Of Windmills and War

by Diane Moody

  Whoa.

  His mind took a detour. Most guys my age have had lots of girlfriends by the time they’re seniors. I’ve never even been out on a date. Although it’s not for lack of interest. Jenny McPherson has been sitting behind me in most of my classes for the last two years since we’re seated alphabetically but she doesn’t even know I’m alive. Well, except for that time she borrowed my eraser in geometry. Man, she’s got knockout blue eyes. She’s so pretty . . . but how do I get her to stop treating me like I’m invisible? Then again, the one time I tried to start a conversation with her after class, I couldn’t get two words out thanks to those stupid hiccups. She laughed at me, even patted me on the back before taking off with her friends. Yeah, I’m a real Don Juan.

  But Anya’s different. We’re just friends. At least I think we are? Wonder what she thinks about me? She said she likes my letters because they remind her of Hans. Probably nothing more. But does she at least consider me a friend?

  He shook his head, hoping to clear the silly notions from his mind, then continued writing.

  . . . then when everyone else went to class, the janitor was sweeping the hall and heard that kid crying in his locker and let him out. They said he took off running for home. Can’t say as I blame him. But it was pretty funny, if you think about it.

  That’s about all. I hope everything’s okay where you are. Sure hope someone drops a bomb on Hitler soon and puts the world out of its misery—or at least shears off that ugly mustache of his.

  Danny

  Dear Danny,

  I would have laughed myself silly at the boy in the locker. I might even have locked him in there myself if he was annoying! I used to play pranks like that all the time, much to my parents’ disapproval. Now, with all that’s going on, I’m trying very hard to behave. It’s terribly dull, but I force myself.

  I wish to share some good news with you. Mother has finally recovered from her illness and the sorrow of losing Hans. She’s still weak, but at least she’s up and about and trying to get back into a routine. My father and I try hard to help out and lift her spirits. How Hans would laugh if he could see his “little Anya” trying so hard to be nice and cheerful for a change.

  The house is still filled with the pesky parishioners. I told Father we should tell them all to go home then shut the door and lock it. Of course, he is much more sympathetic with them than I am. It’s so hard not to be grouchy since none of us get much sleep with the constant roar of airplanes overhead on their way to Germany. I too hope one of these bombs hits the maniac with the awful mustache. Many times, I have imagined myself shooting him down as a favor to the world.

  One of Father’s parishioners has a farm just outside of town. We’ve known the Boormans for years. I ran into Mrs. Boorman the other day and found out their son Wim has a broken leg and cannot help Mr. Boorman with the many chores on their small farm. She knows I love animals. When I was young I used to play for hours with their piglets and chicks. I told her I would like to come tomorrow after school to help with chores.

  I thought of you. I’m just like you, Danny, because I cannot tell Mother and Father some things—like working out at the Boormans’ farm. They believe I should be more of a young lady. They will not approve of my plans to muck about with the livestock—though I would love nothing more than to quit school and help the Boormans all day. Do you suppose either of us will ever get to do what we want?

  Anya

  9

  November 1939

  An unexpected early snow ruined lots of Thanksgiving plans, blanketing most of Illinois under a foot or more of snow. Danny and his mother were disappointed they would have to miss the family dinner out at his grandparents’ farm, but they tried to make the best of it. He got up early that morning, trying to shovel the deep snow from as many sidewalks and driveways as he could before their noontime meal. He made sure he got home in time, stomping the snow off his boots and pulling his tired feet out of them as fast as he could.

  When he opened the front door, the aromas wafting from the kitchen about knocked him over. “Mom! It smells fantastic in here!”

  “Good. Now hurry and get cleaned up. We’re about ready to sit down.”

  His mother hadn’t bought a turkey, of course, thinking they’d be out at the farm, but she made do by roasting a chicken with all the usual side dishes. The three of them enjoyed a quiet meal together, though Danny insisted they could have made it out to the farm with the chains Dad had put on the tires. But Dad said no and that was that.

  Over slices of pumpkin pie and coffee, they chatted about the war news, the neighbors, and the latest big movie, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. The movie had caused quite a stir in some political circles. They’d heard Joseph Kennedy had tried to have the movie banned, calling in favors from some of the biggest names in Hollywood. In the end, his attempt failed and the Jimmy Stewart drama was a big hit with folks all over the country.

  Danny added a little more whipped cream to his pie. “I liked the part where he was so tired from that long speech that he passed out.”

  Just then, Dad tapped his water glass with his knife. Danny looked at his mother who shrugged as though she had no idea what this was about.

  “I have an announcement to make,” his father began.

  Danny swallowed hard. Oh dear Lord, please don’t let this be about me going to work with Dad.

  “The old Windsor Place Theater went up for sale, and I’ve decided to buy it.”

  His mother’s fork dropped, clattering on her plate. “What?”

  “Lester Gentry told me he wants to retire and asked if I’d be interested. I thought it over and decided I’m going to do it.”

  Danny breathed a long sigh, relieved his quick prayer had been answered. “Sounds great, Dad.”

  “I’m glad you think so because you’ll be helping me run it.”

  An expletive shot through Danny’s brain, but he caught it before it slipped from his lips. He tried to act grateful but failed miserably. “Uh, well, we can, uh, talk about it, I guess.”

  “Nothing to talk about. I’ll teach you the ropes over the next few months, and by graduation you’ll know everything you need to know.”

  Danny looked at his mother, hoping the expression on his face conveyed his frustration.

  She set her coffee cup on its saucer. “Frank, Danny needs to be the one to plan his future. Not you.”

  “Nonsense. Why, if it was up to him, he’d go spend all my hard-earned money at that fool college in Evanston.”

  “Not your money. His money.”

  “That’s ridiculous. He could never—”

  “He has and he will. He’s worked hard, saved every penny, and has more than enough to pay for his first year.”

  Danny swallowed hard before turning back to face his father. “It’s true, Dad. I don’t need your money because—”

  “Well, it’s a good thing, because you won’t get a dime from me.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine,” his mother added.

  Dad looked back and forth between them, his face darkening. “So, I see the two of you have made an alliance against me. Well, isn’t that nice. A man works hard to provide for his family, and they gang up on him behind his back. Well, to hell with both of you.” He threw his napkin on his plate, shoved his chair back, and stormed from the room.

  His mother closed her eyes as she raised her palm toward Danny. When the door to the basement slammed, she pointed in that direction and opened her eyes. “Sorry, I’ve learned to wait for the slamming of the door. It’s his punctuation mark whenever he gets this way. Which you surely know by now.”

  “I’m sorry, Mom. I’d hoped we could stay off the subject since it’s a holiday.”

  She reached over and covered his hand with hers. “Not your fault, honey. And besides, we’re long overdue telling him your plans. We both know there was no easy way to do it, so today was as good a day as any. At least you and I have something to be extra thankful for this Th
anksgiving.” She smiled, squeezing his hand.

  Danny leaned over and planted a kiss on her cheek. “Thanks. And you’re right. What a relief. Finally!”

  “He’ll huff and puff for a few weeks, but he’ll eventually accept it.”

  “You think so?”

  “I hope so. But even if he doesn’t, what’s done is done. And you, my son, are going to college!”

  “I can’t believe it. It’s really happening, isn’t it?”

  “It sure is. I never doubted it would. Every night before I go to bed, I get down on my knees and ask God to intervene for you and help you see your dream of college come true. Of course, I pray for your brother, too—even when he doesn’t bother to write home.” She rolled her eyes. “I believe God has opened this door for you. This is an answer to our prayers, Danny. Never forget that.”

  “I won’t. And thanks, Mom. Not just for praying, but for understanding.”

  “You’re most welcome.”

  Danny stood. “Tell you what. As a token of my appreciation, I’ll clean the kitchen. You go sit by the fire and I’ll bring you another cup of coffee. Then Sophie and I will do the dishes.”

  She looked up at the ceiling. “Oh, Lord Jesus, thank You for a son who knows how to bless his mother.” Then she pulled him toward her, put her hands on his cheeks and gave him a long kiss on the forehead. “I am a blessed, blessed woman.”

  “Go. Sit. Sophie, you wash and I’ll dry.”

  “What?!”

  “I’m kidding, Mom. Now scoot. Can’t you see we’re busy clearing the table?”

  Later that evening, with the kitchen scrubbed and sparkling, Danny sliced another piece of pumpkin pie and tiptoed past his mother who was napping on the sofa. He could hear his dad still down in the basement banging around with his tools, probably still grumbling to himself. Danny hoped he stayed down there a while. He headed upstairs, looking forward to writing Anya a letter. Snow was falling again, so any more shoveling would have to wait.

  Sophie hopped up on the bed, her long ears swaying back and forth until she circled twice and settled in for a snooze. Danny grabbed a pen and paper, using last year’s Calumet yearbook as a writing surface.

  “Sophie, do you mind?” He pushed her to the side, allowing himself enough room to sit on his bed to write. She snorted once for good measure, then lay her head back down.

  Dear Anya,

  It was great to get your letter yesterday. It sounds like you’re already quite popular with all the farm animals, which is no surprise. I’ve tried to imagine you squatting beside Josephine as you milk her, but I’m sure the images in my head don’t do it justice. And congratulations on the new litter of piglets—or “biggetjes” as you called them. Why, you must be in hog heaven! (Ha ha) Have your parents accepted your new job?

  You won’t believe what happened today . . .

  Danny wrote out the details of their most unusual Thanksgiving, the unexpected table conversation, and the great relief he now felt. He knew she’d understand. Three pages later, he began to wrap it up.

  I realize this may be the last letter you receive from me before Sinterklaas. You’ll have to write and tell me all about the special gifts you and your parents made for each other. I know it will be hard for you without Hans, but maybe you can focus on the good memories and celebrate his life. I still miss him too.

  Merry Christmas to you and your family.

  Danny

  10

  February 19, 1940

  Dear Danny,

  Today is my birthday, though there’s little to celebrate. I don’t think Hans ever told you that he and I shared the same birthday. Mother always told me that when I was born, Hans thought I was one of his birthday gifts. I smile whenever I think of it and how happy he must have been. But today, I find it hard to smile. This is now my second birthday without my brother.

  In The Netherlands birthdays are very special. We normally get up early and open all our gifts, then have a special breakfast of our favorite foods. But the air is filled with such tension now, none of us felt like celebrating. Mother and Father tried to make a nice morning for me, but we are all much too nervous. And it’s very difficult to get certain kinds of food now, certainly nothing for a cake.

  The weather turned bitterly cold this week and coal is already scarce. We wear several layers of clothing on the days the coal runs out and sleep under many blankets. I still ride my bicycle out to the Boormans’ farm to help out. My piglets are growing much too fast. With food so scarce, I worry they will be slaughtered to provide the family and others with food to eat or sell. I’ve named them all. I can’t stand thinking their little lives may soon be over.

  Wim is on a crutch now, but he’s too slow to help much. Sometimes he keeps me company in the barn as I help with the chores. He’s very nice. The other day I caught him staring at me. At first it made me mad. Then the more I thought about it, I liked it. All my friends have dated, but always I have found that most boys are stupid. Now I’m not so sure anymore.

  You must write to tell me of new movies that have come to your father’s theater. I think it is nice that you offered to help him out. I’m glad to hear he’s stopped being so mad at you. I wonder if you see the same newsreels we see at the cinema. They seem longer and longer. They trouble me, always showing bombs dropped here and there. We heard on the BBC that all of Britain is now on food rationing, though they already evacuated most of their civilians last fall. Between Britain, France, Australia, New Zealand, and Canada, you’d think the Allies could finish off Hitler once and for all. I don’t know how much longer we can hold out.

  I apologize for rambling so. I can’t seem to keep my mind focused on anything right now.

  Anya

  Danny still found it hard to believe the United States had not joined the Allies to fight the Germans. How long would America continue to turn its back on all those countries falling to the Nazis? He wished someone like Jimmy Stewart’s Mr. Smith could stand up to the government and convince them to help win the war.

  He reminded himself to send a small belated gift to Anya for her birthday. Though what he might get her, he had no idea. His mother loved to embroider delicate handkerchiefs. Then again, he never thought of Anya as the “delicate” type. It was hard to visualize her with something so refined. He would have to give it more thought.

  As he finished getting ready to head to the theater, something felt off-balance. Something wasn’t quite right, and the sense of feeling so unsettled bugged him. It wasn’t until he was going down the stairs with Sophie at his side that he figured it out.

  Wim. The farmer’s son who apparently has a crush on Anya.

  Yes, something was definitely off-balance, and Danny had a feeling he knew exactly what it was. For the first time in his life, he was jealous.

  Danny climbed the rungs leading up to the projection booth. As much as he’d dreaded the thought of working for his dad, he had to admit he really liked it. For the first time he could remember, he’d stood up to his father, telling him he’d like to help out, but only with the understanding it was just temporary until fall when he’d be a full-time student at Northwestern. Of course, his dad had moaned and groaned about it, but in the end Danny could tell he was pleased his son had offered to help. As long as he could keep Dad from strong-arming him when it came time to leave, he’d be okay.

  He crawled into the booth—an enclosed closet built in the back of the room above the theater. He flipped on the small lamp, pulled the bag off his shoulder, then lifted the sliding door to the dumbwaiter behind him to retrieve the film cans. He was relieved to see a new horror film in the rotation. Since Gone With the Wind had released in January, the blockbuster had remained in the evening show time at Windsor Place Theater for more than a month. Thankfully, the afternoon slot still had some variety.

  “Son of Frankenstein. It’s about time,” he said out loud.

  The long-awaited sequel to The Bride of Frankenstein had caused quite a stir the last coupl
e of months—at least by those not obsessing over Gone With the Wind. David O’Selznick’s epic saga ran three hours and forty-four minutes plus a fifteen-minute intermission. Danny often caught himself dozing off after the first three times he saw the film. Still, it gave him more than enough time to finish his homework, write a letter to Anya, read the latest sports news in the paper, and anything else he could think of to fill the time.

  But this afternoon, he would get to watch Boris Karloff as the ugly Monster, Basil Rathbone as Wolf von Frankenstein, and Bela Lugosi as Ygor. He couldn’t wait.

  “All set up there?”

  Danny leaned out the door of the booth. “All set, Dad. Who’s doing the intermission today?”

  Dad grumbled under his breath.

  “What’s that?”

  “Marco Polo. Dumbest act I ever saw, but the fools who come here seem to like him.”

  “Ah, he’s not so bad. The man can juggle just about anything.”

  “Yeah, he can juggle all right. The other night he juggled a bunch of kittens. I’ll never hear the end of it. Some lady got all worked up and reported it to the police.”

  Danny laughed. “What’d they do?”

  “Nothing. Some stooge from downtown came out here and tried to tell me I owed the city a fine of $500. I let him know that would happen when hell froze over. I think I put the fear of God in him. Haven’t heard another peep outta that little jerk.”

  Oh, the wrath of Frank McClain.

  Dad pulled out his pocket watch and opened it. “I’m gonna head home for dinner. Your mom send you something to eat?” He closed the watch and slipped it back in his pocket.

  “She sure did. Pot roast, carrots and potatoes, and a piece of chocolate cake for dessert.”

  “Alrighty then. You take care. Steve’s in the lobby on concessions, and Katherine’s in the ticket booth. Any problem, give me a call at the house.”