Some Luck: A Novel

by Jane Smiley

  “I’ll think about it, Sergeant. You and Private Langdon are dismissed.”

  As they were walking back to the mess hall, Frank said, “What does a sniper do, Sergeant?”

  “Hunts the enemy.” Frank’s face must have betrayed an interest in this, because the sergeant said, “You wouldn’t mind that, would you, Private Langdon? The Jerries do it, and the Japs do it, and the Limeys do it. Myself, I don’t see how these kids who are taught to stick to the rules are going to win this war, do you, Private?”

  “No, Sergeant.”

  Of course, the sergeant prevailed, and by the first of May, Frank found himself in Ohio.

  AS SOON AS Eloise got to the office, as soon as she heard about the raid on Dieppe, before she even knew that the Canadians had participated, she was filled with a peculiar sort of settled dread that she had never felt before. The previous night, at the time they would have landed, dawn in France, she had been sitting in bed, filing an edge off the nail of her right thumb. She had felt a surge of fear so strong that she had looked out her bedroom window and, she thought, seen a face. Someone standing on the back porch! No one should be standing there, because it had no access to the ground, only to the roof. Eloise quickly reached for the light and switched it off, and as her eyes adjusted, she saw that there was no face in the window, and no head framed against the pale, cloudy sky. She stood up and went to the window. The porch was empty. But the sensation of having seen a face in the window remained with her, and when she heard the next morning that there had been a disastrous raid on Dieppe by the Canadian Second Division, along with some other units—all British, it seemed—that nine hundred had been killed, hundreds injured, and thousands taken prisoner, the two bits of knowledge clicked together. Eloise became silently convinced that Julius was one of those who had been killed—if he had not been, no face would have appeared in her window.

  Julius, of course, pure materialist that he was, would have been the first to ridicule this idea, but she could not get it out of her head. A couple of the reporters who were following the war news and keeping track of all the battles were horrified and enraged at this one—the Brits, probably Mountbatten but Montgomery, too, had just funneled their infantry and their Churchill tanks into the German defenses and watched them get mowed down, and for no reason that anyone could see—there weren’t any troops waiting to follow on, there was nothing in France for them to do except get sucked into overwhelming forces. Even though a lot of German troops had been sent to Russia, France was well defended, and the Brits knew it. The reporters kept glancing at her across the newsroom (she was working on a piece about Oveta Culp Hobby and the Women’s Auxiliary Army Corps). They knew Julius was with the Canadians. Finally, one of the reporters came over and laid the dispatches on her desk, but he didn’t say anything. What was there to say?

  When she got home from work, Rosa was lounging on the sofa, reading a book. She looked so much like Julius—thin face, deep-set, prominent eyes, curly hair, full lips. She thought she was ugly, but Eloise thought she was going to grow up to look like Paulette Goddard. The perennial question of motherhood, Eloise thought, was how honest to be. I won’t buy you that doll because dolls train you to be ready to throw away your life in mindless reproduction? Your father went to war because he hates Stalin more than Churchill, and now the running-dog imperialist Mountbatten has had your father put to death out of sheer incompetence? When your father left us, me, he was glad to be gone and might not have ever come back? It is not merely that your father’s relatives repudiated him when he joined the Party, they also have no interest in his communist goyishe German American wife, if indeed he ever married her?

  Eloise decided not to say anything about her suspicions, only to ask, “What book is that?”

  Rosa showed the cover. It was Lad: A Dog.

  “I love you,” said Eloise.

  “What’s wrong?” said Rosa, scowling.

  “Nothing.” That was how honest she decided to be.

  1943

  FROM HIS VANTAGE POINT in a rocky dip on the hillside above the pass, Frank could see most of the two-mile-wide breach in the ragged hills, the Atlas Mountains. He was one of the few—maybe a half-dozen—snipers who had been sent away from the main force. He quickly dug a little pocket into a foxhole, set up his tripod so that he could pivot his weapon about sixty degrees, then dug out a bit more with his spade, so that he could press back into it if he felt that he was being noticed from the air. He could see one of the others, but only one. There were three squads scattered through the hills. Frank took a sip from his canteen. The weather, though this was North Africa, was far from hot—it was actually rather pleasant.

  Below him, where the mountains made way for the road, several units were digging slit trenches. Mines were being laid, but the ground was stony and dry, so the mines were not being dug in—they sat in the dust in casual piles. His sergeant had told him that Rommel and his army were so tired and so far from their supply depots that he would be a little surprised “if they even showed up for the party.” Once the party was over, Frank had been told, they would move forward to the village and take out the nests of German snipers waiting there. Frank thought that he would like that part. When the sun went down, it dropped. Light turned into darkness. There was so little moisture in the air that nothing sparkled or lingered. Everything was or was not. They had been warned not to show light of any kind, and Frank ate his rations cold. The desert stars were so numerous and brilliant that it was occupation enough to try to make out a constellation or two. Frank liked everything about the army so far. How long had it been now, over a year? Longer than his father had spent in Europe, from the time he left until the time he got back. Frank had been to Missouri, Ohio, Virginia, then New York in October, where they’d had four days’ leave before getting on the ship and sailing to Casablanca. Three thousand men on the ship, in a convoy of thirty ships, and perfect sailing weather, with a stop in the Azores, a place unlike anything Frank had ever seen. But, then, every place he had been, including this very spot in the Atlas Mountains, was unlike anything he had ever seen.

  Frank awoke with the first gust of wind, which was sharp and full of dust. It wasn’t yet light. He wrapped his scarf around his mouth and pulled his helmet down. Not hungry. He could both feel and hear armored divisions on the move, and he knelt up from where he had been lying and peered down toward the pass. There was movement there in the slit trenches, but it was too dark to see much.

  At dawn, the ranks of panzers appeared, flat from this angle, much lower and maybe even wider than the Shermans the Americans were using. Frank thought they were ugly but frightening, and his job was to shoot them, which he did, with armor-penetrating shells. The American tanks, which had been supposed to engage them, were worthless—that was evident in the first ten minutes. Even Private Langdon could see that if the Sherman had to turn itself around to point its gun at the panzer, then the gun wasn’t going to be pointed in the proper direction very often. And it was frightening to watch what the German guns did to the American tanks—they set them on fire. All they had to do was aim at the gas tank and blow it up. The Sherman, and, Frank knew, the crew, were done for. But the Americans, perhaps by sheer luck, got a few hits, and when the German crews leapt from their hatches, Frank did his best to get them. Luckily, in the noise and smoke, the evidence of his presence was easily overlooked. He got two, though one of those was a wasted shot, since the fellow was burning already, and possibly a third—Frank couldn’t tell if he hit that one or not, because he had to duck back in his hole as soon as he fired.

  The men in the slit trenches didn’t have a chance, did they? The panzers went straight for them, driving over them and then turning a bit, and crushing them under the tracks. And the mines did nothing. They weren’t even useful as rubble—the panzers ran right over them. By afternoon, the battle in Frank’s immediate vicinity was over, and he was stranded in his little pocket. The sniper nearby, Courtney, was shot and probably dead—Frank
could see him stretched across the dry hillside, unmoving, making no noise. The wounded always made noise. The others, if they were alive, were as quiet as mice, just like Frank, waiting for darkness. He hoped that the Stukas would decide he wasn’t worth strafing, but he had chosen this indentation in the hillside with that very thing in his mind—they could not see him from above or behind or in front, only from below, and now there was nothing going on below. The Germans had moved on, leaving a horrifying mess of armor and bodies strewn across the pass. Frank took out his compass. Eisenhower had been at Sidi Bou Zid that morning, which was certainly where the panzers were headed. Sidi Bou Zid was east-southeast. There was another town, Frank remembered—maybe it was T-something—he had heard it spoken of but of course could not read the Arabic of the name. At any rate, it was north-northwest. Frank put away his compass, then settled into his pocket, and waited for the sun to drop and the stars to blaze forth. The moon was almost full, but it didn’t rise until nearly midnight. Frank guessed he had about four hours to get somewhere.

  BY THE TIME the newsreels had shown the parade of prisoners after the Dieppe Raid, Rosanna and everyone else knew that Julius was dead, so they didn’t have to search the faces of the passing soldiers for a face that they knew. After the Battle of the Kasserine Pass, though (“Another fiasco!” insisted Walter. “Those German boys had been fighting for years, so they sent American boys right off the farm to take it on the chin!”), they did not know where Frankie was, only that he had been in the division, the brigade, and the company that was right in the thick of it, the very tank-and-infantry brigade that had allowed itself to be lured into the trap and destroyed. They knew Frankie was a sniper; that was their only hope, but it didn’t seem like much of one. When she saw the newsreel in Usherton, Rosanna prayed, but thought, Well, if they capture him, they are in for a few surprises. It was a pleasant thought, although it didn’t last very long. However, only two days after the newsreel, they had a letter. Frankie had been in the battle, but, suspecting that the Germans would come back after destroying the tank brigades and the infantry emplacements to mop up outlying sitting ducks, he had retreated into the mountains (“Pretty dry and hot. I didn’t get far in the middle of the day”) for three days. Fortunately, once Rommel had won the battle, he called the operation off (“I guess he thought he’d done us in,” wrote Frankie), and so the Americans were able to regroup. Even so, there were thousands of casualties, and their commanding officer, Fredendall, had been relieved of his command (“Big stink,” said Frankie). Rosanna was of course thrilled that Frankie had turned up—alive, more than alive, perfectly fine and his usual self. She even baked him a batch of gingersnaps, boxed them up, and sent them off—gingersnaps because they traveled the best, and were often better on arrival after weeks in the mail. She didn’t really think they would get to him, but anyone in the army who might open them and eat them along the way would deserve them, she thought.

  Walter swore that he had never had any doubt that Frankie would turn up—didn’t he always? And he had been worried that Frank would be punished for leaving his unit, but maybe that’s what snipers were supposed to do. And he was promoted—he had picked off a German mortar team all by himself. Now he was a corporal. Walter said, “I hope that doesn’t mean he’s in charge of anything.” But he was, according to Frankie. He was in charge of five snipers.

  With the letter, he enclosed a picture of himself and a kid named Lyman Hill, whom Frank had known in Missouri and Ohio, and who had not gone over with them earlier, so hadn’t been in the battle. Frank expected there to be another battle soon. Rosanna read this line over and over: “We are going to go after those Jerries any day now, and me, I can’t wait.” Then he wrote, “Love, your son, Frank.” He had never replied to the letter in which Rosanna told him about Julius. Rosanna didn’t know whether she wanted him to have gotten that letter or not, because she didn’t know whether a sense of one’s mortality was a good thing or a bad thing in a soldier. In the meantime, her brother Gus had joined up, and what was he doing? He was lying in the bellies of airplanes as they bombed the German industrial cities (though Rosanna didn’t know which ones). He was supposed to take pictures showing whether or not the bombs hit their targets. He had stopped writing home, according to Granny Mary, because he didn’t want his wife, Angela, to count on his return. Angela had taken to her bed and was talking about going back to stay with her family in Minneapolis, which Rosanna thought would be a good idea.

  All Walter and Joey and John did was plant and plant and plant, and then cultivate and cultivate and cultivate. The weather was good. Joey had a knack for growing good seed corn, and Walter had stopped complaining or even telling Joey what to do. Joey told all of them what to do, and they had plenty of money as a result. Enough so that Joey could put an inside bathroom into that poky old house of Rolf’s, and even a bow window on the front of the living room. Once in a while, he took Minnie to the movies in Usherton, but if he wanted to do that, Rosanna had to go over and stay with Mrs. Frederick. She didn’t mind; she just read a book to Mrs. Frederick, and the poor woman was quiet enough. She was so thin now that Rosanna didn’t know how she survived, but it wasn’t Minnie’s fault—Minnie made her good, nourishing dishes, like hash and creamed spinach, and scrambled eggs with crushed-up bacon, and she made her drink milk with the cream on it, but they did her no good. Granny Mary said it was just like old people: when life held nothing for you, your food went right on through.

  Even Lillian had some money, from the job she had taken at the soda fountain not far from the high school. She worked after school and Joey went by and picked her up on the way home for supper. Walter didn’t approve of how she was spending her money—on rouge and lipstick (she even had a compact, which she said was silver, though Rosanna suspected that it was only silver-plated). Being Lillian, she wasn’t spending all of it by any means—she was saving at least a third and maybe half—but Rosanna completely approved of Lillian’s ideas. It was right for a girl, especially a farm girl, who started at a disadvantage, to look as up-to-date and fresh as possible. It was right to look through the movie magazines and see what was the latest thing, and if you had the skills to reproduce this little thing or that—a snood, say—well, why not? Lillian, who had been so unhappy at school, especially after that ingrate Jane whatever-her-name-was (Rosanna knew her name) was cruel to her, had now found her footing, and the boys were looking at her. (“Let them look,” said Walter. “They can look as often as they like.”)

  Only Henry remained mysterious. All he did these days was read. He had read every book that they had at his school, and he held the book right up to his face, as if he needed glasses (though he didn’t, the doctor said). His face was still beautiful, in spite of the scar beneath his lower lip (which Rosanna sometimes found herself fixating on), and he was as slender as a reed, but if he was sitting up on the sofa or in a chair, his mouth hung open as he read, making him look half asleep, and if he was lying down, his head tilted to the side and he didn’t care if his hair stood on end. Rosanna found it bizarre that such a good-looking child—even a boy—would care so little about his appearance, but all he cared about was Treasure Island and The Black Arrow and The Master of Ballantrae—or The Hound of the Baskervilles and The Sign of Four and The Valley of Fear. If he read one by an author, then he had to get hold of them all, and he pestered everyone until he had gotten whatever there was to be had in attics, storerooms, the Salvation Army shop, and the Usherton library. And all of his favorite writers were English, not American—you couldn’t pay him to read James Fenimore Cooper, for example. Just at Christmas, too, he had decided to learn German, so he made Granny Mary and Grandpa Otto “nein und ja” him, and even spoke to Rosanna sometimes in German, and would only answer her if she spoke German. Well, he was a smart boy. Strange as the day was long, but smart.

  Claire was four and a half, and would start school in the fall. Of all her children, Rosanna would have said that Claire was the only one who was utterly n
ormal. She ate whatever you put in front of her, she dressed uncomplainingly in what was clean, she played with what you handed her. She went to bed when she was told, and got up when you were ready. She had nice dark hair, shiny and thick, and she never wiggled while you braided it. She could count to twenty and spell “cat,” “dog,” “mouse,” and “Claire.” She could sing “Alouette,” “Are You Sleeping?,” and “I’m a Little Teapot.” She could recite her bedtime prayer. She often looked out the window, and if you said, “Claire, you are underfoot,” she went away. She liked Walter. She went with him out to the barn and talked while he milked cows or fed sheep. She asked for nothing, just received what she was given. Granny Mary and Granny Elizabeth thought she was darling.

  Well, that’s what a war did for you—it made you look around at your shabby house and your modest family and give thanks for what you had and others had lost. It made you wonder what it would be like, bombs falling through the ceiling, craters in the front yard, nights in shelters, waking up dead, as Henry said once. It made you stop talking about what you wished for, because, in the end, that might bring bad luck.

  FRANK WOULD HAVE SAID that he was used to war now—he had been in the army for a year and a half, and in Africa for ten months, but even so, on the night of July 12, he felt as though he had been transported to a different world, although Sicily was not that different from Africa. The dawn crossing had been strange enough; the weather was so bad and the winds were so high that most of the soldiers doubted the invasion would be attempted, but it was, and his sergeant pointed out that if they didn’t make it they wouldn’t be alive to care, and if they did, the Jerries and Eyeties on the island wouldn’t be expecting them. And they weren’t—the beaches were clear, and there weren’t even any Luftwaffe around, only a few Italian bombers attacking a couple of transport vessels and warships. Even as they made their way across the beaches and inland, they met almost no resistance. They started to the east of the port—Licata, it was called—and then moved toward it. It was a town of graceful pale-apricot stone buildings that looked as if they had been there forever. Off to the east somewhere was Syracuse, a town Frank had learned about in his ancient-history class. And he also remembered Archimedes—there had been a picture in his math book of Archimedes using a lever to lift the world. Archimedes had figured out the value of pi. But Frank doubted that he would get to Syracuse. Licata was good enough for now.