Albany Park
Authors: Myles (Mickey) Golde
Albany Park
Myles (Mickey) Golde
AuthorHouse™
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
Phone: 1-800-839-8640
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
© 2012 Myles (Mickey) Golde. All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
Published by AuthorHouse 8/21/2012
ISBN: 978-1-4772-2132-7 (e)
ISBN: 978-1-4772-2133-4 (hc)
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012910656
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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.
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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
To Nancy:
Your enduring devotion, encouragement, patience and love inspires me
Thank you…My
Contents
From a distance, the gong of a Church bell tolled. Then the piercing sound of the school bell and a siren shrieked as bells, horns and sirens from all directions joined in.
“Hey, the war must be over,” yelled a tall dark-haired boy as he dropped a baseball bat, raising a puff of dust on the worn gravel of the school yard. A wide grin, showing dimples, crossed his finely chiseled features as he whooped and jumped in the direction of the other three boys in the lineball game converging on the pitcher’s mound. Stocky and bespectacled Jim Vogel, tall and sporting a few blemishes on his face, Sam Greenstein, short and pudgy Al Gordon and Victor Wayne, the tall wavy-haired boy who dropped the bat, clasped hands, hugging, jumping and screaming.
Japan’s surrender had been anticipated for several days. On August 6
th
, the radio blared with the news that the Japanese city of Hiroshima was almost completely destroyed by a single, highly secret United States Atomic Bomb. Three days later another atom bomb hit Nagasaki with similar devastation. The world waited in horror after hearing the reports of the destruction caused by this powerful new weapon. That night President Truman, broadcasting on national and worldwide radio, issued an ultimatum to the Japanese to surrender unconditionally or accept the consequences of additional bombs on their cities.
On August 14
th
, Emperor Hirohito, of Japan, spoke to his nation and admitted defeat. Celebrations immediately erupted throughout the world.
Every kid in the school yard had stopped what they were doing. Swift pitching games ceased, the players gathering to jump and scream with the lineball players. Poker games in the secluded area near the school boiler room broke up as did the crap game, scrambling the gamblers as they picked up their bets. Hands slapped backs and boys of all ages shouted, jumped and ran in every direction. Loungers sprawling on the school stairs sprung to their feet, as small boys in short pants playing pinners, abandoned their rubber balls, and girls jumping rope stopped in mid-air, all running to join the crowds screaming and hugging one another.
Clouds of dust floated from the tamped-down gravel against the deep colored red brick of the school as kids rushed from one group to another and the crowd got larger.
Within minutes men, and women joined the gang of kids in the school yard, waving flags, banging pots, and cheering.
Vic, Sam, Al and Jim continued to pound each other on the back; laughing hysterically and screaming, “The war is over, the war is over!”
Mitzi Rubin, a thin blonde woman without a trace of makeup and hair tied, exposing her long sensuous neck, came running from her apartment down the street. Her baggy house dress and apron, damp from washing a load of laundry, clung to her legs. Smiling broadly with tears flowing and holding a four foot American flag in her slender hands, she climbed to the head of the steps near the south end of the campus. Looking toward the sky as if praying, she started to sing, in a strong clear voice, “God Bless America land that I love.” Hearing her German accent, Vic Wayne stopped and smiled. The words coming from her sounded more meaningful he thought, especially when he remembered that she had been the only survivor in her family to escape from Germany before the war. By the time she reached the word “America,” everyone in the large group that had gathered to watch her, joined in. Dragging out the final word, she waved the flag in a wide circle and the singers followed her, singing the song again . This time, even louder. Laughing hilariously at the singing and cheers, she continued to lead the expanding crowd in “The Star Spangled Banner.” At the conclusion, she waved the flag to the hilarious delight and applause of the crowd. With the flag held high, she descended the steps. A parade followed her. Shouts erupted as people sang and loudly screamed other patriotic songs and phrases.
Passing Vic, she smiled and said, “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you lately.” His face flushed, remembering how he had met the lonely twenty-year-old wife of a soldier and the close friendship they formed the previous summer. He hadn’t seen her since three months after he started going steady with Shirley Siegal. Waving, he mumbled, “Just been busy,” and turned away; knowing she couldn’t hear him over the din in the school yard. Her only response was raised eyebrows, a tilted head and a shrug.
Out of the corner of his eye, Vic spotted Shirley at a distance, talking and laughing with some girls, and remembered he was to meet her today at the school. He started in her direction and hesitated, noticing how she stood out in the crowd. Even at fourteen, she looked seductive. Her dark curly hair, accentuating her bright eyes and the way she moved always set her apart. Her hips, and legs, especially when viewed from behind, had the effect of making one eager to see what the rest of her looked like. Sighing he looked down, just feeling like he didn’t want to be with her today, but last night she insisted on seeing him even though she knew he would be playing ball with his friends. Lately she seemed to always be around; he could never just be by himself or with the guys. Turning, he slapped Jim on the back. “C’mon let’s go,” he said, ducking away from where Shirley was standing. Jim pushed back his glasses with his forefinger, noticing his friend avoiding his girlfriend.
“What’s up weren’t you meeting Shirley today?”
”Let’s get outta here, before she sees me”.
Hurrying south from the school, the boys could hear radios playing through open windows on the warm August day, blaring “The White Cliffs of Dover”, “ “God Bless America” and Sousa marches. “Oh beautiful for spacious skies,” sang out from one, followed by Edward R. Murrow’s voice, reporting from London, echoed loudly from a basement apartment close to the sidewalk. Further down the street, a prayer was heard from another radio, with a background of “Battle Hymn of the Republic”, playing softly, as the solemnity of the moment struck.
Sirens and bells continued while the boys worked their way down Springfield. Reaching the first corner, Vic stopped, holding up his hand and shouted over the noise, “Hey let’s go downtown; I bet it’s wild there.”
“Yeah let’s go,” they all agreed. Tugging at his drooping pants, stocky Jim Vogel led the way toward Lawrence Avenue to catch a ride.
It didn’t take long for a bright red and yellow streetcar to come into view; moving toward the El station to downtown. Normally, the streetcars roared as they raced down the tracks, but this one was very crowded and the slow clickety-clack of the wheels on the tracks could be heard. Sam and Vic trotted alongside the lazy pace of the creaking car and grabbed at the support handles on the open rear platform, holding out hands to help Jim and Al find spots to grab while standing on the jammed step.
The florid faced conductor, hat in hand, was using his sleeve to wipe away the sweat on his forehead, his other hand continuously pulled the cord on the clanging bell and waved anyone off that was attempting to pay the six cent fare. “Not today,” he shouted, “the war is over.”
At Kimball, the boys, along with about half the passengers got off to run into the station and board the Elevated train to the Loop. All of them, except Jim, were wearing scruffy bleached overalls, with striped short sleeved knit shirts that had seen better days.
Huffing up the stairs to the platform, Jim straightened his collar and rubbed at a large smudge on the front his shirt shouting,” my Mom would faint if she saw me going downtown dressed like this.”
Between them they had less than three dollars, which they had counted up before boarding the street car. It didn’t seem to matter today. The seats on the train filed quickly and several passengers stood in the aisle. Slowly, they left the station. .
At, the first stop, Kedzie, the doors opened and another boisterous group pushed aboard. They were led by two men who ran in, clinked whiskey bottles and took swigs. A group of kids in summer playground clothes and several men in work clothes, stormed in, others in straw hats and ties and women in lightweight summer dresses followed. All were happy, shouting, singing and waving flags or blowing horns as they joined the lively crowd going deeper into the city.
By the time they reached Fullerton, the last stop before entering the year-old subway tunnel, the train had slowed, but didn’t stop to take on more passengers. It was already too crowded. Entering the tunnel the roar of the wheels bouncing off the walls heard through the open windows, added to the noise of the shouts and singing. At Lake Street, the train screeched to a stop. Many of the passengers, including the boys, got off, leaving the sagging wicker covered seats of the old El car empty. With Vic leading the way, the four of them ran up the stairs to State Street. They were greeted with a mass of screaming people for as far as the eye could see.
