"Passage" is an incredible true story of Grace Balogh and her courage during a turbulent time in American history.

Through her journals, "Passage" recounts the struggles of the Great Depression; America fighting two wars: one with unconditional public support and the other with public indifference; the letters from servicemen that are poignant and timeless; and the emergence of a Cold War that pits two ideologies against each other.

Threats to the American way of life prompt the FBI to recruit Grace Balogh as an undercover agent whose job is to infiltrate a cell planning violent overthrow of the United States government. Grace leads this secret life largely unknown to her family and friends.

"Passage" takes the reader on a journey into events of the 1930's, 1940's, and 1950's that read like the headlines of today.

Passage

By Sandy Powers

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2011 Sandy Powers
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4567-2954-7

Contents

Foreword..........................................ixPassage...........................................1Correspondence....................................17Documents.........................................23The Journals......................................31Photographs and Miscellaneous.....................119Historical Notes..................................125

Chapter One

Passage

"Can you deliver the hospital bed before noon?" I glanced at my watch: 9:30. "Eleven? Yes, that's right. Englewood. I'll be waiting."

I ran my fingers through my short blond hair. This gives me time to arrange nursing. An hour later, I lightly knocked on the door of my parents' house. No answer. I unlocked the front door with my key. My eighty-six-year-old father was napping in his brown recliner in the living room. The blaring television was switched to the local twenty-four-hour news channel, which he regularly watched. The same news over and over. How much new news can there be? I shook my head. I turned down the TV volume then gently tapped my father's shoulder.

"Dad? Dad, wake up."

Confused, his light blue eyes gazed up at me, not recognizing me at first.

"Oh, Cookie. It's you, honey."

I smiled at my father and the nickname my family called me all my life. It wasn't until I went to college did anyone call me Sandy.

"Hi, Dad. They're bringing the bed for Mom. After they set it up, I'll leave for the hospital."

It was 1:30 before I started for Sarasota Memorial, an hour's drive away. Bone tired, I reflected on the last few months. I prided myself on my resilience, yet recent events proved otherwise. Life can indeed be tough.

Arriving at the hospital, I tiptoed into my mother's room. Barely visible, my mother looked lost in the hospital bed. Always a wisp of a woman, she had become smaller through the years. A closer look revealed she was crying.

Oh, no. It's too soon.

I held my mother's hand. They were ice cold.

"Mom, your hands are so cold."

"The nurses were trying to warm them with heated towels a while ago but they're still cold. No circulation, Cookie," she explained in a ragged breath.

"Do they hurt? Is that why you're crying?"

"No," she whispered, wiping the tears with her tissue, "I didn't think anyone was coming."

"Oh, Mom," I said, my voice cracking. "I told you I was picking you up."

My mother glanced sideways at me. "I thought I was like that young soldier at Crile Hospital."

"What young soldier?"

"The paraplegic," she murmured softly. "Remember I was a Gray Lady?"

I nodded as I rubbed her hands.

"He had to live at Crile," my mother wept. "He was paralyzed from the neck down. The first year I was there he never had a visitor. He waited and waited but no one came. One day when I walked into his room to help him with his lunch, he was so excited.

"Grace, my family is coming to see me tomorrow! My mother! My father! My sister!"

I was almost as happy as he was. A few days later when I returned to Crile, I asked him, "How was your visit?"

"They never came," he sobbed.

I wrapped my arms around my mother's frail body. "Oh, Mom, I would never forget you. The arrangements for the bed and nurses took longer than I expected."

I tenderly stroked her arms.

She sunk further into the pillows. "Cookie, I'm dying."

"Don't say that," I pleaded.

"It makes little difference if I say it or not," she mumbled.

"I'm not ready for you to die," I cried.

My mother wiped a tear from my cheek then lightly patted my hand.

I had just finished dressing her when there was a rap on the hospital door.

"I'm here to take Mrs. Balogh down," a voice announced.

"Come in."

The hospital aide pushed the wheelchair into the room. He carefully lifted my mother into the chair and wheeled her down to the hospital exit where my car was parked. Frail and weak, Mom dozed the hour home. As I pulled into my parents' driveway, Mom awoke.

"Do you think you can walk into the house?" I asked.

"I don't think so."

I knew my father wouldn't be able to help.

"Okay, Mom, here's what we'll do. You place your feet on my feet when we get out of the car. Wrap your arms tightly around my waist. I'll be your feet. We'll walk slowly, so don't be afraid. I left the door unlocked. Your bed is in the living room next to the window. Ready?"

"Ready," Mom repeated.

My mother rested her head on my breast as she wrapped her arms around me. With her tiny feet encompassed in slippers, she planted a foot on each one of my feet. Like Siamese twins, we shuffled toward the front door. I twisted the doorknob.

Hearing a sound, my father turned to see us meshed together. "Can I help?"

"No, Dad, we've just about made it."

I gently sat my mother on the edge of the bed while I went back to the car to get her hospital bag.

Mom peered out the large picture window. "This is nice. I can watch the birds from here." She started coughing. In a wheezy voice, she said, "I should've gone to that other place."

I heard her as I carried in the bag. "Mom, you mean hospice?"

Mom coughed again. "That's what the nurse called it."

"Is that where you want to go?" I asked, surprised.

"No. No. I want to be here in my own home."

"This is where you are and this is where you will stay."

Dad didn't say a word. The love of his life was dying and there was nothing he could do about it.

Mom winced as I carefully lifted her legs onto the bed. Any movement was painful for her. Cancer had taken its deadly toll. I propped up pillows behind her back. She had to sit up now. She couldn't breathe lying down.

"I'll stay with you and Dad until the nurse gets here. She should be here in a few minutes. Then, I'll go home to call the kids to tell them you're home," I said.

My mother was exhausted but I knew she would fight sleep as long as I was there. As soon as the nurse arrived, I kissed her on the cheek. "Rest, now." I held my dad a few moments to comfort him. "I'll be back later, Dad."

I telephoned my sisters and brothers in Ohio, 1200 miles away. "She doesn't have much time left," I told them. "If you're coming, better leave now."

My mother died six days later at home surrounded by Dad, the five of us, and the grandchildren. She was cremated without services. Years before, she and Dad decided individual funeral services would be too devastating for the one remaining. They would have services together when the time came. Their encompassing love extended beyond their lives and into death.

"Well, everyone's gone now," I said to Dad, who was resting in his recliner. "Just us again."

Dad nodded.

"You know, Dad, I think I'll spend the next few days over here with you until things settle down."

"I'd like that but what about Mike?"

"He's restoring that 1935 Essex he bought. He'll probably appreciate the free time," I smiled. "Besides, we're only a couple of blocks away. He'll have meals with us."

Dad leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. "Cookie, there's some boxes in our bedroom closet you should go through."

"What kind of boxes?"

"Mom's boxes."

"Mom's boxes?" I asked surprised. "What's in them?"

"Stuff she's been saving for you kids."

"She...