All's Fair in Love and War

October 3, 1918

My Darling Nellie,

I was saddened to hear of your father's passing. I know how much he meant to you and you to him. My poor dear girl, I cannot imagine the grief you must feel. If only I could be by your side to kiss your tears away and bring that lovely smile back to your face!

Know that he is in Heaven looking down upon you with love, and he wouldn't want you to be lonely. You say you wish to make your own way in the world. You say you're not the marrying kind, but I disagree. The life of a spinster is a solitary one. Don't you think your poor father would want his only daughter taken care of?

I can provide for you as he once did, if only you'd allow it. Fret not, my dear Nellie. Soon the war will end, and I'll come to you. Until that blessed day, I remain ever yours.

Tom

November 11, 1918

My Darling Nellie,

My dear girl, the war is over! Today at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, the armistice was signed, The moment the fighting stopped, I sat down to write this letter and tell you the exciting news myself. I’m finally coming home to you, my love! God willing I shall make it home in time for Christmas. You cannot imagine how much I’ve missed Minnesota at Christmastime!

These many months away, you are all that kept me fighting strong. The memories of the last time I saw you made even the darkest nights in the trenches a little brighter. I remember that day well, my dear Nellie, and I trust you do the same. It was at my mother’s garden party the week before I shipped off to war. You looked so beautiful in your blue dress, the same shade as your eyes. Do you remember how we kissed beneath the apple tree that night? The memory has seldom left my mind since I left your side.

It’s hard to believe over a year has passed since that magical evening! I envision you now, still looking as lovely as ever. Next year when spring comes, I shall be home to you, and we will be married when the apple tree blooms anew. Until then, I remain ever yours.

Tom

December 18, 1918

My Darling Nellie,

I write this letter from a hospital bed in France. The Spanish Flu has hampered our mobilization efforts. I'm sorry, my dear Nellie. I must break my promise to you. I had hoped to return to you for Christmas, but it is not to be. Our commanding officer now says homecoming could be delayed until spring. God willing I shall still be home in time for a June wedding!

Your letters have been so few and far between these many months. Why do you not write? Are you well? I pray you have not been afflicted with this dreadful disease as I have. Every day, I see my brothers at arms lying, coughing, dying around me. It makes my heart weep to imagine you in a similar sickly state.

Don't worry about me, my dear Nellie. The nurses here are kind, though they pale in comparison to your lovely face and sweet voice. Please write soon, and know that I am ever yours.

Tom

February 27, 1919

My Darling Nellie,

Your silence speaks volumes. Each day I wait and pray for word from you, only to have my hopes dashed with each sunset. To what do I owe the displeasure of your distance? Has some other man come along and swept you off your feet in my absence?

If that is the case, I beg you to reconsider. Whoever he is, he isn't half the man I am. I can give you anything your heart desires… fine dresses, jewelry, a place in high society. All I ask in return is that you keep my house and bear my children.

I don't understand you, Nellie. Any other girl in Minneapolis would jump at the chance to be my wife, many of whom wealthier and prettier than you, yet you rebuff my advances. It's time to put your girlish notions of independence aside. I'm due home at the start of April. I hope by that time, you will have come to your senses. Don't forget I fought and won this war. I will fight for your hand as long as it takes.

Ever yours,

Tom

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(Excerpt from Nellie Warren's diary, March 1919)

March 19

Another letter from Tom arrived today. When I arrange the letters he’s sent since he went off to war nearly two years ago, the papers cover my bed. As I reread the words, my stomach turns with dread at the thought of marriage. Should I marry Tom, I would cease to be Nellie Warren. I would be Mrs. Tom Hansen.

Not only would I lose my identity, I would have to sacrifice my job at the library, my fight for women’s rights, and my dreams of becoming a schoolteacher like Father. How could I possibly study for my teaching certificate while being Tom’s little housewife? He would expect me to cook for him, clean for him, kiss him, bed him… The very thought disgusts me!

Only Father understood. He knew my dreams. He knew the kind of man Tom is, but now he’s gone. Uncle wants me to marry Tom. He says he can no longer support me, though I have no idea where he got such a preposterous notion when I’m the only one in the family who works outside the house!

It isn’t as though I haven’t thought of marriage before. It’s lonely watching all of my friends marry and drift away. If I ever fell head over heels in love with a man, I might consider it, but I doubt that will ever happen. I don’t think it’s in me to love a man that way, especially not Tom. The sweet, romantic feelings that women are supposed to have seem to have passed me by. Are some people born without those feelings, or is there something wrong with me?

March 21

Joan invited me to a vaudeville show this afternoon. Bless her, she’s such a true friend, the only one I have left who didn’t abandon me for the first man to make eyes at her! I would usually decline, as I find vaudeville a shallow form of entertainment, but Joan loves it. She dreams of someday becoming a vaudevillian. I don’t know why I accepted. Maybe it was for a reprieve after months of the schools and theaters closed for the flu. Maybe it was to take my mind off my troubles, or maybe it was because it was important to Joan. In any case, I’m happy I did!

I always thought vaudeville silly and emotionless until I saw The Sam Scanlon Band. Mr. Scanlon has a voice like nothing I’ve ever heard! He sings with such emotion to melt even the hardest hearts. Listening to him was enough to make me weep.

Mr. Scanlon is a soft-spoken dark-haired man of about thirty. Joan and I were fortunate to meet him after the show. He invited us backstage, and the strangest thing happened! The pianist entered while we were talking and asked Mr. Scanlon for the sheet music for tomorrow’s show. When he couldn’t find it in the pile on his table, I arranged his music using a method based on the Dewey Decimal System. Mr. Scanlon was so impressed, he offered me a job! “We can use someone with an eye for detail like yours, “ he said.

Mr. Scanlon is giving me until Monday to decide. Joan says I would be foolish not to accept, but how can I betray her? Vaudeville was her dream! My dreams lie in the library, not the limelight.

March 22

My hands shake so much, I can hardly hold the pen steady. I must pause to dry my tears as I write this dreadful news. Uncle found the letters from Tom hidden in my room while I was at the show yesterday. He demanded to know why I hadn’t written back, and he was unsatisfied when I told him the truth: I don't love Tom and never will.

Uncle laughed. “What does love have to do with it? Tom is a handsome man with money, more than a silly librarian’s salary can offer you. You’d better settle down now before the bloom is off the rose. He’s as good as a girl like you is going to get.”

When I refused, Uncle said I’m no longer welcome in his house if I don’t marry Tom. The whole family heard, and none of them stood up for me. Not Auntie, not any of my cousins. I don’t know if their silence was from hate for me or fear of him, but it matters little.

My mind is made up. I won't lie to Tom by professing love. I won't lie to all of Minneapolis by taking the marriage vows. Tomorrow I will join The Sam Scanlon Band. I leave before sunrise. Uncle will think I’ve gone to work early. By the time he learns the truth, it will be too late.

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The next evening, Nellie’s uncle received the following letter:

March 23, 1919

Dear Uncle,

When you find this letter, I will be long gone. I have taken a job with a vaudeville act. We leave Minneapolis this morning. I would be dishonest if I said this was the life I'd imagined for myself, but faced with the inevitability of marrying Tom if I stay, this is the lesser of two evils. I’m choosing the unpredictability of vaudeville over the monotony of domestic life.

This letter is not a tearful goodbye or a plea to return home. It is revelation of a horrible truth. The man you demanded I marry is a scoundrel and a cad. The last time I saw Tom Hansen, he forced himself upon me. Do you remember that day, Uncle? Mrs. Hansen’s garden party? I stayed at Joan’s house that night because I was feeling poorly. That was so you would never see what he did to me… my torn dress, my cuts and bruises.

Tom’s sister lured me away from the party under the guise of needing my help. Tom waited behind an apple tree near the house. As soon as he got me alone, he attacked. He stole my virtue that night. It's only by the grace of God that there was no baby! I kept this dark secret because I knew Tom’s looks and money would buy the town’s favor, and I would be further disgraced. Your harsh words last night only confirmed my suspicions. Was I wrong, Uncle?

I don’t expect you to believe me. After all, who would take the word of a silly librarian over a war hero? Only Father and Joan knew the truth. Since Father is dead, you’ll have to ask Joan to confirm my story, should you be so inclined, though I doubt you would believe her either.

You needn’t worry about me and my newfangled ideals anymore. I won’t be back. When Tom returns, tell him I died of Spanish Flu. Tell him I married another man and moved away. Tell him what you must to keep your conscience clear; it matters not to me. I hope you will learn something from this and not force your own daughters into marriage against their will the way you did to your sister’s daughter. Wherever Mother is now, I know she’s looking down from Heaven ashamed of you.

Goodbye, Uncle.

Nellie