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.

She gazed coolly at this martinet before her, silently labeling him a "blind ostrich with its head stuck in the sand." Another year in this class would be insufferable. She had one more semester in her junior year, and she hoped she could hold her temper and tongue long enough to pass. "I’ll try, Mr. Blair. Perhaps I should give up my motorcade training." There! she thought. That should answer your unpatriotic slur.

Mr. Blair drew himself up to his full height. "I pity the poor soldier that is chauffeured by the likes of you. You’d always be late and would need help cranking up the car. But enough about you, Laura." His cold smile reappeared. "It’s just that every day you give me fresh reminders of what a student ought not to be."

"Really!" Her eyes widened in all innocence. "That’s strange, Mr. Blair, because I’ve tried so hard to pattern my behavior after your advice."

This time loud guffaws broke out.

Rapping his pointer sharply on the desk, he glared at Laura. The scorn that emanated from his blue eyes skipped over the heads of the students in front of her and swooped down on her, as if she were a mouse and he an avenging hawk.

Laura opened her book without another word, realizing that too much goading of this narrow-minded, intolerant teacher could only hurt her chances of promotion. She had seen that same look of contempt on a policeman’s face before he shoved one of the suffragists into the police van. Soberly Laura studied the map in her textbook, warning herself to tread lightly where Mr. Blair was concerned.

Mr. Blair asked Olaf to read his theme as an example of what the essay should contain.

Olaf Jorgensen lumbered to his feet and ambled up to the podium where he shifted uneasily behind the stand. His theme praised the United States and equality for all. Laura had to admit it was organized well, and Olaf had used specific examples to emphasize his major thesis.

The day crawled by, and her heart was as heavy as the books she carried. If she could only make Mr. Blair see that she also had some good examples in her paper and that she could write, too. The awful part of it was that she couldn’t even go in and talk to him about it, because he had such a closed mind. She vowed to show her paper to Miss Emerson and get her opinion. If it really was a bad paper, she could then accept Mr. Blair’s grade more gracefully.

After school she hurried to see Miss Emerson, who was grading papers. Laura always liked coming into her colorful classroom with its posters and portraits of Shakespeare, John Milton, Charles Dickens, and the Bronte sisters.

Unlike Mr. Blair’s barren desk, Miss Emerson’s was cluttered with papers, a framed class picture, and a coffee cup near her books.

Her English teacher looked up and smiled. "What can I do for you, Laura?"

Suddenly tears sprang to her eyes. "It’s Mr. Blair. He gave me a D on my theme." She gulped. "Do you have time to read it and give me your opinion?"

"I’m certain I’ll like it better than Mr. Blair, but that will be small consolation," she said ruefully.

"It would console me," Laura said. "If it’s a rotten essay, then I can accept his D." She wiped away a tear, composed herself, and offered her the theme. "Would you read it?"

"Of course, I’ll read it," Miss Emerson said sympathetically, taking the paper that Laura held out to her.

After ten minutes Miss Emerson looked up from the theme, tapped the paper with her pencil, and said, "This is good. Oh, there are a few minor flaws in syntax and verb agreement, but that’s minor compared to your powerful subject. The suffragists are a movement that can’t and won’t be ignored, despite Mr. Blair’s attitude. I myself go to the suffragist meetings, but that’s beside the point." She leaned back in her armless desk chair, swiveling back and forth. "You realize I can’t interfere with another teacher’s grade."

Laura breathed deeply with relief. "I value your opinion, Miss Emerson. It’s so unfair being stuck in his class. Not only does he make history boring, but he hates me." She fingered a button on her blouse. "You don’t know how I dread going into his class."

"Stick it out, my dear. You have only a semester left of Mr. Blair, and you must realize that all through life you’re going to encounter men like him. Most are not quite as open in their dislike of any form of emancipation of women as Mr. Blair, but you’ll encounter his attitude in many ways and from many individuals. Some women are just as bad." Her gray eyes flashed. "Set yourself a goal. Do you have a goal in life, Laura?"

Laura shrugged, hating to admit that her career goal of being an architect had gone up in smoke. "I — I don’t really have anything in mind," she stammered, and managed a smile. "If I set my sights too high, my sister and mother bring me down to earth in a hurry."

"Nonsense," Miss Emerson snapped. "You can be anything you want to be, and no one can hold you back. I’ve been watching you, Laura Mitchell, and you’ve got style, ambition, and fire. Go to college and don’t let anything hold you back. It’s different now than it was in 1898 when I attended college. Then there was a set curriculum for young ladies. Now there are many fields open: science, law, medicine, the arts," she said, ticking them off. "Oh! It’s four o’clock and I have a meeting." Abruptly she stood. "Come in and talk anytime, Laura, but I can’t run interference between you and Mr. Blair. That’s something you’ll need to solve yourself."