by Kirby Larson
Dear Captain McDerby,
Since coming back from real action, we certainly found out and appreciate what you taught us and which we were able to put to good use. The landings made on the beaches went exactly as planned, the way you taught us. I will confess that I didn’t fully appreciate your being so strict and demanding, but now that I’ve been in combat, I understand what you were trying to do. It’s hardly the time to learn to beach a boat when the enemy is blasting you with all they’ve got. If it hadn’t been for your high standards, there would have been far more casualties in the fighting. Please use this letter, in your own words of course, to help other students who might feel as I once did. I am eternally grateful to you.
Roy Weathers
“Are you going to give that to Captain McDerby?” Fish asked.
“You bet. With a thank-you note of my own.” Mo slipped the letter back into the envelope. “Maybe I’ll even bake him some cookies.”
“Or maybe ask Miss Zona to bake some?”
Mo put her hands on her hips. “Are you saying I can’t bake?” Then she laughed. “Good idea. I’ll ask Miss Zona.”
Fish rolled onto the floor, and the puppies romped over and around him, chasing one another. “Are you sure I can’t keep one? You said Pop likes dogs.” A pup nipped at him with tiny needle-sharp teeth. He gently pushed her away. “Easy there, tiger.”
“Pop might like one dog,” Mo said. “Not a pack of them.” She bent over and picked up the runt. “They’re so adorable. You won’t have any trouble finding homes for them.”
As if she knew what they were talking about, Liberty moved her head and placed it on Fish’s leg, studying him with her brown eyes. “Don’t worry, girl.” He stroked her muzzle. “I’ll make sure they get the best homes ever.” Mr. Haddock had asked after one of the pups; so had the Beasley sisters. And Fish had an idea or two of his own about good families for the rest.
“You’ll never guess.” Mo started for the kitchen. “But I happen to know that Mr. Higgins is hosting a very special guest next month. A special guest whose initials are FDR.” She winked.
“Yeah. I remember. For a tour of the plant.”
“Well, Mr. Higgins thought you might like to meet him.”
Fish sat back. “You’re joking, right?”
“Mr. Higgins doesn’t joke about things like this.”
To meet Franklin Delano Roosevelt! “That’d be swell.”
Fish disregarded Mo’s wardrobe advice. This time he was comfortable in his aloha shirt, despite the heat in the plant. He fidgeted as he waited for the president’s entourage. The first person he saw was Mr. Higgins sitting in the backseat of a touring car, waving as if he was running for office. Next to him was a tall man, sitting very erect, decked out in a dark suit topped with a polka-dotted bow tie and rimless glasses. Dark circles underscored his bright eyes; his face looked weary and worn out but not those eyes. They sparkled like a kid’s.
The car eased to a stop and Mo nudged Fish forward.
“Mr. President,” Mr. Higgins said, “I’d like you to meet the future. Mr. Michael Elliott.”
As he’d practiced with Mo, Fish stood up straight, step-clomping his way to the side of the car. “I am honored to meet you, Mr. President.” Fish got the words out without one stumble.
President Roosevelt smiled. “I would say the pleasure is all mine, young man. From what Mr. Higgins tells me, the future is in good hands if you’re part of it.”
Fish hadn’t expected the president to speak to him. He hesitated before remembering the other line he’d practiced. “You’re my hero, sir.” He patted his leg. “I’m trying not to let this stop me, either.”
“Men are not prisoners of their fates, but only prisoners of their own minds.” The president nodded. “I think you will find, as I have, that little obstacles like these” — he patted his own legs — “make us stronger.” He leaned toward Fish. “You should come to Warm Springs sometime.”
There was something so friendly and familiar about this man that Fish blurted out something that he hadn’t rehearsed. “You wouldn’t like a friend for Fala, would you, sir? I have puppies who need homes.”
Mr. Higgins frowned, but the president threw back his head and laughed. It was a strong laugh. A genuine laugh. “That is the best offer I’ve had in ages,” he answered. “But Fala’s used to running things on Pennsylvania Avenue. Don’t think it’d be fair to the pup. But I do appreciate your asking.”
“There are some employees waiting with a special message for you in the assembly room, Mr. President.” Mr. Higgins signaled the driver to pull away.
“Nice to meet you, Michael!” The president tipped his hat. “And good luck! Higgins here better watch out — you might be giving him a run for his money one day.”
Mo placed her hand on Fish’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. Together they watched the car drive off to the City Park Plant.
Fish looked up at his sister. “Wait till I tell Pop about this!”
“Berger!” Sergeant Tucker hollered out his name. “Visitor.”
Erich sat up in his bunk, puzzled.
“Get the lead out.” Tucker tossed Erich his boots.
This wasn’t like Tucker. Something was up. But Erich followed him anyway, past the mess hall with its sign announcing TURKEY DINNER FOR THANKSGIVING and on across the grounds.
It was the boy, Fish, carrying a cardboard box. With his skinny little friend.
“The sergeant said it was okay,” Fish said.
A wet black nose poked out.
“It’s a girl,” said the boy. “For you.”
Erich held the box as if it contained Mutti’s best china. He glanced at Tucker.
“I don’t see anything,” the sergeant said. “Besides, Barracks Ten has two dogs and a cat.” He reached in and scratched the pup behind the ears. “Guess we better start stocking Milk-Bones in the canteen.”
Two bright eyes met Erich’s. For the first time in a long time, he was aware of his heart. Beating like a real human being’s.
He set the box down and lifted the pup to his face. Her hind end waggled with pure joy.
“What are you going to name her?” the girl asked.
“Hoffen.” Erich held the pup close. She nibbled at his chin with her needly puppy teeth. “She is Hope.”
Fish carried the Waldorf salad over to Miss Zona’s. Mo carried the pie. Her first ever. The crust was only a little burnt. “We’ll whip some extra cream to cover that up,” Mo said. Liberty trotted along at their heels; she’d been invited to Thanksgiving dinner, too.
Olympia threw open the front door before they’d reached the bottom step. “Grandmamma says I was about to wear a hole through the window glass watching for you.” A pudgy bundle of puppy tumbled out onto the porch. Liberty loped up the steps, sniffing her daughter.
Mo handed the pie off to Olympia, then scooped up the puppy. “How is little Miss Delta today?”
“Smart as a whip.” Olympia beamed. “Pretty near house-trained, too.”
“Not quite,” Miss Zona’s voice boomed from the back of the house.
Olympia grinned. “Come on, Fish. You can help me fill the celery sticks with cream cheese.”
Fish step-clomped through the front room and the commotion of Miss Zona’s extended family, to follow Olympia back to the kitchen, Liberty at his heels. Olympia set the pie down and then she and one of her aunts showed him how to spread the cheese down the hollow in the celery stalks. Fish nibbled at a piece. Not bad.
Later, they crowded around Miss Zona’s rickety table out in the yard, holding hands while she prayed the blessing. Next year, maybe Pop and Roy would be at the table, too. And after dinner, Pop could organize a football game, with Roy and Olympia’s uncles and boy cousins. And maybe Fish would join in like any normal boy, running for a pass, in his own higgledy-piggledy way.
With Liberty running at his side.
I have spent a lot of time reading and writing about World War II. As with most of life, there is alw
ays something new to learn. For example, though I’ve watched the movie The Longest Day nine million times (it’s my husband’s favorite), I had no idea there was a story behind the boats that transported soldiers to the beaches at Normandy. But when I paid a visit to the National WWII Museum in New Orleans, I learned all about the bigger-than-life Andrew Jackson Higgins, whose boats, according to General Eisenhower, won the war for us.
So when I was asked to write a companion book to Duke and Dash, I knew I wanted to set it in New Orleans. Imagine my surprise when research also revealed a prisoner of war camp, Camp Plauche, that housed thousands of German soldiers, right in New Orleans. And, in fact, not all that far from one of Mr. Higgins’s plants!
I so wanted to tie these two story elements together, but it took me a long time to figure out how to do it, so long that I nearly gave up. Once Erich came to life on the page, I knew he had to be part of Fish’s story, despite the number of false starts in finding my way.
Though Mr. Higgins was ahead of his time in hiring women, minorities, and even the differently abled (one welder who worked for him had no arms!), he was a man of his times in that his white and black employees worked on different lines. An African American who wanted a job at Higgins Industries had to enter the building through the basement, while a white prospective employee went in through the main door. As the book reflects, throughout New Orleans, there were separate restrooms, movie theaters, water fountains, even COLORED ONLY streetcars. Black and white children attended different schools and some public parks were off-limits to children of color. And yet, neighborhoods were not necessarily segregated. Whites and blacks might live next door to one another, as did Fish and Olympia.
My editor asked me if these two characters would really have had the chance to be friends in 1944, given the racial attitudes of the time. As someone who moved around a lot as a kid, I believe it was possible. I was often befriended by kids simply because we were neighbors; they might completely ignore me at school (I was pretty nerdy), but we would still play kick the can together of an evening. People are complicated; individuals rarely fit into neat boxes. And I suspect there were exceptions to every “rule,” even during those harsh times of the Jim Crow South. I’ve noticed that big changes often start small: In the 1940s, there may well have been people like Fish and Olympia whose childhood friendships led them to the work of the sixties, breaking down barriers to build bridges of the heart, work which, sadly, is still needed today.
It takes a team to make a book, and the team for this one was even bigger than usual. I had tremendous help from Gemma Birnbaum, Digital Education Coordinator, and Kimberly Guise, Curator/Content Specialist, both at the National WWII Museum in New Orleans; Erin Kinchen, Reading Room, Louisiana State Museum Historical Center; Greg Lambousy, Director of Collections, Louisiana State Museum; and Robert Ticknor, Reference Assistant, the Historic New Orleans Collection, Williams Research Center. I am especially grateful to my eyes and ears in New Orleans, Dr. Sarah Borealis. If you want to know more about Andrew Jackson Higgins, read Andrew Jackson Higgins and the Boats That Won World War II, by Jerry E. Strahan. The letter that Roy writes to Captain McDerby was actually written by Navy Coxswain Edward A. Weathers and is found in a more complete form in Mr. Strahan’s biography. I am so thankful to everyone who lit a candle to help me find my way through wartime New Orleans. Any errors in this book are mine alone.
I’ve got to give a shout-out to Mr. T. J. Shay’s fifth graders who helped to name Liberty and her pups. And thanks to my Butterfly Sisters — Susan Hill Long, Barbara O’Connor, and Augusta Scattergood — for laughs, encouragement, and well-placed swift kicks. As always, this book actually has a plot courtesy of the insight of Mary Nethery.
I won the lottery when I was matched up with editor Lisa Sandell; you wouldn’t be holding this book if not for her guidance, and for the efforts of Jennifer Abbots, Julie Amitie, Bess Braswell, Michelle Campbell, Caitlin Friedman, Antonio Gonzalez, Emily Heddleson, Christine Reedy, Lizette Serrano, Whitney Steller, Tracy van Straaten, Rebekah Wallin, and the entire sales team; to Lori Benton, Ellie Berger, David Levithan, and Dick Robinson; Alan Boyko, Jana Haussman, Janet Speakman, Robin Hoffman, and the whole Book Fair crew. Thanks to everyone at Scholastic for caring so much about getting books into kids’ hands.
I am ever grateful to Jenni Holm for the matchmaking job between me and Jill Grinberg Literary Management: Jill, Cheryl Pientka, Katelyn Detwiler, and Denise St. Pierre, you are the best!
Love and gratitude to my family: Neil, thanks for listening to me whine and for taking care of Winston while I’m off doing research; thank you, Quinn, Matt, Tyler, and Nicole for giving me my favorite job ever: Grandma. And smooches to Eli, Esme, and Audrey, who love stories as much as I do.
Kirby Larson is the acclaimed author of the Newbery Honor book Hattie Big Sky; its sequel, Hattie Ever After; the historical romp Audacity Jones to the Rescue; The Friendship Doll; Dear America: The Fences Between Us; Duke; and Dash, winner of the Scott O’Dell Award for Historical Fiction. She has also cowritten two award-winning picture books about dogs: Two Bobbies: A True Story of Hurricane Katrina, Friendship, and Survival and Nubs: The True Story of a Mutt, a Marine & a Miracle. She lives in Washington State with her husband and Winston the Wonder Dog.
ALSO BY KIRBY LARSON
Novels
Audacity Jones to the Rescue
Dash
Duke
Dear America: The Fences Between Us
The Friendship Doll
Hattie Big Sky
Hattie Ever After
Picture Books
with Mary Nethery
Nubs: The True Story of a Mutt, a Marine & a Miracle
Two Bobbies: A True Story of Hurricane Katrina, Friendship, and Survival
Copyright © 2016 by Kirby Larson
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Press, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC, SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Larson, Kirby, author.
Title: Liberty / Kirby Larson.
Description: First edition. | New York : Scholastic Press, 2016. | ©2016 | Summary: In 1940s New Orleans, Fish Elliot is a polio-survivor with a knack for inventing and building things, and his African American neighbor Olympia is a girl with a talent for messing things up, but they are united in an effort to save a starving stray dog they call Liberty — and when Liberty is caged by a nasty farmer, they find an unlikely ally in a German prisoner of war, Erich, who is not much older than the two children.
Identifiers: LCCN 2015048827 | ISBN 9780545840712
Subjects: LCSH: Dogs — Juvenile fiction. | Children with disabilities — Juvenile fiction. | Poliomyelitis — Juvenile fiction. | Families — Louisiana — New Orleans — Juvenile fiction. | African American girls — Juvenile fiction. | Prisoners of war — United States — Juvenile fiction. | Interracial friendship — Juvenile fiction. | World War, 1939-1945 — Juvenile fiction. | New Orleans (La.) — History — 20th century — Juvenile fiction. | CYAC: Dogs — Fiction. | Poliomyelitis — Fiction. | People with disabilities — Fiction. | Family life — Louisiana — New Orleans — Fiction. | African Americans — Fiction. | Prisoners of war — Fiction. | Race relations — Fiction. | Friendship — Fiction. | World War, 1939-1945 — Fiction. | New Orleans (La.) — History — 20th century — Fiction.
Classification: LCC PZ7.L32394 Li 2016 | DDC 813.54 — dc23
LC record available at http://lccn.l
oc.gov/2015048827
First edition, October 2016
Jacket art © 2016 by Shane Rebenschied
Jacket photography © 2016 by Michael Frost
Jacket design by Ellen Duda
e-ISBN 978-0-545-84073-6
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
