Sylvia! The Girls are Here!

By Donna J. Burr

Widowed, the elderly woman from an immigrant family, has sold her old house in Albany, New York and moved to a retirement home. Her daughter is tasked with a final check of the empty house. Hidden until that day, a disconcerting  find, obviously from World War Two, sparks the daughter's overactive imagination. Once back in her own home in Louisville, Kentucky, the widow's daughter begins investigating the tangled history of her mother's past. Old family photos, coupled with Internet searches  and National Archive WW II documents that she acquires, complicate and intensify the mystery surrounding her mother's turbulent life. Faced with an unexpected maze of roadblocks she broods whether her family history is best left alone. Is it worth unearthing long buried secrets and potentially toppling what was once known as truth?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Donna J. Burr
• Release date: Dec 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223013549

Book preview

PROLOGUE

July - 2019

Albany, New York

Eerily quiet, the old house was nothing more than a hollow shell. Locked up tight all through the abnormally scorching and humid summer, mildew formation was a real possibility. Can’t worry about that, I reflected, it’s somebody else’s problem now. The only thing left to do was this final walk through. I started outside with the garage, my least favorite part.

I hurried through the oversized garage that Dad had constructed to house his oversized collection of duplicate power and hand tools – strictly for his hobbies. Oil, grease and paint odors permeated the space. Sharp fissures in the cement floor crisscrossed his careless splatters and sinuous sprays of paint, unwittingly producing a rather curious, ‘Jackson Pollack gone mad’ design. Dad – who knew everything – would have asked, ‘what kind of  Po-lack is a Jackson Po-lack?’ I snorted at the thought.

Dad was long gone. He and his accumulated stuff had been quickly absorbed by the great unknown, I guessed. He died relatively young of lung and liver disease – rode off into the sunset, au revoir and adios – granting Mom a good number of peaceful years alone in the house. I could never imagine why she stayed married to him for so long.

Anxious for fresh air, I retreated outside and hauled down the extra-wide overhead door. The realtor’s ‘For Sale/Sold’ sign stood cheerfully erect on the lawn, all red, white and flag blue, and optimistic.  I hope the young buyers don’t need a shaman to cleanse Dad’s damaging spirit, I thought pessimistically. Maybe they should raze it and start with a clean slate.

I vaguely remember when we moved from Watertown to Albany after the war, for a job that waited for Dad’s return from military duty. He chose the house with no input from Mom. Built in 1942, our house was a charmingly named Cape Cod Bungalow. Purportedly, the resilient design originated from the elf-shoe peninsula of Massachusetts, where pommeling Atlantic surf, saline spray and blowing sand weathered raw wood structures to an opulent green-ocean gray. Hundreds of miles west, our town had blowing sand, no alluring surf, and the murky Hudson River. Now, far from charming or opulent, this Cape Cod’s paint-flaking façade suffered a serious case of mange.

Keep moooving, I sighed, a touch breathless from the sultry air. I craved the relief of my air-conditioned car, ticking like a metronome as it struggled to cool on the blistered blacktop.  The equally hot sidewalk was bordered by weed-infested garden beds that quivered with activity in the scorching heat. Despite heat burning through the soles of my sandals, I watched the bees, wishing I could levitate. Looking at the wasted garden, I thought, Poor bees, I don’t know what you could possibly glean from there, it’s done for.

I shook my head, then stepped up to unlock and open the front door. Unpleasantly close air confronted me — unpleasant an understatement! My nose twitched. Once upon a time, the house had been airy and fresh enough, because of Mom’s unrelenting efforts. No more. Now, ghostly rectangles hovered mid-wall, faint residues from past artwork. Where furniture had once been situated, wall plaster and wood floors appeared eroded and bruised. The place felt ready to implode without the buttress of furniture. Nevertheless, I knew the house itself was sturdy – it had to be, to have withstood the years of unceasing vitriol slung within its walls.

With another tired sigh, I peeked in the solitary bathroom. My eyes burned from bleach so strong I imagined a crime scene cleanup — in a sense it was, I thought, blinking rapidly. A few paces into the kitchen, a random check revealed empty cupboards and drawers. Inspection of the other five rooms, where too-large furniture had made the small rooms even tighter, consumed all of five or six minutes. Nothing remained but a cobweb clinging to the lone ceiling fan.

Only recently did Mom ruthlessly cull her own possessions. Except for a new lounge chair, one floor lamp, her artwork and personal investment portfolio, and just before she relocated to the out of town, Retirement Home – heaven’s anteroom, her term – she sold or donated the furniture and distributed her meager treasures. She was still quite spry so why she moved to that particular Home, so distant from the city she knew, baffled us.

Mom did expect that certain things would be passed down through future generations and she wisely put our photographic history in my care. Her family’s original photo albums were severely disintegrating when she received them so she purchased three custom made albums filled with acid free paper, 18’’x 24’’, and remounted everything with liquid archival glue. She tackled that painstaking project after our father died. When she finished the yearlong task, each album weighed approximately twenty-five pounds, requiring a bit of manhandling; I don’t know how she managed it. The good thing was, nothing would ever fall off of those pages and they could be viewed to our heart’s content. Since my married younger brother never risked having children, I became the ‘pass on to future generations’ delegate. My two adult daughters (yes, they are also my husband’s girls) are our ‘future generations.’

The last place to check was the attic – a dreadful oven in summer. I jumped for the trap door pull-rope in the ceiling – not easy with my knees – and found that the darned door had gotten heavier over the years. With effort, the door squeaked down a few inches, enough for a dust cloud to sink into the hall, into my face and intensify the house’s distinctive Eau-de-parfum/Old-Folks-Home. It took minutes for my sneezing fit to pass.

"Blasted dust, darn nose. I truly want out of here!" My yell echoed through the house as I twisted to blot my runny nose on the sleeve of my white cotton blouse. Not ladylike, but that rope clutched in my paw was going nowhere. Despite crackling in my neck and a sharp pain in the shoulder, I hauled down the ladder until it wobbled to the floor with a squeal and a feeble click.

The first wood tread under foot creaked ominously. I froze. Going up ladders had never been a bother, but this one felt on the verge of collapse. That would be just my luck: fracture an ankle or leg, or suffer splintered wood puncturing an artery. In that case, I’d bleed out since my phone was baking in the car.

With a fervent plea, Please, God, preserve the wood! I climbed.

Reaching the top, my relief was short-lived. Daylight from the hall below did not soar upward to illuminate the utter darkness in the blast furnace. There was a hanging light up here somewhere, and my wind milling arms finally contacted the pull. The rotten cord fell off with the first tug, but at least the bulb came to life, such as it was. A sticky thread of spider web wafted over my face, along with dry bits of the unknown. Another sneezing spasm gripped me as I fought off the web and specks.

The puny bulb refused to shine beyond where I stood. I knew it was 25 watts. No need to see the lettering under its baked-on crust. Dad would have preferred a 15 watter. Mom fervently requested 40 watts. They compromised on 25 watts, which he considered extravagant and wasteful, but then, he never ventured into the claustrophobic attic with its sloped walls.

I started toward the far end of the space, hunched over, squinting rather blindly, recalling my childhood. With those perfect young eyes, the darkness actually spurred my imagination. I was like a bat with sonar then and often played up here in inclement weather, solitary with my doll, Heady Turny, or with Errol Bear, my one-eyed Teddy bear. We’d be sequestered in our aerie, conjuring deep dark forests, or other magical places, surrounded by Mom’s storage boxes that I’d wrestle into the requisite configurations, that dim lightbulb our cloud-covered moonlight.

The attic had been filled with things that Mom believed would once again be useful. When Dad objected, saying You’re creating a fire hazard, she always said, "I will save what I want, for whatever reason. The attic is my space."

Along with everything else, there used to be old toys made of real metal and real wood, which I reckoned were sent off as collectible antiques by now. My brother’s clothes were too abused to ever save, morphing into shop rags. Why Dad insisted that his son’s clothes be brand name and store-bought, and ultimately were quickly worn out, was beyond me. Most of my outfits survived, I believe, because of their fine quality. The dresses, sun-suits and costumes, were all Mom’s meticulous and creative handiwork. She smocked, embroidered, appliqued and hand sewed on beading and lace. As I outgrew things, Mom preserved them in mothproof bags — I’d bet those garments went to a pricy, vintage emporium. I wish I’d had the sense to claim them when my daughters were little girls.

I did possess a few of our classic storybooks: Hans Christian Anderson, Grimm’s Fairy Tales, Alice In Wonderland. Despite its shabby appearance I was happy to have saved the slightly battered, November, 1936 edition — the fifth printing of the first edition – Margaret Mitchell’s, Gone With The Wind. Mom had been bent on tossing it, saying, That movie caused more trouble than you can imagine.

I had no idea what she meant, because, the summer of my twelfth year found me totally immersed in the breathtaking O’Hara/Tara saga, long before I was allowed to see the film. That particular Albany summer had been one of those too-hot-to-move-a-body seasons. Oppressive as the humidity was, it set the mood, placing me smack in the middle of Scarlett and Rhett’s torrid Southern romance. I read the novel twice through. During that summer I became a sweaty Irish Scarlett, despite me looking nothing like Scarlett’s description. Flitting and swishing through the house in an old hoop-skirted gown that Mom bought at the Salvation Army store, I furiously tried to imagine what being embraced by Rhett Butler felt like. Even though he proclaimed that he didn’t, ". . . give a damn," I sure did!

Despite the near total darkness, I spotted something tucked far under the attic eaves. Gingerly poking with my toe, the thing didn’t budge. I scrunched down to get hold and prize it out. A dusty coat box by the look of it, cellulose tape curled away from the top flaps that appeared primed to burst open of their own accord. One bottom corner of the box had been gnawed away, presumably by rodents.

Why didn’t the movers take this out too? Annoyed, I briefly considered shoving it back under the eaves. Responsible me urged, Finish the job, for Pete’s sake. So, I nudged the wide, deep box across the floor to beneath the bulb haze. My scalp tingled with sweat as I stood to stretch my back. I snorted back the continuous nose-flood, unladylike again. Okay box. Why did you get left behind and not go out with the trash?

A faintly floral, herbal mustiness from the cardboard mixed with attic dust. It occurred to me that the scent might be lavender. I was melting in the superheated humidity, so I gave up, and knelt inelegantly on the rough pine floor to examine the ratty thing. With barely a touch, the disintegrating tape crumbled off, releasing a definite lavender scent. Mom had cultivated the herb in her once lovely gardens — another creative endeavor of hers – and hung bundles in the cellar to dry. A tiny sprig or two of the dried, aromatic herb would be found in our dresser drawers. She laid in GREAT quantities of it in my little brother’s. He had a penchant for stuffing his dirty clothes in with the clean, an irritating trait that even whippings from Dad could not break. I wondered how my little brother manages in adulthood without lavender to sweeten his life.

From my perspective, my pitiable brother lives with an enormous ‘sweet-pleasure deficit,’ and sadly, there is nothing I can do for him. Harry seems angry all the time, has been, since childhood. He hates his name, especially our surname simply because it was Dad’s, the man who inflicted verbal, and sometimes physical thrashings (when Mom wasn’t around) for our occasional childhood transgressions.

I have said to Harry: So, Harry, change it, what’s the problem? People do it legally all the time. Think of movie stars.

But then I remembered that Harry’s persnickety (I’m being kind here) wife, Helen, adores her married name and its supposedly celebrated pedigree and would never allow a change. Helen is also the type who stridently orders everyone around with what I privately refer to as her ‘whip and a chair.’ Because of her encouragement, I reckon that Harry dare not transgress, clothing-wise or any otherwise. It’s a pity that my beleaguered brother cannot afford to shed her along with the name. As I see it that places Harry‘n Hel, till death doth them part.

I gingerly opened the box flaps, leery of startling a rodent that would attack, fangs bared, or worse yet, finding a putrefying carcass, both sickening prospects. Fortunately, all seemed quiet under the yellowish tissue paper that crackled when peeled away in onion-thin layers.

The paper reminded me of Mom’s gift-wrapping regimen: one sheet of tissue per gift. In retrospect, the reason for this was probably Dad’s parsimony. He demanded that she not waste money, even her own, on gift-wrap. No matter that their progeny could see through any color tissue Mom tried, thereby crushing our childish anticipation.

Regardless, this abundance of paper was out of character for her. It looked like an entire package of paper, and inside a box at that. The tattered pile grew as my curiosity intensified, despite my pained knees and sweat-stung vision. I wiped my eyes with the hem of my blouse, thankfully a bleach-worthy garment, now that my black mascara streaks blended with perspiration stains.  

On top of the final tissue layers, tiny bullets of mouse droppings peppered the surface. A sour taste of bile rose in my throat. I breathed deep, swallowed it back and gathered up the thin paper, careful to keep the mouse dung contained.

Finally, there was a glimpse of red between tissue folds, dry lavender tucked in. I cautiously lifted the red fabric, lavender petals floating like wedding-confetti. A gentle shake dislodged remaining bits of paper and the disintegrating herb. A ruby-red crepe de chine silk dress hung from my fingertips, a dress I had never seen before. Except for sharp creases across the lap and around the waist, it appeared undamaged, apparently not palatable to rodents. As I examined the dress, a small square of paper fell from inside. I held it up to the dim bulb; a black and white photograph, clearly of my mother, though she had moved and was slightly out of focus. The frock she wore, even in black and white, was unquestionably this red dress. She stood stiffly erect, next to a World War II Army soldier. The man had his hand firmly around her slim waist. Pine Camp barracks, Dad’s same Army base, were behind them. Mom’s blurry face glowed, or grimaced . . . it was hard to tell which. His unidentifiable face was half buried in her beautiful wavy, long, strawberry-blond hair. Of him, a one-quarter view of jawline, an ear and his military haircut was visible. I felt an inexplicable twinge in the pit of my stomach. Written on the back of the photo, in faded blue ink, in Mom’s hand, 1942, no month or day. It could have been any of three seasons.

I stared at the photo and caressed the grainy, braille-like nubs of crepe de chine, remembering what I had been told about war years, how many girls, who were old enough, went out with soldiers. The thrilling allure of the uniform, I guessed. In my inherited albums, there were in fact, many photos of Mom’s sisters, cousins and friends with soldiers and other fellows. All of those pictures were labeled: names, dates and occasions. Why this exception? Who took the photo? And why only the year?

Mom never kept a diary or other written record of her life and was reluctant to speak much about her youth, so photos were all I had, most taken by my father after they were married. This photograph, 1942, was baffling.

I pondered this while scrabbling up from my knees to gather the empty box and debris and drop it all, unceremoniously, to the hallway below. With the dress draped around my neck and photo in my slacks pocket, I backed down the decrepit ladder, glad to make a safe descent to the relatively more temperate hall air. As I lifted the ladder, the pull-rope knifed painfully from my grasp and the whole mechanism violently sprang shut with an alarming crash. Another clot of dirt fell on my head. I brushed off and squinted angrily at the obstreperous trap door. Oh no! I left the light on. To hell with it! Stupid twenty-five watt bulb with no pull, you will just have to die of old age! I shouted up.

After the papery debris was stuffed in a trashcan, I said a last goodbye to the house, my feelings jumbled between extreme exhilaration and reluctant mourning.

During the long drive southwest — more than twelve hours to home, on a good day – full-on air conditioning circulated lavender scent through my car. I glanced at my crepe de chine companion draped over the passenger seat. Why were you alone in that box? Such a well made, expensive-looking dress, inside and out. I cannot imagine. But you sure were lovely on my mother, before she was Mom.

At my first pit stop, I found a radio station playing 1940’s War-era tunes and tried to envision Mom as seventeen or eighteen-years-old. Jazz, love songs and swing played. I hummed along until the harsh historic reality of World War II percolated into my consciousness. What trials her large, but poor family must have gone through.

I was born during that turbulent era, then later, throughout my innocent youth, holidays and summer vacations were spent in the midst of that boisterous Summer family crowd. Never once did I hear anyone speak of their lives during the War.

I drove on, remembering one little thing Mom did reveal: in high school years she worked cleaning someone’s house and took in ironing to make money. My overactive imagination sparked various scenarios. Could she have earned enough to buy fabric and make the dress? When would she even have had time between school, chores and jobs? Did her older sister give it to her? Could the soldier in the photo have given it? My mind flooded with questions.  

Maybe the entire idea that there was a story behind a few lone numbers, 1942, and a forgotten dress, was ridiculous. Anyhow, the fact is, I’ve always been inquisitive (always with questions, always too nosy for my own good, according to some) so I planned to reexamine the photo albums with new eyes and an open mind. There had to be a clue in there somewhere.

One thing I was reasonably certain of: Mom, in her decline, might not even remember the occasion or the man. There was almost no point in asking her. Could someone, somewhere, have knowledge about the photo or that soldier? If so, by now they’d have to be as ancient as my mother.

I threw a sidelong look at the dress. We shall see, won’t we, pretty thing? Somebody will ‘fess up, I chortled. "No one and no thing, is going to stop my search for whatever tale may be lurking in those photo albums. This will be fun!"

CHAPTER ONE

Monday, November 24, 1941

Watertown, New York

Anneliese

By the time I