The Wartime Sisters

by Lynda Cohen Loigman

  Roy Crawford’s company supplied the armory with sodium cyanide, the chemical compound used to case-harden steel. In Lillian’s opinion, Crawford was the worst kind of dinner companion—the kind who spent the evening giving unwanted advice. He had never served in the military, and he knew nothing about weaponry, rifles, or any of the issues involved in their production. Despite his lack of knowledge, however, there was nothing he enjoyed more than forcing his opinions on others. He started out innocently, with questions about his own shipments. “Where’s the storage facility these days? How’s the ventilation system?” But after a few drinks, he began to engage in a steady stream of criticism. “Can’t you make the damn rifles any faster, Pat?”

  “It’s not that simple, Roy,” Patrick answered through gritted teeth. “The M1 is the product of years of research and design. It’s been tremendously successful. You know that.”

  “Well, then, you’re going to have to demand longer hours from your people.”

  “The armory already runs twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”

  “Hmph.”

  Mrs. Crawford sipped at her champagne and smiled. She was dull, pasty, and overdressed in a blue satin cocktail dress and heavy fur stole. It was Lillian’s job to engage her in conversation, but tonight, she could barely think of anything to say.

  The Hotel Kimball dining room was expansive and elegant, painted in muted tones of rose and gray. Coffered ceilings and patterned carpets warmed the space, while crystal fixtures provided a golden glow that flattered even the most anemic of complexions. Lillian wondered if that was why Mrs. Crawford had chosen the restaurant.

  “Tell me, Mrs. Walsh, where is it that you’re from? I thought your husband mentioned the South the last time we met, but you have no accent at all.”

  “My father was in the military too, so we moved around quite a bit. We jumped all over the South, but when I was thirteen, I was enrolled at a girls’ boarding school in Connecticut.”

  “That explains the lack of accent, then. It must have been very hard on your mother to send you away. I could never have sent my girls away at that age.”

  “Unfortunately, my mother had just passed away. Given the circumstances, boarding school seemed to be the best choice.”

  “I’m so sorry, dear. Was she ill?”

  “Patrick tells me you have a new grandson,” Lillian gushed, changing the subject. “You must tell us all about him!”

  * * *

  Lillian’s aunt Catherine, her father’s only sister, arrived on the base just in time for the funeral. She’d shown up without flowers, casseroles, or soothing words, but with a stack of brochures for girls’ schools in New England.

  To be fair, boarding school had been Lillian’s idea. Elated by the suggestion, her father passed on the task of choosing one to his sister. The Littlefield School in Connecticut was one of the few to accept students midway through the year. One of Catherine’s acquaintances knew someone on the board.

  Her aunt took her shopping for a simple black dress that she could wear to her mother’s funeral. The saleswoman tried to give Lillian a reassuring smile as she wrapped up the purchases: the somber new dress, a pair of black pumps (Lillian’s first), and a navy wool coat that her aunt insisted would be suitable for Connecticut winters.

  For the rest of the week, Catherine was given free rein. She went through Lillian’s closet, and Lillian’s mother’s, compiling a suitable wardrobe for a “Littlefield girl.” Her aunt also filled a suitcase for herself—stuffed to overflowing with handbags and jewelry and the most beautiful of the dresses Lillian’s mother had sewn. Lillian didn’t say a word—she was too grief-stricken to object.

  A week after the funeral, Aunt Catherine left, and Lillian and her father began their trip north. They drove for eighteen hours straight, stopping only for quick meals and trips to the bathroom. Lillian slept for much of the way, and when she wasn’t asleep, she pretended to be.

  “This is it,” her father said as they turned into the school’s driveway. Large stone pillars and snow-covered hedges framed the paved circle where he put the car in park. He pulled two suitcases from the trunk, set them in front of the large white-columned building, and returned immediately to the driver’s seat. The process took only a minute, and he hadn’t even bothered to turn off the engine.

  “You’re not going to walk me in and meet the headmistress?”

  “You’re a big girl now, Lillian,” her father said, shifting the gears. “I’m sure you can handle this on your own.”

  “Am I coming home for Easter?”

  “We’ll see,” he mumbled before driving away.

  After witnessing the send-off from her front office window, the headmistress whispered some instructions to her assistant. When Lillian entered the office fifteen minutes later, she was greeted with a plate of cookies and a pot of hot chocolate instead of the customary tepid cup of tea. It wasn’t until a month and a half later, when another new girl matriculated, that Lillian understood: she was an object of singular pity. Having a dead mother was one thing, but combine that with a father who never visited or called, not even on his daughter’s birthday, and everyone—the headmistress, the teachers, and all the other girls—took notice. Lillian never knew if they were being nice to her because they liked her or because her family situation made her too tragic to treat poorly. On some days, Lillian was grateful for their kindness, but on others, it only made her feel more alone.

  * * *

  She didn’t go home for Easter, which was probably just as well. Almost a dozen girls had stayed behind at the school, and after morning services at the chapel, they gathered together in the dormitory to gorge themselves on jelly beans and chocolate eggs. The other parents had sent packages, but Lillian’s mailbox was empty.

  “Have some of ours,” the girls insisted. “There’s plenty.” But the sight of all the candy only made her stomach turn. Lillian didn’t know the girls well enough to explain, and even if she did, what would she say?

  The previous year’s Easter had been the hottest she could remember. Lillian’s mother had placed the turkey in the oven early, and by the time they got back from church, the inside of the cramped ranch house had been sweltering.

  “Why’s it so hot in here?” Lillian’s father barked. He slid off the jacket of his uniform, revealing the sweat stains that had spread under his arms.

  “It’s the oven, Malcolm. It heats up the whole house,” her mother explained.

  “Then turn it off!”

  “I can’t turn it off now. The turkey hasn’t finished cooking.”

  When he retreated to the master bedroom, Lillian assumed that was the end of it, but an hour or so later, he emerged to complain about the eggs she was decorating.

  “You’ve used up a dozen eggs with this nonsense. It’s a waste!” He grabbed one of the eggs out of Lillian’s hand, but the dye was still wet, and some dribbled onto his shirt. “Damn it!” he shouted, flinging the offensive orb across the room.

  Lillian’s mother swept the bits of shell and yolk off the floor. “Sweetheart, why don’t you go outside? You can have your Easter hunt now; I hid some treats for you.”

  “But we always do it together.”

  “Go on, sweetheart. Please.”

  With the help of a few garden benches and some plantings, Lillian’s mother had made the most of their tiny backyard. For Easter that year, she had truly outdone herself—there were lollipops tucked into the flowerbeds, chocolates nestled in the roots of the willow tree, and painted eggs hidden in all of the bushes. After she filled her basket, Lillian sat on one of the benches, sucking on a lollipop and listening to the shouting that was coming through the windows. She returned to the house only after she was sure that her father was gone.

  She found her mother in her bedroom, seated at her dressing table with a pile of glass jars and tubes laid out in front of her. When her mother turned her head toward the door, Lillian gasped. Underneath her mother’s left eye, a bluish bump
had begun to form. “Don’t be upset,” her mother said calmly. “These things happen sometimes. Once I get this covered up, you won’t even notice.”

  Lillian dropped the Easter basket and ran out of the bedroom. She had always suspected something was wrong with her father. Her mother had tried to blame his behavior on the war, claiming he hadn’t been the same since returning from World War I. But Lillian knew the war was just an excuse. Her father had been a bully long before that.

  When her mother was finished camouflaging her face, she coaxed Lillian out of her bedroom with a too-cheerful smile. “I know you’re not in the mood for your candy,” she said, “but I have an idea.” She placed all of the chocolates into a large glass bowl and melted them over a pot of warm water. Eggs, vanilla, and heavy cream were added, and the mixture was set aside long enough to roll out a fresh piecrust.

  After the pie cooled, Lillian and her mother sat on the bench outside with two plates and two spoons. The temperature had dropped, and a soft breeze blew by, drying what remained of Lillian’s tears. She hadn’t eaten all day, and she should have been starving, but the pie was too sweet and the filling too rich. Lillian couldn’t keep down a single bite.

  After that day, her mother stuck to fruit fillings. She never made chocolate cream pie again.

  Millie

  Springfield, Massachusetts (November 1942)

  The letter arrived in early November. It was the first piece of mail Millie had received since she’d moved. When she saw the return address, her throat began to tighten. The letter came from Brooklyn—from the DeLuca boys’ aunt who had fired her all those years ago.

  Dear Millie,

  I am writing to you in the care of your sister. If you are no longer in Massachusetts, I hope she will forward this to you.

  Perhaps you have heard that my brother remarried. His new wife is a widow with a son of her own, and the boys seem to enjoy their new little brother. Sharing a house with two children was already a burden on my nerves, and the addition of a third was too much for me. I live a few blocks away now and see the family every weekend.

  Last Sunday, our supper was interrupted by an unexpected visitor. My brother didn’t know the man, but I recognized him immediately.

  Leonard did his best to be charming at first, but he became sullen and angry after he realized we had no information as to your present whereabouts. I did not mention what I knew of your trip to western Massachusetts. (I found out from your mother’s friend Mrs. Shapiro, who spotted you at the train station several months ago.)

  I’m sorry to say, but I never trusted your husband. He kept unusual hours when he lived with you next door, and I could not help but overhear his many late-night outbursts. I could only assume that you did not want him to know of your recent relocation, but I wanted to make you aware of his search.

  Please give my regards to your sister.

  Sincerely,

  Leora DeLuca

  With shaking hands, Millie tore the letter into dozens of tiny pieces. She hadn’t heard from Lenny since the day he had left, almost a year ago. She had tried to contact Murray, but no matter how many times she called, the voice on the other end of the line insisted that she had the wrong number.

  She had known when Lenny hit her that something in him had broken. He’d been angry before; he’d been dishonest and mean. But that night, he had crossed an invisible line. He must have known that he could never make it right with her again. He must have known she would never look at him the same way.

  Mr. Solomon, the owner of the hat shop where Lenny once worked, took pity on her and hired her as a sort of assistant. The phone hardly ever rang, but he let her bring Michael, and sometimes she would rearrange the hats in the window. Every once in a while, she caught Mr. Solomon staring at her son and shaking his head. One day she had asked him, in a whisper, what he knew.

  “Lenny and his brother owe a bunch of money,” Mr. Solomon explained. “An awful lot of money to an awful dangerous fella.”

  “So, you don’t think they’re coming back?”

  “Millie, sweetheart, from what I’ve heard, I’d be surprised if either one of them is still alive. I hate to say such things, but it’s better maybe that you should know. So you don’t get your hopes up.”

  Night after night, she waited and wondered. Was her husband truly gone? Would she ever know for sure? A year later, the bits of paper in her wastepaper basket told a story that she could never have anticipated.

  “Mama!” Michael was calling from downstairs, eager for her attention. She had taken too long in her room, and he was growing impatient.

  “I’m coming!” Millie unpinned her identification badge from her dress, smoothed back her hair, and tried to slow her breathing. Her brain raced with new worries about what to do next. She had always consoled herself with the fact that she hadn’t spoken any strict falsehoods to her sister. Lenny had disappeared, and she’d written that he was gone. He had abandoned them, and she’d written that she was alone. Still, she had omitted the most difficult truth of all. In her heart, Millie knew she should tell her sister everything.

  But as she headed downstairs, her certainty fell away. Step after step, doubt consumed her. Remember how quickly Ruth left after our parents died, how she deserted you after the wedding, and how she barely looked back? What’s to stop her now from throwing you out?

  She could hear Michael whining—hunger made him irritable. When she walked into the kitchen, he let out a groan. “Mama, why is everyone sad today?” he asked.

  Millie had been lost in her own private thoughts. But when she looked at the faces around her, she saw that Michael was right. Ruth looked ill—like she had eaten something spoiled—and the girls were sniffling and rubbing their eyes. It was rare for Arthur to drink alcohol with his dinner, and yet tonight, he had a full glass of whiskey in front of him.

  “What’s wrong? Why is everyone so upset?”

  It was Arthur who answered, his voice steadier than his hands. “I’m being sent out of the country for a little while.”

  “Six months isn’t a little while,” Ruth snapped.

  “We’re setting up an ordnance outpost in North Africa. The rifles have been having some slight malfunctions—parts have been seizing up. It happened back in Singapore with the heavy rains, so it may be the humidity or a lubrication issue. In any event, they’re sending a few of us over to evaluate and come up with some solutions.”

  Millie chose her words carefully. “I’m sure you’ll be far away from the front lines. And six months will go by before you know it.” She took the children’s plates and packed them with fish fillets, carrots, and rice. She made sure the water glasses were filled and helped Michael cut his food. For the rest of the meal, she tried to keep up the conversation, but Ruth barely spoke and hardly touched her plate. When dinner was over, Millie stayed behind to do the dishes.

  She was almost finished when Arthur returned to the kitchen with a freshly filled glass of whiskey. His hair was slightly mussed, and his dark-rimmed glasses were slipping down his nose.

  “May I speak with you for a moment?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  Since her move to Springfield, Millie had barely spent any time with her brother-in-law. Her distance had been purposeful; she knew enough of Ruth’s jealousy to stay as far away from him as possible. Despite their lack of contact, however, it was clear to her that Arthur was a good husband and father. She knew her sister and her nieces would be devastated by his absence.

  “Millie, I’m not a particularly spiritual man. I don’t go to synagogue much or even think about it really, but now … now that I’m going to be away, I feel as if maybe there was a reason you came to live with us.”

  She had never heard her brother-in-law speak this way before. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re the only one who can understand what Ruth will be going through. You know what it feels like to wait for your husband.” He downed the rest of his drink in one long swallow. “Don�
�t get me wrong—I expect to make it home, safe and sound. But if anyone could possibly help Ruth while I’m gone, it’s you.”

  Why did he have to ask this of her now? She had been so close to telling the truth, so close to unburdening herself. But now was not the time to add to her sister’s troubles. The revelations of Leora DeLuca’s letter would have to wait. Millie found herself frustrated but utterly relieved.

  “You will take care of her, won’t you?” Arthur pleaded.

  She didn’t trust herself to speak, so she nodded in agreement. You mean, take care of my sister the way she took care of me?

  Millie

  Brooklyn, New York (September 1937)

  Millie’s parents were going to Philadelphia for a third cousin’s wedding, and Millie would be staying in the apartment alone. She had never stayed by herself—not even for one night—and her mother was beside herself.

  “Why can’t you stay with one of your girlfriends?” she demanded before they left. “Who wouldn’t want you?”

  “Beverly is at school, and Joyce is too busy planning her wedding.”

  “Hmph. I don’t understand why you don’t go to your sister. You shared a room together for all those years—”

  “Mama, please. The twins are sick, and Ruth doesn’t want company. I’ll be perfectly fine on my own, I promise. I’m eighteen years old. It’s just one night. And Mrs. Bernstein is downstairs if I have an emergency.”

  There had been additional discussions before her parents left—Keep the door locked, the toaster unplugged; if you think you smell gas, call the police; absolutely no visitors, and don’t think I don’t mean business because Mrs. Bernstein has big ears and big eyes, and if she notices anything fishy, believe me, we’ll know.