“Come on. We’ll get in the car and roll up the windows,” Marian said. That might help a little. Or they both might already be cooked in a fire invisible, but no less deadly-more so, in fact-because of that.
–
Leon Finch was still a little guy. He wouldn’t turn two till the end of May. He didn’t always sleep through the night. When he woke up, he usually needed to be changed. Sometimes he wanted a bottle. Sometimes he just needed cuddling till he could go back in his crib.
Except once in a while on weekends, Ruth took care of all that. Aaron went out and made a living; she stayed home with the baby. More often than not, Aaron didn’t even wake up when Leon fussed. He was tired enough to have a good excuse for staying asleep till the alarm clock bounced him out of bed.
Ruth would take Leon out to the living room and rock him in the rocking chair till he settled down. Sometimes she would turn the radio on softly and listen to music or the news. It didn’t bother Leon, and it gave her something to do without turning on the lights, which would have.
The first thing Aaron did when Ruth shook him awake was grab his glasses off the nightstand. It was still dark, but that had nothing to do with anything. He had to be able to see, and without them he damn well couldn’t.
“What is it?” he asked as soon as he had them on his nose.
“They’ve bombed Seattle,” she said, “and Portland, too.”
“Oh, Lord!” he said. He had relatives near Portland. Or maybe he had had relatives near Portland.
“I almost dropped Leon when I heard,” Ruth said. “The news from Seattle had already come in when I got him. Portland just happened, or they’ve just said it happened, anyhow.”
“What time is it?” Aaron looked at the glowing hands on the alarm clock. It was a few minutes past four. He yawned. “Well, I’m awake. Thanks for telling me. You want to put some coffee on? I’ll get by without an extra couple of hours today, that’s all.”
“Okay. I’m sorry, dear,” Ruth said.
“So am I.” Aaron turned on the lamp on his nightstand. After blinking against the sudden light, he grabbed his cigarettes and lit the first one of the morning. The first drag made him cough. After that, it felt wonderful. As he got out of bed, his wits started working. “Honey!”
“What is it, dear?” Ruth asked.
“They bombed Portland after Seattle, not at the same time?”
“That’s right. Or I think so.”
“If they had warning in Portland, why were they asleep at the switch?”
“Because nobody really believed anybody could attack the United States, I guess,” Ruth said. “We got caught by surprise at Pearl Harbor, too, and then the next day the Japs were still able to bomb the airports in the Philippines.”
“They should have court-martialed MacArthur for that.” Aaron had never been an admirer of the general’s. But Ruth’s brother, who’d been in the Army in the South Pacific and come back to the States with malaria, swore by MacArthur, not at him.
“They must have decided they needed him.” Except for marrying a man ten years older than she was, Ruth showed good sense. Aaron had quickly learned to respect her judgment.
He said, “If Portland got it about an hour after Seattle…” He paused to picture distances. “If all their planes took off together, San Francisco should get hit about two hours after Portland, and we’ll catch it an hour or an hour and a half after San Francisco.”
“Let me make you breakfast,” Ruth said. “Maybe you’ll be happier after you eat.” She fixed bacon and eggs for both of them, frying the eggs in the bacon grease. She’d kept kosher till she married him. He’d never bothered-his father prided himself on being a freethinker. Ruth hadn’t minded quitting. With toast with butter and jam, a breakfast like that gave you enough ballast to last till lunch.
They listened to the radio while they ate. From what the excited newscaster said, someone had shot down a B-29 that had no business being anywhere near Spokane when it didn’t respond on the radio. Or maybe it was a Russian bomber pretending to be a B-29. The newsman didn’t seem sure, which made it a good bet the authorities weren’t, either.
After breakfast, Aaron showered and put on his work clothes: gabardine trousers and a white shirt with Aaron embroidered in red script on his right breast and BLUE FRONT in blue capitals on the pocket. His shoes looked ordinary but had steel toecaps under the leather to keep his feet from getting mashed. He’d also used them to advantage in a bar fight or two.
When he came out of the bedroom, Ruth said, “Are you sure you should go to work today? If the bomb does come-”
He cut her off. “I can’t call in for something like that. If the bomb doesn’t fall, Weissman’ll can me so fast, it’d make your head swim. Maybe even if it does. He’s like that.”
She looked unhappy, but she nodded. They’d both gone through the Depression. If you had a job then, you clung to it the way an abalone clung to a rock. Somebody was always trying to pull you away from it.
Just before he was going to head out the door, the radio newsman said, “Flash! And I’m afraid I mean that literally. A flash of light was seen above San Francisco moments ago, and communication with the city appears to have been lost. Further details as they become available.”
“Jesus!” Jewish or not, Aaron swore like any other American.
“Don’t go,” Ruth urged him again.
“Honey, I have to,” he said. “They won’t hit the Blue Front warehouse. They’ll bomb downtown, and we’ve got the hills to shield us.”
“They’re not high enough,” she said. He shrugged. They probably weren’t. But they weren’t high enough to protect the house, either.
When he got to the warehouse just before sunup, Herschel Weissman was standing out front. “Good to see you. I wasn’t sure I would,” the boss said. He spoke in Yiddish, in a Nobody here but us chickens way.
“I’m here-for as long as I’m here,” Aaron answered in the same language.
They went inside. Not everybody had shown up, or would. Weissman grumbled, but not too hard. Aaron realized he wouldn’t have got fired for staying home after all. Well, he’d feel like a jerk for leaving now.
And it was too late anyway. Sirens started going off. A minute later, he heard jet engines screaming overhead. Jet engines meant warplanes, nothing else. If there was a bomber, maybe they’d shoot it down before it could unload. Or maybe it was a drill, or a false alarm, or even a bad dream.
But it wasn’t. The sunflash made Aaron and Mr. Weissman and everyone else in the place shout and scream. Seconds later, blast rattled the building. It didn’t fall on the people inside-the bomb must have gone off a little too far away. All the lights inside went out.
Aaron was already running for the open door. “See you later,” he called over his shoulder. Washing machines weren’t the biggest thing on his mind right now. He jumped into his Nash and started home. He hadn’t even looked at the mushroom cloud rising above downtown Los Angeles. He had more urgent things on his mind.
He was only a couple of blocks from his house when a parachute-wearing airman landed in the street in front of him. He swore under his breath-all the goddamn traffic lights were out, and now this? What else would slow him down? Then he saw the red stars on the man’s flight suit.
He jumped out of the car and ran toward the Russian, who was struggling to free himself from his harness. Aaron grabbed a pocket knife, the only weapon he had except for his shoes. “You’re my prisoner!” he yelled. The man spread his gloved hands and gave forth with palatal gibberish. On a what-the-hell hunch, Aaron repeated himself in Yiddish.
“Ach, prisoner,” the Russian replied in what had to be German-close enough to Yiddish to be comprehensible. “Yes, I am prisoner. I surrender.” He raised his hands.
“Come on back to the car with me. I’ll take you…somewhere.” Aaron wondered where. He’d never captured a prisoner in the merchant marine. Then inspiration struck. He put the car in gear and headed for the Glendale police station. It wasn’t far. They could stick the Russian in a cell so nobody lynched him till after he was questioned.