by Roger Jewett
“I got a nephew in the marines,” the cabbie said. “Been in it since before the war. He’s a sergeant.”
“I guess almost everyone has a relative or friend in the service,” Jacob answered, deciding that sometime later in the day, he’d phone Tony’s father and congratulate him.
“Yeah, if I were younger, I’d join up,” the man said. “Hell, a guy can have some time, if he’s smart.” The cabbie glanced over his shoulder at him.
“That’s not exactly what the war is all about,” Jacob answered and immediately turned his attention again to the Times.
That early in the morning the ride from Grand Central to the building where his parents lived took 40 minutes and by 6:50 he was standing on the sidewalk outside the four-floor walk-up. The street was very still.
Suddenly a woman came to one of the open windows on the ground floor, looked out, and in Yiddish said, “Hershel, there’s a man in a white uniform standing in front of the house. What’s he doing there?”
“How should I know,” Hershel asked. “I can’t see him.”
“So come an’ look,” she said, switching to English.
Jacob didn’t recognize the woman. Even before his family had moved in, the Schwartz family had lived there. Mr. Schwartz was a trolley-car motorman on the Church Avenue line. There were three children in the family: all girls. The oldest, Mildred, graduated from Tilden High School when he did. The middle one was a year older than Miriam, and the youngest was in her senior year at Tilden. He felt that the Schwartzes and his parents hoped he and Mildred would someday get together.
“Never saw him before,” Hershel said.
Jacob picked up his suitcase and walked toward the building. These were new people.
“Ask him what he wants,” the woman pressed, lapsing back into Yiddish.
Hershel was a big, barrel-chested man with a bullet-shaped head. “Hey you, what are you doing here?” he called out.
“I live upstairs,” Jacob answered.
“I never saw him before,” the woman said. “Hershel, call the police!”
Jacob reached the top of the stoop, opened the front door, entered the building, and started to climb the steps.
A door on the ground floor opened,
“He’s going up the steps,” Hershel said. “He must live here, Frieda.”
“I know everybody who lives here,” she answered. “I never saw anyone is a white suit like that before.”
Jacob reached the second landing. The hallway still smelled of the previous night’s cooking. Its metal walls were still covered with grime.
Finally, when he was at the door of his family’s apartment, he realized that Hershel had followed him up the steps. “This is where I live,” he said.
“You must be the one everybody on the street is talking about,” Hershel said. “You’re the hero.”
Jacob flushed.
“You’re the Miller boy, aren’t you?”
“I’m Jacob.”
“Frieda, it’s the Miller boy, the hero!” Hershel shouted. “He’s home. Frieda, it’s our hero.” And he offered his beefy hand. “Hey, you’re really here.”
Doors opened and people came out on the landings to look at him. Those who knew him called his name, and some of the men came up and shook his hand.
Then suddenly the door to his apartment opened. His father started to speak, saw him, and began to tremble.
“Papa,” Jacob said, enfolding the man in his arms. “Papa.”
“What’s going on out there, Sam?” his mother asked, even as she came to the door.
“Mom,” Jacob said, letting go of his father with one arm and embracing his mother with it.
All the neighbors clapped.
His mother kissed his face. “Thank God you’re safe,” she whispered; then to the neighbors she said, “There’ll be a party in my house on Saturday night. Everyone is invited. Everyone!”
Miriam came to the door.
Jacob let go of his parents and swept his sister into his arms. “Tony is all right,” he told her.
“You saw him?” she asked.
“There’s something about him in today’s Times,” he said, and realizing it had fallen to the floor, he started to reach for it, but Hershel picked it up and handed it to him; he gave it to his sister.
“It’s good to be home,” he said, looking at all of the people he knew.
“Those medals?” one of the teenaged boys asked, pointing to Jacob’s chest.
“Sure, they’re medals,” Jacob’s father answered.
“I’m just making breakfast,” his mother said, looking at him. “Come inside.” Then she turned to her neighbors. “I know he belongs to you also, but let me have him for a little while.”
“Thank you for welcoming me home,” Jacob said, picked up his suitcase, and linked his free arm with his mother’s.
“I’ll carry that,” his father said.
Jacob was about to object, when he suddenly realized it was important for his father to carry it.
Miriam brought up the rear and closed the door, as soon as all of them were inside the apartment.
“Now, let me look at you,” his mother said, stopping and taking a few steps backward. “You’ve got a nice tan … maybe a little thinner and —”
He realized she was looking into his eyes. She always put great stock in what she said she could see in people’s eyes.
She came close to him, taking hold of his face between her two hands, and whispered, though everyone else in the room could hear, “There’s nothing there I understand… Nothing!”
“Hanna, he’s tired. Don’t bother him with your nonsense now!” his father told her.
“Your papa is right,” she said. “I have coffee already in the percolator, and I can make you toast and a couple of eggs.”
“That will be fine,” Jacob said. “Mostly I want to sleep.”
Suddenly Miriam began to shout. “Papa, Mom, Tony saved his boat. He’s getting a medal for it and he’s going to be a lieutenant. That’s what you are, aren’t you, Jacob?”
“No, I’m one grade above that,” Jacob said.
“I’m so proud of him!” Miriam exclaimed. “And I’m so proud of you, Jacob. All my friends ask me about you all the time.”
The family moved to the kitchen.
“You should have let us know that you were coming home,” his father said.
“I wanted to surprise you,” Jacob said.
“I couldn’t believe my eyes.”
“It was one of the few times I’ve ever seen you speechless,” Jacob laughed.
“That I’d like to have seen,” his mother said.
The time at the breakfast table passed quickly. Miriam went off to work and, as his father got ready to leave, he asked, “Will you come with me to the shul on the Shabbos?”
Jacob hadn’t been to Friday night services for years. “Yes, Papa, I’ll go.”
His father smiled broadly. “Tonight, I’ll be home early,” he announced.
“Well,” his mother said, “do whatever you want to do.”
“Shower and then sleep,” Jacob answered.
His mother reached across the table and took hold of his hand. “You just made your father very happy,” she said.
“And what can I do to make you happy, Mom?” he asked.
She smiled. “Be happy yourself.”
“I’m serious,” Jacob said. “Tell me and I’ll do it.”
She nodded and said, “I just did, Jacob.”
“Sometimes, Mom, it’s not so easy to be happy.”
“Not so easy at all,” his mother answered.
Jacob managed a smile and, kissing the back of his mother’s hand, he said, “I’ll be happy, Mom, I really will.”
CHAPTER 39
Without disturbing Irene, Warren left the bed, found a pack of cigarettes and a lighter on the dresser in the darkness of the room, and went to the open window to smoke. In 10 days’ time, he was going to be finished with th
e training course and reassigned to an operational area. The six weeks passed much more quickly than he had imagined they would. Much of the reason for this was his relationship to Irene. Whenever he was not involved with the training course, he was involved with her. He looked back at the bed. She was naked. When they were together, that was the way they slept. He liked her that way. He was in love with her, but wasn’t sure whether he should be, or whether she loved him. Though she wasn’t in the least inhibited sexually, she was always guarded about her feelings.
Making the cigarette tip glow red, Warren took a long drag on it and savored the smoke before letting it pour out of his mouth and nostrils. Then suddenly he felt the soft, warm press of Irene’s breasts on his back.
She reached around for the cigarette, took a drag, and almost immediately freeing the smoke, asked, “How long have you been standing here?”
“Not long,” he answered.
She returned the cigarette to him. “You’re thinking about when you leave?” she asked.
“I guess, in a way.”
She put her arms around him and pressed her face to his back. “Frightened?”
“Yes. I’d be a fool not to be.”
“Word is around that we’re going to be making some sort of big push,” she said, kissing his back.
“I heard the same thing,” Warren answered.
“Your father should know. Did he drop any hints when you saw him?”
“Nothing. We spoke about the family and —”
“And what?” Irene asked.
“He made not so oblique references to the woman with whom he’s having an affair.”
“You never mentioned that before,” she said, taking the cigarette from him again.
Warren shrugged. “Not much reason to,” he said. “He’s entitled to be happy and, from what I can see, he is.”
“What about your mother?” she asked, before she put the cigarette in her mouth. “What about her feelings?”
“I think she almost prefers it,” he answered. “It gives her another excuse to feel sorry for herself and drink.”
She took a drag on the cigarette, held the smoke for a moment before she freed it, and handing the cigarette back to him, said, “You don’t seem to have much pity for her.”
“Strange, but I really do,” Warren responded. “I also know she doesn’t need my pity, or anyone else’s, for that matter.” He was aware that their conversation was going in an unexpected direction.
“I’ve been thinking about us,” she said, still close to him. “Have you?”
“Yes,” he admitted.
“You’ll be leaving soon,” Irene said matter-of-factly.
“My training ends in 10 days,” he told her, pinching out the head of the cigarette and dropping it in the nearby wastepaper basket.
“What conclusion did you come to about us?” she asked.
He took hold of her hands and pulled her even more tightly against him. “I think I’m in love with you,” he said.
“You make it sound as if you’ve reached the edge of doom,” she commented.
“I didn’t mean to. But I’m not sure whether that makes much sense now,” he said.
“Hardly any at all,” she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear.
“And —”
“And what?” she asked quickly.
“I don’t really know your feelings about me,” he told her, instantly aware of how foolishly juvenile the words sounded.
Irene gently freed her hands from his and stepped back. “I think I love you too,” she said. “I know I enjoy being with you in or out of bed.”
Warren faced her.
“I don’t want to risk being your widow,” she said. “I don’t think I could bear that. The time that I’ve spent with you during these few weeks means more to me than I could ever tell you.”
He took her in his arms.
“I can’t run that risk,” she said softly. “I can’t. And I know that if I marry you, I will have to accept that risk as part of the marriage, just as if it were the color of your eyes or hair. You come with the risk.”
Warren was very still. She was telling him that she wasn’t going to marry him.
“But I do love you,” she said in a low, passionate voice, putting her hand over his mouth. “Both of us know it’s going to be a long war,” she said, “and by the time it’s over, we won’t be the same and the things we want then won’t be the things we want now.”
He kissed her gently on the ear. “I want you now,” he said.
Jacob wore his uniform when he accompanied his father to shul on Friday night. The shul was several blocks up the street from where they lived and in the long, gathering twilight of a June day they walked side by side. His mother and Miriam were several paces behind them.
Word of Jacob’s homecoming spread through the neighborhood, and almost everyone along the way was out in the street to see them.
Now and then a man would greet his father and his father would respond with a nod.
To Jacob, the houses along the way were even more shabby than he remembered. The flood of money that the war was supposed to have brought to the civilian population didn’t seem to affect the people he saw.
The shul that his father belonged to was a big rambling building, with a huge stained-glass window in the shape of a Jewish star. Jacob knew every corner, every dark space in the building. He started Hebrew school there when he was five and continued for another two years after he was bar mitzvahed. There was a time when he hated it and often dreamt that it would burn to the ground, though he never dared tell anyone about his feelings or his dreams.
“Your name was even in the Forward,” his father said, referring to the Yiddish newspaper he read. “Your name, the family name, even your mother’s and Miriam’s. Reporters came to see me in the exchange. Such a commotion!”
From the sound of his father’s voice, Jacob could tell he was proud of him.
“In today’s Forward, it says that you’re going to help the government sell war bonds,” his father said.
“Yes, before I left Pearl, I was told that I would be doing that,” Jacob answered.
“For the rest of the war?” his father asked, looking at him.
“No, Papa,” Jacob answered. “I’ll be doing that for a while; then I’ll probably teach new pilots. But after a while, I’ll be sent back.”
“You want to go back?”
“Papa, I’m a fighter pilot,” Jacob said, hoping that his father wouldn’t start an argument.
“I know. I know you’re one of the best, but you don’t talk about it, and when I ask you a question, you change the subject.”
“Papa, the things I want to talk about, I can’t,” Jacob said.
“And why not? I’m your papa.”
Jacob’s step faltered.
His father grabbed his arm. “You all right?” he asked.
“Sam, is anything wrong?” his mother called, hurrying to them.
“Nothing,” Jacob lied. “I just missed my footing.”
“I thought you were going to fall,” she said.
“Let him be, Hanna,” his father said. “Happens a man can lose his footing. Just look at these sidewalks; they’re made of pieces of slate. Now let us walk without anyone bothering us.” And taking Jacob by the arm, he led him away.
“I have to unscramble a few things,” Jacob said, when they were some distance from his mother and sister.
“What things?”
Jacob bit his lower lip and shook his head.
“Whatever you did, God understands and will forgive you,” his father said.
“It has nothing to do with what I did, at least not the way you think.”
“So tell me how do I think?”
“Papa, you can’t help me… I have to find the answer in myself.”
“Are you afraid?”
“No more than anyone else,” Jacob answered; then he said, “Papa, my friend died in my arms. I held him and
I couldn’t do anything to help him.”
“The one you wrote me about, Yancy?” his father asked.
Jacob nodded, took out a handkerchief, and wiped the tears from his eyes. He felt his father’s hand on his shoulder.
“But you saved a life. That surely should be worth something to you, shouldn’t it?”
“It is,” Jacob answered. “But I can’t seem to get Yancy out of mind.”
“You never will,” his father said. “In the first war, I was in the trenches on the German side —”
“I never knew that!”
“No need for you to until now,” his father said. “My friend was killed during a British attack on our front. I didn’t know he was dead. I carried him to the hospital on my back. That was in 1916. Now it’s 1942 and I never forgot a single detail. His name was Moishe Grunfeldt. He was 19 years old…” His father sighed. “Maybe the good Lord has a reason for wanting us to remember things like that.”
“Maybe,” Jacob answered. “Maybe He does.”
CHAPTER 40
Troost sat at his desk in CinPacFleet Headquarters. It was nine o’clock at night. He leaned back, rubbed his eyes, and then bent over the thick sheaf of papers and began to read again. The operation’s code name was Watchdog. Its purpose was to seize control of the islands of Guadalcanal and Tulagi for a later assault on the Japanese stronghold of Rabaul, on the northern coast of the island of New Britain.
Before Troost became involved in the planning of the operation, he had some notion where the Solomon Islands were and he even remembered reading about the islands in a very old issue of the National Geographic that featured the animal collecting adventures of Martin and Osa Johnson. But when word came from the Joint Chiefs of Staff in Washington that the Solomons were to be the first target of the American westward push in the Pacific, he was as surprised as anyone else in CinPacFleet.