by Robin Wells
My heart ached for the women who were about to discover that the babies they’d given life to no longer lived.
The wind cut me, stealing my breath as I pushed through the heavy metal door and stepped onto the deck. Heloise and I were the only women outside. The rest were staying warm and, more importantly, protecting their hairstyles—most of us had rolled our hair the night before and were doing everything possible to look our best for our husbands. It was very difficult, with the bathroom situation as disgusting as is it was. With my short hair and natural curls, I was less worried than many of the others.
We sailed right past the Statue of Liberty. Oh, she was a beautiful sight, so large and stately and tall! I thought we were going to stop there—I had read that Ellis Island was the entry point for all immigrants—but we kept going and sailed straight into New York Harbor. As the wives of servicemen, we had special visas.
People were already milling around on the dock, waiting for the ship. Lots of men, a few middle-aged couples and some families—in-laws, no doubt, anxious to meet their new daughters-in-law. My heart turned over. Oh, how lucky these girls were, to have loving husbands eagerly waiting to welcome them to America!
“Do you see your husband?” Heloise asked me.
“No.” I didn’t expect to—not until the afternoon, at any rate. The instructions had said that we would disembark some time after noon. “Do you see yours?”
“No. But I don’t want to look yet. I want to get myself glammed up before he sees me.”
“And if you don’t see him, he won’t see you?”
She laughed. “Something like that.”
We hurried below deck and packed up the last of our things. We went to breakfast, but not many of us could eat. Seasickness still dogged many of us, and excitement had dampened the appetites of others.
The previous evening, we had been given instructions for disembarking.
“You are to gather in the dining hall,” a Red Cross official had told us. “We will use a loudspeaker to announce your names as your husbands arrive. No one will be allowed off the ship unless your husband or a family member is here.”
“Pardon.” A bride I did not know raised a tentative hand. “What if a husband is delayed and he cannot send someone else? What happens to the bride?”
“I am sorry, but in that event, the woman must stay on the ship and return to France.”
Every woman moaned.
“I am afraid that will happen to me,” Stephanie murmured.
Surprised, I turned to her. Her eyes were wet with tears.
“The last time my husband wrote, he said perhaps we had made a mistake. I wrote to him, begging him to give us a chance. I told him things would be better in America, that I would be a good wife—but I fear he will not come.”
“Oh, you cannot seriously think this!” Heloise said.
“I do. I do, and . . . I’m afraid.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I—I was ashamed. And I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Do you know anyone in America?” I asked.
“I have a cousin in Florida.”
“Well, then—we must get you to her.”
“But first I have to get off the ship.” Tears rolled down her cheeks.
I handed her a handkerchief and helped her pack up her things. We pulled our suitcases and our belongings into the dining room, where we waited as name after name was called. The names were in random order—apparently they were called according to the order that the husbands signed in onshore.
“Mrs. Bradley.” The name resounded over the ship’s loudspeaker. “Mrs. Ronald Bradley.”
“That’s me! That’s my Ronnie!” Heloise said excitedly.
I gave her a hug. “I’m going to go up and watch you join him.”
“Oh, me, too!” said Stephanie. All of the brides from our room, except for the stuck-up one who had not become any friendlier, did the same.
We went to the railing and watched. Heloise made her way down the gangplank. About halfway down, she apparently caught sight of her husband, for she waved, smiled madly, and began to trot, her hugely pregnant belly going before her.
“She better be careful or she’s going to trip!” Stephanie said.
A man in a black suit and tie picked her up off her feet and swung her around, despite her size. He handed her flowers and kissed her, then picked her up again.
“She’s a lucky devil,” sighed Stephanie. “No question her husband wants her here.”
“Yes.”
“What about you, Amélie? Do you see your husband?”
I looked out over the sea of people, my heart tight and anxious. I didn’t want to say it, but I, too, had questions about whether or not Jack would come. His life would be far easier if he just did not show up.
But I was fairly sure, even though I had only seen him a few times, that Dr. Jack O’Connor was a man of his word. After all, he’d gone to a church to convey the confession of a dying man, hadn’t he? And he’d provided Christmas gifts and other items for Elise. And he’d gone through with the marriage, hadn’t he?
Yes, he would be here. I was certain of it.
But poor Stephanie! We went back inside and sat side by side, each of us trying to quiet our fussing babies, but the children seemed to pick up on our nervousness—especially her poor baby. He wailed and wailed inconsolably. Our wait was punctuated by going outside to see off the remainder of our roommates, then sitting again, on pins and needles, listening to the names being called.
We were down to about fifty brides remaining in the waiting room when, finally, around four-thirty in the afternoon, it came. “Mrs. O’Connor. Mrs. Jonathan O’Connor.”
“That’s you!”
It took me a moment to recognize my name. I rose, picking up Elise. I hugged Lucia and Stephanie good-bye.
“I hope I’m not going back to France,” she said.
“I’ll speak to Jack and see if we can do something to help,” I said.
I hurried down the gangplank, trying to see over the head of the sailor ahead of me, who was carrying someone’s bags. As I neared the end of the slanted board, I saw him—tall and handsome, his dark hair freshly cut and shining in the sun.
I lifted my hand. He did the same. I rushed toward him, then stopped abruptly, suddenly unsure of how to greet him. We awkwardly exchanged la bise. He smelled like aftershave and starch, and the scent of him made my heart flutter. I reminded myself that he did not know I spoke English.
“Bonjour,” I said, feeling like a tongue-tied idiot.
“Bonjour. Bienvenue aux États-Unis.”
“Merci.” I was aware of how weirdly stilted and formal we were with each other, especially when surrounded by the effusive greetings of the other couples.
Jack gave Elise a wide smile. “Hello, little one,” he said in French.
She regarded him somberly, then broke into a wide smile. He smiled back.
“She remembers you,” I said.
“Do you think?”
“Yes.”
“Did you have a good trip?”
“Oh, Jack—it was . . .” My eyes suddenly filled with tears.
His forehead creased in concern. “Is something the matter?”
I didn’t want my first words to be a complaint against his country’s treatment of us. I shook my head. “It was very tiring.”
“I’m sure! I hear you ran into some bad weather. Is this the only bag you have?” He lifted my battered brown suitcase.
I nodded.
“Well, then, let’s go.”
“Wait.” I put one hand on his arm, then quickly withdrew it. Touching him made me feel very self-conscious and nervous. “I’m worried that one of my roommates won’t have anyone to meet her.”
“What?”
“She said . . . her husband seems to have had a change of heart. The last note she got from him, he said he thought their marriage was a mistake.”
“And she came anyway?”
“Yes. She has a baby, and she didn’t know what else to do. But the Red Cross told us that if a husband or the husband’s family doesn’t show up to meet one of us, well, then that bride won’t be allowed to get off the boat. So, Jack—do you have a friend here? Someone who could pretend to be her husband?”
His eyes widened. “You want me to ask a friend to lie?”
“Jack, you have no idea of the conditions.”
“I know it’s bad in France, but . . .”
“I don’t mean in France. I mean on that ship.” The words came tumbling out. “Jack, the toilets didn’t work after the first week. There was human waste all over the floor. There was no ballast on the boat and everyone was seasick. There weren’t enough buckets for the vomit. And the babies who drank formula—oh, Jack, I saw six of them dead.”
“What?”
“In the infirmary. I took a friend whose child was nearly dead from dehydration. The doctor was drunk, and I saw six dead babies on ice, lying in coolers under pillowcases . . .”
He looked at me as if I were mad. “That ship is operated by the U.S. military. Do you realize how ludicrous this sounds?”
“Yes, yes, I know, but it is the truth. I fear my roommate’s baby would not survive the trip back. Do you have a friend who can say he is her husband?”
“No!” His eyes flashed with indignation. “And if I did, I would never ask anyone to commit that kind of deception.”
“Well, then, perhaps you can say you are her husband’s cousin. She has a cousin Florida. If we can just get her off that boat . . .”
“Attention, please,” came a woman’s voice through the loudspeaker. “We have a few women who as yet have not had family claim them. Is anyone here for Mrs. Nat Spencer, Mrs. Cyril Freud, Mrs. Arthur Smith, Mrs. Jules Tervot, or Mrs. Sherman Rolls?”
“That’s her! Mrs. Sherman Rolls. Stephanie Rolls. You must help her.”
“I will not lie. And frankly, Amélie, I’m appalled that you’d ask that of me.”
I realized I had made a grave error in judgment, but I didn’t know what to do. “Well, we can’t just leave her and her baby on the ship.”
“This is a matter for the officials to handle.”
“She needs our help. Please, Jack.”
He blew out an exasperated sigh, then turned and stared at the ship. “Take Elise into the terminal and get her warm,” he said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
I headed into the terminal. From the window, I watched him talk to the Red Cross worker on the gangplank. She would not let him aboard, but she signaled a crewmember, said something to him, and the crewmember went inside the ship. I waited an hour, alternately sitting on my suitcase and walking Elise. I watched Jack talk to a ship’s officer. I left my perch at the window once to go change Elise’s diaper, and when I came back, I saw Jack talking to yet another Red Cross worker.
At length Jack returned, threading his way through the thinning crowd in the terminal.
“Well?”
“Your friend’s husband came and collected her.”
“Oh, how wonderful!”
“Apparently he’d had a case of cold feet, but he got over it. They were billing and cooing like a pair of turtle doves.”
“I’m so relieved!”
“I suspect she might be in for a tough time, though. He had a black eye, and he reeked of whiskey.”
“Well, at least he came for her, and she’s off that ship. That’s the important thing.”
His blue eyes regarded me somberly. “I have to say, Amélie, I’m shocked that you asked me to lie like that.”
“Jack, if you had seen the conditions on the boat, you would have done anything to get her off it.”
“I asked the Red Cross representative about sanitation on the boat, and she said everything was shipshape.”
“Of course she did! They won’t want it known how badly they bungled things.”
“I asked to speak to a ship’s officer, and the bursar came down and talked to me. He said things got a bit bumpy during the storm and there was a lot of seasickness. He also said that several of the foreign women didn’t have the best hygiene, and that their children fell ill because of it.”
“It was not the hygiene of the women! He is lying to you!”
“He knew nothing of any dead babies.”
“I saw them, Jack!”
Jack blew out a hard sigh. “Well, if what you say is true, it will come out soon enough.” There was an iciness to his voice that had not been there before, and it filled me with grim foreboding.
He didn’t believe me. The irony of it all—that he had believed my lies, but not my truth—left a bitter taste in my mouth. “I suppose it will.”
He picked up my bag. “Well, let’s get going.”
Elise cried at the shock of the cold wind and the loud noises of traffic as we left the terminal. I held her close as Jack hailed a cab.
“What is the address of your aunt’s home?”
“It’s 1926 Fairster Street. I believe it’s in an area called the Bronx.”
Jack gave the address to the cabdriver in English, and the taxi pulled away from the curb.
—
New York had much more traffic than Paris, and the city seemed to go on forever. The skyscrapers were so tall that they made the streets seem like canyons. I gazed out the window in awe, then turned my attention to Jack.
“How was your flight over?” I asked. I knew from our conversations in Paris that it would be his first time on an airplane.
“It was very pleasant, thank you. Very exciting. It’s a wonderful way to travel.”
“And did you muster out?”
“Yes—finally. I was discharged last week.”
“Have you talked to your fiancée?”
“Just briefly. I will call her again tonight, then head to Louisiana as soon as I get you and Elise settled.” He twisted toward me and cleared his throat. “I have done some checking. We must be established residents in a state in order to get an annulment.”
“Oh?”
“I’m a resident in Louisiana. It will take six months there.”
“Oh, la!”
“It will take less time in Reno or Las Vegas, Nevada. Only six weeks.”
“I see. Is that near to New York?”
“No. It’s not near Louisiana, either.”
My chest tightened. “I am sorry if this is a problem.”
He lifted his shoulders. “Six weeks is not long in the course of a lifetime. All in all, it is a small price for bringing Doug’s child to America.”
“I hope your fiancée sees things that way.”
“I do, as well.”
“So you haven’t told her about . . .” I started to say our marriage, then thought better of using those words. “. . . about the way you’re helping us?”
“No. It is the sort of thing I need to tell her in person.”
“So what do you write to her about?”
He lifted his shoulders. “Ordinary things.”
“Such as?”
“The weather. Medical cases.”
“And what does she write to you?”
“News about what she’s doing, about the town . . . but mainly questions about the wedding. She is dying to set a date. Apparently her mother has reserved three different dates at the church and the country club.”
“Oh, la.”
“I have tried to explain, in vague terms, that I want do additional medical training in Reno before we marry. I can do that while I wait for the annulment. She suggested we get married first, so she can come with me to Nevada. I must se
e her to explain.”
“I understand. “
“Here we are,” the cab driver said.
The cab had stopped beside an empty lot filled with rubble.
“Where?” Jack asked.
“Right there.” The cabdriver pointed to what looked like the remains of a demolished building. “That’s the address you gave me—1926 Fairster.”
My stomach lurched. “This can’t be right.”
“Please wait for us,” Jack said to the driver.
I got out of the cab, holding Elise. My knees felt like pudding.
“This is the only address you have?” Jack asked.
“Yes.” I handed him a piece of paper with the names and address of Yvette’s aunt and her husband. “This is it.”
Jack took my elbow and led me across the street, into a small grocery store. “Is that 1926 Fairster Street across the street?” he asked the man behind the counter, who wore a butcher-style apron.
“Yep,” the man replied.
“Can you tell us what happened?”
“The building burned down about six, seven months ago.”
“Do you know where the residents went?”
“Oh, pretty much all over.”
He glanced at the paper. “We’re looking for Angelique and John Brown.”
“Oh, yes. We knew them.” A short woman wearing a white apron over a bright floral dress walked up from the back of the store. “She was French, right?”
“Yes.”
“They moved out west.”
“The west side of the city?” Jack asked.
“No. To California or Washington or Oregon or somewhere.”
“Do you know what city?”
“City?” the man laughed. “Hell, we don’t know what state.”
“Do you know anyone who could tell us?”
The woman frowned thoughtfully, then shook her head. “All of their close friends were in the building, and they’ve all moved way.”
“Do you know if the Browns belonged to a local church? Did the children go to school?”
