Mario by her side.
âMario go to Port Chicago!â he yelled, twisting and pulling. âMario go to Port Chicago!â
âShut up, sweetheart!â she cried. âYou make Mama crazy!â
â Andiamo ,â the uncle called, getting in behind the wheel. With a last glance over her shoulder, Mrs. Pelegrino climbed in and settled Mario on her lap. Ezio got in after her and slammed the door. Framed by the window, his flinty, lifted profile moved down the street, and he was gone.
Two days later the house was up for rent.
Chapter 7
B EHIND Sheriff OâTooleâs office a model air raid shelter had been completed. I went down inside and looked. It was snug and clean, but somehow seemed a worse place to die in than a cellar. By the train depot there now stood a hastily constructed USO canteen. The Native Daughters of the Golden West passed out sandwiches and coffee, and from the windows you could hear âDonât Get Around Much Anymoreâ and âThat Old Black Magicâ blaring from the jukebox. Mr. Nagaiâs flower shop, painted and redecorated, had reopened under a new sign: âModern Miss Apparel.â On May 6, Corregidor fell.
But the fullness of spring gathered as always. For weeks the sky had been a hard blue, and the breeze was cool. Now the sky softened, the wind vanished, the air hung hot and fragrant. Trees rustled green and heavy. Above the calm, glassy bay the hills loomed emerald green.
At school sweaters were pulled off and tied around waists. Then they were gone for good, along with pounds of hair, for everyone seemed to have had his or her hair cut, the girlsâ shorn straight and clean high across the neck, and the boysâ clipped so close their ears stood out. Bare-necked, bare-armed, I felt a rippling freshness on my exposed skin. In the backyard, I helped Peter and Karla plant a victory garden.
All at once the Saturday matinees showed nothing but war films, ranging from The Commandos Strike at Dawn to Abbott and Costello Join the Navy. Clark Gable and Victor Mature were in uniform. Even Elsie the cowâs husband Elmer wore an overseas cap. Classmatesâ older brothers and cousins disappeared from soda fountains and jalopies, leaving behind blue stars in windows. Windows were filled with all sorts of information: âBlock Wardenâ and âWe Buy War Bonds!â and âQuiet, Please, War Worker Sleeping.â In car windows there were pasted gas-rationing coupons and stickers saying âGive âem a Lift!â and âDim Lights After Dark!â At school we wrote essays on What America Means to Me. We bought defense stamps. We turned in big balls of collected tinfoil. In music class we kept to the patriotic strains of âAmerica the Beautifulâ and âMy Country âTis of Thee,â adding more raucously at recess âIâm Gonna Slap a Dirty Little Jap.â Housing tracts mushroomed through the county. The stores downtown were crowded, though there was a shortage of zippers, alarm clocks, soap, fountain pens, boxed candy, even of matchbooks. Everywhere you saw people use wooden kitchen matches to light their Fleetwoods, a new and apparently dissatisfying brand that had sprung up in the absence of Camels and Chesterfields. Everyone had money to burn; but sugar, coffee, and butter were a luxury, and you stood in line at the market with your little green ration book and carried your groceries home in the same paper bag until it fell apart. Dresses were suddenly short and skimpy, with no pockets or ruffles, to conserve cloth. In place of nylon stockings, women covered their legs with tan makeup and drew on black seams with eyebrow pencil. But more often they wore pants called slacks. They worked in shipyards and defense plants. Some of them lived alone, their husbands having been drafted, and with greasy wrenches they repaired their own cars, and with hoes and mowers they cut down the lush spring grass in
âMario go to Port Chicago!â he yelled, twisting and pulling. âMario go to Port Chicago!â
âShut up, sweetheart!â she cried. âYou make Mama crazy!â
â Andiamo ,â the uncle called, getting in behind the wheel. With a last glance over her shoulder, Mrs. Pelegrino climbed in and settled Mario on her lap. Ezio got in after her and slammed the door. Framed by the window, his flinty, lifted profile moved down the street, and he was gone.
Two days later the house was up for rent.
Chapter 7
B EHIND Sheriff OâTooleâs office a model air raid shelter had been completed. I went down inside and looked. It was snug and clean, but somehow seemed a worse place to die in than a cellar. By the train depot there now stood a hastily constructed USO canteen. The Native Daughters of the Golden West passed out sandwiches and coffee, and from the windows you could hear âDonât Get Around Much Anymoreâ and âThat Old Black Magicâ blaring from the jukebox. Mr. Nagaiâs flower shop, painted and redecorated, had reopened under a new sign: âModern Miss Apparel.â On May 6, Corregidor fell.
But the fullness of spring gathered as always. For weeks the sky had been a hard blue, and the breeze was cool. Now the sky softened, the wind vanished, the air hung hot and fragrant. Trees rustled green and heavy. Above the calm, glassy bay the hills loomed emerald green.
At school sweaters were pulled off and tied around waists. Then they were gone for good, along with pounds of hair, for everyone seemed to have had his or her hair cut, the girlsâ shorn straight and clean high across the neck, and the boysâ clipped so close their ears stood out. Bare-necked, bare-armed, I felt a rippling freshness on my exposed skin. In the backyard, I helped Peter and Karla plant a victory garden.
All at once the Saturday matinees showed nothing but war films, ranging from The Commandos Strike at Dawn to Abbott and Costello Join the Navy. Clark Gable and Victor Mature were in uniform. Even Elsie the cowâs husband Elmer wore an overseas cap. Classmatesâ older brothers and cousins disappeared from soda fountains and jalopies, leaving behind blue stars in windows. Windows were filled with all sorts of information: âBlock Wardenâ and âWe Buy War Bonds!â and âQuiet, Please, War Worker Sleeping.â In car windows there were pasted gas-rationing coupons and stickers saying âGive âem a Lift!â and âDim Lights After Dark!â At school we wrote essays on What America Means to Me. We bought defense stamps. We turned in big balls of collected tinfoil. In music class we kept to the patriotic strains of âAmerica the Beautifulâ and âMy Country âTis of Thee,â adding more raucously at recess âIâm Gonna Slap a Dirty Little Jap.â Housing tracts mushroomed through the county. The stores downtown were crowded, though there was a shortage of zippers, alarm clocks, soap, fountain pens, boxed candy, even of matchbooks. Everywhere you saw people use wooden kitchen matches to light their Fleetwoods, a new and apparently dissatisfying brand that had sprung up in the absence of Camels and Chesterfields. Everyone had money to burn; but sugar, coffee, and butter were a luxury, and you stood in line at the market with your little green ration book and carried your groceries home in the same paper bag until it fell apart. Dresses were suddenly short and skimpy, with no pockets or ruffles, to conserve cloth. In place of nylon stockings, women covered their legs with tan makeup and drew on black seams with eyebrow pencil. But more often they wore pants called slacks. They worked in shipyards and defense plants. Some of them lived alone, their husbands having been drafted, and with greasy wrenches they repaired their own cars, and with hoes and mowers they cut down the lush spring grass in
Similar Books
