Don't Talk to Me About the War by David A. Adler Read Free Book Online Page B

case she stumbles, ready to catch the plates before they hit the floor. She doesn’t, but she limps. Her right leg looks stiff.
    After dinner, beginning at seven I listen with my parents to the radio, to Jack Benny, Ellery Queen, and The Charlie McCarthy Show with Edgar Bergen, a ventriloquist. Then at ten thirty the president is on with one of his “Fireside Chats.” I listen to that, too.
    “My friends,” President Roosevelt starts, “at this moment of sadness throughout most of the world,
    I want to talk with you about a number of subjects that directly affect the future of the United States.”
    He’s going to talk about the war in Europe. I’m sure of it.
    “Tonight over the once peaceful roads of Belgium and France, millions are now moving, running from their homes to escape bombs and shells and fire and machine gunning, without shelter, and almost wholly without food.”
    I’m on the floor. I move closer to the radio. My parents and I stare at it, like we can see President Roosevelt talking to us.
    “Let us sit down together again, you and I, to consider our own pressing problems that confront us.”
    He talks about Americans who believe what is taking place in Europe is none of our business. “Those who have closed their eyes” to what he calls “the approaching storm” have had a “rude awakening.” It seems he really feels that soon we will be at war.
    He talks about battleships and gunboats and millions of dollars. He talks about spies and traitors, too. I don’t understand it all, but I sit there with my parents and listen.
    “Day and night I pray for the restoration of peace in this mad world of ours,” he says. “I know you are praying with me.”
    When the president is done, Dad says, “It’s terrible, what’s happening in Europe, but I still think it’s not our fight. If we go over there, before you know it, thousands of Americans will be running from bombs and dying. We have to protect our country, not the world. That’s what I say.”
    I tell him, “Maybe the Germans will attack us, you know, after they take over all of Europe. President Roosevelt said the ocean that separates us from the fighting won’t protect us.”
    “Well, so far it has,” Dad says.
    I usually agree with Dad, but this time, I’m not sure.
    President Roosevelt said that millions of people are running from bombs and I always thought of war as something fought among soldiers. I know soldiers are people, but they’re people with guns and trained to fight. The people he described, the people on the roads, are probably just like us, like Mom, Dad, and me. I imagine bombs falling and flashes of light in the night as we run from our apartment. Maybe we’d run across the bridge to Long Island.

8
    Doctor’s Appointment
    I t’s Monday morning, the day we finally find out what’s wrong with Mom, and it’s scary. What could Mom be thinking now? I bet she’s scared, too.
    It’s quiet outside my room, but I know Dad hasn’t gone to work. He’s going with Mom to the doctor. Mom and Dad are sitting by the table. They’re drinking coffee and talking.
    “Good morning,” Dad says to me. He’s real cheery. “I got up early and went to the bakery. We have fresh rolls.”
    As I eat the roll, Mom smiles and says, “I feel fine today, but I’m going to the doctor anyway. Dad insists. I’m doing this for him. It’s a real waste of two dollars.”
    Mom and Dad don’t say anything else. They just watch me eat. I must have interrupted a private conversation. It’s uncomfortable for me, sitting there, knowing they’re just waiting for me to leave so they can go on talking. I quickly finish my breakfast.
    “It’s cloudy,” Mom tells me when I get up from the table. “It might rain. Wear your baseball cap and jacket.”
    “Good luck with the doctor.”
    On the way out of the apartment I wonder what I meant by “Good luck.” Do I want the doctor to tell Mom she’s fine? Then why do her hands shake? Why does