The Quintland Sisters

by Shelley Wood

  “She even took a Quint-stone,” George said and winked at me.

  “Isn’t Shirley Temple a little young to be worried about fertility?”

  (I can’t quite believe I said that. Honestly, sometimes I wonder who I’m turning into.)

  “Ah, but she will soon be all grown tall!” he sang in a chirping, childish voice, marching and swinging his arms beside him, bungling all the lyrics. “She’s got to think what she will want when she’s not quite as small.”

  He makes me laugh, George. He really does.

  June 9, 1938

  THE NEW NURSE on staff is Louise Corriveau. She is dark and sallow with the downy beginnings of a true mustache, which I have to keep myself from staring at. She’s conscious of it, clearly—her fingers are constantly fluttering above her upper lip. Under her bushy brows, she has a startled, blinking look that makes me worry she may not last any longer here than the others. For now, she and Miss Rousselle (who will be with us for only a few more weeks) are more than happy to take the girls into the public playground without me. The Dionnes, either Maman on her own or Papa as well, are coming over every day, particularly in the afternoons, which are already scorching. We are desperately in need of rain and the dry farms even more so. The girls spend most of the hour in the wading pool, which I suppose is not quite as much fun for the tourists. They’d prefer to see them on the swings or riding their tricycles—something that brings them closer to the windows, I’m sure.

  Meanwhile the movie crews have been here once again, this time bringing a litter of cocker spaniel puppies for one of the scenes with Mr. Hersholt. The girls were terrified at first, Cécile the only one bold enough to reach out a cautious hand when “Dr. Luke” first proffered one of the wriggling pups. But they swiftly fell in love with their new pets, lugging them around the lawn, rolling with them in the grass, and trying to “nurse” them with baby bottles.

  “If I pick a booger from my nose, the puppy licks it!” cried Annette, elated by the discovery and eagerly teaching her sisters to replicate the experiment.

  They will be crushed tomorrow when we have to tell them that the puppies were here only for the cameras and won’t be coming back.

  June 10, 1938

  THE STRESS AND the workload are getting to George, I’d say. He’s put on a bit of weight with all the desk work he’s been doing, the rest of him growing into that broad swimmer’s chest, I suppose. It suits him nicely, softening his face a bit. I’d done a little line drawing of the girls plucking daisies in the private yard, and I’d planned to give it to George, if I could summon the nerve. Nothing special, just a little something he could tack on the wall above his desk to cheer him up or inspire his next column.

  Today George was hunched and frowning over a stack of letters. Dr. Dafoe is away in New York again, giving another speech.

  “What has you glowering today, George?” I asked as I poked a head around the office door. He looked up and rubbed his face with one hand and waved me inside with the other.

  “These letters are so strange, and so—well, sad.” He pointed to a stack of thirty or forty envelopes. “We are getting more and more from Europe now, desperate people, all of them writing to Dr. Dafoe to ask for help. I have the sense that Dr. Dafoe and the quintuplets must be the only Canadians many of these people have ever heard of.” He shook his head and plucked one from the pile. The envelope was rumpled and soft, as if it had been passed through many hands, or carried in a pocket for many days before making it into the post. Or perhaps George himself had been carrying it with him. It was from an Austrian girl, named Klara. He read it aloud.

  When he was finished, he handed me the letter. The penmanship was beautiful, with scarcely a word blotted out or spelled incorrectly. Astonishing, really, since English wasn’t her first language.

  George was watching me. “I have an aunt on my father’s side who has married into a Jewish family in Toronto that immigrated before the Great War, but they still have family in Europe. You’ve read of the labor camps in Germany, I’m sure. Now Herr Hitler has opened another camp in Austria.”

  His eyes were searching my face. “Canada cannot simply stand by, as a member of the Commonwealth. I’d bet my bottom dollar: we cannot and we won’t.”

  Not sure what he was expecting, I made to hand Klara’s letter back to him, but he shook his head, muttering, “Keep it. I have three dozen others just the same.”

  I know George wanted more from me, a political position of some kind, no doubt. It’s simply not a topic I fully understand, and this clearly frustrates him. Obviously it’s upsetting, unimaginable, really. But what was I to say? I forgot all about the sketch I’d done for him and, not long after, excused myself to go fetch the girls inside for lunch.

  May 29, 1938

  Dear Dr. Dafoe,

  My name is Klara Eisler and I am 13 years old. My father is Dr. Walter Eisler, a renowned physician in my country, Austria.

  I write to you because we have studied Canada at school, and also because my father and I have for many years been interested in the Dionne Quintuplets, whose lives you saved.

  My mother and father are deciding we must leave Austria because we are Jewish. Therefore I write to you to ask if you could use an assistant. My father received his medical degree from the Sorbonne University in Paris and received his fellowship in internal medicine from the University of Bologna. He has for many years been a professor at the Medical School of Vienna in addition to his clinical practice and has published many medical papers. I am an only child. I play the violin and can read and speak German, French, and English. My favorite subjects at school are literature and mathematics.

  I hope you will consider having my father join you as your assistant in Canada at your earliest convenience. Please convey my warmest regards to Annette, Yvonne, Cécile, Marie, and Émilie.

  Yours sincerely,

  Klara Eisler

  No. 7–14 Tuchlaubenstraße,

  Vienna, Austria

  June 11, 1938

  I was sitting on the back steps outside the kitchen writing a letter to Lewis when George tracked me down. He was carrying two glasses of lemonade with ice, a real treat. The perks of being Dr. Dafoe’s secretary, presumably, or perhaps the perks of being George. Marguerite is clearly smitten with him and is continually finding excuses to pop by the office when Dr. Dafoe is out.

  “Are you writing about me?” he joked, setting one of the glasses down beside me before easing himself onto a lower step.

  I didn’t say anything because, of course, I had been writing about him! I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing that.

  He pretended to furrow his eyebrows at me. “Who are you writing to, Miss Trimpany? You have a new pen pal, I see, in our Quint-stone friend, Lewis Cartwright. Is it to him you are writing this evening? Or to Ivy?”

  George can be so irritating, truly. It’s as if he can see right through to my bones. We’d been relatively cool to each other since our conversation about the letter from the Jewish girl. Now here he was with a peace offering and the first thing he does is start nettling me about whom I’m writing to and what I might be saying!

  I blushed beet red, as usual, and my hand went up to my left cheek, the way it always does. In an instant, George’s face was smooth again, his mock frown gone. Calm as glass, like a lake the instant the breeze drops.

  “I’m sorry, Emma, I shouldn’t tease. It’s none of my business who you’re writing to, obviously. I came out to say I’m sorry for being so moody yesterday morning. I’ve had a lot of long days and late nights.” He flashed a smile: two rows of shiny teeth, white and perfect. It’s no wonder Marguerite is happy to squeeze a dozen lemons for him at the end of her workday.

  I shook my head, not knowing what to say. I didn’t have anything to apologize for, other than being sorry we didn’t agree on, well, whatever it was he was hoping we should be agreeing on. And then I lied, I don’t know why. I outright lied. “I’m writing to Ivy,” I mumbled. Then I bl
undered on. “Lewis is like a brother to me. We went to the same school in Callander.” This was true, although we were never actually there at the same time. “I write because I promised him I’d keep him up to date on Mr. Cartwright, his father, who was poorly over Christmas.”

  George was still watching me with a slight smile, his floppy hair sliding out from behind his ear. Then we chatted casually for a bit, him asking me whether I was taking any time off this summer and saying that he was heading to Ottawa for his sister’s wedding. We talked about a few more things while we finished our drinks, then I stood up and gathered the glasses and went back inside. I finished my letter to Lewis in my room. A rather abrupt ending, I realize, but somehow I’d lost the thread of whatever it was I’d been planning to write.

  July 1, 1938

  MARIE AND EM got their Dominion Day outfits absolutely filthy, filling the moat for the sand castles they’d built with water they hauled over from the pool. They looked very sweet, splattered with muck, but it made for an extra bath, midday, and more work for the housemaids to get the outfits laundered in time for the weekend.

  The guards were moving the hordes of people through the viewing corridor so quickly today it sounded like a herd of elephants. At one point, I looked up from where I was seated in the sandbox with Annette and Yvonne to see that Émilie was standing right under the viewing glass frowning at the shapes behind the screen. Even from where I was sitting with her sisters I could hear the exclamations of excitement from the visitors’ platform. I’ve noticed that the women who visit us, no matter what their class or country, make a strange, low purr when they see the girls for the first time, a gasp or a covetous little moan. It doesn’t matter whether they are French, English, Canadian, or American, they sound the same when their hearts are being tugged in this special way. I’ve even heard it from the men, from George, and even from Dr. Dafoe, who is just as likely to be stern and clinical with the girls as he is to coo over their dear antics. The girls are simply that sweet and enthralling. And, of course, little rascals too.

  Watching Émilie, her tiny hand reaching up to tug at her earlobe the way she does when she has a particularly tricky puzzle that needs solving, squinting at the shapes crowded behind the one-way glass—I knew she could hear them too.

  The Dionnes, of course, arrived smack in the middle of the public playtime and made their usual grand entrance, and it was like a cloud swiping across the face of the sun—our boisterous, clown-about girls falling so suddenly still and silent. It squeezes the heart to see it.

  “Bo-jo, Papa,” they say quietly, their eyes dipping to the ground, then darting aside. “Bo-jo, Maman.”

  July 3, 1938

  I HAVE FINISHED my commission for the American corn syrup company and handed it in to Dr. Dafoe, who will share it with the other guardians tomorrow. I’m very pleased with it. I’ve painted Annette and Yvonne in the foreground and the other three grouped behind. The painting shows only their heads and collars, which I’ve painted in white and turquoise, although in real life these collars are in the official color for each child. But I think I’ve achieved what Mrs. Fangel never quite cottoned on to—and how could she?—and that is the essential differences between the girls.

  I dodged the public playtime this morning by saying I had to put some finishing touches on the piece, which wasn’t true. But it got me out of a sweltering hour with the Dionnes, who arrived as Nurse Corriveau and Miss Rousselle were leading the girls into the playground. I guess I was distracted by the thrill of showing Dr. Dafoe the finished product, because I left my easel, drawings, and this notebook in the quiet play area when I went to visit George. Then I lost track of time.

  When I returned, Mme. Dionne was in the playroom, planted stoutly over my things. What was she doing inside? The girls were still playing outside, and the queue of visitors, I could see through the window, still stretched for hundreds of yards from the entrance.

  “Madame?” I said. She looked irritable and flustered, taking a few paces back.

  “It’s too hot outside,” she said finally, plucking a handkerchief from her sleeve and swabbing at her brow. Then she looked at me defiantly, willing me to contradict her.

  Hot or not, what was she doing nosing around my things? Had she leafed through my sketches? Did she poke her nose here, in my scribble book? I’m kicking myself. I simply can’t understand why I would have left my journal just lying around, especially when Lewis has put the question mark in my mind about what is private and what isn’t. Can she even read in English? Can she read at all? I have no idea. I won’t do this again, leave my little book lying around. I’ll take my old notebooks back to Father and Mother’s place next time I go, and keep my current one tucked away somewhere safe or on my person at all times.

  I got the courage to gather my things, and, lucky for me, she didn’t stay or say anything more; she gathered her purse and waddled off toward the back door. Is she pregnant again? You’d think the papers would have said.

  July 4, 1938

  IVY AND FRED got married today in Toronto. Ivy has promised to phone me and tell me all about it. I’m so happy for them and more than a little bit sad for me. I’ll be sorry when Fred leaves us for good, and the girls, the girls will be devastated.

  I toyed with sending Fred and Ivy a Quint-stone as a gift. I know Ivy would laugh, but Fred might find that uncomfortable. I mentioned it to George, just as something to say, and he thought it was a very funny idea.

  In the end I sent them a miniature of the girls in their bassinets as babies, based on sketches I did so long ago now. That’s when Ivy knew them best.

  July 5, 1938

  Miss Emma Trimpany

  Dafoe Hospital and Nursery

  Callander, ON

  Dear Emma,

  First things first, it’s true; the plane I’m working on is a fighter plane, called an FDB—a fighter dive bomber. Sounds dramatic, I know, but that’s what makes it exciting. It’s made entirely of metal and we’ve devised the riveting to be flush with the body so it’s sleek as a fish. We have a Russian chap who’s joined us, and it’s his designs we’re working off primarily, although I can say I’m the man in charge of the undercarriage. You’ll also be interested to hear that the company has hired a woman to be our chief aeronautical engineer. Her name is Elsie MacGill and she’s quite famous in my line of work. Some of the men are grumbling a bit about the idea of a woman at the controls, but I think she’s really something.

  Second of all: I think the work you are doing at the Dafoe Nursery is important, no question. There is so little hope and joy to spare, especially now. You have, in your care, five sweethearts who have brought the world so much happiness. If that’s not important, I don’t know what is.

  I’ve been reading Le Droit in the hopes of improving my French. Yesterday the paper quoted a spokesperson for the Association of French Canadians of Ontario saying that, apart from Yvonne Leroux, not a single nurse has remained on staff at the Dafoe Nursery for more than 22 months (proof, he said, of the unhealthy environment in which the quintuplets are being reared). Based on this, I’d say this means your invisibility, at least in some quarters, remains intact! It is bold of me to say it, but your powers of invisibility have never worked especially well on me.

  My feathered Howard and Bette send their best. They’ve been busy with a nest they built in a nook in the wall, but Howard still visits my sill to strut and coo-roo about his fine life.

  Yours truly,

  Lewis

  11 Rue Saint Ida

  Montreal, Quebec

  July 15, 1938

  A letter from Lewis that I can’t get out of my mind. I’m flattered, I suppose, but also flustered. Perhaps I misunderstood the nature of this correspondence? I have no idea. I value his friendship highly, but I’m not quite sure where I stand or what he expects me to write in return.

  July 28, 1938

  MISS JULIE CALLAHAN is the girls’ new teacher, replacing Norah—Miss Rousselle—who leaves us tomorr
ow. The girls absolutely adore Miss Callahan. She is very pretty with a lovely figure and dark, curly hair, rosy cheeks, and soft brown eyes. To see her with one of the babies on her lap, you’d think she was their big sister or mother. Clever, too, I gather, with a double degree of some sort from Dalhousie University. Miss Callahan told me her mother is Acadian-French, but she married an Irishman—hence her last name. There’s no way the Dionnes could find fault with her French. She is as bilingual as I am, with not a trace of an accent in either tongue. She’ll fit in so nicely here, I think. Everyone has warmed to her straightaway.

  August 5, 1938 (King Features Syndicate Inc.)

  * * *

  DR. DAFOE’S COLUMN ON THE QUINTUPLETS AND THE CARE OF YOUR CHILDREN

  By Allan Roy Dafoe, Personal Physician to the Dionne Quintuplets

  We are always having fun with the stones around the nursery here in Callander, where the Quintuplets live. As I’m sure you all know by now, these stones are supposed to have some strange quality of fertility in them that brings children to any woman who carries one.

  Every little while I get a letter from somewhere in the United States from some couple who visited us in the summer and took stones home with them. People who have been childless for years have written me that a baby was on the way shortly after they got the stones.

  Well, I got one of these letters a couple of days ago that I thought rather amusing. A young couple came up here on their honeymoon a year ago.