# I'll Be Seeing You

Loretta Nyhan, Suzanne Hayes

‘I hope this letter gets to you quickly. We are always waiting, aren’t we? Perhaps the greatest gift this war has given us is the anticipation…’ It's January 1943 when Rita Vincenzo receives her first letter from Glory Whitehall. Glory is an effervescent young mother, impulsive and free as a bird. Rita is a sensible professor's wife with a love of gardening and a generous old soul. Glory comes from New England society; Rita spends her life trying to make ends meet.They have nothing in common except one powerful bond: the men they love are fighting in a war a world away from home. And they have only each other for support, hope and courage.Praise for I’ll Be Seeing You ‘Vivid and well-crafted, I’ll Be Seeing You poignantly illustrates the hopes and struggles of life on the home front. Readers will laugh, cry and be inspired by this timeless story of friendship and courage’-Pam Jenoff, bestselling author of Kommandant’s Girl’A delight! I’ll Be Seeing You made me want to get out a pen and paper and write a friend a good old-fashioned letter’ -  Sarah Jio, author of The Violets of March’Original and heartfelt… Set in Word War II, yet somehow timeless, this novel is as beautifully written as it is captivating. An absolutely terrific debut. -  Sarah Pekkanen, author of The Opposite of Me

Praise for I’ll Be Seeing You

‘I devoured this story in one greedy, glorious gulp. Oh, the women! I love them. I love their families and their voices and their stories. I bet you’ll love them, too.’

—Marisa de los Santos, bestselling author of Love Walked In

‘A delight! I’ll Be Seeing You made me want to get out a pen and paper and write a friend a good old-fashioned letter.’ —Sarah Jio, author of The Violets of March

‘Original and heartfelt … Set in World War II, yet somehow timeless, this novel is as beautifully written as it is captivating. An absolutely terrific debut.’

—Sarah Pekkanen, author of The Opposite of Me

‘Women on the WWII home front faced loneliness and terrible fears. But I’ll Be Seeing You tells the compelling story of two women who endured, bolstered by duty, love and, most important, friendship. I read this sweet, compassionate novel with my heart in my throat.’ —Kelly O’Connor McNees, author of The Lost Summer of Louisa May Alcott

‘Vivid and well-crafted, I’ll Be Seeing You poignantly illustrates the hopes and struggles of life on the home front. Readers will laugh, cry and be inspired by this timeless story of friendship and courage.’ —Pam Jenoff, bestselling author of Kommandant’s Girl

## I’ll Be Seeing You. Suzanne Hayes & Loretta Nyhan

www.mirabooks.co.uk

SUZANNE HAYES is the author of the novel The Witch of Little Italy (under the name Suzanne Palmieri) and her essays have been published in Life Learning Magazine and Full of Crow: On the Wing edition. She lives with her husband and three daughters in New Haven, Connecticut.

LORETTA NYHAN has worked as a journalist and copywriter, and currently teaches college writing and humanities. She lives in the Chicago area with her husband and family. I’ll Be Seeing You is her first novel.

To all the women who have waited …

and to those who continue to wait

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Chapter 94

Chapter 95

Chapter 96

Chapter 97

Chapter 98

Chapter 99

Chapter 100

Chapter 101

Chapter 102

Chapter 103

Chapter 104

Chapter 105

Chapter 106

Chapter 107

Chapter 108

Chapter 109

Chapter 110

Chapter 111

Chapter 112

Chapter 113

Chapter 114

Chapter 115

Chapter 116

Chapter 117

Chapter 118

Chapter 119

Chapter 120

Chapter 121

Chapter 122

Chapter 123

Chapter 124

Chapter 125

Chapter 126

Chapter 127

Chapter 128

Chapter 129

Chapter 130

Chapter 131

Chapter 132

Chapter 133

Chapter 134

Chapter 135

Chapter 136

Chapter 137

Chapter 138

Chapter 139

Chapter 140

Chapter 141

Chapter 142

Chapter 143

Acknowledgments

Questions for Discussion

A Conversation with Suzanne Hayes and Loretta Nyhan

January 19, 1943

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Dear “Garden Witch,”

I’ve stained my fingers blue trying to do this right.

Tonight, though, I’m feeling rather lonesome and overwhelmed, so I’m throwing caution to the wind and finally writing to you, a woman I do not know, with the honest understanding that you might not have the time (or desire) to write back in return.

I guess the best place to begin is at the beginning, right?

There’s a ladies’ 4-H group that meets at the church hall on Wednesday afternoons. I don’t really fit in, but I’m trying to pass the time. Anyway, they didn’t give out real names, only these addresses, you know? And said if we felt lonesome (which I do) or desperate (which I didn’t...but I feel it creeping in on me day by day) or anything, we could sit down and write a letter to another girl who might be in the same situation. The situation. I just loved the way Old Lady Moldyflower (Mrs. Moldenhauer) said it. What does she know about our “situation”?

They passed a hat around that held pieces of paper with fake names and real addresses. I suppose the purpose is anonymity, but I figured if we are going to write, why not know each other? The paper slips hadn’t been folded, and the girls were sifting through, picking whichever struck their fancy. The whole exercise felt silly and impractical, to tell you the truth. I wasn’t going to take a name at all, but Mrs. Moldenhauer nudged me so hard I believe she left a bruise on my upper arm. To spite her, I picked last. I guess the other girls skipped over you because you have “witch” in your fake name. I feel lucky I got you. I could use a little magic these days. I’m seven months along now, and Robbie, Jr. is only just two. He’s a holy terror.

Well...here’s hoping you get this and you feel like writing back. It’ll be good to run to the mailbox looking for a letter without an army seal on it.

My name is Gloria Whitehall. I’m twenty-three years old. My husband is First Sergeant Robert Whitehall in the Second Infantry.

Nice to make your acquaintance.

With fondest regards,

Glory

February 1, 1943

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

I hope this letter finds you well.

I apologize for its lateness, but to be honest I spent a week debating whether or not to pass your letter along to Mrs. Kleinschmidt, my next-door neighbor. She dragged me to the Christmas party for the 4-H, which is when we war wives scrawled our phony names on those slips of pink paper. I was in an awful mood, hence my choice of pseudonym. I do, however, have a lovely garden from late spring through early fall. I can’t say it’s magical, but it definitely has personality. I planted sunflowers last year and they grew to enormous heights, nearly reaching our gutters. Mrs. Kleinschmidt pronounced them “vulgar” and claimed that staring at their round, pockmarked faces gave her headaches. Of course, this is only incentive to plant more this year.

Now, lest you think I truly am a witch, I should tell you about my “situation,” as your Rockport version of Mrs. K. so quaintly puts it.

My husband, Sal, is too old to fight in a war but signed up, anyway, right after Pearl Harbor. Until then he’d been teaching biology at the university here. He spent some years working in a hospital when we lived in Chicago, so they placed him as a medic with the 34th Infantry. Last I read, his division was in Tunisia. I had to look it up on a map.

My boy, Toby, turned eighteen on Halloween. By Christmas he was in Maryland starting his basic training for the navy. On the day he left I was still making his bed and pressing out his clothes, so I’m worried sick about how he’s going to manage. I can’t imagine the drill sergeants are patient.

Toby also looks young for his age. His cheeks are still rosy, and his hair is the color of the corn that grows on every square foot of this state. My parents were from Munich, so I’ve filled him with schnitzel and potato dumplings since he was as old as your Robbie. I’m hoping if he’s spotted by the Germans they’ll take one look and mistake him for one of their own. The Führer’s dream!

Your boy sounds like a rascal. Toby was always quiet, but I do remember those toddler years—chasing him around the backyard, up the stairs, down the street. I didn’t treasure them. I couldn’t wait until he grew old enough to talk to me while we ate lunch. When he did, all he wanted to do was stick his nose in a book.

I also understand about loneliness and not fitting in. I’ve lived in this town for ten years and only have one woman I can call a true friend. Her name is Irene and she works at the university library. We met at a weekday matinee showing of The Thin Man back in ’35 at the Englert Theater here in Iowa City. I was dead sick of sitting by myself at the pictures, so I walked up to Irene and said her pretty dark hair made her look just like Myrna Loy. (It doesn’t, not even if you squint.) She laughed at the empty compliment and we’ve been friends ever since.

Irene is a few years younger than me, shy and unmarried, but I’ve come to realize those types of differences become mere trivialities with the passing of time. She and I meet for lunch almost every afternoon, freezing our behinds off on a metal picnic bench because the navy shut the cafeterias down for aviator training. I would think that kind of instruction would mostly take place in the air, but what do I know? We moan and groan, but I honestly don’t mind the chill. In fact, the lunch hour is the highlight of my day.

So that’s me. Marguerite Vincenzo. Almost forty-one years old. Garden Witch.

It’s nice to meet you over these many miles, Glory. You said you need some magic? Well, I need something glorious. This town doesn’t provide much in the way of that.

Sincerely,

Rita

P.S. The people here call me Margie. I hate it. Sal calls me Rita sometimes, so I’d like to go by that. I hope you don’t mind.

February 14, 1943

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Dear Rita,

Rita? Like Rita Hayworth? Oh, gosh, I love that name. Do you have red hair? Oh, Rita, I’m so glad you wrote back. I was scared I might have chased you away.

And then I read your letter every night. Thinking about your boy and your husband, Sal. He’s Italian? I wish I was. I think it would be very romantic to be Italian. I spent some time in Italy when I was growing up. Sometimes now, when I think about this war, I wonder about the beautiful places I’ve been, the people I met, and worry. What will the world look like after all this violence?

Your words gave me a much needed respite from worry. Thank you for that. I laughed and laughed about the sunflowers. I want to learn to do something with this rocky patch of land I have here behind the house. It’s falling down due to a lack of upkeep, but lovely just the same. Robert wants me to move in with his mother who lives in Beverly, but I can’t leave this place. It was my family’s summerhouse (though since I married Robert, we’ve called it our permanent home). It’s so soothing, with the sea on one side and the woods on the other. I’m only ten minutes from town and the bus stops right at the end of our road. I wish he wouldn’t worry so much. I’ve been independent all my life.

So, your Sal is in Tunisia? How exciting! My Robert is in Sparta, Wisconsin, training. I guess it’s going to be cold over in Europe. Funny, I always remember it being warm there. I find myself thinking more and more about the past the bigger my belly gets with this baby. Isn’t that strange? But I suppose this war makes thinking about the future too difficult.

Tell me more about you, Rita. Tell me what else you grow in your garden and how you grow it. Should I be doing anything now in my yard? Tell me what it’s like to have a grown-up boy. Robbie might just kill me. He already hates the baby. I’m trying to tell him everything will be all right, but how can I say it with a straight face? My son’s no idiot. He knows when I’m lying.

The medicine won’t taste bad.

The bath is not hot.

Daddy will be safe.

Lies.

I’m so big now I can’t do much. And the snow...it falls and there isn’t any relief. I go to the market once a week and then come home.

So thank you, Rita. Thank you for writing back. Because life is so closed up...and now it feels more open, like a wide, wide field in Iowa.

I’m enclosing a sketch of my square bit of earth here on the cliffs that I call a backyard. It’s sunny. Tell me what I should plant in my victory garden, Garden Witch.

And tell me a better lie to tell my son so he grows up as good and open and pure as yours seems to be.

With great newfound affection,

Glory

February 19, 1943

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

I wish I had red hair! Once my hair was as vibrant as Toby’s, but now it’s faded and pale. I wear bright coral lipstick all the time so people have something else to look at. Thank heavens for Mr. Max Factor.

Anyway, your letter came just before lunch yesterday. I read it while picking at a hamburger plate in a dark leather booth at the Capitol Café. Irene is in Omaha visiting family, so I’d planned on staying inside with some egg salad and a cup of tea. Then the postman arrived and I got ants in my pants so I grabbed what he brought and hoofed it into town.

The emptiness is hard to get used to. It’s the middle of the academic term, yet I could roll a bowling ball down Washington Street and not hit a soul. I’m sure the weather has something to do with it (a whopping eight degrees at noontime), but more likely it’s this war. With so many boys gone overseas the university might as well rename itself Sister Josephine’s School for Educating Ladies. And those gals have no time for meandering—they are busy bees indeed.

It sounds like you have your hands full as well. Robbie will come around, but he is at a tough age. Now that I think about it, all the ages are difficult, even after they leave the house. Take my Toby, for instance. Turns out you were slightly mistaken in your assessment of him—he isn’t quite on the shortlist for sainthood.

I had just returned from the café yesterday when someone knocked on the front door. My heart nearly stopped beating—the unannounced visitor is about as welcome as the devil these days—and I ran to the window to see if a government vehicle sat in our driveway. I wanted to start dancing when I saw it was a girl standing on the porch. She was a colorless, skinny thing, mewling like a cat, and when I ushered her inside she started crying, tears so big and fat I worried she’d drown.

Her name is Roylene.

“My daddy owns Roy’s Tavern? On Clinton Street? By the co-op grocery?”

Everything is a question with this girl, like she doesn’t trust herself enough for the declarative. I took her coat and snuck a sly glance at her tummy (flat as a pancake, thank God), and poured a cup for her. She slurped at it like a Chinaman.

Apparently when my Toby turned eighteen he headed straight for the enlistment office, and then took a detour through Roy’s Tavern on his way home. Instead of going to class last November he sat on a bar stool writing in his notebooks and spouting poetry to Roylene. “My daddy says I’m no good behind the bar? So I work in the kitchen? Toby sits between the sacks of flour and potatoes and keeps me company?”

At that last question she started crying again. I swear, Glory, I did not know what to do. I patted her hand, which was all bone. That girl might work in a kitchen but she sure isn’t doing any eating.

“Have you tried writing to him, hon?” She cried harder at this, her small frame racking over my kitchen table.

“I’m no good at it? I thought I’d just wait until he came back? But I can’t wait anymore?”

“Do you want me to include a message from you when I write to him?”

Her face lit up, and for a few short seconds I could see what kept Toby interested.

“Please?”

So she’s coming back next Monday, her day off. I have no idea what Toby really thinks of her. I’m tempted to write him a letter first, to ask, but now that just seems mean.

I have been giving some thought to your garden. I’m spoiled—Iowa’s soil is rich and loamy. I was stumped, so I asked Irene. She said to think about the rocky places we’re reading about in the newspapers—the shores of Italy, the mountains of Greece. What do they grow there? Oregano? Lemon balm?

Or, you could simply throw down a few inches of compost and fake it. That’s what we do, isn’t it? Do the best with what we have? It’s not lying, dear. Don’t look at it that way. It’s hopeful pretending. Consider it your patriotic duty.

Sincerely,

Rita

February 20, 1943

V-mail from Marguerite Vincenzo to Pfc. Salvatore Vincenzo

Sal,

I can fit exactly fifteen lines on these damn things. Sixteen if I don’t sign my name. You’ll know who it’s from, wontcha? Maybe I’ll seal it with a kiss and the censor can get lipstick all over his fingers.

I miss you. The nights are quiet, but the mornings are worse—this town seems cleared out, like everyone snuck off without saying goodbye. I know what you’re thinking and I am trying to keep myself busy. Promise. I have a war wife pen pal (surprise, surprise) and Mrs. Kleinschmidt has me down at the American Legion rolling bandages. I hate the look of them. Bandages have only one use, you know?

I guess you do know. But I’m not supposed to write about things like that so I won’t. The thought of you getting a letter with the words blacked out is just too depressing.

Anyway, Toby wrote last week. He said the air in Maryland smells like fish soup and his bunkmate’s name is Howard. He neglected to mention anything about the girl who came looking for him a few days ago, some scrawny thing named Roylene. Ring a bell for you? Didn’t for me. I suppose she’s harmless enough.

Now I’ve done it. Only one line to say I love you. And I do. Be safe. XO Rita

March 1, 1943

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Dear Rita,

I’m so glad you are good at telling stories. I haven’t curled up with a good book in a long time, since before Robbie was born. When I was a girl, I’d spend the day at the beach with only a blanket and the latest Nancy Drew mystery. I loved her outspokenness. She was never afraid. I admired that so.

And what a mysterious situation you find yourself in. I wonder what your boy is up to. Do you like her, this girl? I couldn’t tell from your letter. I guess it doesn’t matter. At least you have something to take your mind off Sal.

My Robert’s mother, Claire Whitehall, doesn’t like me. Never did. She thinks I’m “new money” because my mother wasn’t technically part of the New England aristocracy. Imagine. I was brought up summering right here on these rocks in this town. I’d barely even kissed a boy until Robert. And even though I’ve known her my whole life, I can’t seem to get her to accept me. I’ve almost stopped trying. Almost.

An herb garden sounds lovely. I’ve ordered seeds from the Sears Roebuck catalog and my dear friend Levi Miller is going to fix up a big square like you said with all that good soil. Then I’ll put in all kinds of things. And some big sunflowers just for you.

Levi can’t fight. He’s got a bad heart or something. You’d never know it from looking at him. As children, we played on the beaches together every summer right here in Rockport. He never seemed to have any difficulty keeping up with Robert when we were small. Or me, for that matter—have I told you I was considered a tomboy? Still am, in some ways, though you’d never suspect it if you saw me. It’s Levi who plays with Robbie now that I can’t run around anymore. I’m almost due. Any day now, actually. I’m not even a bit scared of the pain. Does that convince you? It doesn’t convince me.

As I write this letter I’m watching Robbie, my little love, play in the snow. My heart aches for Robert. Rita, will it ever stop? The missing? I just don’t know. Everything is the same, and then new, and then the same again (only not really the same). The best thing for me is to keep on going about my day as if my sweet husband were to walk in the door any moment, picking up Robbie with one strong arm, and folding me close to him with the other.

I still cook for him. I know it sounds crazy. I’ve been making this recipe every week. It’s so easy, and doesn’t touch the sugar ration. Enjoy.

Beer Bread! (So simple and good.)

Mix one bottle of beer, three cups of self-rising flour and 1/2 cup corn syrup. Bake at 375°F for 45 minutes.

Let me know if you like it.

Warm wishes,

Glory

March 9, 1943

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

You would think Iowa would be oozing with corn syrup—corn grows everywhere here. Would you believe I once saw a stalk shooting up through a crack in the sidewalk? Our grocery was all out, though, so I borrowed some from Mrs. Kleinschmidt. She’ll probably lord it over me, but the bread was worth it. Completely delicious.

My heart goes out to Levi. The men left here walk around town like they forgot where they parked their cars. Do you know that look? Something’s missing, and probably will be for their entire lives. Are they the lucky ones? I don’t know. I am glad you’re giving Levi something to do. Have him get that soil in fast so you can let it set a bit before you plant. Treat new soil like a newborn babe—lots of rest, lots of food, lots of love.

Roylene came back, scratching at the door again like a stray. She wanted to add something to the note I was writing to Toby. “Well?” I said as we sat down at the kitchen table. She jammed one dirty fingernail in her mouth and bit down. Her eyes looked everywhere but at me.

Patience is indeed a virtue, but I had dishes to wash and wasn’t feeling particularly virtuous. “Spit it out,” I said.

She flinched. “Tell him I finally got the potato soup right?”

So I used one of my precious lines of V-mail for an update on Roylene’s cooking skills. I didn’t ask her to stay for dinner. Heck, I didn’t even pour her some tea. Maybe this war is making me mean. I haven’t heard from Sal. Not a word, Glory, and it’s driving me nuts. To answer your question, the missing never stops. For me, the wondering is even worse. We’ve been married for twenty-one years. I’d like to think I’d know if he died. I’d feel it, right?

When I stepped onto the porch to see Roylene out, Mrs. Kleinschmidt stood on her front lawn, staring hard at both of us. I watched her look down her ski slope nose at the girl’s tatty coat and men’s galoshes. My conscience started poking at me.

“Roylene,” I called out as she latched my front gate.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I’ll come to the tavern and read you Toby’s letter when it comes.”

She smiled, the little bit of brightness in that girl coming out. I waved and Roylene shuffled down the road, head hanging low between her bony shoulders. She was barely out of earshot when Mrs. Kleinschmidt started in about Okies and vagabonds and the progeny of Mr. Roosevelt’s handouts. I stuck my tongue out at her haughty face and she put a cork in it, stomping up her porch steps without another word. I felt guilty later so I wrapped up half the loaf of beer bread and brought it over as a peace offering. She knew right off it was a day old, and her complaints followed me all the way home. It was good the second day, and the third, too. Irene even said so when I brought her some for lunch. We ate it with stew made from every leftover vegetable I had in my icebox, along with some Spam I chopped up and added to the mix. Cook that stuff with an onion and you might as well be eating filet mignon!

Take care of yourself, hon, and let me know when that baby comes.

Sincerely,

Rita

March 16, 1943

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Dear Rita,

This baby will NEVER come. The doctor predicted I’d have it two weeks ago. I know these things can’t be rushed or even speculated about. But with each passing day I get heavier and more sluggish. Like a big fat slug in the garden.

Also, my temper is short. This adorable little girl ran up to me in the market yesterday and said, “Is that a baby in your tummy?” and I snapped back, “What do you think it is? Do you suppose I’ve swallowed a watermelon?”

Her sweet little eyes filled up with tears and I thought her mother might yell at me or glare, even. But no...she looked at me with soft forgiving eyes that told me she understood. She’d been there, too. Women know one another, don’t we? We can peer into our deepest, hidden places.

Well, maybe not all women.

I grew up around fancy things, Rita. Nurseries and nannies. My mother? Well, let’s put it this way—she was a side dish more than a main course in the banquet of my youth.

Father and Mother traveled a lot. It’s funny, I don’t remember missing them. Mostly I was excited to see what presents they brought me from wherever they went. Swiss chocolate, Spanish flamenco dancer dolls, music boxes.

Gosh, sitting here doing nothing but growing large is making me remember strange, forgotten things. And I’m noticing things, too.

Like the way I sway back and forth even if I’m not holding Robbie. I see other mothers do this, as well. You swing, lulling them to sleep even if they’re not in your arms.

My mother never swayed. She stood up so tall it was as if a string held her up from heaven. “Don’t slouch, Gloria. If you slouch like that the world will treat you like a pack mule. Good posture is the key to independence.”

I have to admit I still slouch sometimes.

And also, her hands. My mother’s hands were always perfect. She wore gloves when she went out, but when at home she kept a pot of hand cream (rosewater and glycerin) near her at all times. Rubbing it in methodically. Cuticles first, then nails. The backs of her hands and then up each finger. I believe her hands were soft like rose petals. But I hardly ever felt them.

She died three years ago, my mother. From the cancer. I miss her every day.

I’ve been thinking of her hands a lot. I can’t imagine having such perfect hands. Mine are rough, but strong. And my son knows them well.

I suppose this is all nonsense. Nonsense written by a woman very tired of carrying this weight. (And who might be at the end of her rope!)

I suppose my childhood was lonesome, too. I’ve promised that my own children will never feel alone.

But there’s a funny thing about promises. It’s easier to keep them before you make them.

Love,

Glory

P.S. I’ll write as SOON as this baby makes his or her appearance. I promise!

April 1, 1943

V-mail from Marguerite Vincenzo to Pfc. Salvatore Vincenzo

(Got your letter yesterday. How’s that for a turnaround?)

Husband of mine,

Happy April Fool’s Day! (Though I don’t feel much like foolin’.) Remember the time I hid all of your underwear in the freezer? You sure got me back. I’m fairly certain Mrs. K. is still not recovered from the sight of my brassieres hanging from the fence posts.

I did give her that boy’s name from your squad. I can’t imagine being so far away with no one to write to. Mrs. K. grumbled a bit, but snatched the address up so quickly I will now pay even less attention to her rheumatism complaints. When it comes to the war effort, it seems that woman has nothing but time. She’s got at least a dozen soldiers on her V-mail list, and manages to post her letters twice a week. God knows what she tells them. Still, something is better than nothing, even if that something concerns the fine points of making wienerschnitzel or crocheting a dickey.

And...about that other stuff. I’d be a fool to expect hearts and flowers all the time. Please continue to write about what you are really seeing, without worrying about what might be upsetting to me. If I’m in this war, too, then I should be upset. You know I’m not the type to think collecting bacon grease and scrap metal will keep anyone from dying. How about you give me the words so you don’t have to hold them in? It’s the least I can do.

If I sound like a broken record, so be it—take care of yourself. Irene says you should keep your feet dry. She came across some articles about trench foot, but given her filing skills they could have been from the last war. And, no, I won’t set her up with Roland. He’s half her height and twice her width. Come up with someone better.

Love you,

Rita

P.S. You’ll probably need a magnifying glass to read this letter, but I can get twenty-two lines on these things if I shrink my handwriting to Lilliputian proportions. I believe I’ve developed a permanent squint.

April 4, 1943

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Dear Rita,

As I write this letter I sneak glances at my sleeping baby in her Moses basket. The sun is pouring in through the window. Spring’s come early in many ways.

Robert came to the hospital after she was born. He was granted a leave and he came. I swear, Rita, I thought I was dreaming when I woke up and saw his face.

Labor was harder this time around. I thought it was supposed to get easier? This one was plain stubborn and turned all upside down. They had to pull her out by her feet. I don’t remember it because they put me out. Thank God.

But when I woke up there he was. My shining man. Holding our baby in his arms.

And for a moment I thought we were all dead. And it was heaven. Heaven through a field of yellow tulips. How Robert managed to get those tulips with such short notice is nothing less than a miracle. This whole thing feels miraculous. She’s here, my sweet baby. And she got to meet her father. That’s more than many, many women can say these days.

As I woke, Robert leaned over me, his mouth against my ear. “You fought for this one. You’re a tough gal. I’d go to battle with you at my side any day,” he murmured.

We named her Corrine. After my mother. I was so glad he didn’t want to name her Claire, after his mother. But I think my dear old mother-in-law was angry about it. She left the hospital in a huff when we told her.

“Don’t worry, she’ll get over it,” he said as he smiled down at Corrine.

“Oh, I’m not worried,”

”No, you wouldn’t be.” He laughed. “You don’t worry about things even when you should.”

I smiled at him and reached up to take off his hat so I could run my fingers through his thick, golden hair. Only, Rita, he doesn’t have any! His hair is cut so short. He’s a true soldier now.

“Do you like it, Glory?” he asked.

“Well, it reminds me of when we were little, in the summer. When your mother made you crop your hair.”

“I can’t tell if that means you like it or not. You play unfair, Mrs. Whitehall!”

“Ah, it is my job to remain enigmatic so you will remain forever in love with me,” I said.

I meant it as a joke, Rita. But then he looked deep into my eyes and pulled my face toward him with his free hand.

“I will never love anyone else. You’re my girl. You always have been,” he said.

When Robert left the hospital I promised him I’d be brave. That I wouldn’t cry. And I didn’t...until he left. Then I cried a river.

For my mother.

For my husband.

For my little boy who now has the big-boy responsibility of being a big brother.

Things are slowly getting back to normal. Levi, my childhood friend who helped with the garden, has also turned out to be a help with Robbie. You should see how he’s transforming my yard. I told him what you said on how to treat the soil. He said you were wise and a good friend to have. He’s right.

And Mrs. Moldenhauer, that woman who dragged me to the 4-H what seems like ages ago, has been a great comfort as well (even though I make fun of her). I’ve employed her “roommate,” Marie, to nanny for me. Robert insisted. She’s much younger than Mrs. Moldenhauer. Nicer, too. She cares for me and fusses over us. She’s been cooking meals and bringing them over still piping hot from her own stove.

But I have to admit I’m also warming to Mrs. Moldenhauer herself. She’s written short stories featuring Robbie as the main character to keep him entertained. And she has this powder-white hair piled up on top of her head. I think she’s a liberal Democrat. And guess what? She’s also some sort of preacher! Keeps trying to get me to come to her church in Gloucester. But I steer clear of religion and politics.

I only wish Marie cooked better, but thankfully I’ll be up and around and off this stupid “REST” soon. Robbie misses my chicken soup. Keeps asking for it, the sweetheart. I’ve been making it with chicken feet lately. I really have. It tastes better, I think.

What about you? I took your last letter with me to the hospital and read it over and over.

When I close my eyes I can see your place. So open. Almost like the ocean.

With love (And peace soon?),

Glory

April 11, 1943

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

Congratulations on the birth of Corrine! How blessed you are, and how brave.

The thought of you waking up to your husband holding his new daughter had me smiling for days. I don’t believe in miracles, Glory, but sometimes there are moments when everything seems to line up in the right order. I’m so happy your family was together for such a momentous occasion.

The blanket that accompanies this letter was knitted with Mrs. Kleinschmidt’s best light wool. I told her it was for the Red Cross, so she didn’t give me the business about using it. Don’t worry about the lie—I did my penance by sitting with Mrs. K. while she wrote her twelve daily V-mails to enlisted men who would probably rather receive letters from Mussolini. In between missives she told me, quite frequently, that I hold the yarn incorrectly and my shoddy technique would give me arthritis in my old age.

I hope Corrine likes it, even if it is green.

So, Miss Glory, I have some news myself. A letter from Toby came yesterday! He’s still stateside, but will ship off to the Pacific soon. Yes, he’ll be halfway around the world from Sal. I think Toby naively assumed Uncle Sam would drop him into his father’s lap in North Africa. To be honest, I was hoping that, too.

Toby predicts he’ll be granted some form of leave before shipping out, possibly as much as three days. He plans on coming home, even if for just a few hours. I told Toby I’d meet him halfway if it meant we could spend more time together. And what else is there to do in Ohio but drink coffee and chew the fat?

At the bottom of Toby’s letter was a message for Roylene. It said: “Send me the recipe.” That’s it. At first I thought, maybe he doesn’t know her all that well. And if he did, why wouldn’t he write to her on his own? But then it hit me—it’s a code! Maybe I’ve been going to the movies too much, but I’m his mother and I know when something’s up. I’m going down to see Roylene at the tavern this week to see what this business is all about. Don’t worry, I’ll be real sly—a regular Sam Spade.

Well, I can’t wait to hear all about your victory garden. Digging in the dirt will help you reclaim your figure in no time. I’m about to head out to give my soil a good flip. I just saw Mrs. K. leave, and I want to get it done before she returns or I’ll be pulling double-duty.

Take care of yourself,

Rita

P.S. I’ve taped a dime to this letter so Robbie can go to the drugstore to buy a candy bar or two with his OWN money. Big brothers need their sustenance!

April 25, 1943

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Oh, dearest Rita,

Thank you so much for the lovely blanket. I wrap Corrine in it every day and think of you. And Robbie loved having money of his own. It went straight into his piggy bank (he’s so like his father!)

When I was a little girl, I used to cherish having money of my own, too. My father’s family was and still is very wealthy. My father was probably the smartest man in America during the crash. He was smart all around. I wish I’d known him better. But money can do that to a family, make them strangers. There’s something closer about a family that struggles together. A bond. I watched the difference between me and Robert and then Levi, growing up. Robert and I came from another world.

We were summer people in this town. Wealthy and comfortable. And then there was Levi. Working-class and a year-round resident. But his family was so, so close. I used to wish his mother was my own. She never sat back on the shores and watched us from a distance under lace umbrellas. She always jumped into the waves next to us. And she collected “mermaid toes” (little peach-colored glittery shells shaped like toenails). Her name was Lucy and she died when we were all eleven years old. I try to be like her every day.

This war has been what I like to call “the great equalizer.” I feel comfortable living here in our summerhouse. And I don’t feel above or below anyone. Women and men, too, are acting as if they both have things to give to society. Everyone has a straight back as they walk through town, as if we are all carrying the pride of a country. It’s good to feel like that.

Enough about the war. Let’s talk about my garden!

My garden is just lovely. I have all sorts of herbs and vegetables starting. Lettuce is already coming up. I can’t wait to see it in full bloom. My hands are fairly caked with dirt each day and my apron, too. I love it. I love feeling the earth on my skin.

Now, your mystery girl and Toby are obviously saying something in code to each other. But what? Oh, it’s like reading a novel. Keep me posted on this!

With hope of peace in the near future,

Glory

May 2, 1943

V-mail from Marguerite Vincenzo to Seaman Tobias Vincenzo

Only Son,

I think there is a distinct possibility surrounding yourself with all that water has done something to your Midwestern brain waves. She’s a stranger, Toby. The thought of being stuck in a train car with someone incapable of making declarative sentences is enough to send me running for your father’s bourbon.

But...fine. If it’s really important to you, then I will ask her to come along. If we end up staying at a motel, she will bunk with me and I’ll pay for your very separate room. Am I making myself clear?

I don’t feel comfortable doing any of this without speaking to her father first. Yes, yes, I do realize you are both adults, but crossing a birthday marker doesn’t require anything but the ability to wait for time to pass. It doesn’t prove much.

See you in Ohio.

I love you.

Your ma

P.S. I am not a carrier pigeon. If you want to write to this girl, then write to her, and vice versa.

May 9, 1943

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

I’ve just returned home after a lovely Mother’s Day mass at the aptly named St. Mary’s. As I watched the darling young schoolgirls bring their floral offerings to the statue of Our Lady, I thought of you. I hope you are adjusting well to a new baby in the house, and this letter finds you well. If the world can’t be at peace, then maybe you can find a little in your living room.

Now...I have so much to share—hold on to your hat....

First, I finally received a letter from Sal! Large sections were blacked out, but I was able to piece together enough of it to know that he is fine. Sal’s primary responsibility is sewing up wounds (which is pretty funny, as he grew up in the back of his family’s tailor shop on the west side of Chicago). Some of the other guys wrote Stitch on his helmet, and the nickname has stuck. At least, he told me, they didn’t write Old Man.

Getting his letter was like Christmas morning and my wedding day rolled into one. It’s amazing what a few lines on a V-mail can do for a person. The worry doesn’t stop, but, to borrow a military phrase, it retreats in the face of its enemy, which I guess is hope. Sal’s taking care of himself, and besides the end of this war, that’s the most I can ask for.

I’ve heard from Toby, as well. I’ll be seeing him next month, when his leave is granted. We’re meeting halfway, in Columbus, and it looks like he’ll have a full forty-eight hours to visit.

If you sense a certain lack of enthusiasm in my words, then you really are starting to get to know me through these letters. I am remarkably unenthused. Toby requested I bring Roylene with me to Ohio, and—believe it or not—I’ve agreed. Yes, I will be sending my son off to war with that skinny gal standing next to me blubbering away. I was about to refuse, but this is what my son wrote in his last letter: “Ma, don’t you always say to never walk away from an opportunity to do a kindness? Well, here’s a golden one. Be nice to Roylene.”

The thing is, I don’t always say that. Sal does.

I have no idea if Toby’s interested in this girl or if she’s his charity case du jour. My husband and son have always been suckers for the underdog. Not me. We’ll see what happens.

Give those little ones a kiss,

Rita