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  † Reprinted with permission of Scribner, an imprint of Simon & Schuster Adult Publishing Group, from MY EARLY LIFE: A ROVING COMMISSION by Winston Churchill. Copyright © 1930 by Charles Scribner’s Sons; copyright renewed© 1958 by Winston Churchill. All rights reserved.

  Chapter Seventeen

  After Miss Perkins has tucked Sam into bed, through the thin walls, he hears voices.

  His mother moans. “Crowe has evicted us from the apartment.”

  What? Mr. Crowe can’t kick them out. Apartment 207 is Sam’s home. But deep down Sam understands that Mr. Crowe can. It’s just that the threat has hung over his head for so long that it has stopped seeming real.

  “Mrs. Davis, I told you that you needed to start paying your rent on time,” Miss Perkins scolds her. “Still, Mr. Crowe has no business kicking a boy like Sam out of his home. Tomorrow, I’ll give that fellow a piece of my mind.”

  “It’s no use. He’s never sent me an official letter before,” his mother’s voice sounds hopeless. “We’re going to end up living on the street just like Ronald predicted.”

  Sam’s heart fills with dread as though he’s in a hole in the ground and earth is tumbling in on top of him. How can he live without a home? Without his spot by the window?

  “Now, now, Mrs. Davis. Don’t worry.”

  If Sam weren’t feeling so low, he would smile. Miss Perkins is trying to soothe his mother just like she calms Sam.

  “Mr. Crowe’s letter says that if we move out by the end of next week, he won’t sue me for all the back rent that I owe,” his mother says.

  “We’ll figure something out. We always do,” Miss Perkins says.

  “Just when I was beginning to hope that I might be able to start a new life,” his mother cries.

  “There. There,” Miss Perkins says.

  “It’s not you who’ll have to live on the street with a handicapped child!” his mother snaps.

  Their voices are softer now and not even Sam’s great ears can make out the words.

  A few minutes later, the front door closes. He can hear his mother’s footsteps heading towards her bedroom. He longs to feel his mother’s soft touch, but remembering how upset she sounded, he has little hope that she will tell him goodnight.

  Sam’s fear grows to fill the silence. Because of his endless hours spent lying on his back, he has identified a world on his bedroom ceiling: three continents, fourteen rivers and twenty-two islands. He has memorized every detail of the view from his window: the number of doors leading to Stirling Junior High, the shapes of the oak trees on the lot, the exact bend in the crooked light post. The Tomcats, his special team—he knows every player’s name—practice on the court below.

  Apartment 207 is the only home that he has ever known.

  Sam thinks of someone else who was afraid that she was going to lose her home. Miss Perkins. He wishes that she were with him now.

  In her lecture, if Mrs. Martin hadn’t skipped over the Battle of Britain, she would have told the class that during the winter of 1940, Hitler had relentlessly bombed London and other parts of England. About forty-five thousand civilians died, including some people who Miss Perkins knew. Although Miss Perkins refuses to name these people or even talk about them, Sam feels their presence with him tonight. He’s imagining the loneliness and terror of Winnie and Miss Perkins, the survivors. Night after night, they lay in their beds wondering when the next bomb was going to explode. Would their house be a target? Would they be alive in the morning?

  The Battle of Britain is the occasion for one of Sam’s favorite speeches. He has asked Miss Perkins to read it to him again and again. Just hearing Winnie’s words makes him feel brave.

  In his head, Sam starts reciting the speech, We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.15

  When the old ladies at church call Sam a ‘brave boy,’ their flattery makes him angry. He has never respected the sitting-in-thewheelchair type of bravery. He admires the World War II type of bravery: firing guns, dodging bombs, making great speeches, standing up to an evil man like Hitler. Yet, tonight, he decides that even though he’s just lying in bed, bravery is what he needs most.

  What will the world feel like without his home? A trap that is cold, dark, and lonely. Like that winter in London.

  I won’t leave. I don’t want to go, Sam thinks. The shadow from his bureau falls onto his bed, and Sam pretends that it’s Mr. Crowe. Take that. He punches Mr. Crowe with loose fists. The bed sheets are twisted, and his blue blanket has fallen onto the floor. Lying there without covers, his hands and feet are freezing but he reminds himself: during the Battle of Britain, Winnie and Miss Perkins slept despite the bombs exploding and the shells whistling in the night.

  Sam wraps their bravery around him like a blanket so that he, too, can sleep now.

  We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight…

  ***

  After leaving the apartment, Miss Perkins hurries down the aisle at Corner Market. She eats most of her meals at Mrs. Davis’, but she likes to keep tea, biscuits, cream, and a few other items in her cupboard. She looks forward to her late-night snacks. A cup of tea takes the ache right out of her feet. It’s her miracle drug.

  She is selecting a box of biscuits from the shelf when a snippet of conversation startles her.

  “Can you imagine? A disabled student at Stirling?” a woman’s shrill voice says.

  “We pay taxes. That’s not fair to the rest of the kids,” a man’s voice answers.

  “That’s what our P.T.A. president says,” the woman replies.

  Miss Perkins drops the box of biscuits into her basket and hurries to catch a glimpse of these obnoxious people.

  At nine o’clock, Corner Market has only one clerk, and the checkout line has backed up into the aisle. She nearly bumps into a man with a limp. His Asian wife is selecting a jar of pickles. Nearby, a man with a gray mustache is smoking a pipe. The woman next to him is flipping through a knitting magazine. Miss Perkins isn’t sure which of the couples were guilty of the offensive conversation. So she glares at each of them.

  Imagine the nerve, Miss Perkins thinks as she trudges home with her grocery sack in her arms. The nerve of Mrs. Riley. The nerve of whoever it was in the grocery store. She suspects the woman with the knitting magazine and her mustached husband.

  And on top of everything else, Mr. Crowe. Their heartless landlord is evicting the Davises. It’s as if the whole world is turning against Sam. Except for me, Miss Perkins sighs wearily.

  How fast will Mr. Crowe act, Miss Perkins wonders? Could Mrs. Davis really have to move as soon as next week? Sam loves his apartment. He loves his window. What are we going to do? Miss Perkins thinks as panic rises in her throat. Despite the cold night, her anger makes her feel hot.

  But as she waits at the corner for the light to change, Miss Perkins remembers a sign that she used to pass on her way to work during the war. A golden crown drawn on top represented the King. The text was simple but powerful:

  “Stay calm and carry on.”

  That’s what she did during the war. That’s what real Londoners do. Muddle through. By the time the light has changed, her breathing has slowed. A nice cup of tea. With a biscuit. She’ll feel better after she’s drunk her cup of tea.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The next morning when the bell sounds for recess, Ann rushes to Sam. She helps him unfold his plastic tray and sets some note cards on it.

  “I made these for you,” she offers and starts turning them over.

  “Charlie, Bobby, Jonathan, Ben, Daisy, Betty, Nancy, A.J., Tom, Celia, Larry, Jan, Kent, Hanna, Marigold, Jack, Katy…” she reads, her words tripping over each other in excitement. “I made one for Mickey, too, even though no one ever talks to him.”

  “Thhanks,” is all Sam says, but he wants to tell Ann, People don’t talk about Mickey because they don
’t know him. If they knew him, they would be saying what a good basketball player he is.

  Ann turns over a “hello,” “what’s your favorite song?” and “a thank you” card. She grins at him.

  “Thhanks,” Sam says.

  The next card reads, “Tomcats Score!”

  “Thhanks.” Sam smiles. He can’t wait to show this card to Charlie Simmons.

  “These are lovely, lovely cards, Ann,” Miss Perkins says.

  Ann turns over the last card. It says, “Goodbye.” Underneath in smaller letters, she has written, “I will miss you.”

  Miss Perkins looks at her, puzzled. “We’re not going anywhere, Ann.”

  “My mother said…” Ann begins, and her face grows as red as her favorite dress.

  “Hum,” Miss Perkins says. She picks up the goodbye card.

  Sam is barely listening. The two of them need to stop talking. They are wasting his recess time. Impatiently, he points at the card that says, “Tomcats Score!”

  “Sam wants to go to the playground,” Ann says.

  “What?” Miss Perkins seems lost in thought.

  Ann repeats herself.

  “Well, what are we waiting for?”

  Sam points at the “thank you” card but he can’t help wishing that Ann had made more cards. He’d love to have one that said, “Hurry up!” Or “It’s about time.” Or for use when Miss Perkins is particularly long-winded: “SHUT UP.”

  Ann slips on her coat. It’s blue with white buttons.

  “I’m ready,” she says.

  Thoughtfully, Miss Perkins places the goodbye card onto the tray.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The stars are out tonight, Sam thinks as he stares out his small bedroom window.

  “Did your mother tell you that she was going to be late?” Miss Perkins puts her arms around his waist and helps him scoot to the edge of his chair. She pulls at his pants, and he wiggles out of them. It sounds complicated, but it’s like a basketball play. Miss Perkins knows her part, and he knows his. One hip at a time. He focuses on his right side. Then his left side. Then he does it again.

  “NNNo,” Sam says.

  Miss Perkins pops a nightshirt over Sam’s head. Sam holds his arms sideways for only a few seconds before they begin trembling. “Sometimes, your mother overreacts to life’s problems. I wonder what she’s planning? But why am I thinking out loud? I guess it’s because like my dear late mother used to say, my brains are in my mouth. But you shouldn’t worry. No matter what. Everything will be all right.”

  Sam slides out of the wheelchair.

  As she always does, Miss Perkins grabs his elbow. “Be careful now. You have enough problems without a broken leg.”

  Sam walks/hops the step and a half to the bed. It is covered in a blue blanket. He leans his back against the mattress.

  Miss Perkins takes a deep breath. She wraps her strong arms around his legs.

  Sam helps her by scooting his trunk as far as he can onto the bed. His legs bounce when she drops them.

  “There you go, sweetie.” She pulls the sheet and blanket up to his chin. “Now, goodnight. If I’m here late again, I might as well get a little extra work done.”

  Sam’s eyes turn in the direction of the well-worn book on the bedside table, but Miss Perkins doesn’t reach for it.

  “Sam, hon, I’m sorry. Your mother has been going out so much lately that I have piles of laundry. Besides, you know all the stories. Why don’t you tell yourself the one about Winston’s escape from prison in South Africa?”

  Sam looks up. He understands. He doesn’t want his mother to get angry at Miss Perkins for getting behind in her chores.

  “And be sure to say your prayers. We’ve got plenty to be thankful for,” Miss Perkins finishes.

  “NNight,”

  “Goodnight, luv,” she answers as she turns off the light. “I’ll be in the apartment until your mother gets home.”

  Sam prays his standard prayer, always something along the lines of “If I am to be as I am, if that’s your plan, please make me all I can be.” Afterwards, he is content to listen to the lullaby of apartment sounds: Old Mrs. Crowe’s television next door, a dog barking in the parking lot, the traffic on Elm Street. Soon, the swoosh and hiss of the iron begin.

  Like Miss Perkins, Sam wonders where his mother is tonight.

  Finally, he reaches the point where he decides, what else do I have to do but to take Miss Perkins’ suggestion and tell myself a story?

  Miss Perkins had mentioned the prison story, one of Sam’s favorites. Why not? Sam thinks. Even though it’s a true story, he begins, Once upon a time….

  Long before World War II, even before World War I, England fought a war against a group of Dutch farmers called the Boers. Both groups hoped to control South Africa.

  During the War, the Boers captured Winnie and imprisoned him. Although Winnie managed to escape, he was still in great danger. Unless Winnie made it back to British territory, he would be hanged. To accomplish this feat, he had to cross three hundred unfriendly miles without getting recaptured by the enemy.

  Pursuit would be immediate, Winnie reminds Sam. Yet all exits were barred. The town was picketed. The country was patrolled, the trains were searched, and the line was guarded. Worst of all, I could not speak a word of Dutch or Kaffir, and how was I to get food or direction?16†

  You hitched a train, Sam reminds him. The future Prime Minister of England spent the night buried under a stack of empty coal bags. At daybreak, Winnie jumped off.

  I was sprawling in the ditch considerably shaken, but unhurt, Winnie says. I had one consolation: no one in the world knew where I was, I did not know myself.

  Sam can’t remember the name of the village that Winnie stumbled upon. He just knows that Winnie picked a random house and knocked.

  A man holding a revolver opened the door. “What do you want?” he asked in a foreign language.

  I’m Winston Churchill, Winnie said. I’m making my way to the frontier. Will you help me?”

  For a long time, the man didn’t answer. Eventually, the man motioned Winnie inside and closed the door behind them. Then, he thrust out his hand to Winnie and blurted: “Thank God you have come here! It is the only house for 20 miles where you would not have been handed over. But we are all British here and will see you through.”

  ***

  “I wonder where Mrs. Davis is?” Miss Perkins thinks as she sits at the breakfast table covered with a lacy tablecloth, too fancy for her taste. But Mrs. Davis likes what she calls her “small luxuries.” In Miss Perkins’ own apartment, the table is covered in a cheerful but practical red and white cloth. In the center, she’s arranged her salt and pepper shaker collection: Dalmatian dogs wearing sunglasses, alligators with holes in their long, green tails, Mary Poppins holding her umbrella…And of course, Winston Churchill. The salt pours out of his top hat. All the figures—many made out of porcelain—are breakable.

  Miss Perkins started the fragile collection after the war to show that she had faith in peace. It was her way of proving that she would never again live in a country where bombs rained down on innocent people’s heads. Where children could be playing one minute and trapped by wreckage the next.

  She’ll never forget the sights that she saw during the war, but there’s one particular memory that haunts her. She was living with her parents and working as an aide at a hospital around the corner. Her parents had the deepest, darkest, blackest basement on their block, and when the air raid signal sounded, from two to five families usually hid there and listened for the vicious hiss of the aircraft flying low, then for the first bomb to fall, then for the last of the group. Finally, they waited for the hiss to start again. They had to drink cold water rather than hot tea. “What Hitler makes you put up with,” they liked to grumble. To help the young ones with their jitters, the adults counted potatoes. Emily, their next-door neighbor, was only twelve years old. She was a lively girl with dark eyes who wanted to become a doctor. Sometim
es, the group would count up to one thousand potatoes and still, the bombs kept falling.

  The basement was cold and dark. Miss Perkins has never experienced darkness like that before or since. Her father claimed that hiding in their shelter was like being cooped up in a submarine. They were so crowded that she couldn’t move without stepping on someone else. They squatted or sat, listening to the bombs and their own breathing until—after they had given up all hope—the All Clear sounded. How frightened they were on their hike up the stairs without any light. Had their house been hit? Where would they go then? How would they live?

  She hated the basement, hated feeling trapped, and always considered pretending that she didn’t hear the air raid signals until one day, the siren didn’t go off. Without warning, she heard a bomb exploding. Home was only a few blocks away, and she began running.

  Gray rubble was all that was left of her neighbor’s house. At first, she couldn’t make out the objects jumbled in with the mess. Onions and potatoes. They all had gardens, Dig for victory. The next memory is so vivid that Miss Perkins drops her head into her hands. Where once a sturdy brownstone had stood, only a crater and a mountain of debris remained. In the corner, Miss Perkins spotted Emily trapped in big hunks of concrete, her body twisted, her head hanging loose. Emily’s eyes were open, and she was staring straight ahead at a future that was no longer hers.

  Strangely on that terrible day, her parents’ house was untouched. A gray brick miracle. When she walked up the back steps and opened the door, she found that someone had left the radio on, a bit of normalcy in the midst of the wreckage. As her family and neighbors gathered in the kitchen, bewildered and frightened, they heard Winston Churchill’s voice: We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.17 Miss Perkins has never told Sam about Emily; she’s kept her secret all these years. Instead, she’s poured all the ferocity of this memory into the love of Winston that she passes to Sam. We shall never surrender.18