Orphan Train

hurries over to the radio and adjusts the
     dial.
    “Repeat: this is a special report. President Roosevelt said in a statement today that
     the Japanese have attacked Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, from the air. The attack of the Japanese
     has also been made on all naval and military ‘activities’ on the island of Oahu. Casualty
     numbers are unknown.”
    And like that, everything changes.
    A few weeks later, Lil comes into the store to see me, her eyes red-rimmed, tears
     staining her cheeks. “Richard shipped out yesterday, and I don’t even know where he’s
     going. They just gave him a numbered mailing address that doesn’t tell me anything.”
     Sobbing into a crumpled white handkerchief, she says, “I thought this stupid war was
     supposed to be over by now. Why does my fiancé have to go?” When I hug her, she clings to my shoulder.
    Wherever you look are posters encouraging sacrifice and support for the war effort.
     Many items are rationed—meat, cheese, butter, lard, coffee, sugar, silk, nylon, shoes;
     our entire way of business changes as we work with those flimsy blue booklets. We
     learn to make change for ration stamps, giving red point tokens as change for red
     stamps (for meat and butter) and blue point tokens for blue stamps (processed foods).
     The tokens are made of compressed wood fiber, the size of dimes.
    In the store we collect ladies’ lightly used stockings for use in parachutes and ropes,
     and tin and steel for scrap and metal drives. “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” is constantly
     on the radio. I shift our purchasing to reflect the mood, ordering gift cards and
     blue onionskin airmail letter forms by the gross, dozens of American flags in all
     sizes, beef jerky, warm socks, decks of playing cards to go in care packages to ship
     overseas. Our stock boys shovel driveways and deliver groceries and packages.
    Boys from my graduating class are signing up and shipping out, and every week there’s
     a farewell potluck dinner in a church basement or the lobby of the Roxy or in someone’s
     home. Judy Smith’s boyfriend, Douglas, is one of the first. The day he turns eighteen
     he goes down to the recuiter’s office and presents himself for service. Hotheaded
     Tom Price is next. When I run into him on the street before he leaves, he tells me
     that there’s no downside—the war’s an open door to travel and adventure, with a good
     bunch of guys to mess around with and a salary. We don’t talk about the danger—but
     what I imagine is a cartoon version, bullets flying and each boy a superhero, running,
     invincible, through a spray of gunfire.
    Fully a quarter of the boys from my class volunteer. And when the draft begins, more
     and more pack up to leave. I feel sorry for the boys with flat feet or severe asthma
     or partial deafness who I see in the store after their buddies are gone, aimlessly
     wandering the aisles. They seem lost in their ordinary civilian clothes.
    But Dutchy doesn’t join the bandwagon. “Let them come for me,” he says. I don’t want
     to believe he’ll get called up—after all, Dutchy is a teacher; he’s needed in the
     classroom. But soon enough it becomes clear that it’s only a matter of time.
    T HE DAY D UTCHY LEAVES FOR F ORT S NELLING IN H ENNEPIN County for basic training, I take the claddagh off the chain around my neck and wrap
     it in a piece of felt. Tucking it in his breast pocket, I tell him, “Now a part of
     me will be with you.”
    “I’ll guard it with my life,” he says.
    The letters we exchange are filled with hope and longing and a vague sense of the
     importance of the mission of the American troops. And the milestones of his training:
     Dutchy passes his physical and scores high on the mechanical aptitude test. Based
     on these results he’s inducted into the navy to help replace those lost at Pearl Harbor.
     Soon enough, he’s on a train to San Diego for technical training.
    And when, six weeks after he leaves, I write to tell him that I’m pregnant, Dutchy
     says that he is over the moon. “The thought of my child growing inside you will keep
     me going through the roughest days,” he writes. “Just knowing that finally I have
     a family waiting for me makes me more determined than ever to do my duty and find
     my way home.”
    I am tired all the time and sick to my stomach. I’d like to stay in bed, but I know
     it’s better to stay busy. Mrs. Nielsen suggests that I move back in with them. She
     says they’ll