A Pledge of Silence (31 page)

“That doesn’t sound like Frank.”

“And that’s my point. Do you worry about Wade?”

“It’s different for us. We were together until a few months ago.”

Although, she reflected, not really so different in a reverse sort of way. They went through the thick of it together. What would it be like to share good times? They never discussed what life might be like after Santo Tomas, that dream fragile and seeming a world away at the time. Mostly they’d talked about the old days, growing up in Little River. And, of course, food. How to grow it, preserve it, prepare it, and how much of it they could eat. They concocted a myriad of recipes, not one of which could she remember now.

They turned to go home when they reached the high school. “What’re your plans when Wade comes home?” Irene asked.

“First off, the wedding.” Margie chewed on her lower lip before adding, “Myra asked if I’d come back part-time at the Red Cross. Wade will be at the
Tribune
. I haven’t thought much beyond that. How about you?”

“I’d like to keep my job, if Mama doesn’t mind watching Billy. It makes me feel worth something, and the money’s good. I’d like Frank to finish school. He was pre-vet before he got drafted. Someday, I’d like Billy to have a brother or sister. Not right away.”

As they neared the house, a staccato of pops crackled, followed by a boom. Margie jumped in fright, dropping to her knees to drape her body over Billy’s. More pops came in quick succession, and another boom.

Irene hugged Margie’s shoulders. “It’s only firecrackers. Tomorrow’s the fourth. The kids are getting an early start, that’s all.” She took Margie’s arm, helping her to her feet. “Let’s get you into the house.”

Huddled together, they ran across the street, Irene carrying a wailing Billy and Margie pulling the wagon. Margie flew up the stairs to her room and slammed the door.

Drying her hands on her apron, Mama hurried behind her. She knocked softly, and let herself in.

Margie sat on the bed trembling. Mama sat down beside her. “Honey, you heard firecrackers. There’ll be a lot more tomorrow and fireworks too. It’s the Fourth of July.” She gathered her daughter in her arms. “Oh, my poor baby. What did they do to you over there?”

“I’m sorry, Mama,” she said, relaxing into her mother’s embrace but unable to control the quaver in her voice. “I’m just being silly.”

Three weeks later, a teary-eyed Mama handed Margie a letter from Frank.

July 20, 1945

Dear Mama,

I’m at Camp Lucky Strike, a redistribution station near Le Havre in France. I’m living in a hotel and there is a lot to do. We were told to have a good time. I’ll be here for a few weeks, and then I’m being shipped to the Pacific. I’m sorry for the bad news. I’ll write more when I’m up to it.

Your loving son,

Frank

P.S. I sent three cuckoo clocks from Germany. I think yours will fit on the left wall going into the kitchen. There’s one for Margie too.

August marked Margie’s sixth month of freedom. Back to her pre-war weight plus a little bit more, the lines of her face had softened, her breasts even fuller than before. Sometimes she worried that her monthly periods hadn’t resumed, though she occasionally had bouts of cramping. Lately, she’d experienced abdominal flutters she attributed to gas.

Wearing only her bra and panties, she combed through her closet for something to wear. Nothing seemed to fit any more; she had been leaving the top button on her skirts and slacks open for a while now. As a wave crossed her stomach, she put both hands on it. An unwelcome realization dawned. She pressed in, feeling a firmness starting just below her navel. In the mirror, she saw a bulge she could no longer deny. She fought back rising panic.

With her shirttail hanging out over her too-tight skirt, she went downstairs to breakfast and dished up oatmeal from a pan on the stove, adding milk and a sliced peach.

Her mother looked at her sharply. “You look a little pale.”

“I didn’t sleep well.”

“Why don’t you stay home today?”

“I can’t. Myra needs me to be there.” She had started working part-time at the Red Cross, organizing blood drives to meet the still-considerable need.

Her thoughts whirled as she drove to work. Will Wade want this child? How would she tell him? Then a darker thought intruded—could it be Max’s? Could she terminate the pregnancy without anyone knowing? Her mind flitted through the options.

That evening, a letter from Wade waited for her on the hall table. Margie took it up to her room to read. Fighting in the Philippines had slowed almost to a halt, with Japanese resistance compressed into small pockets on isolated islands.

August 1, 1945

My Dearest Love,

I have too much time on my hands and being away from you makes it stretch on forever. I’m spending my days writing about those endless years in Santo Tomas. I can’t get my thoughts down on paper fast enough. They tumble out of me with great sadness followed by a healthy sense of release. Then I have a few hours of calm, but the tension builds again, and I go through the cycle once more. Someday, I’ll burn these cheerless pages and bury the ashes.

I’d like to write, Margie, but something different from bad memories or newspaper stories. I’d like to take a year off from the
Tribune
and write a novel, pure escapism, a who-done-it with sultry women, strong men, and a plot that twists and turns. I have an outline in my head. It will be set in Paris with all the intrigue that city has to offer. I have some money put away, and we can live cheaply in Grandpa’s cabin on the shores of Lake Michigan. It’s a fine place on a bluff overlooking the lake. I’ve dreamed of someday building a house there.

I haven’t heard anything official from the
Tribune
, but I feel I’ll be home to you soon, and I’m counting the days until we are together.

My love forever,

Wade

Margie put the letter down. A year on a secluded beach far away from her family, no income, a child. She couldn’t agree to that. She felt a flutter, as the wee being rolled around. “What are we going to do, little one?”

Chapter 22

Little River, Michigan, August – December 1945

On August 6
^th
, three cuckoo clocks arrived at the Bauer house from Germany’s Black Forest. Each distinctly individual, all had adorably hand-painted and hand-carved birds in nests or deer in forests; one featured a chalet with dancing children. As Frank had suggested, Mama hung hers by the kitchen door. Every 60 minutes, a cuckooing bird emerged and told the hour.

While a sweet connection to Frank, the clocks also reminded his family of the bitter reality of his circumstances. The war continued to escalate, even though allied forces brutally and continuously fire-bombed Japanese cities, airfields and harbors, greatly reducing the numbers of their planes and ships. Word circulated that thirty million Japanese soldiers and civilians, including children, declared their readiness to die for the Emperor.

At risk for extermination, Margie noted grimly, were the 170,000 prisoners of war held by the Japanese.
Like cattle in a pen. Those cowardly Nip sons-of-bitches.
She threw down the newspaper she’d been reading and looked out the window to see Irene and Billy playing ring-around-the-rosy. In just eight days, Frank was scheduled to leave for that hellish inferno.

That evening, the women wound down their day together, doing needlework and listening to Rudy Vallee singing “Deep Night” in his soft, distinctive style on the radio. No one spoke, each lost in her own worries. An announcer interrupted the program, saying, “Good evening from the White House in Washington. Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States
.
”

“Turn it up,” Mama said; Margie reached over to adjust the volume. President Truman’s Missouri accent filled the room.

My fellow Americans, the British, Chinese, and United States governments have given the Japanese people adequate warning of what is in store for them. We have laid down the general terms on which they can surrender. Our warning went unheeded. Our terms were rejected.

The world will note that the first atomic bomb was dropped on Hiroshima, a military base. That was because we wished in the first attack to avoid insofar as possible, the killing of civilians. But that attack is only a warning of things to come. If Japan does not surrender, bombs will have to be dropped on her war industries and unfortunately thousands of civilian lives will be lost. I urge Japanese civilians to leave industrial cities immediately and save themselves from destruction.

I realize the tragic significance of the atomic bomb. Its production and its use were not lightly undertaken by this government. But we knew that our enemies were on the search for it. We know now how close they were to finding it. And we knew the disaster which would come to this nation and to all peace-loving nations, to all civilizations, if they had found it first. That is why we felt compelled to undertake the long and uncertain and costly labor of discovery and production. We won the race of discovery against the Germans.

Having found the bomb, we have used it. We have used it against those who attacked us without warning at Pearl Harbour, against those who have starved and beaten and executed American prisoners of war, against those who have abandoned all pretense of obeying international laws of warfare. We have used it in order to shorten the agony of war; in order to save the lives of thousands and thousands of young Americans. We shall continue to use it until we completely destroy Japan’s power to make war. Only a Japanese surrender will stop us.

The Bauer women stared at each other, stunned.

The world waited for Japan’s response. When the Emperor refused to surrender after three days, a second atomic bomb obliterated the port city of Nagasaki. Headlines across the world shouted, “IS TOKYO NEXT?”

His country facing total annihilation, Emperor Hirohito finally announced Japan’s unconditional surrender. On Sunday, September 2, 1945, on the deck of the battleship Missouri, representatives from the Empire of Japan signed the Japanese Instrument of Surrender, officially ending World War II.

Mama insisted she watch Billy while Margie and Irene went out to celebrate downtown. Revelers jammed the streets, hugging and kissing, hallooing and whooping. Car horns tooted, bands blasted, a siren wailed from the firehouse, church bells chimed. Margie and Irene blew whistles as they joined a conga line snaking along sidewalks where newsboys peddled special “WAR’S OVER” editions.

Monday morning, churches held services of thanksgiving. Mama attended the one at Little River Methodist, celebrating in her own quiet way by giving thanks that her family would soon be reunited. Afterward, she put flowers and a flag on Dad’s grave, now gone ten months, telling him the good news that both their children were safe, that she missed him and would love him dearly always.

Preparing for Frank’s homecoming sent Mama into a flurry of activity. She fretted that the front porch needed a fresh coat of paint, but settled for scrubbing it clean instead. She purchased a new flag to fly from the holder on one of the columns. She helped Irene move Billy’s crib from the bedroom to an alcove off the stairs. The transition proved painful for everyone: Billy’s heart-wrenching screams of protest lasted several nights.

The more Mama fussed, the more anxious Irene became. She retreated to her room in the evenings, claiming headaches. She sewed a new dress for herself and a romper for Billy. She had her hair styled at the salon in town and painted her nails red before reconsidering and changing the color of the polish. She ate very little and lost a few pounds.

The town spruced itself up for the returning soldiers. Flags hung from every lamppost and waved over the fire and police departments, the hospital, and city offices. Store windows displayed patriotic themes, and a banner reading “Welcome Home!” stretched across Main Street. Red, white, and blue bunting festooned most porches.

As Frank’s train rumbled into the station, the high school band played “Stars and Stripes Forever.” The crowd cheered as soldiers hung out of the windows to whistle and wave at the girls waiting on the platform. The train hissed to a stop, and a flood of khaki poured out the doors. Cries of joy rose, increasing the chaos when families reunited. Billy began to scream, and Irene tucked his head into her neck, covering his ear with her hand. Margie scanned the swarm of humanity for a beloved face, a distinctive gait, an identifiable voice. Mama spotted him first—tall, lanky, carrying his duffel and a teddy bear. She waved frantically, yelling, “Frank! Frank!”

He pushed through the crowd, his pace quickening to a trot. In an instant, the family joined together in a joyous hug, their arms entangled, each wanting to touch Frank. Margie broke away first, then Mama reluctantly let go, allowing Frank to kiss his wife and howling baby.

Irene calmed Billy with a jiggle and sweet words, then held him out to Frank. “Can you say Dada?” she asked, as she had been coaching him for this moment for over a month, but the overwhelmed baby buried his face in her hair.