That
summer I did little more than hang around the house. I went
outside only when my mother had had enough of me and wanted
the house to herself for a few hours. In the evenings and on
weekends I helped my father work on a little square of land
behind the building that he'd designated as our "victory
garden."
We'd
plant, hoe, water, and wait for mom to call us in for supper.
We talked about Brad, where he was, and how the war was going.
Brad had been offered a post as a flight instructor, but refused
it. In September he was sent to Europe to fly fighter missions.
That fall he sent home a photo of himself in uniform standing
in front of a P 47. I took the photo and showed it to the kids
in school ....
I
was in the lobby [of our apartment building], shortly after
Christmas 1944, excited that I had a week off from school. I'd
picked up our paper off the pile, tucked it under my arm, and
was waiting for the elevator.
Mr. Lindblum, the building superintendent, came in. He was an
old friend who sometimes let me run the elevator and use his
workshop in the basement. He stopped by the telephone switchboard
when he saw me.
"Dickie, I'm sorry. You know how I felt about Brad. I don't
know what to say"
I
stood there, staring at him. He didn't realize he was the first
to tell me that Brad was dead. I took the newspaper from under
my arm, opened it up, and held it in front of my face, pretending
to read it. I didn't say anything. I kept turning the pages.