Loretta Nyhan - I'll Be Seeing You

Love you,

Rita

P.S. You’ll probably need a magnifying glass to read this letter, but I can get twenty-two lines on these things if I shrink my handwriting to Lilliputian proportions. I believe I’ve developed a permanent squint.

April 4, 1943

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Dear Rita,

As I write this letter I sneak glances at my sleeping baby in her Moses basket. The sun is pouring in through the window. Spring’s come early in many ways.

Robert came to the hospital after she was born. He was granted a leave and he came. I swear, Rita, I thought I was dreaming when I woke up and saw his face.

Labor was harder this time around. I thought it was supposed to get easier? This one was plain stubborn and turned all upside down. They had to pull her out by her feet. I don’t remember it because they put me out. Thank God.

But when I woke up there he was. My shining man. Holding our baby in his arms.

And for a moment I thought we were all dead. And it was heaven. Heaven through a field of yellow tulips. How Robert managed to get those tulips with such short notice is nothing less than a miracle. This whole thing feels miraculous. She’s here, my sweet baby. And she got to meet her father. That’s more than many, many women can say these days.

As I woke, Robert leaned over me, his mouth against my ear. “You fought for this one. You’re a tough gal. I’d go to battle with you at my side any day,” he murmured.

We named her Corrine. After my mother. I was so glad he didn’t want to name her Claire, after his mother. But I think my dear old mother-in-law was angry about it. She left the hospital in a huff when we told her.

“Don’t worry, she’ll get over it,” he said as he smiled down at Corrine.

“Oh, I’m not worried,”

”No, you wouldn’t be.” He laughed. “You don’t worry about things even when you should.”

I smiled at him and reached up to take off his hat so I could run my fingers through his thick, golden hair. Only, Rita, he doesn’t have any! His hair is cut so short. He’s a true soldier now.

“Do you like it, Glory?” he asked.

“Well, it reminds me of when we were little, in the summer. When your mother made you crop your hair.”

“I can’t tell if that means you like it or not. You play unfair, Mrs. Whitehall!”

“Ah, it is my job to remain enigmatic so you will remain forever in love with me,” I said.

I meant it as a joke, Rita. But then he looked deep into my eyes and pulled my face toward him with his free hand.

“I will never love anyone else. You’re my girl. You always have been,” he said.

When Robert left the hospital I promised him I’d be brave. That I wouldn’t cry. And I didn’t...until he left. Then I cried a river.

For my mother.

For my husband.

For my little boy who now has the big-boy responsibility of being a big brother.

Things are slowly getting back to normal. Levi, my childhood friend who helped with the garden, has also turned out to be a help with Robbie. You should see how he’s transforming my yard. I told him what you said on how to treat the soil. He said you were wise and a good friend to have. He’s right.

And Mrs. Moldenhauer, that woman who dragged me to the 4-H what seems like ages ago, has been a great comfort as well (even though I make fun of her). I’ve employed her “roommate,” Marie, to nanny for me. Robert insisted. She’s much younger than Mrs. Moldenhauer. Nicer, too. She cares for me and fusses over us. She’s been cooking meals and bringing them over still piping hot from her own stove.

But I have to admit I’m also warming to Mrs. Moldenhauer herself. She’s written short stories featuring Robbie as the main character to keep him entertained. And she has this powder-white hair piled up on top of her head. I think she’s a liberal Democrat. And guess what? She’s also some sort of preacher! Keeps trying to get me to come to her church in Gloucester. But I steer clear of religion and politics.

I only wish Marie cooked better, but thankfully I’ll be up and around and off this stupid “REST” soon. Robbie misses my chicken soup. Keeps asking for it, the sweetheart. I’ve been making it with chicken feet lately. I really have. It tastes better, I think.

What about you? I took your last letter with me to the hospital and read it over and over.

When I close my eyes I can see your place. So open. Almost like the ocean.

With love (And peace soon?),

Glory

April 11, 1943

IOWA CITY, IOWA

Dear Glory,

Congratulations on the birth of Corrine! How blessed you are, and how brave.

The thought of you waking up to your husband holding his new daughter had me smiling for days. I don’t believe in miracles, Glory, but sometimes there are moments when everything seems to line up in the right order. I’m so happy your family was together for such a momentous occasion.

The blanket that accompanies this letter was knitted with Mrs. Kleinschmidt’s best light wool. I told her it was for the Red Cross, so she didn’t give me the business about using it. Don’t worry about the lie—I did my penance by sitting with Mrs. K. while she wrote her twelve daily V-mails to enlisted men who would probably rather receive letters from Mussolini. In between missives she told me, quite frequently, that I hold the yarn incorrectly and my shoddy technique would give me arthritis in my old age.

I hope Corrine likes it, even if it is green.

So, Miss Glory, I have some news myself. A letter from Toby came yesterday! He’s still stateside, but will ship off to the Pacific soon. Yes, he’ll be halfway around the world from Sal. I think Toby naively assumed Uncle Sam would drop him into his father’s lap in North Africa. To be honest, I was hoping that, too.

Toby predicts he’ll be granted some form of leave before shipping out, possibly as much as three days. He plans on coming home, even if for just a few hours. I told Toby I’d meet him halfway if it meant we could spend more time together. And what else is there to do in Ohio but drink coffee and chew the fat?

At the bottom of Toby’s letter was a message for Roylene. It said: “Send me the recipe.” That’s it. At first I thought, maybe he doesn’t know her all that well. And if he did, why wouldn’t he write to her on his own? But then it hit me—it’s a code! Maybe I’ve been going to the movies too much, but I’m his mother and I know when something’s up. I’m going down to see Roylene at the tavern this week to see what this business is all about. Don’t worry, I’ll be real sly—a regular Sam Spade.

Well, I can’t wait to hear all about your victory garden. Digging in the dirt will help you reclaim your figure in no time. I’m about to head out to give my soil a good flip. I just saw Mrs. K. leave, and I want to get it done before she returns or I’ll be pulling double-duty.

Take care of yourself,

Rita

P.S. I’ve taped a dime to this letter so Robbie can go to the drugstore to buy a candy bar or two with his OWN money. Big brothers need their sustenance!

April 25, 1943

ROCKPORT, MASSACHUSETTS

Oh, dearest Rita,

Thank you so much for the lovely blanket. I wrap Corrine in it every day and think of you. And Robbie loved having money of his own. It went straight into his piggy bank (he’s so like his father!)

When I was a little girl, I used to cherish having money of my own, too. My father’s family was and still is very wealthy. My father was probably the smartest man in America during the crash. He was smart all around. I wish I’d known him better. But money can do that to a family, make them strangers. There’s something closer about a family that struggles together. A bond. I watched the difference between me and Robert and then Levi, growing up. Robert and I came from another world.