But I have to admit I’m also warming to Mrs. Moldenhauer herself. She’s written short stories featuring Robbie as the main character to keep him entertained. And she has this powder-white hair piled up on top of her head. I think she’s a liberal Democrat. And guess what? She’s also some sort of preacher! Keeps trying to get me to come to her church in Gloucester. But I steer clear of religion and politics.
I only wish Marie cooked better, but thankfully I’ll be up and around and off this stupid “REST” soon. Robbie misses my chicken soup. Keeps asking for it, the sweetheart. I’ve been making it with chicken feet lately. I really have. It tastes better, I think.
What about you? I took your last letter with me to the hospital and read it over and over.
When I close my eyes I can see your place. So open. Almost like the ocean.
With love (And peace soon?),
Glory
April 11, 1943
IOWA CITY, IOWA
Dear Glory,
Congratulations on the birth of Corrine! How blessed you are, and how brave.
The thought of you waking up to your husband holding his new daughter had me smiling for days. I don’t believe in miracles, Glory, but sometimes there are moments when everything seems to line up in the right order. I’m so happy your family was together for such a momentous occasion.
The blanket that accompanies this letter was knitted with Mrs. Kleinschmidt’s best light wool. I told her it was for the Red Cross, so she didn’t give me the business about using it. Don’t worry about the lie—I did my penance by sitting with Mrs. K. while she wrote her twelve daily V-mails to enlisted men who would probably rather receive letters from Mussolini. In between missives she told me, quite frequently, that I hold the yarn incorrectly and my shoddy technique would give me arthritis in my old age.
I hope Corrine likes it, even if it is green.
So, Miss Glory, I have some news myself. A letter from Toby came yesterday! He’s still stateside, but will ship off to the Pacific soon. Yes, he’ll be halfway around the world from Sal. I think Toby naively assumed Uncle Sam would drop him into his father’s lap in North Africa. To be honest, I was hoping that, too.
Toby predicts he’ll be granted some form of leave before shipping out, possibly as much as three days. He plans on coming home, even if for just a few hours. I told Toby I’d meet him halfway if it meant we could spend more time together. And what else is there to do in Ohio but drink coffee and chew the fat?
At the bottom of Toby’s letter was a message for Roylene. It said: “Send me the recipe.” That’s it. At first I thought, maybe he doesn’t know her all that well. And if he did, why wouldn’t he write to her on his own? But then it hit me—it’s a code! Maybe I’ve been going to the movies too much, but I’m his mother and I know when something’s up. I’m going down to see Roylene at the tavern this week to see what this business is all about. Don’t worry, I’ll be real sly—a regular Sam Spade.
Well, I can’t wait to hear all about your victory garden. Digging in the dirt will help you reclaim your figure in no time. I’m about to head out to give my soil a good flip. I just saw Mrs. K. leave, and I want to get it done before she returns or I’ll be pulling double-duty.
Take care of yourself,
Rita
P.S. I’ve taped a dime to this letter so Robbie can go to the drugstore to buy a candy bar or two with his OWN money. Big brothers need their sustenance!
April 25, 1943
ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS
Oh, dearest Rita,
Thank you so much for the lovely blanket. I wrap Corrine in it every day and think of you. And Robbie loved having money of his own. It went straight into his piggy bank (he’s so like his father!)
When I was a little girl, I used to cherish having money of my own, too. My father’s family was and still is very wealthy. My father was probably the smartest man in America during the crash. He was smart all around. I wish I’d known him better. But money can do that to a family, make them strangers. There’s something closer about a family that struggles together. A bond. I watched the difference between me and Robert and then Levi, growing up. Robert and I came from another world.
We were summer people in this town. Wealthy and comfortable. And then there was Levi. Working-class and a year-round resident. But his family was so, so close. I used to wish his mother was my own. She never sat back on the shores and watched us from a distance under lace umbrellas. She always jumped into the waves next to us. And she collected “mermaid toes” (little peach-colored glittery shells shaped like toenails). Her name was Lucy and she died when we were all eleven years old. I try to be like her every day.
This war has been what I like to call “the great equalizer.” I feel comfortable living here in our summerhouse. And I don’t feel above or below anyone. Women and men, too, are acting as if they both have things to give to society. Everyone has a straight back as they walk through town, as if we are all carrying the pride of a country. It’s good to feel like that.
Enough about the war. Let’s talk about my garden!
My garden is just lovely. I have all sorts of herbs and vegetables starting. Lettuce is already coming up. I can’t wait to see it in full bloom. My hands are fairly caked with dirt each day and my apron, too. I love it. I love feeling the earth on my skin.
Now, your mystery girl and Toby are obviously saying something in code to each other. But what? Oh, it’s like reading a novel. Keep me posted on this!
With hope of peace in the near future,
Glory
May 2, 1943
V-mail from Marguerite Vincenzo to Seaman Tobias Vincenzo
Only Son,
I think there is a distinct possibility surrounding yourself with all that water has done something to your Midwestern brain waves. She’s a stranger, Toby. The thought of being stuck in a train car with someone incapable of making declarative sentences is enough to send me running for your father’s bourbon.
But...fine. If it’s really important to you, then I will ask her to come along. If we end up staying at a motel, she will bunk with me and I’ll pay for your very separate room. Am I making myself clear?
I don’t feel comfortable doing any of this without speaking to her father first. Yes, yes, I do realize you are both adults, but crossing a birthday marker doesn’t require anything but the ability to wait for time to pass. It doesn’t prove much.
See you in Ohio.
I love you.
Your ma
P.S. I am not a carrier pigeon. If you want to write to this girl, then write to her, and vice versa.
May 9, 1943
IOWA CITY, IOWA
Dear Glory,
I’ve just returned home after a lovely Mother’s Day mass at the aptly named St. Mary’s. As I watched the darling young schoolgirls bring their floral offerings to the statue of Our Lady, I thought of you. I hope you are adjusting well to a new baby in the house, and this letter finds you well. If the world can’t be at peace, then maybe you can find a little in your living room.
Now... I have so much to share—hold on to your hat....
First, I finally received a letter from Sal! Large sections were blacked out, but I was able to piece together enough of it to know that he is fine. Sal’s primary responsibility is sewing up wounds (which is pretty funny, as he grew up in the back of his family’s tailor shop on the west side of Chicago). Some of the other guys wrote Stitch on his helmet, and the nickname has stuck. At least, he told me, they didn’t write Old Man.
Getting his letter was like Christmas morning and my wedding day rolled into one. It’s amazing what a few lines on a V-mail can do for a person. The worry doesn’t stop, but, to borrow a military phrase, it retreats in the face of its enemy, which I guess is hope. Sal’s taking care of himself, and besides the end of this war, that’s the most I can ask for.
I’ve heard from Toby, as well. I’ll be seeing him next month, when his leave is granted. We’re meeting halfway, in Columbus, and it looks like he’ll have a full forty-eight hours to visit.
If you sense a certain lack of enthusiasm in my words, then you really are starting to get to know me through these letters. I am remarkably unenthused. Toby requested I bring Roylene with me to Ohio, and—believe it or not—I’ve agreed. Yes, I will be sending my son off to war with that skinny gal standing next to me blubbering away. I was about to refuse, but this is what my son wrote in his last letter: “Ma, don’t you always say to never walk away from an opportunity to do a kindness? Well, here’s a golden one. Be nice to Roylene.”
The thing is, I don’t always say that. Sal does.
I have no idea if Toby’s interested in this girl or if she’s his charity case du jour. My husband and son have always been suckers for the underdog. Not me. We’ll see what happens.
Give those little ones a kiss,
Rita
May 11, 1943
IOWA CITY, IOWA
Dear Glory,
I’m in a mood today. Writing to you probably isn’t the best idea, but I’m going to do it, anyway. Will you still write back if I reveal a few blemishes on my character?
I’ve just finished picking slugs from my garden. Most satisfying thing I’ve done in a while, watching those vile things drown in a cup full of sudsy water. I’m a menace to all the living today. The reason for my destructive state? Guilt. It makes me mean. And I’ve been feeling guilty as hell all morning.
Yesterday I finally got around to visiting Roy’s Tavern. I did try once before, when Toby’s first message for Roylene came. That evening, she was taking the garbage out when I approached, and I flattened my back against the wall so she wouldn’t see me. I watched her struggle with the bin’s lid. A bottle fell out and hit the pavement, bits of glass rolling every which way, but I stayed where I was while she ran back into the tavern for a dustpan and broom.
Roylene cleaned up every shard, slowly and methodically, as though the act was the only thing in the world she was meant to accomplish, as though she’d been placed on God’s green earth to do that, and only that. She had no reason to hurry. Her life is set. She could have been eighteen or eighty.
The sight of her filled me first with sadness and then a strong sense of revulsion. There should not be a place for Toby in such a life. If he hadn’t been about to ship off to war, would my son have reached out to someone like her? Shouldn’t their relationship—or whatever it is—be another casualty of history? I practically ran from the tavern that night, with no intention of going back.
I do realize how this sounds. I suppose I am a snob, but please see me as a mother who wants the best for her child. If it makes any difference, I did make a genuine attempt yesterday to discuss the Ohio trip with her father.
I talked Irene into going with me, figuring she’d keep me from changing my mind. We arrived at the tavern at the lunch hour, and only a few older men sat drinking their meals at the bar. The interior was a picture of gloom, none of the early-spring sun filtered through the dirty windows. Irene gave me the eye, but I made a quick peace with the mission to accomplish, and nudged her forward. We scooted our bottoms onto a pair of bar stools and ordered two ginger ales and a corned beef to split. The barman, short and skinny with a shock of white hair atop his head, gave us the once-over.
“Who’re you?” he demanded.
I figured this was the eponymous Roy. I introduced myself and mentioned Toby’s admiration of his establishment and my acquaintance with his daughter. The man leaned over the wooden bar, his clay-colored eyes boring into mine.
“We don’t serve Krauts,” he growled. “I told your son as much.”
My mouth fell open so hard my chin nearly landed in my lap.
“Pardon me?” I asked.
“You heard me,” he said. “Get the hell out.”
Irene yanked me off my seat and we did leave—not too fast, mind you, and with our heads held high. We stood on the sidewalk outside Roy’s for a minute, our shock rendering us momentarily speechless.
Irene wanted to take a walk around campus to clear our heads and find something to eat. “Wait,” I told her, and I marched right back in that tavern and up to that horrendous man. “My son the Kraut is fighting for you,” I said, and, oh, boy, was it hard to keep my voice level. “You should be thankful.” And then I did get the hell out of there because my legs were shaking like gelatin.
By the time I got home, Irene and I had rehashed the experience so many times it stopped making my heart pound and I could just laugh. What a creep!
I put my key in the door, and all I could think about was what a kick Sal would get when I told him the story. Then I stepped into my living room and realized I was alone. I wanted to cry. Instead, I turned right around and headed over to Mrs. Kleinschmidt’s. A fellow German, I figured she’d appreciate the story and, I figured, if she ever ran into Roy he’d rue the day.
Mrs. K. sat at her kitchen table, with approximately one million V-mail letters open in front of her, painstakingly copying the same message on each one. It struck me as ridiculous, and though I shouldn’t have, I said, “Why do you make yourself crazy over this? You do enough for the war effort.”
Glory, her look could have froze a lake in the middle of summer. “Ich bin Deutscher,” she said.
“My family is German, too,” I countered. “What does that have to do with it?”
She returned to her letter writing. “You have an enlisted husband and son to secure your reputation as a good American. I do not.”
“You can’t be serious,” I said.
Mrs. K. drew herself to standing and slammed one hand on the table, sending the papers in all directions. “Du bist eine dumme Frau!” she spat.
And you know, she was right. I am a stupid woman. I saw Mrs. Kleinschmidt every day, yet I never recognized her fear, so distracted I’ve been with my own petty concerns.
I helped her clean up the kitchen floor, and then I let myself out. I went to bed that night feeling shamed. Is my quickness to judge the sign of a small mind? How little I understand of the world. Why haven’t I been paying attention?
This afternoon I’m going to purchase two train tickets for Columbus, Ohio. Adjoining seats. Lord help me.
Love,
Rita
May 13, 1943
V-mail from Gloria Whitehall to Sgt. Robert Whitehall
Darling Robert,
How are you doing? I miss you like crazy. And the baby? She misses you, too. Even though I know you won’t believe me. Babies know...they do! Anyway, I’m taking lots of pictures like you asked. Robbie told me to tell you that Corrine spit up on his favorite bear. I’ll let him know you think it’s tragic. I was happy to read, in your last letter, that you’ve come to your senses and admitted that I was right. It’s better for us all in the Rockport house. And I know you like us being closer to Levi. And thank you for that bit of romance you gave me. We certainly do belong near the beaches where we fell in love. I cried and cried when I read those words. (Happy tears.) I told Levi to fix the latch on the gate as you asked. And you were right. Robbie is wild now that Corrine is born. He would have run straight into the ocean. Thank you for always taking good care of us.
Love,
Your Ladygirl
May 16, 1943
ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS
Dear Rita,
Two letters from you in one day! They feel so solid in my hands. That’s such a nice feeling with everything so faint and weightless around me now. And the truth is, I’m beginning to wait for your letters with bated breath. They are like talismans for me.
How awful, being treated like that. I can’t imagine. I’m not German but, it seems to me, American is American. That man should be punished.
I told Mrs. Moldenhauer all about
it. She’s been coming over even more since Corrine was born, and I’m growing quite fond of her. She said, “Obstinate thinkers will be the ruination of Freedom.” I remember it verbatim because it was just so...profound. I’m not political at all. Or religious. Is that terrible? I suppose I should begin to believe in something, so I can give tradition to my children. I simply haven’t decided what to believe in. I went from debutante to war bride. Maybe Mrs. Moldenhauer can teach me a thing or two.
She even convinced me to go to that church of hers last Sunday. I took Robbie, but Corrine stayed with Levi because Marie was at the “service,” too. He’s been such a help around here. When Robert left for Sparta, we saw him off together at the station. It seemed only fitting. I mean, the three of us have been thick as thieves for as long as any of us can remember. And Robert’s last words before he left were to Levi, not to me. “Take care of my family, Lee,” he said. “You know I will,” said Levi. And so far, he’s made good on his promise. Anyway, Mrs. Moldenhauer’s church isn’t like any church I’ve ever been to, Rita. It’s full of women talking about peace and love. More like a movement than a sermon. Mrs. Moldenhauer is a feminist! Can you believe it? An old lady like her? And a member of some sort of socialist party. I have to admit I felt a little guilty as my heart rose with her words. My father was a staunch Republican whose favorite saying was “Damn the Democrats!”
I might go again.
I’m glad you got V-mail from Sal. I just got one from Robert, too! Maybe everyone is getting letters this month. That would be nice. There’s so much blocked out on them, though. I don’t know if he’s still stateside or not. It kills me.
I have to tell you that I’m so happy you will bring that skinny girl with you to see Toby. Though I understand your reservations. I look at my sweet Robbie and wonder how I’ll feel when he takes to a girl. Then again, Claire Whitehall doesn’t like me. I think I’ve told you that. But what you don’t know is that she hasn’t liked me since I was a little girl. It has less to do with ME and more to do with my own mother, who she deemed inappropriate. New money and all that.
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