I'll Be Seeing You (4 page)

May 11, 1943

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

I’m in a mood today. Writing to you probably isn’t the best idea, but I’m going to do it, anyway. Will you still write back if I reveal a few blemishes on my character?

I’ve just finished picking slugs from my garden. Most satisfying thing I’ve done in a while, watching those vile things drown in a cup full of sudsy water. I’m a menace to all the living today. The reason for my destructive state? Guilt. It makes me mean. And I’ve been feeling guilty as hell all morning.

Yesterday I finally got around to visiting Roy’s Tavern. I did try once before, when Toby’s first message for Roylene came. That evening, she was taking the garbage out when I approached, and I flattened my back against the wall so she wouldn’t see me. I watched her struggle with the bin’s lid. A bottle fell out and hit the pavement, bits of glass rolling every which way, but I stayed where I was while she ran back into the tavern for a dustpan and broom.

Roylene cleaned up every shard, slowly and methodically, as though the act was the only thing in the world she was meant to accomplish, as though she’d been placed on God’s green earth to do that, and only that. She had no reason to hurry. Her life is set. She could have been eighteen or eighty.

The sight of her filled me first with sadness and then a strong sense of revulsion. There should not be a place for Toby in such a life. If he hadn’t been about to ship off to war, would my son have reached out to someone like her? Shouldn’t their relationship—or whatever it is—be another casualty of history? I practically ran from the tavern that night, with no intention of going back.

I do realize how this sounds. I suppose I am a snob, but please see me as a mother who wants the best for her child. If it makes any difference, I did make a genuine attempt yesterday to discuss the Ohio trip with her father.

I talked Irene into going with me, figuring she’d keep me from changing my mind. We arrived at the tavern at the lunch hour, and only a few older men sat drinking their meals at the bar. The interior was a picture of gloom, none of the early-spring sun filtered through the dirty windows. Irene gave me the eye, but I made a quick peace with the mission to accomplish, and nudged her forward. We scooted our bottoms onto a pair of bar stools and ordered two ginger ales and a corned beef to split. The barman, short and skinny with a shock of white hair atop his head, gave us the once-over.

“Who’re you?” he demanded.

I figured this was the eponymous Roy. I introduced myself and mentioned Toby’s admiration of his establishment and my acquaintance with his daughter. The man leaned over the wooden bar, his clay-colored eyes boring into mine.

“We don’t serve Krauts,” he growled. “I told your son as much.”

My mouth fell open so hard my chin nearly landed in my lap.

“Pardon me?” I asked.

“You heard me,” he said. “Get the hell out.”

Irene yanked me off my seat and we did leave—not too fast, mind you, and with our heads held high. We stood on the sidewalk outside Roy’s for a minute, our shock rendering us momentarily speechless.

Irene wanted to take a walk around campus to clear our heads and find something to eat. “Wait,” I told her, and I marched right back in that tavern and up to that horrendous man. “My son the Kraut is fighting for you,” I said, and, oh, boy, was it hard to keep my voice level. “You should be thankful.” And then I did get the hell out of there because my legs were shaking like gelatin.

By the time I got home, Irene and I had rehashed the experience so many times it stopped making my heart pound and I could just laugh. What a creep!

I put my key in the door, and all I could think about was what a kick Sal would get when I told him the story. Then I stepped into my living room and realized I was alone. I wanted to cry. Instead, I turned right around and headed over to Mrs. Kleinschmidt’s. A fellow German, I figured she’d appreciate the story and, I figured, if she ever ran into Roy he’d rue the day.

Mrs. K. sat at her kitchen table, with approximately one million V-mail letters open in front of her, painstakingly copying the same message on each one. It struck me as ridiculous, and though I shouldn’t have, I said, “Why do you make yourself crazy over this? You do enough for the war effort.”

Glory, her look could have froze a lake in the middle of summer. “Ich bin Deutscher,” she said.

“My family is German, too,” I countered. “What does that have to do with it?”

She returned to her letter writing. “You have an enlisted husband and son to secure your reputation as a good American. I do not.”

“You can’t be serious,” I said.

Mrs. K. drew herself to standing and slammed one hand on the table, sending the papers in all directions. “Du bist eine dumme Frau!” she spat.

And you know, she was right. I am a stupid woman. I saw Mrs. Kleinschmidt every day, yet I never recognized her fear, so distracted I’ve been with my own petty concerns.

I helped her clean up the kitchen floor, and then I let myself out. I went to bed that night feeling shamed. Is my quickness to judge the sign of a small mind? How little I understand of the world. Why haven’t I been paying attention?

This afternoon I’m going to purchase two train tickets for Columbus, Ohio. Adjoining seats. Lord help me.

Love,

Rita

May 13, 1943

V-mail from Gloria Whitehall to Sgt. Robert Whitehall

Darling Robert,

How are you doing? I miss you like crazy. And the baby? She misses you, too. Even though I know you won’t believe me. Babies know...they do! Anyway, I’m taking lots of pictures like you asked. Robbie told me to tell you that Corrine spit up on his favorite bear. I’ll let him know you think it’s tragic. I was happy to read, in your last letter, that you’ve come to your senses and admitted that I was right. It’s better for us all in the Rockport house. And I know you like us being closer to Levi. And thank you for that bit of romance you gave me. We certainly do belong near the beaches where we fell in love. I cried and cried when I read those words. (Happy tears.) I told Levi to fix the latch on the gate as you asked. And you were right. Robbie is wild now that Corrine is born. He would have run straight into the ocean. Thank you for always taking good care of us.

Love,

Your Ladygirl

May 16, 1943

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Dear Rita,

Two letters from you in one day! They feel so solid in my hands. That’s such a nice feeling with everything so faint and weightless around me now. And the truth is, I’m beginning to wait for your letters with bated breath. They are like talismans for me.

How awful, being treated like that. I can’t imagine. I’m not German but, it seems to me, American is American. That man should be punished.

I told Mrs. Moldenhauer all about it. She’s been coming over even more since Corrine was born, and I’m growing quite fond of her. She said, “Obstinate thinkers will be the ruination of Freedom.” I remember it verbatim because it was just so...profound. I’m not political at all. Or religious. Is that terrible? I suppose I should begin to believe in something, so I can give tradition to my children. I simply haven’t decided what to believe in. I went from debutante to war bride. Maybe Mrs. Moldenhauer can teach me a thing or two.

She even convinced me to go to that church of hers last Sunday. I took Robbie, but Corrine stayed with Levi because Marie was at the “service,” too. He’s been such a help around here. When Robert left for Sparta, we saw him off together at the station. It seemed only fitting. I mean, the three of us have been thick as thieves for as long as any of us can remember. And Robert’s last words before he left were to Levi, not to me. “Take care of my family, Lee,” he said. “You know I will,” said Levi. And so far, he’s made good on his promise. Anyway, Mrs. Moldenhauer’s church isn’t like any church I’ve ever been to, Rita. It’s full of women talking about peace and love. More like a movement than a sermon. Mrs. Moldenhauer is a feminist! Can you believe it? An old lady like her? And a member of some sort of socialist party. I have to admit I felt a little guilty as my heart rose with her words. My father was a staunch Republican whose favorite saying was “Damn the Democrats!”

I might go again.

I’m glad you got V-mail from Sal. I just got one from Robert, too! Maybe everyone is getting letters this month. That would be nice. There’s so much blocked out on them, though. I don’t know if he’s still stateside or not. It kills me.

I have to tell you that I’m so happy you will bring that skinny girl with you to see Toby. Though I understand your reservations. I look at my sweet Robbie and wonder how I’ll feel when he takes to a girl. Then again, Claire Whitehall doesn’t like me. I think I’ve told you that. But what you don’t know is that she hasn’t liked me since I was a little girl. It has less to do with ME and more to do with my own mother, who she deemed inappropriate. New money and all that.

The mystery part about your boy and that Roylene is the fascinating thing. What are those two up to? I was listening to
I Love a Mystery
the other evening (I try to catch it every night, but it’s hard with the baby) and I was thinking your story would be a great plot. Better than theirs.

Keep strong, Rita. I’m happy to hear I’m not alone in my growing fondness to old-lady neighbors. Don’t let anyone else bully you or I might just have to take a train and wave my wild little son around. “Take THAT!” I’d say.

He’s been so naughty he’d send any bigot running.

Yours in true friendship,

Glory

May 21, 1943

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

I’m sitting on our patio this early morning, with a cup of tea to warm me before the sun makes its appearance. My garden is doing well, though I think if I eat any more spinach I’ll turn into Popeye. How is yours coming along?

I got a kick out of your last letter. That Mrs. Moldenhauer sounds like a suffragette. I’m old enough to remember those. My father called them “dirty birdies.” I think our pops would have gotten along.

I also think you should go back to the church meetings. What could it hurt? Sal always says it’s our responsibility as human beings to never lose our curiosity. He is absolutely right. And let’s face it, we’re not the ones doing the heavy lifting in this war. The least we can do is not let our brains atrophy. Get in there and see what these gals are all about. New ideas leave the old ones shaking in their shoes, don’t they?

Then again, those most eager to tell people what to do are often those most in need of guidance. You are getting advice from a hypocrite, my dear. I haven’t talked to Mrs. K. since that incident in her kitchen. Not a word. She peers at me over her blinds, but I look away. I’m a big chicken, afraid of an old woman. Squawk! Squawk!

The situation with Roylene is even worse. I did buy those tickets, just as I promised. They sat atop my dresser gathering dust for days, a constant reminder of a mission unaccomplished. Oh, but how Toby’s expectations gnawed at my conscience! When I couldn’t stand it anymore, I squared my shoulders and planned another visit to Roy’s Tavern. Irene refused to go back—she claims Roy is a madman—so I was flying solo. I got all gussied up in my most expensive-looking suit, and applied my makeup with the precision of a surgeon. I pulled on my baby-pink day gloves and shoved my feet into a pair of tan pumps with ankle straps. (I still have decent ankles, kiddo.) I was ready to take on that mean little man.

Only I never made it past the front gate.

A few mornings later, Roylene showed up on my porch, wearing a flour-sack dress and a hand-knit sweater the color of wet sand. I was mortified that it was
she
who came to
me.

“I saw you at the tavern?” was all she said.

The morning still held the chill of spring, but I didn’t invite her in. “Wait here,” I said, and dashed into the house to retrieve the train tickets. I gave her one of them and explained the departure and arrival schedule. “You’ll need to get permission from your father,” I stuck on to the end of my lecture. “I don’t think he’d appreciate you running off.”

She stared at me, blank as a barn door. Her eyes are a dull hazel, unable to decide between brown and green.

“You’re very welcome,” I snapped. I hadn’t meant to sound overly harsh, but maybe I did because a crimson flush crept down the steep slopes of her cheeks. She opened her mouth, then decided fleeing was her best option. Roylene nearly tripped down the steps trying to get away from me. I would have hightailed it for the safety of my living room as well, but a moth hole on the back of her sweater caught my attention—it had frayed into a crater.

“Roylene!” My tone brought her to a halt.

She turned, slowly, a look of complete terror on her face.

“Give me your cardigan.”

Her fear slid into confusion. “It’s my only warm-weather sweater, Mrs. Vincenzo? Don’t you own a bunch already?”

“I want to repair it,” I said, struggling to soften my voice. “Don’t you want to look your best for our trip?”

She handed the decrepit sweater over like she was giving me one of her kidneys, and then ran down the street without a backward glance.

We leave for Ohio in five days. Wish me luck.

Rita

May 26, 1943

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Dear Rita,

How nice of you to offer to fix Roylene’s sweater. I’ve been getting handy these days, too. Marie is teaching me to knit and crochet. And I’ve picked up some embroidery on my own. Sometimes I wonder about my mother and what she did with her free time. As far as I know she never cooked, cleaned or made anything with her hands. I’d feel robbed if I couldn’t do these things. There’s such a sense of accomplishment.

The days are slow and soft with a new baby. Marie has moved in for the moment, so I can better care for Corrine. As I’ve said, Robbie is full of energy and more than a little attention deprived since her birth.

A few days ago, we were all sitting on the porch having breakfast and something terrible happened. Marie and I were talking about the war, Mrs. M.’s sermons and ration cards. Robbie was trying to get my attention but I insisted he stay quiet. I had little Corrine at my breast. (I decided to breast-feed her. Mrs. M. said it was my patriotic duty. I’m enjoying the closeness. I didn’t breast-feed Robbie. Claire Whitehall, the mother-in-law of all mother-in-laws, told me it was a disgusting habit and gave me a jar of some powdered milk.) Anyway, Robbie walked right up to me and smacked the baby on her head!

I wanted to hit him, Rita. I wanted to throw him right over the railing of the porch. And that feeling...the rage that rose up so suddenly made me remember another time. The only other time I’ve ever felt violence surge in my blood.

Robert, Levi and I were about twelve years old. We’d just reunited on the beaches here in Rockport and the day started out lovely. Then Levi started to tease me about how my body was changing. I didn’t want to become a woman, so I was sensitive to it. I was so afraid that if I changed too much, we wouldn’t be best friends anymore.

“Stop looking at me like that, Levi,” I shouted.

“He can’t help it, Glory. You’re turning into a Ladygirl right in front of us. What are we supposed to do?” asked Robert.

Somehow, Robert saying that made it so much worse. And I noticed they’d changed, too. They looked like young men. And they were both so handsome in their different ways. Robert light, Levi dark.

Levi elbowed Robert. “Hey, leave her be. Race you to the sandbar!”

And the two of them took off without me. When they returned to shore, falling on the sand laughing and out of breath, I walked right over to them with my hands on my hips. I wanted to bury them both in the sand and leave them for dead. So I did something that I’m not proud of...and it’s worse than you not inviting Roylene into your home. I kicked Robert in his side. Hard.

I didn’t know what my foot was going to do until it did it. Moved by the anger, not by my own will. I wanted to make both those boys suffer the way I’d suffered. But I learned that all I did was create a great chasm between us. (And I hurt my foot rather badly!)

And that’s war, right, Rita? Two sides hurting each other, acting out in violence, before trying to resolve any feelings? Or maybe that’s too simple. I’d like to think that America is like Levi’s mother. The grand negotiator.

Robert didn’t speak to me for an entire week. In the end, Levi was the one who brought us all back together. Making jokes and reminding us that no matter who we became, we’d always be friends. He was probably taking the advice of his wise, wise mother. But it worked.

So, there I was, sitting on the porch, my hand encircling Robbie’s wrists in a fierce grip. But instead of walloping him, I got up, gave my cherub-cheeked baby to Marie and brought Robbie inside. I went to his room and let him pick out some books.

“Let’s read, just you and me,” I said.

He climbed up on my lap and I read to him, one hand pushing his hair from his brow and placing kisses on his head between pages. After the first book he said, “I’m sorry, Mama.”

I gave him one more kiss. “I know, Robbie. Sometimes we do things when we are mad and scared, and we don’t mean them at all.”

I was so glad I’d kicked Robert that day, and remembered what it felt like, because if that hadn’t happened...I would have spanked my poor boy.

Anyway, I have a lot of time on my hands these days. I love being domestic. Robbie’s helped me roll up all these balls of tinfoil to bring to the local junk man who does something with them for the war effort. We’ve even got as far as peeling the foil from gum wrappers! And we’ve begun collecting milkweed pods. Mrs. M. says there’s a factory out in Michigan that’s turning the silk from the pods into parachutes. Can you imagine?

Oh, and I’ll leave you with a ration book idea:

Take the lard you’ve bought and put it in a bowl. Mix it with yellow food coloring and you can almost fool your taste buds into thinking it’s butter!

Love, love, love,

Glory