The Wartime Sisters

by Lynda Cohen Loigman

  Millie started out slowly. “I’m not sure you ever knew this, but Lenny’s father died of a heart attack when he was very young—it was after he had already left Lenny’s mother. And Lenny had some … issues with his heart too. I’m worried that the problems might be hereditary.”

  Millie hadn’t overestimated her sister’s affection for her son. No matter how Ruth felt about sharing Millie’s personal burdens, she rose to the occasion when it came to Michael.

  “He should have a checkup,” Ruth insisted. “I’ll call Dr. Gibson first thing tomorrow.”

  * * *

  “This is going to feel cold,” Dr. Gibson told Michael. He placed the stethoscope against the boy’s tiny chest and listened for what seemed like an eternity. Then he moved the instrument to Michael’s back and listened again. Millie began to speak, to ask how much longer, but the stern-faced physician silenced her with a single finger placed over his lips. For the next few minutes, Millie forgot how to breathe.

  When the doctor was finished, he gave Michael a quick pat on the head. “Everything sounds normal,” he told Millie. “Now, let’s talk about vaccines.”

  Michael was still sniffling from the shot when she carried him out of the building. Back at the house, Ruth looked nervous when she saw the tears, but Millie calmed her fears. “His heart is fine. Dr. Gibson gave him a shot, that’s all. A vaccination.”

  “Thank God,” Ruth said. She leaned toward her sister and gave Michael a kiss on the cheek. “Come in the kitchen. I made some molasses cookies; one of the girls in the office gave me the recipe.”

  They followed the warm, sweet smell toward the back of the house. But when they got to the kitchen, a pitiful moan escaped from Michael’s throat. It was a different kind of sound from the wail he had made in the doctor’s office. He buried his head in Millie’s shoulder and sobbed uncontrollably.

  “Michael, what’s wrong?” Ruth was confused, but Millie knew the reason for her son’s outburst. A single red balloon was bobbing in the air over the kitchen table, the string tied to the back of the chair where Michael usually sat. Ruth must have picked it up from one of the merchants in town.

  Millie handed Michael to Ruth and untied the balloon. She carried it through the kitchen’s back door and let go of the string. It flew up and to the west, a crimson cloud in an otherwise clear blue sky. When it was no longer visible, Millie made her way back inside.

  “All gone,” she told Michael. “I promise. All gone.” She took him from Ruth and rocked him in her arms, cooing and shushing and humming in his ear. After he calmed down, he took one of Ruth’s cookies and nibbled it slowly until it was gone.

  “I had no idea he was afraid of balloons,” Ruth said softly. “I’m so sorry.”

  Millie forced a smile to defuse the tension. “Don’t worry about it,” she said. “How could you have known?”

  Millie

  Brooklyn, New York (November 1937)

  They had been married for a month when Lenny began working full-time for his brother. “What’s the job exactly?” Millie wanted to know.

  But Lenny wouldn’t discuss the details. “Deliveries, sales, wherever they need me. Whatever Murray wants.” Though he worked longer hours than ever before, Lenny didn’t seem to be earning any more money. He grew sullen and angry when she asked for a grocery allowance, and he accused her of shopping at expensive stores.

  “But my mother always bought her meat at Frankel’s,” she protested.

  “I don’t care where your mother bought her brisket,” he grumbled. “His prices are too high. Find somewhere else.”

  Lenny began staying out later and later in the evenings, until one night he simply didn’t come home. At two in the morning, when he still hadn’t shown, Millie decided to call Murray. Her brother-in-law answered on the very first ring, almost as if he’d been waiting by the phone.

  “Murray? It’s Millie. I’m sorry to call so late … I wanted to see whether you’d heard from Lenny. He hasn’t come home.”

  “Millie? Is that you? Sweetheart, go to sleep. There’s nothing to be nervous about. Trust me, he’s fine.” Murray sounded unconcerned.

  “But where could he be? Is he still at work?”

  “Listen to me, Mil. He got stuck on a job. I’m sorry he didn’t call you to say he’d be late. I’ll talk to him about that for next time, I promise. Now, go back to bed. And don’t be worried.”

  Before she could respond, Murray hung up. Instead of calming her, the conversation only made her more anxious. She wrapped herself up in one of her father’s old sweaters and settled on the sofa in the front room. The couple was still living in her parents’ apartment, but Millie knew that the arrangement would not last much longer. They couldn’t afford the rent—not by a mile—and the landlord’s sympathy was beginning to fade.

  She was still on the couch when Lenny stumbled in a few hours after sunrise with blood on his collar. “Are you hurt? What happened?” She had her arms wrapped around him before he could answer, checking his body for bruises, pressing her head into his chest. His shirt reeked of cigarettes, but she didn’t care. When she was certain he was unharmed, she burst into tears.

  “Geez, would you stop bawling? Work ran late, and then some of the guys invited me to their poker game. I got a bloody nose, that’s all.” Lenny wriggled out of her embrace and flung himself on the sofa, where he slept like a dead man for the rest of the afternoon. The next day, he acted as if nothing had happened.

  The second time he disappeared was a few months later, after they had moved to a smaller apartment in a noisier neighborhood. Lenny told her he was stuck making deliveries in Queens. After a day and a half, when she didn’t hear from him, she used her neighbor’s telephone to call Murray again.

  This time, her brother-in-law sounded mildly annoyed. “There’s nothing to worry about,” Murray said smoothly. “A couple of my trucks broke down, that’s all. I sent Lenny and the guys to New Jersey for some new ones.”

  “But how long does it take to go to New Jersey? He’s been gone since yesterday morning.”

  She could tell Murray didn’t appreciate being confronted. “You like asking questions, don’t you?” he said.

  “I think I’m entitled to know where my husband is,” she snapped.

  “Millie,” Murray cooed, “listen to me. You’re a newlywed, so of course you’re upset. A beautiful new bride should never spend a night alone. It’s my fault for sending him out on that job. What can I do to make it up to you?”

  His tone was so condescending that she wanted to scream. But she would not give him the satisfaction of raising her voice. She would take a page from his book and reveal absolutely nothing.

  “Just tell your brother to call,” she said. This time, Millie was the one to hang up first.

  When Lenny returned two days later, the smell of cigarettes on his shirt was mixed with the scent of ladies’ perfume. Millie found two matchbooks from a Philadelphia nightclub in his jacket pocket. When she handed them back to him, he threw up his hands.

  “You accusing me of something?”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything. I didn’t know you were in Philadelphia, that’s all.”

  “We were all over the place—New Jersey, Philly. I lost track after a while. What’s the big deal?”

  The disappearances continued. Millie thought they might stop after Michael was born, but they only became more frequent. Lenny would be gone for a night or two or sometimes three and would return smelling of women, of liquor, and lies.

  The last time she called Murray, a different man answered. “Hello?” the voice shouted. “Whaddya want?”

  “This is Millie Fein, Murray’s sister-in-law. May I speak with him, please?”

  After a pause, the man returned to the line. “Murray said to tell you Lenny is fine. Stuck on a job. He’ll be home tomorrow.”

  “If I could speak to my brother-in-law for just a minute—”

  “Sorry, lady,” the voice said. “Murray can’t t
alk.”

  * * *

  Before the attack on Pearl Harbor, Lenny had been gone for three days. The evening after President Roosevelt declared war, Lenny walked through the door of their tiny apartment, shaved and sober, with a half-crushed bouquet of flowers and a wallet full of cash. Millie was sitting at home with Michael, hungry for news and straining to hear her neighbor’s radio through the thin plaster walls of their apartment. This time, Lenny smelled of soap and witch hazel. His clothes were clean and his shoes freshly shined. He had come directly from the barber, he said, which was where the bouquet of flowers got crushed. “I left them on a chair, and someone sat on them by mistake.”

  This time, she actually believed him.

  Usually when Lenny got home after one of his sprees, he got into bed and slept the day away. This time, he was bursting with energy—swinging Michael in the air and tickling the little boy until he was howling with laughter.

  Lenny took them to the coffee shop down the block for dinner, and afterward, he bought Michael a red balloon. Millie tied it to Michael’s wrist so it wouldn’t float away, and the whole time they walked, Michael stared up at it. A thousand stars hung in the clear night air, and the moon was brighter than Millie could ever remember. Lenny carried Michael up high on his shoulders, and when they got home, Lenny tucked him into bed. Watching Michael fall asleep in his father’s arms almost made her forget all the other nights she had sat up waiting for her husband.

  Lenny spoke while Michael slept, of his plan to join the army, of his desire to rise up in the ranks and to make something of himself. He wanted to fight for his country, he said, the greatest country in the world. He had never thought much about being Jewish before, and he hadn’t been inside a synagogue for at least a decade, but that night, he spoke of his ancestors and the faraway places his people had come from—Poland and Russia and towns with no names. “I never really thought that stuff mattered before,” he confessed. “If I was Jewish or Catholic or whatever, you know? But if you’re Jewish over there, they can take away your business even if you’ve never been to a synagogue. Hell, they can put you in jail even if you don’t believe in God.”

  Millie didn’t say much; she tried only to listen. She wanted so much to understand her husband, to know what he was thinking. More than anything in the world, she wanted to believe he could be a success.

  She was so elated the next morning that she wrote a letter to Ruth right after Lenny left for the recruiting office. Lenny is joining the army. I’ve never seen him so excited. Although pride prevented her from revealing the whole truth of her marriage, she poured all of her hopes into her words. She didn’t write about their dismal living arrangements, Lenny’s failed jobs, or her own awful loneliness. She wrote only happy news, only her most positive thoughts. She asked about the girls, about Arthur, about Springfield. There was more she wanted to say, but she had already filled the page.

  Millie took Michael for a walk and dropped the letter in the mailbox. She bought groceries with the money Lenny left her and spent the rest of the afternoon roasting a chicken and making an apple pie.

  By the time Lenny returned to the apartment that night, he was drunk and the chicken was cold. The stench of whiskey wafted off his new shirt, now crumpled and stained. At first, Millie thought he had been celebrating, but the look on his face told her he had been drowning his sorrows.

  She was afraid to ask, but she couldn’t help herself. “What happened?”

  She had seen Lenny angry before, plenty of times, but she had never heard his voice so brimming with rage. “I’ll tell you what happened! I went down there and filled out all their damn papers. I answered all their stupid questions for nothing!”

  “Are they sending you to the Pacific? Is that why you’re so upset?”

  “They’re not sending me anywhere! The goddamn doctor said I have a heart murmur. A heart murmur! Can you believe that? I’m healthy as a horse!”

  “Did he say what kind of heart murmur?” Millie tried not to let the panic she felt creep into her voice.

  “How the hell am I supposed to know? The idiot stamped my papers and told me to see a cardiologist. One doctor ruins my life, and then he tells me to go see another doctor!”

  “We’ll go tomorrow. I’ll go with you.”

  “Are you kidding me? I’m not going to any more doctors.”

  “But what if you need medicine? What if you have what your father—”

  “Jesus Christ, you’re gonna start in with me about my father now? Just shut up, will you? Shut up!”

  Years before, when Ruth had slapped her that first night Lenny came for dinner, Millie hadn’t seen it coming. She had been so surprised that she had barely registered the pain—the shock of the act overshadowed every physical sensation. But this time, the opposite was true. Millie knew what was about to happen before Lenny raised his arm. She could see the movement in her mind, she could feel the air push forward from the back of his hand through the space between them. She felt the sting of the impact before his knuckles hit her cheek, and when it was done, there was only a sick sense of relief. He left the apartment without a word, without a single backward glance, so spent from the deed that he didn’t even have the strength to slam the door on his way out.

  The next morning, all that was left of Lenny was the deflated red balloon. When Michael saw the shriveled sphere, empty and lifeless on the worn wooden floor, he flung himself down next to it and cried.

  Lillian

  Springfield, Massachusetts (September 1942)

  The hammering started precisely at seven. An enormous grandstand had been constructed in front of the main arsenal building the day before, but the finishing touches were made that morning. At least a dozen men were draping the platform with red, white, and blue bunting, oversized American flags, and ribbons. More than a hundred folding chairs were being arranged underneath the covered area, with a special section up front for presenters and guests of honor. The freshly painted podium—a glossy white lectern adorned with the armory seal of two crisscrossed cannons—was placed in the center, facing what soon would be a crowd of thousands.

  The festive atmosphere extended to the Walsh breakfast table, where Thomas, their oldest, had just taken a seat. Between bites of toast and gulps of milk, he questioned his father about the ceremony. “Frances said the mayor is giving a speech. Who else is coming?”

  Before the colonel could answer, Frances swept into the kitchen waving the morning edition of The Springfield Republican. Her ponytail was knotted with a tight red bow, and her knee socks clung obediently to the tops of her calves. “Honestly, Thomas, don’t you ever read the paper?” She recited from the front page. “The Army Navy ‘E’ Award for Excellence in production will be presented by Major General Thomas J. Hayes, chief of the industrial service of the ordnance department.” Then she tossed the paper at her brother’s plate.

  Thomas scowled, but took his turn reading. “Also attending will be Major General Sherman Miles, commander, first service command; Captain Arthur Atkins, representing the commandant of the first naval district; Brigadier General H. R. Kutz; and Captain Gerald Strickland.”

  Lillian felt a lump in her throat as Thomas read the last name. “Gerald Strickland?” She coughed. “Are you sure that’s the name?”

  “That’s what it says. Right here in black and white.”

  * * *

  From their seats on the platform, Lillian and the children could see all the groups of workers filing into Armory Square. The men were clean-shaven, in sweaters or suits, and the women had abandoned their bandannas and coveralls for carefully set waves and Sunday-best dresses. By the time everyone assembled, at least five thousand people filled the grassy campus. The mayor of Springfield and half a dozen captains and generals held seats of honor in the grandstand’s front row. The renowned color guard from Fort Devens was on hand, marching in formation for the cheering crowd. Every member of the guard held an armory-made M1 Garand rifle.

  Lillian was espe
cially proud when General Hayes spoke about the number of women at the armory.

  In paying tribute to the armory employees, I am not unmindful of the big part that the girls and women of this plant have played and are playing. Without women in war industry, our production objectives could not be reached.

  When the pennant was presented, a steady stream of applause filled the square. Patrick and the guests of honor were ushered to the side, and the giant E banner was raised on the flagpole in the center of the green. Afterward, Patrick introduced Lillian to the visitors, including a white-haired and solemn Captain Strickland. He had the same rutted features she remembered from her youth—the same untrusting eyes, the same tightly clenched jaw.

  The captain studied her face, his frown deepening. “You’re Malcolm’s daughter,” he observed. “I suppose it’s Mrs. Walsh now?”

  “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “And those are your children? How old are they?”

  “Margaret is our youngest—she’s six and a half. Thomas, our oldest, just turned thirteen—the same age I was when we last saw each other.”

  “Your father did the right thing by sending you away. After that business with your mother, it was the very best thing for you.”

  Lillian bit her lip hard to keep herself from answering. What did this man know of what her mother endured? The best thing for me, she wanted to say, would have been a childhood free from men like you and my father. Instead, she changed the subject. “Will you be joining us for refreshments back at the house?”

  “No time, Mrs. Walsh. Not a minute to spare. I’m not sure why all those generals have so much time for socializing, but some of us have to get back to Washington. Give your father my regards.”

  “Have a safe trip. Children, let’s go.” As she led them away, she felt Margaret tugging on the bottom of her skirt.