I'll Be Seeing You (6 page)

July 8, 1943

V-mail from Marguerite Vincenzo to Pfc. Salvatore Vincenzo

Sal,

I got your letter yesterday. You didn’t ask for my opinion, but I’m going to give it anyway (surprise, surprise).

What happened on that battlefield might be your fault, and it might not. It’s definitely Hitler’s fault. He started it.

I’m not making light, but I don’t think you should beat yourself up for decisions made on only a second’s worth of thought. Mistakes will happen. Yes, I do realize we’re talking about a boy’s life, and I know what a slipup can mean, but if you hold yourself to the standard of God, you will forget what it’s like to be a regular old human.

And what has prepared us for this? The Depression? We had our hard times, and we pulled through. Did we find out we were made of tougher stuff than we thought, or did circumstance breed heroism? I’m not sure. This war is certainly forcing out the best in everyone, so it follows that a little bit of the worst will squeeze out, too. Even from you and me.

I love you, and more important, I believe in you,

Rita

July 13, 1943

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

I was so glad to get your letter, kiddo. For a minute I’d worried I’d lost you to the uncertainties of this damn war. And I need a friend more than ever. Iowa City clears out in the summer, our population dipping to half of what it is when the college students are here. The sun shines so mercilessly on these empty streets, I can’t go barefoot on the cement for more than a second.

So, thank you for the stockings. I hope you don’t mind, but I gave a pair to Irene. She was desperate, about to surrender to the last resort of swabbing her legs with tea bags and tracing the seam with a kohl pencil. I believe Irene is knitting a chic beret for the baby as a thank-you gesture. I’ll send it along when she’s done, which should be sometime in 1963.

I sincerely hope you’ve gotten more information about Robert’s shipping out. Being kept in the dark is tough. Before this war I felt like if I needed to know something I could find a way to know it. But so much is unknowable now, completely beyond my grasp. Sal’s letters make me question if I’ve ever truly understood anything about human nature.

Including what’s been happening these past few weeks. I don’t wish to distress you, hon, but this letter might do exactly that, so I apologize in advance. It’s just that I’ve been keeping everything inside me, and not having anyone to talk to is starting to do some internal damage. Does it help to know I feel better confessing my sins to you instead of Father Denneny down at St. Mary’s? At least I know you aren’t going to make me say any rosaries.

So.

Remember the big dinner with Irene and the cowboy?

Irene came over early. The poor girl’s hands shook so hard she couldn’t hold a bobby pin to save her life. I rolled her hair and helped with her makeup. She looked very presentable. Maybe not pretty, but polished, put-together. A guy could do a lot worse.

The cowboy was on time, I’ll give him that. Turns out his first name is Charlie, which surprised me. I thought it would be Tex or Hank or some other rodeo name. He brought a bottle of wine with him and that same easy smile. Irene kept her lips glued together so I yapped and yapped until I had to take care of the meat loaf. I poured them each a glass and disappeared into the kitchen.

I must have been gone a while because when I came back half the bottle was gone and Irene’s face looked like the beets I’ve been pulling from my garden. Charlie sat in Sal’s chair, his long legs splayed out so far the tips of his boots nearly touched Irene’s ankles. Their laughter filled my house, every nook and cranny, leaving no room for the sadness I’d been cultivating.

I hated them, Glory. That’s a strong word,
hate,
but it overtook me. Those two had nothing to worry about. The Germans weren’t going to march into their living rooms, crushing their hearts to bits. The Japanese weren’t dropping bombs in their backyards.
How dare they?
I wanted to kick at his stupid feet and shake Irene until her teeth rattled.

Instead, I walked back into the kitchen. I got what was left of Sal’s bourbon and had a nip, then two. I drew a few breaths, brought the food to the dining room and called them in to dinner.

When they saw my cooking their faces just about melted with gratitude. I used all my rations to buy beef, veal and pork, so I could make the meat loaf right. I boiled some carrots with the early potatoes, and you would have thought I was serving caviar.

The guilt crept up on me, but when I tried to make up for my terrible thoughts, I overdid it. I ate too much, laughed too hard, polished off Sal’s bottle. Charlie was open and polite with Irene, but he kept an eye on me, wary almost, like I was the bomb about to go off and shatter the evening.

I don’t think Irene noticed, so taken was she by this cowboy. When I saw the stars in her eyes I grew even more ashamed. This was my friend, and she deserved a little fun. I collected the plates and excused myself, retreating for the safety of the kitchen.

I took my time washing and drying. When I heard Irene’s tinkly laugh I took the pan out back to add the grease to the Mason jar on the patio. (Mrs. K., who is only talking to me out of a sense of patriotic duty, is in charge of lard collection for our block.)

In Iowa, the summer nights are still as can be. I heard him walk through the kitchen. I heard the match strike and his first deep drag on the cigarette. When the screen door slammed it sounded like a gunshot.

“Everything hunky-dory?” he drawled.

“Where’s Irene?” I said in place of a real answer.

“Powder room. She was feeling a little queasy.” Everything he said was outlined in humor. I didn’t know if it meant he was basically kind or inherently mean-spirited. It was impossible to tell.

He sat next to me on our patio and balanced his cigarette on the edge of the cement. Then he leaned back, reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a pressed handkerchief.

“Give me that,” he said, and caught my wrist with one large, rough hand. He wiped the grease from my fingers, one by one, slow and methodical.

Oh, Glory, I didn’t stop him. After he’d cleaned my hand, he stuffed the kerchief back into his pocket like it was nobody’s business, picked up his cigarette and went back in the house.

I sat on that patio until Irene came out to tell me Charlie was going to take her home. She slurred her words, and I should have talked her into staying the night. But I didn’t.

After they left I sat on my bed, picking at the chenille with my fingernails. I yanked at the threads, over and over, talking to Sal in my head and blaming him for everything. He’s forty-one years old, like me. At that age he could have waited out the lottery until the end of the war. There is no reason for him to be in a strange land, the grim reaper holding him close, saying, “Yes, today is the day,” or “No, not yet.”

We were having a fight right there in the bedroom, a fight we should have had a year ago, and he wasn’t even around to defend himself.

I went to bed with my clothes on, on top of our ruined bedspread. Before I fell asleep I tried to think of what North Africa was like, to imagine it, Glory, but all I could think about was those rough hands pulling the grime from my fingers.

I woke up early the next morning feeling pretty low. Before putting the kettle on, I got pen and paper and wrote to my husband, telling him about my sunflowers and the broken shed lock and funny stories of Mrs. K., strengthening his tie to me and our life together. That is my job, right? To comfort him. To keep the portrait of what he left behind intact. Isn’t that a woman’s duty during wartime?

I’ve confessed all my guilty thoughts to you, but I’m going to devise my own penance, if that’s all right. Toby’s asked me to check up on Roylene, but I’ve been avoiding the tavern. I walk past the dingy windows with my head down, staying clear of that sad, skinny little girl. I need to make an effort. My Toby is fighting for the world’s freedom and he asked me to do one simple thing. I might as well try to do it.

Love,

Rita

P.S. I used the last bit of corn syrup to make a War Cake. Do you know it? I’ve included the recipe. I figured it’s the least I could do after unloading all my neuroses on you. Instead of butter I smeared your wonderful strawberry jam on it. Heavenly!

War Cake

1 cup molasses

1 cup corn syrup (light or dark can be used)

1 1/2 cups boiling water

2 cups raisins

2 tablespoons solid vegetable shortening

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon ground cloves

1/2 teaspoon ground nutmeg

3 cups flour

1 teaspoon baking soda

2 teaspoons baking powder

Directions:

In large pot, combine molasses, corn syrup, water, raisins, shortening, salt, cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg. Bring to a boil. Remove from heat and cool to room temperature.

Preheat oven to 350°F. Sift together flour, baking soda and baking powder. Combine with molasses mixture and beat well.

Divide batter between two well-greased 9x5-inch loaf pans. Bake 45 minutes or until done. Cakes will be dense and will not rise much.

Recipe makes two loaf cakes.

August 1, 1943

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Dearest Rita,

Reading your letter I could only think of one thing. Something Mrs. Moldenhauer (she’s asked me to call her Anna) said to me not a week before I received it. (And what is the matter with the post these days? I feel like it takes YEARS to get a letter, or to send one. And I live for your letters, Rita. Almost as much as I live for Robert’s. Maybe that’s because his don’t come on a regular basis and yours eventually do!)

Anyway, she said, “Make sure you remember that you are always afraid, and that fear does strange things to people.”

Now, it’s obvious what she meant about the “strange things” over here in my part of the world. She was talking about how I allow Levi into my life more and more these days.

But we don’t have to talk about that right now, let’s talk about what’s going on in Iowa City. (Sometimes I feel like all I do is ramble on and on about myself without asking about you.)

I guess you are afraid. More afraid than me, dear Rita. Because you have been married to Sal for so much longer than I’ve shared my life and bed with Robert. And your son? Please! Right now both of my children have little summer fevers (that’s why I’m able to sit and craft this LONG letter...they are both sleeping the afternoon away, my angels) and I’m worried sick over nothing. But to have one of them in harm’s way on a daily basis? I can’t even imagine the fear.

So if fear makes us do strange things, then your whole experience that night was...well...warranted. In my opinion. I think you deserve the attention. And if it makes the time go by, if it makes the waiting easier? Well, then, my friend? Do what you need to do.

Once everyone here is well, I might take myself up on my own advice.

Before you judge me, let me explain.

I am so angry at this war for taking Robert away. I know it sounds unpatriotic, but sometimes I just can’t help it. I am so damn angry that I’m here caring for our sick children, tending this garden all by myself. Levi and Marie can’t take his place. It’s a lonely, sick hole in my heart.

I stare at his picture and try to remember the way the back of his neck smelled. How much I loved his hands enclosing mine. The sweet and tender way he kissed.

And then there’s the other thing. In the twilight of the garden a few evenings ago, I engaged in something far more devious than your flirtations.

We were just cleaning up after working in the garden.

“Long day,” said Levi.

“Yes, it was,” I replied. “Long but lovely.”

“You are lovely,” he said.

“I’m glad you think so.... Just look at me—I probably have dirt all over my face!”

Levi looked at me and I knew in a heartbeat I was in trouble. He had that look on his face that he used to get when we were kids right before he’d do something silly.

“Well, you could be dirtier...” he said as he reached down, picked up a clump of soil and threw it at me.

“Oh, it’s like that, is it?” I asked, laughing as I grabbed one to throw at him, but he was running so I had to chase him out into the yard. We ran and finally I got close enough for a direct hit. He fell dramatically to the ground as if he’d been shot. I fell in a heap next to him and we were laughing and out of breath. The sky grew quiet as our laughter and breath steadied. And then he took his finger and placed it on the side of my forehead, and let it trace my whole face as if he were blind and trying to recognize me. And I should have stopped him, but I swear my skin had a life of its own and arched right out to meet his.

When he brought his hand down we looked at each other for a second too long. We didn’t speak again. We put our tools away side by side in the garden shed and shut the door. That’s when Levi stole his kiss. He pressed me up against the shed. He didn’t even need to ask, or woo. He pressed my shoulders back and kissed me so hard that I had to pull rough splinters of wood out of my hair for hours.

So different from Robert. So urgent.

Oh, I knew I shouldn’t have, but it was exactly what I wanted right in that moment. Comfort. To be young and carefree again. To be taken out of this world for even a few seconds.

Or simply taken back in time. Levi was the first boy to ever kiss me. We were eleven years old and Robert was called back from the beaches early because he had to attend a party with his mother. My parents were going to that party, too, but they wanted me to stay home. My mother and father always loved a night out to dance under the summer stars. And I wasn’t needed underfoot. Claire, on the other hand, wanted Robert with her all the time. Anyway, the sun was setting and Levi and I were skipping stones.

“You sure are good at this,” he said.

“Thank you, sir,” I said.

“Are you mad you aren’t at the party?” he asked.

“Not even one little bit,” I said.

“You could be dancing with Robert.”

“Ew,” I said.

“Hey, he ever kiss you?”

“Who?”

“Robert.”

“Nope.”

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, like he was asking if I wanted a soda water. I think I simply looked at him and pursed my lips together. And I know I wasn’t expecting to feel anything...I mean, I was only eleven, and both he and Robert were my best friends in the whole world. But when he kissed me, stars lit up behind my eyes...and for the rest of that summer I thought I was in love. Robert said it was the most boring summer—watching me and Levi make googly eyes at each other. My mother put a quick end to that childhood romance as soon as his letters started arriving at Astor House from Rockport in the fall. “He’s not one of us, and you are nothing but a child. If you write back to him I won’t let you see him at ALL next summer, believe me.” And I did believe her, so I never wrote him back. I believed my parents with my whole heart. And I believed that if I listened well enough, behaved enough, that they’d notice me a little more.

I’ve been looking at photographs of them (my parents) all afternoon. I’m tucking a picture of them in with this letter. That’s me when I was a baby. I look just like Corrine. Or she resembles me. How does that work, anyway? They looked so serious for well-off people, didn’t they? Sometimes I wish I’d known them better. Really known them. What they thought on the inside, behind all the gloss. I’m also including a recent picture of the kids and one of my wedding day. Isn’t Robert handsome? Please send me your picture, Rita. Maybe one of you and Sal and Toby all together? I’d love to put faces to all these names. Especially yours.

I wonder what my mother would think about me now. Stockingless. Cleaning my own house and making my own food. (That recipe was divine, by the way. Send more!)

I wonder if they’d be angry with me. Or disappointed. So much to wonder about.

Oh, dear. There’s the baby. See what happens when I think I’ll get five minutes peace? Marie tries to soothe her, but this baby of mine wants me and only me. “Born into an insecure world,” says Anna. Maybe my mother’s ghost just pinched Corrine on her chubby thigh as a sign.

Also, I’ve copied a recipe for you out of our local newspaper. Anna started a column to help women use their rations better. She’s an inspiration. Honestly. Enjoy!

With much love,

Glory

Vegetable Scrapple

(I don’t like the way the word
scrapple
sounds, do you, Rita? Doesn’t change the fact that it’s a satisfying dish, though.)

Ingredients:

1/4 cup finely diced celery

1/3 cup diced onions

1/2 cup diced carrots

2 tablespoons diced green pepper (My fingers hurt from all the dicing!)

1 teaspoon salt

3 cups boiling water

1 cup wheat meal (Or corn meal. Even flour works as a thickening agent.)

Preparation instructions:

Add vegetables and salt to boiling water and cook until vegetables are tender (not too long or they’ll get mushy!) Drain; measure liquid and add water to make 3 cups. Combine liquid and vegetables and bring back to a boil. Add wheat meal gradually and boil 3 minutes, stirring constantly. Pour into greased 9x4x3-inch pan. When cold, slice and sauté in small amount of fat until lightly browned.

If you want to, substitute 1 1/4 cups chopped leftover cooked vegetables for raw vegetables in above recipe. Or, if you prefer a little meat, you can turn to a recipe which extends the meat. (Serves 4 to 6, but keep it in the fridge and have lunch for a week!) I like it with gravy!