Читать книгу Isabel's War - Lila Perl - Страница 10

Five

Every morning after breakfast, my father and some of the other male guests at Moskin’s walk into Harper’s Falls to pick up their newspapers, so they can keep up with the war news. They call this exercise their “constitutional.” Afterwards they return to Moskin’s and sit on the porch all morning discussing the latest reports and chewing on their cold cigar butts from the night before.

I’m sitting nearby struggling with my knitting because it’s too cool to go for a swim this early. “Leave it to the Marines,” my father rumbles with an air of authority, as he rustles his newspaper. “Those boys finally held off a Jap ground attack on Guadalcanal. They don’t come any tougher than that.”

One of my dad’s cronies reminds him that the Japanese are still way ahead of the game. “So what? Have you any idea how many American prisoners of war they’ve taken? And what about those Jap air attacks and those Jap submarines in the Pacific?”

“Aahh.” My father waves his stale cigar in the air. “That’s the kind of defeatist talk that’s bad for the war effort.”

It’s a relief when I see Ruthie approaching on the lawn that slopes up toward the main house of Shady Pines, and I skip down the porch steps to meet her. I honestly don’t see how anybody can keep this war straight in their head. There are so many “fronts”. . .which I guess is why they call it a “World War”...the second one since the first World War. There’s the Pacific front where we’re fighting the Japanese who attacked Pearl Harbor in Hawaii in December 1941. There’s Europe, where Nazi Germany has scooped up one country after another. There’s the Russian front, where the Germans are still in a fight to take over Russia and are now waging a big battle at Stalingrad. And there are also German armies fighting in North Africa to keep us from trying to invade southern Europe. I know that much from listening to my father’s pronouncements about how important it is to support the war effort (and why I’d better stop whining about having my nose fixed, or else...).

“Where’s Helga this morning?” Ruthie wants to know.

It’s been a few days now since Helga’s midnight rendezvous with Roy, about which I’ve told Ruthie and only Ruthie.

“Mrs. F. took her into town to have the doctor check on her leg.” I’m still carrying my knitting needles and my ball of yarn. I’ve got about two inches of my soldier’s muffler done, but it looks like Swiss cheese and will probably have to be ripped out when Mrs. F. gets back.

“She still hasn’t said anything about what happened that night?” Ruthie asks. “Does she ever make any sounds in her sleep?”

“How should I know?” Most of the time, I’m sleeping, too. “But I can tell you for sure that she’s mooning over him. And I know he gave her his address in the Navy so she could write to him. She probably will, too, if she hasn’t already.”

Ruthie sighs. “Well, I think it’s pretty romantic...a sort of love-at-first-sight story. Wouldn’t you want to have somebody in the war you could write to? You know, just to keep his spirits up? It wouldn’t have to be a romantic thing, even...just friendly and supportive. It must be awful for those fellows who are drafted into the Army, being ripped away from home like that.”

Ruthie can be such a sob sister, sentimental and even crying real tears about somebody she doesn’t even know. I suddenly have a strong impulse to shove my knitting at her, needles first.

“Why would I want to write letters to somebody who didn’t even care about me?” I’m not even sure I’d write to my own brother if he was drafted. Well, maybe I would. But only un très petit peu.

Speaking of Arnold, guess who’s suddenly decided to put in an appearance at Shady Pines for the weekend. When my parents tell me about my brother’s unexpected phone call announcing his arrival by train on Saturday morning, I’m sort of surprised. Arnold has been working this summer in a garment factory that converted from making men’s trousers to army uniforms, and because of the war effort he even works on Saturdays. He’s been saving money for college in the fall and he’s such a money hog that I find it strange he’d take off even one day.

But, of course, the thing that strikes me the most about my brother’s visit is that here is yet another admirer for Helga. I can already see him taking one look at her and falling head over heels. And what about Helga? How loyal will she be to Roy once she gets a look at Arnold, with his enticing blue eyes and smooth moves?

On Saturday shortly after breakfast, we pile into my father’s car to go to Harper’s Falls to meet Arnold’s train. Ruthie comes, too. She needs to make some bulk food purchases for the hotel and, these days, with gasoline and even rubber tires being rationed, everybody has to be careful not to waste wartime scarcities.

Mrs. Moskin sees us off in her floury white bandana, with last-minute instructions for Ruthie. You’d think we were all going to the moon. I settle into the back seat beside Ruthie and heave a deep sigh.

“What’s the matter?” my father inquires. “You sound like the whole world is resting on your shoulders. You don’t know how lucky you are to be living in a wonderful democracy like America.”

“That’s right,” my mother chimes in. “When I think of that poor Helga and what she’s been through. She doesn’t say much, but I can just imagine how terrified she must have been all those years by the Nazis. And from what Harriette Frankfurter tells me, things weren’t that much better during those two years in England. They weren’t that welcoming to people with German accents. And who were Jewish, no less.”

Where, I wonder, is all this coming from? I glance at Ruthie and roll my eyes. All I did was sigh.

“I’m right, Ruthie, aren’t I?” my mother says, glancing around briefly.

“Oh yes, Mrs. Brandt,” Ruthie replies solemnly.

I give her a killing look. Thankfully, it’s only a short drive to the village and we’re already there. We still have half an hour until Arnold’s train is due so my mother goes off to do some shopping and my father drives Ruthie and me around to the various hotel suppliers who stow the purchases for Shady Pines in the roomy trunk of the Packard. Then we park at the railroad station where my mother joins us with her packages.

“Where did so many soldiers suddenly come from?” my mother wants to know.

It’s true. There are young fellows in uniform milling around all over the place, waiting for a train or maybe for transportation by truck to an Army base. Most of them are in newly issued khaki-colored Army privates’ uniforms, with sharply folded overseas caps slung through their belts. There are only a few in sailors’ whites and, of course, I get a jolt when I see them because they remind me of Roy (who I’m still pretty mad at).

“Yep, the draft is really in full swing these days,” my father remarks, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Got to get at those Germans and Japs.”

Ruthie and I glance at each other silently. Some of the fellows are really cute in their new uniforms. “Looking for somebody to write letters to?” I tease Ruthie.

Just then there’s a long screaming whistle and everybody starts peering down the track. “That’ll be Arnold’s train for sure,” I mutter to Ruthie. “Just watch the way he acts toward me the minute he gets off. He doesn’t see me as anything but an annoying kid sister. He treats me like I’m chopped liver.”

Ruthie shakes her head. “Maybe he’ll be different this time. Why don’t you wait and see?” That’s Ruthie, always giving the guilty party the benefit of the doubt. Anyhow, she has a slight crush on my brother from summers past.

The train chugs into Harper’s Falls in a cloud of black smoke. My father informs us that “it’s being pulled by an old coal-fired steam locomotive” and that “the U.S. has got to get itself some new rolling stock if it really expects to win this war.” I sometimes wonder why he doesn’t just give up his insurance business in New York City and go to Washington to offer himself as a right-hand man to President Roosevelt.

The train is jammed with even more soldiers, their heads popping through the open windows like bunches of flesh-colored balloons. A lot of them get off, a lot of the waiting soldiers get on, an Army truck arrives to pick up the new arrivals and some who’ve already been waiting around, and finally Arnold’s figure swims through the crowd.

He’s easy enough to pick out because he’s dressed in civilian clothes, a blue shirt and dark trousers. My father and mother rush forward to embrace him. Even though it’s been only about a week since we left home for Shady Pines, my parents are hugging Arnold as though they haven’t seen him in months.

“So,” my mother says playfully after my brother has given me a peck on the cheek and greeted Ruthie rather absentmindedly. “To what do we owe the pleasure of this visit? We did say you should come up for a little rest from work, but so soon?”

“Tell you all about it when we get to the hotel,” Arnold says, slinging his overnight bag into the trunk of the car and taking my mother’s place in the passenger seat beside my father.

From the back seat where she’s sitting directly behind Arnold, my mother leans forward and strokes the back of my brother’s head. His hair is the color of dark butterscotch and very thick. “You need a haircut, my darling. Have you been working so hard that you didn’t have time to get one?”

Arnold runs his hand over where my mother’s has just been. “I’ll get one soon. Very short.”

“Not too short,” my mother cautions with a bossy edge to her voice.

We’re back at Moskin’s in no time and my father parks outside the kitchen entrance so the busboys can bring in the hotel supplies.

“Come in, come in, everybody,” Minnie Moskin beckons. “Arnold made an early train. Surely he didn’t have breakfast.” She clears one of her well-scrubbed wooden tables and starts to fuss at the stove. Would Arnold like French toast with maple syrup, eggs, cereal, coffee? What about the rest of us? My father says he’ll have a little of whatever Arnold is having. Eating a second breakfast at Moskin’s never bothers him. My mother and I shake our heads no thanks.

It’s so homey sitting here in Mrs. Moskin’s kitchen surrounded by all the good smells of her wholesome and generous meals. I keep wondering why my family can’t be a happier one. Somebody, it seems, is always being criticized. I, of course, am the worst culprit with my demands for a nose job, for a pair of dungarees, for not appreciating what Helga has been through, and for not doing enough for the war effort.

Arnold, so far, has been told that his visit to us at Moskin’s is premature and that he needs a haircut. But then he hasn’t even been here an hour.

Mrs. Moskin brings coffee and thick slices of golden, crusty-edged French toast that she makes from leftover loaves of her home-baked bread. “So,” my father says, stirring heavy cream into his coffee, “what’s doing in the city? How’s the job? Is the factory turning out its quota of uniforms? From the looks of all those draftees at the station, they’ll soon go into overtime.”

Arnold digs into his syrup-drenched French toast. “Not me,” he says casually. “I quit the factory yesterday. Figure I’m due for a short vacation. That’s why I’m here.”

“You quit!” my father explodes. “You left your summer job working for the war effort? What kind of an American are you?”

My mother has gotten to her feet. “Now, now, Harold, calm down. I’m sure our son has a good reason for what he did. Don’t be so quick to judge.”

I remain sitting at the table, keeping an eye on Ruthie who has been lurking off in the distance where she’s helping her mother roll out dough for strudel. I’m so glad that for once this isn’t about me. It’s almost like watching a really good movie.

Arnold, too, is now standing. “Pop, if you’d just give the other fella a chance to explain once in a while. You’re going to be pleased with what I have to tell you. I’ve joined the Army Air Force. They took me into the Air Force. Is that terrific or what?”

My mother sinks immediately into her chair. “You what? Oh, my baby. You’re not even eighteen yet. You’re starting college in the fall. Why did you do that?”

My father pushes his coffee cup away, plants his elbows on the table, and jams his face between his hands. “Crazy. I have a crazy family, crazy children. You couldn’t wait for your draft number to come up? Meanwhile you could have started college, maybe—who knows—even gotten a deferment.”

Arnold sits down in dismay and, for the first time, he looks at me and something like a spark of shared sympathy passes between us. Then he goes on to explain that ever since last April when the American lieutenant colonel, James Doolittle, led a squadron of fifteen planes off the deck of an aircraft carrier to bomb Tokyo, he’s had his heart set on getting into the Air Force.