I put my hand on her shoulder, which I don’t think I’d ever done. “How about we get you all dolled up so you can flirt with Sergeant Freddy,” I said. “Make Helmuth crazy jealous.”
I got the tiniest movement in her upper lip. “Hure,” she called me (it means what it sounds like). We were back to familiar terrain.
We spent the rest of the afternoon creating dresses for Roylene that would put anything in Harper’s Bazaar to shame. Mrs. K. said my sewing would horrify Sal’s mother, but I think I did all right!
And you know, I didn’t think I wanted any more surprises in life, but I was lying to myself. The world can change on a dime, but I guess that isn’t always a bad thing.
Have a joyous holiday, Glory. Please send my good wishes to everyone in Rockport.
Love,
Rita
P.S. Mrs. K.’s admission got me thinking about how tightly we hold on to things, even when there’s no harm in loosening the grip a bit. It’s about time I shared some more of my family with you, hon, so Merry Christmas. This one’s for you. I think my husband would be pleased to know it’s in good hands.
Sal’s Favorite Minestrone
(Most people start with meat stock, but Mama Vincenzo always used vegetable, which is ideal now. She said it was “cleaner,” whatever that meant....)
Dice an onion. Cook it up in a pot with a little butter and olive oil until it softens. Add some chopped celery, garlic, oregano, basil, parsley. Add a dash of salt and pepper. This is tonic for the blood.
Slowly pour 5 cups of vegetable stock into the pot.
Chop up some potatoes and add them to the soup. Then add three times as many tomatoes. This is to keep a person connected to the earth.
Add some chopped carrots and diced courgette. This is to keep a person bright-eyed.
Toss in a handful of spinach, and as many green beans as you like. This is for strength.
Add some salt for the women in your life, and some pepper for the men—but not too much! Turn the heat down low.
If you let the minestrone simmer for less than two hours then Mama Vincenzo will haunt your kitchen for years....
If you don’t cover it in parmesan before you eat it, Sal will!
December 25, 1944
ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS
Dear Rita,
Today was a wonderful day. I feel like my old self again, sort of. Nothing strange or magical occurred. It was just a perfect Christmas Day. Robbie and Corrine are getting so big. Their absolute excitement was a joy to watch.
I knelt with them on the floor as they tore open their gifts. The house was full of glistening Christmas lights and the smell of the Douglas fir.
A sense of peace and normalcy permeated the whole, quiet day. And the snow! How it sparkled and fell down on the world, coating it in a pure white blanket. It was as if there was no war going on at all.
I made a plum pudding and a roast. Everything was delicious. And I invited absolutely everyone, but in the end it was only us because of the snow. My quiet little family. Robert and the children.
I can’t say there isn’t a sad sort of tension between us, Robert and I...but I can say that we love each other.
We’ve had word from Levi. Robert got a letter and he left it unopened for two days on the kitchen counter. I didn’t touch it, even though it killed me not to. Finally, I noticed it was gone and I waited. Robert told me about it the next morning over breakfast. Seems Levi is doing well. He’s found a girl and he is going to give working on that vineyard a try. He’s happy. And I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a little bit of my heart is there with him. But I am filled up here. Finally.
He sent his love to all of us. I knew that part was hard for Robert to share, and I loved him for it. One woman does not deserve so much love.
I’m thinking of all the letters I’ve sent complaining about my life. They embarrass me. I hope you have never thought of me as ungrateful. Well... I suppose I’ve thought of myself like that, so I guess you are allowed to, as well.
One thing I want to mention is that I thought of you all day. I know this is your first Christmas without Sal someplace in the world. I pray you were not alone, that Charlie and Irene came. Or Mrs. K. I wish you would just pack everything up and come live in your sunflower room. Goodness. My life would be perfect then. But I know Sal is with you. I know he is showering you with love and kisses and he’s also filling up Toby with strength and courage so that he’ll return home to you safe and sound. And soon.
Also, I’ve thought a lot about the possibility that Sal sent you Roylene. The heavens must work like that.
Merry Christmas, Rita. And Happy New Year. I am busy daydreaming about our meeting. I can almost smell Little Sal’s fuzzy head! (Does he have hair yet? My children took ages to grow hair.)
Glory
December 25, 1944
(Late, late at night—way past lights out!)
ALGONA, IOWA (POW CAMP)
Dearest Glory,
Merry Christmas!
I’m writing from a narrow cot in the visitors’ barracks of the Algona POW camp. As you can imagine, this room is pretty empty. Tonight, only three beds are full. Well, three and a half. Irene lies snoring on one side of me and Charlie is stretched out on the other, his feet hanging off the edge. They drove me here with plans to drop and go, but the heavy snow changed their minds. I’m glad to have them, and you know, I think they had a good time.
Little Sal is sleeping at the foot of my bed in a soldier’s trunk we converted into a makeshift crib. Charlie kept calling it a manger, which cracked everyone up.
The men here are surprisingly dear. Most are around Toby’s age, but the youngest prisoner is fourteen years old, and the oldest is sixty-five. Hitler must be desperate indeed to draft children and the elderly. Heinrich, the older man, crafted an American army vehicle of scrap wood and canvas. It hung on the tree in the officer’s barracks. Sergeant Freddy gave it to me for Robbie, along with a sculpted angel for Corrine. I’ll ship another package to you as soon as I can. Heinrich carved der Weihnachtsmann (Santa Claus) for Little Sal. The baby blinked his long lashes at the elderly gentleman, and then promptly shoved the sculpture in his mouth.
It’s hard to imagine, but the first time I came to Algona I had no contact with the prisoners at all. I thought that was just fine. I didn’t know if I’d be able to speak with the POWs without my sharp tongue coming out. How could they be so stupid as to follow a madman?
On my start day, Sergeant Freddy met my bus at the gate and walked me through the officers’ club. Those fellas know how to live. The OC has a bar and waiters in formal white dress, and—get this—slot machines! Charlie spotted them at the Christmas party tonight and his eyes glowed brighter than the brass band playing “Blue Skies.” Irene and I steered him toward the bar. We figured it was the safer vice.
Anyway, that first time I reported for duty I sat in a small office and, armed with a cup of coffee and a typewriter, began the translation. Sergeant Freddy had me attack some of the older issues for practice. At first I found some of their writings offensive; using haughty tones, they discussed an immense longing to return to the Fatherland and reveled in their “Germanness.” They complained about what I considered to be minor things in comparison to what I’m sure the American POWs are enduring. But as I read on, I began to realize one thing: these men are happy. Yes, they are working hard (mostly on farms, but also in canning plants and nurseries, and even the hemp plant near Eldora), but they’re getting paid AND enjoying themselves. When not working they hold concerts and boisterous physical competitions. They recite poetry and play organized sports. They make use of the lovely library filled with donated books.
It should have made me angry. Instead, it filled me with the most glorious sense of pride. This is what Sal and Robert fought for, and what Toby and even Roylene continue to defend. This is America.
The generosity of spirit, the understanding of human dignity, the concept of allowing our enemies to partake in the bounty of our land, because we are faithful to our promise when we signed the Geneva Conventions and because, quite simply, it’s the right thing to do. These men, our prisoners, see all this and like what they see, believe me.
One sweet boy, his cherry cheeks and golden hair identical to Toby’s, told me he wanted to stay in the States when the war was over. Unsure of whether this was possible, I simply smiled at him and asked, in German, “Won’t you miss your mother?”
“My mother died,” he explained in fairly good English. Then he swept his arm toward the window, at the great fields of northern Iowa. “And now I have a new one,” he added, a note of finality in his voice.
And for the first time I could really see the end of this war, Glory.
Later...can’t sleep...
I was going to save this for another time, but my mind is whirring and I don’t think sleep will come tonight. Strange place, strange noises—and I don’t think it’s Santa Claus pushing his chubby self down the chimney.
I keep assuring myself that every man is tucked in his bed, including the camp, which is now covered by a blanket of snow. Maybe my nerves are still humming from the Christmas party I attended just hours ago. It was one of great cheer. I know we’re in what is essentially a prison, but the men put on the most touching Nativity play (where Little Sal really did lie in a manger), and afterward we were treated to a festive art show. There were prizes, and the competition grew so intense it could’ve heated this entire barracks.
The only problem was most of the men painted the same thing—a family farm. It was impossible to tell if they used memory as a model or if they were simply painting what they’ve been seeing every day working for the local folk. Irene skipped the competition in favor of taking Little Sal to investigate the library, so Charlie and I strolled past the paintings, one after the other, giggling at the prospect of Sergeant Freddy trying to come up with a winner.
As we made our way back to the Officers’ Club, we passed through a door frame hung with mistletoe. I wouldn’t have noticed—who expects to see mistletoe in an all-male POW camp?—but Charlie gently placed his hand on my arm to slow me. He pointed to the hanging leaves and shrugged, then swooped down for his kiss.
I’m not exactly sure why I didn’t stop him. Maybe because underneath the officers’ whiskey, his lips tasted of the honey-rich smoothness of kindness and adoration. When he pulled away he stood close but didn’t touch me. “I’m not saying it has to include me, but you have a future, Rita. It might not feel right to think it, but know inside yourself that it’s there waiting for you.”
We started walking again and my eyes darted around the room, looking for Sal. I was certain he was hiding somewhere in the room, watching us. Of course he wasn’t there, not even his ghost.
I wanted to cry. Did I cross over some great divide? Is the first step in moving on the moment when you can separate the here and now from what was?
I’m crying now, hon. For my husband? For myself? For the sweet babe lying at my feet, who will never feel the comfort of his grandfather’s strong hand holding his?
I’m not sure yet. But then I guess I don’t have to be.
Rita
January 9, 1945
ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS
Dear Rita,
I remember learning in school, that in some ancient societies when people died, they believed there were three heavens. One for the body, one for the soul and one for the personality. The body was taken care of by burying the people with their things. Worldly goods. The soul was thought to fly above and become part of what the person’s soul most dreamed of...and the personality? Well, that was up for interpretation.
I suppose your letter, particularly the part about Charlie under the mistletoe, made me think about this. You are still alive, Rita. And you can feel safe building a life around you that feels wonderfully solid—because all who know you, know that your Sal is the person who exists in the heaven for your soul. He’s with you. You will be with him again. But I have to believe that when we die, we are able to see things clearer. Free from all the burdens of what society thinks are right and wrong.
Are you pure of heart? Of course you are!
Finally, I think I can say the same of myself. Sometimes, Robbie asks for Levi. He’s clever, though. Like his father. He only asks me. He only asks in a whisper. “Where is Levi?”
And I tell him, “Levi was here to help us when we were so, so worried about Daddy. He was our war angel. Now he’s gone to have his own wife and maybe his very own little boy someday.”
My son seems to accept that. And I accept it, too. Even though I know it’s far too simplistic a way to explain what really happened here, time lets us lie a little to ourselves. Time does indeed heal.
Our holidays were lovely. And thank you so, so much for the Christmas package. It arrived on New Year’s Day and the children had another Christmas. What a gift, truly.
On New Year’s Eve, I must admit... I had a moment. Thinking about all that has transpired in the course of one small year. It takes my breath away.
And you. Helping those lost souls. I can only hope Sal and Robert found the same kindness when they were overseas.
Happy New Year, my friend.
Love,
Glory
P.S. Can we begin to plan our meeting? I find myself daydreaming of it all the time.
February 24, 1945
IOWA CITY, IOWA
Dear Glory,
Oh, busy days, busy days. How is it that the war is winding down yet we’re moving faster and faster, as if God is cranking up the wheel Himself?
On Saturday we had a birthday party for Little Sal, with a festive Hawaiian theme. Roylene sent a very colorful shirt from the islands, along with a tender note. Irene baked a coconut cake and Mrs. K.—I kid you not—attempted a hula dance in my living room. I don’t know if I’ll ever recover from the sight.
Charlie brought a tricycle. Little Sal is much too young for it, but the thought was sweet. Mrs. K. said Charlie must have conjured it up from 1940, as no kid around here has seen a new bike in years. “I made it myself, with scrap parts,” Charlie said, and, you know, I believe him.
“I suppose the war effort could do without a few pieces of metal,” Mrs. K. said, so I think she believes him, too.
Little Sal stared at the shining bike like it had dropped from heaven. He scooted over to it on his tush, and then held the seat to push himself to standing. I worried he’d lose his balance and fall onto the handlebars, but before I could scoop him up...he took a step, then another, and one more before crashing to the floor. Little Sal froze, startled, until what he’d accomplished dawned on him, sparking a grin from ear to ear.
Then he pushed himself up and tried again.
And I let him.
What do you think of that?
Rita
March 15, 1945
ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS
Dear Rita,
You are right about the busy, busy new world. Don’t get me wrong, I’d never wish those long days of waiting and worrying back again, but time did seem to stand still—almost suspended—before Robert came home.
Now, between raising two children, taking care of Robert (though he’s gotten so good at taking care of himself), the housework and my Women to Work meetings, I can’t get a moment to myself.
It’s bittersweet, really. No more long teas in the sunflower room pouring over your letters. No more time to write pages and pages to you.
Which is why we need to plan our meeting. I go to bed at night counting the pies I’ll make. Three blueberry, four peach. It’s fun. I can’t wait to see your face. Hear your voice. Hold your hand. You’ve gotten me through some of the roughest times in my life, Rita. I hope I’ve been a help for you, as well. Som
etimes I worry that I’ve just been one more thing for you to take care of. I’d like to give something back to you. Something that time will withstand. A friendship that won’t end.
Our friendship won’t end, will it? Please not that. I won’t let it.
Anyway, I do have NEWS!
I was speaking at a (freezing cold) outdoor rally the other day. We are trying to work with factories all across Massachusetts. You see, as the men come home...the women are losing their jobs. There has to be a way for all of the workers to keep their jobs. How can we expect women to return back to the lives they lived before? It isn’t possible.
So there I was, flyers shaking in my gloved hands. Speaking about positive and professional protest. And I looked all the way to the back of my small, brave crowd...and guess who was there?
Robert. Somehow, Robert had convinced Marie to help him into town so he could watch me speak. Can you imagine?
After, we went into town and I bought hot chocolate from the local soda jerk. Then we went down to the pier where we used to go as kids to play pirates. We sat close together on a bench to keep warm. Oh, Rita. If you could have seen the sparkle in his eyes. It was like he was falling in love all over again. I know I was.
“You were wonderful!” he said.
“Thank you. I was worried you wouldn’t like me sticking my nose in all this,” I said.
“Nonsense. It’s the part of you I love the most.”
I kissed him then, tasting the cold on his mouth. Letting his kiss warm my own. And then I pulled away....
“I’m so, so sor—” I began. He held his fingers up to my lips; our faces were so close that my nose pressed up against those strong fingers. He leaned his forehead against mine and closed his eyes.
“Don’t say it, Ladygirl. You were lost. I was lost. We’ve found our way back now. And people who survive, they don’t look back. It’s a rule of war. Keep moving ahead.”
Home Front Girls Page 25
