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Don't Talk to Me About the War

Page 12

by David A. Adler


  I enter Charles’s building, and before I go up to 2D, his apartment, I walk along the halls of the ground floor and look at each door to see if there’s a name on it or if the apartment is vacant. They all have names.

  Lots of people probably want to live on the ground floor. It’s better for shopping. You don’t have to climb up the stairs carrying all those packages.

  Charles lives just one flight up. I ring the bell and Mr. Jenner, Charles’s father, lets me in. There are handwritten signs taped to the walls congratulating George on graduating. George is at the far side of the parlor with a few of his friends.

  “Hi, George,” I say, and give him the gift.

  He’s much bigger than Charles, but you can tell they’re brothers. They both have the same round face, small nose, curly blond hair, and quick smile.

  “Thanks,” George says. “Thanks a lot.”

  It’s not such a small party. There must be twenty people here split into two groups, George and his friends and Charles with his parents and their friends. There are cakes, cookies, punch in a bowl, and sodas on the table.

  Charles sees me in the middle of the room, between the two groups, and comes over.

  “I’m so glad you’re here. My aunts and uncles keep saying the same thing: ‘I remember when you were just a baby.’ Soon they’ll tell me they changed my diapers!”

  I laugh.

  “Hey, you have to taste something. My aunt Sylvia made pinwheel cookies. They’re real good.”

  The cookies are swirls of brown and white and they are good.

  “Hey, what did you bring George?”

  “My dad bought it. It’s paper—writing paper and envelopes—so George can write letters home. Isn’t that awful?”

  “That’s not so bad. Aunt Sylvia gave George a box of underwear, and when Dad said they give him that in the navy, Aunt Sylvia said, ‘I’m sure they do, but it will be made of coarse, uncomfortable material. These are quality cotton, and anyway, you can never have too much underwear.’”

  Charles tells me some of the other gifts George got—a deck of cards, a belt buckle, and a framed picture of President Roosevelt—and I think maybe paper wasn’t so bad.

  I tell him about Mom, that she fell, and that we’ll be moving.

  “That may be okay,” Charles says. “You may really like your new apartment, and if you’re staying in the neighborhood, you’ll probably be near at least one of your friends, maybe even in the same building. Maybe you’ll move into my building.”

  “Maybe,” I say.

  “You know what?” Charles laughs. “You know what Aunt Sylvia says? Don’t worry about things before they happen. There’ll be plenty of time to worry later.”

  Mr. Jenner makes a short speech about how proud he is of George. He congratulates him for graduating high school and wishes him success in the navy. He ends his talk with a salute and “Ahoy, matey!”

  We all sing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” and then George tunes the radio to swing music.

  Charles and I talk and eat cake. I’m about to take some punch, and Charles tells me not to. “Dad said we shouldn’t drink it. It’s got rum in it.”

  “It does?”

  “Yeah,” Charles says. “I had some when Dad and Mom weren’t looking. It’s funny tasting.”

  I drink Orange Crush. It’s real cold and not at all funny tasting.

  Saturday, Dad says he’s tired, that we should stay home. I’m sure he is, but also, he knows Mom needs to rest. “I’ll just go out,” he says, “and buy some things, and then we’ll listen to the radio.”

  Before he goes out, Dad whispers to me, “Keep an eye on Mom.”

  Mom and I sit by the table. She’s drinking coffee, and while I do math homework, I watch her, and that seems odd to me, like she’s a child and I’m her babysitter.

  Dad comes back with rolls and cookies from the bakery, sodas, and a large box of Cracker Jacks. “The Dodgers game is on this afternoon,” he says. “Freddy Fitzsimmons is pitching. We’ll all listen and pretend we’re at the ballpark.”

  The Dodgers are in first place again and they’re playing the team in second place, the Cincinnati Reds. At three fifteen, Dad turns on the radio. “Soda, Cracker Jacks,” he calls out like the people selling that stuff call out at games. “Get your snacks here.”

  He gives me a soup bowl filled with Cracker Jacks. Dad and Mom are in their regular chairs. I’m sitting on the floor.

  “Can you see the field?” Dad asks. “Can you see the scoreboard? Is that large post in your way?”

  “I can see fine,” I answer, but really, all I see is the radio.

  It’s all lots of fun until the game starts. The second Reds batter hits a home run. By the third inning, the Reds are winning eight to nothing.

  “Dad, let’s listen to something else.”

  We listen to music, and every ten minutes or so, Dad tunes back to the game. It doesn’t get better. In the end, the Dodgers lose 23-2 and fall out of first place.

  Dad had a good idea, to pretend we’re at the ballpark. It just wasn’t a very good game.

  Sunday morning, I wake up and look at my clock. It’s past nine. I hurry out of bed to the kitchen. Dad is there making coffee.

  “What about early mass?”

  “We’ll go at eleven, but without Mom. It’s too much for her.”

  At church, we sit with Mildred Muir, her husband and two daughters, and Denise Taylor. Dad tells them that Mom was just too tired to come. He also tells that to Father Reilly.

  On the way home, Dad buys rolls at the bakery and a newspaper at Goldman’s. I look in. The shop is mostly empty, just a man sitting by the counter, Mr. Goldman, and Beth. She’s at her regular table reading newspapers.

  “I’ll be home soon,” I tell Dad.

  Dad looks in, sees Beth, and tells me not to hurry.

  “Hi, Tommy,” Beth says when she sees me. “The news isn’t good. A German submarine torpedoed and sank a large British boat, the Carinthia.”

  I sit opposite her.

  “Mom fell.”

  “Oh,” Beth says. “Was she hurt?”

  I tell her everything, including that Dad had to carry her upstairs and that we have to move.

  “Have something to drink,” Mr. Goldman says, and sets two glasses of cold milk on the table.

  Beth tells him about Mom, and he sits with us. “All you can do is help her,” he says, “and hope for the best.”

  We sit there for a while, not talking. Then the man by the counter thanks Mr. Goldman and leaves.

  “I’m closing early,” Mr. Goldman says. “My children are coming from Brooklyn with Jacob, my grandson.”

  “Oh, we’re ready to leave,” Beth says. “I have homework to do.”

  “And my parents are waiting for me,” I say. “I have to help Dad make lunch.”

  Beth and I fold the newspapers. We thank Mr. Goldman and walk outside.

  Beth takes my hand and says, “I’m walking you home.”

  “I don’t want to move,” I tell her as we walk. “I like school and all my friends.” I look at Beth and say, “And I like you.”

  She squeezes my hand. “Don’t worry. Wherever you are, we’ll stay in touch.”

  “You never write to your best friend from Buffalo, to Carol.”

  Beth stops.

  We’re in front of the cleaners. The store is closed.

  Beth faces me and takes my other hand, too. She smiles and says, “Tommy, you’re more than my best friend. We’ll always talk or write to each other. I promise.”

  Wow!

  We don’t talk after that. We just walk, holding hands until we get to my building. Then, just as she is about to let go of my hand, I pull her gently to me and kiss her cheek. Beth turns to me, smiles, and hurries away.

  19

  It Can’t Be!

  It’s lunchtime on Monday, and Roger wants to talk about the Dodgers and radio, the Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy show, but Charles stops him.
r />   “My brother joined the navy. He thinks we’re going to war, and he wants to be ready for it.”

  “That’s very brave of him,” Beth says.

  “The German Nazis are evil. That’s what my dad says, and George wants to patrol the Atlantic Ocean, to keep our shores safe.”

  “We think they killed my uncle,” Sarah says almost in a whisper. “Nazis, they took him and my aunt cannot find where he is.”

  “Why’d they take him? What did he do?” Roger asks.

  “He just plays the violin,” Sarah says, and shakes her head. “You do not know what happens there. Everyone, even children, are afraid. At night, we stayed at home. Every noise we heard, we thought it was them coming for us.”

  Roger says, “I don’t get it.”

  Beth tells him, “The rest of the world is not like this country. People are persecuted for all sorts of reasons.”

  “Yes,” I say. “When you look at a newspaper, you should look at more than just the sports pages.”

  As soon as I say it, I feel bad. Until just a short while ago, that’s all I read!

  That’s what we talk about during lunch, the war. Sarah seems so scared, even now. Then, on the way home, she tells us she won’t be in school on Wednesday and Thursday. “We have a holiday. Shavuot.”

  It’s a Jewish holiday.

  I hope her family can celebrate their Shavuot. With all that’s happened to them in the last year, I’m sure it will be difficult.

  When Sarah walks off, Beth takes my hand. We walk together like that until we reach Goldman’s.

  “I have to go home,” I tell Beth. “Maybe Mom needs me.”

  “I know,” she says, and smiles.

  She’s so pretty when she smiles.

  Mom isn’t in the lobby when I get home. Maybe she needs help getting down the stairs. I go up, open the door to the apartment, and hear someone talking. It’s not Mom and it’s not the radio. It’s a man’s voice.

  Dad? Why is he home? Did Mom fall?

  I drop my books and hurry in.

  It’s not Dad’s voice. It’s Father Reilly!

  It can’t be!

  The doctor said she could live a long time with her disease.

  I rush through the narrow hall, past the dining table, and there is Father Reilly in the parlor. He’s sitting in Dad’s chair.

  “Mom! You didn’t . . .”

  “Didn’t what?” Mom asks.

  She’s sitting in her chair, smiling. Mrs. Muir is there, too.

  “You look upset,” she says. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” I answer slowly. “Nothing is wrong.”

  What could I say? I can’t tell her that when I heard Father Reilly’s voice, I thought the worst.

  Mom says, “Milly brought a cake. We’re just about to go to the table and have some.”

  “Yes,” Father Reilly says. “Please join us.”

  Father Reilly helps Mom out of her chair. He holds her arm as we walk to the dining table. The cake is round and covered with gooey-looking chocolate icing in a swirly pattern. I get the plates and forks.

  “Please,” Mom tells me, “boil some water for tea.”

  “Let me cut the cake,” Father Reilly says, and takes the knife. I think he wants to be sure Mom doesn’t do it.

  I watch as he cuts the first piece to see what’s inside. It’s a yellow layer cake with chocolate cream filling. Father Reilly gives me a large slice. It’s delicious.

  I finally relax.

  Imagine, a few minutes ago I thought Father Reilly was administering Last Rites to Mom and now I’m eating cake!

  Later, at dinner, Mom talks on and on. She tells Dad about Father Reilly, what he said this afternoon and how nice it was of him to visit, and all I can think of is my horror at first hearing his voice.

  Charles gave me good advice, not to worry about things before they happen. Over the next few weeks, Dad comes home lots of times and tells us about a building that has a vacancy, he thinks on the ground floor. Some are near where we live. Others aren’t. Two are a few miles away and if we moved to either of them, I’d have to change schools.

  I could get excited about some, because I like the building, and upset about others, but I decide to just wait.

  Meanwhile, Mom isn’t trapped. She goes downstairs, but only if either Dad or I can be with her. I stand next to Mom on the stairs, so if she begins to fall, I can catch her. Luckily, that doesn’t happen. When she feels weak, she just stops to rest.

  We go for walks together to the park, sometimes even to the stores. But really, I do the shopping. Mom makes a list of what she needs and I get it.

  Near the last day of school, as we’re leaving the lunchroom, I tell Roger, “My mom is sick. That’s why I can’t always play stickball.”

  “Really sick?”

  I nod. “She has a disease, multiple sclerosis.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  We’re standing in the hall now. Kids are rushing past us, and Roger is quiet. Then, just as I’m about to go to my class he says, “In the summer, whenever you want to play, just call me. I’ll get a game together.”

  I thank Roger and go off to Miss Heller’s class.

  School finally ends, and I’m glad. I’ve had enough of sitting and pretending to listen to my teachers, especially when I have other things, more important things on my mind.

  On the first Monday of school break, Mom asks me to go out and get a few rolls. I’m happy to go, not for the rolls, but to look in at Goldman’s. I want to see if Beth is there. Well, she’s at her regular table with lots of newspapers. Mr. Simmons is there, too.

  “Hi, Beth.”

  “Hi, Tommy. Didn’t anyone tell you? School is out.”

  I look at the headlines on her newspapers. CIG AND BEER TAX STARTS TODAY, GERMAN SOLDIERS ON BRITISH SOIL, and FRENCH WAR LOSSES, 1.5 MILLION MEN!

  The war is not going well. France fell. The Germans now occupy Paris.

  “When the French surrendered,” Mr. Simmons says, “they had only enough ammunition for three more days of fighting.”

  “So now it’s up to Churchill and his army,” I say.

  “And us,” Mr. Simmons tells me. “We’ll have to help the English.”

  “I’m going to the bakery,” I tell Beth, “to get some kaiser rolls.”

  “Well, I’ll be here awhile. I have lots to read and no hurry to finish.”

  That’s good, I think. I really want to talk to Beth, to sit with her, but not with Mr. Simmons. By the time I get back, he should be gone.

  There’s a line at the bakery. Lots of people are buying bread, rolls, and bag lunches, but I feel like Beth. I’m in no hurry.

  Goldman’s is a bit emptier when I get back. The seats by the counter are not all taken. There are two empty tables, and Mr. Simmons is gone. I sit across from Beth.

  “I spoke to Sarah,” Beth says. “She heard about her aunt. So far she’s safe, and she’s trying to get out of Vienna.”

  “They got a letter?”

  “Yes, from a friend, a woman who got out. She sent a letter from Turkey. They don’t know where that woman is now, and they don’t know anything more about her aunt, just that she’s trying to get out.”

  “What about her uncle?”

  Beth just shakes her head.

  We’re quiet for a minute or two. Then Beth asks about Mom, and I tell her something I’ve been thinking for a while.

  “She seems more like my grandmother now, like an old woman who needs people, who needs me, to take care of her.”

  Beth says, “I felt the same way with my mom.”

  We sit there for a while, talk, and then go to the park. I really like being with her. And this summer I’m with her a lot.

  Now that school is out, I do the family grocery shopping, and I do it with Beth. She shops for produce—fruits and vegetables—on Tuesdays and Fridays, and groceries on Mondays and Thursdays, so that’s my schedule, too. I enjoy it, not the shopping part, the Beth part.

>   We plan to go to at least one game together, a Dodgers game at Ebbets Field. And I’m sure we will. If Beth sets her mind to do something, she usually does it.

  Oh, and Pee Wee Reese, he was out for three weeks, and that first game back, he got a single, double, and triple, and the Dodgers won 10-8. And guess who pitched that day for the Dodgers—Fat Freddy Fitzsimmons.

  The first week of July, George leaves for the navy. Charles knew he would, but the day he goes off is hard, so I tell him to meet me the next day at Goldman’s. And as we make ice cream sundaes Charles tells me about his aunt Sylvia.

  “She told George to write lots of letters home and told Mom to save them. She said when he gets back the letters will be like his diary. She even gave Mom a shoe box covered with gift wrap, to keep them in.”

  If he’s going to write letters and save them, then paper and envelopes was a good gift.

  “Aunt Sylvia came and brought cookies for George, and do you know what she said? She told George this was his chance to see the world and for the world to see him.”

  I tell Charles, “I never thought of it that way, that while I’m looking at the world, it’s looking at me.”

  “Yes, Aunt Sylvia says lots of deep-thinking things like that.”

  “Well, my favorite is her underwear philosophy, that you can never have too much.”

  Charles laughs.

  It’s already July thirtieth, a Tuesday. Dad comes home and tells us he found a great apartment. “I didn’t sign a lease. I won’t until both of you see it.”

  The next morning we take a cab past Goldman’s and the school, to an old brick building with some grass, but mostly weeds, in front.

  “Before we go in,” Dad says, “take a look at the block.”

  I look. It’s not real nice. There’s a building just like this one next door and then a few small stores.

  “There’s a fruit store,” Dad says, and points, “and a small grocery, and my work is just five blocks away. I can come home for lunch.”

  I guess that’s good.

  “And do you know what? Tommy won’t have to change schools.”

 

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