Christmastime 1941

by Linda Mahkovec

  Tiny gave it one or two tugs, and then practically hung from the branch as he put all his weight on it. But the branch didn’t budge. Then he decided he would try to jump on the smaller limb to get it to break. They repositioned the branch, with Gabriel kneeling firmly on the thicker part. Tiny took a few steps back.

  “Okay, Gabriel. Hold it tight. One. Two. Three!!”

  Tiny ran and jumped on the smaller limb that was sticking up off the ground. The branch snapped in two, catapulting Gabriel off the limb, and causing Tiny to land backwards on his seat. He and Gabriel opened their mouths wide in surprise, and then burst out laughing, rolling in the leaves, two seven-year-olds doubled over in stitches. They fell on their backs, holding their stomachs, the blue sky and bare trees above them blurring and shaking, as if in on the fun.

  “Your face – ” Tiny pointed to Gabriel, barely getting out his words. “Your face when – ,” he started, and crumpled into hilarity.

  “I went flying!” said Gabriel, “and you – you – ,” he burst into laughter again.

  Their laughter slowly wound down. Tiny sat up, cough laughing, and wiped the tears from his eyes.

  “Gabriel!” came Tommy’s voice from the ballgame.

  Gabriel rolled over onto his elbows. “That’s Tommy. I gotta go.” He stood up and brushed the leaves off his clothes. “Hey, how about I bring the bag of sticks to your home?”

  “That’d be swell, Gabriel. Then you can meet my brother.” Tiny stood and used his cap to swat away the leaves on his pants and jacket.

  “Do you want me to bring some soup for your brother?”

  “Nah. I have money from my jobs.” He spotted a wadded up paper sack under some brambles and reached in for it, and then tossed it into his bag. “And Mrs. Mancetti gives me food sometimes. I used to do jobs for her – sweep the store, take out the trash. But Mr. Mancetti told me to beat it. I still stick around, just in case she needs something. I had to wash off some graffiti for her yesterday. She puts the food under the bench for me. Could be a bologna sandwich or a box of crackers. Sometimes there’s even a chocolate bar.”

  “Gabriel!!” came Tommy’s voice again, more urgent now.

  “Gotta go. See ya, Tiny!” Gabriel ran ten steps, and then ran back. “Hey, Tiny! You think I could run a popcorn stand?”

  “Sure. When you’re a little older. If I’m still around, I’ll help you out. Show you the ropes.”

  “Gee! That’d be swell! Bye, Tiny!” he hollered as he ran off.

  “So long, Gabriel.” Tiny hoisted the bag of sticks onto his shoulders, and made his way out of the park, a seventy-year-old man calling it quits for the day.

  Tommy stood in the makeshift ball park, punching his baseball glove. “Where the heck were you?! Hurry up, Gabe! We need you to field. One of the guys had to leave. Go get your glove!”

  Gabriel ran to the far end of the grassy stretch, and chased the balls that were hit his way. He watched Tommy and punched his glove, like Tommy did, and threw his arms up in exaggerated disappointment, just like Tommy, when one of the guys from the Bulldogs got a hit. But the Redbirds were winning, five to four.

  The lamplights came on just as the ninth inning was wrapping up. The Redbirds whooped as they struck out the last player and won the game, evening up the games with the Bulldogs.

  “Tie-breaker next week,” hollered Butch.

  “Get ready to weep,” added Spider. “We won’t go so easy on you next time.”

  The two teams exchanged a few other taunts as they said their goodbyes and scattered for home.

  Tommy and Gabriel ran up the stairs, burst into the apartment, and tossed their coats onto the hall tree, and their baseball gloves on the floor. They headed straight for the table, where the aroma of fried chicken made them suddenly ravenous with hunger.

  “Oh no, you don’t,” said Lillian. “Go wash up first.”

  Tommy ran to the bathroom, and recounted the high points of the game over the sound of the running faucet. “And then the pitcher tried to throw a curve ball and I slammed it! I hit in the winning run! Did you see that, Gabe?” he hollered.

  Lillian took Gabriel’s hands and turned them over, examining the dirty nails and palms. “Gabriel! How did you get your hands so dirty? Come here.” She lifted him to the kitchen counter and soaped up his hands, and then scrubbed them over the sink with the nail brush.

  “I was picking up sticks with Tiny.”

  “More sticks?” She dried his hands, and then lifted him down. “I thought you had more than enough from Annette’s.”

  Tommy ran back to his seat and lifted his plate. “I’m starving!”

  Lillian filled their plates with chicken, peas, and mashed potatoes. “So what does Tiny do with all these sticks, Gabriel? Does he build things?”

  “Yeah,” said Tommy. “Flying machines to the moon.”

  “He burns them in the stove,” said Gabriel. “To keep warm.”

  Tommy put his fork down loudly. “Gabriel, imaginary people don’t feel the cold. They don’t need fuel.”

  “He’s not imaginary.”

  “Oh, yeah? So where does he live? What does he do all day?” challenged Tommy.

  “He lives around here. He works for the newspaper man. And sometimes at Mancetti’s. But mostly he just collects free things.”

  Tommy started to laugh, but Lillian gave him a quick shake of her head.

  “What kind of free things?” asked Lillian, thinking that perhaps she hadn’t been paying enough attention to Gabriel. Maybe there was something he wanted or was worried about.

  “Gum wrappers. Old newspapers. Sticks.”

  “Only free things?” she asked.

  “Yeah. The nuns told him it’s better to work for your keep.”

  Lillian stopped eating and looked carefully at Gabriel. “What nuns?”

  “At the orphanage. That’s where they used to live.”

  Lillian set down her knife and fork. “Tommy, who has Gabriel been talking to?”

  “No one. I don’t know,” said Tommy. “Some cousin was visiting Butch. Maybe he was talking, I don’t know.”

  “Are you watching him all the time when you play outside?”

  “Yeah, Mom. Gabriel was playing baseball with us, weren’t you, Gabe?”

  “Yeah, I was a catcher, Mom,” said Gabriel.

  “A fielder,” corrected Tommy.

  “Yeah, I was a fielder and chased the ball and threw it back.”

  Lillian gave a little shake of her head and laughed. She watched Tommy take a second helping of everything. “I don’t know where you put all that food, Tommy.”

  *

  After dinner, Lillian read the newspaper while Gabriel worked on his bird puzzle and Tommy stretched out on the couch reading the Hardy Boys, biting his nails in suspense.

  Her mind was scattered: on Charles, on the frustration with her job, on what she could buy the boys for Christmas. But an article on the 1939 World’s Fair caught her attention, and the accompanying photograph of the futuristic buildings tugged at her heart. In a flash, she was back in her old apartment in Brooklyn, at a turning point in her life.

  Lillian often felt that her life had begun to change that year, starting with an advertisement for telephone operators for the World’s Fair. Apparently, they were going to need an army of operators, and training would be provided. After a lonely period in her life of struggle and despair, a window had suddenly opened, offering her a chance at something new. She nervously applied for the job, and was shocked when she was hired on the spot. She had only been able to work there for the summer, while the boys were out of school, but it had provided the necessary experience for her to later be hired by Rockwell Publishing. And that, too, she hoped, was just a stepping stone to a different job. Her life had slowly started to take shape, and she had begun to live again, after several difficult years of widowhood.

  The World’s Fair. It had all seemed so momentous, so promising. She remembered how strange the architecture had
seemed to her at first. “The World of Tomorrow” was the theme. Everything was new and forward looking and modern. The first time she visited the Fair, she had felt apprehensive of the sleek shapes, the extraordinary technology, the masses of people. It made her realize that at heart she was just an old-fashioned country girl.

  But she had adjusted to the crowds, the people from faraway places, the busy pace, the futuristic exhibits almost too far-fetched to believe – television, washing machines, air-conditioning, electric typewriters, and other inventions that were sure to make life easier in the future. Even something as simple as stockings. She had been skeptical of the DuPont display of nylons, but within a year, all the women were wearing them, couldn’t live without them.

  How much the world had changed since then, she thought. All the goodwill and friendship between countries, the hope for a brighter future, had crumbled away.

  She gave a small cry of disappointment on reading that the remaining buildings, including the Japanese pavilion, were being demolished.

  “What, Mom?” asked Tommy, looking up from his book.

  “It says here that they’re tearing down the last of the buildings from the World’s Fair.”

  “Aww shucks!” said Gabriel. “I wanted to go back there.” He walked on his knees to her side and looked at the photograph of the stark white spire and sphere.

  “Hey, Tommy,” said Gabriel, going back to his puzzle, “remember Elektro, the smoking robot?” He imitated the stiff metal man.

  “Remember the roller coaster?” asked Tommy. “Remember Futurama?”

  Gabriel jumped up, arms stretched out in front of him. “And Superman?”

  The boys recounted all the things they had seen, surprising Lillian that they remembered so much. For her, it was the foreign pavilions that most fascinated; the World’s Fair was the closest she had ever come to traveling.

  But what made the greatest impression on her was the “Masterpieces of Art” building. She had stood mesmerized in front of the works by Michelangelo, da Vinci, and Rembrandt, deeply moved by what could be expressed by the human mind and hand. She had gone back again and again to stand in front of Vermeer’s The Milkmaid – awed by the alluring blue of the maid’s apron, the points of light on the basket and crust of bread, the enigmatic expression on the young woman’s face, the illuminating wash of sunlight. Lillian had resonated deeply with the artist who so lovingly and brilliantly elevated the humble to the exquisite. She had determined to work and work and work on her own skills so that she could better express the love she felt for the small, the ordinary, the beautiful in the day to day.

  She leaned back on the couch, wondering why she had stopped with her plans. She had accomplished so much in two short years: moving to Manhattan, finding a new job, starting a life with Charles. And now she found herself at a standstill. She had expanded her portfolio and had worked hard at improving her skills. What was preventing her from taking the next step towards her dream, and taking her portfolio around?

  She knew full well what it was, and felt cowed by the memory. It still smarted every time she replayed the one time she had taken her portfolio to a magazine office, back in the spring. She had been so determined to make a go of it, had felt so prepared. She had taken the day off to stop by a few design firms and magazine offices. At the first place, she had tentatively knocked on the office door and was told to take a seat. After an hour, she got up the courage to ask the receptionist if it would be much longer; she thought they had perhaps forgotten about her. Half an hour later, she was shown into an office full of people running around, arguing over drawings, phones ringing. The receptionist took her to a crowded desk and left her there.

  The man behind the desk was just getting off the phone and jotting something down. He reached his hand over the mounds of papers on his desk, without even looking up at Lillian. “Your portfolio?” was all he said.

  She hadn’t brought it with her. She stood there mute, feeling like a schoolgirl. He finally lifted his head, raised his eyebrows at her, and poked his head forward waiting for an answer. She had stuttered out a long-winded excuse that she didn’t have it with her because she thought she should first come to inquire whether they were actually interested in perhaps seeing her work.

  The man had shaken his head, gone back to his papers, and told her to come back when she was ready. That he didn’t appreciate people wasting his time.

  She had gone back home feeling defeated, and decided to wait until she was more prepared.

  Her brow furrowed as she realized that she was even less prepared now; the time was not right. The whole world was at war. Her plans with Charles were shifting with each day. She didn’t know what lay ahead in the coming weeks, or what the following year would bring.

  No, she thought, folding the newspaper. Now was not the time to start showing her portfolio. Perhaps in the spring. Or summer. Perhaps next year.

  Chapter 8

  *

  Lillian mechanically answered the lights at the switchboard, her mind crowded with worries and fears. The news had been trickling in about the attack on Pearl Harbor: the death toll was over two thousand, the Navy was in shambles. The sense of vulnerability and shock hit her for a second time, this time more slowly and methodically as the details emerged.

  And now she had the additional burden of knowing that Charles had enlisted. She told herself that because he was past the draft age of forty-five, though only by a year, he would be stationed in the States. But she knew him well enough to know that he would go wherever he was needed. Until that time came, she wanted them to be married, to begin their life as a couple.

  She used to feel that she could discuss anything with Charles, but his change of heart about their wedding plans had left her feeling alone with her fears and concerns. She didn’t want to burden her sister with her problems; Annette had worries of her own. And Lillian felt that she couldn’t talk to Izzy about her fears for Charles, with Red lying wounded.

  However, as far as work issues, Lillian and Izzy were always there for one another, and frequently vented their aggravations to each other. Izzy appreciated Lillian’s clear-sighted advice, and Izzy’s cheerful disposition had a way of recasting Lillian’s problems into manageable challenges. So Lillian hadn’t given it much thought when, earlier in the day, she said something off-hand to Izzy about being bored with the switchboard.

  But Izzy clearly didn’t want to hear it. For the first time, Lillian regretted having expressed her feelings to Izzy. She had noticed a change in Izzy the past few days, a kind of distance, and assumed it came from some temporary upset. But today Izzy was being decidedly cold to her.

  Lillian searched for an explanation for the change in her behavior. True, Izzy was busier than ever. The attack on Pearl Harbor and the subsequent declarations of war had resulted in nearly all the young men at Rockwell Publishing enlisting, and Izzy was in charge of much of the rescheduling and reassignment of duties. Izzy was extremely organized and efficient, but Lillian worried that she was spreading herself too thin, taking on too much. She was beginning to exhibit behavior that concerned Lillian. Izzy was becoming abrupt and authoritative in her new role. Earlier in the day, Lillian had come upon one of the new girls crying in the bathroom, after Izzy had snapped at her. Lillian tried to comfort the girl, saying that the war was making everyone tense, and that Izzy was a kind and generous person, but was under a heavy work load just now.

  Rather than speculate what might be wrong, Lillian decided to speak to Izzy about it. At the end of the day, Lillian stopped by Izzy’s desk before leaving.

  “Can I talk to you, Izzy?”

  One of the girls came by with an invoice for Izzy to sign. “Sure,” Izzy answered. She briefly glanced over the numbers, signed, and returned it to the girl, never lifting her eyes to Lillian.

  “Is everything all right, Izzy?”

  “Yes. Wonderful. Why?” Three flat words that in effect told Lillian to mind her own business.

  “Well
, I’m wondering if you’re not getting overworked. You seem awfully – preoccupied – these past few days.”

  Izzy simply shrugged, obviously not wanting to talk about it.

  “I know you’re under a lot of pressure Izzy, but some of these girls aren’t used to such a fast-paced environment. After you chastised the new girl, I came across her crying in the powder room.”

  Izzy’s mouth tightened, but she remained silent.

  Lillian tried to ease the mood and laughed lightly. “She reminded me of myself when I first started – unsure of what was what, trying to do a good job, but not really knowing what was expected of me.”

  “It’s for her own good,” said Izzy, with an edge to her voice. “She needs to toughen up. And so do you, Lilly.”

  The tables had suddenly turned. “What do you mean?” asked Lillian, feeling her cheeks heat up. This was not intended to be a conversation about her.

  “I’ve told you and told you to speak to Mr. Rockwell about moving to the Art Department. You complain about your job but don’t do anything about it. Opportunity isn’t going to come running up to you, Lilly. You have to go out and seize it. I told you I would speak to him for you, but you said no. What more do you want?”

  “I can speak for myself. And I will. When I’m ready.” Lillian was aware of sounding defensive, but Izzy had never spoken to her like this before.

  “Let’s not argue, Lilly. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Izzy got up and went to the file cabinets.

  *

  Lillian rode the bus home, feeling drained and dispirited. She gazed out the window and noted the holiday decorations in the store windows and along the avenue, but she felt no connection to the Christmas season. It seemed almost a chore to her, all the things that still needed to be done. The holiday spirit seemed to elude her this year. No wonder, she thought, as she passed an enlistment station with a long line of young men waiting to sign up. In less than two weeks, everything had changed.

  When she arrived home with the boys, she was surprised to see Charles looking out his door, as if he had been waiting for them.