the aching loveliness of the October day. It didn’t seem right that she should feel such calm while the world ravaged on in pain and suffering. How could the world be filled with such horror, alongside such beauty?
An unmarked bus had slowly pulled up to the stop sign. Ursula hadn’t given it much attention, until she saw that all the windows were full of soldiers. She had never seen such sad looking men, and her heart went out to them. One face stood out from all the rest, arresting her by its sad beauty. A young man with soulful eyes gazed out the window, his mind seemingly far away. He was suntanned, with chiseled features that seemed at odds with the softness in his eyes. He had looked down and met her gaze – and something happened inside her. Ursula was never one to flirt or show undue interest in a boy, but this face had struck some deep chord in her and she kept her eyes on his.
Neither of them turned away, but drank deeply from the other. Some agreed-upon door had opened, allowing them easy passage into one another.
I could love this man, Ursula had surprised herself with thinking. In her mind, she placed her hand on his cheek, and brought his face close to hers.
When a second bus squealed to a stop behind the first, Jessica and Shirley turned around and saw the busloads of young men. The girls began waving to them energetically, all smiles and friendliness.
In an instant, the sad faces brightened, the men sat up and waved back – except for Ursula’s soldier. He continued to look at her with no change in his handsome face.
“What youse girls giggling at? Who youse make eyes at?” Mrs. Kryzinsky turned around to see for herself – and her face contorted with hatred. She swatted down the girls’ arms and spat on the ground. “They’re Germans, you stupid girls! Prisoners who deserve to be shot!” She continued in Polish, growing increasingly irate.
Jessica and Shirley froze, alarmed at their mistake.
The prisoners’ faces instantly became, if possible, even sadder. A shadow of pain filled the young man’s face, but he did not turn his eyes away.
Ursula’s face had shown stunned disbelief – and then, anger. Outrage.
Then the buses drove on, through the town, and away.
A crowd slowly gathered, shocked that POWs were being driven through their town. Up until that moment, the enemy was far away, across the States, beyond an ocean. It seemed too risky to bring them here, drive them through town, and dump them off in the heartland. What was going on?
The local newspaperman provided the scant information he had.
“Those are Germany’s elite – the Afrika Corps. Uncle Sam’s been shipping prisoners over here ever since Rommel was defeated. England has no more room to house them. It’s all hush-hush. The ships that bring thousands of our men to the docks of Europe, fill up with POWs for the return trip home. We’ve started to use them to help close the labor gap.”
One old-timer took off his hat and scratched his head. “All backwards, to my way of thinking. And yet we’re short on workers.”
“Even with the women and old men working,” added Mrs. Bloomfield. “I read they’re even using the blind and crippled. But Nazis in our backyard?! Good heavens!”
They watched the buses head north in the distance.
“We don’t want them here!” the town grocer yelled.
“Lock your doors,” added another.
“Keep ’em over there in Europe somewhere.”
Another man stepped up. “Too late for that. My brother-in-law in Missoura says they got them there. And in Arkansas and Texas. Heard Texas woulda lost their entire cotton crop without their help. They send them to military camps, or sometimes tent cities until prison camps can be built.”
The owner of the feed store had been listening and nodded his head. “The wife’s got an uncle working up there at Camp Grant, near Rockford. Says the ones coming in are hardcore Nazis, captured in North Africa. And they’re none too happy about it. Says they’re just bidin’ their time – waitin’ for Hitler to make his way here. And they’ll be sittin’ pretty, all rested and fattened up – on our food.”
“And ready to get back at their captors,” added the grocer.
Mrs. Bloomfield raised her chin, indignantly. “Except for that they’re losing. They just don’t know it yet.”
There was a lot of head shaking, and hands clasped at coat collars, as if against the cold.
Ursula had listened in fear and anger – and a nauseating sense of shame that she had looked kindly at the enemy. She had gazed at a Nazi with love.
The candle sputtered and flickered, and Ursula put her face in her hands at the memory. She finished her bath, and quickly dried herself. Then she put on her blue flannel nightgown, and sat on the edge of her bed where she began to towel dry her hair.
But after a few moments, she dropped the towel onto her lap. And now here he is on our farm! She groaned in despair.
She had known immediately that it was the same man. She’d had the same piercing feeling when he looked at her today. But she tried to convince herself that the coincidence was too great, that the buses had surely driven on to Chicago, taking him far away. So she had taken the lunch plate ou
t to him, to put her fears to rest. But there was no doubt. It was him.
Ursula went to the window and looked out into the darkness. She hated him – for stealing a part of her unknowingly, for turning her, however briefly, into a traitor.
The more she thought of him, the more she hated him. She tightened her arms around herself, revulsion and scorn filling her face. For all she knew, he was the German who had killed her brother.
Chapter 5
*
Lillian waited outside the main office of Rockwell Publishing, not wanting to interfere with the tug-of-war between Izzy and Rockwell. Izzy was putting on her coat and nodding patiently to Rockwell as she signed for a late day delivery.
Rockwell waved around a stack of papers in front of her. “And these lists must be finished by Friday. Are you listening to me, Miss Briggs? Izzy! Did you hear what I said?!”
Izzy smiled sweetly while she buttoned her coat. “Every word. And as I assured you earlier, it’s all under control.” She glanced at the clock. “Ah. It’s five-fifteen, and I’m late. Goodnight, Mr. Rockwell.”
Izzy came out into the hall, pressing down her splayed hands softly, as if silencing anyone who might wake the fussy child she just put to sleep. They hurried to the elevator that was just opening. “Good Lord! That man tries my patience.” She breathed a loud sigh of relief when the elevator doors closed behind them.
“Thought I’d wait and walk with you a few blocks,” said Lillian. “I have to take the crosstown bus.”
“So, tonight’s your first class. Are you nervous?”
“A little,” Lillian admitted.
“You’ll be fine,” Izzy said, pulling on her gloves.
“I don’t know. I’ve never taught drawing before – or anything, for that matter. I hope they don’t think I’m a phony.”
“They’re lucky to have you. Besides, it’s an informal thing. The guys’ll be happy for the company, and it’ll help take their minds off being in a hospital.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Lillian responded, though the worry didn’t leave her face. They exited the elevator, made their way through the crowded lobby, and then walked out onto the busy avenue. “And what are you and Archie doing tonight?”
Izzy’s face flushed with pleasure. “We’re going to my favorite little restaurant on Bleecker Street, and then out dancing.” Izzy caught Lillian’s look of surprise. “What?”
Lillian almost asked if it was the place she and Red used to frequent, but decided against it. “Nothing.”
“Don’t worry about tonight. I want to hear all about it tomorrow. And you’re sure about next Saturday?”
“Yes. Tommy and Gabriel have a Boy Scouts outing. They’ve been working on a badge related to the war effort – studying maps, learning to identify planes, eating meals similar to K-ration. Without the cigarettes, of course. And next Saturday they’ll be putting on a Christmas show for the GIs at a hospital.” Lillian turned to Izzy. “Gosh!”
“What is it?”
“I can’t remember the last time the boys and I were apart for the night.”
“High time then. It’ll be good for you to have a night out. And I can’t wait for you to meet Archie.” Izzy caught site of her bus just pulling up across the street. She gave Lillian a quick hug goodbye. “Five bucks says I can catch it!”
Lillian smiled as Izzy ran to catch her bus. She hadn’t seen Izzy this happy for a long time. Not since she and Red were a couple. Lillian couldn’t help wondering if Izzy was trying to recreate a better time in her life – when she and Red were young and in love with their future bright before them.
Then she realized that everyone had that tendency, including herself. Tonight she felt all the excitement of going to her introductory art class when she first moved to New York City. She had been so hopeful and excited, and had dreamed of having a small studio someday where she could devote herself to painting and drawing. Now she was the instructor. The knot in her stomach tightened as she boarded the crosstown bus.
She moved to the back of the crowded bus and found a seat. Then she opened her purse and took out the last letter from Charles. The envelope was worn from so many readings. Though she knew the letter by heart, she wanted to look at his handwriting, to read the lines about his love for her: Every night I look out across the black ocean and know that you are there. The thought of you, of holding you against me again, is what gets me through the darkest times. All my love, until we’re together again.
Lillian tucked the letter back into her purse and stared out at the bustle of the city. But her mind stayed with Charles. She wondered how the war would change him.
She couldn’t help but think about Izzy and Red; they had been so close. She was still shocked to think that Red had broken off their engagement and married his nurse in England. Red had been wild about Izzy. Could it happen to her and Charles? She pressed her eyes closed, telling herself that all she cared about was his safety. If he came home, if he lived through the war, nothing else mattered.
She sat up and glanced through the art supply bag on her lap. Her stomach fluttered a little as she stepped off the bus and walked to the hospital.
Mrs. Coppel, the hospital coordinator for Artists for Victory, greeted Lillian outside the recreation room on the third floor.
“Good evening, Mrs. Drooms. And once again, thank you for agreeing to help out. I know the Christmas season is a particularly busy time – but it’s also the time when our wounded men need a little extra cheering on.”
“I’m happy to be here. I just hope I don’t disappoint them.”
“Nonsense. They’ll be delighted.” She gestured to the instructor inside who was just making her final remarks. “As soon as she finishes, I’ll introduce you to the men. Then you’ll be on your own.”
Lillian peered inside the room at the patients. A small group – very small – was participating in the demonstration on painting Russian eggs. The instructor had a kind, grandmotherly air about her, and encouraged three or four men to follow her instructions. Lillian was impressed with her degree of ease and confidence.
“Next week I’ll bring in some hollowed-out egg shells and we’ll give it a try. Well now, I see that our time is up for tonight.” She gathered her supplies, and patted the men on their arms as she looked at their designs before leaving. “At the rate you’re progressing, you should all have a beautiful egg or two to present to your loved ones for Christmas.”
The coordinator exchanged a few words with the Russian lady as she left, while Lillian more closely observed the patients scattered about the room. A group of GIs played cards, others gathered around the radio. Some flipped through worn issues of Yank magazine, and a few others sat reading books or writing letters. A desultory attitude pervaded the group, and Lillian was suddenly afraid that she was not up to the task.
“You’re on,” said Mrs. Coppel with a smile.
Lillian’s heart jumped and she followed her into the room. She took off her hat and coat and set them on the chair. A quick glance around revealed that most of the men hadn’t even noticed the change of instructors.
Mrs. Coppel addressed the room in a loud voice. “Good evening, men. Tonight we’re starting a new class. This is Mrs. Lillian Drooms. She’ll be teaching Introduction to Drawing. There are tablets and pencils for anyone who’s interested. Just come up and help yourself.”
She then took a piece of chalk from the blackboard and handed it to Lillian. “Go ahead and write your name and the title of the class. I’ll stop by in an hour.” She gave Lillian an encouraging smile and left the room.
Lillian tried to emulate the coordinator’s brisk manner as she wrote her name and class title on the blackboard.
A loud whistle came from one of the men playing cards, causing most of the others to turn their attention to Lillian. Slowly the rows of chairs in front filled, and several men pushed their wheelchairs closer to take a look. A low buzz of talking and laughter soon rose from the room.
The b
lood rushed to Lillian’s face and she completely forgot her lesson plan. She glanced at the chalk board and saw that her writing slanted up at a sharp angle – sure sign of an amateur instructor. She wanted to erase it, but decided not to draw attention to it.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Please take your seats so we can get started.” Lillian realized that her voice hadn’t carried over the increasing hubbub. No one was taking her seriously.
“Please. Take your seats so – ”
The rowdiness was steadily growing. One GI with a cane hobbled up to Lillian and held out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Lillian shook his hand distractedly, and then heard a comment from the back of the room about drawing nudes, followed by howls of laughter. She realized that she was fast losing control of the situation. Her temper suddenly flared and she clapped twice loudly.
“That’s enough, boys!” she yelled.
Then she blushed deeper, realizing that she was treating them just as she would Tommy and Gabriel. But the tinge of anger in her voice had an effect; the group quieted.
“All right. Let’s get started.”
Though there was still some sniggering and elbowing, Lillian ignored it and began to teach.
“Perhaps we can start with introductions. For those of you who are interested in drawing lessons, why don’t you tell me your names and whether you’ve had any experience – ”
“You mean with drawing?” came a voice from the back, and the laughter started up again.
“Yes, with drawing. And those of you not interested in learning, can go back to what you were doing.”
None of the men got up. A few leaned forward, as if awaiting some fun.
Lillian nervously picked up her lesson plan, looked at it, and then set it back down. She leaned forward on the table.
“I’m afraid I’m rather new at this. I’ve never formally taught a class before, but I work as an illustrator and have some experience. So perhaps we can learn from each other.”
Christmastime 1943 Page 5
