I'll Be Seeing You

“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.