The Loud Silence of Francine Green

Contents

Title Page

Contents

Copyright

Dedication/Epigraph

Acknowledgments

An Introduction

August 1949

Books and Beanies and Montgomery Clift

September 1949

Sophie and the Trash Can

Flowered Skirts and Paper-Doll Saints

Lamb Chops à la Shoe Leather and Dinner at the Greens’

October 1949

The Post Office, the Piggly Wiggly, and the Bomb

Discovering Irony

Fifteen Flavors of Butterfat

Searching for a New, Popular Francine

November 1949

Sophie’s Speech and Francine’s Unplumbed Depths

Montgomery Clift!

Pink Underwear

Changes

December 1949

Meeting Jacob Mandelbaum

Hammering the Nail Back into Place

January 1950

Miss Velma Says I Could

Mr. Bowman Knows Irony

February 1950

Francine and Sophie Talk About Life

Mr. Roberts

March 1950

Oklahoma! and Lepers and Mary’s Maidens

Joan of Arc

Hooray for Hollywood!

The Bum Shelter

April 1950

The End of the Bum Shelter

An Imaginary Dinner at the Greens’

Class-Visit Day at the Sinless Academy for the Maidenly

May 1950

May Day

Mother’s Day at Forest Lawn

Father Chuckie and Sister Pete

In Sister’s Office

Serious Trouble for Mr. Roberts, Mr. Mandelbaum, and Sophie

June 1950

More Bad News

Flag Day

A Phone Call to the Pope

Palm Trees Overboard

Author’s Note

Karen Cushman’s Novels: A Discussion Guide

Sample Chapter from THE BALLAD OF LUCY WHIPPLE

Buy the Book

Read More from Karen Cushman

About the Author

Connect with HMH on Social Media

Copyright © 2006 by Karen Cushman

Introduction copyright © 2019 by Karen Cushman

Educator resources additional content © 2006 Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company

All rights reserved. Originally published in hardcover in the United States by Clarion Books, an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 2006.

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to trade.permissions@hmhco.com or to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 3 Park Avenue, 19th Floor, New York, New York 10016.

hmhbooks.com

Cover illustration © 2019 by Maria Ukhova

Cover design by Celeste Knudsen

The Library of Congress has cataloged the hardcover edition as follows:

Cushman, Karen.

The loud silence of Francine Green / by Karen Cushman.

p. cm.

Summary: In 1949, thirteen-year-old Francine goes to Catholic school in Los Angeles where she becomes best friends with a girl who questions authority and is frequently punished by the nuns, causing Francine to question her own values.

[1. Conformity—Fiction. 2. Catholic schools—Fiction. 3. Schools—Fiction. 4. Best friends—Fiction. 5. Friendship—Fiction. 6. Family life—California—Fiction. 7. Los Angeles (Calif.)—20th century—Fiction. 8. United States—Politics and government—1945–1953.] 1. Title.

PZ7.C962Lou 2006

[Fic]—dc22 2005029774

ISBN: 978-0-618-50455-8 hardcover

ISBN: 978-1-328-49799-4 paperback

eISBN 978-0-547-35009-7

v4.0321

For Nathan Adler, Lou Solomon, Philip Cushman, and Trina Schart Hyman for their courage and their example

Sooner or later one has to take sides if one is to remain human.

—Graham Greene, The Quiet American

With thanks to Google for the research help, libraries and librarians for being there, and Arthur (Duffy) Lipski and Edward (Eddie) Cushman, beloved little brothers, for the Artie parts

Introduction

Of all the girls I’ve created, Francine is the most like me. Like Francine, I was taught through twelve years of Catholic school to sit down and be quiet. Not rock the boat. Obey orders and never talk back. It took Francine only two hundred pages to find something worth speaking up for. It took me decades.

I remember the 1950s as a cautious and conservative time, a time when people were not encouraged to disobey or protest or revolt. Rules were rules, and I, like many others, never thought about ignoring or disobeying them or fighting back.

When I was very young, I was afraid of clowns, fireworks on the Fourth of July, and sirens. When I was old enough to be aware of the world situation, I was afraid of bombs. I tensed and scanned the sky whenever I heard a plane. I hated school, where not getting into trouble was more important than learning, and I was afraid of doing wrong and going to Hell. But maybe most of all, I was afraid of calling attention to myself because that might mean . . . what? I didn’t know. I just knew I was afraid. I stayed quiet and out of the way.

So does Francine Green, an eighth grader at All Saints School for Girls in Los Angeles in 1949. At that time, people of all ages were afraid. Russia had just tested its first atomic weapon. President Truman called for the development of the hydrogen bomb. Communists were in power in Russia and China and, some said, in Hollywood. The country reacted with hatred, suppression, and restriction. Docile, obedient Francine had never questioned authority; the new girl at school, Sophie Bowman, questioned everything from the existence of God to the wisdom of waging war with nuclear weapons. Knowing Sophie changed Francine’s life.

Should Francine have been like Sophie? No. She needed to be Francine, and she had to figure out who and what that was.

There were many real things in the world to be afraid of in 1949, as there are today: war and disease and hatred, poverty, bigotry and violence, censorship and repression. Francine in her time and I in mine had to learn to separate those fearsome things we could do nothing about from those we could take action against, even in a small way.

Although the same fears persist, it’s not the 1950s anymore. Young people today are asking questions, walking out of classes, marching and demonstrating against guns, sexual harassment, bullying, and intolerance. They are demonstrating their First Amendment rights: Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

Free speech means being able to speak without fear of punishment or censorship, but it brings responsibilities as well as rights. Free speech is not hate speech, threats, or calls for violence. It is not saying and doing whatever you want, regardless of the consequences. It means speaking up and telling the truth, but it also means hearing other people’s points of view and really listening, even when we disagree. Especially when we disagree. Freedom of speech requires us to honor and respect each other.

Free speech is not just words. Free speech is action—deciding what it is we believe and what we value, and then speaking up and taking a stand. While writing this book, I remembered the times I didn’t speak up when someone told hurtful jokes or made an unfair accusation. I wish now I had said something. People have a right to tell jokes, and I have a right and a responsibility to object to those I consider offensive.

As I said, it’s not the 1950s anymore. I’m relieved and excited about that. Led by courageous people—a great many of them young—we can do more than ever to protect and defend our rights under the Constitution. I like to think Francine is marching with us.

August 1949

1

Books and Beanies and Montgomery Clift

Holy cow! I said when Sophie Bowman told me she’d be joining me at All Saints School for Girls this year. Why now, in the eighth grade?

Because I got thrown out of public school. Sophie and I were in the room I shared with my sister, Dolores. Dolores was on a date with her steady, Wally, so Sophie lay on Dolores’s bed, her legs in the air, twirling the navy blue beanie from my school uniform on her foot. It was either Catholic school or boarding school. No one else would have me. But Sister Basil thinks my soul can still be saved. From what I can tell, she’s nuts about saving souls.

I sat up cross-legged on my bed. Why? I asked her.

That’s what she learned in nun school, I suppose.

No, I said. Why did you get kicked out of school?

Oh, that. For writing ‘There is no free speech here’ on the gym floor. In paint. Red paint.

She grinned at me as though that was the most wonderful thing in the world. I didn’t grin back. Why on earth would you do that?

Because the principal banned radios in the lunchroom.

"Radios? You ruined the gym floor because of radios?"

She waved her beanied foot about. Not just radios, dopey. It was a matter of free speech. Standing up for what you believe in. And fighting fascism.

Fascism? Wasn’t that about Adolf Hitler? Did she mean Nazis kept her from playing the radio in the lunchroom?

Harry says that he may agree with the sentiment, but the expression left a lot to be desired, she continued, stretching her long, summer-brown legs. I sighed and looked at my legs. They were pink and freckled like the rest of me.

Who’s Harry? I asked her.

My father. My mother went to Catholic school and he thinks she was nearly perfect, so off I go. I knew from Hettie Morris across the street, who knew Laurel Greenson, whose aunt was Mrs. O’Brien, who lived next door to the Bowmans, that Sophie’s mother had died when she was born. He wants me to be more like her and learn to express myself with patience, self-control, and moderation.

Sophie would be going to the right school. At All Saints we had patience, self-control, and moderation to spare and not a drop of free speech. I myself was so patient, moderate, and self-controlled that sometimes I felt invisible, and I liked it that way. Let others get noticed and into trouble. Let Sophie get into trouble. It seemed a sure bet that she would.

Sophie and I weren’t friends or anything, although she lived only a block down from me on Palm View Drive, in a pink stucco bungalow a lot like the one I lived in. We had nodded to each other over the years, and even played Red Light, Green Light together with the other neighborhood kids on hot summer nights. Now she had come over after dinner to learn more about All Saints, recognizing from my uniform that I was a student there. I couldn’t imagine Sophie at All Saints, couldn’t see her standing patiently in line in a blue sweater and plaid skirt—not the long-legged Sophie Bowman of the thick blond hair, outspoken opinions, and that lovely name, Sophie Bowman. Long mournful O sounds, so moody and romantic. Me? Francine Green, with Es like eeek and screech, and beanie. Holy cow.

I seriously hate beanies, Sophie said. They make you look so drippy. Why do we have to wear uniforms like we’re in jail?

It’s not the same at all, I said. Jails have much better uniforms. Black and white stripes, you know, are very fashionable this year.

They are?

I was kidding, Sophie.

Oh. Sophie wagged her beanied foot at me. Maybe, she said, we should find some way to express our individuality even if we’re condemned to uniforms.

You mean like wearing red shoes? I asked.

Yes! she said, raising her arm with her fist clenched.

And plastic jewelry and white blouses with cleavage?

It would be spectacular. Let’s do it, she said.

I pretended interest in my bedspread. Bunny ballerinas. Ye gods. No, I couldn’t, I said finally. We’d get in trouble. And I have no red shoes or anything with cleavage. Or any cleavage.

We looked down at our chests and sighed.

My bedroom windows rattled, and I could hear palm fronds scraping along the street. Los Angeles and I were enduring a period of Santa Anas, the hot winds from the east that made tempers and temperatures rise and your skin itch.

I got up to open the window in hopes of some cooler night air. Look, I said, searchlights. There’s a movie premiere somewhere.

Sophie got up and stood next to me at the window.

Don’t you love living so near Hollywood? I asked her. I mean, movie stars are right there, at the bottom of that light. Gary Cooper, maybe. Or Clark Gable. Or Montgomery Clift. Imagine, right there. Montgomery Clift.

Montgummy who? Sophie asked.

"Are you kidding me? Montgomery Clift. He’s only the dreamiest dreamboat in the whole world, with the saddest brown eyes. I sighed and looked again at the searchlight connecting me to Montgomery Clift. He’s my absolute favorite. Who’s yours?"

I don’t know much about movie stars, Sophie said.

But Hettie Morris said your father writes for the movies.

He writes them, he doesn’t go see them. He wants us to read books to improve our minds. Good books. Serious books. Boring books. Oh nausea.

He sounds like Sister Basil. She’s always making us read holy, dull-as-dishwater books. I thought for a minute. Don’t you get tired of improving your mind? I asked her. I would.

Sure, sometimes. But you can’t improve the world until you improve your mind, I always say. She smiled. Actually, I don’t always say that. I just made it up. Pretty good, don’t you think?

I nodded. But jeepers, you could take a day off now and then. Just read a novel or a comic book or something.

Okay, like what?

Well, I said to her, you have come to the right place. There is nothing here that will improve your mind. I walked over to my dresser and examined the clutter on top. Dolores had a pink-skirted dressing table in our room, so there was no space for me to have a desk. I thought that said something about what was important in the Green household. "Let’s see. Archie comic? Donald Duck? Stories from the Bible?" The only other book I owned was Stuart Little, which my aunt Martha and uncle George had sent me for Christmas last year. I held it up. How about this, I asked her, about a family with a son who’s a mouse?

Sophie frowned.

Okay, you’re a little old for that. I tossed her a copy of Modern Screen magazine. Take this. It has a story about Montgomery Clift. You can borrow him until you get a favorite of your own.

Don’t you think movie stars and fan magazines are a bit frivolous and juvenile? She took the magazine anyway and hopped back to Dolores’s bed. The magazine fell right open to a picture of Monty. Sophie took out the dried banana peel I had used as a place marker and studied the photo. Jeepers, she said, "he is good-looking. Kind of shy and haunted, like he’s been persecuted and misunderstood."

The telephone in the hall rang. I could hear my little brother, Artie, answer it, Duffy’s Tavern, Archie the Manager speaking, just like the guy on the radio show. Artie liked Duffy’s Tavern. He said he would own a tavern just like Duffy’s when he grew up if he wasn’t going to be a cowboy. Artie says things like that. He’s five.

Is it for me? I called to him.

It’s for Dolores, like it always is, he said, sticking his head in. His yellow cowlick was standing straight up from the back of his head, and his glasses hung from the very tip of his nose. Where is she?

Out, I told him, like she always is. Artie left. I flopped back onto my bed. It’s so depressing being the sister of Miss Popularity. I’m surprised I don’t have a complex.

Don’t you get along with her?

Are you kidding? Dolores hates me. If she could, I think she’d return me, like underwear that doesn’t fit.

Sophie looked puzzled. I don’t think you can return under—

Never mind. It was just a joke. I meant that she’d like to get rid of me. I wish she was someone else’s sister.

Still, she’s your family. I think you’d be awfully lonely being an only child.

"Are you?" I asked her.

No, she said, "but I think you would be."

I leaped up and began jumping furiously on my bed. We’re acrobats on the trampoline, I shouted as I bounced onto Dolores’s bed, and we’re gorgeous and popular and everybody loves us and we’re never lonely and—

Dolores blew in like the Santa Ana wind. Stop it! she shouted. I stopped. Get off my bed. And get her off!

I jumped down. This is Sophie. She’s a friend of mine from school. Or she will be when—

I don’t care. Get her off my bed. And get out of here. Both of you.

It’s my room too.

Who cares?

Sophie got off the bed. Dolores flopped onto it and kicked her shoes across the room.

Sophie walked regally to the door, stopped, and looked back over her shoulder. Gee, Francine, she said, "she’s not nearly as pretty as you said."

Dolores stuck her tongue out, and Sophie stuck hers right back.

Wow, Sophie, I said once we were safely out the door. That was great. We slapped hands.

In the hall we bumped into Artie and his stuffed bear, Chester. Rice Krispies spilled from Artie’s pockets and snap-krackle-popped as we