Excerpt — Burling Street Girl

Burling Street Girl

World War II, February 1943

I see myself seated on a chair in the tiny front bedroom, looking through the window facing Burling Street. I’m thirteen years old. It’s close to 4:30 on a winter afternoon. I’ve been here quite a while. I’m waiting for my brother John to come home.

Kids are playing in the street, people walking, cars going by, all in a blur. I don’t care. I want to see John coming down Burling Street; he'll notice me in the window and smile or wave. I’ll hear his key in the door and his footsteps on the stairs. Then this tightness in my throat will go away.

Early this morning, my Dad accompanied John to our local Induction Center to be sworn into the Army. About five o’clock, my Dad is home from work and heads straight for the kitchen to talk with Mom. A few minutes later, she calls out: “Supper’s ready, Bernice.” A lump that’s been hiding in my throat most of the day is beginning to grow. I want to cry. John’s not coming home today.

John wanted to be drafted; he wanted to serve his country, so he tried to enlist in the Navy. At his first physical his eyesight was considered too poor for him to be in battle: “Rejected.” Later, Draft Board officials wouldn’t let him enlist in the Army; same problem plus a new one: “Fallen arches, not able to march long distances. Rejected.” So what’s changed to make him eligible for drafting? What’s wrong with those people? Are they stupid? Why do they need him now?

Supper was on the quiet side that night. I finally settled down, but I was troubled, and that would last for quite some time. I can’t count how often my mind still plays this scene: A sepia-colored movie projected onto a white wall. There I am, thirteen again, and I’m on the chair by the window, waiting for John to come home.