Chapter 23
From the Memoirs of Grace Bailey - cont.
Mother, Maisie and I were taking a moment to sit in the parlor and catch our breath before it was time to start Christmas dinner. Maisie was reading yet another book loaned to her from Dr. Barlow's medical library. We were all enjoying restorative cups of hot cider, at least Maisie and Mother were. I was so caught up in my worries about Van that I had hardly touched mine. I couldn't answer when Mother asked me if there was anything wrong for fear of bursting into tears. Mother took one close look at me and asked Maisie to fetch an object from under the tree, a tube wrapped in multicolored paper.
"I think Grace should have this tonight and not tomorrow," she concluded. "It came yesterday from Van. I wrapped it according to his instructions. He wanted to surprise you on Christmas morning."
At Mother's urging, I tore open the wrapping to reveal a stiff cardboard butcher paper tube. The ends were plugged with pages of Our Fight and taped shut with masking tape. Inside was a letter and a finely crafted pencil sketch signed Richard L. . The sketch was of the night sky over a scrubby hill. In that sky was a delicate waning moon surrounded by a glorious wash of stars. A year of accumulated worry and anguish eased its grip on my heart. I read Van's letter, my eyes moistening as I did so.
It read, "I hope you like the drawing. It was done by a new recruit, Richard Ladner, who came to us from the Ontario College of Art and Design. … If I could keep my promise to you of the moon and all the stars, maybe the future can keep its promise of a life for us together. I'm sorry if I frightened you by fearing otherwise. I can sustain hope, whatever may come, by cherishing our love for each other. That love is a precious thing and I will never let it go. Perhaps this time next year we will be together for good. I will write you after the battalion moves to its new temporary home. Merry Christmas. Van."
Holding that lovely sketch in my hands and Van's lovelier words in my heart, I felt a profound joy. For that blessed single moment, I was certain that Van would come back to me. His touch would no longer be a thing of memory. The war would be over and a new life, radiant with hope and promise, would unfold before us.
May Bailey to Jessie Buchanan December 26, 1937
… This year's Christmas Eve supper was one of the happiest that I can remember. Van's present and letter and the obvious joy they brought to Grace raised everyone's spirits. We all agreed to her suggestion that Hub should say the prayer again. Especially when Violet chimed in that if he was going to be a priest, he should get as much practice as he can. The prayer was deeply touching. I think all of us were in full and fervent agreement with Hub's plea that this coming year would see the end of the war in Spain and the safe return home of Van, Harry, Oscar, Richard Ladner and all their comrades including the ones in Grace's pen pal arrangement.
Hub also expressed his hope that the war would end in mercy and forgiveness between enemies no matter who won. I suppose there's no harm in praying for a miracle on Christmas. … Honey's brother was a welcome guest. His niece and nephews listened with rapt attention to his stories of the boxing world. Honey teased him about his new lady friend. Her name is Julie and, from the way he talks about her, he seems very taken with her.
… Wonder of wonders, Maisie's fruitcake was not the inedible block of granite that the entire family feared it would be. In fact, it was a sweet, chewy, tangy delight. Eddie Jackson was beaming with pride at his daughter's accomplishment.
… I have saved what I hope is the best news for last. Jerry Belham proposed to Doris last night and she accepted. Toppy is happy and relieved that the boy's intentions towards Doris are honorable. Given his reputation as a ladykiller, we have all worried that he might have only been toying with her before moving on to his next dalliance. Grace urged optimism. "Maybe marriage will mature both of them. People can change for the better."
Grace Mainwaring to Sally Henry December 28, 1937
… I hope you and Mark and the children had a very happy Christmas. You'll find some of Maisie's fruitcake in the package that accompanies this letter. I swear I am not trying to repay your years of friendship by poisoning you and your family. Maisie has managed a triumph this time.
… The Yuens are relieved at the news that Mr. Yuen's father and his aunt and uncle are alive. They made it into the safe zone the remaining foreign nationals in Nanking negotiated to protect at least some of that city's people from the continuing massacre being carried out there by the Imperial Japanese Army. The Yuens' relief is tempered by reports of violations of the safety zone, but those same reports make it clear that those within are still safer than those outside.
I can't imagine the kind of courage it must have taken the men and women responsible for the Nanking Safety Zone to stay in Nanking and beg rabid animals for the lives of its people. That one of the men was a Nazi Party member is beyond belief. There may be hope for the human race yet.
My own attempts at doing good are insignificant by comparison. They aren't even impressive in terms of New Bedford. The four New Bedford teens who lost pen pals in the Abraham Lincoln Battalion and then came to me asking if they could write to anyone else in the battalion who still needed a pen pal are better and braver people than I'll ever be.
At least my advice to Laura hasn't had unintended bad consequences or caused trouble for people I care for. Mrs. Bridgeman actually came up to me today and thanked me for it. Apparently, Laura has been nicer to her father although neither of them will yield an inch of their convictions.
According to Mrs. Bridgeman, her family actually had a pleasant Christmas. They must have. Mr. Bridgeman was almost civil to me at today's board meeting. We should even be able to get Laura a look at the sketch Van sent me now that Mr. Hamlin, New Bedford's hardware store proprietor and jack-of-all-trades, has finished framing it. She has an appointment at Honey's beauty parlor tomorrow and it will happen to be hanging on the wall. …
Vanaver Mainwaring to Grace Mainwaring December 28, 1937
… I hope by now that you have my Christmas present. I certainly appreciate yours. I have never experienced a winter this cold in my entire life and New York in winter can make the inside of an icebox feel like the beach at Waikiki at the height of summer. Even the Canadians here admit that they are starting to feel like Sam McGee in Robert Service's poem.
The overcoat, gloves, scarf, long woolen underwear, boots, and pairs of woolen socks are exactly what the doctor ordered. Thank Max for advising you to send them. I'm lucky to have a wife smart enough to ask an ex-soldier what to get for her soldier husband.
When I return from this war, I will take you to Waikiki. There we will forget the world and its troubles and think only of each other for a while. The Army of the Republic seems to be handling its offensive against Teruel fairly well with no help from us Internationals. Perhaps, the government will decide that we are no longer needed, and we will be able to go home. Perhaps you and I have sunny days ahead of us yet.
From the Memoirs of Grace Bailey -
On December 29, 1937, the fascists, on the orders of Generalissimo Franco, counterattacked through snow, ice, and sub-zero temperatures against the Republican forces besieging Teruel. They were supported by German planes and artillery made in whole or in part from nickel supplied by Canada's International Nickel or Inco. Their transport from Ford and General Motors ran on Firestone tires and was fueled by gasoline purchased on credit from Texaco and its Nazi sympathizing president, Thorkild Rieber.
The Republic held its lines around Teruel with a less generous and constant stream of weapons and equipment manufactured in the factories of Catalonia or smuggled from Russia through the nonintervention blockade. Those lines buckled but held. However, more assaults would soon follow.
On December 31, the Mackenzie-Papineau Battalion was transported to the village of Argente a little less than 26 miles from Teruel. There, they waited in reserve. During the next two weeks, the fascists bombed, shelled, and assaulted the Republican lines again and again.
From the Journal of Honey Sutton New Year's Day, 1938
As I begin the new year, I have many blessings to be thankful for. My beauty shop is thriving. My correspondence courses continue to be engaging and enlightening. Above all, I have my husband and children here with me and safe. When I think of how many other women's husbands and children are at war as I write, I pray for peace. May God give our leaders the wisdom to continue to keep us out of Europe's quarrels and conflicts.
… Max continues to rework his play. I wish that the thing weren't so frustrating for him. He keeps throwing page after page into the wastebasket. My heart went out to him when he lamented that writing a straight realistic drama isn't the same as writing a mystery or thriller play. In a mystery someone is murdered, and the detective spends the rest of the play trying to figure out whodunit. In a thriller, there is something the villains want, and the hero or heroes try to keep them from getting it. Real life doesn't fit into acts and climaxes quite so neatly.
Grace Mainwaring to Sally Henry January 1, 1938
Maisie and I paid visits to Roolie, the Schmitzes, and the Lanes to wish them all a happy new year. Roolie's son was paying a visit to his mother and trying yet again to persuade her to come and live with him in Pinebury. As usual she refuses to budge from her little shack in the hills. She claims to be content. "There is peace here, and wildness. It isn't the road, but it isn't a town either. Towns weren't made for the Roma."
Maisie was curious. "What's wrong with towns?"
"Everyone in them either owns or wants land," Roolie explained. "People fight each other over who should own land or how they should behave on it. On the road, we Roma own no land and when was the last time we declared war on anyone?"
… Maisie and I prayed with the Schmitzes for their son and my husband. Ida led the prayer, calling on God to deliver our loved ones from peril of body and soul as He delivered Daniel from the lion's den and Moses and the Israelites from Pharoah. Think of it, four Christians praying for an atheist and an agnostic. Before this war, it would never have occurred to me that such a thing might happen. Now it seems like the most natural thing in the world.
… The Lanes are overjoyed to have Will with them. They are proud of the start he is making in his new job as night watchman at the mine office. Old Ryan will be retiring soon and is happy to have a protégé to take his place when that day comes. Will is looking forward to going to Toronto next week to be fitted with his new prosthetic. If he is as successful with it as he has been in learning to use his left hand for everything, then there will be few limits to what he can do with it.
… As Maisie and I walked through the outskirts of New Bedford on our way home, Laura Bridgeman came up to us wearing a look of disappointment. We soon found out why. "I did what you told me. It didn't work. I'm still going back to St. Martha's this semester."
I explained to her that I never said that being nicer to her father would make him change his mind about where to send her to school, only that it might make it easier for the two of them to live with each other. She reluctantly admitted that it has done that. Then she asked after Hub. Of course, he still misses her. Maisie added that he was always talking about her.
I don't think Laura noticed the reluctance with which she did so. It was subtle, but I've been living with Maisie for a year. In that time, I've come to know her well enough to notice things like that. It's starting to become clear why Maisie is spending so much time with Hub and is suddenly eager to attend Sunday mass at St. Matthews in spite of the glares she gets from some of the parishioners for helping me with my work for the Spanish Republic. Laura thanked me for letting her see Richard Ladner's sketch of the moon and all the stars. She wishes she could draw landscapes half as well.
… Before she left us, Laura had a gift for me. It was a sketch of the seven deadly sins which she drew at St. Martha's and didn't show the nuns. Whatever her shortcomings as a landscape artist, she has a real talent for caricature.
Adolf Hitler was represented as Anger, Mussolini was Envy, and Franco was Pride. I almost fell over into the snow laughing at the caricature of Mackenzie King as Sloth. It was our prime minister to the indecisive life. Please, keep what I've said about Maisie's feelings and Laura's sketch to yourself. It probably wouldn't get back to New Bedford if you talked about it, but it would cause pain and trouble if it did.
From the Memoirs of Grace Bailey -
As the new year came in, the slow and agonizing disintegration of the Spanish Republic began. At first, the Republican Army at Teruel repelled counterattack after counterattack from the fascists. I took some comfort in these successes and hoped that the strength of the Republican positions and the awful weather faced by the attackers would enable them to hold on. When the last fascist defenders of Teruel surrendered on January 8, I dared to hope that this might be a battle the Republic could win. Six days later, the Mackenzie-Papineau Battalion moved into the lines outside Teruel to join the rest of the recently arrived International Brigades.
Their section lay across three icy, barren hills above a flat, open valley. They dug trenches into the chalk that lay just under the surface, placed their machine guns, and waited for the fascists to come. They didn't have to wait long. The fascists brought artillery into place and opened a murderous barrage at the Mac-Paps supported by constant bombardment from the air. Then, they charged across the valley again and again into a storm of rifle. machine gun, and anti-tank gun fire. After each charge, their path was a long smear of corpses, shattered tanks, and bloody snow. The fascist infantry stopped to regroup, but the bombing and shelling of the Mac-Paps' line was unrelenting.
Since Christmas, I had tried to hold on to my feeling that Van was certain to come back to me. However, the knowledge that the bloodbath at Teruel had already lasted longer than Brunete and continued to rage with no end in sight wore at me. Seeing in the papers that Van and his comrades were now in the thick of it and had been for days shook my already faltering confidence in our eventual reunion.
From the Journal of Honey Sutton January 24, 1938
Grace came to us tonight after supper, dazed and upset. She seemed a little surprised to find herself in our apartment. I asked her what brought her here. She explained. "I had to tell Phyllis Fraser that the pen pal she's been writing to since last summer was killed a week ago at Teruel."
Max and I just looked at her in disbelief.
Grace continued. "That's two she's lost. The poor child couldn't stop crying. I took a walk to clear my head afterwards. The next thing I knew I was here."
She looked around. "Where are the children?"
Max explained that since our radio was being repaired, they had gone down the corridor to Jim Flett's room in the New Bedford Inn to listen to Fred Allen with him and Pritchard. Then he offered Grace our sympathies on her ordeal. She looked at him with tired, despairing eyes. "I feel like the angel of death."
The misery in Grace's voice wrung my heart. After Max assured her that this war wasn't her fault and that she was just doing the best she could for the poor devils who have to fight in it, I asked her to sit down and offered to make her some hot cocoa. She had to be freezing after walking all the way here from the Fraser home. She sat and accepted my offer. When I returned from the kitchen, she was speaking to Max. "This is the sixth time Van has been in combat. How many soldiers fight that many times and live?"
Max tried to comfort her as I handed her the steaming cocoa. "I was in combat more than that and here I am. By now your husband knows everything there is to know about surviving a war. He won't do anything stupid that will get him killed."
"Does that matter when the other side gets all the planes and artillery it needs, and his side only gets what the Soviet Union can slip through the nonintervention cordon?"
Max put a gentle hand on Grace's shoulder. "There are ways for soldiers to protect themselves against bombs and artillery. Trenches can be zigzagged and reinforced. Dugouts can be built. I'm sure Van and his comrades are doing all these things. Have faith."
Grace looked up at Max. Her expression was still anxious. "I try, but I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this. There's always another battle and another after that. It never ends."
Tears came. I took her in my arms. Max and I told her it really would be alright. After a short time, she calmed down, and let Max call Mr. Cramp to ask if he could come down from his and Mrs. Cramp's apartment in another part of the New Bedford Inn and drive her home.
May Bailey to Jessie Buchanan February 7, 1938
… Grace returned from the mailbox walking like a condemned woman toward the gallows. When she looked at me there was a terror in her eyes to chill the hardiest soul. Her latest letter to Van had been returned. There was a postmark on the envelope from the International Brigades Hospital at Benicassim. Across it was stamped one word, "wounded."
Next Week: A wounded husband. A bargaining newspaper publisher. An insensitive niece. News
at last.