Devil at My Heels - Louis Zamperini [2]
My dad pointed. “There’s Louie.”
“No! That’s a pillow.”
My dad rushed back into the burning house. His eyes and lungs filled with smoke, and he had to crawl on his knees to see and breathe. But he couldn’t find me—until he heard me choking. He crept into my room and spotted a hand sticking out from under the bed. Clutching me to his chest, he ran for the front door. While he was crossing the porch, the wood collapsed in flames and burned his legs, but he kept going and we were safe.
That wouldn’t be the last of my narrow escapes.
When I was three, my mother took me to the world’s largest saltwater pool, in Redondo Beach. She sat in the water, on the steps in the shallow end, chatting with a couple of lady friends while holding my hand so I couldn’t wander off. As she talked, I managed to sink. She turned and saw only bubbles on the surface. It took a while to work the water out of me.
A few months later a slightly older kid in the neighborhood challenged me to a race. I lived on a street with a T-shaped intersection, and the idea was to run to the corner, cross the street, and be first to touch a palm tree on the far side. He led all the way and was almost across the street by the time I got to the corner. That’s when the car hit him. I ran back home scared to death, pulled off a vent grate, and hid under the house. I could see the mangled boy lying on the concrete, and the ambulance that soon took him away. I didn’t know his name; I don’t know if he died. I know it wasn’t my fault, but I’ve always felt guilty for taking up his challenge—and relieved that I lost my first race.
My mother would often remind me of those times, saying, “We move to California for your health, and here you are almost dying every day!”
MY DAD GOT work as a bench machinist for the Pacific Electric Railroad, the company that ran the Big Red Cars, and we bought a house on Gramercy Street in Torrance, a neat little industrial town on what was then the outskirts of Los Angeles. There were still more fields than houses, and the barley rose three feet tall. At first, thinking we were renting, our German and English neighbors got up a petition against us. They didn’t want dagos or wops living on the street. But they had no choice. I still have a copy of the deed; it restricts the house from being sold to anyone other than “white Caucasians.” Although we qualified, the rule was still wrongheaded. My parents were hardworking, honest, and caring people forced into defending their rights and themselves. In the end they simply returned good for evil and just by being themselves won over the entire street. Twelve years later my brother and I were selected by the Torrance Herald as the “Favorite Sons of Torrance.” After World War II, when my parents were planning to move, the same neighbors who’d originally wanted to keep us out got up a petition to keep them from moving away.
My mother ran the household. She was strict but fair. Every morning before school we had chores. You’ve never seen a house as clean as an Italian home. She also cooked fabulous meals—lasagne, gnocchi, risotto—and we had a great family life. For as long as I can remember there was laughter in our home and the doors were always open to friends. After dinner we’d walk around the block and chat, then come back and play music. My mother played the violin, my dad the guitar and the mandolin. My uncle Louis, my mother’s brother, played every instrument there was. Dad would survey the gathering quietly and break out with his gentle million-dollar smile. Everyone should have that kind of happiness.
When the Depression came my parents sacrificed all their comforts for the family. Dad made sure he paid our bills first and used whatever was left over for food and clothing. If we ran out of food, I’d shoot swamp ducks, mud hens, or wild rabbits