Jingle Boys

A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for.

—John A. Shedd, Salt from My Attic, 1928

CHAPTER ONE—US War Bonds

Brooklyn, New York—December 1943

Wally Lipkin sat in a rusted deckchair on the rooftop of his Kensington brownstone, knowing it would soon be his time to die. Now that Roosevelt’s War Department had lowered the draft age to eighteen, Wally’s number would be up in a week. Before long, he’d find himself aboard a battleship like Mel Leiberman from Apartment 2-D, flying a fighter plane like Ralphie Feldman from down the hall, or trudging knee-deep through European muck like his pal, Johnny Milhouser. All three had enlisted, gone through basic training, and shipped off like the millions of other brave men of his age. But Wally wasn’t like Mel, Ralphie, or Johnny. Deployment would mean the end for a guy like him, plain and simple.

He fastened his helmet’s chinstrap, buttoned his coat against the stubborn New York cold, and squinted through the air raid warden binoculars he’d been provided by the civilian defense captain. He aimed the lenses past the belching smokestacks of Brooklyn’s riverside factories toward the sunset sparkle that danced across the East River. His gaze followed the winter chop to the troopships that cut the white wakes, charging toward ports unknown. For months now, the Brooklyn Naval Shipyard had teemed with steel vessels heading into and out of the waterway. The yard was the pride of Wally’s borough, and arguably the most important place in New York, feeding soldiers to the insatiable war that devoured men like candy.

Wally let the binoculars fall to his chest on the strap around his neck, closed his eyes, and blew a frosty cloud into the air. He listened to the distant cries of seagulls, squealing their irritability in D-sharp. Their cacophony did nothing to ease the anxiety that percolated in his gut like a pot of his mother’s rationed coffee. Even the gulls knew he was doomed.

The white leather belt of his new uniform rode up his waist, a reminder of how poorly his air raid warden role suited him. He was slender, had a weak constitution, and was prone to attacks of “anxiety neurosis,” the name for the way his brain regularly betrayed him, the villain with whom he persistently grappled. It was a condition for which there appeared to be no cure, and his fear of it was why he’d worked so hard to keep it secret from everyone.

Since the war began, Germans had been targeting Jews like him all over Europe, giving Wally a particular sense of purpose, a need to do his part to stop the violence, to end the treachery, to defeat the Nazis no matter the personal price. After all, Jewish stories were filled with tales of sacrifice, and Wally’s ancestors would expect nothing less of him. Like those men aboard the ships leaving Brooklyn, he too would feed the voracious appetite of war, even if that appetite leaned kosher.

He had taken the air raid warden job to prepare for his inevitable military duty, to help him battle with his condition, to steel his nerves in the relative safety of his own neighborhood before he had to put it all on the line for himself, his fellow soldiers, and his country. Now, after six weeks of civilian service training, it was Wally’s role to keep a vigilant lookout three nights a week, fill out an evening log, pass fliers around the neighborhood warning of chemical attacks or aerial bombings, instruct Brooklynites to turn off their lights, and to take part in air raid drills like the one tonight, his first since taking the job. If he could pull this off, maybe he could heed the call of his country and his people, defeat his betraying brain, and avoid passing out on a battlefield when his time came.

The sound of creaking metal drew his attention to the roof’s edge where Audrey Milhouser, Johnny’s seventeen-year-old sister, was climbing off the fire escape.

“There you are,” she called, and strolled over.

Audrey’s hair was nut brown and cut short, though tonight it appeared to hold more curl than she usually gave it. Her blue eyes were filled with curiosity. Her lavender wool coat was bright and clean, which Wally thought was impractical for climbing fire escapes. He had known her since before she’d started to curve and even though Audrey was a month older than him and smarter than he was by a fair measure, he still saw her as Johnny’s little sister. In the months since his friend and neighbor Johnny had deployed, Audrey would find Wally whenever she was bored or lonely, often when her timing was terrible. And tonight, it was terrible.

“You shouldn’t be here,” said Wally.

“When’s it supposed to happen?” said Audrey, chewing her Beech-Nut gum.

Wally leaned back in his chair and withdrew his uncle’s silver pocket watch from his warden’s vest.

“It’s 5:20. Air raid drill is at 5:32, right after sunset.”

“Perfect.” Audrey dragged forward her own deckchair and took a seat. She exhaled into the icy air, enveloping Wally in a peppermint cloud and then sang the Beech-Nut Chewing Gum jingle.

The minty taste of Beech-Nut gum

I’ve got to go and get me some.

The minty taste—it lasts so long

And makes me sing this Beech-Nut song.

Audrey’s vocal skills were impressive, honed from years in the vocal ensemble and church choir, but today she was just getting in the way.

“I mean it,” said Wally. The feathery steam of his own breath rose between them. “I want to be alone.”

Audrey rolled her eyes. “No one wants to be alone, Walter.”

Wally wished Johnny was still around to keep Audrey out of his hair and explain to her that there were some things guys needed to do without distraction. But Johnny was exactly where he wanted to be, in the thick of danger. He was one of the fearless ones.

“Audrey—”

“I’ll stay out of your way.” She ran her forefinger in an “X” across her heart. “Promise.”

Wally shook his head, suddenly feeling the beads of sweat that had begun to freeze along his hairline, heeding the winter chill. He closed his eyes and counted Mississippis, a trick that sometimes kept him focused and steady. The last thing he wanted was a girl to see him faint, even if that girl was Audrey.

Wally’s anxiety neurosis had first manifested when he was thirteen, in the basement of the Etz Chaim Temple. He had hyperventilated and passed out when Eleanor Getzman tried to kiss him at his cousin Herschel’s bar mitzvah reception. After the attempted osculation, Wally came to on the sticky floor, surrounded by concerned family members. He blamed the incident on the lack of air circulation and the rising room temperature from everyone’s vigorous hora dancing. No one argued the point. His Aunt Betsy could really put out some heat.

Eleanor Getzman was too embarrassed by the unwanted attention to contradict his story, but even then, Wally knew something was wrong with him.

Similar fainting episodes continued throughout his adolescence, brought on by sudden fear, overexertion, or surprise. They happened in parks, on subways, and once in the Liberty High School theater. Blacking out sometimes made Wally late to events, occasionally left him bruised from falling, breathless, confused, or disoriented. Nevertheless, because he was most often alone when such episodes happened, and because he was largely able to avoid such situations, no one understood the depth of his condition, including his own family—and that’s just how he hoped to keep it.

To ensure these embarrassing incidents remained secret, or to explain them away on the rare occasions when others were present, Wally had grown adept at concocting plausible excuses, reasons for his sudden loss of breath or lapse of consciousness. In short, his condition had helped him hone a singular ability; he had become an accomplished liar.

He took no pride in this skill. But how could he tell anyone the truth, especially now, when bravery was required of every young man?

Audrey eyed his air raid warden uniform. “You look like a real soldier.”

“I suppose,” he said, yet Wally knew no real soldier would faint or hyperventilate when things got hot. Revealing his secret to the military would earn him a “4-F” and spare him conscription, but men who shunted military service for such reasons were sent to the sanatorium. Wally didn’t want to be locked up for the rest of his life at Brooklyn State Hospital like his Uncle Sherman who had come home from the Great War with a medal, a pocket watch, and his own anxiety neurosis. Wally’s choice was simple: the war or the funny farm. And if he had to die, he’d rather die serving a cause, defending the Jews, not rotting away in a loony bin like his poor uncle.

Through a second-floor window in the brownstone across East Third Street, Wally glimpsed a family eating their dinner. He heard their plates clinking and the melodic sounds of a piano concerto from their radio. He clenched his fists and blew hot breath into his cold fingers, the tools for playing his own piano. His family Wurlitzer was the one thing that ever gave him peace and playing it had become his evening ritual which he used to distract himself from the increasingly persistent thoughts of his own demise. Hearing the neighbor’s music only stirred a longing for his family upright but, of course, he couldn’t drag a piano up to the rooftop, let alone onto a warship or across a foreign battlefield when its calming effect would be needed most. Wally would have to learn to cope without his precious Wurlitzer.

He eyed Audrey chewing her gum and wondered if she might have a stick to offer, but decided it was better not to engage her in further conversation. Instead, he replayed her Beech-Nut jingle in his head, fingering an imaginary piano on his knees, trying to find solace while sitting in his deck chair.

“You okay?” said Audrey.

“Fine,” said Wally. “Just stay clear, okay? The precinct captain is counting on me.”

“Where’d they put the lever?”

“There.” Wally pointed to the flagpole which stood like a sentry at the corner of the rooftop, aimed toward the darkening sky. “Below the siren.”

Each Brooklyn neighborhood had installed sirens and levers in strategic locations, a means of warning Brooklyn citizens of enemy attack. News of these installations, and Wally’s overly detailed and fear-provoking fliers, had forced people to consider what they’d face if the war found its way onto American soil again, so soon after Pearl Harbor. Wally’s precinct captain had explained that, like the devastated Hawaiian base, New York was on a coast, had planes, ships, and soldiers, and would be a target the Japs or Krauts would be keen on destroying. It was a thought Wally had a tough time shaking.

“Looks fun to pull,” said Audrey.

“Wardens are our first line of civilian defense,” said Wally, quoting his training manual. “Sounding the siren isn’t supposed to be fun.”

“Can I pull the lever when it’s time?” Audrey asked.

“No one’s gonna touch that lever but me.” Wally thumbed his chest. “I already told you—you shouldn’t be here.”

“It’s a free country.” Audrey crossed her arms and settled into her chair.

“I intend to keep it that way,” said Wally, suddenly concerned that he had oversold his role in all this.

He looked to the winter sky which held remnant streaks of purple like spilled Manischewitz across a Hanukkah tablecloth. He inhaled another long draft of air and savored the way it chilled his lungs. He often imagined his chest filled with bagpipes, imbuing his body with a calming song each time he took a breath. It was another ritual he’d employed to manage his anxiety, to keep him standing on his own two feet.

Audrey followed Wally’s gaze across the expansive heavens and exhaled deeply as if she, too, had a chest full of bagpipes.

“You’re brave,” she said. A mint cloud whirled around them.

“Quiet,” said Wally. “I need to concentrate.” But failing concentration wasn’t what was wrong with him.

He reached again into his vest to retrieve his Uncle Sherman’s pocket watch. Unlike his uncle, the watch still functioned when it returned from the Great War. With each movement of the second hand, Wally felt his anxiety rise.

“Two minutes,” he said, and then tucked the watch back into his pocket. “Get ready.”

Dusk had fallen and lights around Kensington had started to switch off one by one, as if counting down to Wally’s big moment. The family across the street had finished their meal, turned off their radio, and switched off their lamps. Citizens had read their fliers and were abiding by the drill guidelines. They were doing their part.

Wally rose from his deck chair, set the binoculars in his empty seat, and tugged again at his belt. It was time.

He strode toward the flagpole and Audrey followed, but halfway to the siren, the blood left his head, and his legs grew weak. A sudden rush of nausea caused his stomach to lurch, and he stopped dead in his tracks.

Audrey stopped, too. “What’s wrong?”

His heart raced and his throat began to close. “Oh, no.”

His mouth went dry, and it felt as though he’d swallowed a lump of sawdust. He tried to count Mississippis, stop the first domino from falling.

He searched the space around him for the scents of Audrey’s gum or the sounds of radio jingles, anything to keep him anchored.

His cold palms grew slick, and his fingers quivered as though trying to play a piano that wasn’t there.

The air grew thin, and he began to wheeze.

Just then, Audrey’s seven-year-old brother, Carl, sprung to the rooftop from the fire escape. “Found you!”

Carl’s sudden appearance startled Wally like a first-round sucker-punch to his heaving gut. He took a knee, fell to his side, and gasped for air.

“Carl!” Audrey swatted her brother’s head, knocking loose his Lone Ranger cowboy hat.

“What’d I do?”

Wally rolled onto his back and faced the kaleidoscope of stars overhead, the faces of his Jewish ancestors gazing down with disappointment.

“Walter!” Audrey’s blue eyes radiated through the darkness. She raced over and grabbed his hand. “Walter? What’s wrong?”

Some distance away, a siren rang out in what sounded like a “C” note, followed by another and another, carried by the winter breeze, as Wally’s fellow borough air raid wardens did the job they’d been called upon to do.

Carl spun to face the neighborhood. “It’s happening!”

Wally locked eyes with Audrey. “Pull it—!” he gasped, his breath a thin white wisp.

She laid his hand on his chest, her eyes betraying a look of conflict between concern and joy. “It’ll be okay, Walter,” she said, and ran to the flagpole.

“Now!” he barked, and the shadows began to take him.

Audrey pulled the lever and the siren cried out, filling Wally’s head with a shrill, howling sound. Or maybe that was just the triumphant song of his enemy, the sound of his worst fears coming true.

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