“Sure!” we answered.
Buddy, Cousin Frankie, and I went with Uncle Tony to the roof. He had a small flashlight so we could find our way up the flight of stairs.
When we stepped out onto the roof, sirens were blaring all around. There were no lights anywhere. Bling, bling, bling. Suddenly, the sky was filled with searchlights moving back and forth. Oh, boy—this was exciting.
“This is only an air-raid drill,” Uncle Tony said, “so they’re just practicing. But if enemy planes did come here, the searchlights would find ‘em and the anti-aircraft guns would shoot ’em down.”
Then Uncle Tony got quiet. “Just like those Nazis did to Anthony’s plane.”
We just stood there—watching the searchlights, listening to the sirens.
“Well, this is how it’s gonna be for the duration,” Uncle Tony said, and we went back down to the apartment.
The grown-ups were sitting around the table, with candles burning, talking.
“Okay, boys,” Mom said. “Time for bed.”
Buddy and I were supposed to share the sofa.
“I’m not sleeping with him,” Buddy said. “He stays awake and moves around all the time.”
“Tomie can sleep in my bed with me,” Cousin Terry said.
“Sissy,” Buddy whispered in my ear.
I woke up early the next morning. I quietly crept into the living room so I wouldn’t wake anybody. I looked at the window. There was Aunt Kate’s Gold Star Mothers’ flag. It was up so high that I wondered if anyone could see it.
I guess the birds can see it, I thought, or maybe angels.
After the Memorial Day mass for Blackie, we all went back to Aunt Kate’s and Uncle Tony’s. It was real hard on Aunt Kate. She sat in a chair in the small living room, just looking at Blackie’s photograph and crying.
The long ride home was quiet. I guess we were all thinking about Blackie. I was really happy when we turned the corner of Fairmount Avenue. Somehow I felt good—and safe—at home.
Chapter Thirteen
When I went to bed last night, my diary key was under my pillow. I didn’t know how it got there, but I was really happy that it was found. I waited until I heard Buddy sleeping, then I took my diary and key and crept quietly down the hall to the bathroom. I shut the door and climbed up to turn on the light over the sink. I sat on the floor and unlocked my diary.
Someone had scribbled all over the pages and drawn bad pictures, too.
My diary was all spoiled! I closed it and locked it. I went back into the bedroom. Then I heard Buddy’s voice whispering from across the dark room.
“If you tell, I’ll get you.”
It was then I decided to throw my diary away. I decided I’d never write in a diary again. I would REMEMBER everything I could. My thoughts would be safer in my head.
I answered Buddy with a whisper of my own.
“I won’t tell—anybody.” Why is my brother so mean? I wondered. I guess it’s just like a war. I guess I’ll have to put up with him for the duration.
My First Holy Communion wasn’t like I thought it would be. All the boys wore white shirts, white ties, white shorts, white jackets, long white knee socks, and white shoes—everything white. The girls wore white dresses, socks, and shoes, and white veils like little brides. But the first thing that went wrong was that one girl fainted from not being able to eat (because you had to fast before your First Holy Communion). So all the partners changed and instead of Jean Minor, my partner was a girl I didn’t know from St. Joseph’s School named Patty Tierney.
Then, when we were all kneeling at the altar rail, a boy started yelling, “It’s stuck in my throat! I’m choking to death.” A Sister rushed up and whisked him away. There was a bit of giggling from some of the kids—and some of the grown-ups, too.
After the mass, we marched down the steps of the church over to St. Joseph’s School, where long tables were set up so we could have breakfast. We had orange juice, milk, and doughnuts. Then Mom and Dad took me home because I had to change for school. So much for a special day!
On Sunday, though, when we went to church, I was able to go up to Communion with my family for the first time. That made me happy.
The last week of school turned out to be lots of fun. First of all, I won our final spelling bee.
At the School Dance assembly, our class did a minuet and Jean Minor was FINALLY my partner.
And—HURRAY!—I passed, so I’ll definitely be in third grade next year.
Dad got his gas ration card today. He got a “C” because he works for the State of Connecticut and needs to drive around for his job. There’s a sticker with a “C” on it to put on the windshield, and a book of stamps. Every time he gets gas, he has to pay and give one of the stamps, too. “C” means that he can get more gas than “A‘s” and “B’s.”
Tom only got a “B” ration card for his delivery truck, so he can still deliver grocery orders mostly to the ladies who live in big houses near Choate School, which is a very fancy boys’ school. He will be able to buy eight gallons a week.
Because Dancing School is over for the summer, I’ll be able to go to Tom and Nana’s store on Saturdays, as well as our usual Sunday visit.
Tom told me that when I visit on Sunday, he’ll take me across the street to see Mr. Andretti, an old Italian man, who has a big, big garden. He grows the best strawberries in Wallingford. They are just ripening, so we’ll get some.
“Mr. Andretti is going to make his garden bigger and I’m going to buy his vegetables to sell in the store,” Tom said. “We are going to call them Luigi’s Victory Garden Vegetables. So, we’ll both be doing our patriotic duty.”
“For the duration?” I asked.
“For the duration,” Tom said.
Everybody is talking about “the duration.” We have to go to City Hall to pick up our ration books that we will need for meat, coffee, sugar, and butter. We will need to use our ration books “for the duration.”
This coming Fourth of July, there will be no firework stands in Tracy “for the duration.” The newspaper said that there will be a final Fourth of July City Fireworks display at Lewis Avenue Field, which means that we’ll be able to see it from Fairmount Avenue. There won’t be another one “for the duration.” Even the movies have a message on the screen between films that reads, “This theater will soon be selling war stamps and war bonds to help our nation for the duration.”
Air-raid drills, blackouts, rationing, shortages, no chewing gum, no fireworks, war stamps, war bonds, so many new things so fast.
And all for the duration.
ABOUT GAS RATIONING
Gas rationing was all about rubber.
The military needed rubber for the tires on all of their vehicles, but the Japanese had captured the rubber plantations in the Dutch East Indies. These plantations produced ninety percent of America’s raw rubber. President Roosevelt asked U.S. citizens to help by contributing scrap rubber so it could be recycled. Scrap rubber was “old tires, old garden hoses, rubber raincoats, rubber shoes and overshoes, and even bathing caps and hot water bottles.”
The rationing of gas was voluntary at first. But not enough people cut down on driving, so by the spring of 1942, it became mandatory. It was hoped that reduced travel would help conserve tires especially.
To receive a gas ration book, you had to swear to the local ration board that you had only five tires (four on the car and one spare) and you needed gas. There were several categories.
About half of U.S. automobiles were issued an “A” sticker, which allowed four gallons a week. It was issued to people whose use of their cars was considered nonessential. When you went to the gas station, the attendant (no one pumped their own gas in those days) would make sure your mileage ration book had the same letter as the sticker on your windshield. Then you’d hand over your money and the coupons from your ration book and they would pump three or four gallons ONCE a week. No more! The “A” sticker was a white “A” on a black backgro
und.
The “B” sticker was a white “B” on a green background. “B” sticker holders were allowed eight gallons a week because the cars were deemed important to the war work.
“C” stickers were a white “C” on a red background. Of course, they were allowed even more gas a week. The “C” sticker and ration books were the most often counterfeited.
There were two more designations. “T,” for truckers of all sorts, and “X,” which were only given to Congressmen and -women in Washington.
The speed limit was dropped to forty-five miles an hour across the country. On the back of the ration stickers, the following was written in fairly large type so the driver would be constantly reminded:
Gas rationing was extremely successful, and truly helped win the war.
Follow these links to find the lyrics of the songs mentioned in this book.
“Anchors Aweigh” (U.S. Navy)
http://www.navyband.navy.mil/anchorsaweigh.shtml
“The Caissons Go Rolling Along” (U.S. Army)
http://kids.niehs.nih.gov/lyrics/caisson.htm
“Marines’ Hymn” (U.S. Marine Corps)
http://www.marinecorps.com/node/154
“The Air Force Song” (U.S. Air Force)
http://usinfo.state.gov/infousa/life/symbceleb/airforce_song.html
“What Kind of Noise Annoys an Oyster?”
http://www.geocities.com/Area51/corridor/5109/NovWKOyst.html
Tomie dePaola has created over 200 books for children. His work has received the Newbery Honor Award (26 Fairmount Avenue, 1999) and a Caldecott Honor Award (Strega Nona, 1975). He was also awarded the Smithson Medal, the Regina Medal (from the Catholic Library Association), and was designated a “living treasure” by the state of New Hampshire. Most recently, he is the first author known primarily for children’s book writing to be honored with the Sarah Josepha Hale Award, in recognition of a distinguished body of work in the field of literature by a New Englander.
Tomie dePaola was born in Meriden, Connecticut, in 1934 to a family of Irish and Italian background. By the time he could hold a pencil, he knew what his life’s work would be.
For the Duration: The War Years Page 4
