The night before his father left to report to duty and before his bedroom lights were turned off, Christopher’s parents came to his room to assure him things would be alright. To make his eyes brighten and to make him forget about the news of war, they both talked to him about space exploration and how important Christopher would become in its future.
“I’ll miss you, Dad.” Christopher wasn’t talking about space exploration. He was talking about his dad and the war.
It took a while before there was a response because his father wanted the response to be with a smile and without choking up and without any glimpse of sadness. “I’m glad you have some good friends, Chris. Tommy, that little fat boy. Good boy. I like him. And Freddie. Isn’t that what you call him? Freddie? And that little guy. I don’t remember his name. He’s a little fella.”
Chris smiled. “Henry.”
“That’s it. That it! He’ll probably surprise us all and be a prize fighter or something! Maybe little Henry will surprise everyone and be another Gene Tunney!”
“I don’t think so, Dad. Not Henry.”
“But he is your friend, isn’t he?”
Now, more confident, Chris said, “He isn’t just a friend. He’s important. He’s real important because he knows the names of every President.”
His father nodded. “That’s good! Of course he’s important. You remember that you will never know an unimportant person. I’m proud of you, Son, having such good friends. Friendship is something that is even more important than—than a rank or a title. Do you know what I mean? You won’t have many real friends. Not like Tommy and Freddie and—and—”
“Henry, Dad.”
“That’s right.”
For those few moments during that night, war was not now being discussed. But those few moments did not last long and the one to bring it up again was Christopher who said without transition of subject. “Do you know when you’ll be home, Dad?”
“Oh, yes. I know when.”
“When?”
“When we win.”
“When will that be?”
“I can’t predict a date. But I can say with certainty that wars are either won or lost. And we are going to win. This family is going to be a part of that victory. Your mother will be part of it. You too. Don’t circle a date. But it will come.”
Not yet.
February of 1942 meant another new semester and that, in turn, meant that Miss Osborn was no longer his teacher and instead he was in the class of Miss Gunderson. She was neither beautiful nor awful. She was Miss Gunderson. This was when Christopher learned there were three different kinds of teachers: beautiful, awful and Gundersons. With all of the terrible events in the world, when this 4-A semester started in February there was a surprising single glow of brightness. There was a new girl in his class. And of all things, it was because of the war.
She came “to be here in the mainland for a while” as she said and Miss Gunderson repeated that.
She was gorgeous in a dress with a design of small white and brown flowers against a lighter brown background. She made him glad that he never had asked Miss Osborn to marry him. What if Miss Osborne had accepted his proposal? Then what would he do about this girl who was from Hawaii of all places?
Her name said everything there was to say. Her name was unbelievable. Her name was Malahia Kahale. What? Who gave her that name? Her parents? Her father? Her mother? God? And then to emphasize her beautiful name—she was very tan and she had long black hair and she had uniquely almond-shaped eyes. Oh, my God! What a face. She was an Asian Vivian Leigh except even prettier because of those almond-shaped eyes and everything.
And so, predictably, Christopher made a terrible mistake. He couldn’t stop staring at her as she sat at her desk and when she saw him do that, he smiled at her and she looked away. Then later, so much worse, he walked down the aisle of desks in the classroom and he stopped by her desk and he said to her, “Did you get hurt at Pearl Harbor?” Those were his first words to her. No, he couldn’t possibly have done that. Could he? Why on earth did he do that? But he did.
She just shook her head in a silent “no” and then she looked away.
But he couldn’t just leave it alone. “I mean the war.” Why explain? That just made it worse. She undoubtedly knew what he meant and why could this make his initial question any more sensible than without his clarification?
She nodded politely and then she started drawing.
That’s when Christopher learned that he could say the stupidest things when he could least afford them. Why didn’t he just leave things alone? Because he couldn’t. She could not be ignored. She was a Hawaiian angel. They must have angels in Hawaii and the Japanese were jealous and so they bombed it.
He couldn’t let it end at his dumbness. But this time he had to plan the next move rather than just let his voice take over the moment. He could not afford to lose again. This must not be another day of infamy. Malahia Kahale? A Saint. There can be no defeat. Win. Victory. Marriage was not far away. This was too big and even though women who saw Gone with the Wind seemed to be captivated by the self-confident Clark Gable, Vivian Leigh preferred Leslie Howard who was soft-spoken and not pushy. Christopher decided he must be more like Leslie Howard. Besides, Clark Gable had black hair and a mustache. Leslie Howard was a blond and no mustache so Christopher had a visible advantage as Leslie Howard. That was to be Part One of his plan now that he was concerned with the Vivian Leigh lesson. His whole being was clouded with Part Two which was presented not by physical ease but by supernatural fate:
At the time there was a fad of kids collecting playing-cards. Although the faces of the cards were all similar in clubs, spades, hearts, and diamonds, each card in a collection came from different decks of cards with different designs or pictures on the back of each of the collected cards. Christopher noticed that Malahia Kahale had maybe ten of them in a single stack on her desk and every once in a while she would flip the horizontal edges up to catch a look at them. There was something so appealing in the attention she gave to those cards and the obvious joy she displayed in having them, not knowing that her joy was seen by Christopher or by anyone. Then he noticed that the homely girl across the aisle from Malahia Kahale had a bigger stack of cards than the stack possessed by that Hawaiian Goddess. The homely girl must have had twenty or more of them. Probably more than twenty. Tramp.
Then he saw the beautiful Hawaiian rare jewel trading two of her cards for one of the cards of Miss Awful across the aisle. Not only did he see that but the teacher, Miss Gunderson, saw it, and she said in a very loud voice, “Children, there will be no more trading of cards in class. You may wait until recess or lunch! Trading cards is not an activity for the school room!”
Now Christopher knew what to do. The plan was being written by fate itself: Christopher’s mother had a number of decks of cards since she played the game of Bridge with Mrs. Fracker and some other friends every Tuesday night and Christopher’s father had bought her decks of cards to have on hand. One of those decks had a very colorful picture of pelicans on the back of each card. So Christopher told his mother about Malahia Kahale who was very close to Pearl Harbor when the Japanese attacked and she was somehow rescued and was sent to Pennsylvania and now she receives pleasure by collecting cards, and out of sympathy he wanted to give her some cards. Christopher’s mother understood even more than he thought she would understand, and she not only gave him that deck of cards but another deck as well and the second deck hadn’t even been opened yet but was still wrapped in cellophane. The picture that was on the cards in that deck was of a waterfall. His mother told him that each deck had 52 regular cards plus a joker.
He didn’t know much about cards nor much about mathematics and it took him a long time to count to 52 plus 52 plus 2 on his fingers but that told him that he needed to find 106 kids who were engaged in the trading-fad who would trade with him, and because he suddenly became an expert in mathematics he was certain that he needed no more than 5
3 kids who would trade two different ones of theirs in trade for one from each of his decks. And that’s what he set out to do as he pretended that, like them, he was a collector. And in five days from a Monday to a Friday that’s what he succeeded in doing. Even better, he succeeded in getting more cards than he had planned since he soon learned that particularly the waterfall deck was so good that he could offer just one of his cards for at least a few of theirs.
He now had 218 cards. Should he give them to her now? At first he felt he couldn’t wait—but he did. “Patience is a virtue,” his long-ago teacher, Mrs. Zambroski had told him, and his delay of asking Miss Osborne to marry him had proven the validity of that statement.
His trading included receiving some duplicates and starting the following Friday at school he planned to trade any duplicates away so by the time he would give the stack of cards to the Hawaiian Deity, they would all be different.
The weekend was terribly long and the only bright spot was listening to Lucky Strike’s “Your Hit Parade” on the radio Saturday night. “Your Hit Parade” was a show that told what song had sold the most copies of sheet-music and single records during the preceding week with some Lucky Strike extras added. A song he liked called “Mr. Five by Five” made its debut on that program not as an extra but as number six, and even better news; a romantic song that reminded him of Malahia Kahale was starting in tenth spot: “There Will Never Be Another You.” The title was right. There would never be another Malahia Kahale. In addition, how could there be another one with that magnificent name?
And now, of all strange things, the announcer of “Your Hit Parade” said in a loud, booming voice that “Lucky Strike Green Has Gone to War!” The loud booming voice explained that the color of the pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes would now be white instead of green but he didn’t explain why the color would make any difference in the war. Not even President Roosevelt explained it. Would the Nazis and the Japs win if Lucky Strikes still had a green pack? It was like the mystery of why it was important for grease to be brought to school for the War Effort. It almost seemed to be a sacrilege to ever ask what these things had to do with fighting a war, so no one asked. Did our servicemen and our allies throw grease at the axis powers? What for? Couldn’t the Nazis and the Japs just duck? And now what is this about the color of green?
By Sunday night Chris had counted the collected cards three times. The total amount was 214 cards. There were two duplicates so he took them out, making 212 total. Then he divided them into four stacks with a rubber-band encircling each stack.
Christopher woke up two hours earlier than normal on Monday morning because even in his sleep, and even though patience was a virtue, he was in a hurry for the big day to begin.
He took off the rubber-bands and recounted the cards before leaving home and, sure enough, there were 212 of them. None had escaped during the evening when the lights were out. His luminous Red Ryder Victory Patrol Badge must have been keeping watch for him. He put the rubber-bands back around the stacks. Then he put the stacks in a brown paper bag.
To Christopher, seeing McConnellsburg Elementary School on the horizon looked like the yellow brick road to Oz. His impatience was near its end. But he didn’t run to the door of the school as he felt the urge to do. He sauntered. He was a very nonchalant guy. Casual. Just another day for a casual kind of guy.
Despite his nonchalance he couldn’t help but be the first one in the classroom. He sat at his desk with the bag by his side. The clock seemed to be having a tough time in its move to get to nine o’clock. “Come on,” he whispered to it. “Come on! Come on! Come on!” It must have started going at a slower pace and needed to be fixed. Then something wonderful happened with minutes to go before the bell rang to start class: the Hawaiian Wonder Woman came in the classroom and sat down at her desk. The casual kind of guy got up slowly and ambled over to her while he held the bag that enclosed the four stacks of cards. With care he placed the bag on her desk while he retained his new-found easygoing attitude. She looked up at him and he held to a minimum of words so he wouldn’t make another mistake and start blurting out something about Pearl Harbor. He said, “Here.”
But he did stay next to her so he could watch her reaction when she would see what was in the bag. She carefully opened it and took out one stack of cards with her almond eyes becoming almost as big as her desk. Then she picked out the second stack and her eyes got so large and joyfully tearful this time that it seemed as though her eyes would collide with the ceiling and start a rainstorm. Then the third and fourth stacks. Mount Vesuvius.
“Christopher!” she said.
He opened his mouth and said nothing. Then he corrected her by saying, “Chris,” which was an abbreviation he never gave to anyone other than his parents.
“Chris! Oh! Oh! Thank you. Thank you, Chris!” And she started looking through the cards by flipping them without yet entirely taking off the rubber-bands. She was probably checking to see that they were all different. “Oh! Oh!”
The bell saved Christopher from himself by ringing in the signal that meant the beginning of class. He only had time to say, “You’re welcome.” It was exactly the right thing to say. Not too much. If it wasn’t for the bell there is no telling what rambling of words he would have produced in his state. He walked back to his desk captured in pride and self-congratulation by his brevity of words. “You’re welcome,” he whispered to himself to relive his moment. “You’re welcome. That was right.”
It was intolerable to wait for recess but he waited. He walked out of class without even glancing at her. He knew that was the thing to do. But he stayed very close to the school-door during recess. When Malahia Kahale came out she looked at him and smiled broadly which was rare for her to do and she said very softly, “Thank you, Chris.”
“You’re welcome again,” he said and quickly knew he shouldn’t have added the word “again” but it was done. He looked down at her brown and white saddle shoes and then she walked away. Christopher noticed her shoes had some scuff marks on the sides of the white parts of their backs above the rubber heel, and he liked that. After all, they were her shoes. Somehow she got them scuffed. It occurred to him that her shoes saved her from probably hurting her feet. And so they were good shoes.
He learned so much in those days. Most of all he learned that he was crazy, and that’s what love could do. Love could do that to him even in a time of war in which he was engaged in the War Effort and most of all with his father in the fight. Those varied events of his life were simultaneous and were dominating his mind. How could he feel horror at world events and fear for his father’s current days and nights and still feel ecstasy knowing a new girl in his classroom, and all connected in their outrageous coupling?
His insanity lasted only four years. Not bad.
THEME FIVE
OF ALL THINGS
NOW CHR ISTOPHER STR AW was thirteen years old and in Grade B-8. (When he was in Junior High School as a Seventh Grader, in many states the designation of A and B for semesters were put behind the year of semester rather than following the year of semester.) But the B-8 was a minor fact of his times as his major factor was that his father was alive and wrote that he was unwounded and uncaptured. The United States and its allies in Europe achieved one victory after another. Yet immense sadness came with the death of President Roosevelt on April the 12th of 1945. Christopher’s mother cried at that although earlier she had voted against him for a third term, voting for Wendell Willkie shortly after he had smiled and winked at her when he was in a “We Want Willkie” parade in an open-roofed car while she was among a huge crowd on the sidewalk waving at him. Mr. Straw did not seem pleased at that 1940 incident. Christopher then assumed that his father probably voted for FDR while his mother voted for Wendell Willkie. To Christopher’s knowledge Mrs. Straw didn’t tell for whom she voted in the newer, 1944 election between Roosevelt’s fourth term and Tom Dewey. With so many big things taking place in such short time, was there room to allow fo
r even more big things?
Yes. The Nazis surrendered and there was victory throughout the European Theater with the proclamation of V-E Day on May the 8th. Less than five months later came the revelation of the secret weapon called the Atom Bomb. President Truman ordered it to be used on Hiroshima and Nagasaki and that brought victory over the Empire of Japan. With the proclamation of V-J Day, the war was won and over.
With hugs and kisses and tears of happiness in the personal world of Fort Littleton highlighted by the home of the Straws, Christopher’s mother and Christopher greeted his father back home from the Pacific Theater of the war. Now he had a limp and a cane. He never explained why he was limping; why he had a cane. After all, he had written that he was unwounded.
With all the good news there was an event that in Christopher’s world there was a sadness coming from the victory in the terrible news that Malahia Kahale would soon be going back to Hawaii to be home with her parents.
With the passing of four years since they first met, now she was in every way even more gorgeous than she was before and it was obvious that of all things the full bloom of womanly beauty was not yet achieved but was still ahead.
But when he confided in Minister McAllister at church, telling him the wrenching he felt at the news that Malahia was going home, Minister McAllister told Christopher that in the Old Testament according to Ecclesiastes, “there is a time for everything.” And he added, “In this case, Christopher, there is a time for Malahia to be here and a time for Malahia to return to her parents, to all of her family, and to home. The war is over and be glad for her that she is now able to do that safely. Your attitude will tell her that and even tell you that—if you love her. Love her, Christopher! Do not try to possess her. Possession is not love.”
Raising the Baton Page 4