Brooklyn Wars Read online

  I scanned the nearby stores. The sparkling pink nail salon? Not at all likely. The coffee house that promised Fair Trade beans and gluten-free muffins? Not bloody likely. The corner grocery store? Maybe. The shabby laundry that looked as if it had been there forever? With Chinese letters on the sign? Ah ha. A living stereotype that also happened to be true around here.

  The well-spoken Asian boy at the front, reading a physics textbook, was obviously weekend help in the family business. He had no idea, and the weary middle-aged woman at the sewing machine—his mother?—had no idea but she called loudly in an Asian language to an old lady in the back. When the older woman slowly came up to the front she spoke in heavily accented English but she knew what I wanted.

  “He’s an old man, mostly bald, and maybe confused. He says he lives down the block where they are tearing the buildings down now.”

  “Not so old.” She shook her head. “Maybe now old but when we open here, he young. His wife come with work clothes, very dirty. He had hard work.” She gave me a tight smile. “Long time ago now. Not seen him lately.”

  “Grandma! How can you remember that?”

  “I’m old, not stupid.” She returned to her chair in the back, head held high.

  Great. I had learned something new, but it didn’t get me any closer to answers. It only confused me more.

  By the time I got home, much against my will I was thinking about a return trip to the Navy Yard. Unless I tossed out this whole chapter. I could hit that delete key and move on. It would be so easy, but I could not stand the idea that I had wasted all this time on it, and I was damned if I was going to admit to my advisor that it had been a mistake.

  Maybe I could find someone who was there when Chris was. Someone who led the tour. The website had a whole section about tours. Could I call the tour office? Probably would not find staff there today, on a Sunday.

  What I found, instead, was an array of photos from the last tour. Chris’ tour. Such fun to get a glimpse of Chris, being herself away from me. She was snapping pictures of her surroundings while someone else was snapping pictures of her. In some she was typing away into her phone, taking notes I thought. Hoped.

  The rest of the group looked like the usual mix of tourists, war history buffs, and old Brooklyn fans, people of different ages but all dressed for a chilly harbor outing. Lots of real cameras as well as phones.

  And there, in one photo was someone who looked completely different. He seemed to be ignoring both the guide and the view. He was looking at his hands. Or at the tourists. He was the man who had frightened Chris. Probably. And probably the man who was lurking on our block in the dark last night.

  Well, I thought, why was he there? And what was he doing?

  In the photo I couldn’t tell if he was staring at Chris or not. Maybe. He was on the fringe of the tour, not fully part of it. Maybe not part of it at all. But I could ask my neighbors if anyone else had seen him on our block last night or any other time. Mrs. Pastore wasn’t the only older person who was an informal neighborhood block-watcher. You could call them busybodies—the teen-agers certainly did—but I didn’t. They had time on their hands and they swept the sidewalk every day, gardened, sat on their stoops smoking. Kept on eye on things.

  Mrs. Pastore was the one I knew best, and Mr. Pastore, who touched up his small front garden every day before he headed to the back to tend his grape arbor and fish pond. I took my laptop with me when I knocked on their door.

  “Oh, Erica, come on in. I’ve got a fresh pot of coffee, and my own walnut roll, too. I did a new thing and frosted it. Some days, ya know, you want the sugar. You’ll try a slice?”

  I know better than to turn down anything Mrs. Pastore baked.

  “I’d love to, but I came by to ask you a question. You and Mr. Pastore, too, if he is around?”

  “Sure. You sit. I’ll get him from the back. I’m trying to make him work less.”

  The coffee smelled great and the cake was calling my name.

  She returned with her husband

  “Sal, you gotta rest sometimes, take a break from the bending and have a little snack. You know you’re not a kid anymore.”

  “Who says?”

  She smacked him on his arm, and he smiled.

  “I used to help my uncle, Sal senior, in that same garden since I was a kid. This was his house back then. Same grape arbor. And she says I can’t do it now?” He shook his head.

  He started telling me about his uncle and I was into my second slice of cake before I could ask my question.

  “A loiterer? On our block? I can’t say that I’ve seen one. And he’d better not come back. I keep a baseball bat beside the door.”

  Mrs. Pastore frowned. “We don’t get out much at night. But let me see that picture.”

  She looked at the screen with her glasses off and her glasses on, and finally conceded that she did not know him. “But still, there’s something about him. I can’t get my finger on it. Old brains, you know?”

  “I have a name. Assuming he told the truth.” I now doubted that. “My friend asked him.”

  “Ah.” She smiled. “Last night. You went out with that cute cop. He did the questioning?”

  “Mrs. P, how did you know that?”

  She smiled. “You got a name? So give it.”

  The name meant nothing, and they apologized for not being able to help.

  I went home to make pancakes for Chris and Melanie.

  I had my lunch while they had breakfast and chattered about last night. I was amused to see the two athletes, whose bodies were temples of fitness, devouring the bacon. I told them what I had learned.

  “Mom, you did all that this morning? While we were still asleep? Wow.”

  “It’s amazing how much…”

  Their giggling stopped me dead.

  “You’re going to say it, aren’t you, just like my mom?” Mel and Chris continued together in singsong. “‘…how much you can get done when you don’t sleep half the day away.’”

  “What is most amazing is that we moms all have the same operating manual. Any chance we could be right?” My smile was only half mocking. “More syrup, anyone?”

  “And I suppose you are going to tell that cop all about it?”

  “Chris. Cut the hostility. He was helpful last night.” She was silent and sulking. “And what it is this all about anyway?”

  She muttered, “You know,” as she stood to carry her dishes to the sink.

  A sulking teenager, a mystery I could not solve, a chapter I could not finish, my baffling romantic life. This seemed like a good time to escape to the past, where life was simpler. Actually, any historian knows that’s a lie. Life was never simpler. It’s only a trick of distance.

  Whatever. Philomena’s diary would take me someplace that was not my life and that was exactly what I wanted.

  I picked up where I had left off, with Philomena writing about her growing relationship. She sounded like the very young girl she was, delighted, silly, swoony. He was handsome, sweet, funny, altogether perfect.

  I noted the references to ordinary life during the war. She missed sugar in her coffee. She helped her father in their victory garden on a hot, sunny day. She bravely tasted tripe at a Horn & Hardart Automat, trying to make the best of the meat shortages. At home her father complained about dinners and her mother smacked her big cooking spoon down on the table and said, “If the president says meatless Monday, that’s what you gonna have.”

  She missed the exhilarating dazzle of Times Square and wondered if the lights would ever come back on.

  But mainly, she was a young girl, falling in love for the first time and she wrote from her heart. A page with worry about the lack of letters from her brother on a ship “somewhere in the Pacific” alternated with a page about a “heavenly” evening out. He was different from the neighborhood boys. He
thought about big things like politics. And love. There were hints that the relationship was moving past the good-night kiss stage.

  I suddenly found myself with tears in my eyes. Her words went right to my memories of Jeff. The wonder of it all. The dazzling feelings. My own heavenly nights.

  Reading her pages brought home to me that my romantic life was a tangled mess.

  After a page decorated with colored pencil hearts and flowers, I slammed the book shut, walked around the room a few times, and used sheer willpower to force the tears in my eyes to stay right there.

  I gave myself a little mental slap. My real reason for having and reading the diary was to learn about what happened to Philomena. I could skip the story of her romance and go right to the end. That shortcut would be easier on my confused emotions, as well as more efficient for my research. Maybe.

  The last page was dated January 1, 1946. She said “I don’t want to write here anymore. I am a grownup now, living a grownup life. Everything is different. Even in the middle of the war, I was personally happy. Now the war is over, but I am sad. How strange life turns out.”

  What? What happened to her? I flipped back several pages, taking note of the dates. She wrote every few days in the beginning, but as the war went on, the pages were more irregular, the notes shorter. Grownup life was happening. A brother came home wounded. A childhood friend did not come home at all, his body lying in a Normandy cemetery.

  Finally, going back far enough, I found it. He was drafted. She didn’t understand exactly how he had ended up in the Army, instead of the Navy, where he could have used his shipyard skills. He was going to Germany.

  Before he left, he gave her a ring, an Irish design with clasped hands, with a promise of a better one when he came back. She wore it on a chain around her neck, under her clothes. Her family didn’t like him, and she wrote, “Why have an excuse to fight while he is gone? I won the fight about my job and I’ll win this one when he comes back for me.”

  So maybe he died in action, and she never got over it. I understood that. But she was so young. Did she mourn him forever? Phyllis described her as always seeming to have an underlying sadness. I began flipping pages again. If only I could find his full name I could search military records.

  After more flipping and months later, Philomena herself gave me the answer in one short sentence. “He came home.” A sketch of fireworks and hearts followed it.

  A page or two later, she wrote a few sentences. “I am so happy but they will not let me be happy. They all disapprove. He’s got no family. He’s not Catholic. He’s not Italian. Who cares? What did we fight the war for? He’ll never fit in. And then they started on the politics and went on and on. I don’t care. I don’t care, I do not care!!!”

  A month later, she wrote, “Another battle. Vito and Al. Even Frankie. He’s getting better with the physical therapy and expects to go back to work soon. Even he said, ‘He’s not one of us’ And they all said, ‘Open your eyes, silly girl.’ They said that! What nerve, after all I’ve done. They said ‘The war’s over. There are cutbacks at the Yard. Any excuse, they said. Any excuse at all and we will lose our jobs. You don’t remember what it was like when there was no work.’

  “Vito threw a newspaper at me. ‘Read what’s going on in Congress! Communist plots everywhere. And you think you love a Commie? What’s wrong with you?’

  “He said all that, my horrid oldest brother.

  “‘You think you know things? Let me tell you.’ But then he didn’t tell me a thing. Just shouted. And I was so mad I said I would join the party too. Why not? It’s legal just like the Democrats!

  And Mom and Papa didn’t say a word until two of them—my own brothers!—grabbed my arms and shook me. Then Papa said ‘Basta! You go to your room’ to me, as if I’m a little girl—and to them, ‘Go home and cool off.’

  “I operate dangerous machinery at work and help repair giant warships. I am no little girl. I did not go to my room. I went out to meet my love instead, and I cried and he held me tight and then tighter, and we started to make our plans.”

  Wow.

  Then, the next day, she wrote about a walk with her favorite brother. “He said, ‘I understand, Phillie, I do. It’s love, all birds singing all the time.’

  I said, ‘Don’t you dare make fun of me’. He apologized but only a little. Then he said, ‘Look around you. The girls are all being sent home so the soldiers can get their jobs back, right?’ True. A lot of my friends have left. Some of them said they were happy, going home to have babies, but some of them cried and cried.

  ‘Don’t you wonder why you are still there? We have some influence, your family. You’ll get an office job, but you’ll stay. But any problems, any scandal? You’d be out and we will be too. Vito is a jerk but he told the truth about how it was when there was no work at all some days and the only food was what Dad grew in the garden. You remember?’

  ‘Maybe.’ I said. ‘A little. Lots of carrots.’

  ‘Mama made your clothes over and then over again. One winter Dad and me and Vito shared one winter coat. We all worked different shifts. Now we got families of our own to take care of. You getting what I’m saying?’

  I got it, all right. They were scared. Seems like Congress scared them more than the Axis. I don’t get that. And it has nothing to do with me and my life!!!!!!

  !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

  The row of exclamation points after that, written so hard the pen tore the paper. That told me as much as her words. Good for you, Philomena, I thought.

  Chapter Twenty

  I hoped for a quiet, even dull, evening with no shocking surprises. It was not to be.

  Over dinner, Chris said, “Almost forgot. I talked to Grandma after school. She’s coming for her visit tomorrow.”

  I dropped my spaghetti and fork on the floor.

  “Would you please say that again?”

  “Mom! It’s not that hard. Grandma. Is. Coming. To Visit.”

  “When were you planning to share this with me?’

  “I just did.” She eyed me warily. “Are you upset or something?”

  “Well, Chris…” And I listed all the craziness going on in our lives, concluding with, “So you see why this is not the right time for a visit from Phyllis.” A more honest response would have been that no time was the right time.

  “You’re always busy and stressed. And I am always busy and stressed, like any teen. But I want to see her and she is going to help some more with my project. Get this. She will come to school the day I present it in class. Like, living history.”

  Did I catch a triumphant gleam in her eye? She’d said the magic words, and she knew it. And I knew it too. I hate when that happens

  “Okay. Okay. Give me her travel plans. Is she flying? Alone? How will she get here?” One more thing to deal with in my crowded life. Like I needed this, I thought. She grinned.

  “And here’s the good part. Grandpa volunteered to pick her up at the airport and bring her here, and keep her busy while we are out doing our things. So it’s all good.”

  “I don’t get this new friendship between them. Do you?”

  “I believe he’s trying to help me. It’s weird not to have more family, so he’s stepping up.” She looked right at me. “You don’t seem convinced.”

  I could not say what was on my mind, not even part of it. I glanced up at the clock and snapped out, “Look at the time! I still have work to do and your homework can’t be done yet?”

  “Not even close.” She saw my fraying patience and added, “See? Me. Going. Putting dishes in dishwasher. See me going upstairs.”

  Should I go do my own homework? Not very tempting. Call my dad and pick a fight? Tempting, indeed, but the satisfaction would be momentary. Call Joe, who often appreciated Chris’ smart-aleck attitude more than
I did? Very tempting. But no. I would not know what to say and could not face the results of saying it wrong. Whatever it was I might say.

  I checked the back of the freezer for some forgotten ice cream. No luck.

  “Chris, I’m going out for a walk,” I shouted up the stairs. “Maybe ice cream? You want any?”

  “What? No? I’m in training. Remember?” A long pause. “Maybe some sorbet? Raspberry? No, lemon. No, I want orange. With chocolate sprinkles?”

  “Got it. Back soon.”

  I walked briskly through the chilly night. The ice cream store would not be crowded this time of year. I debated warming up with hot fudge sauce on mine.

  It was exactly what I needed, sugar, cream, and chocolate in perfect proportions. Walking home, Chris’ sorbet in hand, I felt much better. I could handle Phyllis in my house at this point in my life. I wasn’t the insecure young bride, resentful at the way she rearranged my kitchen and foisted on me family china I didn’t want or like.

  I stopped to consider buying a doughnut for tomorrow morning. I was standing in front of a small, old-fashioned luncheonette. And there were Joe and his sister at a table in the back, uneaten dinners in front of them.

  They were having an intense conversation. I could tell by their body language, even though I could not hear a word.

  She talked. He talked. He was serious, making points by counting them off on his fingers. She started to cry. He held her hand. She put her head on his shoulder and he put his arm around her. She took the handkerchief he offered, wiped her face, and gave him a shaky smile. She passed him a piece of paper from her purse and he read it, nodded, made notes. He looked at her and said something and she smiled with relief.

  He fed her some fried chicken from her plate and she laughed and they both dug into their dinners.

  I didn’t need sound. I could tell he was comforting her. I knew. He was saying it would be all right. He was saying I promise. I’m here for you. I always will be.

  I felt as if I could cry myself. As if I had forgotten for a little while who he is, and now I was reminded. His troubled sister’s support. Chris’ designated uncle. My own best friend.