Dearest Glory,
I skipped All Souls mass. I just could not go, not with Roylene’s news, not with this war escalating. It made me crazy to think about the thousands of new souls crushed together, huddled in a universe too small to contain them. And those kneeling women, begging for their time to come? So selfish. I couldn’t stand it. Not today.
Instead, I hung our family’s Blue Star flag in our front window. Please don’t think me morbid for my decision, or unpatriotic for waiting so long. I know it should have gone up the minute Sal reported for duty, or when Toby went off to Maryland. I always found an excuse not to. It wasn’t denial, so much as superstition, I think. Am I growing into a silly old hag?
I cut the stars myself from one of my navy blue winter blouses, one for Sal and one for Toby. Identical. If it comes time to replace them with gold, I won’t do it. Tragedy should not shine like a Christmas ornament. Neither should sacrifice. If the worst does happen I will cut new stars from my black mourning dress, and I will wear it, holes and all.
About an hour ago I caught Mrs. Kleinschmidt standing at my gate, staring hard at the flag. She had the strangest look on her face. I walked out onto our porch and she didn’t say a word. But then, she of all people should understand how little it sometimes takes to knock someone into the abyss.
She’s a sliver in my big toe, that woman. At the YMCA on Friday there was talk of a German POW camp being planned for Algona, a small town to the north of us. Mrs. K. went white, and I feared she was going to keel over right into the pile of scrap metal the children had collected. You’d have thought she spotted an M.P. coming her way, ready to haul her off. Glory, Algona is over two hundred miles away!
That evening we had a blackout drill. I turned off all the lights but didn’t close the side curtains, figuring that even though they’re fading, my sunflowers would do a fine enough job shielding my windows. After the siren stopped I heard a sharp rap on my door. It was Mrs. K. with a black armband snug on her fleshy arm, and a flashlight at her hip. Our new air-raid warden.
She threatened to place me under a citizen’s arrest for defying the government’s order. I told her where she could stick those orders. Her face turned purple and she started shouting “Dummkopf! Dummkopf!” so loudly I’ll bet the Führer heard her in the Bavarian hills.
I leaned over and said, very clearly, “Nazi-liebhaber!”
She unsheathed her flashlight and hit me smack across the thigh. It hurt! I ran out the front door with her chasing me, brandishing that heavy stick, and I kept yelling, “Nazi-lover! Nazi-lover!” like an overgrown schoolyard bully. Oh, Glory, I couldn’t help myself.
There is a welt on my leg the length of an ear of corn. I guess I deserve it. I suppose the strain of the past week made me lose control. Maybe I need to keep busier to take my mind off my worries? A bunch of the ladies from our USO club work at the canning plants on a temporary basis. I think it’s time I considered taking a job. Soon enough there’ll be another mouth to feed.
Speaking of which, I left a note at the tavern for Roylene to stop by so I could take her measurements. She came yesterday. That girl is about ready to bust out of her clothes, but Roy hasn’t noticed. I don’t think he’d look up from the till if she was giving birth right on the bar.
She chose some red wool from my fabric stash for a nice shirtwaist. (I can put in a drawstring instead of elastic.) I can’t have her fainting dead away in that ugly overcoat, can I?
I’m trying, Glory. Really I am.
Hope all is well with the Whitehalls.
Love,
Rita
P.S. Is Robbie getting bored during his convalescence? Can he hold a pencil yet? I would like him to draw something for me. I’ll post his work in my other front window.
P.P.S. Roylene still has not written to Toby. I have a letter ready to go that’ll get the job done. She’s got until Thanksgiving.