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Authors: Noëlle Sickels

The Medium (19 page)

BOOK: The Medium
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“I thought you only knew about people who were already dead.”
“That, too.”
Rosie frowned, thinking.
“Remember when I won the school relays in sixth grade?” she said. “And then the all-town race? But I still couldn't go to the regionals because only boys went to the regionals?”
“I remember,” Helen said.
“If they'd have let me go, I would've brought back a trophy
for the school showcase. I know I would have. I was that fast.”
“And?”
“Nobody should be kept back if there's something they can do, especially something that does some good not just for that one person. And for sure, nobody should keep themselves back.”
“I'm sorry, Rosie, I just don't think my being in the Army would be a good idea.”
“Never mind that. I'll take your word on that. But, Helen, there's got to be some way you can use what you have. There's got to be people who need it.”
AUGUST 1942
So many women in New York wanted to sign up for the new Corps, Rosie had had to stand in line eight hours to register. It was the same story all across the country, bowling over officials who hadn't expected such a turn-out. In July, Rosie was sent to Fort Des Moines for basic training. Helen received one letter in smudged pencil and lacking margins. As she read, she could almost hear her friend's characteristic speaking pace.
Dear Helen,
Owen's complaints about basic were all true, and I could come up with some of my own, but tired and sore as I am, I feel happy as a pig in a puddle, which is lucky because we hike and do calisthenics every day, rain or shine, and I've been eye-to-eye with mud more than once. So, let's see, what have I learned? To dig a slit trench, to take a bath in a helmet, to pick up a pencil with my toes (for stronger arches), to forget about there being no shades on the windows and no walls in the latrine. There's thirty of us on each floor of the barracks, and I'm with one tiptop bunch of gals. Our cots are set head to foot so we won't spread colds (have to pass that tip to my mom), but we still manage a little palaver before we conk out. I've got to choose a specialty. Word is it's typists and telephone operators that'll ship out to Europe first. I guess you've seen news pictures of our uniforms—not exactly smart, are they? The skirts
are cut so that even the skinniest girl looks like she's got a pot belly. They say they're still working on it. But there's not going to be any slacks. Director Hobby said she wants us to look neat and military but still feminine so John Q. Public keeps his shirt on about ladies in the Army. In the motor pool, at least, they've got the sense to give you coveralls. But we run obstacle courses and do drills and just about everything else in a skirt, and you'd better keep those stocking seams straight, too, sister! Basic is going to be four weeks instead of three months. General Marshall says casualties have left them so short of ground forces, they're going to need five times the number of WAACs they thought, even though the draft's started to take eighteen-year-olds and fathers, plus defense and farm workers, too. So they're working us hard, but that's okay by me. Maybe I'll get home a few days before specialty school, and you can see for yourself what this man's Army has made so far of … your friend, Rosie
In her reply, Helen was less voluble about her own designs for contributing to the war effort, except to tell Rosie that she'd taken her advice to heart to put “what I can do” to use for others, namely by holding seances for new widows and grieving parents. What she didn't tell Rosie was what the seances did for her. When Helen successfully contacted the dead, she felt exalted and powerful. Her grandmother often used the phrase “serving spirit,” and Helen knew she was, indeed, a kind of servant and that her abilities were a privilege, but she couldn't suppress a hearty dose of personal pride in her mediumship.
Emilie was present at every one of Helen's seances. She was determined her daughter not fall into the fast shuffles Ursula employed. The old woman researched the histories of her clients, picking up personal facts from school directories, church newsletters, gossip, newspaper archives,
Who's Who.
She had an
excellent memory and could readily bring up researched facts. Simple things like the utterance of a family nickname could work wonders on a client whose belief was wavering.
Emilie had gone along with her mother's little cheats because they derived from a wish to maintain the flow of exchanges between this world and the next. Ursula didn't tell outrageous or dangerous lies, and the businesswoman in her never completely trumped the sympathetic advisor who wanted to send clients home more at peace than they'd been when they arrived. Nevertheless, Emilie wasn't proud of the subterfuges she'd been party to over the years. Especially now, they seemed dishonorable.
Especially now, Ursula had insisted, they were important.
“Just let me teach her cold reading,” she said before Helen's first sitting with a client, a woman who, in one week, had been notified of the deaths of both her brother and her husband.
“No,” Emilie said. “Helen picks something up or she doesn't. If that's not good enough for people, they can go elsewhere.”
Ursula sometimes had to do cold reading when she knew nothing at all about a client. It entailed asking lots of questions and seeing which ones hit a mark.
“I'm getting an S name,” she'd say. “Who is that?”
“The spirit is showing me something orange. What is that?”
“I'm seeing a photograph on a bedside table or a mantel. Do you have a photograph of your loved one displayed at home? Yes? He's so pleased.”
“You have a piece of jewelry that belonged to your loved one, don't you? Do you have it with you? She's glad to know you wear it.”
But Helen hadn't needed cold reading techniques for the séance with the bereaved young widow. Iris had delivered both spirits, a Marine who'd died landing on Guadalcanal and a paratrooper who'd perished during a training exercise in Ireland.
The Marine assured his wife he'd gotten her letter telling him she was pregnant and that he hoped she'd name the baby Maurice or Maura after someone in his family.
“Or maybe he's saying Mort and Maureen,” Helen said. “It's not clear.”
“Maurice,” the tearful widow confirmed. “Maurice was his father's name. He passed away while Bob was in basic training. It broke Bob's heart he couldn't get home in time to see him.”
The paratrooper said nothing, but Helen saw him holding a pole, causing the client to exclaim that it must be her brother because he used to love to hike in the mountains and sometimes used a walking stick.
After this reading, performed in a conversational manner, Helen surprised everyone by emitting a soft groan, closing her eyes, and bending her head back. When she began feeling about on the table for her writing materials, Emilie had to rush to the desk in the living room to retrieve them. Unasked, Iris had brought another unknown soldier eager to relate the story of his death. Almost every subsequent reading ended this way. Emilie made sure paper and pencil were always at hand. These testaments became part of Helen's renown. Even clients who received scant information on their departed relatives left Helen's seances feeling consoled by the evidence of life and peace after death given by her boys.
I was struck by a shell splinter and I fell down, but I didn't black out. When I got up, I was outside my body. I stayed nearby 'cause I figured I'd be going back into it again some time somehow. I felt hot and out-of-breath, like I'd been running hard, but otherwise I was okay. I sat by my body all night and finally I slept. When I woke up my body was gone. I guess the medics took it. Then I got it that I had to be dead. It was a shock. Not actually being
dead, but finding it out. Then I got the feeling that everything that wasn't really “me” was dropping into a bottomless pit. I didn't feel like I was losing anything, more like I was being set free.
Next my cousin arrived—my cousin who passed a couple of years ago—and with him a Light Angel. They were on their way to hell, they said, to try and get some guy out. The Angel didn't want to take me along, but my cousin convinced him. It turns out hell ain't a place but a thought. The guy they were after wouldn't come even though he said it was awful there. He was afraid if he went somewhere else it'd be worse. The Angel said no one could unchain the guy but himself. I felt sorry for the bum, but the Angel told me some day the guy will see his fear is only an illusion and he'll be released.
The Angel and my cousin kept close to me in hell 'cause even though it's dark and gloomy, it kinda gave me a thrill and was pulling at me to stay. After, they took me to a garden to rest. You folks on earth can get that same kind of rest, if you just shut out the thunder of war and look inside yourself to where it's silent. And if, the Angel says, you give love, if you pour yourself away.
NOVEMBER 1942
Franz and his family arrived early for Thanksgiving dinner to allow time for a family visit. There were to be extra guests at the table this year—two Midwestern soldiers from Camp Kilmer—and their presence would stifle talk of personal matters. Ursula and Helen hustled the pumpernickel dough into bread pans for its second rising, then joined everyone in the living room, where Franz was just pulling out Erich's letters.
In early spring, an Alien Enemy Hearing Board had released Freida unconditionally and put Erich on parole, judging him a German nationalist, but not a Nazi. But in June, Erich had been taken into custody again, after the FBI had “dropped by” their home and ransacked it, coming up with a short wave radio and some letters from Germany.
Because the contraband radio, forgotten at the back of a closet, was found not to be in working order, and the letters from Germany were family notes from 1938, the hearing board might have continued Erich's parole except for an unfortunate coincidence. That same month, eight saboteurs had been apprehended landing from a U-boat on the East Coast, and two German-born naturalized U.S. citizens had been arrested in Detroit for helping an escaped German prisoner-of-war. Though the cases were unconnected, the men were tried together in a military court, four of them turning state's witnesses. The other six were executed, one right after the other in the electric chair. Justice had been swift and severe, but the public was nervous,
and the hearing boards knew it. Erich was assigned to Camp Fort Bliss in Texas for the duration of the war.
When Freida requested to join her husband, they were all sent to Crystal City, also in Texas. Fort Bliss was for Italian and German men only. Crystal City was for families—around 2,000 Japanese, about half as many Germans, and a handful of Italians.
“When they were on Ellis Island,” Marie was saying as Helen and Ursula entered, “Franz was able to visit and bring Erich cigarettes. Erich had a job sweeping up for ten cents an hour, but cigarettes are hard to get now that Lucky Strikes and Camels are saved only for servicemen.” She frowned significantly, as if the cigarette allotments were a personal affront. “I used to send magazines, too, though Freida said the German Red Cross and the YMCA had stocked a good library there.”
“They don't have this at Crystal City? A library and jobs?” Ursula asked, settling into her customary chair.
“Yes,” Marie said, “but Erich says all the best jobs go to the Bundists and pro-Nazis. They're the ones get elected to be spokesmen to the camp commander. Natural leaders, I guess.”
There followed an awkward silence during which Walter made a great show of refilling his pipe. Helen knew it took effort for him not to remark that Erich had been a Bundist, or close enough to one to get himself incarcerated. Franz was shuffling through Erich's letters, looking for some particular passage. Helen glanced over at the handwritten sheets. The censor had blacked out a sentence here and there, but the lengthy correspondence stood largely intact.
“At least he's not complaining about the heat anymore,” Franz said.
“It was awful in the summer, they said,” Marie explained. “Over a hundred degrees most days. It's complete desert. Used to be a camp for migrant laborers. For the spinach crop. Maybe
Mexicans are accustomed to heat and scorpions and mosquitoes, but Erich and Freida suffered. Each cottage was given a block of ice a day. It was the only relief.”
“The children did get to swim,” Franz put in.
“Pooh, children,” Marie said. “Children don't feel things the way adults do. Do you know, Walter, that Erich's girls go to school with Japanese children and play with them and never think there's anything wrong? Erich makes sure they attend German classes, too, of course.”
“So the groups do mix?” Emilie asked.
“Only the children,” Franz answered. “The adults keep apart from one another, unless they happen to work in the hospital or the bakery.”
“Does Erich have a job?”
“He teaches metalworking in the machine shop. Ten cents an hour. All the jobs in all the camps pay the same.”
“They offered Erich a job at the camp farm,” Marie said, “but he refused. Germans don't stoop, he said. Japs are better suited for such work, anyway. Erich says lots of them used to have truck farms in California.”
“All in all, it doesn't sound too bad,” Helen said.
“That's what I was thinking,” agreed Teresa.
“Not so bad?” Marie burst out. “Are you forgetting that they're prisoners? And for no good reason?”
“The government may be trying to provide decent conditions,” Walter calmly told the embarrassed girls, “and the Swiss inspectors will hold them to it, but Erich and Freida and their children—their children, who are American citizens—are, indeed, prisoners. The cottages, the school, the swimming pool, the social hall, and all the rest of it are surrounded by barbed wire and armed guards.”
“Here, listen to this,” Franz said, holding up one of Erich's pages. “Three times every day we are counted to be sure no one
has escaped. A whistle blows, and no matter where you are, you must return to your cottage and stand in front of it. It makes you feel like a criminal. There are ruffians here, drunks who get into fistfights at the Vaterland Café, thieves who steal lumber and coffee, bullies who bar families from the mess hall and the food shops if they don't obey them. We live among bad company. But it is the counting that makes me feel
verdorben.
”
“
Verdorben?
” Helen said.
“Corrupted,” Ursula translated.
Walter slowly shook his head. “I fear that if Erich and people like him didn't go into the camps as Nazis, it's how they may well come out.”
Marie puffed herself up to deliver another comment.
“Do not blame the girls,” Ursula said. “They have no way to know. They mean no disrespect.”
“No, we didn't,” Helen said. Teresa nodded agreement.
“Now, come, Marie,” Ursula said. “We go check Herr turkey, and you lend me your magic hand with the gravy,
ja?
”
 
Marie's gravy drew high praise all around, one of the soldiers going so far as to say it rivaled his mother's. In deference to the soldiers, Emilie had added sweet potatoes to the menu. Usually, the side dishes were the same ones Ursula's mother had served: stuffing from the bird, potato salad, green beans, and carrots. An immigrant, she'd been unfamiliar with sweet potatoes and pumpkins, and had merely shifted the October harvest meal of
Ertendanktag
to her American Thanksgiving table. The Schneiders had been saving up sugar for weeks for the crumb-top apple pies. Marie had brought plum cake. With coffee now being rationed, she'd also brought some of that.
Inevitably, by dessert, the conversation had worked around to war news. New American troops were finally seeing action, three large task forces having landed in early November in
North Africa. Lloyd Mackey was there with the First Infantry. Marines, pounded by torrential rains, were still fighting bitterly on Guadalcanal. They hadn't been able to go on the offensive yet, but they'd held Bloody Ridge. Both sides knew that the victor at Guadalcanal would likely be the victor in the Pacific overall. In the waters surrounding Guadalcanal, American and Japanese warships had clashed again and again, with many sinkings. The cruiser
Juneau
had gone down only two weeks ago, taking with it 690 of its 700 men, including the five Sullivan brothers from Iowa, whom everyone knew from news stories about their patriotism in signing up together. But at the Schneiders' Thanksgiving table, talk centered on Europe.
“I'm no general,” Private Horn asserted in his Minnesota accent, “but attacking across the English Channel still seems like a better idea than heading to Germany through Greece or Italy, like Churchill wants.”
“There are generals who agree with you,” Walter said. “But we won't have men and supplies enough for a Channel crossing for at least a year, and the British don't want to wait.”
“We're going to have to cross the Channel some time,” Private Horn repeated. “And with troops in North Africa now, it'll take even longer to build up for it.”
“I have a friend in the Women's Auxiliary Corps,” Helen said. “She said they're rushing WAAC training so more men can go to combat units and the invasion won't have to be delayed too long.”
“That'll help,” Private Horn said. “The Army's expanding so fast right now, some of us had to train with wooden rifles, and we still haven't been issued winter uniforms.”
“I say we ought to beat the Japs first, put all our muscle in the Pacific,” Private Ryder said. “Before they can get even stronger.” Ryder was from Chicago, with the hard instincts of a
city boy. “After we whip Tojo, we can concentrate on licking Hitler.”
“Well, the Navy's certainly working on that,” Emilie said.
Helen thought of the boys mentioned at her graduation who'd been lost in the Pacific. Unlike the Sullivans, they'd gone unheralded to war. Of course, someone knew them. The name of every person killed was being cherished by someone somewhere. At least, she hoped that was so.
“But why pick North Africa for our first fight against the Nazis?” Terence asked.
“The English, as usual, are worried about their colonies,” Franz said. “They're afraid Rommel will capture Suez.”
“There's Stalin, too,” Emilie added. “Wasn't there some worry that he might pull out of the alliance if the British and Americans didn't move against German forces soon? To draw some of them away from Russia?”
“All those things are true,” Walter said, “but I think that Roosevelt simply wanted to get into the thick of things quickly. He's trying to keep up morale. For the troops and for the folks at home.”
“Keep up morale?” Marie scoffed. “How does men dying keep up morale?”
“Marie!” Walter said sternly, casting apologetic looks at the two soldiers. Camp Kilmer was a staging area. Men stationed there were on their way overseas.
“Fighting keeps up morale, ma'am,” Private Ryder said. “Waiting and doing nothing doesn't.”
“I'm sorry,” Marie stammered, blushing furiously. “I didn't mean that either of you might …” She nervously picked up and put down her teaspoon, making a loud clink on the saucer. “And on top of everything, we can't even find out what's happening to our friends in … in Europe … or whether any of them are …”
“No offense taken, ma‘am,” Private Horn said. “We know the risks. I believe we're ready for 'em.”
“I think you're both very brave,” Teresa said admiringly.
Private Ryder laughed. “I was drafted,” he said.
“I still think you're brave,” Teresa insisted.
“Isn't it kinda exciting, too?” Terence asked. “Risks and all?”
The soldiers exchanged glances.
“Sure,” Private Horn said.
“Don't get me wrong,” Private Ryder said. “Just because I was drafted doesn't mean I'm not gonna give it everything I've got. And I plan on coming home, too. Promised my little brother I'd bring him a Luger.”
At the word “home,” it hit Helen that the two soldiers would, indeed, survive. She turned to the pimply young Chicagoan sitting beside her.
“I'm sure you'll do just that,” she said. Glancing across the table at Private Horn, she added, “I know you're both coming home.”
Walter cast a quick glance at Emilie, who pushed her chair back from the table.
“Helen,” she said brightly, “why don't you and your cousins show our guests the river? Cold air is good for the digestion.”
“But we were gonna go see that new picture,
Casablanca.
It's opening at the Oritani,” Terence said.
“There is time for that, too,” Ursula told him.
“Care to walk with the young folks, Franz?” Walter suggested. “When we get back, we may even find room for another piece of pie.”
Franz assented, and everyone was set in motion, either getting coats or clearing the table. Ursula drew Helen into the empty living room.
“You saw, didn't you, Helen?”
“No. I just knew. But it came too fast, Nanny, to block it out.”
“I don't complain about that. I only worry for you to have pain from this.”
Helen didn't reply. Pain was unavoidable, wasn't it?
“It is lonesome,” Ursula went on. “I cannot do all that you can, and still people stand back from me, afraid I will read their minds, find their secrets.” She gave a little laugh. “Even though they tell me themselves sometimes the confessions.”
It was the closest Helen had ever heard her grandmother come to asking for sympathy.
BOOK: The Medium
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