When the War Came to Hannah

Excerpt from When the War Came to Hannah by Jane S. Creason #201640 The old hot-water radiators along the wall were clanking and popping. A murmur of voices came from the side boards where Miss Franklin was helping a small group of seventh graders with percentages. Suddenly, the pale February sun broke through the gray clouds. Sunshine flooded in the tall windows and streaked across the scarred wooden floor. It shone on the blackboard behind Miss Franklin’s big oak desk. I stared at the dust particles dancing in the shafts of light. I wasn’t getting my map done. I slid off my bench seat and walked to the windows. The fifth and sixth graders were on the far walks down near the ball field, playing catch and chasing each other around. The seventh and eighth grade girls were pacing up and down the front sidewalk in clusters, all the girls except Gretchen. She was standing by the pump, surrounded by Johnny and a bunch of the older boys. Only Taylor stood apart with his hands jammed in his pockets. Some of the boys were still shaking hands, but Johnny and the Isaacsons were in a semicircle leaning toward Gretchen. With their faces close to hers, they were pulling their eyes slanted. Gretchen stood motionless, her face sheet white. A rush of anger surged all the way from my toes. I ran from the room, right past Miss Franklin. I hit every other step and burst through the doors below. I could hear the chanting. “Jap lover. Jap lover. Jap lover.” I raced up behind Johnny, grabbed his shoulders, and jerked him away from her. “You moron!” I said, screaming. “Leave her alone!” He whirled to face me, his fists doubled up. I took a quick step backward. “What’s the problem out here?” Miss Franklin shouted from the doorway. As Johnny stepped around me, he opened his hands, raised up his palms, and said, “Not a thing, Miss Franklin. Just getting acquainted with our new classmate.” Miss Franklin frowned. “I think you’d better come inside now,” she said to Johnny. “Whatever you say,” he said, smiling. Shortly after the doors closed behind them, the clang of the bell ended recess. The crowd of boys at the pump parted, and Gretchen stepped from inside the circle. She and I walked side by side into the building. Neither of us said a word. At noon I ate at my desk, barely tasting my cheese sandwich. No one talked to me. With my tin cup, I dipped a drink of water from the bucketful brought up from the pump by Old Henry. I left the room only long enough to dash to the restroom outside. The morning sunshine had been brief. A fine drizzle was falling, so everyone stayed inside for noon recess. The townies who’d gone home for lunch returned about a quarter to one. The smell of wet wool filled the whole room as damp scarves, hats, and mittens steamed from the radiator tops. When Gloria and Betty Jean walked in, other kids surrounded them. There were glances at me and Gretchen, who also sat alone at her desk, and inaudible words whispered behind cupped hands. At precisely one o’clock, Miss Franklin rapped her desk with a ruler. As students moved to their seats, two notes dropped onto mine. Instantly, I covered them with my hand since note passing wasn’t allowed. My heartbeat quickened. After Miss Franklin began our history lesson, I slipped the notes behind my propped-up book and slowly unfolded each of them. The first one was written in red crayon. Roses are red, violets are blue, Your face is red, her hair is too. The second one was a crude drawing of two figures, one labeled Carrot Hair and the other Beet Face. For the next forty-five minutes, I looked only at Miss Franklin. I concentrated on her blue eyes, straight nose, and lightly rouged cheeks. I stared at her brown hair that was pulled smoothly back into a low bun, at her white lacy collar and her navy suit. I willed my heart to slow and my face to cool. At two forty-five, a knock on the door signaled the arrival of Mrs. Van Holt with the pink frosted cupcakes she always baked for the Valentine’s Day parties at Ten Oaks. Several other mothers entered carrying small cups of redhots and napkins printed with hearts. We slid our books and papers inside our desks as the refreshments were passed out. Then the mothers sat on folding chairs to watch the distribution of the valentines. The bottom of the box was opened carefully, and all the valentines were dumped onto Miss Franklin’s desk. Two boys and two girls, who’d been chosen earlier, passed them out. For the next half an hour, we opened and read valentines. It had always been fun, something warm and friendly we did every year. But I sat, silent and alone, wondering if the messages on my desk were from people who really cared about me at all. I looked over at Gretchen. She was sitting straight and tall with her hands in her lap. Her desk was bare. She had no valentines, not even one. My heart pounding, I stood up, walked to the bookshelf, and retrieved the valentine hidden there. By the time I walked to Gretchen’s desk, everyone was staring at me. “I didn’t make this for you,” I said, “but I want you to have a valentine.” The room was as quiet as death, an appropriate figure of speech since I’d no doubt committed social suicide at Ten Oaks Elementary. Returning to my seat, I looked at no one. I had a much worse problem than a red face. I was dangerously close to tears. When the whispers began, I was positive they were all about me. With my hands folded tightly to stop their shaking, I stared at the alphabet cards tacked above the blackboard. M was a bit crooked. The corner of P was torn off. I didn't dare cry. I looked at the first cards. A is for antelope. B is for bear. C is for cat. I was picturing the wood-block prints in the big colorful alphabet book Grandma Grey had given me for my fourth birthday. I loved that book. D is for duck, a white duck standing in deep green vines. E is for elephant. F is for fox. G is for giraffe. H is for horse, an elegant black stallion with white feet and nose. I wondered if the minute hand on the clock was moving. Ibis, jaguar, kangaroo, lion, mouse. I especially liked the print of the small white mouse nibbling on a golden head of wheat. Newt, orang, pelican. When the dismissal buzzer above the door finally sounded at three-thirty, I was on T is for turkey for the third time, and I’d managed not to shed a tear. Stuffing my valentines and arithmetic book into my satchel, I was the first to reach the cloakroom. I grabbed my coat off the hook, pulled on my galoshes, and fled the room without a thank you or a good-bye to anyone. The voices behind me faded as my feet pounded down the wooden staircase.