When it came to gathering information, Grace Peabody didn’t like waiting. She marched over to the commanding officer’s house shortly after breakfast to find out what Lillian knew about the fire. She spotted Lillian in the garden at the back of the house, standing on a stepladder, pruning the rose arbor. Thanks to the Works Progress Administration, there were plenty of skilled gardeners on staff at the armory. In most areas, Lillian deferred to their expertise, but ever since her first spring in Massachusetts, she had made an exception for the roses in her yard.
Though it was barely past nine, not a single hair was out of place on Grace’s well-coifed head. If she had been up late because of the sirens, no one would have known; her face was as smooth and unblemished as always, and her blue summer suit was impeccably pressed.
“Lillian! What on earth happened last night?”
Lillian held her shears firmly, at just the right angle, and made a careful cut to a branch. “Good morning, Grace. How are you?”
“Exhausted. I couldn’t fall asleep again after the sirens.”
Lillian nodded, but she stayed put on top of the ladder, snipping and shaping and cutting back the deadwood. She could feel Grace losing patience with each minute that passed.
“Can’t you let the gardeners take care of that?” Grace hinted.
Lillian climbed down the ladder, tossed the trimmings into a bucket, and tucked her gloves into her apron pocket. “I could,” she said, “but I prefer to do it myself.”
“Tell me, what did Patrick say about the fire? What do they think caused it? Are they sure it was an accident?”
“Of course it was an accident. What else could it have been?”
Grace crossed her arms over her chest. “Don’t you read the papers? It could have been saboteurs—like those German spies they caught off the coast of Long Island last month. A fire like this is exactly the kind of thing they were planning. With the field services building gone, the overseas shipping is going to be interrupted. Isn’t that what the Germans want? And the Japanese and the Italians? I’m telling you, Lillian, there could be spies right here in Springfield.”
“I’m sure the fire wasn’t set intentionally. And I find it hard to believe that Springfield is harboring German spies.”
“Don’t be naive. They could be anywhere. They could be working at the armory, at any of the shops. What do we really know about all of these new workers anyway?”
“Every new employee takes an oath of loyalty.”
“So? Anyone can say the words. It’s easy to lie.” Grace took a step forward and lowered her voice. “Do you know what Fred told me? They had Italian food in the cafeteria last week. They hired a new cook, and that’s what she’s been serving.”
Lillian bit her lip to keep from laughing. “There’s nothing sinister about Italian food, Grace.”
“You know as well as I do that Italians have been declared enemy aliens—”
“Only those who haven’t become citizens yet. And everyone knows that declaration is meaningless. Springfield is full of Italian Americans. Their husbands and sons are fighting for this country and risking their lives just like everyone else.”
“Fred told me the enforcement in California is strict. Italians aren’t allowed to work on the waterfront or live near defense plants. They can’t have radios either.”
“It’s not like that here.”
“Well, maybe it should be! For all we know, that new cook is a sympathizer. Think about how easy it would be for her to poison the food. You must tell Patrick to look into her background.”
“I’m afraid Patrick doesn’t have time to monitor the cafeteria menu.” Lillian snapped her fingers. “But if you’re really that concerned, we could meet there for lunch. The atmosphere may not be as elegant as Steiger’s Tea Room, but from everything I’ve heard, the food is excellent.”
“I don’t think you’re taking this seriously, Lillian.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready for my guests this afternoon. I’ll see you at the meeting, Grace.” Lillian tucked her shears under her arm. “Have a lovely day.”
Ruth
Brooklyn, New York (April 1937)
When she and Arthur were first married, Ruth hoped for a fresh start. She wanted a space of her own, a chance to live life out from underneath Millie’s shadow. But the shadow’s reach turned out to be longer than she ever thought possible—stretching from her parents’ apartment to the one she shared with Arthur, twenty blocks away. Her new downstairs neighbors went to church with the DeLucas, the couple across the hall had a son in Millie’s class, and the widow next door was an old family friend. Every one of them knew her parents and her sister. There was no place in Brooklyn where Ruth felt she could hide. Besides, even if the new building had been full of strangers, there was no way to avoid her mother’s visits and phone calls.
Jerry Polikoff keeps begging Millie to go to the movies, but she refuses.
Your sister got four phone calls during dinner, and your father was so angry, the steam was pouring from his ears.
Millie and I had a free lunch at the automat. A gentleman in a suit insisted on treating us.
When the topic of conversation was Millie and her suitors, Ruth’s mother could stay on the phone forever. But whenever Ruth spoke up about her own daily life—the classes she was taking or the books she was reading—her mother found a reason to end the discussion. There were chickens and vegetables to prepare for dinner and all kinds of important errands to run.
Ruth’s pregnancy did nothing to detract her mother’s focus from Millie’s love life. Apparently, Ruth’s morning sickness and swollen feet were even duller conversation topics than her books and classes. When the babies were born, not much changed. But when the twins were a year old, Millie met Lenny, and suddenly the tone of Ruth’s mother’s voice shifted. Where once her mother had been irritating but hopeful, now she sounded bitter and less sure of herself.
Her mother wanted to forbid Millie from seeing Lenny altogether, but Ruth’s father had a more philosophical approach. “Forbidden fruit is always the sweetest. Wait a little longer. She’ll get bored with him soon.”
“So, I should do nothing and let her make a spectacle of herself? People will start to talk if she keeps up with him this way!”
“You remember what I told you about my oldest sister, Hilde? How she took up with a man my father didn’t like? My father thought he could stop them—he screamed and he hollered and cursed the man to his face. But Hilde stole my father’s horse and ran off with the man anyway. She left no note, no way for us to reach her. No one from our village saw where they went. The rabbi told us to sit shivah, and we never saw her again.”
“Morris, how many times do I have to hear that story?”
“Ach, so? Sue me for talking. Es iz laichter tsu hitn a zak flai eider a farlibte maidel. It’s easier to guard a sack of fleas than a girl in love. You want to be like my mother and sit shivah for your daughter?”
* * *
Soon, the number of phone calls Ruth received from her mother doubled—long, angry rants about Lenny being unsuitable. “I raised your sister to marry a prince, and she’s throwing herself away on that good-for-nothing bum!” When Ruth tried to defuse her mother’s rage with stories about the girls—Alice had said a new word and Louise had learned peekaboo—there was always someone at her mother’s door or something burning in the oven.
Ruth longed for a change, for some kind of escape. When Arthur first mentioned that he’d been offered a job at the Springfield Armory, Ruth burst into tears. Naturally, he assumed she was upset about leaving Brooklyn. What he failed to realize, and what Ruth had been forced to explain, was that her tears were born of joy instead of despair. The job in Massachusetts was the answer to her prayers. In Springfield, no one would know anything about her family. In Springfield, no one would know she had a sister at all.
Ruth’s preference was to leave New York as quickly as possible, bu
t the armory’s new metallurgy lab was in the process of being built, and Arthur’s job wouldn’t begin for another six months. They would have plenty of time to break the news to her parents.
“Springfield? Who knows from Springfield?” her mother had said.
“It’s a nice city, Florence, and a very good position.” Arthur tried to be reassuring, but Ruth’s mother wore her anxiety like some women wore the wrong color lipstick—it was far too loud and took forever to wear off.
“A job making guns? I thought you were a scientist! What does a nice Jewish scientist need with guns?”
“It isn’t just guns. I’ll be working in the laboratory, testing raw materials, figuring out the most efficient methods of manufacturing. It’s important work, important for the country’s future—”
“Is there a synagogue? A kosher butcher? What will you eat?”
Ruth resisted the urge to remind her mother that neither their lunches at the automat nor their dinners with neighbors had ever been kosher and that, aside from weddings and holidays, they rarely attended services.
“Springfield is a big city; there are plenty of Jews there. Believe me, they have everything!” Arthur scratched the top of his head and tried to stay calm.
Ruth’s father wasn’t critical, but he seemed uncertain. “I don’t know much,” he admitted. “But Springfield isn’t Brooklyn.”
Ruth never had the chance to tell him, but her father had been right.
* * *
At some point, though Ruth couldn’t say exactly when, their mother began refusing to speak Lenny’s name out loud. When Millie was in earshot, she referred to him as the Boyfriend, and when Millie was absent, she called him the Bum.
By April, Ruth’s mother had spiraled into a full-fledged panic. Lenny was supposed to be a distant memory by then, but Ruth’s father’s plan had backfired. It was already Passover, and they were still dating.
“Your sister wants me to have the Bum over for seder. But that isn’t all. She wants me to invite the Bum’s brother too!”
Ruth had walked over to her parents’ apartment after breakfast. The twins fell asleep on the way, and they were still dozing in their carriage when Ruth’s mother began her tirade.
“Mother, shhh! Lower your voice. The girls were up half the night, and they need to nap.”
“Fine, fine. I’ll whisper, but believe you me, I feel like screaming.”
“I don’t know—maybe it will be good for you to meet Lenny’s brother. You’re always saying how important it is to meet a man’s family. Aren’t you curious?”
“About the Bum’s brother? Absolutely not. But what choice do I have? You know the rule. All who are hungry, let them come and eat. All who are needy, let them come and celebrate with us. Your sister knows I can’t say no on Passover. That’s why she asked.”
Her mother was quoting from the Passover Haggadah—the booklet they read out loud every year during the seder. In addition to instructions and prayers for the holiday meal, the Haggadah told the story of the exodus out of Egypt. Ruth didn’t say it to her mother, but she had been thinking about it as well, especially the part about the flight from bondage. Now we are slaves; next year may we be free. Ruth was hoping to flee herself, wasn’t she? Hoping for her own kind of freedom, from her family and her past.
On the morning of the seder, Lenny’s brother sent flowers—a massive arrangement of white tulips and roses. Ruth’s mother called her immediately after it was delivered. “It’s too big,” her mother complained. “I almost had a heart attack when I opened the door. Now I have to rearrange the table.”
“He’s trying to impress you,” Ruth said. “Were they from Abel’s shop?”
“The card wasn’t from there. It must be a different florist, but I don’t know which one.”
“What did the delivery boy’s uniform say?”
“He wasn’t wearing one. I tried to give him a tip, but he refused to take it. He was a little fidgety, if you want to know the truth.”
When Murray Fein showed up that evening, he was not what Ruth expected. For one thing, he was closer to thirty than twenty. She assumed he would be a duplicate of Lenny, but his expression was harder and his temperament more subdued. In his custom-tailored suit and expensive silk tie, he looked wealthy and capable—a far cry from Ruth’s first impression of his brother.
Once the meal was under way, the differences between the men became more pronounced. While Lenny drained his cup of wine in sloppy gulps, Murray took small sips. While Lenny talked about baseball, Murray talked about business. While Lenny complimented the meal repeatedly in a desperate effort to ingratiate himself, Murray chose his words carefully and said them only once.
During the seder, it was traditional to take turns reading out loud from the Haggadah. But Lenny struggled so painfully with the Hebrew that Murray interrupted. “I apologize,” he said, addressing their father. “Lenny was very young when we lost both our parents. The uncle who took him in didn’t see the need for him to continue his Hebrew lessons.”
“Or to finish high school, apparently,” their mother snapped. The words were spoken with such scorn that Ruth almost gasped out loud. Her mother had always been difficult, but she had become even more shrewlike lately—nagging and shouting, banging kitchen pots and pans. This latest comment was proof of her decline.
Millie stood from her chair and threw her napkin on the table. “Mama, stop it! You’re ruining the holiday!”
Ruth glanced at their father—the peacemaker of the family—but it was Lenny’s brother, Murray, who spoke up first. “Please,” he said calmly, holding up one hand. “Don’t blame your mother. She isn’t wrong. Please, sit.” His voice was like marble, smooth and cold. His eyes were unblinking—almost hypnotic.
Millie sat back down.
“If anyone is to blame for Lenny quitting school, it’s me,” Murray said.
“C’mon, Mur, you know that’s not true,” Lenny moaned in protest.
“The truth is, if our mother were alive today, she would be ashamed of us both. Education was important to her. So was family.” Murray refolded his napkin and placed it neatly beside his plate. “Our father ran off when Lenny was a baby, and our mother died when Lenny was ten years old. I was eighteen; I had just finished high school. I was offered a good job in Chicago, so I took it and left. There were too many bad memories in New York. But I never should have left my brother. To this day, I still regret it.”
“You don’t need to explain,” Millie started to say, but Murray kept talking.
“The uncle I left him with wasn’t fit for the job. It was fine at first, when Lenny was still little, but when he got bigger, the uncle lost interest. I sent money every month, but the kid didn’t see any of it; Lenny was forced to take care of himself. He stopped going to school so he could pick up odd jobs. He was sixteen years old by the time I found out. When I realized what was going on, I came back for him.”
Ruth watched her mother as she listened to Murray’s speech, but if her mother felt any pity, it wasn’t discernible. Ruth’s father, on the other hand, was visibly moved. He patted Murray on the back and shook his head sadly. “It’s a tragedy when children lose their parents so young,” he said. Millie gave her father a small, grateful nod. For the rest of the meal, her mother didn’t say a word.
The next morning, Ruth’s phone rang earlier than usual.
“I didn’t sleep all night, not for a minute, not even for a second.”
“Then why do you sound so happy?” Her mother’s voice, in fact, was eerily cheerful—high pitched and giddy, like an overexcited child’s.
“Because right before sunrise, it came to me like a flash. The perfect solution to get your sister away from the Bum.”
“Well, I’m glad you feel better, but I can’t talk now. The girls are crying for breakfast, and I have to get them fed—”
“You don’t want to hear my idea?”
“Fine, but tell me quickly. I really have to go.”
&nb
sp; Years later, when Ruth thought back to that awful conversation, she remembered her mother’s words like two hands around her throat.
“You can take your sister to Springfield with you.”
Lillian
Springfield, Massachusetts (August 1942)
When the residents of Springfield complained to Lillian about the heat, it was all she could do not to laugh in their faces. Just now, when Grace Peabody said she thought it was hot enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk, Lillian wanted to tell her that if she dropped an egg in Texas in the middle of August, it would already be hard-boiled by the time it hit the ground.
But before she could speak, her daughter Margaret began screaming. “Mommy! Peter is splashing me!”
Lillian walked to the edge of the swimming pool and bent down so that her face was only inches from her son’s. “Peter, do you think I can’t see what you’re doing? That’s your second warning. I want you out of the pool.”
“But I don’t have a towel.”
“And whose fault is that? Didn’t I tell you to bring them?”
“Yes, ma’am. Sorry.” Peter dragged his skinny frame out of the water and stood to the side, shivering in the shade. “Do you want me to go get the towels now?”
“For goodness’ sake, Peter, stand in the sunshine. I’ll get the towels; I don’t want you dripping all over my clean floor. Grace, would you mind keeping an eye on them for me? I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
From beneath her perfectly tilted straw hat, Grace Peabody nodded her consent.
The pool was small and secluded, surrounded by privet hedges and centered behind two of the officers’ homes. Anyone strolling through the main part of Armory Square would never have known that it existed.
Lillian followed a short path past a row of fruit trees, made a left at the garden, and then a right at the greenhouse. Stone piers with lights marked the entrance to her driveway, which she followed straight ahead to her back door. The air was heavy with the scent of overripe roses clinging to the trellises and drooping off the vines.
The Wartime Sisters Page 10
