The Moon and All the Stars
By W.A. Vaughan

From the Memoirs of Grace Bailey -------

It isn’t often that I find myself nostalgic for the days of my youth, lived as they were in the shadow of the Great Depression, the rise of fascism, two world wars, and my domineering mother. Throw in a few family tragedies and a love life that all too frequently felt like one catastrophe after another and most days the comparative peace of my old age seems very inviting. Still, there are moments when a scent, a turn of phrase, or a glimpse of a dear face in a black and white photograph sets me reminiscing. Past joys and kindnesses and the sharing of them that made them all the sweeter come flooding back. At such moments, I can understand why so many of us cling so fiercely in our old age to times that will never return.

The one time above all others that affects me this way is the Christmas season.  The presence of rejoicing amid the chill of winter is a needed reminder that even in the darkest times life is not all hardship and sorrow. It is always a treat to have so many of my loved ones visit. However, even in their welcome company, my mind turns sooner or later to friends and family recently and long since departed. Honey, Max, Jack, Bob, my parents, Toppy, Ollie, and so many others fill my thoughts. Sometimes, I glance at Van’s photograph on the mantle. The sight of him, handsome and vigorous in the uniform of the Abraham Lincoln Battalion, is all it takes to carry me back to a time when one of his infectious grins could make my heart flutter like a sparrow. For a moment, that same heart casts off weariness and forgets that it is no younger then the aged, wrinkled body that contains it. I think back to the second Christmas Eve of the Spanish Civil War and more than fifty years vanish as though they had never been. Mother, her ward Maisie, and I were taking a moment to sit in the parlor and catch our breath before it was time to start Christmas Eve dinner. Maisie was reading yet another book loaned to her by Dr. Barlow from his medical library. We were all enjoying restorative cups of hot cider.

I should probably say a kind word for my mother at this point. May Bailey could be very strict and controlling when I was living with her during the 1920’s as what amounted to her unpaid housekeeper and companion. Nonetheless, she was not unloving. She was just absolutely certain that she knew what was best for everyone else, especially me. Fortunately, she became more thoughtful and considerate as the 1930’s wore on. I mostly credit the mellowing influence of her grandchildren-especially Hub and Henry-after their mother, Honey, moved her family to New Bedford. This was just before Honey’s husband, my brother Jack, died. Mother still backslid occasionally and we had more than a few disagreements over her reluctance to recognize that I was a grown woman. However, it’s safe to say that she went from completely impossible to only moderately impossible. Her stroke in the spring of 1936 hastened the transition. Faced with her own mortality, she took a more tolerant and understanding view of life and her family. She remained a commanding figure, but one with much better control over her urge to meddle.

This is not to say that she was unwilling to express concern if she felt something was troubling any of her family. As we sat in the parlor, she mentioned that I had hardly touched my cider and asked me if there was anything wrong. Besides my problem of the moment, a lot of things were wrong, all going back to the day in September of 1936 when I had learned the truth about my marriage. Behind his businessman front the husband I adored was a high class con artist who had involved me as an unwitting accomplice in one of his swindles. I know. It sounds like one of the ridiculous plots from those overwrought soap operas that Mrs. Cramps used to run in the afternoons on CRNB. It didn‘t feel ridiculous when it happened to me. It felt like someone had smashed my life into a thousand pieces and left them lying at my feet like so many shards of broken glass. Every one of those shards seemed a mirror reflecting a broken dream, a lost possibility, or a crushed hope.

Is it any wonder that in my pain and humiliation I convinced myself that I hated Van and sought revenge. My scheme to use his love for me to hurt him as he had hurt me didn’t work as I expected. I failed to trick him, but I did hurt him. I have rarely felt more ashamed in my life than I did when I saw the pain in his eyes as he told me that he understood that his deceit had destroyed our marriage and any feeling I had ever had for him. It was only as he walked away afterwards that I realized that he was wrong, at least about my feelings. All the anger and bitterness fell away and I knew that I still loved him.  I should have run after him but I was too stunned by shame and regret and afraid that he would not believe what I had to say. It was only later that day that I regained my courage and tried to find him. What I didn’t know was that he had gone directly from me to the town square where a recruiter was signing up volunteers for the newly forming International Brigades. Within the hour, he had enlisted and was on his way to Spain.

When I learned what he had done I was shaken and fearful. I was aware of and shared Van’s strong distaste for fascism and dread of what might happen if its spread wasn’t halted, but it had never occurred to me that he would go this far. I had also read the newspaper reports of the bloody and merciless fighting then raging in Spain and could hardly bear the thought of Van hurling himself into that maelstrom. There was only one thing to be done and I did it. I left for Toronto the next day determined to find Van. This I achieved by walking into the offices of the Toronto Star and persuading a sympathetic reporter to introduce me to a contact from the Canadian Communist Party. It took a while, but I was able to convince the contact to get a message to Van asking him to meet with me.

The meeting took place in Queen’s Park near the statue of Sir John A. MacDonald. We greeted each other tentatively and passed a few moments with small talk. Then Van assured me that he was glad to see me and asked me why I wanted to see him. I began with stumbling thanks for his restitution to the victims of his swindle. Also for investing under what neither I nor my mother had realized was his real name in the Silverdome Mine-an act that had saved the family business from going under. Then it all came pouring out-my regret that I had ever tried to take revenge, my sincere forgiveness for what he had done to me, and my hope that he could forgive me. I have rarely heard sweeter words than the ones he spoke then. “Of course, I forgive you. I should have realized how deeply hurt you were. I should have told you that I’d paid back the money I swindled out of the Estabrooks. I had no right to expect you to take my reformation entirely on faith.”

“Maybe not, but I should have told you that just saying you intended to change wasn’t enough. Maybe you would have told me about repaying the Estabrooks and I wouldn‘t have behaved like such a fool.”

“I’m just glad to know that you don’t hate me any more. You’ve lifted a weight from my heart.”

“I love you, Van. I may have forgotten that while I was lost in a fog of anger, but I never stopped loving you.”

“I love you too, Grace. I wish there were still a chance for us, but I can‘t return to New Bedford with you. I’ve made a promise that I have to keep. I didn’t enlist in the International Brigades just to escape the wreck I made of our life together, although that was part of it. Fascism has to be stopped in Spain before it sweeps every last vestige of civilization and democracy from the face of Europe if not the world. It won’t be easy. This war is brutal and there‘s no knowing how long it will last or how it will end. Even if I hadn’t treated you so badly, I haven’t any right to expect you to remain part of my life under those conditions. What can I possibly offer you with an ocean between us and no guarantee that I‘ll ever come back? You should go home to New Bedford, get a divorce, and go on with your life. I have more than enough from legitimate investments to repay all my victims with interest and still make you a reasonable settlement. I’ll sign a statement affirming that I’ve deserted you so there shouldn’t be any legal obstacles.”

I stared at him with my jaw hanging open in disbelief. “What did you think I meant when I said I loved you? That it was for better only? That I can’t see that you’ve put your old life behind you? Do you honestly think I could turn my back on you when you’re about to risk your life for others in a foreign country?”

“Grace . . . .”

I put my finger to his lips. “I don’t know if reconciliation is possible or if we’ve hurt each other too much for that, but I think it’s worth waiting until you come back so we can find out together. I will wait for you and I will keep on loving you.”

“Do you really mean that?”

“I’ve never meant anything more in my life.”

We stood staring into each other‘s eyes for a moment, hardly daring to believe in the hope we saw there.  Then I spoke to break the tension. “We can write to each other while you’re gone.”

“I’d like that.”

“I’m glad.“ I dug into my purse and pulled out a letter. “This is for Will Lane. His parents gave it to me before I left New Bedford.”

“It was good of you to bring it. I don’t know that anyone that young has any business in a war. He can‘t really be nineteen, can he?”

“It’s hard to believe, but he is.”

Van promised that he would deliver the letter and that he would write from New York before he left for Spain. We kissed before saying goodbye. I prayed that it wasn’t for the last time.

Vanaver Mainwaring to Grace Mainwaring October 30, 1936

… Will sends his thanks for the letter and for visiting his parents. He wonders if you could keep an eye on them while he‘s away. His brother and sister stay in touch with them, but neither lives in New Bedford. Living on the outskirts of town, they haven’t many neighbors. I have taken Will under my wing as much as I can and have gotten some help in that regard from a fellow American, Harry Schmitz. Harry is a tall, easygoing negro from West Virginia who was a miner himself. He lost his job three years ago, wandered up to Canada looking for work, and became a communist during the On to Ottowa Trek. . . . Many of our group were reluctant to warm up to me. They couldn’t understand why a wealthy businessman would join impoverished workingmen like themselves in the Internationals. I told them about the uglier sights of my trip to Germany three years ago. I also made clear my disgust with the sympathy for fascism harbored by most of the rich and powerful in both Canada and America. That two authentic proletarians like Will and Harry vouched for me helped. So did your photograph, at least with Mackie Cohen, a tough egg from the slums of Toronto. When he saw me looking at it, he figured that to leave a knockout like you behind I must be the world’s most dedicated antifascist. That or a complete lunatic. …

Grace Mainwaring to Vanaver Mainwaring November 4, 1936

Please, tell Will that I will be happy to look in on his parents in his absence. It‘s easy enough for Maisie and I to stop by on our visits to Roolie. You remember Roolie, the old Gypsy woman I took you to see when we were courting. .… The sensation your enlistment in the International Brigades caused here in New Bedford has mostly died down. I was almost kicked out of the Daughters of the Empire because of it, though. Dot Grady was on her high horse about you associating with communists. I defended you, but it was really mother who saved the day. She told everyone that you and your fellow volunteers, communist or not, are willing to risk your lives to defend people you don’t even know from slaughter and enslavement at the hands of traitors and mass murderers and she admires you for it. You should have seen Mrs. Grady’s face turn purple when mother told her that she couldn’t remember the last time she or her husband so much as went out of their way for anyone but themselves. Mother also made much more than it deserved of my volunteer work with the D.O.E. and of one or two good turns I’ve done for members in the past. I’ve never heard her say so many nice things about me at one time before in my life. Anyway, I remain a member in good standing of the Imperial Order of the Daughters of the Empire, New Bedford Chapter.

I am back working at CRNB, although only part time. Jim Flett has a full teaching schedule until next summer, so Mrs. Cramps needs the help. Of course she waited to ask me until the DOE vote showed that I was still in the good graces of New Bedford society. I refused her suggestion that she cut back Jim’s time at the station and give it to me. I don’t care if she thinks I’m a better announcer than he is. Even if he weren’t a friend, with a son to support he needs the money. When doing business with Mrs. Cramps you have to watch your back and your front and both sides. . . . As a Catholic, Honey has strong reservations about the Republic. She doesn’t approve of my support for it or her husband‘s, but we all have an uneasy truce. Both Max and I agree that the Republic could have dealt less severely with the church in the past and that the murders of hundreds of priests and nuns by its supporters at the beginning of the war were wrong. In Honey’s favor, she is as sickened as we are by the fascists’ massacre of civilians and prisoners of war at Badajoz. She and I still had a blazing fight when I persuaded Max to join me in raising money for the Committee to Aid Spanish Democracy. … I have the bankbooks for the separate account to reimburse your past victims on your return from Spain. If you should fail to return, and I hope with all my heart that never happens, I will follow your instructions and donate the money to the charity or charities of my choice. It is late as I write this. The moon shining through my window is as lonesome as it was long ago when I watched it through my mother’s kitchen window and wondered if I would ever find my true love. I can’t help but miss you. …”

Vanaver Mainwaring to Grace Mainwaring, December 11, 1936

We are in New York. Soon, we will be on our way to Spain. Will says his mother appreciates the sage tea you brought from Roolie for her rheumatism. … It’s strange that the moon seems lonesome to you. I find it comforting in its serenity. The thought that its pale light shines down on us both makes me feel closer to you.

Grace Mainwaring to Vanaver Mainwaring, December 16, 1936

… Mother’s progress in recovering from her stroke is amazing. Juanita’s therapy has done wonders. We will miss her wry wisdom when, as seems likely, she leaves to nurse a new patient in a few months. Both she and Maisie admire Dr. Norman Bethune’s recent work in Spain, particularly his innovation of mobile blood transfusion units to save lives on the battlefield. Max and I are already planning to raise funds for one. …

Vanaver Mainwaring to Grace Mainwaring, December 26, 1936

New York is behind us now. The full moon glows softly among the bright stars. Its beams turn the waters below to silver. I know it’s corny, but I really do wish I could give you the moon and all the stars wrapped together in brightly colored paper for a Christmas present. Maybe someday I’ll find a way to do just that. …

Grace Mainwaring to Vanaver Mainwaring, February 9, 1937

Congratulations on your corporal‘s stripe. … Honey is still cool towards me, but at least we are speaking. … Maisie is doing well in her Junior Red Cross courses. As my cooking student she has more enthusiasm than skill. Does your Lincoln Battalion enlist girls like the Republic militias? Based on her performance in the kitchen, Maisie may have some talent with explosives, especially incendiaries. … I am glad your Ross rifles were replaced with something that doesn‘t jam after one shot. They certainly deserve Mackie’s disdain.

Vanaver Mainwaring to Grace Mainwaring, February 27, 1937

… I think of your lovely face and even lovelier spirit as we wait for the hour to attack. I wish we were living the life we planned when we were courting, building a business and raising a family together. I should concentrate more on my task, but all I can think of is how much I love you.

Vanaver Mainwaring to Grace Mainwaring, February 28, 1937

Half my company are lying dead among the splintered olive trees below El Pingarron or wounded in the field hospitals behind our lines. I have just learned that Mackie Cohen was torn apart by shrapnel. … It is nothing less than miraculous that Harry Schmitz, Will Lane and I made it through without a scratch. . . .

Grace Mainwaring to Van Mainwaring, March 12, 1937

You have all my sympathy for the loss of so many of your comrades. I was there when Sally Brewster read on the casualty list that her brother had been killed at Passchendaele, but I doubt even that awful experience compares to seeing friends die before your eyes. I wish I could hold you and comfort you in your grief. I thank God you are alive and unhurt. The letter you wrote just before the attack terrified me. I read it at the mailbox and stood there stunned until Honey walked up to me. She asked if something was wrong and I answered her. She said gently, “I know we don’t see eye to eye about this war, but whoever wins or loses, whatever the rights or wrongs, I hope Van is alright and that he comes back to you safely when it‘s all over.” I felt tears flowing and didn’t care who saw them. Things have been easier between Honey and myself since. . . .

Vanaver Mainwaring to Grace Mainwaring, May 7, 1937

… All this fighting between communists and trotskyites and anarchists in Barcelona is sheer stupidity. All three should bury their political rivalries before the fascists bury them. … Tell Maisie, Hub, and Henry that the work they and their classmates have done for the Committee to Aid Spanish Democracy is much appreciated here. Mobile blood transfusion units like the ones they helped purchase have saved the lives of many of my comrades. I don’t doubt that Maisie and her friends will be equally effective in aiding Dr. Bethune’s new effort to provide aid to war orphans and refugees. Unfortunately, Franco’s policy of butchering civilian populations as at Guernica and on the Malaga to Almeria road has created far too many of both.

Grace Mainwaring to Vanaver Mainwaring, May 23, 1937

I am glad there is pressure to give the Canadians their own battalion in the International Brigades and that the Americans in the Lincolns support the idea. … Tell Harry that his parents are doing well in New Bedford. Mr. Murphy is impressed with Mr. Schmitz’ work at the mine. West Virginia’s loss is definitely Canada’s gain. … Seeing Honey and Max and their children at Sunday dinner, I can’t help but think of us together like that with children of our own. Such things are always on my mind when I can’t find something to keep myself busy. Please, keep safe and come back to me. . . .

Vanaver Mainwaring to Grace Mainwaring, June 1, 1937

… At times such beautiful dreams of a future together seem almost real to me. Then there are times when the dirt, the lice, and the boredom make them seem as unreachable as that moon and stars I wrote you about the day after Christmas. …

Grace Mainwaring to Vanaver Mainwaring, June 12, 1937

… Don’t despair of our future. I splashed a little of that scent that you like so much on this letter. I will wear it again on the day we are finally together. … Congratulations on your transfer to the Mackenzie-Papineau Battalion and your promotion to sargeant. I am glad that you have managed to stay with Harry and Will and that Harry is now a corporal. It comforts me to think of the three of you looking after each other.

Vanaver Mainwaring to Grace Mainwaring, June 22, 1937

… You’ll make a terrific president of the Friends of the Mackenzie-Papineau Battalion, New Bedford Chapter. Max knew what he was doing when he recommended you over himself for the job. You have a talent for managing and organizing, as I saw firsthand when we were preparing to run that sawmill we almost bought.  … The scent on your letter is sweet, but having you in my arms would be sweeter. … 

Grace Mainwaring to Vanaver Mainwaring, July 1, 1937

Dr. Bethune’s visit to New Bedford was a great success. We even got a contribution from Honey. She still doesn‘t support the Republic, but sees nothing wrong with caring for war orphans. Dr. Bethune is one of the most dynamic and charismatic speakers I have ever heard, though up close there is a touch of weariness about him not visible onstage. A shame Juanita isn’t still here to see him.  Maisie was thrilled to meet her hero and he was very encouraging of her ambition to become a doctor.

Vanaver Mainwaring to Grace Mainwaring, September 20, 1937

We are being hurried all over the Spanish countryside and have no idea where we’ll finally end up. Hopefully, neither does the enemy. The boys in my squad asked me to thank you and the Friends of the Mackenzie-Papineau Battalion. Your parcels reached us just before our odyssey began. The Hershey bars disappeared almost instantly. So did Mrs. Schmitz’ pralines. … It’s strange. I started out taking one green kid under my wing. Now I have an entire squad. The responsibility is sometimes intimidating.

Grace Mainwaring to Vanaver Mainwaring, September 30, 1937

… Responsibility can be a hard thing, but I know you will live up to yours. I believe in what you and your comrades are doing in Spain and I believe in you. …

Vanaver Mainwaring to Grace Mainwaring, November 3, 1937

… What happened to poor Will at Fuentes De Ebro is no one’s fault but mine. He trusted me to look out for him and wound up being carried off on a stretcher with at least two bullets in him. I shouldn’t have picked him for that patrol, but everyone knows we joined the Internationals together and a sargeant can’t be seen playing favorites. I lived up to my responsibility and Will almost died for it. Maybe you shouldn’t keep waiting for my return. People trust me and I end up hurting them.

Grace Mainwaring to Vanaver Mainwaring, November 14, 1937

You are too hard on yourself, Van. True, Will has lost his right arm below the elbow, but he is going to live. Harry wrote us about how you carried Will out of no man’s land after he was hit and almost got cut down by a machine gun for your trouble. The Lanes are fine people and you spared them the agony of mourning their son. That was a brave and decent thing and I am proud of you for it. Will’s recovery won’t be easy. However, the Friends of the Mackenzie-Papineau Battalion Rehabilitation Fund will help him. He will have the best treatment possible. I have talked to mother, and there will be a job for him when his recovery is done. Please, don‘t ever suggest that I turn away from you again. I will wait for you, not just because I love you, but because you are a good man and worth waiting for. 

Van Mainwaring to Grace Mainwaring, November 28, 1937

… I am glad that Will is improving, and grateful for what you and your mother are doing for him. I am also grateful for your kind words although I don‘t feel brave or decent, just tired and used up. I train more replacements, mostly apprehensive Spanish farmboys conscripted to fill our losses, and wonder how many of my men will make it through our next battle. Don’t ever think that I don’t love you, Grace. However, the longer this war goes on and the more blood I see spilled the harder it becomes to believe that I will ever see you again. I can’t help wondering if I have any more chance of coming back to you than of keeping the promise I made to you so long ago to get you the moon and stars. Even if I do will you recognize the person I have become?

Grace Mainwaring to Vanaver Mainwaring, December 8, 1937

… I can hardly bear the thought of losing you, especially after hearing Will speak about Jarama and Fuentes de Ebro. Even so, seeing Will reunited with his parents eases the fear a little. He is a different person than before he went to war, and not just in the loss of his arm, but they still love him. Because they do, they are willing to adjust to that change. How can you think it would be any different between us?”

From the Memoirs of Grace Bailey -------

I heard nothing more from Van before Christmas Eve. Anxiety tormented me a little more with each day that passed without a letter from him. Had the battalion been thrown into action? Had there been an accident? Had Van simply stopped writing out of a misguided idea that I would be better off not waiting for him? Three weeks passed and still nothing. There was always a sympathetic word or a small act of kindness from one or another of my friends and family to let me know that I didn‘t have to shoulder my troubles alone. Nonetheless, by Christmas Eve, I was absolutely miserable with dread. I couldn’t answer when mother asked if anything was wrong for fear of bursting into tears. Mother took one close look at me and asked Maisie to fetch an object from under the tree, a tube wrapped in multicolored paper.

“I think Grace should have this tonight, and not tomorrow.” she concluded. “It came yesterday from Van. I wrapped it according to his instructions. He wanted to surprise you on Christmas morning.”

At mother’s urging, I tore open the wrapping to reveal a stiff cardboard butcher paper tube. The ends were plugged with pages of Our Fight and taped shut. Inside was a letter and a finely crafted pencil sketch signed R.L.. The sketch was of the night sky over a scrubby hill. In that sky was a delicate waning moon surrounded by a glorious wash of stars. A year of accumulated worry and anguish eased its grip on my heart. I read Van’s letter, my eyes moistening as I did so. It read, “ I hope you like the drawing. It was done by a new recruit, Richard Ladner, who came to us from the Ontario College of Art and Design. … If I could keep my promise to you, maybe the future can keep its promise of a life for us together. I’m sorry if I frightened you by fearing otherwise. I can sustain hope, whatever may come, by cherishing our love for each other. That love is a precious thing and I will never let it go. Perhaps this time next year we will be together for good. I will write you after the battalion moves to its new temporary home. Merry Christmas. Van.”

Holding that lovely sketch in my hands and Van’s lovelier words in my heart, I felt a profound joy. For that blessed single moment, I was certain that Van would come back to me. His touch would no longer be a thing of memory. The war would be over and a new life, radiant with hope and promise, would unfold before us.

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