Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1 - Don’t Talk to Me
Chapter 2 - I Might Call Myself O. Tommy
Chapter 3 - I’m Worried About Mom
Chapter 4 - Look for a Bottle
Chapter 5 - Helen Trent and Ma Perkins
Chapter 6 - The Great Roger Burns
Chapter 7 - I Count My Blessings
Chapter 8 - Doctor’s Appointment
Chapter 9 - One Big Nasty Circle
Chapter 10 - Half Blind!
Chapter 11 - Another Doctor
Chapter 12 - All I Think About Is Mom
Chapter 13 - Aren’t They Going to Tell Me?
Chapter 14 - Sarah’s Uncle
Chapter 15 - Thank God for the Navy
Chapter 16 - “We Shall Never Surrender!”
Chapter 17 - A Terrible Thump
Chapter 18 - And I Like You
Chapter 19 - It Can’t Be!
Epilogue
Faraway troubles and close-to-home worries
I ask, “Why are you so interested in the war? You don’t know anyone over there.”
We’re in front of the bakery. Beth stops and asks, “And why are you so interested in baseball? You don’t know any of the players.”
Beth’s eyebrows are raised. She’s waiting for me to answer, but I don’t know what to say.
She turns and walks toward Goldman’s. She takes each of the different afternoon newspapers from the bench and goes in.
I just stand there.
Maybe Beth is right, I think. Maybe baseball is not important, but then I think, if the Dodgers win today, they’ll be tied for first place, and I do know the players. There’s Van Lingle Mungo, Fat Freddy Fitzsimmons, Cookie Lavagetto, Dixie Walker, Dolph Camilli, and Pee Wee Reese. I know them all.
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First published in the United States of America by Viking,
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Published by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2009
Text and interior decorations copyright © David A. Adler, 2008 All rights reserved
THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE VIKING EDITION AS FOLLOWS:
Adler, David A.
Don’t talk to me about the war / by David A. Adler with decorations by the author. p. cm.
Summary: In 1940, thirteen-year-old Tommy’s routine of school, playing stickball in his Bronx, New York, neighborhood, talking with his friend Beth, and listening to Dodgers games on the radio changes as his mother’s illness and his increasing awareness of the war in Europe transform his world.
eISBN : 978-1-101-16280-4
1. World War, 1939 -1945—Juvenile fiction. [1. World War, 1939 -1945—Fiction.
2. Friendship—Fiction. 3. Family life—Bronx (New York, N.Y.)—Fiction. 4. Multiple sclerosis—Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction. 6. Bronx (New York, N.Y.)—History—20th century—Fiction.] I. Title. II. Title: Do not talk to me about the war. PZ7.A2615Don 2003 [Fic]—dc22 2007017889
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume
any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
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FOR MY FAMILY
THANK YOU, Dr. Joseph Straus and Margaret O’Keefe, for talking to me about your mothers’ illnesses and treatment; Dr. Joseph C. Yellin, a neurologist, for consulting with me on Mrs. Duncan’s medical issues and sharing with me your collection of 1940s medical texts; Amy Berkower and Jodi Reamer, my agents, for your enthusiasm and continued encouragement; and Anne Rivers Gunton, my editor, for your patience, sage suggestions, and constant good cheer.—D.A.A.
1
Don’t Talk to Me
Don’t talk to me about the war. It’s across the ocean, and I haven’t even been to Long Island and that’s just over the bridge. What I mean is, the war’s so far away and we’re not even in it. And anyway, it’s all Beth talks about, so if there’s any war stuff I should know, she’ll tell me.
Beth and I meet at Goldman’s, a coffee shop that’s just three blocks from my building. She goes there for breakfast and the newspapers she loves to read. We meet and we walk together to school.
This morning Mom is standing by the window of our apartment. “Tommy,” she says, “wear your jacket. It’s chilly.”
Mom is holding on to the windowsill. She’s a small, pretty woman with brown hair and blue eyes. I look at her hands. They’re steady, not like last night. I say good-bye to her, take my jacket, go down two flights of stairs and out.
Mom was right. It’s chilly for the end of May. The sidewalk is crowded with people on their way to school and work, and most everyone is wearing a sweater or jacket.
I stop outside the coffee shop and look in. There’s Beth at her regular corner table surrounded by open newspapers. Sitting with her is Mr. Simmons, an old man with a gray felt hat tilted back on his head.
“Hey, Tommy. Did you see this? ” Beth asks when I get to her table. She points to a headline: ALLIES TRAPPED! NAZIS AT CHANNEL!
She knows I haven’t seen it. We don’t get a paper at home. I tell her, “I see it now.”
The Allies are the good guys—the English, French, Belgians, and some others. Beth is always worried about them. She thinks the people they’re fighting, the German Nazis, are evil.
I turn the paper to the back. BROOKLYN BEATS CUBS, 4-3!
“Look,” I say. “The Dodgers won.”
I already know about the game. Last night I listened to Stan Lomax and his sports report. Van Lingle Mungo, my favorite Dodger—I just love his name—pitched five scoreless innings. Dolph Camilli got the winning hit, a single in the ninth.
Beth turns the paper to the front page and gives me that Don’t be such a child look. We’re both in the seventh grade, but Beth is fourteen, almost a full year older than me.
“Do you know what this means?”
She’s talking about the war. Mostly I don’t understand what’s going on in Europe, beyond that they’re fighting.
“Sure,” I tell her. “It means the Dodgers are just one game out of first. Nineteen forty might be our year.”
“The Allies are trapped by the English Channel,” she says. “The Germans are headed to Paris and it looks like they’ll invade England.”
“They’re out to conquer all of Europe,” Mr. Simmons says. He lifts the coffee cup off the paper he’s reading, The New York Times, turns to an inside page, and tells Beth, “It says he
re, there may be as many as one million men trapped.”
Beth leans over and looks at the article.
Before she moved here, Beth lived in Buffalo. That’s upstate New York, right near Niagara Falls and the Canadian border. “It gets real cold there,” Beth told me. “In the winter, when Mom was sick, we couldn’t leave the house, so every morning we read the newspaper. That was her way of getting out. And she was always real interested in what was going on in the world.”
Her mom died, but every morning Beth still reads the news. She says it helps her feel connected with her mom.
Beth lost a year of school taking care of her mom. But she said she was glad she did it.
“The Germans have divided the entire French Ninth Army,” Mr. Simmons says, and points to his paper.
“Come on,” I tell Beth. “We should go.”
“No, really,” Mr. Simmons says. “You should read this.”
“It’s late,” I tell him.
Beth finishes her glass of milk.
“Okay,” I say. “Now let’s put the papers back, we’ve got to get to school.”
Mr. Simmons looks right at me and says, “That’s what’s wrong with children today. You just don’t read.”
“I do read! I read the sports pages. That’s reading. And the baseball games are happening right here, not in Europe.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Mr. Simmons tells me. “Maybe you do read. I just think you should know more about what’s happening outside the Bronx, New York.”
“Yeah, okay,” I say.
“Bye,” Beth and I tell Mr. Simmons, but he doesn’t answer. He’s already looking at another story about the war.
Beth has the Tribune, Times, News, and Mirror on the table. We carefully fold them. As we leave, Beth puts the papers on the bench in front.
Soon after Beth’s mom died, her dad lost his job. “It’s just as well,” he said. “Now we can move.” He thought a new place would be good for them, would give them a fresh start.
Now they live in the Bronx, and Beth’s dad works nights in the press room of a newspaper, the Daily Mirror. He gets home about ten each morning, after Beth leaves for school. That’s why she goes to Goldman’s for breakfast. She doesn’t like to eat alone, and like I said, she loves to read newspapers. Mr. Goldman said she can read as many as she wants for free. She just shouldn’t spill anything on them, and when she’s done, she should fold the papers neatly and put them back on the bench just outside the door.
“What’s with Mr. Simmons?” I ask.
“Oh, he says that kids today don’t value education. He told me we should think of ourselves not just as citizens of New York, but of the world.”
“I don’t know about that citizen stuff,” I say, “but he’s right about school. I surely don’t value that. It’s boring.”
Next door to Goldman’s is a bakery. “BAG LUNCHES 15 ¢ ,” is the sign in the window. Beyond it is a fruit and vegetable store and a shoe repair shop and a newsie holding up a newspaper and shouting the headline. He’s just outside the steps to the train station at the corner. It’s a busy street.
“The war news is terrible,” Beth says as we walk toward the corner. “This could be the end of France and maybe the end of England.”
It does sound serious.
“Mom knew it,” Beth says. “Two years ago, when the Germans marched into Austria, she said there’d be trouble.”
“Sarah lived in Austria.”
“Yes,” Beth says. “She was lucky to get out.”
Sarah came here just a few months ago, and became friends with Beth. Now, every morning, we meet her at the corner. We eat lunch with her, too, along with my friends Roger and Charles.
“One million soldiers trapped!” the newsie calls out as we walk past. “Read all about it!”
Beth stops, turns to me and asks, “Do you know how many one million soldiers are?”
Sure, I do. It’s one million.
“The Nazis said this is it,” Beth says, “the beginning of the end for the British, French, and Belgians.”
“But we’re safe here,” I say.
“Is that all you worry about?”
I don’t answer, but I think Beth should stop reading newspapers. It gets her too upset.
This morning I really want to talk to her about my mother. I’m worried about her. But Beth is only thinking about the war.
Last night it seemed like Mom was somewhere else. Dad talked on and on at dinner, but she wasn’t listening. She looked at her hands, so I did, too. Her right hand was trembling, and Mom just watched it, like it belonged to someone else. Then she dropped it to her lap and looked at Dad.
“Come on,” I tell Beth. “We’ll be late.”
We get to the corner. The light is green and lots of people are crossing, but Beth insists we wait for Sarah.
Honk! Honk!
An old Ford, one of those boxy black cars, is stopped at the corner, stalled, and the people in cars behind it don’t like waiting.
Honk! Honk!
I know how those drivers feel. I also don’t like waiting. I look around the corner for Sarah, but I don’t see her.
“Let’s go,” I tell Beth.
“Not yet.”
Sarah came here from Mexico, and before that she lived in Holland, Austria, and Germany. Beth told me, “She was chased out of Europe by the Nazis.”
While we wait, I look at Beth with her books held against her chest and her arms folded over them. She looks different today, older somehow. I know it isn’t the dress. I’ve seen it before. And it isn’t her long blonde hair. That’s parted in the middle with a barrette on each side, like always. Maybe it’s all that responsibility. She does the food shopping and makes dinner for herself and her dad. That probably does something to a fourteen-year-old.
Beth turns to look for Sarah, and I know what it is. Earrings. Gold dangling earrings like the ones Mom wears when she dresses fancy. That’s why Beth looks different—older, too, and even prettier.
“There she is,” Beth says, and waves to Sarah.
Sarah runs to us with her big leather briefcase. The light changes, and we cross the street and join the crowd of kids going to West Bronx Junior High. And do you know what? Walking with two girls feels good, especially when one of them is wearing earrings.
2
I Might Call Myself O. Tommy
While we walk, Beth tells Sarah about the trouble in France and the trapped soldiers.
“This is very bad,” Sarah says. “People I know want to go to France. They want to be safe.”
As soon as Sarah starts talking you know she’s from some other country. It’s not the words, but the way she says them, her accent.
We keep walking and they keep talking, and the closer we get to school, the more crowded the sidewalk becomes. And then there it is, an old big brick building with a bunch of wide steps, maybe eight, leading to real high wood doors.
“Hey, Tommy!”
It’s my friend Roger. He stops right in front of Beth, sticks out his stomach, puts his hands behind his back, and asks, “Who am I?”
“You’re Roger,” Beth tells him, “and we have to get into school.”
“No, no,” Roger says. Then in a loud deep voice, “Sit straight. Walk tall. Tuck in that shirt. Now, who am I?”
“Okay,” I say. “You’re Dr. Johnson.”
He’s the principal, and he’s real big on following rules.
“Are you neat? Are you ready to learn?” Roger asks in his phony deep voice. Then he looks us over, but mostly he looks at Beth. I think he likes her.
“Okay,” Roger says. “Now go to class.”
Sometimes Roger just tries too hard.
We walk into school and there he is, Dr. Johnson, in his suit and the vest he always seems ready to pop out of, and a tie and polished shoes, just like every morning. He’s a tall man, so he looks down at us as we walk by.
“Good morning, sir,” Roger tells him.
Dr. Johns
on looks at Roger, nods, and watches him walk past.
Beth and I are in the same homeroom, but Sarah and Roger aren’t. So we say good-bye to them in the hall.
Our lockers are just outside homeroom. Beth and I put our lunch bags away, take out the books we need, and go to class. Mr. Weils tells us to be seated. “I’m just about to take attendance.”
Weils is a rules man, too, just like Dr. Johnson, and a vest-wearer, and about the same age. I’m glad I just have Weils for homeroom and not real classes, because he talks in such a monotone. He’s a science teacher, and his classes must be real boring.
The bell rings, and he reads off our names. “Donner . . . Dorf . . . Dorfman.” After he calls each name, he looks to see if that student is here and has raised his hand.
“Doyle.”
Beth raises her hand. That’s her name, Beth Doyle.
“Dropkin . . . Duncan.”
I raise my hand. I’m Tommy Duncan.
Homeroom ends and we go to class, and all three morning classes go by real slow. In math, Mrs. Dillon goes over geometric proofs that are real easy, mostly logic. Science, except for the experiments, is a bore, and the American history stuff is all in the book.
A few times during class, I look at my hands and wonder what would make them shake like Mom’s. During math I hold one hand just over my notebook and watch it. It’s steady. I look at Mrs. Dillon’s hands. She’s about Mom’s age. She’s talking about two isosceles triangles, how you know if they’re congruent—the same. Mrs. Dillon is sitting on the edge of her desk with her hands on her lap, and they’re still.
At least lunch is fun. I sit with Roger and Charles. Beth and Sarah sit with me. That may be a strange way to say it, but that’s the way it is. I’m the one in the middle.
Roger, Charles, and I have been good friends since second grade, when we were in the same class. Roger is always joking. Charles is quiet, more sensitive. He’s nicer.
They look real different, too. Roger is tall and skinny with dark brown hair and brown eyes. Charles is shorter, chunky, and has short curly blond hair. I’m thin, but not as skinny as Roger, and not as tall. I have straight, light brown hair and blue eyes.
Don't Talk to Me About the War Page 1