Chapter 2
ETHEL
Ethel Gathers rode the train to Lourdes, France, desperate for a miracle.
She clutched her rosary beads, knowing that a healing encounter with the Virgin Mary was as likely as Pope Pius XII inviting her to the grand dining hall at the Vatican for dinner.
Still, she had no choice but to believe.
Dr. Burroughs’s letter with her diagnosis was like energy radiating from inside her purse, and she found herself patting the top of her bag, trying to suppress the dissemination of his memorandum, which stated that Ethel was unable to bear a child.
As the wheels of the train churned and clacked beneath her feet, Ethel kissed the crucifix of the rosary and then made the sign of the cross before draping the multicolored beads across her cotton gabardine skirt.
She had already prayed the full rosary three times over the past six hours while riding through the woodlands of France, but she did not feel at peace.
Since she had arrived as a newlywed in Mannheim, Germany, three months earlier, Ethel had rarely left their apartment.
She had no friends, did not speak German, and whenever she ventured outside to do more than on-base shopping, she found herself disoriented on the streets.
With her husband, Bert, working long hours in the field, she was often alone, and the solitude had begun to unravel her.
She found herself restless and had started to lose weight.
It was Bert who suggested that she join the other army wives on the trip to France.
“I’ll miss you”—he’d pecked her cheek as he produced the pamphlet—“but it’ll do you some good, darling, to make some friends and see a bit of the world while we’re over here.”
Now the women were traveling from Mannheim, where they were stationed with their high-ranking officer husbands, on a spiritual pilgrimage to the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Lourdes, where St. Bernadette was said to have had eighteen visions of the Virgin Mary.
Ethel had agreed to the long journey because she believed that the Blessed Virgin Mary, mother of all, could heal her womb and change her fate.
For we walk by faith, not by sight, she reminded herself as she reached for her leather-bound diary resting in the empty seat next to her.
As a reporter at large for Baltimore’s Afro-American, Ethel had been assigned a feature on the living conditions of the Negro military stationed abroad.
She picked up her pen, with the notion of writing about the mistreatment Bert had shared with her of the Negro soldiers by the white military police, but after starting and stopping, starting again and stopping, she had managed to write only one lackluster paragraph.
Capping her fountain pen, she abandoned the idea, at least temporarily, and looked out the window.
She saw a clear, bubbling stream running down lush green hills into an open valley.
The burgeoning blue sky held just a small trace of clouds, where two birds soared and circled each other.
And then the train shunted through a lavender farm so purple and wild that Ethel could smell its soft powdery scent.
Never had she experienced a rolling landscape that changed like a picture show, but even with so much beauty, Ethel had begun to feel her knees stiffen.
They had been on the train for nearly seven hours.
Perhaps she needed to stretch her limbs and walk a bit.
Ethel rose from her seat and made her way down the aisle toward the lounge car for a refreshment.
As she passed through the railcar, she saw the other wives.
While there were no segregated cars in France, she noticed her companions had managed to separate themselves.
The whites sat on the right front side of the railcar.
Ethel had sat in the center, on the left side.
Julia Jones, the only other Negro wife on the trip, sat behind her, though she’d been sleeping the whole way.
The scent of burning cigarettes reached Ethel at the entrance to the lounge car, which was filled mostly with French and Spanish patrons eating on white china plates and sipping from champagne and highball glasses.
Two young boys wearing knickers played checkers at one of the tables while their parents cackled over a board game that Ethel did not recognize.
Sitting alone on a velvet sofa was a dark-haired woman with olive skin and striking blue eyes.
She was the American wife who had coordinated the trip, but Ethel couldn’t recall her name.
“How do you do?” The wife tilted her chin while taking a long drag from her cigarette.
“I’m well. You?”
“Positively exhausted of this train, that’s for sure,” she said, exhaling.
Ethel chuckled. “That’s why I came for a beverage. Ripe for a change of scenery.”
“Where are my manners? Please, have a seat.” The woman gestured to the spot next to her.
Ethel hesitated for only a second before smoothing down the back of her skirt and taking the offered seat.
“Any idea how much longer we have to go?” Ethel sat her envelope purse in her lap. The classical piano music felt good against her ears.
“I think about thirty minutes more.”
A waiter appeared in a stiff black uniform. Ethel ordered a cup of English breakfast tea and the woman a gin fizz.
“Please, tell me your name again?”
“Ethel Gathers. My husband, Albert Gathers, is the army chief warrant officer.”
“I’m Dorothy. Dorothy Hansen.” She exhaled. “I’m married to Lieutenant General Skip Hansen. I’m glad you were able to join us. I’ve run this trip for three years straight. It was designed so that the new wives who arrived on base had the blessing to be fruitful by the Virgin Mary.”
That was Ethel’s hope, but she could not tell Dorothy. Instead, she said, “I have always wanted to take a religious pilgrimage.”
Dorothy smirked. “Well, hallelujah! You are the first. Most of the women are along for the adventure and the promise of a soak in the hot thermal baths that the Pyrenees Mountains are famous for.”
“Well, that sounds delightful too.”
The waiter returned and poured their respective drinks. “How long have you been in Germany?” Dorothy said as she sipped.
“A little over three months. Still trying to get my bearings.”
“Living abroad is an adjustment, but you will get used to it. I have come to appreciate the cultural experience. Back home I was forced to be so closed-minded.” Dorothy released the swivel handle of her belly-skin handbag and pulled out a book.
“I think this will help.” She turned the book over to Ethel.
The cover read The Army Wife by Nancy Shea.
“It’s been a life saver for me. Outlining all the dos and don’ts that come with this gig. You are welcome to borrow it.”
Ethel wanted to refuse the book—she had enough reading to do for the article she was writing—but she recognized the book as an olive branch and decided to accept it. “Thank you, that’s very kind.”
“Don’t mention it.” Dorothy waved her comment away. “On this side of the pond, we have the freedom to get to know each other. Let’s take advantage of that.” She pinned Ethel with her blue gaze until both women couldn’t help but smile.
There was something refreshing about Dorothy, and Ethel found herself saying, “I’d like that, and I’ll be sure to return the book when I am finished.”
At Gare de Lourdes, Ethel disembarked to blaring rail announcements in French and the smell of unflushed toilets.
She touched the beaded necklace at her throat, hardly able to believe they had finally arrived.
Dorothy led the group down the platform, through the station’s doors, and onto the street.
Tiny cars were scattered along the curb, and Dorothy pointed to the red passenger van waiting for them to the left of the entrance. As the women giggled their way onto the van, Dorothy confirmed the party with a head count.
Julia Jones slid across the leather seat next to Ethel. Julia had a square face and small eyes that reminded Ethel of Eartha Kitt. She smelled like maple syrup, and her hair was tightly curled.
“Well, this is the most exciting thing I’ve done in a long time, I must say.” Julia whipped out a black compact stenciled in gold with hummingbirds and flower petals. She powdered her cheeks, forehead, and nose as the van came to a traffic stop. “Have you traveled much?”
“Back home a bit,” said Ethel, touching her bangs. “But this is my first time in France.”
“Mine too,” cooed Julia.
“Your compact is stunning.” Ethel pointed.
“Thank you. It was my grandmother’s. Wouldn’t believe it was made in the thirties,” she said, dropping it back into her purse. “Mama said to hang on to it, might be worth some money one day.”
The town of Lourdes sat in the foothills of the Pyrenees Mountains, and as the van drove west toward the religious attractions, Ethel could hear the gargle and flow of the Gave de Pau babbling through the center of the city.
The van twisted past what looked like gingerbread houses and storybook shops sandwiched by piney hills and jagged mountaintops.
The driver parked at the tip of a slim pedestrian-only street.
The aromas of frankincense, myrrh, and balsam greeted Ethel as she followed Julia off the van.
The white wives pivoted around one another, just far enough away from Ethel and Julia but in earshot of Dorothy’s voice.
“Ladies, there’s lots to see here,” bellowed Dorothy as she smoothed down her rose-printed swing dress with oversize black buttons.
She wore a bold red lipstick, with a matching scarf tied at her neck, and short black gloves.
“You can visit the shrine, wander the cathedral, shop the vendors. Whatever you decide, please go in pairs, and make sure you are back at the van by three o’clock. ”
Instant chatter burst between the wives as they looked to one another for confirmation on where to start, but Ethel had no plans to be confined to a group consensus.
Without consulting anyone, she let her navy flatties carry her through the pedestrian plaza, where she inhaled the collective joy of people pulsing with belief and hope.
She joined the queue to see the shrine of Lourdes alongside Catholic nuns in long black habits, crippled men in wheelchairs, elderly couples stooped over wooden canes, young adults giddy with possibility, elegant European women carrying Hermès bags, and small children asleep in prams.
Ethel closed her eyes as the line of people shared in the collective singing of “Ave Maria” in a bevy of languages uniting into one. Ethel felt so warmed by it all that sweat beaded her brows.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”
Ethel turned to see Dorothy remove her cat’s-eye sunglasses. Julia Jones and a woman with blond curls stood beside Dorothy. Ethel had gotten so wrapped up in her personal mission that she had not realized the three women were behind her in line.
“I’ve never in my life experienced a crowd pulsing with this collective energy.”
At the entrance, racks of white candles set up in the shape of a Christmas tree burned brightly in front of the grotto of Massabielle.
In the center of the grotto stood a statue of the Virgin Mary, surrounded by green trailing flowers.
The line of people moved at a steady pace.
The three wives chatted behind her, but Ethel prayed the Hail Mary again and again under her breath.
When the four women reached the small cave, people slowly slipped into the walkway surrounded by thick layers of stone.
The air of the grotto cooled Ethel’s balmy skin, drying her sweat almost in an instant.
Against the wall rested a glass prayer box, and she mumbled another Hail Mary as she removed Dr. Burroughs’s diagnosis from her handbag and dropped the slip of paper into the box.
She then mimicked the stout man in front of her and ran her hands along the grotto’s stone.
As her fingertips brushed the smooth rock, a staticky feeling pulsed deep inside her.
Ethel felt a glowing warmth flow through her belly.
Her arms tingled, and her chest heaved up and down.
She blinked several times at the white mist that appeared just in front of her.
Then a raspy voice uttered, “You have much to offer others.”
It was so loud and clear that she wondered if anyone else had heard it. Was that the message she had come for? Had that been the Virgin Mary herself? Ethel had not realized that she had stopped, stalling the line with her hands outstretched on the grotto, until she felt a hand on her elbow.
“Ethel?” Dorothy asked. “Are you feeling all right?”
Ethel took a deep breath and nodded while the words continued to thread through her. You have much to offer others.
Praise be.
Ethel staggered out into the light of the day, trying to cloak and swaddle what she had experienced in the grotto.
“Well, that was an uplifting experience for sure,” said Dorothy, tugging her gloves back on. They had moved to the right of the crowd and into a small patch of shade.
Julia added, “I must say, I feel like I have just prayed a month of Sundays and received the promise of all my blessings.”
Ethel stood silent with her hands folded in front of her. Her mouth was dry, her body heavy, and she wished she had something to lean against.
“Ethel, honey?” Dorothy crinkled her brows.
“Yes.” Ethel shook her head, trying to find where they were in the conversation.
“You look faint, dear.” Julia peered at her. “Do you need some water?”
Ethel remembered the empty bottle she had tucked in her purse. “Yes. Let’s head over to the spring and collect some of the holy water.”
“There’s holy water too? I should have studied up on the history of this place before we arrived,” said Julia, chuckling.
As they walked, Ethel’s head began to clear, and she told the ladies that the Lourdes water had flowed since the apparitions in 1858 and was reputed for miraculous healing. What she didn’t say was that she had planned to sip a little and sprinkle drops on her belly each night before bed.
Once the four had collected the holy water, Dorothy and her blond friend decided to explore the town and extended an invitation.
Julia complained about sore feet and said she would wait it out inside the van.
Ethel declined and walked north toward the Basilica of Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception to pray in gratitude, for she was convinced that she had been healed.