War and Millie McGonigle

by Karen Cushman

  “Whew, it’s warm out here,” Rosie said. She took off her sweater and fanned herself with it. “It’s already snowing in Chicago.” She laughed. “My brother’s in trouble again. Leo was throwing snowballs to knock the hats off men getting off the streetcar. Unfortunately one of the men was our father.”

  “Sounds like he’s as dumb as Icky,” I said. We passed a bus stop, and I let out a deep breath. “No more nickels for the bus, I guess. We’ll have to walk all the way back home.”

  Rosie smiled. “It’s worth it,” and we began to sing “Cool Water.”

  It was sunny and warm for December, seventy-six degrees a few minutes before noon. I’d worn my bathing suit all day but was not out in the water. Instead I was trapped inside doing homework. Edna had gone to the movies but I couldn’t go with her. Bah, homework.

  I was spread out on the bed trying to determine the area and circumference of given shapes. I hated area and circumference. Who cared? Mama was in the kitchen, listening to some old people’s music and writing jingles, and Pop and Lily and Pete had gone for burgers. Mama and Pop were determined to keep us cheery and untroubled. We were going to eat lunch outside, splash in the water, skip stones, and pretend we weren’t worried about war and the world. And tonight we were going to join the Fribbles for a bonfire and a sing-along. The Fribbles! For cryin’ out loud, could this day get any worse? At least Rosie would be there, so we could—

  “Millie!” a voice screamed from the other room.

  My mother? Raising her voice?

  “Millie!!!”

  Good gravy. Don’t flip your wig, Mama.

  Mama pushed the bedroom door open and clutched my arm. “Run and find your father and the children. Now, Millie! Now!”

  “What for? Why me? I have homework.” I was getting a good whine going when Mama grabbed my shoulder and shook.

  “The radio,” Mama said. “The Japanese.” She was breathing heavily. “Bombed the naval base at Pearl Harbor. In Hawaii. Sneak attack. Get your father now!”

  I went. All I knew of Hawaii was pineapples and grass skirts, but it’s part of the United States and close to home, not far away like Germany and France. Did Japanese bombs mean war really was coming here to Mission Beach? My throat was dry and my heart flopped like a fish as I ran. I met Pop and the kids coming home.

  “Bombs,” I said through pants and wheezes. “Hawaii. Bombs.”

  Pop handed me the sack of burgers, picked Lily up, and ran.

  “What’s happening?” Pete asked.

  “The Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor,” I told him.

  “Who’s Pearl Harbor?” Oh, how I wished I were only five and a half! I grabbed his hand and we ran together.

  At home we all gathered by the radio. Even Edna, for the movie was called off after the attack was announced. I huddled on the sofa with Lily and Pete, who were wary and silent, their eyes puzzled, while Mama stood in the doorway, wringing her apron in her hands. Pop sat right in front of the radio and leaned forward, his forearms on his thighs, as though he could actually see what was happening if he got close enough.

  He blew his nose with a hoot and muttered over and over, “The dirty so-and-sos.” Tears streamed down his face. I had never seen him cry before, and it frightened me. I chewed on my cuticles until they bled.

  Lily climbed onto Pop’s lap and touched a tear running down his face. “Why you crying, Pop?”

  “Grown-up stuff, Lily-billy. Nothing for you kids to worry about.”

  “I worry about you being sad about the pearly harbor, Pop,” said Lily.

  “When do we eat?” asked Pete.

  There wasn’t much Pearl Harbor news really, just ordinary Sunday shows—the New York Philharmonic and other music, One Man’s Family, Jack Benny, Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy—interrupted now and again with updates about bombs and fires and sunken ships. “It’s no joke,” one announcer said. “It’s a real war.” But it seemed unreal, as if the war didn’t bother Jack Benny and Rochester, and people were laughing and not at all afraid.

  Neighbors dropped in and out, bringing rumors of paratroopers and dive-bombers in Honolulu and Japanese warships heading toward the California coast. Pop changed radio stations frequently, but what little news they had was contradictory. It was obvious no one knew what the truth was. The more worried the grown-ups got, the more afraid I was. My stomach clenched like a fist, and my right eyelid twitched. Lily climbed back onto the sofa with Pete and me, and I held the two of them close.

  It was dark before we thought to eat. The light from giant searchlights swept the sky, casting strange shadows through our windows. Our burgers were cold and greasy but I didn’t care. I wasn’t hungry anyway. It’s no joke, it’s a real war played over and over in my head.

  “Will the Japanese invade us?” I asked.

  “Will bombs kill us?” Lily wanted to know.

  And Pete, a worried frown on his sticky face, asked, “Will we still have Christmas?”

  No one knew the answers. Lily and Pete fell asleep on the sofa, and the radio played on.

  Sherlock Holmes was interrupted by an announcement that all lights were to be turned off so as not to aid enemy aircraft. And then the radio stations went off the air. My face and hands grew cold, and I tensed up, waiting in the silent darkness.

  After a while in the dark, Pop stood up. He and Mama hugged us extra tight. Even Edna got a hug. And the McGonigle family went to bed.

  Sometime later I was awakened by the noise of airplanes flying overhead, maybe ours from the naval air station on North Island, maybe the Japanese or Germans. I sat up and wrapped my arms around my knees, waiting for incoming bombs or paratroopers with machine guns or who knows what. War scenes from movies and newsreels flashed across my mind. I felt sick.

  “We’re scared,” Lily said, wheezing, as she and Pete climbed into the big bed.

  “Can we sleep with you?” they asked together. Edna grumbled and moved to the sofa.

  I was haunted by my own fears and worries. My body felt jangled, like I had electricity instead of blood in my veins. But I was, after all, the big sister and felt an unexpected stab of responsibility. “Okay, but you, Petey, have to promise not to wet the bed. And, Lily, no hogging the covers.” They snuggled in and Lily stuck her thumb in her mouth.

  “Are those planes from bad guys?” Pete asked. “Are they going to bomb us?”

  “Will we have war here?” Lily asked, her face all wrinkled with worry.

  And from Pete: “Just what is war?”

  Bombs and guns and fear and death and suffering, I thought, but said, “Don’t you guys worry about war. Remember when we used to get the comics in the Sunday paper? Remember Superman? He flies around fighting criminals and spies, remember? That’s who we hear up there. Not the Japanese. Superman. Whoosh. Swoop. There he is again. Chasing away the bad guys. Keeping us safe. Thanks, Superman.”

  “And Supergirl,” said Lily.

  Pete snorted. “There’s no Supergirl.”

  “Why not?” I asked. “She could be up there fighting Nazis and Japan and spies just like Superman. And Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon will come from the future to help. The bad guys are doomed.”

  “If I could fly, I’d pound them,” Pete said as he snuggled closer and closed his eyes.

  “Tell us a story,” Lily said, “about Lily and Pete fighting the bad guys.”

  So I did. I told them about Pete commanding a submarine that wiped out the Japanese navy, and Lily piloting an airplane, bombing the Nazis. I thought Lily the pill could likely annoy the Germans into submission, but the very idea of Pete in a war terrified me. Soon they fell asleep, comforted. I felt shivers of fright at the sound of planes overhead, but finally, lulled by the warmth and the rhythm of Pete’s soft snoring, I, too, relaxed a little. But what would tomorrow bring?

  It had been the worst week of my whole life. Well, second worst to when
Gram died. I asked a few neighbors if they knew anyone who had died in the bombing at Pearl Harbor, but they all looked at me funny and said, “No, thank goodness.” That wasn’t helpful for my book, so I just wrote McGONIGLE in the sand over and over, though I feared nothing could keep us safe now.

  I was afraid to be away from Mama and Pop on that Monday in case something else bad happened, so they let Lily and me stay home from school. We heard President Roosevelt declare war on Japan, as if Japan hadn’t already done so with their bombs. December 7, 1941. A date which will live in infamy, the president called it. Then Germany and Italy declared war on the United States. It was war, real war.

  What little news we heard was all bad. The Pacific Fleet had been wiped out. Dead and wounded ran into the thousands. The Japanese invaded the Philippines and Guam and other South Seas islands like those Dorothy Lamour made movies about.

  I jumped at every unexpected noise, and my fingernails were nearly chewed off. Sirens wailed day and night. No one knew whether they were false alarms or drills or the real thing. The radio spread rumors of Japanese planes, and ships, and submarines preparing to attack the West Coast. Planes with the Japanese emblem of a rising sun on their wings were spotted over San Francisco. Unidentified planes were reported flying toward San Diego, and the city was blacked out, perfectly dark from sundown to sunup every day, no lights anywhere, to avoid letting enemy aircraft know we were here. Mama declared that we would sleep in our clothes and have suitcases packed and ready in case we had to evacuate in a hurry. The rumors turned out to be false alarms, but my suitcase stayed packed.

  We were now involved in three wars, with Germany, Italy, and Japan. How could we fight nearly the whole rest of the world? Well, not England, I knew, but plenty of the world. I wished for the millionth time Gram were here to talk to.

  But Gram was not around, so I went to look for Rosie. She was sitting outside the Fribbles’, doing homework. “It’s war, Rosie. Isn’t it awful?”

  “Not as awful as living with the Fribbles or”—she waved her paper around—“working with square roots. I think square roots are the most useless mathematical function in the world.” More waving of paper ensued. “What’s their use? I mean, do you go into a store and say, ‘I’d like to buy the square root of sixty seven cents’ worth of candy, please’?” She crumpled up her paper and threw it over her shoulder. “Square roots are so unhip, which is why they’re called square.” She chuckled at her own joke.

  “Be serious, Rosie. We’re at war. A real war. What do you think will happen to us? Will we be invaded? Bombed? I’m scared.”

  “War is awful, and I hope it stays far away from here. But don’t get all panicky until we know what it means. One day at a time. One day at a time.” And she bent over her homework again.

  “Holy mackerel, you’re so cool and unconcerned. Don’t you care?” It seemed a little creepy to me.

  Rosie looked up from her papers and lifted one eyebrow. “Loosen up, Millie.”

  Loosen up? Easy for her to say. Last Wednesday morning I’d awakened to rain, flashes of light, and great thundering booms. Fear stuck in my throat. “Bombs!” Pete cried from the sofa, which started Lily crying and Edna muttering “Mein Gott! Mein Gott!” over and over.

  “Quiet! Quiet!” Pop shouted from our doorway. “Must be a thunderstorm in the mountains. Not a bomb. Just a thunderstorm.”

  “Are you sure?” Lily asked, and Pop nodded.

  In the silence that followed, Pete called out, “So what? I wasn’t scared.”

  “Me neither,” said Lily, but she climbed into the big bed and snuggled next to me, dragging the doll she now called Supergirl.

  Me, I’d been plenty scared. I’d been scared for so long, and I was still scared. Was the worst here? Or would there be worse to come? I shuddered. “Toodle-oo, Rosie,” I said. “I’m outta here.’’ And I went home.

  “What do you think of your Hitler now?” Pop asked Edna at dinner.

  “My Hitler? Nonsense. I never cared for the man. He’s no good. You can tell from his face. All sour and frowny.” Edna lifted her fork like a sword. “From now on, nothing German will pass my lips. No sauerkraut, no hamburgers, no frankfurters, no beer. They’re all verboten—I mean, forbidden!”

  “What’s wrong with frankfurters?” I asked.

  “Named for Frankfurt, Germany. Forbidden!”

  “And hamburgers?”

  “Hamburg, Germany, of course. Very creative in the kitchen, those Germans,” Edna said.

  Lily whined. “Will Pop be in trouble? He makes hamburgers at the Burger Shack.”

  “Pop makes American hamburgers,” Pete said.

  Edna frowned. “Doesn’t matter. Hamburgers are hamburgers. German.”

  “Be careful, Edna. Watch out for German measles,” said Pop.

  “And German shepherds,” I said.

  “And ger-aniums,” Pete added.

  “Go ahead, make fun, but I’m serious. Since Italy declared war, I am thinking of banning spaghetti also. Now, who has seen my glasses?”

  They were on her head and we all laughed. It felt good. Not much is funny during a war.

  “Are you seeing Albert today?” Mama asked Edna.

  “No. Albert is history—he’s too serious, too funny-looking, and he smells like mothballs. I’m going to the movies with Ruby Heller.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Mama. “Albert was a real gentleman and I think he genuinely liked you.”

  “Who cares? The war will bring plenty of sailors to San Diego.” And Edna left.

  “With the war, will we still have Christmas?” Pete asked once again.

  “I want to talk to you kids about that,” Pop said. “Because of our money troubles and the war, Christmas will be a little skimpy this year.”

  “War, war, war! I’m sick of hearing about the war!” Lily whined. “Now it will ruin Christmas!”

  “Enough, or we won’t have any Christmas at all!” shouted Pop. There was silence. “What money we have will go for blackout curtains, batteries, flashlights, candles, and matches we’ll need. So your mother and I decided that we’ll make presents for each other instead of buying them. Mr. Sears has enough money already.”

  I groaned.

  “What about Santa?” asked Pete. “Will he still bring us presents this year? I think we’ve been good. Or good enough.”

  Pop winked at me. “Oh, I think Santa will have a few presents for you, Petey, but it may be socks and underwear,” he said.

  “Nerts!” said Pete.

  “Language, Pete,” said Mama, coming in with a cardboard carton.

  “What’s wrong with nerts? It just means nuts!”

  “Then say nuts. On second thought, don’t say nuts. Just nod politely and agree.” She set the box down on the table. “This is full of things left over from our old store—fabric pieces, needles and thread, buttons, yarn, ribbons and string, feathers, sequins, paper clips, rubber bands, all sorts of stuff.”

  “You have crayons and scissors and paste,” Pop said. “See what you guys can come up with.”

  Holy moly. I’d been hoping for new oarlocks for the boat. Now I’d likely get sequined bookmarks, a paper-clip necklace, and a button bracelet. I guessed that was only fair since that was what I’d be giving, but still…I cut and sewed and pasted and muttered about how unfair life was.

  After dinner Mama and I hung heavy blankets over all the windows in the house, which we’d use until we could buy official blackout curtains. I went outside to make sure not even a pinprick of light showed. The house was totally dark, as was the rest of San Diego. Occasional searchlights pierced the sky, but streetlights and neon signs were unlit. It was eerie. I missed seeing lit windows up and down the beach and headlights crossing the causeway. How would drivers find their way in the darkness with their lights off?

  There had been a bonfire up the beach. Probably the Grays
ons roasting marshmallows. As I watched, the fire flickered and ebbed and died, and there was not a glimmer of light left on earth. I shivered—it felt like I was on another planet. But there was no blackout for the moon, and a million stars shone in the dark sky.

  I sat on the beach, skipping stones on the water and contemplating my new life. No Japanese planes had attacked Mission Beach, but San Diego was changing fast. Planes roared overhead day and night, soldiers and sailors crowded the downtown streets, buses overflowed with defense-factory workers in overalls. Sometimes men who were not in uniform were taunted and called draft dodgers, even if it wasn’t their fault. Like Pop.

  Pop’s heart murmur kept him out of the army. He got a job as a clerk at the Navy Exchange, so it was almost like he got his store back. Mama bought eye protectors and started welding school at night.

  School was out for Christmas break until 1942, and I was delighted to be away for a while. It was a nightmare. The windows were covered with heavy black curtains, and air-raid-drill sirens screamed every day. Instead of arithmetic and history, we spent our days practicing for air raids by huddling in hallways and hiding under desks. Kids played war games instead of kickball and hopscotch and looked for someone to pick on.

  The Give to Polish War Relief posters taped up in Mr. Bell’s store windows and the post office had been replaced with Uncle Sam Wants You for the U.S. Army! and Enlist! Our Men Out There Need Your Help. One poster showed sweaty bare-chested sailors in a submarine loading torpedoes over the words Man the Guns! Join the Navy!

  All the soldiers and sailors on recruiting posters were muscular, and tough, and very handsome, unlike the young, spindly, scared-looking fellows I saw taking the bus to the Navy Recruiting Station. How many of them would end up in my Book of Dead Things? Could I tell by looking in their faces who would die and who would live?

  I scoured the beach looking for something, anything, to add to my book. Something to keep us alive and safe. There were plenty of sand crabs but I wanted to add something impressive, like a giant squid or a blue whale. No luck, so I turned for home.