Guess what? Your sister came home from Arizona with her husband yesterday, and he’s not half so bad as everyone made him out to be. Actually, he’s sort of handsome (though not as handsome as you) in a dark mysterious way. There’s no doubt he’s an Indian, Bert; in fact, Kate seems quite proud of his Apache background. She had her little boy with her, and he’s a good-looking child with Kate’s good nose and mouth, and his father’s brooding eyes. She is pregnant again, I don’t know whether you knew that or not. We all had a marvelous supper at your house last night. Your father was a little surly toward Oscar at first, but he came around after a few drinks, and they began swapping stories about lumber camps. Oscar used to sell harnesses on the road, so he naturally got to visit a lot of the camps, including those in Eau Fraiche. Your father is in the best of health, by the way. He told me he gained seventeen pounds in the past three months, which I can believe because your mother is such a marvelous cook! Oscar and Kate and their little boy were staying at the United in town, and they dropped me off on their way in. Oscar has a brand-new Reo, so I guess selling tractor parts is very good business these days.
Bert, are you writing to me? I have not received a single letter since yrs of September 21. I love you with all my heart. Do be very careful.
Tuesday, October 8
Dearest Bert,
You may drive out nature with a pitchfork, yet she will come back.
The epidemic is full upon us. Since I wrote you Sunday there have been six hundred cases reported, with thirty deaths in the last twenty-four hours alone. The furniture factory has been closed, and there is talk of shutting down the rubber plant as well, even though everyone knows how important it is to the war effort. A new emergency hospital has been opened at the empty McIver mansion on the peninsula, and Mayor Hutcheson has ordered ten big Army tents set up on the lawn outside. There are seven Eau Fraiche policemen riding horses around town, Bert, to keep people away from the saloons, where the fools have been trying to sneak in through the back doors. Everyone in town must wear a gauze mask over the nose and mouth, and you can be lined fifty dollars if you’re caught without one in public. Everything is closed, my dearest, schools, churches, saloons, theaters, even most of the restaurants. (Claude Rabillon died Sunday night, and the county health officer ordered the Lorraine to shut its doors at once.) Even the library is closed because it’s feared the flu can be spread by the public circulation of books. We do not know what it is, Bert, and we do not know what to do.
There are some who say it is carried by dust, there are others who say it is not a disease at all but really a contamination of the air caused by the use of so much poison gas in Europe. Some say it is caused by a bacillus, and others say by a virus. I don’t know what either of those are, Bert. I only know that people are dying, and I am scared out of my wits. It is as if God has sent a scourge to punish His foolish creations who insist on destroying each other and the human race.
Oh my darling, please forgive me. I know you are in constant danger, and I must not trouble you further. Please be careful. I love you.
P. S. I took some cookies to the Post Office yesterday, but Mr. Aubrey asked whether I was sending foodstuffs to you, and when I said I was, he told me he could not permit it because the contamination might spread further among the troops. Are you well, my dearest? Please, please, please write to me, I am frantic with worry.
October 9, 1918
Dear Bert,
My father was stricken with influenza today. He had been complaining of a headache all day Monday, but he has frequent headaches, you know, and we thought nothing of it. (Actually, I think we were all too frightened to accept it as the possible beginning of something.) But then, oh Bert, he just began to look so sick, I’ve never seen him look that way in my life. His eyes got red, and his nose was all stuffed up, and he had this terrible backache, and then of course the fever came and we sent for Dr. Henning who could not come until six o’clock tonight. There are only three doctors in town, as you know, and they’ve been making calls to other parts of the county as well. People have been taking turns driving them, and they’ve been sleeping in the automobiles between patients, and working around the clock. Dr. Henning told us on the phone to give Daddy quinine and aspirin, but that didn’t help at all, and when he finally arrived, poor Daddy was burning alive with fever. He had him removed at once to the McIver place down-peninsula, and we will not be allowed to see him until he’s better because the house has been quarantined.
As I write, I can see through my window to the Emerson porch across the street, where funeral services are being conducted for Louise Emerson, who died last night. It is forbidden now to keep the bodies of victims in a closed room where others might become infected.
I am so frightened.
I have to make this short, my darling. Meg is in tears, and I must go to her.
I love you,
Friday, October 11
Oh my darling!
A treasure trove of mail today! Fourteen letters from you, only two of them dated, and the same postmark on each of the envelopes, so that I had to read them all through once, and then sort them out as best I could and read them through a second time in sequence. (One of your letters said you had no idea what day it was. Just keep safe, Bert, and keep writing to me, and I won’t care if they’re all dated September 31st.)
I know you’re in the Meuse-Argonne, even though you’re not permitted to say. The newspapers are full of nothing else. There is talk here that the war will be ending soon, that this offensive will be the one to break the German resistance. I pray day and night that this is so. I have bought a huge map of France, and I have been trying to follow the advance, figuring out loud to myself — Nantillois is where Bert must have been when he wrote this letter, and this one was written in Cierges, and this is where he fell into the stream, Gesnes, trying to be with you, my love, trying to share it with you.
We have not been allowed out of the house since Daddy took sick, but we have been in telephone contact with the emergency hospital. It is so difficult to get through because so many families have sick people there, but we managed to talk to Dr. Henning early this afternoon. He said there has been no change in Daddy’s condition. The fever is still with him, and there is nothing we can do but wait and pray. What cannot be cured must be endured, my dear Bert. When they took him away Wednesday, Meg began screaming and yelling, which didn’t help matters at all. We are very much aware of death in this town, it has become a frequent caller. As they carried Daddy out of the house unconscious, I think all of us felt we might never see him alive again, God forbid. And Meg gave voice to our fears, hitting at the men who were carrying him out on a stretcher, their faces masked, silent in white, while across the street we knew Louise Emerson, thirty-two years old and pregnant, was dead. We gave Meg some hot milk and put her to bed, but I heard her whimpering in her sleep all night long, and the sound was a reminder of what we all had felt when we saw Daddy so helpless that way.
I am absolutely exhausted, my darling. It has been a difficult few days. Thank God I’ve heard from you at last, and know that you are safe and well. I am going to take some aspirin now, and then go upstairs to read your letters through again before I go to bed.