Significant Others

by Baron, Marilyn

  Okay, so if I am serious about this business of not keeping secrets, I have to tell you the whole truth. And you will probably agree with your mother that I am not worthy of you, that I have nothing to offer. But I happen to believe that we can overcome our backgrounds. So I will tell you my story.

  Oh, Daniel, didn’t you know I would have loved you no matter what you told me? How could you have doubted that?

  I was born in Pittsburgh on Bedford Avenue in an area known as the Hill District, which was part of the inner city. My real father died when I was two weeks old. My stepfather was an average-sized man named Marty who drove a big Packard automobile, which was high class in those days. He convinced my mother that he would raise her little boy, so she married him and he formally adopted me. He turned out to be an abusive drunk who smoked several packs of Camels a day. He never smiled, but he managed to father six more children with my mother before the Depression. I was not permitted to see my real father’s family. I wasn’t really accepted. I had no father figure. I was just out of place. The guidance I needed that could have been provided by a father never came. And I’ve always wondered what it would have been like if my real father had lived.

  That is why I promise you now that I will try to be the best father ever if we are lucky enough to have a child of our own.

  I had to stop and cry again, for Daniel, for me, for our little boy who never knew his father.

  Things were tough back in 1930. In those days our family moved constantly, never staying anywhere for more than a year because we couldn’t pay the rent. I thought that was normal and that everybody moved each spring.

  Is that honest enough for you? I want you to know what you’re getting into if you still want to throw in your lot with me. I couldn’t tell you this in person, but over here, now that I have a purpose in life—that is you—I feel I can tell you anything.

  As kids, we kept the front door locked, because if somebody banged on the door, it was most likely a bill collector. And if we didn’t answer, he assumed that we weren’t home. We all hid behind the couch. I’ve never forgotten that. The Depression will probably stay with me forever.

  For a period, we were on welfare. (Don’t tell your mother.) And welfare meant wearing welfare shoes with a kind of a square point. When our shoes wore out, we just cut out some cardboard for soles. The winters were tough. In the welfare years, flour and sugar came in sacks. My mother cut out the neck and arms and added a shirttail hem and that was our upper underwear.

  Being poor, in an area of affluence, was difficult. I felt out of place going to school in upper class Squirrel Hill. Growing up, my brothers and I interchanged clothing. In the early years, four of us slept in one bed in a house without a bathroom or heat. (Shades of military life to come.)

  Being on welfare also meant that the family service organization in the Hill District handed out wicker food baskets with potatoes, carrots, a turnip, a loaf of bread, and about a pound of meat of some kind, wrapped in butcher’s wrap. And we would walk home with our welfare baskets.

  Marty was a gambler. When I wanted to take my mother down to Ludine’s for a corned beef sandwich, we couldn’t scrape up the $.15 price, because Marty drank or gambled everything away. Sometime, in around 1938, Marty gave me a dollar to go out and buy him some cigarettes. I came back with a loaf of bread and a quart of milk for my mother. Marty came at me, and I just stepped back and hit my stepfather square in the mouth and knocked him out. I took a shopping bag, gathered the few possessions I had, and left home.

  I was in 11th grade; I had no money and I didn’t know how I would finish high school. So I moved in with my grandmother. Every week, I prearranged to meet my brothers and sisters at the big Firestone station two blocks away from where they lived. The six of them would bring me up to date on what was going on, and then I’d catch a streetcar and they’d walk the couple of blocks back home. When I was with my brothers and sisters, I didn’t feel like a stepchild. I felt a part of something bigger, like I do now.

  So now you know—although you were always much too polite to ask—why I didn’t have much money to take you out, why we always ended up at the USO dances and not on real dates, why I didn’t have a car—why I never took you to my home. But, by some miracle, you fell in love with me anyway.

  I can’t wait to introduce you to my family. We’re a motley crew, so I hope you’re not too overwhelmed when you meet everybody. They’re going to be shocked when they find out I got a classy lady like you to marry me. And they’re going to love you. As for your mother, I plan to wear her down. I figure after this, being over here, doing what I’m doing, I will have earned her respect. It’s not where you come from but what you do with your life that counts.

  Oh, I loved him so much. I had then and I still did. Look what he’d overcome. I wish I’d had a chance then to tell him how proud I was of him. How proud I would have been to share his life.

  Rubbing my eyes, I picked up the next letter. Donny was always asking about love letters, and I hadn’t admitted there were none. But my son would give anything to read these letters from his real father, to find out, in his dad’s own words, what he did during the war. He would treasure these words that made his father come alive. But what would he do if he found out his father was alive? How would he feel about me then?

  **

  XIIIth MISSION

  BEAUMONT, FRANCE

  JUNE 11, 1944

  This was 12B, as Mission 13 is known. This was to be a short one to bomb an airfield in the invasion area. Coming back over the Cherbourg Peninsula—at about 9,000 feet—a perfect ducks-in-a-gallery formation—the Group after us caught a dozen bursts. Bursts that were intended for us. We were lucky. We came back across the channel at about 1,200 feet—pretty low for a big formation.

  Still no word from you. It’s hard when the other guys hear from their girls. But I’m not giving up. I have faith in us. I’m sure there’s a reason you’re not writing, but the waiting is hard. I imagine you’re saving it all up and soon I’ll get the biggest letter any soldier has ever seen. Or, better yet, a whole batch of letters that were lost in the mail will arrive. And all at once at mail call they’ll dump them on me and I’ll stay up the whole night reading them. And the rest of the night dreaming of you. Maybe there’ll even be a picture. I’ve pretty much worn down the only one I have of us. It goes everywhere with me. I’m convinced you’re my good luck charm.

  **

  Reading on, I rushed through Daniel’s next three missions in Lille, Melun, and Bordeaux, France.

  XVIIth MISSION

  HAMBURG, GERMANY

  JUNE 18, 1944

  We just came back off a 24-hr. pass and the operations officer was waiting for us in our hut. No sleep that night. It was a little past midnight. The flak was very thick, but no enemy fighters. Still no letter from you. I miss you more and more each day. Sometimes I don’t think I can stand not being with you. But I can dream, can’t I? Remember the words to that song we used to dance to?

  **

  XVIIIth MISSION

  BORDEAUX, FRANCE

  JUNE 19, 1944

  Hit this target four days ago. This time it was really rough. A few fellows I know went down. No one got out. We had trouble keeping up—Tail-End Charlie as usual, which is the best position, contrary to popular belief. Amazing that we came back. Flak thicker than ever before—flew through overcasts for hours. Very tired. But not too tired to dream of you again.

  **

  XIXth MISSION

  HAMBURG, GERMANY

  JUNE 20, 1944

  Six missions this week alone! When I first got here, if you flew 25 missions, you could come back home. After Jimmy Doolittle came over to run the 8th Air Force, he raised the requirement to 30 missions. I just heard that we have to do 35 missions now. So, I guess I’m in for 35. It didn’t help morale. They gave me credit for three under the new pro-rated plan. The more you have, the more you get. This was my first mission with another crew. I was pretty busy watc
hing instruments most of the time. The pilot got hit in the face with flak—the worst I’d ever seen—but it was really splintered glass. We destroyed Hamburg. It will burn for a week, I’m sure. No enemy fighters. No letters from you. I hope nothing has happened to you or your family. You have no idea what goes through my mind over here. Have you met someone else? If you have, I don’t want to know. But I need to know. Not knowing is hell.

  I skimmed over the next few missions. I couldn’t afford to read them all. I would have to get these letters back to Daniel’s condo as soon as possible before he discovered them missing.

  **

  XXVth MISSION (28TH)

  TOURS, FRANCE

  JULY 4, 1944

  I just got back off a 48-hour pass. That just makes me lonelier for you because there’s time to think. I went to a club. There was dancing, but all I could think of was you and how it felt to hold you in my arms. Sometimes I can hear snatches of the music playing that last night. But everything’s so far away. I can see your face but then it’s gone, and I can’t dance with anyone else.

  The weather was miserable and we felt sure that there would be no mission, but we got up about an hour after hitting the sack. We were after the same bridge. When we got there we couldn’t see the target—it was no go. We brought the bombs back, but it counted as a mission.

  My eyes were blurry but I continued to read.

  **

  XXVIIth MISSION (30th)

  LEIPZIG, GERMANY

  JULY 7, 1944

  I got my “air medal” today. It’s a beautiful gold-toothed emblem of an eagle. Can’t wait to show it to you. Five missions to go. Got to make it. Got to get home to you and start our life together. That’s all that’s keeping me going now.

  I wondered if that medal was still on his jacket. Wouldn’t Donny love to see that?

  **

  XXVIIIth MISSION (31st)

  RELY, FRANCE

  JULY 8, 1944

  We made a run over the target, but it was overcast, too hazy—I saw one Fort blow up from flak in the Group in front of us. Coming off the target, we ran into more flak. We got a few hits—one in the bomb bay. Since we couldn’t find a target of opportunity, we returned to England with all the bombs. We were coming over our airfield at 3,500 feet, when it happened.

  The ship on the right was thrown out of formation by prop wash. Our pilot put the ship into a vertical dive to miss the plane and saved us from certain death in a collision. But the big dive knocked several of our bombs loose and pinned the tail gunner to the bomb bay doors with a 250-pound bomb on his lap.

  In the dive, the bombardier, navigator and radio operator were thrown to the top of the plane. The waist gunner also hit the top of the plane, and his gun hit him in the eye. I was hit in the back by my chain of bullets from the top turret. The control cables were strained, and the plane struggled to come out of the dive.

  The ball turret gunner called me to the bomb bay and hollered for me to do something for the tail gunner. When I got there, he was white as a sheet, pinned by the weight of a bomb, with another bomb loose and partially stuck in the slightly opened bomb bay door. I straddled the space above the open bomb bay door and lifted the 250-pound bomb off him so he could crawl out. My knees buckled a few times. I don’t know where I got the strength. Then I crawled out and began to slowly crank the doors open to get rid of the bombs. I’m ready for the flak house. Four more missions to go.

  We got a write-up about today’s mission. They called it “Bomb Scare in the Air.” The bombardier gave it to Public Relations. He made me out the hero. So, one day you can tell our son his dad was a hero.

  I couldn’t control the tears that were streaming down my face. I hadn’t known a thing about this incident, but Donny had grown up thinking his dad was a hero and it turned out he really was. I wept softly for a while, with the covers pulled over my head so Honey wouldn’t hear me.

  **

  Then I forced myself to continue reading. By now, though, I was desperate for Daniel’s expressions of love and loneliness. Feelings that mirrored my own all those years ago. I began skipping over the rest of the missions—the 32nd over St. Omer, France, and the last two to Munich, Germany, and counting down, three missions to go, two to go, one to go and the final mission.

  XXXIInd MISSION (35TH)

  MUNICH, GERMANY

  JULY 16, 1944

  I’m happy to be writing this. I’m finished. I’m trying to get a nine-day pass. Signing off and thanking all who prayed for me. I felt your prayers even though I haven’t received a letter. I was lucky.

  I’m in London now. I’m enclosing a picture of me in my uniform. Don’t be shocked. Your “big bear” looks more like a ghost. I think I weigh 150 pounds. I’m absolutely worn out. How these people lived under the bombardment I don’t know. But I did my missions, and now that I’m done, I’m kissing the ground because I’m alive and in one piece and, before you know it, I’ll be coming home to you. I tried to keep my spirits up. I haven’t heard from you in all this time. It was rough when all the other guys were getting letters from their wives and sweethearts, but we’ll be together soon. I’m bringing home presents. I am coming to pick you up the minute I get home, but I don’t know yet when that will be. So your mother better be prepared.

  I’m sending this ring as a token of my commitment to you. It’s not very big, but I promise you someday I’ll get you a bigger one. I intend to marry you as soon as I get back. So start doing whatever it is women do to prepare for their weddings. We can talk about where we’ll live. I’m partial to South Florida where I did my basic training. Florida’s a place where you can walk along nice clean streets and reach out and grab an orange right off the tree. It really sounds like a nice place to live. No snow! But we’ll make that decision together. I love you and can’t wait to hold you in my arms again on the dance floor and off. It’s been so long.

  Chapter Twelve: Something’s Wrong with Mom

  The condo was entirely too quiet. I finished my phone conversation with my client and knocked on my mother’s door.

  “Mom, are you okay? How was breakfast?” I could hear her mumbling, but I could barely make out what she was saying.

  “I’m lying down,” I thought I heard her say. “I have a headache.”

  “Want some aspirin?”

  “I’ve already taken some. I just need some sleep.”

  This wasn’t a good sign. It was almost noon. She was regressing. Something must have happened with Mr. Moore. Something disappointing.

  “Can I fix you something to eat?”

  “Later,” she snapped, then she was apologetic. “I’m sorry, Honey. Maybe later.”

  “Okay.”

  I wandered aimlessly around the living room. I didn’t care what Donny said, I was going to let some light into this mausoleum. I pulled back the drapes and turned on every light in the room, overhead and lamps. Enough light to vaporize a vampire. I walked out onto the patio and looked down at the tree. Okay, this was insane. I could see Jesus now. I looked away. What was this world coming to? I decided to give my mother a little more alone time and then I was going into the bedroom to check on her. That’s when I heard the sound of muffled crying, almost like a keening, and then I heard my mother screaming, “Noooooo!” And she wouldn’t stop screaming.

  “Mom, what is it?” I knocked on her door. “Open up or I’m going to bust the door down.”

  She was still screaming. I grabbed my cell phone and called Donny at the hotel.

  “Get over to Mom’s fast. Something’s very wrong with her.” I jiggled the lock to her bedroom door.

  “Let me in, now,” I insisted. The door was flimsy. I kicked it open. There was my mother, doubled over on the bed, surrounded by a pile of yellowing envelopes. She raised her head and turned her tear-stained face toward mine. She had finally calmed down. I think she was in a state of shock. I vaulted onto the bed and wrapped her in my arms.

  “Mom, what’s wrong? What are all these old let
ters?”

  She hugged me back and wouldn’t stop crying, but she wouldn’t talk about the letters. She just sifted them with her hands and clutched them to her heart.

  “Okay, what happened at breakfast?” Daniel Moore was the obvious culprit. She had left the condo a happy woman, walking on air, and now she was hysterical and depressed. She wouldn’t tell me what was wrong, but I finally got her calmed down and settled under the comforter. I gathered up the pile of letters and turned off the light.

  “Take care of my letters,” she said softly.

  “I will,” I assured her, confused. “You go to sleep now.” Sleep seemed to be my mother’s life work.

  When Donny arrived, he was frantic.

  “What’s wrong with her?” he demanded.

  “She just started screaming and she wouldn’t stop. I think she’s having another episode, like when Dad died. She was reading these letters. I’ve never seen them before. They must be old letters from Dad.”

  “I thought she was getting better,” Donny grunted.

  “Me too. Obviously she’s not. She went to breakfast with that new guy I told you about on the phone this morning, the one she met at the dance last night, Daniel Moore. And then she ran into the condo and locked herself in the bedroom.”

  “If he tried anything with her, I’ll kill him,” Donny ranted. “Can’t he see how fragile she is?”

  “I know. I can’t imagine what else could have brought this on.”

  He grabbed the letters from my hand.

  “What are these? Do you recognize the handwriting?”

  “It’s not Dad’s,” I said after examining them.

  He opened one. And began reading. After a few minutes he looked over at me.

  “Jesus, Honey. I think these letters must be from my real father,” Donny said in disbelief.

  Stunned, he collapsed on the couch.