“I’m leaving for church,” 11-year-old Dorothy
Mengel called to her mother in the kitchen as she slammed the screen door shut.
“I don’t want to be late . . .”
“You can help me with chores after lunch!”
her mother called to Dorothy.
Although her full name was Dorothea Mildred
Mengel, it seemed like such a big name for a young girl, born on a snowy
January 15, 1919, in Rock, Pennsylvania.
Every Sunday, Dorothy walked three miles to
Brown’s Lutheran Church through the Schuylkill County, Pennsylvania, hillside.
Although her mother, Emma Krause Schwartz, stayed home to cook Sunday dinner,
Dorothy tagged along with the neighbor lady, Mrs. Marburger.
“I’m coming!” Dorothy called to Mrs.
Marburger, as she ran down the dirt road after her.
The rolling, green Pennsylvania hillside
surrounded Dorothy and Mrs. Marburger on their Sunday walk. Mrs. Marburger
never said much, only that she hoped Dorothy made lots of friends at church and
might have even met a special boy.
“How’s Wilson?” Mrs. Marburger asked Dorothy.
“He might be the one for you . . .”
“He’s fine,” Dorothy said, blushing and shy,
looking at the steeple on the wooden church. “Besides, I’m too young to think
about grown-up things.”
She ran to the side door and headed to the
Sunday school on the first floor.
“Make sure you get a rainbow pin,” her
teacher said as she sat in the front row.
“Where’s Wilson?” Dorothy whispered. He must
be running late, she thought to herself.
Later, she hurried to the service on the
second floor, where hymns rang from the rafters. In between saying her prayers,
Dorothy noticed the unruly Wilson Moyer. Although he was three years older than
she was, Dorothy thought he was the most handsome of all the boys at church. He
had a crisp, autumn entrance into the world on October 9, 1916. Every now and
then, Dorothy would pass him letters in the middle of church, and he would pass
her notes back, which she kept between the pages of her Bible.
“Will you please walk me home?” Dorothy wrote
to Wilson on that particular day. She slipped him the note as she sat in the
pew behind him.
“Yes, I’ll walk you home,” Wilson wrote and
slipped the note back to her when no one was looking. “Meet me by the apple
tree after church, but I’ll have to run back to my house before my mom misses
me.”
During church, Wilson sat in the pew with his
brothers and sisters: Russel, Leo, Erma, Ruth, George, Joe, and Robert. May,
Wilson’s younger sister, had died at age four of pneumonia. Wilson’s parents,
Carrie A. Werner Moyer and Robert D. Moyer, insisted the children join Brown’s
Church Band to play at summer picnics—but the Moyers didn’t last long, because
they had a hard time sitting still, which was not much different than during
the church service.
“Sssh,” the usher said to the entire pew of
Moyer children, who were giggling.
Born March 11, 1891, in Jefferson,
Pennsylvania, Carrie was a farmer’s wife. Robert Moyer was born March 18, 1886,
in Wayne Township. His parents were Lewis Moyer and Mary Hain Moyer, and Lewis
was the twelfth child of Christian Meyer, who was born in Blsass Kovigreich,
Frankreich, on February 2, 1803, during the era of French military leader and emperor Napoleon Bonaparte. Educated in excellent schools in his homeland, he got passage on a
sailing vessel to America at age 18. In 1829, Christian came to Black Horse,
Wayne Township, Pennsylvania, becoming a school teacher at the request of
Valentine Brown, who offered him board and lodging in his own house.
“Christian Meyer, your great-grandfather, was
the first school teacher in the first school in Wayne Township,” Robert
lectured the Moyer children. “He taught there for 41 years, and somewhere along
the way, because of American accents, the family name changed to Moyer. He was
also the ‘Singing Meister’ and organist at St. Paul’s Summer Hill Church for
seven years. He was a farmer and a tombstone cutter. He married Catherine Fide
and had thirteen children by her. He would expect you to grow up into fine
young men and women.”
When Dorothy was five years old, her father,
Howard Mengel, died of pneumonia on February 10, 1924. Born on March 5, 1892,
in Auburn, Pennsylvania, Howard was her mother’s second husband. He was a
carpenter who worked for the Reading Railroad. His parents were George Franklin
Mengel and Rebecca Schullenberger Mengel. George Mengel’s mother, Ellen Moser,
was a Native American, buried at Red Church Cemetery in Orwigsburg,
Pennsylvania.
“Did I tell you that I have a Native American
ancestor?” Dorothy would say to Wilson. “I always thought that she was special,
almost like Pocahontas.”
“It must be why you’re so pretty,” Wilson
said, taking her hand and smiling.
One day after church, Emma decided to tell
Dorothy about her first husband, William Moyer, who had died in the coal mines.
“Dorothy, now, don’t you tell a soul, but one
afternoon, I was peeling potatoes for dinner and heard the screen door slam,”
Emma said, crying at the kitchen table. “William, my first husband, appeared in
a vision with his head bandaged. When I turned around, he wasn’t there anymore.
Minutes later, the coal miners brought him home in a burlap bag, which they
left on the porch.”
Feeling the grief of her mother, Dorothy’s
face filled with tears, and she ran for a handkerchief. Although Emma married
for the third time to Monroe Schwartz, Dorothy felt out of place. Her older
sister by nine years, Helen, still grieved the loss of her father, William,
while Dorothy and her brothers, Floyd, Harold, and Reynold, grieved the loss of
their father, Howard. Dorothy worried that her mother’s third husband, Monroe,
would die at any moment, leaving her family and his own children, Marie, who
was nine years younger than Dorothy, and Robert, who was eleven years younger
than Dorothy, without a father as well. Then her mother would have seven
children and no husband after three marriages.
She tried to forget her foreboding
feelings, but Dorothy always worried that something bad would happen. When
Floyd, her older brother by two years, was 14, a tractor ran over his foot and
caused an infection. Eventually, his foot became gangrene, and he died.
“Please God, let something good
happen,” Dorothy prayed in her heart.
Although she spoke English,
whenever she was worried, she mumbled in Pennsylvania Dutch, a dialect of
German that the whole family spoke.
“There’s not going to be a
thunderstorm tonight, is there?” Dorothy whispered to Wilson over the church
pew. “You never know when lightning is going to strike . . .”
“I don’t think so,” Wilson said in
a quiet voice. “Don’t worry so much.”
“I try not to worry, but just make
sure you never take a bath during a lightning storm,” Dorothy said, looking at
the sky through the stained-glass window.
When Dorothy was 12 years old, she
was taking socks down from the outdoor clothesline with her mother. A storm was
nearing and lightning struck the aluminum pole and clothesline and threw
Dorothy to the ground. She landed in a pile of stones and water. At the time,
her mother was bent over placing laundry in the basket, and the lightning
missed her mother. Emma ran to Dorothy, grabbed her, and rocked her in the
rocking chair inside the house until she stopped crying. In fact, lightning was
known to strike often in the Pennsylvania hillside.
During another bad storm in a
village near her home, a strong wind blew lightning through an open front door
all the way to the back door, destroying a chocolate cake on the kitchen table
to pieces. Bits of the cake splattered across the ceiling, cabinets, and
windows, with dark stains still found months later. Still to this day, the
chocolate explosion is legendary in the Pennsylvania countryside.
Despite all, Dorothy kept walking to church,
praying to find true love.
“Come on, Dorothy,” Wilson said, meeting her
under the apple tree after church. “Mrs. Marburger told me before service that
I should walk you home.”
“Do you like my rainbow pin?” Dorothy said,
showing Wilson the treasure she had received in Sunday school. “Rainbows have
something to do with promises. I tried to pay attention.”
“I like the music at church,” Wilson said.
“The sermons are kind of long . . .”
As the children neared Dorothy’s home, Wilson
picked her a wildflower from the field.
“This is for you,” Wilson said, handing the
flower to Dorothy.
“Thank you,” Dorothy said, watching her
mother standing at the screen door.
“Now, I’ve got to run home before my mom gets
angry,” Wilson said, sprinting away.
During the week, Dorothy attended De Binders
School House, a one-room school where she studied for eight years. With a
woodstove and no running water, Dorothy received basic education. Wilson
attended nearby Seigarts School House for eight years, also a one-room
schoolhouse. At school, Dorothy played baseball and horseshoes for fun, but she
missed Wilson and didn’t see him unless she walked to church with Mrs.
Marburger.
“I wish Wilson and I were in the same
school,” Dorothy said, doodling on the chalkboard. She tried to make elegant
cursive letters and perfect her signature.
After graduating the eighth grade, Dorothy
did housework for the wealthy families in Schuylkill County, which often made
her feel inferior and less-than her potential. Her favorite employer was Miss Margaret,
who always gave her extra money for her hard work. When Wilson graduated eighth
grade, he started working in St. Clair for the Reading Railroad car shop, where
he built railroad boxcars that carried coal. As Dorothy got older, one of her
friends bought a car, and a group of the teenagers piled in the car to go to
dances and movies on Saturday nights. Of course, Dorothy was happiest when
Wilson came with them.
“Could I have this dance, Dorothy?” Wilson
asked, taking Dorothy’s hand at one of the dances.
“I would love to dance with you,” Dorothy
said, walking on her tiptoes to the dance floor. Her below-the-knee frock
danced in rhythm to the music as Dorothy moved.
“Hitler has still been on the prowl in
Europe,” Wilson told her.
“I know,” Dorothy said, closing her eyes and
resting her head on Wilson’s shoulder. “Things always seem to go wrong, no
matter what I do.”
“We have to focus on what’s going right,”
Wilson said, taking her hand and twirling her.
Despite the war, which started in 1939, Dorothy,
22, and Wilson, 25, were officially dating. Dorothy expected that Wilson, like
all the other young men, would be drafted into World War II. Then one day it
came: a letter from the United States military requesting that Wilson report to
Pottsville for military duty where the men would then be shipped to Scranton, and
then to basic training. Dorothy was devastated. All her hopes of marrying
Wilson seemed to be crushed. Wilson had to leave for the war, while Dorothy was
forced to get a higher-paying job in a factory putting buttons and snaps on
baby clothes.
“I’ve had enough of buttons and snaps for the
rest of my life,” Dorothy said, folding the baby clothes into piles. With each
button and snap, all Dorothy could think about was having her own children with
Wilson, but he was now supposed to fight Hitler. “I hate Hitler,” she said.
At least Wilson had military leave and still
managed to come back for occasional Saturday night dances, where he romanced
Dorothy.
“Where are you going tonight, Dorothy?” Emma
said to her daughter. “Are you going out with Wilson again? I don’t know if
he’s good enough for you. Men are so much trouble.”
“Talk to you later, Mom,” Dorothy said,
running out the front door. “He’s waiting for me.”
Dorothy tried her best not to be discouraged
by her mother’s grief.
“I won’t be gone forever,” Wilson said,
dancing with Dorothy. “The war won’t last too long. Unless you want to get
married before I leave?”
“What if you die? Just like with my mother’s
first two husbands,” Dorothy said. “Since you’re leaving for the war, I doubt
Monroe, my stepfather, will allow me to marry you. Just promise to write me all
the time. It will seem like you’ve been gone forever.”
“Don’t think the worst, Dorothy. I’ll write
you as often as I can,” Wilson said. “You’re my girlfriend. When I get back
from the war, you’ll be my wife. We’re going to get married. I promise.”
Then Wilson kissed Dorothy, and they danced
all night.
After two years of military training, the
worst news came when Wilson told Dorothy that he would be sent overseas, and
there would be no military leave.
“I’m never going to see Wilson again,”
Dorothy told her sister Helen, crying.
Helen handed Dorothy a handkerchief to dry
her eyes. Before World War II started, Helen had married Charlie Grim, who
worked for Pennsylvania Power and Light. Because of his age, he wasn’t drafted
for the war. It seemed unfair to Dorothy that Helen’s dreams were not
shattered, but Dorothy’s were. Helen had no idea what to say to her.
For almost four years, Wilson wrote Dorothy
love letters. Every time she got a letter in the mail, she remembered passing
notes at church and wished Wilson was that close again. She usually received a
letter every other week or once a month.
“Did the mail come yet today?” Dorothy asked,
running to the mailbox and sorting through the letters. “Oh, there’s a letter
from Wilson . . .”
She ran to her bedroom, opened the letter
with a knife, and never showed it to anyone.
Then she quickly sat down at her desk and
spent all night replying to his letter. She made sure to send her letter out
the next morning, running to the postman before he made it
to her mailbox. She smiled at the postman, holding the letter close to her
heart.
“Please give this letter to Wilson with special
care,” she said, handing it to the postman.
“I will, Dorothy,” he said, grinning, placing
it in the front pocket of his leather bag.
Several days, Dorothy stood before an empty
mailbox, with the postman shaking his head, and she was sincerely concerned
Wilson’s letters went lost or missing.
When more than two weeks passed without a
letter, Dorothy worried so much that she went to Brown’s Lutheran Church to
pray.
“I just can’t sing a hymn today,” she cried
to God. “Wilson is not here. I’m alone . . .”
Although she went to Saturday night dances
with her group of friends, she had no other boyfriends. She sat in the corner
with her girlfriends, looked at Wilson’s picture, and watched the other couples
dance. Despite Wilson’s promise to her, she wondered if he had other
girlfriends overseas and hoped that they would still get married, like Wilson
promised.
Every Sunday, she would now walk to church by
herself, since Mrs. Marburger was too old to walk with her anymore. Dorothy
also wrote letters to her brothers, Harold and Reynold, who were drafted to
World War II as well.
“Dorothy, why aren’t you married?” her
supervisor at the button and snap factory asked her. “If I were you, I wouldn’t
wait for Wilson to come back from the war. What if he dies overseas? Then
you’ll never have any chance at all to get out of here.”
“Leave me alone,” Dorothy said, running into
the bathroom, crying. “Why, oh, why?”
On February 8, 1943, when Wilson was
overseas, Dorothy’s mother, Emma, died of a sudden stroke, leaving Dorothy more
heartbroken than ever and responsible for running the home for her stepfather
Monroe. She spent countless hours taking care of her younger siblings, Bobby
and Marie, dreading that something might go wrong at any minute. From time to
time, Foster, Monroe’s son by his first deceased wife, visited to console
Dorothy.
“Do you really want to get married anyhow?”
Monroe said to Dorothy. “I know you have your heart set on marrying Wilson, but
I need your help at the house. Marriage can really be a lot of trouble. Just
look at your mother, she had three husbands. Wilson could die any day now in
the war . . . and then what would you do?”
She stacked Wilson’s letters in a shoebox and
shoved them under her bed. When she missed him the most, she reread each of the
letters in order of their dates.
“Upon arriving in Europe, I’ve been serving
in England in the United States engineering department,” Wilson wrote Dorothy,
looking out the window as lightning flashed in the rainy British sky. It
reminded him of the lightning in the Pennsylvania countryside.
“I’ve been helping organize the rebuilding of
bombed bridges, where my department sends materials on boats to France and
beyond for reconstruction,” he wrote. “I haven’t seen your brothers Harold or
Reynold, but I’ve gotten a few letters from them. I think about you every
night, and I know we’ll soon be together. I’d cross the rainbow bridge to be
with you forever.”
“Harold has been in combat in Africa, where
he had a minor wound in the knee with shrapnel from a bomb,” Dorothy wrote to Wilson.
“I’ve been praying for all of you. Please come home. I miss you terribly.”
As the war progressed, Wilson continued
working in the United States engineering department in England. Despite
Harold’s wound, he served in Sicily, Italy, England, and Germany. Reynold
fought and then barely lived through the Battle of Iwo Jima.
“I think we’re close to the Nazis giving up,”
Wilson wrote to Dorothy. “Soon we’ll be married and this will be behind us . . .”
“I hope you’re right,” Dorothy corresponded
to Wilson. “President Roosevelt and Winston Churchill borrowed you from me for
a while, but it’s only for a while.”
Then word came across the news radio: “All
forces under German Nazi control ceased active operations at 23:01 hours
Central European Time on May 8, 1945.”
“As I’m sure you know by now, the Nazis surrendered,”
Wilson wrote to Dorothy. “I thought we would be coming right home, but my
department is traveling to Marseille, France, on the train. Then we board a
U.S. military ship and sail to the Panama Canal. The ship heads for Japan,
where I’m worried that I might face man-to-man combat. Up until now, I’ve only
been rebuilding bridges. I’ve heard it might be a costly invasion of the
mainland. I’ll write you as many letters as I can from the ship. Tell everyone
to pray. I’ll be home soon.”
As soon as Dorothy read Wilson’s letter, she
ran to Brown’s Lutheran Church in tears. She threw herself on the church pew,
sobbing and demanding that God send Wilson home.
“How can this be? The Nazis surrendered! Now,
he has to go to Japan?” she cried.
She spent all night on the church pew praying
until the morning sun broke through the stained-glass windows. It almost looked
like a rainbow, which reminded Dorothy of her Sunday school pin that she had kept clasped to her Bible with the notes Wilson wrote her as a child. Despite
her puffy eyes, she managed to get herself to work on time that morning, still
putting buttons and snaps on baby clothes.
Weeks later, after arriving at the Panama
Canal, Wilson received word that the United States had dropped atomic bombs on
Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and the war was finally over. Japan surrendered to the
Allies on September 2, 1945.
“Good news is that the war is over!” Wilson
wrote Dorothy from the banks of the Panama Canal. “I still have to head to the
Japanese Islands for clean-up efforts, but I won’t face combat. We have to help
send American weapons in Japan back to the United States.”
More excited than ever to return to Dorothy,
Wilson wrote her on colorful Japanese origami paper. He folded two swans from
origami paper and flattened them in the envelope.
“Several nights, I’ve gone to bed with muddy
boots due to heavy Japanese rains,” Wilson wrote Dorothy. “I was so tired, and
my boots were so muddy that I couldn’t get them off.”
After months in Japan cleaning up the
devastation of the war, Wilson flew back to California, then to Indian Town Gap
in Pennsylvania to be discharged from the military.
“Did Wilson say he would be back soon?”
Dorothy said, stopping by his parents’ home. “Any word from him? My family
still doesn’t have a telephone, so it’s hard for him to reach me.”
“Not yet, Dorothy,” Wilson’s father said.
“We’ll let you know as soon as he arrives.”
The day after Wilson returned in February
1946, he came to Dorothy with his family, and both families, including
Dorothy’s stepfather, Monroe, wept in tears. Sitting beside her at Dorothy’s
house, Wilson asked her to marry him, and they married on June 22, 1946 at
Brown’s Lutheran Church in Summit Station, Pennsylvania, with a rainbow
stained-glass window in the church. During the reception after the wedding,
Dorothy’s brother Bobby and her bridesmaid Jane Krater snuck into Dorothy and
Wilson’s wedding-night bedroom and threw Rice Krispies breakfast cereal on the
bed. Snap, crackle, and pop!
“I’ll finally have my own home and children,”
Dorothy said, crying. “I’ll never clean someone else’s house or put buttons and
snaps on someone else’s baby clothes.”
“I told you that I would keep my promise,”
Wilson said to Dorothy.
In the years to come, Wilson worked at Alcoa
Aluminum Company, and the couple lived in a two-story house with a wrap-around
porch and attic full of endless treasures. They raised a son and daughter, who
never experienced the sacrifice and danger of World War II. In a very true
sense, Wilson and the other noble men of the Second World War saved the world.
For her entire life, Dorothy didn’t show anyone
the love letters—except her daughter’s daughter. She gave her Bible and the
love letters to her granddaughter after Wilson had passed away September 16,
2004, in Reading, Pennsylvania, and Dorothy was sure that she would also soon
die. Although the letters were a secret, she told her granddaughter to keep
them as a promise of true love—which conquers all even in times of war and
great peril.
Copyright 2016 Jennifer Waters
Copyright 2016 Jennifer Waters
Dedicated to my grandparents Dorothy and Wilson Moyer.
https://soundcloud.com/jen-waters/handwritten
https://soundcloud.com/jen-waters/handwritten
