Dear Glory,
Your sweet potatoes were a big hit at the USO. And that’s where I spent my Thanksgiving, passing out meals to those ready to head out, with Little Sal strapped tightly to my back, like a papoose.
It seems everyone is going to the Pacific now. This makes me both worried and hopeful.
Donna Reed stopped by Iowa City for the holiday. That girl is on a constant USO tour. She looked a little tired, but the boys went gaga for her, drooling all over their turkey dinners. She was sweet, and I’d kill for her legs, I’ll tell you that much.
Oh, Glory, I couldn’t stand to be in my house for Thanksgiving dinner. I would have been like Roylene, eating my meal standing at the kitchen counter, while the baby pushed mashed potatoes into his mouth. That’s why I jumped at the chance to help out when Mrs. K. asked. I think my enthusiasm took her by surprise. She kept narrowing her eyes at me as we rolled bandages for the three hundredth time.
There was a certain feeling of excitement while we cooked—the ladies saying surely the end will come soon. I kept pretty quiet. We’re still sending boys overseas, and people are still dying. The war will only be over for me when Toby comes walking through my front gate. And the war will never be over for Sal. He’ll not see the ticker tape parades or hear Mr. Roosevelt’s voice ringing over the land.
My blue mood kept me in a daze as I scooped potatoes and poured gravy, so I didn’t notice the tall, imposing sergeant talking to Mrs. Kleinschmidt until Mrs. Hansen elbowed me in the ribs and pointed him out.
As he spoke with Mrs. K., she pushed out her chest in an effort to match his military stance, her face reddening from the effort. “No!” she shouted. “No! No! No!”
He took a step closer and she kept her ground. “I am an American. I will not say one word to those... Krauts! Not a one!”
“But your country needs you,” he said, and I’ve got to admit, it sounded a bit monotone and scripted. “The U.S. Army takes full responsibility.” His nostrils flared as he stifled a yawn.
Mrs. K. pointed one arthritic finger at the sergeant’s very decorated chest. “They are Nazis! Huns! Animals! You should lock them up and let a horse eat the key and shit into the river!” And then she stormed away, shouting epithets to anyone who cared to listen.
The sergeant shrugged and picked up a plate, coming down the chow line. When he got to the potatoes, he studied me for a long moment. “Sprechen sie Deutsch?”
Mrs. Hansen, fork paused midair with a hunk of dark meat hanging from it, looked at him as if he’d suddenly grown a second head.
So I answered him in English. “Yes, sir,” I said. “My mother and father were both from Munich.”
“May I speak to you privately?” he asked, with a stiffness that didn’t suit him. “Army business.”
I handed my spoon to a wide-eyed Mrs. Hansen and walked to the corner of the room with the sergeant, whose name I learned later is Friedrich, or Freddy, as he prefers.
Turns out the POW camp in Algona needs some translators. The prisoners write a weekly newsletter—in German—and the army translates it into English for approval before allowing it to print. With everyone stateside scrambling for leave over the holidays, they’re short a few translators this December. Toss a coin in Iowa and you’ll hit a German, but the thought of working with the enemy gives most people the heebie-jeebies. We were the fifth USO the sergeant hit up for volunteers.
“I’ll do it as long as this guy can come with,” I said, pointing to Little Sal. He’d fallen asleep, his soft head resting at the nape of my neck.
The sergeant smiled. “Junior soldiers are welcome, too.”
He meant to be cute, but his words turned my spine to ice. Am I crazy for saying yes? Maybe. Mrs. K. spit on my shoes when she found out, and Mrs. Hansen said you can never really know your neighbors. I said that means I probably shouldn’t watch little Vaughn anymore while she runs errands. She took it back.
Charlie thinks it’s a great idea. He suspects the U.S. Army wants to keep our prisoners so well taken care of they’ll go home to whatever’s left of the Fatherland and tell everyone about the hospitality of the generous Yanks. “Brilliant public relations strategy,” he called it. Irene’s a bit more practical. With all the Iowans overseas or working in the factories, we’re desperate for farmhands. Perfect work for POWs, as long as we keep them warm and well fed. “Necessary evil” was what she called it.
Dr. Aloysius Martin is convinced I’m a spy. When I mentioned visiting the camp in Algona, he winked at me, entranced by visions of his devoted secretary working for the OSS. Actually, that thought entered my head, as well. I must admit, as Freddy explained my duties, I fantasized about somehow recognizing the man responsible for Sal’s death. I’d slip a knife into his liver and skedaddle before anyone was the wiser.
But I think the real reason I’m doing it is much more mundane—to keep my mind busy over the Christmas season. Hopefully next year, when Little Sal can run and talk, I won’t need to keep devising ways to distract myself from reality. Or I’ll learn to make a life from my distractions, I guess. That just might be the only way to keep on.
Anyway, hon, I wish your mind was more settled as well. I’ll be thinking about you.
Love,
Rita
P.S. I got word from Roylene! She’s headed to Hawaii after training. Every time I get a little down I picture that girl hula dancing in a grass skirt with flowers in her hair and some native boys fighting with each other to feed her chunks of pineapple.
P.P.S. I forgot to address the peanut butter issue. I have heard of those sandwiches, though I don’t think I’d ever make one, especially for guests. Occasionally they’re served in the university cafeteria. Sal always called them “cement mixers.”
I have been making use of peanut butter recently, though in a pudding recipe. Irene really likes it! Let me know what you think.
Peanut-Honey Pudding
2 cups milk, scalded
1 cup soft bread crumbs
½ cup evaporated milk
½ cup peanut butter
¼ cup honey
¼ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon ginger
1 egg, slightly beaten
Combine milk and crumbs; let stand 15 minutes. Add half of evaporated milk to peanut butter; beat smooth. Add remaining milk, beat smooth. Mix honey, salt and ginger; add to peanut butter mixture. Combine crumb mixture and peanut butter mixture. Add egg; mix well. Pour into casserole; set in a pan of warm water. Bake in moderate oven (350°F) 1 1⁄2 hours or until inserted knife comes out clean.