Chapter 53

From the Memoirs of Grace Bailey - cont.

… Van and I had agreed before we came to Lake Wahkeeahnlah that for as long as we were there, the war wouldn't exist for us. Daunting obstacles and hopeless odds would be forgotten. There would only be each other and the happy beginning of a long, dazzling future together. We broke that agreement on our last night at Lake Wahkeeahnlah.

The cause was a particularly ferocious nightmare that jolted Van awake after four relatively peaceful nights together. I was shaken out of my own sleep when Van tried to spring upright. He made it almost halfway before falling back under the weight of my head and left shoulder. I turned over on my side, looked over at him, supporting myself on my elbow, and asked what was wrong. The look on his face was one of absolute misery.

He admitted that he had dreamed that he was back at Teruel again in an icy landscape of broken ground and broken men where warmth was barely even a memory. He and his comrades in the third company faced yet another fascist charge. He was banging his rifle against a rock to get the bolt to unfreeze while shrapnel exploded all around and Franco's soldiers came closer and closer. He wouldn't tell me what happened next that made him scream a name, Pedro. After holding him until the shaking stopped, I asked him, tentatively, if he was sure that he should go back. He shouldn't have to suffer any more. "When will it be enough?"

The look he gave me was haunted and regretful. "I wish I knew, but war strips away all your certainties one after the other. I only have three left besides death and pain, my comrades and I would die for each other; fascism must be destroyed; and I will always love you."

I sat there silent for a short while wishing that his desire to be with me were enough to keep him from leaving and knowing that it wouldn't be. I could see in his eyes that to him, breaking faith with his cause and his comrades was the same as breaking faith with me. As far as he was concerned, Dryden had it wrong. Only the true deserve the fair.

At that moment, the last tiny spark of hope that something, anything, would keep him with me in spite of all that was drawing him away died. I despaired once and for all of stopping him from returning to Spain, and with despair came fear. It was all I could do to stop myself from trembling. I had to do something, so I spoke. "I know that you're doing a good and honorable thing, but the thought of losing you terrifies me."

Van gently took me in his arms and promised to come back to me. I was not reassured. "How many of your comrades made promises like that to their loved ones that they weren't able to keep?"

"I will keep mine."

He couldn't have been more earnest. I was still doubtful. "What if you don't?"

"That won't happen."

"But if it does …?"

"Then I will die loving you. Whether it's soon in this damned war"-his face broadened into a warm smile- "or, more likely, fifty years from now after a long and happy life together, I will die loving you."

He drew me to him and held me tightly. We kissed as though when we were through there would be no more kisses left in the world. For the one night that was left to us of our second honeymoon, we did our best to pretend that there was no war, no impending separation, no constant fear to follow.

From the Journal of Honey Sutton May 10, 1938

A glum and tired-looking Max walked in the door of the apartment just before it was time to prepare supper. He explained that Kenneth Baird is badmouthing New Bedford again. I couldn't understand why that would put him so far down in the dumps. Of course, Kenneth Baird thinks every town should be ruled with an iron hand the way he and his horrible family do Northbridge.

His business practices and his opinions on politics and race are even more rotten than the stink from his paper mill when the wind blows in the wrong direction. He has always resented the Baileys for not viewing their employees as empty-headed livestock who should do as they're told and be grateful for what they get. I wouldn't be surprised if he put the idea of foreclosing on the hardware store Jack and I worked so hard to build into Leonard Barrett's head. He was certainly fast enough to buy the building and the stock at a pittance afterwards.

Of course, he probably would have done the same thing anyway out of simple greed, even if Jack hadn't been a Bailey. Then again, Mr. Barrett was heartless enough himself to have come up with the idea without any help. I don't suppose that I'll ever know the truth for sure.

Grace and May's opposition to Franco and acceptance of Johann and Ida Schmitz' interracial marriage haven't improved things. Mr. Baird was apoplectic about Grace's visit to Northbridge last year to help Rev. Crandall of the local United Church organize his neighbors to raise money for the Republic. There is nothing new about any of this or about Lawrence Bridgeman grumbling to Max about Kenneth Baird running down New Bedford. That was when Max told me that it wasn't Mr. Bridgeman grumbling. It was Archie.

Apparently, Kenneth Baird has been talking to the same Americans who were looking over New Bedford last Friday for possible sites for a furniture factory. He has been painting New Bedford as the Canadian version of a soviet socialist republic with Mother Bailey as a senile figurehead ruler manipulated by her Communist-sympathizing daughter. I would dearly love to see him call Mother Bailey senile to her face. I doubt that she would show any mercy to his overbearing sense of self-importance.

Grace Mainwaring to Sally Henry May 17, 1938

New York hasn't changed much since I was here three years ago. It still dwarfs Toronto the way Toronto dwarfs New Bedford. All the old landmarks are still here. With the Depression dragging on, there hasn't been much new construction, although Rockefeller Center is nearly finished. However, the city seems less a playground now and more a vast living thing. The sense of individuals as just tiny cells in the warm, rushing bloodstream of a powerful concrete animal is overwhelming.

In New Bedford, the chances are good that I would meet a familiar face around any corner I turned. Here, I could walk for miles and see nothing but strangers. It is not a comforting place, although there is an irresistible vitality to it. Van could hardly wait for the busy drive from Newark Airport to end so that he could return there.

We both were in awe of the staggering amount of effort and ingenuity needed to drive the new Lincoln Tunnel the width of the Hudson River and more through solid rock. As we cruised through, I almost had trouble breathing as I thought of the huge weight of water, silt, and rock above us. Finally, we exited the tunnel into the streets of lower Manhattan. A broad smile sprang to my husband's lips. His eyes lit up with recognition as he looked around. For him, this place was home.

Next Week: A Manhattan meeting. A brother's betrayal. Marjorie's trouble. Toppy's friend.