Night Witch's Son

Walking home from the movies late one afternoon in July of 1952, Bobby glowed with the optimism of a seven year old with two months of summer vacation ahead of him. His mood changed abruptly as he came through the side door and smelled something his mother called “second front casserole.” Soon it would be dinner time. His number was up.

Every kid in first grade had a least favorite meal, but none of the boys had ever even heard of second front casserole. When Bobby listed the ingredients – diced spam, cream of mushroom soup, macaroni, and American cheese – other boys tended to go quiet. Sometimes they backed away. He had only found one boy familiar with it. "Spam hotdish,” the boy had said. “Yuck.” The two had felt close after that, bonding over the trauma of eating a meal that nature had never intended.

That night, as the family assembled at the kitchen table, Bobby suspected he was not alone in his dread. His dad, instead of digging in the way he usually did, took a deep breath and started shaking salt on his portion. His baby sister tightened her lips and crossed her arms in preparation for active resistance. Only his mom, a shortish woman whom everyone said was pretty, seemed ready to eat. She looked around the table with bright eyes, smiling in a way that implied she understood something the rest of them did not. "All happy families,” she said, “are alike."

Bobby was appalled. Beyond the tone-deafness of his mother's statement, he did not see how happiness had anything to do with the alikeness of families. As far as he could tell, all families were alike, period. Everybody's parents had grown up in the depression. All the dads had been in World War 2 and worked at North American Dynamics, and the moms were all housewives. Bobby's mom was slightly different, having served with the Soviet air force, but she too was a housewife, a member of the PTA and a bridge club. She sometimes worked on the car but she knew enough to stay inside the garage with the door down.

"How much do I hafta eat?" Bobby asked. He knew it was hopeless but he had to try.

His mom raised an eyebrow. "All."

"Someday," his dad said, "you might be lying in a foxhole with nothing to eat but a couple of dog biscuits, and you'll think back to your mother's wonderful food and wish you had some."

Bobby wished he could fill up on dog biscuits. He envied his little sister, sitting in her highchair, rejecting food at will. His mom had resorted to playing a game where she lifted a spoonful over his sister's head, circling slowly. "Pwut, pwut, pwut," she said, "Plane all shot up by fascists. Pwut, pwut. Requestin’ permission for emergency landin'."

"Coming in on a wing and a prayer," his dad said in a voice that implied he was spellbound with suspense.

His sister opened her mouth and they all cheered as the spoon landed. Pleased with herself, she chewed and swallowed quickly to get ready for another. Five planes made it down before she closed the airfield.

All this talk about dramatic landings had made Bobby curious about his dad's experience as a tail gunner on a B-17. "Dad," he asked, "how come you never tell war stories?"

"We don't talk about that," his dad said.

"Can't you tell me anything?"

"I suppose I could tell you how I met your mom."

"No," Bobby said quickly, "nothing sappy."

His dad exchanged a smile with his mom. "OK," he said, "Eat up and I'll tell you one story but that's it."

Bobby nodded and gagged down a big forkful. His dad told about how he and a buddy found an unguarded power station on top of a hill after the war. They flipped a switch and a whole German town went dark. They flipped it back and all the lights came on again. They stood there flipping the power on and off, “laughing like monkeys,” until they heard a jeep roaring up the hill. "We figured it was the M.P.s so we got outta there fast," he said with a chuckle.

Bobby's mom reached over to tousle his dad's hair. "My no-goodnik," she said.

Bobby was disappointed. In movies, war was always exciting. Guys shot Germans or Japanese and won impossible battles. His dad had no idea how to tell a good war story.

***

The next morning, Bobby's mom cooked sausage and pancakes (her food was not always awful). His dad had already gone to work. His little sister was smashing tiny sausage pieces and mushed up pancake into her mouth.

Bobby cleaned his plate and brought it to his mom who stood at the sink. With a curt nod of approval, she slipped it into the sudsy water.

"Mom?" he asked.

"Yes, malysh."

"Can you tell me what you did in the war?"

"It's boring stuff," she said with a tired sigh. "Spent war deliverin' night packages for Father of Nations."

He had heard of this Father of Nations before. About a year ago, Bobby had asked his mother if she could ever return to Russia and she had said, “Possibly. Father of Nations has bed in camp all made up for me.”

That had sounded pretty nice and Bobby had assumed she was talking about her dad, but now he was not so sure. "Who's Father of Nations?" he asked.

"Never mind."

"Was your plane fast?"

She smiled at him. "No, was bip plane. Two wings."

"Why two?"

"Designed for farm use. Very maneuverable and, vwhen pilot sets engine to idle, plane glides through air quiet like mouse."

"Did you ever see anybody get killed?"

She flinched and her eyes grew distant. Then, seeming to remember he was present, she spoke breezily, "Out of house now, malysh. Time to frolic across hill and dale before mother loses patience."

***

There were no hills or dales in Bobby's neighborhood of identical ranch houses and he had no interest in frolicking. He wanted to play war. The big kids had been playing war ever since school ended and little kids had been excluded, but yesterday at the movies, Bobby had heard that a girl named Mary had beaten up the boy who ran the game and she had started allowing little kids in.

Bobby searched the yard until he found a branch that he broke in half. He snapped twigs off until it looked like a real gun. Then he walked to the park with his branch over his shoulder.

Mary was sitting on a swing in the middle of the park. She was 10 or 11, taller than most boys her age, and always wore dungarees. As he drew near her, he had the feeling she was sizing him up. "What do you want?" she asked.

"I wanna play war."

She sneered. "War's not a game."

Bobby was crestfallen.

Mary stared hard at him for a moment, then said, "Show me your rifle, soldier." Bobby held out his branch. She took it and examined it, whistling appreciatively. "Browning automatic. Good weapon, but you gotta be nine to get into the American Army." She handed his weapon back.

"I'm nine."

"No you're not."

"Am too."

Mary rose from her swing, towering over him. "You know,” she said with a sigh, “I like you. You're a good kid but, if you lie, God will cut off your tongue."

Bobby figured Mary must be Catholic. They always seemed to know more about God. Bobby had tried to get his parents to convert after he heard they served cookies and fruit punch at catechism class but his parents stuck with First Episcopal or "First Opiate" as his mom sometimes called it. First Episcopal did not serve refreshments. Bobby had to settle for surreptitiously eating the occasional piece of dry macaroni from the craft drawer at Sunday School, a poor substitute for cookies and fruit punch, and yet, objectively speaking, better than second front casserole.

Mary put her hand on his shoulder. "Tell the truth," she said.

"Almost nine." Bobby had turned seven last March, so “almost nine” was a stretch and he hoped God was not a stickler.

"That's more like it," Mary said. She nodded and took a deep breath. "OK, private, listen up. You'll be in the German Army. It's a good army. They gave us a run for our money in the war. Your father fought them, right?"

"He was a tail gunner."

"And your mother," she said, mistrust creeping in. "Russian."

"Yeah."

"People say she's a witch."

"Is not!"

"Relax kid. I'm just telling you what people say. Heard she's a night witch, whatever the hell that means. But I don't believe in fairy tales. They call her a witch 'cause she's a dish. I'd be more concerned about the other rumor." She paused to stare hard at him again. "Russian spy."

Bobby felt like he was about to cry.

"Aw," Mary said with a dismissive wave, "don't take it so hard, kid. Nobody ever proved it. She's a nice lady, a real dame, but never mind that now. Go wait by the slide with the rest of the Krauts, and, listen, there's rules. You get shot, you have to fall down and stay down until the medic comes. Got it?"

He nodded.

It took a while for the troops to assemble and deploy. All the little kids were in the German Army. Mary led the American Army and doubled as the referee, and it turned out all the big kids were crack shots. Bobby got killed early in the game. The medic got killed too, so Bobby had to just lie there until the battle was over. He played all morning, spending most of each battle as a dead German.

***

Bobby arrived home for lunch disillusioned with war. When he came into the kitchen, his mom was chopping onions while his sister took her nap. "Malysh looking all stalled out," she said, setting her knife aside. "Needs liberty sandwich, eh?"

“Yes, please,” Bobby said, sitting at the table, feeling a little better; he liked liberty sandwiches. "We played war. I was in the German Army."

"German?" she asked. She had taken the peanut butter and marshmallow creme down from the cabinet, but now she stopped what she was doing and squinted at him. "You becomin' little Nazi?"

"They made me be one."

"I see," she said with a smile, "you was only followin' orders."

"Yeah, and I got killed in every battle."

"Good," she said, tittering. "Smelly little Krauts get vwhat's comin'."

He had expected her to take his side. Now he crossed his arms and glared at the surface of the yellow formica table. His mom busied herself making his sandwich without checking to see why he was silent. Pouting never affected her much.

"Mom?" he asked.

"Yeah?"

"Are you a Russian spy?"

She laughed. "No," she said over her shoulder. "Am war bride like Shirley Yamaguchi."

Bobby had no idea who Shirley Yamaguchi was. He considered asking but decided he did not care. "Are you a witch?" he asked, thinking she would laugh again.

She fixed him with a serious look. "Who sezzat?"

"It's because you're so pretty."

She smirked. "Yes," she said, "pretty like Shirley Yamaguchi. Think Shirley Yamaguchi is witch? No? Good. Do not believe peasant superstition." She returned to making his sandwich.

"What's a night witch?"

His mom was still for a moment and did not answer. Then she finished making his sandwich and poured him a glass of milk. He was wondering if he could ask again without irritating her, when she sat down beside him and asked, "So, where does malysh hear about Night Witches?"

"At the park."

"And vwhat he thinks they are?"

"I guess they must be witches that come out at night."

She nodded. "I told you I flew at night. The Germans called us ‘Nachthexxe,’ Night Witches.” The German word rolled off her tongue with an ease that seemed wrong for a person with such negative attitudes toward Germans. “Dark of night is time of horror. Only brave witches come out. Fly by night to bring morning to world. Malysh also must be brave. No more German Army."

"But Mary says I hafta."

"Who is this Mary?"

Bobby explained Mary’s system of assigning little kids to the German Army, and then, to his horror, his mom said she would have a talk with Mary. He pleaded with her not to but it was no use. She put on her makeup, loaded his little sister in the baby carriage, and left the house. Bobby watched her push the carriage up the sidewalk. He hoped they did not get in a fight. Mary was just as big as his mother and a lot meaner.

Bobby went to his room, pulled the heavy curtain, and sat on his bed in the darkness. He could not risk turning on the light. His life was different now. No more going to the movies and certainly not the park. Only the house was safe. If his mother sent him out to "frolic," he would need to stay in the backyard, crawl under a bush and be very still. Trust no one.

Thinking over the situation, he realized Mary would not beat up his mom. She would listen and promise to put Bobby in the American Army, and then she would wait for her chance to teach him a lesson. He wished now he had never gone to war.

***

That night his mother pan fried kotlety, another dish his friends had never heard of – a sort of individual-sized meatloafs. He liked kotlety but tonight he chewed small grumpy bites.

"What's wrong?" his dad asked.

"Mom told Mary – she's a big kid -- she had to let me play war in the American Army."

“OK,” his dad said. “You don’t like the American Army?”

“Mary makes all the little kids be Germans. Now she’s gonna kill me.”

His dad nodded slowly, then looked to Bobby's mom. "I thought we agreed not to interfere. Let the kids work things out."

"No son of mine is Nazi."

"But--"

"No," she said, slapping her hand hard on the table. Bobby's sister widened her eyes and opened her mouth. Bobby braced for the explosion, but his mom disarmed the bomb with some tickles and a squeaky voice, "Is OK, dumplin’. Life is sunshine. Happy family." Then she turned back to his dad and spoke quietly, "Not this time, Mister Neville Chamberlain."

"OK," his dad said, "you're the boss."

"Dad," Bobby whined, "Mary will kill me."

"No peace in your time," his dad said cryptically.

"But dad."

"Silence, malysh," his mom said. "Tomorrow you will face fears bright and early. Tell Mary you wish to serve in American Army."

Bobby opened his mouth to object.

“That’s enough,” his dad said. "Your mom's the boss."

And just like that, Bobby’s fate was sealed.

***

The next morning, Bobby's mom loaded his sister in the carriage and walked Bobby to the park. She wore cherry red lipstick and a blue summer dress that fell just below her knees. A young man in a car slowed down as he passed to take a long look at them. Bobby's mom took no notice. The young man hit the gas and sped toward the park. He had to be connected to Mary, maybe a big brother. Bobby was walking into a trap.

When they came to the edge of the park, Bobby froze. In the distance, Mary gazed final judgment from her swing.

"This is moment," his mom said, squatting down to look up at him solemnly. "Malysh must be brave."

Looking at her wavy brown hair and green eyes, probably for the last time, he saw just how beautiful she truly was. A fairy princess. How had he never noticed? "Goodbye mom," he intoned.

She smiled and handed him a small item wrapped in wax paper. “Give this to Mary.” Bobby’s heart sank. Whatever it was beneath the wax paper, it was not going to sway Mary. His mother pushed him gently into the park. He had gone only a few steps when he heard her call, "No risk, no Champagne!" He did not have the heart to turn and tell her how hollow her words sounded.

It was a long walk to the swing set across the indifferent grass. Mary stared at him the whole time. He could feel his mom's eyes on his back, cutting off retreat. He trudged slowly, without hope, as if in a dream. When he was too close to run away, Mary said, "C'mere kid." His mom had made him bring his Browning automatic which he held low at his side, trying not to draw attention to it. Mary pointed to his other hand where he held the item wrapped in wax paper. "What's that?"

"It's from my mom," he said, handing it to her.

Mary unwrapped it. Bobby recognized one of his mother’s lemon pirozhkis. Mary took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Good grub," she said, brushing crumbs from her dungarees. "Yeah, good." She nodded. "OK, listen up, from now on you're in the American Army. If anybody asks, tell them you're nine. If they argue, send them to me. Got it?"

"Yes, sir."

Mary smiled. "At ease, private."

Bobby looked behind him. His mother was gone.

End