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parents’ disapproval. Now, with all that’s going on, I’m
trying very hard to behave. It’s terribly dull, but I force myself.
    I wish
to share some good news with you. Mother has finally recovered from her illness
and the sorrow of losing Hans. She’s still weak, but at least she’s up and
about and trying to get back into a routine. My father and I try hard to help
out and lift her spirits. How Hans would laugh if he could see his “little
Anya” trying so hard to be nice and cheerful for a change.
    The
house is still filled with the pesky parishioners. I told Father we should tell
them all to go home then shut the door and lock it. Of course, he is much more
sympathetic with them than I am. It’s so hard not to be grouchy since none of
us get much sleep with the constant roar of airplanes overhead on their way to Germany . I too
hope one of these bombs hits the maniac with the awful mustache. Many times, I
have imagined myself shooting him down as a favor to the world.
    One of
Father’s parishioners has a farm just outside of town. We’ve known the Boormans
for years. I ran into Mrs. Boorman the other day and found out their son Wim
has a broken leg and cannot help Mr. Boorman with the many chores on their
small farm. She knows I love animals. When I was young I used to play for hours
with their piglets and chicks. I told her I would like to come tomorrow after
school to help with chores.
    I
thought of you. I’m just like you, Danny, because I cannot tell Mother and
Father some things—like working out at the Boormans’ farm. They believe I
should be more of a young lady. They will not approve of my plans to muck about
with the livestock—though I would love nothing more than to quit school and
help the Boormans all day. Do you suppose either of us will ever get to do what
we want?
    Anya

9
     
     
    November 1939
    An unexpected early snow ruined lots of Thanksgiving plans,
blanketing most of Illinois under a foot or more of snow.
Danny and his mother were disappointed they would have to miss the family
dinner out at his grandparents’ farm, but they tried to make the best of it. He
got up early that morning, trying to shovel the deep snow from as many
sidewalks and driveways as he could before their noontime meal. He made sure he
got home in time, stomping the snow off his boots and pulling his tired feet
out of them as fast as he could.
    When he opened the front door, the aromas wafting from the
kitchen about knocked him over. “Mom! It smells fantastic in here!”
    “Good. Now hurry and get cleaned up. We’re about ready to
sit down.”
    His mother hadn’t bought a turkey, of course, thinking
they’d be out at the farm, but she made do by roasting a chicken with all the
usual side dishes. The three of them enjoyed a quiet meal together, though
Danny insisted they could have made it out to the farm with the chains Dad had
put on the tires. But Dad said no and that was that.
    Over slices of pumpkin pie and coffee, they chatted about
the war news, the neighbors, and the latest big movie, Mr. Smith Goes to
Washington . The movie had caused quite a stir in some political circles. They’d
heard Joseph Kennedy had tried to have the movie banned, calling in favors from
some of the biggest names in Hollywood . In the end, his
attempt failed and the Jimmy Stewart drama was a big hit with folks all over
the country.
    Danny added a little more whipped cream to his pie. “I liked
the part where he was so tired from that long speech that he passed out.”
    Just then, Dad tapped his water glass with his knife. Danny
looked at his mother who shrugged as though she had no idea what this was about.
    “I have an announcement to make,” his father began.
    Danny swallowed hard. Oh dear Lord, please don’t let this
be about me going to work with Dad.
    “The old Windsor Place Theater went up for sale, and I’ve
decided to buy it.”
    His mother’s fork dropped, clattering on her plate. “What?”
    “Lester