Home Front Girls

by Suzanne Hayes

  Divide batter between two well-greased 9x5-inch loaf pans. Bake 45 minutes or until done. Cakes will be dense and will not rise much.

  Recipe makes two loaf cakes.

  August 1, 1943

  ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

  Dearest Rita,

  Reading your letter I could only think of one thing. Something Mrs. Moldenhauer (she’s asked me to call her Anna) said to me not a week before I received it. (And what is the matter with the post these days? I feel like it takes YEARS to get a letter, or to send one. And I live for your letters, Rita. Almost as much as I live for Robert’s. Maybe that’s because his don’t come on a regular basis and yours eventually do!)

  Anyway, she said, “Make sure you remember that you are always afraid, and that fear does strange things to people.”

  Now, it’s obvious what she meant about the “strange things” over here in my part of the world. She was talking about how I allow Levi into my life more and more these days.

  But we don’t have to talk about that right now, let’s talk about what’s going on in Iowa City. (Sometimes I feel like all I do is ramble on and on about myself without asking about you.)

  I guess you are afraid. More afraid than me, dear Rita. Because you have been married to Sal for so much longer than I’ve shared my life and bed with Robert. And your son? Please! Right now both of my children have little summer fevers (that’s why I’m able to sit and craft this LONG letter...they are both sleeping the afternoon away, my angels) and I’m worried sick over nothing. But to have one of them in harm’s way on a daily basis? I can’t even imagine the fear.

  So if fear makes us do strange things, then your whole experience that night was...well...warranted. In my opinion. I think you deserve the attention. And if it makes the time go by, if it makes the waiting easier? Well, then, my friend? Do what you need to do.

  Once everyone here is well, I might take myself up on my own advice.

  Before you judge me, let me explain.

  I am so angry at this war for taking Robert away. I know it sounds unpatriotic, but sometimes I just can’t help it. I am so damn angry that I’m here caring for our sick children, tending this garden all by myself. Levi and Marie can’t take his place. It’s a lonely, sick hole in my heart.

  I stare at his picture and try to remember the way the back of his neck smelled. How much I loved his hands enclosing mine. The sweet and tender way he kissed.

  And then there’s the other thing. In the twilight of the garden a few evenings ago, I engaged in something far more devious than your flirtations.

  We were just cleaning up after working in the garden.

  “Long day,” said Levi.

  “Yes, it was,” I replied. “Long but lovely.”

  “You are lovely,” he said.

  “I’m glad you think so.... Just look at me—I probably have dirt all over my face!”

  Levi looked at me and I knew in a heartbeat I was in trouble. He had that look on his face that he used to get when we were kids right before he’d do something silly.

  “Well, you could be dirtier...” he said as he reached down, picked up a clump of soil and threw it at me.

  “Oh, it’s like that, is it?” I asked, laughing as I grabbed one to throw at him, but he was running so I had to chase him out into the yard. We ran and finally I got close enough for a direct hit. He fell dramatically to the ground as if he’d been shot. I fell in a heap next to him and we were laughing and out of breath. The sky grew quiet as our laughter and breath steadied. And then he took his finger and placed it on the side of my forehead, and let it trace my whole face as if he were blind and trying to recognize me. And I should have stopped him, but I swear my skin had a life of its own and arched right out to meet his.

  When he brought his hand down we looked at each other for a second too long. We didn’t speak again. We put our tools away side by side in the garden shed and shut the door. That’s when Levi stole his kiss. He pressed me up against the shed. He didn’t even need to ask, or woo. He pressed my shoulders back and kissed me so hard that I had to pull rough splinters of wood out of my hair for hours.

  So different from Robert. So urgent.

  Oh, I knew I shouldn’t have, but it was exactly what I wanted right in that moment. Comfort. To be young and carefree again. To be taken out of this world for even a few seconds.

  Or simply taken back in time. Levi was the first boy to ever kiss me. We were eleven years old and Robert was called back from the beaches early because he had to attend a party with his mother. My parents were going to that party, too, but they wanted me to stay home. My mother and father always loved a night out to dance under the summer stars. And I wasn’t needed underfoot. Claire, on the other hand, wanted Robert with her all the time. Anyway, the sun was setting and Levi and I were skipping stones.

  “You sure are good at this,” he said.

  “Thank you, sir,” I said.

  “Are you mad you aren’t at the party?” he asked.

  “Not even one little bit,” I said.

  “You could be dancing with Robert.”

  “Ew,” I said.

  “Hey, he ever kiss you?”

  “Who?”

  “Robert.”

  “Nope.”

  “Can I kiss you?” he asked, like he was asking if I wanted a soda water. I think I simply looked at him and pursed my lips together. And I know I wasn’t expecting to feel anything... I mean, I was only eleven, and both he and Robert were my best friends in the whole world. But when he kissed me, stars lit up behind my eyes...and for the rest of that summer I thought I was in love. Robert said it was the most boring summer—watching me and Levi make googly eyes at each other. My mother put a quick end to that childhood romance as soon as his letters started arriving at Astor House from Rockport in the fall. “He’s not one of us, and you are nothing but a child. If you write back to him I won’t let you see him at ALL next summer, believe me.” And I did believe her, so I never wrote him back. I believed my parents with my whole heart. And I believed that if I listened well enough, behaved enough, that they’d notice me a little more.

  I’ve been looking at photographs of them (my parents) all afternoon. I’m tucking a picture of them in with this letter. That’s me when I was a baby. I look just like Corrine. Or she resembles me. How does that work, anyway? They looked so serious for well-off people, didn’t they? Sometimes I wish I’d known them better. Really known them. What they thought on the inside, behind all the gloss. I’m also including a recent picture of the kids and one of my wedding day. Isn’t Robert handsome? Please send me your picture, Rita. Maybe one of you and Sal and Toby all together? I’d love to put faces to all these names. Especially yours.

  I wonder what my mother would think about me now. Stockingless. Cleaning my own house and making my own food. (That recipe was divine, by the way. Send more!)

  I wonder if they’d be angry with me. Or disappointed. So much to wonder about.

  Oh, dear. There’s the baby. See what happens when I think I’ll get five minutes peace? Marie tries to soothe her, but this baby of mine wants me and only me. “Born into an insecure world,” says Anna. Maybe my mother’s ghost just pinched Corrine on her chubby thigh as a sign.

  Also, I’ve copied a recipe for you out of our local newspaper. Anna started a column to help women use their rations better. She’s an inspiration. Honestly. Enjoy!

  With much love,

  Glory

  Vegetable Scrapple

  (I don’t like the way the word scrapple sounds, do you, Rita? Doesn’t change the fact that it’s a satisfying dish, though.)

  Ingredients:

  ¼ cup finely diced celery

  ⅓ cup diced onions

  ½ cup diced carrots

  2 tablespoons diced green pepper (My fingers hurt from all the dicing!)

&n
bsp; 1 teaspoon salt

  3 cups boiling water

  1 cup wheat meal (Or corn meal. Even flour works as a thickening agent.)

  Preparation instructions:

  Add vegetables and salt to boiling water and cook until vegetables are tender (not too long or they’ll get mushy!) Drain; measure liquid and add water to make 3 cups. Combine liquid and vegetables and bring back to a boil. Add wheat meal gradually and boil 3 minutes, stirring constantly. Pour into greased 9x4x3-inch pan. When cold, slice and sauté in small amount of fat until lightly browned.

  If you want to, substitute 1¼ cups chopped leftover cooked vegetables for raw vegetables in above recipe. Or, if you prefer a little meat, you can turn to a recipe which extends the meat. (Serves 4 to 6, but keep it in the fridge and have lunch for a week!) I like it with gravy!

  August 2, 1943

  V-mail from Gloria Whitehall to Sgt. Robert Whitehall

  Darling Robert,

  How are you? I hope you are keeping yourself safe and warm. Everything is good here, so I don’t want you to worry about one little thing. The kids and I are fighting a little summer cold. Sweet Corrine looks so cute with her red nose! The garden is beautiful. I’m so happy I struck up this friendship with Rita. You remember, the woman from Iowa? She’s giving me such good advice about all sorts of things. Mostly it’s nice to have another woman who’s waiting and worrying to talk to. I know there are plenty of women in town, but there’s something about Rita. I trust her. I’m enclosing a current picture of Corrine and Robbie. See how fat she is! She’s such a delightful baby. We look at your picture every night. I’m trying to teach her to say, “Da Da.”

  Love and kisses,

  Glory

  August 8, 1943

  IOWA CITY, IOWA

  Dear Glory,

  My sunflowers have grown taller than me. They guard the house, like good soldiers, blocking me from the assault of Mrs. K.’s disapproving glances, but also from the sun, the sound of street traffic, the children playing hopscotch down the block. I’m cowering behind them, Glory, but you are not. Obviously your sunflowers have not reached the same heights. Or maybe you took hedge clippers to them? Or made Levi do it?

  I was surprised by the contents of your last letter, but not shocked. I tried to muster a fair amount of outrage, but it seems I already know you too well for that. Did it feel like jumping off a cliff when he kissed you? I imagine it did.

  I’m not one for cliff-jumping. You were right about the fear. It’s getting into everything—my thoughts as I make the bed, the fibers of my dress, the dust settling on our dining room table, the lettuce on my sandwich. It whispers in my ear as I tend the garden, calling “Sal” or “Toby” or, sometimes, my own name. I’m afraid, Glory. Afraid of what I read in the papers. Of not knowing if Western Union will deliver a telegram from someone I’ve never met, telling me my husband or son died on soil my feet have never touched.

  I’m also afraid of what I might do, that without my family I am unmoored and untethered, about to float into the horizon, never to be seen again.

  Is this weakness? I don’t know. The first time I read your letter I blamed Levi for catching you in a moment of weakness, the skips in the phonograph record where we forget who we are, no longer mothers or wives or citizens, but simply beings without a thought to the past or future, just the present. It sounds crazy, but I wanted to yell at him, to force him to give the moment back to you, so you could decide what to do with it. But then, you took it, didn’t you? You didn’t push him away.

  Which makes me want to yell at you. Why aren’t you hiding? Why aren’t you sitting in your front parlor, the windows darkened by the flowers planted with your own hands? Why are you kissing men on sunny days, your hair wild, your conscience untroubled?

  I’m sorry, Glory. My mind and heart are skipping beats. I’m looking at the photograph of your mother right now, holding her baby, and I can’t help but wonder that if she knew—if any of us really understood the nature of things at the start—she’d have scooped you up and run like hell.

  Rita

  August 9, 1943

  V-mail from Marguerite Vincenzo to Pfc. Salvatore Vincenzo

  Sal,

  Big news on the Iowa front: Irene has a beau. His name is Charlie Clark. He’s younger than our gal, but not by much, and probably 4-F, though he looks healthy as a horse. Flat feet, maybe?

  Irene and I still meet for lunch every day, but our movie nights at the Englert have been replaced with romantic rendezvous about which she is curiously tight-lipped. I don’t bug her for details. Instead, I’ve been spending my expanding free time at the American Legion helping Mrs. K. and her minions prepare for the massive canning campaign this fall. I hope some of it gets to you, hon. Should I slip a fiver in with the sweet corn? Maybe then you could get your hands on some cigs.

  Well, take care. Please write soon if you can.

  Miss you,

  Rita

  P.S. Now that you and Toby are ganging up on me, I’ll go back to the tavern to see how she’s doing. I did try once, but it was closed for inventory. Ha! I bet that Roy fellow can’t even count.

  August 28, 1943

  IOWA CITY, IOWA

  Dear Glory,

  After I sent that last letter to you I almost ran down to the post office to steal it back. But when I thought about digging through all those V-mails, burying myself under a mountain of hopes and fears and flop-sweat, well, I just couldn’t. I let my words go.

  And now I’ve offended you, haven’t I?

  I treasure Sal’s and Toby’s letters. When they come I breathe a little easier, and let myself think of the future.

  But when I receive a letter from you I make a pot of tea, and sit down with it like an old, dear friend. My life would be darker without them, Glory.

  Please write back.

  Sincerely,

  Rita

  Sept. 1, 1943

  Telegram from Mrs. Anna Moldenhauer to Mrs. Marguerite Vincenzo

  MESSAGE FROM GLORY. ALL FELL ILL WITH FLU. IN HOSPITAL. CORRINE AND GLORY RECOVERING WELL. ROBBIE CRITICAL. PRAYERS.

  A. MOLDENHAUER

  Sept. 2, 1943

  Telegram from Mrs. Marguerite Vincenzo to Mrs. Anna Moldenhauer

  HEARTBROKEN. SENDING PRAYERS. HOW CAN I HELP?

  M. VINCENZO

  September 5, 1943

  ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

  Dear Rita,

  I have no adequate way to begin this letter. I must have started six times. Thank God we’re timber-rich here in America and our paper isn’t rationed. Not yet, anyway.

  I suppose I must begin the way my heart wants me to begin. With an apology. I’m so sorry, Rita. I’m so sorry I asked Anna to send you that telegram. It was a selfish thing to do. In my defense, I was so sick. And Anna was kind enough to bring me my mail. When I read your letter I realized I was still too weak to pen a whole one back. But I was frantic to let you know that I was not, in any way, offended by the stern words in your previous correspondence. As a matter of fact, they were just the words I needed to hear. So my only thought was to send word as fast as I could and explain my tardy response.

  It was only when I sent Anna off with my message that I realized what a telegram delivery would do to you. How your heart must have stopped. I can be a selfish, silly twit. I hope you will forgive me. I’m sending this letter off with extra postage for priority mail. I hope it gets to you quicker than the others.

  How kind you were with your telegram back to me. And I didn’t have to shoulder the same moment of horror you must have felt, because my Robert was right next to me when it was delivered. We’d only just returned home from the hospital with Corinne and we met the delivery boy on the road. Robert’s gotten an emergency leave. He can stay with us up to thirty days. Can you imagine?

  And I’m so sorry about my last letter and all tha
t it held. I can’t even recognize the woman who wrote it. I am almost convinced that my wantonness lured that horrible fever straight to us. I sound like Robert’s mother...but with Robbie still so ill, I can’t help but think it was all my fault, somehow. We were all diagnosed with scarlet fever, Rita. Evidently there was an outbreak in Boston that came here on some unlucky wind. Corrine was the least sick. Anna tells me it is one of the best reasons to nurse our children. They stay healthier that way. I believe her, and knowing I could do something for one of my children helps me stay sane. Robbie’s fever was worse. And then he contracted rheumatic fever. The fact that he’s alive is a blessing...but he’s so pale. I can’t really speak of it any more right now. He’s had to stay at the hospital. I can’t stand the thought of him there without me.

  Corrine is almost completely recovered and we’ve been assured by the doctors that with her, at least, there will be no lasting damage. I’m still weak, but each day I grow stronger. It’s better now that we’ve been at home. This house is connected to my soul, I swear it. It’s breathed new life into me.

  Right now I’m sitting on my side porch, Rita. Robert has tucked me (using too many blankets) into a wide wicker love seat and I’m watching him in the garden with the baby. She’s bundled up, too, but he’s carrying her like he’s done it all along. He has an easy way with her already. I’m watching them through a curtain of grape leaves trimmed into a circle. A natural window onto the world. Their leaves are so broad and strong. I can see their veins pulsing with the autumn already. Having him home makes me whole, Rita. And it makes my skin itch to think of that day by the shed. I can’t even look at it. I’d like to paint it red.

  Levi came over, but was sullen. When he left, Robert turned to me. “What’s the matter with him?” he asked.

  I wanted to tell him. To confess. And I opened my mouth fully prepared to tell the truth, but instead I used your words.