by Diane Moody
“Will do. Bye, Dad.”
Half an hour later, the theater was almost at capacity. Danny played the dreaded newsreel, wincing as he watched the troubling war news. He’d grown to despise the menacing tone of the reporter’s voice as he droned on and on about one attack after another. When it finally ended, he clicked on the projector with the first reel of Son of Frankenstein.
Two hours later, as the patrons returned to their seats following the intermission between shows, he flipped the switch on the first of eight reels for Gone With the Wind. As Scarlett O’Hara sashayed her way across the screen, he settled into his chair and pulled his notebook from his bag. Long before the melodramatic heroine proclaimed her loyalty to Tara, Danny would have plenty of time to write Anya another novel-length letter. She hadn’t complained so he kept writing them.
Dear Anya,
Once again, Atlanta is burning, and I have over three hours to kill. Lucky you. Ha ha. If they ever show “Gone With the Wind” in The Netherlands, you’ll know what I’m talking about. I’ve grown to hate watching the newsreels, especially knowing you’re not far from the action. With all the Allies, I sure would’ve thought the war would be over by now. I’ll be anxious to hear the latest news from your side of things.
It’s been cold here too. We’ve had an awful lot of snow this year. It’s a good thing Smitty Truesdale wanted my shoveling territory. Working here doesn’t leave me any time to help neighbors like Mrs. Martello and her sister. She still calls the house, complaining about Smitty and asking me to come over and do it right. I’ve tried and tried to tell her I’m no longer available. Did I tell you Mr. Chaney’s grandson is helping him out at the grocery store now? I really miss working there, but I figure this is where I’m supposed to be right now.
I just saw Son of Frankenstein. It was great! I hope you get to see it. Course, being a girl and all you’d probably be too scared . . . (I just ducked in case you threw your “klompen” at me. That would hurt! By the way, why do you all wear wooden shoes anyway? Seems to me they’d be hard to walk in.)
Dad was all hot and bothered the other day about the Chicago Theater. It’s in the heart of downtown Chicago and boy, is it ritzy. I’ve been there a couple of times. Real fancy. You should see it. Red velvet seats. Big balcony. Great big stage. Girls in uniforms with short skirts who go up and down the aisles offering candy and cigarettes during the intermission.
But it’s those amazing intermissions that had Dad all riled up. See, because it’s a top-of-the-line theater, they can book big name talent for their intermissions—like the Glenn Miller Band, Kay Kyser, Harry James. Wait—I just realized you won’t know who these bands are. I sure wish you could hear them. They’re the best. Glenn Miller’s my favorite. He always has Tex Beneke with him, singing along and cutting up. He’s famous for singing the Glenn Miller hit, “Chattanooga Choo Choo.” Oh, and then there’s Hildegard. First time I saw her play, the whole theater went pitch black. Then all of a sudden a spotlight appeared right on her hands on the keyboard of that grand piano! Everyone went wild cheering. Crazy thing is, she always wears elbow-length gloves when she performs. I guess the fingers of the gloves are cut out. I don’t know. But she sure can heat up the keyboard. She plays all the latest tunes.
Anyway, Dad kept hearing about all “the hoopla” as he calls it, and went on a tirade because he can’t compete. The thing is, I don’t see the problem. Some folks like all that “hoopla” and others just want to see a movie at a neighborhood theater. Course, if he wasn’t ranting about this, it would just be something else. I sometimes think he was born just to complain.
How are your animals out at the farm? Any more new ones? I’m glad to hear Wim is up and walking again. Swell news.
We had another postcard from Joey. He said most of the guys on his ship are itching to get into the war. That made Mom real nervous. Dad finally started reading Joey’s mail, though he never says anything about it. Mom just leaves Joey’s postcards out where he can see them. She knows he reads them because they’re never in the same exact spot she left them. Isn’t it silly? Two grown adults, playing games like that? If I ever get married I sure don’t want that kind of relationship. Seems to me a man and his wife ought to be best friends. One thing’s for sure—I’ve learned a whole lot from my dad about how NOT to be a husband or father. Guess that’s good for something.
How’s your mother doing? Must be hard having a house full of people day in and day out, especially in her condition. What’s wrong with those people? You’d think by now they’d lay off expecting your dad to have all the answers. Has to be tough on him, too—carrying the burden of so many people’s needs. I never thought about it before, but being a pastor is probably much harder than most people think. From some of your letters, I can tell you love your father a lot. Count your blessings.
I’ve told Sophie how much you love animals. I’m quite confident she would melt at your feet. She’s a wonderful dog. I sure was lucky to find her that night. I wish there was some way to take her to college with me.
I’m determined to work hard at college and maybe even graduate early. I’m still not sure what degree to pursue, but I’ve got a couple of possibilities. Don’t laugh, but I’ve even considered an education major with an emphasis in history. I wish you could meet my U.S. History teacher, Mrs. Zankowski. I’ve never had a teacher who has so much passion for her subject. Every kid in her class goes a little crazy about history after sitting under her teaching. Sometimes she even dresses up as the historical characters she’s teaching. One day she came in dressed like Abraham Lincoln, the 16th president of the United States—beard and all! We laughed so hard, but she never once came out of character, telling us all about the difficulties of governing a nation divided. (America was in a civil war when Lincoln was president.) Last week she showed up as Teddy Roosevelt who was our 26th president. He was a fifth cousin of our current President Roosevelt. Teddy Roosevelt was quite a character and Mrs. Zankowski really brought him to life.
Something about her zeal for our history, and her unabashed quest to teach us the important lessons of our forefathers and the cause of freedom. It’s almost contagious—that’s how good she is. I’m probably not explaining it very well. You could probably tell by her name—her parents immigrated from Poland. So the battle against the Nazis over there is very near and dear to her heart. She’s real emotional about it.
Of course, the other reason I’m interested in history is because of you—well, I should probably say, you and Hans. Your letters have given me a real “glimpse” into your world and the history that brought us to this point in time. I just wonder if I could teach the next generation about the past and its implications for our future. It’s all very confusing. Mom keeps telling me to pray, but she’s a much better prayer warrior than I’ve ever been.
Do you ever wonder what God must think of all this war stuff? I keep wondering why He doesn’t do something about it.
Now I’m the one who’s rambling. It’s about time to change another reel, so I’ll close now. Take care of yourself, Anya. Stay safe. Write soon.
Danny
11
March 1940
Once winter finally gave up, another spring blew through Chicago, bringing with it the usual explosive thunderstorms and heavy rains. Despite the gloomy weather, Danny kept a running countdown as he moved ever closer to graduation. His grades reflected his hard work, and at this point, it was a downhill slide toward that walk across the stage in cap and gown.
He’d grown accustomed to his routine at the theater, enjoying the solitude of the projection booth. There, he could plan his future with plenty of time to think it through. And that’s exactly what he was doing one evening when he heard some shouting downstairs in the lobby.
“I said, GET OUT OF HERE!”
Danny recognized his dad’s booming voice immediately. He flew down the rungs and into the lobby, almost running into three men he didn’t recognize. They had his father cornered.
&
nbsp; “What’s going on here?”
“None of your business, kid,” the tall one snapped, adjusting his cuff links.
“These lugheads came in here trying to scare me with their lousy threats, and I told them to get out. No one strong-arms Frank McClain!”
Danny hadn’t seen his dad this angry in a long time, which was saying something. He tried to diffuse the situation. “Gentlemen, I believe you heard the man.”
“Yeah? And who are you?” the same guy asked, pressing closer to Danny now. The man must have eaten a clove of garlic and washed it down with bourbon.
Danny stiffened his back. “I was about to ask you the same question.”
The man touched the rim of his rain-spattered Fedora, nudging it up on an inch or so on his head. “We just came by to make a neighborly visit to welcome Mr. McClain here to our district. That’s all. No need for all the drama.”
His father broke free of the two men who’d stayed close, pinning him against the counter. “You’re nothing but a bunch of thugs. I’ll give you thirty seconds to get out or I’m calling the police.”
“No need, no need,” said the shortest of the three, a stubby little guy in a shiny damp suit at least a size too small. He stepped closer to Dad, took a puff on his cigar, and blew it in his face. “We’ll be on our way. Wouldn’t want to interrupt the show or nothin’.”
“But we’ll be back. You can count on that,” the tall one added as he made his way to the door. “Tomorrow? The next day? Who’s to say?” He tossed a broad smile over his shoulder. “Real nice meetin’ ya, Mr. McClain.”
“Yeah, a real pleasure,” his short accomplice said.
The third one bumped Danny’s shoulder as he followed the other two out the door into the rain.
“Bunch of no good—”
“Dad, what did they want?”
His father wiped his brow with his handkerchief. “Tried to tell me I needed some kind of ‘insurance’ to stay here. They said it’s a rough part of town and they could provide protection against the ‘unsavory elements’. Who do they think they are, coming in here trying to muscle up on me? Well, they picked the wrong guy to—”
“Dad, let it go. Take a deep breath. Don’t let ‘em get to you.”
“I’ve seen their type before. Used to run into them all the time on my film routes. Always trying to scare everybody with their big threats. Well, NO one comes in my place and threatens ME!”
“Dad!” Danny put his arm around his father’s shoulders. “They’re gone. Relax.”
His dad looked at him, his eyes wild with barely-restrained anger. Then he seemed to focus, staring into Danny’s eyes before looking away. “Yeah. They’re gone.” He broke free of his son’s embrace and headed back behind the counter for a cup of water.
Just then, Steve opened the side door and slid behind the concession stand. “Sorry, Mr. McClain. I had to go to the bathroom.”
“Huh? Oh. Yeah, okay.”
Steve shot a questioning glance at Danny.
Danny shrugged. “No problem. Well, I guess I better get back up in the booth. Reel change coming up. Dad, are you okay?”
His father waved him off. “Fine. Get back to work. Both of you.”
As Danny climbed back up the rungs, a sense of dread grew with each step. He had a feeling those men would keep their word and come back. Thugs like them tried to strong-arm Chicago businesses; the stories of their exploitations were the stuff of legends. But who could possibly care about a little neighborhood movie theater? Surely they had bigger fish to fry. He wondered if the Chicago Theater ever had visits like the one they’d just had.
Thankfully, over the next few weeks, the men never showed their faces again at Windsor Park Theater. Dad remained tense and uneasy for weeks following their visit, and made Danny promise not to mention the incident to Mom. Danny was glad to see the whole thing put behind them.
In April, the Cubs got off on the wrong foot losing their first two games to Cincinnati. Of course, any Cubs fan knew the ups and downs comprising the rhythm of their team’s schedule. Still, Danny hoped by the end of the season, his Cubs would be in the World Series. When he realized he’d be at Northwestern when that happened, he couldn’t help smiling.
On a beautiful spring afternoon in the last week of April, he was late leaving school after a required fitting for his cap and gown. He hustled to get home in time to grab his gear, hop on the trolley, and make it to the theater in time for the afternoon matinee.
“Where’ve you been?” his father barked. “Movie starts in fifteen minutes.”
Danny dashed past him toward the auditorium. “I know. Had to get measured for my cap and gown. But I’m here, so take it easy. What’s our movie today?”
“If you’d ever stop and read the marquee you’d know,” he grumbled heading toward his office.
“Yeah?” Danny whispered to himself as he climbed the rungs, “and if you’d ever stop trying to be the crankiest man on the planet, you’d know there’s more to life than your stupid marquee.”
Once in the booth, he quickly stashed his gear and slid open the door to the dumbwaiter to get the film can.
“Well, looky here. The Oklahoma Kid has come back for a visit.”
Americans still loved Westerns, and the Cagney-Bogart oater had been a favorite since its release the end of March. Danny was a big fan of both actors and enjoyed the on-screen tension between Cagney’s Jim Kincaid character and Bogart’s Whip McCord.
But when he’d stopped by the house, he’d found a letter from Anya on his pillow. He was anxious to read it, so he threaded the film through the projectors and checked his watch, waiting for the exact moment to start the newsreel. He sat down to tear open Anya’s envelope just as the voice-over on the newsreel fretted over the recent fall of Denmark and Norway.
Too close, too close . . . Thoughts bounced around and around in Danny’s head. Who will be next? France? Belgium? The Netherlands?
Danny wished he had ear plugs to silence the disturbing news. He leaned back in his chair, stretched out his long legs in front of him, and settled in to read Anya’s letter. He took another look at the envelope to see the postmark. The date was April 5, 1940—just four days before Norway and Denmark fell. She didn’t even know that troubling news when she wrote the letter.
Dear Danny,
How I wish I could climb into this envelope and escape the madness! Day and night, our skies are filled with aircraft. We know well the sound of the engines—which are Allies, which are Luftwaffe. It’s as if we’re sinking in someone else’s quicksand, knowing it’s only a matter of time until we’re pulled in over our heads. The fear eats at me constantly. It makes me sick. My only refuge is the Boormans’ farm where I surround myself with the animals I love and force all my attention on them.
Everywhere, everywhere—Jews from Germany slip over our border seeking refuge in our midst. The stories they tell us, Danny . . . at first I thought they must be exaggerating. I thought, surely no such atrocities actually exist? Who could do such things to another human being? Homes raided, families thrown out on the street, fathers executed right in front of their children, mothers taken from their babies, food and shelter withheld from innocent people whose only crime is their Jewish faith. This can’t be happening, I tell myself.
But as new arrivals continue to stream over the border bringing tales of far worse torture and destruction, I realized it’s all true.
Father was approached last week about hiding Jews in our home. He desperately wanted to help, but Mother has been paralyzed with fear, unable to get out of bed again. I want so much for her to be strong, but I am so afraid she is losing her mind. Father is concerned she could not handle strangers in our home. Or worse, that she would not understand how confidential the arrangement would have to be. Could we trust her not to say anything to anyone?
Finally, when Father was told of a young family with three small children who had no place to go, he couldn’t say no. They are the sweetest people, so
thankful, their hearts overflowing with gratitude. We pray constantly for them—mostly for their little ones to be quiet. As parishioners continue to come seeking Father’s counsel, we must be sure no one hears the cries of a baby from the back of the house or the secret place in the attic. Already, it is hard to know who to trust. We have enough food to feed them, at least at this point. The Boormans send me home with milk and eggs and butter and vegetables almost daily. And yes, pork as well. I try not to think about it, in light of the despair all around us. Of course, the Jews do not eat the pork. We share with others whenever we can. The Boormans have also taken in Jews. I helped Wim and his father build an enormous basement beneath the barn with a door easily hidden. Already the basement is full.
My hand shakes as I write you, so great is the fear in my heart for my country. How I wish Hans was here. Always he made things better. Our house is full, but a hole remains in our hearts for dear Hans.
I can’t help but wonder how much longer I will receive your letters or be able to send you mine. Such uncertainty stirs constantly inside me and causes me to say things I might not otherwise say . . . You have been the dearest of friends, Danny. I shall never forget how you wrote me, week after week, month after month, lifting me up from the darkness of losing my brother. Always giving me a reason to smile, a thought or two to ponder, and a reason to write you back. I’ve even learned to tolerate your beloved Cubs.
One of the Jewish ladies hidden away beneath the Boormans’ barn told me something yesterday I shall never forget. She reached her hands up to cradle my face, then said, “We cannot know what the future holds, but we know who holds the future.” As she spoke those words, she had the most serene smile in her eyes and on her wrinkled face. In spite of all the horrible things she has witnessed, still she smiled. I repeat those words to myself whenever I feel the fear taking over. I shall cling to them in the days ahead.