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Executive Times |
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2008 Book Reviews |
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Dream
When You’re Feeling Blue by Elizabeth Berg |
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Rating: |
*** |
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(Recommended) |
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Click
on title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Nostalgia In her
novel, Dream When You’re
Feeling Blue, Elizabeth Berg creates a portrait of life in Chicago during
World War II. The protagonists are the three Heaney sisters: Kitty, Louise
and Tish. The nostalgia drips from every page, but never so much as to take
away from this novel being a tribute to the sacrifices of the people of that
time and place. Berg fans will expect to dry a tear or two in the way she
seems to display the emotions of characters that readers come to know and
love. Here’s an excerpt, pp. 6-10: People
were packed in so tightly at Union Station that Kitty had to hold on to her
hat lest it be jostled off her head and trampled. Elbows poked her; suitcases
banged into her legs and she feared mightily for her very last pair of silk
stockings. The noise level was so high, Julian had to lean in toward Kitty
and practically shout to be heard. “Gonna write me every day?” he asked,
grinning, and she nodded that she would. “Are you going to be careful for
a change?” she asked, and he told her not to worry. He looked so
handsome—there was something about
a man in uniform—standing there with his duffel bag over his shoulder, his
hat rakishly positioned at the side of his head. Earlier that
morning, Kitty and Julian and Louise and Michael had taken a Green Hornet
streetcar to the train station and then breakfasted together at Fred
Harvey’s. Both men ate every bite of food on their plates, but the sisters
could hardly swallow their coffee. Now it was time to say good-bye—Julian was
on the 8:11 to “Boooard!”
the conductor
cried, then made his announcement again, more urgently. “Okay, kid:’ Julian
said. “I guess this is it.” He waved at Michael and Louise, who were holding
hands and standing nearby, then kissed Kitty quickly. “Take care of
yourself.” He spoke seriously, his voice thick, and for the first time she
saw a glint of fear in his eyes. She stepped back from him and made herself
smile brilliantly. She tossed her black hair and stuck out her chest. Already
she knew how she’d sign the first photo she sent of herself: Hi, Private. Louise was holding
on to Michael and crying her eyes out, though she and Kitty had agreed not to do that, under any circumstances. They had agreed to look as pretty as
they could, to wear their best outfits, to be cheerful and smile and wave at
the boys as they pulled out of the station. They had agreed that it was
their patriotic duty to behave in this fashion, and they had vowed to help
each other be strong. But now Louise sobbed as Michael pulled away from her
and ran for his train, and finally Kitty pinched her to make her stop. “Ow!” Louise said and pinched her
sister back. “Is this what you
want him to remember?” Kitty asked. Louise wiped at her
nose with her sodden hankie. “I can’t help it.” “You can!” Kitty
told her angrily and then looked at Julian’s train, where she saw him hanging
out a window and motioning for her to come over to him. He was packed in
among so many other men, all those boys with all their caps, sticking their
heads and their arms out of the windows, but she could have found Julian in
the middle of ten thousand men. She ran over and grabbed his hand. “Good-bye,
Julian. Be careful. I mean it.” “I will, I promise.
But Kat, listen, I almost forgot, I need you to do something for me. On
Monday afternoon, go over to Munson’s jewelry store and tell them to give you
what I left for you there.” “What?”
She laughed.
“What do you mean?” A ring? Oh, it
would be just like Julian, to do it this way! No bended knee, no flowery
words of love. Instead, a cocksureness that Kitty found irresistible. Only a
girl who had wrapped many men around her finger would be delighted by such
cool assurance. The train hissed
loudly and began moving forward. Kitty ran alongside, mixed in with a crowd
of mostly young women, some smiling, some weeping, all reaching up toward the
hands of the boys who were leaving them behind. “I love you!” Kitty shouted.
“Julian! I love you!” The words were new, shiny inside her. “Munson’s Jewelers,
on Louise stood
forlorn and dry-eyed, holding her pocketbook hard against her middle. Kitty
linked arms with her. “Now you stop
crying,” she said, and Louise said, “I know. I’m a dope.” They took a cab
home, an extravagance. But they didn’t want to wait for the next streetcar,
and anyway, Julian had given Kitty money so they could do exactly that. At
first she’d thought about using the money for something more practical, but
now she luxuriated in the fact that the cab would take them exactly where
they were going, directly from where they had been. It was swell. She was
Rita Hayworth, and Louise was Dorothy Lamour. She leaned back and looked out
the window. There were their fans walking down the sidewalk, wishing they’d
come out and sign autographs. At a stoplight,
Kitty pointed to the spring dresses in the window of Marshall Field’s. “Look
how boxy sleeves are getting:’ she said, and Louise snapped back, “Jeez! How
can you even think about that now?” Kitty fell silent,
but in her head, she started the Mills Brothers singing “Paper Doll.” You
couldn’t think about those boys and where they were going. You had to think
about something else. Louise began to weep again, and the driver reached back
over the seat to give her his handkerchief, frayed at the edges but clean and
neatly folded. “Dry your eyes now, darlin’; he’ll be back before you know
it,” the man said. He was Irish, as they were. Louise cried
harder, but through her tears she said, “Thank you very much. I’ll wash it
and iron it and send it right back to you.” The Heaney girls were nothing if
not polite—their mother made sure of that. The Dreamy girls, the sisters were
called, for their considerable beauty; and their mother seemed to feel it was
her duty to prevent their good looks from going to their heads. You didn’t
want to be caught lingering before a mirror when Margaret Heaney was anywhere
nearby. “Well, now,” she’d say, her arms crossed. “Don’t we find ourselves a
fascination.” And then she’d suggest that if you had so much time on your
hands, you might find a way to make yourself useful; and if you couldn’t
think of something to do, she’d be glad to help you. Rugs didn’t beat
themselves, you know, there was that. The refrigerator needed defrosting, the
bathroom and kitchen floors had to be scrubbed. But their mother
was also proud of them. And she not infrequently remarked on how the beauty
found in all her children—the dimples, the long lashes, the thick, lustrous
hair, the clear skin—didn’t come from nowhere. Whereupon their father would
inflate his chest, stick his thumbs under his suspenders, and say, “Tis true!
And no need to look any farther for the source!” “You’re going to
give yourself a headache with all that crying,” Kitty told her sister, and
Louise said, “I don’t care! I want a
headache!” Indeed, Michael’s mother lay at home on her living room sofa with
a sick headache, a cold rag across her forehead, a throw-up bucket at her
side—she’d been unable to come to the station, and Michael had told his
father to stay home and take care of her. Julian’s parents had not come to
the station, either. They’d said they wanted to give Kitty and Juhan that
time alone, but Kitty knew that, although they were proud of their only son,
their hearts were broken at his leave-taking. They needed to keep their
good-byes—and their anguish—private. Kitty turned to stare out the window
again. Louise really ought to look at the beautiful things in the store
windows: the hats lodged nestlike on the mannequins’ heads; the red open-toed
shoes with the ankle straps. Or she ought to think about what she might say
in her letter to Michael that night. They had agreed they would write to
their men every night until they were safely back home: they’d put each
other’s hair up and get into their pajamas and then sit at the kitchen table
and write at least two pages, every night, no matter what. Tish was already
writing to three men she’d met at USO dances. Kitty snuck a look
at her still-weeping sister. What weakness of character! Louise needed to
stop thinking about herself. She could think about her job as a teacher’s
aide, or her friends, or their three lit-tie brothers, only eight, eleven,
and thirteen but out almost every day with their wagon, collecting for the
metal drive. They got a penny a pound, and they’d raised more money for war
bonds than any other kids in their “Ah, now, girls’
the cabbie said. “Get hold of yourselves, won’t you. We’ll take care of them
Japs in short order, don’t you doubt it! And then wait and see if I’m not the
very one taking you all home again! And won’t we be celebratin’! You keep my
handkerchief; I’ll collect it from you on that far happier occasion.” “Germans.” Louise
said, her voice muffled by the handkerchief. “What’s that, now?”
the cabbie asked. “Mine will be
fighting the Nazis!” she wailed. “Well, I meant them,
too!” the cabbie said. “Germans, Italians, Japanese. What d’ya think any of
them scoundrels can do against our fine boys?” He looked into the rearview
mirror at the girls, and Kitty saw the worry in his blue eyes, the doubt. It
came to her to say, “My boyfriend will be fighting the Japs.” But it didn’t
seem to make much difference, really. She and Louise stopped crying, but they
held hands the rest of the way home. Berg
packs Dream
When You’re Feeling Blue with historical and location details that will
delight many readers. I’m not expert enough to know whether her research is
good or not. As a general reader, I found the details enjoyable and a taste
or two of nostalgia from time to time can bring real pleasure. Steve
Hopkins, December 20, 2007 |
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Go to Executive Times Archives |
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The recommendation rating for
this book appeared in the January 2008 issue of Executive Times URL for this review: http://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/Dream When You're Feeling
Blue.htm For Reprint Permission,
Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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