Don't You Know There's a War On? (6 page)

WEDNESDAY WAS A
big day. In school, not much happened. After school, tons.

First, like I was supposed to, when school was over I headed home. Denny had to go somewhere. On the way I checked the headlines. As I was looking at them, old Mr. Teophilo—the blind newsman—turned toward me with his closed eyes and wrinkled eyelids and said, “I don't know, Howie. Looks pretty bad today.” He fingered his gold chain like it was some good-luck charm. “Where's Denny today?”

“Had to do something. Mr. Teophilo,” I said, “you mind my asking? How come you knew he wasn't here with me?”

“Aw, Howie, it ain't so hard. Everybody is all kinds of different ways. You know, different breathing, talking, moving. They even smell their own way. In the whole world, no two people the same.”

I said something like “Yeah,” wondering, as always, how he knew.

Soon as I got back to our apartment, Gloria said, “Guess
what?”

“What?”

“Letter from Pop.” She held up a blue square of paper. It was folded-over thin blue paper to save weight. It was a what we called
V
—for “victory”—letter.

Near our address on the front was a red stamp mark that read,

Now, understand, my pop had been gone for more than a month. I was missing and worrying about him a whole lot, so I was pretty pink to see that letter. But the rule in our place was, Only Mom could open his letters. So we left it on the kitchen table by the saltshaker, where she always checked for them.

With Gloria plugged into the radio and reading a book, I went over to a friend's house. The weather being good, a bunch of us played stickball in the middle of the street.

One guy was amazing. He could hit the ball really far. And let me tell you, that ball was dead, being made of wound-up electrical tape. Still, every time, triple or homer.

Anyway, we had a good time, and I didn't think about my pop or Miss Gossim, not even once. It was kind of a relief.

When I got back home—maybe six-thirty—Mom was there. She looked beat, the way she usually did when she got home from the Navy Yard. Her job was to put in rivets in armor plate on ship repairs. She said it was hard, dull work. But she was forever saying she had to do it right. What if the work was done bad? Think of the lives that could be lost! It could even be Pop.

For instance: She was always telling us this story about a fighter pilot who got shot down in the Pacific. He lived because he clung to his life preserver. Okay. But see, it turned out it was his own mother who packed that preserver in some factory somewhere. Hey, Ripley's Believe It or Not. You could look it up.

So, anyway, when I got back, Mom was at the kitchen table reading Pop's letter. Gloria was sitting beside her.

“Hi,” Mom said, as I walked in. “Where you been?”

“Playing ball. What did Pop say?”

“You can read it for yourself while I make dinner.”

She put the letter down and opened the cabinet door
over the sink. “We'll have ravioli and peas,” she said. Took down a couple of cans, staring at them sort of tired. “Even canned goods are rationed now,” she said.

“We're out of milk,” my sister said.

Mom said, “Fetch my purse and ration book, and get some from the store.”

“You don't need ration stamps for milk,” I reminded her.

She smiled. I could tell, something in Pop's letter had got to her.

“Why can't Howie get the milk?” Gloria said.

“Because I asked you to.”

“Can I get a penny candy?” she asked.

“No,” Mom said. “Dinner be ready soon. Now scoot.” She opened the two cans and dumped the insides in pots.

I spread my pop's letter before me. Holes had been cut into it. You know, the censor slicing things out he didn't think Pop should be saying. What people called a “Swiss-cheese letter.”

I read the letter a few times, trying, you could guess, to figure out what the cutout words were.

“Where do you think he is?” I said to my mom when I couldn't figure it out.

“Sounds like Liverpool,” she said.

“Where's that?”

“England.”

“It's called Merry Old England,” I corrected. “When do you think he'll be home?”

“Easter, I'm guessing.”

“Why would they cut
that
out?”

“If the Germans knew when he hoped to be home, maybe they could figure out when he was leaving and where he'd be. Those U-boats could be right there, waiting
for him.”

“Then how come he isn't waiting for a convoy? Isn't it safer?”

“Yes.”

“Does that mean his ship will be all alone?” I asked, horrified.

“Howie, honey,” she said, softly, “I don't know any more than you do.”

“But if his ship's alone . . . ,” I started to say.

“Howie, it's really better not to talk about—”

All of a sudden air raid sirens started howling.

In case you didn't know, I'll explain. Sirens meant the whole city was supposed to douse lights. Called a blackout. It was to make sure enemy airplanes or ships couldn't home in on us.

Now, for all I knew, maybe enemy planes
were
coming. Hey, they did at Pearl Harbor. It would take plane spotters—up on roofs—to know for sure. To help, there were all these searchlights flicking back and forth against the sky. So we took the siren seriously. In fact, Mom had been holding a pot in her hand. When the sirens came, she dropped the pot on the stove.

After that she didn't seem worried. Not that she would have let on. “Supper will have to wait,” she said, turning off
the kitchen light. “Howie, go get the front lights.”

I hurried down the hall.

“And Howie,” she called after me. “When you get everything, go after Gloria. She doesn't like being alone in the blackouts.”

I got our apartment dark. Then I made my way out onto the street. Most lights were already off. They would stay that way for an hour, till the all-clear siren.

A few people went scurrying by, trying to get inside. Unless you were in the Civil Defense, you weren't supposed to be on the streets.

As I stood there in front of our building, the last lights on the block went off. No people or cars either. Except for the sirens, the city was quiet, spookylike. Another world. I could even see stars. I liked that part. Until blackouts I'd never really seen stars.

Pretty soon the air raid wardens came down the middle of the street. They wore white armbands and helmets with the Civil Defense insignia. Two of them had walkie-talkies. Their job was to make sure everything was dark. They could arrest you if you made any trouble.

Before they could tell me to get back inside, I headed for the grocery store. It was only three blocks away.

The store, which was pretty small, was mostly dark, except for this tiny burning candle. On the walls were wooden shelves. Not a lot of stuff on them because of all the food shortages. There was an icebox too, for eggs and milk. The potato box was empty. Just a sign that said,

On one wall was a big poster, which I liked looking at. It was a picture of this blond lady, only she didn't have too much on—just a red, white, and blue sort of flag scarf. She was riding this huge falling bomb. In big letters 'cross the top, it said,

Gloria was in the store, clutching a milk bottle. She was sitting next to Mrs. Hakim, who ran the store with her husband. This Mrs. Hakim was a tiny, big-eyed woman. She always reminded me of a sardine.

“Howie,” Mrs. Hakim said soon as she saw me. “Your sister was afraid to go home. I told her she could stay. Now go along, honey. Say hello to your mother for me.”

We started home.

“Howie, are we going to be bombed?” Gloria asked as we walked along.

“Shh!” I said, as if some Nazi might hear us.

“Are we?” she whispered

“Nah,” I said. “The coast patrol would spot any Germans and shoot them down first. Besides,” I told her, “Germans don't have any long-range bombers. Nothing to cross the Atlantic, anyway.”

That made her feel better. “Here,” she said, giving me the milk. “You carry it. I don't want to drop it.”

Every once in a while her hand brushed up against me. Just to feel better, I think.

We passed another air raid warden. “Hey, kids,” he yelled, “get on home now. You're not supposed to be out.”

Gloria grabbed my hand and made me go faster. But when we reached our building, I said, “Take the milk inside.”

“Aren't you coming in?”

“Want to sit and see what's happening. Tell Mom I'll be up soon as it's over.”

She gave me this worried look.

“I'll be all right,” I told her. “Go on.”

She went. I stayed where I was. Way overhead I could
see these searchlight beams going back and forth in the sky. Made me think of dueling swords in a Douglas Fairbanks movie.

Another warden went by, but when she gave me this dirty look, I said, “I live here.” So she kept going.

But the next warden who showed up stopped right in front of me. “Hey, kid!” he yelled. “What do you think you're doing?”

“I live here,” I told him.

He considered me for a moment, then said, “Want to do something useful?”

“Sure,” I said.

“My walkie-talkie is on the blink. I'm supposed to report to the section commander—Mr. Handler—that this ward is fine. He's at the corner of Hicks and Orange. Know where that is?”

“Sure.”

“Fine. Go on down there and tell him that Watkins of Ward Sixteen said we're pretty perfect. Repeat that.”

“Watkins said Ward Sixteen is pretty perfect.”

“Right. And if anyone stops you, just tell him Watkins sent you. Get that?”

“Okay.”

“Okay, scoot!”

“Yes, sir.” I was on my feet and running. The thing is, I knew I was heading right near where Miss Gossim lived.

IT WAS DARK
, but I was going the way I went to school. So I reached the corner of Hicks and Orange fast.

The CD commander was easy to find 'cause there was this car, a Packard, with a Civil Defense flag flying from the antenna. A bunch of wardens were hanging around.

“What you doing here, kid?” someone called when I got close.

“I'm supposed to tell Mr. Handler that Watkins said Ward Sixteen is pretty perfect.”

“I'm Mr. Handler,” said this man from the front seat of the car. A cigarette was in his mouth. It was stuck in a holder the way I'd seen pictures of President Roosevelt smoking his cigarette.

I gave the message again, adding, “Watkins's walkie-talkie ain't working.”

“Yeah. All right, kid. Thanks. Now just beat it home. You're not supposed to be out. You'll get into trouble.”

I backed away from the car and the CD men. But instead of going home, I headed for Miss Gossim's apartment building.

I reached it easy. When I got there, all I did was stand outside and look up toward the fifth floor. But since every window in the whole building was dark, I couldn't see nothing.

Even so, it felt good being there. As if I was watching over Miss Gossim or something. I mean, that looking over the cliff like I'd seen her do, it kept coming back bad into my head.

And I kept thinking, Why does she have to get fired?

Anyway, standing there, pretty soon I got to imagining bombs falling and that I had to save her like in the movie
The Masked Marvel
. I'd just burst through smoke and flames, finding her asleep in bed, when I heard, “Hey, kid!”

It was another warden. Some 4-F fat guy, in a helmet and trench coat with a big nose and a mustache, so he looked like an old walrus. He was holding this billy stick like cops carried.

“What do you think you're doing, kid?” he asked, pointing
his stick right at me. “You're supposed to be inside. Where do you live?”

I didn't want no trouble. “There,” I said, and pointed to Miss Gossim's building.

“Then get yourself inside or I'll book you,” he said, taking a step toward me, tapping that stick in the palm of his hand. Showing me what he might do to me.

Scared, I pushed through the heavy glass and iron doors of Miss Gossim's apartment building. It was pretty dark inside. But, see, I figured I could just stay there until the guy left. I turned and looked back. The warden was still there, probably glaring at me, watching and waiting to see if I was really going inside.

What else could I do? Thinking of that billy stick, I counted down five apartment buttons and pushed the one for Miss Gossim's apartment—5-C.

“Who is it?” A voice came from a squawk box next to the door. It might have been rough and crackling, but it was Miss Gossim's voice all right.

Guessing there was a microphone somewhere, I called, “It's me, Howie!”

“Howie?”

“Howie Crispers.”

For a moment she didn't say nothing. I snitched an-other look over my shoulder. The warden must have been going izzy-wizzy at me with his eyes.

“Did you want to see me?” Miss Gossim asked. There was puzzle in her voice.

“Miss Gossim,” I shouted. “I got caught outside in the blackout. A warden is saying I have to get off the street right away.”

All I heard was silence. I figured she was thinking what to do. Behind me the warden was going
smack
,
smack
into his hand with his billy stick.

Then the door buzzer rang, unlocking the door. I flung myself against it, and it opened.

Okay. I was in this lobby. I could see that much. But I wasn't sure what to do next. It was a blackout. And I wasn't home where I should be but in this building where I shouldn't. And now Miss Gossim was expecting me.

I remembered her apartment was on the fifth floor. Five-C, right? So I looked around and was able to make out some steps in the back. Holding on to the banister, I started up. And all the time my heart was going
pita-pat
,
pita-pat
. And I'm thinking,
Holy mackerel!
I'm visiting Miss Gossim!