The Wartime Sisters

by Lynda Cohen Loigman

  “Because it was in the way.” He stood from his chair. “Your mother died today, Lillian. She killed herself. I found her when I came home for lunch. The police and the ambulance left a little while ago.”

  Lillian heard the words, but they might as well have been in a foreign language. Nothing made sense; nothing her father said felt real or true. It was meaningless gibberish. It was a terrible lie. She ran from the room as fast as she could and slammed the door shut to her now-spotless bedroom. There, on her dresser, were all three of her necklaces, perfectly untangled and neatly arranged.

  For the next several hours, Lillian sat on her bed and stared at the wall. Around eight o’clock, a schoolmate’s mother knocked on her door to offer her dinner, but Lillian refused to answer. It was well after midnight when she got under the covers. Once the tears started, there was no way to stop them. She wiped at her eyes with the sleeve of her nightgown until she noticed an unfamiliar pile on her nightstand.

  Her mother had left her a clean stack of handkerchiefs.

  * * *

  On any other night, the sound of a gunshot coming from Lillian’s house would have been like an alarm reverberating throughout Armory Square. The neighbors would have been knocking, and the guards would have been alerted. But five thousand people were in the square that night, all for the concert she had helped bring to Springfield. From where she stood in the house, Lillian could hear them—an army of strangers cheering in the dark.

  The man’s body was still, facedown on the floor next to Patrick’s desk. Lillian put the rifle down and helped Millie to stand. “That was him, wasn’t it?” she asked. “That was Lenny?”

  “Yes,” Millie answered, too stunned to say more.

  There were all kinds of soldiers, Lillian realized. Not only those in uniform who clashed with foreign armies but smaller, unseen soldiers who fought more familiar enemies. Lillian had been raised by a woman under siege, a woman whose struggles—both physical and mental—had formed the bleak battleground of Lillian’s childhood. Her mother had been a casualty of that long-ago conflict, but Lillian had survived. Millie would too. Lillian wrapped her arms tightly around the trembling young woman. “He can’t hurt you anymore,” she whispered. “He’s gone.”

  When Lillian was a child, her father had sometimes spoken of the men with whom he’d fought in the first long war—the men he’d never forget, the ones he’d called his brothers. In the wake of her own battle, Lillian felt a deeper understanding of the bond her father had described all those years ago. She and Millie were soldiers as surely as those men had been. Their connection was forever sealed. They were sisters now.

  From the phone on Patrick’s desk, Lillian called the armory guards. It felt like forever before someone picked up. “This is Lillian Walsh. Please send someone over as quickly as you can. There’s been a break-in.”

  Ruth

  Ruth had just dozed off when she thought she heard knocking coming from downstairs. She glanced over at Arthur, but he was still fast asleep, so she pushed back the blankets and pulled on her robe. Before she reached the steps, the knocking had turned to pounding. Charlie was outside, a dazed expression on his face.

  “Someone broke into the Walshes’ a few hours ago.” Ruth was out the door before Charlie finished speaking. She didn’t bother with her coat. She didn’t change out of her slippers. She didn’t go upstairs to wake Arthur or tell him where she was going. The only thought in her mind was the safety of her sister. She ran without thinking or stopping to breathe. Please, God, please. Let her be all right. Charlie had to sprint across the square just to catch up with her.

  Two armory guards stood by the Walshes’ front door, and the inside of the house was buzzing with activity. To the right of the foyer, a handful of uniformed men were questioning Lillian and Patrick Walsh in the office. When Ruth peeked inside, she didn’t see her sister, but there could be no mistaking the circle of blood on the carpet. A wave of nausea rolled over her, and she grabbed Charlie’s arm. I didn’t protect her. I wasn’t there when she needed me.

  “Mrs. Blum,” Charlie said kindly, “that isn’t her blood.” Slowly, he walked Ruth toward the back of the house. They found Millie in the kitchen, standing by the back door. It was too dark to see the gardens, but Millie was staring through the glass to where the rose arbor stood.

  “Mil?” Ruth said. “It’s me. I’m here.”

  From everything Ruth had seen—the guards and the officers and the blood on the floor—her sister should have been in complete hysterics. The Brooklyn girl Ruth knew would have been sobbing loudly, encircled by a group of sympathetic supporters. But everything was different now; everything had changed. Millie stood silently, alone in the darkness. There was no one bringing her a plate of food, no one patting her on the back.

  Instead, it was Ruth who fell apart. It was Ruth who needed attention, a chair, a glass of water. Sobs rushed out of her in torrents, like a newly swollen stream. She could not hold them back; she could not make them stop.

  Millie asked Charlie to give them some privacy. Then she knelt beside her sister, took her hand, and waited until Ruth was calm enough to speak.

  “That was Lenny’s blood, wasn’t it?” Ruth finally managed to ask. “In the other room, that was his blood on the floor?”

  Millie nodded. “Yes. They took the body away a little while ago.”

  “The body? So he’s…”

  “Lenny is dead.”

  “He could have killed you,” Ruth murmured. “He could have killed you for that ring. I should have given it to him last time. How could I have been so stupid?” She began to cry again.

  “It’s all right,” Millie whispered. “Hush now. It’s over.”

  “I never should have lied to you. I never should have left you. I’m sorry.” Ruth wept. “I’m so sorry for everything.”

  * * *

  Ruth scanned the newspapers every day looking for some mention of what had occurred. On the fourth day after the incident, a short article ran on the second page of The Springfield Republican.

  ARMORY SABATOGE THWARTED

  An unidentified intruder was shot and killed after breaking into the home of Colonel Patrick Walsh, the commanding officer of the Springfield Armory. The intruder threatened the life of a houseguest at knifepoint. According to the armory intelligence officer who led the investigation, the motive for the break-in was sabotage. The intruder was killed in the commanding officer’s study, where he had been searching through classified papers and files.

  It was for the best that Lenny’s name hadn’t been mentioned. There would be nothing in print to link him back to her sister, nothing Michael would ever find that would name his father as a criminal.

  At first, Ruth assumed that the slant of the article had been the Walshes’ handiwork, that they had finessed the truth with the guards for Millie’s protection. But when she asked her sister about it, Millie told her that Captain O’Brian was convinced that Lenny was a spy. His body was found inches away from Colonel Walsh’s private desk—from piles of confidential paperwork regarding armory operations. He had snuck onto the grounds on a night he knew the house would be empty. He had intentionally carried no identification on his person. To O’Brian, the incident had all the markings of a sophisticated sabotage operation. No matter what anyone said, they couldn’t convince him otherwise.

  * * *

  After Millie had moved to the Walshes’, Ruth had avoided Lillian as much as possible. She turned in the opposite direction when she saw Lillian in the square, and she stopped attending the weekly meetings of the officers’ wives—anything to escape an awkward encounter with her former friend.

  But in the wake of Lenny’s death, there could be no more embarrassment. Ruth had nothing left to hide, no more secrets to keep. A few weeks later, when Lillian resumed her weekly meetings, Ruth decided that she might as well go.

  The first woman to greet her was Cecily Abbott, looking grayer and stouter than she had last February. “Mrs. Blum!”
Mrs. Abbott said, taking Ruth’s hand. “How nice to have you back with us.”

  Of course, not everyone was as warm or as welcoming. Even from across the Walshes’ wide living room, Ruth could feel the weight of Grace Peabody’s glare. Ruth poured herself a cup of tea and joined a circle of women deep in conversation about the latest war bond drive. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Grace approaching.

  Grace was dressed straight off the cover of Harper’s Bazaar—in a cherry-red suit with a navy-and-white-striped blouse underneath. Her gloves were made to order, in the same fabric as the blouse—creating a dramatic and jarring effect. As usual, she had no time for pleasantries.

  “What was his name? The man who got killed? I asked Lillian, of course, but she claims she doesn’t know. The paper said he was carrying no identification.”

  “I have no idea.”

  Grace raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I think you have more than just an idea. It was your sister who was with him—she has to know something. What’s Millie hiding this time?”

  In the past, Ruth had always deferred to Grace, letting her insults go unchallenged and her accusations unanswered. But now, she grabbed Grace by the elbow and pulled her to the side of the room.

  “What do you think you’re doing? Let go of me.” Grace tried to yank her arm free, but Ruth tightened her hold.

  “I think it’s time you listened to me for once. Do you know what my mother would have said about you? I’m going to say the words slowly, so you get the full effect. A sheyn punim ober a beyz harts. It’s Yiddish, by the way. It means ‘a pretty face but an evil heart.’”

  “What are you talking about? I said let go!” Ruth felt Grace’s arm tremble through the delicate red fabric.

  “I don’t ever want to hear you say my sister’s name again,” Ruth demanded. “I don’t want you to talk about her. I don’t want you to look at her. I know it was you who accused her of setting that fire. Right after Arietta saw you at the Victory dance.”

  Tiny droplets of perspiration appeared on Grace’s forehead, threatening to ruin her perfect façade.

  “I know all about Fred too—the way he attacked Millie and the awful things he said to her.” Ruth paused for a moment and gestured around the room. “How many of these women do you think your charming husband has propositioned by now? With the way that man drinks? I’d say at least half.”

  Grace’s eyes bulged with fury, but Ruth kept on talking.

  “Fred might do better away from all this temptation. I hear the arsenal in Detroit is desperate for officers—all those tanks they’re making have to be fitted with guns. Of course, Michigan is awfully far from your family in Boston, but you’d get used to it soon enough. I’m sure Colonel Walsh could be convinced to send him.”

  Grace’s arm went limp. “You wouldn’t dare,” she whispered.

  From the other side of the room, Lillian called the meeting to order. “Ladies!” she shouted, clapping her hands. “Let’s all take our seats.”

  Ruth gave Grace’s arm a final squeeze before letting go. “Oh, I would, but I’m sure I won’t have to. I have a feeling that you and I finally understand each other.”

  Millie

  The sisters took Millie’s ring to a well-known jeweler with a small shop on Main Street. Mr. Silverman’s hair was peppered with gray, but his hands were as small and as smooth as a child’s. “It’s a very unusual piece,” he said. “Let me take it in the back and examine it with my assistant.”

  Twenty minutes later, he returned, carrying the newly polished ring on a square velvet tray.

  “The opal is particularly valuable—good clarity, no pitting, a beautiful play of color. The cut of the cabochon is symmetrical and nicely domed, and the diamonds surrounding it are of excellent quality.” He paused for a moment and lifted the ring to the light. “How old did you say it was?”

  “At least a hundred years old,” Ruth answered. “It belonged to our great-grandmother.”

  “Well. I’m sure I have some customers who would be interested. I can give you eight hundred for it.”

  Millie chimed in, hoping to persuade him to go higher. “In New York, we were told it was worth at least a thousand dollars.”

  The jeweler frowned and set the ring back down on the tray. “We don’t pay New York prices in Springfield, ladies. I can go up to eight hundred and fifty, but that’s the best I can do.”

  “What do you think?” Millie asked Ruth.

  But Ruth deferred to her sister. “It’s for you to decide.”

  “I accept your offer, Mr. Silverman,” Millie announced. “You have a deal.” The jeweler rapped the counter twice with his knuckles, picked up the tray, and excused himself to the back room to write a check.

  When Millie first entered the store, it felt dusty and cramped, but now that the ring was out of her hands, the ancient glass cases and carpets seemed charming. The light from the fixtures that hung overhead reflected off the gems displayed along the perimeter, sending tiny rainbow beams glittering across the walls and the ceiling. Millie and Ruth stood together in the center of the room, staring up at the pinpricks of light, like children watching fireworks.

  After Millie placed the check from the jeweler in her purse, the sisters stepped outside into the spring sunshine. They navigated the mass of Saturday shoppers, and Millie contemplated the freedom the check represented. She would no longer be dependent on anyone for a place to stay—she could make her own way and live wherever she pleased.

  Ruth seemed to sense her thoughts. “Have you thought about what you’ll do now? Where you want to live?”

  “A little bit,” she said. “Michael and I are ready for a place of our own.”

  “Well, you have a lot of choices. You could live anywhere. Even Brooklyn again, if that’s what you want.” Ruth stopped on the sidewalk. “But I hope you don’t leave. I hope you’ll stay here.”

  Ever since they were children, Ruth had pushed Millie away. Her disapproval was a constant that Millie had come to expect, like heat in the summertime or the turning of the leaves. But now, it seemed, there was a shift in the air—imperceptible to most, but not to her. When they stopped at the intersection to turn onto State Street, Millie knew Ruth was holding her breath for an answer.

  “Of course I’m staying,” Millie said matter-of-factly. “Michael and I like it here. Where else would we go?”

  * * *

  On a warm day in late June, Millie moved to a house a few doors down from Arietta. It had been the cook, of course, who had managed it for her. After one of her elderly neighbors passed away, Arietta convinced the homeowner’s son that the most patriotic course of action would be to rent the two-bedroom Cape to a young widow who worked at the armory. “I know just the gal,” Arietta insisted. “You won’t have to move a thing; she’ll rent the place furnished. Leave it to me.”

  Millie was thrilled to have her own place at last. Neither Ruth’s house nor Lillian’s had ever felt like home, and she did not want to intrude any longer on their domains. She wouldn’t miss living in Armory Square, but she would miss the gardens, so she asked Lillian to help her plant some rosebushes in her yard. They would never bloom as lushly as the ones on Lillian’s arbor, but Millie loved the smell of them, and they were pretty just the same.

  After a full day of unpacking and scrubbing the floors, Millie put Michael to bed and settled herself with a cup of tea and the newspaper at the small kitchen table. The floral-patterned paper on the walls felt familiar—it reminded her of the DeLuca family’s kitchen back in Brooklyn. Rosebuds and wisteria floated on trellises, set against a background of soothing gray green. Millie fell asleep at the table, dreaming of a plate of Mrs. DeLuca’s arancini.

  In the morning, she woke abruptly to a knock at her door.

  Ruth was waiting on the front steps, carrying a square package wrapped in brown paper. When she saw Millie’s rumpled clothes, she reached out to feel her sister’s forehead. “Are you sick?”

  Millie smiled and led Ruth to t
he kitchen. “I’m fine; I fell asleep in a chair, that’s all.” She smoothed back her hair and began to laugh. “The funny thing is, I think that was the best night’s sleep I’ve had in years.”

  “It’s the house,” Ruth said approvingly. “You must feel at home here.” She handed Millie the box. “This is for you.”

  Inside was the photograph album from their parents’ apartment. “I never should have taken it without asking you,” Ruth said. “I have more things at my house—Mama’s candlesticks, the seder plate. You should look through everything and choose what you want to keep.”

  The book was filled with old photographs of relatives they barely knew—Great-Aunt Edna with their mother, their father’s brother from Russia. Their parents’ wedding portrait was there too, along with one of Ruth and Arthur.

  “I used to love looking at this book when I was little,” Millie mused. “Papa would tell me everyone’s names and how they were related to us. It’s a shame we have so few family photos; Mama would never let Papa buy that camera he wanted.”

  “Do you remember what she used to say? If I want to know what I look like, I’ll stand in front of a mirror.”

  Millie flipped through the book until she found what she was looking for—a photograph of Ruth on a sofa, holding a four- or five-month-old Millie on her lap. The children in the picture gazed at each other with mutual adoration, oblivious to the camera or to anyone watching.

  Millie traced the photograph with the tips of her fingers. “This was always my favorite photo of the two of us.”

  “Mine too,” Ruth said. “Always.”

  * * *

  Millie never went to another rifle club meeting. She had no stomach for shooting, and she could not bear the noise. The sound from the rifle that Lillian had fired still echoed in her ears. She woke from it sometimes, bolting upright in the dark, surrounded by silence on every side. On some nights, she wandered out of her bed, thinking it was morning and that her shift had just begun. In the mist of her mind, still clouded with loss, the small kitchen table became her workstation. Her hands went through the motions with imaginary parts—her fingers like sleepwalkers over which she had no control. She took apart the phantom trigger mechanism over and over, assembling, disassembling, until the pain subsided. Moonlight wafted through the uncovered window, illuminating her face with a silvery glow. Anyone watching would have thought she was a ghost.