Once a Midwife

by Patricia Harman

  “We charged through an open field and my fellow soldiers were falling to the left and to the right of me, but I just kept running forward, sure if I stopped I’d be killed. I jumped over a stone wall and was confronted by a German man crouching there—not the stereotyped blue-eyed Nordic the Nazis now idolize, just a regular stocky young brown-eyed guy.

  “He looked at me with his eyes wide, pleading with me in German not to kill him, but my bayonet was already moving. He put his hand over his gut where I’d stabbed him, but I thrust again and again. Blood came out of his mouth and he died.

  “I nearly vomited. My knees were shaking and I was, quite frankly, ashamed. When I told my fellow GIs about it, they were undisturbed. One of them boasted that he’d killed a German officer with the butt of his rifle. Another one had strangled an enemy with his bare hands. A third had shot someone in the head point-blank and then bashed his brains out.

  “How did it happen that they were so coldhearted? We’d been told in boot camp that the good soldier kills without thinking. The moment he sees the enemy as a fellow man he’s useless on the battlefield, but I couldn’t forget the young German’s eyes. They burn my soul still.

  “If I had met the fellow somewhere on his farm or in the feed store, we could have been friends. I had nothing against him. . . .” Dan is becoming more worked up as he speaks, and finally I cut him off.

  “Honey, I’m tired. I’ve been lying here awake worrying about you. . . . Let’s put the discussion under the pillow. We both need some sleep. I’m just glad you’re home.”

  My husband pulls me toward him and my longing for the comfort of his body defeats my anger and confusion. “This is where I belong,” he says.

  “Me too,” I whisper. “I missed you. I never want to be apart from you again. Promise.”

  “Joined at the hip? Every minute?” I imagine him smiling into the dark.

  “You know what I mean . . . joined at the heart . . . as long as they beat . . . and after.”

  27

  June 21, 1942

  Picnic

  It’s Father’s Day and the children went in together and bought their pa a new tie, but for the first time, with the worry about the draft and our uncertain future, I forgot to give him anything. Instead, I made his favorite breakfast—popovers and wild strawberries that I picked out in the pasture—and later we’re going to a picnic at the river.

  “Did you see this?” Dan asks, spreading the Liberty Times out on the table. “It’s official. . . . White Rock Camp Civilian Conservation Corps is closing in a few weeks, along with all the other CCC camps in the nation.”

  “Lou Cross told us they might not be here much longer,” I answer. “But I didn’t realize it would be so soon. The army will be happy that all the CCC fellows can now enlist, but a lot of people in Union County will lose their jobs, including Becky and Isaac. Is there enough vet business nowadays for Dr. Blum to work as your assistant?”

  Dan shrugs, apparently unconcerned. “We’ll make do. We always have.”

  When we get to the Hope, I’m surprised to see, among the other familiar vehicles, Lou Cross’s green Plymouth. Daniel pulls over on the side of the gravel road and the kids tumble out and start to run for their friends. “Hold on, there!” Dan yells. “Everyone has to carry something. Here, you, Danny, take the fishing poles. Girls, help Mommy with the baskets and blankets.”

  It’s a beautiful clear blue day without a cloud in the sky, and Lou, Willie, and Bitsy are already fishing on the bank, where the river runs swift and clean.

  “Here, hold it this way,” Lou says to Willie. “That-a-boy!” Willie has a big smile on his face and I realize he may never have been fishing before.

  “Hello, everyone!” we greet our neighbors. This is the first such outing we’ve had since last summer. The twins run off to see their sister Sonya. Mira and Danny go down to see Willie.

  “Lou Cross again,” I murmur to Dan.

  “So what?” says Dan. “I’m surprised at you, Patience. Did you expect your pal Bitsy to stay single forever?”

  “I just don’t want her to get hurt. Lou Cross seems overly friendly.”

  Becky and Mildred Miller have already spread blankets on the grass and are sitting together talking earnestly. Mrs. Maddock’s in her wheelchair today. Sometimes she uses the walker and braces that her husband, an ex-engineer turned farmer, made for her, but when her legs hurt she reverts to the chair. I spread my blanket near her feet. Sarah is over fifty and almost died from polio when she was young, but her silver-and-gold hair frames her nearly unlined face like a halo.

  “Did you hear that Sally Blum is going into the WACs?” she asks in a soft, low voice like the film star Lauren Bacall. “Congress just passed a law establishing the Women’s Army Corps a few weeks ago. They’re looking for fifty thousand female recruits to work office- and mechanic-type jobs. If they get that many, it will free up fifty thousand men for combat.”

  “I thought Sally liked working at the munitions plant.”

  “She quit. Told her parents it’s too boring and she wants to serve the war effort more directly.”

  “Holy cow! Becky must be crushed. They are so close. Where is Sally anyway?” I ask, looking around the meadow for the pretty eighteen-year-old.

  “In Liberty, with her boyfriend, Patrick McKenzie. He enlisted in the army and is shipping out next week. That’s part of the reason she wants to leave too.”

  “Boyfriend! That red-haired young man, Patrick, who works at the feed store? He’s a cutie and seems ambitious, but he must be twenty-five. Is it serious?”

  “He’s twenty-two, Becky told me . . . and Sally’s eighteen,” says Sarah Rose with a laugh.

  “They’re talking about getting married.”

  “Sadie, at Farmers’ Supply, must be fit to be tied! All the young fellows are going to war. Who’s going to carry the feed sacks and lumber?”

  I watch Becky as she talks to Mrs. Miller. The kind pastor’s wife takes my friend’s white hand in her smooth brown one. I can’t be sure, but it looks like my friend is crying and when I realize I’ve never seen her cry before, a lump comes in my throat. Sally is the Blums’ only child. They adopted her when we adopted the twins, and she’s been with Becky and Isaac for almost seven years. On top of that, the two have lost their income at the CCC camp.

  “Oh, my!” I say to myself, but it comes out of my mouth. “Becky’s had so much loss in her life and she’s always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Her mother died of cancer when she was young. Two brothers died in the Great War. Her father had a stroke not long after his boys died, and then her husband, another veteran who came home shell-shocked, killed himself.” I let out my air in a sad whoosh.

  “My problem is,” I go on, “I want to protect everyone from suffering. If someone threw a grenade and I could get there fast enough I would jump on it, but it’s not possible is it, Sarah?”

  “No. Suffering comes to us all. The best we can do is survive the wounds in one piece and pray we aren’t blown apart and swept down the river . . . Becky will be okay.”

  A Change in the Weather

  I notice Sarah’s attention is now on Bitsy and Lou Cross down on the riverbank.

  “It looks like Bitsy has a boyfriend too,” Sarah says, and I can’t tell if she disapproves because of the racial difference or if she’s just commenting.

  “I’m not sure. Lou is Bitsy’s foreman at the woolen mill and I’ve seen them together quite a bit, but they might just be friends. Willie seems to enjoy the man’s company. He never knew his father.”

  “Ma! Ma!” I hear Danny call. “Come play.”

  Some of the men have driven two stakes in the ground and are setting up a game of horseshoes. This is a simple competition that doesn’t involve much strength or practice. For some reason, I’m surprisingly good at it, so I join Daniel’s team and the three of us play against Isaac Blum, Milt Maddock, and Reverend Miller.

  A half hour later, my team is one point ahead,
and when a cloud passes over the sun I look up and see a mountain of billowy white, with gray underneath, sailing this way. When a wind comes up, I realize I haven’t looked for my girls in a while. Then I see them.

  Sunny, Sue, and their sister Sonya are sitting on the rocks near the rapids and Mira is still with Willie, near the fishing hole. Bitsy and Lou are spreading out their blanket in the grass and I note that he’s brought one of those newfangled folding card tables I’ve seen in the Sears catalogue, so we don’t have to serve our food from the ground—a nice addition to our feast.

  “It must be time for dinner,” I comment to Dan, looking up at the clouds again. “I’d better help set up. You guys go on and play without me. Take my turn, Danny. I’ll call you when it’s time to eat.”

  Becky and I meet at the tables, each putting out our offerings. “You okay?” I ask my friend.

  “Oh, you know . . . It never rains but it pours. You heard that White Rock CCC camp is closing. Then Sally announces she’s going to join the WACs. Life as I know it has been blown apart.”

  “There’s nothing you can count on but change, Mrs. Kelly used to say. But that doesn’t mean you have to like it.”

  Becky chews on her lower lip. “It’s this damned war!”

  “You’re right. Dan and I are even having trouble . . .” Just then there’s a scream. It’s Mira! Daniel races across the clearing toward the river, but Mira and Willie are no longer on the bank.

  “Mira!” I yell. “Where are you?” The scream comes again. Sunny and Sue stand on the rocks and point downstream.

  All the men, along with Bitsy and I, run that way, but with my leg, even in an emergency I can’t run very fast. “Mira!” Dan calls.

  “Willie!” Lou calls.

  Then we see them both climbing up the embankment, about thirty yards downriver, looking like drowned rats. Mira is crying and her face is so white her freckles stick out like polka dots. Willie holds her hand. They both plop down in the grass, panting.

  By the time I get to them, Mira’s color is better and Will is smiling. “I saved her,” he says. “I don’t know how I did it. I was always afraid of the water before and never learned to swim, but when Mira slipped on the bank and fell in, it was like my body suddenly knew what to do.”

  “Willie rescued me!” Mira agrees. “I was way down the river calling for help, and no one could hear me. Half the time my head was under the water, but then my feet would hit bottom and I would push up and was able to breathe. Willie swam up to me and grabbed the back of my shirt.”

  “Sorry, Mrs. Hester. I think I tore the collar.”

  “Oh, Willie. I don’t care. Thank you. Thank you for saving our baby.” Dan picks Mira up and carries her back to the picnic area.

  “Come on, kids.” he calls. “From now on, no one near the river, unless a grown-up is there for a lifeguard. Who here is a strong swimmer?” Willie raises his hand, now full of confidence. Lou, Daniel, Danny, Milt Maddock, Isaac Blum, and I raise our hands too.

  “Damn!” says Lou, looking at the rest of the group. “I’m gonna start a swimming school.”

  June 22, 1942

  To Dance

  Today I expected five patients for the Pregnant Ladies Society and only three showed up. The first two were Martha Wallace and Ada Mullins. Both are expecting their first babies. Then Hannah Dyer arrived in her late-model DeSoto, a half hour late, her long, dark hair flying.

  Hannah and John Dyer live on rich bottom land on the banks of the Hope about five miles south, and she’s pregnant again with her third. I took care of Hannah when she had their other two children. She has easy labors and was a delight.

  When I’d finished everyone’s prenatal exam, we sat down on the wooden benches in the gazebo for peppermint tea and biscuits with honey.

  “Today we’re going to talk about labor,” I explain after everyone has been served. “Hannah has had babies before, and I thought maybe she’d tell you about it. What would you like to ask, ladies?”

  This is one of the things I enjoy about the group. I’ve found that the women are eager to listen to one another and they seem to learn more than if I give them a lecture or a Health Department pamphlet.

  “Well, does it hurt as bad as they say it does?” Martha asks. She’s a tall girl, with a square jaw and thick, short, sandy hair pinned back on the sides like the Andrews Sisters.

  “I didn’t know what to expect,” Hannah answers. “My ma had passed and I had no sisters to talk to, but my sister-in-law from Kentucky had her baby at home with a midwife and she told me I could do it.”

  “So did it hurt like the bejeezus?” Martha persists.

  “No, actually. I’m sure everyone’s different, but at the beginning the pains were just like menstrual cramps that came and went. When it got hard and the cramps were closer I had to keep moving. John, my husband, put some music on to soothe me, but dancing is what helped.”

  “You danced through labor?” Martha squints her eyes.

  “She did,” I come in. “I’d never seen it before. The harder the contractions got, the faster she danced. I couldn’t keep up with her.”

  “You danced too, Mrs. Hester?” asks Ada in her Minnie Mouse voice. She’s wiry and small, has a blond bob with bangs, a sweet country girl. “It sounds like you were having a party.”

  “If you think of it, having a baby is a party—a birthday party.”

  “What about you, Mrs. Hester? You have four kids. Except for dancing, is there any other way to make the pains easier?” Martha chimes in again, tucking her tawny mane behind her ear.

  This is an awkward question. I’ve had very difficult births and don’t want to scare my patients, so I answer indirectly. “Here’s my advice, ladies. Labor is less painful if you stay out of bed. Stay out as long as you can.”

  “You aren’t going to make us dance, are you?” Ada squeaks out a laugh.

  “Definitely not. But I will walk with you. You can lean against the end of the bed and sway back and forth.” Here I demonstrate by bending over the gazebo rail, wiggling my butt, and they all laugh to see me doing the hoochie coochie.

  “I would like Ollie to be there if it’s okay,” says Ada. “He’s been called up for service, but because I’m due anytime now the Red Cross arranged for him to have a two-weeks’ delay. Do you think I’ll have the baby by then, Mrs. Hester?”

  “There’s a good chance. The man helps make the baby,” I say as I end our meeting. “And if he is willing, he can help it be born.”

  28

  July 1, 1942

  False Labor

  It’s been ten days since the last meeting of the Pregnant Ladies Society and Ada has called me three times thinking she might be in labor.

  Today she was crying because Ollie must report in three days for induction. “Please,” she begged. “I know exactly when I got pregnant and I’m two weeks late. I want my husband to see his baby. I need him to be with me. We’re making love every night and I’m eating sour pickles from Bittman’s, but there must be something you can do!”

  I told her I would get back to her, that I would think about it. The truth is, I’ve never interfered with labor before, and I don’t think it’s right. I asked Daniel what he would do if he had a prize horse or a pedigreed dog that was overdue.

  “Vets use Piturin, an artificial hormone, but I wouldn’t advise trying it on a woman. Blum says that in the hospital, when the patient has toxemia and they need to get the baby born, they use something similar, an injection of Methergine, but that’s definitely beyond the scope of a midwife.”

  Finally, I ask Bitsy. “What do you think? Ollie is about to be inducted into the army and sent off to the front. Ada is two weeks overdue and she desperately wants him to be with her in labor and get to see their baby before he goes.”

  “Is she contracting at all?”

  “Yes. She’s called me every evening, thinking it’s the real thing, but it stops in a few hours. One time she even showed up at the house and I did a
n exam in the Baby Cabin. Her cervix was thin, but she was only one fingertip dilated. I know she’s been having marital relations and I’ve told her to walk a lot . . .”

  “What about castor oil?”

  “The laxative?”

  “Most every family has some. A gypsy midwife I met in France told me it stimulates contractions.”

  “Do you just rub it on the abdomen or drink it or what?”

  “The woman drinks it and then the man rubs some on her belly and breasts. I know it takes a while, probably a few hours, to see if it’s going to work. Tell them three hours of the rubbing and to take three teaspoons of the oil every three hours.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “That stuff is nasty. Three times? She has to drink it three times and the massage goes on for three hours?”

  “Yes, three hours. Three’s the magic number. She can mix the castor oil with milk and honey.”

  “You aren’t putting me on, are you?”

  “Maybe a little,” says Bitsy. “But tell her three. That’s the magic number . . . Tonight’s Saturday, and Willie and I are going into Delmont for dinner with Mr. Cross at a fellow mill worker’s house, but if the baby comes on Sunday, call me, we can do the birth together.”

  Ada is as excited as a kid on Christmas when I tell her the plan. I use expressions like magic and old gypsy recipe to encourage positive thinking. The worst that can happen is she’ll get diarrhea and won’t go into labor, but it’s worth a try.

  “Oh, thank you! Thank you,” she says. “I just know it’s going to work.”

  The kids are tucked in and I’m just crawling into bed in my summer cotton gown when the telephone finally jangles. My husband is still downstairs listening to the news. “It’s now official,” the announcer declares. “The U.S. has recently defeated Japan in the Battle of Midway, halting their advance across the Pacific, a major victory.”

  When the phone rings, he turns the radio down and picks up the phone. “Daniel Hester,” I hear him say. “Just a minute, I’ll get her.”

  Ada

  Dan doesn’t even have to come get me. I think I know who it is and in a minute I’m in the kitchen holding the phone. “Hello!”