You are in my heart and on my mind always.
Love,
John
“I’ve got to set things right,” I say to myself as I step into the kitchen and pull open the drawer for stationary and pens. I return to the table, pushing aside the half-empty cup of cold tea.
Thursday, December 9, 1943
Dear John,
I hope this letter finds you healthy and well. The weather has changed to a bitter cold, which is a far cry from only a few days ago, when we still had somewhat balmy temperatures. Balmy for December, anyway.
I’m not certain of what to say. I owe you an apology for my lack of correspondence. I have been so angry with you for leaving. So angry that I let my righteousness cloud my feelings for you. This may sound delusional, but somehow the anger made me feel strong. I guess I was frightened that if I let my guard down, I would crumble without you here. That is not fair to you. I realize that now. I am truly sorry. Please forgive me.
Tonight was the first time that I read your letters. I know, I know. Insane as this may sound, I allowed your letters to pile up. They reminded me that you were well and, in some way, also fueled my anger. Today was different, though. I received news that unsettled me to my core, and to be honest, I am not yet sure how to deal with the fallout. You remember Helen? My roommate from the boarding house. Helen and I have been spending quite a bit of time together at the Red Cross since I began volunteering there. Actually, Mother insisted I join, but that is a story for another time. Helen joined at the same time. Her beau, Robert, was drafted. They were to be married this past September. The news is dreadful, John. Robert fell from a ladder, breaking several bones. While in the hospital, he contracted an infection, and a few weeks later he died. Robert’s mother and Helen only received word today. He was in the navy, already stationed in Europe.
John, I was overcome with grief. My heart aches for Helen, and I fear there is no way to comfort her in this time of devastation. I feel so helpless and small. I began to worry for you, and I prayed you weren’t scheduled to climb any ladders. I know this sounds silly, given that you are at war and all, but I hadn’t considered such tasks could take soldiers’ lives.
I think of you every day, all day to be precise, and pray you will be safe and well and that this war will end so you can return to me. Please be safe and know that you are loved.
All my love,
Violet
As soon as I put down the pen, tears erupt from my eyes and roll down my cheeks. They spill onto the letter. Large droplets blur the ink. In this moment, with my heart in pieces, I understand that even if John returns unharmed, I may not survive this war. Now, more than ever, I want to escape to the quiet life I had envisioned for us. A little house, a vegetable garden, children running about the yard, and John coming home to us each evening, happy and well. A thousand years seem to have passed since we were last happy. With no end in sight, a thousand more years could pass before our dream becomes reality, and even that is uncertain, with so many obstacles in our way.
I leave the letter to dry on the table until morning, when I will place the pages in an envelope and then in the postal box. I stumble into the bedroom, leaning on walls for support. With no energy left in my tired and tortured body, I crawl under the covers, fully clothed, and cry myself to sleep.
***
The next few days move like molasses in winter. Helen refuses to see anyone and has sequestered herself in Robert’s old bedroom. The first Saturday after the news of his death, Lauren, Beth, and I try to convince her to let us in. We want to sit with her, be there for her. The only sound from inside the room is her feet shuffling away from the door. The bed creaks and we presume she has lain back down. In the Palmers’ front room, we attempt to make small talk with a woman who, only a few days ago, lost her only son. After a painful hour of waiting for Helen to emerge, spent in virtual silence, we take our leave and promise to return when Helen is ready for company. Mrs. Palmer thanks us for our condolences and our patience. She dabs her eyes with a handkerchief, the initials RP embroidered on the corner.
The walk back to town is quiet. None of us know what to say. The world feels as if it’s shifted and is no longer seated in place. We have been changed. The war has forced us to change. To become scared little women who put on brave faces while we pretend to save the world by sewing. This nonsense churns inside me and simmers like a volcano. I swallow hard and try to push down the thick, fiery emotions as the fumes threaten to bubble and spew.
We pass the movie theater, and I am drawn in by the colorful posters telling stories of love and happier times. The popcorn reaches my nostrils and my tummy rumbles. Joy has been vacant from my life for too many months. I long for a moment resembling normal. “Let’s go to a movie.”
“A movie?” Lauren and Beth say in unison, puzzlement casting shadows across their faces.
“Yes. A movie. We need to escape for a little while. We need to forget about this stupid war and pretend we are just three girls out on the town, out to enjoy a show and a little popcorn.” I sound more confident and exuberant than I feel, but somewhere deep within me, I understand that the only way to survive this chaos is to find moments of sanity that remind us who we are and where we come from.
Together, we turn toward the theater, link arms, and stroll to the ticket booth with our heads held high. “Three, please, for In Old Oklahoma,” I say. “My treat, ladies.” I force a smile and walk with purpose toward the popcorn.
***
December 24, 1943
Christmas Eve falls on a Friday. The real estate office closes at noon and remains closed until the first week of 1944. I plan to spend the holidays with Mother, Father, and Iris before I return to town to visit John’s family for a few days—a visit that is long overdue. When John’s mother invited me, I knew it was time to mend a few fences. Father is to collect me from my apartment at one o’clock, so I hurry home through the fresh snow to pack the remainder of my possessions.
Before I climb the stairs to my second-story apartment, I stop to check the mailbox, desperate for a letter from John. I close my eyes, squeeze them tight, and say a little prayer before I open the box.
“Thank you, God,” I whisper to myself when I spot the single envelope leaned inside the narrow mail slot. I retrieve the envelope and clutch the letter to my breast. Overcome with gratitude, I begin to close the wooden door when I notice a package. The little box is half-hidden by shadows. I reach inside for the small, square package wrapped in plain brown paper. The return address says “Private First Class, John Smith.” Private First Class, I think. Why, John has been promoted. A thrill of excitement emits from me like a beacon, and I dash up the stairs two at a time, eager to tear open the package.
I drop my purse onto the kitchen table and reach for the scissors in the kitchen drawer. I gently slice the edges of the paper and extract the tiny box from the layer of wrap. Tucked inside the little box is a note. “For Violet. The song in my heart plays only for you. Merry Christmas. Love, John.” Beneath the note is a silver charm bracelet with only one charm, a heart. I hold the charm at eye level and watch the light sparkle off the shiny bit of silver. A tear snakes down my face and ends at my lips. I taste the salt before the tear evaporates in the dry air.
I want desperately to close the bracelet’s clasp around my wrist with my left hand, but Father will be here any minute. Even as the thought forms, there is a knock at my door.
“Daddy.” I allow him to wrap me in his immense arms. I can smell horse hair and hay on his clothes. I breathe in the scent and allow the comfort of home to infiltrate my senses. I feel small and safe again.
“Hello, pumpkin. Good to see you. You need me to take your bag?”
“I’m so sorry. I’m almost ready. I’ll grab the last few pieces.” I tuck a strand of hair behind my right ear and touch my hand to my forehead, thinking of what my half-packed suitcase is missing.
“What’s this?” He fingers the shiny bit of silver still gras
ped in my palm.
“I’ve just opened the package. A gift from John. For Christmas.” I hold the bracelet up for him to see.
“I’ll be.” Father angles his head to one side, for a better look at the heart-shaped charm. “Mighty thoughtful young man, isn’t he? Why don’t we put that bracelet where it belongs.” He fastens the clasp around my wrist with more ease and dexterity than I would have expected from his thick, calloused fingers. “That’s better,” he says.
I blush. “Thank you.” I move hurriedly toward the bedroom to gather the rest of my things.
Father carries my suitcase while I juggle the presents I have wrapped and tied with ribbon, ready to give away in the morning. As we are about to walk out the door, I remember the unopened letter on the table and pluck the envelope from the discarded wrapping paper. I follow Father into the hall and lock my apartment door. My bracelet slides on my wrist, and I smile at the new reminder of John.
We arrive at the farm. Iris, still young in spirit, blasts down the porch steps. She runs full speed into my arms and almost knocks me to the frozen ground. I’ve no idea what keeps her feet planted on this earth. Her constant excitement is strong enough to bubble over and make her fly.
“Are those for me?” She nods her head at the presents loaded in my arms.
“Not all of them,” I tease. “But perhaps there is one or two with your name.”
This Christmas, despite the circumstances of war, I am eager to bestow the gifts I’ve brought for my family. I hope they enjoy them as much as I enjoyed making them. For weeks, I have worked with the sewing machine Tuesday evenings, when the Red Cross isn’t using them for the war effort. With a little help from Mrs. Boyd, I managed to sew a new dress for Iris and a purse to match. I am certain they will make her feel all grown up when she wears them to church. For Mother, I have stitched two pillows, filled with fluff, for the living room sofa. Father was a challenge. After much consideration, I decided on a horse blanket embroidered with “Sanderson Equestrian Farm.”
Iris takes my suitcase from Father and half-carries, half-drags my bag to the porch. Mother stands in the doorway, hair pulled back in a kerchief, arms crossed over her bosom. She watches Iris’s attempt to be helpful, and though she doesn’t say a word, she bites the corner of her bottom lip and I know she wants to correct her youngest daughter’s actions. Mother embraces me with a quick hug before she ushers us in to the kitchen and hurries to close the door against the winter chill.
Roasting chicken spits and sizzles in the oven. The counter is covered with root vegetables ready to be washed and cooked. I peek into the living room to see the tree aglow in the corner. I carefully place the packages under the fragrant boughs and pause to touch one of my favorite ornaments. Memories of past Christmases flood my mind. Christmas has always been a happy time. Even when there wasn’t much money, Christmas meant family games, stories read aloud, and the hope that comes so naturally during the season.
This is my first Christmas in five years without John. I feel my bracelet, hidden under the cuff of my woolen coat. I, at least, have the company of my family. My heart quivers when I envision him alone, without loved ones with whom to celebrate the holiday. When these occasional dark thoughts enter my consciousness, I imagine him shivering beneath a thin, itchy blanket—alone and exhausted. I push the thought from my mind and instead hope that the parcel of embroidered handkerchiefs and sweets arrived in time for him to enjoy. Without time to start from scratch, I purchased a set of twelve handkerchiefs from a shop in town. I spent every spare moment embroidering his initials into the corners, an idea inspired by Robert’s mother. I sprayed each one with the scent of my favorite perfume before packaging them with sweets and milk chocolate for John to savor. I mailed the parcel over a week ago, in the hope that he might open my gift in time for Christmas.
I lift my bag from Iris’s arms and deposit my suitcase onto my old child-sized bed. “Won’t a sleepover for Christmas be fun, Violet?” Iris bounces up and down on her own identical bed.
“Sure will be,” I say with a trickle of frustration. How wonderful life must be for Iris, to be oblivious, unaffected by the war. I kick myself for such an insensitive thought. I smile at her youthful face and remind myself that all she should know is happiness. I wouldn’t want her to live any other way.
While we scrub vegetables and set the Christmas Eve table, complete with pinecones and greenery, Mother and I talk about life in town, work, and the snow falling beyond the kitchen window. I feel her eyes as she steals glances at my bracelet. She made a fuss about the bracelet—an extravagant and beautiful gift—but under the surface, her smile is worried instead of delighted. Puzzled, I shrug off the notion, determined to enjoy a happy Christmas with my family.
The evening sneaks in to greet us. After we’ve stuffed our tummies and tidied the kitchen, we enjoy a Christmas story and warm ourselves by the fire. Iris is sent to bed and reminded not to rise until the sun does. Mother’s voice reaches us like a soft autumn breeze as she sings Iris to sleep. Father puts another log on the fire and settles in with a cup of tea and a gingersnap.
My eyes become heavy with the warmth of the crackling fire. The scent of pine fills the air, and the weight of a homemade quilt is upon my outstretched legs. Mother tucks the quilt under my chin before she rubs my back and suggests I retire for the evening.
“In a minute,” I say. “I’d like to let the warmth soak into my bones a little longer.”
Father gets up from his chair with a groan. “Time to hit the hay, Mother?”
Mother takes the cup from his hand. “It’s been a full day, for certain.” She takes the cup to the washbasin in the kitchen.
“Good night, Violet,” Mother calls from the threshold before she walks down the short hallway to her bed.
He kisses my forehead. “Sleep tight, pumpkin.”
“Night, Dad.” Sleepiness crawls into my voice.
I snuggle deeper into the sofa cushions and pull the quilt along with me. Home feels good, the familiar scents, sights, and sounds. I let the comfort of home permeate me.
Sleep descends upon me, and I dream until a log shifts in the fireplace. A cascade of sparks and crackles erupt into the quiet. I bolt upright. “The letter!” I almost scream before I remember where I am.
I stumble out from under the heavy blanket and brace myself for balance before I tiptoe to the bedroom that now belongs to Iris. “How could I have forgotten John’s letter?” I say under my breath. The door creaks as I enter the room. I poke around in the dark for the bag at the end of my bed. I stub my toe on a raised floorboard and stifle a yelp, tumbling forward onto the mattress. The suitcase sits at the foot of the bed. I search the inside pocket for the letter. Relief washes over me as I retrieve the envelope and retrace my steps to the living room.
Letter in hand, I forgive my forgetfulness, given the merriment of the day. I sit on the edge of my seat cushion and peel open the envelope, careful not to tear the edges. I unfold the letter and a photo drops onto my lap. I hold the picture at eye level, squinting in the near blackness of the room. I tilt the photograph toward the light of the fire, and John’s face smiles back at me. He holds a weapon with a long barrel, much like a shotgun, in both hands. There is tall grass behind him, and beyond that is the outline of a round target.
I take my blanket and sit on the floor, wrapped up like a caterpillar in a cocoon, to read by the light of the fire.
Sunday, December 19, 1943
Dearest Violet,
I was so sorry to hear of your friend’s loss. I am sure her sweetheart was a good man and a good soldier. He served his country with bravery. I wish I could be there to hold you tight, to comfort you. My only regret is not being with you all this time. I wish you wouldn’t worry, but same as I understand how worry won’t change the course of the future, I know that asking you not to worry is only a feeble attempt to make myself feel better. I never meant to cause you this pain. This I pray you do understand.
I hope yo
u received the gift I sent. I don’t want to spoil the surprise, in case the package hasn’t yet arrived, but I want you to know that the gift reminded me of you. You are the only girl for me, Vi.
I opened your present before the twenty-fifth, but I was eager for news from you. I opened the package this morning after a fitful sleep in which I dreamed of you. I woke early, disgruntled and sleep deprived, then I dressed and left the tent so as not to wake the others. I walked out into the tall grass that lay beyond a hill that overlooks the town, and I sat under a large oak tree and opened your gift. I love the handkerchiefs, with my initials and all. Looks like you spent some time on them. Thank you. They are appreciated. The sweets are a real treat, too. I will have to hide them under my covers so the boys don’t get at them. The best surprise though, Vi, the best gift of all was that the box carried your scent. I breathed in so deep I thought you might emerge, like magic. I know the fragrance won’t last forever, but to have the sweet smell of your perfume on each handkerchief makes me a truly happy man. I promise to always carry one with me, no matter where I go.
I wanted you to know that I received orders. I am to be shipped out next Tuesday. I don’t know where I’ll be for Christmas, but in my heart, I will be with you at home. I can’t speak much of plans here, so you will have to trust that I will do everything in my power to stay safe. My letters might take a while to reach you, so try not to worry yourself sick. There are no days off in a war, so I’ll write when I can. Either way, you are on my mind, in my heart, and on my lips every moment.
Becoming Mrs. Smith Page 7
