Cornflower Blue- a short story

“I’m heading up for my shift,” Marty greeted Jozef as he clamored into their shared, cramped bunking quarters. “Mail came while you were finishing up and Mother sent us both letters. I put yours on your pillow.”

Jozef felt his whole body loosen up at the news of mail. Mrs. Ball had been a second mother to him for the last eight and a half years. He eagerly tore open his envelope to see what news she had to share with him.

Jozef didn’t even hear Marty’s “Well, I will see you later.” He absentmindedly shut the door behind his friend as he started to read the familiar handwriting with a smile on his face. 

Mrs. Ball started the letter with how she had helped his little sister, Helena, prepare for a spelling bee. The letter went on to update him on the gossip of his hometown and how she was inspired by FDR’s most recent Fireside Chat. It ended the way she finished all of her correspondence with Jozef-- Looking forward to making you an apple pie and some oatmeal cookies. See you soon! Love, Mother Ball.

He laid down on his bunk, still fully dressed in his uniform, while he reread the letter several times. The monotonous but comforting rock of the waves carrying his destroyer escort across the ocean lulled him into a sense of moderate peace. The day had been long and tedious. Never one to completely surrender to the comfort of sleep, he nodded slightly and let his exhausted eyelids close. Jozef’s thoughts wandered to the mild April afternoon in 1935 when he first really met Mrs. Ball and became friends with Marty.

The boys were late coming home from baseball practice. Marty lived on the same street as Jozef, so they walked together often. Usually there wasn’t much to talk about, but this particular day had been full of all kinds of stories that twelve-year-old boys found interesting. As Marty laughed about how their teacher had accidentally dropped an entire bucket of water during lunch break, Jozef kept staring at his left hand and the purple, mangled mess that was his second finger.

“Coach Peters didn’t notice, maybe your mother won’t either,” Marty shrugged with the gullible innocence that children with reasonable parents always seemed to possess. Jozef didn’t say anything in response. He just shoved his pitching hand in his pocket and tried to figure out how he was going to hide a broken finger from his mother for the next several weeks. 

The boys parted ways in front of Marty’s large brick house with a brief wave and a half smile from Marty. As Jozef headed down the rest of the road, he paused in front of his own home. He sucked in a deep breath before awkwardly struggling to open the front door with his right hand. Bracing for impact, he closed the door behind him and placed his cap on the piano bench. Much to his surprise, Mother didn’t seem to notice he had come in at all. She was stitching the last details of the collar design on the new dress she had been making while she rocked the baby’s cradle with her foot. 

The sunlight poured into the room from the back window and bounced off her blond curls, making it look like she was wearing a golden, glowing halo. The irony was not lost on Jozef. While her speaking voice was often colder, Jozef always loved how sweetly she hummed Oj lulaj, lulaj to his little sister. Aleksander and Jakub were playing with their jacks on the discolored wooden floor by the unlit fireplace. The familiar, yet bland, smell of stuffed cabbage started to tickle Jozef’s nose. 

His stomach rumbled in anticipation of dinner. The stale bread and apple for lunch was hours ago and the porridge from breakfast may as well have been from last Tuesday. He knew better than to perch himself in the kitchen before Mother was ready. So he instead chose to go to the bedroom he shared with his little brothers to stay out of his mother’s hair. 

As he ambled up the stairs, his leg rubbed awkwardly against his hand, which was still hiding in his pocket. He tried to turn his hand to protect his finger, but he wasn’t quick enough and saw stars when he jammed it with his thigh. Jozef didn’t make a noise; he bit his lip to hold back a yelp while he kept climbing the steep, narrow steps until he reached the attic. Once there, he gingerly removed his hand from the pocket and winced at the sight of it. 

Mother would really let him have it this time. Suddenly worn out, he collapsed into a heap on the bed he shared with his brothers.  

The sun sank lower behind the trees as he laid still, and it cast strange shadows across the pitched ceiling that his father had built. The entire house was a labor of love from a man to his family. Jozef’s eyes traced the designs of the pine wood, the swirls and rings that made faces and forests and all kinds of unusual shapes that inspired the stories he told Aleksander and Jakub in the dark of the night.

“Jozef!” Jakub’s tiny face suddenly peered into the attic bedroom. “Mother has been calling you! It is time for supper.” The small boy struggled with his crutch as he turned around on the tiny top landing to make his way back down the steep steps. Jozef knew Mother sent him up on purpose-- to make him feel badly for not hearing her. Jakub had been born very small and with a twisted foot, so it was difficult for him to get up and down  the stairs. He always tired quickly and struggled with his crutch. 

Jozef hurried to his little brother’s side and scooped him up with his right arm, again placing his left hand in his pocket to shield the broken finger from view. When he got to the bottom of the steps, Mother met him with a disapproving look. Without saying a word, Jozef put Jakub down. The little brother leaned against his older brother’s strong body as he steadied himself with the crutch. The boys silently headed to the small kitchen and joined their brother and the baby at the tiny, cramped table. Mother followed them and silently served them each a rolled cabbage leaf stuffed with rice and minced onions and vegetables. This was the third night this week they had to eat this mush and Jozef prayed his face didn’t so much as whisper his disgust. As Mother cut off a small end of her own cabbage to share with Baby Helena, she asked her sons, “Jak ci minal dzien?”

“It was fine, Mother,” Jozef picked at his food clumsily with his fork in his weaker hand. “And father would want you to use English. He wants this to be your home now.”

Her cornflower blue eyes flashed purple at her son’s attitude. Then, she firmly stated a single word correction, “Wanted.”

After this, dinner was silent except for Helena babbling and cooing at her brothers and mother. Jozef knew that whatever happened after dinner, he would do his best to make himself scarce until he figured out what to do with his finger. His mother eyed him suspiciously as he awkwardly shoveled food in his mouth. He finished his meal last, which did nothing to ease any suspicions his mother was already considering. He went to clear his plate and his mother stopped him with a firm hand on his shoulder, she took a minute to think of the right words. Then she asked, “Your hand? I need to see.”

Jozef sighed and would not hold his mother’s glare as he slowly pulled his injured hand from the pants pocket it had been hiding in all evening. At the sight of the bruised and swollen  finger, Mother scowled and raised her hand. As she came down across his face, the sting brought tears to Jozef’s eyes. He could feel the skin redden and swell where her hand had landed on his cheek. She then hit him again. And again. Her anger poured from her hand and from her mouth. In a mix of English and Polish, she spat about his carelessness and how he knew they didn’t have money for a doctor. Her rage at his apparent disregard for his responsibility to his family tore him apart. Though it was clear to Jozef that the broken finger was an accident, Mother didn’t see it that way at all. By the time she finished, his face was as purple as the finger and his heart was tight in his chest because of her words, but he managed not to let go of any of the tears that pooled in his eyes. 

Mother turned on her heel and without saying a word, went to the front room. She returned a moment later with the dress she had been finishing. It was all boxed up and ready to be brought to her customer. The color drained from Jozef’s face when he read the tag: 

Mrs. J. Ball, 17 Hickory Road

Marty Ball’s mother was the one who had bought this dress. 

Mother handed the box to Jozef and to his surprise, he heard Aleksander’s voice behind him, “You can’t send Jozef to Officer Ball’s house with his face like that, Mother! I will go!”

Mother took Aleksander’s round face in her petite hand, she said, “Moj slodki chlopiec, my sweet, sweet boy. Jozef is a troublemaker but he wears his punishment without shame. You don’t save him.” Jozef could tell from the way Aleksander let out a small whimper, that Mother was not being sweet at all, but rather pinching his little brother’s face between her cold, bony fingers.

“Mother, please,” Jozef bargained, “Please let Aleks go and play with Jakub. I will deliver the dress and be back home in less than 10 minutes. Mrs. Ball will be happy for her dress.”

She seemed satisfied with Jozef’s plea and let Aleksander go. Before another word could be exchanged, Jozef hoisted the box under his arm and headed for the front door. He grabbed his cap off the piano bench on his way out of the tiny house. As he headed down the road to the Balls’ home, he thought of baseball and how much he would miss playing it, as the coach would surely not let him play with a broken finger. His thoughts wandered back to last summer and how he had taught Father to play, mostly so he could pitch to him and help him practice. How he missed Father. How they all did.

Before he realized it, Jozef was standing at the Balls’ front door.  He turned slightly to his left to try to hide his face, and switched the box from under his right arm to under his left, because he wasn’t sure he could knock with his bad hand without crumbling finally to the searing pain he was feeling. Nervous and unsure of what to do with himself, he switched the box back-- hoping he would be able to hide his injuries from curious eyes. 

“Oh my word!” Mrs. Ball gasped when she opened the door. Clearly, Jozef was not able to hide anything. “Jozef! Please come in and let me look at your face. Oh, and your hand! What on Earth happened to you?”

Hearing his wife’s commotion, Officer Ball looked up from his newspaper and looked Jozef up and down, frowning. “Yes, son. What happened to you?”

“Baseball,” he shrugged. It wasn’t completely a lie. And they seemed to buy it for the time being.

“Well, we can fix you right up. Your Mother should have sent you down right away,” Mrs. Ball warmly took him by the shoulders and led him to their bright, neat kitchen. She left the new dress on a sitting chair in the parlor, boxed up and forgotten. She sat him down in a chair and started rummaging through the top cabinets. Jozef noticed that the squat woman was standing on her tip toes and still couldn’t reach beyond the second shelf.

“Ma’am, what are you looking for? I can reach,” he offered. She turned and smiled a toothy grin at him. 

“I’m sure you can! My husband always teases that I am far too small for this kitchen. Would you mind getting that basket from the top shelf?” She pointed to a small wicker basket that was tucked in the back corner of the cabinet over the sink basin. Jozef easily reached it and handed her the basket. 

“Perfect! I have plenty of cotton wraps and surgical tape, we can make you a little cast for your finger,” her voice was as warm and sweet as the tea Father used to drink. Jozef couldn’t believe how kind Mrs. Ball was being. She reminded him of his grandmama, whom he hadn’t seen since his family left Poland when he was a little boy. 

As she worked to wrap his first and middle fingers together, Mrs. Ball explained that this would help keep the broken finger straight and in place so it healed properly. She then chattered on about how her father was a doctor so she had learned all sorts of tips and tricks for minor injuries and illnesses as a child. Jozef nodded politely and agreed to come back in a few days so she could check his finger for him. 

As she walked him to the door, he realized that he didn’t collect money from her for the dress. He wasn’t sure what to do as she had just set his finger for him and he was sure that service, plus the tape and cotton cloth was probably worth more than a $4.00 dress. He hesitated in the doorway, unsure of which would be worse— offending Mrs. Ball or going home empty-handed to Mother. Officer Ball jumped in before Jozef had the chance to decide. 

“Son, don’t forget your mother’s money!” He laughed and he rushed to the door to pay Jozef. “Here is an extra quarter for you too, so you can go to Dennison’s and get some ointment for that face. It is going to bruise up badly on you if you don’t do something with it.”

Jozef nodded thankfully, “Yes sir. Thank you, sir. Thank you both so much! Our family really appreciates your kindness.” As he was about to leave, Marty appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Jozef froze. He hadn’t realized he was home. Desperately hoping that Marty would read his face, he silently begged him to keep his mouth shut.

“Before you go, why don’t you take some oatmeal cookies back to your little brothers? Aleks and Jakub, right?” he offered.

Jozef felt his skin glow red hot underneath the bruises. “Thank you, but your family has already done so much” he responded. Mrs. Ball jumped into action, insisting on making him a basket to bring home. She disappeared again into the kitchen. When she reappeared, she handed him a large basket and Jozef thanked them all again before heading back up the road to his house.

Once home, Mother met him at the door and pressed her finger to her lips to signal that he was not to say a word. The baby was probably already asleep. He’d been gone a lot longer than the promised 10 minutes. When she saw the homemade cast and the basket, her eyes narrowed. He whispered, “They just wanted to help; it’s nothing. I swear.”

He took the basket to the kitchen and with his bandaged hand, he pulled back the cloth Mrs. Ball wrapped up the cookies in. To his surprise, there were not only cookies, but some figs, honey, cheese, and a small apple pie. He smiled to himself as the sweet smell of the treats wafted through the air and fed his hungry soul. 

Jozef drifted away from his memories and back to his cold bunk on the S.S. Andrews, with a smile still on his face. He wasn’t sure how long he had dozed for, but he felt eerily uneasy all of a sudden. Deciding that it may help to distract himself, he sat up on the side of his bunk and laced up his boots. He headed down the hall to the makeshift weight room they had on board. 

Before he could decide on what to start with, there was a deafening roar of an explosion and metal tearing and twisting. Jozef was thrown from his feet into the wall in front of him. His head banged hard against it before he fell backwards. While he laid there motionless with his eyes closed, he wasn’t sure if he was alive or dead, awake or unconscious. When he decided he was ready to try to move his body, Jozef slowly lifted his head. It was dark and there was no sound at all. 

“Marty!” Jozef choked out, “Marty— where are you?!” It was useless though; he realized he couldn’t hear anything.  As he stumbled to his feet, he slowly worked his way down the boat. He could tell from the damage to the boat that the blast was probably from a torpedo. It had ruptured his left ear drum and possibly done something to his right. 

Despite the throbbing headache and his sore body, he refused to give up on Marty. He checked different bunks and offices. He couldn’t find anyone who was still alive and he kept silently thanking whatever god who would listen that Marty was not among the deceased. The lights were not working in any of the rooms and they were taking on water fast. Panic was rising into his throat. It was late October and they were in the northern Atlantic, by Cherbourg, if his best estimate was correct. The water was maybe 48 degrees, but it felt colder, like icicles grasping him and squeezing the warmth from his body. 

As he tried to climb up to the deck, Jozef felt woozy, his body getting heavier with every step. He had to stop several times to get his bearings. As he fought to stay conscious, he realized he had no idea how long it had been since the attack. Was is 20 minutes? Two hours? Jozef had no clue. 

He stopped on the metal stairs for a moment to catch his breath and regain some of his senses. Gripping on to the railing for balance, he called for Marty again; but if Marty responded, he had no idea. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness long before, but suddenly the world went black and his slid from bitter consciousness into welcome nothingness where there was no pain or anguish. He floated into the darkness, praying for death to find him.

Death, however, would not be his friend that day. As he was shaken awake in the frigid water that night, the first thing Jozef recognized was Marty’s toothy smile that so resembled  Mother Ball’s. Jozef’s cornflower blue eyes were bloodshot, but they smiled back at Marty. He had found him. As the two men clung to each other in the swirling darkness waiting for rescue, Jozef couldn’t help but chuckle to himself. At the time, the broken finger had seemed like the biggest problem in the world, but now he knew, it put him on the path to the people he belonged to in this life. 

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This is the short story that inspired ‘Re-righting the Story.’ By takings the bones of things that had happened to my grandfather (and in my opinion events that drastically shaped his demons) and giving him and alternative support system, I was able to rewrite the narrative, find forgiveness, and move forward from the hurt he caused.