In Brooklyn, Ruth hadn’t paid much attention to her appearance. But in Springfield, she asked the other officers’ wives where to get her hair done. She bought her dresses on sale from the shops they suggested and took note of the hats and the shoes that they wore. When Arthur asked if she wanted to take classes at the local college, she shook her head. “I want to settle in here first,” she said. Her husband was surprised, but he didn’t press. When Ruth met the other young wives at the armory, she didn’t talk about the degree she had been pursuing at Brooklyn College. She didn’t mention her studies or the accounting classes that had once consumed her thoughts. She put away her textbooks and bought women’s magazines from the newsstand. As she fanned them out on her coffee table, she could hear her mother’s voice. You know, if you read a magazine every once in a while, like your sister, you’d have something to talk about with the other girls.
Ruth invited other young mothers on walks to Forest Park. While they strolled through the grounds and walked their toddlers through the zoo, she let the others take the lead and steer the conversations. Some complained about their husbands, and others boasted about their children. Some asked for her recipes and others for her opinion on sink cleaners and cough syrups.
Despite Ruth’s best efforts, however, real friendship eluded her. If she mentioned a book—no matter how well known—she was met with blank stares. After the war began in Europe, Ruth sometimes mentioned front-page articles from the newspaper. Wasn’t everyone reading the same things these days? Wasn’t everyone curious about when the United States might get involved? They were living at an armory, for goodness’ sake! But most of the women didn’t like to discuss it, and her attempts at serious conversation were met with uncomfortable silences. It wasn’t long before Ruth found herself almost as overlooked as she had been in Brooklyn. Until she met Lillian Walsh.
Lillian moved to the armory in the winter of 1940, when her husband took over as the new commanding officer. On the day they moved in, Ruth heard the murmurings—the new colonel was tall and handsome; his wife blond and slim, like Carole Lombard. The day after their arrival, Lillian flooded one of the tennis courts and invited all the officers’ families to an ice-skating party. Her four children set up tables around the makeshift rink’s perimeter and served cups of hot chocolate to the gathering crowd. By the end of the party, Lillian knew everyone’s name.
“Mrs. Blum,” Lillian observed with a welcoming smile, “I think my youngest daughter must be the same age as your girls. Margaret just turned four.”
“You’re right, Mrs. Walsh. Alice and Louise are four years old as well.”
“Four going on forty, my mother would have said. Please, call me Lillian.”
“And I’m Ruth. If my mother were still alive, she would have said the same about the twins.”
“You lost your mother too? Then you know how it feels. I just can’t wrap my head around the idea that my children will never know her.”
Ruth didn’t answer, but she wondered how it could be that a woman she’d just met described her own feelings so accurately. After three years in Springfield, no one had bothered to ask Ruth much about her family. At first, she had been grateful—the last thing she wanted to discuss was her past. She had told no one of her parents’ accident or her sister back in Brooklyn. But Lillian’s small show of interest made Ruth realize how lonely she had been. She pulled her coat tighter against the winter chill and let herself imagine what it might be like to have this woman as her friend.
“I hope you’ll come over to the house next Tuesday,” Lillian said. “I was thinking of hosting a meeting to put together packages for the children overseas. They need clothing and supplies, warm coats and food. I have some other ideas too—get-togethers, concerts, maybe a book club.”
Ruth did her best not to let her smile grow too wide. There was so much she wanted to say, but she didn’t want to scare Lillian off by sounding desperate. “I’ll be there,” she said.
* * *
After the skating party, Lillian began holding weekly meetings. She brought pianists in for concerts and held afternoon book clubs once a month. All of the women wanted to be included, even the ones who hadn’t read a book in years. Lillian always set out her best china cups and bowls of fresh flowers from the armory greenhouses. Everyone agreed that she was a flawless hostess—her first Christmas party was such a success that people were still talking about it twelve months later.
Perhaps that was why she insisted on having the party the following year, even with Pearl Harbor so fresh in everyone’s minds. Some people argued that the festivities should be canceled, but Lillian Walsh convinced them that social gatherings were important for keeping up morale.
The scent of fresh pine greeted Ruth and Arthur even before they made their way inside the Walshes’ home. The tree in the foyer was at least ten feet high, and garlands of evergreen were wrapped around the bannister and tacked above the doorways. Ruth took a crystal mug of eggnog from the dining room table before she noticed that all the other women held glasses of champagne. The cinnamon from the foam got caught in her throat after her first sip, and she began to cough. Arthur was still patting her back when Lillian and her husband came over to greet them. Lillian’s ivory cocktail dress was elegant and festive without being frivolous.
After Ruth stopped coughing, Colonel Walsh turned his full attention to her. His height was intimidating, his gaze steady and serious.
“My wife tells me you studied accounting,” he said.
“Yes, at Brooklyn College, but I didn’t finish my degree.”
“Mrs. Blum, I’m not going to mince words. The armory has orders to increase production immediately. By this time next year, we expect to have over ten thousand employees. Those people won’t work if they don’t get paid on time.”
“Sir?”
“I’d like you to work in our payroll office. We need people with your accounting experience.”
Ruth was flattered and surprised, but she told the colonel she’d have to think about it. She was even more surprised when Lillian showed up at her door with a freshly baked pound cake the next morning. Lillian’s cheeks were red from the cold, but the cake was still warm.
“Patrick says they’ll be rationing sugar soon,” she explained. “I thought I’d better get my baking done while I still can.” Ruth invited her in, and the two of them sat in the front room, drinking coffee and picking at their slices.
Over the course of her life, Ruth had known plenty of other women (her own mother included) who were just as determined and just as capable as Lillian Walsh. But she had never known anyone as patient. Ruth’s mother would have told her to either take the job or stop kvetching, but Lillian wanted to understand what was driving Ruth’s reluctance.
Together, they weighed the pros and cons. Ruth told Lillian how much she craved the stimulation that the work would offer, especially since the twins would be in school soon. She confessed her fear of what the other wives might say.
“Don’t worry about them,” Lillian assured her. “If I hear one bad word, believe me, I’ll take care of it. And I’m going to make sure our meetings start at four o’clock from now on. The morning shift ends at three, and that way all working women can attend.”
“But no one else works. You don’t have to do that—”
“It’s already done. Besides, we have other women coming to the meetings now—not just officers’ wives.”
Ruth shook her head. “I’m still not sure,” she mumbled.
“What else is bothering you? Tell me, please.”
“It’s just that our family is already different from the others living here. I don’t want to alienate myself further, that’s all.”
“Do you mean because you’re Jewish? Ruth, no one here cares. The only thing that matters is that we’re all on the same side fighting for our country.”
Despite Lillian’s reassurances, Ruth wasn’t convinced. The other wives had been cordial, but she had never felt like one o
f them. Some belonged to clubs where she knew Jews weren’t welcome. Others gave her blank stares when she mentioned the name of her favorite Jewish bakery.
Still, she reminded herself, she felt no more comfortable with the women from her synagogue. When they first arrived in Springfield, she and Arthur joined Congregation Beth El on Fort Pleasant Street. Ruth knew it was something her parents would have wanted, and she hoped that within its walls, listening to the familiar prayers, she would find the sense of belonging she so desperately craved. But no matter how many services she and Arthur attended, she never felt at home.
“You’re meant to do something more than just taking care of your girls,” Lillian told her. “I’m not suggesting that being a mother isn’t important. But Alice and Louise will be in school soon. I know you, Ruth Blum—you’ll go crazy if you stay at home reading magazines. You’re one of the smartest women I know.”
A few weeks later, Ruth couldn’t remember how she had filled her days before accepting the position. The work came to her more naturally than anything she could remember. Most important, it occupied her mind so that she didn’t have time for the unpleasant thoughts and worries that so often consumed her: the war, her parents’ death. Her brother-in-law. Her sister.
* * *
Before Ruth started working, Millie had written to say that her husband had enlisted. Ruth read the letter three times before handing it over to Arthur. He had been sitting at the kitchen table, rubbing at the spots on his glasses with his handkerchief.
“Enlisting could be a good thing for Lenny,” he said. “It’s a steady job, at least, and a steady income too.”
“Maybe,” Ruth said.
“Who knows? It’s possible that he could find real success in the service. He could move up through the ranks, become an officer, make a real career. An experience like that can have a profound impact.”
“People don’t change that much, Arthur, not even in war. Do you really think it’s possible for that man to stick with anything?”
“I don’t know, but maybe this is a chance to reconnect with your sister. Lenny will be overseas soon, if he isn’t already, and Millie and the baby will be alone.”
“Michael isn’t a baby anymore,” Ruth said softly. “He’s two years old now.”
“Exactly. He’s part of your family. I think you should write back to her—not only a New Year’s card but a real letter this time.”
“I don’t know what to say.”
Arthur gave her shoulder an encouraging squeeze. “Once you start writing, the right words will come to you.”
He was wrong—the words didn’t come. It took two long days of staring at a blank piece of stationery before she was able to reply. There was so much she could not say, so much she’d hidden for too long. Eventually, she managed to eke out a few short paragraphs, which, compared to the annual holiday card she usually sent, read like a novel. But there was a silence behind her sentences she could not seem to fill. She wrote what she could—how pleased she and Arthur were to hear of Lenny’s enlistment, how the sisters might have a fresh start. She signed it Sincerely and forced herself to drop it in the mailbox.
Millie’s reply came the next week, three full pages, signed With love. She wrote mostly about Michael and enclosed a small black-and-white photo.
It was the photo that changed Ruth’s mind. At only two years old, the boy was the absolute image of his grandfather. Michael had Morris’s eyes, his chin and hairline. Ruth kept the photo in her nightstand drawer, by her bed.
Months passed, and the sisters continued their correspondence. When Millie wrote to say that her husband was missing, Ruth couldn’t shake the feeling that Lenny would return unharmed. She assumed that he would cheat death as easily as he cheated at cards. But later, when Millie wrote to say that Lenny was gone, regret settled in Ruth’s chest and would not let go. If it hadn’t been for her, Millie might not be a widow. If it hadn’t been for her, Millie might never have married at all.
So, Ruth invited Millie to Springfield, hoping to ease her own heart. Perhaps spending time with her sister would lighten her burden. Perhaps holding her nephew’s hand would loosen guilt’s grip. Perhaps the reunion would be painless and forgiveness would flourish between them. Perhaps the darkest parts of her memories would fade until they were forgotten.
* * *
On the day Millie was expected, Ruth couldn’t focus at her desk. The lists of names and shifts that always seemed to calm her blurred before her eyes until the numbers made no sense. The volume of her task had always been a comfort, an assurance of importance, a promise of productivity. But today when she saw the stacks of papers in front of her, she felt overwhelmed for the very first time. The longer she sat, the more fretful she became.
It was just after one o’clock when the guard called to say that her sister had arrived. Ruth’s shift ended at three, but she had planned on leaving early. As she tidied her papers, uncertainty took hold. On her way down the stairs, she clutched the bannister too tightly.
Her sister was standing in the shade, pointing out a bird to the boy in her arms. From a distance, Millie still looked like an eighteen-year-old girl, the undisputed beauty of their Brooklyn neighborhood. But when Ruth drew closer, she saw someone else: a haggard young woman in an out-of-date suit, with bags under her eyes and curls that needed trimming. Millie’s hat, Ruth recalled, had been bought for their parents’ funeral. After years of use, it was threadbare and limp, but the color of the wool still matched Millie’s eyes—navy blue with a tinge of green.
What was the proper etiquette for such a greeting? What should her first words be to a sister not seen for five long years? Ruth’s breathing steadied only when she realized that Michael’s grip around his mother’s neck made an embrace between the two sisters almost impossible.
Her nephew was, by far, the bright spot of their reunion. He looked even more like her father in person than in the photo, and though he spoke very little, his presence was a comfort.
Ruth walked them through the square until they got to her house. Millie seemed stunned by all that she saw—the tennis courts, the trees, and the house most of all. When she admitted that all of her belongings were in the one battered suitcase, Ruth was forced to bite her lip in order to stop herself from crying. She knew her sister’s marriage to Lenny had not provided the wealth and glamour their mother had predicted for her younger daughter so many years ago. But even with that knowledge, Ruth had been unprepared for the case’s meager contents.
As Ruth watched her sister struggle to fight back tears, regret took hold of her. Ruth wanted to say she was sorry for the distance between them, for the time that had passed. She wanted to pick up her nephew and smother him with kisses. She was about to say the words she had been thinking in her head when Millie removed her gloves to reveal the ring on her left hand.
Ruth had assumed that the ring was gone—sold, perhaps, or traded to pay off one of Lenny’s debts. The sight of it now, on her sister’s slim finger, brought back the memories Ruth thought she had banished. She tried to swallow the bile, but it stuck in her throat until all the pain and frustration came rushing back in a torrent.
“You need a haircut,” she said. “And for goodness’ sake, Millie, you’ve got to get yourself a new hat.”
Ruth
Brooklyn, New York (May 1934)
Ruth’s blind date waited in the dimly lit hallway holding a potted plant with thick, glossy leaves. “It’s a rubber plant,” he explained, holding it out to her. “Ficus elastica. I didn’t know what direction your windows faced, so this was the safest choice.”
The plant blocked most of his head, so Ruth couldn’t get a proper look at him. But behind the leaves, she sensed a stocky frame and thick glasses. When he handed her the pot, the fingers that brushed against hers were soft.
“I considered roses, but this will last much longer.”
“Of course,” Ruth agreed. He was the first of her dates to arrive with a plant, and though she wo
uld have preferred flowers, she kept her thoughts to herself. When she invited him inside to meet her parents, he introduced himself with confidence. He was five years older than she was, already a man.
Her father stood immediately to shake his hand, but her mother was less friendly, standing off to the side and staring at the plant. Arthur mentioned the name of the restaurant where he had made a reservation. “Are you sure you two want to go out?” Ruth’s mother asked. “Don’t you want to eat here?”
“Thank you, Mrs. Kaplan. That’s a very kind invitation. But I was hoping to take Ruth out. I promise to have her home early.”
“You can have her until late,” Ruth’s father joked. “Go, enjoy yourselves. No need to rush.”
“But, Morris, I made a brisket,” Ruth’s mother said, frowning. “Maybe Arthur doesn’t know I made a brisket for dinner.”
“Mama,” Ruth interjected, trying to keep her tone light, “everyone in the building knows you made a brisket.” The entire hallway smelled of braised beef and onions—a smell that was virtually impossible to ignore.
Ruth’s father sensed her distress and led the couple to the front door. He gave his daughter a wink and patted Arthur on the back. “You’ll come back for the brisket another time, yes?”
“Certainly, Mr. Kaplan. Another time for sure.”
“There, Florence, you see? The man will come back. But tonight, they go out. So, the two of you, go.” He used both hands to shoo them, like a pair of small children. “Eat slow!” he called out as he pushed them through the doorway.
The Wartime Sisters Page 3
