Spitfire Read online

  Copyright © 2018 by Evan Balkan

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Treehouse Publishing Group.

  Treehouse is an imprint of Amphorae Publishing Group LLC.

  4168 Hartford Street, Saint Louis, MO 63116

  Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission from the publisher.

  Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is merely coincidental, and names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  “Strange Fruit” was a poem written by Abel Meeropol in 1937 and popularized by singer Billie Holiday.

  The poem is in the public domain.

  For information, visit us at www.amphoraepublishing.com

  Cover art and design by Elena Makansi

  Interior layout by Kristina Blank Makansi and Roshni Choudhary

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018950009

  ISBN: 9781732139107

  For all of the many Towsontowne Tigers who I got to know, love, coach, and play with over the years. But most especially to my two real-life spitfires, Amelia and Molly.

  EVERYTHING WAS THE SAME where Caroline Panski lived. All the streets in her neighborhood were the same. The rows upon rows of brick houses were the same, with the same windows and the same marble stoops. It had always been the same, and it always would be the same. Th ere weren’t even any trees to break up the monotony. At twelve years old, Caroline was old enough to know that as long as she was stuck in her boring Highland-town neighborhood in boring old Baltimore, nothing would ever change. And, therefore, nothing would ever be any fun.

  Inside the modest Panski home on South Clinton Street, Caroline sat in the cramped space afforded by the bow window and stared at the steady diet of rain and sleet outside. If only it would snow, she thought.

  Behind her, a clamor of mundane domestic noises competed with the radio: “It’s twenty-seven degrees Fahrenheit in Baltimore on this, the second day of December, 1952. Rain continues.” There followed a blast of tinny music, followed by a deep, serious voice: “Now, Edward R. Murrow and the voices of President Harry S. Truman, Bernard F. Baruch, Senator Robert Taft, General George C. Marshall, Governor Earl Warren, and more than forty other men and women in this evening’s performance of Hear it Now presented tonight, and every week, at this time. Later, an editorial. Children in Asia are dying of starvation and the bestselling books in America are how to get thin. But first, we go to the cold battlefields of Korea, where our brave American fighting men—”

  Always on alert for news from Korea, Caroline tried to block out everything but the voice on the radio. But like usual, Eloise Panski switched off the radio and called out to her daughter from the kitchen.

  “Caroline? Have you completed your studies?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  Mrs. Panski, moving with a slight limp, appeared in the doorway and scrutinized Caroline. “You can’t go out in this mess again.”

  Caroline continued staring out the window, watching as two boys engaged in some rough horseplay out on the sidewalk as they passed. “I know.”

  “Not while it’s sleeting.”

  Mrs. Panski regarded her daughter and uttered a slight sigh of exasperation. “Supper in one hour,” she said before retreating to the kitchen where the symphony of clanging pots and pans resumed.

  Beautiful, their decrepit miniature schnauzer, padded up to Caroline and nudged her leg. Caroline reached down and reflexively scratched Beautiful behind the ear. As she stared out the window, what had begun as a barely perceptible change slowly became visibly noticeable—the sleet was turning to fat snowflakes. Caroline’s eyes brightened. She gave Beautiful one last pat on the head and tore away, sending the dog scurrying for cover under a nearby chair.

  Caroline hit the narrow stairs running, squeezing past her seven-year-old-brother along the way.

  “Hey! Watch it!” Sam yelled.

  She ignored him and bounded into her tiny bedroom. She reached into the closet and pulled out a pair of ice skates, laces tied together, and flung them over her shoulder. Next to the closet, a hockey stick leaned against the wall. She grabbed this, too, and started to run out of her room. But she paused, looking at the picture of the handsome man in an Army uniform that rested on her dresser. She smiled at it, then took off again, down the stairs, through the front door, and into the snow.

  It was coming down harder now, the snowflakes unrelenting, sticking to everything in sight. With little regard for the slippery conditions, Caroline barreled down the street, tore through an alley, and emerged onto an abandoned lot. Surrounded on all sides by crowded rows of dilapidated houses, like cracked teeth chattering in the freezing weather, sat a large semicircle of frozen water, a temporary pond in a world of glass and brick and concrete.

  Caroline plopped down into the snow, pulled off her boots, and laced up her skates. She raced out onto the ice and executed a perfect spin. She skated and skated, warming herself up. Not without a few stumbles but with a certain beauty and competence, as if on the edge of skating greatness. The coiled up tension of her athleticism bubbled forward, propelling her from one end of the pond to the other, legs pumping, making quick work of the rough uneven surface.

  She stopped, set her sights on the far end of the pond, and raced in that direction as quickly as she could, her breath trailing behind in little puffs and plumes. Racing, skating, racing … until she tripped over a rock and sprawled headfirst onto the ice with an oomph! Caroline pushed herself up, wiped the ice crystals from her coat, and ran her mitten over her chin. She looked at her mitten and frowned at the smeared droplets of blood.

  She scowled at the offending rock before straightening and speeding over to where she’d left her hockey stick by her boots. She came to an abrupt stop, spraying ice and snow on her boots, grabbed the stick, and took off back across the ice.

  Her hands deftly cradled the stick, switching back and forth, letting it slide and bump over the icy surface until she reached the rock. Without breaking stride, she made contact and pushed the rock along the ice, racing and pushing, moving her way across the pond until she slowed, veered to the right, pushed the rock ahead, and then wound up and let loose a mean slapshot toward the crude net someone had set up to approximate a hockey goal. The rock skipped off the ice, shuttling through a hole in the netting and slamming into the rusted hood of an abandoned car.

  “Goal!” Caroline raised her stick high in triumph. She smiled at the cartoon figure imprinted on the wood and then brought it to her lips. This was as close as she could get to her father. He’d given her the stick years earlier. And now, it was like he was here, watching her, encouraging her, skating alongside her instead of fighting on some frozen battlefield on the other side of the world.

  Caroline shut the door behind her and stomped the snow off her boots. She looked up when she felt her mother staring at her from the kitchen doorway.

  “Supper’s ready. I’ve been calling.”

  Caroline, red cheeked and still breathing hard, brushed a strand of wet hair out of her eyes. “It stopped sleeting. It’s just snow.”

  “I know, but I told you I don’t like you running off like that without telling me. Now get out of those wet things and get cleaned up.”

  Caroline shed her wet coat and pants, the cuffs of which were caked with snow, and dropped them on the rug. Then she plucked up her skates and stick and ran up the stairs, twirling around the banister and skipping into h
er bedroom. She was a swirl of activity, tossing her skates and her stick in the corner near her closet, changing into dry clothes, and running a brush through her wet hair. But then she stopped and moved to her dresser. She picked up the picture of her father in his army uniform and rubbed her fingers across it.

  “Caroline!”

  “Coming.”

  Caroline took the stairs two at a time and slid into her seat at the table where her mother and brother already sat with hands folded in their laps. Mrs. Panski lowered her head.

  “We give thanks for these our gifts—” Sam looked up and stuck his tongue out at his sister. Caroline lifted a hunk of mashed potatoes in her fingers and threatened to fire it at her brother. “—through the bounty of Christ our Lord.”

  Caroline sucked the potatoes from her fingers and swallowed hard before her mother looked up.

  “Amen.”

  “Amen.”

  They made the sign of the cross and then Caroline dug in with unrestrained vigor.

  “Caroline, really!” Mrs. Panski protested, her eyes wide in horror. “A lady should have manners.”

  Caroline shot a sideways glance at Sam as he shoveled food into his mouth without a care in the world. But she didn’t say anything. It wouldn’t do any good anyway. Boys were boys. Girls were girls. And girls should have manners.

  After dinner, Caroline retreated to her bedroom, thankful for the millionth time that she no longer had to share a room with Sam. Thankful that her dad had understood how important it was for her to have her own space. She remembered when he’d first suggested that he clear out his storeroom as a present for her tenth birthday. “There’s too much junk in here anyway,” he’d said. “Time for you to have your own room.”

  He’d sorted through old boxes, carted stuff to the basement, gifted a few things to neighbors, and eventually ended up with two boxes of worthless stuff that he and Caroline had hauled off to the dump. First they’d taken the Roland Park trolley line and then the public bus all the way past Towson and into the suburban hinterlands north of Timonium, a scarred landscape of ex-farmland with patterns of foundations for new subdivisions. She remembered the look on her father’s face, the way he watched as the bus traveled north along York Road, passing the construction workers spreading the tentacles of civilization in the age of the automobile, an age of mobility. Perhaps someday, his face seemed to say.

  She missed him, terribly. She was just like him—at least that’s what everyone said. Not only did she look like him—with the same long, dark eyelashes atop icy blue eyes—but they shared a certain outlook on the world as well, a way of willfully failing to understand things that inconvenienced them. It was this same attribute that allowed her to not worry endlessly about him. When she did think about him, it hurt too much. Baltimore was cold, but Korea, she understood, was worse.

  She knew better than to consult her geography textbook again. She’d made that mistake once. Roddy’s Elementary Geography was an old textbook, many of the maps out of date, but her class at school still used it. When she’d looked up the section with Korea in it, she’d learned very little. But this was, apparently, by design. The book said: “Like China, Korea has had little to do with foreign nations and people. It is often called the ‘Hermit Nation’.”

  This sense of mystery produced a foreboding in Caroline. Just what kind of a place had he been sent to? It was difficult to find out. The entry went on to say that, “The people resemble the Chinese.” That was a terrifying prospect, for, according to Roddy’s,

  The Chinese have many curious customs and ideas. The higher classes bandage the feet of their girls so as to prevent growth. They think small feet very beautiful, even though the feet are terribly deformed and can hardly be used for walking.

  She’d pictured an army of little girls and women hobbling along on tiny club feet. Did her dad see women like that and think longingly of his own girl, back home in Baltimore, stuffing her intact and growing feet into hockey skates? Or did the Koreans even do this? They “resembled” the Chinese, but what did that mean exactly? It was all so confusing.

  Better to not think about it. Better to picture him with some of the comforts of home. Better to imagine him getting warmed by a fire or, even better, inside a building, drinking coffee and laughing with his fellow soldiers. Yes, that’s how she thought of him. It wasn’t so hard to do when she forced herself. And so with the occasional inevitable lapse and accompanying tears, she more or less went through her days keeping her father and Korea and war locked away in the recesses of her thoughts.

  Caroline turned toward the window and peered outside. The snow continued to fall, but lighter now. She slid open her window, her breath pluming in front of her, and twisted her body, straining, until, in the far distance, she could see the pond. There, a dozen boys played hockey, barely lit by ambient gaslight. Even at this distance, she could tell they were skilled players, executing difficult moves, and firing the puck with great speed and force. She could almost feel her fingers tighten around her stick. Oh, how she wished she was on the ice now!

  Hearing someone coming, Caroline quickly closed the window and threw herself onto her bed just before her mother entered.

  “Lights out,” she said. She looked around, her brow furrowed. “Why is it so cold in here?”

  “But it’s only 8:30,” Caroline protested.

  “Be grateful you have a roof over your head and food to eat. Did you hear the program about the starving Asian boys and girls?”

  “Is that what Daddy is doing there? Helping those boys and girls get food?”

  Mrs. Panski got her look again. “Can we talk about this another time?”

  “But that’s what you always say.”

  “Good night, Caroline.”

  “Mama?”

  “Yes, Caroline?”

  “Do little girls in Korea have to have their feet bandaged?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “So that their feet are really small? Like the Chinese?”

  “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.” Mrs. Panski snapped off the lights. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Mama.”

  Caroline waited a moment and then returned to the window. Without opening it and leaning out, she could only see a small part of the pond, but she knew the boys were still there. She watched for a few minutes and saw their dark, hulking shadows slide across the ice and then disappear again. Then she turned away and slipped into bed.

  BRIGHT SUNLIGHT GREETED Caroline as she crawled out from under her blankets. She looked outside at a world covered in white, and squinted. A man swept snow from the windshield of his car, a lonely fruit seller prodded his horse, laden with snow bells and pulling an empty cart along the street, and a bus whooshed past, washing the world in a fine, white spray.

  Caroline could hear the sounds of breakfast being prepared downstairs and then the familiar call: “Caroline, get dressed for school and come down to eat. You’re late.”

  She raced through her breakfast and then headed out. On the sidewalk, her friend Alma waited.

  “Come on,” Alma said. “Mustn’t keep Bee waiting. You know how she gets.”

  The two girls hurried along the sidewalk and were soon joined by two more friends, Beatrice and Genevieve. Each of the girls wore essentially the same uniform: knee-length skirts, white socks pulled up to their knees, snow boots, heavy winter coats with fur-lined collars, and knitted caps.

  Beatrice piped up, “What took you so long?”

  “Sorry,” Caroline said as the four girls resumed their march along the sidewalk, kicking at shoveled snow mounds along the way.

  “I hope Miss Bloom is sick today,” Alma said. “Or fell in the snow and can’t get up.”

  Genevieve shuddered. “I don’t think witches can get sick.”

  Caroline tsked. “That’s mean.”

  “Caroline gave Miss Bloom an apple on the first day,” Genevieve said, employing a sing-song voice which she used freque
ntly.

  “Too bad it wasn’t poisoned,” Beatrice added.

  Caroline rolled her eyes.

  “Little Caroline, always defending Miss Bloom. Face the facts, Caroline, the woman is undoubtedly and indisputably a witch.”

  “Un-what?” Alma asked.

  Genevieve rolled her eyes. “Try reading some books, Alma.”

  “Who needs books when you have a television?”

  Caroline winced. “Puhleeeeeeze tell me we don’t have to listen to you go on about that television again.”

  “Last night, we watched Groucho Marx and Your Show of Shows.”

  At the crossing, the girls kept up their chatter, looking both ways for cars and buses. Caroline craned her head and, through an alley, could just see the edge of the frozen hockey pond. A couple of geese waddled across the surface, taking small ungainly leaps into the air and coming to rest on top of the rusted automobile where Caroline had sent her rock puck.

  “Caroline!”

  When Caroline looked up, she saw Beatrice, hands on her hips, staring at her in exasperation. The girls were already on the sidewalk and a car sat waiting patiently in the middle of the road for Caroline to join them. She waved at the driver and hurried across the street as a stream of students shuffled into school.

  Miss Bloom moved to the blackboard where a map of China and the Korean peninsula were displayed. She was a portly, no-nonsense woman in her late fifties who wore her hair pulled into a severe bun and sported cat-eye glasses attached to a chain around her neck.

  “This is the line where our brave American men are fighting the fascist, communist forces of Mousy Tongue,” she said. “Class, what is the difference between Americans and Communists?”

  Caroline stared out the window and wondered if she’d be able to sneak over to the pond before dinner as Anthony, a humorless kid with brilliantined hair, waved his hand in the air. “The communists are godless, ma’am.”

  “Very good, Anthony. And we will win in Korea just as we won on the battlefields of Europe and the Pacific. Because God is on the side of the United States of America.”