Christmas Once Again

by Jina Bacarr

  Even more strange, I’m sitting back in my seat. I lean back, the rough fabric scraping against my neck. The red holiday velvet coverlet on the headrest is replaced by a white one. No scent of pine. Instead, the raw, musky smell of men on the move stings my nostrils.

  Yes, men. Soldiers.

  I swivel my head around, my jaw dropping. So many soldiers, I can’t count them. Racing to the windows, picking up their dice and cards, scrambling to get off. I know then what the foggy haze is. Cigarette smoke.

  ‘Conductor!’ I call out when I see a friendly railroad man making his way down the aisle. He tips his hat.

  ‘Yes, miss?’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The boys got rambunctious and started jumping off the train before we stopped. Them young fellows can smell hot coffee a mile away.’ He looks at me strangely. ‘I don’t recollect seeing you before. When did you come aboard?’

  I don’t answer his question. Instead, I take a second look at the conductor. I swear it’s the same railway man I spoke to earlier, but he looks different. No pine sprig in his lapel. No wire-rimmed glasses. Younger looking. I must be imagining things.

  ‘Why are the soldiers jumping off the train?’ I stand up, look around.

  ‘The trackside canteen, miss.’

  ‘Canteen?’ My voice is a low whisper, as if I’m afraid to say it any louder lest I actually believe the insanity rolling around in my brain.

  Surely, I didn’t hear him right. I didn’t.

  ‘Some of these boys have been on this train for days and can’t afford to eat in the dining car.’ He regards me with a critical eye, as if I should know that.

  ‘Days?’ I say, trying to process. I can’t. ‘Where are they going?’

  ‘They’re heading home on furlough or they’ve got a delay en-route to visit their folks before being shipped overseas. Like that sailor helping the good sister.’ He points to a wiry seaman bouncing a little boy on his knee. ‘These boys will remember times like this when they’re in the middle of the fighting.’

  ‘Fighting?’ I mutter, frustrated. ‘The conflict in Korea ended two years ago.’

  ‘You okay, miss?’ He looks at me as if I’m crazy.

  ‘Yes, I mean, no. How did I get here?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, miss. I was in the next car when we stopped. We don’t get many civilian passengers these days, especially pretty ladies like you.’ He shoots his eyes downward, realizing he stepped over the line. ‘Begging your pardon, miss, but you’re quite a hit with the soldiers.’

  I don’t realize till then the hard stares in my direction. Whispers. Deep sighs. Giving me looks that make me feel like I’m the living, breathing version of the wrinkled, dog-eared photo of a sweetheart in every man’s wallet. Men gawk at me like I appeared in a puff of smoke.

  Maybe I did.

  I allow myself that moment of humor because either this whole scenario is going to disappear as quickly as it came, or I’m in trouble, deep trouble. I smooth down my red coat, my gray silk suit underneath wrinkled like I was sitting for hours. I must look a mess.

  I need to freshen up. I look around my seat. Then under it. Nothing but empty space. Where is my purse and my hatbox? My God, what if someone stole them? Then what? No, there’s got to be another explanation. Did I wander into another train car in the darkness? That doesn’t seem plausible. Then what did happen to me?

  I shiver. It’s cold in here, what with the soldiers raising up every window and a blast of winter surging in. I stand there, trying to focus. Then I notice a poster tacked up in the back of the railcar. Is your trip necessary? it reads. I haven’t seen anything like that since the war.

  I blink. I can’t be more surprised at the crazy thoughts swirling around in my brain than if I landed on a different planet. Fingers trembling, I start buttoning up my coat when—

  I stop. Don’t count the buttons. You’re not ready.

  I survey the area. The conductor is right. There are no civilian passengers except for two businessmen gathering up their briefcases, the taller man wearing the topcoat hastily making his way off the train. I look away and catch the other civilian passenger studying me as if he knows me. The gentleman with silver hair and a moustache checks his watch, then looks at me and smiles. He starts to say something. When I don’t acknowledge him, he shrugs and gets off the train. That sets off a tingle down my spine like I’ve walked through this scenario before. I rub my forehead, pushing aside that silly notion, wishing I had two aspirin, when I overhear the nun asking the sailor to assist her getting the children off the train.

  ‘Be glad to help.’ He stands at attention, ready.

  ‘God bless you, young man, and keep you safe.’ She lays a hand on his sleeve and smiles at him. I swear he blushes.

  ‘Where to, Sister?’ He picks up her big black satchel.

  ‘The Reverend Mother will be waiting for us on the platform, then it’s off to St Mary Cecilia’s, the children’s new home.’

  St Mary Cecilia’s? Can’t be. The orphanage run by the nuns closed after the war. In God’s name, where am I?

  ‘Kate, there you are!’

  I spin around and see a young girl bouncing down the aisle. The soldiers are whistling and cheering, making way for her like she’s a princess walking the red carpet.

  ‘Lucy?’ I gasp. It is my little sister, isn’t it? She looks so young and not so innocent in her slim tweed skirt and fuzzy white sweater, bobby sox, and loafers. She has Ma’s long, black overcoat slung over her shoulders. Strutting and flirting, she doesn’t look a bit cold. I see a familiar holiday ribbon tied in her hair in a bow as red as her lipstick. Or is it my lipstick she’s wearing? What makes me think that?

  ‘How’d you get on the train before me?’ Lucy says, laughing and looking over her shoulder at a cute corporal with broad shoulders. I’m not surprised when he winks at her and she winks back.

  ‘I – I don’t know,’ I utter with a stupid smile on my face.

  ‘It don’t – doesn’t matter. See, I’m learning?’ She laughs. ‘What’s important is you gave out the cherry jam and cracker sandwiches we made yesterday.’

  ‘Yesterday?’ I barely get the words out.

  ‘Yes.’ She cups her mouth with her hand. ‘Don’t forget our bet. The next train we meet, I’ll be wearing nylons and not these ugly bobby sox.’ She grins. ‘Right, big sister?’

  Oh no. Crackers and cherry jam. Nylons and that silly bet. All that happened the week before Jeff and I were going to elope and get married. Now here I am. On the train. With a whole world of things in my mind no one else knows. Frightening things. Like how the war drags on until 1945 and so many of these boys will never make it home.

  The ladies and girls of Posey Creek met every train that stopped here during the war. A chance to give the servicemen and women a few moments of home. Not only our jam cracker sandwiches, but pies and cookies. Cakes and coffee served in white ceramic cups. Bottles of milk. Reading material, writing paper, even razors.

  Many soldiers were tired and homesick. They reveled in getting off the train and stretching their legs. Posey Creek was a water stop where the trains rolled in and remained here for ten to fifteen minutes, long enough for us to give these men whatever we could. We weren’t a big town, but we did our part to assure the soldiers we were behind them. Was it enough? I wonder now.

  I was so wrapped up in doing my part to help these soldiers, I didn’t see how scared many of them were. How could we? We were young and innocent ourselves and had no idea the horrors of war facing these men. The women, too, especially the nurses who served on the battlefield. What these servicemen and women experienced after they pulled out of the train station in our little town and went overseas stayed with them long after they came home to their wives, husbands, and sweethearts.

  Like how the war affected our local pastor, Reverend Summers, when he returned to Posey Creek after serving in the South Pacific. The chaplain was a shadow of himself after the war, but his faith ke
pt him strong. He counseled released prisoners of war with mental scars so horrible, he told his wife, Mildred, he questioned how God could allow it.

  What sticks in my mind is when he came to see me after he heard about Jeff. Even a reverend isn’t immune to pillow talk. Mildred, a stalwart ally in my plan to marry Jeff, was worried about me.

  He tried to help me, speaking with me about the Jeff we both knew, the rambunctious kid who got into one scrape after another because he was so curious about everything. The talented boy who never heard a word of his Sunday school lesson because he was drawing in his prayer book.

  Then Reverend Summers told me the family didn’t receive a letter about Jeff’s last mission from the Army chaplain assigned to his unit. That it was his job to help the family through their grieving process by providing as many details as possible about their loved one’s final days.

  I was in too much pain to dig deeper into why Jeff didn’t come back. I had my suspicions, but I kept them to myself. Back then, I had no choice but to accept the explanation the Army handed down, that Jeff died returning from a bombing mission over Germany.

  Now I do. Jeff never flew with that crew.

  A new sparkle of hope ripples through me, giving me confidence. That letter is more real to me than ever. It’s the reason I’m here. My hand goes to my coat pocket and the paper crackles between my fingers. Yes, it’s there. Even more fantastic is the tingling sensation I get in my gloved fingers as I count the buttons on my coat. One… two… I keep going… three, four… until I get to the bottom…

  Five… six. I suck in my breath, disbelieving. All there.

  That means everything swirling around in my mind is true. Somehow, somewhere, I found a portal to a moment in time so important to me that when I had the chance to walk through it, I didn’t hesitate. Could my red coat be the conduit? I’m wearing the same clothes. I try to understand what happened to me and, after putting aside anything remotely practical, I settle on the whimsical. It’s what I want, isn’t it?

  Yes. My darling Jeff. I’m here to save you.

  I pat my coat pocket. Nothing will stop me from warning him. Nothing. In spite of the chaos and turmoil roiling through my brain, an unbelievable and impossible scenario is rewriting itself, like pages flipping backwards. Stopping at a place in a book written twelve years ago. The signs are there. The train filled with soldiers. My kid sister sixteen again. The poster. The different interior of the train. Lastly, the sixth button on my coat. As shiny and new as it was then.

  I’m home for Christmas. Really home. My heart sings.

  Ma is in the kitchen fixing supper and Pop will head home later from the mill with his dented, old lunch pail. Frank Junior is out on the baseball field throwing pitches.

  My heart sings loudest of all when I think about Jeff. The only man I ever loved. He’s at the mill, but he’ll be waiting for me tonight down at the big ole cherry tree. I accept what I know is impossible. I want it so bad, I don’t care. I link arms with my sister and get off the train.

  In 1943.

  8

  December 13, 1943

  ‘Did you hear the news, Kate?’ Lucy smiles as pretty as a paper doll as we walk up and down the train platform, giving out donuts to soldiers hanging out the train windows.

  ‘You mean the reduced ration points for pork, or the coal shortage?’ I ask, trying to read the headlines on the newspaper in a soldier’s hand while he gulps down a bottle of milk. The Posey Creek Courier. My heart skips a beat when I read about Yank planes bombing Germany and the Japanese fortifying the Marshall Islands.

  The date on the newspaper confirms I’m back home a week before Jeff gets called up and leaves for training. A week before we’re going to elope and get married. Whether it was fate or a bump on the head that brought me here, I’m not leaving.

  Lucy has no idea what turmoil burns within me. She grins like an innocent kitten playing tag with a ball of yarn. ‘Who needs coal?’ she says, flirting with another soldier. ‘I’ve got plenty of company to keep me warm.’

  ‘Lucy Arden, explain yourself and no more flirting.’ I’m fired up. I feel so powerless to help these boys.

  ‘You’re too darn serious, Kate,’ she says, ‘especially at Christmas.’

  ‘You’re right, little sister. These soldiers need smiles, not pouts.’

  ‘To get everybody into the holiday spirit,’ she says, ‘Mrs Summers will carry on the Christmas tree lighting ceremony before the dance on Saturday night.’

  I blink. Christmas lights during the war?

  ‘Are you sure, Lucy?’ I squeeze my eyes shut. Is my dream over before it starts? Is this a cruel joke? A retelling of history in my time I don’t know about?

  Then I remember why the memory escapes me. I didn’t go to the ceremony. I thought only of myself and getting ready for the dance. Another childish moment I’m not proud of.

  ‘It’s only for an hour and starts at five-thirty. We’re going to sing Christmas carols and light candles. Mrs Summers said she’s hoping we’ll have a big tall tree with shiny tinsel and ornaments the children made at Sunday school. She hinted she’s working on special stars everyone will love.’ Lucy lowers her voice. ‘I heard most people tossed their glass ornaments made you know where.’

  Not surprising some folks covered the Made in Germany or Made in Japan labels with war stamps to hide it. Our boys are fighting and dying over there so it’s understandable we’ll do anything to assuage our pain.

  I exhale, trying to get my bearings. The train station is as I remember it, but filled with servicemen and canteen ladies. I’m tense, nervous. I fidget with the buttons on my coat. Lucy notices I’m not myself so she hits me with, ‘Ma says I can wear your green corduroy jumper since you don’t wear it anymore.’

  ‘It’s yours, Lucy.’ I give her a squeeze.

  ‘It’ll look so pretty with your white lace blouse.’ She glances sideways to gauge my reaction.

  ‘Yes, it will, won’t it?’ I say, not protesting. How can I refuse her anything?

  She blinks. ‘Your charm bracelet, too.’

  ‘Anything you want, Lucy, it’s yours.’ I smile at her.

  ‘Are you feeling okay, Kate? You never let me wear your charm bracelet.’

  A sterling silver bracelet I got for my sixteenth birthday. Ma sold extra jam to get it for me and that makes it special. Tiny charms including a Victorian heart, flowers, a tiny teddy bear, and a cute puppy with big eyes. When war was declared, we added charms for neighbors who went off to war. A medical insignia charm for Annie Bolton. We went to school together and she joined the WACs, Women’s Army Corps, as a nurse. Sailor cap charms for the Pedesky brothers, both serving on the same ship in the Navy. A tank charm for Wally Smith, all grown up and a tank commander. Others followed and it became a family piece over the duration of the war. I gave it to my sister for her graduation as a way of passing it down.

  ‘Why not?’ I say without missing a beat. ‘It will be yours someday, so why wait? I want you to enjoy it now.’

  ‘Now I know something’s wrong.’ She pulls me along as if she doesn’t know what I’ll say next and heads toward the first-aid booth. ‘I’m taking you to the Red Cross lady and have her take your temperature.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, laughing.

  ‘If you’re sure you’re okay, Kate,’ she insists, anxious to leave.

  ‘I’m sure.’

  She exhales with relief and then fluffs her hair. ‘There’s this Marine waiting for me over by the coffee urn.’ She lowers her eyes. ‘He’s so dreamy.’

  ‘What about the corporal I saw you winking at?’ I tease her. A warmth spreads through me. It feels good to spar with her again. We often traded flippant comments in good fun and fought over silly things like who got the last of the root beer since the government put restrictions on production. But we were always there for each other if one of us was hurting.

  ‘Don’t worry, big sister, there’s enough of me to go around.’

 
‘That’s what I’m worried about, Lucy. These are nice boys, but they’re still men.’

  ‘Men-in-training, Helen calls them.’ She sucks in a sharp breath. ‘I love training them.’

  I roll my eyes. Oh, God, help me, did my little sister have to grow up so fast? I’ll keep an eye on her while I’m here. So many young girls – some younger than Lucy – ended up as Victory Girls, often following servicemen to camp or entertaining them at home when their parents were at work or asleep. They wanted so much to grab a piece of what they saw as the excitement of war, they lost their innocence for a movie and a bag of peanuts.

  I make a mental note to have a talk with Helen. Helen Linder has been my best friend since she and her mom moved here when I was in the eighth grade. They came here from Indiana to start again in a new town after her father died. Her mother opened a small dress shop in town, specializing in designing hats. She’s a lovely woman with graceful hands and a long neck made more elegant by the elaborate chignon she wears piled up high on her head.

  Helen, on the other hand, has the kind of figure men ogle. She never lost her new girl-in-town status and is considered ‘fast’. She’s a charmer. Smart and funny. She’s an only child and spoiled rotten, but you can’t help but like her. She has a quirky way of looking at the world that makes you think twice. I admired that about her and wished I could be the same. She inspired me to leave Posey Creek after the war and in a strange way I have her to thank for giving me the gumption to go after a job in New York. Helen has to be here somewhere. She always met the trains. No doubt I’ll find her surrounded by soldiers. But first, I have to set Lucy straight.

  ‘Men have, you know, feelings that can get out of control.’

  ‘I can take care of myself, Kate,’ Lucy says, and then whispers in my ear. ‘It’s you I’m worried about.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I ask warily.