by Diane Moody
Dad hadn’t said much of anything since they left the house. Saturday nights were tough for Frank McClain. Those nights, his film routes kept him out until seven or eight the following morning. With Hollywood studios releasing one blockbuster after another in 1939, the movie business stayed busier than ever. But for Danny, Hollywood’s success meant a tired, cranky father. He knew his dad had slept a few hours before the game, but fatigue only dialed up his father’s perpetually sour moods. By the top of the fourth inning of the first game, he started grumbling about the scoreless game, letting Danny know he wanted to leave early.
“Dad, c’mon. With Dizzy Dean on the mound, you know something’s gonna happen. He hasn’t lost a game yet this year. Besides, there’s a whole other game after this one. Why can’t we stay?”
His father chewed on some peanuts, tossing the shells beneath his seat. He wiped his hands on his pants and stared a hole into Danny. “If nothing happens by the end of this inning, we’re leaving. Not another word.”
Danny huffed, tamping down his simmering frustration. What’s the point of coming to a double-header if you’re not gonna stay til the end? Sure it’s hot and windy, but you never know when something exciting might happen. He remembered all the times he and Joey had come to Wrigley, chasing balls, shouting at the opposing team, and cutting up with their friends. Didn’t matter where they sat, they always had a good time. Not like today. He should have known his dad would spoil it all.
The announcer’s voice boomed across the field. “Next up at the plate, number eleven, catcher Gabby Hartnett.”
Danny stood and applauded, cheering with the crowd for the manager-player, one of his favorites. “Come on, Gabby! Knock it outta here!”
“Sit down, Danny.”
A split second after the words growled from his father’s mouth, the loud, promising crack of bat-connecting-with-ball echoed across the ball park. As he looked up, Danny couldn’t believe it—the ball was coming right at him!
“I got it! I got it!” Just as he stretched his gloved hand high above him, the man in front of him blocked his view with a glove of his own.
“Let me get it, mister! Let me get it!”
“No way, kid! That ball is mine!”
As the ball began to drop from the sky, the glove in front of him disappeared. The ball smacked hard in Danny’s glove.
“I got it! Dad, look! I got!”
As he turned to show the ball to his father, his smile faded. The guy in front of him had a fistful of Dad’s shirt, spewing a stream of beer-stained expletives at him. “I had as much a right to that ball as your stupid kid. I oughta knock you out of this park for that, you jerk! That was MY BALL!”
Danny couldn’t believe it. His father must have pulled the guy’s arm down so Danny could catch the ball. His dad had never done anything like that before! Danny’s heart pounded.
His father calmly untangled his shirt from the man’s hand then grabbed both the man’s wrists in a vice grip. In a quiet, methodical tone he said, “Keep your filthy hands off me. Understood?”
The guy stood there blinking bloodshot eyes, wincing as he finally yanked his hands free. He mumbled a few more choice words and rubbed his wrists as he turned then dropped into his seat.
Danny could see the nerve twitching on his father’s jaw. He knew this kind of situation could easily be volatile for Dad, but he refused to let it spoil the thrill of catching Hartnett’s home run ball. He reached out, slowly putting his hand on his father’s arm. “Dad?”
He watched as his father stood silent for a couple of seconds, his eyes still glued on the drunken fan seated in front of them. Then he slowly exhaled, gradually turning to let his eyes fall on the ball still resting in Danny’s glove. His smile, almost imperceptible, sent of rush of relief through Danny.
“That was a real fine catch, Danny.”
The idea came to him immediately. He lifted the ball out of his glove, stared at it, and without a second thought placed it his father’s hand, curling his fingers around it. “Thanks, Dad. It’s yours.”
His father rolled the ball around in his hand and tossed it a few inches in the air. When he caught it, he handed it back to his son with a wink. “No, Danny, it’s yours. You keep it.”
Danny smiled and looked away. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad summer after all.
Later that night, he wrote a five-page letter to Anya, telling her all about the Cubs’ 1-0 win in the first game, and the 9-1 tromp over the Brooklyn Dodgers in the second, giving her an inning-by-inning run down of both games. He told her all about catching Gabby Hartnett’s winning home run ball, and how his dad had intervened when the drunken man tried to grab the ball.
Three weeks later, he had a response.
Dear Danny,
I do not like this game baseball.
Anya
7
As the heat and humidity steamed the summer of 1939, something strange happened to Danny McClain. He knew it all started the day his dad took him to that double-header at Wrigley. Something about that whole exchange surrounding the Gabby Hartnett home run ball had sliced open the tiniest fissure in the arm’s-length relationship his father had with him. Ever since Joey joined the Navy, Dad had remained stoic, distant, silent—even more than usual. But Danny noticed something different as each day passed. A kinder comment here and there. An unexpected interest in Danny’s routine activities. An occasional scratch behind Sophie’s ears. And perhaps most noticeable, the gradual ease in the features of the pronounced scowl that usually framed his father’s face. That, along with a noticeable shift in the atmosphere around the house added up to a much more relaxed home life.
Since Anya made it clear she wasn’t interested in baseball, Danny took care not to mention the subject in his letters to her. In his latest, he’d written about the change in his father over the past few weeks.
. . . I guess you’d have to know Dad to understand his ways. But it’s all really strange to me. For the first time in my life, he actually seems interested in what I’m thinking or doing. Stranger still, last night he invited me to ride along on his delivery route. First time he’s ever asked! We’ve had a lot of rain lately, so I haven’t been able to mow many lawns, which meant I could stay out all night with him.
Every night he has to be at Film Row downtown at 1:00 a.m. Each studio has an “exchange” office where they stock their films. Dad’s job is to pick up the film reels ordered by the theaters on his route, then deliver the reels to each theater. Most movies have four or five reels of film for each movie. They’re transported in these narrow, octagonal-shaped cans. So we loaded up the cans from MGM, Warner Brothers, 20th Century Fox, Columbia Pictures, and all the other big name studios, then headed off on Dad’s route. It’s a big area, even crossing over into neighboring Indiana (that’s the state next to Illinois). We’d drop off the film cans, pick up the ones they’d already shown, and drive to the next theater. We did that all night long. Then, once all the deliveries and pick-ups were made, we made our way back to Film Row to drop off the ones we’d picked up along the way.
It was kinda fun, being out all night. We didn’t get home until 8:00 a.m. I found out it’s a real different world that time of night in Chicago. Even the folks working at the studio exchanges were a little shady. Nice, but ruffians, even the women. Dad talked a lot (which was real unusual), telling me about the people we met along the way, and all about the movies we were toting around. My favorite is “Stagecoach” with that new Western star, John Wayne. It came out in February and I’ve seen it at least a dozen times. (I get to go free to the theater in our neighborhood.) Another one of my favorites is “The Hounds of Baskerville” with Basil Rathbone playing Sherlock Holmes. That’s a real scary one! And I’m kinda curious about this new one coming out next month called “The Wizard of Oz.” Sounds weird, but there’s a lot of buzz around it.
Do you have movie theaters in Holland? If so, do they show American films? What are your favorites? Any favorite movie sta
rs? I like Hoot Gibson, Johnny Mack Brown, Ken Maynard—they’re all Western cowboy stars. But I also like Jimmy Stewart, Clark Cable, Laurence Olivier, and lots of others.
Well, I hope I didn’t bore you with all this. I just thought you might find it interesting.
I hope you’re having a good summer.
Danny
Over the next few weeks, Dad invited him to ride along now and then, whenever it wouldn’t interfere with his sleep schedule for his other jobs. Danny liked going along and found it all really exciting. At least at first. Then, one night near the end of August, as they were heading back to Film Row after their deliveries, his dad surprised him as their conversation took a sharp turn.
“Son, I’ve been impressed with your interest in my work. Seems you enjoy these nights, making the deliveries.”
“I do. Kinda makes me feel like I’m a part of the movie business. Like ol’ Hoot Gibson is a buddy we know.” He laughed at the silly thought. “Kinda like we’re rubbing elbows with all these stars or something.”
“Well, I’m glad you enjoy it, Danny. Which has made me start thinking you’d be a natural at this when the time comes.”
“What do you mean?”
“When you graduate next year. No need to waste money on college. Book learning won’t pay the bills. You’re already learning the business. Soon as you’re all squared away, you can have your own route. We could be partners. Increase our territory. Your brother . . . well, Joey never could sit still or finish a job. Probably just as well he’s gone. But you’ve got real promise.”
Danny’s head began to swim. He knew enough to nod his head and act like he was pondering the idea, but truth be told, he wanted to scream. His mind flashed back to that night at the dinner table when Joey told Dad he didn’t want to follow in his footsteps. He remembered his dad’s unmasked anger. And he remembered the vow he’d made that night, promising himself to make sure Mom and Dad knew precisely what his plans were so he could avoid this exact conversation. Yet here he was.
Think, think! he warned himself, but be careful what you say.
He knew if he shrugged or acted with indifference, their relationship would go right back to how it used to be—frigid. He faked a coughing fit to stall for more time then cleared his throat.
“Wow, Dad. It’s a real honor you’d even consider me for that.”
His dad reached over and squeezed his shoulder. “I was hoping you’d say something like that.”
No no no! Don’t leave it like this! He’ll think you said yes!
“But the thing is . . . well, something this big, I probably ought to think it over for a while. Spend some time making sure, you know?”
His dad’s face fell a fraction as he stared at the road ahead. “I can accept that. But you’ll see it makes a world of sense.”
Danny kept nodding, but mostly wondered how on earth he’d ever get out of it.
Dear Danny,
I had to laugh when I read your last letter. You asked if we had movie theaters, as if you think we’re still living in caves here! I believe if you read your history books you’ll find out Holland has been around much longer than your America. We are quite modern here. In fact, my father discovered how to make fire just last year. Soon we shall have running water in our house! Ha ha. I laughed and laughed. You are so silly, Danny McClain.
We go to cinemas every time a new one comes to town. Many of our films come from England and France, but we also have American films. Last week we saw “Wuthering Heights.” What a stupid movie. I wanted to punch that Heathcliff. Such an idiot. But a few weeks ago we saw “Good Bye, Mr. Chips.” I liked it very much. Did you see it?
The problem with going to cinemas here are the newsreels shown before they start the movie. Lately they are longer and longer because of all that’s happening around us. I hate Hitler. He and his stupid army are stirring up trouble in half the countries in Europe. What did they ever do to him? On and on, the newsreels run. Once, my friend Diet threw her hairbrush at the screen and yelled for them to show the movie.
It’s not much better at home. With everyone so worried about all these threats of war, our doorbell rings day and night as parishioners come asking my father for prayer and wisdom. Yesterday there was a long line of them on the front sidewalk waiting to see him, and dozens crammed inside our zitkamer (what you would call a living room) while he met them one by one in his home office. Mother is still bedridden, so I have to be hostess. This is not something I like to do. I’d rather be outside with my animals.
Did I tell you my cat had kittens? Six little ones. Their meowing is the sweetest sound. Do you like cats?
I worry too. I wish Hans was here so I could talk to him. He always made things better.
Anya
8
September 1939
For the first time in his life, Danny was glad to be back at school. Sure, he had looked forward to being a senior, but even more important, it meant fewer all-nighters running deliveries with his dad. He’d carefully side-stepped the subject of his father’s invitation to partner his work. Dad hadn’t mentioned it directly, though traces of it drifted into conversations now and then. For the life of him, Danny didn’t have a clue how to tell his dad no.
He was pleased to finally have a U.S. History class with Mrs. Zankowski. With everything going on in Europe, she kept her students engaged in an on-going discussion about the situation escalating over there. The parents of both Mrs. Z and her husband were Polish immigrants, and many of her family members still lived in their home country. When classes began in September, just a few days after the Nazis invaded Poland, Mrs. Z came to class visibly shaken, her eyes still red and puffy. She struggled to get through her lessons, expressing deep sorrow for her Polish countrymen and family, yet determined to use the invasion as a teaching tool.
“Living in our great democracy, we take our freedoms for granted every day we live. We are so blessed here, with our roots firmly established in liberty, but we must never let our guard down. If Hitler and his regime can storm into Poland, he can surely storm the rest of Europe, picking off one country after another, squishing them as if they were nothing more than bugs to be annihilated. And we must pay attention to what is happening there and be ever mindful of the potential danger to us here at home.
“Thank God the British have now stepped in with the other Allies to help those poor countries fight the aggressors. I do not understand why the United States has turned such a blind eye to these invasions, as if it is no affair of ours. Those nations haven’t the military resources to withstand the hungry Nazi machine. They need us. Must we wait until the enemy is on our own doorstep?”
Dashing away tears with trembling hands, she continued. But all Danny could think about was Anya’s family over in The Netherlands. Hans once told him Holland always remained neutral in these conflicts, sitting out the Great War as their European neighbors fought to the death. But how could the Dutch possibly withstand an attack this time around since they shared a border with the Germans who seemed bent on taking over the world? He’d always brushed off Anya’s mention of war nerves in her country, thinking she might be over-reacting and a bit melodramatic. But the more Mrs. Z spoke, detailing what she knew about the fall of her beloved Poland, the more Danny finally began to grasp the seriousness of this war and its proximity to Anya and her family.
Still, here in America life went on. By the end of September the die-hard Chicago Cubs fans knew their team wouldn’t make it back to the World Series, sliding back to fourth place in the National League. Once again the New York Yankees made it to the World Series, and just as they’d swept the Cubs the year before, they beat the Cincinnati Reds in four straight games.
With a growing savings account, Danny kept thinking ahead to next year when he would start college. He’d sent off a letter asking Northwestern University for admission forms and immediately filled them out the day they arrived. He asked his mother not to mention any of this to his father. Unless he was
accepted, there was no point. He continued studying hard, making excellent grades, working as many hours as Mr. Chaney would give him at the grocery store, and picking up odd jobs from neighbors here and there.
Joey’s postcards arrived sporadically, though whether it was the slow mail service or a lack on Joey’s part, they didn’t know. Last they heard the USS Oklahoma was somewhere in the Pacific involved in joint fleet operations with the Army and training reservists.
Whenever he could, Danny would shoot a letter off to Anya. She’d eventually fallen into the rhythm of writing back almost as often as her brother had. Danny made a concerted effort to keep his letters light and funny, hoping to distract her from the gravity of the situation there in Holland. He couldn’t imagine living with such constant fear.
Then one day when he was almost finished writing her about a freshman who got stuck inside a locker, he stopped cold with his pen poised above the notebook paper.
Anya’s a girl.
I’m writing a girl.
I’ve been writing a girl for months now.
He glanced up at the photo of her family on the mirror above his desk. He stared at it for a moment before realizing he always looked at Anya’s face first before the others. How long have I been doing that?
Alarmed at the realization, he pulled the old photograph down from the mirror. Just as he no longer looked much like the kid in the photo he’d sent Hans over a year ago, surely Anya had changed too. But how? Had she grown taller as he had? Last time he checked, he was almost six feet, two inches. Was she tall now too? Had that little girl pout given way to a nice smile? He doubted she wore pigtails anymore, but he sure hoped she still had those freckles.
Freckles? What difference does it make if she has freckles now?
That’s when it hit him. Anya wasn’t just Hans’ kid sister anymore. She was Danny’s friend now.