Doing My Part

Part

  © 2013 by Teresa R. Funke

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places and some incidents have been changed.

  Published by: Victory House Press, 3836 Tradition Drive, Fort Collins, Colorado, 80526

  www.victoryhousepress.com

  Also by Teresa R. Funke

  Remember Wake

  Dancing in Combat Boots

  For Younger Readers: The Home-Front Heroes Series

  The No-No Boys

  V for Victory

  Wave Me Good-Bye

  Visit www.teresafunke.com to:

  •Add your stories or your family’s stories about WWII.

  •Learn more about women’s and children’s experiences in World War II.

  •Download a book club guide and to learn how to schedule Teresa to speak to your group.

  Doing My Part

  To my children, Brian, Lydia, and Ava, who inspire me every day

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to start by thanking my friend and fellow writer Laura Resau for suggesting I read a children’s book called Esperanza Rising by Pam Muñoz Ryan. After finishing that wonderful novel, I got the urge to write my own stories for children. Then along came Joanie Ellis, a fifth grader at McGraw Elementary School in Fort Collins, who invited me to speak to her class about writing and World War II. She and her classmates showed such interest in the war and asked such wonderful questions that I then knew what my children’s books should be about.

  Then I’d like to thank my friends: the members of my writers group, The Slow Sand Writers Society, for assuring me I was on the right track during those early drafts; Victoria Hanley, who gave comments on the finished book; and Lisa Spires and Susan Skog, who showered me with encouragement.

  Then I’m happy to thank my children: Brian and Lydia, who read the first draft of this novel and told me honestly how much they liked it, but also a few ways I could improve it; and Ava, who asked me often how the book was coming along have to thank my husband, Roger, for taking me to Vancouver, Washington the week of my birthday so I could write most of this book, and who always, always supports me.

  And then there’s my writing partner, Karla Oceanak, who knew years ago I could write a children’s book and helped me not only edit, but design and publish Doing My Part. I couldn’t have done it without her. And special thanks to Kendra Spanjer and Launie Parry for creating such a wonderful cover and my daughter, Lydia, for serving as the model for the cover image.

  But I especially need to thank Shirley Brand, the woman on whose life this book is based. If Shirley had never told me her stories about growing up in a small Illinois town during World War II, this book would not exist. You never know what wonderful stories are awaiting you until you ask, so go ahead, ask someone today for their story, and if you feel the urge, write it down!

  1

  The 4:30 Train

  The sun’s not up yet, my breakfast hasn’t settled, and already I’m running. Janie’s falling farther behind. “Hurry up,” I yell, but rushing Janie only makes her slip more on the dew-wet grass, which starts her giggling. Janie doesn’t care if we miss the train to work, but I do. I need this job. I can hear the train whistle echoing down the valley and it makes me want to sprint the last stretch to the depot. But Janie drops her lunch sack and laughs all the harder.

  “Oh come on, Janie. It’s not funny.”

  “It is to me, Helen.”

  “Everything’s funny to you. The way you act, no one would know there’s a war on.”

  She’s making a face at me—I know it—but it’s too dark to see which one.

  “And how do you expect me to keep up with those long legs of yours, anyway?”

  I cringe. My legs are longer than any girl’s in Hayden’s Valley. In fact, there’s hardly a man in the state of Illinois taller than me, and I’m only fourteen. Every night I pray that I’m done growing. I can’t stand the thought of dancing with a man shorter than me, and I won’t marry a man who can’t dance. Thinking such thoughts slows my pace, and Janie catches up to me easily.

  “Oh quit your brooding.” She nudges me gently with her shoulder. “There are worse things in life than being tall. At least you don’t still have freckles.” She locks arms with me, and we walk together along the railroad tracks.

  Janie Brey’s a grade above me in school. She’s been my best friend since Mother and I moved here to live with my grandparents after my dad died. She’s the one who talked me into applying for work at the Westclox factory ten miles away in the town of Peru. Before the war, Westclox was famous for its alarm clocks and watches. Now it’s a war plant. Janie wanted to do her part for the war effort, and she wanted me to come with her. I didn’t think they’d hire me because I’m too young, but the supervisor took one look at my height and didn’t notice on my application that I won’t actually be fifteen until October. At first I was just glad to be with Janie, but now that Mother has been injured and can’t work, my family is counting on me to bring home the paycheck.

  The whistle blows again, louder this time, but we’re not far now. I can smell the earthy scent of the geraniums my grandmother helped plant around the depot. I’m glad the 4:30 train is on time this morning. Yesterday it was more than two hours late, and I grew so impatient I kicked a post, stubbing my toe. Janie offered me no pity. She hates it when I lose my temper. She doesn’t understand, though. If we’re late to work, they dock our pay. That doesn’t matter much to Janie. She’ll be spending the money she earns this summer on frivolous things like clothes and hair curlers. I had fun plans for my money too. I’ve had my heart set on a plaid wool jacket and matching skirt I saw in the Sears Roebuck catalog. But a few nights ago I overheard Grandpa George, Grandma Kate and Mother discussing Mother’s medical bills. They thought I’d gone to bed.

  “It’s not just the extra bills, Papa,” Mother was saying. “We have to fix the roof this fall, and Helen needs new shoes and a good winter coat.”

  “I could take in some sewing,” Grandma Kate offered.

  “Oh Mama, you have your hands full around here.”

  “We expanded the garden this spring, so we should have enough vegetables. I suppose we could even trade a few vegetables for eggs and maybe a little meat,” Grandpa George said. “Helen’s paycheck should be enough to cover the rest.”

  “If she makes it through the summer,” Mother said.

  It stung a little to hear her say that. Of course I’d make it through the summer! But I couldn’t fault Mother for wondering. She was worried. For years now, ever since Grandpa’s arthritis in his hands has gotten so bad he can’t take on handyman jobs anymore, Mother has been supporting our family.

  “She’ll make it,” Grandma Kate said.

  Her comment kind of surprised me. Though I know she loves me, Grandma’s more likely to lecture than praise. This was as near to a compliment as anything I’d heard from her lately, and it filled me with pride.

  “Well, I don’t want her knowing any of this. She’s too young to have to carry so much responsibility,” Mother said.

  “She can handle it,” Grandpa George replied. And ever since I heard him say it, I’ve been out to prove I can.

  We get to the depot just as the train is arriving. The conductor raises an eyebrow and snaps his pocket watch closed. I wonder if that watch was made at Westclox before the war, and then I remember something I heard once, that railroad men often pass down their timepieces from father to son, generation after generation. I don’t know if it’s true or not, but I like to think s
o. I have nothing of my father’s except the violin he used to play for me when I was little.

  As the train rocks forward, we ease past a rail- thin man in shirtsleeves and suspenders and squeeze up next to the window. We sit real close to each other, making ourselves as small as possible, glad for the skinny man beside us. His size means Janie won’t need to sit on my lap this morning. All the passenger trains are crowded these days because there are fewer of them. Many are troop trains now, and regular folk, like my family, are supposed to try not to travel. No one worries about our discomfort so long as the soldiers get where they need to go. Everything we do now is for them. If they don’t beat the Germans and the Japanese, we’re in a world of trouble. I try not to think about that too much.

  Janie cups both hands around my left ear and whispers, “I saw John Beaumont at church last night. Didn’t you think he looked dashing in his uniform?”

  I roll my eyes. Janie’s had a crush on my cousin John since she was ten years old. He joined up in April, the very day he turned eighteen. Several of the senior boys have done that, strutting down to the recruiting station with their parents tagging behind. The parents wait outside—the fathers turning their hats in their hands, the mothers wiping away tears—while their sons enlist. A couple of boys have even signed up at age seventeen with their parents’ permission. Mother told Grandma if she had a son, she’d keep him home as long as possible. I