Christmastime 1941

by Linda Mahkovec

  “Okay, now you’ve gone too far,” laughed Lillian. “He’s been a thorn in my side ever since I started. He’s always snooping over my shoulder, trying to catch me in the act of sketching. Ever since he saw the drawing I made of him as a lizard.”

  “Well, really Lilly, you can hardly blame him. Especially since you so exactly captured his expression.”

  “I’m sure he was eavesdropping the other day when I was telling you about my portfolio. I always get the feeling he’s spying on me.”

  Izzy took another bite of her sandwich. “Well, you never know why people behave the way they do,” she said. “But once he’s away from his desk, he’s really not so bad. Mr. Rockwell says Weeble can be counted on for anything he throws at him – managing Marketing and Advertising, for example. That’s a lot to take on. Rockwell’s come to depend on him. Both men have their good points, Lilly.”

  “Hmm.” Lillian would humor Izzy, but she was not prepared to change her opinion. About either man.

  Izzy picked up the dill pickle on her plate. “How about you, Lilly? You seem a little,” she crunched on the pickle, one eye squeezing shut at the sourness, “I don’t know, off.”

  Lillian took a deep breath and sighed, considering how much to tell Izzy. “Well, I was terrified by the news. Like everyone. And I was disappointed to have to cut our trip short. I miss Annette so much.”

  “And Charles?” Izzy asked. “I bet they all loved him.”

  Lillian nodded, remembering their few days upstate. “Annette and Bernie took to him immediately. I could tell that he enjoyed his time at their orchard, being out in the open. He and Bernie had plans to take the boys hiking, to look for their Christmas tree, lots of things. Then the news came.” Lillian didn’t want to tell Izzy about the disagreement with Charles. She was afraid it would make Izzy think too much of her own postponed wedding.

  “And now it feels as though I’ve never left the switchboard. It’s become so monotonous. I really admire the way you’re reshaping your job.”

  “Push ahead, Lilly. Make yourself known. The only women who are getting ahead in the office are the ones who seek out more work, demand a raise, or speak to Mr. Rockwell about redefining their positions. Why don’t you talk to him about getting into the Art Department? I’m sure he’d hear you out.”

  “I don’t feel quite ready yet. I’m still working on some drawings,” said Lillian, realizing that it sounded like she was always making excuses.

  “There’s no time like the present, Lilly. Why don’t you at least talk to Rockwell?”

  Lillian finished her sandwich, briefly imagining asking Rockwell for a transfer. She shook her head at the image that came to mind, and used her napkin to brush the crumbs from her hands.

  “I couldn’t. I’d hate to ask him for any favor. Besides, he would pick up on my disdain for him. I can’t stand the way he shows attentions to the girls whose husbands or beaus are away. I bet he won’t put on a uniform and fight. He’ll find some way to pull strings, or pay off someone.”

  “That’s ungenerous of you, Lilly. You don’t know. Maybe he will join up, now that we’re at war.”

  Lillian’s head snapped up at the rebuke. “You’re right. I really don’t know him at all. Maybe he will.”

  They paid, slipped on their coats, and left the café. “When I’m angry about other things,” said Lillian, “Mr. Rockwell and Mr. Weeble become my default targets. But I’m truly happy that things are working out for you, Izzy. And I’m glad to hear that Mr. Rockwell and Mr. Weeble are not as bad as I’ve imagined them to be.”

  Izzy cocked her head at Lillian and laughed. “You? Angry? That’s a first. What are you angry about?”

  “Well, not angry. Upset. Disappointed. I didn’t want to tell you, but we’ve decided to postpone the wedding.”

  Izzy stopped, and turned to Lillian, her eyes full of concern. “But why?”

  “Well, actually it was Charles who decided. I don’t want to wait. But he – I guess he feels the time isn’t right. With so much uncertainty now, he wants to wait and see what happens.”

  Izzy sighed deeply. “I’m sorry, Lilly. I know how that feels. To have decisions made on your behalf. Maybe he’ll change his mind.”

  Chapter 6

  *

  Lillian met the end of the week with a deep sigh of relief that there had been no further attacks. She was glad for the half day on Friday, which allowed her to pick up the boys from school. After a snack of cookies and milk, she let Tommy and Gabriel play outside with the other kids while she prepared dinner. Though she couldn’t see them from the kitchen window, she still found herself looking down at the street periodically, just to make sure that everything appeared normal. And she kept the radio on for the latest news updates.

  Tommy and Gabriel sat on the steps in front of Mickey’s brownstone, watching him trade baseball cards with some of the other boys from the street. Butch, one of the boys from a few blocks over, walked up with a couple of his friends. When they weren’t playing baseball, the band of boys liked to play at being GIs, breaking into groups and scouring the neighborhood for the enemy – though the game was mostly an excuse to hang out at the diner afterwards.

  Tommy didn’t really like Butch or his side-kick, Spider, but they had a good baseball team, the Bulldogs. For most of the summer Butch’s Bulldogs were ahead, but slowly Mickey’s team, the Redbirds, had caught up with them, and were now just one game behind. The weather had been mild, and it looked as if they could finish the season before it got too cold. They worried that because of the war, their parents might force them to postpone the games. So they had all agreed to play on Saturday, no excuses allowed.

  “Tomorrow at 2:00,” said Butch. “This will clinch our win.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Mickey, putting away his cards. “We’re ready for you.”

  “Hey,” said Butch. “We’re gonna sweep the neighborhood for spies. You guys up for it?”

  “Sure,” said Mickey. “Same teams?”

  “Platoons,” corrected Spider.

  “Right,” said Mickey. “Platoons. Okay, Platoon A – we’ll take the Western Front. Platoon B, you guys head south.”

  “And remember,” said Butch. “If you come across any Jerrys or Japs, shoot to kill. No prisoners.”

  “We’ll meet back at base at 1700 hours, sharp,” said Mickey.

  Spider turned to his leader. “What time is that, Butch?”

  Butch took off his cap and swatted Spider on the head. “It’s whenever we’re finished, ya dope.”

  “Synchronize your watches, gentlemen,” said Tommy. He had heard that in a movie recently and had been using it ever since. Though none of the boys had watches, they all looked down at their wrists and made tiny adjustments. “Ready? Spread out!”

  The gang split into two. Platoon B headed one way, Tommy and Mickey with some of Butch’s gang headed the other way.

  “Keep an eye out for anything suspicious. There are spies everywhere,” said Butch. “We’ll check out the avenue. You guys check the side streets. We’ll meet at the canteen to compare notes.”

  Tommy and Mickey slinked down the street, darting from car to car, tree to tree. They pressed their backs against buildings, and then peered stealthily around the corner, their right hands tucked inside their jackets, ready to use their carefully concealed weapons.

  They briefly followed two elderly gentlemen, after detecting an accent of some sort.

  “Could be spies,” whispered Tommy.

  “Quick! Down here!” cried Mickey. “A good lookout spot.”

  They crept down a flight of steps that led to a basement apartment, and took their positions behind the railing, guns ready – only to be startled, and then shooed away, by an elderly woman coming out from her apartment.

  “Run!” hollered Tommy, the enemy upon them. He dodged a few bullets and covered his head at the exploding grenade right behind them.

  The elderly tenant climbed up the basement steps and shook he
r head at the boys.

  After twenty minutes of crisscrossing the neighborhood, Tommy and Mickey ran up to the corner diner.

  “What took you so long?” whined Spider. “Come on! I’m thirsty.”

  They all crowded into a booth and dumped their change onto the table.

  “Shell out,” said Spider. As usual Spider and Butch had only a few coins. They all pooled their change, and Butch ordered three chocolate malts with six straws.

  “Okay,” said Mickey, after the waiter brought their drinks. “Who wants to report first?”

  One of Butch’s men took a quick break from slurping his malt. “All clear on the Western Front. No reports of unusual activity.”

  Butch snatched his malt from Spider, who was fast draining it, and punched him on the arm. Spider merely rubbed his arm and took another sip.

  “We might have found some German spies,” said Tommy. “We saw some suspicious looking men who we think were Jerrys trying to pass as locals.”

  “Yeah,” said Mickey. “When they thought no one was looking, they spoke in German, and laughed.” He imitated an evil snicker: “Heh, heh, heh!”

  “Good work, men,” said Butch. “Keep tracking them.”

  “Spider? What’d you find?” asked Mickey.

  “No maybes for me,” said Spider, thumping his thumb on his chest. “I found myself a bona fide spy.”

  All the boys lifted their heads from their malts, their eyes on Spider.

  Spider folded his arms on the table and leaned forward, enjoying their complete attention before revealing his information.

  “That Dago lady who runs the corner grocery,” he began. “She put something under a bench, real sneaky like.” He enacted the scene, exaggerating the actions for dramatic effect. “Looked all around. To the left. To the right. Then took a bag from inside her coat and hid it beneath the bench.” He took a long, justified slurp from Butch’s malt. “She’s definitely spying for Mussolini.”

  “Nah,” said Tommy. “That’s Mrs. Mancetti. She’s not a spy. She was probably giving food to a poor person. She does stuff like that.”

  “Oh, yeah? Then why was she being so sneaky like?” challenged Spider. “She could be another Mata Hari.”

  Mickey burst out laughing in disbelief. “Mrs. Mancetti? Mata Hari?”

  “You’re way off base, Spider,” said Tommy. “As usual,” he muttered under his breath before taking a sip of his malt.

  “Oh, yeah?” asked Spider, pulling a paper bag from inside his jacket. “Well, here’s the evidence.” He placed the bag firmly onto the table.

  “You took it?” said Tommy. “That’s stealing!”

  “Careful!” cried one of Butch’s gang as Spider started to open the bag. “It could be booby-trapped. You shouldn’t bring it in here, ya fathead!”

  “Yeah? What do you know?” said Spider. “There’s important information in here.” He slowly opened the bag, waiting for the curiosity to build.

  All the boys crowded around. “Well, what is it?”

  They passed the bag around, each one taking a peek, skeptical of the danger that lurked inside, but not wanting to admit it.

  Tommy opened the bag, rummaged around, and scoffed. “Two bagels, a chocolate bar, and some lunch meat.” He shook his head at Spider. “You call this evidence?”

  Spider rolled his eyes and leaned in, sneering at Tommy. “It’s in code, ya sap! The problem with you is that you don’t know how to think like a spy.” He tapped his head. “It’s not just any lunchmeat. It’s braunsweiger,” he said, pronouncing the word with an exaggerated guttural accent. He waited for the significance to register with the boys. “German,” he explained to some of the blank faces. “And who eats bagels?” He looked from boy to boy, waiting for the obvious.

  Mickey shrugged. “We eat bagels.”

  Spider ignored the comment. “Jews. That’s who. Don’t you get it? This is a plot to kill two Jews.”

  Tommy snorted and folded his arms. “How do you know it’s not a plot to kill one German?”

  Spider ignored that comment, too. “And Mata Hari is the messenger. We have to keep a close watch on her. She’s dangerous.”

  “What about the chocolate bar?” asked Butch.

  “I haven’t figured that out yet. But I will.” He stuffed the bag back inside his jacket. “In the meantime, I’ll hold on to the evidence.”

  “You mean you’ll eat the evidence,” said Tommy.

  “Look,” said Spider, shoving a finger into Tommy’s chest. “If she’s a spy, I’m gonna make sure she pays for it.”

  Tommy grabbed Spider’s spindly finger and twisted it. “You leave her alone,” he threatened.

  Some of the boys shifted in their seats, uncomfortable with dissention in the ranks.

  Spider rubbed his finger, a glare of contempt in his eyes. “Always on the side of the underdog, aren’t you?”

  “If that was true, I’d be on your side,” answered Tommy.

  Spider was just about to answer back, when Mickey interrupted and brought things back under control.

  “Right,” said Mickey. “Well, you work on breaking the chocolate code. We’ll continue surveillance of the Krauts.” He took a last pull on his straw. “C’mon, men. Let’s go.”

  A noisy slurping went round the table as the boys sucked up the last of the malts, along with a good deal of air. They then piled out of the booth, and ran out of the diner.

  Butch and his gang headed home. “Get ready for tomorrow!” taunted Butch. “We’re gonna cream you!”

  Tommy waved the threat away, and he and Mickey headed off in the opposite direction. They ran all the way home, and then climbed the steps to Mickey’s brownstone and sat on the top step, catching their breath.

  “We have to beat them, tomorrow,” said Tommy. “It’s our last chance.”

  “Don’t worry. We will,” said Mickey.

  Tommy suddenly remembered that he was supposed to keep an eye on Gabriel. He raised his head and peered around. “Where’s Gabriel and Billy?”

  Mickey stood and looked up and down the street. “Here comes my mom, with Billy. I don’t see Gabriel.”

  It was starting to get dark, and Tommy was getting worried. He saw Mrs. Kinney and Billy walking towards them, with bags of groceries in their arms.

  Mickey ran down the steps to take the groceries from his mom.

  “Hi, Mrs. Kinney,” said Tommy. He pulled Billy aside. “Where’s Gabe? I thought he was with you.”

  “He was,” said Billy. “But then Mom made me go to the store with her and he didn’t want to come. I guess he went home.”

  Tommy thrust his hands in his pockets and looked up at the streetlights that had just come on. “Yeah, okay. See ya tomorrow, Mickey.”

  Tommy didn’t know whether to go home and hope Gabriel was there, or wait and see if he would show up. He tried to weigh which choice had more chance of getting him into trouble. He couldn’t miss the game tomorrow; he just had to defeat Spider. Then, up ahead, he saw Gabriel walking towards him, taking his time, as usual.

  Tommy ran up to him. “Hurry up, Gabe! We’re gonna be late.” He pulled Gabriel by the arm and hurried him up the steps to their brownstone. “Where the heck were you? You were supposed to stay with Billy.”

  “I was looking for Tiny.”

  “Jeez, Gabriel! Just because I don’t want you to tag along with me all the time doesn’t mean you have to make up imaginary friends. I’m getting tired of hearing about Tiny.”

  “He’s not imaginary. He’s real,” said Gabriel, as they climbed the stairs to the third floor.

  Tommy put his hand on the door knob. “Yeah, yeah. Well, don’t tell Mom, or she won’t let us play outside anymore.”

  Lillian was setting the table when they entered the apartment. “There you are! I was starting to get worried.”

  “We were just playing,” said Tommy. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Meatloaf, roasted potatoes, and salad,” said Lillian, noting the
look of pleasure on their faces. “Go wash up.”

  When they were all seated, Lillian asked the boys what they had been playing at with Mickey and Billy.

  Tommy kicked Gabriel under the table, as he drained his glass of milk, and wiped his mouth. “Oh, just stuff, and Mickey and the guys swapped baseball cards.”

  Lillian got up to refill Tommy’s glass.

  “Mommy, what’s a Dago?” asked Gabriel.

  “Where’d you hear that?” asked Lillian.

  “Someone wrote it on the side of Mancetti’s store: Dagos go home!”

  Lillian frowned. “It’s not a nice word. I don’t want you to say it.”

  “It just means Italian, that’s all,” said Tommy. “Everybody has a name like that: Wop, Kike, Spic, Mick –”

  “Tommy!” said Lillian.

  “What, Mom?” asked Tommy. “Everybody says it.”

  “Well, not you. Do you understand?”

  Tommy rolled his eyes.

  “They’re insulting words, Tommy,” said Lillian.

  “I’m a Yank. Is there anything wrong with that?”

  “It’s those other words I’m referring to, and you know it.”

  “Okay, okay,” said Tommy, more interested in another helping of potatoes.

  “Mommy,” said Gabriel. “Mr. Drooms said he would help me with my bird puzzle when we got back from Aunt Annette’s. And we’ve been back a long time.”

  “Three days isn’t long,” laughed Lillian. “I’m sure he’ll stop by and help you just as soon as he has time. How about we get out some of our decorations tonight? We have to start getting ready for Christmas.”

  “Can I write my letter to Santa tonight?” asked Gabriel.

  “I already know what my letter will say,” said Tommy. “I’m gonna ask for a tank and a model airplane, and there’s this target-practice game where you shoot down enemy paratroopers.” He looked over to make sure Lillian was paying attention.

  “I’m going to ask Santa for a wagon and a sled,” said Gabriel.

  “And one of those map boards,” continued Tommy, “with pins for plotting troop movement. Like the one Mickey has. And I want my own radio.”