A small woman in black, with a yellow ribbon across her breast, darted in Laura’s direction, shrieking all the while. Her hat was askew, and one long braid dangled free.

Instinctively Laura ducked behind a hedge but peered at the scene through the branches. The woman, hoisting a placard high in the air, dashed to the statue of Washington. Her hat flew off, and she spun around to fling her sign at the pursuing horseman. As the policeman dismounted she huddled at the base of the statue. Then, as she tried to scramble away, he grabbed her by the loose braid. With his nightstick waving above her, he pulled her along like a reluctant, leashed dog. Despite the woman’s frantic struggle, she was hustled to the waiting van, handcuffed, and thrust inside.

Terrified that she might be arrested, too, Laura watched in agony as each of the women was captured and forcibly thrown into the van. One suffragist fought with a police officer, beating him on the head with her sign, but he furiously jerked it from her hands, threw it in the gutter, and stomped on it.

Laura placed her fist against her mouth, not daring to utter the moan that threatened to escape. What had these women done? Of what were they accused? She knew they were suffragists by the yellow ribbons across their chests, and she knew they were demanding the right to vote, but what terrible deeds had they really done? They certainly weren’t threatening the security of the Capitol; they weren’t carrying guns to assassinate the President.

The woman chained to the lamp post spoke softly to one of the officers, but he paid no attention. Several others joined him, and they roughly pried her loose from the tangled chain links.

"Oh, no, no," Laura whispered, seeing the woman’s bloody wrists. Her stomach heaved, and her hands were clammy. "Why?"

After the van had been jammed to capacity, it rattled away with its horn honking triumphantly. The mounted police followed while Laura stood numbly watching them leave the violent scene.

Washington Circle, deserted and tranquil, appeared as if nothing had happened.

The moonlight cast a silver glow over the circle, empty except for a marble George Washington, who perused all before him with a calm, but resolute, face. For one hysterical moment Laura felt a laugh bubble up in her throat. What would the "father of her country" think of the scene he had just witnessed? If only he could have stepped down and thundered a command to the police.

The laugh never materialized, and Laura quickly sobered as she stepped lightly to the place where such angry activity had taken place only minutes before. With the women’s cries still hanging in the air, Laura picked up a placard from the wet snow and read the words aloud: EQUALITY FOR WOMEN. Why were men afraid of this sentiment? Her heart hammered as the image of the courageous women danced before her eyes. Why were they arresting defenseless women and trampling their signs?

Laura moved forward and reached for a torn banner, staring at the slogan: GIVE US THE VOTE. The women only wanted to cast a ballot and were willing to risk their lives for it!

Strewn over the ground were pamphlets and tiny American flags, which fluttered in the wind like dead butterflies. Laura, tears filling her eyes, slowly gathered several pamphlets, all the while thinking of the brave suffragists and their cause. She stooped for a tiny flag and stuck it in her lapel.

 

Chapter Three

Shaken and upset, Laura relived the arrest scene as she opened the brightly painted blue door of their Federal house with its three apartments. She wished someone were home. After seeing the suffragists brutally hauled to jail she didn’t want to be alone. However, her mother and Sarah were attending their Red Cross meeting tonight, and she doubted if Otto Detler, their janitor, who lived in the basement apartment, was in, or if the Menottis, who lived directly above them, were home. The Menottis were probably still working in their grocery store. How she wished she could talk to Joe, their son, for he would have understood what was happening and why she was in such a turmoil. He, too, would have been sickened at the treatment of the women. That was one reason she loved him — because of his gentle nature and the care he felt for all human beings. He had chosen a good profession for his career, too, for he’d make a wonderful doctor. She longed to tell him about the awful beatings and arrests, but knowing how hard Joe worked, he was no doubt unpacking fruit and vegetables for the next day’s trade. Either that or he was studying for one of his science courses at Georgetown University, where he was enrolled as a second-year medical student.

She sighed and removed her coat. She didn’t know when her spirits had been this low, and all she wanted now was comfort and solace. Why did her mother and Sarah have to be at the Red Cross again? They must have each knit a dozen sweaters, and who knew how many socks, for the soldiers overseas.

After a late supper of scrambled eggs and sausage, Laura soaked in the bathtub, then wriggled into her nightgown and wrapped a flannel robe around herself. She felt refreshed and not quite as heartsick, but the vision of the suffragists kept haunting her.

Just as she picked up one of the suffragist’s pamphlets to read, the front door opened, and she flew downstairs to welcome her mother and Sarah.

As she helped her mother off with her coat, she shook off the snow.

"Ah, thank you, Laura. It’s beginning to snow harder." Her mother lifted the veil of her feathered hat and removed her metal-rimmed spectacles. The angular lines of her strong face were pink from the frosty air. "I can’t see," she complained with a smile as she wiped off the steam-coated lens. There was little doubt where Laura had inherited her lovely brown hair, although her mother’s, pulled back in a twisted knot, was now streaked with gray.

"Wait until you hear what I saw tonight," Laura said, pleased to have them home at last. "I’ll put on the teakettle so we can talk."

"Wonderful, Laura," Sarah said, unclasping her cape and draping it over the clothes tree in the hall.

Leading the way into the kitchen, Laura excitedly talked about the women and police in Washington Circle. She could feel her blood rise as the replayed scene created a flurry of images in her mind.

Sipping her tea, she ended the story in a low, emotion-charged voice. "It was terrible, the way the police herded the suffragists into the van as if they were cattle. No one should be treated like that!" Laura glanced from her mother to Sarah, expecting to see horrified expressions, but they remained impassive. Her voice rose a notch. "The women hadn’t done a thing! All they want is the right to vote. We need to help them!"

At these words her mother stirred her tea faster and frowned slightly. "Laura, don’t fly to their defense so easily. These women are zealous over a cause that should wait. Right now they should use their energy for the war effort."

Laura gazed at her in disbelief. Was this the Maude Mitchell who was noted for her civic work ? Was this the Maude Mitchell who was noted for her strong-mindedness? How could her mother condemn the suffragists' cause?

Maude reached over, patted her daughter’s hand, and offered an explanation. "Yes, someday I want the vote, too, but until the Germans surrender, there are more important issues to consider."

Laura couldn’t swallow away the disappointment she felt. She turned to Sarah, but her sister studied Laura with troubled blue eyes and shook her head. "You mustn’t think of becoming involved in a group that provokes such violence. I agree with Mother."

Laura carefully set down her cup. "When don’t you?" she murmured, miserable at Sarah’s lack of sympathy.

Sarah gave her a sharp look; that is, as sharp a look as she could muster. Sarah seldom frowned or criticized and always tried to find something positive to say, which annoyed Laura no end. Laura observed her older sister’s plump, round face with its rosy cheeks and cherubic smile. Sarah’s blonde, waved hair, short and stylishly cut, her crisp, white blouse so carefully ironed, all were signs of her meticulous nature. It was hard to imagine Sarah as a suffragist and carrying a placard, yet Laura had seen women just as well dressed in the fight tonight.

"Hmmm," her mother said, breaking the silence. "On such a cold night this tea tastes marvelous." She was adroit at changing the subject.

But Laura, pouring more boiling water into her cup, didn’t intend to be put off. "These women have as much backbone as a regiment of men. All they want is equality!" She glanced at Sarah. "That affects you, too, Sarah. You know very well that your factory job was held by a man for fifty cents an hour, and you’re doing the same work for only twenty-five cents. Doesn’t that make you angry?"

"I’m glad to do my part for the war," Sarah said calmly.

"Girls, please," Mrs. Mitchell said wearily.

"Well, why is Sarah so dense?" Laura inquired. "Why can’t she understand what I’m saying?"

"Laura," Sarah said in her best older sister voice. "There’s nothing more important right now than winning the war."

"It’s not as if these women are plotting to blow up the White House! And they aren’t interfering with the war effort, either," Laura snapped. She gulped her tea and glared at Sarah.

The two sisters gave each other a long look. Then Sarah said, condescendingly, "I declare, Laura, you’d defend Mata Hari if she were alive today."