Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1942)

I get my second wind. Bruce." That was all. Absolutely all. My lips pressed hard together as I started up the stairs, pressed tighter to keep from trembling, to keep back the tears. Oh, Bruce! Is that all you have to. say to me? I almost wished he had not written at all, for then I could dream and imagine what was in his heart and find reasons for his not telling me. But now I knew — and this was all! My feet dragged, going up the stairs. I tried to tell myself that Bruce was not a man to put his feelings into words — not even spoken words when we were close together, in actual physical contact. But it seemed hours that I spent climbing up those stairs, the emptiness inside me like a physical burden, too heavy to carry. But in my room I stopped short with a gasp. An enormous florist's box was lying on my dresser, so long that it extended, out beyond each side. My feet lost their weight as I rushed to open it, my lips forming the name, "Bruce — " He had never sent me flowers before. It was always understood between us that our money was better saved to hasten the time when we could be together. But now — maybe he realized how desperately I needed the assurances that he could not express on paper. My fingers tore at the strings, my heart rushing so that my throat was too crowded for breath. The cover was off at last and I breathed again — deeply, of a rich, delicious fragrance. The gorgeous bed of bloom lay, row by row, in exquisite bands of color, shading from the pale yellow of furled rosebuds in a froth of lacy baby's breath through the apricot and gold of snapdragons and gladioli to the bold tawny colors of African daisies. I had never seen flowers in such lavish profusion and yet chosen with such restrained regard for subtle color shadings. Along with my pleasure came the first uneasy doubt. Somehow this box of flowers didn't give me any sense of Bruce. 38 I remembered the times I had spent great care to match my accessories so that they would form exactly the right accents for my background costume, and then my disappointment when Bruce had merely said without a glance at anything but my face, "You're looking great tonight, Jan." And when I'd point out some of the tricks I'd managed to achieve on practically no money, he'd just laugh affectionately and say, "That's just a lot of window dressing. It's the merchandise I care about." Of course the look he gave me then would be enough to make up for any lack in attention to my clothes. But now — I drew the card slowly out of the tiny envelope, dreading to learn what I knew already — that these flowers were not from Bruce. I knew before I saw it what the name would be, and it was: Ferenc. The card dropped from my hand and I sank to the bed. I was suddenly weak, but not from disappointment, exactly. More from the shock of the crazy thought that had come to me. I told myself it was silly and false. It was disloyal even to let such an idea come into my mind. I tried to imagine the life Bruce was living, in which he was giving every ounce of his energy and spirit to the service of his country. How unworthy of me to blame him for not thinking up sweet nothings to soothe my heart which never would have needed it if it had been true and sure enough when he was here! Yet the question kept coming back to my mind. Was it a sign from fate that I received that card from Bruce and then these flowers — not from Bruce? 'T'HEY were bad company, those flowers, their poignant fragrance filling the air around me that evening as I tried to read, tried to forget the lonely emptiness inside me. Maybe that was why I was so glad to accept the invitation Ferenc brought me next day to dine with him and then go dancing. What is the magic about getting into an evening dress that can lift a girl out of the lowest spirits? I had bought that printed white cotton a year ago and never worn it once, for Bruce and I never went to places where people dressed in formal clothes. I just had not been able to resist the glamour of it — the simple fitted bodice with the heart-shaped neckline, the swirling skirt with its ruffles of pleated organdy. I had seen myself in it and been lost to common sense. Now I was glad, for my neck looked smooth and golden-tan, my hair fell in russet shining softness, and I had never seen my eyes look so darkly gray and yet so bright. Standing before the mirror I was almost shocked to hear my own voice humming gaily. Sometimes there is a little letdown, after the fun of preparation, when your date actually begins. But tonight, sitting beside Ferenc on the leather bench, sipping my drink and feeling a tiny spot of icy fire glow and spread inside me, I thought I had never seen a man as handsome as he was, with his black hair cleanly capping his well-shaped head, his skin dark above the frosty perfection of his white mess jacket. I looked around at the smart naval officers in all their gold braid and there was not one who had the distinction that Ferenc had. Nor one debutante who looked better than I did. A marvelous sense of luxury flowed through me. I felt as if I were taking part in a smart modern movie, and yet at the same time as if I had always been meant to live like this. "Have you preferences, or any distastes?" Ferenc was asking me, and I looked down at the enormous menu card the waiter had placed before me. The French names — and the prices — bewildered me. "Or would you be content that I should order for you?" I sighed in relief. "Oh, do, please. I like everything." I had only heard of green turtle soup before, but tonight I tasted it, with a glass of sherry whose flavor seemed just as new to me. "Like some special kind of spice," I told him, savoring it. "I had what you call the hunch," Ferenc said, pleased, "that those lovely lips of yours would appreciate the real Amontillado." "It's from Spain, then?" I asked, and when he nodded, I said, thinking aloud, "They used to tell us not to buy things that would help Franco." '"