The Wartime Sisters Page 4

  They laughed about it later, when the waitress brought their food. “Please,” Arthur said, his voice stern but his eyes twinkling. “Remember to eat slowly.”

  He told her about the master’s degree he was getting at Columbia, and she told him about the classes she would be taking at Brooklyn College in the fall. She explained Brun’s constant, and he explained electron microscopy. When he invited her to see his laboratory at the university, Ruth felt a bubble of excitement in the hollow of her chest. It was a perfect evening.

  But when they returned to the apartment, her sister greeted them at the door. When Ruth saw Millie’s face, her confidence turned to panic, and her palms began to sweat.

  “Why are you here?” Ruth blurted out. “I thought you were babysitting.”

  “I was, but they came home early. Mrs. DeLuca wasn’t feeling well.” Millie turned to Arthur and held out her hand. When their fingers touched, Ruth wanted to scream. There would be no second dinner now, no visit to the laboratory. It was always the same, after her dates met her sister.

  Walter Rabinowitz had been the first of many. Next came Bobby Weinstein, who had asked Ruth’s permission to invite Millie to the movies. “I won’t if you don’t want me to,” he’d said to her twice, as if somehow that would make up for the humiliation. After Bobby came Howard Hoffman, who had shown up with a box of chocolates—for you and your sister, he’d emphasized, to make sure she understood. Of course, neither of them had been as bad as Benjie Silver, who had tried to make a pass at Millie while Ruth was still in the room.

  Miraculously, however, Arthur was different. He let her sister’s hand drop immediately after shaking it. He didn’t ogle Millie’s chest or stare into her eyes. He didn’t ask how old she was or try to say something clever. Instead, he turned his back to her and placed his hand on Ruth’s arm.

  “Would it be all right if I called you tomorrow?”

  “Of course,” Ruth answered.

  “It’s settled, then. Good night.” He kissed her gently on the cheek and left without another word.

  * * *

  When Arthur asked Ruth’s father for permission to propose, Mr. Kaplan opened a special bottle of whiskey he’d been saving. He raised his glass to the couple, said a prayer thanking God, and embraced the young man like a long-lost son. Ruth’s mother, on the other hand, was considerably less ecstatic. “Maybe,” she told Ruth later, in private, “he could lose a little weight before you have the wedding. And tell him not to talk about science so much.”

  Ruth was horrified. “How can you speak that way about the man I’m going to marry? He’s going to be a scientist! He’s brilliant and thoughtful. You should be proud to have Arthur as your son-in-law!”

  “I am, I am. Of course I am. For you, he’s a good match.”

  “For me? For me, but not for Millie—is that what you mean? Just who do you think is going to marry her, Mama? A Rockefeller? A Rothschild? Or are you still holding out for the king of England?”

  “Why shouldn’t Millie marry a man like that? She only has to meet one.”

  “You’re the one who saves the articles about all the royal weddings. Those marriages are arranged—they don’t marry for love.”

  “You think you know everything? What do you know? When Princess Märtha of Sweden married Prince Olav of Norway, the newspaper said it was a real love match. So what if it was good for their countries too? People can marry for practical reasons and for love. Why couldn’t your sister be like Princess Märtha?”

  There was no sense in arguing. For years, their mother had filled Millie’s head with pipe dreams and promises about the man she would marry. Whenever she spoke about Millie’s extraordinary prospects, their father hid behind his newspaper and didn’t say a word. Ruth, on the other hand, was vocal about her doubts. She had always been too practical to believe her mother’s claims. How is Millie going to meet these men, anyway? It’s not like the Rothschilds are wandering around Brooklyn.

  * * *

  A week before the wedding, Ruth’s mother took out her jewelry box. She set the worn wooden case on the kitchen table and motioned for Ruth to sit down beside her. Inside the case was a collection of familiar gold and silver pieces. By most people’s standards, they ranged from worthless to modest, but when Ruth had been young, she’d thought each one was priceless.

  Her mother rummaged through the contents and handed Ruth a pair of clip-on earrings—two golden flowers with tiny garnet centers. “These are yours now,” her mother said. “Your ‘something old’ for the wedding.” Ruth had seen the earrings on her mother a hundred times—she wore them for every holiday, for every shivah call and funeral. You should always wear a nice piece of jewelry to the cemetery, her mother liked to say. So everyone should know that you’re not dead yet.

  Ruth fastened the flowers to her ears and kissed her mother’s cheek. “You don’t have to give them to me, Mama. They can be my ‘something borrowed.’ You can loan them to me for the day.”

  “What are you saying? That I can’t give my daughter a gift? Besides, I always meant for you to have these earrings. We’ll get them polished tomorrow, and they’ll look as good as new. I’ll take my brooch in too—you know, the one with the pearls. Now, where did I put it?” She picked her way slowly through the small mound of trinkets, but she couldn’t seem to find the item she was seeking. “Oy,” she huffed. “It’s always the same. If I’m looking for something, it doesn’t want to be found.”

  “Let me try,” Ruth suggested, pulling the jewelry box toward her. She untangled the necklaces, pulled out the bracelets, and removed all the earrings until she reached the bottom layer. “Here it is,” she said finally, handing her mother the pin—a simple golden circle surrounded by pearls the size of apple seeds. But before putting the other pieces back inside, Ruth spotted a black velvet pouch tucked into the corner. Made of the same fabric as the box’s interior, it was easy to miss.

  Ruth turned the pouch over onto her open palm. The ring that fell out was one she’d never seen before: thick, polished platinum, with a center opal surrounded by diamonds. Ruth stared at the ring for a long time before she spoke. It was obviously valuable—worth far more than the rest of the jewelry combined. “Where did this come from?”

  “I never told you about that ring before? It was my grandmother Fanny’s, from her first husband in Russia. He was a jeweler—much, much older than she was. Two days after the wedding, his favorite horse keeled over in the middle of the street. A week after that, he dropped dead himself. The jeweler’s family told everyone that Fanny was cursed—all the bad luck was her fault, they said. Fanny was no fool—she knew she had no future in that farshtinkener town, so she booked her passage on a ship to New York the next day. She sewed her husband’s watch into her coat pocket and that ring into her brassiere. She didn’t tell anyone in New York that she had been married before. My grandfather didn’t even know until my mother was born.”

  “And she kept the ring all that time?”

  Ruth’s mother shrugged. “She told my mother the ring reminded her to be strong. She came here all alone, and she built a whole new life.”

  “It’s beautiful,” Ruth said, holding it up to the light. “Why don’t you ever wear it?” She set the ring down on the table, but her eyes lingered on the stone.

  Her mother laughed. “Me? Where would I wear something so fancy? No, your sister is the one who will need that ring. After she gets married, she’ll have dinners and parties…”

  Ruth sucked in her breath. The clips from the earrings dug into her lobes, and the pain radiated outward until her whole head throbbed. “You’ve been saving it for Millie, then? Why am I not surprised?”

  “Oh, Ruthie.” Her mother frowned. “Don’t get all worked up. You get the earrings, and Millie gets the ring. So, what’s so terrible?”

  Ruth unclipped the flowers from her ears and placed them next to the ring. Beside the magnificent opal and the glittering diamonds, the garnet specks and scuffed petals were l
ifeless and dull. Her disappointment gave way to despair. Ruth rubbed her ears—she could feel the dents in her skin where the posts from the earrings had pinched them too tightly.

  “Ruth,” her mother pleaded. “Don’t take them off. They look perfect on you. Keep them on for a while.”

  But Ruth stood from her chair and left the earrings where they were. “No thank you, Mama,” she answered. “They’re uncomfortable.”

  * * *

  The night before the wedding, Millie kept Ruth awake, tossing and turning and rearranging her pillow. Eventually, Ruth sat up and complained. “Millie, please,” she snapped. “Stop making so much noise. If I don’t get some sleep, I’ll have bags under my eyes tomorrow!”

  “How can you sleep? Aren’t you even the tiniest bit nervous? You know, I read an article in McCall’s that says it’s perfectly natural for a young woman to be nervous before her wedding night.”

  Ruth groaned. “You’ve got to stop reading those magazines. You should be reading the newspaper.”

  “Newspapers are depressing. Anyway, aren’t you excited for your wedding night? You know, because it’s the first time you and Arthur are going to—”

  “Millie! I’m not discussing that with you!”

  “Why? Isn’t that what sisters are for? Do you think it’s going to hurt?”

  “I said stop! Please!”

  “Fine. I’ll stop asking questions. I’ll stop making noise. Would you like me to stop breathing too?”

  “If that’s the only way to get you to go to sleep!”

  The next morning, Millie had forgotten all about their squabble. She woke smiling and cheerful, with offers to do Ruth’s hair and makeup. It was well established that Millie had a talent for such things, so for the first and last time, Ruth told Millie yes.

  Later that day, as Ruth stood under the wedding canopy, she was flooded with a joy she had never felt before. The man who stood next to her was intelligent and kind. He had chosen her for his wife, and he loved her unconditionally. Adding to her happiness—though she knew it was trivial—were the compliments she received from so many of the guests. Her dress was simple, but it fit to perfection, and Millie had worked wonders with her straight brown hair. Ruth knew it was customary to praise the bride’s appearance at a wedding, but the truth was she had never felt beautiful before that day. She savored the sensation, so unfamiliar, so luscious—like a fruit she could not name from a distant, foreign land.

  It didn’t last long.

  When the ceremony was over, Ruth waited on the receiving line between Arthur and her parents, accepting congratulatory handshakes and pecks on the cheek. Arthur’s friends were polite, but they moved quickly through the bridal party, eager for the refreshments they knew would be waiting at the reception. Ruth thought nothing of it until she noticed the bottleneck—they had all suddenly slowed at the end of the line, taking their time as they fawned over Millie. On the way out of the chapel, Ruth overheard two of them talking.

  “Did you see the bride’s sister?” one of them said, and whistled. “How come Arthur never told us about her?”

  “He’s probably just sore,” the taller one answered. “You know, because he didn’t meet the pretty one first.”

  Lillian

  Springfield, Massachusetts (June 1942)

  They first arrived at the armory in February, on a shroud-gray afternoon. The clouds provided a disappointing welcome, especially since their last day in San Antonio had been filled with brilliant sunshine. The children were quiet on the ride from the airport, until the driver—a nervous young corporal—rolled down his window and announced that the air smelled like snow. By the time they reached Springfield, a few flakes had begun to fall.

  When the car finally stopped, the children scrambled out first, laughing and kicking at the snow on the driveway. “Welcome to the commanding officer’s residence,” the corporal said.

  “It’s huge!”

  “Look at the porch!”

  “Daddy, I want to live here forever.”

  Inside, the first thing Lillian noticed was the striking pattern of light-and-dark wood inlaid on the foyer floor. The second thing was the orphaned grand piano in the front half of the double parlor.

  As soon as Patrick spotted it, he flashed his widest grin. “Well, look at that. Somebody left you a housewarming gift.”

  She swatted him on the arm and ran her fingers over the keys. Every time they moved, they found something left behind: a chipped coffee mug covered with dust on a shelf, a stray moth-eaten sweater in the back of a closet. Whatever it was, and wherever it appeared, Patrick would point it out and declare it her “housewarming gift.” More often than not, it was thrown in the trash. This time, however, she had gotten lucky.

  It was always difficult at first when Patrick was reassigned, but Lillian tried to teach her children to adapt without regret. Each time he was given a new position, she baked a cake and hung streamers. She circled the new state in red on the family map and told them how excited she was for their upcoming adventure. For the most part, they believed her when she told them how fortunate they were. After all, her father had been in the military too. “I was lonely when we moved because I was an only child. But the four of you have each other. You’re never alone.”

  As a child, Lillian had grown comfortable living in houses that weren’t hers. As an adult, she had grown used to the borrowed feeling of other women’s kitchens. She was an expert at fitting her children’s clothes into the unaccommodating drawers of strangers, and there was no one more skilled at hanging family pictures on the left-behind hooks of other people’s walls. Sometimes she wished that she weren’t so good at it.

  The truth was, the last thing Lillian ever wanted was to marry someone in the military. When she first met Patrick, she’d been twenty years old, a sophomore at Vassar majoring in art history. A nasty stomach flu had been raging through her dormitory, and one Saturday night, she was dragged along on a double date to fill in for a girl who lived a few doors down from her.

  What she didn’t know when she agreed to tag along was that both the other girl’s steady beau and her own blind date were seniors at the United States Military Academy at West Point. When Lillian caught a glimpse of their gray uniforms from the top of the lobby stairway, she felt a wave of panic pass over her. The academy was less than an hour away, and the uniforms were distinctive. She grabbed her friend’s arm. “Katherine! You didn’t say they were from West Point!”

  “I know,” Katherine said, mistaking Lillian’s shock for excitement. “Don’t you just love a man in uniform?”

  Lillian descended the stairs slowly, racking her brain for excuses to return to her room. If she weren’t such a terrible liar, she could have pretended that she had the stomach flu too. She thought about tripping on purpose—a twisted ankle would have been perfect—but in the end, she was simply too steady on her feet. There was no choice but to greet her date and to try to endure the evening.

  She was cold to him—practically rude—but he wouldn’t stop smiling at her. He asked about her art history classes, which painters were her favorites, what she hoped to do with her degree. She wanted to dislike him—to hate him, in fact. But his smile was never-ending, and his eyes were too blue. If an artist were to paint him, Lillian decided, the blue of his eyes would have to be made duller on the canvas—the actual shade was too vibrant to be real.

  “What about you?” she asked, focusing on the menu to avoid his eyes. “What are you studying? I mean, besides peace treaties and sea battles?” He didn’t answer right away, and when she looked up, he’d stopped smiling.

  His friend answered for him. “Patrick is at the top of our class. They’re sending him to MIT next year—the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. He’s going to be an engineer.”

  “That’s wonderful,” Lillian said, but Patrick’s smile didn’t return. At the end of the evening, she wished she hadn’t mocked him. She was sure she would never see him again, and though she wanted to
be glad, she found herself thinking of him all the next day. When she asked Katherine for his mailing address at the academy, her friend’s mouth fell open.

  “I thought you didn’t like him.”

  “I’m not sure I do, but I still want to apologize for the way I behaved.”

  “I’ll write down the address.”

  Dear Mr. Walsh,

  Please accept my apologies for my remarks this past Saturday. I have no explanation, other than that my father’s military career has influenced my thinking in a way that isn’t always fair to others. I am deeply sorry if I offended you. I wish you all the best in your studies next year. If you should ever find yourself with some time to spare in Boston, I hope you will consider a visit to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum. I visited with my class earlier this year, and it was extraordinary.

  Best wishes,

  Lillian Guilford

  His reply came quickly.

  Dear Miss Guilford,

  Your apology is accepted. I suggest we avoid the subject of fathers when we see each other again, which I hope will be for dinner next Saturday evening.

  Yours truly,

  Patrick Walsh

  P.S. I would be happy to visit the museum, but only with you as my guide.

  They were engaged a year later. The fact that her father disliked him only made Lillian more certain that she had done the right thing by saying yes.

  Millie

  The first night in Springfield, Millie barely closed her eyes. In the morning, she was tired, but it wasn’t exhaustion that made her want to stay in bed: it was the thought of facing her sister. When she finally got up, the house felt too quiet—there was no shouting from the street, no doors slamming down the hall. There were no morning smells either—no neighbors frying bacon, no fish peddlers under her window, no radio blasting from the apartment next door. She wondered whether anyone raised their voice in Ruth’s house, whether her nieces ever shouted or pounded down the steps.