Authors: Lila Perl
Isabel’s War
Copyright © 2014 by Lila Perl.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher.
Please direct inquiries to:
Lizzie Skurnick Books
an imprint of Ig Publishing
392 Clinton Avenue #1S
Brooklyn, NY 11238
ISBN: 978-1-939601-37-7 (ebook)
Contents
Here we are again at Shady Pines, which is really just a fancy name for this smallish summer hotel that everybody calls Moskin's.
We crunch into the gravel parking lot, my father at the wheel of the 1939 Packard and my mother beside him. She's checking her hair and makeup in the windshield mirror because her female cronies are sure to be scattered around on the lawn. Or they might be seated at card tables on the broad wraparound porch of Moskin's main house.
Am I still talking to either one of my parents? It's not clear. All I know is that I've been sitting here in the back seat in stubborn silence ever since we left the Bronx three hours ago.
My mother breaks the stillness between us. “Here comes Ruthie. Act like a lady instead of a spoiled child. How composed and mature Ruthie looks. There's a daughter that Minnie Moskin can be proud of.”
Ruthie is a lot older-looking than last summer. She's still pale and moonfaced, with a button nose and gray
eyes. Her short-cut taffy-brown hair drapes her cheeks. But Ruthie has a “settled” air about her. I think she'll probably look the same as this when she's thirty-eight, forty-nine, even in her sixties. Right now, of course, Ruthie and I are the same age, twelve.
“Isabel,” Ruthie says softly, putting her head through the open window of the back seat. She's already said hello to my parents, greeting them politely as “Mr. Brandt” and “Mrs. Brandt.” The Moskin family has been getting Ruthie ready to play the part of the perfect hotel hostess since she was eight. In fact, this year Ruthie is officially known as “the governess.” She will be in charge of the younger children of the hotel guests, leading them in games and sports and even overseeing them at mealtimes in the children's dining room.
As soon as my father and one of the busboys from the grownups' dining room have emptied the car trunk of our luggage, Ruthie and I stroll off toward the room I'm going to occupy this year. We walk with our arms around each other's waists, heads together.
“Don't be mad at me,” I beg, “about not wanting to come to Moskin's this year. It has nothing to do with you and me. It's really about my being too old for this place. There's not much for me to do here, with you working full time. But they refused to send me to camp. Every time I ask for anything my father gives me the same excuse. âThis is 1942. There's a war on!'”
“Well,” Ruthie says philosophically, “there is. Everything's changed since Pearl Harbor. We don't even have a band this summer. A couple of the fellows from last year had such low draft numbers that they're already in uniform. And the others have gotten much better jobs, at least until they get drafted.”
“I know, I know. You wrote me.”
I think longingly of the four young “college men” who were so tantalizing to me last summer when I was only eleven. Miltie on the piano, Pinkie on the drums, Lou on the trumpet, and Bob on the saxophoneâtall, dark, handsome Bobâwho would have been my choice if I hadn't been nearly ten years too young for him.
“Soon all the boys will be in the army serving overseas,” I lament. “Then what?”
“Then we'll just have to wait for them to come back,” Ruthie says resignedly.
“They won't all come back,” I reply darkly.
We've reached the steps of the long, narrow wooden porch of the “Annex,” a row of eight guest rooms, one of which will be mine and one my parents'. Ruthie looks off into the distance. “I have to get back to work. I'm taking the littlest kids on a nature walk at two o'clock. Want to come along?”
“Um, no thanks. Tonight, though, what's on for tonight?”
“Dancing in the social hall,” Ruthie says. “To the jukebox. We could practice the Lindy.”
I nod, a little. Ruthie and I aren't much good at the Lindy. We tried it last year and didn't get very far. Besides, it won't be much fun trying to jitterbug to the music from a machine. More and more, I'm at war with this war.
There's a knock at my door, which is instantly shoved open by my mother. She's already changed into shorts and a knit polo shirt. This is her customary daytime outfit when we're in the country. Also, she's wearing ankle socks with white leather oxfords that have Cuban heels.
“You haven't changed yet, Isabel? Are you planning on returning to the city or what?”
“I wish I could, and you know it.”
My mother sits down on one of the twin beds, which is covered with a worn-looking white candlewick bedspread.
“Isabel, I don't want any trouble these next few weeks. Your father has just about had it and he's ready to explode. Here you are at Moskin's, away from the baking sidewalks and the stuffy apartment. You have Ruthie, one of your oldest friends. You've known her whatâfour, five years. Get into your bathing suit. Go down to the lake. I'll be on the porch of the main house if you want me.”
She's gone.
I stare critically into the mirror above the scarred wooden bureau. The furnishings at Shady Pines aren't exactly new or fancy. After all, this isn't the Plaza Hotel on Manhattan's Fifth Avenue. And now, with the war on, goods for the home front are already beginning to get scarce. It's hard to get everyday things like soap and matches, much less new furnishings, which the Moskins wouldn't spring for in any case.
In fact, they've already announced in their 1942 brochure that, as ration coupons will be required for sugar, coffee, and butter, they will no longer be able to serve unlimited quantities of these foods in the dining room. Everything, everything, is for the troops and is going for the war effort.
My reflection is still staring back at me. Why, oh why, I ask myself, did I have to be born with my father's nose? This is something that began to be noticeable during this past year. Especially since I was visited for the first time by the remarkable events outlined in that informative little booklet entitled “Marjorie May's Twelfth Birthday”âotherwise known as “getting your period.”
Is it possible that “becoming a woman” means that you can begin to grow a nose like a man? Why didn't Arnold, my seventeen-year-old brother, inherit my father's nose? But no, blond, blue-eyed, and baby-faced Arnold (who is back home in the city working at a
summer job) is the very picture of a romantic pretty-boy. While I...oh, what's the use?
All I've been asking for these past few months is a bobbingâjust the tip of my nose pushed up and back, something I can do with my index finger, hardly what you would call a nose job.
But my parents have refused to listen to me, even forbidden me to bring up the subject. “There's a war on,” says my father.
“What's that got to do with it?” I ask, falling right into the pit.
“Good heavens, Isabel,” he thunders, “don't you think doctors have more to do than making your nose one-thirty-second of an inch shorter? Aren't you hearing on the radio what's been going on in the steaming jungles of the Philippines, Bataan, New Guinea? How can you be so thoughtless and selfish?”
Steaming jungles, hmm. It's plenty hot in this little wooden box of a room that's supposed to save me from the baking sidewalks of
Le Grand Concours
. That's French, in case you didn't know it, for this big busy street in the Bronx, lined with apartment buildings, that's known as The Grand Concourse. As Miss Le Vigne, my French teacher, would say,
“Mon dieu, ouvrons les fenêtres. Comme il fait chaud!”
But there are no windows to open. The only window is at the back of my little room, and it's already open
and looks out onto a barricade of dark pine forest heavy with trapped air. So I wriggle into my bathing suit, grab a coarse, pebbly towel, and wander down the path that leads across a dirt country road to the lake, better known as Moskin's Mud Hole.
Sure enough, there are a bunch of eight- and ten-year-olds, all boys, cavorting around the dinky wooden platform that is used as both a boat dock and a diving platform.
If there's anything I hate more than ten-year-old boys, it's twelve-year-old boys. Short, fat, and boisterous; skinny, freckled, and buck-toothed; tall, gangly, and pimpledâall twelve-year-old boys make me feel like I want to vomit.
The kids at the lake give me a passing but interested look as I glide by them. My breasts, along with my nose, have popped noticeably in these past couple of months, and I'm wearing a jersey two-piece bathing suit. Just one fresh remark, I think to myself, and I'll punch the little smartass right in the nose.
But Moskin's young guests soon return to scrambling up onto the dock, holding their noses, and plunging back into the water like a pack of trained seals, while I take off and slip into the lake at a more distant point, swimming slowly to the far shore. There are footpaths there that trail off into the woods and lead to clusters of rented summer bungalows. Moskin's, after all, doesn't own the entire lake, and you can tell this from the fact that here,
where I'm now sitting on my towel and drying off, there's an old rubber swimming tube and a rowboat that's been pulled up onto the muddy shore.