Isabel's War. Lila Perl

my mother leans forward and strokes the back of my brother’s head. His hair is the color of dark butterscotch and very thick. “You need a haircut, my darling. Have you been working so hard that you didn’t have time to get one?”

      Arnold runs his hand over where my mother’s has just been. “I’ll get one soon. Very short.”

      “Not too short,” my mother cautions with a bossy edge to her voice.

      We’re back at Moskin’s in no time and my father parks outside the kitchen entrance so the busboys can bring in the hotel supplies.

      “Come in, come in, everybody,” Minnie Moskin beckons. “Arnold made an early train. Surely he didn’t have breakfast.” She clears one of her well-scrubbed wooden tables and starts to fuss at the stove. Would Arnold like French toast with maple syrup, eggs, cereal, coffee? What about the rest of us? My father says he’ll have a little of whatever Arnold is having. Eating a second breakfast at Moskin’s never bothers him. My mother and I shake our heads no thanks.

      It’s so homey sitting here in Mrs. Moskin’s kitchen surrounded by all the good smells of her wholesome and generous meals. I keep wondering why my family can’t be a happier one. Somebody, it seems, is always being criticized. I, of course, am the worst culprit with my demands for a nose job, for a pair of dungarees, for not appreciating what Helga has been through, and for not doing enough for the war effort.

      Arnold, so far, has been told that his visit to us at Moskin’s is premature and that he needs a haircut. But then he hasn’t even been here an hour.

      Mrs. Moskin brings coffee and thick slices of golden, crusty-edged French toast that she makes from leftover loaves of her home-baked bread. “So,” my father says, stirring heavy cream into his coffee, “what’s doing in the city? How’s the job? Is the factory turning out its quota of uniforms? From the looks of all those draftees at the station, they’ll soon go into overtime.”

      Arnold digs into his syrup-drenched French toast. “Not me,” he says casually. “I quit the factory yesterday. Figure I’m due for a short vacation. That’s why I’m here.”

      “You quit!” my father explodes. “You left your summer job working for the war effort? What kind of an American are you?”

      My mother has gotten to her feet. “Now, now, Harold, calm down. I’m sure our son has a good reason for what he did. Don’t be so quick to judge.”

      I remain sitting at the table, keeping an eye on Ruthie who has been lurking off in the distance where she’s helping her mother roll out dough for strudel. I’m so glad that for once this isn’t about me. It’s almost like watching a really good movie.

      Arnold, too, is now standing. “Pop, if you’d just give the other fella a chance to explain once in a while. You’re going to be pleased with what I have to tell you. I’ve joined the Army Air Force. They took me into the Air Force. Is that terrific or what?”

      My mother sinks immediately into her chair. “You what? Oh, my baby. You’re not even eighteen yet. You’re starting college in the fall. Why did you do that?”

      My father pushes his coffee cup away, plants his elbows on the table, and jams his face between his hands. “Crazy. I have a crazy family, crazy children. You couldn’t wait for your draft number to come up? Meanwhile you could have started college, maybe—who knows—even gotten a deferment.”

      Arnold sits down in dismay and, for the first time, he looks at me and something like a spark of shared sympathy passes between us. Then he goes on to explain that ever since last April when the American lieutenant colonel, James Doolittle, led a squadron of fifteen planes off the deck of an aircraft carrier to bomb Tokyo, he’s had his heart set on getting into the Air Force.