Giant Steps Read online

  While many women supported the war effort, there were also many women involved in the suffrage movement who felt war work was taking away from fighting for the right to vote. One of the arguments, as seen in this photograph of Susanna Morin Swing, was that rather than fighting to keep democracy safe around the world, democracy should begin at home. (Library of Congress, Manuscript Division, “Mrs. Susanna Morin Swing,” Records of the National Woman’s Party)

  Bernie learned the answer to her troubling questions after the meeting was over. When she and Aunt Rose went out into the fresh evening air, they saw many of the league members who had walked out. Several were still standing in small groups talking. Bernie saw Aunt Lolly, Alice, and Lizzie. She took a deep breath, not knowing what to do or say.

  She looked over at Lizzie, and Lizzie stared back. Lizzie seemed as puzzled as she was. Bernie saw Aunt Lolly look up and glance in her direction. Aunt Lolly grabbed Lizzie’s hand and deliberately walked toward Bernie. Alice followed along.

  “It’s all right,” Aunt Lolly said softly. “You made your choice. We made ours, but that isn’t going to change anything between us. We will always love each other.”

  Bernie felt Aunt Lolly’s arm around her shoulder, and Lizzie reached out to take her hand. “It’s all right for loved ones not to agree,” Aunt Lolly said.

  They smiled half-heartedly at this, but they knew this was not going to be easy for them. They stood for a few moments in awkward silence, not knowing what else to say.

  Bernie walked quietly with Aunt Rose to her car. Neither Bernie nor Aunt Rose spoke on the ride home. Each was deep in her own thoughts. Bernie felt wounded, but this was a wounding of a different kind than she had ever known.

  When Bernie entered the house she saw Papa dozing in his chair in the front parlor. She looked at him and thought how much older he looked these days. Even though he kept his worries to himself so as not to upset Mother, recent events were taking a terrible toll on him. She wanted to put her arms around him and let him know she cared, but she did not want to disturb him. Instead, Bernie tiptoed up the stairs to her room. She didn’t want to have to talk about the disagreements of this evening. She was certain that it would seem of little consequence to him compared to the worry about Nick.

  Perhaps Aunt Rose would take her out to the Soldiers’ Home tomorrow to see Vincent. He had become someone she could talk to easily. It was strange that considering the problems he was facing, he always had time to listen to others. She remembered how she had been so nervous about that first visit to the Home when she met him. Now, she felt that she could tell him anything.

  19

  October 1918

  Mad Dog

  It had been an unusually warm day for early October. After her last class at school, Bernie rode the streetcar as far as Courthouse Square. She stopped in at Epperson’s Emporium to say hello to Ben and Papa. She hoped that Ben would offer to take her to Graeber’s Soda Fountain for something cool to drink. But Ben wasn’t there.

  “He isn’t here.” Papa pursed his lips as he added, “He said he was going to hear a guest speaker at the Camera Club. Some fellow from that National Geographic magazine.”

  Bernie knew that Papa was annoyed Ben wasn’t there to help him with the office work. Ben had long since graduated from stocking the shelves to tallying up the receipts at the end of the day. She also suspected that Papa was even more upset since the lecturer was speaking on a subject that would encourage Ben’s wanderlust.

  Just as Bernie was leaving the store, Papa called to her. “Oh, I almost forgot. Mother wants you to stop at the grocery and buy a couple pounds of flour.”

  Bernie decided to have a soda by herself before she went to the grocery. She ordered her favorite cherry phosphate and carried it to one of the small tables. She opened her notebook to finish a letter she had begun to a soldier and reread the words she had already written:

  Dear Doughboy,

  That is an odd name to call our soldiers. I hope you don’t mind if I call you that, but since I do not know your name, I thought it might be all right. I read that the name “Doughboy” came about because our soldiers used to mix up bread dough and bake it in their helmets. My cousin Alice says she does not believe it. What do you think? I have two older brothers. One is named Ben. He was in the army for a while, but he had influenza and almost died, so he was discharged and is back home again. My other brother, Nick, is too young to be a soldier, but he ran off and joined anyway. We do not know where he is. My mother is sick with worry about him. We keep hoping that he will write and tell us that he is okay. But we haven’t heard a thing.

  She could not finish the horrible thought that was always lodged in a dark corner of her mind. Bernie looked at what she had written and shook her head in disgust. What a stupid, boring letter it was! She had volunteered to write to soldiers, and she was doing the best she could. However, she could not imagine that anyone would want to read this one no matter how desperate he was to receive mail. She stuffed it, unfinished, back inside her notebook. She would finish it later. Maybe she’d think of something more interesting to say tonight. She sucked the last cold drop of her drink through the straw and left Graeber’s.

  Many children wrote letters to soldiers, as Bernie does in this chapter, as part of the home front war effort. This is a letter from Beatrice Williams, an African American student in Indianapolis, to her former teacher, Irven Armstrong, who was a sergeant in the 351st Field Artillery in France. (Indiana Historical Society Collections)

  The letter states:

  934 Fayette St.

  Indianapolis, Ind.

  Nov. 7, 1918

  Sergeant Armstrong,

  I am a pupil of No. 17 School. My name is Beatrice Williams. You were at one time my Mathematics teacher. The letter you wrote to the pupils of this school was received. I enjoyed listening to it being read to us by Miss Walker. All of the school children are doing all they can to help the men and boys who have gone Over There. We still have our Air Plane races and each child does all he can to see that his room gets in the lead. We are bringing peach seeds to school to be used in making carbon for gas masks. A Liberty Loan drive began here Oct. 28th and from the way the papers read the colored people did their bit. We children are buying Thrift Stamps and War Stamps. The teachers still give us our buttons to show where we rank in the Thrift Army. I am corporal now but by the time this letter reaches you I hope to be Sergt.

  There has been an epidemic of Influenza here and the schools, churches and all places of amus[e]ment were closed for four weeks. During the last week fewer cases were reported so everything opened again and we are back in school. I was a victim of the Influenza but I am alright now.

  Yours sincerely,

  Beatrice Williams

  Bernie plodded up the Union Street hill as she headed home. Her arms were full. It had been chilly this morning, so she had worn her coat, but now it was too hot to wear. She also carried her schoolbooks and the bag of flour Mother had wanted her to buy. She felt dismal about everything in general.

  Today had not been one of her better days at school. Bernie thought she had studied hard enough for her math test, but she had drawn a complete blank on the final question. Worse yet, Lizzie had gotten every answer correct. It was not that she wished her cousin bad luck, it was just that the two of them had been competing ever since they started school. Lizzie was determined to be class valedictorian, as Alice had been. Bernie had made up her mind that she was going to win that honor.

  Every step she took in the Indian summer sunshine made her feel grumpier than ever. Bernie was sunk in her own misery until she noticed a limping soldier in a well-worn uniform, slowly making his way up the hill ahead of her. He appeared to be even more weary than she felt. His shoulders slumped and he leaned heavily on a cane. He carried a cumbersome duffle bag in his other hand. She could tell that every step he took was an effort
for him. As Bernie watched him she felt ashamed of feeling so sorry for herself. She wondered how far he had come and where he was going.

  Bernie was glad to be nearing home. She longed to sit in the swing on the front porch, cooled by the shade of the tall maples in the yard.

  When the man ahead of her was opposite the Epperson house, he paused and put down his bag. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a large handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He stood, looking in the direction of the house. She thought he might appreciate a drink of cold water. Bernie walked a bit faster, wondering what Mother would say if she invited the man to come up on their porch to rest for a while before he went on his way.

  She was surprised when she saw him take a few steps up into the front yard. At that moment, she heard Sheppie’s frenzied barking. The old dog came bounding across the grass toward the man. Bernie hadn’t seen their dog move with that much energy in years. She saw Sheppie leap up on the man.

  Bernie was horrified. “Here, Sheppie. Come here. Stop that!” The dog paid no attention to her. Bernie continued to shout at the dog, “Sheppie, what do you think you’re doing? Let him alone.”

  Bernie was certain Sheppie had gone mad in this miserable heat. What else would make him attack someone that way? Maybe there was something about the stranger that seemed threatening to the dog. Did Sheppie think he was protecting his family when the man stepped on the grass?

  Bernie dropped everything she was carrying and ran in that direction, still calling to the dog. Sheppie ignored her commands and repeatedly jumped at the man, almost knocking him off his feet. Bernie saw the man kneel slowly, put his arms around the dog and bury his head in the dog’s shaggy fur.

  “Oh, I am so sorry.” Bernie hurried forward to apologize. “I’ve never seen him attack anyone before.”

  Bernie stopped short. She realized that Sheppie was not attacking the stranger. He was licking the man’s face. Then she saw the face clearly. Bernie started to scream at the top of her lungs, “Nick! Nick! Is it really you?” Bernie grabbed his shoulders and put her arms around his neck. The two of them toppled onto the lawn as the dog ran in circles around them, yelping with excitement.

  “Oh, Nick. We never thought we’d see you again. We thought you were…” She pressed her fingers over her mouth, horrified at what she had almost said. Instead she asked, “Are you okay? Does anyone else know that you’ve come home?”

  He shook his head. “I’m so tired,” he said. “Let me rest awhile.” He lay back on the grass. Sheppie flopped down next to him, still licking his face.

  Bernie heard the familiar rasping sound of the screen hinge as the front door opened. She saw her mother step onto the porch. Mother’s hand went up to her eyes to shield them from the late afternoon sun. “What’s all the commotion out here?”

  “Oh, Mother,” Bernie cried. “Mother. Come and see. Nick is home.”

  For a moment, Mother seemed frozen to the spot. Her knees sagged and seemed about to give way. She reached out for the porch railing to steady herself. Then she shrieked and ran down the steps, onto the lawn, and toward the place where Nick and Sheppie lay on the grass.

  Bernie stared as the misery of the last year was erased from her mother’s face. She thought Mother seemed to grow younger with each step she took. As Mother ran, hairpins flew from her hair. A long strand fell loose. It bounced up and down like a spring, coiling and uncoiling. At the sight of it, Bernie started to laugh hysterically.

  Mother threw herself down across Nick’s chest. “Oh, my boy. My dear, dear boy. You’ve come back to us. Thank God.”

  Sheppie sprang into action once more, invigorated by the excitement. He ran around and around the spot where the three of them lay. He paused first by Nick, next by Bernie, and finally by Mother. He seemed unable to make up his mind whose face he should lick first, so he licked them all. Bernie laughed, remembering that Mother had never been that fond of the smelly creature, yet now she giggled like a schoolgirl and repeated, “I’m so happy. I am so happy. My boy is home.”

  Bernie managed to get to her feet. She ran into the house to ring Papa at the store. Once more, Sheppie felt obliged to be part of the action, darting in front of her and making her stumble over him.

  She cranked the handle on the telephone to get the operator so she could ask her to dial the Emporium. It seemed forever until Papa’s voice came on the line.

  Bernie shouted, “Nick is home. Nick is home. Come and see him, Papa.”

  Bernie did not wait to hear his answer if there was any. She dashed back outside to where Mother now sat on the grass with Nick resting his head in her lap.

  This wall telephone is similar to the one Bernie would have had in her home in 1918. (iStockPhoto 51860992)

  By this time, several neighbors had arrived to join the celebration. Bernie knew that the operator had listened in on her telephone call and was now busy informing everyone in town. For once, Bernie was glad to have a busybody telephone operator.

  There was quite a welcome delegation assembled in front of the Epperson house by the time the Hupmobile came chugging up the hill. Ben was at the wheel, honking the horn. Papa leaned forward, ready to spring out before the car stopped by the curb. For once, neither Papa nor Mother seemed to care what the neighbors thought about the Epperson family and their behavior. Nick was back home again, and that was all that mattered to them right now.

  When soldiers came home, it was a big deal for family and friends. In this photograph from May 1919, Frank C. Henry is surrounded by family and friends after he marched in a Welcome Home Day parade in Indianapolis that ended in Military Park. (William H. Bass Photo Company Collection, Indiana Historical Society)

  Bernie was engulfed in a kaleidoscope of sounds and sights and emotions. The telephone was ringing inside the house. Outside there was laughter and weeping. Everyone was talking at once. Questions and more questions hovered unanswered in the air. Bernie’s head felt light, and she thought her chest was going to burst with the how and why of it all. It occurred to her that this must be how a miracle feels.

  Bernie saw Papa helping Mother to her feet. She still held Nick’s hand in hers and he managed to get to his feet. Somehow through the clamor, Bernie heard Nick say softly, “I would like to go inside now.” However, groups of neighbors surrounded him, and he was engulfed with handshakes, hugs, and well wishes for the moment.

  20

  October 1918

  The Letter

  It wasn’t a dream. Nick was back, but in a most unsettling, inexplicable way, he was not really back. At least, he was not the Nick who had left their home more than a year ago. There was no trace of the teasing, wisecracking person he had been. His body was bulkier but not fat. He had put on muscle. He was a man—no longer a boy. But he was a man that Bernie had trouble recognizing as her brother.

  Bernie watched him and sensed that it was an effort for him to respond to the many greetings of friends and neighbors who came, wanting to be part of the happy occasion. Even though Nick turned in their direction, his eyes seemed to be looking inward at sights he did not want to see—sights he could not blot out by blinking them away. When friends welcomed him home, he shook hands and responded with a polite, if subdued, “Thank you.” But there was a distance that no one, not even family, seemed to be able to bridge. His face was etched with pain.

  After the family had finally gone inside the house, Nick looked around as though he was trying to convince himself that he belonged there. He often leaned over to pet Sheppie—the dog seeming to be his anchor in a sea of unreality. He moved about the house touching the furniture, turning lamps on and off. He hunched over as though he carried a burden. It was a terrible burden, the family learned.

  “Sit down,” Mother urged. “Or would you rather lie down? Are you in pain? Is your leg hurting?”

  “I’m okay,” Nick assured her.

  He put his h
and inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a crumpled, dirty envelope. He put it in Bernie’s hand. “We all wrote letters before we…” He did not finish his sentence. “I promised Jack I would give this to you if I made it home.”

  Bernie looked at it, puzzled. Why would Jack write a letter to her? Bernie stood looking at it, wondering when she should open it.

  Nick said, “Jack is not coming home.” He took a deep, unsteady breath. “I’ve got to go over and tell Mr. McClarty.”

  “Wait until you’ve rested a bit and had your supper,” Mother said.

  “No, I must to do this right away,” Nick insisted. “I have to tell him as soon as possible that Jack is buried in a grave in France. I can’t rest or do anything until I have done that.”

  Nick’s voice broke and great sobs wracked his body. Papa stepped nearer and put his arms around his son. The two of them stood holding onto each other. Bernie could not bear to watch them and turned away. Ben put his arm around her shoulder and reached out to enfold Mother, too. Bernie thought her heart was going to explode inside her chest.

  It was a long time before Papa said, “It’s too far for you to walk to McClarty’s. We’ll take you there.”

  Bernie watched them leave. Ben was driving. Nick rode in back with Papa.