“You’ve all worked wonders,” said Mrs. Barrett, “and particularly you. I’ve seen your system of reports. It’s a thing of beauty.”
“Er, thank you?” said Kate, taken off guard.
“You’ve been a tower of strength. To take on the running of the Unit like that—it was unconscionable that it was all simply dropped on you like that.”
“Dr. Stringfellow did her bit.”
The corners of Mrs. Barrett’s eyes crinkled. “Ava Stringfellow is a brilliant doctor and an absolutely ruthless pinochle player but she had no business being director. And you needn’t jump to her defense! I’m repeating exactly what she told me. She was insistent that the Unit only survived—and thrived!—these past four months because you took on more than any human being could be expected to accomplish.”
“Oh,” said Kate. She’d been expecting to be admonished, not praised. “It wasn’t just me. We all did our bit.”
“You did your bit and about ten other people’s,” said Mrs. Barrett, and Kate felt the full force of her charm. “Which is why I wanted to ask . . .”
The table shook again, a coffee cup overturning. Kate caught it just in time. “Yes?”
Mrs. Barrett winced. “I do wish they wouldn’t do that. Now, what was I saying? Oh yes, I wanted to ask . . . my dear, when was the last time you took a few days away?”
“I haven’t,” said Kate dumbly. She thought about it. “That is, I went to Amiens for a bath and shampoo two weeks ago. Or maybe it was three weeks ago.”
Mrs. Barrett looked at her closely. Something about her expression reminded Kate, strongly, of her mother. “And you did the Unit’s shopping while you were there, didn’t you? And were still back before supper.”
“Just after,” said Kate, feeling like she’d lost control of the situation somehow.
Mrs. Barrett nodded. “As your director, I direct you to take two weeks in Paris. And to spend at least two days doing nothing at all.”
Kate stared at her in mute horror. But there was the planting, and Julia, and Emmie—
She cleared her throat. “There’s really no need—”
“Make that three days doing nothing,” said Mrs. Barrett firmly.
Chapter Twenty
Miss Moran has organized the work in a wonderful way and her system of reports is a thing to be proud of, but I feel strongly that the Unit needs a director who is not a specialist in any one thing, neither a doctor nor a social worker nor a chauffeur, but only there to direct. . . . The Unit has been like Topsy to this point, growing at an astonishing pace, but I feel like something more systematic can now be worked out.
I wanted to get a “taste” of the work, as you might say, so I went out with the girls on my second day here. The weather turned, bucketing down snow, but twenty-one blankets had been promised to Sancourt, and those girls were determined to get the blankets through. You wouldn’t believe the adventures we had going all of twelve kilometers: the machine stalled, we couldn’t see the road for the drifts, the tires burst, and one of the girls had to stop and rub snow on her feet to prevent frostbite. But we got those blankets through and made it home by dark. The peasants of Sancourt slept warm that night, even if the girls at Grécourt didn’t.
It’s grueling work, but they take it on without a grumble. By the following day, the roads were too thick with snow for the machines to get through, and you would have thought that would be that, but our lady doctor （Julia Pruyn, ’11） slung her supplies over her back and our social worker （Eleanor Baldwin, ’14） grabbed up a valise of milk bottles—four gallons’ worth!—and a massive bottle of malted milk to boot and they hauled it all two miles through the snow on foot. The kiddies of Canizy had to have their milk, you see—and there were some sick children too—and since the cars couldn’t go, they walked. As simple as that. And nobody thought it was anything out of the ordinary. It’s just what they do.
I only hope I can be worthy of them. They resist utterly having money spent on them, because the more they spend on themselves, the less they have for the people. But I’m working hard to bring them a few comforts—whether they like it or not!
—Mrs. James R. Barrett （née Ruth Irwin）， ’02, Director, to the Paris Committee
February 1918
Grécourt, France
“I’ve made you sandwiches for the train.” Emmie pressed a waxed-paper packet into Kate’s hands. “And for Julia too.”