Free Farmerettes by Gisela Sherman Page B

country. Lots of farms. At least he’ll get enough food.”
    â€œNo one in Europe has enough food. I’ve seen photos of the bombed-out fields.” Jean kicked a clump of earth. Then, wistfully, she said, “You’ve been to Europe?”
    â€œNo. When I was twelve, my parents toured the continent. They brought home photos of too many museums and churches. It was their pictures of forests, vineyards, and mountains that took my breath away.”
    â€œThey saw the canals of Venice? The Alps? Walked the streets of Paris, where Hemingway and Fitzgerald sat and compared ideas?” Jean sighed.
    Binxie assessed Jean’s muddy work boots, muscled arms, and intelligent blue eyes. She had underestimated this country girl.
    As if she had read her mind, Jean stared straight back at her. “I follow the news on the radio. I’ve read every novel and magazine the library holds. My favorite Christmas gift is a book.”
    â€œThen you know more than I do,” answered Binxie. “I don’t read much outside of school. I mean to, but there’s so much else to do.”
    The setting sun profiled Jean. “Is it wrong to long for more? For a lot of my neighbors, Winona was the whole world. Then the war came and suddenly Winona shrank. Our fathers, brothers, and sisters went to train in Calgary, Ottawa, Halifax, even Washington. Now they’re in England, Italy, Africa, and Asia. I know they face terrible danger, but they’re out there, seeing the places I dream of.”
    â€œThat’s why your horses are named Rio, London, Oslo, Cairo, Bombay, and…why Merlin?”
    â€œBerlin until the war started.”
    Binxie smiled. “Kathryn predicts one day people will fly across the ocean to distant countries quite regularly. Can you imagine?”
    Jean shook her head.
    Binxie leaned toward a branch to sniff the blossoms. “Africa fascinates me. Deserts and jungles, lions, elephants, and pyramids.”
    â€œAnd Australia,” added Jean. “So far away and exotic. Kangaroos, koala bears…”
    â€œAnd crocodiles lying in wait at every river, not to mention the snakes.”
    Jean laughed. “Maybe visiting in books is safer.”
    Tuesday, June 15, 1943
    Helene
    â€œWhat’s wrong with Jean’s father?” Rita asked Helene.
    Helene watched Mr. McDonnell walk from the field, his head up, fists clenched. “He looks fine to me,” she answered. She adjusted her position and resumed hoeing the vegetables. She hated gossip, especially about someone’s family. Mr. McDonnell spoke kindly to her. His quiet manner, his large gentle face framed by thinning brown hair, reminded her of her father on the good days long ago.
    He had just shown Isabel how to straddle one row of cabbages and hoe the crusty earth on either side of it—for the third time—with no display of impatience or anger. When Isabel smiled, looking helpless in her baby blue shorts and frilly white top, he had hoed the soil for several feet to demonstrate.
    Jean had hurried over and curtly warned Isabel, “You need to cope by yourself.” She joined her father for a quiet but vehement argument. It ended with Mr. McDonnell leaving the field, head held up in stiff pride, eyes straight ahead.
    â€œJean sure is bossy,” Grace said. “My dad wouldn’t put up with that.”
    Helene knew Jean was worried about her father working in the heat.
    Stella snorted in agreement. “My dad keeps us all in line. Says a good swat on the backside builds character. He’s already a captain in the navy, and I’ll be a WREN in nineteen months.”
    â€œI hope the war doesn’t last that long,” said Helene.
    Peggy shuddered. “Every month the war continues, more innocent people die. My cousins in Coventry were bombed out of their home in 1940. They were lucky—their neighbors died. They go to bed every night praying the Luftwaffe won’t