Don't Talk to Me About the War (7 page)

“Please, I’m here for you.”

He must have seen how Mom struggled during services. That’s why he said that.

At about noon, Dad asks me to get the Sunday newspaper and go to the bakery for kaiser rolls, crumb cake, and a loaf of sliced rye bread. I get the
Sunday News
at Goldman’s, but I don’t go in. I just take the paper off the bench in front and drop the money in the cup.

The bakery is just a few stores away, and at the door I take a deep breath. It smells like fresh baked bread. I love that smell. I go in and am about to ask for four kaiser rolls when I realize they were probably named after some German kaiser, maybe Kaiser Wilhelm of Germany, the one who started the Great War, the one my dad was in. I hesitate, but you know what, I ask for them anyway. After all, they’re just rolls. Then I tell the woman I want bread and crumb cake. I pay her and she gives me the cake box and paper bag with the rolls and bread.

I decide not to go straight home. The sun is out, and it seems a pity to spend another whole day indoors.

There’s a small park nearby, just a few benches, a set of swings, some trees, and open space. I walk there and see a young couple gently rocking a baby carriage. I sit on a bench near them.

When I was young Mom took me to this park. She thought the fresh air was good for me and she met her friends here, Mrs. Muir and Mrs. Taylor. They would sit and talk and sometimes go shopping together.

“You were a good baby,” Mom has told me lots of times. “You hardly cried, and when you did, I knew something was wrong. You were hungry or soiled.”

Soiled
means my diaper was full. It’s embarrassing when I think of that. Mom changed me right here, in the park.

An old man standing by the open space throws a stick. His dog runs, gets it, and brings it back. And do you know what the man does? He throws the stick again and the dog runs for it. How can the dog keep running after the same stick knowing that as soon as he brings it back, he’ll have to run and get it again?

I open the bakery bag and smell the bread and decide I should go. It’s almost time for lunch.

When I get home the table is already set. Mom and Dad have been waiting for me. A bowl of noodles and sauce and a plate of Dad’s egg salad are in the middle of the table. Of course, you know what I take: noodles. I have enough of Dad’s egg salad during the week. For dessert I have crumb cake.

At two, we tune in to the Dodgers game. They’re in Philadelphia and the weather is still bad, but they play anyway. Dad listens with me while Mom rests.

It’s a great game! The Dodgers are losing almost from the start but just by one run. Then, in the ninth, they tie it with a sacrifice fly by Camilli and win it in the tenth with Pee Wee Reese’s first home run ever. It’s his first year with the team.

Later, Mom insists on setting the table and making dinner—to prove to us that she feels better. Dad and I watch as she brings in the plates, in case she stumbles, ready to catch the plates before they hit the floor. She doesn’t, but she limps. Her right leg looks stiff.

After dinner, beginning at seven I listen with my parents to the radio, to Jack Benny, Ellery Queen, and
The Charlie McCarthy Show
with Edgar Bergen, a ventriloquist. Then at ten thirty the president is on with one of his “Fireside Chats.” I listen to that, too.

“My friends,” President Roosevelt starts, “at this moment of sadness throughout most of the world,

I want to talk with you about a number of subjects that directly affect the future of the United States.”

He’s going to talk about the war in Europe. I’m sure of it.

“Tonight over the once peaceful roads of Belgium and France, millions are now moving, running from their homes to escape bombs and shells and fire and machine gunning, without shelter, and almost wholly without food.”

I’m on the floor. I move closer to the radio. My parents and I stare at it, like we can see President Roosevelt talking to us.

“Let us sit down together again, you and I, to consider our own pressing problems that confront us.”

He talks about Americans who believe what is taking place in Europe is none of our business. “Those who have closed their eyes” to what he calls “the approaching storm” have had a “rude awakening.” It seems he really feels that soon we will be at war.

He talks about battleships and gunboats and millions of dollars. He talks about spies and traitors, too. I don’t understand it all, but I sit there with my parents and listen.

“Day and night I pray for the restoration of peace in this mad world of ours,” he says. “I know you are praying with me.”

When the president is done, Dad says, “It’s terrible, what’s happening in Europe, but I still think it’s not our fight. If we go over there, before you know it, thousands of Americans will be running from bombs and dying. We have to protect our country, not the world. That’s what I say.”

I tell him, “Maybe the Germans will attack us, you know, after they take over all of Europe. President Roosevelt said the ocean that separates us from the fighting won’t protect us.”

“Well, so far it has,” Dad says.

I usually agree with Dad, but this time, I’m not sure.

President Roosevelt said that millions of people are running from bombs and I always thought of war as something fought among soldiers. I know soldiers are people, but they’re people with guns and trained to fight. The people he described, the people on the roads, are probably just like us, like Mom, Dad, and me. I imagine bombs falling and flashes of light in the night as we run from our apartment. Maybe we’d run across the bridge to Long Island.

I
t’s Monday morning, the day we finally find out what’s wrong with Mom, and it’s scary. What could Mom be thinking now? I bet she’s scared, too.

It’s quiet outside my room, but I know Dad hasn’t gone to work. He’s going with Mom to the doctor. Mom and Dad are sitting by the table. They’re drinking coffee and talking.

“Good morning,” Dad says to me. He’s real cheery. “I got up early and went to the bakery. We have fresh rolls.”

As I eat the roll, Mom smiles and says, “I feel fine today, but I’m going to the doctor anyway. Dad insists. I’m doing this for him. It’s a real waste of two dollars.”

Mom and Dad don’t say anything else. They just watch me eat. I must have interrupted a private conversation. It’s uncomfortable for me, sitting there, knowing they’re just waiting for me to leave so they can go on talking. I quickly finish my breakfast.

“It’s cloudy,” Mom tells me when I get up from the table. “It might rain. Wear your baseball cap and jacket.”

“Good luck with the doctor.”

On the way out of the apartment I wonder what I meant by “Good luck.” Do I want the doctor to tell Mom she’s fine? Then why do her hands shake? Why does she sometimes slur her words? If he says nothing is wrong, does it really mean he doesn’t know how to help her? I guess I want the doctor to know what’s wrong and that it’s not serious, that there’s some pill Mom can take to make her better.

I look at my watch and realize it’s early. I must have really hurried to get out. Mrs. Frank is just ahead of me on the stairs. She’s walking her two young girls to school. Mom did that, too, when I was young. She walked with me every morning.

“Margie doesn’t play with me at recess,” the younger of the two girls tells Mrs. Frank.

“I don’t want to play with her,” her sister says. “I want to play with my friends.”

Charles likes having an older brother. I bet when the Frank girls get older, they’ll be glad they have each other. Right now I wish I had a brother or sister I could talk to about Mom.

When I get outside, I see Mom was right. There’s a misty drizzle in the air and lots of dark clouds that seem ready to bring real rain.

I close my jacket and put on my light blue Dodgers hat with the large white
B
for Brooklyn in the front, and start toward Goldman’s.

A tall young man holding a large open black umbrella is ahead of me. He has on a suit and necktie and is carrying an armload of shirts. When he gets to the cleaners on the next block, he closes his umbrella and walks in. He looks to be just out of high school. If we go to war, he would probably be called to serve and would soon be wearing a uniform. Instead of carrying shirts to the cleaners, he would be carrying a gun into battle.

As he drops his shirts on the counter, I wonder what he thought of the president’s speech last night, what he thinks about going to war. For him, war won’t be something he’ll read about in newspapers. War might be something that will take his life.

Dad once told me that in the Great War he saw men die. Every moment he was in battle he thought he might be next. He still has his uniform. Mom once showed it to me. It’s in a box in his closet, but I’ve never seen Dad put it on or even look at it.

Goldman’s is on the next block. It’s especially noisy and crowded today, and all the stools by the counter are taken. Most of the seats at the tables are taken, too. I look in and see Beth sitting at the corner table,
her
table. Mr. Simmons is sitting across from her. There are a few newspapers open in front of them and they’re talking.

Beth looks up.

“Hi, Tommy. How’s your mom?”

“Fine.”

I won’t tell her about the doctor’s appointment with so many people around.

“The war news isn’t good. The French lost Boulogne, a port along the English Channel. You know, if the Germans cut off the Channel, the Allied soldiers will be completely trapped.”

“Eleanor, the president’s wife, was talking to some students,” Mr. Simmons tells me. “They’re against what we’re doing to get ready to fight, and she said, ‘I don’t want to go to war. But war may come to us.’”

He points to the newspaper again and says, “Look. It’s right here.”

I just hate it when he tells me to read stuff.

“That’s okay,” I tell him. “I trust you. I’m sure that’s what she said.”

He looks up and smiles. “I heard her speak many years ago, when I was in college. I saw her.”

“Really? Was she nice?”

“She was radiant,” Mr. Simmons says. “Her smile brightens her whole face. It cheers you just to see her.”

“That’s so great. I’d love to see Mrs. Roosevelt.”

“We should go,” Beth says. “We don’t want to be late.”

It’s amazing to me that someone I know actually saw the president’s wife. But Beth is right. We
should
go.

I say good-bye to Mr. Simmons, and I admit, I’m impressed he went to college. The only people I know who went are my teachers, and I guess Father Reilly.

“He’s seen lots of interesting people,” Beth tells me as we leave the coffee shop, “gangsters and actors, and once he opened the door for Babe Ruth and he told me Mr. Ruth was real polite.”

That reminds me about the baseball game Beth went to. I ask her about it.

“I had fun. It was chilly and there was some rain, but there were lots of home runs—and the Giants won!”

“That’s great.”

“We had seats upstairs, in the open, but when it started to rain we moved to a covered area. There were lots of empty places. And I did what you and Charles told me to do. I looked at the scoreboard and didn’t ask a lot of questions.”

We’re outside now.

“I wanted to talk to you,” I say, “and not in Goldman’s, not with all those people around.”

I move away from the curb, closer to the repair shop, so people can walk by.

“Mom made an appointment to see a doctor. She’s going there this morning. Dad is going with her.”

“Oh.”

We just stand there for a moment.

“I keep thinking about what horrible disease she might have.”

“It’s scary,” Beth says, “but it’s really the best thing, that she sees a doctor. It may be nothing serious and if it is something, the doctor will know what to do.”

“You know what worries me the most? It’s when I look at Mom. She’s the only one who really knows how she feels, and she doesn’t just look shaky and weak. Lots of times, when I look at her, she looks scared.”

“A lot of the time, that’s how my mom looked.”

“I guess people know when they’re sick, when they’re
really
sick.”

We stand there, near the corner. The newsie is calling out today’s headline just like he does every morning. Some people stop and buy a newspaper. Others hurry past him to the train. That’s how things go, I guess. No matter what is happening in your life, the world moves on.

I look closely at the newsie for the first time. He looks to be just a year or two older than me. I wonder why he’s not on his way to school. Maybe I’ll be doing that in two years, selling newspapers to help pay doctor and hospital bills.

“Beth, do you remember the first time your mom went to the doctor? Do you remember what he said, what you did?”