Don't You Know There's a War On? Read online

  “Chocolate.”

  “How many layers?”

  “Four.”

  “What’s between the layers?”

  “More chocolate.”

  “Anything else?”

  “A cherry on top.”

  “That’s the same cake I gave you.”

  “With all these shortages, I’m willing to share.”

  SUNDAY, MARCH 28, 1943

  Cargo Ship Fights U-boat

  to Finish.

  52 of Crew Are Rescued.

  U.S. Fliers Raid Pacific

  Island Base.

  New Anti-Tank Gun Revealed

  by Army.

  Royal Air Force Bombs

  Berlin Again.

  42

  ON SUNDAY WE didn’t do much of anything. My mom slept late. We read the funny papers. We listened to the radio. And you know what I did? I studied math. All day. It was boring, but I did it. See, I really wanted to give Miss Gossim that hundred percent as a going-away present.

  And all the time I was thinking about my pop too. Where was he? Was he safe?

  MONDAY, MARCH 29, 1943

  Americans Sweep Forward

  in North Africa.

  Churchill Pledges Invasion

  of Europe Within Nine Months!

  1,000,000 Nazi Children Urged

  to Do War Work.

  U.S. Repels Flotilla

  in Aleutians.

  43

  MISS GOSSIM’S last day.

  On the way to school I met Denny in front of his family’s store.

  “What do you think is going to happen?” he said.

  “I dunno,” I admitted.

  We walked on some more and stopped to read the headlines.

  Mr. Teophilo greeted us with a big smile. “Hey, how you doing, Denny? How you doing, Howie? Things are looking good. You hear from your fathers lately?” he asked.

  “Which one?” I answered. “Me or Denny’s?”

  He laughed. “You can take your pick.”

  “My pop’s on his way home,” I said.

  “I should be hearing from my dad soon” was Denny’s answer.

  “That’s good. That’s very good. Glad to hear it. And some more good news. The Dodgers won.” He rubbed his gold chain.

  We said, “So long,” and kept going.

  “You study for your math test?” I said.

  “Yeah. You?”

  “A lot.”

  “How come?”

  “Felt like it.”

  Neither of us talked much, ’cause what was on our minds was Miss Gossim. In fact, we walked so slow that when we got to school the first bell just rang. Right away we had to line up. Then the second bell rang and we marched into class.

  When we got to our room, Miss Gossim was there. She was looking pretty much the way she always did. The classroom was the same too, all neat. There was a new flower on her desk. A yellow daffodil with an orange middle. The date on the board was up, along with a list of class monitors. Also, what we were doing that day, with “Math test” being number one. What it didn’t say was “Miss Gossim’s last day.”

  Everybody was more quiet than usual. I figured the whole class knew what was going to happen. And what we had done. They were just watching Miss Gossim. Waiting. And, of course, though Miss Gossim was trying to act the way she usually did, you could tell it wasn’t the same. I was also wondering if she knew what we did.

  She took attendance. We pledged the allegiance. Got ink.

  Then all of sudden the room sort of froze. Like a switch had been turned on. No one saying anything. No moving or hardly breathing. Nothing. All we could do was look at Miss Gossim. She looked back at us. We all knew what was happening. Except nobody wanted to say nothing.

  It was Miss Gossim who finally said, “Let’s just try to make it a good day.”

  Then she cleared her throat and said, “Pens out, please. Time for the math test.”

  The class did what she told us to do. Still, it didn’t feel right.

  “All right, class,” Miss Gossim began, “let’s do some quick times tables.” And wouldn’t you know, she picked the twelves. For me, that was like taking a walk in a tub of taffy.

  She was just saying, “What is twelve times eight?”—which was a fatal pill—when the classroom door opened.

  In came Lomister. Right behind him was Mrs. Wolch.

  The class sat up, wondering what was going on.

  Miss Gossim looked very nervous, though she tried to smile. “Good morning, Dr. Lomister, Mrs. Wolch,” she said.

  Then she turned to us. “Class,” she said, “Mrs. Wolch is the acting superintendent of Brooklyn public schools. Please stand and say good morning to Dr. Lomister and Mrs. Wolch.”

  We stumbled up to our feet and said, “Good morning, Dr. Lomister. Good morning, Mrs. Wolch,” in that sad singsong we always did.

  Mrs. Wolch came to the front of the room. She put her hands together. Looked at us. Was that room quiet? I’m telling you, if some kid had a head louse, and that louse burped, you would have heard it.

  “I wanted to tell you,” she began, “that after a great deal of consideration—including a surprise visit from some of your classmates on Saturday—that the school district has decided to allow Miss Gossim to stay on for the rest of the year.”

  I swear, the whole class began to cheer. I mean, loud.

  As for me, what I felt was relieved, and crazy happy. It was as if we had just won the war.

  And Miss Gossim was smiling, and laughing, and pushing her tears away, and a whole lot of other junk too. And then Dr. Lomister said something. But it was pretty stupid, and everybody knew it was stupid, not that anyone said it was stupid. See, stupid guys like that, you have to let them talk stupid. You just don’t have to listen to stupid.

  Then Miss Gossim said something to them. Only it was private, so I didn’t hear. Then they went out.

  It was then that she turned around and just stood there, looking at us. She was trying to talk, smile, not cry.

  But she couldn’t do much of anything. Not really. Instead, all she did was hold out her arms. And you bet, the whole class ran up to her and gave her this huge hug, and each other too, all at the same time.

  Closest I’ve ever been to heaven in a school.

  Except all of a sudden the door opened again. This time it was Mrs. Partridge. She didn’t seem too happy.

  We all got quiet. And looked at her.

  “Denny Coleman,” Mrs. Partridge said. “Your mother just called. You need to go right home.”

  See, the telegram from the government had come. Denny’s father got killed.

  44

  ON THE WAY home I stopped to read the headlines at Mr. Teophilo’s newsstand.

  The old man lifted his face, eyes shut as always. “Hey, Howie,” he called out. “How you doing, Howie? Hey, where’s Denny?”

  “Mr. Teophilo . . . his father got killed.”

  How can a man with shut eyes seem to close his eyes? But that’s what it looked like. Then he shook his head from side to side and began to pull at his droopy mustache. “Oh, man, that’s awful,” he said. “That’s terrible. I’m so sorry to hear that. I really am. You have to tell him how sorry I am.”

  “I will,” I sort of said.

  Those blind eyes of his, they began to tear. And he didn’t wipe them away or nothing. Just let them come.

  I stared at him.

  “Now look here,” he said, “you got to tell your friend Denny that Teo is feeling bad.”

  “I will,” I said again, and started to go off.

  “Hey, Howie!” Mr. Teophilo called. “Come here.”

  I went back.

  He was holding out his hand. In his palm was his gold neck chain. “Here,” he said dangling it before me. “I want you to give him this. Can you do that?”

  “Sure.”

  “Tell him it’s from Teo,” he said, with a wipe of the back of his hand against his face. “Because Teo is sorry.” />
  45

  I GOT HOME, climbed the steps, walked into the apartment, and heard my sister talking to someone in the kitchen.

  The door shut behind me.

  “Hey, Howie, how you doing?” It was my pop.

  I couldn’t believe it. He was home. All this happening on the same day. I mean, Pop looked awful, but he was alive. He gave me a hug, finished a bowl of coffee, chomped down an apple, and went to sleep in his bed.

  When my mom came in and we told her he was home, she was happy like I hadn’t seen for a long time. She went to the door of their bedroom and just stared at him sleeping.

  He opened his eyes and grinned at her. She went over and, for the first time in a long time, she kissed him, not his picture.

  Later the three of us, every once in a while, we went in and kept looking at him in bed, asleep, but, see, alive.

  He was home for three days. For most of the time he slept.

  But that first night I told my mother about Denny’s father.

  “Poor Denny,” she said, shaking her head. “And Mrs. Coleman. . . . It’s so hard. . . .”

  “Should I go over to see him?” I asked her. I was thinking I should. I wanted to give him Mr. Teophilo’s neck chain anyway.

  “Yeah. You should. He’s your best friend.”

  “Should I tell him about Pop coming home?” I asked.

  She thought. “What do you think?”

  “Mom, I feel bad Pop came home when . . . his didn’t.”

  “Then keep that part to yourself for a while.”

  I went over to the Colemans’ house. I could tell you what it looked like, but it didn’t matter. Just that mobs of people were there.

  Denny was sitting next to his mother. He looked so pale. And sad.

  I went up to him. “Mr. Teophilo said to give you this,” I told him, and handed him the chain. “Said he’s feeling bad too.”

  He took the chain, looked at it, bunched it up, and held it tight in his fist.

  “You hear from your dad?” he said to me.

  I swallowed hard.

  He gazed at me from behind his specs, reached up, and pulled his earlobe.

  I said, “He made it.”

  “That’s good,” he said.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  And would you believe it, that night all I did was think about Denny and his dead dad. Not my own live one. How can you feel bad about feeling good?

  46

  ABOUT TWO WEEKS later there was this service for Mr. Coleman. I went, dressed in a suit I borrowed from some cousin two years older than me. Made me look like a baby hippo.

  There was a coffin. It was covered with an American flag. Standing next to it was Denny with his mother.

  Tons of people were there. There was all this talk about Mr. Coleman. Seemed like people just got up and said things. I kept wishing that people would say something about Denny.

  I wanted to. But I was too scared.

  But then, at one point, I looked at him, and he looked at me. When our eyes met, he pointed to his neck. I caught sight of the gold chain. Then he pulled his right earlobe.

  I did the same.

  Funny. That’s all we did. But I knew him and me were all right.

  Miss Gossim was there. I didn’t speak to her. Afraid to. But later I saw she gave Denny a hug. I got these feelings of jealousy which made me feel like a low-down crawly worm.

  Still, we stayed friends. Not that he ever smiled. Just sad. Always sad.

  Which made me feel I had to do something for Denny. Something that would make him feel good. But I didn’t know what.

  47

  PRETTY SOON IT was June and the last school day of the year. At three o’clock, right before the kids went out, Miss Gossim asked me to stay after class for a minute.

  So I did, staying nervous in my seat, cracking my knuckles, wondering what I did wrong. Then she called me up, and I stood by her desk. She was really big with her . . . expecting. She had actually let us feel it, so we knew the baby was alive.

  “Howie,” she said to me, “I never wanted to talk about it before, but they—Dr. Lomister and Mrs. Wolch—told me what you did. That you—in your way—did help me.”

  “Wasn’t just me,” I said.

  She smiled that great smile she had. “I’m sure that’s so. But I’ll always think it was you.”

  Then she said, “Howie, I’m going to miss you.”

  My heart upped and stopped. “Ain’t you coming back to P.S. 8?” I asked.

  “Aren’t,” she corrected. Then she said, “I don’t know yet. We’ll have to see, won’t we? But, Howie, now that I’m leaving, I want you to know . . . you have been my favorite.”

  Her favorite! My big moment! But what did I do? I just stood there and mumbled, “Oh.” Got red in the face.

  “Have . . . you heard from Smitty?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” she answered.

  Then all of a sudden she gave me this big hug, holding me against her belly. And wouldn’t you know, that kid of hers, he wasn’t even born yet, but he gave me a kick. After all I done for his mom! A kick, for cheese sake! And then, before I could say anything, Miss Gossim shooed me away.

  48

  LIKE ALWAYS, Denny was waiting for me.

  “How come she asked you to stay?” he asked. He sounded almost angry.

  “Just to say good-bye,” I said.

  “She say anything else?”

  I looked at him. In his white shirt, bow tie, suspenders. Black hair slicked back. Frame glasses. Sad. “She said I should study math more. Get good grades. And you know what she said?”

  “No.”

  “She said I should try to be more like my best friend—you.”

  “She really said that?” he asked with the first grin I’d seen from him in months.

  “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  “Swear,” he said, and held out his hand, pinky out.

  I hooked. “No fins.”

  “No fins.”

  We linked, chopped. Denny was standing a little taller.

  We walked home, checked the newspapers at old Mr. Teophilo’s. “Hey, Howie. Hey, Denny. Things are looking good. Except, wouldn’t you know, the Dodgers lost again.”

  There was another gold chain around his neck.

  49

  ALL THAT SUMMER of 1943 I wondered about Miss Gossim. I couldn’t believe she wouldn’t come back. So, first day of new term in September and me in sixth grade, I went looking for her. Guess what? She wasn’t there. Gone. And no one—not even Mrs. Partridge—knew what happened to her.

  It wasn’t the way things were supposed to happen. I mean, it should be that grown-ups stay put. It’s kids that are supposed to go. But during the war, see, it was just the opposite. It was us kids who had the job of trying to keep things normal. Know what I’m saying? Denny stayed. His dad went away. I stayed. My pop kept going off.

  And Miss Gossim went for good.

  TUESDAY, MAY 8, 1945

  Germans Capitulate on

  All Fronts.

  Surrender Is Unconditional.

  THE WAR IN EUROPE IS ENDED!

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 8, 1945

  First Atomic Bomb Dropped

  on Japan.

  Missile Is Equal to

  20,000 Tons of TNT.

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 10, 1945

  Atom Bomb Loosed on Nagasaki.

  TUESDAY, AUGUST 15, 1945

  JAPAN SURRENDERS, END OF WAR!

  50

  THE WAR WAS over. On Hicks Street people were actually dancing. We took off our dog tags and flung them away.

  Then the adults took back the job of keeping things normal.

  But not quite. We moved from Brooklyn to Long Island, out to this place called Levittown, with a house of our own. Small maybe, but it seemed huge. And no cockroaches.

  Pop got a job with the post office. “Keeps my feet on the ground,” he used to say. But the funny thing was, at night, after he made his rounds, he star
ted soaking his feet in, guess what? Salt water.

  Same time, my mother quit work, but she got bored. Went back to school. Became a dental assistant. “Beats rivets,” she’d say.

  My sister? She grew up. We even got to be friends, sort of.

  As for Denny Coleman, after we moved, I didn’t see him no more. Once I sent him a picture postcard. It was of the Amagansett beach where those Nazi spies landed. He didn’t answer.

  His mother kept the store where it was. I know, because I went back once and looked. I think she got remarried. The store was there. Denny wasn’t.

  See, what I’m saying is, we moved away. My whole life got new. Changed.

  Except for one thing.

  51

  I MAY BE OLDER—almost sixteen now—but when the nights get dark and I’m lonely or down in the dumps because the day is as hollow as the hole in a stale doughnut, do you know what I do? I think of Miss Gossim. Cross my heart and hope to die. I do. And if I think hard enough—and it’s the night—all of a sudden there she is! Miss Gossim herself, sweet as ever, smelling like a Brooklyn Botanic field-trip flower. Like she was in that apartment of hers way back when the stars were in the sky and I visited her.

  Next thing, I’m looking right up into those soft blue-gray eyes of hers and I’m saying, “Good-night, Rolanda Gossim.”

  Then she whispers, “Good-night, Howie Crispers.”

  But then, as if she was in some kind of movie, she starts to fade.

  So in my head, I shout, “Hey, Miss Gossim, wait a minute! You can’t go. I gotta find out. What happened to you? What’s with Smitty? Where’s your kid? Are you still a teacher?”

  “Now, Howie,” she says over her shoulder with a toss of that frilly blond hair, “don’t you think it’s time you forgot all that?”