The Enemy

by Sara Holbrook

  In the silence that he leaves behind, we hear the back door shut. Dad’s gone to the garage where he keeps a little heater so he can work on his car even in the winter. Not the car we drive around in, but an old clunker that doesn’t run. One day he’s going to buy a new body for it, but in the meantime, it still needs a lot of work.

  “So, that’s it?” Frank says, his hands flying up in the air.

  “This Inga—she’s just a child, Frank,” Mom says, stacking plates in front of her and brushing scraps onto a saucer with her knife. “And we really have no idea who her father is or was.” Then she lifts the cloth and says, “Come out of there, Carol Anne.”

  “Inga’s really nice, Mom. Honest. She likes Curious George. Her dad can’t be a Nazi.”

  “Germans was all Nazis. Wasn’t any man over there not in the war ’less he was blind or too damned dumb to carry a gun. They got down to where they was drafting kids.” Frank’s fired up, looking back and forth between Mom and me to make sure we’re watching.

  “Were,” Mother says quietly. She uses her feet to search out Carol Anne.

  “What?” Frank barks.

  “They were drafting kids,” Mom corrects him. “But you shouldn’t go making up stories in your head about this girl’s father without knowing who he is or where he came from.”

  “I don’t have to be making up stories, Mrs. Campbell. I’m living the story. Me. Right here.” Frank stands, and crash, his chair dumps over behind him. He doesn’t reach for it or even stop to notice. Carol Anne magically appears in Mom’s lap like she’s been drawn out of a hat.

  “Look at me. I got no family left. Nazis turned my mom against my dad and she took off. Nazis killed my pop same as if they pulled the trigger. And you go and invite some Nazi kid over to the house. You’re lucky I didn’t throw her out. Just like that.” Frank snaps his fingers.

  “Frank.” Mom’s voice thumps like a gavel. “Sit.” And then to Carol Anne, “Go play, sweetheart.” She sets her down and nudges her gently toward the doorway.

  Frank clumps his chair back up and slams himself into it. He’s fuming. I watch him like I’m watching a house on fire and there’s nothing I can do.

  “You don’t remember before the war,” Frank says to me. “But I remember. I remember when my pop was a person.” Frank leans his face into his hands with his elbows on the table. Mom doesn’t tell him not to.

  When he raises his head from his hands, his eyes are shiny, blinking. “My pop, he taught me to ride a bike. He took me to see Santa Claus. He was one person before the war and a different person after. Now he’s dead, and it’s all because of the Nazis.” Frank’s cheeks and his nose and his eyeballs are all red and growing redder. He’s so close to exploding, I hold my breath and wait for the bang.

  Mom reaches to touch his arm, but he jerks it back.

  “Frank, dear. It’s war that did that to your pop. We don’t know what he saw.” Mom’s voice comes out warm as hot chocolate with marshmallows on top. Frank sits with his arms crossed, holding his anger tight.

  Mom just keeps on talking. “We can’t know what pain your pop carried home. I saw the same thing happen to my Uncle Ned after the First World War. Soldiers can be hurt in places you can’t see. Even Jack.” Mom hesitates. “I know he doesn’t talk about it much, but the war is with him every single day. Not just his trench mouth or the bullet wounds or the injuries to his feet. Those are the things he jokes about. It’s what comes back to him in his dreams. Sometimes those wounds are the hardest to heal.”

  “Yeah, well what about my wounds? What about how my brother’s sitting in a prison cell? What about how my pop chased off my ma and I don’t know where she is? What about how my pop’s dead and I still have to get up every day like it means something? What about that? And you!” His eyes flash like lightning looking for a place to strike and then land on me. “What about you inviting the enemy right into the house?”

  The back door opens, Dad calls out, “Frank, you come out here and give me a hand?”

  Frank’s bolts up from his chair and stands at attention. Not moving.

  “Frank?” Dad’s voice nudges him one more time.

  Frank stomps toward the garage. The door slams so hard the pictures jump on the walls.

  CHAPTER 13

  Mom’s washing, I’m drying, and Carol Anne is making the forks dance into the drawer.

  “Come on, Carol Anne. This isn’t playtime.” Mom swooshes plates through the water faster than usual. She checks the clock and says, “Oh, my word. It’s almost seven o’clock.” She checks out the front window. “My ride will be here any minute.”

  “What ride?” I want to know.

  “Mrs. Papa—” is all she that has a chance to come out of her mouth before Carol Anne cranks up her siren scream. She does this every time Mom goes past the mailbox. Whether she’s headed to the grocery, the drugstore, or bridge club, Mom always leaves with an earful of screaming.

  “Shh, shh, Carol Anne.” Mom pulls Carol Anne’s face into her apron as she nervously glances at the door to the garage. Then she kneels down. “Shh, sweetie. Mommy’s going to a meeting. Your sister’ll help you into your pajamas, and she’ll even read you a story, won’t you, Marjorie.” This doesn’t sound like a question the way she says it, so I don’t give it an answer.

  I cross my arms.

  “What kind of meeting?” I want to know.

  “Just a meeting,” Mom says. “I was all set to tell everyone at dinner, but then Frank became all upset and, well, here we are.”

  “Where are we?” She’s not going to weasel out of answering me this time. “What kind of meeting?”

  Mom stops for a minute, thinking. Then she says, “It’s a planning meeting, um, about the bridge club.”

  I’ve never heard of a planning meeting about bridge club before. Bridge club happens every other Tuesday, when Mom’s friends in the neighborhood get together to play cards. The ladies in the bridge club take turns having it at their houses. No planning meetings involved. When Mom entertains the bridge club, it’s the only time other than Halloween that candy comes in the house. Mom and Mrs. Kovacs clean for days until the whole house smells like lemon oil and Spic and Span. Carol Anne and I collect butter-mint bribes to not touch anything.

  Carol Anne’s gearing up for another scream, when Mom claps a hand over her mouth. “Don’t ask so many questions, Marjorie. I need your help tonight.” And then to Carol Anne whose eyes are bulging like basketballs, she says, “How about a nice bath? With bubbles.”

  “Bubbles as tall as the Empire State Building?” Sniff, sniff. Carol Anne’s been stuck on that thing ever since we watched the King Kong movie on TV. She likes to build it up and dive-bomb it with imaginary airplanes.

  “You bet. I’ll start the water for you right now.”

  Of course that means she’s going to start the water, dunk Carol Anne, then dash out the front door when Mrs. Papadopoulos pulls up front in her dumpy Nash Rambler Deliveryman station wagon with the Greektown Pizza sign on the side. Mom’s pulled this trick on Carol Anne a hundred times and she never sees it coming. Leaving Carol Anne is like ripping off a Band-Aid, better if it happens fast and when she’s not looking.

  Mom streaks up and down the stairs, grabs her pocketbook and is almost out the door when I call to her.

  “What do I tell Dad?”

  One thing about my dad is, he doesn’t like surprises. There’s no chance one of us would ever hide behind a door and then jump out and yell “surprise” at my dad. He always sits with his back to the wall so no one can sneak up on him when he’s not looking. One time when the phone rang right next to him, he turned the telephone table over and threw a chair. It broke the front window.

  “Don’t let your sister drown up there, and tell your dad Lydia picked me up for bridge.”

  “But it’s not Tuesday.”

  “Bye. Back in a couple hours,” Mom says, closing the front door behind her.

  “Mom?” Carol Anne pokes h
er bubbly head out of the bathroom doorway. I hustle her back in the tub and in two seconds she’s giggling and swishing around in the bubbles. It’s kind of amazing how quickly she gets over it after Mom actually leaves. I watch as she makes soap circles on the tile, and wonder why Mom is acting so mysterious.

  I rub a place on the steamy window so I can check out the corner where I saw the man in the black hat. Nothing. But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing to worry about. He could be back tomorrow. And there’s Inga to worry about. And all of Frank’s angry questions about her. And now Mom, disappearing into the night.

  Dad’s always telling me I have to be battle ready, but how can I do that when I don’t know who the enemy is? Mom said that she’s met the enemy and it’s Mrs. Pearson at the library. The Nazis are Frank’s enemy. Dad used to be enemies with the Nazis, but now he’s signed a loyalty oath, so now is he just enemies with commies? And then there’s a strange man in the neighborhood who just stands and stares. When I add it all up in my head, it’s like I’m sinking in a pool of enemies, and there’s no Mrs. Edelstein holding out a bamboo pole to save me.

  Pretty soon it’s lights out and Carol Anne and I are both in bed. I’m dozing off when Dad appears in the doorway to ask if I know where Mom is. I don’t even lift my head from the pillow to mumble that she’s at a bridge club meeting.

  I’m sunk in a deep sleep when I first notice the yelling.

  “How can you think this is okay? You know how I feel, right? I made myself perfectly clear? Are you hard of hearing?” Dad’s work boots walk the wood floor. “So tell me, what goes through your brain that you think you can go behind my back?”

  Mom’s voice is like background music at Hudson’s department store—I can barely make it out. Dad’s voice is a marching band with tubas and drums.

  “Did you think I wouldn’t catch you? Do you think I’m stupid? I’m away for six years and you stay here playing college girl, and now you think you’re smarter than me?” I hear a slam. “And then you lie to your own daughter. You’re a liar, Lila. Plain and simple.”

  Mom’s voice again. A soft humming. No words I can understand.

  “You just won’t be satisfied until you get me fired, will you? Let me explain this to you again. George Papadopoulos owns a pizza joint. He has his own business. I work for Chrysler Defense Engineering. Defense, Lila. The spotlight’s on me more than on him, but he better watch himself, too. I can’t afford for you to put me in a position where I have to be on guard against those boneheads looking into un-American activities. I don’t care if they burn books. I don’t care if they burn down the whole damned library. I’m the guy who goes to work every day to pay the house note so my family doesn’t wind up on the street.”

  “It’s just not right,” Mom says.

  “I’ll tell you what’s not right. You making me look like we’re going commie. You didn’t pay any dues to those Friends of the Library did you? ’Cause that’s what they’ll look for. Are you or any member of your family a dues-paying member of any subversive organization. That’s what they’ll ask me. Simple choice, Lila.”

  Mom’s crying now, her muffled words sobbing out in little bursts.

  Dad’s voice rises and falls as he paces back and forth. “The list of banned books was made so’s they could get red-leaning books out of the Army libraries. Local libraries are just following recommendations from Congress. Congress, Lila. You and the Friends of the Library gonna stand up to Congress? You got something up in your high hat the United States Army don’t?”

  Doesn’t. I think to myself. Only I know Mom’s not about to correct Dad’s grammar at this point. Not when he’s making the windows rattle.

  Mom’s voice. Then the squeak of the bedsprings. I picture my dad sitting down next to Mom. The argument quiets, but Dad’s words are impossible not to hear.

  “Your heart’s in the right place, Lila, but your priorities, they’re are all wrong. See what I mean?” The bedsprings squeak again, and I can hear Dad’s boots plunk one at a time onto the bedroom floor.

  “Look at all those rich guys in Hollywood,” he continues. “Blacklisted. Communist sympathizers. Actors, directors, writers. Millionaires and they couldn’t even buy their way out of it. Didn’t matter if there was proof or not. Someone just accused them of sympathizing and they were out of a job.

  “Remember the Rosenbergs? Ethel went down same as her spying husband. Did you see how Congress is dragging Army brass up for questioning? The Army, Lila. McCarthy and his crowd think the State Department, the Supreme Court and the whole Army are infested with communists. Lila, those meathead red baiters ain’t just fooling around. You see how it reflects on me if you’re a sympathizer with the library?”

  I know the word infested. We had a dead elm tree in the yard that was infested with big black carpenter ants. When Dad sawed into it, the ants poured out like an oily waterfall. Dad grabbed the hose and drowned the ones left in the tree, but tons escaped and headed out in single file to go infest other trees. Some of them made it into the house, which drove Mom crazy out of her mind. So Dad sent us all to the movies and sprayed the whole house with DDT. The DDT killed most of the ants, but it also killed all of Carol Anne’s goldfish. From what I’ve seen, infestations are more contagious than chicken pox and hard to stop once they are set loose.

  Is the man in the black hat part of an infestation? Is he looking for a new place to invade? Is he just a scout with thousands more behind him?

  What kind of DDT do you use on communists?

  CHAPTER 14

  Friday morning at school, I take a good look at Inga. Her wool stockings, her Heidi dress, and her too-tight sweater buttoned up to the neck. She smiles as soon as she sees me and rushes over to our desk and slides in. It isn’t just her face that’s smiling either. She’s smiling with her whole self.

  I shrink back, a little afraid she’s going to give me a hug or something embarrassing. I look to see if Mary Virginia is watching. I’m not sure how she would take it if she knew about Inga coming over yesterday.

  I think about how hurt Inga would be if she had heard Frank calling her a Nazi.

  Truth is, if Bernadette hadn’t been out with an earache, I never would have invited Inga over in the first place. There never would have been a fight with Frank. What if Frank had actually said something to her about being German? Knowing Frank, he sure wouldn’t have said it in a nice way. Come to think of it, there’s not a chance I can ever have Inga over after school again. First, because of Frank and second, because of Bernadette.

  Having Bernadette as a best friend is lucky for me because no one would want her as an enemy. Frank’s a loudmouth and likes to pick fights, but Bernadette is meaner. She can be mean in ways no one else can see except the person she’s being mean to. Bernadette has a way of taking up a lot of space in any room she’s in. People notice her, and they pay attention to what she says and who she likes and doesn’t like. I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t be so excited about me making friends with a girl whose stockings droop in folds around her ankles and whose braids hang practically down to her waist.

  Bernadette isn’t going to be sick with an earache forever.

  “Good morning, Marjorie,” Inga sings. She puts a small square wrapped in waxed paper down on the desk in front of me. I just stare at it. Inga gives me a nudge with her elbow. “For you,” she whispers.

  “Thanks,” I say and slide the square under my desk.

  “Taste!” says Inga, still all smiles. “Lemon bars. Mama make. Very good.” She licks her lips in case I’m not getting what she says.

  “Shh,” I say. “Here comes Kirk.”

  Mrs. Kirk continues to stand in the hallway waiting for the tardy bell. I stare at the blackboard. Inga stares at me.

  Being friendly is like pouring Carol Anne’s bubble flakes into a bath. Once the flakes mix with the water there’s no way you can turn them back into flakes again. Being friendly for even one day changes things. People expect that you will be friendly f
orever. I realize then it’s not going to work out being friends with Inga. I also know it isn’t going to be easy putting the flakes back in the box.

  I sit there trying to hold myself apart from her, even though it’s pretty much impossible since we have to share a one-person desk. I take out a pencil and paper and get busy on the word problem on the board. This time I don’t retrieve a piece of paper for Inga from Kirk’s desk. She taps my arm. I let her out of the desk without looking her in the eyes, and she walks up and takes one for herself, but it stays blank because I don’t read the problem to her.

  I turn to see if Billy needs the answer, but the question’s too easy.

  I feel like I’m in a box.

  It’s not that Inga isn’t nice. She is. She’s so nice. It’s not her fault. I just should have thought it through before I asked her over and made friends with her. Like Dad told Mom. I need to keep my priorities straight.

  Being friends with Inga might be okay with Bernadette out sick, but what’s going to happen the next time Bernadette wants to stop for doughnuts after school? Who am I going to trade Nancy Drew books with? Am I going to be stuck reading Curious George for the rest of my life? Besides, what good is it making friends with someone you can’t even ask over to your house?

  If Bernadette hadn’t had a stupid ear infection, none of this would have happened, and I’d still be sharing my desk with a stranger. My head swirls. I am so angry. Angry at me. Angry at Bernadette and her stupid ears. Angry at Frank. But mostly I’m angry with Inga.

  Why me? Why couldn’t Kirk have put her with Piper or Mary Virginia? Why am I the one who has to know that she can’t read English? Why am I stuck feeling sorry for her? What if her father really is a Nazi? Or was a Nazi? Or can you ever stop being a Nazi once you are one?

  I sit there convinced that I am never going to speak to Inga again. Not ever.