Letters From Home

by Kristina McMorris

  Until then I shouldn’t have much to squawk about. The German apartment I’m billeted in is grander than any place we’ve stayed in so far. With soft mattresses and sheets, fancy drapes and paintings, and a real working toilet! I know it must sound silly, but the simplest things, like bathtubs and electricity, have become the most appreciated inventions for us doughboys. We’ve found so many storage rooms full of fine china we don’t even bother with our mess tins anymore. Boy, what luxuries! I have to admit I’m growing a tad tired of spud soup, black bread, and kraut, but it beats Army chow any day.

  Right now I’m sitting on a terrace overlooking the town. How I wish you could be here with me. But then, of course you always are. The warm sun is shining down, making for an awfully quiet and relaxing afternoon. Should be that way until the kids get out of school and GIs start handing out chocolate bars. Amazing how little it takes to bring a smile to a kid’s face. Not much different from the happiness a handful of cigarettes brings to the local barber here in exchange for a cut and shave. Guess we all have our indulgences.

  Well, sweetheart, I don’t have much in the way of writing time today, so I best lay down the pen. There’s a USO camp show scheduled tonight that they say Dinah Shore and Jack Benny will be performing at, and I’ll be on detail until it starts. Hopefully sooner than later I will be spending an evening with you at a USO club back in the States, dancing the night away (dancing, I admit, being mostly an excuse to hold you close). I so look forward to that day—so often dream about finally being with you in person.

  Please write soon. Thinking of you always.

  Yours forever,

  Morgan

  Liz read the closing again.

  Forever. So much meaning conveyed in a word. But with such a word came conditions, the most essential being honesty. A trait he undoubtedly placed high value upon.

  Since breaking off her engagement, she had been more anxious than ever to tell Morgan everything. But with the war still on, she couldn’t help fearing her confession might be the last letter he ever read. And so she’d held off, selfishly, compassionately delaying.

  Now, though, the battles were over, and she was out of excuses. It was time to tell him who she was. Or more notably, who she wasn’t.

  She made her way to the chair at the slant-front desk. The blank page before her called for a composition to the man she loved, quite possibly the last correspondence between them. Although any plea at this point seemed undeserving, she had to try.

  She glanced at her mother’s journal, a reminder of her own courage. Then she clutched the pen and scrawled as fast as her hand would move, hoping speed would lessen the sting.

  Dearest Morgan,

  The words I am about to inscribe are among the most difficult of my life. For so long, I have wanted to tell you the truth. Yet with each of your posts, you have filled more of my heart, making a letter like this near impossible to write. Even now, I am more terrified of the consequences than ever before. Nevertheless, honesty is precisely what you deserve. So here, my darling, are the facts at last.

  You and I indeed met at the USO club the night before your deployment. I am not, however, the beautiful singer with whom you made a promise of correspondence. Although our encounter sparked feelings within me I didn’t believe could exist, it soon became clear that my roommate Betty, alone, was the one who had gained your interest.

  Soon after, as fate would have it, I agreed to help her pen an initial letter to you, my repayment of a favor. In all fairness, I must admit part of me still had hoped to develop a connection, even through another’s name. Thus, when your moving response arrived, following Betty’s departure for military service, I could not resist sending a reply. And so it went, my feelings for you growing with each exchange, always with my intention to reveal the truth, but never was I brave enough to risk losing you as a result.

  This far from excuses what I have done, dear Morgan. But I do hope more than anything that you can forgive me. You see, despite what you might rightfully presume, every word in my posts, apart from the signature, was honest and heartfelt, as is the tremendous love I carry for you.

  The thought of not hearing from you again is an overwhelming one. Still, I would not blame you for retracting your affection. And so, understanding this note between us may well be the last, I now offer you a final confession: Not until receiving your letters did I understand what joy really was. Because of you, I will never again settle for an unhappy or content existence, merely for the sake of pleasing others. From you, I

  learned the value of family, the reward of being true to myself, and the beauty of caring for someone enough to need them—even if it means letting them go.

  Above all, my darling Morgan, you have reopened my heart. For every way in which you have changed me, I am in your debt. Thank you for gracing my life, and for allowing me the privilege of getting to know and adore the kind, courageous person that you are. With all my love and regret, Elizabeth Stephens

  38

  Mid-September 1945

  Chicago, Illinois

  Julia hesitated at the open door. Into the hallway wafted the same old fragrances of fabric and imagination, but now thick with motes of guilt. She left the buttons of her overcoat fastened. The academy seemed cold for a fall morning.

  As she stepped cautiously into the classroom, a trickle of anxiety traveled through her. It wasn’t the internal stampede she once would have felt, preparing for a figurative feast of crow; the limits of her emotions had since been stretched. Yet still, she found no voice to greet the woman.

  Against the windowed backdrop, Madame Simone’s profile appeared lean in black. Alone except for a lineup of mannequin dress forms, the French woman stood focused over the worktable, half-spectacles on the end of her thin nose. With measuring tape draped from her neck, pincushion nested on her wrist, she unrolled a rose-hued bolt. Her movements remained as sleek as the dark bun of her hair.

  Had nothing changed in this place since Julia left? Constant safety could have been hers had she never abandoned this room.

  “A little early in the day for a visit, Zhoolia,” the teacher remarked. Her eyes didn’t budge from her project. “Here to leave another note, are you?”

  The question stung, despite Julia expecting something to the effect. “No,” was all she managed to say.

  “Mmm.”

  As Simone scissored fabric, continuing as if absent of company, Julia felt the full reach of the distance between them. She now wished she’d rehearsed her request, at least conjured a rough plea.

  On the other hand, had she given herself time to second-guess, she might never have come back.

  Simone stopped, looked at her. Her gaze held an edge. “Well?”

  “I was wondering,” she began, “I mean, I was hoping …”

  “Yes?”

  At the teacher’s impatience, Julia shoved out the phrase gathering inside. “About the internship at Vogue. I’m sure the spot from your friend is long gone by now. But if there were another position, anything that opened up, I was hoping I could apply.”

  A humorless smile crossed Simone’s lips. She reverted her attention toward her design, and sighed. “So this is how it goes, you think. That chances to work for a company like Vogue are handed out like baguettes on a street corner. Ready whenever your appetite calls, oui?”

  Julia shook her head. “Of course not,” she told her. Nothing in her life was coming out as it was meant. She commanded herself to continue, to not flee the school as she’d done before. Stakes that had seemed so high only a year ago were now almost laughable. She envied the girl she was back then, too scared to face even her teacher. To face herself.

  “I’m sorry,” Julia offered at last. “I should’ve explained in person. I shouldn’t have waited all summer to tell you, not when I already knew my answer.”

  Unspoken thoughts soaked the quiet, broken by a sharp wave of Simone’s hand. “No,” she said. “I am to blame. I should not have expected so much. A gi
rl your age, with so little experience, does not know what she wants. I assure you, it won’t happen again.”

  In defense, Julia stepped forward. “But I did know.” She tried for insistence, but her voice came out halfhearted.

  Simone met her eyes. “Ah. Then you must have made the right decision. Which means there is no reason for you to be here. Hmm?”

  What could Julia say, without saying too much?

  “Things have changed—since then.”

  “How?” Simone challenged. Her clipped tone left Julia speechless.

  The woman persisted with a huff. “What, may I ask, changed that would make me believe you truly regretted your decision? That I would not be making another mistake recommending you?”

  “Well—because, I’m no longer …” The word engaged stuck to her tongue, throbbed like a bitten taste bud. Since the day she received Christian’s letter, his final letter, she hadn’t spoken of him. Not even at his funeral. At the service—a seeming rehearsal, lacking a body to bury—she’d held his mother’s gloved hand, statues in their pew. Julia had nodded on cue when Ian took the podium, bowed her head as the pastor fulfilled his role. She’d consoled Cora with a gentle smile after George tore from the church, unable to complete his son’s eulogy.

  And through it all, Julia had survived the day tearless, safely detached, compliments of an internal bargain: So long as she didn’t utter his name or speak of their shared past, their love, her eyes would keep moisture clamped inside. Each party had upheld the deal, which Julia perpetually extended. Fear of opening the floodgates had been worth the risk of forgetting. In fact, forgetting was what she had wished for. To diminish the pain that beat in an endless pulse.

  Now, however, teetering on the edge of his memory, she uncovered the greatest scare of all: the reality of releasing him forever.

  From the silence came Simone’s voice, spiked with irritation. “If you don’t know why you are here, perhaps there is somewhere else you should be.” With that, she resumed her work, halving the material with a jagged slice.

  The implied command for Julia to leave came clear as a tolling bell, yet the soles of her shoes had melted into the floor tiles. Her body refused to shift an inch. Not until she said his name—until she shared what he’d meant to her—to anyone who would listen.

  She swallowed around her grief and blurted, “His name was Christian.”

  Simone slowly raised her head as Julia forced herself to go on. “I put our future first, our future together. We were supposed to marry, after the war. But then he didn’t come home, and now I feel utterly lost.

  “It’s been seven months, and most of the time I still think he’s the one who got off easy.” That sounded terrible, she knew, but the intensity in Simone’s eyes forbade her to stop. And so, out the truth flowed despite the rise of emotions, the blurring of vision.

  “I walk around the city and every corner reminds me of him. The Pier, going to a restaurant, the movies. I can’t get on a streetcar without seeing him in a crowd. Every sailor could be Christian from behind, and I think to myself, They must’ve made a mistake. That he’s still alive. Until they turn their heads. Then I realize it’s not him, and I have to face over and over that he’s never coming back.”

  Simone straightened as she removed her glasses, let them dangle from her neck.

  “You know,” Julia said, remembering, “one day I rode the bus an entire afternoon. Just sat there for hours, not speaking to a single person, and I thought, This must be what it’s like to be a ghost. To watch everyone, but not talk or touch. Or feel. And that’s when it dawned on me: That’s what I am. It’s as if the world is moving around me, and I’m just going through the motions because that’s what I’m supposed to do.” She paused, thinking of Ian, the sketch he’d once become, the real person he’d found in himself again.

  Then, suddenly aware how widely she’d exposed her heart, and to a woman whose veil of rigidity hadn’t softened, a woman who couldn’t possibly empathize, Julia charged to her conclusion. “So you see, I didn’t come here today because I think I deserve a second chance, or because I took for granted what I passed up. I came because I thought, maybe by going back to something I was passionate about—a part of me I was sure of—I could find myself again. And then I might actually have a reason to wake up every morning. A way to feel like I’m still alive.”

  It was then Julia became aware of the tears gliding down her cheeks. No torrential flood, just streaks from drops as real as Christian had been. The bargain was over, and to her surprise, she was still standing. Fractured but not broken.

  “Like I said”—Julia swiped the moisture away—“I’m sorry I let you down. But I don’t regret the choice I made back then. Because I made the right one. I chose him.” The declaration settled in her chest, spreading strength within. She turned and headed for the doorway, just as Simone beckoned her back.

  “Zhoolia.”

  Julia tried to block her out.

  “Zhoolia,” she called again, then a gentle, “Please.”

  The single word, a rarity from the woman, halted Julia’s feet. Had she imagined it? If Julia didn’t respond, she would always wonder.

  She gave her cheeks another finger-brush for dignity. Reluctantly, she swiveled around.

  Simone perched on the corner of the worktable. Above tightly crossed arms, a dull shade of pensiveness eased into her face. She stared at Julia as she spoke. “My brother fought with la Résistance. The last my parents heard from him was in a smuggled note. That was three years ago.” Her tone remained matter-of-fact. “You mustn’t forget, chérie, they all fought for a purpose. My brother. Your Christian. They fought so others could live, so that we could live. You are here for a reason, even if you don’t yet know why.”

  Julia reflected on the message, absorbing its painful truth. A tear fell from each eye when she nodded.

  “Good.” Simone rose, dropping her arms. “So, you will come by in a few weeks,” she told her. “I cannot promise anything, but I will make some calls to New York, see what I can find. D’accord?”

  Stunned, speechless, Julia stood frozen. Only two words climbed out in a hush. “Thank you.”

  Simone simply shrugged, already back to her garment.

  Julia knew better than to stick around, pressing her luck. She strode toward the exit, and as she stepped out into the city, inhaling the fresh morning air, she felt a small tingling inside. Like a numb limb, a soul, regaining its feeling.

  39

  Late September 1945 Evanston, Illinois

  Seated cross-legged on the living room floor, homework spread about, Liz struggled to concentrate on her assignment. An analytical essay on Shakespeare’s Macbeth. She’d attempted an opening paragraph four times. Each time she had crumpled the page and started over.

  For most of her life, she had found such literary works glorious and poetic in their tragedies. But no longer. She had since discovered there was no poetry or glory in war, or death, or the loss of a loved one. What she yearned for today was a fairy tale, where the glass slipper fit and the couple lived happily ever after.

  A clink interrupted her thoughts. It was the postal slot on the front door. That metallic noise, for the better part of a year, had been her favorite sound in the world. Thrill would bubble as she sprinted to the fresh mail pile, soaring on the wings of anticipation. An evolution of images had flipped through her mind, visions of a farmhouse on a wide stretch of golden land. Wrapped in a blanket that smelled of Morgan, she would scribble away on her first novel, while he and their children puddle-jumped in the rain.

  Yet such a future, it now seemed, would never come to pass. The crawl of each passing day since mailing her confession, two excruciating weeks, told her as much. And though she wanted to believe hope between them remained, logic told her she would never hear from him again. That all she could do was pray her memory of him would fade over time. That eventually she would remember what life was like before Morgan and his letters.

 
; Dread simmering, she slogged toward the entry. She had already prepared herself for the worst. There would be no response from the soldier. She didn’t deserve one.

  As she approached the entry, she spotted a single envelope front side down.

  Could it possibly be—

  No. It couldn’t. So why were goose bumps forming on her arms?

  To think there was a chance he’d already written back and accepted her apology was absurd. Such hopes would only pummel her with disappointment when she verified the delivery was for Julia, another card from Christian’s mother.

  Liz picked up the mystery envelope and promptly flipped it over. The addressee’s name was …Morgan. She tensed at the recognition of her own handwriting, her stationery. Her confession had circled back like a boomerang.

  A diagonal pencil line slashed through his address. Return to Sender had been stamped in a careless angle. Instinctively, she hunted for the additional notation of Deceased. She had seen the typed designation on a pair of unopened letters returned to Julia; they came within weeks of Christian’s parents receiving official word. But that was all during the war.

  Casualties at peacetime were unlikely, Liz assured herself. She would have assumed they were nonexistent if not for tales shared by the neighborhood air-raid warden, chatty in his retirement and lacking a social censor.

  Liz breathed out at the absence of the military marking. Her mind turned to more minor causes: Had she forgotten the stamp? No, the six-cent airmail sticker was there. An error in the address? As if that were possible. She knew it so well she could recite the words and numbers backward.

  As she scrounged for other explanations, she felt a sinkhole forming inside her. A deep hollowing from the possibility that he’d read her letter and, out of fury, pitched it straight back. But the seal, she confirmed, remained intact. There was no evidence the envelope had ever reached his hands. The only other difference was a scribble of three small letters: UTF.