“How are you sleeping?” the doctor asked.
“I sleep okay, but sometimes I dream about the soldiers I cared for—the ones who died. Sometimes when I’m awake, their faces flash in my memory. I’m anxious. It comes and goes. I’m fuzzy-minded too. I have trouble concentrating. I can’t read. Is this normal? Given everything?”
The doctor jotted notes. “What you’re describing is not normal per se, but it’s not uncommon either. It’s a nuisance, but not serious. Studies indicate that you nurses are more resilient, recovering from these symptoms better than the men do. We think it’s because of your professional training. The anxiety, sleep disturbances, and what you call fuzziness will disappear with time. Keep yourself busy and try not to worry about it.”
He glanced at his watch, then the lab results. He told her she tested anemic; he would prescribe an iron supplement. Then he gave her a quick physical exam. During the pelvic portion, he inquired about her menstrual history.
“My periods have been unpredictable. In the camp, I’d skip several months, and then have three or four in a row. I don’t remember the last one. I haven’t thought much about it since I got home.”
“Are you having sexual relations?”
She felt warmth creeping up her neck. “No. I’m not married.”
The physical over, he took out his prescription pad and order forms. “You’re still underweight, and your uterus is slightly enlarged. I’m ordering additional tests. Go to the lab for another blood draw and leave a urine sample.” He got up to leave, and halfway out the door, he said, “If I find a problem, you’ll hear from me. Otherwise, your records will be sent on to Captain Hennessey.”
Glad the exam was over, Margie dressed and left the examining room. She heard a commotion coming from outside and went to investigate. A rowdy herd thundered by, and Gracie grabbed her arm to pull her along.
“You won’t believe this! Hitler’s dead! Dead as a doornail! A double suicide. Him and his mistress! Come on! We’re going out to celebrate!”
The doctor and his tests forgotten, Margie joined the noisy crowd to celebrate the head Nazi’s self-termination. They drank rounds of beers and sang bawdy songs with the dead devil-despot and his hated mistress as the subjects.
When Margie reported to Captain Bert Hennessey for follow-up, she sat quietly while he read her file.
“Good morning, Miss Bauer.” Clearing his throat, he said, “I wasn’t aware of your condition.”
She blinked rapidly in surprise. “What condition?”
“Surely you discussed it with the doctor.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
Captain Hennessey picked up a paper from the top of her file. “Your pregnancy test came back positive.”
“What? What pregnancy test?”
He passed the paper to her.
She looked at the incriminating document. It said, Friedman test for pregnancy, Positive. “This can’t be,” she objected. Her heart pounded and blood rushed to her face. “There must be a mix-up.”
Captain Hennessey rummaged around in her file. “Hmm . . .” His brow furrowed. “This is the doctor’s report from when you were first released from Santo Tomas. It says here there was bruising around the . . . um . . . vaginal and anal areas, and evidence of a tear in the perineum.” Blushing, he peered over the top of his half-glasses. “Miss Bauer. Given the timing, was there ever an occasion—”
“No! I told the doctor it was an accident. I stepped backward. I stumbled over a rock and sat down hard on it.”
Captain Hennessey persisted. “A Jap soldier. One of the guards?”
“I said no! It was nothing like that.”
His stare bored through her before he lowered his gaze. “Very well. It’s tricky with you women. Things aren’t always clear. The doctor recommends that you be discharged. I’ll send the paperwork through. It’ll take a few days.” He scribbled a note and closed her file. “Do you have a young man?”
Her mouth was so dry it was hard to answer. “My fiancé. He’s still in the Philippines. I don’t know when he’ll be home.”
“The fighting’s bad over there. When he returns, he’ll need help adjusting. Be patient with him. Give him lots of love and good meals, but don’t hover. Men don’t like women who hover.” The captain courteously opened the door and patted her shoulder. “Good luck, my dear. I must say, you look like a girl who could bake a great apple pie.”
Soon—after four years living under Uncle Sam’s jurisdiction, and two months after leaving Santo Tomas—Margie could once again call herself a civilian. In a matter of days, she boarded the Detroit train traveling north. Her purse held a manila envelope containing her honorable discharge from the Army Nurse Corps of the United States Army Reserves, her medals for meritorious service, a copy of the GI Bill of Rights, and her full compensation with instructions on how to pay back taxes.
The pregnancy test results occupied her thoughts: no test was foolproof, she reasoned over and over. She had certainly seen enough false positives in her time as a nurse. In disarray from the stress and starvation that disrupted her delicately balanced cycles, her hormones would readjust once she resumed a regular schedule and a good diet. She dismissed the test results as erroneous.
Moving westward, she watched the landscape pass by, marveling at its far-reaching openness. A sense of freedom filled her; the realization of her personal liberty and the absence of fear made her giddy. She laughed aloud, her mouth wide open and her head flung back, delightedly savoring the feeling of well-being.
CHAPTER 20
Little River, summer 1945
Margie told the family the army discharged her because they considered her underweight. Ecstatic to have her home for good and out of harm’s way, Mama made it a project to fatten her up.
Margie had to admit she felt better than she had in years, her appetite and energy increasing daily. She spent long hours in the garden, as she had always done; but this year the soil seemed richer, the rain softer and sweeter, the plants greener, the fragrances more intense, and the yields more abundant.
That spring, the Allies accepted Germany’s unconditional surrender, and the reign of terror that was Adolf Hitler’s Third Reich ended. German troops all over Europe had orders to cease firing immediately. As President Truman declared May 8 Victory in Europe Day, parties erupted throughout the Allied world. However, festivities at the Bauer household were tempered when no word came that either Frank or Wade was coming home.
May bled imperceptibly into summer. With the harvest came the need to preserve it—canning vegetables; putting up jams, marmalades, jellies, and fruit butters; and bringing in honey from the hives out back. Mama and Margie stored all the jars either in the pantry off the kitchen or down in the cool cellar, along with bushel baskets of new potatoes, onions, and carrots. To Margie, the cellar smelled like heaven on earth. They hung bunches of herbs to dry from the rafters of the attic.
One day in early July, Billy toddled outside with Aunt Margie. She showed him how to pick green peppers off the bush and cucumbers from the vine, putting the vegetables into the little basket he carried. Steadier on his feet now, he’d started climbing everywhere—up the steps, on the furniture, into the bathtub. Margie even lifted him off the hood of her car once, wondering how his short legs had negotiated such height.
She heard her mother calling from the porch. Scooping Billy up into her arms, she hurried to the house. Waving an envelope, Mama said, “We got a letter from Frank.” She carefully tore it open.
June 24, 1945
Dear Mama,
Just a note this time. The good news is since VE Day there is no more shooting. My unit is occupying a German village, and we are waiting for the units that manage conquered territories to arrive and take over. After that, I don’t know for me, a reassignment to the Far East or mustering out. I should hear soon. In the meantime, I’m sleeping in a soft bed and even got to wash my clothes.
Just wanted to
say hi and that I’m all right.
Your loving son,
Frank
Mama said, “They won’t send him to Japan. They couldn’t possibly. Would they?”
Margie shifted the baby on her hip. “We can only hope not.”
Clingy and overtired that evening, Billy refused to go to sleep. Irene alternately cajoled and threatened, but he wouldn’t settle down. Frazzled, she said, “I’m taking him for a walk.” Margie watched as she put a pillow, his blanket, and a teddy bear in the wagon.
“Mind if I come?” she asked.
With the cranky toddler in tow, the sisters-in-law walked along the side of North Bensch Road, the steamy July heat causing sweat beads to form on their foreheads. Billy sat up for a while, pointing at horses in the fields and other sights along the way. Finally, he lay down in the cozy nest his mother had made for him and fell asleep, his thumb in his mouth and his blanket held against his cheek. Irene stopped to remove the thumb. “My little lamb. He can be a scamp. I wonder how Frank will be with him?”
“Frank’s a big kid himself,” Margie said, chuckling. “He’ll love playing with Billy.” Irene’s pinched look told her she’d missed the mark. “He’ll be a good father,” she revised.
They resumed walking, the wagon rattling behind. Irene confided, “We’d only dated for six months before he got drafted; then we made this grand decision to get married. Don’t get me wrong, Margie . . . I love your brother. He’s sweet and caring, and he’s fun. I just wish, well . . . things are complicated.” They continued on awhile in silence before she elaborated. “The last picture he sent, the one taken in France, it’s not him. I mean it’s him, but it’s not. Something’s different. I don’t feel like I know him.”
“Well, I know him. I know him to be kind, smart, and responsible. He’s a good guy.”
Irene sounded hesitant. “You know what they say, that war changes a man.”
By they, she meant women’s magazines, purveyors of this anxiety. Their pages overflowed with advice on how to live with a husband hard-bitten by his barbarous life in the military—an existence a wife could never imagine. They cautioned that once he returned home, he may be restless and short-tempered, indifferent or self-absorbed, and suffer from nightmares. He may drink too much and want to prowl at night. Marital relations might not be the same, they warned; expect anything from none at all to strange cravings. Above all, the publications counseled, don’t talk about war, don’t press him for details, and don’t try to hurry him through his readjustment to civilian life. Keep up your looks and stay cheerful.
“We talk at work,” Irene said. “Rita’s husband came home in a wheelchair, and she says they fight all the time. He’s jealous, and she’s like his prisoner. I can see Frank like that. He questions everything I do, even what I wear when I go out. Go out! That’s a laugh.”
“That doesn’t sound like Frank.”
“And that’s my point. Do you worry about Wade?”
“It’s different for us. We were together until a few months ago.”
Although, she reflected, not really so different in a reverse sort of way. They went through the thick of it together. What would it be like to share good times? They never discussed what life might be like after Santo Tomas; that dream was fragile and seemed a world away at the time. Mostly, they’d talked about the old days, growing up in Little River. And, of course, food. How to grow it, preserve it, prepare it, and how much of it they could eat. They concocted a myriad of recipes, not one of which could she remember now.
Margie and Irene turned to go home when they reached the high school. “What’re your plans when Wade comes home?” Irene asked.
“First off, the wedding.” Margie chewed on her lower lip before adding, “Myra asked if I’d come back part-time at the Red Cross. Wade will be at the Tribune. I haven’t thought much beyond that. How about you?”
“I’d like to keep my job, if Mama doesn’t mind watching Billy. It makes me feel worth something, and the money’s good. I’d like Frank to finish school. He was pre-vet before he got drafted. Someday, I’d like Billy to have a brother or sister. Not right away.”
As they neared the house, a staccato of pops crackled, followed by a boom. Margie jumped in fright and dropped to her knees to drape her body over Billy’s. More pops came in quick succession, and then a sharp crack.
For a moment, Margie relived the horror of Japanese shells setting Santo Tomas on fire—the crackle of the tinder-dry shanties burning; the hot, thick smoke clouding her vision and burning her throat; and Gracie shouting, Died on impact! Margie, come with me!
Irene hugged Margie’s shoulders. “It’s only firecrackers. Tomorrow’s the Fourth. The kids are getting an early start, that’s all.” She took Margie’s arm, helping her to her feet. “Let’s get you into the house.”
Huddled together, they ran across the street, Irene carrying a wailing Billy and Margie pulling the wagon. Margie flew up the stairs to her room and slammed the door.
Mama hurried behind her, drying her hands on her apron. She knocked softly, then let herself in.
Margie sat on the bed trembling. Mama sat down beside her. “Honey, you heard firecrackers. There’ll be a lot more tomorrow and fireworks too. It’s the Fourth of July.” She gathered her daughter in her arms. “Oh, my poor baby. What did they do to you over there?”
“I’m sorry, Mama,” she said, relaxing into her mother’s embrace but unable to control the quaver in her voice. “I’m just being silly.”
Margie was back to her prewar weight, plus a little bit more. The lines of her face had softened, and her breasts were fuller than before. Sometimes she worried that her monthly periods hadn’t resumed, though she occasionally had bouts of cramping. Lately, she’d experienced abdominal flutters she attributed to gas.
Wearing only her bra and panties, she combed through her closet for something to wear. Nothing seemed to fit anymore; she had been leaving the top button on her skirts and slacks open for a while now. As a wave crossed her stomach, she put both hands on it. An unwelcome realization dawned. She pressed in, feeling a firmness starting just below her navel. In the mirror, she saw a bulge she could no longer deny. She fought back rising panic.
With her shirttail hanging out over her too-tight skirt, she went downstairs to breakfast and dished up oatmeal from a pan on the stove, adding milk and a sliced peach.
Her mother looked at the untucked shirttail sharply. “You look a little pale.”
“I didn’t sleep well.”
“Why don’t you stay home today?”
“I can’t. Myra needs me to be there.” She had started working part-time at the Red Cross, organizing blood drives to meet the still-considerable need.
Her thoughts whirled as she drove to work. How would she tell Wade? What if he didn’t want it, and she was left alone? The thought terrified her. Barely able to take care of herself, she wasn’t ready to be a mother. Then a darker thought intruded—could it be Max’s? Could she terminate the pregnancy without anyone knowing? Her mind flitted through the options.
That evening, a letter from Wade waited for her on the hall table. Margie took it up to her room to read. Fighting in the Philippines had slowed almost to a halt, with Japanese resistance compressed into small pockets on isolated islands.
August 1, 1945
My Dearest Love,
I have too much time on my hands, and being away from you makes it stretch on forever. I’m spending my days writing about those endless years in Santo Tomas. I can’t get my thoughts down on paper fast enough. They tumble out of me with great sadness followed by a healthy sense of release. Then I have a few hours of calm, but the tension builds again, and I go through the cycle once more. Someday, I’ll burn these cheerless pages and bury the ashes.
I’d like to write, Margie, but something different from bad memories or newspaper stories. I’d like to take a year off from the Tribune and write a novel, pure escapism, a whodunit with sultry women, strong men, and a
plot that twists and turns. I have an outline in my head. It will be set in Paris with all the intrigue that city has to offer. I have some money put away, and we can live cheaply in Grandpa’s cabin on the shores of Lake Michigan. It’s a fine place on a bluff overlooking the lake. I’ve dreamed of someday building a house there.
I haven’t heard anything official from the Tribune, but I feel I’ll be home to you soon, and I’m counting the days until we are together.
My love forever,
Wade
Margie put the letter down. A year on a secluded beach far away from her family, no income, a child. She couldn’t agree to that. She felt a flutter as the wee being rolled around. “What are we going to do, little one?”
CHAPTER 21
Little River, fall 1945
Three cuckoo clocks arrived at the Bauer house that Frank had sent from Germany’s Black Forest to temper his bad news. He wrote that he was at Camp Lucky Strike, a redistribution station near Le Havre in France. He’d be there for a few weeks, and then he was being shipped to the Pacific.
Margie felt heartsick as she followed the news. The war continued to escalate, even though Allied forces continuously firebombed Japanese cities, airfields, and harbors, greatly reducing the numbers of enemy planes and ships. Word circulated that thirty million Japanese soldiers and civilian men, women, and children had declared their readiness to die for the emperor. Frank was scheduled to leave soon for that hellish inferno.
At risk of extermination, Margie grimly read, were an estimated 170,000 prisoners of war held by the Japanese. Like cattle in a pen. Those cowardly Nip sons of bitches. She threw down the newspaper and looked out the window to see Irene and Billy playing ring-around-the-rosy.
A Pledge of Silence Page 23
