January 1, 1918
Dear Mom, Sarah, and Laura,
It’s New Year’s Day, and the Allies are starting the fourth year of this lousy war. I shouldn’t complain. The Americans have only lived in the trenches for a few months, while the British and French have for three years. You should see these trenches. Hundreds of miles all along the western front. It’s a maze of interlocking dugout ditches; The Sixty-Ninth has been slogging through mud for two days, but Father Duffy and Captain "Wild Bill" Donovan are with us every step of the way — always with a joke or a word of encouragement. Really swell officers.
We left Paris last week and have been marching ever since. I hated to leave "Gay Paree." They gave the American soldiers a terrific reception!
We’ve stopped along the Marne River and settled in. They say the Germans are getting ready for a big offensive under General von Ludendorff. We’re ready for him! Our cannon is aimed directly at them, and when they go over the top, we’ll give 'em a reception they won’t forget. They can’t hurt us. We’re snug behind sandbags and barbed wire, which is strung all along the parapets. The most dangerous thing is the flu — we’ve lost one hundred and twenty men in our unit, but I seem to be immune.
When I was in boot training at Fort Sheridan, one of my good buddies was Shawn O’Brien. He’s going to be stationed in Washington, D.C., as an honor guard at the White House. I asked him to pay you a visit. I even told him you’d give him a home-cooked meal. He’d love your cooking, Mom. He’s from New York… in fact, my whole regiment are New Yorkers, but a great bunch of guys. Shawn is special, so be kind to him.
By the way, Sarah, I’d better warn you that there’s a bit of the devil in Shawn. Be careful you don’t fall for his blarney and leave poor Frank out in the cold.
Laura paused for a second. Little did Michael know that Shawn had already been here. It was obvious her brother thought she was still much too young for any romantic entanglements. Well, she’d like Michael to see the attention Shawn O’Brien was showering on her. She could fall in love, too. With a secret smile she returned to read the conclusion :
Well, the firing has begun again, so I need to leave my cozy dugout and man my rifle post.
Love and hugs, How I miss you!
Mike
Laura glanced at Sarah’s flushed face. "Beware of Shawn, big sister," she teased, knowing that Sarah would never be interested.
Sarah drew herself up straight. Her lovely eyes threw out blue sparks, and her mouth formed a small Cupid’s bow. "As if I’d ever love anyone besides Frank Wexler!" she said indignantly, reaching for the letter. "Just think, it took over a month for Michael’s letter to arrive," she said, deftly changing the subject.
"Somewhere along the Marne River," Mrs. Mitchell mused. She reached for the atlas on the kitchen countertop and opened it to the well-worn map of France. With her finger she traced the Marne River. "Look, he’s north of Paris, but it could be anywhere along this river." Her gray eyes were worried. "The Germans' big offensive sounds dangerous for Mike, and now the flu. If it’s an epidemic in Europe it could spread to America — that would be a catastrophe! I’ve heard of a few cases in New York. We need to pray for Mike’s safety."
How lucky Shawn and Joe were to be here in Washington. It would take lots of prayers and luck for Michael to come home.
Chapter Seven
For the rest of the week the war, the influenza epidemic, and Michael occupied Laura’s mind. That is, until Thursday when she was sitting in Mr. Blair’s history class, and he announced that their themes were graded. Then all other thoughts flew out the window. She watched anxiously as he pulled a sheaf of papers from his desk drawer. Her heart began to thump. Had she gotten an A? She had worked hard, writing and rewriting, and knew it was an excellent paper, but would he? One thing was sure, and that was that when he read it, he would be aware of what women were going through.
Mr. Blair, holding the themes, cleared his throat and ran a finger along the rim of his high, starched collar. "Your papers, for the most part, showed understanding of the topic: What Democracy Means to Me. You seem appreciative of this great nation in which we live.
"A few of your papers brought in our country’s background and our forefathers' work on the Constitution, and some of you used quotes very well."
He turned to Olaf Jorgensen in the front seat and smiled. "Olaf, I particularly liked your quotations from the Declaration of Independence." The large, raw-boned boy blushed furiously. Mr. Blair hesitated, then rushed ahead with the rest of his speech.
"Some of you, however, were sidetracked from the topic." He glanced at Laura, shaking his head in sad reproach as he tossed her paper on her desk. "Your essay, Laura, is an example of what one shouldn’t do." His eyes narrowed, and he watched as she looked at her grade.
There, emblazoned across the top, was a large red D. She was stunned. She could feel her face redden, but she tried to remain calm and not let Mr. Blair see the frustration and anger welling up inside her. Calmly she stared at the paper, not daring to meet Mr. Blair’s eyes. Why, she thought, couldn’t she write the syrupy drivel she knew he craved? Why couldn’t she dish out every platitude about democracy that she’d heard since the first grade? But she couldn’t. The memory of the woman chained to the lamp post made it plain that democracy wasn’t for everyone.
Mr. Blair stopped at her desk. "Well, you evidently didn’t grasp the topic."
She bit her lip, trying to keep it from trembling. She swallowed before speaking. "It’s a subject that should give me some freedom to express my own ideas." She bitterly repeated the title: "What Democracy Means to Me. As long as I’m a second-class citizen, that subject doesn’t mean very much."
Titters were heard throughout the classroom after her daring reply.
Cassandra leaned over and whispered loudly, "I agree."
"No talking!" Mr. Blair snapped. He paused for a moment as if trying to be fair. "Perhaps rewriting your paper will shed a new understanding on the question, and this time, Laura, try not to be so negative."
"I understand the question, sir," Laura persisted. "It’s just that you don’t understand any view that differs from yours."
The class, accustomed to their exchanges, laughed aloud.
"Silence." Mr. Blair rapped on her desk. "Laura, I’ll see you after class. Perhaps your low mark will make you rethink your views, especially since we’re in a war. I would expect each and every one of you to think twice before you criticize our wonderful country. How would you like to live under the iron rule of the Kaiser?" He pressed his lips together in a thin line. "Laura even dared call our illustrious congressmen a bunch of muddleheads. This is no time to carp against America when our soldiers are dying along the western front!"
Laura’s sharp retort died on her lips. She resented being called unpatriotic. She was patriotic! Patriotic to the core! The memory of the jingle found on posters all around town played its little refrain in her head and brought a smile to her lips:
Do not permit your child to take a bite or two from an apple and throw the rest away; nowadays even children must be taught to be patriotic to the core.
"I’m glad you can smile about your theme, Laura." Mr. Blair lightly tapped the long map pointer against the palm of his left hand and said coolly, "I would suggest a change in attitude and work habits or you may be repeating History 101." He frowned at her as if trying to understand her strange reasoning.