BEFORE
I close my eyes and breathe in
The sweetest moments I've ever known
It feels like home
And here I am
I want to be your everything
There you are
Turning winter into spring
"I Just Call You Mine"
Martina McBride
September 2, 1939
Worcester, Massachusetts
"Come on, come on!" Casey prodded as he walked along the sidewalk, urging his wife forward. With her arm tucked in Casey's elbow, Gertrude skipped every other step, working to maintain the brisk pace.
"I've never known anyone in such a hurry to stand in a line," Gertrude teased, her mouth puckered in mild annoyance, though her eyes twinkled.
"Mr. Casey is always in a hurry, isn't he, Chuck?" Sarah asked as she walked beside Chuck, the children trailing behind the adults.
"I wouldn't have to be if Chuck wasn't such a dreamer and dilly-dallier, now would I, huh?" Casey snipped, grinning mischievously over his shoulder at the children.
Chuck rolled his eyes and Sarah laughed.
The late summer-evening air was still humid and balmy. The calendar had turned to September, but the heat of summer persisted, at least for now. Fall could come quickly, some years overnight; they were all savoring the remnants of summer. The boxy city buildings all around blocked their view of the horizon. The sun had already set. But there was an orange ribbon fading in the sky where the last of the sun glowed, above it a pale blue stripe that gradually faded to black overhead. The radiant heat absorbed by the cement and bricks during the day now rose around them.
The group turned the corner onto Franklin Street and saw the queue, 20 people deep. It started at the box office window of the Capitol Theater, where they were going tonight to see a movie, The Wizard of Oz. They joined the line and stood quietly as they waited.
Chuck hadn't been to a movie palace since he had come with his parents and sister. Back then, they'd had weekly outings, once he was deemed old enough to sit through the extravaganza. His first outing had been when he was a little younger than Sarah was now; she had turned seven at the end of August. This was her very first trip, a belated birthday gift from Chuck's guardians. Her excitement was bubbly and contagious.
The movie was only part of the cause for excitement. Sarah owned the book, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, as a part of her home library. When reading together, she and Chuck would alternate between Chuck's comic books and chapter books from Sarah's room. For seven years old, Sarah possessed advanced reading skills. The book, handed down from her mother, was actually closer to Chuck's reading level, around seventh grade.
They had started reading the book at the beginning of July. Chuck had done most of the reading, but as she sat close to him, usually under the tree in her backyard, she would read the pages over his shoulder, pointing to the words he spoke when one was unfamiliar to her. He would clarify or explain.
The scenes described in the book were frightening and violent at times, more appropriate for a child of Chuck's age than Sarah's, but she was so interested, so attentive when he read, so unfazed, he knew she wasn't upset by any of it. Casey had assured him the movie would be tamer than the book; Chuck wondered how he could be sure, but he took Casey's word anyway.
The movie had been Gertrude's idea. The Caseys almost never went to the movies, or even out in general—only once a year for their anniversary in most cases. Tonight was special, though, a treat before school started again, a present for Sarah's birthday.
Sarah dressed for summer in a pink romper. Her hair was braided the way Chuck had taught her, a matching pink ribbon tied to the bottom of each braid. Dorothy, the main character in the book, wore her hair in the same style, which delighted Sarah. Chuck knew from overhearing Casey and Gertrude talking about something they had read in the newspaper, that the character in the book had been named after the author's real-life niece who had died in infancy right before the book was written. Such a strange thing to remember, but a part of Chuck still gravitated towards tragedy, a moth to a flame, even when he knew he shouldn't. Sometimes, it was inescapable, a pull like gravity.
The line eventually moved, bringing the group to the window, where Casey purchased all four tickets. From his previous trips, Chuck recalled all they would be seeing this evening–a newsroll, cartoons, and then the feature. Today was Saturday, but it was still going to be a relatively late evening out. Jack had given permission for Sarah to stay at Chuck's house again, something he had done a handful of times since the children had started spending time together.
Once they were inside the opulent theater, Chuck watched Sarah absorb her surroundings, her deep, curious gaze drinking in everything. The ceiling was high, ornately scrolled and gilded, with grecian style columns lining the stairs and the walkway. Neon lights glowed in every direction. Brightly decorated movie posters lined each wall as they walked to the entry doors. Inside, the theater was already dark, prepared for the show to begin. Casey looked up and down, searching for the perfect seats, grouped together and with a good view for all. He found some. Gertrude moved in, Chuck and Sarah followed, and Casey sat on the other side, boxing them in.
"Are you excited, Chuck?" Sarah whispered, leaning close to his ear.
He was, but he was fairly certain his reason was different than hers. "The last movie I saw was Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs," he explained. "I think it was two years ago." Back then, in 1937, he had been excited to see the animation in the movie, a novelty for a full length film, a new innovation at the time…and excited because Ellie was excited, since Snow White was her favorite fairy tale.
Thinking of his sister and his parents still hurt sometimes, when he wondered what each of them would think or say about something, or when he heard something funny he knew would have made them laugh. He still missed them; he had gradually come to terms with the fact that he would always miss them with that same intensity, but at least now, the feeling was no longer debilitating. He could bear it. He no longer felt guilty for his happiness, in the moments he could find it. He appreciated his happiness now and never took it for granted, knowing how truly fleeting it could be.
The news reel was a sensationalized depiction of the words he had been hearing on the radio almost nonstop for the past two days, and even in the car on the way to the theater. Germany had invaded Poland two days ago. Tanks, fighter planes, soldiers…the pictures would flash faster than the announcer's words could keep up. Taking over the world, Chuck recalled. Once again, Casey was correct. This latest transgression, however, seemed to be the tipping point. Something had changed, something major had shifted in the world —only the aftershocks had yet to ripple down to their everyday life.
He waited anxiously for the news to end, glancing at Sarah out of the corner of his eye. She was young, but she understood at least the broader implications of what was happening, what she saw. When she overheard the news on the radio, sometimes she would ask him things. He could see her blue eyes shining, unblinking as she watched the black and white images flashing on the screen. He sighed, loud enough to draw her attention, when the news ended and the cartoons began.
They watched Bugs Bunny, and later Tom and Jerry. The sound of her laughter was like music to him, like soft tinkling bells. They laughed together at the cat and mouse antics. She leaned against his shoulder, whispering, "I feel bad for Jerry. Why is Tom so mean all the time?"
"Cats chase mice. That's just what they do," Chuck whispered back.
"But they could be friends, couldn't they? It's just a cartoon," she replied, still whispering so as not to be overheard.
"It wouldn't be funny then, would it?" he asked her.
"I guess," she agreed. "But it's only funny because it's a cartoon. If it was real, it wouldn't be so funny."
He wasn't sure how he knew it, but he did: she was saying that because the news had worried her. Tom was making war on Jerry. Truth was, Chuck was worried as well, but he gestured to the screen. "That's what we need, right? A diversion."
She seemed to understand him, leaning her head against his shoulder, like it was the most natural thing for her to do. He didn't move a muscle, not wanting to break the spell or disturb her at all, so she would stay in that posture. Nothing, not the war or school starting or the coming hurricane season could bother him when she was close like that.
The theater darkened more, and then the movie began. This wasn't the first ever Technicolor movie, but it had been stressed in advertisements, part of the attraction of the film. The beginning of the movie was black and white, however. Chuck knew the story from reading it, and he knew Sarah remembered it as well. Casey made it a point to tell them that Hollywood always changed the story a bit when they made a book into a movie. Chuck and Sarah were prepared, watching and waiting for the differences.
Chuck watched with rapt attention. The story at the beginning was embellished, he realized. He watched the conflict as it was portrayed, taking note of each of the characters. The tornado was what had carried Dorothy to Oz in the book. Chuck had heard Casey and Gertrude whispering when they thought he couldn't hear, Gertrude sharing her worry that the tornado scene might upset him, bring back the loss of his family. He was prepared, ready to close his eyes if it became too much. Somehow, knowing Sarah was there beside him, touching him, he knew he could be strong, not wanting to upset her, despite the fact that he was generally softer at heart than she.
He watched the wind, the dust, the panic on the screen. Dorothy was alone. The house was airborne. He felt his heart racing, but in the next breath, Sarah squeezed his hand, and then held it on the armrest between them. "She hit her head," Sarah whispered to him. She grounded him, reminding him they were looking for differences.
The screen came alive with color, bursting with it after the black and white. They were in Oz. "This is a dream, I think. In the book it was real. Oz really existed," he mentioned.
A few seconds later, Sarah gushed, "Oh! Her shoes were silver in the book!"
"Red looks brighter, though, don't you think?" he countered, and they both considered the Technicolor red shoes.
They whispered throughout the entire movie in a similar fashion. The backstories of the Scarecrow, Tin Man, and Lion were missing. Chuck thought that was good, considering what he remembered of the Tin Man's gruesome, Brothers-Grimm-like tale. The violent cutting off wolves' heads and similar images were missing as well, as Casey had guessed. Chuck could hear Sarah humming softly along to the music. It warmed his heart.
When the plot darkened, she leaned into him. The flying monkeys, benign in the book, were dark and ominous on the large screen, monstrous. Chuck felt Sarah squeezing his arm, her face turned only halfway to the screen, seeing and not-seeing. When Dorothy doused the Witch with a bucket of water, causing the Witch to scream as she melted, Sarah hid her face in his arm. He could feel her shaking. She was dauntless almost always; her trembling surprised him. Perhaps the nature of the larger-than-life screen was a factor. He reached with his other arm, resting his hand in the center of her back, offering comfort. She never turned back to the screen, but she stopped shaking.
Incomprehensible tears misted his eyes. He was thinking of his sister, a forgotten moment from Snow White, when the dwarves chased the witch to a cliff and she died, struck by lightning. Ellie had hugged him when she saw him cover his eyes. Protect. It was another directive, as if handed down by his sister to him. All he could do, all he would ever be able to do for Ellie…was protect others, the other people he cared about. He was relieved by Sarah's comfort as she leaned against him.
"Is the scary part over?" she whispered.
"The witch is gone," he told her, not sure if there were any more scary parts. "Just close your eyes if something scares you." She nodded against his shoulder.
The rest of the movie flew by. Chuck thought she might be frightened by the wizard, but she kept her eyes on the screen. Eventually, Dorothy woke up from her dream into her black and white world. The movie ended. The hour was late, but Sarah was still wide awake.
They walked out with the chattering crowd. Casey and Gertrude asked if they had enjoyed the movie. Sarah talked excitedly, listing the differences between the book and the movie in one long, breathless litany. Gertrude laughed, even as Casey sighed.
In the car, Gertrude turned from the front seat and asked, "What was your favorite part?"
"When she opened the door…and everything in Oz was in color," Chuck replied.
"What about you, Sarah?" Gertrude asked, always prodding to get more of a response from the girl.
Chuck watched her nibble her lower lip for a few seconds. "The end," she said with finality, not elaborating.
"What about the end?" Gertrude asked.
"That we could go home?" Casey grumbled, half playfully, under his breath. Gertrude swatted his arm as she pursed her lips. Chuck giggled, then turned to Sarah, hoping she would explain.
"It's in the book too. Dorothy tells the Scarecrow, 'There's no place like home.' I think that's true," Sarah explained laconically.
Chuck watched the look that passed between Casey and Gertrude, noting the silent admiration on their faces, appreciation for Sarah's words and sentiment.
Whispering only to him, Sarah continued to explain. "But it wasn't her house that she meant. It was Aunty Em and Uncle Henry. Home's not a place, it's a feeling," Sarah finished.
Gradually, sleepiness took over, and Sarah snuggled against Chuck as the car continued to his house. Drowsily, she said to him, her eyes closed, "My house doesn't feel like home unless you're there."
He knew exactly how she felt.
September 3, 1939
Worcester, Massachusetts
It was Sunday. Sunday mornings, when Sarah had stayed overnight on Saturday, meant waking up early and getting ready, so that Casey could drop Sarah at her house before they went to church. Sunday mornings, they didn't eat breakfast until after they returned, but Gertrude would always make Sarah a piece of toast with jam so she never went home hungry. Jack never went to church, and neither did Sarah.
This morning, the usual scent of toasted bread was missing. No one was in the kitchen at all when Chuck and Sarah descended the stairs. Chuck exchanged a curious look with Sarah, wondering where everyone was. Chuck heard the radio, louder than normal, blaring in the living room. Casey and Gertrude never listened to the radio in the morning, especially not on Sunday mornings. That time was sacred.
Chuck and Sarah turned the corner into the living room. Casey sat on one side of the radio, Gertrude on the other, both seated on the edges of their seats, almost leaning against the speakers. Casey made a sharp, harsh, chopping gesture in the air, a nonverbal command to remain silent, as he and Gertrude were obviously listening intently.
…We and France are today, in fulfillment of our obligations, going to the aid of Poland, who is so bravely resisting this wicked and unprovoked attack on her people…
Chuck recognized the voice. It was the Prime Minister of Great Britain. He had the same tone from the last time Chuck had heard him speak, when Hitler had captured all of Czechoslovakia. The speech was long, but Chuck had stopped listening to the words.
Gertude turned towards them, whispering, but loud enough for them to hear over the radio, "England and France declared war on Germany this morning."
Their grim faces made Chuck's stomach churn with anxiety. He remembered what he had told Sarah, about it being in Europe, far from them in America. He shouldn't be worried. Only, he knew, and could see, Casey and Gertrude were worried. If Germany wanted to take over the whole world, didn't that eventually include America, too?
He felt Sarah take his hand. Had she sensed his discomfiture?
"My father might think that's good news," she whispered, too quietly for the adults to hear.
The sense of helplessness Chuck felt whenever the world intruded in his life was familiar, if subdued. He had learned young, perhaps too young, that the events he heard about on the radio weren't always abstract ideas, tragedies in the distance, but close, tangible havoc, able to blow into his very life like a hurricane.
The scariest topic he had ever heard Casey and Gertrude talk about was the end of the world, as they believed it was foretold in the last book of the Bible. Instances of such talk were rare, usually occurring only after a service when a Revelations passage had been read during the mass, but it always filled Chuck with dread. The meaning was never straightforward, rather, Casey had explained that the words and phrases were all symbols, something the human mind used to gesture toward something divine and unknowable. There were numbers and signs, horses and horrors. All Chuck knew for sure, was that there was supposed to be a war when the world ended.
America had been a country less than two hundred years, and yet had been at war at least five times. The Great War, as Casey had called it, had frightened many into believing it was a sign of the end. When the world had survived, hope abounded that wars were over. Still, 20 years later, and the world was on the verge of war again. How would anyone know when the next war was the last, the beginning of the end?
He wasn't sure what made him more upset–his own thoughts, or the words Sarah had said. He had a bad feeling that he couldn't shake. Casey stayed glued to the radio, and missed the early mass. They were two hours late taking Sarah home; Jack didn't answer his phone, and he was barely aware of the time, let alone the fact that Sarah was late, when she returned. He was listening to his radio.
Sarah told Chuck to wait as she ran to her room and came back. She had gone to retrieve Bunny, and handed her stuffed dog to him as he waited on the doorstep. He looked at her curiously.
"I know you're almost 11, but you can still take him home," she said with a smile. She looked down at her owl. "I have Hoot to keep me company."
He smiled, hugging her toy gratefully. She just seemed to know, as if she could read his mind, or feel what he was feeling. They silently vibrated on the same wavelength. "Thanks, Sarah," he said. She flashed a beautiful smile.
He wondered if she knew that his gratitude was for more than just one night, one toy, one smile. He was thankful for her, for her friendship. Thankful for her understanding, which bound them with an invisible wire, connected at their hearts.
Almost a year ago, he had believed he had lost everything, his life. But he hadn't. His life now was newly shaped, differently colored, pink ribbons, but he still had a life. A life that meant everything to him because she was in it.
A/N: Many thanks to Zettel for pre-reading. Historical notes: More of that crazy juxtaposition that is life. The Wizard of Oz opened in theaters six days before Hitler invaded Poland, officially starting the second World War. This is an adapted version of the true story my grandmother told me, the first time I watched the movie with her when I was probably five. She took her young children to the movies on Saturday...and woke up to Chamberlain's speech early Sunday morning. That is a snippet of his speech included here. Anyone who has read The Wonderful Wizard of Oz knows all the things they mention here are factual--the differences between the book and the movie. Baum did name Dorothy after his deceased niece, who had died of most likely encephalitis as an infant. Thoughts? Reviews are encouraged. :)