I need to find my moment here inside this life with them. I need to leave all those other things behind and look to the future.
We all do. Right? Our whole country needs to do that. I suppose I’m in good company!
This year, after taking time to emulate you, dear Rita, my mother-in-law and myself have formed a tentative friendship. And I’m giving her the highest of all honors by sharing her sweet potatoes with you. Claire never cooked a day in her life, but her cook, Nancy, swears by these. We’ll see!
Sweet Potatoes
4 to 6 sweet potatoes
⅔ cup dark corn or maple syrup
1 orange, sliced
½ teaspoon grated orange rind
2 tablespoons butter or margarine
⅓ cup chopped nut meats
¼ teaspoon salt (to bring out the sweetness!)
Peel sweet potatoes; then slice into a buttered casserole, arranging them in layers with orange slices and chopped nut meats. Dot each layer with butter and season with salt and pepper. Pour syrup over them. Bake in moderate oven for 1 hour. A little water or orange juice may be added if needed. Serves 4 to 6.
Love,
Glory
November 28, 1944
IOWA CITY, IOWA
Dear Glory,
Your sweet potatoes were a big hit at the USO. And that’s where I spent my Thanksgiving, passing out meals to those ready to head out, with Little Sal strapped tightly to my back, like a papoose.
It seems everyone is going to the Pacific now. This makes me both worried and hopeful.
Donna Reed stopped by Iowa City for the holiday. That girl is on a constant USO tour. She looked a little tired, but the boys went gaga for her, drooling all over their turkey dinners. She was sweet, and I’d kill for her legs, I’ll tell you that much.
Oh, Glory, I couldn’t stand to be in my house for Thanksgiving dinner. I would have been like Roylene, eating my meal standing at the kitchen counter, while the baby pushed mashed potatoes into his mouth. That’s why I jumped at the chance to help out when Mrs. K. asked. I think my enthusiasm took her by surprise. She kept narrowing her eyes at me as we rolled bandages for the three hundredth time.
There was a certain feeling of excitement while we cooked—the ladies saying surely the end will come soon. I kept pretty quiet. We’re still sending boys overseas, and people are still dying. The war will only be over for me when Toby comes walking through my front gate. And the war will never be over for Sal. He’ll not see the ticker tape parades or hear Mr. Roosevelt’s voice ringing over the land.
My blue mood kept me in a daze as I scooped potatoes and poured gravy, so I didn’t notice the tall, imposing sergeant talking to Mrs. Kleinschmidt until Mrs. Hansen elbowed me in the ribs and pointed him out.
As he spoke with Mrs. K., she pushed out her chest in an effort to match his military stance, her face reddening from the effort. “No!” she shouted. “No! No! No!”
He took a step closer and she kept her ground. “I am an American. I will not say one word to those... Krauts! Not a one!”
“But your country needs you,” he said, and I’ve got to admit, it sounded a bit monotone and scripted. “The U.S. Army takes full responsibility.” His nostrils flared as he stifled a yawn.
Mrs. K. pointed one arthritic finger at the sergeant’s very decorated chest. “They are Nazis! Huns! Animals! You should lock them up and let a horse eat the key and shit into the river!” And then she stormed away, shouting epithets to anyone who cared to listen.
The sergeant shrugged and picked up a plate, coming down the chow line. When he got to the potatoes, he studied me for a long moment. “Sprechen sie Deutsch?”
Mrs. Hansen, fork paused midair with a hunk of dark meat hanging from it, looked at him as if he’d suddenly grown a second head.
So I answered him in English. “Yes, sir,” I said. “My mother and father were both from Munich.”
“May I speak to you privately?” he asked, with a stiffness that didn’t suit him. “Army business.”
I handed my spoon to a wide-eyed Mrs. Hansen and walked to the corner of the room with the sergeant, whose name I learned later is Friedrich, or Freddy, as he prefers.
Turns out the POW camp in Algona needs some translators. The prisoners write a weekly newsletter—in German—and the army translates it into English for approval before allowing it to print. With everyone stateside scrambling for leave over the holidays, they’re short a few translators this December. Toss a coin in Iowa and you’ll hit a German, but the thought of working with the enemy gives most people the heebie-jeebies. We were the fifth USO the sergeant hit up for volunteers.
“I’ll do it as long as this guy can come with,” I said, pointing to Little Sal. He’d fallen asleep, his soft head resting at the nape of my neck.
The sergeant smiled. “Junior soldiers are welcome, too.”
He meant to be cute, but his words turned my spine to ice. Am I crazy for saying yes? Maybe. Mrs. K. spit on my shoes when she found out, and Mrs. Hansen said you can never really know your neighbors. I said that means I probably shouldn’t watch little Vaughn anymore while she runs errands. She took it back.
Charlie thinks it’s a great idea. He suspects the U.S. Army wants to keep our prisoners so well taken care of they’ll go home to whatever’s left of the Fatherland and tell everyone about the hospitality of the generous Yanks. “Brilliant public relations strategy,” he called it. Irene’s a bit more practical. With all the Iowans overseas or working in the factories, we’re desperate for farmhands. Perfect work for POWs, as long as we keep them warm and well fed. “Necessary evil” was what she called it.
Dr. Aloysius Martin is convinced I’m a spy. When I mentioned visiting the camp in Algona, he winked at me, entranced by visions of his devoted secretary working for the OSS. Actually, that thought entered my head, as well. I must admit, as Freddy explained my duties, I fantasized about somehow recognizing the man responsible for Sal’s death. I’d slip a knife into his liver and skedaddle before anyone was the wiser.
But I think the real reason I’m doing it is much more mundane—to keep my mind busy over the Christmas season. Hopefully next year, when Little Sal can run and talk, I won’t need to keep devising ways to distract myself from reality. Or I’ll learn to make a life from my distractions, I guess. That just might be the only way to keep on.
Anyway, hon, I wish your mind was more settled as well. I’ll be thinking about you.
Love,
Rita
P.S. I got word from Roylene! She’s headed to Hawaii after training. Every time I get a little down I picture that girl hula dancing in a grass skirt with flowers in her hair and some native boys fighting with each other to feed her chunks of pineapple.
P.P.S. I forgot to address the peanut butter issue. I have heard of those sandwiches, though I don’t think I’d ever make one, especially for guests. Occasionally they’re served in the university cafeteria. Sal always called them “cement mixers.”
I have been making use of peanut butter recently, though in a pudding recipe. Irene really likes it! Let me know what you think.
Peanut-Honey Pudding
2 cups milk, scalded
1 cup soft bread crumbs
½ cup evaporated milk
½ cup peanut butter
¼ cup honey
¼ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon ginger
1 egg, slightly beaten
Combine milk and crumbs; let stand 15 minutes. Add half of evaporated milk to peanut butter; beat smooth. Add remaining milk, beat smooth. Mix honey, salt and ginger; add to peanut butter mixture. Combine crumb mixture and peanut butter mixture. Add egg; mix well. Pour into casserole; set in a pan of warm water. Bake in moderate oven (350°F) 1 1⁄2 hours or until inserted knife comes out clean.
December 10, 1944
ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS
Dearest Rita,
“Make a life from distractions...” Do you even know how wise you are? How did I get so lucky, to pick you from that hat? (Well, your name WAS the last one in there...so I suppose it was all meant to be.)
I am thrilled to hear you will be translating. You must write and tell me everything.
And, is it bad that I’ve fallen a little in love with your Mrs. K.? I kind of wish she lived next door to me.
My Thanksgiving was lovely. Truly. And I thought of you all day. Was it too awful, Rita? This first Thanksgiving without Sal? Or did baby Salvatore help ease the pain a little bit? I love thinking of you bouncing that baby on your knee.
My mother-in-law was able to come this year. I don’t think I ever told you what transpired the day I picked Robert up at the train station. She wasn’t there, you know. Robert hadn’t seen her until Thanksgiving evening when she came up the drive.
I’d just assumed that she and I would go together to pick him up, but when I rang her, she said, “Don’t pretend you don’t know he doesn’t want me there!” and hung up on her end.
Later that night when we were settled in, I asked Robert about what she may have meant. He placed a hand on mine and looked into my eyes. “Glory, I wrote her from the hospital and told her not to come. I told her I couldn’t have her meddling with us anymore. That you were my girl and if she wasn’t going to let you alone, I’d just assume not know her anymore.”
“Robert Whitehall!” I shouted. “That is your mother. You can’t choose, you know.” And that was that. I never really pushed the subject again.
Then, a week before Thanksgiving she called. They had a hushed conversation and when Robert came into the kitchen he asked if she could eat with us. I have to say I was relieved and frightened at the same time. Must life be such a confluence of juxtaposition ALL the time? It’s so confusing! I wondered if she knew about Levi. Had heard the rumors in town. I wondered if she’d asked Robert about it. Did he defend me? He didn’t mention anything at all about it.
So I said yes, of course. And I do think the reunion was successful. He seemed a little bit more whole after seeing her. God knows I can relate to having a mother you love, yet don’t agree with. And in the surprise of all surprises, Claire Whitehall helped me with the dishes. And only broke two.
I lit the hurricane lamps and set up tables in the living room. That’s the room downstairs that faces the sea, and with the trees bare there was a direct view. There was a warmth and an informality to the gathering that I most likely can’t convey properly. There we were—me at one end of a long table, Robert at the other. The kids between us. Then there was Anna and Marie and Claire on the other side of the table. What a motley crew! We talked and reminisced about “Franksgiving” and how glad we are that the day is back where it should be. Though I didn’t mind it earlier for those few years. I wonder if it really did make for a different set of sales in retail? Did it in Iowa City? Christmas isn’t big here in Rockport in terms of retail.
Robert made a toast and there was an awkward moment when everyone, even Robert himself, thought he would stand. It was terrible for a moment and then he raised his glass.
“To Victory,” he said. And I could almost see your Sal rising up behind him. He’s with all of us now.
Happy holidays to you, my dearest friend,
Love,
Glory
P.S. Enclosed is Robbie’s latest painting. It’s of the Christmas angel, only it’s a soldier. I asked who it was and he said, “Uncle Sal.” XO
December 20, 1944
IOWA CITY, IOWA
Dear Glory,
It sounds as though your Thanksgiving dinner was held in the true spirit of the holiday. The most disparate personalities can manage to come together when a good meal sits on the table. I raise my glass to Robert in absentia. To Victory, yes, and to those who’ve brought us to its threshold.
In all likelihood this package won’t arrive at your doorstep until after the holidays. It’s a good thing I don’t work for Santa, as it seems I am unable to send Christmas gifts on time! The recipe included with this letter is for you. And I do hope Robbie likes his present—the beret was Sal’s. All artistes should look the part, right? Mrs. K. helped with the dress for Corrine.
And speaking of my next door neighbor...
Breaking news on the Iowa front: Mrs. K. is NOT a widow!
Is your mouth hanging open? Mine was surely catching flies.
Let me explain...
I hated to think of Roylene wearing those worn feed-sack dresses when not in uniform, so I decided to refashion a few of mine as a Christmas present. I knew I’d have trouble with some of the new necklines, so I bit down my pride and knocked on Mrs. K.’s door. I expected she’d turn me away. To my surprise, she didn’t do much of anything. The door opened and she made a sound and disappeared into the depths of her home.
An open door is a sort of invitation, so I followed.
Mrs. K.’s living room appeared normal—spotless, orderly, smelling slightly of onions—but something was off. In the kitchen, the morning’s newspaper covered the table where Mrs. K. usually sat copying V-mails. With a sigh she pulled out a chair and dropped herself heavily into it.
“What’s wrong?” I, of all people should understand blue moods, but the sight of a depressed Mrs. K. brought an unexpected surge of irritation.
Her face remained blank.
“For the love of God, what is it?” I wanted to shake her.
The old woman’s fingers crawled across the tabletop and slid a yellowed photograph from underneath The Daily Iowan.
It was a wedding portrait. The man was well-built and serious of expression, the woman stout and dreamy-eyed. Two strangers.
“It is our anniversary,” she whispered.
Funny, I’d forgotten Mrs. K. had to be married at some point to be called a widow. I couldn’t imagine her waking up to this man, nuzzling his shoulder, cooking him breakfast, ironing his shirts. Standing there, I realized that I’d always wondered about her past—but never found the right moment to ask. The question was about to jump from my rude tongue when she offered the information herself.
After her parents died, Mrs. K. opened a fabric and notions shop with her small inheritance. To offset the cost of doing business, she worked as a seamstress on call for the University of Berlin.
Every spring she kept busy repairing and sewing talars—those black, voluminous gowns professors wear at graduation ceremonies. One Saturday morning Helmuth Kleinschmidt pushed open the door to her shop and demanded she whip one up for him. He sighed and drummed his fingers on the counter while she finished with another customer, ill at ease in a place reserved for women. His manner bothered her, and Mrs. K.—Bruna—questioned him, saying he did not look old enough to be anything more than a student.
He barked his résumé at her. Helmuth was a prodigy of sorts, lecturing at the university before he’d even finished his degree. “In the time it takes you to walk around the block,” he said to her, “I’ll have earned my doctorate.”
Though she knew how to read and write well enough, Mrs. K. was intimidated by erudition. She silently bent at his feet with her measuring tape, and began preparing the order.
As she slid the tape up his inseam her hand began to tremble. She prayed he wouldn’t notice, and he didn’t, until she looped it around his muscular neck. He teased her about it. She smiled and forced herself to meet his gaze. They were married within the year.
Helmuth Kleinschmidt was twenty years old on his wedding day. His bride was thirty-one.
People laughed. They said Helmuth wanted a nursemaid, not a wife.
Which was true enough. Helmuth finished his graduate studies in record time, mostly because his wife cooked and cleaned and worked tirelessly to support him. While he fought in the Great War, she worked. When h
e resumed his low-paying teaching job at the university, she worked. When he said they were moving to America, that he had been offered a tenure-track position in Philosophy, she was so busy it took her a week to ask where.
“Iowa City,” he said.
“Is that near New York?”
“Dummkopf,” he said.
They settled in and enjoyed the social life of an up-and-coming scholar and his wife. Mrs. K. reprised her job sewing and repairing graduation robes, and nearly doubled their income. She was happy. So much so that she didn’t notice his absences, the late-night “German club” meetings held in their cavernous basement, the last-minute trips to academic conferences she’s now certain never existed.
When she returned from installing some curtains at the university one afternoon in the summer of 1927, he was gone. A rather curt note lay on her pillow. “I’ve returned to Germany,” it said. “I trust you’ll be fine, Bruna.”
Few people asked, but when someone did she always said he’d gone back to visit his parents in Berlin and got hit by an omnibus. She didn’t care if it was bad luck to create someone’s death story. She figured he deserved it.
After a year or two she’d convinced herself he really was dead.
Then, in 1938, a letter from her cousin Adele stopped Mrs. K.’s heart. Adele had seen Helmuth in Stuttgart. He looked dashing in his high-ranking Nazi officer’s uniform. He hadn’t the time for conversation, but it appeared as though life in Germany had been good to Herr Kleinschmidt.
After eleven years, it finally hit her that he had left.
Anger became Mrs. K.’s constant companion, and later, as the war unfurled, fear.
“This is why I can’t go to the prison camp,” she said after I’d digested her story. “HE might be there. Bastard.”
I nearly said, No, HE is probably lying facedown in a ditch with Uncle Sam’s footprint on his back...but I didn’t. She still thinks about him, which means, in some way, she still loves him.
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