Don't Talk to Me About the War (17 page)

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Authors: David A. Adler

BOOK: Don't Talk to Me About the War

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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.

It Can’t Be!

I
t’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.

“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.