World War II Memory

Daddy sat down in his chair by the battery radio that stood like a soldier in the corner of the living room. He turned the knob from the station where Mama had listened to “Stella Dallas,” her daily soap opera. For a few seconds, the crackling and the whining sounds of the radio filled the room. Then the voice of H. V. Kaltenborn overtook the noise. I was only four years old, but I knew that I was not to make a sound or get up and move around until that distinctive voice coming from the big box said, “Good night.”

Daddy often leaned his head closer and cocked his ear toward the sound to be sure he heard every word. I learned early that the Pacific theater was more important than  Europe  because my twenty-two year old brother, a Marine, was fighting there. I didn’t know why they were having a war in a theater, but I knew it was far across the sea.

Finally, Daddy clicked off the radio and stood.

“Did they tell anything about Brother,” I asked.

Daddy didn’t answer. He left the room  and  even at my age I could read the worry on his face.

I looked at Mama. She shook her head and said, “Maybe we’ll get a letter tomorrow.”