by Roger Jewett
Like his father, Jacob wore a yarmulke, and at his father’s request, he recited the berakhah over the bread before cutting it. His mother set the table with her best dishes — the set she used only for holidays and other special occasions. And the Shabbos candles were in the brass holders her grandmother had carried all the way from Kiev, some 75 years before. Not only was there a large roasted chicken on the table, but his mother also had made a chicken soup with matzoh balls and noodle pudding laced with raisins, and she’d baked a honey cake, topped with bits of dried fruit.
“I can’t get over the way you look,” his mother said, finally sitting down, after seeing that everything needed on the table was there. “You’re tan like you spent all of your time in the sun.”
“A good deal of it was outside,” Jacob said. “But much of it was inside in ground-school classrooms learning about the aircraft and —”
“Ah,” his mother exclaimed. “I forgot all about it! A letter came for you this afternoon.” She left the table, went to the counter under the cupboard, picked up an envelope, and looking at it, said, “It’s from Lieutenant (J.G.) Warren Troost.”
“He’s a friend of mine,” Jacob said, taking the letter from his mother.
“And I thought it was from a girl,” Miriam teased.
Jacob shook his head. “I’m not ready for that yet,” he said and started to pocket the letter.
“Go on, read it,” his mother said.
“It can wait.”
“I know you want to read it, so read it,” his mother said.
Jacob looked questioningly at his father.
“Get it over with,” the old man said.
Jacob used his knife to open it, took out the sheet of paper, and unfolding it, began to read:
Hi friend —
From the logo you can see what kind of an assignment I pulled after busting out. The AKO-96 is a spit-kit if there ever was one. In Norfolk she was refitted with 5” deck guns for duty in the North Atlantic, but we’re on our way to the Pacific. Scuttlebutt says we’ll wind up in the Philippines.
Despite what happened to me in flight training, I have decided to remain in the navy. There’s a war coming and I think I can still make a good officer… I know you will be a very good one and so does everyone else who was in our class.
Good luck and always come out of the sun.
Sincerely,
Warren Troost
P.S. My father finally got his stars.
Jacob smiled, refolded the letter, and put it back in the envelope. “He’s on an AKO — a kind of special ship — probably on the way to the Philippines.”
“Jake, do you know where you’ll be sent?” Miriam asked.
He shook his head. “To a carrier in the Pacific. I qualified for training as a fighter pilot.”
“Better you should have qualified as a rabbi,” his father growled.
Jacob flashed his mother a look.
“I have tickets to the Bell Telephone Hour on Sunday, the seventh — Gladys Swarthout is one of my favorite singers.”
“Is Miriam going with us?” Jake asked.
His mother nodded. “Sure.”
“Good, I’ll treat the two of you to late lunch,” Jake said.
“You got money to throw away now that you’re a big-time —”
“Papa, I was paid before I left Pensacola,” Jacob said, looking at his father, a stocky man of 64 with snow white hair and pale gray eyes.
After a long pause, his father exclaimed, “Blood money!”
Jacob nodded and said in a very quiet voice, “You won’t leave it alone, will you?”
“Leave it alone, is that what you want me to do — leave it alone, eh? I raise a son. I want my son to be a rabbi and my son becomes a killer.”
Jacob took several deep breaths.
“Sam, you shouldn’t say that,” Mrs. Miller said. “You can’t make a man into something he doesn’t want to be.”
“Ach, what does he know!” he answered. “My father was a rabbi and his father before him.” He pointed a finger at Jacob. “He could have been one, but because I wanted it, he didn’t.”
“Papa, that’s not true,” Jacob said. “There was nothing that drew me to it.”
“The Almighty would have,” his father answered. “But you never gave Him a chance — never gave yourself a chance.”
Jacob ran his hand over his chin, then over his hair. “Papa, I couldn’t become a rabbi just because you wanted me to. There’s a terrible war raging, and sooner or later we’re going to be in it.”
“So you want to kill!”
“Papa, there isn’t any other way. Praying to God to stop what Hitler’s doing to the Jews won’t stop it. It won’t stop the Japanese from killing tens of thousands of innocent people in China.”
“You’re going to stop it?” his father challenged.
“I’m going to help stop it,” Jacob answered.
“Those who live by the sword will die by the sword!”
Jacob remained silent. He was foolish to think that his father wouldn’t renew the antagonism that had existed between them for some years.
“You wanted to go to Brooklyn College,” his father said, “I let you; then you wanted to go to that goyisher place, Annapolis, and I prayed you wouldn’t be accepted —”
“You would still have me working in Macy’s selling toys at Christmas to people who can’t afford them. Listen, Papa, I couldn’t be a rabbi, but I’m still a Jew —”
“A Jew doesn’t fight!” his father shouted. “A Jew doesn’t spill another person’s blood. A Jew puts his faith in God.”
Jacob slowly stood up.
“Where are you going?” his mother asked.
“I don’t want to say anything I’ll regret,” Jacob answered, shaking his head.
“Please, Jacob, sit down,” his mother said softly. “Please, do it for me.”
Jacob looked questioningly at his father.
“All right, I said what I wanted to say. Sit down, Jacob, and have coffee and cake.”
Jacob nodded and sat down.
CHAPTER 8
Tony Trapasso sat at the bar in Luigi’s, a grill on the northeast corner of Hudson Avenue and Grove Street in Newark, New Jersey. His greatcoat was draped over the back of the stool. Now and then he sipped a beer. It was early Sunday afternoon, and except for four punks at the side table, none of the guys he knew was there.
“Your uncle Mike tol’ me you wuz in,” Luigi said. “You jus’ finish some school —”
“Submarine school,” Tony said.
“Yeah, that’s it… Yeah, I know you went to college,” Luigi said. “You’re a navy officer, right?”
“Right,” Tony answered.
“Hey, anythin’ you want is on the house,” Luigi said with a smile. He was a tall, gaunt man with deep-set eyes. Now and then he worked for Tony’s father. “I’m goin’ ta set up the free-lunch table. It’s still the best in South Newark.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Tony said.
“You want anudder brew?”
Tony put his hand over the top of the glass. “I’m fine,” Tony answered.
Luigi nodded and walked away.
Tony looked at himself in the mirror behind the bar. This dimly lit, sour-smelling place had been one of the centers of his world; the other had been the Italian-American Social Club on Third Street. His eyes moved to the reflection of the street kids at the side table. A few years back and he could have traded places with any one of them. He shook his head, picked up his beer, and drank.
Suddenly Tony became aware of the scraping sound made by chairs being moved on a wooden floor. He looked up into the mirror. The four were coming toward the bar. He put his beer down. “Hey, you a sailor boy?” the tallest one asked. The others giggled.
Tony eased himself around. He was of middling height, compactly built, with unmistakably Latin features.
“Hey, he’s even wearin’ a white silk scarf,” another one of the men said. “Ma
ybe he’s a fuckin’ queer!”
Luigi started to move from the free-lunch counter back toward the bar.
“It’s okay,” Tony called out. “I can handle it.”
“Hey, this guy says he can handle it,” the tallest one said. “Maybe what he means is that he’d like to handle this.” And he grabbed his own genitals.
The others laughed.
“Sailor boy, is that what you meant?”
“Why don’t all of you go back to the table before you get hurt?” Tony said calmly.
“How much money you got, sailor boy?” one of the others asked.
Tony smiled. “More money than all of you have put together. Now go away before I get angry.”
“Hey, you make me shake, I’m so afraid,” the tall one said, reaching for the scarf.
“Mistake!” Tony said, backhanding him across the face.
The blow staggered him; blood poured from his nose.
“I told you to go back to the table and sit down,” Tony said.
“Get the bastard!” the tall one shouted.
Tony leapt to his feet, grabbed the one nearest to him, and twisted him around until he had his head on the bar. “Any one of you so much as breathes too hard, I’ll break his fucking neck.” He applied pressure to the back of the punk’s neck.
“Do what he says!” the kid cried out. “He’s killin’ me.”
None of the other three moved.
“We wuz only foolin’ wid ya,” the tallest one said.
“Now I’m only foolin’,” Tony responded.
Luigi was behind his bar again. “Like the ol’ days, eh, Tony,” he said. “I ain’t seen nobody move as fast as you, since you —”
“Luigi, tell these thugs who I am.”
“He’s Tony Trapasso,” Luigi said.
“Hey, Mr. Trapasso,” the tall one said, “we do odd jobs for your father.”
“Not anymore,” Tony responded in a flat, low voice. “If you ever see me again, walk the other way — because if you don’t, you’re dead. Do you understand that?”
They didn’t answer.
“Do you understand what I just said?” Tony roared.
“Yes,” one of the three standing said.
“What about you?” Tony asked, looking at the tallest one.
He nodded.
“And you?” Tony questioned, moving his eyes to another one.
“I understand” he answered.
Tony relaxed his hold on the one he was holding. “I don’t have to ask you if you understand, do I?” he said.
The guy shook his head.
Tony let go of him. “Now, the four of you get the hell out of here,” he said.
They turned and ran out the door.
Tony suddenly felt drained. He faced Luigi. “Give me a double scotch neat.”
“Sure, Tony,” Luigi said, reaching for the bottle. “Your papa an’ uncle shoulda been here. I swear by the Virgin,” he said, crossing himself, “I ain’t seen no one move like that.” He poured the scotch and put the glass and the bottle in front of Tony. “Drink as much as you want. That tall one is Vinny Luna. He’s head of the Red Devils.”
“Shit,” Tony answered; then lifting his drink, he said, “Salute!”
Luigi grinned. “Salute, Tony!”
CHAPTER 9
The sky was leaden, and a strong wind coming out of the northwest pushed against the Albany and all the other ships in the task group, causing them to roll and plunge.
“Admiral, from the looks of them, those two aren’t having an easy time of it,” Captain Hasse commented, referring to the fleet oiler Neuse and the supply ship Iroquois that were three points off the starboard bow, with a thousand yards between them.
Troost, visiting Hasse on the navigation bridge, raised his glasses, and looked at the Neuse first, then at the Iroquois. “In this sea, it won’t be easy to come alongside them,” he said, suddenly thinking about Warren. Before he left Pearl, he’d heard that the AKO-96 was due on the ninth.
“The waves are running about 12 feet.”
Troost stepped backwards, turned, and went to the rear of the bridge where the weather instruments were located. “The wind is up to 40 knots, with higher gusts. The barometer is off by three hundredths.” He returned to the front of the bridge and said, “This is going to blow for a while.”
“Old Bull Gower is just damn lucky it’s happening now, on the way back to Pearl, and not on the way out when he had the marine fighter planes on the flight deck,” Hasse said. “He’d have lost some of them for sure.”
“Before the old bastard would let that happen,” Troost answered, “he’d have had the whole damn ship’s crew, including himself, on deck holding them down.”
Suddenly the Albany’s bow went under and a wall of water crashed down over her foredeck.
Troost steadied himself and looked at the nearest destroyer.
“We can make Pearl with the bunker we have, sir,” Hasse said. “But we’ll be down to about 10 percent when we get there.”
“Everyone’s getting down. That was the reason for this refueling,” Troost said. “We don’t want to come in low on fuel and supplies. CinPac Fleet wants us to be able to get underway again in a hurry if we have to.”
Hasse nodded. “The radio officer says there’s a lot of heavy traffic out of Tokyo and most of it is coded.”
“Nothing going in?”
“Not nearly as much as is going out.”
“When and where, that’s the million-dollar question,” Troost said, just as one of the bridge phones rang.
A junior officer answered it. “Admiral, the signal bridge has a message for you coming in from the Endeavor.”
Troost took the phone. “Troost standing by,” he said, looking at the Endeavor, which was two miles astern. Big as she was, she was also doing some significant pitching. He could see the signal light begin to flash, but didn’t try to read it.
“For Troost: Can your ships commence replenishment. Gower,” the SO said.
For the last few minutes, Troost had been mulling over refueling under the present conditions. “I’ll answer it,” he said.
“Aye, aye, sir,” the SO responded. “Copying.”
“For Admiral Gower. Highly recommend postponing replenishment until seas moderate. Consider risk to men and ships too great to begin evolution at this time. Also suggest reducing speed to minimum required to hold steerageway. Troost. Read it back.” Troost listened; then he said, “Send it.” Suddenly he realized that Hasse and the other officers on the bridge were looking at him as if he’d suddenly turned green, or worse, changed into a Japanese officer before their very eyes. Gower didn’t brook any questioning of his orders.
Troost shrugged. He didn’t have any doubt that Gower’s elfin face would turn red when he read the answer, and neither did he have any doubt that Gower, an old sea dog, would see things his way.
The phone from the SO rang again.
Troost answered it.
“From Admiral Gower to you,” the SO said.
“Read it.”
“Ship’s company and I furious at you for keeping us at sea Saturday night. Gower.”
“Thank you,” Troost smiled, allowing himself the luxury of a soft sigh of relief before he said to Hasse, “That means wait until the weather moderates before refueling and that we won’t be back in Pearl until Sunday morning.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Hasse grinned.
Troost returned to his own bridge, where he was told that Gower had just ordered a speed reduction for the entire group. Troost realized that he had been tested by Gower and come through, as the expression went, with flying colors.
CHAPTER 10
In the radio studio, Jacob sat between his mother and his sister. Shortly before noon, the musicians, all of them wearing tuxedos, filed onto the stage through a small door to the left. It was Sunday, December seventh.
“I’m so happy we’re here,” his mother said, “I wish Papa was with us.”
<
br /> “You know him,” Miriam said. “This is his busy season. Between Thanksgiving and Christmas he could make as much as he makes all year.”
Suddenly a door on the right side of the stage opened and Miss Swarthout walked out. She wore a bright red, body-hugging, long-sleeved gown.
Instantly the audience erupted into applause.
She blew them kisses.
“Red is her favorite color,” Mrs. Miller said.
“How do you know that?” Jacob asked, looking at his watch. It was 12:01.
“She said so,” his mother answered.
The door on the right opened again and the conductor, wearing tails, started out; then suddenly he stopped, turned, and walked back to the open door. Another man, dressed in an ordinary business suit, appeared in the doorway and said something to the conductor, who nodded and took his place on the podium.
Jacob looked at the ON THE AIR/OFF THE AIR indicators. The OFF THE AIR was on, and the studio clock above them read 12:03.
“They’re late getting started,” Miriam commented.
“Maybe someone is sick,” her mother said.
A brief exchange took place between Miss Swarthout and the conductor; then she stepped up to the edge of the stage and said, “We are truly sorry for the delay and —”
The door on the right opened.
Miss Swarthout looked toward it.
The man said something.
An instant later the green OFF THE AIR indicator was replaced by the red ON THE AIR warning.
The orchestra played the theme music and Miss Swarthout began to sing, “If I should lose you…”
The hour passed quickly. Miss Swarthout sang several Lehar songs, the “Habanera” from Carmen, and “Mon coeur s’ouvre à ta voix” from Samson and Delilah. And the orchestra played the overture to Rossini’s Thieving Magpie, the Carmen phantasy, and finished with Sousa’s “Stars and Stripes Forever.”
