The Art Student's War by Brad Leithauser Page A

heretofore.
    Far greater casualties … far greater casualties … The table fell silent. And still the whitefish failed to arrive.
    Uncle Dennis continued. We can expect big sacrifices in the Pacific, too. The Japs aren’t going down easily. All along, we’ve underestimated them. There will be no knockout blow. It was a matter of seizing islands one by one. The Japs were prepared to fight to the death.
    “The Italians are different,” Papa said.
    Yes, Uncle Dennis agreed, the Italians were different. Mussolini didn’t really command their loyalty (Papa nodded urgently at this), and Italy would be liberated by year’s end. There was a sigh of relief around the table. But still no whitefish.
    Uncle Dennis’s summary was lengthier than usual, and when he finished, an extended and increasingly awkward silence entrenched itself.
    Normally, Aunt Grace could have been counted on to stitch any tearin the conversation, with words so apt and sincere they never seemed a mere stopgap. But tonight Grace, though beaming fixedly, seemed in no mood for such talk. The task fell squarely upon Bea, who sought to amuse the table with some eccentricities found at the Institute Midwest—Professor Manhardt in his wool vests on summer’s hottest days, and Mr. Cooper, the Polish refugee, declaring, “Art is my only home”—but unfortunately her story seemed to have no point . She turned to the reliable subject of Maggie—everybody delighted in Maggie, whose departure for the wastelands of the far West Side had left a big vacancy. “She calls her mother-in-law the Jailer,” Bea began. “Mrs. Hamm is this crazy lady who scarcely lets Maggie out of her sight.”
    But, as the following silence made clear, this was no occasion for an account of a strange, suspicious woman who was a homebody to boot.
    Then the subject of race came up—what Mamma called “the colored problem”—which was unfortunate because nobody wanted to discuss this at a birthday celebration. Still, it was hard to ignore a civil uprising which had left dozens of people dead and which, for all the mayor’s reassurances that it represented only a few hours of madness, had transformed the city’s atmosphere. “Vico, these people have nowhere to live,” Uncle Dennis pointed out. “You understand better than anyone. Back in April, it’s decided none of these federal projects would be integrated, which really meant the Negroes wouldn’t get their share, didn’t it? They’re packed into the few rooms in the few neighborhoods—”
    Papa interrupted: “Nobody has places to live.”
    “That’s exactly my point! Who in all Detroit understands this better than you? Heck, Vico, you’re working fingers to the bone building places where all these new workers—”
    “I’ve never seen the city like this,” Grace interrupted. It seemed she, too, felt jittery. The topic made Bea very nervous—especially as debated by these two men. It wasn’t so many years ago that Papa had used the word nigger in front of Uncle Dennis. This was on an outing to Chandler Park, a picnic, where Papa had been drinking wine. A couple niggers was the phrase. And what happened next was extraordinary—Bea had never forgotten it. She would never forget it. Uncle Dennis had walked right up to Papa and said, “Vico, you don’t talk that way,” rebuking him as sharply and dismissively as though he were some schoolboy. And Bea, standing beside her father, this man who prided himself on his arm wrestling, had seen Papa’s body tremble all over with fury. He’dgathered his fists together, and Bea had honestly feared Papa would strike Uncle Dennis.
    “It’s less of a problem Outer Drive way,” Mamma observed, which sounded offhand but was actually aggressive. The implication was that the Poppletons, living on Outer Drive near the Grosse Pointe border, were insulated from the Paradisos’ legitimate fears. Only a few short blocks separated Inquiry Street from Belle Isle, and when the radio