Letters From Home

Chapter 2

July 5, 1944 Chicago, Illinois

Two knocks, yet no one answered. No sign of life through the door’s smoky glass pane.

In the vacant corridor outside the instructor’s office, Julia scraped at the side seam of her overcoat, desperate to get this over with. She must have arrived too early; Madame Simone was nothing if not punctual.

With no clocks permitted in the small fashion academy, usually a rule Julia favored, she moved to the hall window for a narrow view of the world outside. Her eyes strained through the sun’s morning glare to reach the bank at the corner. The clock pinned to its brick forehead indicated 10:06. More than twenty minutes until their meeting. Twenty-four long minutes, to be exact.

“Splendid,” she muttered.

Had nerves not rushed her, she could have relaxed at home longer, interrogated Liz more thoroughly. Sifting her friend’s recount of the previous evening might have actually produced a juicy morsel. Perhaps, true to her claim, Liz had stayed at the USO merely to watch one last performance. But Julia would have at least enjoyed the chance to dig a little deeper, playing the role of a savvy investigator, before the clues turned cold.

Oh, why did minutes pass swiftly only when you wanted them to last?

A coffee. And an apricot fritter. Good time killers, she decided, recalling the bakery around the corner. Should her teacher be inquiring about Julia’s delay in fall registration—why else would she have asked her here?—a place to hone a response would be helpful: Thank you again for all you’ve done, for everything you’ve taught me. But I’m sorry, I simply can’t.

Julia pushed away an onset of guilt and hastened toward the exit downstairs. She felt pleading stares from the sketches of faceless models on the walls as she passed. In their bold hats and curly-strapped shoes, woven waterfalls of shimmery gowns, they silently called her back.

She averted her eyes, focused on her goal, just as a lineup of fragrances snuck into her senses: hemmed cotton, trimmed wool, raw imagination. They emanated from a slightly open doorway and blended in the valley of her lungs. As though on tracks, she found herself guided toward the scents, into her old classroom. Enticing and intoxicating as champagne.

A few more steps and apprehension dropped away. Light through a cluster of windows pronounced vibrancy in the bolts of fabric, poised at attention within the worn shelves. She trailed her hand over the spectrum of textures. As always, the French caretaker kept the materials organized by hues. They flowed like a rainbow, their divisions softened by the gradual transitions: from Persian blue to cornflower to cerulean to teal.

In this very space, like nowhere else, Julia had luxuriated in her impulses against the grain. For within these four boundless walls, the art of a woman’s freethinking was demanded, rather than discouraged.

And still, she had spent the past two months telling herself that her parents were right, that funds from clerking part-time at the nursing home should be spent on holiday gifts, not a hobby taking bites out of her regular studies. The commute itself, to the downtown academy, had contributed greatly to the slip in her respectable grades. Only a slight slip, but enough to raise concern from parents whose eldest daughter, Claire, had yet to stray from a trail spun of tradition, trimmed with approval.

Sometimes Julia wished her sister weren’t so dang likable. Had the girl been wretchedly competitive, or haughty in her seniority, like a typical sibling, Julia might have scuffed at Claire’s exemplary footsteps. Instead, so flawlessly formed, they gave her little cause not to smile, curtsy, and follow.

With a sigh, Julia pulled her fingertips from the propped fabric. She hadn’t expected a return to this familiar playground to cause such a tug on her heart. The thorny pulse of missing an old friend.

Loosening her grip on her handbag, she gazed at the pair of dress forms in the corner. Dashes of chalk acted as blueprints for the developing ensembles. She was trying to recall how many times she had used those very mannequins when a sight trapped her: Eggshell trim dangled awkwardly from the breast pocket of the maroon suit jacket. She scanned the tiled floor for the delinquent straight pin. Its metallic point sparkled, a beacon to her slender fingers.

Another’s design was considered a personal expression. Soulful. Sacred. But surely a student would appreciate the unobtrusive remedy.

Julia quickly retrieved the pin and tacked the trim back onto the pocket. As she confirmed its levelness, however, she had a vision of the extreme opposite: the entire pocket at a slant. To test the idea, just for a second, she angled and secured the accessory. The hem of the skirt needed to be raised as a complement. She shimmied the fabric upward around the wire cage below the limbless torso. Then she stepped back, evaluating.

What a statement the garb would make with a sharp, lightning-bolt collar rather than a conservative rounded appeasement. And if the belt were an inch wider with, say, a square copper buckle—

A sound from the doorway whirled Julia around. Her teacher entered, a small box in her arms. Mismatched pattern pieces hung over its edges like a deflated circus tent. Julia’s anxiety, instantly revived, sprang to attention.

“Ah! I see already you are here, Zhoolia.” The same tough elegance permeating Simone’s French accent encompassed her trademark appearance: dark hair slicked into an impossibly tight bun, no bangs to soften her angled features, slender arms pale against her all-black attire. Only wrinkles huddling around her eyes confessed her age exceeding fifty. And aside from her raspberry lipstick, the jeweled chain on the half-glass spectacles dangling from her neck provided her sole splash of color. “Have you been here long?” she asked.

Julia grappled for her thoughts. “I—arrived a little earlier than I planned.” Even more consuming than the rudeness of her untimely arrival was her tampering with the suit behind her. She could think of no discreet way of returning the outfit to its original state. Inching to her right, she settled for barricading the view. “Did you end up visiting New York last month, to see your niece?” She flung the question across the room, a verbal sleight of hand.

“Mmm,” Simone affirmed, moving toward a worktable beneath the windows, her posture and movement like a swan’s. “Have you ever been?” She set down the box.

“Oh yes,” Julia replied. “About once a year since I was little. My mom liked to take my sister and me there to holiday shop, see Broadway shows, and such.”

“And you are fond of it? That big city?”

A memory floated toward Julia: the first time she rode an open carriage through Central Park, the glow of lanterns painting the drifting snowflakes gold before her eyes. She swore heaven couldn’t be any more beautiful. “I think it’s the most magical place on earth.”

The teacher nodded, then nodded again. “Good.” The right answer. Simone disdained wrong answers. And, as Julia had learned, a student never had to question into which category their response had fallen.

“May I help you with that?” Julia hurried toward her, pulling the woman’s eye line to a safe periphery.

“Scraps,” the teacher complained, her fist full of thin strips from the box. “Silk pieces, they promised. But no. Only scraps.” She dropped them into a rejected heap on the long rectangular table, a fixture Julia knew well. On occasion, she had literally lived on the nicked and scarred slab—eating, sleeping, dreaming among the spools and yardsticks when a gust of creativity caught hold.

“Well,” Julia offered, touching the coveted material, “hopefully the war will be over soon, and everything will go back to normal.”

“Mmm . . . normal.” The word entered the air, soft as a wish. A brief pause and Simone’s wistfulness disappeared, shut down on command. “Alors.” She straightened. “You are wondering why I called you here, non?”

Fresh tension snapped through Julia as she waited.

“Let me first say,” she began, “the opportunity, at your level of experience, is an exception. However, I would prefer not to see a talent like yours wasted. Not to mention the effort and time I have contributed to your education.”

This was even worse than Julia expected. The woman was obviously inviting her into the advanced design program. A wondrous offer for a one-year student, almost unheard of.

Regardless. Julia’s answer would be the same: Thank you for everything—but—but . . . The words resisted, dug in their heels, as Simone said, “You see, you’ve been offered an internship.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t.” Julia’s decline toppled out before the last statement soaked in. “What was that?”

Simone’s expression held at stoic. “An internship, chérie. At Vogue. Naturally, they’ll want to interview you first, but I assured them you’d be perfect.”

“I had no—that you—” All of the thoughts in Julia’s head crashed into each other, landing in a pile of confusion. A single word crawled from the wreckage: “How?”

Simone shrugged one shoulder, as if both took too much effort. “During my trip to New York. I brought a file of your sketches, and two of the gowns you designed for the fashion show.”

Though the showcase last spring was only class-wide, the rave reviews Julia had received sent her spirit gliding cloud-high for an entire week.

Simone went on, “A dear friend I studied with decades ago is now working in designs for Vogue. And she believes you have something special. A gift. As do I.” That last sentence, above all others, lit Julia inside. Compliments from the woman were like collectible coins. Rare and priceless. “But,” she pointed out, “you will have a lot to learn before then.”

“When would it start?”

“They had hoped for this winter, but I told them of your studies. She would be willing to wait until late spring for you. And you would be expected to prove, at all times, why you were worth the wait.” She paused a beat for emphasis. “The pay would be minimal, and you would be responsible for all your expenses. Although there would be other interns you could share a flat with, if you prefer.”

Julia’s mind was spinning. “And this is . . . for how long?”

“That is up to them,” she replied. “Or you. At the end of the summer, you could decide to return to school, or remain. The choice would be yours.”

Julia breathed against the enclosure of her excitement. She felt herself drifting once more toward the clouds. Grounding herself as best she could, she shook her head and said, “I don’t know what to say, how to thank you.”

Simone’s reply came strong. “Don’t prove me wrong.” The teacher’s reputation had obviously served as an ante in the gambling match. The shared pressure didn’t go unnoticed. “Of course,” she added, “you will need to do some preparation work, around your studies at the university.”

“The university?” Julia barely grasped the familiar word.

A suggestion of a smile played on Simone’s lips. “Eh bien. I have given you much to consider. They will need your answer by end of summer.”

Carried by the irrational current of the moment, Julia embraced her. As could be expected, there was no reciprocal effort—the teacher treated hugs like a contagious illness—but Julia didn’t care. She had been handed a throne, and she wasn’t about to complain about the detailing of its cushion. Rather, she simply stepped back and said, “Thank you.”

Simone nodded before returning her attention to her box of scraps. A cue that their meeting had ended.

“Have a good day,” Julia bid, and headed for the hall.

“Mmm,” she said. “And Zhoolia.”

“Yes?” She turned to find Simone’s head still down.

“No playing with other people’s designs while at Vogue. D’accord?”

Julia’s gaze darted to the mannequin. She felt a poke at her side, the finger of guilt. “Yes, ma’am,” she replied, and without another word, she ducked out the door.

Once outside, Julia strode down the sidewalk, bridling an urge to skip. She could hardly feel her shoes making contact with the ridges of city cement.

A streetcar of strangers clanged across the street. A hefty construction worker passed lugging two buckets of tools. Julia wanted to shout to them all, spreading the news. She wanted to pick up a phone, tell her parents. Race home and write Christian all about it—

Christian.

Her fiancé.

“I’m engaged,” she reminded herself. And again, a near reprimand, “I’m engaged.”

What was she thinking? They would be getting married as soon as the war ended. Which, after three years of America swinging punches in the ring, couldn’t be far away. Next spring wasn’t the time to go tromping off to New York, laying the foundation for a career she had no intention of pursuing.

Sure, the offer was amazing. Marvelous. Incredible. But for someone who wouldn’t waste the opportunity. There was no sense robbing another girl of the internship, a girl whose dreams rested in the balance of such a springboard. Julia was, after all, going to be a wife, wedded to her beloved Christian Downing.

Her parents were right. She adored fashion, creating garments from pictures in her head. But it was a hobby, just for fun. Like moviegoing and shopping. Nothing that should interfere with the gay future that awaited. Marriage, motherhood, a charming home to fill with love and laughter. There was no comparison.

Slowly she wheeled toward the academy. Through the trees, she could see movement in the second-story classroom. A figure in black.

Julia already felt dread pluming from her ankles. Simone had gone out of her way to recommend her, even saw to it that exceptions were made. The least Julia could do was give the impression she had heavily pondered the offer. The delivery of a snap judgment, no matter how obvious, seemed outright ungrateful.

Indeed. She would give it a reasonable amount of time before letting the woman down.

At a decisive clip, Julia resumed her departure. Blocks away, the streetcar rattled into the distance, crammed with passengers who would never hear her news; nor would anyone else. At least not until she presented the inevitable answer. She had no desire to allow Liz, Betty, or even Christian to sway her choice. Of all the paths, she knew which was right—despite the unforeseen temptation.

Chapter 3

July 5, 1944 Chicago Union Station

The minutes until departure were evaporating as briskly as steam from the locomotive’s smokestack. Morgan gripped the vertical handlebar of the coach’s entry step and shot another glance at his wristwatch, an heirloom willed to him from his father. Now more than ever, he wished it were running fast. The leather band was weathered and the crystal scratched, but the movement could always be counted on for timekeeping. Unlike his dim-witted brother.

“Come on, come on,” Morgan said, imploring the kid to show. Missing the last overnighter to Trenton would mean a guaranteed late arrival at Fort Dix, and likely even a seat in the cargo hold of their transport ship. Or in the latrine, depending on their commander’s mood.

Charlie was a marvel. Who else would pull a stunt like this after waiting nearly three years? And Morgan wasn’t the only one he’d be answering to if he fouled this up. Even their uncle with rarely a word to spare had gone out on a limb, ensuring the two served together by calling in a favor from a war vet buddy with military pull. A few “adjustments” to Charlie’s birth certificate and everyone was happy. Supposedly, the desk-planted appeasers in Washington carried a lighter conscience when cousins rather than brothers shared a unit.

Not that it mattered now. Morgan appeared to be going solo.

“All aboard!” The conductor’s voice echoed off the darkened ceiling of the underground station.

With a determined eye, Morgan studied the bustling platform. Dolled-up gals waved to windows, shedding tears, blowing kisses. Mothers held hankies to their mouths as their husbands consoled them with an arm around their shoulders. But still no sighting of the dimwit.

“Dammit all,” Morgan growled. What had he been thinking last night, letting his brother leave the dance without him? That’d teach him to steer clear of dames and to stick with stuff he understood. Livestock auctions and auto engines. Things that came with instruction manuals.

The locomotive lurched into a sluggish chug.

Decision time. Of course, he had only one option: grab his belongings and leap off before landing required a body roll over gravel.

“Hey, Morgan!” A voice cut through the commotion. “I’m here!” Sure enough, there was Charlie’s capped head bobbing through the crowd. In and out he wove, dividing paired travelers, his Army-issue duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He hurdled a trunk and the toe of his shoe caught an edge. His pace slowed for a moment while he regained his footing. Half turned, in motion, he yelled something to the shapely dame standing beside the luggage.

“Move it!” Morgan shouted, leaning out from the step. Charlie resumed his sprint alongside the train. His free arm pumped, his face flushed red. Once close enough, Morgan stretched out his hand and yanked him inside. A small stumble and Charlie planted his feet. Tailbone against the wall, he hunched over to catch his breath.

“Un-believable.” Morgan smacked the back of his brother’s head, a punishment so often delivered since childhood the kid scarcely flinched.

“Not my fault,” he gasped. “Army time still confuses the hell out of me.” He wiped his sleeve across his forehead and flipped a grin. When he straightened, his service shirt showcased its unevenly fastened buttons, a perfect complement to the dark circles under his eyes.

Morgan was about to ask where he had slept last night—assuming he’d slept at all—then decided he’d rather not know. “I swear,” he muttered, “I may shoot you before the Nazis get a chance.” With a sharp turn, he led Charlie through the coach packed with noisy servicemen and an undercurrent of nerves. A craps game ensued in the corner. As the train increased speed, a cross breeze through the open windows lessened the lingering smell of sweat.

Frank Dugan, facing their two vacant seats, glanced up from his magazine, his leg stretched in the aisle. “Good of you to join us, Chap.”

“Thanks, Rev. Always nice traveling with a man of the cloth.”

At basic, word had spread quickly that Frank was a ministry dropout whose call to arms had come into conflict with his call to religion. And lucky for their platoon. Built like an ancient redwood, he brought practical fighting know-how from the tough streets of Brooklyn.

“Shit, you’re coming after all?” Jack Callan smirked at Charlie while fanning a deck of cards. “Thought maybe you’d chickened out and gone home to play with your barn animals.”

Charlie tossed his bag up onto the luggage rack. He pushed and shoved the bulky contents into place as if the clothes inside were putting up a fight. “Just had to make a quick stop on the way, Jack-ass.”

“Why, you forget to pack your underwear?”

“Actually, I left them in your sister’s room last night.”

Jack glared. He slid the toothpick in his mouth from side to side. “One pull of the trigger, Chap. That’s all it takes.” And that was the truth. The lean, red-haired kid from Wisconsin was a crack shot with a rifle.

“Ah, c’mon, Jack,” Charlie said. “You wouldn’t do that. You need me around.”

“Yeah, what for?”

“How else you gonna get any broads to notice you? Other than your mother, that is.”

Frank looked to Morgan, who had just settled into his window seat. “Mac, your brother ever shut up?”

“Not without a big piece of tape.” Morgan smiled, remembering the day he’d taped Charlie’s mouth closed and tied the rambunctious grade-schooler to a pole of their mother’s clothesline. It was the most effective way to stop him from telling a girl in class that Morgan wanted to “milk her udders.” Their father cut a whimpering Charlie loose an hour later, in full agreement with the punishment.

Morgan almost wished he’d packed some tape for this particular trip.

“Forgive me, Reverend Frank, for I have sinned. Again.” Charlie genuflected like the devout Catholic his mother had hoped he’d become.

Frank scratched the crook in his nose and continued browsing the latest issue of Yank magazine. He didn’t bother to fake interest. When it came to Charlie’s racy tales, Jack always showed enough for them both.

“Okay, Chap, let’s hear it,” Jack said, a smile in his eyes. “Which one of the twins did ya end up with? The one with the knockers or the long stems?”

“Are you kiddin’? I was too much man for them dames. Scared ’em off with these enormous cannons.” He flexed his biceps as if he had the physique of Captain America. When Frank tossed the magazine at his head, Charlie sank back into his seat and grinned. “Did some neckin’ with the broad from the coffee shop, though.”

Jack crumpled his face. “The one with bad teeth?”

“No, you dumbbell. The tasty dish with glasses.”

Frank turned to Jack. “Well, that explains it. She needs a new prescription.”

“Ha, ha. You’re hysterical.” Charlie removed his soft garrison cap and rubbed his hair with both hands.

If only their mom could see him now. She used to say that someday girls would go wild over his golden waves. That they’d even be willing to pay to run their fingers through them.

It’s funny the things you remember. Morgan regretted not paying more attention, regretted not seeing the truth behind his father’s lie. Charlie had only been eight, but Morgan, at eleven, should have known better. Farm families avoided doctors like the plague. When he watched his parents climb into their old pickup truck that cold January night headed for the hospital, he should have realized their mother was never coming back.

“Hey, speaking of hysterical,” Jack said, pulling Morgan from his thoughts. “Went to a tattoo joint last night. Rev ended up knocking the owner’s lights out. You gotta see it—the stupid sap put ‘Joan’ instead of ‘June’ in the big ol’ heart on Rev’s arm.”

Frank’s lips flattened into steel rails, his dark eyes trained on Jack. “And you think that’s funny, do ya?”

“Look at the bright side,” Charlie interjected. “Instead of Joan, it could’ve said John.” He punctuated his wisecrack with a grin.