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

  Now, in case you didn’t know, dumbwaiters aren’t “dumb” like in “stupid,” but “silent.” They were small elevators used for sending food and stuff from one floor of a house to another. Or they hauled garbage to the basement, which explained how come there were garbage cans down there.

  Soon as I understood what I’d found, I got thrilled. See, I figured I could get into the box, pull on the ropes, and get into the house above.

  Then I thought, Whoa down! I was chasing Nazi spies. Going up could be dangerous. But right off I said to myself, Hey, Howie, what’s more important, math test or spy nest?

  Being patriotic, I climbed into the box.

  5

  LET ME TELL you something, that dumbwaiter wasn’t just tight, it stunk to high heaven. I had to sit with my head against my pulled-up knees, fingers of one hand squeezing my nose while my other hand grabbed hold of the rope dangling in front of me. When I jerked the rope down, the dumbwaiter, with me in it, went up.

  Now, I have to admit, I worried what would happen if, you know, the ropes broke or the box got stuck. But guess what? Didn’t happen. Every time I yanked the rope down, she went up-sa-daisy.

  Sure, there was some squeaking. Nothing loud. And whenever I stopped—and it was hard work, so I stopped tons—it stayed put.

  Now, soon as I moved out of the basement, everything went dark. Super dark. Then, going higher, I saw light seeping through cracks. I kept pulling the rope, coming to a stop only when—bam!—I slammed against something.

  In front of me was this square line of light. It looked like a door, so I pushed at it. Wouldn’t give. I pushed again. When it still wouldn’t budge, I squirmed around, got on my knees. With my body behind me—all seventy pounds—I shoved. The door burst open so quick I plopped onto the floor.

  I was lying there trying to catch my breath when I heard a voice.

  “This teacher,” I heard Dr. Lomister saying—because I could be at the North Pole and I’d still know his voice—“this Miss Gossim, she must be immediately fired.”

  6

  NOW, TO UNDERSTAND this story, you have to know right off that, far as I was concerned, the only thing worth going to school for was this Miss Gossim. Veronica Lake? Betty Grable? Lana Turner? Pretty nifty movie stars. But to me, nothing compared to Miss Gossim.

  Miss Gossim was what we called a dilly, a dish, an angel-cake package with tutti-frutti icing on top. Full of smiles too. With frilly blond hair, blue-gray eyes, plus lipstick-red lips. There may have been dirt in the world—wasn’t a speckle on Miss Gossim. I mean, she wasn’t just clean, she glowed. A regular flower. Like the kind which my class visited on a Brooklyn Botanic Garden field trip.

  ’Course, she could be strict. No gum chewing. If you were caught chewing, you had to stick the gum on your nose. No note passing. Caught passing a note and she’d read it out loud to the whole class. No writing on your desk neither. Do that and you had to stay after school and get it off. Least her rules made sense, not like Lomister’s.

  And Miss Gossim liked to laugh a lot. She had one of those laughs that made you join in. Or she said things like “Oh, let’s forget long division and tell jokes.” She would too.

  “Knock knock.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “Amos.”

  “Amos who?”

  “Amos-quito bit me.”

  Miss Gossim was kind, always asking us about our military dads, brothers, sisters, moms. You know, where they were. How they were doing. She even kept a map in the classroom to show it. All them teachers did that, only, see, Miss Gossim wasn’t just doing it—she cared. So, natch, we told her everything. I mean, that map was telling kids like me I wasn’t the only one with family in the war.

  Miss Gossim never got mad. Most she’d ever do was look at you sort of sad eyed and say, “Howie, I’m very disappointed.” ’Course, if she said it, you’d feel worse than a Giants fan in Ebbets Field. I mean, I’d have done anything to get her smile back.

  Rolanda was her first name. I heard the school secretary, Mrs. Partridge, call her that. I knew it must be true because she and Miss Gossim were friends. I never heard that name before. But to me, that name, Rolanda, was so magic I kept it to myself. Didn’t even tell Denny, who, like I said, was my bestest friend with our secret pact about not having secrets. The thing was, when it came to Miss Gossim, things were different.

  At night when I was in bed and the lights were out in the room which I shared with my kid sister, Gloria, I’d get to thinking about Denny’s dad, or how hard Mom was working at the Navy Yard, or like I said, my math. Or, most of all, I’d worry about Pop sailing by Nazi wolf packs loaded with torpedoes just waiting to ambush him.

  Thing is, to get all that stuff out of my head I’d pretend a smiling, perfume-smelling Miss Gossim was leaning over me. Understand? She was my emergency brake, my life raft, my parachute, my own private rescue squad.

  “Good-night, Howie Crispers,” she’d whisper into my ear.

  And I’d look up into those blue-gray eyes of hers and whisper, “Good-night, Rolanda Gossim.”

  Then, wham, like magic, them submarines would sink. The war stopped, Pop was safe, and I could sleep.

  Only now Dr. Lomister was going to fire her.

  7

  ANYWAY, THERE I WAS, in this long, narrow hallway of the brownstone. The only light was coming from a window at the other end. The ceiling was high with some kind of leafy-design plaster molding. On the wall, blue wallpaper with pictures of clouds and birds on it. Hanging from the middle of the ceiling was this chandelier with dangling bits of glass. The light was off.

  Looking toward the other end of the hall, I saw the curvy tip of a banister. Which must have belonged to steps leading down. My escape, I figured, if I had to make tracks.

  In the middle of the hallway—on the right—was a door. To an apartment, I guessed. At least, Dr. Lomister’s voice was coming out from behind it.

  Another voice—a lady’s—said, “What possible reason is there to fire her?”

  “Wilma, I’m not free to say” came Lomister’s voice again. “Just take my word for it. She must leave.”

  I crept closer.

  “Gilbert, didn’t you tell me that this Gossim woman was one of your best teachers?”

  “Teachers,” Lomister said, like he was the local Mussolini or something, “must follow rules too.”

  “Can you find a replacement?”

  “We’ll manage.”

  “And what about the children? Will this upset them?”

  “They won’t care. A teacher is a teacher.”

  I cracked my knuckles.

  “Well, since you’ve requested it, I suppose I’m willing to act,” this Wilma went on. “How much notice are you going to give her?”

  “One week. Next Monday will be her last day.”

  “Gilbert, isn’t this unusual? It certainly hasn’t happened since I’ve come on the job. And in the middle of the term. Plus, I must admit, I’m curious. For you to come here at this hour—”

  “It’s a very personal matter, Wilma. I have no desire to embarrass the young woman. Besides, she and my secretary are close friends. And may I remind you, there’s a war on. Strict moral standards must be adhered to. We must show the children that everybody—even adults—follows established rules.”

  So this Wilma ups and says, “Very well, Gilbert—if you wish it. I’ll send someone to your office this morning with the paperwork.”

  “It’ll be best—”

  Now I was listening so hard my big ears were almost inside the apartment. So the second I realized Lomister was coming out, I tore to the end of the hall and dove back into the dumbwaiter. I was just reaching out to pull the door shut when the voices got louder, like they were in the hallway. I snapped my hand in.

  “Thank you for coming by,” the woman said.

  “Wilma,” Dr. Lomister said, “I do apologize for coming so early.”

  “I’ll take care of things,” the woman said.
Then she said, “Oh, dear. That dumbwaiter door is open. It’ll make the hall smell.”

  “I’ll fix it,” Dr. Lomister said.

  I made a grab at one of the ropes dangling before me and yanked. Instead of going down, the dumbwaiter went up. Bang! It smashed into the top of the shaft. I grabbed the second rope with both hands and pulled. This time the dumbwaiter went right. As I dropped, the door above me slammed shut. Everything went dark again.

  8

  FIGURING IT WAS SAFE, I let go of the rope and I took a deep breath, which was a mistake because I gagged on the garbage stink. But with the dumbwaiter staying put, I sat back. I had to think over what I’d heard.

  Miss Gossim was being fired.

  Now, don’t get me wrong, grown-ups did tons of stuff I didn’t understand. And, sure, they were them and I was us. But see, I couldn’t figure any way how Miss Gossim could have done something that deserved being fired. Just the idea made me feeble. And as for Lomister saying us kids wouldn’t care, that made me furious.

  The best I could figure was like this: Lots of radio or movie bad guys fell in love with pretty ladies. When the ladies refused to marry them, the bad guys did something bad to them. Which is why they were bad. But then these good guys came and saved the women and treated them right. Which was why there were good guys. Like me.

  And with thousands of guys being drafted into the army and a whole lot of them being killed, good guys like me were getting scarce. The way I figured it, in a few years I’d probably be older. Then I’d marry her.

  And the thing was, wasn’t the whole war supposed to be about being a free country? Didn’t Miss Gossim have the right to do what she wanted?

  So sitting there, I made up my mind. It was up to me to do something to make sure Miss Gossim stayed around.

  Only thing was, I had to get to school first.

  Working the dumbwaiter ropes, I lowered myself down. I squirmed out of the box into the basement. My books and lunch box were where I had left them, right at the bottom of the coal chute. I was just about to climb out when that outside steel door flapped open.

  I jumped back. First thing I saw, it was raining hard. Really coming down. Then a voice shouted, “Hey, Rediger! Door’s open. Chute’s set. Let the coal rip.”

  Next second motors whirring, gears grinding. Jeepers creepers! A coal truck was dumping coal.

  Sure enough, coal chunks came roaring down the chute in a cloud of thick black dust. Then the steel door banged shut and I heard the trunk grind away.

  Me? I was spitting and choking. I mean, I was covered with coal dust thick as a fried doughnut with fudge frosting. Worse, when the dust settled, all I could see was this huge pile of coal blocking my way out. Under it was my lunch box and schoolbooks.

  I didn’t have no choice. I picked up the shovel and started digging.

  9

  OKAY, WHILE THAT was going on with me, over at P.S. 8, up in Class Five-B, the school day was getting started.

  Now, my fifth-grade classroom had these windows on the street side, windows so big you needed a ten-foot pole to open them. Under the windows was a small bookcase with textbooks. The wardrobe—with its four connected, sliding doors—took up the full length of another wall. That was where we hung our coats and left boots and lunches. The third wall had examples of good penmanship and a map of the world where tiny American flags were stuck.

  At the front of the room was the blackboard and an American flag—regular size—hanging from a short pole. The flag was next to pictures of George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, and President Roosevelt. Nearby was a round clock. Its red minute hand always moved in jerks.

  Miss Gossim’s wood desk was up front and center of the class, covered by this big green inkblotter and a globe. Textbooks were lined up at the desk’s front edge. Also, a small glass bottle, which always had a yellow flower sticking out of it, glowing like a bit of sun.

  Also, two wooden chairs, one behind her desk, one to the side.

  Right in front of Miss Gossim’s desk were the kids’ desks. Six rows of six desks. Thirty-six of them. Made of wood and cast iron, bolted to the floor. Each one had a hinged wooden seat fixed to the desk behind it. Every desk was grooved on top for pens and pencils. This top lifted up so you could put away books and papers. Had a little glass inkwell too.

  Now, like I already told you, I wasn’t there, but that day must of started—like every day—with Miss Gossim at the blackboard, putting up the day’s date, which, that day, was March 22, 1943. On the other side of the blackboard was a list headed TODAY’S MONITORS.

  Flag Monitor: Duane Coleman

  Attendance Monitor: Gladys Halflinger

  Ink Monitor: Betty Wu

  Window Monitor: Albert Porter

  Scrap Paper Monitor: Toby Robinson

  Milk Monitor: Gladiola Alvarez

  Eraser Monitor: Howard Crispers

  Dismissal Monitor: Tom Ewing

  Next to it she had numbered out the day’s schedule. Number one was “Math test.” See, that stuff stayed on the board all day. Which is how come I can tell you that morning went something like this:

  A few minutes after the second bell clanged, the classroom door flung open. Thirty-five kids came tumbling in like gangbusters and raced for the wardrobe, then headed to their desks. Seats dropped, desktops lifted, books got shoved away. Then everybody sat with their feet straight, knees together, hands on top of their desks. Some were dressed pretty good. A lot weren’t. The girls wore skirts. The guys had ties.

  By the way, if you didn’t wear a tie, most teachers stuck a paper—that said TIE on it—on your shirt with a pin. But Miss Gossim had a bunch of real ties for poor kids so they wouldn’t get in trouble with Lomister. Like I said, she was a peach.

  Anyway, after she took attendance, Miss Gossim said, “I am so glad to see you! I just know we’re going to have a fine week. So, once again, good morning, children!”

  This time all the kids came back in one ragged voice, “Good morning, Miss Gossim!”

  She looked up and down the rows. “I’m so happy none of you are gumdrops,” she said, “afraid of melting in the rain. We’ll make our own sunny day. But, first things first. Hands out!”

  The kids stuck their hands out palms down, over desks. Miss Gossim marched up and down the aisles looking for filth. As she went by, kids flipped their hands over so the other side could be seen.

  “Always good, Denny,” she said. “Billy Leider, you need to do a better job beneath your nails.

  “Excellent,” she said when she checked all hands. “Now remember, tomorrow is head-lice examination day. Emily, are you listening? But let’s start our day with the Pledge of Allegiance.” She turned toward the monitor list.

  “Denny, it’s your turn to lead us in the pledge. As we all know, Denny’s father is with our troops in North Africa. So we know how important this is for him.”

  Denny went up to the front of the class and in his high-pitched voice said, “Please stand for the pledge.”

  Seats rattled as kids came to attention. Hands over hearts, they chanted,

  “I PLEDGE ALLEGIANCE TO THE FLAG OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA AND TO THE REPUBLIC FOR WHICH IT STANDS, ONE NATION, INDIVISIBLE, WITH LIBERTY AND JUSTICE FOR ALL.”

  Then the kids dropped down into their desks.

  “Betty Wu, you’re ink monitor today,” Miss Gossim said. “While you attend to that, I’ll hand out the paper for our Monday math test.”

  This Betty Wu had just come to America from China. You could tell. I mean, she was really polite, always wanting to do the right thing.

  Betty went to the back of the room, where she got the glass ink bottle with a steel spout on the top. Holding the bottle carefully, she went around the classroom filling each desk’s inkwell. As she did, Miss Gossim passed out sheets of lined paper.

  The kids took out their pens.

  “We’ll start with multiplication,” Miss Gossim said.

  “Problem one.”

 
Suddenly the classroom door swung open. It was me, so soaked with black water I was a walking waterfall, leaving black floods all over the floor.

  10

  EVERYBODY STARED at me. But I just stood there, dripping.

  “Howie,” a startled Miss Gossim said, “is that you?”

  “Yes, Miss Gossim.”

  “What happened?”

  I looked at her, hardly knowing what to say. I mean, I knew what was going to happen to her before she did.

  “Don’t you think we should clean you up?” she asked.

  “Suppose,” I said.

  Miss Gossim turned to the class. “I’ll need a class monitor.”

  The hands shot up again. “Me! Me! Miss Gossim, me!”

  “Miriam Aresenik,” she said. “You can drill everyone in the twelve times tables.”

  This Miriam—she was tall with red hair in tight braids—came up to the front of the class.

  “Now Howie,” said Miss Gossim, “leave your lunch box and books here.”

  Side by side—Miss Gossim keeping her distance—we walked along the hallway until we got to a closet, where she opened the door. The little room was full of mops, brooms, and brushes as well as this big zinc sink. Reaching in, Miss Gossim got some old rags and began to pat me down, starting with my face. As she worked on me, she knelt. I could smell her perfume. And I could see her eyes close up. They were really pretty.

  “You were covered with black water when you walked in,” she said. “As if you just crawled out of a wet coal mine. Now, Howie,” she asked kindly, “what did you do to become so filthy?”

  I kept thinking about how she was going to be fired. “Wh . . . at?” I said.

  “I said you looked as though you just crawled out of a mine. What happened?”

  “I . . . I fell into a coal pile.”

  “Weren’t you looking where you were going?” she asked. I think she was trying to keep from laughing.

  “I guess not,” I said, not knowing how to explain.