Read Alice At The Home Front Online
Authors: Mardiyah A. Tarantino
“We-e-ell, we have high school kids doing some spottin’ but no children.” He was chewing on something. “You’re not old enough.”
Alice had brought along her cards, which she now pulled out of her jacket pocket and thrust at Mr. Parker.
“Ask me. Choose any card you want. I’ll be a great spotter. I know them all. Just give me a manual, and I’ll find my own lookout place. In fact, I know of a great one. Test me. Go ahead.”
Mr. Parker stared at her with his washed-out blue eyes for what seemed a long time. “Tell you what,” he finally said. “I’ll give you the manual, and you can study it. Then when you’re older, you can come back and I’ll see what you’ve learned.”
“But I’m ready
now
, Mr.—” Alice grit her teeth and felt hot.
“You’re too young, Missy, and that’s that. Don’t bother to call me up with any Lockheeds or Boeings or Douglases. That’s no good to nobody.”
“I won’t. Or any Fokkers or Curtisses,” she added, clamping her mouth shut.
Mr. Parker went back in to get the manual, and Alice waited forever, staring at chipped green paint on the door. When he came back, he handed her a heavy book with GROUND OBSERVER’S GUIDE printed on the cover. The pages with the really hard-to-spot planes were dog-eared. Alice thumbed through and saw that most of the silhouettes of planes she’d already learned to recognize. It was useless, really.
“You tell your parents I said you’d be better off studyin’ your school books,” said Mr. Parker. “Spottin’ ain’t for children.”
Furious, Alice thanked him as politely as she could, because you never knew. He might come in handy some day. But she wasn’t going to let the grouchy old fool stand in her way.
“Better skedaddle. Blackout’s at eight.”
“Your door needs painting,” she said over her shoulder, as she ran up the street without a thought of dogs or of getting lost.
* * *
The blackout started just as she crept in the back door and up to her room. Before closing the door, she listened a minute to FDR’s voice, the president of the United States, giving his Fireside Chat on the radio. She knew her family would be huddled in front of the console, sitting very still, because what he said always gave people courage to continue working for the war effort, Gramp had explained. She also knew, having seen photos, that Mr. Roosevelt’s black Scottish terrier, Fala, would be sitting at his feet during the broadcast. He looked like a good, reasonable dog, the kind a president should have. Mr. Roosevelt gave the people courage, but Fala gave Mr. Roosevelt courage, guessed Alice.
Once in her room, Alice dug out
The Wind in the Willows
from a pile of books beside her bed. She reached for her tiny flashlight and started reading under the covers, making sure Mr. Hopkins, the warden, wouldn’t be able to see the faint light when making his rounds. Finally, she dozed off. And this time she knew it was a dream, because there was Fala, the president’s dog, at the helm of a troop ship with a captain’s hat perched over one ear and a pipe in his teeth. Alice laughed in her sleep and turned over on her side.
The following afternoon after school, Alice began executing her plan by dragging half a sandbag up the attic stairs. She’d dumped out the other half in her closet because it was too heavy and propped the closet door closed with the back of a chair, like she’d seen them do in the movies. She suspected even with the door closed, it wouldn’t stop Mother from looking in. How many bags would she have to haul in all? She had no idea. The sandbag she was dragging went
plop-plop
each step she took. She hauled it up to the windowsill where a wind from the North Pole blew in through the half-opened window and whipped her face.
Winter isn’t such a good time to do this
, she thought. She wasn’t quite sure how the sandbags were going to work. She’d have to see how Gramp arranged them in the basement, so if some of the Ground Corps people came, she’d know what to say.
“See these sandbags? Got the place covered in case of incendiary bombs,” she’d explain. “This is a perfect lookout, isn’t it? Better than the one they’ve got down at the loony—uh, bin. Have a cookie? Want to read my notes?” And they’d look around, impressed at what she’d done.
That Monday morning her mother discovered the sand, which was now leaking from behind the closet door and covering her bedroom floor like in that Arabian Nights story. Mother had Alice sweep up every grain—well, almost every grain. Quite a few were swept behind the waste paper basket. The plan for spotting planes from the attic was squelched right then and there.
“You want to climb up there on the
roof
? And in the middle of
winter
?” she scolded. “I’ll allow you to spot from your bedroom window, providing you don’t lean out, and that’s all.”
Alice felt desperate. “I’ve got to lean out to
see
!” she yowled with a look of despair at Gramp, who followed up with a suggestion.
“My window’s perfect,” he said. “Looks in a different direction. Now ye got two windows.” He faced Mother. “Can’t give orders about my window, now, can ye?” And he winked at Alice.
“Thanks, Gramp,” she said. And then she added, “Thanks Gran’ma,” speaking to a spot in the sky where she thought Gran’ma might be living now.
The weeks went by and finally dancing school was starting up again. It had been closed for the summer, and no one was sure that it would open with the war on. But it did, and Alice was going that very Tuesday afternoon. Alice loved dancing and was secretly very excited (though not wanting to admit it). It was going to be wonderful, except for one thing: her ugly new dress. She and Mother had argued about it for a good half hour in the dressing room of Shepherds Department Store.
“It’s got no waist! It just hangs down straight!” Alice scrunched her face up like a prune, checking the effect in the dressing room mirror. “I hate it! I might as well be wearing a pup tent.” She’d seen pup tents in the newsreels.
“Feel it, Alice. It’s beautiful material. You’re lucky to have such a lovely blue dress with puffed sleeves. Don’t you know that? Many of the girls will be wearing theirs from last year. That’s how scarce dresses are these days.”
“I hate it.”
“You’re a very spoiled little girl.”
Alice shrugged.
When Mother handed the dress over to the saleslady, Alice knew she was beaten. But the worst was still to come.
The next day, beside the dress on her bed, her mother had laid out her garter belt—the one from last year, because she hadn’t grown that much—and a pair of stockings. All the girls wore stockings with patent leather shoes to dancing school. Alice eyed the stockings before picking them up. They looked funny. She held one up with two fingers. It was shiny and a little rough.
“Ugh! What’s this?” she yelled to Mother, who was in the other room.
“They’re your stockings,” came the matter-of-fact reply.
“No they aren’t,” said Alice.
“Yes, they are,” said Mother firmly.
“But what are they
made
of?”
“Stocking material.”
“You mean old curtains?”
“Alice. They’re rayon, if you must know.”
“Very funny, Mother, now where are my real stockings?”
“You tore a hole in the ones from last year, and these are the new ones.”
Alice was about to rip them up when Mother began explaining, “There are no more silk stockings on the market. Silk is being made into parachutes now—parachutes for the pilots who have to bail out of their planes when they are shot down.”
Alice sat very still on the bed and thought about it. In her mind’s eye, she could see a B-25 bomber being shot down by ground fire, just like in the newsreels—and like her nightmare, but different. She could see the big cloud of black smoke rising, swelling and hear the scream of the diving plane. “Sweetheart from Milwaukee” was printed above a picture of a pretty girl showing off her legs, and beside it, the tally of missions accomplished, like chalk marks on a blackboard.
Now she could see the pilot bailing out in his bomber jacket and cap, like Terry in the comic strip, and his big white parachute unfolding like a bed sheet on the line. It caught the wind, swung back and forth a little, and dropped down into a tree. She saw the pilot untangling his parachute. It would soon be nightfall, and he would curl up in it. It was so soft, so warm. He would sleep until dawn when the other GIs would come and save him.
She thought about all that, and then she slowly reached for the ugly pair of stockings. “When this is over,” she told the pilot in her head, “you better have your sweetheart from Milwaukee send me some real silk stockings.”
* * *
The following night when Gramp came home from the Foundry, he called up the stairwell for Alice. She bounced down the stairs with a “Hello, Gramp.” He was too old to be working, but he was needed at the Foundry to supervise the men. They called him Uncle Johnny, which was a nice name for a boss, Alice thought.
In his hand Gramp held a crinkly brown package. He looked at Alice but didn’t say a word. He placed the package on the very top of his desk in the living room and went through his mail. Alice waited. He took out his huge checkbook that looked like a scrapbook and made out a check. Alice watched. Gramp was silent. He took out some stamps, licked one, and looked up at Alice, his eyes dancing, his mustache twitching like a bunny rabbit, but said nothing. He placed the stamped envelope to one side.
Alice stared at the package and guessed what it might contain. She said in a low voice, “They must be black market.” She tried to wink.
Gramp said nothing.
“Are they?” she asked in a loud whisper. “Are they black-market chocolates? Did somebody give them to you?”
Gramp smiled and shook his head.
“You didn’t buy them yourself, did you? Gramp? You didn’t, did you? I don’t
need
to have chocolates, you know!” Alice didn’t want to be accused of that.
“Who said anything about chocolates?” He looked surprised. Gramp took down the package and slowly opened it. Something golden slid out. It wasn’t chocolates. To Alice they looked like beautifully woven pig tails. Alice caressed them.
“Those are beautiful pig tails, Gramp.”
“Braided silk. Braided silk rope,” Gramp corrected.
“Is that what you make at the Foundry?” she asked, pulling a strand or two.
“Yup.”
“And is that braided silk for the parachutes?”
“Yup.” He took Alice by the waist and had her sit on the living room couch with him. “Now look at this one.” He showed her another braided silk rope. It looked the same and felt almost the same. “Can’t get much silk, nowadays, so we made something brand-new. It’s called nylon.”
“Nylon,” Alice repeated. “It’s very pretty too. The pilots will like it. My pilot will like that just as well as the silk parachute ropes, I’ll bet.”
From his expression, she guessed Gramp didn’t know what she was talking about.
“Mainly, it’s strong,” said Gramp. “It will hold hundreds of pounds.”
Alice’s mouth twisted. “Is rayon as strong?”
“Nope. T’isn’t. Nothin’ like silk and nylon.
“Well,
that’s
too bad. I guess I’m stuck with icky rayon stockings,” she said.
“You’ll get used to them, Alice. And when the war’s over, you’ll like the nylon stockings too. They’ll be hunky-dory.”
Alice was worried about tomorrow and how she’d look wearing snake skin on her legs. If she was lucky, the other girls would have on the same thing. Then she wouldn’t cringe. But if they had on last years’ silk ones, well, she’d teach them what was what.
Alice missed the days when Gramp would carry her upstairs to bed, but now she knew she was too heavy for him and too old too. Besides, she’d be embarrassed to ask. Instead, she gave him a big hug around the neck and a kiss goodnight, and he patted her really hard on the back and said, “Nighty night, little girlie,” which was what he always called her, so she didn’t mind.
But Alice, in her bed that night, worried what the other kids would say about her gleaming stockings and ugly dress. And even uglier, stringy brown hair, like a limp horse’s tail. She knew there’d be snickering behind her back. Why should she care? She sniffed. But that was the trouble. Hating to admit it, she did care.
Hunched down in the front seat of the car on the way to dancing school, Alice kept scratching away at her rayon-covered legs. “I’m itching like a dog with fleas,” she complained, but her mother kept her eyes on the road. “Shoot. I’ll be scratching like this through the whole dancing lesson.”
Mother, as usual, remained patiently silent. There was nothing they could do about it; rayon was rayon.
Alice thought Frobel Hall was an attractive building, with the windows all around it and box hedges in front. The toughest boys didn’t object to going to dancing school, even if they’d have to scrub with soap, plaster their hair down, and struggle into a suit and polished shoes. The boys from Moses Brown loved dancing, and they’d been scrubbing without complaining since before the war—all except Jimmy Brownell.
When Alice had asked him why he never went to dancing school, he had said, laughing, “What, and wear a monkey suit? Are you kidding?” Jimmy was different. That’s what she liked about him.
Inside, Alice took a seat and smiled at her teacher, a slim blonde lady with a silky hairdo and an enviable long dress that rustled when she walked. Alice’s stringy brown hair was brushed back and caught tightly in a boring-looking barrette. In her straight dress and these darn stockings, she felt really ugly.
On account of the war, the girls were coming in late because many of them had to share rides, and the boys’ suits were mussed up from riding their bicycles. They all scrambled in and filled the empty chairs.