“Yeah, good old Ike,” came a slurry shout from the Do-Drop.
The evening sky was still light, thanks to War Time. Supper was hours ago. No one wanted to go home. The end of the war was just around the corner. What other miracles could the day hold?
Ralph Stankavitch, who at long last had passed to junior high, swaggered down the block, hands in his shorts pockets. As he came closer, Ellie heard him singing to the tune of “Whistle While You Work”:
Whistle while you work
Hitler is a jerk
Mussolini bit his weenie
Now it doesn’t work.
Their parents and teachers had asked them a million times to please not sing that song. But today was special. The song belonged to today. All bets were off today. General Ike and the Yanks were winning the war and anything could happen today.
“Anybody want to play Commando Kelly?” Victoria asked.
Commando Kelly was big news that spring. He was from the North Side, too, only a couple trolley stops away. Ellie wasn’t clear on all the details, but one thing was certain: he was Pittsburgh’s first Medal of Honour winner.
Ellie didn’t like playing war, but she didn’t want to go home, either.
“Sure,” she said, along with everyone else.
“Okay, ante up for the 7-Up,” Victoria ordered. Hands dug through pockets for enough pennies. You couldn’t play Commando Kelly without a bottle of 7-Up.
“Meet at the park picnic shelter at twenty-hundred hours.” When Victoria played Commando Kelly, she played it all the way, right down to using military time.
The kids arrived at the park shelter as the St. Matthew’s bell tolled eight. Although Ellie had found a rifle-sized tree branch on the way, she knew that she would wind up being a nurse or a peasant or something else unimportant. Victoria was always Commando Kelly.
The first lightning bugs blinked in the shadows as Victoria gathered her troops, assigning roles. To Ellie’s surprise, Victoria picked her for Commando Kelly’s platoon.
“It’s the Battle of Salerno,” Victoria began. “The Americans have landed on the Italian coast. Brave Commando Kelly crawls two miles under enemy fire to spy on enemy positions.”
That was Stan and Jellyneck’s cue as German soldiers to open fire.
“Ba-room!” shouted Stan, aiming his bazooka, a battered two-by-four.
“Eh-eh-eh-eh,” Jellyneck stuttered in his best machine gun imitation, aiming his old drill rifle at Victoria as she crawled through the grass. Ellie inhaled the damp night smell and waited for her orders from Commando Victoria.
“And back,” Victoria announced. She reversed herself, still under Stan and Jellyneck’s barrage of fire.
“Okay, men.” Commando Kelly waved to the rest of her group – Ellie and Ralph. “Follow me.”
Commando Kelly and her platoon killed seventy Germans before they reached the picnic shelter. Ellie knew this because they counted. “Forty-one, another Kraut dead. Forty-two, another Kraut dead,” Victoria shouted as Stan and Jellyneck took turns falling down dead.
At last, the Americans secured the picnic shelter.
“Men, a safe place to hide from the enemy,” Victoria announced. “The house of a peasant.”
On cue, Bridget welcomed Commando Victoria. “Signore Americano,” she said in a terrible Italian accent. “Pleeze welcome to me humble home.” She thumped the open bottle of 7-Up on the picnic table. “Mama mia,” she added for no good reason.
Victoria peered from an imaginary window. “I spy a nest of Nazi snipers,” she announced. She shouldered her broken air rifle and opened fire on the Nazis. Stan and Jellyneck pretended to die again.
“I wish we had a couple more kids,” Stan said. “All I do is die over and over.”
“Shut up!” yelled Victoria. “Yunz supposed to be dead.” She reached for the 7-Up.
“Why, look, a bottle of champagne. I ain’t never drunk champagne. I think I’ll try some while I’m shooting Krauts.” Victoria fired with one hand while swigging the pop with the other. “Why, this champagne ain’t so much. It tastes just like 7-Up.” The real Commando Kelly had found champagne in his cottage hideout, and had said that it tasted like 7-Up.
“It is 7-Up,” Ellie said.
Victoria slammed down her 7-Up champagne. “What did you say?”
“Take it back,” shouted Stan, rising from the dead again.
But it was too late. The next thing Ellie knew, Germans, Americans and Italians were punching each other, rolling in the tall park grass. Ellie found herself flat on her back, Victoria sitting on her stomach.
“Say uncle,” Victoria hollered, twisting Ellie’s arm. Then, without warning, she let go and took off towards the street.
“Hey, Commando Kelly,” Ralph hollered. “Where yunz going?”
“Taxi, going up the hill,” she called back. “Maybe it’s Pa and Buddy.”
The rest of the troops abandoned battle and scrambled towards the street after Victoria. Once on the pavement, they broke into a full run, following the taxicab up Macken Street.
Block after block, the cab toiled up the hill, the kids pounding right behind.
“I think it is Buddy,” Victoria puffed. “See the Marine hat in the back window?”
The taxi braked in front of the Gandecks’, shuddering to a halt. Victoria stopped short, the rest of the gang piling into her. Ellie held her breath as the rear door opened. Mr. Gandeck’s big behind backed out on the street side. He stood, rumpled and blinking, staring into the back seat.
“Where’s Buddy?” Victoria launched herself into her father’s arms, looking expectantly at the cab, where no one was getting out.
Gently, Mr. Gandeck disentangled himself from Victoria. He motioned to the cab driver, who walked around to the open door.
“Son,” Mr. Gandeck called softly. “We’re home, son.”
“Home?” a quavery voice answered.
“That’s right, pal,” said the cab driver in a gentle voice. “Lemme give you a hand.”
The cabbie and Mr. Gandeck leaned into the car, and pulled out a scarecrow of a man, in a sizes-too-big Marine uniform. The cabbie slung the soldier’s arm around Mr. Gandeck’s neck. There he hung, like so much wet laundry.
Oh my gosh, thought Ellie. Mr. Gandeck brought home the wrong soldier.
This soldier was skinny and hollow-eyed, skin the colour of a Halloween pumpkin.
“Buddy?” Victoria stood stock-still on the sidewalk.
The soldier’s eyes flickered. “Hey, Lil Sis,” he said in a flat voice. “How’s tricks?”
“Why is he orange?” whispered Jellyneck. “Is that jungle rot?”
“Naw,” said Ralph in not-quite-a-whisper. “It’s some kind of medicine they give soldiers to keep them from getting malaria. Turns their skin that colour.”
The cabbie plunked a valise and a duffel bag on the sidewalk. Ellie, Stan, Jellyneck and the rest of the gang just stood there, not knowing what to do.
The cab driver cleared his throat. “Um…mister, about the fare…”
Mr. Gandeck blinked, as if coming out of a trance. “I’m sorry,” he said, reaching inside his jacket, with Buddy still clinging to his neck.
“Too bad he come home so late today,” Jellyneck stage-whispered. “Mr. Green already give away all his ice cream. No party tonight.”
Mr. Gandeck paid the cab fare, then turned to Jellyneck.
“You’re right, sonny,” Mr. Gandeck said in a sad voice. “No party tonight.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“But it’s my birthday, Mom,” Ellie wailed. “Tuesday? July 25th? Did you forget? Please don’t make me do the dumb old canning today.”
Mom set a sealed Mason jar of stewed tomatoes on the drain board, then went to the sink to wash tomato goo from her hands. The back screen door banged open, and Aunt Toots, still in her work overalls, lugged in still another bushel basket of tomatoes. Ellie shuddered with disgust.
“I’m sorry, but you had a day off w
hen you went to North Park with Stan last week.” Mom swiped peanut butter across two slices of bread, slapped them together, and wrapped the sandwich in wax paper. “We have tomatoes coming out of our ears. Be a shame to let them rot on the vine.” She dropped the sandwich in her lunch bucket and snapped it shut. “Besides, you only have to can until Sal goes to work.”
It was Toots’s day off from work. Maybe she could do the canning. Ellie shot her a look, but Toots said “Don’t even ask” before Ellie could open her mouth. “I did my bit yesterday morning. Just brought these in now” – Toots heaved the basket to the countertop – “to save you and Sal the trouble.” She dusted her hands on the seat of her overalls. “I’m going to catch a few winks and meet the girls at West View Park.” Toots gave Ellie a nudge in passing. “No sense wasting a day off sleeping.”
Or canning tomatoes, Ellie thought as she glared at the pots bubbling on the stove. One contained Mason jars and lids, sterilizing. The other, disgusting, burbling tomatoes. She swished the mixture with a wooden spoon. Hot juice burped over the edge, spattering Ellie’s bare elbow.
“Ouch!” she hollered. Upstairs, the shower sputtered to life and Mom shouted, “Rise and shine, Sally Jane. There’s a bushel of tomatoes with your name on it.”
“I’m twelve today,” Ellie told the stove. “And I have to spend it with you.” She kicked the corner of the stove. The stove didn’t notice, but Ellie’s toes did. “Stupid old stove,” she muttered.
Mom breezed back through, grabbing her lunch bucket from the drain board. “Bye, sweetheart. I know this isn’t much of a birthday but…”
“It’s only for the duration,” Ellie finished for her.
Mom hugged Ellie. “Happy birthday, my baby.” And she was gone.
Ellie had had her birthday all planned. Strawberry pancakes for breakfast. A swim at North Park. A nice long session with Gone with the Wind, which she had snitched from Sal. Chocolate cake at supper, with everyone singing “Happy Birthday”. That’s what she had planned.
Instead, Ellie and Sal spent the morning peeling and chopping tomatoes. The tomatoes hissed and spat back at them.
“Looks like someone got murdered in here,” Ellie said, smacking tomato seeds from her hands. Pulp and juice dripped from cabinet doors, splattered across the linoleum.
“Kind of looks like rubies,” said Sal, admiring a finished jar. “Pretty, huh?”
“If you like tomatoes,” Ellie grunted. Judging from what was left in the bushel baskets and the garden, she figured they had enough to feed General Patton’s army. The Russian army, too.
And this was only the beginning. Soon, there would be cucumbers to pickle. And beans…snap, string, butter. Ellie had never taken much notice of canning, since Mom had done it all herself. Well, she noticed now!
After a very long morning, a row of gleaming red jars lined the kitchen countertop. “I don’t want to touch another tomato. Ever,” Sal said. “The first jar was pretty, but after five or six…” She wiped her hands, leaving red smears on the dish towel.
“And how,” Ellie agreed, picking a tomato peel out of her hair.
“I’m going to get ready for work.” Sal flew out of the kitchen, leaving Ellie to clean up.
She was still mopping up the canning debris when Sal bounced back downstairs. In her mint-green dress and jaunty ponytail, she didn’t look like she had been hovering over a stewpot all morning. I feel like a sweaty mess, Ellie gloomed. Probably look like one, too.
“Why so glum, little chum?” Sal chucked Ellie under the chin. “Come over to the store later, and I’ll make you a sundae for your birthday. On the house.”
“Okay,” said Ellie as Sal skipped off, ponytail swinging. It wasn’t a birthday cake, but it was better than nothing.
Ellie fixed herself a peanut butter sandwich and took it out on the back stoop. It wasn’t any cooler, but at least she was out of the kitchen. The tomato smell left a tinny taste in her mouth. Like blood, she thought, remembering the day last fall when Victoria had socked her in the mouth.
Funny, she hadn’t seen much of Victoria since Buddy had come home. She saw her in Corsiglia’s market sometimes, or sitting on the porch with Buddy. But she never spoke, so neither did Ellie.
Twirl-twirl. Twirl-twirl. Ellie raced through the house to answer the door, arriving in time to catch Mr. Carlson at the top of the terrace.
“Hey there, Ellie,” he called. “Think you’ve got mail from Jimmy.”
“Thanks,” she called. Her heart jumped when she pulled out an envelope with her name scrawled in Jimmy’s writing.
Twinkle, twinkle, Movie Star,
How I wonder how you are.
Wish I may and wish I might
Have a slice of your cake tonight.
Okay, I’m no Emily Dickinson. Happy birthday, Movie Star. Big doings over here in England, but I’ll tell you about that later. I’ll be thinking about you on your special day.
Ellie tucked the envelope in her shorts pocket with a loving pat. The weight of the letter reminded her of Jimmy as she ploughed through the afternoon chores. Dusting. Vacuuming. The half-cleaned kitchen still awaited her, but somehow Ellie couldn’t make herself go back in there.
Later, she told herself. I’ll clean up before I start supper.
The kitchen clock said it was three o’clock. Hours before anyone would be home. Should she go over to Green’s for her sundae? Or wait until after supper? She’d rather read on the porch now and save the sundae for after supper. It would be something to look forward to.
It was one of those breathless, grey-sky days when the smoke from the steel mills drifted towards North Side. Stretching out on the glider, Ellie kicked off her tomato-spattered sneakers and wiggled her hot toes on the cool cement floor. Squeak screech sang the glider as she pushed herself back and forth.
Grey skies, hot kitchens, and the aroma of eau de tomato faded as Ellie fell head first into Gone with the Wind. Scarlett O’Hara and the swaying glider took her far away from Macken Street. So far away, she didn’t hear the footsteps on the terrace walk. Or on the porch.
Twirl-twirl. Twirl-twirl.
Fred, the Western Union boy, stood at the door, poised to give the bell another twist. Ellie sat up.
“Sorry. Didn’t see you.” Fred flushed, whether from heat or embarrassment, Ellie couldn’t tell. “Is your mother home?”
“She’s at work,” Ellie said briefly. She didn’t want to waste time talking to Fred. Scarlett O’Hara had just killed a Yankee soldier!
“How about Sal?” Fred’s voiced squeaked.
“She’s working. At Green’s,” Ellie said, expecting him to fly off the porch in the direction of the candy store.
Fred didn’t move.
“Are you lost or something? I thought Western Union didn’t get lost.”
“Is anyone home besides you?” Fred’s voice squeaked like the glider.
“No,” said Ellie. “Everybody’s at work or something.”
Fred gulped once. Twice. What’s the matter with him?
Then she saw the telegram.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Slap slap slap. Someone was smacking her hand. Smell of vanilla and butterscotch. Ellie opened her eyes. Philco radio. Green bridge lamp. Rose chintz rocker. Stan’s house. How did I get here?
“Ellie?” Sal bent close, red-gold hair swinging forward, a curtain to hide them.
“Sal?” she whispered. “Fred…”
“I know,” said Sal. “I know.”
Ellie closed her eyes. She could hear someone dialling a phone. Mrs. Kozelle. “Yes…only one at home…poor thing… Where is her aunt?”
At West View. But it was too much effort to say so. Everything was too much effort. The whirring fan faded away in a hissing fog.
Ellie huddled in the McKelvey’s phone nook, head to knees. People came and went. Lots of them. Mom was in the kitchen, crying. No one knew where Pop was.
Ellie couldn’t remember how she’d gotten home.
Stan’s specs reflected the hall light, blanking out the lenses.
“You want some food?” He held out a plate. “There’s lots of good stuff. Ham and cake and dumplings.”
Dumplings. They’d had dumplings at Jimmy’s going-away party.
“No, thanks, Stan.”
Creak slam bang. Over and over. Creak slam bang. Now Ellie knew why Mom hated a banging screen door.
So many people. Mr. Corsiglia in his grocer’s apron. Trudy, her face as white as her butcher’s coat. Mrs. Kozelle, directing the action like a traffic cop. “Put that soda pop on the porch. Bring that cake over here. No, don’t bother Mrs. McKelvey.”
Reverend Schuyler and his Bible. His lips moved but Ellie couldn’t hear him. Was he praying?
Creak slam bang.
Time passed; minutes or hours? Ellie couldn’t tell. Toots and the Bettys arrived, clutching West View souvenirs, Stan right behind them. He must have gone to the park to get them. How did he find them?
The Bettys rolled up their sleeves and went into action. Cleaning the kitchen mess Ellie had forgotten. The red-headed Betty went with Sal to look for Pop. Someone must have put water on to boil, because soon Ellie heard the tea kettle whistle.
“Sorry, but I need the phone.” Toots squeezed Ellie’s shoulder. Mom’s worn leather address book dangled from her hand.
Ellie moved to the hall stairs as Toots badgered the long distance operator. Once the operator connected Toots, Ellie knew from experience that her aunt would do a lot of hollering. The phone lines between Pittsburgh and Lost Gap were terrible. Lots of hissing and crackling.
“D-Day!” Toots shouted as if she were talking to West Virginia without the phone. “I said, D-DAY, JUNE 6TH. THE INVASION.”
How silly. D-Day was weeks ago.
“We just got the telegram today. There was some kind of hold-up notifying families.” Toots listened to the person on the other end.
“The memorial service is next Saturday. No, not a sad day.” Pause. “Well, yes, it is a sad day. But I said the service is Saturday.”
Victoria plopped down on the stairs next to Ellie.
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