Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1942)

The loneliness that had come to fill her empty heart after Bruce left was her excuse for this midnight escapade — that, and the pride that would not let her break her promise THE STORY |>RUCE MacDOUGALL and I had wanted to get married for several years, but his financial obligations to his younger brother had prevented us. Now Bruce was free of that responsibility, but soon he would be drafted — and rather than wait for that to happen he enlisted in the ground crew of the Air Corps. The first I knew of this decision was when he came into the office where I worked for Dr. Dale, radio's "Counsel of Common Sense," and announced that he had passed his physical examination and soon would be inducted. In a panic at the thought that I might lose him forever, I begged him not to postpone our marriage any longer, and Bruce was upon the point of agreeing when Dr. Dale walked in. And after Bruce left the office, Dr. Dale advised me strongly not to rush into a marriage which could offer so few days of happiness. Dr. Dale was good at advising people; that was his profession on the air; and now he was able to present so many sound arguments against marrying a man who would soon be in the Army, that when I left him I was torn and confused. Bruce sensed this confusion when we met that evening, but he didn't understand the reason for it. He didn't realize, any more than I did, that our long, frustrated love for each other had made us not quite sane. Whatever the reason, we quarreled that night, and parted in anger — jealous anger on Bruce's part because we'd happened to meet Ferenc Vildar, who worked in the shortwave department of the radio station, and Bruce thought — or chose to think — that I was more interested in Ferenc than I was in him. And 1 didn't hear from Bruce again until an afternoon three days later, when he called me at the office — just a moment, as it happened, after Ferenc Vildar had dropped in for a visit — to say he was at the station, ready to entrain within a few minutes for a camp in Illinois. WHAT should I have done without Ferenc in that moment of sudden dreadful emptiness? I shall never forget the look of pain, almost, that twisted his lips in sympathy as he took the telephone from my cold hand and placed the steady support of his arm about my shaking shoulders. I don't remember the words he said, but I do remember the infinite gentleness of his deep voice as he spoke to me, telling me what seemed the deep wisdom of one who has known suffering and learned to bear it. But I didn't want to learn! Sometimes in the weeks that followed I rebelled against the quiet, fatalistic resignation that Ferenc would have taught me. I had spent three years dreaming my dream and I would not have it torn from my heart with this drastic sudden violence. No, somehow I must build it up again. "But you cannot," Ferenc said, his brown eyes velvet-dark in the dimness of the cool little bar where he took me one day when he had dropped into my offioo at closing time. "If it is gone, then—" he shrugged, "it is gone." "But maybe it isn't," I answered stubbornly. Across my mind were racing words thai I would write to Bruce, to bring back the dream passionate words of remorse and love and longing. Surely then Bruce would answer what was in his hearl "I have to know!" I said it aloud, urgently, so that Ferenc reached ou1 his hand to cover mine on the smooth dark polished wood of u„. table. "You will know," he told me gently, as if reassuring a child Then softly, his brown eyes shining, "If you truly wish to know, yon will receive a sign." Those words came back to me when I had left him and was climb ing the steps to my rooming house door. What sort of sign? Would it be in a letter from Bruce? That letter for which I had waited ten days? I felt the familiar choking suspense as I pushed the dooi open and ran toward the hall tabic. I was getting used to the sensation, and to the sickening slow deflation when I found no letter there, But today was different. I saw the picture on the postcard, a colored photograph of a fighter piano My hand went to it slowly, and stopped almost in dread of finding that it was for me. I did not want my'flril message from Bruce to be written on a picture postcard! But that was his round, uneven boyish writing on the back. I studied the address, telling myself his hand had written it, trying to get a thrill from the idea. But it was not there. My eyes went slowly to the message, hoping against hope for some kind of cryptic communication that would have some secret meaning for my eyes alone — a sign! But all I saw was, "Dear Jan; Sorry not to have written sooner but got swamped right away in seventeen-hour daily program. Swell stuff, but very Very tough. Will write more when