The Wartime Sisters

by Lynda Cohen Loigman

  By the time Millie headed downstairs with Michael, Ruth and the twins were almost ready to leave. The girls were dressed identically in matching blue dresses with short puffed sleeves and red hair ribbons. Alice was shorter and stockier than Louise and insisted on pigtails instead of braids.

  “Good morning,” Louise called from the bottom of the steps. Alice echoed the greeting, but Ruth had no time for niceties.

  “I left a note for you on the kitchen table. There’s an extra key and directions to the child care center—it’s on the other side of State Street, at the High School of Commerce. After you drop Michael off, go to the personnel department in the administration building. That’s the main building that we walked through yesterday.”

  “Today?” Millie steadied herself against the bannister and tried to slow her breathing. The day had barely begun, and her head was already pounding. “I didn’t think I’d be starting so soon. I’ve never left Michael with a stranger before.”

  If Ruth noticed Millie’s dismay, she didn’t acknowledge it. “The mothers I work with say the facilities are excellent. He’ll enjoy it; you’ll see. Besides, it’s right across the street. It couldn’t be more convenient.”

  “I’m sure it’s very good. Maybe tomorrow—”

  “Do what you like. It’s up to you. There’s oatmeal on the stove and coffee in the percolator. Come, Alice. Louise, let’s go.” Ruth opened the door and ushered the girls outside. She left Millie alone without another word.

  When the latch clicked shut, Millie felt a wave of nausea pass over her. Yesterday, when she boarded the morning train from Brooklyn, her nerves had been high, but her hopes had been too—after all, Michael was finally going to meet his family. She had known there would be tension; she had assumed some discomfort. And yet, she had also believed that moving in with her sister would be the first step toward forming a new friendship between them. She was certain that after so many years away from each other, she and Ruth would find some happy memories to share. But after Ruth’s comment last night and her indifference this morning, it was obvious that she had no desire to reminisce. Loneliness had followed Millie all the way from Brooklyn and had joined her, undeterred, at her final destination.

  Once Ruth was gone, Millie moved freely through the kitchen. She had been clumsy and awkward the night before, trying to help her sister prepare dinner in the unfamiliar space. But today, the spoons had lost their strangeness. The oatmeal in the pot was as cold as her sister’s parting words, but Millie heated it for Michael and poured herself a mug of the left-behind coffee.

  The cup of bitter liquid gave her courage. There was no use, Millie realized, in waiting for tomorrow. She would take Michael to the child care center today. She would visit the personnel department and secure a job as quickly as possible. As she helped Michael with his breakfast, she made herself a promise: she would not allow herself to grow too attached—not to the house, to the grounds, or to any of the people. She may have settled in Springfield, but she would keep her Brooklyn wits about her.

  There was no telling how soon her sister’s welcome might wear out.

  Millie

  Brooklyn, New York (September 1933)

  Millie’s father disapproved of the way the neighborhood boys clogged up the sidewalk outside their apartment building. “They don’t have homes to go to?” he asked his wife repeatedly. She tried her best not to smile, but most of the time she couldn’t help it. “They’re waiting for Millie,” she told him.

  “Let them vait!” he shouted, stomping his foot. “Until she turns sixteen!”

  To be fair, it wasn’t just the boys that her father disliked—he wasn’t too fond of Millie’s girlfriends either. Millie heard her parents arguing about it when they thought she was asleep.

  “Morris, calm down. You can’t keep her cooped up in the apartment all day. She wants to be outside with the other girls. They have fun together.”

  “What kind of fun? Those girls are no good. They come only because they see the boys walking by. But I see them whispering. I’m telling you, they’re looking for trouble.”

  “They’re just girls, Morris. That’s what they do.”

  “Not Ruth! When she was fourteen, she stayed home and read her books.”

  “And now that she’s seventeen, we worry that she stays home too much.” Millie heard her mother sigh. “What can I tell you, Morris? It never rains but it pours. Millie is more high-spirited. She’s a popular girl.”

  “Popular with who? Better she should be unpopular, like Ruth.”

  Millie thought she heard a rustle of blankets from across the room. Was her sister still awake? Had she heard their father too?

  * * *

  In order to protect his younger daughter and keep her occupied, Millie’s father arranged for her to babysit every day for their neighbors. “I told Mr. DeLuca you’ll help his wife after school. The woman isn’t well, and the boys are too much for her. Paulie is four, and Nico is two.”

  Millie liked the DeLucas, but she was furious with her father for not asking her first. She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m busy with my friends after school,” she pouted.

  “Listen to me, mameleh. This is more important than friends.”

  “What about my homework?”

  “Since when do you worry so much about homework? You want to stay home and do homework, be my guest.”

  Millie groaned. “Fine. Do I get paid, at least?”

  “With money? No. But it’s a mitzvah, so yes.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “A good deed comes with its own kind of payment.”

  Millie hated to admit it, but her father was right. It felt good to be needed, and the DeLuca boys needed her. They didn’t care what she looked like—they didn’t even notice. All they cared about was whether she knew the games they liked to play. She was good at pick-up sticks, but better at hide-and-seek—mostly because their apartment was the mirror image of hers, and she knew all the best hiding places from when she used to hide from Ruth.

  Mrs. DeLuca needed her too, and not just to run around after the children. Her first language was Italian, and though her English was excellent, she sometimes asked Millie about expressions she didn’t recognize in her newspapers and books. When Millie explained what hit the sack meant, Mrs. DeLuca snapped her fingers. “Of course! How lucky I am to know such a smart girl!”

  Millie shook her head, surprised by the compliment. “I’m terrible at school. Ruth is the smart one. Not me.”

  “Why do you say this? Certainly, you are smart. How many other girls could do what you have done for us?”

  “But I haven’t done anything—I just play with the boys.”

  “Before you came to us, Paolo hardly smiled. Nico never talked. You taught them to say hello to the other children. You taught them to make friends. Now they know about baseball and marbles and tag. You make them laugh with the songs you sing to them. You make them smile with the stories you tell…”

  “But they’re just nursery rhymes and fairy tales. Things everyone knows.”

  “What everyone knows, not everyone can teach. Only a smart girl can do what you do.”

  * * *

  Over the years, Millie grew increasingly attached to the DeLucas, but she found herself worrying more and more about their mother. Mrs. DeLuca was thin, and her once luminous skin had grown too pale. As the boys grew larger, she seemed to shrink alongside them. Millie began to stay longer at their apartment in the afternoons, and sometimes, after dinner, she would return to help Mr. DeLuca put the boys to bed. As the years passed, Mrs. DeLuca barely left the apartment. She slept in the afternoons and would wake, disoriented, to ask about her sons.

  On the day Mrs. DeLuca died, Millie was only seventeen. For weeks, Millie had lain awake at night, listening to the poor woman’s whimpering through the thin plaster walls. It was the last sound Millie heard before she drifted off to sleep and the first sound in her ears when the sun poured through her window.
Ruth was already out of the apartment—married to Arthur and in her own home—so there was no one but Millie to hear. On the warm September morning when Millie woke to silence, she had a terrible feeling that Mrs. DeLuca was gone.

  Later in the kitchen, Millie told her mother. “Should I go check on them?”

  “Not until after school.” Her mother was still in her housecoat, with a thick crown of curlers clinging to her head. “I’ll be out this afternoon, but I’ll leave a lemon cake for you to bring when you go.”

  Mr. DeLuca was a quiet, kind-faced man, not much taller than Millie. When he opened the door, Millie’s fear was confirmed. He stared at her blankly, as if he had forgotten who she was. “My wife…,” he began, but he didn’t complete the sentence.

  Paulie and Nico threw their arms around her knees.

  “Mama died,” Nico whispered.

  “Millie already knows,” Paulie explained. “That’s why she brought the cake. Isn’t it, Millie?” His candor was a surprise, but strangely comforting. He was too young to have the kind of fear an older child would have. He knew his mother was dead, but he could not yet comprehend the finality of his loss. Millie patted his head, wishing more than anything that she could be his age again.

  “Aunt Leora!” Paulie called out. “Millie brought cake!”

  Their father’s sister emerged from the kitchen. She had the same round face as Mr. DeLuca, but without any of the widower’s humor or warmth. Though she visited frequently, her visits never lasted long. When she dropped off her casseroles or baskets of vegetables, the only conversation she made with Millie consisted of complaints about the weather, the two boys, or both.

  Over her dress, Leora wore her sister-in-law’s favorite apron—the frayed yellow one that Mrs. DeLuca had used for her everyday cooking—not the blue one she had saved for holidays and guests. Millie felt a spark of rage ignite in her chest. Every smear of flour and every spot of coffee on the cotton told its own small story so that the smock had become as personal as a pair of shoes, as intimate as any undergarment. For Leora to wear it so soon after her sister-in-law’s passing was, Millie thought, a treacherous act, a conscious betrayal.

  “No cake until after dinner,” Leora said. She took the plate from Millie and sniffed at the icing, but the boys wouldn’t let go of Millie’s legs.

  “Mama can have cake now whenever she wants,” Paulie muttered.

  Millie was trying to think of how best to respond. Should she take the boys for a walk? Read them a story? Mr. DeLuca was oblivious to the four of them. He stared out the window, lost in his own thoughts, dabbing at his eyes with a handkerchief from his pocket.

  “Boys, I need to speak to Millie alone. Keep your father company for a few minutes, please.” Millie had no choice but to follow Leora to the kitchen, where the boys’ aunt pulled out a piece of paper and a freshly sharpened pencil. “What time do the boys go to sleep?” Leora asked.

  The flowered pattern on the kitchen wallpaper swam in front of Millie’s eyes. She tried to blink away her confusion, but the question made no sense. Had she misheard Leora? Had she misunderstood?

  “Excuse me?”

  “Their bedtime? What is it? I want to write it down.”

  “They don’t have a set bedtime. It would always depend on how Mrs. DeLuca was feeling and whether she was well enough to spend time with them in the evening.”

  “What time do they leave for school?”

  “Mr. DeLuca tried to walk them over at eight, but it was later if he was up at night with his wife.”

  Leora rolled her eyes and put down her pencil. She untied the apron from around her waist and hung it on a peg to the right of the stove. Then she smoothed the front of her dress and motioned for Millie to sit down at the table. “Before she passed away, my sister-in-law insisted that I could rely on you. I can see, however, that she was mistaken.”

  Millie’s cheeks grew warm. “What do you mean?”

  “You don’t seem to know much of anything about the boys.”

  Millie stared at the apron hanging on the wall and thought about the day, a few weeks earlier, when Mrs. DeLuca had worn it for the last time. She had been feeling good that morning, well enough to get dressed and cook a batch of arancini—fried rice balls stuffed with cheese and mushrooms. She had made them slowly so Millie could watch, and she had written down the recipe on a small card for her to keep. Don’t lose it, Mrs. DeLuca had insisted, pressing the card into Millie’s hands. Life is so delicious, cara. If you start to forget, make these so you remember.

  Millie stood from her chair and straightened her shoulders. “I know everything about them. I know their favorite food is their mother’s arancini. I know Paulie won’t go to sleep until you kiss him twice on his forehead. I know Nico’s favorite color is green and he likes to wear mittens, even when it’s warm outside. I know—”

  “Enough! I can’t run this household on a list of favorite colors. I need to make a schedule.”

  Millie felt as if she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs. “You’re moving in with them, then?”

  “Of course I’m moving in with them. What did you think was going to happen?”

  Millie hadn’t been able to think past this moment, this terrible moment of unspeakable loss. She hadn’t let herself contemplate what might come the day after. But she would do whatever possible to help the family go on.

  “I can help you,” she promised. “I’m good with the boys. I’ll come every day. I’ll come on weekends too.”

  “That won’t be necessary. We no longer require your help.”

  Millie’s hands began to tremble. “But I’ve been coming for four years. Paulie and Nico are used to me.”

  “The boys have to learn that I’m in charge now. Having you here will only make that harder for them to understand.”

  “But, you can’t keep them from me. They need me.”

  “What they need now is structure. Only I can give them that.”

  “This isn’t what Mrs. DeLuca would have wanted!” All the grief and hostility Millie had been trying to control came pouring out of her now in a torrent of tears.

  Leora fumbled under the kitchen table for her pocketbook and wallet. She kept her eyes down to avoid Millie’s gaze. “Of course, I will compensate you for this week’s work. How much did they pay you?”

  Millie walked over to the apron, still hanging from its peg. She ran her hand over the fabric until she found the patch of oil splatters from the day Mrs. DeLuca had made the rice balls for the boys. Then she took the apron down, folded it in half, and tucked it under her arm.

  “They didn’t.”

  Lillian

  Springfield, Massachusetts (June 1942)

  When Patrick woke that morning, Lillian’s heart swelled with sympathy. His eyes were as blue as the day she’d first met him, but dark gray circles had formed underneath them. How long had it been since he’d gone to bed before midnight? She ran her fingers through his hair and kissed his cheek. “Come outside for a bit before breakfast,” she told him. “It’s a gorgeous day. I want to show you something.”

  She led him behind the house to the edge of the garden where the grass was still damp from last night’s rain. The top of the rose arbor spilled over with blossoms, like ice cream heaped on top of a too-small cone. A passing breeze licked at the vines, sending the scent in their direction.

  “You look exhausted,” she said.

  He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. “It’s a demanding position,” he admitted quietly. “It doesn’t stop for a minute. But I’m glad you brought me out here. The garden is beautiful in the morning.”

  Lillian pointed toward Pearl Street, toward the rows of long buildings that ran parallel to the road. “I’ve learned a lot about this place, you know. Behind the rose arbor are the storehouses, and behind the storehouses is the ballistics building. I know about the tunnel where they test the rifles too—sometimes the children ask me about the noise.”

  “Ah.” Pa
trick nodded. “I bet they do.”

  “The point is, I could look past the roses and ignore them completely, but every day, I make a choice not to do that. I know those papers on your desk and every phone call you get is another order pushing you to make and do more. But when it becomes too much and you need a little peace, you can always come outside and sit here with me. We might hear the gunshots, but at least we can enjoy the flowers for a bit.”

  He smiled at her then. “I have an idea. Will you meet me at my office later? Say, twelve thirty? I want to take my beautiful wife out for lunch today.”

  “Why, Colonel Walsh.” She laughed and kissed his cheek. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  * * *

  Lillian couldn’t remember the last time she’d had lunch with Patrick. The truth was, he had been working nonstop lately. The children tried to be understanding, but she knew how much they missed him when he didn’t make it home for dinner or when he didn’t get back to tuck them in at night. How different their experience was from her own childhood, when an evening without her father had been cause for relief rather than regret. Lillian remembered her own mother’s reaction on the nights when her father phoned to say he was working late—how she would put away whatever pot roast or casserole she’d been preparing and start rolling out a pie crust instead.

  The mood in the house would lighten instantly as Lillian’s mother rummaged through the pantry to decide what kind of pie she would make. Blueberry? Lemon meringue? It didn’t matter. All that mattered to Lillian was her mother’s laughter, the way she hummed when she measured and sifted, the conspiratorial smile on her face when the two of them shared an entire pie for dinner. “Don’t tell your father,” she would say—as if Lillian needed reminding.

  In contrast, Lillian vowed never to celebrate her husband’s absence. She cooked the children’s least favorite dishes when Patrick couldn’t make it home: liver and onions, or cod with spinach. They would whine and hold their noses, but all would be forgotten the next night when Patrick sat next to them at the table.