Of Windmills and War (9 page)

I’ve told Sophie how much you love animals. I’m quite
confident she would melt at your feet. She’s a wonderful dog. I sure was lucky
to find her that night. I wish there was some way to take her to college with
me.

I’m determined to work hard at college and maybe even
graduate early. I’m still not sure what degree to pursue, but I’ve got a couple
of possibilities. Don’t laugh, but I’ve even considered an education major with
an emphasis in history. I wish you could meet my
U.S.
History teacher, Mrs. Zankowski. I’ve never had a teacher who has so much
passion for her subject. Every kid in her class goes a little crazy about
history after sitting under her teaching. Sometimes she even dresses up as the
historical characters she’s teaching. One day she came in dressed like Abraham
Lincoln, the 16th president of the
United States
—beard
and all! We laughed so hard, but she never once came out of character, telling
us all about the difficulties of governing a nation divided. (
America
was in
a civil war when
Lincoln
was president.) Last
week she showed up as Teddy Roosevelt who was our 26th president. He was a
fifth cousin of our current President Roosevelt. Teddy Roosevelt was quite a
character
and Mrs. Zankowski really brought him
to life.

Something about her zeal for our history, and her unabashed
quest to teach us the important lessons of our forefathers and the cause of
freedom. It’s almost contagious—that’s how good she is. I’m probably not
explaining it very well. You could probably tell by her name—her parents immigrated
from
Poland
. So the battle against the
Nazis over there is very near and dear to her heart. She’s real emotional about
it.

Of course, the other reason I’m interested in history is
because of you—well, I should probably say, you and Hans. Your letters have
given me a real “glimpse” into your world and the history that brought us to
this point in time. I just wonder if I could teach the next generation about
the past and its implications for our future. It’s all very confusing. Mom
keeps telling me to pray, but she’s a much better prayer warrior than I’ve ever
been.

 Do you ever wonder what God must think of all this war
stuff? I keep wondering why He doesn’t do something about it.

Now
I’m
the one who’s rambling. It’s about time to
change another reel, so I’ll close now. Take care of yourself, Anya. Stay safe.
Write soon.

Danny

11

March 1940

Once winter finally gave up, another spring blew through
Chicago
,
bringing with it the usual explosive thunderstorms and heavy rains. Despite the
gloomy weather, Danny kept a running countdown as he moved ever closer to
graduation. His grades reflected his hard work, and at this point, it was a
downhill slide toward that walk across the stage in cap and gown.

He’d grown accustomed to his routine at the theater,
enjoying the solitude of the projection booth. There, he could plan his future
with plenty of time to think it through. And that’s exactly what he was doing
one evening when he heard some shouting downstairs in the lobby.

“I said, GET OUT OF HERE!”

Danny recognized his dad’s booming voice immediately. He
flew down the rungs and into the lobby, almost running into three men he didn’t
recognize. They had his father cornered.

“What’s going on here?”

“None of your business, kid,” the tall one snapped,
adjusting his cuff links.

“These lugheads came in here trying to scare me with their
lousy threats, and I told them to get out. No one strong-arms Frank McClain!”

Danny hadn’t seen his dad this angry in a long time,
which was saying something. He tried to diffuse the situation. “Gentlemen, I
believe you heard the man.”

“Yeah? And who are
you
?” the same guy asked, pressing
closer to Danny now. The man must have eaten a clove of garlic and washed it
down with bourbon.

Danny stiffened his back. “I was about to ask you the same
question.”

The man touched the rim of his rain-spattered Fedora,
nudging it up on an inch or so on his head. “We just came by to make a
neighborly visit to welcome Mr. McClain here to our district. That’s all. No
need for all the drama.”

His father broke free of the two men who’d stayed close,
pinning him against the counter. “You’re nothing but a bunch of thugs. I’ll
give you thirty seconds to get out or I’m calling the police.”

“No need, no need,” said the shortest of the three, a stubby
little guy in a shiny damp suit at least a size too small. He stepped closer to
Dad, took a puff on his cigar, and blew it in his face. “We’ll be on our way.
Wouldn’t want to interrupt the show or nothin’.”

“But we’ll be back. You can count on that,” the tall one
added as he made his way to the door. “Tomorrow? The next day? Who’s to say?”
He tossed a broad smile over his shoulder. “Real nice meetin’ ya, Mr. McClain.”

“Yeah, a real pleasure,” his short accomplice said.

The third one bumped Danny’s shoulder as he followed the
other two out the door into the rain.

“Bunch of no good—”

“Dad, what did they want?”

His father wiped his brow with his handkerchief. “Tried to
tell me I needed some kind of ‘insurance’ to stay here. They said it’s a rough
part of town and they could provide protection against the ‘unsavory elements’.
Who do they think they are, coming in here trying to muscle up on me? Well,
they picked the wrong guy to—”

“Dad, let it go. Take a deep breath. Don’t let ‘em get to
you.”

“I’ve seen their type before. Used to run into them all the
time on my film routes. Always trying to scare everybody with their big
threats. Well, NO one comes in my place and threatens ME!”

“Dad!” Danny put his arm around his father’s shoulders.
“They’re gone. Relax.”

His dad looked at him, his eyes wild with barely-restrained
anger. Then he seemed to focus, staring into Danny’s eyes before looking away.
“Yeah. They’re gone.” He broke free of his son’s embrace and headed back behind
the counter for a cup of water.

Just then, Steve opened the side door and slid behind the
concession stand. “Sorry, Mr. McClain. I had to go to the bathroom.”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah, okay.”

Steve shot a questioning glance at Danny.

Danny shrugged. “No problem. Well, I guess I better get back
up in the booth. Reel change coming up. Dad, are you okay?”

His father waved him off. “Fine. Get back to work. Both of
you.”

As Danny climbed back up the rungs, a sense of dread grew
with each step. He had a feeling those men would keep their word and come back.
Thugs like them tried to strong-arm
Chicago
businesses; the stories of their exploitations were the stuff of legends. But
who could possibly care about a little neighborhood movie theater? Surely they
had bigger fish to fry. He wondered if the Chicago Theater ever had visits like
the one they’d just had.

Thankfully, over the next few weeks, the men never showed
their faces again at Windsor Park Theater. Dad remained tense and uneasy for weeks
following their visit, and made Danny promise not to mention the incident to Mom.
Danny was glad to see the whole thing put behind them.

In April, the Cubs got off on the wrong foot losing their
first two games to
Cincinnati
. Of course, any Cubs fan knew
the ups and downs comprising the rhythm of their team’s schedule. Still, Danny
hoped by the end of the season, his Cubs would be in the World Series. When he
realized he’d be at Northwestern when that happened, he couldn’t help smiling.

On a beautiful spring afternoon in the last week of April,
he was late leaving school after a required fitting for his cap and gown. He
hustled to get home in time to grab his gear, hop on the trolley, and make it
to the theater in time for the afternoon matinee.

“Where’ve you been?” his father barked. “Movie starts in
fifteen minutes.”

Danny dashed past him toward the auditorium. “I know. Had to
get measured for my cap and gown. But I’m here, so take it easy. What’s our
movie today?”

“If you’d ever stop and read the marquee you’d know,” he
grumbled heading toward his office.

“Yeah?” Danny whispered to  himself as he climbed the rungs,
“and if you’d ever stop trying to be the crankiest man on the planet, you’d
know there’s more to life than your stupid marquee.”

Once in the booth, he quickly stashed his gear and slid open
the door to the dumbwaiter to get the film can.

“Well, looky here.
The Oklahoma Kid
has come back for
a visit.”

Americans still loved Westerns, and the Cagney-Bogart oater
had been a favorite since its release the end of March. Danny was a big fan of
both actors and enjoyed the on-screen tension between Cagney’s Jim Kincaid
character and Bogart’s Whip McCord.

But when he’d stopped by the house, he’d found a letter from
Anya on his pillow. He was anxious to read it, so he threaded the film through
the projectors and checked his watch, waiting for the exact moment to start the
newsreel. He sat down to tear open Anya’s envelope just as the voice-over on
the newsreel fretted over the recent fall of
Denmark
and
Norway
.

Too close, too close . . .
Thoughts
bounced around and around in Danny’s head.
Who will be next?
France
?
Belgium
? The
Netherlands
?

Danny wished he had ear plugs to silence the disturbing
news. He leaned back in his chair, stretched out his long legs in front of him,
and settled in to read Anya’s letter. He took another look at the envelope to
see the postmark. The date was
April 5, 1940
—just four
days before
Norway
and
Denmark
fell.
She didn’t even know that troubling news when she wrote the letter.

Dear Danny,

How I wish I could climb into this envelope and escape the
madness! Day and night, our skies are filled with aircraft. We know well the
sound of the engines—which are Allies, which are Luftwaffe. It’s as if we’re
sinking in someone else’s quicksand, knowing it’s only a matter of time until
we’re pulled in over our heads. The fear eats at me constantly. It makes me
sick. My only refuge is the Boormans’ farm where I surround myself with the
animals I love and force all my attention on them.

Everywhere, everywhere—Jews from
Germany
slip over
our border seeking refuge in our midst. The stories they tell us, Danny . . .
at first I thought they must be exaggerating. I thought, surely no such
atrocities actually exist? Who could do such things to another human being?
Homes raided, families thrown out on the street, fathers executed right in
front of their children, mothers taken from their babies, food and shelter
withheld from innocent people whose only crime is their Jewish faith. This
can’t be happening, I tell myself.

But as new arrivals continue to stream over the border
bringing tales of far worse torture and destruction, I realized it’s all true.

Father was approached last week about hiding Jews in our
home. He desperately wanted to help, but Mother has been paralyzed with fear,
unable to get out of bed again. I want so much for her to be strong, but I am
so afraid she is losing her mind. Father is concerned she could not handle
strangers in our home. Or worse, that she would not understand how confidential
the arrangement would have to be. Could we trust her not to say anything to
anyone?

Finally, when Father was told of a young family with three
small children who had no place to go, he couldn’t say no. They are the
sweetest people, so thankful, their hearts overflowing with gratitude. We pray
constantly for them—mostly for their little ones to be quiet. As parishioners
continue to come seeking Father’s counsel, we must be sure no one hears the cries
of a baby from the back of the house or the secret place in the attic. Already,
it is hard to know who to trust. We have enough food to feed them, at least at
this point. The Boormans send me home with milk and eggs and butter and
vegetables almost daily. And yes, pork as well. I try not to think about it, in
light of the despair all around us. Of course, the Jews do not eat the pork. We
share with others whenever we can. The Boormans have also taken in Jews. I
helped Wim and his father build an enormous basement beneath the barn with a
door easily hidden. Already the basement is full.

My hand shakes as I write you, so great is the fear in my
heart for my country. How I wish Hans was here. Always he made things better.
Our house is full, but a hole remains in our hearts for dear Hans.

I can’t help but wonder how much longer I will receive your
letters or be able to send you mine. Such uncertainty stirs constantly inside
me and causes me to say things I might not otherwise say . . .
You have been the dearest of friends, Danny. I shall never forget how you wrote
me, week after week, month after month, lifting me up from the darkness of
losing my brother. Always giving me a reason to smile, a thought or two to
ponder, and a reason to write you back. I’ve even learned to tolerate your beloved
Cubs.

One of the Jewish ladies hidden away beneath the Boormans’
barn told me something yesterday I shall never forget. She reached her hands up
to cradle my face, then said, “We cannot know what the future holds, but we
know who holds the future.” As she spoke those words, she had the most serene
smile in her eyes and on her wrinkled face. In spite of all the horrible things
she has witnessed, still she smiled. I repeat those words to myself whenever I
feel the fear taking over. I shall cling to them in the days ahead.

Forgive me, that I never thanked you for the beautiful
handkerchief with the little tulips on it. I’ve never seen anything so lovely. I
shall cherish it always. Please tell your mother how much it means to me.

And please know always how much
you
mean to me.

Anya