Of Windmills and War (6 page)

5

Over the next couple of weeks, Danny lived in a fog. He went
to school, continued to work for Mr. Chaney at the grocery store, and shoveled
snow when it fell. But he merely went through the motions, his mind and his
heart thousands of miles away. His mother seemed to understand. She told him
she’d lost a young sister when she was just a girl. She encouraged him to talk
about Hans and not hold in his grief, or let her know if she could help. But it
was too hard. Too soon. He knew it was crazy, but it seemed like talking about
it only made it more painful. In some strange way, it validated the truth that
Hans was dead.

At first his father seemed sympathetic, but only for a day or
two. Then came the grumbled comments across the dinner table.

“Nothing you can do about it, so stop all this moping
around.”

“You never met the kid. Get over it.”

“Enough of this. Grow up and take it like a man.”

Whenever one of these missiles came his way, Danny just let
it roll over him, ignoring the intended barb. For some reason, he felt
completely numb, unwilling to muster any kind of response. Always, his mother
would later commend him for not taking his father’s bait, but truth be told, he
just didn’t care anymore.

Joey called near the end of February before crossing the
country to his new home aboard the USS
Oklahoma
. He seemed anxious to
go, but regretted not getting to see his family before he deployed. Danny
thought he sounded a little homesick, but couldn’t be sure. He wondered if Joey
would have come home if Dad hadn’t kept his grudge all these months. The
thought depressed him. He’d give anything to get to spend some time with his
brother. Who knew how long it might be before he’d be stateside again?

Gradually, as winter gave way to spring, he began to feel
the fog lifting and made an extra effort to pour himself into his school work.
He took as many hours at the grocery store as he could. When April finally
rolled around, he started looking forward to the Cubs’ new season and another
chance at the pennant. Still, never a day passed that he didn’t think of Hans.
He always looked for a letter on his pillow when he came home from school, then
glanced at the picture on his mirror and tried to be thankful for the
friendship they’d shared instead of living with the grief.

Then one sunny afternoon in late April, Danny hurried home
from school and took the porch steps two at a time. In less than two minutes,
he scratched Sophie behind the ears, threw an old knotted sock down the hall
for her to chase, said hi to his mom who was peeling carrots at the kitchen
sink, and sliced himself a piece of pound cake for a snack.

“Good heavens, what’s the hurry, Danny?”

“Opening day! Cubs and Cardinals in
St.
Louis
.
Don’t wanna miss it!”

As he flew down the hall and up the stairs, he heard his mom
yell, “Danny, don’t forget to feed Sophie, and by the way, there’s a—”

He missed whatever else his mother said when he flipped on
the radio on his bedside table and tuned it to WLS. Just as he was ready to
plop down on his bed, he saw it—an envelope resting on his pillow. His heart
nearly stopped until he realized the handwriting was that of Anya, not Hans.

He turned the volume down on his radio, picked up the
letter, and studied the postmark as he reached for his letter opener. He
noticed she’d sent the letter on April 1—three weeks ago.

Dear Danny,

I thank you for the letter you wrote after hearing our sad
news. It was kind of you and we were grateful for your prayers. It’s been hard,
but we’re trying to put our lives back together as best we can. Mother has had
a very difficult time. She stays in bed most days, and I’m very much afraid she
may never be the same. I try to cheer her up, but it doesn’t seem to help.

I hope you don’t mind, but one day I read all of your
letters to Hans. I often spend time in his room. It makes me feel close to him.
Now I understand why you and my brother were such good friends. You sound so very
much like him in many ways. I was wondering if you would like me to send the
letters back to you along with your picture?

I don’t know what else to say so I’ll end this.

Anya

For some reason, the idea of Anya reading his letters
startled him. A lot. He glanced over at the picture of Hans and his family still
stuck in the frame of his mirror. He’d often thought she looked like a real
pill, but maybe that was more about the stories Hans had written about her and
all the trouble she used to give him. His mind wandered off, picturing his
friend’s feisty sister and the mischief that seemed to follow her every step.
He remembered the time Hans wrote about her getting kicked out of the Girl
Scouts. Danny had been shocked to hear
Holland
even
had Girl Scouts, but apparently the organization had roots in
England
which
had quickly spread throughout
Europe
. Mrs. Versteeg had insisted
her daughter join, much to Anya’s displeasure.

Hans once wrote him that Anya got into a fight one day with
a girl named Tilly who happened to be the scoutmaster’s daughter. Tilly fancied
herself quite the beauty and loved to tease Anya in front of the other girls for
her rough and tumble behavior and unkempt appearance. On that particular day
Tilly made up some silly song about Anya’s stubby fingernails and freckles. As
all the other girls laughed and laughed, Anya ran headfirst into Tilly’s stomach,
tackling her in the dirt outside the windmill where their meetings were held.
By the time the two were separated, Tilly had the wind knocked out of her and
her uniform was covered with dirt. The scoutmaster immediately ended the
meeting and dragged Anya to her home where she told Reverend and Mrs. Versteeg
their daughter was no longer welcome in their club. Of course Anya was
delighted by the news and didn’t even mind when she was grounded for a month. Far
worse, her parents made her apologize to Tilly in front of the entire
congregation. Hans had found the whole incident hilarious, though he worried
about his little sister. “Will she never learn?” he’d written.

Danny had smiled when he read about the scuffle, envisioning
Anya wrestling on the ground with that girl and the humiliation she must have
felt having to apologize in front of everyone. Now, as he looked back at the
letter he still held in his hand, he decided he was glad she’d written. It made
missing Hans a little easier somehow. It still felt odd to know she’d read all
his letters, but maybe that was okay too.

Dear Anya,

I’m glad you wrote. I was thinking about your family a lot
and wondering how you were doing. I’m sorry your mom is still having a hard
time. I can’t imagine what my mom would do if she lost me or my brother.

There’s no need to return the letters. You can keep them or
just throw them out, whatever you want to do.

Hans told me you’re just a year younger than he was, but real
smart. Do you like school? I can’t wait until I graduate. I want to go to
college and all, but sometimes I get tired of studying. He also said you liked
to draw. I’m lousy at art stuff.

If you want, you can write me again. I’m kinda used to
getting letters from The
Netherlands
, so I
wouldn’t mind. You’re the only girl I ever wrote a letter to, but since you’re
Hans’ little sister, it’s okay.

Danny

p.s. I think it’s funny you decked that Tilly girl.

Danny folded the letter, stuck it in an envelope, licked the
flap and dug around in his drawer to find a stamp. That’s when he remembered
the Cubs game and leaped across his bed to turn up the radio.

”Bottom of the first with the Cubs leading their opening
game against the Cardinals, one to nothing. We’ll be right back.”

“Did ya hear that, Sophie? Cubs are ahead! I think this
could be the year we go all the way! C’mon, girl, let’s go tell Mom.”

As Danny and Sophie made their way downstairs, he heard his
mother’s voice calling from the kitchen. “So you had another letter from Hans’
sister?”

His pace slowed as he felt his face warm. Would his mother
still ask lots of questions as she’d always done when Hans wrote? The thought
of it sent a prickly, odd wave over him.

He wasn’t at all sure he was ready to be pen pals with . . .
a girl.

6

June 1939

With another year of school under his belt, Danny looked
forward to the summer ahead. He would soon celebrate his seventeenth birthday, but
dreaded his last year of high school. He was itching to go to college, tired of
working two jobs, and weary of the strained air filling his home. Sure, he had
friends he hung out with, but he missed Joey terribly. Had it really been a whole
year since Joey left to join the Navy? Thankfully, his brother sent frequent postcards
describing life on a battleship and all the colorful places he’d visited. Once
he’d even called when the
Oklahoma
was in
port on
Guam
, but spent
half his time reassuring his worried mother.

“Yes, I’m doing fine. Yes, I’m staying out of trouble, and yes,
I’m healthy as an ox, Mom. But please stop fussing about how much this call is
costing me! I saved plenty of money to pay for it. I promise you!”

Despite the static-filled connection, Danny could hear the growing
confidence and pride in his brother’s voice each time he called. He tried to
imagine the smell of the salt water Joey always talked about and the feel of
the ocean wind against his skin. He couldn’t help it—he was just plain jealous.

Nevertheless, Danny quickly settled back into his familiar
summer routine, mowing lawns and helping out at Mr. Chaney’s grocery store.
Sophie often accompanied him on his mowing days, tagging along from house to
house, usually finding a spot of shade as she waited on him. She seemed to
enjoy all the attention from neighbors who stopped to pet her or offer her a
dish of water. Danny couldn’t imagine how he’d ever lived without her
companionship. It seemed the feeling was mutual.

Then one Sunday, out of the blue, he and his dad went to a
Cubs’ double-header against the Brooklyn Dodgers. Normally Mom didn’t like them
doing things on Sunday, but the tickets were a gift from one of his dad’s theater
clients, and rather than cause a heated discussion, she relented. “Just this
once,” she added, with a touch of warning. This was a first—Dad had never
included him on
anything
this special. He wasn’t sure how much fun it
would be, but for a double-header at Wrigley, he’d take his chances.

On June 18, the
Windy
City
felt
hotter than usual by the time Danny and his dad switched from the trolley car
at 59th and Wentworth to catch the El to Wrigley. When they got off at the
Addison
exit,
even the breeze off
Lake Michigan
couldn’t keep Danny’s
shirt from sticking to his skin. Using his baseball glove to fan himself, they
joined the bustling crowd filing into the stadium and found their seats just minutes
before the first pitch. The bleacher seats weren’t the greatest, located behind
the right outfield, but Danny didn’t care. The Cubs were finally home after a
five-game losing streak away, and the faithful fans seemed energized to cheer
on their beloved team. Win or lose, Danny loved the games at Wrigley. There, he
felt a part of something special, something so much bigger than his own little
world.

Dad hadn’t said much of anything since they left the house. Saturday
nights were tough for Frank McClain. Those nights, his film routes kept him out
until seven or eight the following morning. With
Hollywood
studios releasing one blockbuster after another in 1939, the movie business stayed
busier than ever. But for Danny,
Hollywood
’s
success meant a tired, cranky father. He knew his dad had slept a few hours
before the game, but fatigue only dialed up his father’s perpetually sour moods.
By the top of the fourth inning of the first game, he started grumbling about
the scoreless game, letting Danny know he wanted to leave early.

“Dad, c’mon. With Dizzy Dean on the mound, you know
something’s gonna happen. He hasn’t lost a game yet this year. Besides, there’s
a whole other game after this one. Why can’t we stay?”

His father chewed on some peanuts, tossing the shells
beneath his seat. He wiped his hands on his pants and stared a hole into Danny.
“If nothing happens by the end of this inning, we’re leaving. Not another
word.”

Danny huffed, tamping down his simmering frustration
.
What’s the point of coming to a double-header if you’re not gonna stay til the
end? Sure it’s hot and windy, but you never know when something exciting might
happen.
He remembered all the times he and Joey had come to Wrigley,
chasing balls, shouting at the opposing team, and cutting up with their friends.
Didn’t matter where they sat, they always had a good time. Not like today. He
should have known his dad would spoil it all.

The announcer’s voice boomed across the field. “Next up at
the plate, number eleven, catcher Gabby Hartnett.”

Danny stood and applauded, cheering with the crowd for the
manager-player, one of his favorites. “Come on, Gabby! Knock it outta here!”

“Sit down, Danny.”

A split second after the words growled from his father’s
mouth, the loud, promising crack of bat-connecting-with-ball echoed across the ball
park. As he looked up, Danny couldn’t believe it—the ball was coming right at
him!

“I got it! I got it!” Just as he stretched his gloved hand
high above him, the man in front of him blocked his view with a glove of his
own.

“Let me get it, mister! Let me get it!”

“No way, kid! That ball is mine!”

As the ball began to drop from the sky, the glove in front
of him disappeared. The ball smacked hard in Danny’s glove.

“I got it! Dad, look! I got!”

As he turned to show the ball to his father, his smile faded.
The guy in front of him had a fistful of Dad’s shirt, spewing a stream of beer-stained
expletives at him. “I had as much a right to that ball as your stupid kid. I oughta
knock you out of this park for that, you jerk! That was MY BALL!”

Danny couldn’t believe it. His father must have pulled the
guy’s arm down so Danny could catch the ball. His dad had never done anything
like that before! Danny’s heart pounded.

His father calmly untangled his shirt from the man’s hand then
grabbed both the man’s wrists in a vice grip. In a quiet, methodical tone he said,
“Keep your filthy hands off me. Understood?”

The guy stood there blinking bloodshot eyes, wincing as he finally
yanked his hands free. He mumbled a few more choice words and rubbed his wrists
as he turned then dropped into his seat.

Danny could see the nerve twitching on his father’s jaw. He
knew this kind of situation could easily be volatile for Dad, but he refused to
let it spoil the thrill of catching Hartnett’s home run ball. He reached out,
slowly putting his hand on his father’s arm. “Dad?”

He watched as his father stood silent for a couple of
seconds, his eyes still glued on the drunken fan seated in front of them. Then
he slowly exhaled, gradually turning to let his eyes fall on the ball still
resting in Danny’s glove. His smile, almost imperceptible, sent of rush of
relief through Danny.

“That was a real fine catch, Danny.”

The idea came to him immediately. He lifted the ball out of
his glove, stared at it, and without a second thought placed it his father’s
hand, curling his fingers around it. “Thanks, Dad. It’s yours.”

His father rolled the ball around in his hand and tossed it
a few inches in the air. When he caught it, he handed it back to his son with a
wink. “No, Danny, it’s yours. You keep it.”

Danny smiled and looked away. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a
bad summer after all.

Later that night, he wrote a five-page letter to Anya,
telling her all about the Cubs’ 1-0 win in the first game, and the 9-1 tromp
over the Brooklyn Dodgers in the second, giving her an inning-by-inning run
down of both games. He told her all about catching Gabby Hartnett’s winning
home run ball, and how his dad had intervened when the drunken man tried to
grab the ball.

Three weeks later, he had a response.

Dear Danny,

I do not like this game baseball.

Anya