When they were gone, Millie crept into her parents’ bedroom and pulled a hand-sewn muslin bag from the back of the closet. Inside was her mother’s wedding dress—cream-colored lace turned fragile with age. For as long as she could remember Millie had admired it, but her mother had always discouraged her interest. Compared to the gown you’ll have one day, this is just a pile of rags.
Millie stepped into the dress and buttoned it up the back as far as she could—the fabric strained over her chest, but she pretended that it fit. From the front at least, the girl in her mother’s mirror was a picture-perfect bride—it was only when she turned that the flaws became visible. After a few minutes in the gown, the lace began to scratch her skin. Carefully, she pulled it off, and returned it to the closet.
She thought about calling Audrey or Joyce, but she worried that neither of them would come to the phone. She hadn’t seen them once since the drugstore that summer, and she still hadn’t received an invitation to Joyce’s wedding.
Lenny called sometime in the late afternoon, but she lied and told him she was going to Ruth’s for dinner. Other girls in her situation would have invited him over in a heartbeat, but Millie refrained. In the past, she had assumed that Ruth’s “rules” were rubbish—nice girls don’t smile at strangers, nice girls don’t wear tight skirts, nice girls don’t go around kissing men on street corners. She’d argued with her sister and called her a prude. But the truth was, Beverly’s comments at the drugstore had bothered Millie more than she wanted to admit. She didn’t want to give the gossips any more ammunition, and besides, she still hadn’t decided how she felt about Lenny. Her conversation with her father hadn’t helped one bit.
So, for the rest of the afternoon, Millie listened to the radio and read her mother’s copy of Gone with the Wind. At dinnertime, she fixed herself a cold chicken sandwich. She was already in her nightgown when the clock struck nine.
It was almost eleven when Lenny showed up, tapping so quietly at the door that she almost didn’t hear him. “I didn’t want that lady downstairs to hear the buzzer.” He grinned. “But I figured you’d be home from your sister’s by now.” His jacket was crumpled, his eyes were bloodshot, and Millie recognized the faint smell of liquor on his breath. When he leaned forward to kiss her, she took a step back. “You can’t come in now. I’m about to go to sleep.”
“Aw, Millie, please? Lemme stay for a little? I just wanna talk.”
“We can talk tomorrow, Lenny.”
“I can’t wait until tomorrow!” When he began to raise his voice, Millie pulled him inside. “Shh!” she hissed. “Do you want the whole building to hear you?”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he muttered over and over. “I didn’t mean to yell—I had a coupla drinks.”
“More than a couple. You can barely stand. Go ahead and sit down, but just for a minute.”
He fell onto the sofa, still whining his apologies. “I needed the drinks so I’d have the nerve to ask. Millie, do you love me? Because I sure love you. I think you’re the most beautiful girl I ever met.”
“That’s sweet, but I think we should talk about this another time.”
“Nooo,” he moaned. “I need to know now. Please, Millie, do you love me? Because if we got engaged, your mother would know I’m serious. If I was her son-in-law, she’d have to like me.” Lenny’s eyelids fluttered, and his words came out garbled. “Wouldn’t that be terrific?” He reached out a hand to stroke Millie’s cheek, but his fingers were clammy, and she brushed them away. If he had been more alert, he might have been insulted, but he giggled as if she were playing a game.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
For most of her life, Millie’s mother had spun stories about the kind of man who would propose to her one day. The gentleman/millionaire/prince among men would be like one of the Rockefellers—only Jewish, of course. He would have degrees from Columbia or possibly Harvard and would come from a large and prominent family. Tall and handsome, most likely—but even if not, his clothes would be so well made that they would do the job for him. He would wear a gold watch, but no other jewelry, and he would smell of expensive cologne.
Most important of all, this miraculous man would dedicate his life to making Millie happy. He would shower her with gifts, adoration, and praise. His proposal would be planned well in advance, and would take place in an elegant restaurant or perhaps a garden. When he asked her to marry him, he would kneel down beside her, take her hand in his, and gently slip the ring on her finger. There would be champagne, of course, in crystal glasses. He would swear his devotion and promise to love her forever.
Meanwhile, the man in front of her could barely keep his eyes open. Soon his head drooped backward and he began to snore. She tried to shake him awake, but he was out cold. Was this the man she should choose for her husband? In the silence that surrounded her, she could hear her father’s voice: Love is something you have to decide for yourself.
“Wake up. Do you hear me? You have to go home!”
She tried to pull Lenny to a standing position, but his body was too heavy for her to move. Disgusted, she left him on the couch, retrieved her book from the bedroom, and went into the kitchen to brew a pot of coffee. She would try to wake him again soon, and he would need it then.
Millie should have had a cup of the coffee herself, because half an hour later, she began to drift off. She lay her head down on her book and let herself dream about the wedding her mother had promised. In the dream, her gown was long and made of shimmering white silk. The room was filled with gardenias, and violins played. Her parents were on either side of her as she walked down the aisle, and at the front of the room, under the chuppah, was a man in a tuxedo waiting for her. She couldn’t see the groom’s face, but she knew he was smiling.
At around three in the morning, she woke to the sound of screaming. “What are you doing here? Where is my sister?”
Millie lifted her head from the table and rubbed her eyes. Her back ached and her legs were cramped, but she hobbled out of the kitchen and into the living room. Her sister stood over Lenny in a red-faced rage.
“How could you, Millie? How could you spend the night with him like this?”
“Ruth, calm down. I didn’t invite him. He showed up on his own—he tried to propose. But he was drunk, and then he passed out and I couldn’t move him.”
Ruth sank slowly to the floor and began to weep. Millie knew that finding Lenny in the apartment was a shock, but her sister’s reaction was far too extreme—there had to be something else to explain her behavior. A kernel of fear began to grow in Millie’s chest.
“Ruth?” she asked softly. “Why are you here? Did something happen? Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
Millie turned to Lenny, who was finally awake. “You should fix yourself a cup of coffee in the kitchen,” she suggested. “I made a pot a few hours ago.”
“Sure,” he agreed, relieved to have been given a task. “I’ll go do that.”
Once he was gone, Ruth began to speak. The words poured out of her like water through a partially clogged faucet: a trickle and then a gush, soft and then loud. “Papa called me after the wedding. He said they were going to come home early. Mama didn’t like the hotel room—you know how she is. She told Papa she wanted to sleep in her own bed. The police showed up at my door around two in the morning … they sent Officer Wexler because he knows Papa. He said there was an accident. A car crash in New Jersey … they’re not sure who was at fault. It doesn’t matter anyway.”
Millie heard Ruth’s words, but she couldn’t process their meaning. Her head began to pound. “I don’t understand … did they bring them to a hospital? Should we go to see them? Where are they?”
“There is no hospital. Mama and Papa are dead.”
Millie shook her head. “No. No, that can’t be. They must have the wrong car. They must have the wrong people.”
“It was the Schwartzes’ car—the one Papa always borrowed. The license plate matches. Arthur went with Officer
Wexler to New Jersey to … identify them. He said I shouldn’t go … that it’s better not to remember them that way.”
“What should we do?” Millie moaned. “Ruth, what should we do?” Tears burned her cheeks, and she could not get enough air. She fell to her knees just as Ruth rose from the floor. Even in the haze of her grief, Millie felt the transformation—Ruth’s reclaimed composure, her newly minted armor. Without a single word, they fell into old patterns: as Millie grew more agitated, Ruth became calm. Millie wanted to change course, but she didn’t have the strength.
“I don’t know,” Ruth answered. “We’ll decide tomorrow. Listen to me, Millie. I can’t stay much longer. I had to get my neighbor out of bed to come over and watch the girls—they’ve been sick all week, and they keep waking up. Mrs. Klein is too old—she won’t be able to lift them out of their cribs. I need to get back. Do you want to come home with me? You can sleep on our sofa.”
Millie still hadn’t answered when Lenny returned from the kitchen. From the look on his face, she knew he’d heard every word.
“Millie?” Ruth repeated. “I know that you’re devastated. We both are, believe me. I wish I didn’t have to go, but Arthur won’t be home for hours. Do you want to come home with me? Please, you need to decide.”
Millie began to rock back and forth, slowly, on her knees. Her eyes were half closed, and her teeth were chattering. Lenny took the afghan from the sofa and wrapped it around her. She could feel the weight of it, but it provided no warmth.
Ruth bent down and took hold of her shoulders. “Millie? Can you hear me?”
“I can stay with her,” Millie heard Lenny offer. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“Millie?” The pitch of Ruth’s voice rose higher and higher. “Is that what you want? Tell me what you want to do. Answer me, please.”
But Millie couldn’t answer. She couldn’t even think. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift away. She must have fallen asleep, but it was sleep without rest, a fits-and-starts slumber marred by terrible dreams. When she opened her eyes the next morning, she was still on the floor, though someone had tucked a pillow under her head and covered her with an extra blanket. When she sat up, she was surprised to see Lenny resting on the sofa.
Her sister, on the other hand, was nowhere to be found.
Lillian
Springfield, Massachusetts (November 1942)
Every month, Lillian read The Armory News from cover to cover. Sometimes Patrick contributed a letter or an essay, but Lillian preferred the lighter pieces, especially the cartoons. She was always surprised by how many pages were filled with reports of social gatherings or just plain gossip.
As she flipped through the November issue, one picture in particular caught her eye—a pretty young woman in her early twenties, clad in an elaborate gown and feathered headpiece. Her hair was swept back, and her round cheeks were rouged. Next to it was another photo, taken twenty years later, of the very same woman in a plain workday dress.
It is a pleasure to introduce Miss Arietta Benevetto, an accomplished vocalist who has performed in theaters all over the East Coast, including Springfield’s own Poli’s Palace. Arietta was born in New Haven, Connecticut, where her father, Mr. Salvatore Benevetto, was a master builder for none other than Sylvester Poli himself. Miss Benevetto’s talents were discovered by Mr. Poli when she was only five years old, and she began performing regularly at the age of fifteen. She shared the stage with many prominent vaudeville celebrities, including Shirley Booth.
Today, Miss Benevetto is our most popular cook at the armory post restaurant, working the weekday lunch shift. Those of us who frequent the restaurant are fans of her macaroni and cheese and baked beans. Recently, Miss Benevetto’s homemade lasagna was added to the menu, and it is now the cafeteria’s most requested item. Miss Benevetto performs regularly for cafeteria customers on Wednesday afternoons. Often, the WPO orchestra accompanies her. Tables are packed, with many regulars standing during their lunch break to hear her perform.
Outside of the armory, Miss Benevetto is a member of the choir at St. Ann’s Church in West Springfield.
This had to be the cook Grace Peabody mentioned months ago—the woman Grace suspected of poisoning the food. How ludicrous it was to think that this lovely woman would ever be capable of such an act. Lillian thought about Arietta all afternoon, and she decided to visit the cafeteria the following Wednesday.
In the administration building where Patrick worked, Lillian had always blended in easily. Women wore their best dresses, and there was no need to worry about catching a bracelet in a typewriter or losing a finger to an adding machine if you didn’t remove your rings. But in the cafeteria, she felt overdressed and conspicuous. Her suit and her jewelry set her apart. As she waited in line, the two young women behind her stared at her shoes and whispered.
Lillian watched the men and women pour through the double doors, some of them in coveralls, and others in work dresses or shirts. The more she watched, the more she noticed the slowness of their gait and the bags under their eyes. She wondered how many of the men had worked more than one shift and how many of the women had been up with crying babies the night before.
Federal Street—the road that separated the shops from where she lived—was not merely a street but the widest of chasms. Lillian kept mostly to the west side of the street, to the park-like sanctuary of Armory Square. After lunch, she would make her way home on the well-tended paths, past the tennis court, the greenhouses, and the charming homes of the other officers.
But on the east side of the street, in Federal Square, the armory was a place free of fountains and privet hedges. It was there and at the Water Shops where the difficult work was being done, where thousands of women and men performed the most grueling of tasks. Inside the brick storehouses and the factory buildings—that was the heart of armory production. Her trip to the other side of Federal Street was a journey to another world.
“Mrs. Walsh!”
Lillian spotted Millie Fein waving from halfway across the room. Like most of the other women, Millie wore a simple dress and flat, lace-up shoes. She gestured to an empty seat at her table. Lillian hurried through the crowd and set down her tray.
“Thank goodness you saw me! Is it always like this? I can’t believe the crowd!”
Delores introduced herself and shook Lillian’s hand. “Wednesdays are always busy, but none of us has ever seen this many people before.”
“It must be the write-up in The Armory News.”
Before Millie could chime in, a balding man in a worn suit placed a wooden milk crate on the floor a few feet in front of them. A cheer went up from the crowd.
“Hi, folks,” the man said, giving his tie a nervous tug. “We’ve sure got a big turnout today. So, ah … you’ve all been waiting patiently, and I do appreciate it. Let’s see … the musicians are all set up, and Arietta is going to come out in a minute. Oh, and when you’re done eating, please make sure to bring your trays up to the front.”
It wasn’t exactly a rousing introduction, and for a moment, Lillian wondered whether she’d made a mistake in coming. Her doubts continued to linger after Arietta emerged from the kitchen. The cook looked nothing like her glamorous photograph in the newsletter. Her cheeks were ruddy from a long morning spent at the stove, and her brow glistened with perspiration. She wore a well-used floral apron over her dress, which was tied around her back in the limpest of bows.
It was when she took off the apron that Lillian’s misgivings faded. Not because of what was underneath—a plain navy shirtdress pulled too tightly around the middle—but because the grace of the gesture transformed the singer completely. The most refined Manhattan socialite removing a velvet cloak at the opera could not have been more elegant than Arietta removing her smock. Her bearing was suddenly regal, and her harried flush of exhaustion became a crimson glow of anticipation. Reflected in the singer’s heavy-lidded eyes, the low-wattage bulbs dangling overhead could have been mistaken for stars.
Arietta walked confidently to the front of the room, cued the musicians, and stepped onto the milk crate. Eager diners shushed one another as a silky ballad filled the air.
As the cook sang, Lillian felt the mood of the room lighten. She felt her own heartbeat slow and the tension in her shoulders evaporate. When she looked at the other diners, they were smiling and still. The last note came too soon, and when the song ended, Millie and Lillian rose from their chairs to join the others in a standing ovation.
Arietta beamed as the diners sat back down. “How about we liven things up a bit? See if you know this one.” She began the next song with no music at all, belting out the opening and swaying side to side. Lillian was surprised by how many people sang along.
He’s 1-A in the army and he’s A-1 in my heart,
He’s gone to help the country that helped him to get a start.
I love him so because I know he wants to do his part,
For he’s 1-A in the army and he’s A-1 in my heart.
A few songs later, Arietta stepped off her crate. There were shouts for “one more” and pleas from the crowd, but back in the shops, the machinery was waiting. The hands that clapped now were needed to straighten barrels later. Reluctantly, the patrons went back to work.
Once the crowd dispersed, Lillian asked Millie to introduce her to her friend. “Your performance was sensational!” Lillian told the cook. “I know you must be busy, but I have two questions for you. The first has to do with our annual Christmas party. Patrick and I host it at our home every year, and I was hoping you’d agree to sing for us.”
“I’m flattered to be asked—I’d love to. What’s the second question?”
Lillian paused. “I’ve been thinking about putting together a much bigger concert, not just in the cafeteria but an event that every employee would be able to attend.”
Arietta whistled. “Everyone? That would mean a concert for thousands of people, ma’am.”
“Yes. It will have to be outside, so we’ll need to wait until the spring, when the weather is more accommodating. It will take a lot of organization, but it would be wonderful for morale.”
The Wartime Sisters Page 15
