*This chapter is dedicated to the Guest whose birthday is today! Happy Birthday :)
January 1945, Somewhere In Bastogne
I huddled in the corner of the war torn room, shivering against the frigid floorboards, my cheek pressed up against the yellow wallpaper in a desperate attempt to keep myself from freezing to death. Heavy footsteps and shouting made the floors beneath me creak in protest, not to mention the machine gun fire in the distance which always made everything shake. I chewed on my stumps of finger nails, and held back the tears threatening to fall at the realization that I could soon be dead.
How did you get here? The voice inside my head tried to reason with itself and I sunk further back into the floorboards, waiting for the large man with the raspy voice to come back and ask the same question in German.
Wie bist du hierher gekommen?
Wie bist du hierher gekommen?
Maybe I should start at the beginning…
New York, NY, May 1944
That particular Tuesday in Manhattan was by far the most squelching hot day in all the twenty years of my life I'd spent in the growing city. My stocking-less feet sweat in my flat brown loafers, and I could feel my hair working itself up into an attractive frizzy mess as I emerged from the Subway and stepped onto the steaming sidewalks. Desperately fanning myself with the latest copy of the New York Times, I watched in delight as children danced around in the spraying fire hydrant water, purposely broken for the school children to cool themselves down. I let out one last grin at a little girl squealing and hugging her hands to herself as she danced in the water. Glancing down at my wristwatch I reluctantly collected myself and continued on my way down the hot sidewalks, soon blending into the scenery with the sea of other rushed morning commuters.
...
"Good morning Miss Abbott," Elena, the building receptionist peaked her head up from a typewriter and I waved back with a cheery smile, simultaneously arranging myself to be presentable and somewhat professional before entering the elevator.
I blinked when the elevator door shut, and clutched my briefcase. I waited for the slow elevator to ding at each floor, but in typical New Yorker fashion, I kept my eyes looking straight ahead along with the other suited men in the small space. This was the calm before the storm.
Like always, I instinctively smooth my hair on the 47th floor, straighten my skirt on the 48th, and exhale on the 49th. The elevator doors open on the 50th floor to a deceiving sight. Gertrude, the secretary sits peacefully at the large wooden circular desk and on the dark blue wall above her are the large metal letters that spell out The New York Times. Gertrude bobbed her perfectly groomed red head and offered a perky greeting. "Morning Charlotte!"
I noded back to her with a smile "Morning Gertie."
Gertie's always been pleasant to me, even when my internship was up, and I signed on officially as a journalist, and every man in that office seemed to hate me—Gertie still offered me a friendly greeting and a coffee with cream and sugar every morning. Knowing that at least someone in the office was rooting for me gave me the determination to come to work during my first months as a journalist, and slowly but surely most of the other men warmed up to me.
"The usual?" She motioned to the coffee station.
"Yes, please." I smiled in gratitude and opened the glass doors, stepping into the buzzing news room.
The room is an experience all in itself. Everyone chain smokes, and fills up the room with their own share of nicotine. There's always a hint of whiskey in the air combined with the spicy scent of men's cologne. On this floor of the News House, every person gets a large wooden desk but no enclosed offices, hence the loudness.
That day was a busy day.
Men shouted orders across the room, argued with people on the telephone, clacked away on their typewriters, chewed on pencils and the faint sound of the radio news in the back could overstimulate an outsider easily.
Luckily I was used to this busy sight, and I loved every minute of it.
"Get your ass to work Abbott." Bob Collier yelled from at me across the office and I offered back a small eye roll that he doesn't notice.
"Yes mother." I retorted sarcastically under my breath.
...
I dropped my briefcase and examine the calling notes on my desk. I sigh. There all from the WAACs, thanking me. I did a story on them to help get women encouraged to join the war effort, it was published in that day's paper and the general must've already gotten ahold of it. I resolved to telephone them back later, as it seems that I would be occupied in a meeting with the Editor in Chief that morning.
I worried about what he could possibly want.
...
The Chief's office stands alone on the 53rd floor of the paper house. He's not the boss-boss, he's just the chief of the newspaper, not the magazine too. But still, I've never had a positive meeting with this man. Mr. Stein is his name and he's middle aged with silver hair, a heavy Native accent, and he wears custom made suits. He's considered a legend in the world of journalists and I gulped as someone showed me into his wood paneled office.
I suddenly wish I'd chosen to wear heels.
He turned around in a large leather chair and gave me a once over before inviting me to sit. I tried not to sink into the plush leather chair as I crossed my legs.
"Mr. Stien." I offered him a polite hello and folded my hands into my lap.
"Miss. Abbott." He rasped out, an obvious smoking man.
"A drink?" He stood and gracefully moved to a tray filled with all types of whiskey. I grimaced, not the biggest fan of whiskey.
"Coffee please." He clapped his hands together and I raised an eye brow. Why exactly am I needed here? Stein sent his assistant to fetch me some glorious caffeine and moved to sit behind his tower of a desk once more. He folded two hands stacked with rings atop the desk and stared at me with narrowed eyes. I grew slightly annoyed under his scrutiny.
"Is there something I can help you with?" I asked with assertive politeness, biting my tongue to hold back a sassy comment.
He looked at me for a few more seconds before speaking. "I liked it." He leaned forward on his elbows like he was divulging some secret.
"And so did the President."
Come again?
"Liked what sir?" I remained a statue under his scrutinizing stare that always seems to feel judgmental.
"The WAAC article." He lit up a smoke and offered one to me. I graciously obliged. I leaned back in my chair, and I couldn't believe what I was hearing. For a moment I was at a loss for words, an unusual occurrence. Mr. Stein shook his head as if he couldn't believe it himself.
"Mr. Roosevelt called me up this morning himself, and asked who this Charlie Journalist was," I nearly choked on my coffee and come dangerously close to spilling it all over my navy shirt dress. Clearly stunned, I carefully placed the cup and saucer on the table next to me and rasped out some sort of a sentence.
"He—The Pres—Mr. Roosevelt, called?" I stuttered in complete and utter aw. A million questions ran through my mind all at once.
How did he read it so quickly?
The president?! How did the man find the time? He knew my name? Again, the president?
Stein pulled me from my thoughts and with a slight glimmer in his usually icy eyes, he recounted the whole conversation to me animatedly. He tells me about how the president thought I could dig into the hearts of many people on the home front with my words. He explained that Roosevelt liked my down to earth approach to the article, apparently I made the job of becoming a WAAC seem a feasible feat. The president thinks I contributed great amounts to the female war effort with just my words alone.
All these compliments coming from the leader of our country made my heart swell with pride, and embarrassed heat flooded to my cheeks.
It's the last part of what Mr. Stein said that caught me the most off guard. "Mr. Roosevelt requests that you write more articles pertaining to the war,"
"Did he?" I squeaked
"Yes." He cracks a challenging grin, and suddenly I feared what I'd been assigned. Not a women's column again. I'd been writing women's section stories since I came to work at the times, and frankly, it was beginning to feel like I wasn't being taken seriously as a journalist. Maybe Mr. Roosevelt will change that. My stomach did excited somersaults at the thought.
"Paratrooping." He lifted his eyebrows suggestively, like paratrooping was some sort of naughty word. I took a quick sip of coffee before leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms with sudden ease.
"Paratroopers?" I lifted a groomed eyebrow, and stared at my editor, intrigued. Women are NOT paratroopers, and any woman who dared to challenge those rules would surely be a long running joke. I wasn't to keen on being a long running joke, but I was very keen on expanding my horizons as a journalist, and a person.
"Life Magazine 42'—you've read the article about the 101st Airborne?" Stien asked, and I immediately remembered the well written piece about the parachuting men who "fell out of the sky." I bobbed my head up and down eagerly.
"Absolutley sir."
"Well then you're assignment is settled." Assignment?
"Sir?"
"Chilton Folait Airborne School. Write a stunning article about the training a paratrooper endures. From a women's perspective. We want these home front ladies to know we believe in them!" So I'm a lab rat? I resist the urge to roll my eyes and retort with an anti-sexist comment. Even though I'll be a lab rat, I'm forced to agree—I've got to earn my assignments, and maybe, just maybe, this will open the doors to further opportunities.
"I'm anticipating the challenge sir." I squareed my posture and made eye contact with Mr. Stien. He stood in his perfectly tailored suit and firmly shook my hand.
"Good luck to you Ms. Abbott." I turned to take my leave and I talked over my shoulder. "Same to you, Mr. Stien."
….
I must've looked a sight—juggling three bags of groceries in my arms all the while fishing for my keys in my purse.
"Goddamn," I huffed under my breath. Finally I heard the jingle of the keys and felt the cool metal beneath my fingertips. I shoved the the key in the lock, and after some furious jamming, I was finally able to breathe a sigh of relief as kicked my shoes off and stepped barefoot onto the familiar cool wood planks. "Mother- I'm home." I called through the house, the keys leaving a resounding plink when I dropped them into the glass bowl. Making my way into the kitchen I heard her yell "Hello Mi Amor!" From the depths of her art gallery in the back room. I rolled my eyes at her greeting, she's decided on being French today, then.
Setting the brown paper bags on the counter I turned on the radio, and let the sweet sound of Glenn miller float through the house and open windows onto the sidewalks of our quiet Manhattan neighborhood.
Stirring the pasta, I grimaced when I contemplate what dinner has in store. All of us Abbotts sitting around our large harvest table, like the normal American family. Not exactly. We hadn't had a normal family dinner since my parents announced their divorce a year before, the last June. I remember it well: I sat with my mother and father and tried to reason with them, as usual. My older sister- Helen stormed off—overcome with extreme pregnancy emotion, and my older brother Archie "went for a drive". Family dynamics were well displayed that night. Ever since then, my father ate dinner at some unknown location and Archie went off to war, forcing us to drop our large harvest table down two leafs. But that particular night, we would put a leaf back in because Daddy would be home to hear my news.
Honestly, there was really nothing I could do about how dinner would go, it was completely out of my control… like it or not. On that thought, I let myself become absorbed in stirring the Bolognese sauce, and swayed my hips rhythmically to the tune of Tuxedo Junction. I glided across the checkered floor with ease, casually resting an innocent glass of red wine in my right hand, and reaching for ingredients in the ice box with my left. I ran my finger along the rim of the pan and tasted the red sauce with delight, the perfect tang. I leaned over the stove to taste my pasta, and also to my delight found it to be perfectly aldente. All I needed to do was sauté the asparagus and grate the Parmesan cheese.
The warm wind wafted through the windows and blew my curls around gently, and I let out a content sigh. I lifted the cast iron pan and tossed the green stems of asparagus, bobbing my head up and down singing loudly to Chantanooga Choo-choo
"Dinner in the diner, nothing could be finer, than to have your ham and eggs in Carolina,"
"Bada bada bah bah—"Shaking my head along with my off key singing, I was fully in the swing zone.
"Lottie!" Helen violently broke my nice moment with a dramatic shriek that sawed through any ounce of pleasantness the moment could have held. I kept my back to my sisters theatrics for a few moments, gripping the range and letting out a few soothing breaths before turning around to face Helen the Hormonal Hurricane. Briskly turning around with a tight smile plastered to my face, I couldn't help but feel the need to smirk at her utterly disheveled appearance. Her red hair was wound up into tight curlers, that were beginning to come undone, half of her face was makeup free while the other side had a whole layer covering her pink skin, she had a piece of waxing paper on her upper lip, and her pregnant belly was practically bursting out of her too small robe; but the best part of it all, was the fact that my usually well-coiffed sister housed a piece of poop on her left cheek. Oh yes, what I can only assume was baby feces, doo-doo, whatever the hell you want to call it, that was it.
Resisting the urge to laugh, I discreetly motioned to my own cheek hoping she would pick up on my message—no such luck. "Whaat sister, dear?" I purred sweetly in a tone that could hopefully get me out of Hurricane Helen's fit of rage. She balled up her fists at her sides and let out an exasperated sigh to which I rolled my eyes.
"Lottie, it's the babysitter, she has the measles. Alexander can't just be by himself. And, I have my women for the war effort cocktail hour-" she paused and glanced up at the clock in the corner of the kitchen "In a half an hour!" I thought she was going to burst into tears. I hated to be selfish, but all I could think about was that I was leaving for my assignment tomorrow, and I only had tonight to spend with my family—but Helen just had to be busy.
I hesitated for a moment, but knew that watching my fourteen month old nephew was the right thing to do, and besides, I love that chunky little man to death. "Of course I'll watch him Helen," I said in a reassuring tone, anxious to get back to cooking dinner.
Her mood suddenly changed from distraught to filled with glee, and she clapped her hands together and bounced up and down like a small child getting what they wanted. "Oh thank you Lottie!"
"I owe you one," She practically skipped out of the kitchen and back up the stairs to her room. I scoffed at her false statement and went on with my business. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I didn't care about Helen and her trials and tribulations, but when she moved back home after her husband was shipped to the pacific with the navy, I had no idea I'd become a live in babysitter. I also had no idea that saying no to Helen was the worst idea after she'd become an emotional train wreck overnight—so my mother and I walked on eggshells around her, something I'd be glad to get away from for a while.
…
I kept Alex resting on my hip and tucked under my arm as I put the finishing touches on the table and dinner. He made gurgling sounds and chewed on a silver spoon with the determination of a true Abbott. I grinned down at him and he tugged on my cross necklace, examining like an investigator.
"What?" I cooed "Is it cheap jewelry?"
"No, he just has fine taste." I jumped at the sound of my father's voice, but soon grinned at the sight of him and closed the gap between us to give him a big bear hug.
"Hi Lottie Pie," He pressed a kiss to the top of my head, and I squeezed him harder—I missed him so much! Breaking the hug I looked up at my ageing father and noticed his new grey beard.
"Hi yourself pops." He reached for Alexander, and I gladly released the chunky monkey from my tired arms.
"Let's go find your Grandma, Huh?" With that, the two boys exited the room in search of my ever bitter mother. Oh this should be good. And so should the rest of the night. I could see the headline: Crazed Wife Stabs Ex-Husband in Jugular Vein with Fork. Needless to say, I began to doubt my grand idea of a family reunion dinner to tell some exciting news of my own. I could've sent a letter, or maybe just a simple phone call would've sufficed.
…
Mother and Father appeared back in the kitchen out of nowhere. As soon as she entered into the doorway, she opened her arms in a dramatic fashion, showing off her colorful silk turquoise tunic and scarf. I could practically feel the awkward tension radiating through our large kitchen.
"Hello Lottie Dear," She over pronounced, and gracefully waded through the kitchen to kiss me on the cheek. It was all a show. My mother was usually relaxed, informal, and completely unreserved—but tonight was a grand show, hell she even put makeup on for the occasion.
"Stop with the charade." I warned through gritted teeth
"What charade darling?" She pinched my cheek a little harder than necessary, and I took that as a warning to shut up. Taking a deep breath, and a discreet swig of wine I clasped my hands together and suggested we make our way to the dining room.
I poured the wine, served the pasta and soon the conversation flowed naturally to safe, neutral areas—such as my mother's exhibit opening at the Met, my father's Job at Columbia, and what Archie said in his last letter.
"Lottie Pie, the sauce has the perfect tang!" Father complimented me and I grinned, the bolanganase sauce always seemed to be a crowd pleaser.
He took a hearty sip of wine "Speaking of Lovely Lottie, Grace, have you read her article on the WAAC's?" I grimaced, he was challenging her parenting skills with an underlying judgment. What he really meant was: Grace, are you supporting our daughter as much as I am? My mother scooped some pasta into Alex's mouth before she let a tight lipped smile escape her lips that almost looked painful. Her eyes crinkled in the corner in a forced way and she spoke in the sweetest tone that could give any man diabetes. "Why yes, James—I read it with my morning cup of tea. William was here actually."
Oh good. I was waiting for her to mention her rebound man.
Father kept a friendly expression on his face "Oh yes, the male escort." I practically choked on my wine and my mother put a hand to her heart and let out a dramatic gasp.
"He is not!" Father just sat smugly back in his chair, while I desperately motioned for him to cut it out—he was acting in a completely unnecessary way.
"Just because he's younger does not mean hes some sort of a—a" Mother stuttered
"A man of the night." I finished for her. To be completely honest, I'm not actually sure what Will did, I think he was a freelance writer, but I wasn't certain. Really, all I knew about him was that he was a year older than my brother, which made the dynamic really, really weird.
It was time I interrupted the ice fest with something else, a subject change and I had just the thing to do it.
"So," I broke the silence loudly and sat up a little straighter in my chair. "I had something happen today." That caused both parents to break their intense stare down and go into full concerned care giver mode.
"What happened Lottie dear?" Mother practically cried out
"Who was he?" Father asked bitterly and I almost laughed at his concern. I shook my head and smiled.
"No, no, nothing like that." And I could see the relief cross their faces.
"I've been offered a story opportunity, by President Roosevelt."
"What?" They both gasped in unison.
"It's a three month long assignment, at a location that I don't know very much about to train like a paratrooper," My mother's eyes grew wide, and she leaped out of her chair to squeeze me into a rib crushing hug. "Oh Lottie! I'm so proud! So proud!" She smiled into my hair and I grinned she finally released me, father came over next and planted a kiss to my cheek. "You always were a little daredevil, weren't you?" He joked and I shook my head. Mother raised her glass in the air
"To female supremacy!" And I rolled my eyes at her feminist spin on it all, but I had to agree with the women's rights advocate. This was a huge leap for females. And I was proud to be a part of it.
A/N: Long time no see! Happy Spring:) This is the new prologue, I hope you liked it!
A few notes:
-I made a playlist for this story on Spotify, and it will be updated monthly, with new songs for each chapter. The link can be found in my profile.
-From now on this chapter will be updated regularly, on a monthly basis around the 21st each month!
Thank you for reading, let me know what you think!