Once a Midwife

by Patricia Harman

  “You’re a midwife warrior, Patience. Remember that.” He places one hand on my heart and one hand on his. “You’ll protect our family. You’ll do it alone or with friends, but you’ll do it. And sooner than you know, we’ll be together again.” His hand cups my breast.

  And then I hold on as our two bodies race through the winds of change. Holding on. Holding on.

  September 6, 1942

  When You Wish Upon a Star

  Two more days of furious work and we almost have a full cellar. The shining canning jars of yellow corn line up like soldiers next to the green beans, tomatoes, and blackberries that we picked and canned this summer. Underneath the shelves of mason jars are the bins of potatoes, turnips, carrots, and beets. In the attic are the winter squash and the onions.

  There are still more green beans and tomatoes to pick before the frost, but Saturday morning Dan says over breakfast, “It’s time to celebrate the harvest. What do you think, kids? How about a movie?”

  I check our cookie jar in the pantry. There are eighteen dollar bills inside, and another seventy dollars is buried in a tin box under the willow tree. Though we planned to build Dan a vet office where he could see small animals on the farm, we never got around to it, and now I’m glad because in the coming months, without his income, we’ll need the money.

  “What’s playing?” Danny asks. “Not a girl movie or something with a lot of kissing.”

  Daniel and I look at each other remembering last night.

  “It’s a full-length Walt Disney cartoon called Pinocchio about a boy who lies.”

  “Okay,” Danny says. “If it’s about a boy . . .” His father ruffles his hair and whispers something in his ear.

  Later I ask Dan what he said. “That’s my man,” Dan explained. “I told him out in the barn that he needs to help you and try to make your life better while I’m gone. That also means not arguing about every little thing.”

  “And if the draft board forgets to have you arrested, will the children still be nice and help me anyway?”

  Dan smiles his crooked smile. “Probably not. Most likely they’d revert to hellions.”

  IN LIBERTY WE hurry through our shopping and meet under the marquee at the Eagle Theater. Mira is so excited she’s dancing on the sidewalk. “Oh, I just love Pinocchio!” she says. “I just love him!” She throws a kiss to the poster of the boy puppet on the front of the theater.

  “Settle down, honey,” Daniel gently reproaches her.

  Once in the theater, the cool dark closes around us and I feel more relaxed. The movie begins with the customary newsreel. A giant eagle flashes on the screen. Patriotic music fills the theater, and the audience cheers when bombs rain from a white U.S. fighter plane and smoke rises from a Japanese village below. This truly is a world war, and not one dead body in sight. I peer over at Daniel. I know he believes the newsreels are U.S. propaganda designed to stir up patriotic fervor.

  At last the feature film opens with Jiminy Cricket singing in a beautiful tenor, “When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you are. Anything your heart desires will come to you . . .” The green cricket, in a top hat, breaks into Gepetto’s cottage and discovers the wooden boy puppet. The kids are all on the edge of their seats and even Daniel laughs out loud . . .

  As the movie closes, Jiminy sings the theme song again. “When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you are. Anything your heart desires will come to you.”

  I reach over for Dan’s hand, thinking if I wished upon a star it would be that the war would end and things would go back to the way they were before Pearl Harbor. Unfortunately, Hitler still marches through Europe and he’s not going away.

  We leave the cool dark theater and enter the heat of early September. Willie, Bitsy, and Mr. Cross stand on the sidewalk. Now that I know she’s pregnant, I see under Bitsy’s sailor blouse the gentle curve of her abdomen.

  “Hi,” I greet them. “We just went to the movie.”

  “We saw you,” says Willie. “We were upstairs in the colored section. It’s great up there. You can see everyone. You can even drop popcorn on people’s heads.”

  “Willie!” I say. “You didn’t!”

  “No, but I could have.”

  Lou and Dan stand aside in a separate conversation and I put my arm through Bitsy’s. “That’s nice you could all sit together. I didn’t know they let white people up in the Negro balcony.”

  “They do now. Lou told Mr. Flanders that’s the way it was going to be. . . .”

  It’s then that I see them . . . three strangers dressed in gray suits and gray hats leaning on a black car, and the hair on the back of my neck stands up.

  The Long Arm of the Law

  As the three approach, the hot air goes still.

  “Daniel Hester?” one of the men says. Dan flashes his eyes at me and lifts his head, standing tall.

  “Yes.”

  “Are you Daniel J. Hester of Salt Lick Road?” the man says again. He has big ears and eyes that turn down. The eyes are not kind.

  “I am Daniel J. Hester of Salt Lick.”

  Bitsy takes my hand. Lou Cross moves closer to hear what’s going on. Suddenly, the two other men put their hands on Dan as if he might run.

  “What’s going on?” demands Lou.

  “This doesn’t concern you, sir. This is a federal matter; please step back.”

  B.K. Bittman and Lilly Bittman come out of the theater with their children and stop to watch. I look for Willie and Danny. They’re sitting on top of the Indian motorcycle, about a half block away, laughing about the movie and unaware of what’s happening.

  Mr. Linkous, the lawyer, who was also in the movie house with his family, stops and steps forward. “Excuse me, sir, I’m Dr. Hester’s attorney. And you are who?”

  For the first time, the lawman introduces himself. “I’m U.S. Federal Marshal Marvin Savage”—he flashes a gold badge—“and these are my deputies, Casey and Blackwell.” He indicates the other men, who have identical Clark Gable mustaches.

  “We’re here to arrest Mr. Hester for draft evasion,” Savage says loudly, as if announcing it to those who stand by. He pulls a sheaf of paper from his breast pocket.

  Gasps run through the crowd, like water overflowing the banks of the Hope. In the background, I hear whispers, “Draft dodger!” “Traitor!”

  Mrs. Stenger, the pharmacist’s wife, leans down to our daughters, who cling to my skirt. “Come on, young ones,” she says. “We’re going to my house to have ice cream.”

  Sunny and Susie know the Stengers well because they stayed with them for a few weeks after their parents died back in ’35. So away they go, skipping down the street, not realizing their father won’t be coming home for dinner tonight . . . or anytime soon. A block away, Gertrude stops for the boys. The kind woman, like the Pied Piper, is taking them all.

  “Now, if you’ll just come peacefully, Mr. Hester,” Big Ears says.

  “Can I say goodbye to my wife?”

  The marshal looks at the crowd. “No, that won’t be possible.” He pulls out a pair of handcuffs and grabs Dan’s arm, but Dan pulls away. Then the other two marshals yank his arms behind his back.

  “There’s no call for that!” Lou Cross growls, and tries to push them away. “He just wants to say goodbye.”

  The head marshal at this point pulls a gun and points it up in the air. “Everyone, back off!” he yells, but I stand by Dan’s side and I’m not going anywhere. “Mr. Hester, are you going to come quietly?”

  The sound of a siren stops the action like a broken reel at a picture show. It’s Sheriff Hardman, who pulls the black-and-white squad car up with a screech. “What the hell’s going on here?” he demands, jumping out. The lights are still flashing but the siren is off. “Put that gun back in your holster, man, before someone gets hurt. Who the hell are you anyway? If I have to draw my gun, I’m going to use it.”

  The marshal, moving very slowly, returns his gun to his shoulder holster and
pulls out his badge again. “I’m Federal Marshal Marvin Savage, from Alexandria, Virginia, here to take Mr. Hester into custody for draft evasion. These are my deputies. The suspected felon was resisting arrest and his friends were threatening us.” He hands a sheet of paper to Hardman, who looks it over. The crowd has grown larger now and people crowd in so they can hear.

  Dan stands expressionless. He catches my eye and we hold each other. I’m sorry, he whispers.

  The sheriff reads the document, scratches his head, and reads it again. “It isn’t draft evasion, Sheriff Hardman,” I boldly come in. “Dan is an American pacifist. He wrote the draft board a long letter. He knew he would have to pay a price, and he’s ready. All he wanted was a chance to say goodbye to me.”

  “Isn’t it customary to introduce yourself to local law enforcement when you ride into town like a cowboy, Savage?” the sheriff barks. “I would have appreciated a visit or a call, and this arrest could have been handled quietly. I know Dr. Hester well. . . . Now, stand back everyone and let the man say goodbye.”

  The crowd moves away, with a few teenage boys up near the curb chanting under their breath. “Draft dodger! Draft dodger!” Even Marshal Savage and his henchmen obey.

  As if this is the last time we will see each other, maybe ever, Dan and I throw our arms around each other. “I love you,” I say. “You are my heart.”

  A few minutes later . . . “Dr. Hester,” Sheriff Hardman says quietly, “It’s time.”

  38

  September 10, 1942

  No More Crying

  The first night Daniel was gone it turned cold. By the feed store thermometer in the barn it went from 76 degrees in the day to 56 at night. Bitsy and Willie slept over and at dinner we prayed for Dan, Willie taking the lead.

  “Our Father,” he said, bowing his head and reaching out his hands so that we all made a circle. “Take care of Mr. Hester, wherever he is. Keep him safe and let your light surround him. Amen.”

  “WILL PAPA BE back tomorrow?” Mira asks on Sunday morning, sitting on the sofa and hugging Three Legs, the big yellow lump of a canine who has become her special pet. “He said I could ride with him up on Spruce Mountain.”

  “I don’t think so, honey. Sheriff Hardman is going to telephone us when he finds out where the marshals took him.”

  “I could take you riding,” offers Bitsy. “It’s Sunday and I don’t have to work today.”

  “On the motorcycle?” Mira wants to know.

  “Well, I was thinking of a horse ride, but we could do a couple of loops in the cycle out to Hazel Patch and back. I could take two of you at a time in the sidecar. We can’t play all day, though. We have to help your mom on the farm, okay?” The mood gets serious again.

  “Do we have to go back to school in town?” Danny asks. “I don’t want to. I might get in a fight if someone says something bad about Pa.”

  “Me too,” says pipsqueak Mira. “I’ll beat them up if they talk mean about him. He’s a hero as much as a soldier, because he’s trying to do what he thinks is right.”

  “Mrs. Miller is teaching Elroy and Marvin Jackson in the old schoolhouse at Hazel Patch,” Willie interjects. “Maybe we could all go there.”

  I look at Bitsy. “What do you think? Our four kids, Willie, and the Jackson boys, that’s quite a lot. . . . It would be nice, though. Mrs. Miller taught at least that many in years past. Maybe she could get funding for the school from the county like before.”

  “We can ask,” Bitsy says. “What do you kids think? Would you like to go back to Hazel Patch for school?” The consensus is an overwhelming yes.

  “Let’s sing then,” Bitsy says. “This is an old spiritual my ma, Big Mary, taught me. Let’s sing for Daniel.”

  “Oh freedom, oh freedom, oh freedom over me! And before I’d be a slave, I’ll be buried in my grave, and go home to my Lord and be free!”

  “You think he’s okay, Bitsy?” I break in when she takes a breath. “You think they’re treating him okay? Prison is a hard place.”

  “Like Willie says, the Lord will protect him. Now another verse: No more weepin’, no more weepin’, no more weepin’ over me. And before I’d be a slave, I’ll be buried in my grave, and go home to my Lord and be free.”

  Our voices get louder. My voice gets stronger, as if Dan could hear me. “No more moaning . . . No more crying . . .”

  Bitsy stands up and waves her hands in the air as if we were in an old-time tent revival, and we all join her, almost dancing. “There’ll be singin’, Lord, there’ll be singin’, there’ll be singin’ over me. And before I’d be a slave, I’ll be buried in my grave, and go home to my Lord and be free!”

  September 12, 1942

  Draft Dodger

  LOCAL MAN ARRESTED FOR DRAFT EVASION the headline of the Liberty Times howls, and underneath is an article with a picture of Dan, taken two years ago when he was judging 4H sheep at the county fair.

  “Dr. Daniel Hester, Union County veterinarian, was arrested in front of the Eagle Theater Saturday by federal marshals for refusing to register for the draft and other crimes unknown. A crowd gathered, shouting ‘Draft dodger! Draft dodger!’ and Sheriff Bill Hardman was called to the scene to subdue violence.

  “Are you sure you want me to read this to you?” Bitsy asks. “It’s pretty awful.”

  “Yeah, go ahead. Thanks for bringing it over. I’d hate to go into town and see it for the first time on the newspaper rack at Stenger’s Pharmacy.”

  Bitsy continues.

  “According to Mr. Flanders, owner of the movie house, two hooligans took advantage of the chaos to steal Hershey Bars out of the glass case at the refreshment stand, but no other damage was done.

  “Mr. Hester, head down in shame, was taken away in handcuffs after Sheriff Hardman broke up the crowd by brandishing his gun.

  “Marvin Savage, the lead federal marshal, was not available for comment, but an unidentified witness said she overheard the lawman say he felt the draft dodger was a danger to the community and wanted him locked up as soon as possible.”

  “What a pack of lies. . . . Destroy it, will you? And anyway, Dan didn’t hang his head in shame.”

  Bitsy does what I say and throws the paper in the stove. “Lou’s sorry he can’t come to Dan’s sentencing tomorrow. He gave me the day off, but he’s the foreman and has to stay at the woolen mill. Are you going to bring the kids?”

  “I don’t know. It might be too upsetting.”

  “I think you should,” says Bitsy, stirring the flames to be sure that not a shred of the newspaper remains.

  “Maybe you’re right. They might not see their father for a long time.”

  September 13, 1942

  Day in Court

  In the morning, we all dress in our Sunday best and head out the door. To get to the courthouse in Torrington by nine we have to leave at six and we go in two vehicles. I drive the Olds with my children. Bitsy and Willie come with the Millers and Mr. Maddock in the Millers’ car.

  I’m surprised when we enter the three-story brick courthouse to see other people I know. Mr. and Mrs. Stenger are here, as well as B.K. Bittman. Mr. Dresher and his wife are sitting with Sheriff Hardman, who’s dressed in full uniform, complete with a tie and his gold badge.

  Judge Wade sits in the first row with a few other members of the Liberty draft board—Mayor Ott, Loonie Tinkshell, and Aran Bishop. Aran leans back on the wooden oak bench as if ready to enjoy a good show.

  A man in a brown tweed suit stands. “All rise for the honorable Judge Milbank,” he cries in a nasal twang.

  “That’s the bailiff,” Bitsy whispers. She stands beside me, with Danny and Willie to her right, the girls on my left.

  A very large man with a little mustache, heavy rimmed glasses, and a polka-dot tie enters the courtroom wearing a long black robe like a preacher. I study the forbidding individual, trying to read him, and decide that he’s stern, but going by his tie, has a sense of humor.

  The judge takes his plac
e at the bench high above us. Behind him on the oak-paneled wall is a round brass seal. FEDERAL DISTRICT COURT it says over an eagle that holds an olive branch in one claw and arrows in the other.

  Next, the bailiff calls for the prisoner and two guards bring in Dan. I’d anticipated seeing him in black-and-white stripes like a jailbird with a number stamped on his front, but he’s dressed in the clothes he was arrested in: brown slacks, a white shirt, and no tie. He searches the courtroom, finds us, and grins, but quickly wipes the smile from his face. Despite the polka dots, I suspect Judge Milbank won’t tolerate frivolity.

  After that, things blur as Mr. Linkous, Dan’s attorney, and the judge put their heads together. Twice I have to tell Susie and Mira to settle down. Finally, the judge turns to Daniel.

  “I understand, Mr. Hester, that you do not wish to dispute the charges of draft evasion.”

  “That is correct, Judge Milbank. I have intentionally broken the law as an act of conscience and I know there will be a price to pay. I only ask that I be permitted to present a short statement to the courtroom about why I feel I must do this.”

  “I’ll allow it.”

  Dan stands, turns toward the room full of spectators, and unfolds a piece of white paper. The flash of a camera goes off from the side, but there’s a hush in the courtroom and all eyes are on Dan.

  He clears his throat. “I’d like to read a simple statement about my pacifist beliefs so that Judge Milbank and my community can better understand why I’m willing to go to jail before I’ll cooperate with the institution of the draft.

  “I served in the Great War. In fact, I enlisted at eighteen and was a private in the Eighth Cavalry Division of the army. I fought and I killed, I’ll admit it. It was kill or be killed, but like every man filled with fear and fury, I also killed unnecessarily. I could have taken a young German man, about my age, as a captive. He laid down his gun, but I shot him. Another time I could have only wounded a man, but I stabbed him three times with my bayonet . . . and there were other experiences that convinced me that combat only makes us barbarians. It doesn’t solve problems.