In the kitchen, the teakettle whistled and Bea rose: instant beef broth for Agnes, tea for herself and Janie.
“How old was I that summer?” Janie asked. “Seven? Eight?”
“Eight.”
“Eight,” Jane repeated. “A thousand years ago.”
T
WO WEEKS AFTER
she got back to Grace Park, Bea finished the shell box she had started for Smitty (though she would never send it) and began a note. It took her a whole night to write it:
I’m sorry . . . if I could . . . I wish.
She wrote a different note, then:
Yes
, she wrote, to see what it felt like, and tore it up. She was no writer, never had been, but it was more than that: she had no words for this. For hours she did not so much think as sit dumbstruck. She tried to pray. It was Callum’s birthday, September 5, but she didn’t remember until she wrote the date down, and then it was with shame—for the first time since she’d come to America, she’d forgotten to send a card. Finally, she wrote,
September 5, 1942, Dear Smitty, I am sorry but I cannot. I wish you much happiness and will keep you always in my thoughts and prayers and wish you the very best of everything. I am sorry. Sincerely Bea.
Then she wrote her address at Grace Park on another slip of paper so she could know where he was,
if
he was.
She put the address in the envelope next to the note.
But it was too unkind.
She took it out.
LATER, SHE WOULD THINK BACK
to this as the summer before. The summer before her brother lost half of the longer of his two legs as he ducked into the air raid shelter, the warden always the last one in. The summer before Charlie was called to active duty where, on December 28, 1943, he was gunned down over Italy on his twenty-fourth combat mission (though it would be more than a year before an officer arrived at the door at Grace Park with the news). The summer before her life with the Porters became something she had decided upon in a way that felt quite different from the path her life had placed her on up until then: staying at home because her mother was ill and needed nursing; coming to America because her mother had died; staying in America because—why? A tightly wrapped bundle that mewed like a cat. Bea fed the bundle and it grew. The sheets at the Porters’ were crisp and clean. The water ran from taps. People were kind to her. Everywhere she went, really, people were kind. She found Scottish shortbread and tropical shells inside her Christmas stocking. She rode on a private railway car and spent her summers by the sea. She made friends that would last a lifetime. All this was true, though none of it quite hers. That summer, finally: a choice.
GRANDE ALBERGO (GIA BAGLIONI), BOLOGNA
15 April, 1947
Dearest Mummy and Daddy,
Today I went to see Charlie’s grave. I really don’t know what to say except that it was very sad and I’m glad you can’t come to Italy. My new English friend, Sandra, came with me. I brought purple and white crocuses, and Sandra brought a large white lily. A rather nice Lieutenant Haley brought us from Mirandola to the cemetery. It’s a large field covered with hundreds of white crosses arranged in different plots. We found Charlie’s quite easily. It has just his name, his division, etc., and the date of his death on a tin placard nailed to the cross. No birth date. To call the scene plain does not quite catch its essence. It’s almost nothing, but nothing multiplied and multiplied until your eyes might cross from looking. I took a few photographs, which I will send (and to Suky too). The man told us that the U.S. cemetery at Mirandola is not a permanent one, and that by 1950, any graves that haven’t been moved to the United States will be taken to the National Cemetery in Florence for all U.S. soldiers killed in Italy. So if it means a great deal to you and to Suky, we should apply to have Charlie’s remains brought home. The only thing against this would be that the government does not want too many brought back, but they are sure to let us. If I liked Italy, I might think all the American soldiers should stay in the country where they were killed as a sort of reminder to the people of that country of what happened, but I really don’t like it at all. I find it degenerate, lazy, depressing and both tremendously rich and luxurious and, at the same time, poor and sordid. Of all the countries I’ve visited, it’s the most fascinating for being so full of life and mystery, but I think I will remember it as a bad dream.
The feeling I got when I visited the cemetery was one of misery and absence, but when I think of Charlie himself, I know he was someone who, at twenty-one, had already gotten more out of life than almost anyone I know of any age, and who never lived to see any part of his life disintegrate, as most people do. He had the wild fun of youth, and then the sense of real achievement in the Army Air Corps. He had his perfect happiness with Suky, and the most wonderful family a person ever had. I can’t bear to think that because he died with so much to look forward to, it was more of a tragedy. I guess the chances of continuous happiness in life are practically nil. Sometimes when I think of all the dreary people that live on and on, year after year, in the same way, even if it’s not a miserable way, I wonder if they’ve ever really been happy at all. You, Mummy and Daddy, are exceptions, but I guess to most people, life turns out pretty disappointing, though it certainly never turned out that way for Charlie. I’ve been trying to remember the inscription signed by Roosevelt on your desk, Daddy, something like, “He died in a way that humbles the undertakings of most men.” Could you send me the exact quote? The important thing, of course, is to remember him as he was—I did this much less at his grave, when I could only remember that he was dead, than when the American soldier who took us back to Bologna in a jeep pointed to a rather famous statue of Garibaldi and said, very dryly, “I never can figure out who that joker is!” They might have been words out of Charlie’s mouth, don’t you think?
I hope you’re glad I went to the cemetery and not too disappointed in me for what I thought of it. I’ve come to think I’m not cut out for cemeteries of any kind—the whole concept feels off to me, unable to hold or even evoke the actual life. I should like, when I die (in my old, old age!) to be cremated, my ashes flung into the air and sea, and to leave my mark not with a grave or stone or dreary cross, but by having contributed something of significance to the world during my life, as Charlie did.
Love, Your Ever Cheerful daughter, Helen
p.s. I know I am probably wrong about Italy, as I haven’t given it a real try.
p.p.s. Write me soon! I treasure every word!
Lausanne, Switzerland
29 October, 1947
Read to the End!
Dearest Mummy and Daddy,
Please don’t let anyone else read this letter until you have fully considered what I am proposing. At first it will sound preposterous and it will take me ages to fully explain my plan so continue reading, please. First of all to reassure you,
it does not affect my coming home on Dec. 10.
I have spent most of my time lately in the office of the dean of the University of Lausanne trying to figure out some way I could get credit for work done here. At first I thought it entailed simply staying here to the end of the semester and taking an exam, but upon investigating further, I discovered that I was working in a department called École de Français Moderne, which is part of the Faculté of Lettres but actually a separate school devoted almost entirely to the study of French—French composition, history and literature. This is the only school I can study in, as I am not, of course, entirely fluent in French yet. Also, it is this department that makes the university famous all over the world. The professors I have are the most brilliant lecturers I have ever heard, and I am absolutely fascinated with my work. Unfortunately, the credits I got from one semester’s work will be of no use to me in an American university, as everything is directed toward giving students a perfect knowledge of French, and the lectures are held only once a week and the credit system is not the same.
My next discovery in the Office of the Dean was this: I showed my record from Wellesley and Bryn Mawr to the chancellor, and he was evidently impressed—also that I could speak French, as I am apparently the only American here who attempts to do so. He said that if I would inscribe this year for two semesters, he was sure I could get my
diploma
at the end of the second semester! Now, before you worry, I must explain a difference between American and European universities. At Bryn Mawr or another college like it, obviously one cannot suddenly leave in the middle of a term and return home for two or three months. One has daily work constantly and tests or essays, which count almost as much as the final examination. At a European university, this doesn’t exist. You are told at the beginning of the semester the work you will be responsible for in the exam, and you can do it exactly when you want to.
To get my diploma I would have to become fluent in French and read about thirty books, but I am not responsible for any of this until the final exam, and I’ve been working hard already. I have a focus here I don’t have at home, where I get diverted so easily by friends and my own doubts (and laziness!). I know I wasted time at Bryn Mawr and Wellesley by trying too many different things. Here I am singular about learning French, not just the language, both spoken and written, but also the history of the language and its countries—all of which they teach here in the most rigorous way.
Now you may have guessed already what I’d like to do, but don’t think I am crazy until I finish. Please
continue reading!
I spoke to Professor Guillard several times (my particular professor who watches me work and is known as the best professor at the University of Lausanne). I told him that I absolutely must return to America for between two or three months this winter and asked if he thought I could surpass the exam this summer if I did that. He said
bien sûr
, easily, if I read the books and keep speaking French at home and return in the spring. With the diploma, which certifies that I can read and speak French perfectly, I could get a job teaching or go on to graduate study. Even more importantly, we will all know that I have really accomplished something. I don’t know why this matters so much to me, but I suppose it has something to do with Charlie and wanting, now, not to waste opportunities. It feels almost like a moral obligation to live life to its fullest.
This is what I propose: I will come home Dec. 10 as planned and stay until Feb. 10 or a little later, at which point I will take a boat to either England or France. This would give me at least two months at home, during which I would see you constantly. I would study about three hours every morning and schedule conversation hours with a French native speaker, which I can find in New York or closer. Of course it must seem to you the most extravagant thing you have ever heard, but I’ve also figured that out. You have already paid for my ticket home. I would then need, at the very most, $800 for the whole journey here and back again. My return ticket, first class, Queen Elizabeth this time, is $425 one-way, and the trip back $390. Next time I would not travel first class, and traveling across the continent is cheap. In the spring, after I have bought my clothes and paid the university fees, it should cost me at the most $200 a month to live here. This time is much more expensive because I need to buy winter clothes and Christmas presents, and because I am in the most expensive pensione in Lausanne. So $200 a month for 4 months = $800. The whole trip then, throwing in $400 for good measure, which I won’t need, will cost from $1,600 to $2,000. If I can sell the diamond tiara that Grandmother Porter gave me for $800, which is low, that pays for the voyage already. If you remember last winter, not only did you have to pay about $1,600 for Bryn Mawr, but I spent well over $300 on skiing weekends, and since I wasn’t counting my money, I spent more on clothes than I am spending now. I don’t think it will cost you more,
provided
I can sell my diamond tiara. Also I will use the $500 of clothes allowance partly for clothes and partly to live here. Also I think I must have a small income of my own that I would love to get hold of now.
If you think Europe is dangerous now, you have got the most peculiar idea of it. You keep writing to me about imminent Revolutions that no one in Europe seems to be aware of. Every weekend people go to Paris or Rome, but I promise I will go nowhere unless you approve of the trip beforehand (as with Mirandola). For instance, I had an invitation to go to Paris this weekend with four very nice American boys—one from Princeton—and some girls, but I refused on account of my promise to you, Daddy, about not flying (they are flying back). Other girls from my pensione went to Scotland. I’d have liked to go, if only to send a postcard from there to A. and B., but I said no.
My gosh—this letter is long and I have so much more to tell! One more thing, which may be a real reason not to come back here: When is Dossy getting married? I shouldn’t think Phillip’s law school would finish until the end of June, and in that case they would not get married till about 2 or 3 weeks after. I can easily make it then. In fact, if I am not her Maid of Honor, I’ll never forgive her. I must get dressed now. I’m going to a party with André Benoit, the Swiss doctor I told you about. The party is for his uncle, who has just been elected to the Swiss legislature. His uncle is a Communist—not a Russian Communist but a Swiss Communist, which is different. It is very rare for one to be elected in Switzerland. I hope you will write me as soon as you get this letter. I love every bit of news. Oh, how excited I am to see you again on December 10! I hope you will find me changed for the better, but that you and Daddy have not changed a bit.