Of Windmills and War (8 page)

9

November 1939

An unexpected early snow ruined lots of Thanksgiving plans,
blanketing most of
Illinois
under a foot or more of snow.
Danny and his mother were disappointed they would have to miss the family
dinner out at his grandparents’ farm, but they tried to make the best of it. He
got up early that morning, trying to shovel the deep snow from as many
sidewalks and driveways as he could before their noontime meal. He made sure he
got home in time, stomping the snow off his boots and pulling his tired feet
out of them as fast as he could.

When he opened the front door, the aromas wafting from the
kitchen about knocked him over. “Mom! It smells fantastic in here!”

“Good. Now hurry and get cleaned up. We’re about ready to
sit down.”

His mother hadn’t bought a turkey, of course, thinking
they’d be out at the farm, but she made do by roasting a chicken with all the
usual side dishes. The three of them enjoyed a quiet meal together, though
Danny insisted they could have made it out to the farm with the chains Dad had
put on the tires. But Dad said no and that was that.

Over slices of pumpkin pie and coffee, they chatted about
the war news, the neighbors, and the latest big movie,
Mr. Smith Goes to
Washington
. The movie had caused quite a stir in some political circles. They’d
heard Joseph Kennedy had tried to have the movie banned, calling in favors from
some of the biggest names in
Hollywood
. In the end, his
attempt failed and the Jimmy Stewart drama was a big hit with folks all over
the country.

Danny added a little more whipped cream to his pie. “I liked
the part where he was so tired from that long speech that he passed out.”

Just then, Dad tapped his water glass with his knife. Danny
looked at his mother who shrugged as though she had no idea what this was about.

“I have an announcement to make,” his father began.

Danny swallowed hard.
Oh dear Lord, please don’t let this
be about me going to work with Dad.

“The old Windsor Place Theater went up for sale, and I’ve
decided to buy it.”

His mother’s fork dropped, clattering on her plate. “What?”

“Lester Gentry told me he wants to retire and asked if I’d
be interested. I thought it over and decided I’m going to do it.”

Danny breathed a long sigh, relieved his quick prayer had
been answered. “Sounds great, Dad.”

“I’m glad you think so because you’ll be helping me run it.”

An expletive shot through Danny’s brain, but he caught it
before it slipped from his lips. He tried to act grateful but failed miserably.
“Uh, well, we can, uh, talk about it, I guess.”

“Nothing to talk about. I’ll teach you the ropes over the
next few months, and by graduation you’ll know everything you need to know.”

Danny looked at his mother, hoping the expression on his
face conveyed his frustration.

She set her coffee cup on its saucer. “Frank, Danny needs to
be the one to plan his future. Not you.”

“Nonsense. Why, if it was up to him, he’d go spend all my
hard-earned money at that fool college in
Evanston
.”

“Not your money.
His
money.”

“That’s ridiculous. He could never—”

“He has and he will. He’s worked hard, saved every penny,
and has more than enough to pay for his first year.”

Danny swallowed hard before turning back to face his father.
“It’s true, Dad. I don’t need your money because—”

“Well, it’s a good thing, because you won’t get a dime from
me.”

“Fine.”

“Fine,” his mother added.

Dad looked back and forth between them, his face darkening.
“So, I see the two of you have made an alliance against me. Well, isn’t that
nice. A man works hard to provide for his family, and they gang up on him
behind his back. Well, to hell with both of you.” He threw his napkin on his
plate, shoved his chair back, and stormed from the room.

His mother closed her eyes as she raised her palm toward Danny.
When the door to the basement slammed, she pointed in that direction and opened
her eyes. “Sorry, I’ve learned to wait for the slamming of the door. It’s his
punctuation mark whenever he gets this way. Which you surely know by now.”

“I’m sorry, Mom. I’d hoped we could stay off the subject
since it’s a holiday.”

She reached over and covered his hand with hers. “Not your
fault, honey. And besides, we’re long overdue telling him your plans. We both
know there was no easy way to do it, so today was as good a day as any. At
least you and I have something to be extra thankful for this Thanksgiving.” She
smiled, squeezing his hand.

Danny leaned over and planted a kiss on her cheek. “Thanks. And
you’re right. What a relief. Finally!”

“He’ll huff and puff for a few weeks, but he’ll eventually
accept it.”

“You think so?”

“I hope so. But even if he doesn’t, what’s done is done. And
you, my son, are going to college!”

“I can’t believe it. It’s really happening, isn’t it?”

“It sure is. I never doubted it would. Every night before I
go to bed, I get down on my knees and ask God to intervene for you and help you
see your dream of college come true. Of course, I pray for your brother,
too—even when he doesn’t bother to write home.” She rolled her eyes. “I believe
God has opened this door for you. This is an answer to our prayers, Danny.
Never forget that.”

“I won’t. And thanks, Mom. Not just for praying, but for
understanding.”

“You’re most welcome.”

Danny stood. “Tell you what. As a token of my appreciation,
I’ll clean the kitchen. You go sit by the fire and I’ll bring you another cup
of coffee. Then Sophie and I will do the dishes.”

She looked up at the ceiling. “Oh, Lord Jesus, thank You for
a son who knows how to bless his mother.” Then she pulled him toward her, put
her hands on his cheeks and gave him a long kiss on the forehead. “I am a
blessed, blessed woman.”

“Go. Sit. Sophie, you wash and I’ll dry.”

“What?!”

“I’m kidding, Mom. Now scoot. Can’t you see we’re busy clearing
the table?”

Later
that evening, with the kitchen scrubbed and sparkling, Danny sliced another
piece of pumpkin pie and tiptoed past his mother who was napping on the sofa.
He could hear his dad still down in the basement banging around with his tools,
probably still grumbling to himself. Danny hoped he stayed down there a while.
He headed upstairs, looking forward to writing Anya a letter. Snow was falling
again, so any more shoveling would have to wait.

Sophie
hopped up on the bed, her long ears swaying back and forth until she circled
twice and settled in for a snooze. Danny grabbed a pen and paper, using last
year’s
Calumet
yearbook
as a writing surface.

“Sophie,
do you mind?” He pushed her to the side, allowing himself enough room to sit on
his bed to write. She snorted once for good measure, then lay her head back
down.

Dear
Anya,

It was
great to get your letter yesterday. It sounds like you’re already quite popular
with all the farm animals, which is no surprise. I’ve tried to imagine you
squatting beside Josephine as you milk her, but I’m sure the images in my head
don’t do it justice. And congratulations on the new litter of piglets—or “biggetjes”
as you called them. Why, you must be in hog heaven! (Ha ha) Have your parents
accepted your new job?

You
won’t believe what happened today . . .

Danny wrote
out the details of their most unusual Thanksgiving, the unexpected table
conversation, and the great relief he now felt. He knew she’d understand. Three
pages later, he began to wrap it up.

I
realize this may be the last letter you receive from me before Sinterklaas.
You’ll have to write and tell me all about the special gifts you and your parents
made for each other. I know it will be hard for you without Hans, but maybe you
can focus on the good memories and celebrate his life. I still miss him too.

Merry Christmas
to
you and your family.

Danny

10

February 19,
1940

Dear
Danny,

Today
is my birthday, though there’s little to celebrate. I don’t think Hans ever
told you that he and I shared the same birthday. Mother always told me that when
I was born, Hans thought I was one of his birthday gifts. I smile whenever I
think of it and how happy he must have been. But today, I find it hard to
smile. This is now my second birthday without my brother.

In The
Netherlands
birthdays
are very special. We normally get up early and open all our gifts, then have a
special breakfast of our favorite foods. But the air is filled with such
tension now, none of us felt like celebrating. Mother and Father tried to make
a nice morning for me, but we are all much too nervous. And it’s very difficult
to get certain kinds of food now, certainly nothing for a cake.

The weather
turned bitterly cold this week and coal is already scarce. We wear several
layers of clothing on the days the coal runs out and sleep under many blankets.
I still ride my bicycle out to the Boormans’ farm to help out. My piglets are
growing much too fast. With food so scarce, I worry they will be slaughtered to
provide the family and others with food to eat or sell. I’ve named them all. I
can’t stand thinking their little lives may soon be over.

Wim is
on a crutch now, but he’s too slow to help much. Sometimes he keeps me company in
the barn as I help with the chores. He’s very nice. The other day I caught him
staring at me. At first it made me mad. Then the more I thought about it, I
liked it. All my friends have dated, but always I have found that most boys are
stupid. Now I’m not so sure anymore.

You
must write to tell me of new movies that have come to your father’s theater. I
think it is nice that you offered to help him out. I’m glad to hear he’s
stopped being so mad at you. I wonder if you see the same newsreels we see at
the cinema. They seem longer and longer. They trouble me, always showing bombs
dropped here and there. We heard on the BBC that all of
Britain
is now
on food rationing, though they already evacuated most of their civilians last fall.
Between
Britain
,
France
,
Australia
,
New
Zealand
, and
Canada
, you’d
think the Allies could finish off Hitler once and for all. I don’t know how
much longer we can hold out.

I
apologize for rambling so. I can’t seem to keep my mind focused on anything right
now.

Anya

Danny still
found it hard to believe the
United States
had
not joined the Allies to fight the Germans. How long would
America
continue to turn its back on all those countries falling to the Nazis? He
wished someone like Jimmy Stewart’s Mr. Smith could stand up to the government
and convince them to help win the war.

He
reminded himself to send a small belated gift to Anya for her birthday. Though
what he might get her, he had no idea. His mother loved to embroider delicate
handkerchiefs. Then again, he never thought of Anya as the “delicate” type. It
was hard to visualize her with something so refined. He would have to give it
more thought.

As he
finished getting ready to head to the theater, something felt off-balance.
Something wasn’t quite right, and the sense of feeling so unsettled bugged him.
It wasn’t until he was going down the stairs with Sophie at his side that he
figured it out.

Wim. The
farmer’s son who apparently has a crush on Anya.

Yes,
something was definitely off-balance, and Danny had a feeling he knew exactly what
it was. For the first time in his life, he was jealous.

Danny climbed the rungs leading up to the projection booth.
As much as he’d dreaded the thought of working for his dad, he had to admit he
really liked it. For the first time he could remember, he’d stood up to his
father, telling him he’d like to help out, but only with the understanding it
was just temporary until fall when he’d be a full-time student at Northwestern.
Of course, his dad had moaned and groaned about it, but in the end Danny could
tell he was pleased his son had offered to help. As long as he could keep Dad
from strong-arming him when it came time to leave, he’d be okay.

He crawled into the booth—an enclosed closet built in the
back of the room above the theater. He flipped on the small lamp, pulled the
bag off his shoulder, then lifted the sliding door to the dumbwaiter behind him
to retrieve the film cans. He was relieved to see a new horror film in the
rotation. Since
Gone With the Wind
had released in January, the
blockbuster had remained in the evening show time at Windsor Place Theater for
more than a month. Thankfully, the afternoon slot still had some variety.

“
Son of Frankenstein.
It’s about time,” he said out
loud.

The long-awaited sequel to
The Bride of Frankenstein
had
caused quite a stir the last couple of months—at least by those not obsessing
over
Gone With the Wind
. David O’Selznick’s epic saga ran three hours
and forty-four minutes plus a fifteen-minute intermission. Danny often caught
himself dozing off after the first three times he saw the film. Still, it gave
him more than enough time to finish his homework, write a letter to Anya, read
the latest sports news in the paper, and anything else he could think of to
fill the time.

But this afternoon, he would get to watch Boris Karloff as
the ugly Monster, Basil Rathbone as Wolf von Frankenstein, and Bela Lugosi as
Ygor. He couldn’t wait.

“All set up there?”

Danny leaned out the door of the booth. “All set, Dad. Who’s
doing the intermission today?”

Dad grumbled under his breath.

“What’s that?”

“Marco Polo. Dumbest act I ever saw, but the fools who come
here seem to like him.”

“Ah, he’s not so bad. The man can juggle just about
anything.”

“Yeah, he can juggle all right. The other night he juggled a
bunch of kittens. I’ll never hear the end of it. Some lady got all worked up
and reported it to the police.”

Danny laughed. “What’d they do?”

“Nothing. Some stooge from downtown came out here and tried
to tell me I owed the city a fine of $500. I let him know that would happen
when hell froze over. I think I put the fear of God in him. Haven’t heard
another peep outta that little jerk.”

Oh, the wrath of Frank McClain.

Dad pulled out his pocket watch and opened it. “I’m gonna
head home for dinner. Your mom send you something to eat?” He closed the watch and
slipped it back in his pocket.

“She sure did. Pot roast, carrots and potatoes, and a piece
of chocolate cake for dessert.”

“Alrighty then. You take care. Steve’s in the lobby on
concessions, and Katherine’s in the ticket booth. Any problem, give me a call
at the house.”

“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.