The Solider's Home: a moving war-time drama
Page 5
He was bad, Jacques. They let me stay four days and nights and he was bad. But he came through. He’s going to be fine. He’s watching television. David bought it. He’s watching a ball game right now. He’s here.
Jacques, I was so scared – so helpless and so scared.
And you must have been.
I had awful thoughts.
And you must have had.
But he’s here and they promised me he’s safe.
There might be a problem at my school but I don’t care.
It was horrible. And it’s over. I’ll write tomorrow.
Simone.
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Dear Jacques,
He’s sitting up in bed watching a man called Buster Keaton. I can hear him laughing. Sometimes he coughs but not so much now. Soups and solids. In the end, with the cost of the hospital and the doctors and the worry about work – there was only one question – is he going to Live? He is. But the mending is slow. You know that. Write him – he’d love that.
S.
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Dear Jacques,
Next week he can go back to Nursery for one morning. So I can work. I have to – I had a letter saying they can’t hold the post open indefinitely blah-blah. Like I’d had a choice! The rent’s paid and I have a little if Times get tough. Only Mrs Hughes has been to see us – from the school. David comes and Teresa and Maria. Jerry called in, too, which was sweet of him and I appreciated it. Not much to show for three years is it? Two neighbours, one secretary, one student/ friend, one communist...!
I’m exhausted. Forgive me.
Simone.
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I’m to be replaced. I kind of understood the Headmaster’s point of view. What can he do? He’s got the Education Board on his back – they don’t give indefinite leave. He has to accept the replacement they’ve suggested. He promised he’d recommend me ‘highly’.
Jacques goes to nursery three mornings a week and next week he’ll try four – but he gets tired and needs rest. I do three students on those mornings and although President Truman did win there is still the threat of a rent-rise and I daren’t think about that and it’s hard not to. When he’s back full-time I can look for another job – that shouldn’t be a problem – but I can’t and won’t till he’s 100%.
Suddenly it’s nearly Christmas again and we shall have to empty both jars.
Write – it cheers him so. More than anything I do! You’re special in his heart.
And mine.
Simone.
His cigarette had gone out.
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Dear Jacques,
I asked you to put that money in a bank.
I told you to.
You’re what they call here a blame fool, Vermande. They’ve changed the currency – its worthless paper.
I told you The Germans weren’t coming back and they didn’t, did they?
Why don’t you listen to me?
You said once I knew more than you – and in some ways I do. When will you learn?
Jacques’ gone to watch football with David. It’s his Christmas Treat. Mine was wrapping him up to go, feeling certain he could cope. That was a Christmas present.
Did Sara come?
1949 when you read this. I went to a Library and looked at a book about house construction. My God!
I can’t write – my head is full of fear and thankfulness.
With Love and my Hopes for you, always.
Simone.
‘Fear’. Her head was full of fear? He’d read that word over so many times. Fear of what? Who? Fear of telling me something bad?
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Salut from Spring in New York,
I have a new job – donc, the immediate financial crisis is past. I’m working in the office of the factory where Jerry works. He told me about the vacancy, I did an interview, must have done good – I start on Monday. They make industrial components – something called ball-bearings, and I’ll be in charge of dealing with any customers who use German, French, Spanish or even Italian. And the coffee-machine.
It means we have to move – nearer to the factory. I can’t get him to Nursery and me to work. It means finding new schools too. It means looking nearer Harlem and I’m kind of excited by that. The President is to stop segregation in the Armed Forces and even I can see the thin edge of a wedge. Civil Rights is Time versus Prejudice – and I’m in for some of that struggle.
We’re going up-town apartment hunting now. Post this from there.
Us.
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A post-card of a group of black men, singing, on a street corner.
Here we are! Apartment 5,
II27, West 113th Street,
New York City.
Love, Les Vermandes.
58
Jacques your letter was beautiful. The stars – I could touch them with you as you walked. Beautiful. More please. My heart is so warm with you tonight. Four years. I’d forgotten just how much I was waiting for that letter. Jacques and I painted the ceiling of his room dark blue and we’re cutting stars from tin-foil to put up.
Your family.
He’d done so much the day that letter came.
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Dear Jacques!
I bought some paint called luminous. We painted your stars with it and then lay on his bed, pulled the blinds, turned the lights off and Jacques – they glowed! He made me ‘really honestly’ promise the sky in France had so many stars. Because, with all the electric lights even on the roof of a house you’d be lucky to see a dozen on a good clear night. I promised him this was what his father sees every cloudless night.
It’s going to be O.K. this place. It’s what they call a rooming house – but its first floor (hooray!) with its own (filthy) bathroom. Like everywhere there’s shops and stalls on the corners and Saturday is market-day and ‘the mommas come with cake’. These are the negresses with their home-cooking. I bought some ginger cake-bread – buttered it and it was delicious. His new school is poorer than Hester Street – the whole area is – but what can I do? I owe money I borrowed to pay rent when he was ill but this all should fit together. Owing money is horrible. Everyone does it – Jerry says the country is building itself on credit – but I hate it.
There’s a coloured family on the ground floor with a boy of Jacques’ age and I aim to make friends with them. I’m a bit obsessed with the separate laws these people live under. It’s a waste of people. I daren’t say in front of Jerry but I like the President. I wouldn’t want the job, that’s for sure. The idea that one man can be considered in any way responsible for this whole country is certifiable. To me it proves America’s need to dream.
I’m engaged with this place, Jacques – it’s vibrant. I mean the whole country, not just this new part of this city. It’s unfair and greedy and gaudy and full of hope and possibility. It’s cruel and violent. Everyone is here – all nations – and the blacks, like the Jews in Germany – are definitely the bottom of the pile. There’s fear of unions and communists – so it’s like Vichy in that way. Except you wonder who’s collaborating with who. And what for. And, you have to keep telling yourself – this is peacetime..!
You don’t care, do you? – but if you were on Arbel’s bench and had a cigarette and a fire you’d let me talk and you’d listen – so – this is what I am at the moment. Engaged in the energy and contradictions of this place. And he, our son, just accepts it of course. And, so far, it’s been good to him. And he’s a lovely fellar, your boy. You’ll be proud of him. You are – I can feel it across the fireplace.
Money’s tight.
My job is boring – but the men on the factory-floor... Jacques! Imagine ploughing one furrow. Now go back and do it again.
The same one. Why? Don’t ask. Just do it. Do it all day. And all day tomorrow. For five and a half days a week, every week. For a year and then the next. Because you’ve got mouths to feed. And now imagine endless clanging machinery. Add in oil fumes from the machine and the broken heating. Oh, and it i
s way too loud to hear anyone speak.
The women in the office are dull. They travel in, with their sandwiches in plastic boxes called Tupperware. They have parties where they sell this stuff to each other! And they talk about clothes and kitchens and occasionally children but more passionately new furniture and they seem content, damn them.
The manager/owner is more interesting. Engaged, pressed, needs help, constantly worried.
The whole place is ugly.
Jerry talks about better working conditions but without all the workers being in a union – (illegal now) he has no chance because ‘Unionist’ means ‘Communist’ and Communism is worse than being black. Although there’s this one singer, Paul Robeson, and he’s a negro and a communist – and everyone thinks he’s great! It’s like – they’ll allow one.
Jerome would love it here! Where is he? Do you know?
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A picture postcard of Harlem. Huge buildings. Crowded together. No cars.
You’ve nearly done the big room? Here am I worrying about your son coping with change and I think of his father – focused, forthright, determined, dogged – what’s to fear? If he’s your flesh and blood he’ll survive anything, right? One proud Mom.
61
Dear You,
It’s started. Half a million steel workers stopped work in protest about wage-controls and working conditions and across the country other workers joined in sympathy. Including Jerry and most of the men on our shop-floor. All the Unionists. The manager sacked them all. Twenty-four of them. No wages – just sacked. For ‘breaking their contract to work.’ That’s the law. Twenty new men started last week. To do the work of twenty-four? Oh, yeah. The business lost orders, couldn’t accept new orders, lost payment when goods were late; and so, the very worst crime of all – they lost Money. Lost much more money than if they’d let the work-force support the steel men for an hour. Where’s the sense? The sense is that the boss has got rid of his communists and put the fear in anyone ever to even think of such an action again.
Because Jerry helped me get my job and lost his I felt bad. And that I ought to resign. In protest. Or sympathy. And I was scared. Money. The rent. Living. I couldn’t.
I could – but as Jacques’ parent I couldn’t.
Jerry came one night, said he didn’t blame me – fact is he seemed thrilled I’d even considered it. He’s looking for work. It’ll be hard. America is harsh and getting harsher. And I don’t (dare) say at work I agree with Jerry. What’s that? Betrayal by omission. It rots at my soul, Jacques.
I borrowed the book on house-building from the Library so you can tell us what you’re doing – and we can draw it and write you about it. Share it.
Another day another dollar tomorrow.
There are ball-bearings in everything. God, they’re dull. So, I’m at a grindstone, too.
Night night. Me.
Oh! We met the coloured family – the little boy is called Dwayne – he’s coming for tea next week. Jacques can’t wait to show him the stars. His mother, Clara, is warm as fresh brioche and the father isn’t there. I didn’t ask where he was. You don’t.
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Problem. Jacques’ school. We have a choice between two. The better one is Catholic. The other one is bigger, poorer and non-denominational. Hurry and give me your wisdom. I have to register him soon.
Me.
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A plain post-card.
Good for you! That’s what I thought and in the end, had to do. Like we’ve said – he’ll survive. Two months since I seemed to have space to write. Tonight, I promise. S.
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That promise went with the wind, didn’t it? I apologise. Our lives could not be more different – I’m in a whirl and you’re alone. Where do I start?
Jacques is in his ‘big’ school – he insisted on wearing his suit the first day and he must have got ribbed because he sure hasn’t suggested it again. His teacher is a Polish Jewish lady, which (snob and fellow-immigrant that I am) I’m thrilled about and Jacques likes her but I wouldn’t want her job – there are more than forty children in her class...
Me? The manager asked for suggestions for how the business could be improved. I sat down (with Jerry, I admit) and wrote five pages – from painting the place, to longer lunch-hours, better and therefore longer holidays, a health-care insurance scheme for the workmen particularly, everything I’ve ever thought of to humanise the place. He called me in next morning – made me his ‘staff liaison-officer’, gave me a budget of money to spend and doubled my wages.
Clara said, ‘Oh, God Bless America!’ A country that keeps her close to the gutter because of the colour of her skin...
Jerry laughed and said it only mattered how I used the job and the money. David’s reaction was that I should move back down-town (to a ‘nicer’ area) and buy a car! We’re staying here. Jacques and Dwayne are inseparable, (except at school-time!) and I owe the manager re-payment of his trust.
So, I’ve hired painters, streamlined (what an American word!) the filing system, have health-care insurance people coming to talk and I organised a company night-out – all 35 of us went up-town to see a musical show called ‘South Pacific.’ It was brash and noisy and romantic and we all had a good night, which was the point. And, I’m learning to drive – because he wants me to meet customers. ‘A pretty French girl can’t do no harm at all...’
His name, I never told you, is Les – short for Leslie.
And I’m caught between feeling compromised by his money and my responsibilities to Jacques. And the jars. Which are re-filling.
I dared suggest to Les re-introducing a union and got a cold glimpse of the differences between us. I was ashamed of how quickly I said, ‘Oh, just a crazy French idea.’
The Russians have exploded their atomic bomb. I envy you (some days) your life without Politics. Another Christmas looms.
Clara, who has next to no money, is prepared to borrow so Dwayne gets what she calls ‘enough’. What you and I would call more than excess. But I have to consider Jacques’ feelings when he compares his presents...
They’re selling Envy and Pride. And it’s probably plastic.
Jacques. Because I’m to meet customers I had to buy new clothes – and they had to be smart. And they are. And because the materials are plain nicer, I feel better. It’s roused a vanity in me that I don’t care for. But I look better, I attract the ‘right’ response from customers, etc. It feels like a honey-trap. Jerry laughed and said, ‘You’re a civilian now.’
We send you our love and best for winter. We need to know where you sleep now.
News, please. My best to Sara.
Simone.
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The greatest.
A post-card of a tramp called Charles Chaplin.
When I’m rich and famous I’m coming to see you – Daddio.
Jacques Vermande – like you. Us two.
66
Dear Jacques,
Happy New Year.
Cars frozen on street-corners. Jacques and I walked to his school and stopped just to watch the traffic-lights changing, reflecting all wide on the snow, it was pretty. And in a city – you need pretty.
Jacques started second-term today, his teacher says he’s ‘no problem’ – it’s one of a hundred catch-all phrases that keep Americans full of the illusion that Life is Peachy-Keen. See what I mean?
Jerry finally got a job. He saw an ad for a grave-digger on the door of a church. He told the church-board he was a communist, and that he thought Christ was, too – and he believed Christians the only people with the moral courage to offer him work. He got it. I reminded him Marx said, ‘Religion was the opium of the masses’ and he said he was burying ‘em, not raisin’ ‘em. His sister, Belle, comes to sit with Jacques when I have to be late or go out. She’s sweet, shy and seventeen.
The house sounds two-thirds done. Do you have days when you give yourself a pat on the back, Vermande? Pride’s a sin, but it’s nice, sometimes.
Boy, that was different.
David’s place is super smart and all of us felt a little out of place, especially Clara. Your son, once he’d realised what toasting was – toasted you. We all did. And I talked more about you than I ever have. And it felt great. ‘To The House That Jack Built’ Jerry offered. We toasted your house. Our house.
Then back to Les Grossman and his ball-bearings. Les is lonely and I fear he’s attracted to me and that’s what all this promotion and clothes and money is about – not his interest in running a healthier factory. I told him about my Jacques’ – both of you – and he hasn’t sacked me, so maybe I’m better at smiling at customers and talking quantification than I think I am. ‘Lay on the Frenchee,’ Les says as we go into each meeting. It works. The women in the office hate me and that makes me laugh. It’s a form of no-contact whoring to be blunt, and I do it, our jars fill, we’ve paid our debts and we can help other people. What’s wrong with that? I ask myself that a lot and I wonder why. Clara always says, ‘Honey, take the damned money! Better you than the Revenue.’