Next to Love: A Novel

by Ellen Feldman

Overview

For fans of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society, The Postmistress, and Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet, a story of love, war, loss, and the scars they leave set during the years of World War II and its aftermath.
 
It’s 1941. Babe throws like a boy, thinks for herself, and never expects to escape the poor section of her quiet Massachusetts town. Then World War II breaks out, and everything changes. Her friend Grace, married to a reporter on the local paper, fears being left alone with her infant daughter when her husband ships out; Millie, the third member of their childhood trio, now weds the boy who always refused to settle down; and Babe wonders if she should marry Claude, who even as a child could never harm a living thing. As the war rages abroad, life on the home front undergoes its own battles and victories; and when the men return, and civilian life resumes, nothing can go back to quite the way it was.
 
From postwar traumas to women’s rights, racial injustice to anti-Semitism, Babe, Grace, and Millie experience the dislocations, the acute pains, and the exhilaration of a society in flux. Along the way, they will learn what it means to be a wife, a mother, a friend, a fighter, and a survivor. Beautiful, startling, and heartbreaking, Next to Love is a love letter to the brave women who shaped a nation’s destiny.
 
“Impossible to put down.” —Stacy Schiff
 
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Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780679643692
Publisher:	Random House Publishing Group
Publication date:	07/26/2011
Sold by:	Random House
Format:	eBook
Pages:	320
File size:	3 MB

About the Author

Ellen Feldman, a 2009 Guggenheim fellow, is the author of Scottsboro, which was shortlisted for the Orange Prize, The Boy Who Loved Anne Frank, and Lucy.  She lives in New York City.

Read an Excerpt

Prologue
July 17, 1944


    In the year-and-a-half Babe Huggins has worked for Western Union, she has been late only once before.  Maybe that’s why in the months to come she will occasionally persuade herself that some premonition delayed her this morning.  But in her more rational moments, she knows her tardiness has nothing to do with a sixth sense, only an unsteady hand when she draws the line down the back of her leg to simulate the seam in a nylon.  The odd thing is that before the war made off with nylons, her seams were rarely straight, but this morning, she washes off the crooked line, starts over, and is late leaving for work.
The walk uptown from her parents’ house, where she moved back after Claude shipped out, takes fifteen minutes, and by the time she turns onto Broad Street, the clock on the stone façade of First Farmers Bank says eight-ten.  As she hurries past the open door of Swallow’s Drug Store, she inhales the familiar mix of fresh coffee and frying bacon and medications.  Later in the day, when she goes in to get her Coke, the store will smell of tuna fish and grilled cheese and medications.  
     A line of men sit at the counter, their haunches balanced precariously on the red leatherette stools, the backs of their necks strangely vulnerable as they hunch forward over their coffee.  In the four booths along the wall, men lean against the wooden seatbacks, polished day after day, year after year, by the same shoulders.  Swallow’s is not the only drug store and lunch counter in South Downs.  There are three others.  But Swallow’s is the best, or at least the most respectable.  All the men there wear suit coats and ties, though this morning some of them have taken off the coats.  Mr. Gooding, the president of First Farmers, who lives in a large Tudor house on the western edge of town where the wide lawns rise and dip like waves in a clement green ocean, is already fire-engine red with the heat.  Only Mr. Swallow, standing behind the prescription counter in his starched white coat and fringe of white hair like the tonsures of the monks in the picture near the pew where she used to wait for confession, looks cool, or as cool as a man with two sons in the service can look.
Mr. Craighton, the undertaker, waves to her from his usual stool near the door.  She waves back with one hand while she digs the key out of her handbag with the other.  The key feels greasy.  The mayonnaise from her egg salad sandwich has seeped through the waxed paper and brown bag.
            She unlocks the door and steps into the small office.  It’s like walking into an oven.  Without stopping to put down her bag, she crosses the room, switches on the fan, and turns it toward her desk.  A heavy metal paperweight shaped like the god Mercury holds down the stack of blank telegram forms, but the breeze from the fan ruffles their edges.  When she goes next door to get a Coke to go with her sandwich, she will ask one of the soda jerks to give her a bowl of ice to put in front of the fan.  Mr. Swallow never minds.  Sometimes he sends a bowl over without her asking. 
    She walks around the counter where customers write out their messages, puts her bag in the bottom drawer of the desk, and takes the cover off the teletypewriter machine.  Only after she folds the cover and puts it in another drawer does she turn on the machine.  It clatters to life, quick and brash and thrilling as Fred Astaire tapping his way across a movie screen.  The sound always makes her stand up straighter.  She’s no Ginger Rogers, but as long as she stands over that teletypewriter machine, she feels like somebody.  She certainly feels more like somebody than she used to when she stood behind the ribbon counter at Diamond’s department store.  She never would have got the job if all the men hadn’t gone off to war.  Even then, her father laughed at her for applying.  Who did she think she was?  He said the same thing when she went to work at Diamond’s rather than the five and dime.  Who did she think she was?  It is the refrain of her life.  She has heard it from teachers, though not Miss Saunders in tenth-grade English; and nuns; and a fearful, suspicious gaggle of aunts, uncles, and cousins. 
Rumor has it that after the war Western Union is going to install one of those new machines that automatically type the message directly onto the blank form.  They already have them in Boston, but Boston is the big city, ninety-one miles east and light years away.  She is not looking forward to the new machines.  She likes cutting the tickertape and pasting it on the telegram forms.  She takes pride in never snipping off a letter and getting the strips in straight lines.  Not that it will matter to her what kind of machine Western Union installs after the war.  She had to promise, as a condition of being hired, that once the men start coming home, she will give up the job to a returning veteran and go back where she belongs.  She wanted to ask the man who interviewed her exactly where that was, but didn’t.
            The tickertape comes inching out of the machine.  She leans over it to read the check.  To most people, it’s the first line, but since she started working in the telegraph office, she has picked up the lingo.  The check tells where the telegram comes from.  She lifts the tape between her thumb and forefinger.
WMUC200 44 GOVT=WUX WASHINGTON DC
            She drops the tape as if it’s scalding.  Grace and Millie and the other girls she went to school with say they could never do what she’s doing.  They try to make it sound like a compliment, but what they really mean is their hearts are too soft, their skin too thin, their constitutions too delicate to serve as a messenger of the angel of death.  She does not argue with them.  She stopped arguing with them, except in her head, in third grade.  
She picks up the tickertape again to read the second line, the one with the recipient’s address.  In the cables from the war department, that’s the killer line.  Fear, hard and tight as a clenched fist, grips her chest as the letters inch out.  If the first few spell MR AND MRS, she is safe.  The dead boy has no wife, only parents.  If they form MRS, the fist in her chest clenches so tight she cannot breath.  Only when she has enough letters to read the name and see it is not hers can she suck in air again.
    She has never told anyone about the giddy relief she feels then.  It’s too callous.  She has never told anyone about the sense of power either.  As she watches the words inching out of the teletypewriter, she is the first one in town, the only one until she cuts and pastes the words, puts the telegram in an envelope, and gives it to B.J. to deliver on his bicycle, who knows something that will knock whole families’ worlds off their axes.  Sometimes she wonders what would happen if she did not deliver the telegram.  Could people be happy living on ignorance and illusion?  What if she delayed handing the telegram to B.J.?   Is it a crime or a kindness to give some girl another day of being married, some mother and father an extra few hours of worrying about their son?  Would she buy that extra day or hour if she could?
    She has another secret about those telegrams from the war department, one she will never tell anyone, not Millie, certainly not Grace.  Even if she still went to confession, she would not own up to it.  Once, in the past year-and-a-half, she read the name in the second line and felt a flash of relief, not that the boy was dead, never that, but that what he knew about her had died with him.  She knows the penance for most sins.  So many Hail Marys for lying or missing confession or sins of the flesh, which always sounds better to her than he-did-this-and-I-did-that, father.  But what is the penance for a black heart?
She looks down at the tickertape again.
            MRS…
The fist in her chest clenches. 
WALTER WOHL
The fist opens.  Mrs. Wohl is the widowed mother of a large clan that live north of town.  If you take the main road east toward Boston, then turn off onto School Road and keep going past the pond where the town swims in summer and skates in winter, you reach the Wohl farm, though almost no one does.  The Wohls keep pretty much to themselves. 
She goes on reading.
THE SECRETARY OF WAR DESIRES ME TO EXPRESS HIS DEEPEST REGRETS THAT YOUR SON PRIVATE EARL WOHL…

Editorial Reviews

Haunting and profoundly moving . . . At turns brave, frustrating, and fragile, [Ellen] Feldman’s characters live and love with breathtaking intensity.”—Booklist (starred review)
 
“A remarkable novel driven by the powerful engine of most great literature: the yearning for a self.”—Robert Olen Butler, author of the Pulitzer Prize–winning A Good Scent from a Strange Mountain
 
“An intimate look at how we can be dismantled and rebuilt by changing times.”—O: The Oprah Magazine
 
“A deftly revealing . . . portrait of the changing face of America . . . heartbreaking reality.”—Marie Claire
 
“An honest American experience of the aftermath of World War II rendered in sharp detail and full of pathos, Next to Love tells us what we hate to acknowledge—that personal battles don’t end with the armistice.”—Susan Vreeland, author of Clara and Mr. Tiffany

From the Publisher