by Dean Hughes
At Trafalgar Square she had intended to catch the Underground, but the thought of going home still didn’t appeal to her, so she kept walking, now along Haymarket to Picadilly Circus. As always, the place was full of soldiers–especially Americans. Most were on leave, and at this hour of the day they looked like tourists, but at night the West End always turned wild, the pubs and Soho brothels filling up as the cinemas and theatres emptied out. Drunkenness seemed the most appealing state for these soldiers. They were kids, for the most part, and they were far from home. To Anna there always seemed something pathetic in their merrymaking, as though they were just going through the motions, behaving the way they thought soldiers on leave were supposed to behave. They should have been back in Iowa or Oregon or Texas, holding down jobs, or farming, maybe married to their high-school sweethearts and starting families.
She had already walked a long way, and she knew her mother would wonder about her, but the day looked imposing, so Anna kept going. She took her time, gazed into shop windows, watched people on the streets. Some buildings had been razed; others were damaged and boarded up; but London was functioning. She followed Regent all the way to Oxford Street, and Oxford to Baker. By the time she reached her building, she was worn out, but even then she hated to go inside. Still, she trudged up the stairs and used her key to enter the flat. When she did, her mother immediately called from the kitchen, “Anna, where have you been? I’ve been worried about you.”
Anna stepped into the kitchen, but she didn’t answer.
“Are you all right?” Frieda Stoltz asked, in German.
“Yes. I’m fine.” Anna was trying to use English with her mother–to help her learn.
“Where have you been?”
“Walking.”
Sister Stoltz came to Anna, put her arms around her. “Oh, Anna. I know how hard this is.”
Anna gave up the English and said in German, “All over the world men are having to leave their wives. I’m only one of millions. How can I feel sorry for myself?”
“If millions have sore hearts, that doesn’t mean your heart hurts any less.”
They were standing in the kitchen, and the bright light was filling the room. Anna was thankful for that. At least this wasn’t one of those gray London days, like so many that lay ahead. “But I can do this. I’m not weak.”
“You’re the strongest girl I know.”
“No. I don’t think so.” Anna finally stepped away from her mother. She wanted to go to her bedroom.
“With Peter gone from us, you’ve kept me going, Anna. If it weren’t for you, I would sit at this kitchen table and cry all day.”
“No you wouldn’t, Mama. You’re stronger than any of us.” The little kitchen smelled of boiled potatoes, of cabbage, from the night before. For so many years the Stoltzes had gotten by on very little. Times were not much better for them now, even though Brother Stoltz was getting paid to do some translating for the SIS–the British intelligence agency.
“I hope Peter is the strongest,” Sister Stoltz said. “He will have to be.”
“He is strong. He’ll be all right.” But Anna was not actually so sure of that. When the Stoltzes had escaped into France, Peter hadn’t made it across the border. A day never went by without her wondering where he was–or whether the Gestapo might have found him.
“Alex will be all right, too,” Sister Stolz said. “God brought the two of you together. It’s what he wants.”
Anna walked to the hall that led to her bedroom. “I’m going to write Alex a letter,” she said. She had promised to write every day, but she hadn’t planned to start already. The idea to do so was mostly an excuse to go to her bedroom, to be alone.
“Yes. That’s good. He’ll want to hear from you as soon as possible.”
So Anna went to her room and closed the door. She needed to change her clothes. She knew Alex loved her dress–the one with the daisies in the print–so she wanted to keep it nice for him. But she sat down on her bed, and she wondered whether her mother was right, that God wanted Alex to come back to her. In the early days of the war, while hidden in the Hochs’ cellar in Berlin, she had pleaded with the Lord that she could come out into the light of day and find her way to Alex. Those desires had been granted; she had to remember that and be thankful. She needed to remember, too, that it was she who had wanted to marry and not wait. She had told Alex that if she lost him in the war, she could wait through mortality so long as she knew she would have him forever. But now, sitting here alone, forever seemed very far off.
Finally she got up and changed. Then she got her stationery from her dresser drawer. She sat in a wooden captain’s chair by the window, in the pleasant light, and she placed the writing paper on her lap, with a German/English dictionary underneath for a writing surface. She knew she would need the dictionary to check her spelling–and sometimes just to think of the right word.
“My Dear Alex,” she wrote, and without warning, tears filled her eyes. She leaned back to keep them from dripping onto the paper. She told herself she didn’t need to cry, and then she dipped her pen into a little bottle of ink and began her letter:
I watched you go away from me today, and only then did I know what it would mean. You are half of me now, and I don’t know how to live, only half myself. Do you know what I try to say? I want you to feel as I do, and also I don’t want it. I want no pain for you the same.
Alex, do not worry about me. After today, I will be fine. I will make myself busy. I will trust and hope, and I will think good thoughts of you. In those bad years when we could not write letters, I always believed we would see each other again. This time is better. We can know each other’s thoughts. Please write me every day. Please tell me what you think about. And then we are together. Then I am not only half myself.
It is a sunny day in London. I walked a very long time, all the way home from the train station. All that time, I felt very sad. But now I feel a little better. That is because I can tell you I love you, and I know you will have my letter soon. In bed tonight, I will miss having you close to me, but I have already found more happiness than many do in a whole life. I am thankful for that, and I say to you auf Wiedersehen and I love you. I will write again tomorrow and will not be so sad by then.
With all my love,
Anna
A few days later, Anna got a letter from Alex. She took it to her room and opened it carefully with a little penknife. What she read was what she wanted so much to hear:
Dearest Anna,
I got your first letter today. It meant so much to me. Your English was great, but don’t feel that you have to write in English if it’s easier to say what you want to say in German.
I guess I’m back in the swing of things. We have some new boys in my squad who seem like pretty okay guys, though awfully young, and of course, it was great to see Curtis and Duncan and the other men. Lieutenant Summers is the company commander now, which is great. He’s the best soldier I know. He and I sat down and chatted for a while yesterday. He feels like we’ll be heading into the action before very long. I think I’m getting myself ready for that. At first, I didn’t want to be here, and that’s all I could think about, but I know that this war has to be fought, so we might as well try to get it over with. I don’t like anything about war, but I don’t see any way out of it, either. Sometimes I want to avoid going back into battle, but if I don’t go, some other guy has to, and why is that right?
Anna, I understood exactly what you meant in your letter. This life here in the camp doesn’t seem right to me. I go through the motions, but I feel as though I’m not really here. Part of me is with you–the best part of me. Men are odd creatures when no women are around. It’s like they lose touch with everything cultivated and refined. I see it in myself. I never felt so good in my life as I did during that time we had together on our honeymoon. I want to come back before too long and feel that way forever. Maybe that isn’t possible–not entirely–but I know I will always be a better person w
ith you than I am away from you.
Some think the war in Europe will end by Christmas–or even sooner than that. Maybe I’ll make a jump and get pulled out, and then it will be over before I have to go back. Let’s hope and pray we’ll be back together before very long at all.
If our regiment doesn’t get pulled out right away, I can possibly get a pass for a weekend. I’ll let you know if that can happen. Maybe I’ll see you soon. Until then, know that I love you. I lie on my bunk at night and long for the touch of your skin, and all day little glimpses of you jump into my head. You really are the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen; that isn’t just something I say. And you’re also the best–so considerate and good, so strong and wise and funny. God must love me very much to have given me you.
Love, Alex
Anna read the letter over and over. Each time she told herself she would put it away, but she could occupy herself only a few minutes, and then she would open it and read it slowly once again. She read it all evening, then awoke in the morning and read it one more time in the early light of day before she got out of bed.
***
Bea Thomas was sitting at the kitchen table. When she had come home from the plant that afternoon, she had found a letter from Anna, her new daughter-in-law. It was a touching letter, full of love for Alex, and love for the Thomases, whom she had never met. Sister Thomas could hardly stand to think that this lovely girl lived in London, so far away, where the two couldn’t even meet each other. Sometimes Sister Thomas worried that Alex would not return from the war, and he would never have a chance to have children with Anna–and the Thomases would never know this girl as part of their family.
Sister Thomas heard footsteps on the stairs, and then, in another few seconds, looked up to see her daughter Beverly step through the door into the kitchen. “Look. This is from Anna,” she told Beverly. “It’s all in English, and just so sweet it breaks your heart.”
Beverly took the letter from her mother and sat down at the table. Sister Thomas watched her as she read. By the end, there were tears on Beverly’s cheeks. “I wish I could meet her,” she said. “She looks so pretty in those pictures Alex sent.”
“She sounds nice, too, don’t you think?”
Beverly nodded.
“She’ll be here one day, Bev. And she and Alex will have beautiful babies. I just can’t wait for that.”
“Me too.”
“What’s wrong, honey?”
Beverly looked across the room. The refrigerator had just kicked on, and it was vibrating noisily. The Thomases were luckier than many, to have a refrigerator, but the old thing wasn’t cooling very well anymore, and there was no way to buy a new one. “Do you know Janet Pedersen?” Beverly asked.
“I know Vivian–her mother.”
“Janet’s brother, Lowell, died in the war. He got sick from being in the jungle.”
“Did the Pedersens take the news really hard?”
“I don’t know. Janet didn’t come to school today. Our teacher told us.”
“Maybe you ought to go see her.”
Beverly seemed surprised. “I don’t want to,” she said. “I wouldn’t know what to say.”
“But if you wrote her a little note and took it over to her, I’m sure that would mean a lot to her. You’ve been through it, so you understand how she feels.”
Beverly seemed to consider that, but she didn’t respond. Instead, she asked, “What happened to that friend of Wally’s? Mel? I heard you talking about him with Dad last night.”
“He’s home. He’s all right. He got his leg hurt quite bad, and he has to use a cane for now, but he’s finished with the war, and he’s going back to college. He stopped by to see us at the plant, and we had a nice chat. He’s happy to be home.”
“What hurt him?”
“He was with the engineers, in France. He was helping build bridges and things like that. I guess one of his partners stepped on a land mine, right next to him. The other boy was killed.” Sister Thomas knew exactly what Beverly was worrying about, and she didn’t want that. “Have you got a lot of homework tonight?” she asked.
“No. I already did it.”
“Your dad has to work late. What do you say we go to a show?”
“Really?”
“Maybe we can get LaRue to go with us. What’s playing over at the Marlo?”
“Mom, it’s Wednesday. We never go to shows on weeknights.”
“Well, then, it’s about time we did. Go look in the paper. See what’s playing. If we have to, we’ll go downtown. Maybe we’ll even eat out tonight.”
“Eat out?” Beverly was grinning. She was beginning, lately, to look more grown up. Sister Thomas had noticed she was finally starting to “develop.” The two of them had already had their little talk about the way a girl’s body would change during puberty–and Sister Thomas had tried to be a little more open than she had been with Bobbi or even LaRue. But Beverly had an innocent quality about her, so different from LaRue. She never talked about boys, never pleaded to go to dances, and she had too little of what LaRue possessed in abundance: self-confidence.
Beverly found the newspaper in her father’s office, where he had read it early that morning. She and her mother spread it out on the kitchen table and turned to the movie section. They were looking at their choices when they heard LaRue come through the front door. Beverly called out, “LaRue, do you want to go to a show? On a Wednesday night.”
LaRue walked around to the kitchen. “What’s going on?” she asked, obviously surprised.
“We’re going out on the town,” Mom said. “We thought we’d kick up our heels a little.”
LaRue laughed. “I’m going to the club,” she said. For the past few months LaRue had been volunteering at the United Service Organizations club–the USO, as people called it–downtown in Salt Lake City, not far from the train station. She would usually go two or three times a week. President Thomas wasn’t very excited about the idea, but LaRue made a big thing out of “working for the war effort,” and it was hard to argue with that. What worried Sister Thomas was that LaRue might let her school work go if she went to the club too often. School had only started the week before, on September 7, but already LaRue had seemed rather lax about her homework.
“Oh, come on, LaRue,” Beverly said. “Couldn’t you call and cancel? You did that once before.”
LaRue smiled. “I don’t know. What’s playing?” She was wearing a pretty pleated skirt, red and blue plaid, with a red V-neck sweater and a white blouse. It was typical dress for the girls at school, but LaRue, with her pretty coloring and her striking hazel eyes, made any outfit look dazzling.
“Cover Girl is playing at the Marlo,” Beverly said. “Rita Hayworth and Gene Kelly.”
“I’ve seen it,” LaRue said. “What’s playing downtown?”
“Hey, this sounds good,” Beverly said. She giggled. “Manhunt at the Rialto. Listen to this.” She read from the paper, “‘Teenagers! Bold as their scarlet lips, reckless as their racing young blood–heedless of danger–disdainful of consequences!’”
“That sounds good,” LaRue said. “I’ll bet Mom would like it, too.”
“I don’t think so,” Mom said, but she was laughing. “Here’s what sounds fun to me: Greenwich Village, at the Centre Theatre. Carmen Miranda. Don Ameche. William Bendix. In technicolor.”
“Oh, Mom, those Carmen Miranda shows are so stupid. Her and her fruit basket for a hat.”
“Yes, but it’s”–she looked down to read–“‘a footloose, frivolous, fancy-free musical, full of fun and fascination!’”
LaRue rolled her eyes, but Beverly said, “Come on, LaRue. It’ll be fun. We’re going to eat out, too.”
“I know what I’ll do,” Sister Thomas said. “I’ll call Grandma Thomas. Maybe she’ll go with us. We’ll make it a night out with the girls.”
“If Grandma will go, I will,” LaRue said. “She’s more fun than both of you two put together.”
As i
t turned out, Grandma Thomas was only too happy to go along. She even offered to drive her car. She and Grandpa didn’t drive much these days, so they usually had gasoline rationing coupons to spare. Mom sent LaRue upstairs to do her homework, and then at six Grandma Thomas picked the “girls” up in her Hudson. It had been a new car just before the war, and it still looked like new now. Sister Thomas only worried about Grandma’s driving. She seemed to forget what she was doing when she got talking, and she drove way too fast.
Grandma wanted to eat at the Hotel Utah, and she had dressed accordingly. She had on a black crepe dress with a fancy little silk peplum around her trim hips. But Sister Thomas knew, even if they could get in without a reservation, they would never have time to eat at the Empire Room–not if they were going to get the girls home at a decent hour. So they settled on doing something Beverly loved–and Grandma could hardly believe. They ate at the lunch counter in Woolworth’s.
LaRue and Beverly ordered hamburgers and vanilla malts, and Sister Thomas had her favorite, a “hot sandwich”: an open-faced roast beef sandwich, with mashed potatoes, and with gravy over everything. Grandma ordered a club sandwich and a Pepsi Cola, and then whispered, “Bea, don’t tell Al that I sinned tonight. I think I need a little pick-me-up.” She was being a good sport about eating at the counter. It never seemed to cross her mind that anyone might think it strange she would be there in her expensive black dress–with her black gloves and purse and her hair cupped at her neck in a Lily Daché net.
After the waitress took the order and walked away, Grandma said, “Wasn’t she a pretty young woman? I wonder who her parents are? I’ll have to ask her.”
“Grandma,” LaRue said, “you don’t know everyone in Salt Lake anymore. It’s getting to be a big place.”
