A Woman's Place (40 page)

“Please tell me everything you know about my son.”

The men sat down to tell their story and offer comfort. Rosa lifted Joseph from Helen’s arms, clutching him as if she needed to hang on to him for dear life. Rosa had what she needed to get through this—her family—so Helen tiptoed into the kitchen and quietly let herself out the back door. But she sat in her car for a few minutes, shaking so violently with rage and grief that she couldn’t drive.

“I hate you, God!” she cried out in the darkness. “How could you do this to such dear people? How
could
you?” She rested her head on the steering wheel and wept bitter tears for Rosa’s husband. For Jean’s brother. For Ginny Mitchell.

When she was able to drive, finally, Helen returned to the hospital. Jean and Mr. Seaborn were sitting together in the waiting room. “There’s been no change,” Jean told her. “Ginny’s still unconscious.”

“The police finished looking around the shipyard,” Earl said. “They’re certain that it was deliberate and that it was meant for Thelma. They have some people in custody that they’re questioning. They’ll get to the bottom of it.”

Jean seemed numb and bereft of tears. “I can’t believe someone would want to hurt another person because of the color of her skin,” she said softly. Helen hated adding to everyone’s sorrow but knew that she had to.

“Something else has happened,” she said in a trembling voice. “I just came from Rosa’s house. Two men from the navy arrived while I was there and told her that Dirk is missing in action.”

“Oh no!” Jean leaned into Earl’s arms and wept. Earl stared at Helen in disbelief.

“He might have been taken captive by the Japanese,” Helen continued. “They don’t know for certain. Poor Rosa is—” She waited until she was in control of her voice and said, “I need to go home, but I’d like to go with you to Indiana tomorrow if you’re still going.” Earl nodded.

Helen drove back to the house that had never been a home to her, the house she’d always hated. She wished she had never left it a year and a half ago to work at Stockton Shipyard. Why had she ever become involved in the other women’s lives? She should have known better. Instead, she’d opened her heart to Jean and Ginny and Rosa, and now the pain she felt for them was nearly unbearable. She hadn’t felt such heartache since the day she’d received Jimmy’s letter more than twenty-five years ago. That had been the day that her heart had died.

Helen knew she never should have risked loving again. But without love there was only hatred, and hatred had caused the Nazis to rise to power—and Jean’s brother’s death. It had caused all of the atrocities that the Japanese had committed—and the loss of Rosa’s husband. And hatred had caused Ginny Mitchell’s fall. Helen had never realized that Negroes faced such terrible hatred, through no fault of their own. She had been blind to the racism, unwilling to believe that it existed in Stockton. She had been so wrong.

And Jimmy had been right.

Helen climbed the stairs to her bedroom and found his letter in the drawer of her vanity. It was the only letter that Jimmy had ever sent to her. The paper felt brittle as she pulled it from the yellowing envelope. She brushed aside her tears to read it.

Dear Helen,

When I got your letter this morning I couldn’t believe my eyes. You were supposed to forget all about me and marry that other fellow. Instead, you said that you still loved me. How could someone as beautiful and as smart and as wonderful as you love a nobody like me? It’s a marvel that I will never understand.

You also said that you hoped it wasn’t too late for us. I wish I could lie to you and tell you that I’ve found someone else or that I don’t love you anymore. That way you would finally forget me and marry your suitor. But I can’t lie and I can’t seem to stop loving you, so I’m going to try once more to convince you that it will never work for us to be together. I pray that you haven’t cut all the ties to your family and your fiancé yet, because I need to tell you what I’ve experienced since I left Stockton to join the army.

Back home the color of our skin didn’t matter to us. I saw you as my beautiful Helen, not as a white woman, and I know that you never saw me as a Negro. But when I joined the army I learned that a lot of people in America can’t look past the color of our skin. The U.S. Army is segregated by race, and there is little opportunity to advance or to better myself in any way. My 93rd Infantry is all Negro, and we are treated like ignorant slaves, assigned to unload cargo or dig ditches. We begged and begged for a chance to fight like real soldiers, and the army finally got us off their backs by reassigning us to be part of France’s Fourth Army. We’re finally going into combat soon in a place called the Argonne Forest.

Please believe me, Helen, when I say that it would be even harder for you and me to be together than either of us ever imagined. It’s not only a matter of social class, rich and poor, but a much, much bigger question of race. Your family would reject you if we got married, and you say you don’t care. But I’ve learned that my fellow Negroes probably wouldn’t embrace us, either. They would always look at you with suspicion and distrust because of the way other white people have treated them. Our children might never be accepted by either race. What future would there be for them? Or for us?

I’ve felt hatred and racism and discrimination every single day since I left Stockton. Some days I can hardly hold my head up underneath it all. I don’t ever want you to experience this. I love you too much to take you down with me. Even if I got the best education in the world, I would be refused jobs because of the color of my skin. Nobody would sell me a house in a white neighborhood like yours.

Colored people have to use separate rest rooms—usually outhouses. They have to stand up on buses and ride in colored railroad cars. They have colored hotels and motels—and they’re always run-down, flea-bitten places. That’s where we would have to spend our honeymoon. We couldn’t even use the same drinking fountain or eat at the same lunch counter. I hate being treated this way. I hate feeling degraded and worthless. How can I ask the woman I love to suffer the same treatment? Especially when you deserve to be treated with dignity and respect and love?

I made up my mind to forget you when I left Stockton. I haven’t, of course. But you need to forget me. Marry a white man. Live the life you deserve. Be happy. Please don’t write to me again, Helen. I won’t answer.

Jimmy

Helen refolded the letter and tucked it into the envelope. After what had happened to Ginny Mitchell today, Helen understood Jimmy’s words for the first time. Grief poured from her—grief for Ginny, and for Jean, and for Rosa. And grief for herself. She had wasted all these years refusing to love others, feeling rejected, believing that Jimmy hadn’t loved her—when all along it had been love that had made him give her up.

CHAPTER 36

* Jean *

Jean’s friends said very little as Earl drove them to her home in Indiana for Johnny’s memorial service, but she valued their support more than words could ever say. She sat in the front seat between Earl and Helen, while Patty and Rosa rode in the back, trying to keep their four wiggling children occupied during the long drive. Jean’s mind felt ravaged from bouncing endlessly between thoughts of Ginny Mitchell to concern for Rosa’s husband to grief for her own brother. Three tragedies in a row. She could barely comprehend them, much less deal with them. The effort left her numb.

She ached to see Russell, to have him hold her, comfort her. Yet she couldn’t escape the nagging thought that he should have been at his best friend’s side to protect him. Why had Russ decided to take a farm exemption and stay home where it was safe, while Johnny had turned down an exemption to put his life at risk?

And why had God allowed all of these terrible things to happen in the first place—to Johnny and to Ginny and to Dirk Voorhees? Why hadn’t He answered their endless prayers and watched over His children, keeping them safe? Every time Jean looked at Rosa, she thought of the months and months she had spent trying to convince her that God loved her—and now this! If Jean’s own lifelong faith had taken a direct hit by these disasters, Rosa’s infant trust in God must be in ruins.

With all the stops for gasoline and one for a punctured tire, Jean didn’t have time to go home to the farm before the memorial service. It was nearly time for it to begin when they drove into town. Her eyes filled with tears when she saw Church Street lined with cars. So many people had come to pay tribute to Johnny that Earl would have to drop everyone off in front of the building and park a few blocks away.

“You go ahead. I’ll meet you all inside,” he told them.

Jean barely heard him. She had spotted Russ standing on the church steps, watching anxiously for her, and she barely had the patience to wait for Helen to climb out of the car first so she could run into his arms. She cried uncontrollably as Russ held her. She heard him sniffling as he buried his face on her shoulder.

“I miss him so much, Russ! What am I going to do without him?”

“I know … I know …”

They stood that way for a long moment, wrapped in each other’s arms. Then Patty said, “Come on, Jean, we’d better go inside.”

Ma had saved a seat for Jean and Patty in one of the front rows. Their six younger brothers were there, and all of Jean’s sisters, along with her two older brothers’ wives. Jean knew that none of them felt the depth of pain that she felt for Johnny, her twin. Then she saw Johnny’s girlfriend across the aisle, leaning against her mother for support, and Jean felt a fresh wave of grief and also guilt for meddling. Sue had wanted to marry Johnny before he shipped out, but Jean had talked him out of it. If he had married her, maybe Sue would have his baby to console her, a little piece of him, the way Rosa had Joseph.

The service began. There were prayers and hymns, kind words of remembrance from friends and family members. The pastor gave a short sermon. Someone played “Taps.” Jean listened to all of it yet didn’t hear a word. She gripped Ma’s hand but felt as though none of this was really happening, as though she floated above it all, in a dream. She would wake up soon, and Johnny would come home.

The churchwomen had prepared a funeral luncheon for Jean’s family in the church basement. She didn’t feel hungry. She walked through the buffet line behind Russ, watching him fill his plate, but took only a dinner roll. She sat beside him at the table and pulled the roll into pieces, barely eating any of it. Afterward, Patty’s two older boys squirmed away from the table to chase Jean’s other nieces and nephews around one of the Sunday school rooms, laughing and letting off steam after sitting still for so long. Jean wondered when—or if—she would ever feel happy again.

“It was so nice of your friends to come,” Patty said, leaning toward her.

Jean saw Helen, Rosa, and Earl huddled at a nearby table, and her anger toward God swelled as she thought of them being forced to endure this grief all over again if Ginny Mitchell died. Or Dirk Voorhees. Jean was furious with God. She had been told all her life to have faith in Him, but today the words seemed meaningless.

“Do you want anything else?” Russ asked as he rose to his feet. “I’m going back for seconds.” She shook her head.

Her mother and father weren’t eating, either. She watched as they made their way from table to table, thanking their friends and guests for coming. The loss of their son had clearly devastated them, yet Jean saw none of the rage or doubt in them that she felt. She longed to talk to Ma and find relief from all the turmoil in her heart.

The opportunity finally came later that afternoon in the farmhouse kitchen. Jean introduced Helen and Rosa to Ma, and the four of them sat around the table with cups of tea. Ma was the one who raised the issue of faith.

“Our days are known to God from the very beginning,” she said, “even before we are born. He knows all about your little one, too.” She nodded at Joey, cooing happily on Rosa’s lap as he played with a teaspoon.

“Johnny had his whole life ahead of him,” Jean said through her tears. “Why did he have to die so young?”

Ma reached across the table for her hand. “Johnny isn’t dead, honey. He’s still alive, and he’ll live for all eternity. God has plans for him, just as he has plans for each one of us, only His plans for Johnny will take place up in heaven for now, not here on earth.”

“Dirk’s father keeps saying that Dirk is in God’s hands,” Rosa said, “and that we have to trust Him. But now that Dirk is missing in action, I don’t know what to think.”

“ ‘Trust in God’ doesn’t mean that He won’t ever let anything bad happen,” Ma told her. “It means that if we know Him, no matter what happens we can still trust His love.”

“But I don’t get it,” Rosa continued. “You and Jean have a lot more faith than I do, yet Johnny still died. Why didn’t God protect him?” Jean looked up from her own grief and saw fear and bewilderment on Rosa’s beautiful face. Jean closed her eyes as she waited to hear her mother’s answer.

“I believe that God has the power to protect my children from all harm. I have faith that He hears my prayers when I pray. But when He doesn’t answer them the way I’d like, I still have faith in God’s love. He knows far more than I ever will, and I can trust His purposes, even though I can’t understand them. Jesus had more faith than any man or woman who ever lived, but His prayer, ‘Let this cup pass from me,’ wasn’t answered. He was God’s own Son, yet He died a horrible death, worse than our Johnny’s. But Jesus’ death had a purpose that no one could have foreseen at the time, even those who were closest to Him. I have faith in God’s love. He knows how it feels to lose a beloved Son.”

“My sisters and brothers all died when they were children,” Helen said quietly. “Six of them. My parents stopped believing in God’s love. Then they stopped loving altogether.”

“How old were you?” Ma asked.

“I was ten when my last brother died.”

“Then you’ve never known love?”

Helen looked away from Ma’s gaze as her eyes filled with tears. “Not from my parents. I fell in love once—and then he wrote and told me that we could never be together. All these years I’ve believed that he never loved me. How could he, if he would hurt me so badly? I didn’t trust in his love. But now I understand what you’re saying about God’s love, Mrs. Erickson. I should have trusted, even when Jimmy hurt me, that he had acted out of love.”

“When tragedies like this happen,” Ma said, “we can either draw closer to Jesus, who was ‘a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief,’ or we can turn away from Him and stop loving so we’ll never be hurt again. But when we cut ourselves off from love, we find out what hell is like.” Ma reached to take Jean’s hand, then waited until Jean looked up at her. “Imagine how much harder it would be to face Johnny’s death if you were alone, Jeannie, instead of surrounded by people who love you.” Ma nodded toward Helen and Rosa.

The back door opened and Russ came in. He dragged over another chair and sat down beside Jean as if to emphasize Ma’s words. “Are you okay?” he asked as he draped his arm around her shoulder. She nodded and leaned against him.

“Would you like some coffee or tea, Russ?” Ma asked.

“Yeah, sure. Coffee.” Ma rose to pour him a cup and to replenish everyone’s tea.

“This might not be the best time to discuss this, Jean,” Helen said, “but I want you to know that I’m sorry for the way I treated Meinhard Kesler. If he wants to come back and work with us … I mean, with Ginny in the hospital … until she gets better …”

“Who’s this Kesler guy?” Russ asked. “I don’t think you’ve mentioned him before.”

“Yes, I have. I wrote and told you how they hired some German POWs at the shipyard, remember? The government built a camp outside of Stockton for them. A bunch of them worked on area farms last summer to help with the labor shortage.”

“It’s been hard to get good farm labor around here,” Russ said. “I’d hire POWs if we had any. All we have are a bunch of shiftless Negroes coming around looking for work, but I hate hiring them.”

“
What
did you say?” Jean turned to him so abruptly that his arm slipped from her shoulders. She stared at him, stunned.

“I’d much sooner hire POWs than Negro migrant workers. They’re lazy as all get-out and you have to keep your eye on them every minute. Of course, colored people will live anywhere so they’re easy enough to house. They’re one step above animals, so they don’t mind living—”

“Russ,
stop it
!” Jean said in horror.

“Huh?”

“How can you say such terrible things?”

“Because it’s true. Everybody knows that Negroes are shiftless—”

“Get out of my house, Russell Benson! Get out right now!”

“Why? What did I say? Since when do you care about a bunch of Negro migrants? They’re not even important.”

Jean rose from her seat, so furious she could hardly speak. She battled the urge to slap him. “Get out!” she repeated.

“Come on, Jean, you’re getting upset over nothing.” He reached to take her hand, but she yanked it away.

“Over
nothing
? One of my dearest friends is lying in the hospital in a coma because someone felt the way you do about Negroes. My friend Earl was beaten with baseball bats by people like you. Now get
out
!”

“Okay! Fine!” He rose, knocking the chair over, and strode from the house, banging the door behind him.

Helen stood and put her arm around Jean to console her. “You did the right thing,” she said.

“How could he talk that way? I can’t believe I ever thought I loved him. I … I didn’t know …”

“Of course you didn’t. Thank God you found out before you married him.”

Jean sank down in her seat again, her knees too shaky to support her. Helen righted Russell’s chair and sat facing her.

“I know how you feel, Jean. I broke my engagement with Albert, the man my father wanted me to marry, because he was a racist.”

“How did you find out?” Rosa asked.

“Albert had been drafted during the Great War and had gone off to fight. I had promised to marry him when he returned, and I knew that he’d be coming home any day. Meanwhile, Jimmy Bernard, the man I loved, had also gone overseas to fight, and I found myself wondering how he had fared. I saw his father working out in our yard one afternoon, so I went outside to ask if he knew when Jimmy would be coming home. Joe’s eyes filled with tears. ‘He isn’t coming home, Miss Helen,’ he told me. ‘Jimmy died over in France.’ We clung to each other, crying. Joe knew that I loved his son, and I knew that Joe had no family to console him. His wife had died, and Jimmy was his only child. That was the moment when my hatred for Germans was born.

“ ‘The army wrote me a real nice letter,’ Joe told me when he could speak. ‘Jimmy died on the twenty-sixth of September, 1918. The letter said there’d been a day of real hard fighting, and the 93rd Infantry had fought very bravely. They went into battle with seven hundred men, and all but one hundred fifty of them died. Jimmy’s buried over there, and I don’t suppose I’ll ever get to see where his grave is.’

“I hugged Joe again and went back into the house, trying to comprehend the truth that Jimmy was dead and gone, like all of my siblings. I would never see him again. He had died two months short of the cease-fire on November twentieth. I wanted to be alone, but when I reached the house, there was Albert. He had been watching us from the dining room window, and his first words to me after being separated all those months were, ‘How could you hug that filthy old Negro?’

“I explained to Albert that Joe’s son had been killed in the war, but Albert looked at my tears and said, ‘You’re crying for a
Negro
?’

“I could see his revulsion. He didn’t want to touch me after I’d hugged Joe, as if I’d become contaminated. I was shocked and disgusted. And furious, just like you are right now, Jean. I pulled the engagement ring from my finger and threw it at him. I told him that Jimmy Bernard was ten times the man he’d ever be. I lost Albert and Jimmy on the same day, so I do understand how you feel. But I made the right decision—and so did you.”

Rosa stared at Helen in astonishment. “You never said that Jimmy was a Negro.”

“Didn’t I?” Helen seemed surprised. “You know, I never saw the color of his skin. I saw his heart. And I loved him.”

“I had no idea that Russ felt that way,” Jean said. “I feel like I’ve lost everything.”

“I know,” Helen said. “I really do. But please don’t stop living, the way I did. And don’t stop loving, either. I was so afraid of being hurt again that I made a huge mistake and cut myself off from everyone. You have a wonderful family and friends who love you. And you have your faith. Those are all good reasons to go on living.”

Jean heard what Helen was saying, but at the moment, with Johnny and Russ both gone, she felt as though her life had ended.

“Why is God turning all my plans upside down?” she wept.

“Do you want your own plans, Jeannie, or what God has for your life?” Ma asked. “His plans are always better, you know, even though it may not seem that way right now.”