1943: Brush Strokes of the War

Chapter Three: Bethany

July 5, 1943

With a single hand under my round stomach, I walk along the brick sidewalk approaching Main Street with Ruth, Jeanie, Helen and Margaret.

“Just two weeks, Bethany!” Ruth, my cousin, exclaims, beaming. “You’re gonna be a mother!”

I can feel my cheeks heating up. “Eleven days, exactly, the doctor said. I can’t wait.”

“You’re nervous though, aren’t you?” Jeanie, Ruth’s sister asks. She tends to be slightly outspoken, always saying exactly what’s on her mind. She and Ruth drove over from Chattanooga yesterday to be with us when the baby is born.

“I’ve got to be, don’t I? I don’t even know if Edward’s going to be in town for it. He probably won’t, if everything goes like Dr. Benson says it should,” I reply, shrugging.

“Why don’t you tell her what it’s like, Margaret? I’m sure she could use some advice,” Jeanie suggests.

Margaret, my sister, looks a little uncomfortable with the idea, but she starts on the topic anyways. “Well, it hurts, sure, but that only lasts during labor. After you’ve given birth is really when you should worry, the doctors will worry about making sure the baby gets out safely. There’s just so much to do, and you can never turn your back, not even for one second!”

Margaret is four and a half years older than I am, and she’s already had one baby, a boy. She lives closer by, in Winston Salem. She can afford to take the train down more frequently, so she decided to come down for the day and leave her son, Samuel, who’s now three, with her husband’s family for the day. She’ll come down for a few more days and stay for longer when the baby is born, but she doesn’t want to be away from Samuel for too long.

Like my husband, Edward, hers, Frederick was drafted to fight in the war. The idea of a draft made me nervous when it first started. Any man could be selected to fight in the war if there weren’t enough soldiers, willing that he was capable. My father might have been drafted too, if it weren’t for his knee trouble. He fought in World War I, and his left knee was shot. It shattered the bone, and he hasn’t been able to walk well since. He has a cane, but my mother is concerned that soon it’ll have to be a wheelchair.

When they were drafted for World War II, Edward joined the navy and Frederick joined the army. But Frederick suffered a severe injury in his left leg when it was nearly blown off, and he had to be sent home. He’ll be walking on a cane for the rest of his life, like my father, and is no longer capable of fighting in the war.

“Oh, and they’re up crying all the time, aren’t they, Margaret?” Ruth asks.

“Samuel’s always slept like an angel,” she tells her.

“But that’s pretty unusual for babies, isn’t it?” Jeanie asks rhetorically. “Remember, Ruth, when Edith had Clark she was up every single night trying to get him to sleep?”

“Oh, that’s right! The poor girl never got any sleep, especially after Larry left for the army,” Ruth recalls.

My stomach twists nervously, and my eyebrows furrow together as I took down at the brick beneath my feet. Jeanie and Ruth continue on for a minute about their friend, Edith, and I try to tune their conversation out.

I feel Helen’s hand on my arm, and turn my head to the left to look at her. Her head is tilted to one side. She gives me a meaningful look and a reassuring smile, before shrugging. I nod, and force a smile back before returning my eyes to the ground.

Helen, my best friend, has heard me list off all of my fears and concerns about the baby many times. Of course, it isn’t Ruth and Jeanie’s fault that they don’t know every single worry that keeps me up at night.