Chapter 17
Rose thought that balancing energy was, at a very basic level, what living life was all about.
Too much energy, and impulsivity and capriciousness ensued, but too little birthed apathy and depression.
And if such balance of energy was essential to living, then there was nowhere more important than home, the place we begin and end our days.
In Rose’s opinion, a home’s energy—whether it enlivens or exhausts us—requires constant monitoring and adjustments for the right combination of cleanliness, comfort, and creativity.
If she could provide a balanced home environment for these girls—through the food she served, the aesthetics of her housekeeping and décor, and the overall sense of community she cultivated—she would also provide the scaffolding they needed to meet this challenge, which would ultimately help win the war.
Put in this light, Rose thought her work, and the work of homemakers throughout the world, was actually quite noble, albeit overlooked and underappreciated.
Rose smiled when she saw Esther was the first down to the kitchen, as had been the trend since she’d assisted Rose on the first day.
She helped Rose lay out clean tablecloths on two kitchen tables butted together, enough to seat twelve.
They set each spot with napkin, cutlery, mug, and glass.
Six girls at each table. Sitting together for meals was of the upmost importance for building community.
It is the rule in my house, no exceptions.
While they finished setting up for breakfast, Esther told Rose about one of her only memories of working with her mother in the kitchen.
“We baked a cake together,” Esther said. “For my fifth birthday. It was from the Swans Down flour recipe booklet. Yellow cake with coconut icing.”
“That sounds delicious,” Rose replied.
“My mom liked sweets. Especially in the afternoon with coffee or tea. She called it fika. That’s Swedish. It means ‘a midday coffee break with sweet treats.’”
Fika didn’t sound like something you should embrace during the war, Rose thought.
Americans were supposed to sacrifice and work hard all day.
Eating sweets didn’t fit the wartime mentality.
And yet, Rose saw how much Esther’s face lit up at the memory of her mother.
She wanted to honor that, to make her smile more.
She also wanted to commemorate the girls’ first day on the job, and dessert seemed the perfect way. It was inherently special.
And nothing is more special than cake.
Eggs were rationed but plentiful on her farm, since she owned her own chickens.
But with sugar rationed, treats using less sugar or alternate sweeteners—like maple syrup, corn syrup, or honey—were ideal.
She contemplated her options for a cake that met these parameters.
A Victory Cake came to mind. She’d first seen the recipe in Woman’s Day.
It was a moist cake, with a unique flavor from a blend of allspice and lemon zest.
“Should we bake a cake together this morning?” Rose asked. “While I don’t think we should break for fika during the day, we could have it tonight for dessert. To celebrate your first day working for the WLA.”
Esther’s face beamed. “Yes, Mrs. Brodbeck, I’d like that very much.”
As the two of them measured flour and spices for the Victory Cake, Rose shared her best baking tips with Esther, things she learned from her own mother, her days as a home economics major, and from her cookbook collection.
She showed Esther that keeping the flour light as you scoop it was the trick to a fluffy cake.
Using fresh eggs was essential too. Esther seemed to hang on her every word.
The attention almost made Rose blush. Her sons had never looked at her that way, with such deep respect.
As the two worked side by side, Esther began humming. Rose listened with intrigue. It was beautiful, but she couldn’t place the tune.
“What is that song you’re humming?” Rose asked.
“Oh.” Esther blushed. “It’s called ‘Happier Here with You.’ It’s a song my mother made up. She used to sing it when she was rocking me to sleep at night. And it sort of became a family lullaby.”
“What was your mother’s name?” Rose asked as they slid the cake into the oven. The other girls had yet to come down.
“Lucia,” she said. “It means light. But everyone called her Lucy.”
Rose smiled. “Well then, we shall call this Lucy’s Victory Cake. In honor of your mom and her fika.”
Rose felt bolstered by the power of her budding mentorship. I could really make a difference in Esther’s life. In all of these girls’ lives.
She couldn’t help but smile. And just the thought of serving the cake later for Esther and the girls to enjoy—the anticipation of their surprise when she revealed the cake after supper—would likely leave a smirk on her face all day long.
After several days of hard work, Rose sat in the parlor after supper.
It had been a successful start to this new adventure.
She knew all the girls’ names—first and last—by heart, had committed their farm assignments to memory, and had gotten a sense of their unique food tastes.
She knew Esther had a sweet tooth like her mother, especially for chocolate, while Peggy disliked radishes and Clara enjoyed mixing her mashed potatoes with her vegetables, instead of keeping them separate on the plate.
Rose thought about the girls as much as she thought of her two sons.
Her interest in them could not be satiated, and she worried about their welfare constantly.
Susan’s hands are chapped and raw. She noted how the skin broke in cracks along the girl’s knuckles.
Rose made sure to procure Woodbury Lanolin Hand Cream from the pharmacy.
Meanwhile, Sarah started rubbing her left shoulder after cleaning out the animal stalls, so Rose offered her a bottle of Watkins liniment from the medicine cabinet.
It would help soothe her muscles. She noticed Rebecca had trouble sleeping, so she made her chamomile tea in the evening.
And it was clear all the girls were homesick, so Rose made a point of asking what kinds of meals their mothers normally made at home.
Sarah said she missed her grandmother’s kugel, while Peggy hankered for her mother’s beef stew.
So Rose worked these dishes into her menu planning, bringing them a taste of home, comfort, and familiarity in a foreign place.
That evening, the house sat near silent.
Several of the girls had retired for the night, while others congregated in the attic, to read, play board games, and chat.
She heard the muffled sound of clanking cups in the kitchen, and assumed a few were helping themselves to an evening snack.
She detected a whiff of cinnamon in the air.
The girls’ chattering seemed to grow louder and closer, and Rose looked up to see Esther, Peggy, and Clara enter the parlor carrying a tray, their faces beaming with pride and a hint of mischief.
“We made you something,” Peggy announced.
“Me?” Rose asked, unable to hide her surprise at the thoughtful gesture.
She set her knitting aside. Even on warm summer nights, she liked to knit in preparation for the coming autumn and winter.
Rose looked at the tray on the coffee table before her.
She saw a tea pot, cups and saucers, and four of her forget-me-not-patterned plates, each holding a hearty scoop of what looked to be bread pudding.
She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had prepared anything with such care, just for her.
“We found some stale bread,” Peggy explained. “And we used only a tablespoon of sugar, so we added the raisins for a little more sweetness.”
“We were hoping to join you for a chat here in the parlor,” Clara said.
Rose felt the corners of her eyes wet, flattered that they wanted to spend their precious time off with her. “That would be lovely.”
She had avoided telling the girls much personal information; she liked to listen to them, to be a sounding board, not to talk about herself.
But the girls seemed genuinely interested in spending time with her, having gone through the trouble of preparing her an evening treat. She would make a concession.
“You have such a big, beautiful home,” Peggy said after they all took bites of pudding and sipped their tea. “We’ve been wondering”—she looked to the other girls as if trying to gain consensus—“about your family. Do you have children?”
Rose nodded and told them about her sons: Albert, the oldest, in California, and Hank, stationed overseas.
“You must miss them,” Esther noted.
“Every day. Grown children might go days without thinking about their parents. But from my experience, mothers keep their children very close to their hearts. They are never far from my mind.”
“It must be hard,” Peggy added. “Not knowing when this war will end, or when Hank will come home.”
Rose knew that once the war was over, and she hoped it would be soon, there would be a hierarchy to who went home first. Those GIs who’d committed the most time, seen the most battles, sacrificed the most, always returned home first. Servicemen would receive points for every dependent child at home, so Rose knew Hank would be closer to the bottom of the list when the time came.
He hadn’t had time to marry or have children before enlisting.
His whole life is waiting here for him, ready to begin.
“What about Albert? Does he visit?” Clara asked.
Her stomach knotted. She told them Albert had not been home for at least four years.
Esther set her teacup into the saucer with a clank. “But what about Christmas?”
The holidays had been a quiet affair the last few years.
This past Christmas, after finishing her farm chores, Rose had prepared a simple meal of roast pork, mashed potatoes and gravy, and canned green beans from her pantry, with a homemade fruit cake for dessert.
She’d spent the afternoon watching the snow fall outside the window, knitting, listening to a Christmas program on the radio, reading The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter by Carson McCullers.
She enjoyed the peaceful day, and yet, her usual joy at these activities always felt a bit muted when she wasn’t able to share it with others.
How she wished she’d had someone to marvel at the fluffy white snowflakes or the comforting creaminess of the pork gravy, a companion with whom to delight in the radio program or discuss McCullers’s book.
Everything done alone feels like a secret.
While a small secret can feel like a spark and renew us, too many little secrets, day after day after day, have the opposite effect. They fester.
They consume us.
“Holidays can be a bit . . . lonely,” she admitted to the girls, who had been patiently awaiting her answer.
“It’s funny, there were times in my life when I could never get a moment alone with my thoughts—when I was a kid, growing up in a house full of brothers and sisters, and after my children were born, when I always had a mouth to feed or a baby to soothe.
I was surrounded by noise and chaos. I never imagined a day when silence was my only companion. ”
The girls all fell quiet, and Rose questioned whether she should have revealed so much to these young women, who likely did not yet have the life experience to comprehend.
Esther patted Rose’s hand. “That’s why this week has meant so much to me,” she divulged.
“To be honest, being at home this summer with my father, away from school, would have been so isolating. I’m so happy I joined the WLA.
I wake up every morning excited to do my job, and be a part of this community.
I go to bed looking forward to the next day.
I feel like I belong to something, that I’ve made friends for life. ”
Peggy reached out for Esther’s hand, and Clara hugged her shoulder from the other side. “We feel the same way,” Peggy said.
Esther looked to Rose. “Mrs. Brodbeck, you have been so kind to me, to all of us this past week. Like a mother. And I want you to know that means the world to me.”
Rose laid her hand on her chest and smiled. She knew having these girls all summer was a gift for all of them. They were willing recipients of her affection.
And she still had so much love to give.
They talked for a good half hour, their conversation cut short only when they heard a firm, startling knock on the farmhouse door. It was probably her neighbor, Carol, Rose thought. She was the only person who ever came by in the evenings, usually to borrow an egg or firewood.
But it wasn’t Carol. It was a Western Union messenger.
“I had trouble finding the house, ma’am,” the boy said, apologizing for knocking at such a late hour. And then he hesitantly handed her the message.
The bold, black words swirled on the paper, bits and pieces reaching her consciousness.
The Secretary of War . . . His Deepest Regret . . .
Your Son, Private Hank Brodbeck . . .
Missing in Action.