Chapter 29
Meanwhile, Rose and Lucy worked hard in the farmhouse kitchen preparing a late supper for the girls to enjoy upon their return.
The August heat had squelched everyone’s appetites and cold dishes seemed the only cure.
Rose stood at the kitchen counter slicing cucumbers for a creamy side salad—she would mix the cukes with onions, dill, and sour cream—and Lucy perched beside her on a chair, placing each slice into a colander to be topped with salt and drained.
The radio played lightly in the background, but Rose and Lucy sang their own tune.
The song Esther taught Rose, and Rose taught Lucy.
“Been around the world, a time or two,” Rose sang to Lucy. “But I’m just . . .”
Lucy’s eyes lit up in preparation for her part. “Happy here you,” she sang, her voice high and sweet, toddler honey.
The line was “happier here with you,” but Rose preferred Lucy’s version.
It was moments like these—when the two of them worked side by side at the counter or in the garden or at the kitchen table or on the front porch—when Rose felt most alive.
True to her name, Lucy’s presence illuminated everything.
When she was with Lucy, Rose saw everything in Technicolor and heard everything at a clearer frequency.
Lilacs smelled sweeter and blankets felt softer.
This was the gift of youth—the ability to note and appreciate the simple details—and this was the blessing of having Lucy in Rose’s life.
Rose was so caught up in the moment, she jolted when the background music on the radio suddenly stopped and blunt, urgent voices echoed from the radio.
“We interrupt this broadcast . . .” was followed by Harry Truman’s voice and the words surrender of Japan.
“It’s over,” Rose cried, wiping her hands on her apron and turning to Lucy. “The war is over!”
“War over!” Lucy repeated.
Rose grabbed her white kitchen towel and handed Lucy a silver metal pot and wooden spoon.
“Bang on this like a drum,” she instructed, tapping the pot.
Then the two went hand in hand to the farmhouse porch.
Lucy banged the drum as only an eighteen-month-old could, while Rose waved her white kitchen towel back and forth, up and down, in the pattern of an infinity symbol.
“The war is over,” they sang, over and over again, until their voices felt hoarse. “Peace, peace! The war is over!”
Soon, the girls ran from Jensen’s field. Despite the labor—their achy muscles and sore feet—they were renewed by this news, running fast, smiles stretched to their limits.
Rose lifted Lucy to her hip, but still Lucy banged her drum, and Rose waved the flag in one hand above her head.
“Japan surrendered,” Rose screamed as soon as the girls were close enough. “It’s over. It’s finally over.”
Peggy reached for Lucy and took her from Rose’s hip, swinging her in circles on the farmhouse porch.
The girls untied their handkerchiefs from their necks and waved them in the air.
Some girls linked arms and swung each other around, square-dance style.
They hugged and screamed and wept and cheered.
Rose’s cheeks began to ache from all the smiling.
As a farm truck and several automobiles drove by, honking horns like alarms, it seemed only fitting that they go to town.
Without changing their dusty, sweat-stained clothes or freshening up, without eating, they piled into the back of the farm truck, and drove to where they knew the others would gather.
The townspeople and the farm folk—everyone within a ten-mile radius—had flocked to Main Street, and Rose marveled at the sight.
Confetti and streamers floated through the air.
American flags hung high and flapped in the wind.
Music blared from radios, cheers erupted.
Lovers kissed. People danced in the street.
Restaurants started handing out free food.
Rose wondered what the rest of the world, the rest of the country, was doing at this moment.
If such a big celebration occurred here, in small-town Wisconsin, what was happening elsewhere?
What were they doing in, say, New York? Times Square?
It was euphoric, this new sense of peace and freedom and relief. The pain and suffering of the last four years were over. Our soldiers would come home soon.
Maybe, just maybe, Hank would come home.
But the end of the war brought the end of other things, Rose realized. The girls would go. The men would eventually return and take back the farm work, the dairy work, the fields. The WLA would disband. Rose tried not to think about this fact, the underbelly of the joyous news.
It dawned on Rose—as she watched ecstasy spread through downtown St. John’s Ferry—that the cold, simple supper she planned for tonight would go uneaten, as food and drink and good cheer seemed to flow out into the street from local establishments and from the kitchens of nearby homes.
They returned to the farmhouse late, and Rose thought about the following day.
The president had declared today and tomorrow holidays.
While the animals still needed to be fed—even on holidays—the farm work would be minimal and the celebratory mood would certainly continue.
The girls and her neighbors had danced and sang and socialized in the streets downtown, but Rose still felt the need to put together a meal, to signify this historic day with a worthy feast. Rations were still in place—those wouldn’t be lifted quite yet—but she knew she had an abundance of eggs.
And she had sausage. While large cuts of meat, like steaks and roasts, were rationed, the more processed meats were not.
They had raspberries, of course, freshly picked.
And her summer Victory Garden had produced a large yield; she had vegetables to pick tomorrow, and she and Lucy had canned others earlier in the summer.
She knew the girls would sleep longer, having been up so late celebrating.
As she sat at her kitchen table, she quickly developed a menu for what she was calling “Victory Brunch.” It would be a mid-morning feast. She would invite her neighbors and local farmers and farm workers.
But that meant at least twenty-five to thirty people, maybe more.
Could she fit that many people in the house?
Not at the same table. She would need to host the brunch somewhere else.
The barn, she thought.
She envisioned it now. Long tables and tablecloths. Fresh flowers. Platters of colorful food. Laughter. Community. Cake.
Yes, every celebration deserves a cake.
She knew her recipe for Victory Cake by heart.
But she would need to make three cakes to feed this size group.
So she took out a piece of paper, and began jotting the recipe down again, tripling it this time, counting up the ingredients and the number of eggs Lucy would need to help her gather in the morning.
Lucy’s Victory Cake, she wrote at the top of the page.
It was a Victory indeed.