I chew on my lower lip, holding in what I’m thinking. Well, are you loyal? I want to yell. Do you care about this country or just your precious ideals?
Dan pulls back the covers. “Come to bed, honey,” he says in his quiet way.
I stand, shaking my head no. I would cry, but instead I get out my journal, sit in the rocker, and begin to scribble. For over ten years we have been best friends, lovers, husband and wife. We have had conflicts, but they were always minor.
Now our differing points of view about the war and registering for the draft seem fundamental. It’s about duty and loyalty, family and home. It’s about stopping Hitler.
Once Daniel Hester was my rock; now he’s the slime under the rock. I’ve been knocked off my feet, pulled underwater, and I’m lost in the rapids of the Hope River.
July 17, 1942
Win One for the Gipper
July has not been good for the crops. It’s stormed in the afternoon every day for two weeks, and the tomatoes and peppers are blighted. I can’t get into the garden to weed because of the mud and I’m afraid by the time the soil dries out, the carrots, beans, winter squash, and potatoes will be choked out by plantain, sheep’s sorrel, and ragwort.
July has not been good for the Allies either. Edward R. Murrow tells us on the radio that so far this month, German U-boats have sunk ninety-six of our ships and Billy Blaze reports in the Liberty Times that German troops are marching toward Stalingrad, a major industrial city on the Volga River. Control of Stalingrad would effectively cut off most of Russia from ports on the Caspian Sea and enable the Nazis to control the oil fields of the Caucasus.
“Look at this,” Daniel says one morning as he pores over the paper. “Mr. Flanders at the Eagle Theater is offering another free movie today. This time it’s Knute Rockne: All American with Pat O’Brien and Ronald Reagan. It was a big hit a couple of years ago.”
“Can we go, Pa? Can we? Can we?” all the children want to know. I lean over to get a look at the ad and put my hand on Dan’s shoulder, noticing his warmth. There hasn’t been much touching lately. “What’s the movie about, anyway? Is it suitable for children?”
“Oh, Mom. Everyone knows about Knute Rockne and the Fighting Irish,” Danny says. “Knute’s a football coach from Notre Dame. He won a lot of games and invented some great plays.”
“He was a football coach,” Dan adds. “He died in a plane crash about ten years ago. The movie’s supposed to be inspiring.”
“Do you girls want to see a movie about football?” I ask doubtfully.
“Will there be cartoons?” Susie wants to know.
“I’m sure there will be,” Dan says.
According to the newspaper, the free movie starts at three P.M., but we aren’t sure if that’s the feature film or the shorts, so we get to the Eagle at 2:30 and the uniformed usher finds us seven seats together with ease. Will is with us and he sits between Danny and me.
“Did you see the soldiers at the train depot?” Danny asks Will. “Boy, do they look sharp! I’d love to be going off to war right now. I want to be a pilot.”
“Me too,” says Willie.
“Some of them were even colored soldiers,” Danny whispers.
“Yeah. So what?” Will asks.
“I just never saw a brown-skinned soldier before.”
“You think they can’t fight? Bitsy’s a fighter!” Willie slashes back. “Negroes are probably the best fighters! Ever hear of the Harlem Hellcats in the Great War? Ever hear of Jack Johnson, the heavyweight champion? Ever hear of Jessie Owens? He won four gold medals at the 1936 Olympics right in front of Hitler’s stupid face. All colored men.”
“Negro men are drafted and volunteer just like white men, Danny,” his father whispers. “There’s even a school for colored pilots at West Virginia State University, in the southern part of the state.”
Suddenly, without warning, the lights in the small theater dim, the blue velvet curtains open, and a serial short, Flash Gordon, comes on. All the children are on the edge of their seats. Mira is so excited she’s standing in the aisle and I have to pull her into my lap. The twenty-minute segment ends with a cliffhanger. Will the Wicked Queen kill Princess Aura? Or will Flash Gordon save her life?
Next there’s the cartoon Goofy’s Glider, where the gangly dog of unknown breed tries to build his own warplane using an instruction book. I look over and notice that Daniel is laughing out loud and I almost get tears in my eyes. I haven’t heard that laugh for days.
Finally, just before the feature film, the newsreel comes on. “The British Sink the Bismarck!” the announcer shouts with glee, and the audience erupts in cheers. The film shows rough ocean waves splashing up on the bow of a German warship while a military band plays in the soundtrack.
“With the help of an American seaplane,” the narrator crows, “the Brits locate the pride of the German fleet, the Bismarck, and torpedo it!”
In the short film, British sailors are cheering on the deck of their ship and half the moviegoers are too, including my children. “Killer Diller! Sink the Nazis!” Danny yells, and I roll my eyes.
What’s interesting to me is that when the German prisoners of war are marched across the plank from the wounded Bismarck onto the British ship they all look the same as our sailors. They could be young men from West Virginia, Pennsylvania, New York, or anywhere in the U.S.A. Not one has a little mustache like Hitler. Not one has fanatical eyes.
Finally, with fanfare, the main feature comes on. As Dan told us, it’s the life story of All-American Knute Rockne of Notre Dame. I don’t remember much of the plot except when the star football player, George Gip (played by heartthrob Ronald Reagan) dies. I’ll tell you, I couldn’t see Dan’s face, but the rest of us were wiping our eyes.
And then there’s the scene, near the end, when Coach Rockne gives his team a pep talk in the locker room. “None of you ever knew George Gip . . . It was before your time. But you know what a tradition he is at Notre Dame . . .” There’s a faraway look in Coach Rockne’s eyes as he remembers the Gip’s deathbed words . . . and then he looks in the faces of his team and says, “Sometime, when the team is up against it, and the breaks are beating the boys, tell them to go out there with all they got and win just one for the Gipper. . . .”
Of course, at the end of the movie, the Notre Dame team wins and the whole audience stands and applauds! The funny thing is, we were cheering for something far more important than the Notre Dame football team.
I imagine the coach saying to our soldiers, When the U.S.A. is up against it, and the breaks are beating the boys, tell them to go out there with all they got . . . and win one for our old Uncle Sam!
31
July 20, 1942
We Interrupt This Program
We felt the blast just after breakfast while the children were playing out in the yard and though the chickens had not been fed, I herded the kids back into the house and began to barricade the windows. Bombs, I thought. It’s finally happened. The war has come to West Virginia!
“Is it the Nazis?” Mira wanted to know. “Is it the Japs?”
“Sit down and be quiet, all of you. Your pa is out on a call. He will know what to do. Just sit down and be quiet.”
“Can we turn on the radio?” asks Willie, who stays with us most summer days when his mother is at work.
“At a time like this, you want to listen to The Lone Ranger? No! We have to listen for bombers and maybe go down in the root cellar. I can’t tell how far away the blast was.”
“No. I meant the news, Mrs. Hester. Maybe there’ll be an alert or something from the air-raid warden.”
“Oh,” I say, realizing the boy’s more level-headed than I am. “Okay, then, but turn down the volume so I hear if there are any more bombs.” I go to the front door imagining low-flying planes with swastika signs painted on the undersides, but there’s only the sound of wind in the maples and a honeybee in the blue chicory growing next to the porch.
“Anything?” I
turn back to the living room to see Susie and Sunny hiding under the quilt with the flying goose pattern, and Mira, Danny, and Willie kneeling on the floor next to the radio.
“I can’t find the station out of Torrington,” Danny says. “There’s nothing but static.” This is not good, I think. Maybe Torrington was bombed. Maybe the enemy has taken over the radio station and cut off communication.
“Try the one out of Wheeling,” I suggest. Danny does what I say and as the Andrews Sisters sing “I’ll Be with You in Apple Blossom Time,” an announcer breaks in.
“We interrupt this program with news just in from Torrington, West Virginia. An explosion at Stewart Munitions Plant rocked the city and surrounding countryside at nine this morning, destroying the factory, the adjoining railway yard, the nearby radio station, and much of the south end of town. Hundreds are feared dead and windows were broken as far away as Liberty, West Virginia.
“The mayor of Torrington has ordered all roads into the area guarded so that military personnel and medical workers can get to the scene. Stay tuned. We will update you on further developments. And now back to the Andrews Sisters.”
“Do we know anyone who works at the munitions plant?” Danny wonders.
“Sally did work there, but thank God she joined the Women’s Army Corps instead. She had a friend from high school who worked there, though . . . I hope she’s okay.” Then the phone rings and I run to answer it.
“Honey! It’s Dan. Is everyone okay?”
“Dan! Not even a broken window here, but what’s going on? Where are you?”
“Isaac and I were on our way back from a vet call, but we stopped at a phone booth in Oneida. I called because they need help in Torrington, doctors and nurses. Becky is joining us in her auto.”
“Oh, Dan. It must be the Japanese or the Germans. Do you have to go? The radio out of Wheeling said there might be more explosions. Shouldn’t you wait until everything’s stable?”
“When will that be, Patience? If I wait, more people will die.”
“You’re right. Just don’t get killed or hurt. Okay? I love you.”
“I’ll do my best.”
I picture the crooked smile of the man I’ve been so angry with. He may not be patriotic enough to fight for his country, but no one can say he’s a coward.
“Stay close to the phone,” he continues. “Don’t go out, except when you and Danny milk the cows, and then have the girls sit in the kitchen in case I call. I’ll be home as soon as I can. I love you too.” Then the line goes as silent as a root cellar in winter.
“Are the Nazis coming?” Sunny asks.
“I’m scared!” says Mira.
Susie just stands there in a puddle of her own pee.
“Oh, honey! Sunny, get me a towel.”
As soon as I have the mess cleaned up and Susie in clean panties, I call the kids back into the living room. There have been no recent updates on the radio, so I turn it down to a whisper.
“Pa won’t be home for a while,” I tell them. “He’s going to Torrington with Dr. Blum and Becky to help the injured at the munitions factory. They don’t know what caused the explosion yet, so it could be enemy sabotage. He says we’re to stay in the house and he’ll call us again when he can. Meanwhile, I’ll read you a story and we can take turns listening to the radio to see if there’s any more news.”
“Could the enemy already be in West Virginia?” Will asks.
“I don’t know. The explosion could just be an accident. Mira, can you get my copy of Hans Christian Andersen? Let’s read to keep our minds off our troubles.” I open my worn book to “The Tinderbox.” That seems appropriate.
Waiting
Twenty minutes later, Danny whispers, “Quiet! More news about the explosion.” Then he turns up the volume.
“We interrupt this program again to report on the ongoing story about the attack at the Stewart Munitions Plant in Torrington, West Virginia. William Blaze, from the Liberty Times, is at the factory now, and he tells us by phone that the explosion rocked Torrington early this morning, shattering windows for miles and destroying the facility that has been running three shifts a day since the attack on Pearl Harbor.
“So far thirty-nine bodies of workers, some as young as sixteen, have been recovered from the warehouse, but another twenty are missing under the rubble and presumed dead. Hundreds of others have been injured in other buildings.
“Mr. Blaze was able to interview the owner of the factory. According to Mr. Stewart, the cause of the explosion is still unknown, but sabotage by German operatives is suspected. Military personnel are still searching for any suspicious timing devices that could indicate enemy involvement.
“Meanwhile, the mayor of Torrington has closed the city except to medical personnel and the National Guard. And now back to our regular programming . . .”
“So is Pa safe?” Mira wants to know.
“Yes, I think so. He’s a very brave man to go and help. Remember that, no matter what anyone says. Your father is risking his life to save people he doesn’t even know.”
War Zone
It was awful” are Dan’s first words as he collapses into a chair at the kitchen table after midnight. “Like a war zone. Bodies torn apart, some almost unrecognizable. I haven’t seen anything like it since the Great War. They’re estimating fifty-three dead now, but there will be more.”
“The news out of Wheeling said hundreds dead,” I tell him, standing there in my red silk kimono.
“That was an early estimate, and you know how journalists sensationalize. Not that they needed to in this situation,” Dan says.
“Did they find out what happened, whether it was the work of German spies or if the explosion was from something else?” I pour us both a cup of valerian tea to soothe our nerves.
“The owner of the plant, Mr. Stewart, wants us to believe it was sabotage, but there’s no evidence. It’s to his advantage to blame it on the enemy.” He lowers his head in his hands. “Better than taking responsibility for some manufacturing malfunction.”
“You want some food. Did you eat at all?”
“I’m not hungry now. Okay if I take my clothes off here and you put them right in the washer? I don’t want the kids to see all the blood. It looks like I’ve been butchering hogs.”
When Dan is clean and dressed we go out on the porch. It’s a warm night and there’s only the sound of the creek gurgling over the stones and tree frogs singing. He stares out across the moonlit lawn at the sunflowers along the rail fence and sighs.
“What are you thinking about?” I ask the man who tonight seems like a hero.
“Well, there was this one woman whose arm was blown off. I worked as Blum’s surgical assistant while he sutured the main artery to stop the bleeding, and then the ambulance took her to Boone Memorial. I hope she made it. We had to do it without anesthesia, but thank God she fainted so it wasn’t too bad.
“Another kid, maybe nineteen or twenty, had burns over two-thirds of his body. I had morphine in my vet bag, so Becky gave him an injection and sent him on. By this time the National Guard had mobilized, so we were basically just doing triage.
“The dead were laid to one side in a row and the soldiers came and hauled them away. It was just like the war, Patience. Finally, doctors and nurses were sent over from the hospital, whoever could be spared, and we got down to minor injuries, cuts, and concussions. One fellow couldn’t remember his own name.”
Daniel yawns and stretches his strong, tanned arms up toward the three-quarter moon hidden by the black lace of maple leaves. “I swear, Patience. The world has gone mad.”
In the morning, Dan sits down at the piano. “Fairest Lord Jesus, ruler of all nature . . .” I sit down on the bench beside him. This is a song I know.
“Fair are the meadows,” we harmonize. “Fairer still the woodlands. Robed in the blooming garb of spring, Jesus is fairer, Jesus is purer, who makes the woeful heart to sing.”
“Is your heart woeful, Daniel
Hester?” I ask, putting my head on his shoulder.
He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “You know that it is, Patience.”
“Schönster Herr Jesu,” he continues the song in his grandparents’ tongue. “Herrscher aller Herren, Gottes und Marien Sohn!”
“Daniel!” I exclaim. “For heaven’s sake . . . singing in German! Someone might hear you. Have a little sense!”
“Okay, okay, Nervous Nelly. How come I’ve sung German songs all these years and now it’s verboten?”
“You know why! Because I don’t want people to think you’re sympathetic to the enemy, that’s why. In the last war people got tarred and feathered for that.”
“How about I just speak German to you in private, in bed. I’ve done it before. . . .”
“Not funny. I’d feel like I’m sleeping with a spy.”
“Do you love me, Patience?”
“You know I do . . .”
The teakettle whistles and I run to the kitchen. When I come back, I want to ask him what will become of us if he continues to oppose the draft, but Daniel is on to a different hymn.
“This is my song, O God of all the nations. A song of peace for lands afar and mine.” The words of the tune are copied on a sheet of lined paper in Dan’s handwriting.
“A new one? Who wrote it? You?”
“No, I heard it when I went to Philadelphia to visit the Quakers . . . My country’s skies are bluer than the ocean,” he continues. “And sunlight beams on cloverleaf and pine. But other lands have sunlight too, and clover, and skies are everywhere as blue as mine . . .”
32
August 5, 1942
The Red Cross Quilt
Today, I prepare to go to town for the Red Cross meeting. Though the last one I went to was uncomfortable when I spoke up for the soldier who shoved his hands through the window, I’m determined to stick with it and not let women like Mrs. Wade and Mrs. Goody turn me away.
Before leaving, I open our little yellow sugar-rationing book to count the remaining stamps. The kids brought our first sugar book home from school in May. I’d been expecting it. U.S. imports from the Philippines have stopped and cargo ships that used to bring it from Hawaii have been taken over by the navy. The nation’s supply of sugar has been reduced by more than a third and military personnel get first dibs. To prevent hoarding and skyrocketing prices, the government issued “War Ration Book One.”
Once a Midwife Page 18
