Snoopypuss Mysteries

 Lost Voices

Englewood: 1930-1950

By Georgann Prochaska

“As for the earth, out of it cometh bread: and under it, is turned up as it were fire.”

Job 28:5

Preface

“Sixty-third and Halsted in the Englewood neighborhood rivaled Chicago’s Loop in the 1930s. Businesses flourished. Never a melting pot, Englewood became a home to a multitude of ethnic families in search of work. Irish and Italian families mostly looked for flats clustered around their churches. Germans and Poles looked for a street where others spoke their language. A mixture of Europeans may live on one block; Blacks on the next. All kept their heads down, dug deep into resilience, and hoped to avoid the disrespect and exploitation of being working class. Too often, anger took on the authority of a baseball bat. Still, populations moved to the Chicago area in the search of the American Dream.”

Eleanor Mossberg

Voices

Eleanor Mossberg

Dorothy Quick

Frankie Quick

Sam Harkleroad

Sheila Harkleroad

Fiona Harkleroad

Imogene Harkleroad

Una Harkleroad

Ellen Harkleroad

Agnes

Christine

Darby Quick

Lost Voices/Prochaska

1930

Chapter 1:  Mrs. Dorothy Quick

Spring

“Hey! You with a pipe. You know that smoke comes straight up to the second floor.  Right into my window,” I said. Stepping down the few steps to the landing of the back stairs, I got a good look at the new first floor tenant.

“Imagine so,” said the new tenant as easy as you please.

“I don’t want it stinking up my apartment. I definitely don’t want smoke in the back yard on my Monday wash day. Newly dried clothes should smell fresh.”

The old man, probably in his fifties looked at least sixty. No teeth. His lips wrinkled to hold his pipe. He stared ahead, kept his eye on a robin building a nest in the back yard tree. I knew the darkness of his face was not from the sun. This man had spent time down a mine. Coal dust embedded in his scar made my stomach churn with memories of my own father, but this old miner needn’t be rude. He could at least look up at me as I bent over the porch railing of the landing. He just puffed away.

I thought to tell him what for. But his family had moved into the building a few days ago and they all looked new to Englewood. He probably didn’t understand the niceties of living in a two-flat with back stairs outside.

I never mention my own age—ladies don’t. In my own family, Mother hadn’t the time for birthdays. But that’s no reason to disrespect a neighbor.

“I said, I don’t like it.” I slapped the railing of the porch.

Still, he showed no regard for me. Not a head bob nor a tilt. Definitely, no eye contact. I told him plain, “Go somewhere else with your nasty habit.”

 I expected him to swear at my criticism and move. Surely, a woman pointing out his offensive smoking would create some embarrassment. It didn’t.

“Don’t know 59^th Street. Just moved in,” he said. “You want me on the front stoop?” He never glanced at me. Only took one more great puff on his pipe and sent the smoke swirl up in my direction. The nasty bugger!

 I waved my hand to push the smoke away from me.  What would my sons say when they got home from work and smelled pipe smoke in my hair?  But I could tell this old man was having some fun with me, waiting me out. Did I want him on the front stoop? No, I did not, but I had to be careful. What would the pastor say if he saw his nasty habit? This crusty old guy was not a threat I could take lightly. Probably went down the mine at fourteen or fifteen—like my father had.

“No. I certainly don’t want you on the stoop. I’ll have you know my pastor comes to visit. What if he sees you befouling our air?”

“I got an extra pipe,” he said. The corners of his mouth tuned up as he pointed his head in my direction. “Maybe he’d like to join me.”

I just knew I was in for it. He’d probably sit on the back step of the building and smoke every afternoon or after dinner and I’d need to keep my window closed even when we needed a breeze. Obstinate old cuss! Grit of a coal miner in his soul. Hard nut even for God to crack.

            That’s how I met Sam Harkleroad. He stood about 5’ 6”. Muscles like the rope used on steam ships. Worker’s cap on his bald head. Toothless.

He and his family of females moved into the smaller flat on the first floor. I could tell the whole family was rough. The down-on-their-luck type after the Crash of the banks.

Here’s me with no husband but dependent on my two older sons to support me and the two younger boys. We lived in the upstairs flat, weathered storms Of Englewood for over thirty years.

His daughters were attractive in a suggestive way. I had seen them laughing and throwing their arms about as they left our building to catch a streetcar. Surely trouble for me if my sons get notions.

“If we are to live in the same building, maybe you could drag a chair out toward the shed. Also keep your daughters away from my sons.”

“Only if you keep your sons away from my girls. Don’t want them boys planting anything they shouldn’t. I got enough mouths to feed.” He purposely took another puff.

My breath caught in my throat at his suggestive comment. But I held my temper.

“Mr. Reese asked me to mind the boiler and coal bins for the building,” he said. “I’ll be cleaning out the ash trap. Will your sons be offended if I do the work? Reese said you got three sons. Right?”

“Four,” I answered. “Of course, they won’t be offended.”

Truthfully, I was grateful. My two older sons had years of shoveling ash. My forgetful youngest son, age twelve, plotted ways to escape scot-free. He broke my heart most days with his antics.

“You got three girls?” I asked.

“Five. A younger one, Deidre, asked to stay with my sister until she finished her schooling. Haven’t seen her since before the Crash. Another works in Harrisburg. Three at home. My oldest two have work for now. Ellen’s my youngest. She’ll be in seventh grade in September.”

“She attends Beale Elementary School? Is Ellen the girl who washed the front stairs?”

On their moving day, I remembered the girl with a bucket and a rag, washing the front stoop on her hands and knees, tears of anger slipping from her brown eyes. With contempt, her red hands slapped the wet cloth onto the painted wood of each step. She glared at the front door. I guessed the task to be a punishment her mother assigned. I didn’t need to leave the house, but I walked down the steps and left prints behind because she didn’t bother to properly wipe away the wetness. My mother would have slapped my behind if I had done such a job. In this dangerous world children need to learn restraint for their own safety. The insolent child scowled back at me.

“What kind of name is Harkleroad?” I asked the old man. “Sounds like a place.”

“Probably was once. It’s an old name, German or Saxon. You’ll find it in England. What about you?”

“I’m Mrs. Quick. The name’s been about. Some Irish, some Dutch.”

He turned away from his study of the robin to look at me. That’s when I noticed his eyes as blue as a warm summer sky.

My dad used to say my eyes were as brown as a mink. As Mother prepared dinner, he’d gather me and my sisters together and sing old songs he learned from German and Italian coal miners. In Mr. Harkleroad’s eyes I saw my Dad’s blue strength. I was near eight when the coal over Dad’s head collapsed in the mine and crushed him.

“I heard your given name is Dorothy. What do people call you Dotty or Dot?”

His familiarity surprised me. No one had ever diminished my name. “Neither. Everyone here calls me Mrs. Quick.”

“Oh, so far everyone here calls me Dad.”

My stars! He tipped his tweed, sweat-stained worker’s cap and grinned like he had won something. Then he rose and went into the building before I did.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 2: Sheila Harkleroad

As I kneaded dough, I stopped to see who Sam spoke to. The upstairs woman leaned over the railing and talked to Sam. She seemed older than we were and wore a long, simple black dress, the kind worn by widows or nuns. A clean, starched white bibbed apron covered her front. My own cotton cross-hatch apron, thin with use and many washings, looked sad in comparison.

Mrs. Quick was taller than my Sam. She pinned up her black hair at the back of her head in a tight bun. Her hands gave away the hard work she had known. Maybe it was the stiffness of her apron that gave me the impression of a rigid old China doll. Even with two sons working, Mrs. Quick couldn’t be so much better off than we were because, after all, she lived on 59^th Street in Englewood.  The nobs lived in Hyde Park or north of the city. So far, everybody I met here worked hard and dreamed of a place of their own. Our landlord told Sam that the Quick family had occupied the upstairs flat since before her husband died ten or so years ago.

Even with five of us, we gratefully rented the first-floor flat. There was a basement, foyer, and back yard. The kitchen was much better than what I was used to. But my Cracker Jack prize was the boxy green and gold gas stove—well-used, curved legs, with two working burners and two doors for ovens. Baking bread was now a breeze.

In this flat we also had our own indoor toilet and a stationary bathtub. Somewhat chipped but at least I didn’t have to pull a galvanized tub from under the kitchen table whenever someone wanted a weekly scrub. Still, we’d need to boil a bucket or two of water on the stove because the flat only had cold water. We had electric light, a blessing. I wouldn’t have to cajole Ellen, our youngest, into cleaning the globes of kerosene lamps.

I covered the dough with a towel and set it in a warm spot near the window.

After Sam’s broken bones aged and the coal mine shut down for good, Sam wanted to work above ground. His sister convinced him it was time to move. Weeks before the Crash, we moved to Englewood, and Sam found maintenance work in Jackson Park. Then the banks crashed.

As the 1929 Crash settled into our lives and winter approached, Sam’s Jackson Park boss warned the weekly pruning of trees and digging soon would end. Six days of work became a day or two each week. Still, not easy for a man with coal dust in his lungs. He entered our flat short winded. I bit my lip at the sound of his short puffs of breath. But I’ll sleep better knowing he’s less likely to die in a cold, dark place.

“I saw you talking,” I said. “What did her nibs want?” Slamming another wad of dough slowed my irritation.

“Wants me to stop smoking a pipe.” His naughty smile rose on one side of his face. “She doesn’t have to ask. This bowl of my pipe holds the last of my pipe tobacco.” He reached into his pocket and cradled a pouch. “But I got enough cigarette tobacco for six rolled smokes. Can’t allow the Old Missus to change my bad habits.”

Sam asked so little. With every job, he turned over his pay for me to manage. I hoped our oldest daughter Fiona might spare some money from her pay for her dad’s pipe tobacco.

By thirty, he’d lost hair on the top of his head. Yet he can out shovel men who are twenty-five years younger.  Having had enough of bosses flexing muscle over miners, ordering them about with insults, Sam now weighed the pouch in his hand and had that chop-her-down-to-size glint in his eye.

“Guess I better have Ellen take up one of these first loaves to our new neighbor’s door.”

“The old lady won’t appreciate it. Women like her never do.” His eyes were hard and disappointed, a look I’ve seen far too often since work became scarce.

“Can’t hurt to be civil. We share this building with her family. Mrs. Quick purposely marked the front steps after Ellen washed them.”

“Why’d she do that?” Sam’s body straightened.

“No idea, but if it takes a loaf of bread to calm down her ire, I’m willing to make a sacrifice.”

I wanted to change his focus from the Old Missus. “A letter came from Imogene. She apologized for only having two dollars to send this month but promised more next time.”

“She say when she might come home for a visit?” asked Sam.

“I think she’ll keep working for the doctor’s family a while longer.”

Imogene always listened to complaints in our family and calmed storms.  She took our bruises in stride and found ways to lighten everyone’s load. All our girls have a degree of beauty. Imogene’s beauty is in her simple plainness and her desire to look at hard work as ordinary. I too wished she’d come home.

“You splurged on flour and yeast. Smells good,” said Sam.

“I had to bake bread again, Sam,” I said. “You know, to make this new flat feel like home.”

            He came up behind me and wrapped his arms around my shoulders, gave me a kiss behind my ear.

“No, can’t hurt to bake. Looks like I’ll work at Peabody’s a day or two a week. Shoveling coal into 25- and 50-pound sacks for delivery. Couple young fellas had to quit because of blisters.”

“Peabody’s and Jackson Park?” I was delighted.

“Looks like.”

“That black rock in front of Peabody’s really a ton block of coal?”

“It is that.”

He had that look of pride in hard work. I didn’t remind him that this was early May and how much longer would Peabody need workers for filling sacks. I had to admit that Sam looked spent. Jobs as janitor went to younger men as did the job of doorman. Sam no longer moved rapidly, so being a quick-footed bank messenger was out of the picture. He was a laborer along with thousands of others who were out of work. All of them considered low, a dime a dozen.

 “I also put my name in at Wink’s Hardware. A young kid said with men leaving home to look for work, women sometimes look for handyman skills for repairs. And with our older girls bringing in some money, we might put some aside for winter when times get really hard.”

Sam always worried about growing old and having nowhere to go. Worried a day would come when none of us had anything to eat. He felt the burden to provide.

I hated the thought of him shoveling coal into gunny sacks for delivery. As if he hadn’t enough tonnage of horror already on his shoulders, on his scarred face, in his lungs. I thought of him coming home in the days ahead with aches. His once broken leg had healed shorter. His once broken ribs restricted his ability to twist, and the bend of his back signaled distress.

“Mrs. Green paid me for a baby’s blanket I knitted,” I said cheerfully. “She was a bit short, so she paid for the yarn and threw in a big dollop of butter for my actual work.”

“Some good eating tonight,” said Sam with a grin. “Bread out of the oven, and butter. How’d she come by butter?”

“Her cousin in Frankfort has dairy cows. He came in to visit last Sunday.”

“She got any more grandbabies coming?” His blue eyes twinkled.

“She’s got a son that’s looking pretty proud these days.”

Much of the money that came from my knitting went to new yarn, but it also helped feed our family. I stockpiled flour and cans of beans. I even bought apples from peddlers on the sidewalk. After all, everyone felt humbled by the Crash. Were the horrible rumors true that desperate women ripped wallpaper from walls to scrape off the flour paste to feed their children? I couldn’t imagine the stories were true, but that wasn’t going to be my family if I could help it. On Sam’s down days, he’d say, “When will they demand we take our eyes out in payment?”

I’d fight tears, predict tomorrow would be a better day, and make him a cup of tea with honey.

Many banks had closed, not that we ever had enough savings for an account.  It seemed once we had a few dollars, one of our girls caught pneumonia or everyone’s shoes fell apart at the same time.  Our first winter in Englewood was terrible with wet and cold. Shoes stuffed with paper not sufficient protection from wet pavement.

My heart ached when I saw men on the street peddling. I knew the cost to their souls. My Sam was also a proud man. Shortly after we moved from Valley towns in 1929 and before Fiona and Una found jobs, Sam stood in a charity line for a bag of food. The experience marked him with anger as he came home with a stale loaf of bread, dried peas, corn meal, and hog lard.

“Add water and tea,” I told him with a grin, “and we’ll have some good eating.”

He’s not a man given to tears, but I thought he might cry as he looked at our supper that night.

By 1930, everyone I knew was terrified of taking the next breath for fear of something worse coming. Too many men hopped it and left their families behind to find work in other states, but that meant a wife and children must make their own way until money arrived. Too many families came to realize gone was gone.

Our first flat in Englewood broke our hearts, but Sam kept searching, and this past week we moved into this new set of rooms that were clean and had a jolly but intrusive landlord. For now, we were safe. Our second daughter Imogene sent money from her job in Harrisburg, and I scoured stores for bargains: vegetables past their prime and chicken backs with a little meat attached. With my hands in yeasty dough, I felt maybe we could beat this Crash.

“Nothing like knitting for a new baby,” mused Sam. “I’ve noticed lots of young folk living nearby. They all might need some knitting.”

“I got an order from one of our beat cops for socks. I’ll look for blue wool tomorrow.” I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye and noticed Ellen in the doorway. “Good, you’re home,” I said as our youngest came slinking into the room as if she hoped she could possibly hide. “Where’s your new friend Eleanor?” I asked.

“She went home. Her mother has an alteration order for her to deliver.”

I hadn’t met Mrs. Mossberg but knew of her through her daughter Eleanor, a spunky girl in Ellen’s class at school who was a year younger than our daughter but stood a head taller. I liked the way Eleanor took charge of Ellen and gave her permission to laugh. On weekends, she convinced Ellen to go to Washington Park or Jackson Park for a picnic. I provided honey on bread sandwiches. Once they even ventured out to view the new Shedd Aquarium about to open in May. Eleanor always seemed to have a few extra cents for them to take the streetcar on an adventure.

I hoped that in time my girl could speak without her face dropping into a scowl, but it has always been so.

“Ellen, I have a job for you.” She looked up quite wary of what I might ask. “I want Mrs. Quick to have a taste of my bread and a bit of butter, and I’d like you to deliver it.”

“We’re giving away a whole loaf?” asked Sam, his eyes full of disappointment that bordered on fear.

“We live in the same building. It can’t hurt to have some eyes besides God’s looking out for us. Besides, she has two working sons. It might be nice to have more muscle doing work in the building besides you.”

“But the two working sons wear suits to work,” protested Sam as he removed his cap and rubbed his scalp. “Why do they live here with working people?” Sam’s face puzzled with a frown. “Why not live at the lake front?”

Ellen looked at the cooling loaf of bread. “Do I have to knock on her door and wait? Can I just knock and leave it?”

“Yes, you have to go up to her door as a neighbor. I want her to feel sorry for tramping on your newly washed stairs.  That wasn’t kind of her, and it’s not what any of us would have done if the situation were reversed. But if we live here, we must be polite.”

“She doesn’t like me.”

“I don’t expect she will care for any of us, but I want her to respect this family. Besides, she’s used to boys. Those steps were filthy. I imagine she gave up the idea of clean stairs because the job would have fallen to her. And, during these hard times, having us move into this apartment has made her uneasy. So, we’re going to try to fix that. Now, take this bread and butter upstairs.”

I wrapped the warm bread in a freshly laundered towel and put it into Ellen’s reluctant hands.

“I’ll carry a small portion of butter,” said Sam as he cut away a smaller bit than I intended and wrapped it in clean white butcher paper I had saved. “I’ll walk the girl upstairs. We both deserve to face the Old Missus. Then I want to tell you about Mr. Reese’s offer.”

When Sam and Ellen returned, she gave me a dirty look as if my request had gotten her into more trouble. She turned and went to her room, which was also our pantry with a curtain over the doorway. I wished the two bedrooms had been larger, so that all three girls could sleep in the same room. Each bedroom, however, accommodated one double bed. Wooden pegs on the wall allowed dresses to hang neatly.  

“Things are looking up,” Sam said after Ellen drew the curtain across the pantry.

“Everything okay with upstairs?” I asked.

“The Old Missus will be grateful after she tastes your bread.”

I smiled, knowing he needed encouragement. All was well.

In a whisper so Ellen couldn’t hear, Sam said, “I’ll be doing more than maintaining the boiler in the basement. Mr. Reese said he’d lower the rent even more if I took on some tasks around here like keeping the grass cut in the back yard. Ellen can keep the front steps clean. I’ll do maintenance if the Old Missus needs electricity or heat fixed. But one request needs your approval.”

            “Mine?”

            “Look, I know every minute of your time is taken up with providing meals out of nothing.”

Sam rarely looked nervous, but he did that day. I waited, knowing he thought I’d protest additional work. I stayed silent as Sam’s eyes held regret before they scrunched into his request of asking one-more-thing.

            “Mrs. Reese has asthma. Mr. Reese bought her a parrot to keep her company during the day, but he didn’t know the parrot worsens her breathing.  He’s asked us to keep the bird until he can figure something out. He wants to visit from time to time and will provide the bird’s food. The bird will be like a boarder.  Mr. Reese will come down even more in the price of our rent. What do you say to sixteen dollars a month?”

            “Sixteen dollars?” I got the shivers. It was like a gift from God. I nodded my head. “Can’t hurt to have the landlord beholden to you. We might need leverage over her nib’s complaints. Mr. Reese doesn’t see you at his beck and call, does he?”

Sam shrugged and I knew beck and call was exactly what Reese thought.

“You don’t mind the bird moving in?” asked Sam.

“It could be company during the day when all of you are at work and school. Does it swear?”

            “It’s a lovely bird. A big gray thing. But a bit loud.  Reese said the bird is not much for words but has an interest in sounds like sirens and radio music. While I was in their home with the rest of the rent, the bird voiced a violin.  Damn, if it didn’t sound like music just in the next room. It could be entertaining for the girls, especially Fiona. I don’t know if it swears.”

            Our oldest daughter Fiona lived and breathed Hollywood movies. While we still lived in Valley towns, Fiona bobbed her hair, so it fell just below her ears like many movie stars. She used a poker heated on the stove to create waves. “A Marcel,” she called it. I thought she had made her eyebrows bald with all that plucking. Until talkies came into theaters, she loved piano music that accompanied the action and spoke of the Jazz Singer. If we had money for a piano, Fiona would have entertained us with music every night. One man at a Valley church taught her to play honky-tonk. Small delight, I guess, after painting clock faces all week in Ottawa.

            “Sam, it’s okay. You and I both know things aren’t going to get better anytime soon. Maybe a parrot will even cheer up Ellen. I know it’s hard for her being so much younger than the other girls.”

 I felt tickled with the thought of Old Missus upstairs hearing a parrot.

“What if she believes that she hears a real siren? How might she behave? Oh, Sam!”

            We both laughed harder than we had in months.

            “She certainly can’t say much. It’s Reese’s bird.” That glimmer came back into his eye.

            The naughty moment passed quickly as they always seemed to do. My thoughts clung to Sam possibly working four days a week. The coal yard shoveling carried promise during cool weather. But I knew Sam didn’t have time on his side for heavy work. If something happened to him—I thought of my own pitiful income from knitting. So many widows struggled to find work through doing laundry.

At least for the next few months, Fiona would still be working at Cracker Jack, but she wouldn’t be home with us for long. At twenty-two she had stars in her eyes for a young man who sold ice cream in Jackson Park. She already planned a December wedding.

At eighteen, Una’s beauty and serious nature got her a job at Marshall Field’s, but she too had a future marriage in the works. Imogene left Valley towns at sixteen to work for a posh family in Pennsylvania. That had been four years ago. Now twenty, she faithfully wrote us letters. Frugal by nature, Imogene sent us three to five dollars every month. But thin hopes of eating regularly could be blown away as soon as Fiona and Una married. Married women were expected to be kept at home while men worked a job. What catastrophe might follow if Sam lost his work? What if Deidre came home?

My heart beat with dread as I pictured Deidre taunting Ellen as a toddler to pull scalding tea through the spout of my teapot. I had just poured boiling water for the tea to steep and turned back to the stove to set the kettle down. In those seconds Deidre, with too much delight in her eyes, turned the spout toward Ellen’s face. At two-years-old, Ellen leaned forward to suck the spout. I screamed for her to stop. Her body gave a jolt, and she cried. Deidre, however, took my scolding calmly. Even when I explained what could have happened, that Ellen could have died from scalding injuries, Deidre shrugged. Her eyes seemed to reflect her awareness of the danger and her disappointment that Ellen moved too slowly. From that moment on, I watched Deidre, caught her inflicting twisting pinches on Ellen that gave her purple bruises. By the time she was eight and Ellen four, Deidre stood in front of me and stated, “I hate her.”

God forgive me, but I was glad Deidre chose not to move to Englewood with us but to live with Sam’s sister Christine to finish her schooling. But I didn’t know how long she’d choose to stay in school or with her aunt. After all, she was soon to be sixteen. Since the birth of Ellen, Deidre found ways to make all of us pay a price for loving our last child.

Deidre gloried in lies about her sisters, broke their cherished items, or stole their clothing. As her body became alive at thirteen, her behavior around Sam grew scandalous as she draped her body over him.  What would Old Missus think of Deidre if she returned?

But Sam kept me from thinking too much of Deidre who managed to stir a cauldron of anger in all of us.

            “How was your day?” Sam asked, seeing the steaming stock pot on the stove.

             “I’ve had luck. Musser’s Meat Market had two pounds of chicken backs for dirt cheap.”

            “We’ll have chicken soup tomorrow?” he asked with real joy.

            I nodded. “Tonight, we’ll have bits and bobs.” My eyes widened with pride. “But tomorrow—soup. Sam, the green grocer’s had just pulled all the vegetables that were . . . maybe not their best. The clerk asked if I could use anything in the discard bin. Then he included a half bag of Mrs. Grass’s noodles that were seriously broken, as if someone had stomped on the bag. But I bought the onion at full price. Tomorrow we’ll have a feast of chicken soup in honor of our first invited guest to our new home, but don’t tell him his cousin is in the simmering pot.”

            Sam chuckled at the thought. “What would any of us do without you?”

He’s not given to tears during hard times but feeling gratitude can break him down. I watched him wipe away a tear caught in the creases of his face. We had always managed in the past even when he had broken bones, but then we had a bit of money put aside. Now we had nothing to save us from hunger or the street.

            “Your excellent bread and that butter you earned.” His eyes sparkled.

            “Oh, I forgot. Tonight, we’ll also have two cans of pork ‘n beans.”

I felt extravagant opening the cans rather than adding one to my emergency stash. I had found dented cans, and the grocer always gives a good bit off if there’s a chance the insides might be spoiled.

            When we lived in a mining town, Sam worked regular shifts down the mine before the mine closed. I cared for the girls and managed the household. Our oldest, Fiona, wasn’t much for school and at fourteen found a job painting numbers onto clocks to make them glow in the dark. Her income helped to provide a few extras. I was delighted when she bought something for herself: a Brownie camera. We all felt like celebrities in her black and white photos.

I caught Sam gazing at the stock pot. I knew the set of his jaw. Still fearing that life could spin out of control.

“It was a good day,” I whispered. “But Sam, we have to talk about Deidre. We received two letters, one from Imogene and the other from your sister. “I think the letters can wait until after dinner . . . in case your sister complains about Deidre. We don’t want Ellen to hear what we have to say.”

            “You didn’t read Christine’s letter? It could be about anything,” said Sam.

            “It’s addressed to you, not to us.”

A lovely, generous woman, Christine addressed letters to the two of us, but this envelope, bulky with pages, was directed to Sam.

            “Oh,” said Sam, “some embarrassment. Probably the topic is Deidre.”

            I dreaded Deidre’s mocking. That was probably my fault. I believed Deidre would be our last child and indulged her because of it.  When Ellen arrived four years later, Deidre felt betrayed. She certainly pounded on our youngest to show her anger at a rival. No amount of pampering or punishment stopped Deidre from becoming more deceptive in her brutal treatment of Ellen. Our neighbors called Ellen clumsy because my embarrassment failed to tell the truth about my child’s bruises.

            “Maybe we can ask Fiona to take Ellen with her when she and her beau go for an evening walk,” said Sam. He looked as if asking Fiona was an unreasonable burden after her day of packaging candy.

            “We’ll tell Fiona we need to discuss Deidre,” I said. “She’ll understand.”

Before we moved into Reese’s flat on 59^th Street near Halsted, we lived in a run-down building with five apartments and only two toilets available in the building. In 1929 it was all we could find. Sam searched for businesses in need of workers. Many nights I saw him knock-kneed tired, bone weary. No one needed an old man to do work. I worried about parceling out our meager savings to pay bills. At eighteen dollars a month for a flat with a shared toilet struck us as extravagant.

We worked the numbers. How much for a short ton of winter coal for heat? I listened as bags were dumped through the chute in the wall to the basement.  Our neighbors bought ice even in the winter to preserve food. A colored man hoisted the seventy-pound block to his shoulder with ice tongs and delivered it to other flats. We kept food cold by placing it in a tin box on the porch, but come warm weather, we’d need ice. No phone—much too expensive. Spare money for electricity for evening light? No. We kept a single kerosene lamp lit for reading or crochet work. I learned to buy bruised food. Vegetables could be cut for soup. Fruit chopped into a pudding with stale bread. We rarely used money for streetcar transportation, but walking meant money for shoes.

Finally, in 1930 Sam found some steady work. If he were lucky, he worked four days, but for many weeks, he had only one day of hard labor. We relied on Fiona’s and Una’s pay.

Ellen needed clothes for school next year. Hand-me-downs could be stitched smaller. But shoes?  Sam refused to count my income from knitting. Probably a good thing because of its unreliability.

Fiona had the stamina of a workhorse and made twenty cents per hour packaging Cracker Jack. Some weeks she gave us three dollars.  Once a month Imogene sent us two to five dollars when she could. Una worked on commission from sales at Marshall Field’s. Her giving spotty. Of course, there was nothing from Deidre or Ellen. They were yet girls.

            A dozen eggs 18 cents, bacon 38 cents, potatoes 18 cents for a bag, bread 10 cents. Then there were laundry soap, body soap, toilet paper, toothpaste. At least pork ‘n beans were 5 cents a can. But milk was twenty-five cents, sometimes thirty.

            I never mentioned to Sam that at times I can’t catch my breath.

            Sam’s work could earn as much as three dollars a day. If he could work four days a week? I paused in my hopes. If he worked four days a week, some other man worked less. My fear: What if he should be hurt? When he worked in the mines, broken bones kept him out of work for a couple months. As long as work had been consistent, it allowed us a savings to get us through the rough times. Our move to Englewood used up what savings we had. The Crash scared the life out of us. I shuddered to think of more Hoovervilles and us as new residents.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 3: Eleanor Mossberg

Pardon while I elbow my way into this story telling. Although I’m not a Harkleroad or a Quick, I’m best friend to Ellen and practically lived at their flat once she started sixth grade at Beale School. I’m the one who lived important moments with the families and kept a journal. Even as a kid, I planned to become a writer. I imagined becoming famous.

I was born in Brooklyn. In 1927 I joined the third grade at Beale School in Englewood, Illinois, and became the new kid. One thing’s for sure. Englewood’s not a neighborhood where people blend. We had Irish, Polish, German, Colored, Italian, Catholic and Baptist, a few Chinese, and one Lakota kid. They all got their own street—or side of the street except Jeffery who’s Lakota. I know what he feels. In my third grade class I was the only Jew. The Smith kid was a name-caller and decided this girl needed a fist in her face, so he was the first to call me Jew-girl. I’ve always been tall for my age, really smart—smarty-pants smart—and bossy. I shoved nasty-mouth Smith to the ground and rubbed his face in the dirt. Told him to apologize. You bet he did.

            The principal called my mother. I got a good talking to about being an embarrassment.

            “Don’t be drawing attention to yourself,” my mother said. “There will come a day when someone will be bigger and more powerful than you. Be smart.”

            Believe me, I got the message. By time I was eleven, I skipped to sixth grade. Still a new kid because of my age, still Jewish, more or less, and with no friends in the sixth grade. Jeffrey also skipped, but he was having troubles with some of the fifth-grade boys.

Englewood in 1930 rivaled the Chicago Loop for business opportunities. Families displaced by the Crash moved to Englewood in droves looking for work. So did Colored people wanting to escape the South. (Until I met Miss Wisdom, I called Black people Colored. I now know better.)

When Ellen Harkleroad walked through the oak door in January, she got to be “the new kid.” She tried to hide that scrawny squirrel look she had and hung about in the corners of the room. Her clothing looked starched; she smelled of strong soap like Lava. I imagined her mother scrubbing her until her skin turned rosy. She also wore a gray, old man sweater that had droopy shoulders and sleeves longer than her arms.

Our sixth-grade teacher was Nettie Wisdom, an older woman but without gray hair, only wisps of white. When she spoke, it was like listening to God. Her voice deep and rich like some music, her smile warm and loving. Nobody—parents included—wanted to be on the wrong side of Miss Wisdom. She had a big jaw. Really big. Whispers said she looked like her big shot, White father who lived in Hyde Park, so nobody thought reverence for this Colored teacher was strange.

The first time I said Colored, I heard a gasp from my classmates. I was embarrassed. She smiled, however, and asked me to say Black.

“Yes, ma’am!”

When Ellen came into class, Miss Wisdom forced her to speak just by asking, “Tell your name and the school you attended.”

Ellen’s face turned red, and I thought she was going to die, but half the class never heard what she said, and those who did, didn’t know the location of Valley towns. Neither did I. At recess I made her talk to me.

I learned downstate Illinois had five towns with coal mines bunched together. The whole place is called Valley. Her family moved to Englewood because two more mines closed, and her dad was looking for work—just like everybody else after the Crash. I’d seen the lines of hundreds of men looking for work in Englewood. She said they had moved to a flat on the east side of Halsted Street. Even at age eleven, I knew of the danger. The east side near State Street was changing to be the Black side of Englewood. That meant Irish, German, Polish, and Italian gangs had a location if they were looking to beat-up someone. That is if they didn’t fight each other. Their target? Someone Black or someone who might like Black people and live among them. If you lived on a street of mixed kinds of people, you could be in trouble. I don’t think Ellen’s folks knew any better. I warned her that her family needed to move. When she heard where the Harkleroads lived, even Miss Wisdom pulled an unhappy face, and she’s Black—well, brown, maybe more caramel.

There were neutral zones in Englewood. At the library, Black students could sit at the tables with White kids if nobody spoke too loudly and if the White kids didn’t complain. Our parents could shop at the same stores and eat at the same restaurants. If Blacks or Whites caused trouble around a business, a beat cop restored order by jabbing them in the ribs with a club or cracking a skull. Cracking a skull of someone Black was once very popular. Of course, for most of us in 1930, an afternoon of shopping or eating in a restaurant was beyond rare. Who had such money?

I felt like a special target. Not just because I’m Jewish, but I’m from Brooklyn. Only Mrs. Stein got me into trouble. She was the other sixth grade teacher, short and chubby. She liked to remind me and the playground kids, she wasn’t Jewish. She was German. That was you’re different and not from here. So besides being younger and smarter than the other kids in my class, I was foreign because of the way I pronounced words. I could imagine what it was like being Black when you didn’t have to say anything before somebody was ready to make you feel horrid.

“We come from a Black heritage with Black experiences that deserve respect,” said Miss Wisdom. “I am Black in the eyes of these United States. If you doubt that, look up the Census of the United States of America. Dark skinned people are mostly identified as Black. Lighter skin browns and some people with pink skin are Mulatto or quadroon or octoroon. Not polite words. Language can hurt. Most pink skins are White. So in this classroom and in my company, I’ll appreciate if you honor the ruinous experiences of my people. Say Black.”

“Yes, ma’am!” I liked that she talked to us as adults.

We followed her rule. Our sixth grade had fifteen Whites, four Chinese, and ten Blacks and Jeffrey the Lakota.

You could tell if adults had been students in Miss Wisdom’s sixth grade because they had a twitch when they said Colored to strangers who didn’t know Miss Wisdom’s rules. But to me it made sense once we studied some history of the Civil War. So, I bravely told I was Jewish although my mother and father didn’t practice Judaism. I figured my grandparent or great-grandparents suffered pogroms in Europe. My people had a dark heritage too. Only I hadn’t figured out the right words to describe it.

Jeffrey rarely spoke. Only once did he ask Miss Wisdom if she knew of General Custer. Very respectfully she said. “I do.” Her head bowed slightly and she smiled. After that, the kids in class stopped calling him Injin.

Miss Wisdom looked about the age of my mother, and we both liked books. If she saw a kid loved reading, she’d share. I worked my way through the Emily books: Emily of New Moon and Emily Climbs.

Anyway, I figured Ellen wouldn’t see me as a foreign Jew like the other students did. She had never met someone who had been born in Brooklyn and had no idea where Brooklyn was. She asked me why I talked so fast. I had to slow down my speaking, so she’d understand me. I admit, at first, I thought Ellen was a slow thinker, but I also thought I could help her.

I asked Miss Wisdom to seat me next to Ellen because she was my best friend. The class arrangement could still hold true because Eleanor and Ellen were close alphabetically. Miss Wisdom smiled her rich, warm grin and allowed it.

My fourth-grade teacher had told my mother that I was being advanced in grades because I was “a pain in the ass” who asked too many questions. I figure I was placed in Miss Wisdom’s sixth grade as a punishment for me, Let the Jew have the Black teacher. But I bet it was also a punishment for Miss Wisdom. They probably wanted to stick her with the unruly kid. I fooled them. I loved Miss Wisdom.

I told Miss Wisdom I wanted to grow up to be a writer—maybe a reporter.  She said I needed to keep a journal. So that’s what I did. I began to keep records on the Harkleroad family and their friends.

Ellen Harkleroad looked like she needed a friend. But so did I.

By May of 1930, the Harkleroad family finally moved away from the east side to the west side on 59^th Street and Halsted. I told Ellen that was so much safer. When a street was going Black, landlords stopped repairs and raised rent. Everybody knew this. Nobody did anything about it. Renters had no voice about rent.

Mother went a little crazy when she spoke of the flats on the east side. She thought Hull House should do something about the landlords. Often, the landlords divided up cold-water two-flats and made them into apartments for five Black families with one to two central toilets for everyone. They then rented the new flats to recent Southern Black families who needed a place to live even if they were being bamboozled by the cost.

Ellen said bathrooms confused her. Until she moved to Englewood, her family rented miners’ cabins and had an outhouse. An outhouse! Outside! Even in the winter, truly! Not even a chamber pot!  Nothing more than a hole in the ground without flushing. Really stinky!

Mother said landlords count on desperate people. “One family moves out,” she said, “next day another one—or two—moves in.”

Ellen lived with her mother and father and two older sisters. At our home, it was just Mother and me. My father was a tailor, and we had moved to Englewood from Brooklyn because he heard of Hart, Schaffner, and Marx. He hoped to get a job sewing beautiful suits made from quality wool. Also, he had heard rumors of a new Sears Roebuck store to be built—even bigger than New York’s Macy’s on 34^th Street. But after the Crash, Father said he had a disappointment and left for “new horizons.” That left Mother to support me with her skills as a seamstress. A good thing too because families needed a seamstress after the Crash. Mother made adequate money resizing clothing for each child in families who relied on hand-me-downs. Her hours were long, and I learned to do chores like shopping and making chicken broth soups. At school, I felt at home with Miss Wisdom, and after school with Ellen’s family.  Except, I found myself hanging on to Dad’s words. “It will be a few more months.” I missed my dad.

Lost Voices/ Prochaska

Chapter 4: Sam Harkleroad

Fiona and Una were in their bedroom with the door closed, but I could hear them discussing their young gentlemen. Dreams filled their voices as they described wedding dress plans. First buy enough cloth for one dress. Fiona’s wedding first in December. Una in the spring.

Fiona told about the crocheted doodads to add to the dress. After her wedding, the dress would go back to Mrs. Mossberg to cut down for Una’s wedding months later in 1931. Between the two, Fiona and Una set a plan for crocheting lace.

“We can’t look the same,” said Fiona.

Beats the stuffings out of me. Why can’t bride dresses look alike? They had ordered me to wear my twenty-year old wool suit to give them away. Good enough, I guess, for the December wedding. Glad their plans aren’t for June.    

            Fiona, my oldest girl, wasn’t a beauty at twenty-two, but she had a charm all her own, the kind that could sit on the back porch and have a good laugh and a beer with her old man. She had red hair all flyaway, brown eyes like her mother’s, and a good singing voice that reminded me of my own ma. Fiona’s feet danced even with no music. Once in Valley, after seeing a Jean Harlow film, she bleached her hair blonde. She wasn’t the kind to mind her old man smoking.

Fiona’s young man sold ice cream in Jackson Park. According to her, he was so good-looking. “A regular Rudolph Valentino,” she said as she showed us snapped pictures of his “smoldering dark eyes and alluring smiles.” Fiona had hopes of living in California and hobnobbing with movie stars. Nothing we said tamped down her dreams of Vlad being in a movie. She thought he’d get over his shyness and stutter. Or maybe movie making would go back to silent pictures just because her beau “makes a girl dizzy.”  It made me grin as Fiona pronounced her fiancé’s name, “Vlaaad.” Her eyes would widen and roll upward with delight before adding, “Ring-a-ding-ding!”

Una, my third daughter, the practical one at eighteen, admitted that her young gentleman wasn’t much to look at. He stood an inch shorter than she was and not built for heavy work. But he had goals. Marry, buy a car, then a house on a country road, raise kids.

I didn’t see country charm. We had lived down a dirt road in Valley. Don’t remember Una being dazzled by it. 

Her fella, Hemming, worked at the Stockyards in the shipping department.  He assured her that he had never killed an animal. He was certainly smitten with Una’s beauty, and at times, found a way to supply us with a bit of beef or pork. Not a lot, but enough for Sheila’s shepherd’s pie or stew.  

Una appeared to be delicate since she weighed less than Fiona. She had a lot of blonde hair, that she pinned up. Her blue eyes are like mine. She’s likely to have smile lines at the corner of her eyes like I do.

Once we moved to Englewood, neither girl had trouble finding a beau. I knew they’d move on with their lives. I knew I’d miss them.

Both girls went to Dish Night at the movie theater when they could each spare a dime. For the price of watching a film, each girl received a free plate, cup, or bowl. They called two cardboard boxes their hope chests. Each box held their green dishes to set up housekeeping. Sheila told me the two girls also saved coins bit by bit for their wedding day expenses.

Before Sheila opened the two cans of pork ‘n beans to warm for our supper, Karl Quick, the oldest son of Old Mrs., came down the stairs and knocked on our door. He asked me to join him on the front stoop.

 I liked Karl from the first time I saw him. He was a stocky man in his thirties who’d soon be bald. He had a round face and narrow, squinty dark brown eyes. In that respect, he looked like his mother. During the week, he left for work at dawn in a suit and tie and walked to the elevated train. I usually wished him a good day as we met on the stairs. He’d tip his felt fedora. Didn’t seem to mind that I wore work pants and shirt. Most nights he came home after nine. On bad days of waiting in lines when no work was available, I came home at four in the afternoon. I heard from our landlord that Karl worked for the Federal Reserve Bank in the Loop, and the family had lived in this building on 59^th for almost thirty years. Karl seemed steady, almost cheerful, but I guessed he might want to defend his mother if she felt aggrieved by my pipe. I debated whether I wanted to take a punch to keep the peace. I decided if I were to punch back, a quick jab to Karl’s gut would flatten him. But here he was wanting to talk on the front stoop of our building. He carried Sheila’s kitchen towel that had wrapped the gift of bread. I relaxed.

            We sat next to each other and made small talk about the kids playing in the street. Our forearms rested on our knees. I could hear my three girls gather at the window to listen to our conversation. I pulled out my pipe. Karl didn’t flinch as I tamped cigarette tobacco into the bowl of my pipe.

            “Street’s pretty busy,” said Karl.

            “Yep.”

            “People are worried about this economy,” said Karl.

            “Lots of people lost jobs,” I said. “But probably with you working for the government, there’s no chance of you losing your job. What about your brother Jonas?”

            “He’s always been an athlete, outgoing, a natural-born salesman. Gift of gab. Know what I mean?”

            I did.

“Probably the best of all us sons. Jonas works for Standard Oil. They asked him to learn to fly a plane so he can represent the company at airports and sell fuel. If he nails this pilot position, he’ll be the cat’s pajamas for money.”

            I nodded. “And Darby? Where’s he?”

            Karl’s eyes narrowed as he gave a nasty laugh.

            “You know how some families have daughters who become nuns or sons who become priests? Darby’s responsibility is to get us all into heaven.  Mother says she wants him to be a missionary.”

            “What’s Darby’s dream?” I asked.

            Karl shook his head. “Dreams aren’t allowed. Darby will fall into line.”

            “And your brother Frankie? I’ve seen him hanging around 63^rd Street.”

            Karl looked away. “Frankie will talk your ears off if you let him. Mother hasn’t given him a role yet.”

            I waited, hoping somehow this would weave into a conversation about his mother and her attitude toward me. My temper riled at hearing Old Missus tramped on Ellen’s clean stairs. She seemed a hard woman, still no reason to take it out on young neighbors.

            “Your wife is sure a good baker. I enjoyed the bread. Butter’s a real treat. Mother asked me to return the towel.”

Typically, our family ate together. I found it curious Karl had already sampled Sheila’s bread before either of his brothers walked in the door. I got the idea their lives were catch as catch can.

“Mother’s not much of a cook,” said Karl. “I don’t think she ever learned. My grandmother kept a boarding house for miners where quantity was more important than flavor. My oldest aunt oversaw the kitchen. Mother did the laundry for everyone. She’s a whizz at getting out a stain or wrinkle.” He smiled appreciation.  “Mother only mastered making a souffle but fudge is her specialty.”

Karl looked at my pipe, not with a frown but with softness, like he envied me.

            “She send you out here to give me a good talking to?”

            “In a way. Actually, Mother prefers we not talk to any of our neighbors. I thought I better tell you of her edge . . . and fear.  She’s wary of strangers. Always ready for others to put her down, so  she’ll attack first. Prays every night for God to protect our family.  Jonas and I are her only source of income. Frankie is only twelve. She prays for him to behave.”

            “My Ellen’s twelve.”

            “Don’t remind Mother of that. She’s deadly afraid of females coming into our lives and distracting us sons. Since Father died ten years ago, Mother thinks if Jonas or I marry, the new wife will chuck her out into the street.”

             “Your mother close to her sister?” I watched Karl flinch.

“We have an agreed upon distance with family,” he answered. “Very few travel. Letters only.”

His shoulders became rigid. I wondered what was up. Karl rubbed his palms together.

“Family scattered. Mother’s sisters married young. At fifteen. I’ve never met one aunt, but I know two are widows with problems of their own. Mother has a brother who writes and sends a couple bucks for a splurge moment.” His voice turned raw. “You know how uncertain the world is. Mother puts extra money aside for the Sunday collection plate as a bribe for God to keep us safe.”

So, the Old Missus was like the rest of us. Without standing as a widow.

“Fear of abandonment keeps her tongue sharp.”  Karl’s expression begged for understanding.

After supper, Sheila sat on her worn chair and worked on knitting until Fiona and Una took Ellen for a walk.

When the door closed, Sheila put her knitting into her large basket and gave me the look. It was time to read Christine’s letter.

Dear Sam,

            I am so sorry to write this letter. What an ignorant sister you have. I never believed Deidre could be so devious. Your daughter is such a pretty girl, maybe not as beautiful as Una, but one would think truth lives in her.

            All was good for about two weeks after your family moved to Chicago last year. Deidre continued to attend school and obeyed our deadlines. Then she supposedly received a letter from Imogene. I say supposedly because she held the pages and read it to me, but she never gave it to me to read. Later, Deidre said she was so upset she had to rip the letter to shreds. She cried and paced the floor. According to Deidre, Imogene was unwell and lost her job. Then, too weak to sip soup, Deidre feared Imogene would die. Poor thing couldn’t travel home to you because she has no money and was afraid her illness would be a burden to you. Deidre begged me not to contact you. Her intention was to go to Imogene and nurse her back to health. She told me Imogene is her favorite sister, and she would never forgive herself if Imogene died. She asked me to loan her travel expenses to Harrisburg, which I did. That was many months ago.

At first, I scolded myself for keeping her secret, but I held off writing to you because I’d received regular letters from Deidre. Since that first letter, she’s been writing to me every week to let me know that Imogene was worse than she expected but has begun to improve. She said the rich family who employs Imogene have been thoughtful enough to hire Deidre as a personal maid for the woman of the house.

I should have been suspicious the moment she asked me not to worry you and Sheila. I have no excuse other than Deidre seemed to change once your family moved. Sam, please tell Sheila I’m so embarrassed at being stupid.

Deidre’s latest letter arrived and included money to repay a little of what I lent her. She said she may have fibbed in her need to see Imogene. She repeatedly begged me not to tell you and apologized for making up a story about Imogene being sick. In short, Imogene is not at death’s door. Nor is Deidre a lady’s maid. Apparently, she just needed to get out from under my thumb. She said she has found a job in Harrisburg and reminded me that at sixteen girls may marry. I don’t know if she has found a young man, but I believe that is her intent. I’m so simple, Sam. Finding a husband was probably her intention all along. Now, I recall how irritated Deidre became when Fiona wrote of her young man. My guess is Deidre wants to beat her sisters to the altar.

Sam, I believe she has duped us all.

Has Imogene written anything about Deidre? Or has Deidre’s escape from the family been all on her own? It has crossed my mind that going to Harrisburg may also be a lie.  Did Deidre really go to see Imogene? I just don’t know.

Sam, I’m sorry I have failed to take proper care of your daughter. I’m sick about what she may have gotten into.

Your loving sister,

Christine

When we finished reading the letter, I told Sheila a phone call to Imogene was in order. The only person I knew who’d allow us a long-distance call was my older sister Agnes, who also lived in Englewood. Sheila gathered her pocketbook, and we set off to walk the five blocks. In the evening, all the lights of Halsted Street kept the coming night at bay. We passed Peabody’s coal, the movie theater that the girls loved, the pet shop, and a restaurant with counter service. The brightness and the meandering people put us in another world. Almost hopeful.

            Agnes welcomed us into her flat, her face full of concern.  She had also received a letter from Christine, relating Deidre’s deception.  She agreed we needed to call Imogene.

            Imogene had lived away from us for four years. She left Valley for a job in domestic service for a doctor’s family in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Scrub woman more likely. The family employed a cook, a housekeeper, and Imogene who took on all the dirty duties that required muscle. As frail as Imogene seemed, she learned to lay a fire in the fireplace, clean out soot, and scrub copper pots. In her letters, she only complained about beating the dirt out of big carpets. For her work, she received room and board, plus small pay. Goodness knows what she lived on. Dutifully, she sent us three to five dollars a month.

            We placed a call to the household where Imogene worked. Mary the housekeeper answered.

“Imogene’s not been sick at all. I’d call her to the phone, but she has evening duties.”

“Was our daughter Deidre there to visit?”

“Aye. A few months back.”

“Was she polite?” I asked.

A pause followed. “I don’t think she presented herself well when she met Madame. She said very little to Imogene. I believe they were hard words because Imogene was upset.”

“Has Deidre been back?”

“Well, no. Madam asked Imogene to vouch for her sister’s character, and Imogene said your other daughter was far too young for responsibilities. I hope this doesn’t cause Imogene any trouble. We all think she is a lovely girl.”

            I assured Mary that Madam had made the correct decision and thanked her for her kind words.

            “When was Deidre’s visit?” I asked.

            “Some months back.”

            Where was Deidre these past few months if she hadn’t returned to Christine, and where had she earned money to partially repay her aunt?

Before we left, Agnes hugged Sheila and told her not to worry.

“Your sister is such a dear,” said Sheila as we closed the door behind us.

I worried. Imogene hadn’t written to tell us of Deidre’s visit.  Always one wanting to do one better than her sisters, Deidre was on the hunt. Without family to watch her choices, what kind of man would she choose?

Sheila and I walked home, arm in arm, saying few words. I feared Deidre might come home with child. The lights of Halsted Street washed out the stars in the night sky.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 5: Sheila Harkleroad

All the next day, I thought of Deidre and her criticism of Sam before we moved to Englewood. She saw him as old, a good-for-nothing failure. Coaxing Deidre to be patient with our move to Chicago didn’t work, neither did scolding. She begged us to stay with Christine and promised to continue to go to school. At the time of our move, Deidre had turned fifteen.

“Look at me. I’m the prettiest. I deserve better than to marry a coal miner,” said Deidre. Her defiance took my breath. “I’m not like Fiona with her three tired cotton dresses. I deserve more.”

She wasn’t the prettiest or the best tempered. Nor did she put up with friends. On her own, life would be risky, probably ending with hardship.

With promises of Christine’s supervision, Sam backed off from insisting Deidre live with us. We all hoped to keep her in school until she was sixteen.

God forgive me, I was glad to have her criticism away from us.  The mine closed, Sam was laid off, and Sam’s older sister Agnes suggested we try our luck in Chicago where jobs were more plentiful.  We had a chance to thrive in Englewood. Agnes said factories sprouted up like weeds. But then the banks crashed.

Worry kept me awake at night—worry for Sam forced to shuffle forward in a line for a handout. Once he said, “I’m nothing but an old beggar. For what? Stale bread.” I worried about Deidre being alone, and I worried for Ellen if Deidre returned. From the time Ellen was born, Deidre invented ways to harm her sister.

At least I could count on our three older girls. All heads turned when Una entered a room or walked down the street. She had blonde hair, large blue eyes, and skin like pearls. Fiona’s popularity came from entertaining us and neighbors with humorous stories and songs. Imogene’s plainness and willingness to work kept her in the background until her natural wisdom, ever so practical, put people at ease with logical problem solving. She never blamed anyone, just stepped up to wash dishes, mend cotton stockings, feed young birds out of a nest. I couldn’t yet tell Ellen’s strength. At least she liked to read.

I felt Sam lying awake next to me. In the dark before dawn, I said, “Remember when Deidre claimed she shouldn’t ever have to work because it spoils beauty?”

Sam lowered his voice and imitated Deidre’s outrage. “I deserve a husband who can buy nice things—not stuck in a life with any of you.”

“She’s terrible,” I said softly. My body tensed. I knew he still took Deidre’s words to heart.

When we lived in Valley towns, Sam and I squirreled away dimes so that when a barnstormer pilot showed up, we could pay for each of our girls to go up into the air. Sam and I never did. Not enough saved dimes. I saw the freedom of the sky in his blue eyes as he watched the girls’ delight.

“If Deidre has supported herself these past months,” said Sam, “maybe she’s right. Maybe she’s better off on her own.”

Secretly, I hoped Deidre wasn’t pregnant.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 6:  Sam

Before dawn, a crush of men stood in line and picked up some work at the Mars candy factory on Oak Park Avenue. The company had scheduled the cleaning of vats, which afterwards meant general scrubbing of floors by day-hires for thirty-five cents an hour. When the pay came, we were all shorted by a smart-mouthed pay clerk whose eyes watched for his boss. But when you’re new to Englewood, desperate for work, and the 1929 Crash still boils in your stomach, you don’t complain—especially when more work is promised for the next week. I took my clue from the men around me and kept my mouth shut.

I’ve had harder work and should have been pleased with a couple bucks in my pocket. Hadn’t I worked in mines earning ten to fifteen cents a ton? But Deidre’s words stayed with me. How does a girl impress her young gentleman with a description of her father who pushes a broom, mops floors, or shovels coal into coarse gunny sacks? I came home feeling mighty glum, rolled a cigarette, and sat on the bottom step of the stoop.

            Frankie Quick, our young upstairs neighbor, wandered around the front of the building. He seemed to be dressed in too big hand-me-downs. His twelve-year-old, skinny body resembled a bottle of booze camouflaged by a paper bag. A belt gathered his shirt and pants around his hips. A toe protruded from a crack in his shoe and almost touched the ground. He moved with speed but walked like a rounded old man. But he was a kid with a grin.  More than likely bombproof.

He climbed our stairs then retreated. Walked two houses down and tossed a baseball against the wooden steps. Twisted the ball in his hand as if getting ready to pitch a game. When I worked down the mine, I watched the scared new kids dance around us old timers, looking for an opening to ask the big question: “How dark is it down the shaft?” “Can it be darker than night?” Yeah, it can. No stars down a mine.

            Many of the new boys had been down the coal mine with their dads when they were much younger to see what their old man did. That was to take the fear out of Dad’s job. Electricity always worked on those days. Tunnels were brightly lit. But when you’re a fourteen-year-old kid, your life can be long or short, depending on your behavior in the dark. I’ve seen the soberness come into their eyes as they pressed toward the elevator on their first day as a miner.

            Miners might talk to each other as they walk to the mine, but waiting for the cage elevator doors to open, we were mostly quiet. For the descent, the elevator packed us close together, shoulder to shoulder, enough to taste the smell of the other men’s stink. Sky disappeared quickly. The tunnels below were surprisingly warm, and the air rich with the smell of mules ready to haul carts of coal. We spent half a day in this hole. The mules spent their lives. Most blind from the coal dust and dark. At some point every man feels a brotherhood with these animals.

Owners had promised electricity would power up lights and move coal carts through the tunnels. Down our shaft, the animals still provided the muscle to move carts.  When flimsy electricity cut out, a miner’s kerosene head lamp provided light. New kids flinched at having a live flame near their hair.

Shortly after they exited the cage below, an old-timer turned off the electricity. The boys knew it was coming, but utter darkness caused a few to cry. To tough it out, they needed to know the one who looks after you is the guy next to you. They went down the shaft as boys, but to survive accidents, they came up as men.

            When the mine closed for good, and I moved my family to Englewood, I wondered what happened to the blind mules. What work could they do in the sunshine? Or were they left behind in a dark grave below ground?

Frankie kept his eye on me. Maybe smoke from my cigarette kept him away. I don’t know.

            Down the street, he threw two more pitches at the stairs before he worked up the courage to approach me.

            “Do you know Sailor Jack was a real boy?” asked the kid.

            “You got an advantage on me. Who’s Sailor Jack?”

            “The boy on the Cracker Jack box. Bingo is his dog.”

            “You’ve given me a lesson. Thank you. Now, here’s one for you. I’ve a daughter who works at Cracker Jack.”

            “No foolin’? Does she get free boxes?”

            “Not so far.”

            “You know what I got?” asked Frankie. “A radio. Well, it’s a broken radio now, but I’m gonna fix it. You know anything about radios? ‘Cuz I was thinking if I brought it to your flat, you could help. Then you could listen to a White Sox ball game. Bob Elson is the best at play-by-play. Every day, even if my brother Karl comes home late, I tell him Elson’s call of the game.” Frankie ran out of breath.

“How do you follow the games if you don’t have a radio?”

“I sorta hang out behind Clancy’s bar. They got a radio and let us guys listen to it. I can’t listen at home. Mother thinks listening to the radio could invite the devil into the house.”

            Karl had warned me that his kid brother was a clever chatterbox. I had to smile. The kid had schemes. No schooling of arithmetic calculations came close to a boy concentrating on baseball.

            “Sounds to me like you miss a lot of school. What about your schoolwork?” I asked.

            “Aww, I’m not much for school. I want to fix things. You can’t do that in school. You learn to fix by fixing. My brother Jonas is learning to fly a plane, and after that he’s gonna buy a Hudson and drive me and Mother to the lake for picnics. I’m gonna ask him to take me to Riverview and Comiskey Park. Nobody makes him read a schoolbook before he flies.”

            “What grade you in?”

            “Seventh.” His head slumped as he decided on the truth. “In September. I wish I was in Miss Wisdom’s class. I got Mrs. Stein.”

            “Ellen’s got Miss Wisdom.”

            “I know.” Frankie paused and then said, “So what do you say? Bet you know how to fix things.  You could teach me. I won’t mind doing work if it’s not math or reading. Just tell me what to do. Like I said, I got a radio. Wanna see it?”

            Frankie flitted about like a fly.

            “Where is this radio?”

            “Not here. It’s in the alley. Mother won’t allow it upstairs even if it doesn’t work. But if it’s in your flat, then you and me could work on it.”

            “Without her knowing?” I finished. “Where’d you get this radio?”

            His face flashed excitement. He saw I was interested.

            “Somebody threw it out because it got burned in a fire. The cabinet’s wood is kinda black and bumpy.”

            “Blistered?”

            “Yeah, blistered. Can the outside be smoothed out? The wood inside looks okay.”

            I told him I’d check it out after I had my tea. “You hungry?”

            He was an excitable kid, so he ran up the stairs to the doorway until he figured it might be impolite to enter the building before me. He ran back down the stairs and apologized.

            “Do you think your wife will have more of that bread she gave Mother? Mother never buys bread like that.”

            “We’ll see.” I gave the kid a teasing smile. “She made that bread herself. It’s not store-bought.”

I called out to Sheila as I opened the door, “We got a hungry lad here. Maybe some of your bread can stop his stomach from growling?”

            Sheila asked if he’d like a ladle of chicken broth soup with carrots, celery, and potatoes along with an onion sandwich.

            “I’m afraid we finished the butter yesterday. I’ll have to use oleo. First, wash your hands.”

            I quietly handed my wages to Sheila. She’s better than me at minding the bills and shelling out payment. She also stows away pennies for when I can’t find work. She lets me keep enough for some tobacco.

“I’ve never had an onion sandwich,” said Frankie as he stood at the kitchen sink.

“You haven’t lived kid until you have my wife’s onion sandwich. It’ll put hair on your chest.”

Sheila sliced two pieces of bread and spread them with oleo and a sprinkle of salt. The kid’s eyes popped, and his nose rose in the air like a dog’s as he inhaled. She cut the raw onion paper-thin and covered one piece of bread. Then she pulled out a small jar of honey that she had received in a trade for knitted socks. 

Unsure of his table manners, his elbows and hands danced about before landing in his lap.

The slow drizzle of honey from a teaspoon fell onto the onions.

“I’ll let you press the two pieces of bread together while I ladle some soup,” said Sheila. “Watch that you don’t allow any honey to spill from the edges,” said Sheila.

“I won’t.”

Frankie pressed the two pieces of bread together with more force than was necessary and applied his tongue to the corners to catch sweet drips.

            With his first spoon of soup, he praised it as the best thing ever. When she brought tea for me, he asked if it were polite to lick the honey from the serving spoon so as not to waste any of the goodness.

            I could see Sheila was pleased with the kid’s joy. With a grin she handed over the spoon.

            “Tell her what we’re up to,” I said. Frankie looked a little nervous and used his sleeve to wipe away some broth caught on his chin.  “Come on, tell her. If we’re going to fix it, she’ll see it sitting in our front room.”

            “Me and Mr. Harkleroad are gonna fix a radio, and we can all listen to the shows. Everybody says the best show is Amos and Andy. Karl says everybody’s wrong, but I wanna hear it at least once. And there’s the Palmolive Hour. And the Majestic Theater on Sunday night. And Goodrich Variety Show on Thursday night.”

“Are you sure that your brothers won’t want to help?” asked Sheila.

            “Nah. There’re too busy. Karl has a job, and Mother would skin me alive if I took any of his time.  Besides, he has a girl that lives near the lake. And Jonas spends all his free time flying. Mother said one day soon he’ll be a big shot with Standard Oil.”

            “Will your other brother come home for the summer?” I asked.

            Frankie looked out the window. “He didn’t last summer. Maybe this summer. I don’t know. Nobody tells me nothing about Darby.”

            “He’s the one who is going to be a missionary, is that right?” asked Sheila.

            Frankie shrugged. “I asked Mother if she wanted me to be a missionary too, but she said no.” His face perked up. “I’m glad for it. I don’t want to be praying and blessing people. Not me.”

“When can I expect this radio that we’re going to work on?” I asked.

            “I can go get it now.”

            “Eat first,” I said. “We’ll start sanding the cabinet tomorrow after supper.”

Frankie gobbled down the sandwich and finished by drinking the soup from the bowl. “I wish my mother would make a sandwich like that.”

“I hope I didn’t spoil your appetite for your mother’s supper.” Sheila gave me a wink.

“Na-uh,” said Frankie, shaking his head. “I can eat all the time. I’ll probably make a peanut butter sandwich. Mother buys Peter Pan.” He wiped his mouth again with the back of his hand. “This is Wednesday. Mother goes to prayer meeting at Rugged Cross every Wednesday.”

“That the one on 63^rd Street?” I asked. The church occupied a narrow store front and too often had a brick break a window. Mostly a White Church but a few Black families worshipped with them.

It occurred to me that this kid would never survive working in a mine. No guy worked at his shoulder. No brother turned on the light when the tunnel turned black.

As I walked him to the door, I kept a hand on his shoulder. He had two older brothers, but it occurred to me the kid needed an old cuss in his life.

Before he left, Frankie held out his hand to shake.

            “Thank you, Mr. Harkleroad.”

 Damn if he didn’t sound sincere.

            “Listen here, young man, everyone in here calls me Dad.” I pulled Frankie into a pat-on-the-back hug. The kid was all bones. “Looking forward to seeing that radio. Maybe we can talk my missus out of another onion sandwich.” His brown eyes were round and watery. “Promise that no matter what you work on, you will always do your bit. You understand me?”

            “Yes, sir.” Frankie grinned, nodded, and said, “Thanks, Dad.”

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 7: Sheila.

Every minute of washday was busy. I spent the darkness of morning first bringing a pail of water to boil on the stove. I twirled away to my own assembly line of making four lunches: sliced bread, fill with cheese or jam, wrapped in clean butcher paper. I set out hot oatmeal and tea. Sam downed his breakfast and left early to tend the gardens and cut the grass in Jackson Park. The two older girls left after him for their work. Fiona to packaging at Cracker Jack and Una to Marshall Fields.

            I tested the water for the wash tub. Yes, my hands could tolerate it. I took Sam’s clothing from the overnight soaking tub, wrung them out, and transferred them to the hot, soapy water before scrubbing them on a wash board and dousing them again in water for one more soak.

            Eleanor arrived with a big grin. “Did you know the Adler Planetarium is open? I heard you can see stars.”

            “Have you had breakfast?”

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            Ellen gathered her books for school. In a flash, they were out the door.

            Boil more water. Wash again, rinse, hang out to line dry. Over the years, how many pails of water had I boiled for wash day? My spine had a familiar ache.

Washing for the girls was so much easier because their clothing wasn’t filthy with ground in dirt.   

Tomorrow: ironing day.

About mid-morning, Mr. Reese knocked at the door. Since he’s our landlord, he feels entitled to enter unannounced. But this day he waited for me to open the door. His red face spoke of the effort of carrying a huge cage draped in a white sheet. I dried my hands, embarrassed at their redness.

“Thank you, Mrs. Harkleroad, this is my Paulie. Most owners name their parrot Polly, but ours is a boy so we call him Paulie. I’ve got his food out in the car and newspapers for the bottom of the cage. Where would you like me to put him?”

I hadn’t expected the bird to arrive that day and hadn’t thought about the placement of the cage. I also hadn’t expected the cage to be so big.

The door to our flat opened into our front room. The kitchen table and kitchen followed to the back. The flat had two small bedrooms and a bathroom. The walk-in pantry sat opposite the kitchen—a mattress on the floor served as Ellen’s bedroom. A curtain gave her privacy.

“Would the kitchen be all right for the parrot?” I asked.

“No. He’s sensitive to the cooking steam,” said Mr. Reese. “I can see your laundry tub. Gotta keep Paulie away from steam.”

“The front room?”

“You have your front window open. Paulie’s used to a breeze but not a draft. Besides I hear your husband is planning for a radio. Paulie shouldn’t be too near the radio.  When it’s too loud, it gets him started, you see, but he shouldn’t be too far away either. He’s mighty interested in sounds. I think next to your table is best. That way he has a better chance to pick up words. Talk to him like family, and the radio music should be soothing. He likes classical.”

With that said, Mr. Reese removed a lamp and rearranged a few pieces of furniture to accommodate the cage at Sam’s spot at the head of the kitchen table.

I knew it would never work, but I’d adjust after Reese left.

Mr. Reese wiped sweat from his forehead and left to bring in the seed and newspapers. I went to the cage and carefully pealed back the cover to look at the bird.  Paulie was huge, twelve to fifteen inches tall from feather tail to head. I had expected him to be smaller than my hand.

But he was pretty with shades of gray feathering, and alert. Paulie cocked his head, and one eye looked at me as if he disapproved of being spied upon.

“Go ahead,” said Mr. Reese, “pull the cover off, just don’t stick any fingers into his cage until he gets to know who you are. A parrot can bite off a finger in a split second.”

I removed the cover, and the bird made a sound at me that sounded like a raspy hisssss.

“What’s he doing?” I asked. “Is he upset?”

“Oh, that’s radio static. Paulie likes sounds better than words. My missus listens to the radio when she’s home alone, but sometimes she doesn’t get it on the right station. Paulie has picked up the sound of static. I can tell, Paulie feels right at home here. He’s usually quiet when he first meets strangers.”

Mr. Reese draped the covering over a chair. “This is Sheila, Paulie. Say She-la.”

Paulie turned his back.

Mr. Reese described the routine he and his wife followed for the bird’s health and well-being. We were to cover the cage at night and remove it in the morning. I was to add seeds to his bowl and pour fresh water for him every morning.

“Not cold water but definitely not warm,” he said.

Dirty newspapers with bird droppings were to be replaced every day.

“Other than eating and sleeping, being inside the cage or out, Paulie bobs his head for radio shows that captured his interest.”

“Mr. Reese, you said Paulie is sometimes out of his cage?”

“Not too often, but a healthy bird needs to fly about. Don’t you worry. I’ll be here every day for his first few months and see to it he gets back into his cage. Don’t want him to forget me.”

Every day hit my stomach.

I didn’t know how to respond. Mr. Reese was planning to be a regular guest in our home? On the other hand, I didn’t want to be alone to watch a bird in flight, flapping around and looking for a perch.

“Does Paulie go back into the cage by himself?”

“Sometimes. You’ll figure it out,” he said and looked at his watch.

“The radio will be a blessing. You’ll see. I swear he almost tap dances when he hears the music on his favorite stations. You’ll know he’s happy when that head of his bobs.”

The parrot’s throat feathers ruffled as he stretched his body and repeated something like grumble-tumble-rumble.

“Mr. Reese, I don’t understand what he’s saying.”

“Oh, come now, Mrs. Harkleroad, where’s your imagination? Our Paulie likes when the coal man delivers bags of coal to our chute. Have you arranged for ice service? Because my boy here loves it when we have a block of ice delivered.”

“We’ve been keeping food cool in a tin box on the porch. But yes, we’ll need blocks of ice this summer.”

“ICE-man, Paulie. ICE-man,” said Mr. Reese. His brow tightened.

The bird ruffled his feathers and repeated, “ICE-man. ICE-man.”

“That’s our Paulie.  Zeke’s the best colored boy for delivering ice. Strong as an ox. With the bird living here, my missus might start angling for one of those electric refrigerators, but I can’t see it. So what if she has to empty the pan of water every day. How hard is that?”

If summer days were less than roasting, I could stretch a block of ice to last two or three days, but I felt the strain in my back of bending over and pulling the pan out from under the icebox. I looked at the discoloration around the floor where the present icebox sat. The other flat we had rented had rotted flooring from melted water spills.

As I looked at the bird, he stared back and gave me his rendition of static and then a series of words.

“Tickle, tickle. No biting. Hell-o. Woof, woof. Tickle Paulie.”

Mr. Reese slapped his thigh. “Nothing like a talking bird. I’ll stop by tonight and talk to your husband. I got a list of shows when that radio is up and running. My missus don’t want Paulie developing bad language, so we’ll be counting on you, Mrs. Harkleroad, to keep Paulie’s language church-like.”

Before he left, Mr. Reese spoke to Paulie like a human being and reminded him of his missus’s allergies and why he was relocated. He introduced me as the lady who would feed him, and the parrot answered him with the sound of a ringing phone.

“Be good, Paulie,” he said. Mr. Reese dragged his feet as he moved toward the door.

I felt a little nervous with this new responsibility. Had Sam and I had taken in a foster child?

Our laundry dried quickly in the breeze. Now, I had new things to remember. Paulie wasn’t to experience a draft. I kept the kitchen window closed and didn’t leave the back door open as I went out and unpinned clothing from the line. Balancing a basket of drying on my hip, I brought in our laundry and closed the back door tight. In the quiet of the flat, I heard Paulie cracking seeds as I folded and smoothed towels. Maybe I should have talked to him, but frankly I was afraid. All he gave me was buzzing, whining, raspy static until he started a string of “Gimme a kiss.” My day was not a quiet one.

My question: If Paulie wasn’t to be close to steam, how could I go about ironing Una’s dresses tomorrow?

At the end of the afternoon, Paulie’s head turned abruptly toward the front door as Ellen and Eleanor entered. Ellen’s face lit up as she rushed to the cage. With glee, she told her friend Eleanor about our new boarder. Although normally adventurous, Eleanor hung back near the front window. She began a story about a real boarder her mother had taken in when they lived in Brooklyn, but Paulie cut her off.

“Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Goldberg,” said Paulie.

I dried my hands on a kitchen towel, shocked at what I had heard.

“Who’s Mrs. Goldberg?”

Ellen echoed my question.

Eleanor threw her books on the sofa, came closer, and peered at the bird. “She’s a Jewish lady on the radio. She talks to neighbors about her kids. They sorta squabble. It’s funny. Say, did you teach the parrot to say Mrs. Goldberg because I’m Jewish?” Eleanor demanded. “Because I told you my mother and father are not practicing Jews.”

“I haven’t ever seen this bird until just now,” said Ellen as she gazed at Paulie. “We haven’t had time to teach him anything.” She looked mesmerized. “I bet it’s your accent.”

“I don’t have an accent. I just talk like they do in Brooklyn.”

“Mrs. Gold-berg,” sang Paulie, followed by the rumbling sound of coal and a sharp “Yoo-hoo. Yoo-hoo. Sanka.”

“Sanka coffee! That’s her sponsor.” said Eleanor. “Boy is he loud. Everybody on the street will hear him.”

“What’s going on?” asked Ellen.

“I think he’s trying to show off for you two,” I said.

“Has Mr. Harkleroad fixed the radio?” asked Eleanor.

“Not yet,” answered Ellen. “Dad and Frankie are supposed to work on it tonight.”

“Mother and I always listen to Mrs. Goldberg,” said Eleanor.

She and Paulie repeated Yoo Hoo greeting to each other several times before he turned his back to her and switched to, “ICE-man.” The gray and white feathers around his throat vibrated.

Paulie muted his volume and did a string of familiar sounds. One sounded like a car door closing. One a low-pitched whistle. One the soft sound of a telephone.

“We got a telephone?” asked Ellen with delight.

“No. It must be a sound he heard at the Reese house,” I said.

Eleanor’s eyes brightened with understanding. “I get it. To him a police whistle or door closing is soft because it’s far away. You’re going to have a good time with this bird. Just you wait and see.”

“Hissss,” answered Paulie. “Gimme a kiss. Tickle-tickle.”

Eleanor seemed to keep a distance from the cage, but Ellen’s fingers went toward the parrot. Quietly I took her hand away without embarrassing her in front of her friend. We’d all need training on how to behave around his mighty beak.

I looked out the window into the back yard and wondered how many hours a day I could keep his lordship quiet under the sheet.

I eagerly watched for Sam to come home. He wears the burden of the day across his back.  But now we had the distraction of Paulie to lighten our mood.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 8: Sam

When I got home from Jackson Park, Frankie sat on the last step of the front stoop with the fire-damaged radio cabinet. It was bigger than I expected, almost four feet high, but I could see the grain of rich walnut.

“I found this sandpaper in the backyard shed, but I didn’t want to start sanding and make it look worse.” He scratched his head. “Pretty noisy in your flat. Sounded like some crazy guy. I didn’t want to bother Mrs. Harkleroad, but Ma insisted.” The kid’s face lit up with a grin. “You got a parrot. Wanna see it. He’s awfully loud. Ma can hear him upstairs with all his caterwauling. That’s what Ma called it, caterwauling.”

I noticed Sheila in the front window. Hands over her ears. Sounds of “Screech!” Like pulling nails from wood.

“Let’s move this contraption to the back yard first. Then you can come in and introduce me to our new guest. You and I will begin work on the radio after I have tea. Maybe you’d like a bite before we work?”

I was ready to carry the radio into the back yard, but Frankie beat me to it. He hoisted the box up in front of him and leaned back, twisting away from me. “I got it,” he insisted. As he walked through the gangway, the box thumped against his knees.

“Let me help,” I said.

I grabbed the bottom, and the kid looked surprised. I’ve no idea if he thought I was too old to be lifting things or if he didn’t think he was deserving of help. We put it on the back porch and went into the house. The novelty of the parrot drew Frankie’s attention. So did the bacon fragrance from the kitchen. He looked at Sheila with admiration as his nose rose in the air.

“See we got a new boarder,” I said.

“Does he talk much?” asked Frankie. “I’ve only heard sounds.”

“Oh, yes. But Mr. Reese is pleased we’ll have a radio to teach him more words.”

The bird was a big thing, that’s for sure. White circled his eyes and stood out against his gray feathers.

I looked at the enormous cage, our small flat, and tried to imagine what Sheila must be thinking.  The housing for the parrot seemed as big as an upright piano, only taller. A stack of newspapers and a big bag of bird seed crowded my place at the table. When I heard a phone ring, I looked about. I caught Sheila’s naughty smile.

“Mr. Reese has a phone,” she whispered. “You’ll learn to ignore him. He’s been entertaining me with the sound of a ringing telephone all day.”

I wasn’t sure she was pleased.

Sheila turned to cube homemade bread that was now days old and stale. She put pieces of bread on one plate, and over the top she ladled a portion of chipped beef in a cream sauce before she poured my tea.

“I used the last of the regular milk for the gravy. There’s only canned milk for your tea.” Sheila’s eyes sparkled, and I nodded at the message her eyes sent as she focused on the hungry boy.

Sitting on the plate, the bread acted like little sponges as it soaked in the milky gravy. The kid picked up a spoon and swallowed a slathered bread cube whole.

“Man-o-day, this is good. It’s nothing like my mother’s.”

“Frankie might want to know what’s in your recipe,” I said.

“Well, I’m sure he’s tasted chipped beef because his mother makes that, but I shred carrots, and the best part, I think, is sauteing onions in bacon fat.”

“I thought I smelled bacon,” I said.

I grinned and grabbed a bread cube with my fingers from his plate and popped it in my mouth before the gravy dripped.

“Hey,” said Frankie with a big grin, “get your own plate.”

“Just sampling before my supper.”

We all laughed. Frankie ate every morsel left on his plate, and like an old man rubbed his belly.

The parrot eyed us quietly as Sheila cleaned up. Frankie and I went outside to work on the radio. We sanded for about an hour, and he told stories about all the people he knew on 59^th Street.

Work on the radio went pretty good. The blistering on the outside never damaged the inside. The walnut cabinet only needed oil worked into the sanded surface to restore the beauty of the grain. The kid had found a pretty good deal. In a store window I had seen a radio for $33.00.

But the blackened tubes needed to be replaced. I didn’t know what to say to Frankie about the cost.  

“Mr. Reese has a radio. I’ll ask him for advice,” I said.

Mrs. Quick called Frankie, and he shouted back to her, “You should come down and see Dad’s parrot.”

I could almost hear her humph. She stayed upstairs.

My two older girls came home from work. After walking her friend Eleanor home, Ellen arrived for our supper together. All of them fussed over the bird and giggled over “tickle, tickle.” I was grateful for this new entertainment and for Sheila carefully filtering saved bacon grease to add flavor to salty chipped beef.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 9: Sheila

Two days after Paulie arrived, Frankie thought he was in trouble and burst into our apartment.

            “Is my mother here? I heard her call me.”

            The snarky looking bird, using all of his volume, vibrated the feathers on his throat and called again. “Frank-ee, Frank-kee-ee,”

            “This is not funny,” said Frankie with a scowl.

            I decided Dorothy should meet the bird that took a liking to her voice. Paulie had also picked up our whistling tea kettle and woke us with the sound of shrill steam. When Sam came home from work, Dorothy also got an earful of Sam’s request. 

            “Put the kettle on, Darlin’” called Sam.

            “Put the kettle on, Darlin’” repeated Paulie. “Darlin.’”

            Sam would eye the bird and shake his head.

            “I don’t know, Buddy. You got some lessons to learn.”

Lost Voices/ Prochaska

Chapter 10: Dorothy Quick

At first, I resisted Mrs. Harkleroad’s invitation to meet her new parrot because I don’t like to become too cozy with neighbors. They tend to nose into our lives, expecting friendship without taking time to build a history. Finally, they disappear, leaving unkept promises behind. Our previous downstairs neighbors were Bulgarians—dark eyes and dark hair—dark mood too. Even though the father worked at the Stockyards, they never tried to learn the polite customs of Englewood or of Chicago. The missus hung her husband’s underdrawers right next to my laundry even though I told her Monday was my day.

For all its energy to compete with the Chicago Loop, Englewood can be a tough place. Chicago people group in neighborhoods; in Englewood? It’s streets. If you live in Englewood a few years, you come to understand how maintaining a proper distance keeps us safe. German immigrants live on the northside of Chicago. Italians split into North Italians around 24^th and Oakley and Southern Italians on Taylor Street or between Ashland Avenue and Morgan. Irish move close to parishes and group themselves in Beverly, Bridgeport, and Morgan Park. But in Englewood heritage gets jumbled. New residents might not know which streets belong to whom. The smells of food cooking can be strange to all of us. Make us wary.

It was no surprise to me that the Bulgarians oldest boy got knocked in the head by Italian or Irish young men with baseball bats. The family moved out of the flat soon after their son got out of the hospital. And don’t get me started on the questions a Romanian mother asked me about the neighborhood. We get along best if we’re choosy who we talk to, but when sharing goes bad, it’s bad.

I’ve lived in this building since before Jonas was born and have seen many families come and go. All of them had dreams. I’ve had lower expectations: I plan to stay ahead of ruin. If neighbors ask, “Can you take care of my children while I work?”  My answer is always “No.”

            But my son Frankie had fallen in love with the Harkleroads: the missus for her cooking and the mister because . . . well, I had to face it. My two older sons couldn’t spend the daytime earning money and be expected to spend their evenings with their youngest brother. Karl does his best, but I know he has a woman who lives in South Shore near Lake Michigan. Jonas has ambition. He works for Standard Oil and recently attained his pilot’s license. He knew every small airport in surrounding states as he and another man flew to acquaint them with ordering fuel from the oil company. In his spare time, he volunteered at the Boys’ Club and sang in our church choir. Where was his time for parenting Frankie?

My older boys held fond memories of their father, Harvey, coming home from work and playing catch or discussing baseball games. When Harvey passed, Darby—my third child was almost seven and Frankie two. Darby remembers dim shadows of his father. Frankie no memory at all. I catch him studying a framed picture of Harvey.

            Karl instructed me to understand that Frankie calling Mr. Harkleroad Dad wasn’t a criticism of me. “Let the kid feel like he belongs somewhere.”

I’m still annoyed, but seeing Frankie’s face, all lit up with excitement about a parrot, made me relent. He begged me to visit the Harkleroads to see their bird. I agreed to Mrs. Harkleroad’s invitation, but I’m never giving in on having a radio in our home. From what I heard at church, those radio shows berate people and present poorer folk as stupid. It’s not right.

I had kept my distance after I first met Sam Harkleroad. My contact with his missus had been limited to informing her that Monday was my wash day. She could use the backyard clothesline Tuesday or Wednesday.

So walking down the stairs and knocking at their door felt awkward, but Mrs. Harkleroad invited me in and asked that I call her Sheila.

It was just the three of us. Frankie sat next to the parrot’s cage and talked to the gray thing.

“This is Paulie, Mother.”

“SSSSSSSS.”

“What?” I asked. “I didn’t make that out.”

“He’s not talking yet,” said Frankie. “He likes the sounds he learned at Mr. Reese’s house. His wife didn’t know how to operate the radio, so Paulie learned the sounds of static. But sometimes he knows words.”

“Char-maine,” sang Paulie.

“Who’s Charmaine?” I asked.

“It’s from a radio show. A band plays the music, and a crooner sings the words,” said Frankie. His face reddened. “I heard it once when I passed a store with a radio.”

I saw a cabinet sitting in the corner with a tablecloth over it, but I turned to Sheila. “Do you have a radio in this building? Because I can’t abide a radio.”

I knew my son. Frankie’s face contemplated a lie. Sheila, however, answered.

“We don’t have a working radio yet, but Sam and I have been thinking it might be good for the winter when it’s harder to get outside in the evening. Besides, Mr. Reese said his bird likes listening to a radio so what are we to do?”

Just then the bird made the frightening sound of a violin, a shriek that startled Sheila. Her eyes widened. My palms went to my ears.

“See, I told you the bird is smart and loud. He can learn all sorts of things,” said Frankie. “I bet that’s from the Chase and Sandborn Variety Show. They always have good music.”

“Frankie, how do you know?” I demanded. My son dropped his chin.

“Sometimes, I stand outside a store.”

“When?” I asked.

“On Sunday night. Before you and Jonas come home from church.” His face came up with a look of hope in his eyes. “Karl said it was okay for me to go for Sunday walks.”

I wanted Frankie to attend church with me, but I quickly learned church makes him squirm and he soon needs to use the facilities.

The nasty bird made a sound like someone passing gas. Despite my disapproval of sounds like that, I sputtered and choked through a controlled laugh. Then Sheila covered her mouth and laughed, and Frankie almost rolled on the floor with laughter. I suppose the joke was me, the staid old woman who was embarrassed at bodily functions. I chuckled again quite embarrassed, but I wasn’t planning to forget that Frankie listened to radio shows on a Sunday evening after avoiding church.

“Look at Paulie,” said Frankie. “Mother, try laughing again.”

The bird had this quizzical look and turned his face so that one eye stared at me. I rarely gave a full-throated laugh because I thought I sounded like a donkey, and it’s simply undignified for a woman to gulp breath to fuel laughter.

Small sounds came from Paulie as if he were trying a new embarrassment.

“Is he planning to mock me?”  I asked.

We waited as Paulie blinked his eyes and ruffled his throat feathers, but only soft noises came.

Frankie never leaves well enough alone, so he had to tell us about a singer on the Sunday evening radio show: Maurice Chevalier.

“You’d love him, Mother. He’s from France.”

I was about to scold when a great, out-of-control donkey laugh came from the bird. It sounded like me. As I felt my cheeks blush, I laughed back at the bird’s ridiculous, confident sound. His neck feathers puffed as he continued to force out laughter—my laughter.

Our duet followed of the bird and me tittering and honking. Frankie doubled over with delight. Sheila’s hand politely covered her mouth.

The crazy bird called a request. “Put the kettle on, Darlin’”

Sheila rose from her chair and headed for the kitchen. “He’s not wrong. We should have tea.”

Our revelry stopped when the mailman delivered letters. Sheila brought in both mine and hers. It was the way she sat down that killed our merriment.

“Frankie, would you mind going outside for fifteen or twenty minutes?” said Sheila. “I have some mother-to-mother talk in mind.”

He looked disappointed as he left the flat.

“I’m sorry,” Sheila said. “We have a letter from our daughter Deidre. I need to read this before Sam comes home.”

I tried to rise from her slouchy gray chair by scooting forward.

“No,” said Sheila. “I don’t want you to leave.  If this is what I think it is, you might be meeting our daughter Deidre. If so, it’s best you know who she is.”

Now, there was no way I was leaving with a statement like that. Sheila tore open the envelope and read the letter to herself.

“Oh dear. In two weeks, Deidre turns sixteen. She writes she will marry in June to a young man from Akron. The two of them may arrive in a few days to ask Sam for his blessing.”

“In weeks?” I knew what a hasty wedding could mean. “That is so inconsiderate. How will you manage?”

Sheila’s face paled and her chin dropped. “Oh, she doesn’t intend for any of us to attend the wedding. It will be a home wedding at his parents’ farm. You may as well know that Deidre has always felt shame for our family. When she is with us, my girls know to be on guard. We may even need to give Paulie back to Mr. Reese for a night or two—for the bird’s safety.”

“She wouldn’t harm the bird, would she?” I asked. I was appalled at the idea.

“I shouldn’t be telling you this, but . . . Deidre . . . well she’s good at noticing what is important to us, and then hurting or destroying it. Yes, I fear she might hurt the bird. I’d rather make sure Paulie is safe with Mr. Reese.”

“He might decide to keep Paulie or give him to another renter and lower their rent rather than yours,” I warned.

“Yes, he might. It’s a risk we have to take to protect him.”

It was a hard admission, particularly to a stranger like me, but I could see Sheila needed companionship and support. In many ways she lived in isolation, as I did.

“Nonsense,” I said with no hesitation. “Frankie can carry Paulie up to our apartment to get him out of her way. And maybe that radio in the corner over there that has a tablecloth over it should come upstairs too. Karl has told me that it doesn’t work yet, but we may as well keep Frankie’s ambitions safe. I have some experience with unruly family members. Let me know if there is anything else we can do. I overheard your two oldest girls discuss the money they are saving for their wedding dress. Very practical girls, but if Deidre is as bad as you say, tell them to get the cash out of the apartment. Anything else she can harm?”

“Each girl has a box for a hope chest. They collect plates and cups from Dish Night.”

“What’s Dish Night?”

“They save a couple of dimes every week and go to the movies when the theater is giving away a cup, saucer, or plate. Both girls are planning to marry.”

“Very sensible. But easily broken if your younger daughter shows temper. Jonas won’t be home for a few more days so I’ll ask Karl to carry the boxes down to the basement. He can put them away from the boiler along with our things.”

Sheila had tears in her eyes. I don’t know if it was because her daughter was coming home or because I offered help.

“Thank you, Mrs. Quick. I don’t know how to repay you for your understanding.”

Sheila looked genuinely grateful.

“I think we’ve made a friendship this day,” I said and added, “Call me Dorothy.”

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 11: Sam

I had had another hard day of standing in a line for hours, looking for work, with other men who resembled me. Workers’ caps, downtrodden shoes, layers of old clothes. We made little eye contact.

Kind souls from a woman’s organization came by the lineup and offered each of us a cup of coffee and a boiled egg. They also asked us to sign the pledge not to drink alcohol. Easy enough to do when the selling of alcohol is illegal, and you don’t have spare change even for a donut. The Crash had knocked all of us sideways.

Once the foreman announced there were no more hirings, I left discouraged and sat in Jackson Park for a while. Irises hadn’t yet bloomed. Fiona’s fiancé finished up his day at two. His shoulders slumped as he gave away melting ice cream. I knocked around the park a few hours before I left for home. Nothing new in my pocket. My spirit mighty low.

Still dressed in his suit, Karl Quick sat on the stoop, waiting. As I walked up the stairs, he offered me a pack of cigarettes.

“Mother will kill me if she learns I’ve given these to you, but I need a moment of your time.”

I noticed movement in our window and looked up to see Sheila’s wave.

“How was the day?” I asked.

“Normal for me. Maybe a little tense for you. A letter arrived from one of your daughters. Mother says she plans to marry.”

“My daughter Imogene has never mentioned a young man in her life, so I’m guessing that will be a notice from Deidre,” I said. This news put me on edge.

“Mother has hatched a plan while talking to your wife. Sam, Mother volunteered our apartment for the parrot and the radio. I’ve already cleared it with Reese. Your wife thinks your daughter could arrive any day because she plans to marry in Ohio a few weeks from now. I wanted you to know we’ll take care of Paulie and think it best to move him tomorrow morning with your permission. I’ve also taken some boxes down to the basement for your two older girls.”

            I had a hard time making sense of what Karl said. My mind got tangled up on Deidre arriving any day now.

            “That’s very generous of you and your mother.”

            “We appreciate what your family does for Frankie.”

            I rubbed my palms on my knees and noticed how worn my trousers were compared to Karl’s. Of course, he worked for the Federal Reserve Bank. I imagined those men needed to be suited as if going to a funeral.

            “Looks like I have a conversation with Sheila taking up our evening.”

            “Suppose so. But one more thing. I don’t know how to say this but in plain talk.” His face became even more serious as his brow furrowed. “That radio is the most important thing in Frankie’s life. Your electricity bill will go up because Frankie will want to visit every night to hear the shows. I want to give you something toward Frankie’s bill.” Karl eyes twinkled as he smiled. “You might even see me and Jonas knocking at your door to hear some of the music or comedy. When he’s not flying, Jonas volunteers time at the Boys Club. He also sings in the Rugged Cross choir. But we’re not stiffs. We enjoy good comedy.”

            “Frankie’s mentioned the church. Do all of you attend?”

            “I don’t. Jonas goes with Mother on Wednesdays and Sundays. When Darby lived at home, let’s say he was coaxed to attend. Frankie is a master of wiggling out of the church before the doors close. Sundays I visit a friend near the lake.”

            “Karl, I appreciate the gesture, but you don’t have to give me anything,” I said. “You all are welcome in our home.”

When I promised the kid a working radio, I hadn’t figured the cost of electricity. I felt stunned and shamed. I still didn’t know what to do about tubes.

            “We all owe you. Frankie sees you as a dad. That’s a very good thing. Personally, I’d like to keep that going. The kid has had enough disappointments. I’d hate for him to discover some young thugs. Know what I mean? We’ve got enough bully boys in Englewood. You’re good for him.”

            Karl stood and I stood. That’s when he slipped me five dollars and said, “Men at work said the radio may need new tubes.”

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 12: Fiona

After Mother told me Deidre decided to come home, I waited at the streetcar stop on the corner to grab Una.   

            “We’ve got trouble,” I said. “Mother received a letter from Deidre. She’s planning to arrive any day. Karl moved our hope chest boxes to the basement and stored them with the Quick belongings. The parrot and radio will be taken to the Quick apartment tomorrow morning.  But you and I need to do something with the coins we’ve saved for our wedding dress. You know how Deidre steals our things.”

            Una paled and stood there speechless. Her lip quivered.

            “This is what I think. We buy the fabric for our wedding dress tonight, and Ellen gives it to Mrs. Mossberg tomorrow.  She’ll be the one making our dress anyway. She can keep it safe while Deidre is here.”

            “Good idea,” said Una, “But, now?”

“Right now!” I said. “The fabric store is open for another hour and a half. We buy the yardage and take it home only for tonight.”

            “But I’m hungry,” said Una, and she looked confused. “I only had an apple for lunch.”

            “And I had a boiled egg. I’ve an extra quarter from last week’s pay. I’ll splurge and buy us a plate of spaghetti at Tom’s on 63^rd Street. We’ll split it and when we get home, finish our dinner with what Mother’s prepared. Come on, lazy bones. We have white fabric to buy.”

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 13: Agnes

My younger brother Sam stopped by just after dawn and warned me about Deidre coming to Englewood—possibly today. Our younger sister, Christine, had also written to me with details about our runaway niece.

My heart breaks for Sam’s family. Every working family we knew had a hard time after the Crash. But Sam’s woes began with the mines closing before the Crash. Oil was replacing coal as a fuel. And most mine owners were plain greedy.

My husband and I had lured Sam’s family to Chicago because the city needed workers. But the 1929 Crash shattered that idea, and Sam found himself out of work except for a few scraps of hours he could find doing heavy lifting. Most days I blamed myself for his situation, but his family staying in Valley wasn’t an option.

After lunch, I was shocked to find Deidre at my front door along with her young man. He seemed to be on his best behavior. Greeted me politely and promised to pick her up in his automobile later. He planned to ask Sam for her hand in marriage. A look passed between them, and my stomach churned. I once lived in Valley and saw what a nuisance Deidre could be as a child. I knew her grimaces. Something wasn’t right. I recognize when young folk are in cahoots.

“Can I stay with you today?” she asked sweetly. “I can’t face Mother yet.”

            His name was Nicholas, a farmer’s son, and the youngest of his family.  I guessed his age to be in his early twenties. I’m probably too critical when it comes to Deidre, but he kissed her in a way I didn’t like. Or maybe it was Deidre’s too familiar response that put me off.

            Once he was gone, Deidre spilled out all the details of her wedding plans and all the fears she had about her family embarrassing her. I knew many of her perceptions were hogwash. She seemed to forget that I am her aunt with my own memories of when she was thirteen and our families got together for Thanksgiving dinner. At my table, she willfully tipped her plate and ever so slowly pushed the mashed potatoes to the edge until the mess fell to my floor. Probably her defiant action was a reaction to Sheila spooning a tablespoon of corn onto her plate.

Sam and I grew up with a coal miner father, so food is sacred in our home. As a teenager, Deidre was way too old for that kind of nonsense. At the time, I told her right out “If you were my child, thirteen or not, I’d swat your butt.”

 Sheila dismissed her daughter from the table, said they’d talk later, and cleaned up the mess herself.

            This afternoon, however, Deidre was all sweetness and wished to be helpful. She dried dishes for me and carried in dried laundry. Granted she threw them into a heap on the couch and never thought of folding them. In return for her help, she asked that the meeting with her family take place at my home. She asked that I offer an invitation to them. I agreed. Maybe we could avoid yelling. If Deidre was to marry at sixteen, I believed Deidre would soon have her own set of responsibilities to endure. I wondered if she were pregnant.

            A neighbor boy ran the errand for me and took a note to Sheila. He waited for her to respond with a note accepting my invitation. We’d all meet at seven in the evening.

            About five-thirty, Deidre seemed agitated. “Oh, I forgot,” she said, “Nicholas has a cousin on Stewart Street, and I’m supposed to tell her about our wedding.  I may be a little late, but I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

            With that she was gone. Sam, Sheila, Fiona, and Una arrived promptly at seven, and we had a good chat about Deidre. We watched the door and checked our clocks to track the time. I rose several times to check out the window to see if Deidre had forgotten our address. Was she wandering?

To pass the time, I fell into telling how my husband and I had decided to leave the United States in the autumn. Although Gryff was a plumber and should be employed even during the Crash, he had decided to return to Cornwall to help with his father’s fishing boats. Our children were mostly grown. Our fifteen-year-old son would come with us. Our sixteen-year-old son would live with our married daughter. I didn’t look forward to leaving, but neighbors said times were going to get worse with Hoover as President.            

            “I hope we can stay in the flat you found for us,” said Sam. “Mr. Reese is a reasonable man and understands how times are hard. You must stop by and meet Paulie.”

            Fiona said, “I can’t wait for you to meet my fiancé Vlad. He is so handsome. He shares a flat with five other men. You wouldn’t think someone like him would be interested in big old me, but he is. He sells ice cream in the park. We’ll miss you at our wedding in December.”

            I showed them the boxes I had already packed of the things we were leaving behind: kerosene lamps, containers of kerosene oil, pots and pan, dishes, bed linen, and books.

“Too costly to ship all of our things. I hope these items will help you girls set up housekeeping. Sheila, my kitchen goes to you.” Tears filled my eyes. “Gryff and I will only return to visit if times get better.”

            It was a hard admission that I might never see my brother or his family again. Fiona and Una fairly chirped with optimism, but they too knew the importance of having a job. If they married, could they retain their work? Probably not.

Deidre never came back. Although all of us were worried, something in the back of our heads reminded us she was still Deidre—unreliable with sketchy morals. Maybe she never wanted to face her parents—just make them dance to her tune. Maybe she met her young man and was having a high old time. Sam said he’d mention something to the beat cop in case Deidre became lost or in trouble. Finally, close to nine, Sam’s family began their walk home.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 14: Sam

Fiona and Una walked ahead of us as Sheila and I held back and dwelled on what Deidre was up to.

The two girls entered the two-flat minutes before we did. As I opened our door, I heard a great crack of a slap. I pushed ahead of Sheila.

            “You, filthy pig,” yelled Fiona. “How dare you?”

            At first I only saw Una. Both of her hands layered across her mouth. Her eyes filled with tears as she stared at the opening of their bedroom door. Fiona’s face blazed as she backed away out of their bedroom. Fists, tight balls.

            I went to Fiona and held her arms. She stared ahead and repeatedly shrieked, “I hate you!”

            I heard Sheila behind me cry, “Deidre, what have you done?”

            One side of Deidre’s face reddened with a handprint. Deidre stood in the girls’ bedroom with their white wedding fabric gathered like an open bed sheet. Red dots and thin red stripes appeared on the shiny cloth and on Deidre’s fingers. Blood.

            “You wrote that the two of you were getting married and using the same dress,” yelled Deidre. “I just wanted to see what cheap fabric you bought. It’s not my fault you left a razor blade tucked inside. Look. It cut my fingers. The gashes haven’t stopped bleeding.”

            She continued to dab her fingers onto the cloth until Sheila ripped the fabric away from her grasp.

            Even I knew her story didn’t measure up. After the girls bought the fabric, Ellen was supposed to take it to Mrs. Mossberg when she came home from school. Why was it still here?

            We all talked over one another and gave our opinions of Deidre’s conniving mind. Deidre put her hands over her ears and said, “I’m not staying where I’m not wanted. Dad, I don’t need your blessing. Nicholas has wonderful parents who think I’m beautiful.”

            Ignoring me and Sheila, she stormed toward the front door and into the night. None of us tried to stop her.

            Given Deidre’s nature, I realized she had snooped, probably looking to steal something as she had before. I could see her finding the cloth and purposely cutting her finger to destroy the fabric.

            Once she had gone, Fiona and Una began to weep. The fabric ruined. Their carefully saved coins spent.

            Fiona’s eyes glanced around their bedroom. “Una, your Marshall Field dress is missing. I bet Deidre was looking for matching shoes under our bed and found the package of cloth.”

            We all glanced around the bedroom to see what else might be missing.

            “But Deidre couldn’t have taken the dress because we saw her leave,” I said. “She didn’t have anything in her hands. Where did the dress go?”  

            “She did look heavier,” said Sheila. “I thought she must have put on weight, but maybe the dress was underneath her clothing.”

            Fiona and Una began to weep again.

            “Thank God Paulie is upstairs,” said Sheila.

            None of Sheila’s words comforted our daughters. I was no help. I’d have willingly taken on more work to buy new cloth, but in 1930 work was scarce.

            None of us noticed Frankie standing in the doorway. He had apparently been there long enough to know something bad had happened because he said, “My mother can clean anything. I bet she can get the blood out. She used to wash clothes for coal miners.”

            In a flash, Sheila gathered up the cloth and bounded up the stairs with Fiona and Una trailing behind her.

            “You’re a pretty smart kid,” I said. “Thank you for helping us. What brought you downstairs at this time of night?”

            “Mother watched for you because she said she saw someone, maybe a man, cut through the gangway into the back yard. She wondered if everything is all right.”

            “That was probably my daughter Deidre entering through the back door,” I said.

“Don’t think so,” said Frankie. “I saw a girl come in the front door after you left.”

I looked around the apartment again. Everything seemed to be in place.

            “Well, there’s the matter of the cloth. Thank your mother for rescuing Paulie and the radio.”

            Frankie turned and left. Sheila and the girls came back downstairs.

            “Dorothy said she’ll do her best,” said Sheila. “She believes since we’ve caught this right away, she might be able to get the stains out.  The fabric isn’t silk. It’s rayon. So, it will be a little tricky to keep it from shrinking or stretching or snagging. Dorothy’s going to try cold water and vinegar.”

            They sat down on the couch and chairs, and I felt dread.

            “Where’s Ellen?” I asked. “I thought she was supposed to take the cloth to Mrs. Mossberg. Was she upstairs?”

            “Maybe she went to Eleanor’s after we left,” said Sheila. “But it’s so very late to be out after dark. She knows better.”

 We all looked around the room as if we had somehow missed seeing her. So much had happened.

“Ellen,” called Sheila, “are you here?”

“Ellen?” I called.

There was no answer.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 15: Una

My parents panicked at not seeing Ellen. I ran to the pantry room, pushed the curtain aside, and found her on her mattress with the covers pulled up over her nose. She had that look on her face of a beaten dog. I assumed Deidre had been horrid to her.

“Ellen, why didn’t you answer us?” I asked softly.  She said nothing. “You’re making Mother and Dad sick. Please get up and come out here. Deidre’s gone. Fiona and I aren’t mad at you.”  

She shook her head. I felt my parents standing behind me, but I stood still and blocked their view of Ellen. The look on her face was truly frightening.

“Deidre’s really gone. I don’t think she’ll be back for a long, long time. We took the fabric upstairs, and Mrs. Quick said she’ll try rinsing out the blood. No one is angry with you, but why didn’t you take it to Mrs. Mossberg?”

Ellen didn’t move or speak. She kept her chin and mouth covered with a blanket.

“Did you forget? Is that why you’re upset?”

Her eyes were glassy.

“Because you couldn’t have stopped Deidre? None of us could ever keep her from destroying something. Are you alright? Did she hurt you?”

Dad held the curtain back for Mother to look at Ellen. Wanting Ellen to feel everything was normal, I summarized our visit to Aunt Agnes and how shocked we were to see Deidre holding the wedding fabric.

            “I hope you heard Fiona give Deidre a smashing, good slap. We should all be proud our horrible sister finally got a comeuppance.  I’ll be surprised if Deidre doesn’t have a black eye tomorrow.  Serves her right, huh?”

There was no response from Ellen. Whatever Deidre did was worse than I imagined. I wouldn’t put it past Deidre to hit Ellen hard enough to break a tooth. Is that why she kept her mouth covered? With white knuckles, she clutched the covers to her face. Mother pushed me aside and kneeled next to Ellen’s mattress on the floor. She asked Dad and me to go sit down. Dad drew the curtain back for their privacy, as if we couldn’t still hear every word Mother spoke.

            “How did Deidre hurt you,” Mother asked. Her voice was soothing as if asking about a tummy ache.

            We didn’t hear Ellen’s answer. I guessed Ellen was shaking her head.

            “Ellen, dear, pull the covers away from your mouth. Are you hurt?” she repeated.

            We heard nothing.

            “Was someone else here?” asked Mother. “Mrs. Quick told us she saw a person in our back yard. Was Deidre alone?”

            Nothing.

            “Because if someone frightened you, Dad will want to know. He’ll want to talk to anyone who scared you.”

            Silence.

            We heard rustling, and I assumed Mother pulled the covers away from Ellen’s face.

            “Would you like me to bring a cool damp cloth? The coolness may help some of the puffiness.”

            I was glad Fiona had struck Deidre as hard as she did because Ellen’s face had probably taken a pounding again. I wished that over the years I had done more to make Deidre pay for her actions.

            Eventually Mother gave up trying to make Ellen speak. She prepared a cool cloth and came back to sit with us in the front room. We all whispered our thoughts about the crazy night we had had. Fiona paced the floor and occasionally offered threats. She wouldn’t forgive Deidre. Ever.

“We should cut off all of her hair the next time we see her,” said Fiona.

Both she and I prayed the rayon wouldn’t pucker or become misshapen. We feared the surface of the shiny, satiny cloth might dull and pill. Where were we going to find the money to replace the fabric? Would our marriages need to be postponed for a year as we started to collect coins—again?

            None of us wanted to retreat to our beds. We simply weren’t tired. I know my heart banged with dread. And I felt guilt for asking Ellen to be responsible for taking the fabric out of the house. Why hadn’t Fiona and I checked before we left to see Aunt Agnes?

Ellen remained in her room.

Finally, Fiona rose from her chair and yanked Ellen’s curtain back.

            “I don’t blame you for what happened,” said Fiona. “Did you know that Deidre stole one of Una’s dresses?  We don’t know how.”

            Ellen seemed frozen in silence.

            “Do you want to sleep with me or Mother tonight?” Fiona asked. Ellen probably shook her head. “Look, kid, I gave Deidre a good crack for you, and I’ll do it again if she shows her ugly face in our home. Now, get a good night sleep because tomorrow you and I are going to list all the evil things that should happen to her. I’m thinking we force her eat earth worms. Okay?”

            A stifled shriek came from Ellen. She pleaded to be alone in her pantry room. She didn’t want to squeeze into the double bed with Fiona and me. She didn’t want to share a bed with Mother. She wanted to be alone.

Mother went to their bedroom in tears and closed the door. Dad went to the front stoop for a late-night smoke. Fiona whispered to me, “Something bad happened tonight to Ellen. I’ve never seen her so broken, like she’s seen the end of the world. Did you notice how her eyes are open and staring. She kept the blanket to cover her mouth even after Mother pulled it away. I pinched her to make her let go long enough so I could see her mouth. Una, her lips are swollen, and the lower part of her face is red. I bet tomorrow her whole jaw will be bruised. Do you have any idea what Deidre might have done?”

“Whatever it was, I bet Ellen put up a fight,” I said.

            I felt fear in my stomach. I don’t remember either of us sleeping that night.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 16: Sheila

When Sam inhales fresh air, he describes the scent as having a layer of coal dust. Working in a mine for thirty-five years will do that. I, however, am sensitive to odors in our home. As my girls went to their beds, and Sam escaped to sit on the front stoop even though it was dark and late, I went to our bedroom and stood without turning on a light. A whiff of something lingered in the air like body odor or dirty rubber boots. In an odd way, it reminded me of a Valley family that smelled of Fels Naptha. The family used the soap to clean everything, even the baby who usually had a rash. Was I smelling lye or tallow? Aged leather? It hovered like a thin, dark cloud. I stood there, sniffed, and wondered what it could be?

            I moved about the room to catch the source, then leaned over our bed. It hovered there. When I turned on the light, I saw a wrinkle cut across our blanket bedcover. My daughters knew my rules of clean and tidy. We might be poor, but we could be orderly. If one of them haphazardly made a bed, I asked more effort be put into making it properly. My Mother taught me that. Ritual helps keep us strong and in control during times of worry. My bed had a wrinkle and an odor. My conclusion? Deidre had been in our bed. If Dorothy was right that a stranger came in through the back door, then that person was a man. Deidre had brought a man to my bed.

I felt cold at my daughter’s spite.

The next morning Sam and the girls left for work. Ellen stood in her pantry room with her back to me.

“You’re not going to school today until you tell me what Deidre did,” I said to Ellen as I stood in the pantry doorway. “It’s you and me in the house. Not even Paulie to repeat what you say. Ellen, I need to know.”

             A mother knows when her child has suffered something dreadful. Too many times Deidre had been cruel to all of us but mostly Ellen. When they were eight and three, Deidre liked to grab a pinch of Ellen’s skin and twist until she left a dark bruise. Other times she’d give her a shove as Ellen walked over gravel. No punishment or pleading stopped Deidre from plotting harm.

Ellen turned slowly to face me. Bruising appeared on both sides of her jaw. Bruising like fingers squeezing her chin. I pushed up her sleeves to see more purple flowers. Her eyes glazed and stared with shame. She quickly inhaled to summon strength.

“What did Deidre do?” I asked as softly as I could.

Her voice flattened. “She pulled my hair,” Ellen said, and her neck stretched taller. “She looked for the emergency money you keep, and she pulled my hair.”

This tone revealed a new side of Ellen, much more defiant. I stood behind her and parted her hair several times. Ellen’s scalp was faintly red, so that part of her story made sense. I pictured Deidre yanking Ellen’s hair and dragging her about.

“Your scalp is a little irritated. She pulled your hair really hard, didn’t she?”

Ellen nodded.

“Your neck is also bruised.”

Her forehead wrinkled and she fought tears.

“Did you forget to take the wedding cloth to Mrs. Mossberg?”

Ellen’s head bobbed. “Una told me she left it under their bed, but when I came home from school, I forgot about it and left to go to the library with Eleanor.”

“But Una and Fiona also forgot to check before we left to visit Agnes. This isn’t your fault.”

“I’m sorry,” said Ellen. “She was mad that I couldn’t tell her where you hid money,” said Ellen.

“Not even your father knows.”

“She looked everywhere.” Ellen’s voice had a tremble.

I thought she was about to break into tears, but I needed the truth from her. In addition to wanting to steal our money and pulling Ellen’s hair, what else did Deidre do?

“I know she’s mean. Did she hit you?”  Silence. Her shoulders twisted away from me. “Did you see something you shouldn’t have?”

“No.” She said it as a lie.

“But she did pull your hair?”

It took two heartbeats for Ellen to answer. “That was all.”

“Mrs. Quick said she saw a stranger walk into the back yard.”

Her eyes widened and her face flushed.

“Was it a man?”

When Ellen thought about how to answer a question, her eyes sought escape. She looked toward the space for Paulie’s cage. So, I concluded there was a man. Probably Nicholas.

“Aunt Agnes saw Nicholas when he dropped Deidre off at her house,” I said to see Ellen’s reaction.

Ellen’s breathing picked up. I wrapped her in my arms. “None of this is your fault.”

She nodded.

“A strange thing happened last night when I went to bed. My bed cover was wrinkled. I thought maybe Deidre was in our room. Maybe even Nicholas?”

I felt her body stiffened.

“You’re not in any trouble,” I said.

She twisted and shook her head as if she rejected the image of Deidre and a man thrashing on top of our bed.

“You know how I am always going on about wrinkles,” I worked at keeping my voice ordinary. She shifted her weight from foot to foot and looked at her toes. Ellen wanted to be away from me. “Did you hear Frankie tell us about a stranger?”

A head shake.

I had heard all I wanted to hear. I believed Deidre had brought her man into our home and used our bed. Of course she looked for money, found the wedding cloth. Had she discovered Ellen in her pantry room, or had Ellen discovered them? Deidre would have her revenge. Hair pulling and bruising. I prayed there wasn’t more.

“I have to get to school,” Ellen said in a husky whisper.

I surrounded her shoulders with my arms and pulled her close. “You know I love you with every bit of my being. I love you, Ellen.”

Ellen burst into tears and hung onto me as if her life depended on it. She sobbed like her old self when Deidre had tormented her as a young child, but when she finally released me from her grip, her eyes were dead, as if her spirit had left her body. Despite my pleading, Ellen wiped away the last tear with the back of her hand, and said with fierceness, “I promised to meet Eleanor before school.”

She drew the pantry curtain closed and walked to the front room door.

“If you don’t want to talk about what happened, then I want you to let go of last night until you’re ready,” I said, but Ellen walked straight out the door. Purple bruising had begun to darken her chin. My fearful suspicions almost strangled me.

Whatever had happened the previous night changed Ellen. I knew in my bones that Deidre had done more than pull hair and attempt to destroy a wedding dress. My mother-imagination created outrageous scenarios that I could never share with Sam. He would take them as truth and want to act. In his younger years he wasn’t afraid of a fist fight. Once or twice, he took after a larger man with his coal shovel as a weapon. Sam won and spent a few nights in jail.

Like Ellen, I wanted whatever happened to go away. Not that it would. Deidre had crossed a line. At a time when my girls should be close, there would be no forgiveness in Fiona or Una. No giddy letters back and forth about weddings or young men in their lives. But I feared for Ellen the most. I think she felt the power of hate, and it changed her.

All I could hope? That Ellen would get past a nightmare, whatever the nightmare was.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 17: Eleanor

Ellen stood on the corner of 59^th and Peoria. Our feet slapped the sidewalk as we walked south. She hung her head and kept silent about her bruised face. She just gave me that none-of-your-business look. Finally, she asked, “What does your mother do when you have a sore throat?”

            She stopped and allowed the parade of students to continue their teasing and walking to Beale Elementary.

            I looked at Ellen. Maybe she was sick?

            “Sore throat? Mother makes me gargle with salt water. Why? What does your mother use?”

            “The same. Not too salty but not something I’d want to swallow.” Ellen turned away. Quicker kids shot past us. “What about for coughs?”

            “Probably the same as your mother,” I said. “Lemon and honey in strong black tea. If it’s a bad cold, she adds a little whiskey.”

            Ellen nodded and then whispered, “Have you ever had a boil?”

            “You mean like an infection with pus or like chicken pox?” I took a step back from her.

            “Something with pus. Bigger than chicken pox sores.”

            “Ellen, do you have a pus infection?” I asked. I stared at the purple bruise on her chin. It wasn’t infected. We were at school every day, so I knew Ellen hadn’t scraped her knee or elbow.

            “No, infection. I’m just wondering.  But Eleanor, what would you do if you had a boil. I heard doctors have to cut it open to let the pus out.”

            “Once when I fell and had a bad cut on my hand, Mother put warm, wet towels on the cut. The bleeding stopped. But I had an infection anyway. Then she boiled honey and dabbed at the sore.”

            “It worked?”

            “It took a while, but yes.”

            As we walked, Ellen concentrated on the sidewalk while rubbing and pinching her lower lip. I wondered if it hurt.

            “Mother doesn’t trust doctors to cut a boil open,” I said. “She told me that boils sometimes come back bigger.”

            Ellen looked scared. I thought she might cry.

            “Now, it’s my turn. What happened?” I asked.

            “Deidre came last night and was horrible. I don’t want to talk about it, but she said she put a curse on me, and that I was going to get boils, and everyone would see how ugly I really am.”

            “I don’t think anyone can wish boils on you. In a book I read, a bad guy put rust on a bandage and put it over a kid’s bleeding scratch. He made the kid wear it until his skin got pus. Did Deidre do that?”

            “No.”

            “I bet she was trying to scare you.”

            “I don’t think so. She’s horrible. I hate her.”

            “Don’t tell your mother that something is wrong even if you do get a boil because everybody’s mother that I know tries castor oil if a kid is sick. My mother forces it down my throat. Makes me gag.”

            “Eleanor, please don’t tell your mother or mine that I asked about boils.”

            I felt sorry for her. “I won’t. I promise.”

            But then I got thinking. What if her sister did put a curse on her because she’s now a real witch or something? Miss Wisdom would know the answer, and I hadn’t promised to keep her secret from Miss Wisdom.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 18: Dorothy Quick

I knocked on Sheila’s kitchen door and held up the clean, pressed white fabric. Sheila’s face lit up with joy.

            “Hundred times thank you. The girls will be so pleased.”

            “No trouble at all. I see Karl brought Paulie back.”

“Thank you for that too. It’s good to have him back.”

 “Do you have a gathering basket for market days? Because I believe we need a walk. Not a long one. Let’s go buy eggs.”

            Sheila looked distracted as if her mind were somewhere else.

            “I’m not taking no for an answer,” I said. I raised my chin to show I meant business. “I buy my eggs from a woman who lives near Washington Park.  She has a back yard of chickens and collects eggs every day. I thought you’d like to come along. We both need to watch our pennies, and Mrs. Johnson gives a good deal for a dozen eggs.”

            We both readied ourselves for the outing. I wore my same long-sleeved black dress but left my starched white apron hanging in my kitchen. I had my wicker basket hanging from one arm and carried my pocketbook. For market day, I wore a plain black hat even though the feather disappeared years ago. No reason to dismiss an old hat. Karl always said my black dress makes me look stately. I’m not sure Karl meant it as a compliment.   

Sheila removed her thin flowered apron and patted her wavy graying hair that escaped pins. She picked up her pocketbook, wrapped a cloth around Paulie’s cage, and retrieved a basket from the pantry shelf. Her worn, gray hat perched on top of her head like a pancake. Must admit, she did not look stately.

I saw Frankie in the back yard with his baseball. “I thought you were going to school,” I yelled from Sheila’s window.

“I did, but Mrs. Stein is out sick, so I came home. We’re just supposed to read something, and I can do that tonight.”

I was used to Frankie’s lies. Our first three boys were sensitive and felt the world was ready to give them a good clout. Harvey used to say, “We have to find ways to encourage good decisions to keep them safe.” Unfortunately, Frankie had no memories of his dad,and my first reaction to his misbehaving had always been a slap on Frankie’s backside. My mother had done the same to me. But Frankie was too old now. Oddly enough, having been struck many times as a child myself, my temper and resentment now rise when I see a child struck.

“Start that reading before I get home,” I said.

He tossed the ball into the air and caught it. “I will.”

As Sheila and I walked, I filled her in on my preferred Englewood streets and shopping. She nodded as if she already knew. Probably did.  Still secret places existed.

            “Washington Park is east of Halsted and a bit of a walk, but once I found Mrs. Johnson, I refused to buy eggs from anyone else. Jonas said he’d be home for dinner tonight, and I promised him an egg souffle. The height of the souffle depends on day-fresh eggs or the whites don’t beat properly. Mrs. Johnson buys her chicks from the Poultry supplier west a good distance west of Halsted. They also sell baby rabbits and ducks if you are interested.”

By the look on Sheila’s face, she wasn’t interested in raising animals or in my souffle. She gave me many side glances as I described the process of whipping egg white in a copper bowl.

“Since you have moved to Englewood, have you walked east?” I asked.

“We have. We used to live near State Street.”

“In the Black zone?”

“Very close by. The landlords aren’t very nice.”

“I’ve heard stories,” I said.

“But since we’ve moved, Sam and I have walked all the way to Jackson Park, but when I’m alone to do shopping, mostly I walk to streets just off Halsted,” said Sheila. “Sam has explored neighborhoods as he looks for work. Fiona, of course, works for Cracker Jack on 66^th Street. She walks home most days to save money for movies and such.”

“On Dish Night,” I responded, feeling pleased that I remembered the oddity of dishes being given away to tempt people to see a movie. The thought of colorful mismatched dishes amused me. What can younger women be thinking? In my day, I dreamed of a table with matching dishes. I wondered if Sheila would see the odd humor if I contrasted our neighborhood with a tabletop set with mismatched dishes. Yellow soup bowls, red plates, blue serving dishes all working with and against each other to feed families. Like the tension of Italian, Irish, German—and Black neighborhoods. My musings snapped back to Sheila who seemed glum.

“Have you never gone to cottage vendors for eggs or vegetables?” I asked, switching the topic.

“Yes. Back in Valley. I never knew they existed here. Country women canned and traded vegetables and meats. Some men made their own wine. Cherry trees in some yards, strawberries in another. Englewood buildings are so close together and fenced, I can never tell what goes on in the back yard. Besides, I haven’t yet figured out what streets are safe.”

Harvey and I had lived in the upstairs flat even before it became Mr. Reese’s property. Twenty-eight years. Eastern neighborhoods near State Street were filling up with Black people. More of them escaped a pitiful life in the South. That isn’t to say that over the years we didn’t have a family or two living on 59^th Street. But Englewood’s populations tried to kept to their own kind. Italians, Irish, Germans, Chinese, Polish, and Black. On 59^th we had a standoffish mix.

But business was business. Residents accepted mixing socially at a perfume counter or at the green grocers. But at night, everyone knew nothing good would come of white boys intruding into a Black neighborhood. Even youthful Irish and Italians didn’t mix well and often broke each other’s heads. The police watched young men from any country or color congregating. And don’t get me started on what gangsters have done to how young men think. To me, every young man wants to show off by being a thug.

“Your girls are doing well after the ordeal last night?” I asked.

“Yes, thank you for saving Paulie, the hope chests, but particularly the wedding cloth.”

“I admit I was up most of the night. You can’t let a blood stain set.”

Sheila’s forehead seemed more lined with stress. “I do worry about Deidre. What has she gotten herself into by running off to marry? And I sense a change in Ellen that worries me.”

I was startled by Sheila’s admission.

“Children. No figuring them out once they want to be adults,” I said. “My Darby was a quiet boy until he became a teenager. Then he became talkative. My two older sons couldn’t keep him in line, neither could our church. I figured he needed more structure and sent him to my sister, Hazel, where he went to school with cousins more his age. I wish he’d write home more often. Hazel’s never been much of a writer, so I don’t hear much about Darby.”

“What grade is he in now?” asked Sheila.

“Junior. I’d like to see him come home this summer, but . . . Karl suggested that Darby might reach out to Harvey’s side of the family and get to know them.”

While giving birth to my first two, I didn’t travel back to Pennsylvania with Harvey to visit his family, and after he passed away, they didn’t reach out to me. A few were polite enough, but I must admit I feel relief at not having an obligation to be cordial.

“Our family is scattered,” said Sheila. “Sam’s older sister is planning to leave America for England.  That’s where her husband was born. Sam and I will miss her terribly. She and her husband have been such a help getting Sam work in park maintenance. We really thought Chicago was a godsend. Of course, the Crash ended those dreams. What brought your family to Chicago?”

“The railroad. Harvey started in the railyard in Cincinnati. Such dangerous work. One supervisor suggested he apply for a job as a baggage agent. We moved to Chicago shortly after Karl was born.  Darby came as a surprise when Jonas was ten and Karl was fifteen.”

Here I was telling that Darby was too talkative, and I was the one telling of our family. As I recalled my own timeline of hopes and dreams, I felt angry.

“Makes you wonder if God has a wicked sense of humor,” I continued. “My two younger sons never really knew their father. Sometimes I catch Frankie looking at album pictures of his father.”

We walked to Mrs. Johnson’s house, a one-story house. Multiple generations of Black women occupied the back yard in a circle of chairs. A few busily cleaned and sorted eggs, others cleaned vegetables, and two nursed babies. Two Black women stood near a side gate as a white woman walked up and Sheila and I joined them. Women knew to carry gathering baskets—a very important item when women crossed over neighborhoods. We all looked a little wary as we checked if anyone was offended by our presence. 

Tall and thin, Mrs. Johnson wore a simple flowered dress and a head scarf. My guess? Both were homemade from feed-sack cloth. She carried out a large basket with newly gathered eggs and distributed one dozen to each of the women ahead of us. Mrs. Johnson’s smile comforted and welcomed like a warm, family quilt.  Soft clucking came from the fenced yard where sturdy-bodied hens pecked and scratched at the earth. When it was our turn, I introduced Sheila and suggested she might be making more trips for eggs.

“Mrs. Johnson has a younger sister about the age of your Ellen,” I said.

Mrs. Johnson’s face lit up with pride.

“She loves the Beale School and Miss Wisdom,” said Mrs. Johnson. “Eva Mae hopes to be a teacher or a nurse one day. My ladies here will have to be laying many eggs to make that happen. Will you be making your pecan souffle, Mrs. Quick?”

“Not today, Mrs. Johnson. My son has requested a cheese souffle for dinner.”

“Well, these eggs are so fresh I believe they will hold the lightness of air and stand up to the heaviness of cheese.”

Sheila added that she herself could never attempt anything so complicated. Mrs. Johnson counted out a dozen eggs, and I asked for an additional six.

Now, I realize, compared to what Sheila prepares in her kitchen, I’m no cook, but I make a few things well. One day when I wanted to show off my skills with Mrs. Johnson’s excellent eggs, I brought her one my pecan souffles. Her face lit up with delight. She said, “This is just like the one my mother made when she cooked for the Hendersons.”

We have been quiet friends ever since.

“My son Jonas is coming home for dinner tonight, after being on the road for his job with Standard Oil.”

“Mrs. Harkleroad makes her own bread,” I said. “All any good souffle needs are fresh eggs, a wire whisk, and a big copper bowl for whipping egg whites.”

“Does it have to be a copper bowl?” asked Sheila.

“Only if you want to follow the recipe. Regular bowls won’t do. Fork whipping definitely not. The whites need to be stiff.”

“Let me guess: your bowl came from your mama,” said Mrs. Johnson.

“In a way,” I answered, feeling the conversation veer back to family.

“We learn from our mothers,” said Mrs. Johnson. Her warm smile made it difficult for me to dislike her intrusion into my life.

But I saw Sheila flinch and recalled how she feared for her two younger daughters. Had she contributed to their squabbling? The weight of blame is something I knew quite a lot about.

“My copper bowl came from my grandmother to my mother to me.”  My comment ended our drifting into family backgrounds.

We paid Mrs. Johnson for the eggs and began our walk home.

“These eggs are huge,” said Sheila. “How’d you learn about Mrs. Johnson’s business?”

“Same as you,” I said. “A neighbor told me about her. I’ve been buying from her for the last two years. Let me know when you need more eggs. We’ll make the trip together. But I must insist you don’t tell just anyone about her backyard business. Her husband works the night shift at the stockyards as a janitor. That makes her vulnerable to any young thug who questions the right of a Black woman having a business.”

“I understand,” said Sheila.

“Do you know about pulled fudge?” Sheila shook her head. “I’ll share my fudge technique with you the next time I make some and see what you think. White sugar, dark cocoa, yellow butter, a caldron, and strong hands. That’s all it takes to produce something sweet.”

“Sounds like something my family would love,” said Sheila.

“I read a newspaper article that claimed the pulled fudge recipe came from an ivy league college girl. Vassar, I believe. Can you imagine? A college girl putting in all the work of boiling milk and sugar with cocoa. Having the patience to knead butter into the chocolate by hand. The girl said she got the recipe from a classmate in North Carolina. I’m guessing, more than likely, the girl watched her family’s Black cook.”

“Sounds like a recipe that gets passed down in families,” said Sheila. “Like bread recipes.”

“It certainly does.”

I caught Sheila’s eyes smiling probably at a memory of learning kneading from her own mother.

“Do you have family living in Englewood?” she asked.

The question took me by surprise. “I used to.”

Sheila waited in silence for additional information.

“My last aunt passed about the time of my husband. I have an uncle, but not close by. Most family in Oklahoma. A sister in Missouri, and I’ve told you about Hazel in Pennsylvania. She’s kept Darby. I’ve cousins in Missouri and Iowa, but we’ve lost touch years ago.”

My discomfort talking about family charged back to quicken my heart.

“My family used to live on the northside of Chicago,” said Sheila, “but Dad moved us to Valley towns right after my mother died.”

“Irish family?” I asked, already knowing from the name Sheila. “On both sides?”

“Yes.”

Why I continued to give family information, I’ll never know. But I did despite my heart banging.

“I had an English grandfather on my mother’s side and a German father. Both coal miners. They died too soon. Harvey came from German heritage. Karl’s face is broad and very German. But my family moved about the country for a long time—we’re made up of a bit of this and that. I tell people I come from migrating birds.”

I found myself chuckling at the image although Sheila looked quite serious.

“In my family no one talked about the past,” said Sheila.

I concluded, like me, there was much more to her story than she was willing to tell. Still, I enjoyed our walk home.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 19: Sheila

Days after my walk with Dorothy, I sent Ellen and Eleanor to the library to look up a souffle recipe for me. I wanted them away from the flat when Miss Wisdom came to visit. She had sent a note requesting privacy. My hands trembled as I waited.

            She walked to the back door and knocked despite me standing in the front window and waving her toward the front door. I was embarrassed that a Black teacher felt she couldn’t enter our home by the front. Miss Wisdom dressed in a blue suit with low heeled shoes that tied. I believe her stockings were cotton—like mine. Her black hair pulled back into a tight bun drew attention to her stern jaw. Thick, wire framed glasses hugged her round face.

            When she entered, I was rattled. Paulie made sounds of water dripping. What would Ellen’s teacher think of his chatter? He liked to entertain new visitors with coal rumbling, telephone ringing, and Dorothy’s phrase, “Lord give me strength.” At times he gave a string of “Tickle, tickle.”

But when Miss Wisdom heard his nonsense, she laughed at his lordship. I was able to somewhat relax. I grabbed Paulie’s sheet, covered the cage, and asked Miss Wisdom to sit in the front room well away from Paulie.

“I apologize for asking you to speak softly, but Paulie picks up words.” She nodded as she sat. “Is Ellen in trouble?” I asked.

“Certainly not. She’s a joy to have in class, and her work is exceptional.” Miss Wisdom grinned. “I’m not the one who will take her to task if she falls behind.  Eleanor is right there to compete for top student. You’ve no reason to worry about either child’s work.”

I waited to hear the rest.

“My concern is with something Eleanor told me about your daughter.” Her forehead furrowed.

If Ellen didn’t talk to me, I knew she spoke her heart to Eleanor, and I could count on Ellen’s best friend having good sense. I suspected the seriousness of Deidre’s visit sent Eleanor to Miss Wisdom for help.  

“I did see a bruise on Ellen’s face and some scratches when she came into class that morning after your daughter’s visit.”

Miss Wisdom put her left hand up to her mouth. “The bruise looked like a thumb print on the left side of Ellen’s face. About here.” 

Her thumb pressed into her skin below her cheek bone.

“The scratches were on the right side of her face. As if three fingers dug deep into her jaw. When I asked her about the purple marks, she didn’t want to talk about it.”

“My daughter Deidre came to visit” I said. Miss Wisdom nodded. “The girls have hard feelings toward each other. Ellen told me Deidre was rather brutal as she pulled her hair.”

“Forgive me for bringing up the topic, but I believe there was something more than hairpulling.”

Miss Wisdom took a deep breath. “I’ve taught students for a great number of years. I’ve seen behaviors in good families and in broken families. I don’t know if there is exaggeration in the repeating of stories, but Ellen seems to be worried about a lingering infection of some kind. Deidre threatened her with boils.”

If I too hadn’t noticed the bruising and scratches, I might have found the threat of boils a comical exaggeration.

“Ellen told us about Deidre pulling her hair. I believe she also slapped and punched her. Her bruises surfaced the next morning, but I never saw any cuts that might cause an infection.”

“Well, it’s only my business here to let you know that Eleanor is worried. And I’m concerned because I’ve seen too much abuse of girls.”

Again, Miss Wisdom put her hand up to her chin. A grabbing move with her palm covering her chin but not her mouth.

“Now, imagine my right hand pulling a girl’s hair. Watch what happens if my left hand pushes on her chin.”

When Miss Wisdom’s right hand gave her hair a pretend yank, her neck snapped backward, stretching her mouth open in an ugly way. Tears came to my eyes.

“Deidre must have been standing behind Ellen.”

“None of my business, but I wonder if a man was in your home. Perhaps a friend of your daughter.”

“I believe so,” I said while wiping tears with my fingertips. “My neighbor said she thought she saw someone come to the back door. We were supposed to meet Deidre’s fiancé at my sister-in-law’s home. Deidre and her young man never showed.”

“Well, I wanted you to be aware that I believe your daughter has been . . . assaulted. For someone who is twelve, this may have a lasting effect on her. Not something a child forgets. What worries me in Ellen’s situation is the threat of boils. Maybe her sister just wanted to be mean and frighten her, but maybe the man was diseased. I do believe the attack was on her mouth.”

I gave a little cry. Deidre had a history of hateful moments. Even as a young child, Deidre tried to kill Ellen as a baby by strangling her as she slept. Luckily, her hands were too small. Now at fifteen she had alienated Imogene by insulting her employer. Fiona’s and Una’s wedding fabric had been soiled, almost destroyed. The wrinkle in the bedcovering had given me a clue of what happened that night, but it was more awful than I had guessed.

“I don’t know what to do,” I said. My hands shook.

“The bruises and scratches are healing,” said Miss Wisdom. “But some girls withdraw after bruises disappear and nurture their grievance. I worry for you too. Many girls blame mothers. No logical reason, but they look to mothers for protection. She may turn on you in time. Ellen’s too young yet to look for a champion, but sometimes when a girl gets older, she looks for a protector. That rarely is a good thing.”

“I understand.”

“Please don’t mention my visit to your daughter,” asked Miss Wisdom.

            As she walked toward the kitchen, I begged Miss Wisdom to leave by the front door, but she refused. She considered it too public and didn’t want a neighbor to ask Ellen why an unknown Black woman was at our house.

            I took the sheet off Paulie’s cage. He ruffled his throat feathers and decided to call “Mrs. Goldberg” and “Water. Water. Mother, water.”

Days later, Ellen asked if we kept iodine in the house.

“Yes, do you have a cut?”

“No. A kid a school suggested it was good to stop an infection.”

“Only if you have a scrape or scratch,” I answered. “Do you have a cut?”

“No. I told you it was a boy at school who asked. I just wanted to be sure we have medicine—just in case.”

Besides holding silence close, Ellen had learned to lie.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 20: Sam

In the fall of 1930, I sat on the front stoop on a Sunday, loaded the bowl of my pipe, and watched the folks walk home from church. They wore their Sunday best. All the women took pride in hats. All the men had polished shoes. Sheila and the girls used Sunday morning to stroll Halsted Street to window shop. Soon the weather would turn cold, and they’d spend Sunday dreaming over a Sears catalogue.

            An old Black gent in worn trousers, shirt, and sweater vest limped along 59^th Street. Sometimes this was tricky to do on a mostly White street, but I’d had seen him before. Besides it was daytime, and a Sunday to boot. He carried a large bag.

            “Mr. Harkleroad,” he asked. “Can I have a word with you?”

            Me?  “Sure.”

            “In the back,” he said quietly.

            He nodded his head toward the back yard. I rose and followed him through the gangway. He was much taller than I was, wide shoulders, ropey muscles, with bony fingers.

            “I’m Ol’ Will. You probably seen me bring vegetables to Mrs. Quick and her family. Last week she said she didn’t want cabbage but that your family might.”

            He held out the bag with a cabbage as large as a boulder. I looked at him, hard to gage a big man’s age. Probably in his seventies. A hard-work stoop to his back.  Top button of his shirt buttoned. Well, it was Sunday.

            “How much you want for this?” I asked.

            “No charge. Figure God loaned me a plot of earth, rain, and sunshine. But this beauty grew bigger than most people want. Mrs. Quick said you got muscle and a big family. All I ask is that you share some. Her sons appreciate it.” He gave a big grin.

            “Will do. I’ll ask my wife to rustle up some soup for all of us. Mrs. Quick’s been kind to us.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“But unless it’s fudge, we try not to sample her boiled corn on the cob.”

            The old guy chuckled and covered his mouth with his hand. “Truthfully, she’s not much of a cook. Tries her best. Bless her. I told her once that corn don’t need forty minutes on the boil.” Will shook his head at some private thought. “You need vegetables, Mr. Harkleroad? Let Mrs. Quick know. She’ll tell me. Most Sundays we attend the same church.”

            I knew the church. People bad-mouthed Rugged Cross for the three or four Black families that attended. At times ruffians broke a church window as a reminder of hate. Folks at the church may not have a lot of money, but they were generous with what they had.

            He walked slowly away, humming to himself.

Lost Voices/Prochaska          

1931

Chapter 21: Eleanor

In the spring, Ellen and I finished seventh grade. Next stop, one year away, graduation from elementary school. That summer, however, my hopes didn’t turn out as I wished.

            My dad had worked for Albert Hoefeld’s Suits for six months before he was laid off. He left again to search for work making fine suits sold with two pairs of pants. I didn’t know where he went or if he shared a flat. Letters were few. Some days my imagination got the better of me, and I felt guilty eating a slice of bread when my dad might not have any.

I remember my mother sitting at her treadle sewing machine late into the night. People didn’t have money for new clothes, but old clothes could be cut down for younger children. When Mother rose from her work, she could barely walk because of the cramped position she kept hour after hour. Sometimes she allowed me to help, but mostly she wanted me to study or read books and newspapers to her as she worked.

“Someday, you’ll be somebody,” she said.

In March I read about the nine Scottsboro boys who were arrested and charged with attacking a woman, but there was some question about whether they really had.

“Those Black boys aren’t stupid enough to attack a Southern White woman,” said Mother, “and after all that Capone pulled, the government gets him on tax evasion? Pure nonsense. But people in Cicero ate because he fed them. Did they mention that in the newspapers?”

No, they hadn’t.

In April James Cagney visited Chicago. A picture of him near a Duesenberg appeared in the newspaper. A movie company released the film Public Enemy in April. Pretend crimes were entertaining.

Mother didn’t take time to look at the Dick Tracy Comic that came out in the newspapers. She rejected the idea that a little girl made a movie at three years old. Her name was Shirley Temple.

“Obviously, a midget,” said Mother.

In July grasshoppers ate Iowa. In the West we saw pictures in the newspapers of dust storms. My mother argued that grasshoppers and dust proved the world was coming apart.

Since people panicked about banks collapsing, long lines of out-of-work men hoped to find a day job or scrambled through garbage to find something for their families to eat. Many people couldn’t afford rent. Some friends at school had to move to the shanty towns called Hoovervilles. No water. Only buckets for bathrooms. I was scared.

At least Mother and I shared a bed in a one-bedroom flat with a bathroom, and when money was tight, Mother and I set up a table on a stretch of Maxwell Street and sold underwear she made from feed sacks. Over time I conquered my underwear embarrassment. At first Mother used white feed sacks that had a big red rooster printed on the cloth. Mr. Vine, the rag picker, sold Mother huge stacks of cloth used for holding animal feed. Mother washed them and made them into bloomers, petticoats and undershirts. At first women didn’t want the red rooster on their backside, but as time went on and money became scarcer, no one complained where the rooster appeared. Clean clothing was better than nothing.

When Ellen and I finished our homework at the library, I walked back to her flat and spent time with her family. Often, I was invited to supper. But Mrs. Harkleroad became more desperate for food in 1931. Suppers were often tinned pork and beans or mashed kidney beans on toast. Sometimes hot oatmeal for supper. Sometimes a milky broth made with whatever vegetable she found. Can milk replaced fresh milk. Ellen and I helped by picking dandelions for a salad. If Mrs. Harkleroad made a stew, she rarely identified the meat. We never asked.

I watched Mrs. Harkleroad become thinner as she excused herself from eating at the supper table. Even I knew she gave up her share of the food.

They went through a spell where lights and radio were turned off. A glowing kerosene lamp was the only source of light. Cold months went by with no coal delivery.

Poor Mr. Harkleroad left every morning in the dark to look for work and walked miles in his search. Days passed without finding anything. I wondered if my dad did the same.

            The only bright spot? Fiona had married Vlad in December last year and Una married Hemming in the Harkleroad flat in April. Each had a small ten-minute ceremony; a reception with slices of bread and jam stacked like a cake.

In October, Fiona’s twins were born. A girl and boy. Sam dubbed them Dimples and Scoot.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

1932-1933

Chapter 22: Fiona

Ellen’s friend Eleanor makes me laugh with her curiosity. She wants to be a lady reporter some day and asked me to tell her a story so she could practice writing. I told her our family story of the tooth fairy. I have heard that some families give their children pennies if they lose a baby tooth. Children hide their lost tooth under their pillow, and parents remove the tooth and leave money. Not in our family. Coins were too precious, and Mother guarded them with her life. After we lost a tooth, we found a walnut or two the next morning under our pillow. When we lived in Valley towns, we never put the full story together of Mother’s friend Mrs. Teehan having a walnut tree or Mrs. Teehan delivering a big flour sack of walnuts to Mother in exchange for a sweater for her son. Mother used a butcher knife to chop up nuts into a powder for bread or a special cake. I guess we never connected our tooth walnut to Mrs. Teehan’s generosity.

            Losing a tooth became something of a celebration. Especially for front teeth.

            “My little girl is growing up,” said Mother with a big grin. Then she’d give us an I’ll-love-you-always hug. “Be sure to tell your father.”

            Despite his clothing coated with coal dust, we’d tackle his legs and announce our empty space in our mouth.

            When one of my teeth loosened, I’d wiggle it to get a walnut sooner, I’d wiggle it even though it hurt. Not a bad hurt, more like an itchy pain. Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, then a pop, and the tooth was out. I’d run to show it to Mother even if it still had blood on it. She always grinned at my accomplishment. So did I.

            Mother and Dad also had lost many teeth. Mother said it was the price she gladly paid for giving birth to children. Dad never said why his teeth had to be pulled. Neither said if they received walnuts.

            Now, when I receive letters from the clock factory girls I painted alongside, I hear about loosened teeth, but I won’t tell their story to Eleanor until she is older. We girls at the Ottawa clock factory share a frightening story. We painted clock faces with camel-hair brushes and radium paint. Glow in the dark radium. It was safe, the foreman said. He even allowed us to go into the cloak room and paint our eyebrows and lips, even teeth. With the light off, we giggled and glowed. At the work bench, I grasped the brush between my lips until the fine hairs pulled in tight. They paid a penny a clock face, and I felt pure joy because I was fast and accurate.

Girls who had been at the clock company longer than I was soon noticed at nineteen and twenty years old their teeth loosened. “Do you have loose teeth too?” they asked each other.

My dad heard rumors about the clock company and the threat of syphilis making girls sick. He forced me to change jobs after a few months of work. I took a job at Westclox in Peru, closer to home. It didn’t pay as well because I worked in the packing department, but I could live at home rather than pay a boarding house.

            Letters I received now from mates tell of girls who have sickened. Some have died. All the letters mention the experience of losing teeth.

After I married and had twins, I wrote to my old friends that naturally I, too, had lost teeth—probably due to pregnancy, but so far, I wasn’t experiencing ill health.

            “Lucky you,” an Italian friend responded. “I hope we both have a chance to see our children grow up.”

            I wasn’t sure my wiggly teeth were due to having children. I religiously scrubbed my teeth by putting salt on my toothbrush made with hog bristles. Sometimes if there was money for dental powder, I dipped a rag into the powder and wiped my teeth. Once a week when Vlad wasn’t home, I rinsed my mouth with watered whiskey. Very hard to come by since Prohibition. One letter from the Valley spoke of an older girl glowing—always glowing—even away from work. I went to the bathroom and shut off the light. The dark remained. I didn’t see radiance in the mirror. Still, I was trembly scared.

            Mother and Dad have had to pay for extractions. Many of our neighbors have lost their teeth, and they have never worked with clock faces. Maybe, I’ll be okay.

I sometimes smile as I imagine all the walnuts we could have collected, and as a mother, myself, I’ve realized why my mother chopped up the nuts almost to a powder. Teeth—so important to life.

            I’ve heard dentists can create gold crowns. When Vlad and I have important jobs and money—someday—I want a mouthful of gold. What a smile that will be.  

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 23: Sam

I don’t like to remember back in 1931. Jobs had come to a grinding halt for older men like me, and my older girls also took a hit when they married and got fired. Sheila did her best to feed me and Ellen, but even she felt crushed by the economy and apologized when bread, oleo, and hot water were all we had for supper. Once when times were dire, Sheila broke her vow never to go home to the northside where she grew up. She sought out a friend and found me a job. “Be careful,” she said. “Don’t talk to nobody you don’t have to.” The money I earned got us through a month of heat and food. Sheila said, “You can never go back there. Promise me.”

I promised.

            Karl Quick staked us to electricity for a couple months so he and his brothers could listen to the Palmolive concert hour. Thursday night we listened to Goodrich Silvertown Orchestra and Variety Show. As much as young Frankie wanted to listen to Amos and Andy, his brothers wouldn’t allow it. Their reasoning? They didn’t want Paulie picking up something that might offend Dorothy.

But beginning in 1932, things began to pick up. First the Museum of Science and Industry asked me to tell stories about coal mining. Educated men in suits willingly listened to my experiences down the mine and the dangers I faced. They pronounced me as “an authentic working man.” Gave me a good laugh. Authentic was I?

“You look like a man who has seen hard work,” said one young man, whose clean shirt had sleeves rolled to his elbows.

“Would you be willing to tell kids about your experiences down a mine?” asked another. “You have an authentic rawness.”

Yes and no worked through my mind. Rawness, indeed. Did they really want children to learn about dangers? Maybe some dangers like where to put your fingers while handling coal so not to get a wicked slice. But I planned to keep other dangers to myself. A miner needs steady hands as he pours black powder into a cylinder while wearing a live flame on his hat. I’ve seen a man blow his face off. Probably not the detail the museum wants repeated.

 To set a charge had its own danger. The bubbly scar on my cheek with embedded coal dust is proof. Miners need to bore a hole into the wall of coal and set the shot of black powder to bring down a wall of coal. Blown-out shots were too common and killed many good men. The force of the blown-out shot didn’t trigger a blast in the direction of the coal. Instead, it blew back toward the miners, released fire from a bore hole, and ignited coal dust particles in the air—a rain of fire. Not for young children to hear.

I won’t tell the children of how dark it is when all lights go out, and there is no way to know which direction is the shaft. Or what it’s like to stand by the cage to descend for a shift and feel the ground rumble under your feet and see smoke and coal dust rise from the pit below and know good men are hurt or dead. Probably a story for nightmares.

Hundreds of men lost their lives in the explosion of Monongah, West Virginia, and another couple hundred lost in the Darr Mine in Pennsylvania. These were not the stories for anyone’s entertainment. Widows and children left behind with no support? I thought of my Sheila and our girls and how lucky we had been. Did I ever miss work because of a broken bone? Twice. But we managed—or rather Sheila managed for us.

 Me and other former miners, who were being questioned by eager museum heavyweights, looked at each other when we were asked if we were willing to share our stories with children. All of us said yes. Our eyes locked in the limits of what to tell young folk. I lined up funny stories about my metal lunch pail which was an actual pail with a lid to keep the rats away. That kind of kid shivering was okay.

Our assigned days of sharing stories with the public were to begin in 1933 when the museum was scheduled to open. Still months away, but it was a job. I was to work down a toy mine. Had to laugh. What would my fellow miners in Valley think?

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 24: Sheila

Sam wasn’t working in Cherry, Illinois, when their mine had a terrible fire in 1909, but later he came to know some of the families who suffered great loss.  Two hundred and fifty-nine men and boys, some as young as eleven, lost their lives in that catastrophe.  Sam liked to remind people that the fire also claimed the lives of all the mules who spent their lives underground hauling coal. That mine disaster and several others shaped Sam’s dark side.

            The electrical light system had failed, and the miners were forced to go back to using kerosene lamps. When the hay wagon got too close to a live flame, the fire began.  The elevator cage rescued some men, but the emergency escape route had wooden ladders. With a fire out of control, the bracing timbers also burned.  Men were trapped. 

            Normally Sam didn’t like to speak of accidents in any mine, but he did admire the strength and grit of the Eight-day men who protected themselves from the flames by burying themselves. They endured eight days without food by drinking seeping water until help came.

            During my husband’s days of working down a mine, I prayed for Sam’s safety. I remember my stomach always being in knots—until early 1929 when the mine closed for good, and we moved from the small coal town to Englewood near Chicago. Then came the Crash.

            In 1932 we still lived in Englewood on 59^th, just off Halsted. Times were hard for men to find work. 1931 was our worst year. Sam’s only reliable job was filling gunny sacks for the winter delivery of coal. Peabody’s Coal Company hired him for two days a week. They told him flat out that he was their best worker, but his age made him potentially unreliable. So they hired younger men with smoother hands. Sam’s callouses stood by him and protected him from blisters.

As expected, Una was truthful to Marshall Fields about her marriage and immediately lost her job after she married. Fiona hid her marriage and kept her job at Cracker Jack until a coworker tattled that Fiona was with child. She too lost her job. Sam and I only had his part-time work and my knitting. Imogene sent what she could from her domestic servant pay, but it wasn’t enough of a supplement for us to cover the rent, coal for heat, electricity, and food.

Our dear girl Fiona found ways to liven up our lives. From trash containers, she collected jelly tumblers, cold cream jars, and blue glass of Vicks Vapo-Rub. She set the colorful glass near windows to catch the light. Speckled sunlight danced around her flat and in ours.

She entertained us by detailing scenes from films like Public Enemy. Ellen referred to Deidre as our public enemy.

“Is our public enemy planning a visit anytime soon?” she’d ask with a grin.

Both Sam and I tried to coax Ellen away from the darkness she had entered—surely she’d outgrow her hostility—but we saw the ways she fed her hatred for Deidre.

When we got behind in our rent during 1931, we feared Mr. Reese would throw us out of the flat. Mr. Reese, however, is cagy. He excused our rent debt month by month by asking Sam to install walls in some of the flats he owned on the east side of Halsted Street. Sam’s skill of building walls was honed by putting up bracing timbers in coal tunnels. He said the walls he hammered into place for Reese divided a flat like ours into two one-bedroom units with a shared hallway bathroom. I couldn’t imagine our family living is such a place. I felt embarrassed that Sam had to do such work for no pay. Mr. Reese dismissed Sam’s lack of finesse. It was more important that upper and lower flats became four, sometimes five if Reese included the attic. Mr. Reese prepared his rental properties for Black families moving to Englewood from the South. Did they realize how landlords would take advantage of them or was their experience in the South so terrible that bad construction wasn’t so awful? To me it seemed Mr. Reese became greedy. Yet, we were grateful he didn’t throw us out onto the street.

There was no discussing the new apartments with Dorothy. She feared Mr. Reese might chuck both of our families out in favor building a five flat.

I detested Mr. Reese for his audacious walking into our flat without knocking.

“How’s my Paulie today?” he’d say. Then he’d proceed to allow the parrot to fly around the flat. I had to stop what I was doing to note where Paulie’s droppings fell.

The first few times I mentioned to Mr. Reese the additional work he caused me.

“I thought Paulie was company for you when you’re home alone. If he’s too much trouble, I can remove him. Plenty of my families would like a lower rent.”

“Sam loves having the parrot here, Mr. Reese. Paulie has entertained our girls.”

My ire grew into fear. After that, I only had praise for Paulie, and if Mr. Reese walked in unannounced, so be it.

I told Sam rent had to be a priority. If we were short, we’d make do with cuts in coal and food. Our choices were terrifyingly hard.  That winter of 1932 was brutally cold. We layered wool sweaters and woolly blankets. Before Agnes left for England, she had given us her candles and kerosene lamps. On bitter nights, we first used stubs of old candles for light, and I pulled out kerosene lamps until we finished the reserved oil. I think the smoky heat kept us from freezing.

 It took all my dickering skills to keep us from starving. Many days if we ate, it was bread and tea. My heart broke for Ellen who hurried off to school or trekked to the library for warmth.  Dorothy bullied Ellen into joining her on Sunday and Wednesday evenings for warm church meetings where everyone received a peanut butter sandwich and tea after the services.

In the newspapers Mr. Reese brought for Paulie’s cage, I read about Al Capone being locked away. I’m Irish from the northside, so I also remembered the names of the men killed in the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre in 1929.

            The spring of 1932 brought Sam a streak of luck. Who’d believe educated men wanted to hear those mining stories from men like Sam? As he worked one day shoveling coal in Peabody’s coal yard, in comes men from the proposed Science and Industry Museum. They planned to build a coal mine in the museum. One man told Sam that they wanted to educate people with the truth about the working man. Sam was skeptical at first.

            The museum had acquired actual digging machinery from closed mines and the elevator from a closed mine in southern Illinois. They wanted Sam’s experience and that of other miners. How would a miner use the machinery? How did a miner hold a pickaxe to strike at coal?

            “More often than not, a miner lays on his back in a coffin of a tunnel and chips away with a pickaxe at coal above his head,” Sam told me. “You suppose those museum people want to hear about that?” asked Sam with a growl. He looked disgusted.

            “Be polite. They probably don’t know any more than a child. Your stories could give miners respect and dignity.”

            “You think I shouldn’t mention what happened to dignity in West Virginia when miners wanted to negotiate the number of hours they were down a shaft?’

A few years after Matewan, Sam broke his silence and told us stories of gas bombs being dropped on miners and machine guns mowing down men who asked for more safety precautions in the mines. He had had his own run-in with the Pinkerton detectives as his union tried to make mining safer at a time when coal mines were closing. Coal mine owners knew oil had become king.

“Owners would gladly drain our blood if it meant profit,” said Sam.

            “Hear them out. Maybe the museum wants to know about how hard a miner works.”

            He dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand.

            “Shall I clean up your suit? I can give it a good brushing. But I’m afraid you’ll have to wear your everyday shoes.”

            “No suit.  They want a working man. That’s who they get.”

            I worried his bitterness would stop the museum from listening to him. But there was little I could say.  Sam has always been proud.

He left for his museum teaching lesson, dressed in his work pants and shirt. He wore his jacket because the day was cool. On top of his head was his tweed worker’s cap.  Still, I was so proud and grateful someone had found value in him, so I had fussed over his worn shoes by shining them with oleo.

            “Sheila, they’re going to pay me for what I know, not what my shoes look like.”

            “Never you mind, I want them to know you are a worker of consequence.”

            I straightened his collar and smoothed the shoulders of his everyday jacket. When he left the flat, he walked down the street like a younger man.

            After Deidre walked away from us, we hadn’t heard a word, nor could we write because we didn’t know her husband’s name nor where they lived.

            Ellen’s quiet mouse character changed after that night with Deidre. She became more defiant, critical, and challenging. She loved Paulie, but we had to be forceful with her about not letting Paulie fly out the window.

            Sam said, “If you let Paulie free, he will die in the cold, or an animal might kill him. Mr. Reese would have no reason to allow us to live here.  He’d likely put us on the street.”

            Her mouth tightened as she said, “Paulie could fly home to be with other parrots.”

            “He’s been in a cage for years. Do you really imagine Paulie has the strength to fly thousands of miles or that he’d know where to find food or shelter?” Sam paused. “What about us? Where’d we find a flat if Mr. Reese evicts us when I’m late with the rent?”

            Sam’s words of reason didn’t have the result he wanted.

Ellen responded, “Paulie could find a new home with birds if he wanted to, and we could move in with Una or Fiona.”

“Three of us moving into a one-bedroom flat that’s already occupied by two adults and children?  You leave that bird alone,” said Sam. “You hear me?”

But on days when Paulie spent time out of his cage, sitting on the back of a chair while Sam handfed him, Ellen liked to go to the kitchen window and open it a crack.

            “Look, Paulie, fresh air. Wouldn’t you like to fly?”

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 25: Dorothy Quick

I knew not to stir the chocolate simmering in the pot as it bubbled.  That’s a mistake too many cooks make. The sweet smell of cocoa, milk, and sugar filled the air of our flat. The cauldron of bubbles thickened into a richness for our mouths.  I knew all too well the sound of bubbles popping. I dipped a spoon into the mixture and allowed a drop to fall into cold water. As I expected, it fell as a round drop.  I took the chocolate off the heat and allowed it to cool.

            I wrapped a Christmas box with white paper. It would serve as a tray and for transportation. When the chocolate cooled enough to be touched, I worked butter into the soft goo with my hands. Lifting and folding, stretching and pulling the fudge into the soft, melt-in-your-mouth candy that Pulled Fudge could be.  I rolled the candy into balls and filled the box.

            June of 1932 Ellen Harkleroad graduated from eighth grade from the Beale School. Jonas had had a lovely party when he left the school because all the parents contributed to the celebration. But I was unsure about these dark times. What kind of party would Ellen’s class have three years after the Crash. I was not certain Sheila and Sam could contribute to the party.

            “What are you doing?” asked Frankie as he reached for a piece of fudge.

            I swatted his hand. “Your fudge is over there. I’ve counted these.  They’re for Ellen’s graduation party.”

            He walked toward the sink and helped himself to a piece.

            “I thought you didn’t like Ellen,” he said.

            “And I thought you’d be graduating.”

            His nose wrinkled. “I’d rather work for old man Theodore at his repair shop.”

            “Well. I appreciate that you have found a job.  Even though I find Ellen moody and sometimes annoying, anyone who graduates from eighth grade deserves to be recognized.”

            He put his arms around my waist. “Aww, Ma. I’m learning stuff. Customers like my repair work. I can take apart a toaster in three minutes. You should see what I can do with one of those electric refrigerators.”

            “I’m happy with my icebox, thank you.  Nothing much to break down. I only need to get one of you boys to empty the tray of water at the bottom.”

            “You’re a pip, Mother.”

            I was quietly pleased that Frankie had found his talent.  For that, I had Sam Harkleroad to thank for giving my son focus and Mr. Theodore for giving Frankie a job.

            “Now take this fudge downstairs.”

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 26: Fiona

Frankie stepped into Mother’s flat like he walked on air and presented a box of pulled fudge. It wasn’t the typical squares but small balls about the size of a quarter. Mother worked in the kitchen on small triangular sandwiches for Ellen’s school graduation party.

“Mother said this is for Ellen’s graduation party,” said Frankie, “and I’m not supposed to mooch any because our portion is upstairs. Do you mind if I turn on the radio?”

“That’s quite all right,” I whispered even though I had just gotten my son and daughter asleep. “As long as it’s not too loud.” I nodded at the couch.

“Okay.”

With his ear to the radio, Frankie turned dials. He caught music and then quickly passed it by for the next channel. Recordings of Bing Crosby singing “Brother, Can You Spare a Dime,” Louis Armstrong singing “All of Me,” and Fred Waring and his Pennsylvanians. Soap operas didn’t appeal to Frankie. One Man’s Family barely got a sentence out before Frankie turned the dial. Skippy, a children’s program, didn’t have a chance either.

 I took the box of fudge into the kitchen. Quietly, I snatched a piece and popped it into my mouth. Pure silky chocolate, light as a floating dandelion seed or raindrops on a spider’s web. Chicago had many candy factories, and wafts of chocolate aroma landed on our tongues just by walking nearby. Mrs. Quick’s fudge, light and heavenly, lingered in the aroma. I didn’t want to swallow because then the richness would disappear. I stood in the kitchen and let the chocolate melt and coat my teeth. My tongue moved the fudginess across the roof of my mouth as if its presence shielded me against poverty.
            “Ring-a-ding-ding,” I whispered.

“Ring-a-ding-ding!” squawked Paulie, followed by the bird mimicking Mrs. Quick’s throaty laugh. In his loudest gruff voice, Paulie summoned Mrs. Quick’s tone and called her son. “Frank-kee! Frank-kee, Frank-kee-ee.”

“I wished he’d stop that,” said Frankie. “All my friends think I’m in trouble.”

He turned back to the radio by placing his elbows on his knees. “Wish I could find a ballgame.”

My daughter Dimples rolled over, and I walked to Paulie’s cage to shush the bird.

Since he stayed with Mrs. Quick’s family for two days, Paulie had picked up “Oh, Good Lord,” which sounded like a scolding. But his repetition of “Precious Lord,” carried an eerie, mournful plea against pain and made me want to hug away Mrs. Quick’s suffering, whatever it was. Besides, being a mother myself, I thought about the Lindbergh child who had been kidnapped in March.

Dorothy Quick entered our flat with a quiet knock. My mother wiped her hands on her apron and came out of the kitchen.

“Dorothy, thank you. The fragrance is extraordinary. The children will be so pleased. I could only think to make honey sandwiches, but I cut them into triangles so they’d look special.”

“It doesn’t matter what we make for young teenagers.  They’ll gobble it down in minutes,” said Dorothy with a small laugh.

“I heard Jonas is going to attend the ceremony and lead the children in songs,” said my mother.

“He wants every graduation day to be as festive as it was for him. I don’t know how he finds the time to coach at the Boys Club, sing in our choir, and keep a job.”

“Well, I know the girls will be swooning,” said Mother with a naughty smile.

From the time our family moved to Englewood, I had never known Frankie to attend school. Mrs. Quick tolerated his drive to become a mechanic or electrician by letting him work with a handyman he met outside of a bar. I wondered what Karl and Jonas felt about Frankie leaving school. Because from what I could see, they had sacrificed having a life of their own to care for their mother and younger brothers.

My parents had allowed Imogene and me the option of dropping out of school after seventh grade. Something we both wanted to do so we could work. 

But Mother held dreams that one of us would graduate from high school. Maybe that could be Ellen. For her eighth-grade graduation day, I crocheted a collar to dress up her sweater. Una had knitted a winter hat and had attached a brooch of a flying bird. We were both so proud of her.

 That morning before Ellen left for school, Mrs. Quick asked about Ellen’s goal in life.

“To make lots of money,” answered Ellen.

“Dear heart, if that is your goal, you better find a wealthy husband.”

Hands on her hips, Ellen retorted, “I don’t want a husband. I don’t think I’ll mind children. I like Fiona’s twins, but I don’t think I’ll want a husband.”

Mrs. Quick’s mouth curled into a sneer before she gave a classic honking laugh that started Paulie going with imitations, and the two presented a chorus of loud laughter.

“If that’s your wish, then that’s what you’ll get,” said Mrs. Quick. “Too many girls do.”           

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 27: Sam

I liked hearing Sheila laugh. Normally, she smiled or sometimes grinned, but flat-out laughter was rare.  October 1932 when I came home after a hard day of finding no work, Sheila’s eyes were merry as she pulled me into the kitchen and snickered.

“I’ve a lesson in baseball today. Frankie Quick couldn’t contain his joy when Babe Ruth hit a home run during the World Series game. Frankie said Ruth ‘called his shot’—don’t know what that means but it delighted Frankie. He hooted and hollered as Babe Ruth ‘rounded the bases.’ Sam, it was good to see the boy delighted.”

He’d skipped work to listen to the afternoon game in our front room

“He rooted for the Yankees with his whole heart.”  Sheila seemed impressed.

“I would have thought he’d want the Cubs to win,” I said. “They play in Chicago.”

“Sam, no. Frankie is a Sox fan,” explained Sheila as if that told me everything.

“I know the World Series is important, but why is he not rooting for the home team?”

“Oh. I forgot you didn’t grow up in Chicago. It’s because Frankie is Southside. Sam, the Northside is not his home. Meaning he cheers for anyone who is against the Northside.”

“You grew up Northside,” I said.

I got a look. Speaking of Sheila’s life on the Northside never went well.

Later when I caught Frankie alone, he gave me the play-by-play of the World Series game.

“He called his shot despite what anyone on the street says. He pointed where he was going to hit the homerun. Some Cub fans want to spoil it and say he held up two fingers to show he knew he had two strikes. But that ain’t it. The homerun went where he pointed. So there. Babe is the greatest ever.”

I didn’t want to wreck his moment with questions. I patted him on the shoulder.

“Hellava moment,” I said.

Frankie responded, “Hellava moment. Um, but don’t tell my mother I said that.”

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 28: Sheila

After Ellen graduated from Beale School, Sam and I thought we saw a new grownup attitude in her. She threw herself into studying and adapted to her freshman year at the distinguished Englewood High School. She even had friends, more than just Eleanor. Deidre no longer provided an excuse for anger, and Ellen seemed less resentful. But I was wrong. Brewing was a stubborn pickiness.

            By the end of October as the Presidential election drew near, Mr. Reese stomped into our flat, once again without knocking. Sam had already left to look for work, and Ellen readied herself for school. I busied myself putting together Ellen’s sandwich, and Paulie whistled part of a song he had heard on the radio: Flight of the Bumblebee.

            “How do you and your husband plan to vote in November?” Mr. Reese demanded.

            He startled me. I didn’t know how to answer. Our voting was none of his business. “What do you mean?”

            “Your vote for President. Are you voting for Hoover?”

            “I think Roosevelt is the better man,” I stammered, “but I haven’t been following the news. Has something happened?”

That was a partial lie. I read every newspaper before it went onto the bottom of Paulie’s cage. Sam and I hadn’t talked about our vote, but I found Hoover despicable because of Hoovervilles.  

Destitute people lived in bird nest houses constructed from crates and cardboard. I knew they bathed from a bucket of cold water—if they had a bucket. Sam knew Mike Donovan, a retired miner who played the role of mayor in the encampment on Randolph Street near Grant Park. Soup kitchens and shared work gathering food kept the residents fed, but when times got really bad, teams of people went through the garbage at local hotels for usable food. My hands trembled with fear that our family could be a couple months away from joining squatters.

            “If you like Roosevelt, then what’s a Hoover sign doing in your front window?” asked Mr. Reese.

            “I put it there,” said Ellen as she left her pantry bedroom. Her defiance thrust out her chin.

            “Why?” asked Mr. Reese. “You can’t vote, so Mrs. Harkleroad, I ask you again, why do you tolerate a sign for Hoover in your window?” He pulled my curtain back to reveal the sign.

            “I hadn’t noticed it,” I said and turned to Ellen. “How long has it been there?”

            “Long enough!” answered Mr. Reese.

            “I want it there,” said Ellen. “It’s mine.”

            His eyes narrowed. “Well, young lady, you have a lot to learn. It’s not good to have any sign in a window, particularly the wrong sign. I can’t have my windows broken or my building burned because a renter is willful and alienates someone who backs the other party. All my tenants know that no political signs are to be posted. It’s also not a good idea to wear a button either. Take the sign down.”

            “No,” said Ellen.

            Mr. Reese’s face flushed. I took hold of Ellen’s elbow and gave it a hard squeeze, but she stared at Mr. Reese, the way an animal might before biting. My pulse throbbed in my throat. Why was Ellen picking this fight?

Mr. Reese’s mouth hardened. “Mrs. Harkleroad, do you stand with your daughter’s decision to keep the sign posted?”

            Ellen turned her face toward me. Her hands had formed fists at her sides. I knew I should reprimand her but not in front of him. Nothing good could come from a public scolding.

            “I want to talk to my daughter about this, Mr. Reese. Alone.”

 I wished Paulie would stop whistling. His ragged shrill and Mr. Reese’s insistence made my heart pound harder.

            Reese’s mouth had a sour grin, eyes narrowed. “I don’t want to see the Hoover sign or any political sign when I pass by tonight. Otherwise, this is how it’s gonna go. Since you are endangering my building, I’ll remove Paulie tonight to keep him safe. I imagine you’ll all miss him. Of course, your rent will go up. I admit you do me a favor by keeping my bird, but other tenants are willing to look after Paulie for reduced rent. So that you know, I meet a potential renter every day. You don’t like my rules about renters being neutral when it comes to campaigning, you and your family must not want to live in this flat. The choice is yours. Keep the sign, lose the flat.”

            As he walked out the door, he turned and added. “Paulie’s a pretty good whistler. Perfect pitch I’d say. You’re gonna miss him.”

Before the front door closed, Ellen yelled, “I’m not taking it down.”

            I had expected Eleanor to walk in, but I was grateful for some time to calm down Ellen. I asked, “Why is the sign important to you?”

            “Because at school nobody likes Hoover. Even Mrs. Quick says she can’t stand him. It’s not fair.”

            “If you talk to your father or read the newspaper, you’ll learn that Hoover hasn’t helped the working man.”

“I don’t care.” She twisted away from me.

“Ellen, I don’t understand. You’re putting us at risk.” She didn’t answer. “We could lose our home.”

“People should accept others even if they make a mistake or are forced to do something really bad. Nobody likes Hoover. I just wanted him to know that one person on this street likes him.”

“First of all, you are playing the part of a fool if you think Hoover will ever pass our building. He will never know you are his champion. Secondly, I’m taking the sign down before your father gets home and learns how you have threatened us. Ellen, if you truly want to become political, read newspapers.  Do you have solid reasons of what he’s done to earn your support?”

She shook her head and said softly, “No.”

I ripped the sign from our window and hoped no one had noticed it. Chicago was a Democratic city. I wondered if Sam’s boss in Jackson Park might have seen the sign. Would they refuse to hire him in the future?

Ellen stomped off to her bedroom.

Eleanor finally summoned courage and slipped into our flat from the safety of the hallway, peeped about to check if the coast was clear.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Harkleroad. I tried to tell her yesterday that the sign was wrong, but she wouldn’t listen to me. Is . . . Ellen ready for school?”

“I’m not going to school,” called Ellen from the pantry.

“Good,” I said. “I have laundry you can help me do, and there are cotton stockings to mend.”

When Ellen came out of her room, she held her books and hurried off with Eleanor.

All day I wondered what had happened to our girl who had been so peaceful once she started high school.

After the girls left, Paulie’s whistle continued to chase the bumblebee.

When Sam came home from work, I told him of Ellen’s rebellion and my worries for her.

He took every small detail in stride without fury. Before the soup warmed for our supper, Ellen slunk into the flat, attempting to remain hidden. Sam caught her elbow as she passed and asked her to sit with him for a moment on the front stoop.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 29: Sam

            “I hear you had a disagreement with Reese.”

            “Mother destroyed my Hoover sign.”

            Ellen seemed absorbed in rolling and twisting the hem of her dress into a rope. She never looked at me.

I pulled out a broken cigarette and lit it. Stray pieces of tobacco fell from the paper onto my shirt. I brushed the leaves off and drew smoke into my lungs to soothe old memories.

            “Have I ever told you about the Pinkertons? About how they almost bashed in my head?”

            That got her attention. Ellen rolled her eyes.  “No-o.”

            “You were little, not quite walking. The mine had two men die a week before. Those of us who were almost caught in a cave-in knew we had to do something about the conditions before the whole lot of us were burned or buried alive like the Cherry miners. We called for union action. Owners and bosses threatened to fire all of us and brought in the Pinkertons. A ruthless group. Before the Civil War, they were national detectives who protected trains. Then they moved to busting heads of Union men—and worse.

“They threatened to replace us. Kids as young as thirteen stood ready to take our jobs. But we needed to make our complaints known for every miner’s safety. We rallied without our shovels that first day. The Pinkertons carried clubs and bats. It wasn’t like the Irish coal miners in Pennsylvania. Those poor so-and-so’s got hanged. It wasn’t like the Ludlow Massacre either. An army soaked miner’s tents with kerosene and dropped a match. Had a gatling gun ready. Children died. But the Pinkertons I faced wouldn’t have minded killing a few of us to send that same message. “You’re nobody.”

            “I saw one big thug take out after a young father. Weeks before, neighbors had celebrated the birth of his first-born son. When Pinkerton swung his club, I pushed the young man but not far enough. The club fell, broke his arm, but at least he was alive. Pinkerton’s fury then fell on me. He swung again at my head. I pretended to collapse and rolled before it struck the side of my face, but he managed to hit my cheekbone and above my ear.”

            I took off my worker’s cap, revealed my bald head to Ellen but still needed to move what hair I had on the side of my head to show my raised scar.

            “Your mother patched me up as best as she could. As you know, we rarely had money for doctors. Many men took a beating that day. The next day we brought our sharpened shovels, but all the Pinkertons carried guns and brought police. If it weren’t for the owners needing to move coal, they may have closed the mine for good. We came to an agreement on safety down the mine. But before that, several of us landed in jail, almost all of us had head wounds, two men had broken arms to mend, one a broken leg, three family men died from their injuries. Do I need to tell you what that did to the well-being of their families?”

            “No, sir.”        

            “Men sacrificed for each other to make life better. Ellen, what I want to know is how important is this poster? Do you see the poster making a working man’s life better? Or, did you want to spit into Mrs. Quick’s eye because she’s a Roosevelt supporter? How willing are you to face someone like the Pinkertons?”

            When I looked at her, Ellen’s face glowed red.

            “Spit in her eye, I guess,” said Ellen softly. “She makes me angry, Dad. I can’t help it.”

            “Then you owe an apology to Mr. Reese. You need to let him know what you did was rude . . . and ignorant.”

She looked shocked at my words.

            “Do I have to apologize to Mrs. Quick?”

            “No need. But you might mention to Mr. Reese how much you love Paulie and his whistling. It might put you back into his good graces.”

            Her chin fell to her chest.

            “Let me know when Mother’s soup is ready,” I said.

 Ellen went into the flat, and I continued to sit, trapped by memories, even though my cigarette was but a stub.

That time the Pinkertons broke up our union meeting played out in my head. Ellen a toddler, Deidre a handful at six.  Sheila told me all the miners’ cabins could hear the shouting and swearing of Pinkertons and strikers. Families huddled at windows and doors.

Deidre’s curiosity, however, got the better of her. Barefoot, she ran away from Sheila who tended to Ellen. I don’t know how much of our beatings Deidre actually saw, but when she ran toward me during the chaos of a fight, she looked thrilled, not scared. I was on the ground and too dizzy to move. Blood ran down my neck and soaked into my shirt.

Here was this mite of a girl running. Her chubby legs and feet were dirty. Breakfast jam smeared the front of her dress. I remember holding out my hand to grab her before she got to Pinkerton.

Deidre, however, looked up at the towering Pinkerton man with joy in her big blue eyes and reached out to him with both arms raised. He picked her up, swinging her legs back and forth. I heard her giggle.

            “You’re a pretty thing,” he said. “I bet you like candy. How’d you like to be my little girl? I could bash in your father’s head, and then you could come home with me. Would you like that?”

            Deidre nodded her head with great enthusiasm. Her curls bounced.

            Pinkerton laughed again expressing ridicule. “Guess we know where you stand, buddy. Brats are like that.”

            I tried to get off my knees, but the ground swirled. I hated him. If we met again, I swore I’d kill him. A sharpened coal shovel to the back of the neck would do it.

            He opened his fingers and let Deidre’s body drop to the ground. When she landed, her knees buckled, and she fell onto her backside. She let out a shrill wail that stopped other Pinkertons from doing more damage. They all stalked off laughing, leaving most of us on the ground.

            Miners rose from their knees and thanked the little girl whose scream had stopped the brutality. Deidre soaked up the attention.

But in the days that followed, I knew something wicked fed Deidre’s thoughts. Ellen once again became her target for cruelty. Deidre encouraged Ellen to play with my hatchet. She stroked her own wrist before handing the blade to Ellen. Thank God for Una being at home to swat Deidre’s behind.

Nothing Sheila nor I did could coax, reprimand, or punish Deidre into being an obedient child. She came to love the thrill of terror.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 30: Eleanor

That first year at Englewood High School, Ellen and I added a new friend to our team of Eleanor and Ellen. At lunch, Fern Allnutt, a quiet girl with short black curly hair. Fern shared a Snickers candy bar twisted and pulled into three pieces. Ellen had her usual cream cheese or egg sandwich with raisins or honey that her mother had cut into three pieces. I brought peanut butter and a swipe of grape jelly on bread. Englewood High School provided milk. But the meager lunch didn’t keep our stomachs from growling in the afternoon as we headed to the library to whisper secrets and read homework. Not even our hunger notified us of time passing.

Ellen and I had graduated from the Beale School, but Fern had attended a different, mostly Black, grammar school. The three of us should have known what would happen if we stayed too long at the library, but one day we had lost track of time, forgetting Englewood could be dangerous after dark.

I stupidly suggested we walk Fern back to Ellen’s flat to see the amazing bird. I admit I knew the rules about sunset, but I liked Fern, and she was excited to see a real parrot. We were pals, and I forgot Fern was Black.

Because people are annoyingly suspicious of each other, residents on quiet streets find trouble. Italians and Irish mugged each other with a death stare and name calling. Sometimes a punch. Depending on the mood, baseball bats come out. People mostly stayed on their own streets after dark. But special challenges seemed to be saved for Blacks.

            We walked into the Harkleroad flat and surprised Mrs. Harkleroad.

“You’re so late,” she said. “It’s dark.”

“We want Fern to see Paulie,” I said.

Quickly she made a sugar sandwich for each of us: a slice of her homemade bread with a thick coating of oleo and a sprinkle of sugar. I watched as she eyed the window and looked at me. But I foolishly didn’t get it.

            We gathered around Paulie’s cage, and Ellen told what the bird could do. Paulie, who I swore liked to show off, did his special telephone ringing and coal tumbling before imitating Mrs. Quick’s donkey laughter. We were all laughing our heads off when Mrs. Quick came into the flat without knocking. She looked angry.

            “Who is this child?” she asked.

            “This is my friend Fern Allnutt,” said Ellen. I saw Ellen’s jaw set. I knew she hated Mrs. Quick.

            “She’s Black,” said Mrs. Quick.

            There it was, I felt fear rise.

 Englewood could be nasty about Black people in white neighborhoods or white people in Black. Fern’s face looked downward. I knew she felt scolded.

            “She’s my friend,” said Ellen as her face rose in defiance and her spine stiffened. “She looks brown to me, not Black.”

            Mrs. Harkleroad came forward. “Ellen, manners,” she warned.

            Mrs. Quick looked toward the window.

            “How is this friend of yours going to get home?” asked Mrs. Quick as she wiped her palms on her stiff white apron.

            “She’ll walk,” said Ellen.

Even I thought Ellen was disrespectful.

            “A Black child walking through a White neighborhood in the dark? You think none of our neighbors noticed that you brought her into this building by the front door? Because one of them could be waiting for her when she walks out. Do you expect a Black child to walk all alone on 59^th Street?”

            “I’ll walk her home,” said Ellen. “Eleanor will come too.”

            I sort of gulped. I didn’t mind being seen with Fern in the daytime—but at night? In the dark? In a Black neighborhood. I felt scared because it was disrespectful to both a White neighborhood and a Black one.

            “Even better,” said Mrs. Quick. “Two White girls in a Black neighborhood after sundown.”

            Fern’s head came up from staring at her shoes. “I don’t think anyone where I live will hurt them. They are my friends.”

            “Oh, child, I’m not concerned about your neighborhood. I’m concerned about our neighbors,” said Mrs. Quick.

            Mrs. Harkleroad removed her soft, flowery apron and came to stand next to Mrs. Quick. “Sam will be home at any time. He can walk Fern home.”

            “An old, White man with a Black child at a time when there is racial tension even between Italians and Irish. Sheila, our neighbors are also beginning to take note of Germans. The newspapers tell stories every day of groups of White boys attacking—usually other White boys—but exceptions have always been made for a Black young man or older White men walking where they shouldn’t.”

            Fern began to cry. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

            That’s when Mrs. Quick startled me. She went to Fern and wrapped her arms around her.

            “There, there,” she said, “it’s not you who is causing trouble. I’ll fix this, and it will all work out. Promise me that you’ll stay with Mrs. Harkleroad until I get back. We’ll get you home safely.” She looked up and glared at Ellen.  “Some people don’t have the sense they were born with.”

            Mrs. Quick left, and Ellen started in on how much she hated her upstairs neighbor who spied on the family and never had a good word for anyone.  Mrs. Harkleroad asked Ellen to hold her tongue, and Paulie used a phrase he learned from Mrs. Quick. He sounded peeved. “Lord, help us.”

            Twenty minutes later with the sky a navy-black, Mrs. Quick returned. She walked into the flat with Miss Wisdom, our former sixth grade teacher who taught us to say and understand Black. Ellen and I were embarrassed the teacher we loved saw us in a mistake. But Miss Wisdom wasn’t angry.

“My girls,” she said with her warm smile. “I haven’t seen my girls in such a long time.” She turned to me. “You still going to the library and reading?”

“I am,” I said.

She put her arm around Fern. “And I hear this child needs a companion to go home.”

We were embarrassed and hung our heads. Ellen’s face turned red. I think it was more in anger at Mrs. Quick.

And yet, Mrs. Quick had a soft, almost playful look. The two women had planned to escort Fern through the White streets to her home in a Black neighborhood. It was dangerous enough, but Mrs. Quick had a reputation of being a scold, and Miss Wisdom had been a teacher for a hundred years and in all that time had taught half the sixth graders of Englewood. No one messed with Miss Wisdom. Nor with Mrs. Quick.

“You know my daddy is White?” began Miss Wisdom, “He is a very old man now, but he still has the ear of important men. He lives in a big house in Hyde Park. My mama may only have been a domestic servant when she had me at fifteen years old, but my daddy loves us both. I’m told I look just like him because of my big jaw. He sent me to college and has made it clear to important people in Englewood, I am to be left alone.” Her eyes crinkled as she gave a small laugh. “Still, I’m careful. Sometimes teaching White children in class is not easy.”

A red-headed boy named Reggie came to my mind.

I knew Miss Wisdom told us an adult story. Something she didn’t share with too many people.

“Mrs. Quick and I sometimes walk to church together. See this white apron she wears? Stiff as a board. Well, when we walk past the Catholic church, no one notices a Black woman and a White woman, they see this apron. Parishioners nod their heads and say, ‘Sister.’ They must think she’s a nun.”  A merriment came into the eyes of Mrs. Quick and Miss Wisdom. “Don’t you worry, Fern. We’ll get you home safe.”

            Once the three of them left for Fern’s flat, Ellen broke into a fit of anger and tears. Her Mother tried to calm her down.

            “But now Fern will never want to come back here,” cried Ellen.

            “You can still meet at the library. And if we plan a little bit, maybe she can visit on a Saturday during the daylight, or you can invite her to see a movie with you and Eleanor.”

            “Maybe the three of us can take the streetcar to Jackson Park and have a picnic,” I said.

            Ellen wasn’t moved.

            “It’s not fair. Fern’s my friend. Do you know that at school kids call each other names? Some of them are not nice. One boy who is named Ding Yee is called Ding-ee? Why do people have to make fun of his name. I hate living here.”

“Do the kids call you names?” asked Mrs. Harkleroad.

Ellen’s lips tightened.

I answered for her. “Some of the kids call her Squirt because she’s little.”

“I’m older than you,” fired Ellen. “They call you bad names too.” She turned to face me, “Do you like when they call you Her Jew-ness.”

“No, I don’t like it, but I’ve been called worse. Fern also has been called terrible names.”

            I thought of all the taunting because I was Jewish, all the mean questions about how Jews supposedly behaved and what foulness we ate. Squirt seemed a mild rebuke of a skinny, poor, White girl. While I had put up with threats, at least I had only come home with small cuts and purple bruises.  I knew Fern and her family had suffered far worse. The second day of high school, two boys held her down and cut off Fern’s long hair on the left side of her head.

            “Yes, Ellen, the world is cruel and unfair,” said Mrs. Harkleroad. “I would certainly have it be different. But we live here in Englewood. At least Mrs. Quick recognized Fern’s danger and did something about it rather than stewing in complaints. Either you find a way forward and change the world as you want it to be or you become like Deidre and add to everyone’s misery. It’s your choice.”

Lost Voices/Prochaska

1933

Chapter 31: Sam

In May 1933, I met Sally Rand. Yep, me Sam Harkleroad got a chance to see Miss Rand enter The Century of Progress on a white horse. A slip of a girl, looked to be in her twenties, came into the fair as Lady Godiva. From a distance, people thought she wore no clothing, but I followed horses on clean up duty. My boss and another guy spied her entrance.

“I want that girl,” said the big man who wore a suit. “She’s gonna headline.”

“You,” yelled my boss, “follow the damn horse and clean up anything offensive the horse drops. Be quick about it. I don’t want to hear any ladies complaining about smells.”

            Miss Rand entered to appreciation and jeering. I can swear she was not naked because I followed on dung duty. Her costume? Lots of flowing hair to cover important spots. But she had something else protecting her privacy. It put me in mind of tight, pinkish long johns. My eyes followed her, but that day wasn’t when she noticed me.

The first day of her dance shows—waving seven-pound ostrich feather fans to cloak her body—Miss Rand was arrested three times that I heard about. Each time the judge released her for her next show.  I heard that the judge thought it was frivolous to jail a woman who wanted to dance. And she danced. On many days, she performed sixteen shows—if you count those at the Chicago Theater in the Loop.

            My second sighting of Miss Rand was near her new dressing area a few days later.  Nine goats got away from the agricultural pen and went for a stroll. I was sent out as a specialist in dung pick-up. I noticed a group of women, well into their forties and dressed in fancy clothing and hats. They pulled in tight to each other and became louder with their shouting. Most carried a Bible. They made known their disapproval of Miss Rand’s naked dancing. They shouted, “If men aren’t going to do something about lewd behavior, we will.” Personally, I thought the seven ladies were too well-dressed for a mob. The disgrace they planned to heap on Miss Rand was sure to soil their clothing if the assault resulted in shoving. They kept up their rage and threats, however, and drew a crowd of listeners.

One burly bodyguard with cauliflower ears came out of a door and stood near Miss Rand’s private entrance with his arms folded over his chest. He reminded me of brutal Pinkerton men at a coal miners’ union meeting. His probable method of controlling a crowd? Knock heads with a club and toss them aside like kindling. But in this new job of bodyguard for a single woman who other women wanted to attack? The guy’s eyes said he didn’t have the gumption to take on the well-dressed ladies, who, after all, might have the support of well-to-do or connected husbands.

The women continued to pump up their volume and cite Bible passages that made no sense to me. I hung around and watched the hooting about nakedness. To my way of thinking, none of them had followed the white horse down the street. Her nakedness was in the mind of the watchers.

The bodyguard became nervous as the women took more steps forward. I didn’t have the height like the bodyguard, but I had a few tricks from resisting Pinkertons. I had my broom, shovel, and a pole to help pick up mess and loose trash. The garbage container I pushed along had dung from goats.

When the women were in full throat of calling down God’s wrath on all naked women, two larger women charged toward Miss Rand’s door. Well, not charged exactly, firmly walked ahead with menacing eyes.

I slung the animal dung in front of them, then turned my keister to their direction. Holding the pole out to one side of me and the broom in the other hand, I created a wide barrier and backed up toward the women, aiming my hindquarters directly at them. Of course, that meant I walked through the animal droppings. Watching them with quick looks over my shoulders, I saw the women move left, then right, and finally retreat. I heard a few exclaim, “I never!”

The women seemed rattled at my dirty shoes, clothing, and backside coming toward them. Three tried to make an end run around me toward the door, but the brute stationed at the door saw my example, and as the ladies came around, he too grabbed the end of the pole which extended the barrier I had established. Pinkerton turned his back to the women and triggered their full retreat as he led with his rear end also aimed at the women. His long arms stretched out to his sides. Without touching any of the ladies, together we kept them from entering her dressing room and assaulting Miss Rand. Our tactic provided enormous entertainment for an increasing crowd who enjoyed a good laugh.   

When I got back to work, this time cleaning up after a bunch of dairy cows that traveled to a farm exhibit, the Pinkerton guy found me.

“Miss Rand wants to meet you when you knock off work.”

It wasn’t a request. It was an order.

“I’m supposed to keep muckers away from her, but she saw what you did and wants to meet you. Be prompt.”

I was already tired and wanted my tea, but I’ve learned to take Pinkerton types seriously. They had standing with the police and played by their own rules. I had examples from my coal mining days of how low my standing was.

After stowing my shovel, broom, and pole, I knocked at Miss Rand’s dressing room door with my hat in my hand. A big, black Packard waited nearby. Pinkerton eyed me through a crack as he opened the door and stood aside for me to enter. The flowery smell hit me first: light, fresh like a backyard garden. Miss Rand rose from a chair to greet me. She held out her hand to shake.

“No, ma’am,” I said. “I haven’t been able to wash my hands after work.” I was embarrassed by the dirt and didn’t want to remember all the dung I had picked up that day. I looked at my scuffed, caked shoes. “Please ma’am, just allow me to stand here.”

“Nonsense,” she said and grabbed my hand with the two of hers. “You took a chance today, and I want to thank you. Please sit down.”

“Ma’am, this isn’t right,” I said. “I’m too dirty to be in a nice place like this.”

“I could ask Daniels to make you sit,” she said in a teasing voice. “Please. I want to talk and find out why you helped me when those women wanted to bash in my brains.”

That started our conversation of more than a few minutes. She was delighted with her very own dressing room. “They want me to be a headliner,” she said and brought out cups of tea, little sandwiches of minced ham, and two wet towels. She never commented on my manners or the growling of my belly, triggered by the smell of food. First, she wiped her hands on a towel and nodded for me to do the same. I swallowed my shame of being dirty in her presence. The towel darkened with my grime.

Miss Rand shared her background of wanting to be a ballet dancer and the troubles she’d seen since she took up exotic performance. I ended up telling her about mining, about moving to Englewood, about Sheila and my girls, but the divide between Ellen and Deidre became a big topic. Miss Rand looked sad.

“I’ve known jealousy,” she said. “Maybe you’ve heard that along with me being hauled off to jail, I have a major argument with another fan dancer about who picked up the fans first: her or me.” Miss Rand giggled and had a naughty look. “I like to remind people that Cleopatra was the first fan dancer.” She chuckled again. “But just the same, Faith Bacon is making a fuss that she used fans before me. I bet a who-was-first disagreement triggers your daughters’ arguing. I’d like to meet your Ellen.”

“She’d like that,” I stammered. “But your schedule must be busy.”

“It is busy since I took that ride on a horse and shocked people. Daniels has been assigned to be my nursemaid by the promoter. Let’s do this: I’m planning to return next year if they continue the Progress Fair. If things haven’t gotten any better between your daughters, you bring your family to meet me. I’ll see to it you’re able to visit any exhibit you want. And you’ll give me a shot at talking to your daughter Ellen about how to handle a rival.”

I didn’t know what to say, besides a year was a long way off. I figured Miss Rand would forget as soon as I exited her dressing room, and in the coming year, maybe Ellen would let go of her anger toward her sister.

I agreed and shook Miss Rand’s hand. Her skin was smooth, but her hands were muscular like a man’s. Probably that comes with hoisting seven-pound fans around her body ten to sixteen times a day.

Daniels escorted me out with his meat-hook hand on my elbow. I got his intent. In his eyes, I was a nuisance. But once outside, he didn’t let me go. Instead, he opened the front passenger door of the Packard.   

“Miss Rand insists I drive you home. There is a hamper in the backseat for your family.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Look buddy, I’m driving you home,” snarled Daniels. “Miss Rand is generous. If you think she’ll forget about you next year, you’re wrong. I can tell she likes what you did for her. Seems to make you a friend for life. Now get in the car and tell me your address.”

I couldn’t imagine what Sheila would say. Me coming home in a Packard?

With a hamper of food? Daniels got out of the car and carried the hamper to the door. Sheila’s face filled with fear and questions.

“Where you want this?” asked Daniels.

“On the kitchen table,” I said.

He dropped the hamper on the table, tipped his hat to Sheila and left. Sheila’s face was filled with wonder.

“Sam, are you hurt? What’s going on?”

I smiled and began to explain how I helped save Sally Rand from an embarrassment, and how she generously rewarded my efforts. Sheila began to unpack the wicker hamper to an array of tinned food.

“It’s food! Peas, corn, carrots. Sam, a canned ham? Corned beef, rice. Look. Cheese, salami, crackers. Cans of peaches, pears. Boxes of Jell-O.” Her fingers pulled food from the hamper and arranged them in a particular order.

“What are you doing?”

“Some of this will be for now, but I’ll put much of it in the back of the pantry for winter—when it’s harder for you to find work.”

Sheila is practical, not given to any moment of bingeing. Her goal has always been to keep calm, keep control. I’d wait until next summer before telling her of Miss Rand’s request to meet us. But before then, I wanted to set aside some money. In the company of the fan dancer, I didn’t want Sheila to feel less than the younger woman. I thought that maybe I could talk Sheila into splurging on a new dress or a hat before next summer. A new pair of shoes? Or maybe just perfume to make her smell like a flower garden. Something to prove to her that as a coal miner’s wife, she also has standing.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 32: Fiona

The weather in June of 1933 was warm, and Dish Night at the movies continued to give away plates, cups, and saucers. Killarney green and ritz blue became favorites. Occasionally, the theater offered serving bowls if the movie was a stinker and the theater wanted to lure an audience.

Married and out of work with twin toddlers who needed constant chasing, I had to forgo going to movies even though I wanted the new color of plates Florentine yellow. My love of colors, however, couldn’t pass up the rumor that on Wednesday the giveaway was a juice squeezer. I was simply mad to get it and pictured the juicer in my kitchen catching sunlight though cobalt blue. Cobalt blu-oo! Even the sound of it thrilled me. I knew I’d be giddy every time I squeezed an orange or lemon. Deep, glistening cobalt Blu-oo made me imagine a time when the Depression would be over.

In my dream world, Vlad might work at a stylish clothing store in the Loop or maybe help men pick gift jewelry for their wives. We’d live in a posh neighborhood like Evanston or Hyde Park and have many more children running around. I’d buy Dad a new wool suit, and Mother wouldn’t have to wear cotton stockings that always sagged and wrinkled around her ankles and knees. They identified her as poor and older than she was. In our new flat, I’d have a piano to play show tunes every night. Cole Porter’s “Let’s Do it, Let’s Fall in Love” or “Night and Day.”

I asked Una if she’d been to the movies lately. She hadn’t. Una is more like Mother in her spending, particularly since she lost her position with Marshall Field’s. She calls herself thrifty and winds bits of string into a ball, melts down and reshapes stubby pieces of candles and soap, saves little pieces of clean butcher paper for food lists or big pieces for sewing together a journal.

I dressed the twins and loaded them into the ratty buggy for a visit to Una.

“Isn’t there one night, let’s say Wednesday, when you can get away to see a film?”

I hadn’t checked which film was playing because I was really after a juicer. I hoped Edgar G. Robinson had another film out, but I really didn’t care if I had already seen it. I touched my pocket that held my handkerchief tied around a precious dime, the price of seeing a film.

“So, what d’ya say? You want to go to the movies like old times?”

Pregnant with a fresh scrubbed face and dressed in an overly big, shapeless housedress, Una was still the prettiest of all us girls. Her big blue eyes revealed delight. Her ivory skin and bow shaped lips gave her a Hollywood glamor. Only her hands had begun to redden and chap with use. Laundry soap had taken its toll as had wiping down the kitchen with vinegar water. I felt sad that the coming baby would dim her outward brightness.

“I have to make dinner for Hemming, and you have dinner for Vlad and the children,” she said. Her orderly mind always had an agenda.

“Goes without saying. I’ll feed the children before Vlad comes home, and Vlad will be happy with a sausage and a tablespoon of mustard. Mother and Dad have been asking for time with their grandchildren, so-oo . . . You in?”

Una looked unsettled, as if two babies in the evening might be a burden for our parents. “Una, movie night. Giving away a juice squeezer. In cobalt blu-oo.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll go, but you have to let me buy the tickets. Consider it your birthday present. I’ll give Mother the juicer.” Una tilted her head and raised her chin. “Since it’s cobalt blu-oo.”

She flashed a teasing, naughty smile and her eyes turned merry

 On Wednesday, I dropped off the twins at Mother’s. She was thrilled and made little pancakes with honey for them. Una met me and we linked arms to walk to the theater on Halsted Street. Una bought two tickets for twenty cents to see Sign of Four, a British made Sherlock Holmes mystery that came out a year ago. No wonder the theater gave away a squeezer. Obviously, they knew the film alone, wouldn’t draw an audience. Not on a Wednesday. Lucky me, I clutched my juice squeezer to my chest.

During the movie I fought to keep my own troubles at arm’s length. Vlad had accepted defeat and given up competing with the more aggressive men who were selling ice cream in the park. Some of them had added singing to draw customers. Some told jokes. He had asked me to stop expecting him to be something he is not. “Accept me for who I am.” His pleading broke my heart, but I just wanted him to see the beautiful human being I saw in him.

Vlad lacked confidence as ice cream softened in the afternoon. His stutter didn’t help the sales. Children with no money to spend taunted him about his stammer. Nor could I convince him that his smoldering good looks could get him a job as a model or even a walk-through in a Hollywood film. He couldn’t see my vision for him.

After the film as we walked home in the dark, I spilled out my fears to Una. Vlad’s struggle—to decide between going factory to factory looking for a job or temporarily moving back to Iowa to work on his brother’s farm—finally ended. He’d decided corn wouldn’t care how he spoke. His brother answered his letter and welcomed him back for short term work—but only for one season. “Brother, in these times, I have only so much charity,” his brother answered.

“The frightening part for me?” I said to Una. “His pay will have to wait until near Christmas when the ledgers are balanced. His oldest brother thinks Vlad is lazy because he stutters. No guarantee Vlad will be paid like a farm hand and be able to send any money home. Oh, and to add to my worries, I’m pretty sure I’m pregnant again. Three months. Remember, I always said I wanted a big family.” I hoped I sounded cheerful about this new addition.

Una took my hand and squeezed it hard. “Pregnant? Does Vlad know?”

“Not yet. No reason to put more pressure on him to be successful.”

“But he will be home by Christmas, right?” asked Una.

“Maybe. I want him home by the time this child is born.”

I tried to sound confident, like it didn’t matter. But three children certainly did matter to a man who couldn’t find work. I saw how failures fractured him and turned him toward lethargy and silence.

“When does he plan to leave for Iowa?” asked Una.

“This weekend.”

I thought I had shed all the tears I could have, but in telling my sister that my husband was leaving only brought on more. Despair took control, and I wept into Una’s shoulder. The children and I would have no income, therefore, no flat, no food unless Vlad’s brother took pity on us and sent something. But why would he when he labeled his younger brother as a do-nothing.

“Fiona, do you have any savings?” asked Una.

I shook my head. “We never had much. The birth of the twins took it all. I only have three dollars in my pocketbook.”

“He’s leaving you with nothing?” Una sounded angry.

“Vlad needs train fare for Iowa.” I defended my husband because I had seen him come to the end. Ice cream seller—gone. Day after day looking for work—nothing. Roosevelt’s government work programs—talked about and reported in newspapers, but not in place yet. Like so many men, Vlad was out of luck. We were out of luck.

I met a crisis with panic, but Una always planned for surprises. “Don’t feel you are ever alone. Now, what do we need to do first?”

“The landlord doesn’t expect rent until next week, and I have enough food for the next three days.”

“It’s almost impossible for you to move in with us. As you know, Hemming and I only have a small one-bedroom flat. You’ll need to move in with Mother and Dad. At least short term.”

“How can I expect them to manage?”

“You’ll have to share a bed with Ellen. Twins sleep on the couch. Problem solved.”

I hated the thought of the arrangement. Between the Century of Progress and the Jackson Park maintenance, Dad had finally found enough work to pay rent and feed the three of them.  But adding three more mouths could wreck his efforts. Every time I looked at my mother, she seemed more frail, her face lined with worry. During the day, Mother was like an old watch ticking finding food and preparing meals, ticking laundry, ticking her own industry of knitting—all the while she listened to our complaints. How could I ask her to mind squirmy twins? Yet, how could I not ask for my twins’ sake?

“Do you have a lot of furniture to move?” asked Una.

“Most of the furniture I’ll leave in the alley. After all, it’s where Vlad and I found most of it. The things from Auntie Agnes I’d like to move. But Mother and Dad’s flat is small despite two bedrooms.”

“Our building has a hand-dug basement with little space,” said Una. “The coal bin and the boiler make most of it unusable for storage. Anything good will turn black with coal dust. But we can move a few things there if you wrap them really well—things you’ll need when Vlad comes home. The stumbling block will be finding you a job.” Una’s nose wrinkled as she looked up at the night sky.

“I know. Not much out there for a married woman with two babes and another on the way.”

“Domestic work. No one is choosy about who cleans their toilets. I just can’t believe women are being asked to wait until men are employed first, and married women must take a back seat to singles. Don’t they realize men have left their families to look for work?” said Una. She grabbed stray hair and brought it across her lip. Imitating a boss. Una said, “Married ladies work for pin money, buy trinkets.”

“They say Eleanor Roosevelt is going to have a meeting about getting women jobs,” I said.

“Not until November. Certainly after the Iowa harvest.” Una’s voice took on the hardness of disgust.

I rubbed my forehead. “How is any of this going to work? Let’s say I find a job. Mother can’t do her work and mind my children. I’ll come home tired and cranky, feeling guilty. That’s if I can find a job.”

“Okay, here’s what I’m thinking,” said Una. “You move in with Mother and Dad. Hemming rounds up some men from the Stockyards to move the few things you want to keep. You drop off the twins to my flat in the morning, and I’ll take care of them during the day, at least until I give birth to my first—and you and your children can sleep at Mother’s. What do you say?”

“Una, you make it sound simple.”

“It won’t be for long.” Una sounded hopeful. “Vlad will come home before Christmas for the birth of his child.”

“I’ve got maybe two months of work before I start to show. I’ve always been stocky and with my last pregnancy I was as big as a house.”

“I admit the timeline is tight, but you’ve always been the dreamer. Where are your big ideas?” asked Una. Her face grinned with conspiracy. “Tell employers that you are ten years older than you are. Just an old bag looking for work.”

That made me laugh through my tears at the absurdity of my situation.

But hopeful dreams began to take shape. I pictured forcing my twins into the buggy and pushing them to Una every morning before work. That would relieve pressure on Mother. Maybe Una could walk them back before Hemming came home or I’d pick them up. Was it possible my children and I could survive?

Is it possible? A Christmas, with a tree. Christmas, with real colorful glass ornaments.

True—I needed to face the nagging thought: who will be willing to give me a job when there are so many others looking every day?

With any luck, the new Sears Roebuck store on Sixty-third Street would open earlier than announced. Dad looked forward to it. He said the size rivaled the store in Chicago’s loop. Maybe with Sears soaking up workers, other businesses, and factories in need of workers wouldn’t be so picky about hiring a big, pregnant woman.

When Vlad comes home, he’ll work at Sears selling colorful ties or men’s French cuffs. My children will have birthday cakes. When Vlad comes home, I’ll make a big dinner and use all my colorful dishes from the films we’ve seen.

Fantasy made me calmer. I had family to help me weather the crash in my life. I grasped my glass juicer close to my chest as a good luck charm. It was cobalt blu-oo!

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 33: Sheila

I checked the sheet wrapped around Paulie’s cage to keep him quiet at night and lit one of Agnes’s gifted candles for a glow of light. Sitting in my chair with the cushion that knew my bottom, I picked up my knitting. Fiona had trouble sleeping. The rustling cover on the bed told me she tossed and turned. Soon she gave up trying to sleep next to Ellen and joined me in our front room. Quietly, she peeped at her twins fast asleep on the couch and picked up her crochet work. At first, we didn’t speak.

Now, my third daughter, Una, and I are alike. We believe in hard work and a plan. We see life as a crazy quilt: all the pieces of different patterns and strengths, slapped together, layered haphazardly, and united by different threads and a variety of strong stitches, all producing a bed covering of warmth. Such a quilt is easily repaired. Add pieces from an out-grown nightgown to any splits and tears. Good as new. Even worn fabric can add strength to older cloth as the colors and patterns complement each other.

            But my oldest daughter Fiona is more like Sam. Both welcome methodical work and doggedly, put one foot in front of the other. Endure. Find ways to breathe while accepting defeat. They count on luck to give a surprise. Perhaps an unexpected hamper of food with packages of Jell-O. Sam and Fiona are unaware how their goodness instills generosity in others.

            After Fiona’s husband boarded a train for Iowa, she and the twins moved into our flat. Her almost two-year-olds curled into the couch cushions and were safe. The backs of oak chairs kept them from tumbling as they twisted in their sleep. I listened to their soft snoring.

The first few nights were difficult for Fiona. She couldn’t sleep, which meant that I couldn’t either. My child needed me. The candlelight provided leeway for our memories.

Fiona and I have eyes in our fingers. We don’t have to look at the yarn to knit or crochet. In 1933, if a woman was lucky enough to have a dignified job like a secretary or teacher, she liked to pretend she had a wardrobe of dresses. A navy-colored dress could have multiple looks with the addition of crocheted cuffs or a collar of lace. For those with more money, a lace vest disguised yesterday’s worn dress. As we sat in the dim light, I worked on a pair of socks for a beat cop while Fiona crocheted a white collar.

“I enjoyed the soup for dinner,” whispered Fiona. “Have you made that before?”

“Something like it, but no, not exactly. The Methodist Church gave away almost fifty loaves of dark rye bread to women who stood in line. I arrived late and waited well back. As one woman carried her loaf out, she yelled, ‘Anyone want this? It’s as hard as a rock.’”

“I grabbed it. She was right about the hardness. None of my knives could cut through the crust, so I soaked it overnight in water and a little milk. In the morning I mashed the bread, fried an onion in bacon grease, added a tin of peas, carrots, and some raisins—also as hard as a nut. Let the whole pot simmer until the bits became a friendly soup.”

“I never would have thought to turn bread into soup,” said Fiona.

“Remember the Latvian neighbor we had in Valley. She gave us that dessert soup once that she made from bread and fruit.”

“Oh, I remember that. It was good. You’re so crafty.”

As we worked, Fiona kept her eyes on the dark places in the front room. Very unlike her, she began to share her fears. Every morning, she left to search for shiftwork and returned discouraged. Evening crocheting wouldn’t provide enough income for her children even if Eleanor’s mother promised to take crocheted baby clothes to the Maxwell Street market for sale.

            “I’ve already applied to the Century of Progress, but they’re not looking for any more workers. Brewer’s manufacturing of gambling cards is a slim possibility. I hear they will hire single women to run the presses but not married women. And Englewood High School needs a matron for the washrooms. But since I’m probably pregnant again, I won’t be able to hide it for long. We all know students should never see a pregnant woman lest they ask questions like: Why does that lady have a fat belly? Apparently, parents have taught that babies arrive in cabbages.”

            Mother smiled at the absurdity. “You know some high school girls leave as single mothers.”

            I had seen Fiona’s look in the eyes of women in Valley. That trapped look had been in my eyes when Sam broke his leg.

“What am I going to do? Vlad won’t be able to send money from the farm until Christmas. I refuse to be a burden to you and Dad.”

            I cringed for her situation and ours. Between his work at the world’s fair and in Jackson Park, Sam and I had a few dollars put aside. When winter arrived, he’d be laid off from Jackson Park and pick up part-time work at Peabody’s Coal.

            “Do you know anyone who needs someone to watch their children?” I asked.

            “No.” Fiona hung her head.

            “Possibly a sewing job?”

            “I can try, but I don’t think my seamstress skills are up to alterations.” Fiona wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “I was thinking of washing dishes in one of the restaurant kitchens, but they usually hire Black people and probably won’t want a pregnant White woman working alongside of them.”

            “Possible, though, because you won’t be seen by the public.” I tried to have hope in my voice.

            She stopped crocheting and her brow furrowed. My strong, happy girl was on the verge of paralyzing despair. I needed to help her.

            “Fiona, can I ask you to put emotions and judgment aside? You’ll need to be brave.”

            “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I want to pose a possibility,” I said. “It requires that you tell no one. Not even family.”

“Of course, I’ll do any job.

 “Keep an open mind. Certain . . . unsavory businesses always need cleaning ladies who generally work in the mornings and get the business ready for afternoon and evening customers.”

            “You mean bars? The news wrote Prohibition won’t end until December.”

            “True. Work could be in a tavern. Or possibly a strip club. Or places where women meet men’s needs.”

 I hadn’t mentioned to my girls the dark world of illegal work. Fiona dropped her crocheting.

“Mother?”

 “To be the cleaning lady for a tavern or a club,” I continued, “you’d need an introduction to the manager or owner. They’ll want to know you’ll keep quiet about their kind of business.”

            “I can’t betray Vlad.” Her words were measured. Her mouth, dry. “Besides, I’m pregnant.”

            “I’m not suggesting that you do. I’m talking about being a cleaning lady for those businesses.”

            “How would I even know where to apply for a job? I don’t know any of those people, and they don’t know me.” She turned away from me and looked toward the candlelight. “Why would anyone trust me?”

            I lowered my voice to a whisper because I feared Paulie, the spy, might pick up what I had to say and repeat it as a loud cackle. Fiona leaned toward me to better hear.

“Last year, when your father was out of work for over two months, and we couldn’t meet our expenses, we had to choose between heat and bread. I begged my pen-friend Viola for help. I don’t want you to repeat this to anyone. Anyone!”

“When we lived in Valley, I remember her letters always smelled of perfume.” Fiona’s face calmed.

“Years ago, I wrote condolences to her when her husband died in his flower shop.” I paused to take note of her reaction. Fiona looked sympathetic. “Dion O’Banion was Irish like my family is, and his father knew my father, so I knew Dion even though I was a few years older.”

I remembered his mother died young as did my mother. I felt a connection through our loss. I recalled Dion’s voice was like an angel’s. Even in those days, his singing at Holy Name Cathedral brought tears to my eyes.

“My father felt sorry for Dion because as a boy, he had an accident that left him with a limp. He was fooling around, like boys do, and fell away from a streetcar. An automobile ran over his leg. It never healed properly, but nobody messed with Dion. He could be cruel.”

“You lived northside, right?” asked Fiona.

“Northside of Chicago, yes. In an Irish neighborhood that many called Little Hell. It’s between Division and Chicago and east of LaSalle Street. When my father and I left, it was still a raw life. As your father would say—not for the mucky mucks.”

Fiona’s look was empty of emotion. She had no imagination of what Hell was like.

“You know when I was Ellen’s age, my mother passed from pneumonia and my sister of Scarlet Fever. Your granddad and I moved. He picked Valley for the five towns with coal mining shafts. He thought there would be more opportunities to drive a truck. Even when I returned to visit my mother’s sister, my dad warned me never to mention the O’Banion family to anyone in Valley.”

My heart pounded. Did I dare trust Fiona? Would she see the O’Banion story as a movie?

I used my warning voice. “Years after I had married your father, I’d hear from friends still living in Little Hell that Dion O’Banion married a woman named Viola in 1921. I had never met her.

“Newspapers reported, however, of the couple attending theaters with musical shows and restaurants that had dancing. I only saw her once with Dion when I visited my aunt who lived near Holy Name Cathedral. But I didn’t intrude.  Dion probably wouldn’t have recognized me, but he nodded just the same. Viola was beautiful and dressed in expensive clothing. They looked so happy. As if life could never be hard.

“In 1924 when Dion had been brutally shot in his flower shop, I wrote my condolences to Viola. I guess she wanted to share stories of the man she knew and not the kind of stories people read in the Chicago Tribune. After my letter, she and I began a regular correspondence, almost ten years now.”

“Do you think she might help me?” asked Fiona.

“I do. Last year when Dad had no work and we shivered in our flat, I swallowed my pride and borrowed money from Agnes for streetcar fare.  I visited Viola and begged for help. We talked about Dion and laughed through her tears as we recalled his definition of right guys v. wrong guys. Even years after his death, Viola missed him terribly. She promised to do her best to help Dad.”

“What kind of work?” whispered Fiona.

“Nothing illegal, but there were people who would have paid Dad big money if they knew what he knew.”

I feared naming the site of Dion’s murder: Schofield’s Flower Shop.  Viola still owned a big share of the business and had recommended Sam for the job of preparing flowers to go into arrangements, but Schofield’s did more than just create wreaths for gangster hits. Knowing when flower orders bulked in size for an elaborate funeral could be a key predictor of planned hit.

“Dad mostly trimmed chrysanthemums, and Viola paid me for knitted baby booties and hats for the flower shop. She and I thought an order of flowers for a new mother might carry a gift welcoming a new baby.” I pulled close to Fiona and spoke into her ear. “They gave your father a temporary job, and we were able to afford milk and noodles, even coal for the winter. But if I ask for Viola’s help, you cannot, cannot speak of it to anyone. Not even us.”

I watched Fiona swallow hard. “Did Dad really trim flowers?”

“It’s what he said.” Maybe the firmness of my voice was too harsh, so I added, “Viola sent us a couple chickens after he was let go.”

“They didn’t keep him on as an employee?”

“Certainly not. Remember: they are Northsiders, and we now live on the southside, therefore, outsiders. Dad is not Irish nor does he—or you—have any bond to Little Hell. The flower shop allowed Dad to work as a favor to Viola. Can you see that if Viola helps you with a job that you need to keep perfect silence? You can’t share your experiences with anyone.”

“I understand—but why not with you?”

“Because sharing becomes too easy, too ordinary. You’ll learn not to be careful with what you tell.”

I don’t think Fiona totally believed my assessment of the danger she might face, but I wanted to trust she had some knowledge of the possible consequences of repeating stories.

“With these people—my people—who have come from a hard life of survival, they won’t care if the story you tell is of an innocent birthday party or who is expecting a child. People close to Viola might have enemies who look for opportunities to harm one of them. Where is the birthday party? Who is attending? What kind of leverage or opportunity does knowing a location give an enemy. Fiona, you can’t mess up and talk. No matter how innocent or joyous the event seems.”

The next day I set off in the morning for the northside of Chicago to throw myself at Viola’s feet one more time. She was gracious and promised to contact friends who might need a cleaning lady. I came home hopeful. Two days later, a letter arrived with a name and address. I waited until Fiona and I were in the house alone before I spoke to her.

“This address is near Holy Name Cathedral.”

Fiona had a giddy look as she studied the address, but I could tell she had no recognition of what the address meant.

“I have a job? Is it at the flower shop?”

“No. A few doors down.”

            “Doing what?”

            “Cleaning, I imagine. That’s what Viola and I talked about.

            Her face turned naughty like a jokester and louder than necessary. “Will I meet Bugs—Bugs Moran?”

            I shot to my feet and felt my face redden. How could my daughter be so stupid?

“Oh, Fiona, weren’t you listening to me? I’ll be surprised if you should meet him. But if you do, you call him Mr. Moran. Is that clear? He is a northsider and will not spend his time with a nobody from the southside.”

“Did you ever meet him?”

“George? No.” I hoped she believed me. “You are to show up at this address at 9:00 in the morning.”

Fiona sat still for a moment. “I don’t care what kind of business it is. After my experiences this week, I’m ready to work. Don’t worry, Mother, I’ll behave.”

The next morning as I prepared biscuits, Paulie had a new word. He stretched as he practiced, and his gray feathers ruffled before he gave a little twitch of his throat. “Bugs,” he squawked. “Bugs, Bugs, Bugs,”

I stood still and borrowed Dorothy phrase. “Oh, Dear Lord.”

Paulie cackled like Dorothy and was off on a string of “Dear Lord. Oh, Dear Lord.”

And wouldn’t you know it, within a week Paulie had taught Fiona’s children to recite Bugs then giggle. “Bugs, bugs, bugs,” they hooted as they toddled and crawled around the flat.

When Mr. Reese popped in unannounced to visit Paulie, he heard the children and Paulie calling for bugs.

“You have bugs, Mrs. Harkleroad? Because I can’t tolerate bugs in my building.”

“No, Mr. Reese, we don’t have bugs. The children picked up the word when my daughter was out on a walk with them. She stopped to speak to a woman she knew who had children in school. It seems the school has had an outbreak of some kind of bug. And our young ones picked up the word and unfortunately taught it to Paulie.”

“Don’t encourage him to say the word anymore. Not good for a landlord to have a bird that mentions bugs.”

I told Reese, we’d do our best.

Since Fiona first entered this world, I found lying to come easily to my tongue. When Sam was out of work in Valley because of a broken arm, the company informed us we had to move to a smaller cabin. We packed into a smaller two room structure that had damp flooring. My evenings were filled by sewing rag rugs by hand. With Sam laid-off, we had no savings for Christmas. Fiona, Imogene, and Una understood the delay of Christmas, but not our two younger ones. Sam and I had decided to keep quiet and not make ourselves forlorn over explaining the missing gifts. We didn’t even have an orange for a Christmas stocking. Christmas came and went unnoticed.

Ellen only realized she missed Christmas when she went back to first grade in January. She came home crying.

“Why didn’t Santa come to our house?” she asked. “Was I bad?”

She looked pitiful. Tears welled up in her brown eyes, and her little lower lip trembled.

It was the closest I had come to selling my mother’s copper plates. If we had lived in Chicago then, I might have traveled home to the northside and sold them. But I knew the danger if particular people got wind that I had them. Better to lie to my children and keep them safe. I get lying from my father’s side of the family.

“Oh, honey,” I said as I kneeled in front of her and gave a big hug. “I’m so sorry. When we moved to a smaller miner’s cabin, I forgot to tell Santa. I’ll write to him right away and send him our address. Can you be patient for the mail? I’m sure he’s wondering where you are.”

She nodded and looked at ease.

With Sam’s bone mended and him back at work, Santa brought oranges and apples, a fat chicken for our dinner, pairs of new shoes, and a sled for all of our girls to share, warm knitted sweaters, and a doll for Ellen.

Mother’s plates stayed hidden.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 34: Fiona

It was eight o’clock in the morning when I knocked on the office door of a brick building on the northside of Chicago, two buildings down from Schofield’s Flower Shop and across the street from Holy Name Cathedral. I composed a speech to Viola while I sat in the streetcar. I didn’t tell my mother the money for transportation came from Ellen who had borrowed the coins from her friend Eleanor. I felt shamed by my desperation.

A tall woman, simply dressed, answered the door. She was a little younger than my mother and had her peppered hair pulled back and pinned to the back of her head. Her mouth had a stern smile.

“Are you Mrs. O’Banion?” I asked.

            “You must be Fiona.” I nodded, and she invited me in. “I’m Mrs. Mc Corkin. Are you ready to work today?” She smiled again as if she were unsure.

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            I wore a scarf on my head to keep my hair back from my face, and a duster apron over my clothing.

            “You’re taller than I expected and husky,” she said while eyeing me. “Some girls think they want to clean rooms but soon tire. I think you’ll be diligent. Your arms are like a cannon. Where have you worked before this?”

            “At Cracker Jack in the packaging department. Some shiftwork.”

            “That’s where you got muscles.” She smiled again. “Who is your mother?”

            “Her name is Sheila Harkleroad. She’s a friend of . . .” Mrs. Mc Corkin turned her head away from me and held up her hand.

            “Not necessary, but what’s your mother’s maiden name?”

“McCarthy.”

“McCarthy, is it?” She gave a warm smile. “What was your grandfather’s first name?

“Patrick. Patrick McCarthy.”

Mrs. Mc Corkin smiled but in a puzzling way as if she were placing Granddad into a grid of people she might know.

“What work did your grandfather do? Was he a plumber?”

“Mother said he once drove horses and wagon when he was young. By the time I was born, Granddad drove a truck. We lived in coal-mining towns, called Valley.” Remembering Mother’s warnings about Southsiders, I quickly added, “but my mother once lived in Little Hell.”

Her fingertips went to her lips. “Not many people can name Little Hell or want to.”

Was I talking too much?

“Does your mother know anyone by the last name of May?” She looked at the back of her hand. She pronounced another a name that sounded like the word music.

“Not that I know of.” I shook my head. What was Mrs. Mc Corkin after?

“Tell me something of yourself,” said Mrs. Mc Corkin with a softer look.

            “I don’t want to get off on the wrong foot, so please tell me when you’ve heard enough. I am married, and I have twins, but my husband has had to move back to Iowa to help his family, and no money will be coming from him until Christmas.” I couldn’t believe my mouth was running with my story, and I wiped away tears with my fingertips.

“I’m sorry you’ve hit a bad time. Too many people have.”

            I quickly said, “I am strong. I’ll do whatever you ask.”

            “Let me show you the room we want you to clean and see if you want the job.”

            She took me down a dark hallway and unlocked a door to a large room. Two long oak tables and two chairs sat in the middle. There were no windows, only paneling on the walls. The dead air was more than stale. Old cigar and cigarette smoke made it hard for me to breathe.

            “We hold parties here,” said Mrs. Mc Corkin. “Everything needs a good scrub: walls, tables, chairs, even the ceiling—any place dirt and smoke can hide. Be sure to wash the underside of tables and chairs. A utility closet in the hallway has a ladder so you can reach the ceiling. Buckets, brushes, and rags are in the closet. Yesterday, I melted Fels Naphtha soap into a bucket of water. It should be a gel by now. Just give it a good stir. The room needs to be absolutely clean. I don’t want to see a smear left anywhere. Think you can handle it in five days?”

            I scanned the room and noticed a black cobweb on a ceiling medallion in the middle of the room.

            “I can. I’ll be sure to get that cobweb. Spiders bother me.”

            “You have good eyes that notice things.”

            I didn’t know if my comment was a mistake. Did she mean that I notice too many details, and she should be wary of me? Or that I saw things that needed doing? I felt my stomach flutter.

            “Did you bring lunch?” she asked.

            “Yes.” I patted my pocketbook. Mother had boiled two eggs and included a slice of bread.

            “Good. Then you’ll have no reason to leave the building. There is a tin cup in the utility closet if you need a drink of water.” She nodded, but I felt her eyes take the measure of me. “I’ll leave you to it. We want it clean even if you have to wash things twice or three times.”

            The job was harder than I expected. Cigarette smoke had worked its way into the wood paneling. That day I changed to fresh water every fifteen minutes because the water became filthy. The pads of my fingers wrinkled; my hands reddened. After the fourth bucket of soapy water, my eyes finally adjusted to the strong soap dissolving the heavy coating of tobacco. When the walls dried, I scrubbed and rinsed them again. At the end of the day, I hadn’t touched the furniture or the ceiling, but the walls were clean. I told Mrs. Mc Corkin of my work before I left.

            She responded, “See you tomorrow.”

            I had hoped she’d pay me for my day of scrubbing. She hadn’t. I walked south as far as my wobbly legs would allow from the northside and into the south Loop. I jingled the only money I had in my pocket. Too tired to continue my walk, I boarded a Halsted streetcar for the trip home. That left me with insufficient money for tomorrow. I’d have to ask Mother or Una for streetcar fare. The ride was long, and I felt I was a hopeless drain to my family.

Mother asked me about the day. She did it in a way that I knew she wanted my answer to be “Fine.” 

We all lived in cold-water flats, so Mother had boiled water in a pail on the stove and had already collected cold water in the bathtub for my well-appreciated bath.

Pouring the hot water over cooler water in the tub, Mother said, “You’ve had a hard day. Now soak and relax. I’ll watch the twins when Una drops them off.”

It was like old times when I came home on weekends from the clock factory in Ottawa. Mother always seemed to know when a bath would work out the strain in my back. Of course, in Valley, bathing was done in a big, galvanized tub, pulled out, and set in the middle of the kitchen. Having privacy in a real bathroom was a luxury. In Valley our business was done in an outhouse with two seats and crumbled newsprint as paper.

I slipped the bar of Lifebuoy soap over my body. It created an oily lather but not soapy bubbles. I had to rinse the residue from my body. The pine smell lingered as I slipped my fingers under my arms and over my breasts.

Curiosity took control for a few seconds as I played hide and seek. Was that a tiny lump or a simple strain from the day’s work? I swallowed hard. Should I call my mother into the bathroom? No. My fingers searched again but couldn’t find it. I was probably mistaken. Just a batty fear seeded by the letters I received from former workmates. The factory girls and I became the closest of friends. In the dark of morning before our shift began, a trickle of girls walked to work from boarding houses. The trickle joined a stream until we were a crowd marching and sharing the latest movies and praising boys who walked in the opposite direction to the mines.

I took joy from our giggles in the cloak room as we applied radium paint to our eyelashes. When we turned out the lights, our lashes glowed just like the numbers on a clock. Two of my friends had written to me of unfamiliar lumps they found in their breasts. Neither thought it was serious enough to mention to a doctor. Anyway, who had the money? Besides, our bosses told us that licking our brush to make a sharp point made it easier to paint the radium onto the numbers on the clock. It was perfectly safe.

I swallowed hard and pushed troubling thoughts away.

Too soon the water in the bathtub cooled, and it was time to rejoin my family. Mother’s index finger went to her lips as I left the bathroom. The twins, tired after being with Una all day, napped on the couch. Scoot—so like his father—smooshed his face into a pillow. Dimples slept with her mouth open. I assumed my sister kept them active as she considered what her own life would be in several months’ time.

“Did they like you?” asked Mother.

I thought the question strange. “Yes, I think they liked my work. Do you want to know what I did?”

“No. Not necessary.” She held up her hand to ward off any details.

“The woman asked about Granddad McCarthy and wanted to know if he was a plumber,” I volunteered.

Mother nodded as if the question was perfectly understandable.

“And did I know of a man called May.  Another name that sounded like the word music.” I added.

“Oh.” She tucked the light blanket in around the twins. “It wasn’t John May was it?”

“No, just May. Why?”

“John May is dead. He died at the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre.” She gave a strange laugh. “I believe his dog was the only witness.”

“Do you remember the dog’s name? It wasn’t Music was it?”

“No. Highball, I think. A scary looking German Shepherd. Don’t mention any of the names to Dad.”

“I won’t.”

Several minutes later, I wondered at my mother’s memory. The St Valentine’s Day massacre happened just after we moved away from Valley. How many people could remember the names of the men even if the Chicago Tribune had a story that listed the dead? I couldn’t. Golly, why would Mother remember?

The second day of scrubbing was a killer as I hauled the ladder into the room and washed the ceiling, which was more filthy than the walls. At the end of the day, I could barely move my arms. Pain shot through my spine and neck. I wobbled as I walked to the streetcar.  Mother was ready with another bath. But this time I didn’t linger in the soothing warm water because my twins were fussy. The third day I washed the floor and furniture—topside and underneath. At the end of the fourth day, Mrs. Mc Corkin inspected my work.

“I hope I didn’t do something wrong.” I pointed to the ceiling. “That oak fixture in the middle of the ceiling is actually glass. When I was washing it, all the brown came off.”

“Well, would you look at that. Crystal.” She tilted her head way back and grinned. “Who’d have guessed? Nicely done. I don’t think anyone realized the brown was a coating of tobacco smoke.”

She left for a few minutes and came back with an envelope.

“I appreciate your work. We will need the room to be cleaned again in a month’s time. We want you to be just as thorough.” She handed me the envelope. “Our employees know not to share the work they have done for us. We pay well for your understanding and continued loyalty.”

I opened the envelope and peaked inside. I was expecting four or five dollars. The envelope contained two tens, a five, and five single dollar bills. I fought tears. If my father had been extremely lucky, this was the amount he earned in a month. Then I got scared. I had scrubbed down a room, but what had I really done?

 “After next month’s work, if all goes well, I’ll pay you more than this. Do you understand?”

No, I didn’t understand. I was overwhelmed, but I nodded that I’d keep my mouth shut.

“We’ll send a note to your mother’s address.”

 I thanked Mrs. Mc Corkin several times. She had handed me breathing space.

On the streetcar, I remembered the promised pay in a month’s time. My imagination walked on air although I slipped into wondering. Were they planning to kill someone in that room, and my next job was to clean up the mess?

I was so occupied with terrible thoughts that I missed my stop. Walking home calmed my nerves.

Mother was alone in the kitchen. I handed her the two tens from the thirty and asked her to please keep them hidden for me.

“Very wise,” said Mother, who didn’t look surprised at all. We walked into her bedroom, and she wrapped the bills into a cotton stocking. Ever-so carefully, she shoved the wad into the toe of her good shoes at the back of the closet. A pair of black shoes with chunky heels that tied like a man’s. She hadn’t worn them since we lived in Valley. The sheen hid beneath a thick layer of dust. Carefully, she replaced a shoe without disturbing the dust.

“I want to give you this five to pay back what I’ve borrowed and toward the expenses of keeping my children fed,” I said.

She gave me a quizzical look as she took the five. “How much did they pay you?”

“Thirty dollars.”

I showed the crisp single dollars to her. Unexpectedly, she took them, fanned them out, and studied them.

“They are new,” she said. “I never trust new one-dollar bills, ones without a mark or wrinkle. Call it my superstition, but for the next few weeks, only spend a single dollar at a time, not two or three. Don’t tell anyone where you got them.”

With that she crumpled each single again and again until it had permanent creases. When she handed them back to me, the bills were pliable and had lost their crispness.  

A month later, the second scrubbing wasn’t hard. The table had a coating of darkened dust and smears, but the walls and ceiling were almost the same as I left them. When the room was clean, Mrs. Mc Corkin met me in the hallway and peeked into the room.

“That will do very nicely.”

She issued similar instructions about silence and gave me a thicker envelope. I hadn’t believed she told the truth about the promised increase, but there it was in my hands. I felt a shiver. What had my scrubbing of the room actually removed?

I didn’t count the money in front of her but waited until I got close to home. Then I darted between two brick buildings and, with my back to the street, cautiously flipped the bills tucked into the envelope. Fifty-two single dollar bills. My hands trembled.

When I returned home, Paulie entertained himself by belting out loud sounds of a ringing telephone followed by his Mrs. Quick voice. “Hello? Hello-oo?”

“Did you get a telephone?” I asked.

“Dorothy left her window open. Paulie likes when people call her, and he gets to hear her voice.”

I pulled out the envelope and without saying anything, held it out for Mother to see. She pointed to her bedroom, and we walked in, closing the door behind us.

Mother removed the bills and spread them out on the bed. Fifty-two! Forty-nine brand new and three wrinkled. Picking up used bills, Mother put them aside. The crisp ones she inspected and layered into piles like sorting puzzle pieces.

“How much do you need?” Mother asked.

“I don’t want to carry any more than five dollars,” I said.

“Take six.”

She gathered the three wrinkly dollars and three smooth. The rest of the spanking-new Federal Reserve notes went back into the envelope, and I assumed would find a home in Mother’s shoe.

“With an extra crisp dollar I gave you—not the wrinkly ones you understand—I want you to treat Una and Ellen to a movie.”

 I felt afraid. Why had she chosen a new bill and not a wrinkled one? Newness looked starched and ironed.

“I’m happy to do it, but why?” I asked.

“We need to know if this lot of new bills are in any way stolen.” Her face was quite serious. “I know I’m being too cautious, but until we know for sure that they are legitimate, you are only to spend one of these dollars at a time and never twice at the same store. If you are caught with only one stolen dollar, nobody can blame you because you only have one. You could have gotten it anywhere. If anyone questions, say you received it as change on Maxwell Street.”

She grabbed several new bills from the envelope and fanned them.

“What are you looking for?” I asked.

“At least all of these have different serial numbers and are probably real. But still they could be stolen.”

“Why are you so suspicious?”

Mother grabbed my wrist. “I know about John May, the man Mrs. McCorkin asked about. He’s dead, but I’m unsure about the second man.” Mother paused and sucked in her lips. “Mr. Capone might have had Mr. Muscia killed. I heard both men tried their hand at counterfeiting. Their exceptional plates were for large denomination bills.”

My mind jumped. Mr. Music was a counterfeiter? Chilly bumps made the hair rise on my arms.

“Now, do you understand why you need to be careful?”

I nodded.

“Counterfeiting needs a room to be spotless, so no foreign residue marks newly pressed bills. Your second cleaning may have left no trace of paper dust or ink.”

“Do you think Mr. Moran counterfeits money?”

“Sshh! We have no way of knowing what all this means. Look how Mr. Nitti took over Mr. Capone’s organization after he was sentenced. Fiona, let this go. Forget everything you did.”

“But I was in a building across the street from the flower shop. Doesn’t that suggest . . .”

“You aren’t to speak of it.”

“You checked the ones. At least tell me this: why would anyone counterfeit single dollar bills?” I whispered.

Mother’s eyes dropped. “The smooth dollars are not counterfeit. Probably stolen. Some people know how to scrub the ink from ones and use them to reprint the bill as a twenty or fifty.” She grabbed my other wrist. “Your payment may be bills that didn’t get scrubbed for some reason.”

My throat tightened. I could only squeak out, “I don’t understand.”

“People know how a bill feels because of the rag content in the paper. When counterfeiters get caught, it’s because they used the wrong paper. Ink is easier to duplicate, but not paper. Very likely if bills were stolen from a bank the Fed has a list of serial numbers. Your pay may have come from the leftover stolen singles.”

I looked at her in amazement.  My mother, who hardly ever left the house, knew how to counterfeit money. At that moment I felt I had never met her. Did Dad know?

“Are we related to anyone special named McCarthy?”

“There are many McCarthys. We are probably related to all of them some way.”

“Anyone special?”

“The only one I ever read about is Dapper Dan, the head of the Plumber’s Union. I don’t know him. Never met him.”

It was the way her voice dropped that I knew our conversation was over. Mother picked up the envelope of smooth dollars, removed a few dollars, and put the rest into a holster-like pouch. Long pink ribbons tied it to her thigh. The long leg of her bloomers was pulled over the pouch as were her petticoat and dress. I had never known where Mother kept the family savings. She kept a stash in the toe of her good shoes. Now I saw the pouch. No wonder Mother hadn’t been concerned about any loss of savings when Deidre entered our flat uninvited.

“Before we use any of these crisp ones, we’ll need to beat them up a little, maybe rub some dirt into them or let them get wet.”

“Make them look used,” I managed to say.

“Exactly. Nothing attracts attention like a new dollar.” She smiled. “Fiona, you did good work. Your family is safe. Vlad will come home, and you will resume the life you had planned.”

“I’ll still look for day-jobs. At least until my pregnancy starts showing. Can’t keep it passing as fat.”

Mother’s smile was both soft and naughty. “When I’m a very old woman, I’ll tell you stories about growing up in Little Hell.” She rolled her eyes.

“I’ll hold you to it,” I said.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 35: Una

Fiona and I never kept secrets from each other. She waited until Mother sat in the backyard to shell a batch of peanuts from Mrs. Quick. After checking for ears nearby, Fiona asked me, “Do you ever wonder about the time Mother and Granddad lived in Chicago in Little Hell?

I knew very little of those years other than my grandmother died of pneumonia and Mother’s sister of scarlet fever. She rarely spoke of her years as a young girl. Our only crumbs of memories came from the times Granddad lived on and off with our family in Valley. Mother made up the cot for him near the pot-bellied stove. He always complained of having a chill in his bones and drew a wool blanket close to his neck as he slept. But give him a wee dram of whiskey, he’d spin stories.

My two older sisters were gone most days because Fiona was old enough to work at the clock factory in Ottawa and Imogene helped a French-speaking Belgian woman care for her young brood of four, all under age six. Starting at eleven-years-old, I was tied up with helping mother with Deidre and Ellen. Mostly, I stepped in by grabbing Deidre’s wrists to keep her from strangling our sister. Mother’s time filled with laundry, keeping a big garden weeded and watered, and creating meals.

As I remember, Granddad was an old man who smelled bad and wore tattered clothing. His breath soured of whiskey and beer. He’d see me coming toward him and yell, “Ah-way wi’ yah.” I’d away as fast as I could.

Granddad had an unruly mustache where the foam of beer collected. My own father warned us to leave the old man alone because he was always “as full as a tick.” If he grabbed one us girls, it was to plant a wet, sloppy kiss on our cheek. After being kissed, I remember running away while wiping the smelly wetness with the back of my hand. Once I heard Dad tell Mother that the old man drank his wages. I always felt guilt at that, but never knew why. I doubled my efforts to be useful to my mother.

Several times Granddad asked us to draw him a picture. Our efforts disappointed him. “You draw like your mother,” he said. “No artist, for sure.”

Deidre tried repeatedly to please him with her drawings.

“Looks like young Ellen is my only hope of an artist,” posed Granddad with a snarly grin. Ellen was two.

Deidre was not one to give up. She doubled her drawing efforts for the old man’s attention.

            Bringing him tea and wrapping his shoulders in a shawl, Mother said to us, “Come away and leave him be. He doesn’t mean anything by it. He loves you girls. Artists or no.”

            When I was twelve, Benny the town cop came to our door and asked for Mother. Granddad had been found near the train station with his head in a water-filled ditch. He had cuts across his knuckles and purple bruises on his face.  Benny said Granddad must have been in a fight and pulled the “short straw.”

            I had never known my Granddad to fight, but he must have that night. Other than his drinking, when I think of him, I remember the old man sitting under a tree near our miner’s cabin on a rickety, old chair and singing songs so silently that I never could make out the words. But the palm of his hand kept time with his song by striking his knee. Sometimes tears trickled down his cheeks.

            Mother pulled out the wash tub and soaked and pounded the dirt out of his clothing to prepare for the funeral. Officer Benny asked around if anyone knew what had happened. Even the men at the tavern had no idea. Neighbor women brought food to the house: home-canned peaches and string beans, warm loaves of bread just out of the oven, and a bottle of whiskey. Italian families brought bowls of spaghetti with tomato gravy typical of a Sunday meal. One neighbor brought a freshly killed chicken. Mother dressed up our kitchen table and asked each neighbor to bring a glass to pay tribute to Granddad with a shot from the whiskey bottle. They all complied. “To Patrick McCarthy,” they all said as they raised a glass and gulped down the golden-brown liquid. Even we girls shared a wee dram. It tasted foul.

            Deidre paid her own tribute to Granddad, and Mother and Dad allowed it. She grabbed his shawl and slept under the tree at the train station for three nights in a row. Dad folded his arms across a light jacket and kept watch from a nearby bench. Still, quite a feat for a girl of six and for a man who went down the shaft into the mine. On the fourth morning, when Deidre came home for breakfast, she gave toddler Ellen a shiner.

            After Fiona and I were married and her twins were born, she asked me if I believed Granddad could have been involved with gangsters. I told her perhaps in his younger years. Mother once said something puzzling.

            “No man deserves to be beaten down just because he’s Irish or Italian or Colored or a laborer. I tried, but I was too young to help my own father. I promised God that I would never let it happen to your father.”

            Mother never explained what she meant although I asked a few times. So when Fiona shared the story about the woman who wanted a room scrubbed and Mother’s concerns about how Fiona should keep secrets about her income, I imagined Mother as a pig-tailed, young girl soaking or scrubbing ink off stolen paper dollars. Amused at my fantasizing, I asked Fiona if Mother might have hung the cleaned paper on a clothesline with pins. Fiona reminded me that clothes pins leave pucker marks on paper as they do with our clothing. But we both thought that with her small fingers, Mother’s job could be to position the dollars into a press to get stamped as a new currency. Or bundle the bills for distribution. Neither of us thought our young Mother could be held responsible for deliveries. Certainly, the bundles needed to be heavy. But whatever her job—we both concluded Mother once had a role. It was fun to consider until we realized whatever she did, didn’t produce wealth, and it wasn’t enough to help her father feel successful. Or as our dad would call it, Granddad never achieved standing in a community. Not even enough confidence to sing out boldly in front of his granddaughters.

            Fiona and I kept our imaginations to ourselves.

            Weeks later as I folded crocheted blankets for my unborn child, I recalled, “You draw like your mother?” Who drew a template for counterfeiting? It wasn’t Mother. So who?

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 36: Sheila

“Ellen, tea’s ready.”

By the end of October of 1933, Vlad returned from Iowa, and a pregnant Fiona moved out of our flat back to a flat with her husband and twins. Our lives became less hectic—except for the ever-present parrot who was still enamored by the word bugs.

            For Ellen’s breakfast, I spread toast with peanut butter. She was slow that morning. I called again. Still, she did not respond. Paulie imitated me and began his call for Ellen, which always annoyed her.

            “El-len. El-len.” He paused. Then in his loudest voice, squawked, “EL-LEN!”

I expected her to shout, Stop it. However, she had no response.

            Opening the bedroom door, I spotted Ellen still in bed, covers tightly pulled up over her nose. My stomach flipped. I had seen this scene before.

            “Are you sick?”  She nodded. “Is it your stomach? Do I need to bring the pail?” She shook her head. “Ellen, what’s wrong?”

            I moved quietly and sat on the bed. I thought to feel her forehead, but she thrashed in the bedcovers and turned her face to the wall. She began to weep.

            “We’re alone. Dad’s gone to work,” I said to Ellen. “Eleanor hasn’t arrived yet to walk with you to school. Ellen, tell me what’s wrong. How do you feel?”

            She lay curled up and wouldn’t show her face. I stroked her back.

            “I can’t go to school,” she said through sobs.

            I made all the soothing sounds that served to calm little ones as I gently pulled the covers back from her face. Three angry looking blisters lined up on her upper lip. Her eyes were big and full of despair.

            “Am I going to die?” asked Ellen.

            “Certainly not,” I said. “You’ll stay home today, and I’ll go to the pharmacy and get you some camphor. You may have these blisters for a few days, but the camphor will soon dry them up.”

            “Are these boils?”

            Two thoughts came to mind. Miss Wisdom mentioning Ellen’s fear of getting boils and Ellen’s reaction to hearing the Bible story of Job from Dorothy who after a church service had embellished his trials.

            “These look like fever blisters. Ellen, has any boy at the high school ever bothered you? Maybe kissed you?”

            “No-o.”

            “A man, maybe?” She shook her head. “Because sometimes if a person has a blister and kisses another person, then that person will get the blisters too.”

            I tried to be careful how I explained that once infected, she would always carry the little demon in her body, and for some unknown reason, being anxious seemed to trigger an outbreak. Or so it seemed to me.

Knowing how Ellen could be a stickler for accuracy in language, I asked, “Have you ever kissed a boy or man who might have had blisters.”

She let out a wail and dove under the blanket. “I didn’t want to.”

“Who was it?” I tried to keep my voice even.

“I can’t tell. I just can’t.”

“That’s okay. Maybe someday you will.”

“Dad can’t know. Please!”

“You stay home today. I tell Eleanor she’s to go to school without you. You’ll feel better once you have breakfast. Ellen, I’ll explain this to Dad. You won’t be able to hide it from him. He’ll understand.”

All Sam had to do was to look at her, and he’d be furious and want to beat the hell out of some young man. But my memory of Miss Wisdom told me the assault on Ellen wasn’t current. It happened years ago when Deidre visited. I couldn’t help seething with thoughts of the wrinkled bedcover, my missing daughter, and her fiancé Nicholas.

After I sent Eleanor on her way, I gathered my pocketbook and left the flat. As I walked down 59^th Street, pieces of a story kept returning. Neither Deidre or her young man had appeared at Agnes’s house. When Sam, our two older girls, and I returned home, Deidre was in the process of destroying the wedding dress fabric, and Ellen seemed in shock at the trauma of Deidre being home. She had no responses to our questions.

The bruises on either side of Ellen’s mouth convinced Miss Wisdom what the attack had been. Her telling of it had convinced me. I knew Ellen could never put this behind her, especially now that blisters appeared around her mouth and would appear again . . . and again.

As I had put the story together, I saw Deidre and her young man taking control of our bed only to be discovered by Ellen. Frankie later told Sam a person may have entered our flat through the back door. Had Ellen threatened Deidre by warning she would tell she found them in my bed?

Was that when Deidre helped Nicholas attack twelve year old Ellen in a cruel, brutal way?

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 37: Eleanor

Three years had passed since the Harkleroads moved into the two-flat on 59^th, and still the Quicks upstairs didn’t own a radio. Many evenings a week, Frankie and his older brothers came down to the Harkleroads to listen to shows. Ellen and I usually found a spot on the floor to sit. In the winter, we wrapped ourselves in blankets against the chill. After entertainment, Sam and Ellen walked me home in the dark.

            Sam liked dance bands, particularly Guy Lombardo and his Royal Canadians, sometimes Paul Whiteman. But besides music, he also liked “Death Valley Days” sponsored by Borax. Bore-ax. I thought the name was funny. Apparently, so did Paulie. His eyes looked like he expected a belch.

“BORE-ax. BORE-ax.”

            Mrs. Quick never came down for radio entertainment and quizzed all of us if we had watched that horrible show “Amos and Andy.” We hadn’t, but I wanted to know one joke so I could tease her with it. Mother said not to be disrespectful. The only time we saw Mrs. Quick anywhere near the radio? For the President’s fireside chats.

            Jonas, the dreamy Quick son, liked Ozzie Nelson’s band with singer Harriet Hilliard. He also laughed at the jokes of George Burns and Gracie Allen. “She’s pretty dizzy but smart, you know?”            Frankie preferred baseball during the day. At night he asked for us to tune into Jack Benny who always seemed to be the target of a joke.

I waited for Sam and Sheila to make tea for all of us before I changed the channel to fifteen minutes of Walter Winchell’s gossip. I didn’t like him so much, but I listened for his accent. He was from New York and reminded me of my previous home.

            Some evenings the room filled with the sounds of static. Frankie fussed and banged on the case to get the radio to work. If it didn’t come back on, Sheila snapped off the noise.

“We don’t need a parrot spouting off more nonsense,” she said.

That’s when we turned to a game. Match the singer or comedian to the show’s sponsor. Fleischman Yeast? Rudy Vallee.  Chase and Sanborn Coffee?  Eddie Cantor. Kraft Foods? Paul Whiteman. Texaco Gasoline? Ed Wynn. White Owl Cigars? Burns and Allen.

            We knew Pepsodent sponsored “Amos and Andy,” but we weren’t supposed to know that in front of Mrs. Quick, so that was never a question.

            At home my mother listened to Rudee Vallee. Songs too syrupy for me. At thirteen I preferred “Night and Day” by Eddy Duchin but particularly “Stormy Weather,” sung by Ethel Waters.

            “Oh Eleanor, you’re too young to listen to those songs,” said my mother.

            It seemed to me that I disguised myself in comedy shows on the radio by laughing loudly at all the jokes, but I liked moody songs. At thirteen, all the teasing of being Jewish sunk in. I wasn’t like the Harkleroads or Quicks. Or like boys who had a chance to live their dreams. I wasn’t as pretty as Ellen. I was big, gawky, artless Eleanor Mossberg. The Jew-girl who wasn’t trained in religion. Listening to Ethel Waters seemed appropriate. “Keeps raining all the time.”

.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 38: Sam

November weather, 1933, turned gray and cool. Still Ellen agreed to sit with me on the front stoop on Sunday morning once neighbors were off to church. The cool air made her shiver. Her chin tucked into her collar, and she had pulled the sleeves of her second sweater over her hands and held both up over her mouth.

            “Am I in trouble?” she asked.

            “No. I’m just in a mood to talk. Guess it’s Fiona’s new son that has me in a mood. Told Mother I wanted to share some memories with you. Do you know you once had two brothers?”

            The shock of the surprise caused her hands to leave her mouth.

            “Brothers?”

            “One died before he was born. The other died a week after being born. They were our first two children. In a blink of an eye, gone. It was hard on me but destroyed your mother. We were young. She seventeen with the first one and thought she had done something wrong. It all happened before Fiona. I don’t think we ever told your sisters.”

            “I didn’t know,” said Ellen.

            “Mother told me you’ve been feeling bad,” I said. Ellen squirmed. “I know it can’t be school because you study all the time. I’m guessing you got a problem at home. Is it with me? Are you embarrassed by me?”

            Her body shook. Her eyes were big. “No-o, Dad.”

            I took her cold hand.

            “I know I look rough, and as I’ve gotten older, my injuries from the pit make everything harder. But I’ll always be a laborer, and your mother will always be a laborer’s wife. As long as you are home with us, you are a daughter of a worker. In time you’ll find a better place.”

            “Dad, it’s not you or Mother. It’s me. I’m not . . .”

            “All you girls are different in your own ways. Fiona will always remind me of your mother when I first met her. You’d never guess she loved music and dancing. But she married me with my clumsy feet. You have only to look at her knitting to see she, like Fiona, loves color.”

            Ellen lowered her chin.

            “Imogene is more like me,” I said. “We are mules when it comes to hard work. And we’re stubborn. Una picked up your mother’s efficiency. Una clocks into work at home and follows the order of the day. Makes her good with caring for Fiona’s children.”

I kept hold of Ellen’s hand.

            “When Deidre came along, we almost lost her. She was born early, like the boys, puny. That was at a time I was out of work. We couldn’t afford a doctor. Your mother willed Deidre to live.”

            Ellen’s hand flinched.

“We thought she’d be our last. Mother and I fussed over her because we didn’t want to lose another child. Deidre got it in her head she was something. Then almost five years later, you were born, healthy. It never occurred to us that our love for Deidre damaged her. You see since your sisters were older, they could put her in her place when she was pesty. You, however, couldn’t, and the more we tried to protect you, the more she tried to harm you. I know your sisters have told you stories.”

Ellen nodded. “I didn’t know about the boys or Deidre being born.”

“I’m not excusing her behavior. I’m saying we all have scars that we carry and have to find a way to live with. I have aches of broken bones. Coal dust got into my lungs because of long hours down the mine. Your mother carries the weight of having lost two babies. Deidre wears cruelty that will never change. Do you know what I mean?”

Ellen’s eyes filled with curiosity.

“She will probably never come home,” I said. “Never be welcomed by her sisters. And that’s another failing of your mother and me.” I paused and wiped my forehead with the back of my hand. “I wish we knew if she has given us grandchildren.”

“Oh.” Ellen pulled her hand away and hid both hands under her thighs.

We sat for a moment and watched the neighbors walk toward Halsted Street. Families with young children. A grandmother leaned on a son’s arm. A black, boxy car cut into a parking space by inching forward and back.

“Dad, am I a good person?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“I feel like I don’t belong anywhere.”

“Your job right now is to work hard at school. Your mother and I dream that you will be the first to graduate from high school. Do you know how special that is?”

“But if I quit school, I could work and bring in money.”

“Maybe after graduation, you’ll like to go to secretarial school.”

“Dad, I’m taking typing now. My teacher said I should take shorthand next year.”

“Always good to have more skills than handling a shovel. Work you choose to do now, will last for the rest of your life. Ask Fiona about lugging shipping boxes. Ask Imogene about scrubbing kitchen pots in someone else’s home. Even Una was sacked on someone’s notion about married women keeping house. But if you get standing in this world, you don’t have to depend on nobody.  Your work gives you choices. Sandwiches with the crust cut off. Know what I mean?”

“I like crust,” said Ellen.

“Well, Mother and I dream of something better for you than we’ve ever had.”

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 39: Eleanor

In December of 1933, Una had given birth to Nadine, and I finished my yearly journal writing and felt hopeful. One day I’d become a writer for a big newspaper. Had to be. A journalist like Martha Gellhorn surely kept essays on people she met, and like her, I wanted to travel the world reporting stories. Mother said I’d never be able to go to Bryn Mawr or be able to write for Eleanor Roosevelt like Miss Gellhorn, but she’s still my inspiration despite what Mother says.  I looked forward to opening a fresh, homemade booklet made with butcher paper to gather more details on the events and people I know.

Jewish students at Englewood High School kept their heads down while all the other students celebrated Christmas. My own celebration came when my father finally came home after searching here and there. He found a job as a tailor for a man who sold suits on Maxwell Street, a hectic, noisy spot particularly on a Sunday. My mother said the job was good enough to keep heat in the house and ice in the icebox.

It seemed to me life was sure to get better. Newspapers thought so too. Prohibition ended December 5, 1933, and my father said that meant thousands of jobs would be created for new beer companies. Although I thought thousands of men were already producing beer for the Capone gang, I was still excited about new workers. Seeing lines of sad-faced men seeking food made me scared.

“Workers will need new suits for themselves and their sons,” said my father. “And you’ll see, we’ll soon be rid of all those gangsters.”

Photos in newspapers showed gangsters leaving bloodied bodies in cars as warnings to other bad guys. Ellen’s oldest sister went on and on about Hollywood movies being true. She said Scarface had been scary, but she liked Public Enemy because of James Cagney and Jean Harlow. She recited lines from Private Detective, but I think that was because she thought William Powell looked like her husband Vlad.

Anyway, when I recited movie storylines to my mother, she said, “You think killing people is entertainment? And your father thinks we’re done with gangsters? Think twice. Prohibition may be gone, but those who have a taste for other people’s money will turn to gambling and prostitution. If that is not enough horror for you, keep an eye on Germany.”

Mother’s mouth became tight as she nodded. “Eleanor, one day you may become a reporter, but don’t become a gasbag. Don’t hurt people.”

I nodded. I understood her opinions on gossip.

“Now, I have some straight seams for you to do. You need the foot practice on the treadle.”

Mother’s treadle sewing machine worked hour by hour as she altered old clothing for clients. I helped, but my feet never mastered the knack of the treadle. I was better at using only one foot. Right foot push, let up, push, let up. Mother used both feet and was fast. Right push, left push. If I followed her example, the fabric jammed up under the needle. As a seamstress, I was hopeless.

I knew we had distant cousins in Germany who wrote to Mother. So, I was torn between fearing the future and listening to President Roosevelt on the radio who seemed to think things were going to get better.

When Anton Cermak had been assassinated in March 1933, my mother said, “See what I mean about bad times coming?”

I didn’t see what she meant. I only recalled two mayors of Chicago: Big Bill Thompson, who won three elections, and Anton Cermak, who defeated him. Everybody made fun of Mr. Cermak’s name and called him a foreigner which made me angry. I, myself, had heard enough name calling about me being Jewish, so I felt sorry for Mr. Cermak. I liked the way he fought back.  “It’s true I didn’t come over on the Mayflower,” he said, “but I came over as soon as I could.”

I couldn’t believe it when he was shot. Father said the shooter was aiming at President Roosevelt and would have gotten him too if a woman hadn’t hit the shooter with her purse, spoiling his aim. The Tribune reported that before he died, Mr. Cermak told the President that he was glad it was him and not the President who had been shot. That made me cry. Mother said, “Eleanor, don’t be so sentimental. That story is most likely not true.”  But I decided to believe it. He seemed like a nice man. And where was the harm?

Mother said, “Eleanor, you’ll never be a reporter. You’re too trusting.”  

In early spring of 1933, President Roosevelt announced the New Deal, and his fireside chats on the radio had me sitting with my fingers crossed as if my wishes could make it all true.

I got tired of my mother reciting, “Use it up. Wear it out. Make do. Or—do without.”

Do without didn’t sit well with me. I told my friend Ellen of all the funny new things at the market. Spic and Span helped clean floors. So did Windex for window cleaning. Miracle Whip pretended to be mayonnaise. V8 tried to replace tomato juice. And Saran came out to replace waxed paper, but nobody liked how it got all tangled up and never covered any bowl.

Japan constructed a beautiful tea house in Jackson Park with Japanese girls dressed in kimonos to serve tea. But in the back of my mind, mother’s cautions frightened me: Von Hindenburg appointed Hitler as Chancellor of Germany; thousands of communists (mostly Jews) were sent to concentration camps; other Jews also lost their jobs. Unions—not allowed. Books not written by Germans burned. No German wanted Jewish products.

“Bad times coming,” said Mother.

The surprise of 1933 had been seeing Frankie Quick so excited about going to the first ever All-Star baseball game at Comisky Park. Frankie was fourteen, a year older than I was and never spoke to me unless he absolutely had too. He waited on the stoop as if looking for an audience—probably Mr. Harkleroad. But when he saw me, I guess the Jew-girl was good enough to talk to. I swear he acted like a ten-year-old and blurted out that he and his brother Jonas were going to the All-Star game. The tickets were only ten cents.

“It’s part of the Century of Progress. It’s called the Game of the Century. Do you know Arch Ward?”

I had never heard of Arch Ward.

“He’s the best sportswriter. He’s convinced everybody to invite the best baseball players to play an All-Star game on July 6^th.”

He said All-Star a lot.

“I’ll see the Babe, Jimmy Foxx, Lou Gehrig, Lefty Grove.”

“Who’s Lefty Grove?” I asked. I thought I had heard of the others, but not much. My lack of enthusiasm didn’t slow Frankie down.

“He’s a pitcher for the Philadelphia Athletics. Don’t you read the Chicago Tribune?”

I read many newspapers because of wanting to be a reporter, but I have to admit, I collected the sports pages and gave them to Mrs. Harkleroad for Paulie’s cage.

“I bet you don’t know Hammerin’ Hank Greenberg,” said Frankie with a sneer.

“Nope. Can’t say that I do. Is he a baseball player?”

“One of the best.” Frankie seemed indignant at my ignorance. “All-round good guy too. And a Jew. He doesn’t mind if a guy’s Italian or Black. Why I bet he’d play a game even if Josh Gibson caught and Satchel Paige pitched.”

“Sorry, Frankie, you lost me.”

“The Negro League? Josh Gibson? He’s a catcher. A real slugger too. And Satchel Paige? A pitcher. You never heard of them?”

“Sorry.”

“Well, you know what would be the best All-Star game? If Satchel Paige pitched to Babe Ruth? I think Paige could take him. But won’t happen because Paige and Gibson are colored.”

I was impressed with Frankie who saw the game as being more important than color. If he were in charge, he’d let greatness meet greatness.

“Is Hammerin’ Hank Greenberg playing for your All-star game?”  I really was interested, but I didn’t know if Frankie was playing on my ignorance. A Jewish man in an All-Star game? I bet not.

“He’s good all right, but he plays first base. Tough break.”

“What did he break?”

“No, you don’t understand. Greenberg plays at first base,” said Frankie as if that explained everything. He waited for me to understand. I shook my head. “So does Lou Gehrig,” continued Frankie. I had no response. “And Jimmie Foxx!” Finally, Frankie said, “You don’t know nothing do you.”

“Nope.”

“Those two got more experience. Greenberg is going to have to wait and see if there’s another All-Star game. This may be the only one.”

“He won’t get to play?”

Frankie shook his head.

I felt sorry for all the quality players who had no chance to be included.

Although it annoyed Ellen to no end, Darby Quick finally came home December 1933 to live with his family. Even though he was almost twenty and older than she was, Ellen referred to him as “missionary boy.” From what I could tell, he was shy. I’d see him on the stairs either heading to work at the deli or leaving to attend college night-school classes at Englewood High School. He was taller than his brothers, had sandy-brown hair, gray eyes, and a face that to my way of thinking always apologized. He wasn’t much for talking. Ellen thought of him as too full of himself, but in the way he carried his shoulders, I thought someone had scolded him too often. Mrs. Quick, I imagined. Afterall, according to his mother, he had graduated from a high school where he studied to be a missionary but delayed coming home for at least a year.

Still, I thought Darby was a swell guy.

So despite the stories coming out of Germany, I thought 1934 would be an even better year.  We had new radio shows like The Lone Ranger, Tom Mix Straight Shooter, and even The Romance of Helen Trent. But the show my mother listened to in the morning as her feet danced on the treadle of the sewing machine was Don McNeill’s Breakfast Club, broadcast from the studio in the Merchandise Mart in our very own Chicago. Music and jokes every morning felt right. Besides, President Roosevelt’s evening chats told us all would be well.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 40:  Ellen

I dreaded Christmas, 1933, because everyone seemed to say Sorry. We weren’t church people, but Mother still wanted to have decorations and a big dinner with everyone around the table. Fiona and Vlad came with the twins and newborn Chief. Una didn’t. She was recovering from giving birth to Nadine.

Since the crash, money was tight, and scarcity would spoil Mother’s idea of Christmas dinner. Dad and Vlad only worked off and on. Winter had come in cold. I asked Mother if we could skip Christmas.

 Her answer: “No.”

            Dad came home with a puny evergreen about the height of Paulie’s cage. Days before Christmas, Mother made flour paste glue, and we sat down to create chains of paper for the tree. She kept a box of bits-and-bob ornaments from our days in the Valley. In twenty minutes had our fragile, little tree decorated. Underneath, Mother placed a well-used sheet.

            “Santa will come Christmas Eve, and we’ll open our gifts Christmas morning,” said Mother.

            She pulled out ancient jingle bells attached to a leather strap and gave it a hardy shake. Her eyes sparkled with tears.

            “This year Santa comes,” she insisted.

            Dad smiled and didn’t counter her dream of Christmas.

            From upstairs, I could hear music. The Quick brothers sang carols in preparation for the service at Rugged Cross. Karl, Jonas, and Frankie spent several evenings harmonizing. They even played Christmas music on their old Victrola.

            As Christmas approached, Hemming who worked at the Stockyards, brought their gift to the family, a pork roast which Mother cooked with bulbs of garlic in a cast-iron Dutch oven.

 Christmas Day, Una sent mashed potatoes. Fiona brought Jell-O both orange and strawberry. I peeled the orangey rutabaga and boiled it in a pot until it was soft enough to mash. I also opened three dented tins of peas.

We gathered in the front room around our dining table and sat on wooden chairs, stuffed chairs and a stool. The twins sat on their parents’ laps. In our hunger for blessings, we ate every bit of food, even the peas.

Mother shook the jingle bells. It was time to open gifts. Dad received his traditional gift of two stockings filled with coal. “We’ll have a warm winter,” he said, and we all laughed.

Fiona had crocheted collars for us girls. Una’s gift to us girls? New combs and toothbrushes. Imogene sent Mother and Dad an additional five dollars.

I opened my boxed gift last and felt all eyes on me.

“Dad, Hemming, Vlad close your eyes,” said Fiona. “To me she said, “It’s from all of us.”

When I opened the box, I felt soft flannel in pink. Pulling it away from the box, I saw the lace and ribbon around the neck and sleeves.

Fiona said, “We thought you’d appreciate a nightie for cold winter nights.”

It was beautiful, but I didn’t know what to say. The nightie made me think of bed and that made me remember Deidre and what Nicholas did. I felt sick.

With a knock at the door, Mrs. Novak our next-door neighbor popped in with a bowl of sauerkraut.

“Sorry to be late. For your Christmas table,” she said to Mother. “For the kindness you showed me by taking care of my Johnny when I had to rush away.”

The two women chatted at the door even as Frankie waited in the hallway, shifting from foot to foot.

“This for you,” said Frankie after Mrs. Novak left. “We’re having souffles today with bacon. Mother wishes Merry Christmas.”

As mother closed the door, she said, “Everyone is staying for supper. Souffle and sauerkraut.”

We all laughed. It was that kind of strange day.

Paulie hopped on the bars of his cage and ruffled his neck feathers as he shook himself and said, “Put the kettle on.” He then frightened the twins with a shrill steam whistle of a boiling tea pot.

After our kraut and souffle supper, we ate dessert of tinned peaches, honey and condensed milk. The youngsters sucked down the peaches. Everyone had naughty smiles with mustaches of slathered cream.  

“Tomorrow, we begin again,” said Mother. I knew she meant her savings was gone.

 We girls put on aprons and scrubbed plates and pots. The babes napped. We listened to the holiday radio programs. Before Fiona’s family went home, Mother and Dad encouraged us to tell tall tales of what we would be doing in a year’s time. I promised to be a ballerina, balancing on my big toe.

Before Mother turned off the last lamp, I saw one small box still under the tree. I picked it up to see what we had forgotten. Mother took it from me and put it in a drawer.

“If Deidre had come, I didn’t want her to think we had forgotten her,” explained Mother. “I’ll put it away with the others.”

The others? Somewhere in our flat was a collection of gifts for Deidre. What a waste of money, I thought and felt cold. She hadn’t remembered us. Why should we remember her? I wished she had died.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

1934

Chapter 41: Sam

Even as finding a job got worse for many of us, I welcomed 1934. In the winter, Peabody hired me back to fill sacks with coal for delivery to homes, but the most I could count on was three days a week. Younger men wanted a chance at an aching back. In the spring Jackson Park also needed maintenance workers to plant flowers, cut grass, and trim bushes. The Museum of Science and Industry scheduled me to tell stories in the coal mine once a week. In May, I joined the muckers at the Century of Progress, not full time, but at least dribbles of pay would come. The previous summer I hadn’t minded the ripe smells of horses, cattle, and goats. I was outside, not in a black hole that aggravated my cough.

 I kept Miss Rand’s request to see us a secret.

Our new President in Washington had a year under his belt, and his plans to do something to help get people back to work seemed possible. Talk on the street mentioned Harold Ickes. “He’ll help Englewood. Just you wait and see. He’s an Englewood High School man. Went to the University of Chicago too.”

I have to say there was freshness in the spring air. Working men built highways and school buildings. Vlad put his name in for one of those Public Works projects. I talked to Reese, and he had a  one-bedroom flat available two streets over from us for Fiona’s family—as soon as Vlad proved he had a job with W.P.A.

Our daughter Una had a newborn to tend to, and she and her husband Hemming began plans to move out of Englewood to Mokena, a small town southwest of the city. Little towns along the Rock Island train line had land at reasonable rates for building homes. For most family men that meant a brisk walk to the station and taking the train to work every day.

Frankie and Karl regularly came down from upstairs at least three nights a week to listen to radio shows. The Old Missus stayed in her flat or ran off to her church for prayer and Bible studies. I shook my head in disbelief at Ellen walking several steps behind her during February. But Ellen said she went to church for the heat not the message.   

Mr. Reese came to visit with Paulie for twenty minutes almost every day, and Sheila still resented his intrusion into the house. I’ve asked her if we should move, but Sheila sees our landlord as an annoyance not a threat. The bird has learned new sounds from the radio, but his most recent saying was “Buy a duck?” followed by “Hyuk, hyuk, hyuk.”

We all thought it was funny particularly when Frankie liked to answer him by imitating Joe Penner’s voice. “Don’t ever do-oo that. Nah-sty Man.” I don’t know why it was funny. It just was, and we continued to laugh even when the show went to a commercial.

After most suppers, however, I read stories to Sheila from old newspapers destined for catching Paulie’s droppings.

“Now that Prohibition’s over, men are going back to work,” I said to Sheila.

“Good,” said Sheila.

Something in her tone told me this was a touchy subject. “You’re kneading bread now?”

“I certainly am.” She slapped the dough. “Sam, crime rose, and good people were labeled as criminals because no legal work was available.”

Yes, I was right. Her voice had a definite edge. Sheila busily punched down bread dough. Each smack or ooph of dough a sign that something bothered her.

“What’s wrong?”

“Everything.” She picked up the dough and slapped it against the bread board, sending up a dusting of flour that fell to the floor.

“What’s the good news?” I asked. She sighed and gave me her look of annoyance. “Sheila, there must be something good happening in the world.”

“Fiona went to the movies. More dishes. New colors. Recently, she’s seen The Thin Man, and she’s once again, talking about Vlad going to Hollywood. She thinks he’d make a perfect detective in the movies.”

“Anything worrisome?” I asked with caution.

“I talked to Eleanor today. She and her mother are worried about what’s happening in Germany. They write to distant cousins who tell them of all kinds of disrespect from regular Germans on the street. And abuse.”

“So, I’ve been reading,” I said.

According to reporting, the German government steadily restricted jobs a Jewish man could hold. I don’t know if it started with denying schooling, but doctors, lawyers, tax consultants weren’t allowed to practice. Actors and performers were denied a stage. The German army refused Jews who wanted to serve.

“I fear it will only get worse,” I said, “but on this Sunday, tell me something good.”

“Brookfield Zoo opened,” said Sheila. “Ellen will want to go, and I think we should include Eleanor—to take her mind off things. Una said Hemming found land in Mokena. They plan to build a house. He’ll still work in the transportation office for Wilson’s Meat Packing at the Stockyards and take the Rock Island train to work.”

“Is that good news or bad?” I knew I’d miss my girl, and I worried our granddaughter wouldn’t know us.

“I’m not sure. Lonely news, I think. We all will miss her, and Sam, she will miss us. Who will help her in a pinch with Nadine? We’ll need to get a telephone so we can keep in touch with Una. I know another expense, but we can’t rely on Dorothy to be continually generous with her phone.” She looked up from the bread dough. “I’ve had the Lindbergh baby on my mind. Before you say anything, certainly a while ago, but every time I look at our grandchildren, I realize how easy it would be for someone to kidnap one of them. My heart breaks for children growing up.”

“A few dangers came our way in our time. Somehow, we managed,” I said.

Sheila fired up. “Pure blind luck. Call it what you will, but what’s behind one child living and one dying? If a family like the Lindberghs with money can’t protect their child, who can?”

Not an argument I could win. I asked, “What else is bothering you?”

“Imogene hasn’t written in over a month. If your sister Agnes were still living in Englewood, I’d march right over and make a call to the doctor’s family in Harrisburg. So that you know, I’ve written to the housekeeper Mary. I’m worried. Have you seen how Fiona’s shoulder curls inward as she walks?”

Sheila’s hand made a fist and pounded the daylights out of the dough.

“Isn’t that dough defeated by now?”

The big soft-bodied bread dough had all the air removed. The thing sat like a smooth rock. Sheila covered it with a towel for an over-night rising and came to sit in the front room. She looked worn out.

“I’ve some good news.” I took her warm hand that smelled of yeast. “We—you, me, and Ellen–have been invited to the second year of the Century of Progress by Miss Sally Rand.” Sheila looked shocked. “I talked to Fiona, and she suggested you wear a new hat when you meet Miss Rand. I also thought you’d like some perfume.”

Sheila took a moment to collect her thoughts.

“When?”

“This next week. She’ll send a car for us. We’ll arrive in style, talk to her for a bit and take in the fair.”

“But the money for this will come from where? I’d like to keep the few dollars we’ve managed to save.”

“Miss Rand’s treat. She said she’ll take care of everything. I thought you’d like to try some perfume for the occasion.” I hoped to tempt her into a madcap moment of shopping for herself.

“Too wasteful. What would I do with perfume after our day at the fair? No. If we truly intend to go, I’ll dab a bit of vanilla behind each ear. Sam, Fiona can’t afford a new hat for me. She has children to think about.”

“Fiona’s treat. She says her savings can afford to buy you something she calls a cloche. She said Greta Garbo has a snazzy one, and she folds the brim into different shapes. Fiona promises she won’t splurge on a felt hat because you wouldn’t welcome four dollars being spent, but a knitted one. It only costs one dollar. She said she has a new dollar that needs a home. Afraid I don’t understand her sometimes.”

Sheila smiled her surrender. “As long as it’s nothing extravagant and something appropriate for church. And since it’s a new dollar. Well, okay.”

Sheila’s smile could only be described as kitten-ish. I didn’t understand.

“We don’t go to church,” I said.

“We will. Una plans on having Nadine christened before they move.”

I held her hand, and we sat there for a bit. My thoughts of pipe smoke on the back porch slid into the contentment I felt through the warmth of my wife’s hand and the thoughts of grandchildren.

“I think we should ask Eleanor to go with us,” said Sheila.

“Why?”

“It will be good for Ellen who goes into moody spells.”

“No reason not to pass Eleanor off as another daughter.”

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 42: Eleanor

Ellen demonstrated no excitement at all when she heard that we were going to the second year of the Century of Progress. Not even a grin. She behaved like she was going to be called into the principal’s office or that a teacher was about to add a bad report to her permanent record. Ellen was fifteen and I was fourteen, but sometimes she behaved like a child.

            Ellen and I sat on the stoop and watched for the Packard to arrive. I wanted her to get out of her foul mood. With a squeaky voice that I hoped sounded like Ed Wynn, I said, “My uncle owns a car and he treats it like a baby.”  Ellen didn’t even smile as I repeated Wynn’s comedy routine. “Every time he takes out his car, it rattles.” I twisted my face into Wynn’s silly pose from posters at the movie theaters.

            Ellen turned her shoulder to me. “Oh, Eleanor, dry up.”

            “Oh, come on, we’re going to meet Sally Rand,” I said. “Sally Rand! She knows everyone who is anyone. Your dad helped her last year, and now she wants to meet us, particularly you.”

            “Why would she want to meet me? What can I possibly say to her?”

            “Your dad told her about your family, and now she is interested in us because we’re in high school. He said he even told her about Paulie. You can tell her the funny things he says. I can tell her that he picked up on my Brooklyn accent and called for Mrs. Goldberg. I’m thinking there must be a joke about bird feathers and her dancing with feathers. I want to ask her questions like how she got into show business. How old was she? Did her dad get angry when she started to dance with fans?” Ellen wasn’t seeing the opportunity. “Ellen, someday I’ll be a reporter and write about this. Maybe she’ll let me interview her.”

            Ellen shrugged her shoulders and wouldn’t make eye contact. What was wrong with her?

            When I first heard of our trip, I went to the library and read everything I could about what to see at the fair. First I listed what we should see and then other things if we had time.

            We were getting a ride to the fair in a Packard—it wasn’t exactly Miss Rand’s Packard. It belonged to her sponsor. We would have the morning to see the fair. Meet Miss Rand. Have lunch. After that we could freely see more of the fair. The Packard was scheduled to drive us home at five.

            I was ready! I had my schedule ready and questions.

            When the Packard picked us up at the two-flat, I was the first to enter the car. The backseat was big like a sofa. All four of us could have sat together, but I chose folded seats that provided extra seating for me and Ellen. Mrs. Harkleroad climbed in after me and Mr. Harkleroad after her. They took regular seats on the big, velvety couch as soft as a puppy’s belly. Ellen stood on the sidewalk until her father said, “Ellen, don’t embarrass your mother.” Then she got into the car.

A clear shield of sorts separated us from the driver. He was a big scary guy dressed in a suit. I didn’t like him much. I don’t think he liked any of us either.

            The fair ran between Twelfth Street and Thirty-ninth Street along Lake Michigan. From the moment I saw the sky ride, I wanted to be up there with the birds and clouds. The motto of the fair made sense: “Science Finds, Industry Applies, Man Adapts.” Or in my case, young woman adapts. I could feel myself growing up just by being at the fair.

We entered the sounds, colors, and smells of the fair. Each competed for our attention. Blues and reds and golds everywhere. Hawkers called out to get attention; people chattered and laughed; children yelled with surprise that cut through the drone of walking, shuffling feet. And food smells wafted through the air. Sugar treats everywhere. Even burned sugar smelled good.

Did we want to see pavilions of countries like Egypt or Poland? What if we took in the Science Hall first or the Indian Village or the Radio display or the Airshow or the dairy farm, or the homes of tomorrow, or the Zephyr train? The Harkleroads and I stood paralyzed. All of the sights were ours because Miss Rand paid the fifty cents admission for each of us.

I was curious about midgets, but it didn’t seem right to stare at them, and the display of incubators with real babies was plain creepy.

By the time we were to meet Miss Rand, I was exhausted. Mr. and Mrs. Harkleroad seemed tired enough to go home. Ellen’s glimpses of wonder darted in and slipped away. Finally, the driver of the Packard brought us lunch, and we ate in a park. Hot dogs, hamburgers, a big, swirled pile of cotton candy, iced tea, ice cream. A little sticky fingered, we were escorted to Miss Rand’s dressing room for an additional desert of jelly doughnuts. Of course, Miss Rand didn’t appear until Ellen and I licked the last oozing of jelly.

Dressed in a sweater and wide-legged pants like Marlene Dietrich, Miss Rand was beautiful. She asked so many questions about our experiences and goals, my mind went blank. I forgot to ask her anything.

Miss Rand arranged for the Harkleroads to hear the Andrew Sisters sing. Ellen and I, however, stayed with her because Miss Rand wanted to learn more about what it was like to be in high school. I felt it was a pretense for something else. Ellen fidgeted as if she were sitting outside of the principal’s office. Sometimes she makes me so mad.

“I don’t imagine you have ever seen my act,” she said.

We both shook our heads.

Miss Rand stood up and went to a tall screen, and from behind it, she pulled out long feathers taller than she was.

“These are my practice fans, so you’ll have to use your imagination. Pretend this is my stage.”

Her hand elegantly extended and swept in front of her. Then kicked off her slippers and stood like a ballerina.

“Have you heard that I wanted to be in Swan Lake? I thought ballet was the most beautiful thing a woman could do. Stand up,” she ordered.

We did. Miss Rand was slender without an ounce of fat on her. My body, on the other hand, carried extra padding, and I felt bashful in her presence. She took my wrist and pulled my hand over my head.

“There. Hold it there. Now, you,” she took Ellen’s elbow and pulled it away from her body. For the next several minutes, Miss Rand hummed a tune and the three of us formed a line and danced in unison. It was too comical, and we all collapsed in laughter.

“Do you see how hard ballet is? That’s why I chose to dance with fans,” she said.

She pulled us to our feet again and gave us a lesson of how to hold fans and how to hide behind them.

“What do you think?”

“They’re heavy,” said Ellen.

“You can’t hide without carrying some burden,” she said with a sly grin.

Ellen and I knew she had another point in mind. At first, Ellen hung her head. I swallowed hard, but our lesson with the fans went on. Eventually after dropping the fans several times and rolling our eyes at mistakes, we sat down exhausted. Miss Rand told us about her rival.

“I think rivals could be friends, but in this business our grievances are page four news. The public wants to hear about the two battling fan dancers. I give as good as I get. But most days, I think it would be nice not to be trapped by what other people think. If Faith Bacon and I could sit down to lunch together. Without insults. Without attacks. Just me talking about my experiences and her talking about hers. You know? We could chew on how we handle a man who shows us no respect?”

“What if she had really hurt you?” asked Ellen and my mouth dropped open. “Not so much her man, but her, your rival? Would you feel the same way?”

“She has hurt me. I can only be who I am and pull strength from the scar she left. I’ve learned to be happy with me. You know, last year when I met your father, there were good Christian women who wanted to physically attack me. Wanted to leave me bruised and humiliated. Your father stopped them. I believe that there are more good people like your dad than rivals and enemies.”

Ellen had no reaction. Miss Rand asked me to wait outside. She said she had questions for Ellen before we rejoined Ellen’s parents. I walked outside and watched the crowd of people walk by. The big scary guy never smiled, but I could tell he followed orders: watch the kid. My arms began to twitch and  ache from hoisting the heavy fans.

When we were all reunited and found places in the park to sit down again, for the first time since I met Ellen, I saw her as older than me. Something had changed. I’ve always been a year younger, but I’m taller than she is and thickset. When we take the streetcar, I laugh because the conductor makes me pay as an adult, and she gets to pay as a child. It really gets her goat.

I studied Ellen. She was different. Angry—yes. Determined? She had decided something for sure. It scared me.

We floated through the clouds on the skyway, and at Mr. Harkleroad’s insistence viewed new automobiles. His excuse was to have a conversation topic for Jonas, Mrs. Quick’s son.

 I didn’t have a chance to talk to Ellen until we were ready for the mean-looking guy to take us home.

“What did you think about Miss Rand?” I whispered.

“She fights back. She doesn’t have to listen to anybody.”

“I liked her,” I said. “She knows people nitpick and lace into her, but she has a kind side.”

“She’s tough. Had to be because she’s made choices that other people don’t like. She doesn’t care what people think. But she helps people.”

“I thought she was fun,” I said. “I liked playing with the fans and pretending I could be a ballet star.”

“Yes, that was fun.” Ellen sounded like she thought I was a kid.

It was many years before Ellen would answer any of my questions about her discussion with Sally Rand. Our serious discussion didn’t happen until Ellen and I were both adults—she in the hospital about to give birth to her own daughter. That’s when I heard it all.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

1935

Chapter 43:  Ellen

The neighborhood kids called him The Ghost because under the streetlight his ungroomed silver hair shimmered like a prowling loose spirit.  No doubt, Oskar Varley was a force to make any girl breathe hard with fear and fascination. He stood over six feet tall with massive shoulders. His soiled undershirt hugged his body and revealed the bulging muscles of his bare arms. I was afraid of him because he was so much older than I was but he made me curious when his eyes fell on me. His lips smiled on one side of his face.

            I walked out of the library and crossed the street. He stood on the sidewalk for a moment, tilted his head in my direction, and followed me. His icy blue eyes narrowed.

At first, I thought to ignore him and foolishly tried to hide behind a lamp pole. But The Ghost would have none of it. He moved closer. Dad had once warned me to keep distance from the likes of him and called Oskar a “nervy bugger.”

Mostly, I kept my eyes downcast, peeped through my eyelashes, saw that he smiled at me. My face burned scarlet.

            Oskar’s silvery blond hair needed a haircut, but he was so good-looking with those silvery blond eyebrows and eyelashes, icy, icy, icy-blue eyes, and an angry red scar that began just under his left eye and ran down to his jaw. Rumor said he won the knife fight. His hands were amazingly big, hard, and calloused. Nails chipped and caked with grime. He leaned toward the lamp pole and towered over me.

            “Hey, Toots. I seen you around. What’s your name?”

            I wasn’t sure I remembered. “El-El-Ellen,” tumbled out of my mouth. I sounded like Paulie.

            “Well, El-El-Ellen, I’m Oskar. Oskar Varley.”

            “I know.” I felt stupid. How is a girl supposed to talk to The Ghost?

            “You’re at the library a lot,” he said like an accusation.

            I felt honored and thrilled even as my stomach tumbled into a wad.

            “Do you like books?” I asked.

 “Books? Nah. I’m usually heading for the tavern two blocks down after work. How old are you? Thirteen?”

            “I’m almost eighteen,” I boasted even though my seventeenth birthday was weeks away.

            One of his blue eyes winked at me. “You don’t look seventeen.”

            “I’ll be seventeen on my next birthday.” I felt heat rise from my neck to my eyes.

            “So sixteen.”

            He had caught me in a lie. I thought he might notice my heart pounding so hard it made my blouse flutter.

            “How old are you?” I managed to ask.

            “Twenty-six. Did your elementary school ever take a tour of the Chicago Stockyards?” I shook my head. “No chance to hear the pigs squeal their last breath?” A little more frightened, I shook my head again. “I work there. The killing floor. Pigs mostly. Pigs line up. Get hoisted into the air by a hind leg, and I slit their throats. First-time tourists—particularly women and kids—puke up their lunch. Some cry. We keep pails around, so we don’t have to walk through that kind of shit. But our production line can strip a pig of its skin and carve it up faster than General Motors linemen can put tires on a car.”

            Again, I felt my face flame, this time with revulsion. When the wind came from a certain direction, the smell of slaughtered animals dirtied our noses and mouths.

            “Are you a girl who easily pukes?”

My throat felt sick. But to me The Ghost stood like a mythical Nordic god, powerful and unpredictable like heroes in stories.

            “You’re embarrassed because I said puke?” His lip curled on one side. “You’re such a kid.”

            “I’m not a kid,” I said bravely.

            “Oh, yeah?” He moved in closer. His heavy breath warmed my ear. “You look like a kid to me. If I hugged you, I could break you.”

            My mind tripped on hug you, and I didn’t have a thing to say.

            I had always been small, certainly smaller than my friend Eleanor, and she was a year younger. It annoyed me every time the streetcar driver thought I needed to be accompanied by an adult. To have a man like The Ghost notice me and mention hugging me made my throat dry.

            I tried to ask him a question that would allow me to see him again. Something that sounded grown up.

            “Do you go to church?” I asked. It was a mistake as soon as it left my lips. He sputtered a cough and covered his mouth with the back of his hand before a great laugh filled the air.

            “Me? Never. No priest’s gonna knock me into next week. No way.” He laughed another big hearty laugh as if I were the joke. He took a step backward. Venom curled into his words. “So you’re a little church girl, are you?”

            “No, I . . . I only go if the minister allows my oldest sister to play the piano on her day off work, but he doesn’t like what she plays. Calls it too loud and . . . too fast.”

            “Do you like loud and fast?” He towered over me. “Or don’t you tell?”

            My chin dropped with confusion. What was I supposed to do?

            “I’ll see you around El-El. Do you like movies? I don’t mean Shirley Temple.”

            “Yes.” My voice felt stronger. I made eye contact. “I sometimes go with my sister.”

            “Your sister. Huh? Well, next time I see you, we’ll set a date for you to see the movies I like.”

            He didn’t walk away—he swaggered with a long stride as if he owned the world. I had never sat in a movie theater with a boy, never mind a man. I tried to imagine this new world: lights lowering, music playing as the film began, and me sitting with The Ghost.  Would he try to hold my hand?

            As I walked home, a plan fell into place. If I had a boyfriend like Oskar, no one would dare hurt me. Not ever.

My mother had warned me that some terrible moments need to be left behind. I’d never, ever dismiss how Deidre hurt me. I’ll never forgive her. Just the thought of her raised the hair on the back of my neck. Deidre would always be a monster.

Even though it had been years since I saw my godawful sister if she dared to come back, maybe I could convince Oskar to protect me from her. The Ghost could easily break her boyfriend Nicholas in half. I shuddered at the memory of Nicholas lying in the bed naked while Deidre ripped out my hair as she forced me toward him.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 44: Fiona

My little friend in my breast had grown bigger. When I stood in front of the mirror, I couldn’t see it, just feel it with my fingertips. Mother asked if I had a pain in my arm or shoulder because she noticed I walked with my upper arm close to my body. I had planned to mention the lump to her, but to speak it lets loose so many consequences. Once I tell of my fear, I set the terror in motion. The lump would be real. The actual cutting to remove it terrified me. Would a doctor remove my whole breast?

The girls I wrote to back in Valley shared stories of all those who have died. Horrible deaths. Radiation poisoning, they wrote. The glowing joy we painted onto our eyebrows and lips poisoned our bodies. So far no one who found lumps had survived. As they awaited deaths, they bravely filed lawsuits. The clock company should have warned us. Instead, they paid us a penny a clockface and kept quiet about the danger as we licked the brushes to apply a perfect paint stroke to each number.

Who would care for my three children? Vlad worked long hours. Una had a child of her own and planned to move away. The burden of my recovery from an operation would fall on Mother. I had difficulty thinking of Mother working to save me only to watch me die.  So far, not a single girl who painted clocks survived cancer.

Clock-painters wrote to me about going through a mastectomy in the mad hope of survival. They talked about doctors promising new treatments that inserted needles of radium into the breast, but that seemed crazy to me. Hadn’t we already had enough radium exposure.

Like me, many girls I worked with had children. I wondered if doctors left enough muscle across a woman’s chest so she could still pick up her babes.

And the children. A rumor floated of a possible threat. The moment radium touched our lips, it changed our bodies, but also it affected our daughters and sons as yet unborn. Could that be true? I looked at Dimples and wondered at what age a lump might form in her breast.

Where would I find money for the operation? Vlad and I had little savings that we kept rolled up in a teacup on the upper shelf in the kitchen. If I couldn’t work, our few dollars would soon disappear. Even now we couldn’t rely on Vlad’s pay. For my children to survive, I needed to continue the lie that I was a spinster. At work I shared stories of my mother and dad, but never mentioned my children or husband. I felt guilt every day, but the funny thing about being dowdy, no boss expected me to have a man in my life.

I steeled myself to tell Mother, but then I saw her hands tremble as she read Imogene’s letter.

“Imogene’s coming home,” said Mother. “She’s sick.”

That sealed my decision. My little friend could wait. What difference could it make to have a little lump removed or a larger one. Either way, I’d be losing a breast, and like the girls back in Valley, my life.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 45:  Imogene

Dearest Mother and Dad,

I haven’t wanted to write this letter, but I must. I lost my job because of my health and will be coming home to you as a burden.

            Dr. and Mrs. Goodman have been generous to me, and I have enjoyed working for them. But I haven’t felt well for a while now. Mary, the housekeeper, told Mrs. Goodman that I needed to see a doctor. Mrs. Goodman made arrangements, and I kept the appointment although I didn’t want to. I thought a day of sleep was all I needed.

            The woman doctor I saw was very thorough and told me I have several tumors in my abdomen. She said I need a hysterectomy and a long rest. As caring as my employers are, they can’t have me convalesce in their home for several months. They have arranged for me to take the train home to you. They have also found a woman who travels to Chicago regularly and will watch over me in case something goes terribly wrong.  I’ll be taking the Pennsylvania Limited out of Harrisburg and arriving in Englewood at Union Station, on 63^rd and State Streets. I’ve heard that Chicago also has a Union Station, but Mrs. Goodman thought Englewood’s station is closer to you. I’ll be arriving at 10:20 on the second Saturday of May.

            I can’t tell you how sad I am to make your lives more complicated. Dr. Goodman gave me fifty dollars to help with the cost of the hospital, but I have no idea if this is enough for an operation. I have my savings, but even with that—nowhere near fifty dollars—I’m not sure I’ll have enough for all the expenses.

            I’d always thought I’d marry, but that’s not a possibility now. Twenty-five. Not married. Quite plain and skinny. What man wants a girl who looks so pale that she might tip over at any moment. What man wants a woman who can’t give him children. If I survive the operation, my future will hold nothing for me but finding work. I know you both love me, but I can’t shake this feeling that I’m destined for a loveless life. I’m to become one of those aunts who looks after nieces and nephews. I must learn that has to be enough.

            I’ve enjoyed your letters about Paulie. He sounds so entertaining for you. I hope he can jolly me out of this darkness that clouds my thoughts.

            Your loving daughter,

            Imogene

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 46:  Sheila

How was I to break the news to Sam?

            Englewood still had a third of workers out of work. We still had homeless encampments and bread lines. The Dust Bowl continued. And war talk. Now Imogene was coming home, sick.

I walked to Paulie’s cage and made kissing noises to get his attention. He gave me an evil side-eye.

“Well, big boy, what’s your recommendation? How will Sam take this? I don’t want him trying to find a third or fourth job.”

Paulie replied with the soft sound of an automobile engine and a loud ah-ooga horn blast.

“You can be an annoying bird, you know that. Give me something practical. Let’s start there. Where will Imogene sleep?”

Obviously bored with me, Paulie hopped down from clinging to the bars of his cage to crack seeds.

My mind spun out of control with everyday decisions. Could Imogene sleep in the second bedroom with Ellen or need more space? During the day, I watched Fiona’s three children so she could work.  With Imogene in the bedroom, the brothers, Scoot and Chief, could still nap on the couch in the afternoon, and Dimples could sleep on Ellen’s mattress in the pantry, unless Una’s daughter Nadine were here. Then the two girls could nap in my bed. The arrangement seemed complicated. All I could imagine was the fuss that was coming of who was to sleep where.

“Ah-ooga,” said Paulie followed by screaming whistles and clicks.

“You think I’m missing something?” I asked the bird. His head bobbed as his feet danced on a bar.

Fiona and Vlad had jobs. He did custodial work at a lamp manufacturing company, and she finally worked for Brewer’s. More jobs became available because of government programs and war talk.

Una had given birth to Nadine in December of 1933and was now pregnant with her second.

“Una hasn’t visited for a while, Paulie. She and Hemming will be moving soon. That means I can’t ask Una for help with the cost of Imogene’s operation. The fifty dollars from Imogene’s employer can’t be enough.” I scratched the bird’s neck.

I had my stash of seventeen dollars. And if we became desperate, Fiona’s stash of ones that she kept in my shoe had nineteen dollars left. Still not enough.

The children woke from their nap hungry, and I busied myself with feeding them tomato milk soup and inventing games. Scoot became obsessed with climbing on a chair and sticking objects into Paulie’s cage, sometimes going for the bird’s eyes. Paulie squawked as a call to me to control the little rascal. Until Ellen came home from school or Sam came home from work, my day filled with warden duties.

“Don’t.” “No.” “Bad boy.” “Stop it.” “What will your mother say if I tell her?”

Paulie liked to squawk, “Bad boy! Ba-ad boy!”

One thought tightened my throat. With Imogene needing care after her operation and Fiona needing someone to watch her children, did I dare ask Ellen to make a sacrifice of time in the afternoons to help me? If she attended school in the mornings, she could watch the children in the afternoon while I assisted Imogene or washed clothes—ironed—shopped for food—cleaned—cooked—baked—mended. My knitting could be an evening job when others gathered to listen to the radio. But what would that half day schedule of schooling do to Ellen’s graduation?

Fiona picked up her children early. I couldn’t keep back the news of Imogene coming home. Not from Fiona.

Ellen dropped off her schoolbooks and went out into the spring air to talk to Eleanor on the front stoop.  I began putting together our supper: more warmed tomato milk soup, cubed bologna and a sliced onion added into two scrambled eggs. Our slices of bread were store-bought. No time for baking with three little ones to mind.

Sam and I sat on the back porch after supper. I handed him Imogene’s letter. He took the news of Imogene with his usual quiet.

“I don’t know of any doctors for her to see, do you?” he asked.

“No. Dorothy has lived in Englewood for well over thirty years. She must be able to recommend a doctor or at least a hospital. I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

“I don’t want you trying to manage all of this on your own. Ellen will have to step up.”

“I thought the same. But Sam, she so wants to be out in the world.”

“September begins her senior year. Maybe we can convince her to cut back her classes for a semester and help. She’s smart. Maybe she can still graduate on time.”

Sam didn’t look convinced but gave that be-grateful-for-what-you-have look. Maybe Imogene’s recovery wouldn’t take long.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 47:  Sam and Sheila

Sam: We were less than a week away from meeting Imogene at the train station. My mind roiled with logistics of how to get her home to the flat. Spending money on cab fare seemed reckless. Yet, if she were as bad as I thought, I didn’t want her struggling with a crowded streetcar. Both Sheila and I needed to meet the train—one of us to steady her walk on the train platform, the other to carry her suitcase.

            Our home plan seemed reasonable: Imogene would share a bed with Ellen, and Ellen reluctantly agreed to cut back on classes at Englewood High School. She’d watch the children in the afternoon to free up time for Sheila’s work.

            Once Imogene was home, she’d see a doctor, and we’d find out the cost of the operation. Our meager savings added to hers probably wouldn’t pay the entire bill. Neither of us mentioned to the other that Imogene’s condition might be dire. I remembered my own aunt’s battle. Doctors who said she was in God’s hands.

            In moments with her face turned away from me, Sheila wiped tears.

            Dorothy asked at her church about a doctor, but I intended to talk to Jonas. First, he had a Hudson. The young man in his early thirties had spent many hours in our flat listening to music and baseball on the radio. He was honorable. I believed he would help transport our girl home.

Sheila: I had dreaded climbing the stairs to tell Dorothy we needed help. Not that she wouldn’t give what she could, but the telling underscored the truth. I had to face our daughter was in trouble.

            I burst into Dorothy’s flat without knocking. Tears that trickled at home flooded down my face.

            Not saying a word, Dorothy wrapped her arms around me and allowed my grief to wrack my body.

When I was exhausted, Dorothy asked, “How can I help?”

I handed her Imogene’s letter, not able to speak.

            “Have any of you seen a doctor in the last few years?”

            I shook my head. “Una’s delivery of her first baby was by a midwife. Fiona’s was in the hospital because she was having twins, but we never met the doctor.”

            Dorothy had promised to ask members of her church for recommendations.

“A less expensive doctor might have to be a woman or a Black man. Both Karl and Jonas know a great number of people. Perhaps they will know of a doctor who does not despise women.”

            “We’ve never even had enough to spare for burial insurance” I confessed. My throat felt like it closed.

            “I read that the state of Minnesota is starting an insurance plan for health,” said Dorothy. “It’s called Blue Cross. I can’t imagine people paying money out of their own pocket every month just waiting to get sick.”

Sam: I approached Jonas as he came home from his Standard Oil job and explained our situation.

            “Can you help?”

            “Of course. What do you need me to do?”

            “Drive us to the Englewood train station and pick up our daughter?”

            “Done. Let me know when.”

Sheila:  Ellen’s cooperation had been tricky. Her summer break from school would take on the work of caring for Fiona’s children while I accompanied Imogene to see doctors. I soon learned operations alone could run as much as a hundred dollars. Imogene needed a complete hysterectomy and months of bedrest.

When I broke it to Ellen that we also needed her help come fall, tears welled up in her eyes.

“It’s my senior year. If I graduate, I can find a job. But if I have to go a year and a half, I won’t graduate until January of 1937.” Her eyes pleaded the logic of it.

“It can’t be helped. I’ll have Imogene to care for and Fiona’s three children. Una is expecting a new baby any day.”

Ellen resigned herself to tallying her responsibilities that could hinder her graduation and became sad.

Sam: Ellen waited for me and ran down the sidewalk to plead for a way to stay in school. I asked her for patience to grow up.

            “We need you, Ellen. Everyone is doing a share of the work.”

            “Except Deidre.” She spit the words out to wound me.

            “If you know where she is,” I said, “tell me, and I’ll write to her. After all, she liked Imogene more than the rest of us.”

            “Sorry, Dad. I have no idea where she’d go. Her fiancé’s first name was Nicholas, but I don’t know his last name.”

            I put my hand on her shoulder, and we walked home.

Sheila: In the days that followed, Karl gave us the name of a woman doctor, and Dorothy suggested we discuss money matters with the Rush School of Medicine. The cost wouldn’t be so dear if we allowed their students to do the operation. Students? My blood ran cold.  How could I allow a student to tinker with Imogene’s insides. I envisioned joking students slicing my daughter open. Sam calmed me down.

“There will be a teacher right there if anything else needs doing.”

“But Sam . . . “

He gave a silly grin. “Remember, we got a woman upstairs praying to the man upstairs, for our girl to be okay. I figure she’s put in many hours at that church of hers to have some clout with the powers that be.”

Sam trusted a doctor’s knowledge. I distrusted their commitment to giving their all to save my daughter’s life. I didn’t remind Sam that to many people, women are a dime a dozen.

Sam: Since I had mentioned our daughter to Jonas, he visited our flat every day with suggestions for wound care and ways to keep up our girl’s spirits. He had knowledge and confidence. I found myself trusting him.

Sheila: When the day came to meet the train, Sam and I put on our best clothing. Sam dressed in his wool suit for this welcome home and I in my navy-blue dress. On my head? My cloche hat.

            Jonas met us at the front door and drove us to the train station. We waited on the long-covered brick platform at Union Station in Englewood. The building was a two-story red brick with big arches for windows and one for the entrance. The waiting room smelled of ink, paper, cigarette smoke, and roasted peanuts.

            The Rock Island commuter trains arrived and disappeared around the curve of the tracks into Chicago. A long freight train poured clouds of steam as it slowly rolled past the shared station. The Pennsylvania train—due any minute.  When the long train pulled slowly to a halt. Men hustled off first. Women corralled their children and struggled with luggage. Waiting families rushed to meet kin.

            Imogene was the last to exit the train with the help of the conductor who had one arm around her waist and his hand holding her elbow.

            “Here we go, Miss,” he said. “This must be your family that you mentioned.”

            Before we could adjust to her thinness, Jonas stepped forward as Imogene lost her balance on the steep stairs. We gasped for her safety.

            “I got her,” said Jonas. He swept her up in his arms. None of us complained.

            “Good to see you, sir. Right you are. You’re in good hands, Miss.” The conductor said to Imogene.

            “Shall I call you Jeannie?” asked Jonas. “I’m your upstairs neighbor, and your dad asked me to help.” His voice was soft and encouraging.

Sam: Sheila and I expected Imogene to be weak, but not so pale and not so thin.            

            I grabbed the suitcase that another conductor carried out of the train. An older woman walked behind us and before Imogene was put into Jonas’s car, the woman touched Sheila’s arm.

            “I hope you don’t mind. I sat with your daughter on the train. I think she had a terrible time. It took almost twenty hours from Harrisburg. My name is Lottie Mason, and this is where I’ll be staying.” She handed a slip of paper to Sheila. “She hadn’t expected the trip to be this taxing,” said Lottie. “If I can help in any way, please call me. Your daughter is a lovely person. I hope she will be okay.”

            We still didn’t have a telephone. It was one more expense I couldn’t meet.

Sheila:  Imogene looked like her body was made of sticks held together by a thin, shapeless dress. Jonas easily carried her to the car. I believed in miracles until I saw my daughter. Ellen’s claim that life wasn’t fair seemed true. My plan? To walk through the next few days encouraging my daughter to eat. Visit the woman doctor. Fuss over Imogene and Ellen. Rely on Paulie to help Imogene laugh. I also began to think of funeral arrangements.

            We entered the flat to a squawking bird with ruffled feathers.

            “Come here. Woof, woof. She-la. Wa-ter. Hell-oh, Toots. What da ya say?”

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 48: Dorothy

I threw my robe over my night clothes to answer the banging on the door. At two in the morning, Jonas and Frankie were in a deep sleep. I knew the banging wasn’t Karl because he had a key. When I opened the door, Sam looked desperate.

“Can’t wait for a doctor. Imogene needs a hospital now.”

“Jonas, get the Hudson,” I called.

Jonas rushed into clothing, even to the point of putting on shoes without socks. Sam stood in our doorway quite helpless. His eyes struck me as pure fear, and he barely spoke but managed to say that Imogene had started to bleed and couldn’t walk. Jonas retrieved the car from a parking spot down the street and pulled it around to the front of the building. When Jonas ran into the Harkleroad flat, he wrapped Imogene in a blanket before carrying her out like a rag doll. Sheila shed silent tears and grabbed her purse. Sam climbed into the front seat. I continued to stand on the stairs whispering prayers.

            “You’re going to be okay, Jeannie,” said Jonas. “I’ll get you there in time and be back to pick you up when you are well. No worries. Okay?”

            Sheila cradled Imogene on the back seat. Off they went to the Presbyterian Hospital. I knew they had only meager savings to pay for bills.  Sheila told me her daughter’s employer gave fifty dollars toward Imogene’s operation. I had only Harvey’s stay in the hospital to measure how much it might cost for Imogene’s operation. What they had wasn’t enough. A bed in a ward of nine patients cost four dollars a day. They’d soon be penniless and in debt.

            I scribbled a note and sent a sleepy Frankie out into the night to let Fiona know about Imogene. Then I called Una. I suspected at the very least, Imogene would need a blood transfusion. For that, we all could start preparing. While Frankie was away, I started a pot of potato soup to share. I knew Ellen wouldn’t think about something warm to eat tomorrow. I don’t think God minded if he listened to my prayers as I peeled potatoes.

            Sheila, Sam and Jonas returned to robins singing as dawn approached. Both men faced a workday. They all looked exhausted. By morning I also managed a big pot of Cream of Wheat. As I opened two cans of milk, Sheila squeezed my hand.

“Only good thoughts,” I said.

“Fiona arrived at the hospital to be with her sister,” said Sheila as I poured tea. “Both she and I have a blood match to Imogene’s. After a little rest, I’ll go back to the hospital. Thank you, Dorothy. I appreciate the cereal.”

“Don’t worry about supper. I have potato soup.”

Sam nodded his head.  

 By early afternoon, Una climbed the stairs to tell of their plan.

“Mother and Fiona will stay at the hospital until the operation can be done,” said Una. “Everyone agrees that the students of the Rush Medical School can do a competent job of saving Imogene’s life.”

The poor girl didn’t look confident at all.

“Of course, there will be a doctor monitoring their work,” I said.

“True. Still, Mother’s hands tremble when she isn’t by Imogene’s side, and Fiona is doing her best at making jokes. She told Imogene, “Once you get my blood, you’ll soon be collecting dishes at the movies.’”

I imagined how their fear spiked because even I felt the dread of a student in control of a knife. I whispered another prayer while I stood at my kitchen sink. Did God hear me? Feeling I needed my church, I dressed in more appropriate clothing and walked to Rugged Cross to ask fellow parishioners to pray for my young neighbor. When I returned home, I waited for Jonas. Neither Karl nor Frankie were anywhere to be seen.

            Three weeks later when Imogene’s hospital ordeal and operation were over, Jonas carried her back into the flat. The poor girl had the saddest face I had seen in a good long while. Here she was in her middle twenties, no job, no prospects of marriage, and a long recovery at home. She had to feel the burden she created on her parents and on Ellen, who had a job taking care of one rambunctious niece and two rascal nephews. Ellen’s only hope of a respite? Morning classes at the high school in the fall.

            “How’s Imogene?” I asked Sam.

            “Alive. I think she feels like a coal mine mule.  She thinks her life will be long days of holding a job until she dies. I told her that’s pretty much true for all of us whether we got kids or not.”

            “That’s plain nonsense. Women always have options, maybe not as many as you men, but we can choose. Look at that Amelia Earhart, flying all around the world. Eventually, Imogene will find work she enjoys. My two older sons have chosen to support me and not to marry. They have careers. They are respected. Jonas knows people.”

            Even to me, my words seemed hollow. Imogene was a hard-working White woman, and while not beautiful, she had her own attractive way. Certainly, no one would mistake her for a scrub woman. No one would call her Mrs. Mop. Her life could be worse.

            “Sam, plenty of women never marry. Plenty of women marry and rue the day. Seems to me she’s lucky. She has choices.”

            Sam didn’t see it as I did.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 49: Sheila

After the successful removal of twenty-seven tumors, the woman doctor praised recent advancements in women’s health and told us it would take three or four months for my daughter’s body to recover.

            “You’ll enjoy a Christmas celebration at your home,” said the doctor.  

            I thanked her and felt staggered with what we still owed the hospital.

Once home Imogene’s mood varied. And why shouldn’t it? The doctor had saved her, but Imogene had lost all chance of having children. At twenty-five she began to call herself a spinster.

            Una contributed to our payment fund, so did Fiona, Dorothy did too, and Sam’s sister Agnes sent what she could from England, but Sam and my savings—all gone.

We still owed the hospital money. Hospital beds were four dollars a day. Imogene’s fifty dollars from her employer quickly disappeared. Our mess? The doctor and the cost of the operation would take six months or longer to pay off if I could cut back on our food.

            In the dark of night, Sam asked if I wanted to sell my mother’s copper plates. I considered it. But to offer a sale meant the wrong people could learn I indeed had them. Men might decide killing us and taking the plates to be a better idea. Then who’d care for Imogene?

            “Let’s see if we can manage,” I said.

            Sam hummed agreement.

When our children were sick, I used to pull out my mother’s one bone-china cup with a matching saucer and served them tea. The scalloped edge of the cup made the girls fearful of spilling the tea, and a black crack across the saucer caused them to be delicate as they set it down. The cup had a dark blue rim with white medallions filled with pink roses, a pretty thing my mother had found in an alley. “Far too grand for the likes of us. English,” my Irish mother would say as her nose wrinkled. Yet she started the tradition of me using it during times of fevers, tummy aches, or just plain down in the dumps. With my children, I’d sit by the bedside and tell of the grandmother they never knew. I insisted Imogene use the magic healing cup to make her strong.

But the blue cup was sentimental, not the inheritance of value. I kept Mother’s copper plates hidden from my children.  How did my delicate Irish mother come by plates that could counterfeit a perfect two-dollar bill? I assumed my father had a hand in it.

Jonas Quick visited Imogene almost every day. I didn’t know Jonas well and thought perhaps he considered the visit as his Christian duty to the sick. I figured he’d tire of her soon enough.

To my surprise his visits continued week after week. He maintained his work schedule for Standard Oil and his volunteer work at the Boys Club, but he found time for Imogene. Sometimes for five minutes to share a Bible passage, sometimes for an hour to listen to the radio. He willingly helped her from the bed to the sunshine of the front window. He joked, “Jeannie, you’re a feather-weight. You got to bulk up if you want to fight in the ring.”  

“So how you doin’ kid?” asked Jonas when she was seated. Her shoulders softened, and I saw the sadness of the day melt from her face. “Your dad told me how much you liked going up in a biplane years ago when a barn-storming pilot came to your hometown. Well, I have a biplane. After you’re well again, I’m taking you up into the clouds.”

“You have a biplane? Of your very own?”

“Nah. Standard Oil owns it. They let me use it. It’s a Douglas, built in the 1920s and once delivered mail. You see, I’m an experiment for the company. I fly into small airports, make sure the pilots are happy with Standard Oil fuel, schedule deliveries—that kind of thing. We’re in competition with Shell and Chevron. I’d like to show you the sky as I know it.”

Imogene’s face brightened as she nodded. “Only if you have time. I don’t want to inconvenience you.”

“Happy to do it,” said Jonas.

And he was happy. Elated might be a better word. His eyes opened wide.

Jonas was tall with broad shoulders. He had a hardy laugh that wrinkled his hazel eyes. I could hardly believe he was thirty-one.

I ached at the heartbreak I often saw in Imogene’s face. When Fiona came to visit, I overheard Imogene point out Fiona’s blessings.

“You have three beautiful children,” said Imogene.

“These little hellions? I guess I plan to enjoy them as long as I can, but you can borrow them if you like. Anytime. Just say the word. Love to shuffle them off for a few hours.”

Fiona laughed and ruffled Scoot’s hair.

I found myself worrying about Fiona too. She still joked, but I spotted a hollowness in her cheeks and listened to how often she stopped to take a deep breath as if she were steeling herself for what followed. When we both were to donate blood for Imogene, Fiona asked to talk to the nurse privately in another room. Later, she made a joke about being a coward around needles. Why did she lie?

Imogene lived quietly and focused on her knitting, ate a couple of tablespoons of food, ignored Paulie’s scratching, ringing, whistling, and calling. At times, I caught her wipe a tear.

As she recovered strength, Jonas helped her into the backyard and escorted her on a walk two blocks to the corner of 59^th and Halsted. Eventually, he asked her if she would like to hear him sing in the choir at Rugged Cross. She agreed.

I sat in the kitchen mending Imogene’s clothing. Her cotton stockings had been mended many times as were her petticoats and bloomers. The fabric so thin that a needle threatened to increase tearing.

“I hear that rich women wear silk stockings, but can they be mended?” I asked Fiona.

“Rich women don’t have to mend anything,” said Fiona. She allowed her children to play near the front window. When she looked in my direction, her face lit up as if she held sparklers.

“Mother,” said Fiona, “Jonas is so handsome, so gorgeous with those hazel eyes of his . . . I’d never have thought he would have fallen for a girl like Imogene. How often does he visit? Because it seems to me, he visits every day. Besides church, where has he taken her?”

Gossip is strong in Fiona.

“She mentioned she wanted to see the flower gardens in Jackson Park that Dad had planted, so Jonas drove them there after church on Sunday, and Dad pointed to the flowers he loved.”

“Dad went along?”
            “He did. How else were they to know which beds he planted?”

“See, Jonas is smitten. What gentleman wants to take out a lady and her father? But then we Harkleroad girls have a charm. Look at Vlad and me. Who would have predicted a man with his good looks would want a brawny girl like me. If I should . . . get hit by a truck, Vlad won’t have any problem finding a new mother for our children.”

“You’re not going to get hit by a truck,” I said. I felt chill when she said things like this lately. So I scolded. “Don’t say such things.”

“You never know.” Fiona’s face lowered. She was more serious than I liked.

My old worries continued. What did I not know about Fiona? What happens to Imogene when Jonas tires of giving her attention?

Sam saw their relationship in a different way. “Jonas is doing what Karl does. Find a woman who can’t give him children, strike up a friendship. Companionship without marriage. Makes me wonder what the Old Missus has on her sons to keep them tied down.”

One day as I dried dishes by the kitchen window, I heard Jonas talking to Imogene in the back yard, and some of their relationship began to make sense.

“I wish your family had a chance to know my dad,” said Jonas. “I wish Darby and Frankie had known Dad the way I did. But Frankie was two and Darby seven when our father died.”

“Awfully young,” said Imogene.

He told of his father’s love of football. Harvey took him to high school games. A special treat: Englewood and Hyde Park High Schools, 1913. Jonas was ten.

“The Chicago Public League had formed. That year Hyde Park was undefeated and crushed Englewood. Dad was disappointed for me to see the team he loved lose to the Hyde Park machine, but he said, ‘I wish you could have seen them in 1899. Man-oh-man were they good. Wait until next year. Purple and white will show them how powerful we can be. Next year, Jonas.’”

In this moment that Jonas opened up to share memories of his father, Imogene seemed to know his need. Her face sparkled with enthusiasm.

“And did Englewood win in 1914?” asked Imogene.

“Englewood won the Chicago Public League Championship, but Hyde Park wasn’t allowed to play. They hadn’t followed the rules for coaches and players. But in 1915, Dad and I were at the championship game played at Stagg Field. Thousands of fans. Thousands. Englewood destroyed Hyde Park. What a game! Dad cheering as loud as anyone. He said, ‘We showed those Ph.D’s, Jonas. We showed them.’”

I pictured Jonas standing on bench seating and yelling cheers with everyone else, very like the pictures I had seen in newspapers. To a twelve-years-old, even high school players had to seem larger than life.

“I thought this was the most important thing in the world,” Jonas said.

“It was important. How many games did you go to with your Dad?” asked Imogene.

“Not as many as he or I wanted. Dad worked for the railroad as a baggage agent. He let me join him one day as he marked cases for the baggage car. People traveled to other states and handed their belongings over to my dad to keep them secure so another agent could return their luggage in a faraway city.”

“You too are important. You work for Standard Oil.”

Jonas’s face turned sober. “Did you know my dad was older than my mother by twelve years. He worked hard. I mostly glad-hand.”

“He would be proud of you. Did you play football at Englewood?” asked Imogene.

“Basketball, baseball, but definitely, football.  The Great War ended, but influenza followed. In 1920. I made the varsity team, and we played our old enemy Hyde Park.”

I felt the excitement as he described his father sitting in the stands cheering.

Art Folz was their quarterback and won the game with a sixty-yard run. I tried to imagine thousands of fans cheering.

“I was glad that Dad got a chance to see one more winning game at the University of Chicago. After my seventeenth birthday, he died. He had to be in some pain at that last game, but I didn’t know it.”

“Do you continue to go to football games?” asked Imogene.

“I do. I round up friends, and don’t get me wrong, they love the game, but they’d rather see a college game or the professionals. It’s not the same appreciation as when it’s high school vs high school. ‘Course Knute Rockne and George Gipp aren’t around anymore but we still got Ed Danowski.”

I had no idea who the players were, and if I read Imogene’s face, neither did she.

“We should go to a game.” His face was eager, voice polite. “I’ll explain what is happening on the field.”

“I’d like that,” said Imogene. “I wish I had known your dad.”

Standing at the sink, cup in hand, I found tears filling my eyes. I wished I had been able to give a son’s love to Sam, but both of our boys died.

Often, Jonas shared details that probably went over Imogene’s head. They certainly went over mine. But the sharing caused my daughter’s face to glow. I hoped with dreams. They shared experiences of special moments. The father and his second son chased a dream of winning.

I thought of my own sharing with my mother. My small hands learning the texture of rising dough.  She willed me to identify when the dough demanded more kneading and when it didn’t. Days after I turned eleven, I lost her and took over house duties for my father, my hands remembered the exact pressure to apply to warm dough, my hopes that my creation would be like my mother’s. Many times, I wished she could say once more, “Enough kneading, Sheila. You got it.”

Jonas sheltered his memories of his father and shared stories with only the few who could be gentle.  Imogene was that trusted friend.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

1936

Chapter 50: Ellen

In January of 1936 when I started the second semester of my extra-long, three-semester senior year, Oskar Varley found me returning from the grocery market with a bag of vegetables. He cozied up next to me and put his arm around my shoulders. I was seventeen, he twenty-seven.

            “Where ya bin?”

            “Taking care of family.” I struggled to walk ahead of him.

            “Thought you were avoiding me?”

His grip on my coat became tighter. I felt a thrill and fright. Oskar’s hands were unrelenting.

Early fall, we had briefly met a few times. Oskar never wanted to sit on the stoop of our two-flat, and I didn’t want to explain the pig-slaughterer to my dad.

This time he wrestled with my shoulders as he pulled me closer to him and a button popped off my coat. I couldn’t pick it up because the flat of his hand explored my back down to my bottom. His hands became more familiar and pretended to tickle me but managed to stroke my breast. I squirmed, fearful someone would spot us and tell my mother. Worse yet—tell my dad.

“I thought all girls want to get married,” he said.

The comment came out of the blue.  For the last few months, I hadn’t seen him. I dreaded he had found someone new.

“You should meet my parents and sisters,” I said.

He laughed ridicule and grabbed my elbow. He marched me down the street like a disobedient child.

“Let your old man know I don’t intend to marry them.”

“Are you asking me to marry you?” I asked as I tried to twist free.

He twirled me to face him and roughly raised my chin.  “I never ask. I take.”

My heart hammered, not sure what I felt. We stopped and he forced his tongue into my mouth. Tears fell. Memories of Deidre and Nicholas returned.

I let out a small guttural scream. Oskar tasted sour like spoiled milk. I angled my face away from him and wiped his saliva from my mouth and cheek.

Oskar slapped me. “Bitch!”

The shock of it made me sputter, “Imogene needs care, and my mother can’t watch Fiona’s children and tend to my sister, so they need me to stay home from school in the afternoons.”

 He grabbed me again and we walked. I didn’t pay attention to where we were going. I heard my feet slapping the sidewalk and the vegetables rattling in the grocery sack I gripped.

I explained that I wouldn’t be able to graduate in June. Graduation wouldn’t be until January of 1937.

He gave me another poke to move faster. My face burned.

“You’re a girl. Why do you need to graduate at all?  Your sisters never graduated, right?”

“I promised my Dad I’d graduate.”

“That’s bullshit. You aren’t a kid. You can marry if you want. Or don’t you want?” Something threatening entered his voice.

We stopped. I couldn’t catch my breath. He yanked me behind a scrawny bush near a gangway. I stumbled and some of Mother’s vegetables spilled out onto the sidewalk.

When I bent to pick them up, Oskar pushed me hard against a brick wall. My shoulder stung.

“Right now! Do you want to belong to me or not?”

I was confused and afraid. He had never said he loved me. He was mean. How many times had he disappeared without saying a word. I felt a knot in my stomach.

Oskar’s eyes narrowed and his cheeks sunk into his face. “Are you holding out for a church? I’m not. We say our vows in front of God.” He kicked the bag away from the strewn vegetables. His thumb dug into my collarbone. “I promise to be very good to you. Do you promise to be very good to me?” His voice held no tenderness.

“Yes.” I was confused.

“I mean it, Ellen. You have my body. Do I have yours? Any time. Every time.”

“Yes, but . . .”

“You said yes.”

 He kissed me so hard I felt bruised—memories of Deidre’s grip returned. My own sister had ordered me to warm up Nicholas.  Had yanked at my hair. Pain had shot across my scalp. “With your mouth. Suck his thing.”

Nicholas had sores.

I had tried to fight Deidre, but she was always bigger and stronger. Nicholas grabbed me by the back of my neck while Deidre’s knee went into my back.  I hate her.

I felt Oskar’s hands under my skirt and tried to turn away. He slapped me, and I began to cry.  

“Nuh-uh, you’re not pushing me away ever again. We’ve said our vows of marriage. Remember? You said yes. Your body is mine.”

Desperately, I tried to stop him. He was stronger. My dress ripped at my waist.

 “Miss? This is a nice neighborhood street,” said a man’s deep voice. “Do you need help?”

When I looked in his direction, an older Black man and a younger one stood a few feet away with a Black child. The older one took two steps forward, his brow wrinkled, his eyes narrowed. The younger man and boy looked frightened. In Englewood a White man could easily make up lies about a Black man. I had heard stories about the Ghost and his baseball bat thrashing a Black man and getting away with it.

The Ghost stood tall so the man could see his power and anger. If I was frightened by Oskar before, The Ghost in him terrified me. I didn’t want these two men and perhaps their child to be harmed.

“It’s none of your god-damned-business,” snarled Oskar as he loosened his grip on me.

My words gushed forward. “I’ve got to go home,” I said. I yelled over my shoulder to Oskar, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I ran as fast as I could while holding the torn skirt in one hand and my coat closed in the other. I blocked out the sounds that came from behind me. At first, I didn’t know where I was. I didn’t care. I just ran.

Then I saw a street sign. Oskar had drawn me into the Black neighborhood of Washington Park. It took a moment for me to get my bearings. Once I did, I sprinted for home still clutching my skirt that kicked up above my knees. At the stoop of our building, I remembered the vegetables. 

“None of vegetables were good enough, Mother.”  I pushed past her.

“What happened to your skirt?” she asked.

I hurried into my bedroom, fearing Mother would ask me for the vegetable money. Imogene napped on our bed. I curled up in the corner of the room on the floor and hid my face in a blanket that had slipped off the bed. Mother stood in the doorway.

“Ellen, what happened?”

I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t make sense of what Mother said. Imogene awoke.

“Give her time to catch her breath,” said my sister.

Mother closed the bedroom door. My heart slowed.

Then someone banged on our door, and my heart again raced.

“Here’s your vegetables, Mrs. Harkleroad. I guess your daughter forgot them when we met. I have that kind of effect on women. They go all ga-ga. It’s my good-looks. Please tell Ellen I’ll see her next week when my bloodied knuckles heal.  Tell her to get dolled-up. She made me a promise, and I intend to hold her to it.”

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 51: Sheila

Putting down the torn bag of vegetables, I grabbed Oskar’s arm and pulled him out the door onto the stoop.

            “I expect you to appreciate that Ellen is still in high school, and we want her to graduate. Please understand I think you are too old for her. She’s a good girl. How’d your hand get scraped.”

            “Reminded folks of their place,” he smirked. “But you’d think Ellen’s a good girl, wouldn’t you. You being her mother. She’s a woman, you know. With experience.”

            I felt my jaw tighten. “I’m asking for time. She needs to graduate high school.”

            “No. She doesn’t. She’s eager to be a married woman. She’s said she’s eager to share my bed.”

            I felt my face color. I wanted to smack that smug look off his face.

            “Are you eager to be a married man?” I asked.

            He shrugged his shoulders. “What is marriage?”

            It was all I needed to hear. He was indeed the man Dorothy had warned about.

            “Funny thing about life,” I quietly said. “When you least expect it, someone steps forward. You could be in danger.”

            “Oh, yeah? Who’s your bouncer? Your old man?” He laughed.

            I wanted him away from Ellen and our family. My hatred and fear wanted him dead. Did I have a weapon? My mind whispered, “Mother’s plates”

            “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you,” I lied. “Ellen would be hurt.”

“You’re a pip, lady. You think I’m afraid of your old man?” His laugh was loud and nasty. “You birds are all the same. Gonna tell your hubby I’m not good enough for your little girl?”

            “No, I don’t think I will.” I licked the flat of my thumb and touched the back of his scraped hand. “Be careful. The curse coming won’t be Sam.”

            I smiled. He made a grunting sound and skipped off the stoop without looking back.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 52: Imogene

I left the Valley to work in Harrisburg when I was fifteen and Ellen was seven. The Goodmans turned out to be lovely people. He, a doctor, with standing in the community. She active with her church. And the house was better than I was used to. They had indoor plumbing. But I can’t call the house glamorous. It was a significant house with a cook who came in early to prepare breakfast and the noontime dinner. Before she left, Cook set out a cold supper. Mary, the housekeeper, came in before noon and left at nine. She and I brought the supper to the table and cleared the dishes away. I washed and restacked dishes. Cook had a list of what I needed to set out for her morning preparation of breakfast. We all behaved as tools.

Rarely did they call my name. I was known as the girl and lived in the attic to be on-call if anything was needed during the night. There I planned for my days off: the middle two Thursdays of the month and for my few hours to attend church on Sunday. Otherwise, I cleaned: pots, water closets, stove, floors, and three fireplaces. I made beds, did laundry, ironed, polished silver, and made excuses for when Mrs. Goodman chose not to be home to greet her visitors. I didn’t mind. I had the comfort of a warm home, good food, and indoor plumbing. Work was made easier because of a wringer washing machine. No using every arm muscle to twist water from clothing, sheets, or towels. My own mother would love one, but a wringer washer cost $38.00.

Once I had a chance to travel with the family to New York City and stood on the dock to watch the big steam ships line up at Ellis Island. Mrs. Goodman commented that these days passengers on board ships coming into New York had too many Irish and Italians. I wanted to defend my mother who was born-in-America to Irish parents, but I feared Mrs. Goodman may take offense and fire me. I had heard from other girls in service that employers could be petty if Irish worked for them. My last name didn’t give me away.

            When my body betrayed me with sickness, the Goodmans were kind by giving me money and a recommendation if I chose to be a domestic in Chicago. Missus counseled me to look for a widower with his own children if I chose to marry. “Babies won’t be so important to him. He won’t be choosy.” Mrs. Goodman told me about the babies she had lost. “In time, you won’t mind not having a passel of children demanding your attention. I told Mr. Goodman four are quite enough,” she said. “We wish you well, but now is the time to be with your own family.”

            At twenty-five years old, I felt God set me up for a joke: You are a woman, but not a functioning one.

Mother had told me that since Ellen met Oskar, she had changed. I noticed that as she tended Fiona’s children, she seemed annoyed. I asked her to be more tolerant when her scolding became too loud. She responded, “They need to behave.”

The day she returned with no vegetables, Mother caught her in a lie. Oskar delivered the bag of food as I lay in my bed and listened.  What an arrogant, dangerous man. By his voice, he sounded too old for her. He sounded possessive. I wondered at Ellen’s experience with boys and men.

Ellen claimed she was sick and refused dinner.  I heard Mother and Dad whispering in their bedroom.

I awoke about two in the morning. Ellen lay on her back with her pillow folded over to prop up her head. Her arms rested outside of our bedcover and her fingers clenched, relaxed, and clenched again.

“Imogene, are you asleep?” she whispered.

“No.” I answered. “I think I spent too much time napping this afternoon.”

“Are you glad to be back home or would you rather work where you have your own place?” asked Ellen.

“I was in domestic service. Nothing was mine. Not even the clothes I wore. There are trade-offs, Ellen. No place is perfect.”

“But are you glad to be back with Mother and Dad?”

“I missed them and you, so yes. Particularly now. The Goodmans were nice as employers, so was Mary the housekeeper. But once the sickness came, I had no one. That’s what it’s like to be on your own.”

“Do you think you will one day marry?” asked Ellen.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I can’t give a man children. That’s what my operation was about. Every man wants children even if he says he doesn’t. In time, as I age, I’ll be a disappointment.”

“Has any man ever asked you to marry him? I mean before all this happened?”

“No. No men worked for the Goodmans, and I had no chance to meet any on my days off. Besides, I’ve always been the plain sister. I guess I chose to work in Harrisburg because staying in  Valley meant I’d marry an older coal miner or a widower in need of any woman who could care for his children. I guess I had hopes . . . above my station.”

Ellen stayed quiet after that. Still, she didn’t sleep and neither did I.

“Was the man who came to the door a particular friend?” I finally asked.

“We met at the library. Since then, he seems interested in me, but I don’t think Mother and Dad approve. He’s older.”

“How much older?” asked Imogene.

“He’s twenty-seven. I’m in high school. He works at the Stockyards. Wants to marry me.”

“Has he asked you to marry?”

“In a way. He promised himself to me and says I belong to him.”

“He’ll need to talk to Dad and get his blessing,” I said.

“Even if we don’t go to church regularly?” Ellen waited for me to answer, but I thought everyone knew a father’s blessing was needed.

“Even then,” I said.

“I don’t think he’ll do that,” said Ellen. “He . . . he’s used to getting his own way.”

“Does he become familiar?”

She didn’t answer but turned toward the wall. I thought our conversation was over.

“Imogene, people here live on certain streets, and other people are not really welcomed. It can be dangerous. Italians and Irish don’t mix on most streets.  Black people have their own places, and Germans and English aren’t supposed to trespass. Black people know to be careful where they walk. Today, Oskar took me into a Black neighborhood, and I spilled the vegetables. I don’t know why he did that.”

“Maybe to frighten you? Did he touch you?” I asked.

“A Black man stopped him.”

“I’m guessing that Oskar never expected a colored man to challenge a White man over his actions with a girl. Did anything happen to the colored man?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. When I ran, I heard sounds behind me.”

She pulled into a tighter ball.

“Do you think Oskar bent his back to pick up the vegetables?” I asked.

“I don’t think so.”

“I don’t believe he did,” I said. “Men like him never do. I’m guessing the colored man was threatened or humiliated into picking up Mother’s supplies for soup. Maybe even struck? I heard Mother say Oskar’s knuckles were raw.”

Ellen flinched. “Maybe,” she said.

“Can I ask you a different question?” I asked. “Why does everyone here call Negroes Black and not colored?”

“One of the teachers, Miss Wisdom, insists we say Black because it’s on the Census report, and she says because of history. Slavery was dark times, I guess. Mrs. Quick upstairs also insists we say Black, but then she attends the same church as Miss Wisdom.”

Ellen began to weep, and I held her for the next hour or so. Once again, she was my little sister.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 53: Sheila

The heaviness of my sewing basket warned me to keep this moment private. Digging past my current mending, spools of thread, and needles, and my father’s old long johns, I pulled a carefully wrapped flannel package and peeled the covering away. Shiny copper plates. In the years I had them, nobody snooped in my mending basket, not past Dad’s stained undergarments.

“Hide these,” my father had said shortly after Mother passed away. “Don’t tell me what you do with them.”

I lifted two counterfeit plates of a two-dollar bill—front and back. How they came to my dad, I don’t know. Some artist’s hand had etched them into the copper. I often wondered if these had gotten my father murdered.

Sam opened the bedroom door.

“What are you up to?” he asked.

“I think it’s time,” I said.

“Gonna sell them?”

“No. A greater chance I’d be murdered before I could hand them over.”

“Then what?” He looked worried.

“Give them away. I’m tired of worrying about who might knock at our door. Sam, I’ll give them to my cousin Liam’s grandsons and ask them to do me a favor.”

“It’s been years since you’ve seen any of them. Care to tell what favor?”

“I want someone to talk to Oskar about Ellen. Not you.”

“The grandson’s in the same business as the old man?”

“I’m counting on it,” I said. I felt my jaw tighten.

“Oskar can be prickly. You know how this could end.” He sat down and studied the plates. “Beautiful work.”

“Up to the boys how they choose to approach Oskar. Up to him how he wants to respond.”

In a gray day, I took the elevated train north to the old parish where my mother’s brother had once lived. From what I heard, his son, my cousin Liam had three sons who had grown up unruly. So had two of his grandsons. I showed Liam the plates and told Ellen’s story with Oskar.

“You’d be doing me a kindness,” I said, “but the plates are yours regardless of your decision.”

“You say he’s an asshole?”

“He is. A big man. Ready to hurt anyone for the fun of it.”

“My boys might need to make a point.” His smile was cold.

“They might. He may need to learn a lesson.”

“Thank you for these. You coulda got big money.”

“I have no use for them, but family is family.” I reached and touched his hand.

“I’ll see they get a good home,” Liam said. His eyes became hungry.

Dad had told me about racetracks and counterfeit two-dollar bills.

“Real money comes in on a bet. Fake money—beaten up and dirty—gets paid out.”

I had trouble seeing how it worked. I didn’t care. At least they were no longer in my sewing basket. I hoped one of the boys talked to Oskar . . . soon.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 54: Eleanor

As she drew strength, Imogene helped watch Fiona’s children in the morning by telling them stories. She almost never had Fiona’s flair with details, and without their mother’s enthusiasm or sound effects being echoed by the parrot, Scoot and Chief turned scrappy with attempts to act out storylines. Rather than being rattled, Imogene seemed more amazed at their antics.

After school, I joined Ellen at her home to share the afternoon gossip she had missed, but her moodiness spilled through the flat and made the boys pull faces behind Ellen’s back. Often Scoot offended her with questions. Her response? Scolding.

On a cold breezy afternoon, Imogene napped, and Ellen watched Fiona’s three children. Five-year-old Scoot asked if Ellen ever went to school. She looked like she wanted to slap him. I jumped in with stories of our stately high school on Stewart Street.

Ellen glared and gave me a pinched-eyed look before yelling at them, “Does your mother know what a brat you are? I’m going out for air.”

            Ellen, wrapped in a knitted shawl, stormed out the door, leaving me to entertain the children.

            Awakened from her afternoon nap, Imogene blinked several times as she left the bedroom.

            “What’s happened?”

            Luckily, we had Jonas Quick open the door and call, “Anybody home?”

            The boys perked up.

            “Hey, Scoot,” he said to the oldest, “You football or baseball?”

            “I like movies.”

            “Movies, huh? Which ones?”

            “Captain Blood, Frankenstein, G-Men.”

            “I like Shirley Temple and Snow White,” said his twin sister, Dimples.

            For the next several minutes, we debated best movies until Imogene entered the conversation.

            “When your mother and I were young, we thought a silent movie could be real. We thought actors were in real danger, and when they got hurt, it was real.”

            The children stood still.

“A neighbor once told us of the 1903 fire at the Chicago Iroquois Theater that killed women and children,” Imogene continued. “Doors had been faked or locked. Families were trapped. Some burned to death.”

            It was the wrong thing to say. Jonas flashed a look of warning.

 “That’s the year I was born,” he said.

Imogene didn’t notice how the twins shook their heads and looked afraid. I felt trembly myself. Jonas averted his eyes. Imogene continued her story of fire.

            “Have any of you ever seen the film called The Rag Man?” asked Imogene. “The silent film begins with a fire in an orphanage. So real. Your mother and I couldn’t stop crying until one orphan escaped. I’m still convinced the young boy actor could have been in danger of burning up.”

Well, once the kids found out it was sad, they lost interest, and Scoot and Dimples went into their own version of sword play.

“Who’s in the film,” asked Jonas. I think I saw it years ago.

“Jackie Coogan,” answered Imogene.                                                      

“Coogan?” asked Jonas. His face wrinkled into a question. “Jackie Coogan? He’d be in his twenties? I believe I met him.”

That got Scoot’s attention. Afterall, Fiona idolized actors and actresses.

“How’d you meet Jackie Coogan,” asked Imogene.

“At an airfield. Remember I work for Standard Oil. Meet lots of pilots. On a long trip, I met up with this young man, Jackie Coogan, who studied gliders. He flew when he wasn’t acting. I remember him saying with the war coming to Europe, he had an idea for using a glider to transport men and equipment.”

Most of the young men I knew were angry-scared that the United States would be pulled into a European war, or they were excited-scared that they wouldn’t have a chance to join the war.

“What’s a glider?” asked Scoot.

“It’s like a plane without an engine. Another plane pulls the glider into the air and releases it to ride the wind.” Jonas swayed as if floating on air.

“What happens when it lands,” asked Imogene. “How do flyers get home?”

Jonas became serious and ignored her question. “Hopefully, these young fellas here won’t see a war. A glider pilot must be brave. If war with Germany comes, I hope Jackie Coogan survives it as a glider pilot. Dangerous idea. But soldiers on the ground won’t hear a glider in the air.”

Imogene and I were amazed and sat in silence. With beaming smiles the twins looked as if they had a new hero in Jonas.

“Will you be a glider pilot?” asked Dimples. Her eyes danced in a suggestive way, much too old for a child.

“Nah. I’ll be too old if war comes. I’m almost thirty-three,” said Jonas exaggerating the sound of his age. “Just think how old I’ll be if the war doesn’t start until the 1940s.”

I saw what he meant, but Imogene giggled. I wasn’t sure why.

“More in my style, I met another actor who’s thinking of giving flying lessons to prepare young men to take to the sky before they enlist. The United States will be ready if it comes to war. Bob Cummings will help men get ready to be pilots.”

Jonas explained how one of his trips took him to Joplin, Missouri.

“Wait a minute, you met the actor Bob Cummings?” I asked. “He was in a film with Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy. The Sons of the Desert, in 1933,” I said. “It was a tiny part, and his name wasn’t even listed, but he’s really good looking. I read he’s going to be in a Western with Buster Crabbe.”

“All I know is that he flies and wants to teach flying. Middle name’s Orville after his godfather Orville Wright.”

My mouth dropped open. He had to be kidding. “Truly? You just meet these people at airports?”

“I do. Keeping pilots happy with Standard Oil fuel. But, unless a guy shares his background, I don’t know actors or important people. I can tell you, however, Bob loves planes. With times the way they are, Bob said if America goes to war, he and I could fly transport missions, but we’ll be too old for fighter pilots. He said he plans to train pilots for the Navy just to be part of the action. That got me thinking. Being a flight instructor is a swell idea. The Navy is stationed at Great Lakes, north of Chicago, but kids just out of school need to have some preliminary instruction before they get there.  Standard Oil told me they’re good with the idea too. I could be loaned to the Navy to teach flying.”

He picked up Scoot and whipped him up in the air making airplane sounds. Then it was Chief’s turn. Fiona’s daughter yelled, “What about me?” Dimples stood with hands on her hips and demanded. “Me! Up!”

“Why not,” said Jonas. “Look at what Beryl Markam and Amelia Earhart plan to do. Cross the Atlantic all by themselves.”

Jonas and the children ran around the front room, and Paulie’s feathers ruffled in annoyance.

I was a high school student and still felt the delight of children at play. I too fell in love with Jonas.

At home my Jewish mother’s drum beat of the coming war was constant. Mother thought an attack by Germany could happen any day. “War’s coming. We just don’t know when.”

From the beginning of 1936, newspapers warned of danger in Europe but also of the Duke of Windsor becoming the king of England. Americans gossiped about how he might marry an American—a divorcee.  I didn’t think she was pretty at all. She had a superior look, and the new King looked silly. He didn’t hold a candle to Jonas’s good looks. He wasn’t at all like Franklin Rooseveltwho ran for a second term as President.

Everybody knew the President had polio, but we didn’t see many pictures of him sitting. He stood for pictures. Mother said he wore braces on his legs. She warned we shouldn’t talk about his health because that’s not polite. Many people felt the same way and didn’t discuss it, but I think the President wanted it to be known he had survived polio because there was talk about wanting to set up a special fund to research polio. Every kid was threatened every summer with the disease. “If only everybody could give a dime,” said a guy on the radio. I had my dime ready in my pocketbook, wrapped in a handkerchief.

Death was scary, but truly the iron lung frightened us more. With polio, lungs couldn’t expand with air. The iron tube breathed for a patient. I couldn’t imagine lying on my back in a sealed coffin for the rest of my life, listening to a whoosh all day of bellows forcing breath. Or to spend it in a wheelchair because my legs shriveled.  Every kid I knew was terrified of polio. Every one.

President Roosevelt promised we were not going to war, but having heard Jonas talk about war preparation, I thought about my classmates at school. With seventeen million Americans still without work, if war came, would young men enlist? Yes, they would. Being a soldier was like having a job.

Jonas’s sad eyes made me a little angry when it came to Imogene. It seemed to me Jonas was courting her when he knew perfectly well, she swore off marriage. Imogene said to her mother that he and she were pals, nothing more. Seemed like hooey to me.

            Imogene and Jonas’s first car trip out of the house had been to Chicago Air Park on 5700 S. Cicero Avenue to watch planes land. Weeks later, he drove her to another airfield south of Chicago in Lansing, Illinois, to see his Standard Oil plane. Imogene told all of us what freedom lives in the air, high above the trees and buildings, wind tangling her hair and taking her breath away. Her eyes danced. Smiles filled the room as she spoke. Paulie even learned a new phrase: “Up we go. Up, Up we go-oo.”

            Jonas and Imogene even walked to Rugged Cross Church. After that, Ellen, speaking as her sour old self, told me they went The Museum of Science and Industry. Sounded like dating to me.

            So, I had lots of concerns. Ellen, however, was the main one.

The name Oskar Varley gave me shivers. I was surprised to learn even my mother knew who he was. She called him a bugger. Most days when I arrived at the Harkleroad flat in the afternoon, Ellen escaped. She didn’t want me to tag along because she went to the library to see if this was the day Oskar would grace her with his company. Once I followed and got a glimpse of how nasty he could be. He slapped her. I should have gone back to her flat and told her mother. But I didn’t. Too much the coward. I regret that I kept my mouth shut.

These days Ellen seemed more fidgety. And sad, really sad.

“I’m not a child!” she had yelled at me as we licked our ice cream cones in front of the sweet shop.

“Who thinks you are?” I asked.

I was a year younger than she, but I felt older. I would graduate in June 1936, and she would have another semester. Ellen let me know January 1937 seemed a long way off.

When Ellen spotted a letter on the table near the door—a letter addressed to Imogene—a snarl knotted Ellen’s mouth.

The children had settled down and Dimples drew pictures of Paulie. I stood by Paulie’s cage and tempted him to say Yoo-hoo, Mrs. Goldberg, but he was more fascinated by Ellen’s temper.

“This letter’s from Deidre?” The volume of her voice rose with accusation before she tore the letter in half.

Imogene took the pieces of the letter and confirmed she had been writing to Deidre for years. The look on Ellen’s face was terrifying.

“I’m going back to the mattress in the pantry. I’m not sharing a bed with you anymore. Not if you have been writing to her.”

I was embarrassed for Ellen and Imogene. I watched Fiona’s children freeze. I should have left, but I was almost a daughter to the family and stayed, hoping all would calm down.

 When Ellen stormed out the back door, Paulie imitated Fiona. In his loudest voice, Paulie announced, “Heebe Jeebes! Hee-be, Jee-bes!”

“You’re right,” I whispered to the bird.

I knew some of their past but why did Ellen disapprove of Imogene writing to Deidre? And why had Ellen entered the flat already furious?

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 55: Sam

“Mother said I should talk to you,” said Ellen as she joined me on the front stoop.

“If you want to marry this fella Oskar, go right ahead. Give up high school. I won’t stand in your way.”

            Ellen sat next to me on the stoop and focused on the cars parked on 59^th Street. A few young mothers pushed buggies with rosy-cheeked babies. Neighbor children played with a ball and stick, swinging mightily for the fences, missing by a mile. Ellen sat next to me. Her chin almost dropped to her chest. After a moment, her face came up and she finally managed a question.

            “Will you give us your blessing?” Her voice a whisper.

            “Won’t,” I said. “Don’t believe in blessings for things I think are wrong. But you’ve got a mind of your own to follow.”

            “Dad, I love him.”

            “Do you? Seems to me then you’ve made your decision. Where do you plan to live?”

            “Dad, I haven’t seen him for two weeks. Oskar lives with five flat-mates who also work at the Stockyards.”

            “You see yourself moving in? Hard to be the only woman. They work and make money, and you do what? Cook all their meals, wash their clothes?’

            “We haven’t talked about where we could live. Maybe get our own flat.”

            “He makes that much at the stockyards?”

            Her hands grasped each other.

            “I don’t know. He’s never said.”

            “Maybe, you’ll live with his parents. Have you ever met them at their home? Because you haven’t brought him around to meet us.”

            “He’s angry because I won’t graduate this June. I have another semester.”
            “Is he now?”

            “Dad, I’d like . . . to get married in a church . . . now. The problem is that I promised you and Mother that I’d graduate.”

            “Hmm. About promises. You know who I found washing the front stoop?”

            She shook her head as a car slowly drove down 59^th and she followed it with her eyes.

            “Your mother,” I said. “I thought, isn’t that something that a woman who spends her days preparing food, washing our clothes, tending to grandchildren and a daughter just getting back on her feet. All of that and she finds time to scrub the dirt from the steps so another daughter can sit in peace outside without soiling her clothing. Don’t you think that’s something?”

            “I’ve been washing those stairs since we moved here,” said Ellen. “I’m too old to be wiping steps when everyone tramps footprints on them. It’s someone else’s turn.” Her lips tightened in a sour expression. “Besides, who has to tend to Fiona’s children in the afternoon?”

            “I can see that. Your mother and I need to be taught a lesson. You’re almost a married woman who will soon be moving out of our family and set to wash clothing for what? Four or five flatmates? You want respect.”

            “But I’m not getting married soon.” Her voice spit criticism. “Am I?”

            “Oh, no? Why is that? But don’t say it’s because you promised. Promises aren’t that important to you. It’s decision time, Ellen. You want to marry and leave the family? Do it. You don’t want to wash stairs for the benefit of your mother or family, don’t. You decide. Let your mother do it. After all, she’s used to hard work while you read books in the evening.”

            The bitterness of my words seemed to cause her shoulders to droop.

            “Deidre wouldn’t have washed the stairs. You know she wouldn’t.”

            “Deidre’s not here. She made her decision and has stuck to it. Do I miss her? Yes. It hurts to know a daughter doesn’t love her family. But it’s her decision. And that’s a promise she has kept.”

            Ellen sat on the steps and ran her hand over the wood her mother had washed.

            “Why didn’t you ever beat Deidre? She deserved punishment.”

            “We never beat any of you girls.”

            “But why?”

            “Let me tell you about my first beating. Caning more accurate. My schoolteacher brought a cane across my back. The second strike broke my arm. I let out a howl and the other kids stopped laughing. I ran home.”

I paused at the memory—still feel raw anger at the smirk on the teacher’s face, and the shame my father felt.

            “My dad was none too pleased. Took me to the doc and then the school. He let her know she was not to turn any of his children into a cripple. Told her he’d be the one to thrash his children.”

I had made it to eighth grade, quit school, and went to work in farm fields before going down the mine shaft at my fifteenth birthday. Learned my place in the world.

“I healed. Arm is still a little twisted, but I’ll tell you what never goes away.” I raised Ellen’s chin. “Shame. Kids laughing. My dad’s face that one of his kids took a beating. That never goes away.”

            Ellen turned away to stare at the hem of her dress. “I didn’t know.”

            “No reason you should. Do you expect that when your mother washes your clothes, that she should also fold them for packing? So, you can run off and elope.”

            “No-o.”

            I could feel her frustration ready to pull her away from the stoop and the flat.

            “Dad, I don’t understand. If I continue to live with you, I’m a child. I must mind. I must take care of Fiona’s children. Run and fetch. Wash the stairs. Attend school. And Oskar expects me to meet him on the corner and mostly he doesn’t show up and never says he’s sorry. Then I get blamed for not being an obedient wife.”

            “But you’re not a wife, are you? Or did you have a wedding ceremony and not invite me?”

            “No. Not really.”

            Her not really told a story.

            “Tell me how your life will be easier when you’re Oskar’s wife?” I asked. “Or a mother to Oskar’s children? Do you see him coming home every night? Do you see him handing over his take home pay?”

            We sat for a while in silence and watched 59th Street as people walked and drove home. The air cooled. Boys gave up play and went inside probably for their supper.

            “I’ll thank Mother and tell her I forgot to scrub the stoop,” she said.

            I nodded and gave Ellen’s hand a squeeze. For this moment, our family was back on track.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 56: Eleanor

I graduated in June 1936 and Ellen stopped sharing Oskar stories with me. I figured she disliked my questions. I mean really, Oskar Varley? Good looking, powerful, but mean and cruel as they come. One day in her anger, Ellen told me she’d married Oskar.

            “In a church or before a judge?”

            “No. Marriage can be in a park or on a sidewalk.” Her voice was defiant.

            “No, it can’t,” I said. “You have to file papers. Even I know that.”

            Ellen gave me a death stare.

            Fern walked home from her work stocking shelves at the drug store and joined us. As her usual habit from our early days of high school, she had a candy bar to share.

            Ellen started in on her miserable life.

            “Okay, you got it bad,” said Fern. Her voice had developed confidence. “But without an education, we’re all cattle to be used up. You should stay in school even though you’re White.”

Ellen straightened her back.

“You know what I’m saying,” said Fern. “Black women have it harder. One look and I’m judged: colored girls just don’t know much,” said Fern. “I want to be a nurse. And for that I need recommendations—from White teachers and bosses.”

“I’m going to get married,” said Ellen. She gave me a side glance to keep quiet.

“You’re what?” said Fern. “Oskar Varley?”

“What you gonna do if Oskar dies at the Stockyard and you got babies to care for?” I asked.

Ellen said nothing. She rose and marched toward home.

By October Ellen and I rarely met in the late afternoon. On one rare occasion, as we neared 59^th Street, Oskar waited three doors down from the Harkleroad flat. When he saw me, he glared but never said a word. His upper lip curled.

“Come ‘ere,” he said.

Ellen handed off schoolbooks to me and hurried to his side. I feared if they were ever really married, I’d never see her again. Neither would her parents. The Ghost would see to it.

He took her elbow and paraded her down 59^th Street away from the flat. He was in control. I watched as they approached Halsted. For the second time, I saw him slap her. Ellen’s hand went to her cheek. He gripped her wrist and hustled her down the street. His stride kept her in a walk/hop/run to keep up.

Did I dare tell Mrs. Harkleroad what happened? If I did, who would get hurt? Would he dare attack Mrs. Harkleroad? Sam? Me? Perhaps he’d wait until he saw Ellen again and hit her this time with a closed fist? I hated The Ghost.

I walked to the backdoor of the Harkleroad flat and handed Sheila Ellen’s books.

“Ellen’s not home.” She gave me a curious look.

“She’s with Oskar,” I said. Sheila nodded. “Sorry,” I said, “I gotta go home.”

It wasn’t like me to keep bad secrets. My heart continued to beat rapidly with fear for my best friend.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 57: Ellen

“Why did you hit me?” I demanded. Tears ran down my face. The slap stung, and my face felt red, but  as sharp as the slap was, the humiliation caused me to cower. “I have to go home to help my mother.”

            “You need to behave like a wife and stop being a school kid.” Oskar looked like he might strike me again.

“Am I a wife? We never had a minister. Don’t we need witnesses.” I felt confused and scared as I put my fingers to my stinging cheekbone.

His voice turned to mocking. “Sorry fellas, my wife is still a child. Plays with dollies. Did you forget? You’ve given your body to me and will again.”

“If we’re really married, where do we live?” Fury made me defiant.

“You said you didn’t want to move into my flat.”

“It’s the flat you share with other men.” Why couldn’t he see? “It wouldn’t be our home.”

“You say I can’t provide?” He towered over me.

Lately all we did was argue except when I went to his flat for an hour. Privacy was a curtain hung around his bed. I could hear the other men snickering and hooting.

“How can I tell my mother that I don’t want to help her,” I asked.

            Oskar raised an eyebrow. “What do you owe anyone except me?”

            “I promised them I would graduate.”

            He stopped and leaned against a red brick building.

            “I brought you a gift,” he said coyly and handed me a small, smudged box. “I thought I meant something to you.”

            His voice sounded like a test.

            “You do.” I opened the box to a gold Hamilton watch. Around the square face were diamonds.  “It’s beautiful.”

            My heart sank. I felt like a so-and-so.

            “If you turn it over it says, Always in my heart. I can’t buy you a ring until I know for sure if you’re in this marriage or not. Are you mine?”

            I wanted to cry. It was so unfair that my sisters had chances to marry, but not me. I threw my arms around Oskar’s neck and repeated I would always love him, but I had to graduate even if it was months away.  

            “I want a wedding with my family there. A wedding in January 1937. The week after graduation.”

“Promise: I’m the man of the house. I make all the decisions,” he said.

            I promised. He put his arms around me in a possessive way and ran the flat of his hand over my hip while pulling me close. I felt my heart bang. We stood on Stewart Street. He pushed me against the red brick high school.

“I want no more backtalk. Will you give me everything I want?”

“I will.” Hadn’t I given him everything?

            “You see, I want to give you one hundred babies,” he said as his fingers gathered up the hem of my skirt and pinched the inside of my thigh hard enough to cause a bruise. I winced. “I want you to wear my mark.”

            I felt both tingly and scared. “Please, stop,” I whispered. “There are people around.” With a great effort, I wrenched myself free. “This is my high school. Someone will see us.”

            “Oh, now you want to go back to my flat?” His eyes looked like he had won a bet.

            “I’m already late in going home.”

            “You owe me.”

            I didn’t dare say no.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 58 Fiona

Candy companies must’ve known my weakness for color. I love to collect the waxy sheets of paper and peel off the candy buttons in pink, blue, and yellow. I also buy a box of cinnamon Red Hots and add sugar buttons to mix all the colors in a bowl. I’ll share them with my children, but first I like to drag my fingers through the bowl. Usually, the red is the first to bleed onto my fingers. A delicious hot sweet treat, but colors are special to me. Especially now.

Una teased me, “The candy is for eating, not saving.”

Okay, okay. How can I defend myself? I like color. How many movies did I see in the early 1930s because I wanted to collect dishes from Dish Night? In my cupboard were various kinds of dishes in pink, green, amber, canary yellow, red, black, milky, my second favorite cobalt blue, and my very most favorite amethyst. Ring-a-ding!

I never had a complete set of any one color of dishes, but that didn’t matter. Each color next to the other set a cheerful table. Color brought joy. Even as an adult of almost thirty, I spill out a handful of candy and match up rows of colors. Each of my children receives a set. Then I eat one piece per row until one of each color remains. Those I save for another time. Because I hope there will be another time.

My teeth loosened before the twins were born and by the time my youngest son came along, many of my teeth were gone. Friends back in Valley have written about problems with their jaw. Mother warned me not to eat so many sweets. But before we left Valley, a few girls out east brought a lawsuit against their clock employer who didn’t warn about radium. Friends I’ve known are also planning to do the same—even if they die before the suit is settled. Rumors of syphilis, however, continue to scar them.  How horrid for employers to blame a girl’s poor health not on radium but on loose reputations.

I felt rich at being paid a penny a clock face. I was fast and accurate. Dad heard the rumors and told me to quit. “You’ll no marry if the man hears you may have syphilis.”

I certainly liked good-looking men. So, I left the job. Left Mrs. Lou’s boarding house where I paid three dollars a week for a half bed and meals of porridge in the morning and soup or stew for supper. Girls I worked with and lived with stayed and continued to lick the brushes to create a fine point. Radium was supposed to be safe. It wasn’t.

Going home meant less money for me and my family.

A few years ago, when I told Una not to tell Mother and Dad about my little friends growing in my breasts, Una promised even as she cried. Now, the lumps are larger, and I can sense more in other parts of my body, like a colony of ants expanding, destroying. Cancer, a doctor told me. At least it’s not in my jaw, so I can hide it awhile longer.

I should have done something sooner, but the time never seemed right, and the girls I worked with wrote there was nothing anyone could do. Probably true. I’ve lost dear friends from the clock factory near Valley. Another two had operations but neither had any confidence that the cutting away of tissue would save their lives. Neither survived. I suppose I’ll hear my mother’s scolding for not sharing what has been happening. But how could I add more weight to my father’s regret that he allowed me to paint clock faces and dials in the first place. I picture his shoulders sagging as he sees those in power taking advantage of expendable workers. Me. His first born.

So many things have crushed my family beginning with the Crash itself. No work. No money. Many days of living on bread and oatmeal.

When Imogene came home and needed my blood, how could I deny her and say, “Hey, I’ve got my own problems.” Or, “Do you really want my blood? It might make you glow.” 

Thanks to the Black nurse who understood my problem. She asked if my sister would be offended if we substituted her blood for mine. Black blood versus radium blood. Easy choice. The dear woman drew her own blood.

I thought to ask God for a little more time to see my children grow up. God said, “Sorry, honey, not for the likes of you.”

Vlad’s dreams shrink every day as he moves from job to job. As handsome as he still is, he looks down in the dumps. He has begun to talk about his only talent: Shooting a rifle. He is, after all, from farm country. His eyes light up as he relates his skill. The crazy guy hopes war does come. Vlad plans to enlist.

“To kill people?” I asked.

“If that’s what they need,” he said. “Not much different from a raccoon or deer.”

A soldier? With three children? He wants to be a soldier? What if someone is sharper with a gun? What if he dies?

 Mother and Ellen watched our children so I can work in a factory. Last week, however, I asked Una to take in our three children if . . . when something happens to me. She agreed, and we worked out a plan. I feel maybe a year. Won’t be too long.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 59: Eleanor

“You promised what?” I asked too loudly as we walked past the library on South Normal Boulevard.

“He gave me a watch—as a promise of his love. Besides married women promise obedience,” whispered Ellen as she watched passers-by.

I hoped Oskar wasn’t lurking nearby. Ellen and I were on speaking terms again.

“No, no, no. No one should obey someone like Oskar Varley,” I insisted. “Nothing says you have to obey before you’re married. And why is a woman expected to obey a husband in the first place? He’s not her parent.”

Ellen had this unfamiliar giddy, superior look. “He wants me to have one-hundred babies.”

“First of all, that’s impossible,” I hissed. “Second, that’s creepy.”

“He loves me. Look at this watch.”

So that was the reason she wanted to talk to me. I studied the watch. It looked like it might have belonged to an ancient old woman. Way too fancy for someone still in high school.

 “Do you know if the watch is stolen?” I asked. I felt petty and hoped to wound her into being sensible.

“Eleanor, he would never give me a stolen watch. Besides it’s engraved. Always in my heart.”

“What twaddle! Probably stolen from an old lady as she walked down Halsted at night. Probably she is crying her eyes out because her husband is dead, and the watch is all she had to remember him.”

“Who do you think you are? I’ll grant that it looks too old for me now, but I won’t always be young, and he’s going to give me an engagement ring when I graduate high school. Then I’ll convince him to apply for a real marriage license.”

Her words caused a lump to form in my throat and my heart to pound. “Has he introduced you to any of his family?”

“I know of a few friends,” she said with a faraway look that made me think she lied. “He wants me all to himself and for his family to be surprised.”

I hadn’t dated boys at the newspaper because all of us were scared stiff of the editor, and I hadn’t experienced dating while in high school. Besides, my closest male friend Ding Yee was Chinese, and I was Jewish. We knew interest in each other wouldn’t win family approval. But with my limited knowledge, I felt Ellen was being duped.

“You can’t think it’s romantic to discuss hundreds of babies. Doesn’t the hair rise on the back of your neck when he says things like that. To me it sounds like he thinks you’re a dog he can command. Have you seen movies where the tough guy smacks his wife or girlfriend? How can a man who loves someone cause them pain?”

 Part of me nagged “Tell her of the rumors. Tell her of the sophomore girl he’s sporting around. They walked with his forearm around her throat. She couldn’t have been comfortable because his arm lifted her chin upward and threw her neck backward. “Tell her.”

“Oskar loves me. He would never slap me . . . unless I need it.” Ellen had this superior wisdom on her face, her cheeks sucked in.

“Do you hear yourself? Has your father ever punched your mother?” I asked.

“Of course not.”

“Then what makes you think that any woman needs to be slapped around?”

“You’ve never met Deidre. I want Oskar in my corner, ready to strangle her or to beat her husband Nicholas to a pulp.”

Oh, that’s it!

“So-o, you see Oskar as a tool. You don’t really love him,” I said.

“I do love him. Oh, Eleanor, I can’t make you understand what Deidre did to me. I hate her.”

“But you see Oskar as a weapon and not a husband. You know if I were in your shoes, I’d go after Darby . . . if he were Jewish, that is. He’s swell.”

I had spotted Darby Quick across the street headed in the opposite direction. His head was down against the strong wind as if deep in thought. He nodded to us when he drew even but kept up his pace. I nodded back.

“Darby’s the son of Mrs. Quick.” Ellen’s voice held contempt.

“I know. Another of your enemies. But Mrs. Quick isn’t as bad as you say. Who took care of Paulie when Deidre visited? Why make Darby pay because you don’t like his mother? I bet he doesn’t steal watches for his girlfriend.”

Ellen pivoted to the opposite direction and began to walk away.

“I know something that will make you mad. I saw Oskar with his arm around a . . . girl and they were heading into a tavern.”

“She was older than I am?”

“Yes,” I lied. I didn’t want to reveal the girl was still in high school.

“Probably his sister. He has sisters, you know.” She had that smirk I hate.

“It wasn’t a sisterly hug. She had to walk on an angle to keep up with him or choke to death.”

In a light voice that dismissed my information Ellen said. “Probably a sister.”

“You’re nutty.”

“And you’re making it up. You didn’t see him with another woman.”

Intending to walk home alone, I charged ahead of her. I wasn’t making up the sighting—just the age of the skirt.

When I was several yards away, Ellen called, “Where are you going?” She sounded snotty.

“I’m a reporter.” I turned to face her. “I have obits to write. But if I were seeing a boy, I’d make sure I wouldn’t be bamboozled by the likes of Oskar Varley.”

I sounded snotty too.

“Sometimes I hate you.” Her voice cracked. Her eyes filled with tears.

“You know you can talk to me anytime,” I said. “It makes me dizzy that you’re willing to let someone hurt you.”

“I wish I could tell you everything. Then you’d know.”

“Know what?” I shouted.

“How I’m cursed,” she yelled back. A woman across the street stopped to stare.

Why does she always feel sorry for herself? Sometimes I wish I could smack sense into her. Maybe with the Chicago Tribune, not the daily paper, but the full Sunday edition. People in Europe were suffering. People I graduated with were thinking we could be drawn into a war. I watched her family struggle. The Quick family too. But none of that seemed to matter to Queen Ellen—oh no—she was the one and only.

I walked back and linked elbows to pull her along Normal Boulevard toward 59^th Street.

“I’m not speaking to you,” I said.

“Good,” said Ellen. “I’m not speaking to you either.”

It would be many years before Ellen shared the full story of Deidre and of Oskar. By then it was too late. Our friendship was over.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 60: Dorothy Quick

“I’ve a letter from my sister Hazel, asking about Darby.” I waved the paper at Karl.

“Does she know of the lie you told neighbors?” His eyes came up like daggers.

“It wasn’t a lie, exactly. He might have chosen to become a missionary.”

“Not likely. I know he stayed with our family while he was gone, but I think he felt lonely.”

Darby graduated high school in Pennsylvania and managed to work at a smoke house for over a year. One Christmas he sent us sausages. Hazel said he smelled so luscious when he came home from work because his clothing and hair smelled of smoky meat. I never asked why he didn’t come home right after high school. I figured he still bore hard feelings toward me for sending him away.

“Well, Hazel wrote, ‘He was so talkative as a boy. He entertained us all with stories of Chicago gangsters.’”

“He’s still talkative,” said Karl, “about sports. Both he and Frankie. But nothing more. Neither one.”

I could tell Karl was in a mood, wanting to blame me.

“How’s your lady friend?”

“Still divorced. We’re both older.” Karl’s smile tightened.

“You know my objection. But do what you want,” I said.

“I know. We all know. Except Frankie. He still sees the world as welcoming.”

“Jonas has become close to Imogene, hasn’t he?” I observed.

“He’ll honor his pledge. As will I. But don’t expect me to spend every minute in this flat.”

I nodded. My boys promised Harvey to keep me safe. To keep each other safe.

This was a conversation I had many times with my sons. It was why Darby had to go away. He hadn’t understood how precarious living in Englewood could be. Hazel had to be the one to teach him. Without Harvey, none of us were living the life we wanted. But we needed to play it safe. Not too many friends. Walk the tightrope. Don’t allow too many intimacies.

I almost landed on the floor the day Frankie, as yet a boy in his teens—a boy who still wanted to listen to baseball games on the Harkleroad’s radio—came home with an announcement.

“Mother, I’m married.”

“You can’t be! No, I won’t allow it.”

“I am.” His grin was wider than I had ever seen. “Betty’s a swell girl, a real eyecatcher. She’s got a velvet voice and wants to be a telephone operator. We’ll be living with her parents until we move to Racine. I got a job fixing things.”

I was stunned. “How old is your wife?”

“Sixteen.”
            “Lord, have mercy!”

“She’s not in the family way if you are worried. Not yet.”

Good Lord! His eyebrows playfully rose and fell.

I expected more support from Karl and Jonas, but I think they saw the joy in Frankie’s eyes. Not even Sam Harkleroad offered proper counseling.

A sixteen-year-old girl. Oh, Dear Lord! Moving to Racine, Wisconsin, where I can’t help him. My heart dropped.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 61: Sam  

Once we got to Jackson Park, Frankie’s brown eyes danced. He had that same animation I’d seen when I first met him banking a baseball off stairs. I couldn’t imagine why he wanted to take the streetcar to Jackson Park. For me this place was work—good work, but work. I hadn’t seen him around for a couple weeks. Not too unusual, I guess. We both held jobs. Him repairing small appliances, me finding maintenance work.

Even in the late fall, Frankie said he wanted to see the flowers I planted. Something was up. He wasn’t the type of kid who was interested in grooming plants. A ruse for sure. But I didn’t complain. The air was crisp, and the mum’s looked brown and tattered. I walked behind him curious.

Frankie stood over a head taller than me with angular shoulders and long fingers like the piano player in the corner tavern.

“Do you mind if I still call you Dad?”

“Nope. Gives me pleasure.”

He drank in the view of the fall skyline of Chicago. The lake breeze hit my face. Not much time in the day for me to appreciate that when I worked for the park service and mowed grass or pushed a wheelbarrow.

            Glad some things didn’t change over the last few years. Flowers still flowers. Of course, the Brookfield Zoo had opened in 1934 and gave young people a place to see animals besides watching them being slaughtered at the Stockyards. But to me it was still animals being caged. Every animal brought me memories of the coal mines. I knew heartbreak from seeing the blind stare of the mules.

Sears Roebuck on Sixty-third and Halsted meant work for many men and women. When the summer temperatures rose to one hundred degrees, entering Sears gave a pleasant chill. It had air cooling. Since the building had almost no windows, they must have had an iceberg in the attic. It was sure nice that nobody minded an old man in a sweat-soaked shirt walking through the cool aisles and allowing his face to become less red.

Vlad finally landed a job at the printing presses of Brewers. Kinda hoped he’d settle in, but Fiona reminded us that back in 1934 John Dillinger was shot near the Biograph. Hollywood would surely make more gangster movies, and Vlad had the perfect raspy voice. She resurrected her desperate plans of making Vlad a movie star. I wished she wouldn’t push him so hard. The lad looked like he was in agony from disappointing her.

 “Dad, he’s from Chicago and a special part at that: Englewood. All around us are gangsters. If only Vlad could stop stuttering.”

 She had found work in a noisy parts factory as the recovery from the Crash finally allowed some married women to get up off their knees and earn an income. But like my jobs, work was still temporary or seasonal, and both Vlad and Fiona frequently switched jobs. Sheila took care of their three little tykes.

Ellen still insisted on seeing Varley. I knew he was a scoundrel. Too often my tongue slipped, and I asked Ellen if she had seen the varlet lately. She gave me a sour look.

Frankie looked at the lake and seemed to be working up courage. His breathing slowed.

            “Dad, did my mother tell you I got married?” asked Frankie.

            “When did this happen?” I was stunned. The boy was what? Eighteen?

            “Last week.”

 His face wore a silly grin.     

            “I take it you’re pleased with this new gal,” I said.

“Oh, yeah. Betty’s the best. We’re going to move to Wisconsin. I can get a job doing repair work, and Betty wants to be a telephone operator—at least until we start our family. Gosh! I wished I could’ve invited you, but we got married in her family’s back yard, and I was afraid if I invited you, Mother would learn of it and cause a fuss at the wedding.”

“You didn’t invite your mother?”

“Couldn’t risk it. Didn’t invite my brothers either.”

“Well, here’s to you.” I raised my hand as if it held something to give him a toast. “May you have all the happiness that Sheila and I have had.”

“Thank you. My brothers wished me well but hoped I hadn’t made a mistake. Betty is sixteen. We’re living with her parents for now.”

“I imagine your mother had something to say about you moving out of her flat.”

“She doesn’t approve. Betty thinks Mother is selfish. They both want me all to themselves. Women, huh?”

There was that proud, silly grin again. I knew the feeling from when Sheila promised to marry me. I was on top of the world.

“When the first baby comes along, all the disagreements and judgments will be forgotten. You’ll see.”

“I hope so.”

I had seen Frankie when he was happy and when he faced troubles. Still the boy I remembered, but now setting the path for the kind of family he missed as a kid.

“Bad things are happening in Europe. Do you think there will be a war?” he asked. “I’m only asking because I don’t want to think of the war coming here.”

“Well, the Great War was nasty. I lost friends and family.”

 I had lost a younger brother who imagined the romantic side of trench warfare and going over the top to kill the enemy. The reality, however, broke him. Maybe working as a mule in the mines wasn’t so bad. Robbie’s only letter to me described how the screams of wounded horses haunted his dreams. I guess on his last day, he zigged when he should have zagged. No imagined glory, after all. His body never came home.

Our mother wanted a photograph of our family and asked my two sisters and I to stand on her right side of her for the picture. On her left she hung Robbie’s overcoat as an eerie reminder of loss.

Seeing Lake Michigan, I tapped my pocket to see if I still had a cigarette. Frankie saw what I did and fished in his pocket for a pack. After he took a cigarette, he gave me the rest.

“Keep it,” he said. “Betty doesn’t like me smoking.”

We lit the cigarettes, and I drew in the welcomed smoke. We both took a moment to comment on the cool lake breeze.

“I saw a newsreel at the movie theater on German camps for Communists and Jews,” said Frankie. “We won’t let our government set up camps, will we?”

“Don’t know. People can be cruel.”

Frankie was too young to have any recall of how working men in the steel industry were treated when they asked for union representation. Mounted police with clubs. Gun battles. Still workers waited and held together to be recognized in a contract. I recalled my own father’s stories of mistreatment of the Chinese who built railroads. Decades back, Black children sold away from their mamas. Even now, immigrants, working men, certainly women, fight for standing.

“That Mussolini is a character,” said Frankie. “And Spain’s flexing muscle. And Japan. Germany? When you’re thinking of beginning a family, a guy must wonder about the future.”

“Times are serious,” I said. “Roosevelt will do his damnedest to keep us out of a war.”

“Karl doesn’t think so. He said we’ll need to get involved like last time. He said if I’m married, they might not ask me to fight. Is that how it worked during the Great War?”

“Depends. They didn’t take miners in the Great War because transportation needed coal. My brother Robbie was a miner, but he volunteered.”

Frankie again turned his face to the lake, and I knew the important part of our talk was over. I had no answers for the kid.

“Wasn’t that something that Jesse Owens won in the Olympics,” he said. “Did you know that Jonas knows Ralph Metcalfe? Ralph got a silver medal. He lives in Chicago.” 

“No. I didn’t know Jonas knew him. Certainly is something.”

We both nodded—me the old man and the kid working on being old.

“I see Ellen has been hanging around with Oskar Varley,” he said. “Now that I’m thinking about a family, I think she should be careful around him. I should have warned her.”

“Why’s that?”

“He runs with the wrong people. I hear he gets into fights. Likes to mix it up with the coloreds Uses a baseball bat. And he’s a thief. Never been caught, but everybody knows it’s true. She’s not his only gal, you know. He may also be a father.”

“Thank you. I’ll pass that along to her. She’s looking at a wedding in January after she graduates.”

“Oh.” Frankie shook his head. “Hope she knows what she’s doing.”

So besides telling me of his marriage, Frankie’s warning scalded my heart. Ellen! With too much pride, she called him Varley, The Ghost. Time for another daughter talk—not birds and bees but scoundrels and devils.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

1937

Chapter 62: Sheila

My hopes of saving Ellen were dashed. Months ago, I asked cousins to speak to Oskar. As a gesture, I gave my mother’s two copper plates. My cousin promised to do what he could. But that seemed long ago. Oskar still dominated Ellen’s life.

Early December 1936, Una informed Ellen that fifteen days before the wedding date, she and Oskar needed a blood test for venereal disease. The city wouldn’t approve a marriage license without a test.

“Both of us?” asked Ellen. “Because I wasn’t planning to get that kind of test.”

To me, it was an odd thing for Ellen to say.

“Yes, both of you,” said Una.

“But . . . I assumed I wouldn’t need one, because . . . you know, I’m still in high school for a few more weeks.”

“How does being in high school matter?” Una’s voice took on the authority of a guardian. “If you’re planning to marry, you need a Kahn test. You hear me? No test, no license,” said Una. “Don’t you want to know if Oskar has a disease that will be passed to you?”

That silenced Ellen’s complaining but caused me to revive old questions. Why was she afraid of the truth?

Christmas Day came, and Ellen spent the holiday with us. We had expected Oskar might finally ask Ellen to meet his parents or he would show up at our flat Did he intend to marry our daughter? No word came from Oskar. New Year’s Eve was also a quiet day. Not even the Quicks joined us. Sam and I ate dinner with Imogene and Ellen and stayed up to welcome the new year. “Ring out the old,” said a radio announcer before singing a chorus of “Auld Lang Syne.”

“No whiskey toast,” asked Sam.

“Not this year.” I cast my eyes toward Ellen. “We’ll save it for the wedding.”

Imogene told of her trip with the Goodman family to New York when she worked for them. In the daytime a sea of people scurried about. In the evening the Goodman’s dined out, and she watched their children.

The coming of the new year didn’t fill me with hope, not for Ellen’s marriage date the week after her graduation, not for Fiona’s health. That New Year’s Eve, I felt downcast as Una would say. Then Sam unfolded a sheet of paper and pulled Imogene from her chair.

“This is something Frankie taught me. He has the thing memorized, but you and I will have to read. Frankie said it was the best thing to make ‘em laugh.  Abbott and Costello’s ‘Who’s on First.’”

Imogene and Sam read through the sketch, sometimes halting, missing words or phrasing, so that the punch missed its mark. But that only made it funnier. Ellen and I ended up laughing until we were in tears.

By the third time through, Paulie joined in. “Make ‘em laugh. Make ‘em.”

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 63: Ellen

January 1937 dragged into existence. I planned a real wedding for the weekend that followed graduation. I hoped an at-home ceremony didn’t rile Oskar. He never came to our flat except for the time he returned Mother’s groceries. He thought my parents were sticks, too judgmental, I guess. He hammered me that making promises as we stood on the sidewalk in Washington Park was enough for our vows.

“No reason for a show,” he said.

 My doctor reported my venereal disease test came up negative. Did Oskar take a test? I don’t know. I tried to concentrate on what else we needed to do besides an application for a wedding license. But I hadn’t seen Oskar since before Christmas. He was nowhere.

Fear took control of my imagination. I missed Oskar dreadfully.  Whole weeks in December went by without me seeing him. We hadn’t spent the holidays together. Was he really angry with me this time? I felt jittery.

In January—a Tuesday afternoon—I came home from the last of my Englewood classes with my stomach in knots. Dad still at work, Mother and Imogene out. In the quiet of the flat my imagination worked on the big question: Where was Oskar?

A stranger who was a little older than I was, knocked at our door. She wasn’t exactly poorly dressed, but her clothing and scarfed head signaled that she knew dusty factory work. Her hands were chapped and red, her fingernails bitten down to skin.

            “Are you Ellen Harkleroad?”

            “Yes.” I felt scared. “Can I help you?”

            “My name is Kirsten. May I come in?”

            “Tell me why first.”

            “I have questions about my brother—Oskar.”

            Against my better judgement, I let her in. I was desperate for information. But what if Eleanor was right. Did Oskar have a girlfriend? Or married to someone else? Had he been arrested? My brain went to Deidre and her hatred for me. Maybe Imogene had told Deidre about me and Oskar, and because Deidre was an evil witch, she might have written to tell him what happened with Nicholas.

            I didn’t ask Kirsten to sit down. We both stood next to the front door.

            “Do you know where Oskar is?” Kristen asked. Her hands trembled.

            “What do you mean?”

            “No one in our family has talked to him since before Christmas. Once I saw you with him and thought he may have run off with you because the others haven’t seen him either. He promised our mother to see her on her birthday, January fifth. He didn’t show up. Hasn’t sent a word.”

            Her mentioning others made me swallow hard. All this time I had invented stories of Oskar working extra hours and being too exhausted for my prattling of a front room wedding.

Wait, I thought, maybe she is speaking of his flat mates not other women.

            “I haven’t seen him since before Christmas,” I said. A cold fear hit my chest.

The last time I saw him was on 63^rd Street. I ran to ask him about our holiday plans.  My family had planned a dinner and an evening of listening to the radio. I told him how Mother had washed our three good glasses for our New Year’s whiskey toast. If he came, he and I would have the honor of using the good glasses. But he became annoyed. “I got work,” he said. “I’d call if you had a phone.”

“Have you asked his friends?” I asked Kristin.

            “No one has seen him. He hasn’t been to work since before Christmas.”

            “I didn’t know.” I felt desperate for a logical explanation. “Any other relatives? What about a tavern he goes to?”

            His sister shook her head and her shoulders slumped.

            “Our oldest brother even checked the hospitals and morgue,” she said softly. Her eyes glazed.

            My fears rose and my face flushed. “Does he have an old girlfriend?”

            “One?” Kirsten looked away and her face flushed. “No. He’s disappeared.”

            My cheeks felt hollow, and I wanted to sit down. “What about the police?”

            “Nothing.” Her face screwed up in fear and panic before a sob caught in her throat. “You were our last hope of finding him. Oskar said you followed him around. Can you tell me where else he might have gone?”

Kirsten looked embarrassed and confused.

“I haven’t seen him,” I repeated.

“He’s just gone.” Kristen wiped tears from her cheek and left.

I stood with my back to the closed door.

            During the day, Una kept Fiona’s children and Mother used her precious time to scour the stores for food. She planned a lemon wedding cake with whipped cream cheese frosting. No one was at home to help me make sense of Oskar’s disappearance.

Maybe one more fishing trip before settling into our marriage. Probably a ridiculous thought because it was January. But men ice-fished, didn’t they?

 I remembered our last conversation. I had teased him about becoming a married man.

            “No more beer for you,” I teased. “Once you take on the responsibility of one-hundred children, every moment you must be spent earning cash for their food. And diapers. I’ll spend my day washing diapers, and you’ll be giving piggy-back rides until you drop. My hands will turn red and raw, your back bent with aches and pain.”

            Now, I saw that this big man with the jagged scar on his face didn’t accept my teasing for its humor.  In fact, I realized his conclusion must have been to drop me. Move on. Maybe have a new girl ready and waiting for his stories of marriage. What had Eleanor warned?

            Hours later, my imaginings solidified as facts, and I sat on the floor with a pair of scissors, cutting up the few pictures Oskar and I had asked people to take of us at the beach, in the park, even in front of the Stockyards. When Mother, Dad and Imogene walked in together, I broke the news.           

            “Oskar has left me at the altar,” I said. “His sister came here to tell me there will be no wedding.”

            Mother yanked the scissors from my hand. “You don’t want to do this. The wedding is not for another week,” said Mother. “Now, tell me what happened?”

            “Kirsten, his sister, is looking for him. He’s disappeared. No Oskar at work, not at home with his family, not living with his flat mates. He’s gone.” My own voice sounded far away.

            “No idea where he might be?” asked Dad.

            I shook my head. “Away from me, I guess. Disappeared before Christmas. Everyone said he wasn’t the marrying kind. Now, I know it’s true.”

            I was shocked at my own calmness even as I felt my anger grow.

            “They checked with the Stockyards?” asked Dad. “Did he finish a shift?”

            “They did check. Checked the hospitals and morgue too.”

            “They must be worried sick about him being missing,” said Dad. He touched my elbow to suggest I rise from the floor.  I stayed put.

            “They are worried, Dad, but how do I tell his family his disappearance is my fault for teasing him about marriage. No, he got scared or disgusted with me and left. He didn’t even have the courtesy to tell me or his family.”

Dad wasn’t convinced I had reached the right conclusion. “We need to make sure.”

Together we retraced Kirsten’s steps: the Stockyards, the taverns, hospitals, the morgue. No one had anything to share, and everyone seemed sympathetic and bewildered. Dad insisted we tell every beat cop we saw.

Most officers knew Oskar.

“The one called The Ghost?” asked one.

“He’s gone?” asked another as if it were a pleasant surprise.

All noted his disappearance. I felt they knew more than they said, but all claimed they hadn’t heard of his disappearance. Two officers looked at me and gave Dad’s shoulder a squeeze and an eye message as if to say, “Your girl dodged a bullet.”

To me, their reactions seemed ominous. I was convinced they knew something but didn’t want to hurt my feelings as the little girl who got dumped. After we talked to the police, Dad stopped taking me out to search for Oskar.

Mother didn’t know what to say and barely talked to me at all.

            Alone, I went back to the street near the library where I’d met Oskar. Could it be a dreadful mix-up? Oskar would realize he did love me, be leaning on a streetlight, silly, guilty grin on his face.

An elderly man approached me. His shabby clothing hung on his frail body. His eyes mean. The smell of alcohol and sweat particularly strong.

            “You the gal looking for the Ghost?” His voice filled with gravel.

            “Yes. Do you know where he is?”

            “Nah. But if he’s alive, you won’t be doing him any favors in looking for him. A guy like him? If he’s dead—well what’s the point of finding him.  Won’t be pretty.”

            “Please, do you know what’s happened?”

            “Me? Nah. But I did see him with two brawling types. You don’t want those folks sniffing around you, thinking you got details about him going missing. Know what I mean?”

            I didn’t.

            He stumbled away. His cough like a snarl.

            “Wait. When did you last see him? Please.”

            I went after him and grabbed his elbow. He shrugged me off with a grunt.

            “Look, some men are meaner than him.” He raised an eyebrow. “Let him be gone. Time to move on, Missy.”

            Occasionally, I walked through a park and think I saw Oskar, but it was never him. I read obituaries in the newspaper before I lined Paulie’s cage to collect droppings. 

When my graduation came, it meant nothing.  It was an end of reading and studying. I had no future. Oskar was gone. I watched Imogene leave in the morning for work at Nabisco. First, she worked on Uneeda crackers, but quickly moved to the line for Ritz. She said she’d never marry. I see my future looking like hers: putting on work clothes and a head scarf, marching in a line of women through the doors of a factory, dragging my body home too tired to lift my chin. And for what?

I forced Dad to go with me to visit Oskar’s mother. She opened the door dressed in black.

“Have you had word about Oskar?” I asked.

She shook her head. “I know my son is dead. A mother knows these things.”

“How did he die?” I asked while fighting tears.

“I don’t know. No body to give back to God. But I know he’s gone.”

Dad gave our condolences, and we left.

“You have to let this go,” said Dad. “Maybe he’s dead and maybe not. We live in strange times, Ellen. Plenty of men have disappeared during the Crash.”

Maybe I’m a fool.

After graduation, I found a job in South Shore. Took care of two children for a dentist and his wife. Hours of routine feeding, bathing, dressing got me through the days that followed. I also took long walks. Was that Oskar crossing the street, holding hands with his little girl? Or did he dye his hair and enter a tavern for a beer? No. None of the glimpses were Oskar. He was gone.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 64: Sheila

Even in February 1937 our focus remained on Ellen’s wellbeing. Fiona’s change slipped past me. Her words sharply asked for privacy. I understood how work and caring for children could make a woman edgy. With our eyes on Ellen, Una suggested Fiona’s three children move to the Mokena house with her children.

Fiona had become thinner and thinner. When she let me visit, I saw her skin take on a grayness. Being tired, Fiona had difficulty cracking jokes.  Soon came the day Vlad asked we once again played musical beds. Fiona came home for the last time.

            Change came fast. I understood the arrangements made for the children. Three boys Scoot, Chief, and Una’s Beau slept in the attic of the Mokena house, Dimples and Nadine took the small bedroom on the first floor. Vlad and Fiona gave up their flat and moved in with us. They took the bed in the second bedroom, Imogene took the couch, Ellen back to the pantry mattress.

            I couldn’t breathe when I looked at my first-born daughter, the daughter who was such fun. She was dying, and no, she didn’t think anything could be done. The glowing radiation that caused the girls to giggle at the clock factory triggered cancer and took every one of them. Every one!

“I’m surprised I lasted this long.” Her mouth formed a crooked grin.

            All of February 1937, I watched her become smaller. Vlad also lost his appetite. He wanted to offer comfort where none could exist. Even his cuddling became painful for her. Dorothy invited Vlad to sleep in her flat. We all turned to silence. Our conversation became “Would you like some tea?”

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 65 Eleanor

In March 1937, Fiona died. I never saw it coming until she moved back home.

After the funeral, Vlad moved to Mokena to be near his children and rented a room from a farmer.  The children continued to stay with Una. Vlad and Hemming took the Rock Island train to work every day.

I was stunned how life went on.

            On that March day when we lost Fiona, I had stopped to see her after work. I enjoyed our talks about movies. She liked Ginger Rogers.

“If I could be anyone else, I’d be Ginger Rogers. Pin up my red hair or allow curls down to my shoulders. I’d dance every day.”

 I remembered her energy. Once she had ordered Sam to dance with her. His feet tended to stand still with his arms out in front of him as he rocked back and forth, and Fiona swayed and tilted her head like an agile swan. When she tap danced, she looked more like Shirley Temple than Ginger, but she had enthusiasm. Her eyes twinkled.

Even as her cancer worsened, her eyes sparkled as she whispered stories that once were secrets of the Harkleroad girls as they all grew up. From her stories, I understood Ellen’s fear of Deidre. The image ofthe boiling tea caused me to lose my breath. Deidre could have killed Ellen in a brutal, painful way.

“Darby stopped by yesterday to see how I’m doing. Did you know he works at the LaSalle-Wacker Building by the Chicago River?” Fiona’s eyes filled with tears. “It has a red beacon on top. He’s promised to take me into the city at night and show me the Lindbergh Beacon on top of the Palmolive Building. In the dark that light can be seen for two hundred miles. It’s cobalt blu-oo. I wish . . . I wish I could see it,” she said as her voice cracked.

Another day she said, “I wish I had owned a piano.”

I know Mrs. Quick’s church had allowed her to practice honky-tonk music on their upright piano on Mondays.

A few people came to listen with embarrassed delight. Only one—Old Will, who did custodial work—encouraged her to keep up her playing. “Tain’t nobody’s bizness,” he said in a voice that sounded like music.

Fiona worried for her daughter Dimples. She had tucked into her pocketbook a news story of a scientist’s theory that as the radium made clock faces glow it also invaded bones and tissue. There was a chance, damage to the young women could also be damage to their eventual daughters even before they were a babies in their mother’s womb.

I wanted Fiona to live to see that he was wrong. I regret that I made light of her illness and whispered over and over that she’d get better. Her eyes told me she knew of death.

On her last day, Fiona struggled for a quick breath. She didn’t respond to anything we said. Her eyes were mere slits, her chest heaved for air.

I had brought an article on David Niven to read when Fiona became more alert. Fiona loved the picture shows, and I knew her glee with David Niven, ring-a-ding-ding.

“I’ll just be a minute,” said Sheila. “I’ve some broth on the stove. Fiona will feel better with a swallow of chicken broth.”

I saw Sheila hurrying into the kitchen, and I moved just inside the bedroom door, but stopped. Mrs. Quick hummed in a low register of sadness. The oddity for me was that Dorothy Quick sat next to the bed and held Fiona’s hand. I expected Dorothy to kneel and call on heaven to save Fiona. But instead, she continued to hum softly with mellow, dark tones filled with pain. Her voice bare and husky whispered, “Child, you have the right to feel low. But we’re here with you, dear girl.”

            I wasn’t sure if Fiona was conscious or not. Her murmur seemed to match Dorothy’s hum. Fiona never said a word. Instead, her breath rattled. Mrs. Quick said, “God bless this child. Take her home.”

With that, Fiona was gone.

I had never seen someone die. Sobs bubbled into my throat and filled my eyes. God wasn’t fair. Sheila came running from the kitchen and took Fiona in her arms. Mrs. Quick wrapped her arms around both and recited, “Our Father.”

I crouched on the floor in the corner of the room and felt cold and useless.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 66: Una

April sleet chilled bones. Bundled in a thin wool coat with a heavy knitted scarf wrapped around her neck, Mother walked through my back door, carrying two shopping bags plus her pocketbook. She looked as if her back hurt. I hadn’t seen her since Fiona’s funeral. Our weather had been April nasty with wind and rain to make the ground slippery, and yet, Mother had made the mile walk from the Mokena train station to my home.

            I took her bags and placed them on the kitchen table. Before offering a chair, I wrapped my arms around her and held that position for at least a full minute without speaking. I hoped my warmth penetrated her bones. Even during the food shortages of the Depression, my mother didn’t feel this thin. I insisted she sit down.

            “Let me make us some tea. You should have called and told me you were coming,” I said. “I’d gladly meet you at the train station. I don’t like to see you walk in this weather. Would you like a sandwich? The children take a sack lunch to school. We have plenty bologna and cheese.”

            “The walk is good for me,” said Mother. “Besides I wanted to surprise you. Yesterday I was in a mood for making Irish soda bread.” She tipped the brown paper edge for me to peek inside. Her brown eyes glistened with the emotions of the moment. I knew the second loaf I saw would have gone to Fiona.

“I’ve included twelve chocolate cupcakes.”

            Mother regularly kneaded dough for bread, but Irish soda bread came with thoughts of family.  I, too, missed Fiona.

            “All children are fine,” I said. “The twins are in school for two more days before the weekend. My two and Fiona’s youngest have the sniffles and are taking a nap.”

            Mother opened her eyes wider. “I’ll be quiet then.” 

I had never known Mother to be loud, even when scolding us. She unwrapped her scarf and threw her coat over the back of a kitchen chair.

            Purposely, I took down two yellow teacups and blue saucers.

            “Fiona’s Fiesta ware,” said Mother with a smile. “How Fiona loved colors.”

            “She asked me to keep the dishes for her children, but I like her children to see them in use. Helps with good memories.”

            I poured tea. Mother added only a couple drops of milk to hers.

            “Would you like sugar?”

            “I better not. Neighbors are talking about how we can expect rationing if war comes. May as well get used to doing without.”

            She waved her hand above her cup when I tried to add a bit of sugar anyway. It seemed to me Mother had become too accustomed to doing without.

            “I’m here to help,” she said. “Just name what you want needs doing. Laundry? Ironing?”

            “If you don’t mind, I’d like to catch up. Fiona’s children have begun to call me mama-oo?”

            “It comes because you spent time minding them when they were babies.” Mother stared at her tea. “Why didn’t she tell me sooner that she had cancer?”

            “Fiona knew of the cancer before Imogene came home.” Time for truth. “She knew you had a lot to do for Imogene. Besides, the girls in Valley were dying even after they had breasts cut away. Fiona didn’t see the point of the fight.”

            “I miss her,” said Mother. “I want to help you anyway I can in caring for all the children.”

            “Well,” I said, “You and Dad might like to move to Mokena. In the summer Hemming and I plan to take the children to Tinley Park and watch old silent films shown against the grain elevator.”

I pictured Fiona as a young teen who loved to play the piano for action scenes at the Valley movie theater.

“Today I thought of Valley housing,” I continued. “Two tiny bedrooms. One double bed for five girls. Then Dad bought a cot for Fiona. How pleased we were when Fiona had her own bed. You know, her feet were like ice.”

Mother smiled at the memory, and I laughed.

“Imogene and I slept back-to-back, her head at the top of the bed, mine at the bottom. Each of us held one of the young ones so they wouldn’t fall out of bed in the middle of the night. I took Ellen, and Imogene bear-hugged Deidre who was a squirmer.”

            “Fiona liked the warmth of the pot-bellied stove,” said Mother, “but the cot was too short for her to stretch out. She managed though. Knees pulled up.”

            “Feet still frosty.” I sipped tea and swallowed hard.

            We chuckled. But Mother’s chin dropped as she took one more sip of tea. In that moment, she was far away with a memory she didn’t choose to share.

            “You know, I really could use your help,” I said. “Please ask Dad about moving out of the city. Hemming takes the train to work. Dad, Ellen, and Imogene could too.”

            “I’ll think on it,” said Mother. “Dad might like his own garden.”

Lost Voices/Prochaska

1938

Chapter 67: Eleanor

The Chicago American gave me my first real job as head of obituaries with a chance to write human interest. My father was impressed. Learning about people even after they were dead was like collecting gossip but so was writing a portrait of a community.

            The editor suggested I might cover who’s who when disturbances hit a neighborhood. He figured a girl would be less likely to get hurt asking questions, and family members in shock might be more willing to tell what caused tragedies. As far as I could see, two major issues caused fights. First, as more Black people moved north, landlords provided miserable housing at double the cost of what they charged Whites. Also, Englewood Whites circulated rumors that Blacks were buying buildings on White streets. It made some locals crazy.

The second big issue brought out baseball bats. Rumors spread of interracial labor unions. I felt if war didn’t consume everyone’s attention, an explosion was sure to happen and involve the police and workers. Does a Black union worker have the same value as a White union worker?. All the while, big businesses seemed to stir the pot. I admit I got to feeling low.  It all made me wonder how the turmoil with Jews in Germany had really started.

My mother had received very few letters from her cousins in Germany. In March of 1938, the Germans invaded Austria, and Herman Goering told the Jews to leave. We hoped that countries around Germany would take in our family members, but that seemed an impossibility. Even in Italy, Mussolini canceled rights for Italian Jews. Shortly after, the persecution of Jewish people became official with camps being set up not only for Jewish Communists, but for Jewish businessmen, doctors, lawyers. Mother said even Jewish children.                     

            A momentary lull from turmoil and fear of a war came from the Joe Louis/Max Schmeling fight. June 22, 1938.

I’ve never seen the point of boxing. It seems to me that boxers shouldn’t have any teeth, but the fight where Louis challenged Schmeling—boy that was like democracy taking on Nazism. Which was a big surprise to me because Joe Louis, like all Blacks had a tough time in the United States. There were places where Joe couldn’t eat in the same restaurant as Whites. I often thought of Miss Wisdom’s teaching us to say Black because people of color had a rough road and a dark past. It was best if those non-Black people remember that.

            The fight was another time the Harkleroads, Quicks, Paulie, and me piled into the front room with the radio to hear a special broadcast. Of course, Mrs. Quick had no intention of listening to the evil radio.

            “Clem McCarthy will give the blow-by-blow,” said Jonas. “The fight is at Yankee Stadium. I bet this is the biggest audience in broadcast history.”

            Karl and Jonas were eager and arrived early to share their predictions of how the fight would go. They reminded me of the enthusiasm of their younger brother Frankie. Even Mr. Harkleroad sat on the edge of his chair with his hands clasped in front of him. They all crowded into a semi-circle with the radio in the center. Mrs. Harkleroad, Imogene, Ellen, and I sat behind them.

            “This could be a real battle,” said Karl. “Remember it took Schmeling twelve rounds to knock-out Louis back in 1936.”

            A bell announced the beginning of the fight. I remember hearing Clem say, “Right to the body. Left hook to the jaw. Schmeling is down.”

            Down? The fight was over in two minutes. Everyone on the radio was yelling and screaming. Jonas and Karl were on their feet, yelling, “Oh, man. Oh man!”

            I felt good, like I should cry or something because that night, our democracy won.

Also, that June, the new Superman comic came out. Bright colors, lots of action, and secret identity. Superman was a force for good at a time when we needed heroes.

Then—always interested in improving my skills, I read a feature story in the Tribune about the Queen Mary passenger steamship that had challenged the Normandie. The French ship held the record for crossing the Atlantic. In 1936 the Queen Mary had taken the lead, and in September of 1938, the British launched another fast passenger ship, the Queen Elizabeth.

 But I have to say that reporters don’t always show the same innocent joy as regular people.

            “You know why they want speed on the seas?” asked my editor who seemed to understand my interest.

            “So people can travel faster,” I said. I thought the answer to be easy.

            “No. So soldiers can travel faster. We’re heading into war, Eleanor. Someone young like you should know that.”          

            Later, I screwed up my courage and asked one of the well-respected reporters about the two sister ships.

            “If these are really nice passenger ships, they can’t be used for war, can they?” I asked.

            “The point is to have all ships ready rather than trying to build from scratch. Having fast passenger ships keeps Americans calm for now. Eventually, those two ships can transport thousands of American soldiers, and they’ll outmaneuver submarines.”

            “But we’re not at war,” I said.

            “Yet. We’re not at war yet.”

At nineteen years old, I never knew war or a great loss of life, but in September of 1938, a hurricane hit Long Island. I guess I was particularly interested because I was born in Brooklyn, New York. The storm killed nearly seven hundred people and left sixty-three thousand homeless. When dark clouds formed over Englewood, I admit I was afraid of death and destruction coming. Mother said, “Hurricanes aren’t anything compared to war. Make no mistake, war’s coming.”

All around me I heard the steady echoing of war. So, I guess it was no surprise when entertainment picked up the horror even in their programming.

I wished I had been a real reporter in October of 1938 when Orson Welles put on War of the Worlds. Listening to the radio had become a routine in the Harkleroad front room. Jonas and Darby joined Sam and Sheila, Imogene, Ellen, and me. No one expected the reaction of listeners probably because the show was going opposite The Charlie McCarthy Hour. Americans loved the smart-mouthed puppet. But that night the Harkleroads tuned into Orson Welles, who announced that the story he was about to tell was made-up, just fiction for our listening pleasure. It was not real. But with all the sound effects and the cutting back and forth among reporters, it sounded real. Many listeners thought the United States was being invaded and notified their friends to leave McCarthy’s show and tune into Welles. Of course, those arriving late for the show hadn’t heard that this was a pretend story. The next day we heard and read reports of people panicking.

And why wouldn’t it be believable. All we had been hearing for the past year was war fears. Even in the movie theaters, we saw clips from Europe. Although the government tried to downplay that we could be drawn into the unrest in Europe, they had begun to increase the battleship fleet by twenty percent. Roosevelt said we weren’t going to war, but preparations had begun. We all hoped the underdogs in Europe would “sort this out.”

I tried to draw Ellen out of her dark mood and momentarily get her interested in following horse racing. No better race than when Seabiscuit and War Admiral proved who was the better horse on November 1st. War Admiral could have been a Hyde Park kid, given all the benefits money can buy. Seabiscuit was more like a kid from a working family in Englewood. Seabiscuit proved to be the horse with grit, snorting his way to victory.

Ellen, however, could care less. Our friendship never mended but at least we were polite.

Even with American’s flexing muscle, 1938 Europe focused on war. Mostly, I think the events of the year caused me finally to grow up.  The night of broken glass, Kristallnacht happened in November. News reels at the theater showed streets filled with shattered glass. Over two-hundred Synagogues were destroyed in Germany. Thousands of Jewish businesses were looted. That night the Germans continued their destruction of Jewish peace by arresting over thirty-thousand Jewish men. All Jewish businesses closed. Mother’s cousins along with thousands of other families had limited ways to transport their children to other countries to keep them safe. Mother said Kindertransport may have saved some Jewish children, but it also made them into orphans.

“Why can’t the parents leave with their children?” I asked. The question seemed like common sense to me, but I received a disgusted look from my mother.

“Sometimes I wonder if you are even my daughter. You think Germans will allow their parents to leave?” asked Mother.

I couldn’t think of any reason they wouldn’t since Germans didn’t seem to like Jews.

“How many countries will be willing to take in Jewish refugees?” asked my mother.

It never occurred to me that Jews would be rejected.

My mother’s view of the world proved to be right.

In moments when I could catch her alone, I’d wind up my courage and knock on Mrs. Quick door. She was the oldest person I knew. She rarely smiled, and she probably saw the rest of us as fools. But I wanted answers about war. I trusted Dorothy Quick to speak truth. Could Jewish people survive?

 “My grandfather lost an eye during the Civil War,” she said after I stated my reason for visiting. “A shard of something from an explosion hit his face. He wore an eye patch that scared the daylights out of me when I was a small girl. He had been born in the northern part of England and came to these United States when he was twelve years old. An old blacksmith taught him the trade. That came in handy during the war, the Civil War, that is, because most of the time, he cared for the horses.”

            “Did your grandfather talk about the war?” I didn’t understand the point of her story.

            “Never. But it was terrible for men and animals. All my grandmother’s brothers, some of her uncles, and many of her cousins and neighbors fought for the Union Army. Every one of them ready to lay down his life for a cause they believed in. Many were injured. A few killed. Some captured and then killed while being transported south. None of the survivors that I knew spoke of any battles.”

            I felt a chill.

            I asked. “Did your grandmother share about the war?”

            As her face softened, Mrs. Quick said, “She loved all of us grandchildren. Never talked about the war. She wanted us to work hard and to be grateful as she was for her kitchen.” Mrs. Quick had the smallest of smiles. “I guess she didn’t want any of us to be bitter. I sat at her knee and copied down recipes.”

            “How to make a souffle and pulled fudge,” I said.
            “Yes. As her mother had taught her. Now, my mother’s hands were huge. She taught me not to over knead butter into fudge, a very important step in baking and in life.”

            With that, Mrs. Quick ended her reminiscing. Her lips trembled as she gulped down her tea.

            It took me years before I understood the silence that walks with war.

When I heard Kate Smith sing “God Bless, America” on the radio, I got chills. The war seemed to be on our doorstep.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

1939-1940

Chapter 68: Eleanor

In September of 1939 Germany invaded Poland and officially Europe was at war. Austria and Czechoslovakia already taken. Soon France, Belgium, Denmark, Norway, and Romania fell to the Nazis. Roosevelt declared neutrality but also declared a state of emergency.  We held our breath as we read about soldiers escaping in small boats during May and June of 1940. The risks taken at Dunkirk made me cry.

By September 7, 1940, German planes bombed London and the Blitz began. Every night, Londoners prepared for bombs dropping. I tried to imagine rushing into the underground system for safety. The Germans meant to break London’s spirit. I watched Sam pace with worry about his sister Agnes and her family who seemed safe in Cornwall. But a letter from Agnes told of her younger son Henry who left fishing behind and moved to London as soon as the Blitz began. He spotted a family caught on an upper floor of a burning building. He wanted to help. The building staircase collapsed under Henry.

“Top-notch,” said Sam. “Henry was top-notch.”           

With the Blitz, the size of our Army and National Guard continued to increase. We started to hear about new warships. The government met with union workers about regulations and wages. Nothing should interfere if we were pulled into a war.

By November 1940, everyone shuddered at the firebombing of Coventry in England. Could it happen here?

Sam said, “Roosevelt’s cagey. He may be building agreements for supplying England, but we’re getting ready to handle a war. Big one. Bigger than the Great War.”

Then came the Alien Registration Act which required photo identification of certain groups of people citizen or not. Una said Germans and Italians living out in the countryside lost cameras, radios, guns. Lutheran churches switched from German services to English. Curfews began.

One thing was sure, we had work and income.

After DuPont had developed nylon stockings to replace silk, both soon disappeared. We working women were mad for the nylon stocking. They cost as much as silk, $1.25, but they didn’t shrink, and moths could care less about them. However, the government needed silk for bags of gunpowder destined for cannon aboard ships. Nylon disappeared to be used for rope. We soon turned in our used stockings for the war effort. Still, we hoarded what we could find. The feel of silk was glorious.

I almost wished war would come. Get it over with. I felt rattled all the time.

            Memories of Fiona calmed my thoughts. She’d have been thankful for movies: Wizard of Oz, Gone with the Wind, Stagecoach, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, Little Princess with Shirley Temple. Even for books like For Whom the Bell Tolls and Grapes of Wrath.

            All worth fighting for—when war comes.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 69: Ellen

Eleanor was consumed with war and nagged me to read more about terrible things happening in Europe. I had a hard time thinking about the loss of life once Fiona had died. Eleanor was persistent. Finally, I promised her that if the United States entered the war, I would enlist with her. She was excited because she thought she could become a military correspondent.  I was still numb after being abandoned by Oskar. Going to war seemed to be a solution to my grief.

            Some nights with everyone in the flat asleep, I’d awaken next to Imogene and wonder if Oskar had gone overseas to enlist with a European country in the fight against Germany. I didn’t know much about his family. Probably from Europe. Did he feel an obligation to fight for the old country? Did he not tell his mother because he didn’t want her to worry?

In the dark of a quiet night, I listened to Imogene’s soft breathing, I imagined if I enlisted and volunteered for hospital duty, maybe Oskar would carry in a stretcher with a wounded man, and we’d meet again. He would have settled down to be a serious man because of the tragedies of war. He’d ask me if I kept his watch. That would be the proof that I still loved him. I’d keep it forever. He’d smile his satisfaction like Jonas does when in a conversation with Imogene. We’d promise to meet after the war. But in the meantime . . .

            About the middle of May, Karl entered our flat after supper.

            “You two ladies ever think of working for the Federal Reserve Bank? With men beginning to enlist, we got openings in the mail room,” said Karl. “Why don’t you play hooky tomorrow and come down to apply?”

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 70: Imogene

“I’ve a gift for you and Ellen,” said Una. She looked pleased with herself. “Something you two need. I took the Rock Island train into the Loop and treated myself to hours at Marshall Fields, Carson, Pirie, Scott, and the Fair store. I even took the train back to Englewood. Just for you two. I have a special gift and I’m not telling you where I got them. This may be the last you see for some time.”

            She held two flat boxes, each tied with a ribbon.

“It’s not our birthdays,” I said.

“No, but I want the two of you to be successful by looking professional. Imogene, you’re not a scrubwoman anymore. And Ellen, time to grow up. Karl Quick put his reputation on the line by having the Federal Reserve Bank hire you. Time to look the part.”

“I think I look just fine,” said Ellen.

Una was our prettiest sister and had worked for Marshall Fields which gave her fashion status. I looked at Ellen, and we both silently agreed to allow this tutoring in style even though we were women who worked in the mail room.

“Mother has told me of your plan to buy enough dresses to rotate every three days of work. When I worked at Fields, I made the mistake of having four plus a skirt and blouse. Without a proper jacket, a skirt is hardly professional, and four dresses made it difficult to rotate. Our supervisor didn’t like us repeating a look during a week of work. I know trousers are coming into fashion but not for the workplace. You two are not Katherine Hepburn or Marlene Dietrich. Nor do you want a wrap-around house dress.”

“Neither of us wear house dresses to work,” growled Ellen. Her ire increased the blush of her face.

“You want modest,” said Una. “Careful necklines, wide shoulders, belted waists. Leave bows and ruffles alone for now because you’re in the mail room. Modest. The boyish look of the 1920s is well gone.”

“Una, we’ve been working for almost two weeks. Can we open our gifts now?” asked Ellen.

Una smiled approval. “I don’t want you to concentrate so hard on your bodies that you forget your legs. You won’t be in the mail room forever. As you move up at the Federal Reserve Bank, you’ll need more of these.”

Ellen opened her box faster than I did and asked, “Are these silk stockings?”

Her voice had a glimmer of being given a precious jewel. I flipped the lid on my gift. Silk stockings.

“Let’s face it. Cotton stockings that you have been wearing bag at the knees and wrinkle at the ankle. That isn’t going to impress bosses at the Fed. At a national bank where women need to glow with efficiency—even if it is in the mail room—you need to look good.”

Una was right.  I pictured my interview with a tidy woman in a suit and me with my elephant-knee hose. Seeing and feeling the silk was pure luxury. As Dad would say, Ellen and I could be women with standing.

“Just remember, silk isn’t like cotton. These will take care. Silk can shrink if not laundered properly and moths love them. Now tomorrow, what will you wear with your new stockings?”

It was mid-week. Both of us had worn our best and second best. We both pulled out our wool skirts. Una sighed deeply.

“Good thing I came. Ellen, you look like a schoolgirl in that gray wool skirt. Don’t tell me you plan to wear your brown sweater.”

I held my green flowery dress already knowing Una wouldn’t approve.

“Looks like you need to borrow one of my dresses. Imogene, you aren’t going shopping at Maxwell Street anymore. Don’t you have a navy dress and a hat?”

Both Ellen and I had already worn our best navy-blue dresses. If we wore them again, would other women criticize? But Una suggested with a few alterations they’d do. Our hems fell modestly to mid-calf. Una grabbed a different belt for Ellen’s dress and added a handkerchief collar. To create a different look for mine, Una snipped off my white cuffs and added a string of beads.

“Just remember, you are both workers that represent the dignity of the bank, but you are meant to blend into the background. Karl assured the personnel department that you are both unmarried ladies with honest reputations.”

“We know that, Una,” said Ellen. She rolled her eyes.

The next morning, we rubbed Vaseline on our shoes to hide the spidery cracks. Mother’s trick of vanilla behind our ears set us up to be elegant—but not fancy. All the way to the elevated train, we teased each other about being fancy women in our silk stockings. My plan was to wear the stockings once and then put them away and keep them for good. Anklets seemed more appropriate for the times.

Ellen and I took the elevated train into the Loop and walked down the canyon of LaSalle Street with the Board of Trade blocking one end along Jackson. If the sun were overhead, the canyon sparkled. But in the early morning or late afternoon, the street held a chilly soberness of gray. The Fed building sat across the street from the Board of Trade which had a steady stream of men in suits. The men working at the Fed were older, more serious. The women, mostly young but dowdy. I felt we fit right in.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

1941

Chapter 71: Sheila

I opened the door to Dorothy, tears streaming down her face. Behind her were her sons: Karl, Jonas, and Darby. Dorothy went to my knitting chair, bowed her head, and pulled a dry handkerchief from the pocket of her white apron. Karl bent behind her, placing his hands on her shoulders. Jonas took a seat near the radio with his forearms on his thighs.  Darby paced. They all looked stunned with stark, pale expressions.

            “May we turn on the radio,” requested Jonas. “We want Mother to hear what happened today.”

            I nodded consent. Germany had invaded Poland in 1939 and had bombed London in 1940. What had they done to us?

            It wasn’t my habit to listen to the radio on a Sunday afternoon. Sunday had its own rhythm of activities. Unless our family was home, and some special program caught our interest, the radio was off.

Sam and Ellen had bundled up and gone for a December walk. With three of our family working, Ellen decided we needed to check a pet store on Halsted Street for a puppy. Sam rolled his eyes as he looked at me, but I couldn’t help but think they would return with a dog. What would Paulie think of a pup? Imogene had gone to visit a friend.

With a restrained expression on his face, Karl walked to the radio. His hands shook as he turned it on. We heard static. That got Paulie going with hissing and beeping his garble. Jonas came forward and turned the dials until he found a station with news.

            “Recapping the events: at approximately eight o’clock this morning, Japanese attacked our base at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, and our airfields in Manila. Eight battleships have been destroyed as well as four sunk. At this point in time, our government hasn’t released the number of deaths or wounded. Repeating: our bases at Pearl Harbor, Hawaii and Manila have been attacked by aircraft marked with the Japanese rising sun.”

            We all stared at the big wooden box and heard pain in the announcer’s voice.

            “Could this really be true? We’ve been attacked?” Dorothy’s head came up in disbelief.

            “I’m afraid so,” said Darby. He continued to pace behind his mother. “There’s a time difference between Hawaii and here. The attack started a little before eight o’clock this morning, Hawaii time. We’ll declare war.”

            “I was at church this morning,” Dorothy’s voice held fear. “Those poor boys. To be attacked is terrible, but on a Sunday. Unholy. What could the Japanese be thinking?”

            “They thought they’d catch us napping on a Sunday. Our boys would have their guard down,” said Karl.

To me he explained that he and Jonas were listening to a football game at a friend’s home when the news interrupted. His voice was low and distant as if the game had happened a lifetime ago.

“The New York Giants played the Dodgers at the Polo Grounds. A player, Tuffy Leeman, was expected to have a remarkable game. The teams just kicked off about the time the Japanese bombs dropped. When the news came through from Hawaii, the announcer told all service men to report to their units.”

            My hands trembled and I felt light-headed. Sam and I talked about war coming. Despite the government stating that we were neutral, the Great War had taught us signs to look for. Our government had begun stockpiling supplies.  Families talked of their young Marines being shipped off to Pacific Islands to build new bases. Young working women without silk or nylon for stockings began to make-do. Just a week before, Ellen brought home more makeup for her legs. Working girls liked to pretend they still had stockings to wear.

            Still, I hadn’t pictured a war with Japan. The war talk had been about Germany and Italy since before 1939. Why did Japan attack us? Weren’t they at war with Manchuria?

            “No man can ignore this,” said Jonas. “I guess the young guys I’ve been teaching to fly for the Navy are about to see some action.”

            “I’m signing up,” said Darby.

            We all turned in his direction.

There was no bravado, only resolve.            Always soft spoken, Darby had hardened determination in his eyes.

            “My prayers and blessings will go with you,” said Dorothy as she reached for his hand. Her blessing so quickly given shocked me. But I remembered her sharing stories of her family members who fought in the Civil War and the Great War.

            Sam and Ellen entered through the front door, followed by Imogene. Cold air blasted through the open door and sent a chill through all of us. I tried to speak but the words wouldn’t come out right.

            Sam held up his hand. “We’ve heard. Businesses on Halsted have opened their doors so people can hear the news on the radio. Our young men are already collecting on the street. Doesn’t take much thought. They know what to do.”

            “Women are crying,” said Ellen. “What’s going to happen now?”

            I moved chairs from our table into the front room so more of us could crowd the radio and listen.

            Imogene sat next to Jonas. Sam reached over and turned up the volume on the radio. We heard static as the programing cut in and out. That reminded Paulie to resume his static. My heart beat too rapidly for his nonsense. I covered his cage with a sheet to keep him quiet. We all sat and looked at the radio as news repeated and repeated.

            We were at war.

            That night Eleanor Roosevelt spoke to the nation first. We learned that the Japanese ambassador spoke to the President even as fifty planes attacked our ships. Mrs. Roosevelt used the term “clutch of fear,” as she spoke to women, and I thought clutch was the perfect word for what I felt. That moment when you feel paralyzed. I’d felt that clutch of fear since Fiona announced she had cancer. Terminal.

But then Mrs. Roosevelt spoke of mothers doing ordinary things, and I knew that is what women do, like reminding Fiona’s children to eat their oatmeal despite their mother’s illness. We follow familiar steps to get a job done. Like we did after the economy crashed. We older people had practice with war in 1917, practice with battling influenza, practice with living on almost no money, and practice with loss. Now, one more time to follow ordinary steps while trying to breathe.

            We were all amazed when news reels of the Japanese attack appeared at the movie theater. Stark black and white pictures showed listing ships, billowing smoke, enemy planes flying like gnats. In the  wreckage: eight Navy battleships destroyed, four sunk, 2400 Americans killed, 1282 wounded, and one lone ship carrying lumber to Hawaii sunk. To me the loss of that ordinary ship hauling wood warned that this war was meant to be brutal for ordinary people.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 72: Christine

            December 25, 1941

            Dear Sam and Sheila,

            It’s been a long time since I’ve written, and this Christmas feels filled with sadness. With us now at war I need my family. As you already know, our Michael joined the Navy in October. He sent me a letter that he may not write often. Before he left, he said he wanted to go see islands in the Pacific. So, that’s my guess as to where he is.

            Sam, I’m worried sick with this news of the attack on Pearl Harbor and with the next day the attack on Wake Island. I read and listen to every bit of news, but they aren’t telling us much. The Japanese attacked our boys on Wake with a big force. We heard the President say the outposts could be seized by the Japanese. My heart sank when President Roosevelt mentioned how our boys were handling the attacks with courage and resolve. The newspapers sounded proud but surprised too. That worried me. What if Michael has been stationed on Wake? Or Guam? Is he still alive? And when will the Navy tell me if he is okay? I check with the postal office every day and pray for a letter even though I know it’s too soon. Our post mistress told me our boys are outnumbered but have done a magnificent job defending Wake. I read the Japanese have lost two warships and many soldiers.

            Since you are in Chicago, have you heard anything more?

            My oldest son David will be signing up with the Navy too. As you are aware, many of our older mines have closed, and both David and Michael had an awful time finding work. Both are angry at so many things.

            I imagine our sister Agnes wrote to tell you her son Henry died trying to save people during the Blitz of London. Her other son Burt, who lives in Maryland, has also signed up with the United States Navy. He wants to be a Marine.

            Sam, this war must be easier for the two of you. At least girls are safe.

            Your loving sister,

            Christine

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 73: Sam

“Harkleroad, I got work for you if you’re good with a hammer.”

            “As long as you don’t expect the work to be fancy. I’m not a carpenter.”

            “See you tomorrow morning. Jackson Park. Japanese Tea House.”

            Duffy hung up his phone. I stood with the phone still in my hand.

“Isn’t that something,” I said to Sheila. “I never would have had this job if Imogene and Ellen hadn’t insisted we get a telephone.

“Their gift to us,” said Sheila. “Of course, some benefits for them too.”

“That’s why they ponied up for the monthly payment.”

I saw Sheila watch the black thing as if waiting for a call. Into our home came a Bakelite base and handset. The base had a rotary spinning dial for putting in a number and the handset had an earpiece and a mouthpiece. Sheila delighted in calling her grandchildren every Saturday.

Paulie learned the ring almost immediately and at least once a day sent us scurrying to answer the damned phone. I swear Paulie cackled his joy at fooling us.

            I was grateful for Duffy’s call. He supervised the upkeep of Jackson Park. What holes to dig for plants. What needed cutting. I was skilled with a shovel, a pickaxe for roots, and in pushing a lawn mower. Before this, he had never asked me to use a hammer.

Duffy was a six-footer and chomped on a cigar most days even if it wasn’t lit. Probably in his sixties and with a gut belly. One of those guys with a ready slur or insult but a tear for seeing a baby smile.

After the attack on Pearl Harbor, I was uneasy with what work needed to be done. Bash the fragile walls of the Tea House? Tempers were high. Plenty of folks angry. But destroying the tea house didn’t sit well with me.

The tea house had been a gift from Japan to the city of Chicago. I wasn’t around to know of the World’s Columbian Exposition in 1893, but I’m told it was something. When the Century of Progress came about in 1933, a Japanese tea house was added to the garden as part of their pavilion. Ladies dressed up in Japanese clothing served tea. Some Sundays after the World’s Fair when weather was warm, Sheila would pack sandwiches, and we’d take the streetcar to Jackson Park and walk through the Japanese Garden. I liked both the quiet and the crunch of gravel paths.

Sheila commented on the beauty. “It’s groomed like a lady. Everything in place.”

Must admit the place was spiffy.

Sheila loved Wooded Island from the first summer she saw it.

“Trillium!” she’d say with glee. “A handsome plant. Look at those three petals of white.”

Told me to inhale the scent. I’d nod in agreement with her, but in truth, I smelled coal dust.

We usually stopped on a small hill of grass where we watched the comings and goings of the Tea House folk and ate our lunch. Sometimes just buttered bread. Other times Sheila’s sandwiches held razor-thin slices of radishes with sections of an orange. Sheila liked to pretend we belonged. More likely, we were wandering souls.

Most visits hurt my heart. Sheila spoke her imaginings of having a Tea House chicken or ham sandwich along with a pot of their special brewed tea. Tea alone cost forty cents. In the 1930s when my work was spotty, either we had streetcar fare or money for tea. Work picked up with war talk.

            I met Duffy at the bridge near the newly set barricades blocking the path.

            “We’re waiting for two more. Think you know Stosh, and Mick. We’re waiting on two Poles.”

            I had worked with the two other men before. Only knew them by nicknames. Stosh from eastern Europe. Mick, Irish.

“What’s the job?” I asked. Duffy’s face kept stern.

            “Boarding the house up.”

            “Why aren’t we taking the house down?” asked Stosh.

            “Orders from above,” said Duffy.

            A truck pulled toward the bridge and the three of us workers moved the barriers. The truck was loaded with wood.

            “See this wood?” asked Duffy. “You men are boarding up every door, wall, and window that someone might try to climb through. We don’t want some idiot setting a fire and burning himself up. Got it? Tempers are high. Japs got hurt coming, but some folks want to choose the pain they get.”

            Germans and Italians from crews I had been in were excluded from this job. No Japanese either. Since I had started work for the park district, I only mentioned my English ties. Kept mum on a few German cousins living in West Virginia. According to the radio, once European countries declared this war, Germany and Italy seemed ripe for a declaration of being enemy aliens even if born here. They carried special identification cards. With the United States’ declaration of war, Japan joined the list for raids upon their homes. Authorities gathered up cameras, flashlights, maps, and radios. I heard coastal folk lost their boats. Word had it many Japanese and Italians were being relocated to camps.

            We spent our day hammering boards into place with little talk. The delicate beauty of the tea house came to resemble a badly built shack.

            As we walked back to the streetcar transportation to home, Stosh asked, “Anybody go through Hyde Park to get here?”

            Poles shook their heads and answered, “We’re Northside.”

            Mick shook his head. “Not me.”

 I said I passed through Washington Park to the west.

            “I go past 55^th Street—the University of Chicago. Hyde Park,” said Stosh. “Didn’t see any Japanese. They got quite the population but not one of them on the street.”

            “We’re at war,” said Mick. “You hide when you’re the enemy.”

            “Could they have been picked up already?” asked Stosh.

            We separated after that. I felt Duffy was right. A powerful knocking down was coming . . . even for the innocent.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 74: Dorothy

It was no surprise to me that the Army and Navy rejected Darby as a recruit. He had been sickly as a child, and he never developed shoulders like Karl or Jonas. When our former doctor listened to his heart, he identified bad heart valves. He predicted Darby’s death would come before he turned thirty.

“Blood’s leaking back into his heart. Don’t let your son play. Maybe keep him home from school. Nothing strenuous for this young fella.”

But as a boy with two active brothers, Darby played ball until he turned pale and couldn’t breathe. He tried to make up for his inability with chatter. In Englewood, that was not being smart. That’s when I sent him to my sister Hazel.

            He returned from the recruitment office carrying deep disappointment.

            “They don’t want me,” he said. “I told them I want to do my part. Told them I don’t care if I collapse on the battlefield. They saw me as an impediment to the fighting other soldiers had to do. I told them I’d do any kind of work. Cook, hospital, type reports—but they wouldn’t consider me.”

            A man looks thinner when he’s told he’s not good enough. Friends and cousins would be off to war. Darby left behind. My uncles and granduncles recalled horrendous moments of the Civil War when they served. The point of their stories was never the horror; it was of the thankfulness of having done their part. I understood that my son would now be safe, but he’d lose that confidence of being a strong man.

            “Jonas said the military is looking for men who can work together like a machine,” I said. “You’re certainly not the only man to be turned down because of your health.”

            “No, I wasn’t. At least it wasn’t because of my teeth.” He gave a sad grin.

            “Teeth?”

            “A soldier needs twelve teeth to be in service. Both uppers and lowers. Some of those teeth need to meet so a guy can bite and chew.”

            “Teeth?” I repeated. “Do they see you biting the enemy?”

            Darby smiled as if my comment were funny.

            “A guy needs to be able to chew the hardtack biscuits in C rations. No hot meals in the field, Mother. Some guys with fifteen teeth or more were told they’d receive dental work. But twelve teeth were the standard. A guy with fewer teeth would be in danger of starving. If it weren’t for my heart—”

            Karl and Darby took after my side of the family with teeth that decayed early in life. Jonas took after Harvey’s side. The Navy had accepted him even before the war. His teeth were beautiful although it didn’t matter since he trained pilots for the Great Lakes Naval base.

            Maybe my son Frankie would receive an exception because he was married with children. But it was good to hear from Darby about teeth disqualifying a recruit. As I recall, Frankie had rotten teeth as a boy.

            “I tried, Mother.” Darby’s chin dropped. “I asked one officer if I can’t fight, can I be a guard at a prisoner-of-war site. Maybe they’ll need to open Camp Grant in Rockford like they did in the Great War. I can swing a billy club—I know I can.”

            “What did the officer say?”

            “A guard at a camp still has to be in the service. Guess I gotta find a different way to serve.”

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 75: Una

            “Surely, Vlad’s too old to enlist,” said Mother.

            “Men in their forties are enlisting, even movie stars. Besides he told his children that as a farm boy, he won ribbons at the county fair for target shooting. He believes the Army will take him as a sniper. Fiona would be proud.”

            We sipped tea, and I asked Mother to sit in the comfy chairs in the front room.

            “You know, I still say front room as if we still lived in Englewood. Most people here call this room a parlor.”

            “Parlors are for company,” said mother with a sternness. “I’m family. I’ll stay right here at the kitchen table.”

            “Will your Hemming be called up for service?”

            “No, he’s needed at the meat packing company in the shipping department. He’ll be responsible for shipping food to soldiers. Kinda like Dad’s coal mining experience being needed during the last war.”

            “At least your husband is safe.”

            “I’m asking you and Dad to tuck something into the back of your mind,” I said. “The children are getting older. So am I. I don’t like you traveling on the train a couple times a week, not with the country at war, but I could use help.” I paused and took a breath. “Dad could retire and both of you could move to the country. He’d have plenty of space for a big garden he’s always wanted, and all of us may need to grow more of our own food.”

“Nothing wrong with taking the train,” said Mother. “Besides, with work plentiful, you won’t get your father to retire. Not during war.”

            Mother had a way of hunching her shoulders that signaled my proposal was only a dream “not meant for the likes of us.”

            “What of Imogene?” asked Mother. “She’s finally settled into Englewood. Ellen is talking about enlisting.” Mother sat back on the kitchen chair with a quizzical grin on her face. “Karl is too old to draft. Jonas works for the Navy teaching flying. Darby has been rejected because of his heart, and Frankie has a brood of children in Wisconsin. Wouldn’t it be something if the only one to come home in a uniform is our Ellen.”

            “They’d make her cut her hair,” I said with a wicked grin. “Wait until she hears that. She’ll probably choose hair over country. How’s Ellen really doing?”

            “I don’t know.” Mother hung her head. “Stockings are disappearing, so please don’t tease the girls about not having proper covering for their legs. Ellen bought leg makeup and pencils to pretend she still had stockings. Imogene is wearing ankle socks. No one at the Fed seems to mind.”

            Mother smiled with sadness. “You know what Imogene is doing with her stocking money? “

I shook my head.

“She’s started a savings account at Chicago City Bank on Sixty-third and Halsted. She wants emergency money—in case. I think she’s saving for a house in the country.”

“There’s hope. Someday you’ll all move.”

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 76: Eleanor

In January of 1942, rationing officially began. Newspapers warned us to keep track of serial numbers on tires because thieves would soon find them valuable. By February new automobiles became scarce because the car makers switched to producing jeeps, ambulances, and tanks. In May rationing fell on gasoline. Bicycles, also limited. Sugar too.

In the first few days of June 1942, newspapers buzzed with stories from the Battle of Midway. The Navy knew of the coming attack and were ready. Headlines read the Japanese received a “Knockout blow.” “Japanese at Midway Smashed” “US Fleet Avenges Pearl Harbor.” News articles called Midway a “Resounding Victory,” and “Japanese Carriers on the Ropes.”

Later in the month, the story of Ensign George Gay appeared in the papers. His plane had been shot down, and he drifted for twenty-four hours at sea. His view of the battle was excellent, and I read excitement in his first-hand account. During the battle, the Japanese lost 3000 soldiers, well over two hundred aircraft, and three aircraft carriers. Our losses came out more slowly. The important point? We won.

With the victory of Midway, more young men I knew signed up for service.

I wanted to do my part for the war. But no sense in asking the American, Tribune, or Southtown Economist to send me to the Pacific. I was still too naïve about how an obit writer or local story writer received their war assignments. I certainly couldn’t see exploring the ocean on my own dime. How could I afford it? In Europe, the blitz of London seemed to have stopped. So what assignment could I request with my limited local experience?

“Eleanor, you’re twenty-two,” said the editor.

I wanted to remind him boys as young as eighteen were dying in battles.

“You’re a female. Much too costly to send a girl to Europe.  The Pacific would cost a fortune. You’d need a translator. Besides, what would you wear?”

I glanced at my chunky heels. I’d need boots.

This was a losing battle. I mentioned Jane Meyer at the Chicago Herald American and Helen Kirkpatrick at the Chicago Daily News, but the editor waved me off with a snicker.

“You’re no Kirkpatrick or Meyer.”

It took a few days to gather my thoughts. I went back with a proposal. I explained my idea of writing an article about the graduates of Englewood High School who were enlisting, and the assignment editor liked it. Wowie! I knew plenty of boys from Englewood who stepped up and enlisted. I heard some of the girls did too. My part in the war effort? To write and acknowledge these classmates.

“Miss Wisdom, remember me?”

Miss Wisdom seemed more fragile at her age. Her brown skin tone like coffee with good thick cream from the top of the bottle. Dare to call her colored and she still delivered a sharp retort. She taught her classes to call her Black. Black from a hard history. Black because it was what the United States census demanded. Black because so many people only knew two colors.

            “Do I remember you? My dear girl. Please come in. Very good to see you. How long has it been since we had tea together? How’s your friend Ellen?”

            “She’s fine. Are you still teaching?”

            “I am. Probably until the end of this war. They seem to need me.”

            Standing in Miss Wisdom’s front room, I was my eleven-year-old self in sixth grade again, and every bit of me grinned. I took her hand in both of mine before I hugged her. I blurted out my assignment from the newspaper.

            I opened my notebook. “You’re the only one I know who keeps track of former students.” She shyly made a tsking sound.

“More likely they keep track of me,” she said as she motioned for me to sit, “but I do like to know about my children during these frightening times.”

            Miss Wisdom had never married. I guessed she was older than my mother, but she shared stories with students as if we were friends. I once overheard her tell Mrs. Quick of her visit to her White father in Hyde Park. For their once-a-year Christmas visit, he gave her an apple and an orange. I wondered how I’d feel in her situation.

            “Well, let me think. Remember Emmett Ingram? He sent me a note,” Miss Wisdom said. “He signed up and is now in the infantry. 96^th I believe. He’s hoping to go to Hawaii to help rebuild the base.   Clifford Kyle is looking to be a flyer. I read in a newspaper that Glecena May is now a nurse and is considering the Woman’s Army Corp. Did you know she took flying lessons? Where does that girl find time?”

            “She was a powerhouse in the Girls Athletic Association. So much energy, and smart.”

            “Of course, you know about Ding Yee.”

            I nodded. “Navy training at Great Lakes. It’s probably a welcome change from his parents’ laundry.”

            “Thor Youngberg enlisted.” Said Miss Wisdom. “Nice young man.”

I rapidly jotted down their names.

            “Danny Ruglio came to see me when he was hired as an elevator operator. He told me Tony Miritello is now a baker and makes a crunchy Italian bread. I worry about them both because of being Italian. Life is going to be difficult with the declaration of war with Italy. They both plan to enlist. I hope people will go easy on their families.”

            “At least we aren’t on either coast,” I said. “Frankie Quick wrote to a neighbor that the parents of Joe DiMaggio had their fishing boats seized when they were required to register in San Francisco as enemy aliens. DiMaggio is a baseball player. Frankie said a really good one. Famous.”

            Miss Wisdom sipped her tea. “I wish our Black young men would go into the Army and not the Navy.” Her voice carried some whimsy. “No Black officers in the Navy. Not yet.” She bit down on her lips.

“Why not?” I asked.

“I suppose the practical explanation is space. Very limited space on a ship. From what I understand, the Navy’s decision might have to do with sleeping arrangements. Officers have their own quarters. Would it be fair for a Black officer to have better conditions than a White enlisted man?” Her eyes held fire. “Change doesn’t come easily.”

I noticed Miss Wisdom’s sadness in the hollows of her cheeks before she changed the subject.

            “William Kitchen enlisted.” Her voice was more positive. “I remember his dream of selling newspapers from his own newsstand. You know he worked for the Tribune?” I nodded. “Have you heard anything about Doris Evans? Is she studying to become a librarian? Is Paul Foster a postman?”

            I didn’t know. But the story I had hoped to shape had taken a turn. All these students I knew were leaving their lives. All of us children who struggled with scarcity through the Depression were becoming young adults in war and showing up. Did Louis become a chauffeur? Did David become a porter? If so, those goals had changed with the bombing of Pearl Harbor. What happened to the girls who wanted their own beauty shop?

            Once Miss Wisdom helped me fill pages of my notebook with more memories and dreams, I set off to see Ellen. She may not always remember, but I still wanted her as my best friend. I wanted to tell her about my assignment and our school friends.

At 5:30 I arrived too early at the Harkleroad flat on 59^th Street. I knew Ellen wouldn’t be home  yet because she took the elevated train after working at the Federal Reserve Bank. Sometimes the station was crowded, and she had to wait for the next train. But being early was nice because it gave me time to reminisce with Sheila.

I called to Paulie as I walked into the flat. “What do you know, bird?”

The parrot’s neck twisted in my direction and imitated the sound of rain hitting the window followed by a horse whinny.

            “Listening to radio sound effects again?” I asked.

“These days the horse is his favorite,” said Sheila as she washed her hands and dried them on a towel. “The Lone Ranger.”

As Sheila poured tea, Paulie blurted, “The Lo-one Rang-er.”

“Occasionally he goes back to announcing Milk Man.” She brought me a cup of tea, sweetened the way I liked it with honey and with two tablespoons of milk. “Ellen and Imogene should be here shortly.”

“Don’t bite,” said Paulie. “Tickle-tickle. Tickle Paulie.”

            Sheila stuck her finger through the bars of his cage and scratched the back of the parrot’s head. “Good Paulie. Good bird.”

            That sent him on a rant. “She-la, good bird. Paul-ie, good bird.”

            Sheila stood for a moment in silence. “I still expect Fiona to walk through the door and say, ‘Ring-a-ding.’”

            I too missed Fiona, her red hair, her sparkling eyes. I wished I could tell her about my assignment.

During the Blitz of London, the Germans dropped bombs on the city to break morale. I’d have thought people would leave the city. They did briefly, but it was mostly to relocate their children. If Fiona were still with us, she’d remind me of entertainers who entered London. Entertainers like Glenn Miller and his band. As air-raid sirens wailed, his band played anyway. Fiona loved Glenn Miller, and so did I.

            In Fiona’s memory, I saved newspaper articles about movie stars. David Niven went back to help defend the country where he was born. Once we declared war, I cut out the article announcing Jimmy Stewart joined the Army Air Corp. Both of his grandfathers had fought in the Civil War.

            Fiona would have rattled off all of Hollywood’s contributions to the war. But she was gone. With her went childlike joy. Moments of happiness made me feel guilty.

            When Imogene walked in, Ellen wasn’t with her.

“I don’t know where she is, Eleanor. Maybe she’s catching the next train and maybe not.”

I saw Sheila preparing a fresh pot of tea. I left and walked home in a mood.

Usually when my mother sewed an alteration project, she liked quiet, but when I asked, she allowed me to play a recording of Benny Goodman’s band. Sing, Sing, Sing.

            Funny thing about the song, nobody sings. It’s trumpets, clarinets, and those wonderful drums. I didn’t want to dance, maybe just hop around the room a bit to get rid of jitters. My heart kept time with the pounding drums as I mentally listed classmates headed to war.        

            The article I intended to publish would have had fearless humor of graduates ready to scalp or side-track the enemy’s plan. Classmates would have bravado like Ensign George Gay.

“He floated in the waters around Midway after being shot down,” I said to Mother.

Mother replied, “Good for him. Hope he knocked a few of ‘em out.”

But as I restlessly hopped to music, the article that took shape filled with words of heart-pumping patriotism and courage, bravery and sacrifice. Definitely sacrifice. In talking to Miss Wisdom, our childhood slipped into the past. People I knew were leaving dreams behind.

            I turned off Benny Goodman.

            “About time,” said Mother. Her feet kept a rhythmic pressure on the treadle.

Funny about how things go. Even after Pearl Harbor, Wake Island, and Midway, I didn’t quite believe the headlines of “Resounding Victory,” “Fleeing Japanese Armada,” “Pacific Fleet on Heels.” Details jammed together like a complicated math problem. Did we win or lose? So many destroyers, out of commission. Hospital ships torpedoed and limping back to port. I hadn’t really lost anyone. But by the end of June 1942, I knew tears. The war had more than two fronts.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 77: Sam

As men enlisted, companies needed workers and weren’t too picky about who they hired. Suddenly, I had factory work offers. Women, many of them married, stepped up and got hired on the spot. Didn’t matter if they had husbands or children. They had two hands and two feet. Some learned to handle blow torches. Blacks—hired. Old men like me—hired. The language you spoke mattered less unless you were identified as an enemy-alien. Bosses welcomed folks who could meet production quotas. Determination was in the air. We suddenly mattered. Finally had some standing. Some.

            With me at two jobs and Frankie in Wisconsin with his family, I turned to Darby to help with the garden in the back yard. In the evenings and on Saturdays, he broke up the beds and prepared for seedlings. Told him my thick calloused hands wouldn’t blister. But Darby wanted to do his part. Put his chin down, never complained. In no time the lad had a proud smile as he looked at tilled soil. His hands red with welts and water blisters.

            “It’s war,” I said. “We got to provide our own food. Couldn’t buy food during the Depression, now we got rationing. These years can vex a man’s arse.”

            Darby grinned at my saying arse. Not a word he’d use in front of his mother.

I looked at his angry sores on his hands and wanted to be in the garden when he picked his first tomato.

            The mature apple tree still produced enough shade for many of us to sit when the sun’s heat made our clothing stick to our skin. The previous summer, the fruit wasn’t sweet or large but made good eatin’ in a pie or as apple butter. The asparagus I planted just after my first grandchild was born continued over the years to give all of us another spring treat. With help from Old Will, we planted more cabbage, carrots, tomatoes, turnips, beets, and beans.

            “Looks like we used all the yard,” said Darby.

            “We can sit on the back porch,” I answered. “Now roll that old barrel over near the shed.”

            “That for the strawberries?”

            “It is.”

A fellow at work promised me six plants. “Careful,” he had said. “You plant six plants you soon have sixty.”

            In those early planting days, Darby and I took turns carrying water out to help the plants thrive. I wasn’t sure about Sheila’s secret growing sauce, but she insisted the brown stuff was necessary to help plant thrive. Smelled like the dickens, but young plants took off like weeds. Stems thickened. Leaves widened. Buds popped up and fruit and vegetables grew.

            “Makes a guy think he’s doing something,” said Darby as he stood with his hands on his hips.

            I had seen his like during the Great War. Young fellas had to be convinced that coal mining had as much value as soldiering. The black tonnage we pulled out of the earth kept trucks moving, kept trains hauling equipment.

Darby with his bad ticker still hadn’t found his way to serve, but he was trying.

That evening as I sat on the stoop, smoking my pipe, I saw both boys and girls creating spit wads and playing at war. First the boys would yell, “Bombs over Tokyo,” and fire spit wads at the girls. Then the girls yelled, “Bombs away,” and fired back. They all ran up and down the streets between parked cars, laughing and yelling.

In the early days of war, Bombs over Tokyo was an experiment to take some revenge for Pearl Harbor. Mitchell bombers took off from the USS Hornet aircraft carrier, bombed sites in Japan, and landed in China. I guess we wanted to give Japan a bloody nose, and the raid did make us feel better.  Gave them a taste of what’s coming.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 78: Sheila

Darby didn’t knock but burst into our front room looking as if he might faint. It was the early afternoon in June 1942. Darby should have been at work.

            “Mrs. Harkleroad, can you please come upstairs with me? I have something to tell Mother.”

            “Certainly. Eleanor, can I ask you to mind the soup on the stove for a few minutes?”

            Eleanor put down her teacup, her eyes wide with fear. I dropped my apron onto a chair as I left our flat.

            “What is it?” I asked softly.

            “I don’t want Mother alone,” he said as he bounded up the stairs ahead of me, two at a time.

            I climbed the stairs, my mind listed possible horrors. What had the Germans or Japanese done now?  I didn’t think this new shock involved Darby. Maybe one of Dorothy’s sisters. Maybe Hazel who Dorothy had spoken of fondly. I hoped it didn’t involve one of her sons.

            We went into the Quick flat and found Dorothy reading her bible in her favorite navy-blue velvet chair. When she looked up, her eyebrows crooked with annoyance, she said rather harshly, “You’re home at this time of day? I don’t have anything prepared for dinner.”

 Darby went down on one knee before her and took her hands.

            “Mother, there has been an accident.”

            I watched tears slip down his cheeks.

            “I had a feeling,” said Dorothy. “That’s why I’m reading my bible. Who?”

            “Jonas.”

            “How bad?”

            “Bad. He took out a student pilot for his final test before certification. The plane fell from the sky into a corn field.”

            “How bad?” repeated Dorothy. Her lower lip trembled.

            “The young cadet died at the scene. Jonas was rushed to the hospital. He died within minutes of arriving. He’s gone, Mother.”

            Dorothy looked too stricken to be touched. I felt my knees weaken, and I took a chair at their dining table. Tears flooded my eyes. Dorothy repeated over and over, “Precious Lord. Precious Lord.” She didn’t cry but rocked her body back and forth as if she felt a cramp.

            “How did you hear?” she asked.

            “A man at the airport called Karl. He left work to rush to the hospital, but he had to take the South Shore train and a bus to reach the location south of Chicago. He called me at work to tell me he arrived too late. The doctor said Jonas never recovered consciousness.”

            Dorothy’s body shook as she moved like a marionette in rising from her chair. “We need to tell the church. And Mr. Mulder, the funeral director.” Her voice was flat. She looked at me. “Sheila, will you join me at Rugged Cross? I’d like to pray for my son.” I nodded and swallowed hard. Her composure was breathtaking and frightening. “Darby, go down to Sheila’s flat. Imogene will be coming home and needs to hear this from one of us, not from street gossip.”

            “Yes, ma’am. I will.”

            “Do you see my pocketbook? I can’t remember where I put it.”

            Like girls, Dorothy and I walked faces forward, elbow gripping elbow, my shoulder to her upper arm. I felt her trembling. Yet, not a tear fell to her cheeks.

            Rugged Cross was a dark, store-front church near 63^rd Street and Halsted with worn oak pews. A lectern, altar, and organ sat in the front of the room. We walked half-way up the aisle before Dorothy moved into a row for us to sit. I expected her to pray or wail with sorrow. She did neither. We were alone in the church that smelled of stale, well-used hymnals.

            “Tell me about Deidre,” Dorothy said. “Was it hard when she went away?”

            Her question was unexpected. “Not-knowing if she was safe was hard,” I said. “But my real shame is that her absence made our lives easier. Sam and I had worried she might one day kill Ellen. When Deidre was a girl, Imogene caught Deidre trying to strangle Ellen when the mite was just a baby. Luckily her hands were too small to reach around her sister’s neck. Ellen only had bruises.”

            I couldn’t imagine why the words came from my mouth. I suspect it was the intimacy of loss.

            “My boys had too many years between them for jealousy,” said Dorothy. “Karl grew to be like his father. Jonas took after my side of the family. Very much like my uncle—a happy, curious man. Darby has very few memories of his father because he was only seven when Harvey passed. Frankie two years old. At times the brothers seemed like strangers in the same house.” Dorothy’s eyes dulled. “He’s not here, is he?”

            “Who?” I asked as I looked around the room.

            “God.”

            I felt uncomfortable and scared for Dorothy. She had always been a religious woman. “Sam and I left church years ago, but if God is anywhere, I guess he must be everywhere.”

            “Hmm,” hummed Dorothy. “Did I ever tell you that Harvey and I were Methodists? I was once a Sunday School teacher with a room of small children.”

            “No. I didn’t know.” Truthfully, I couldn’t picture it.

            Dorothy went into a long explanation of her own family’s relationship to Gospel churches when she was a girl, meetings often held in tents. When she met Harvey, many years older than she was, she switched to being a Methodist and tried her best to accept the more restrained services.

“Methodists are quiet people. I felt a fraud when I was first married and later thought God smacked me by giving me a still-born daughter between the births of Jonas and Darby. These past few years, I believe I’ve been too proud of my sons. That’s why God’s taken Jonas.”

            I didn’t know what she meant, but under the circumstances, I kept quiet and listened. I had lost two babies—sons.

            “Darby will need to call Frankie,” said Dorothy. “Thank you for sitting with me. Your Deidre chose to leave your family, and I sent Darby away to my sister when he was a young teen. You lost Fiona and now I’ve lost Jonas.”

            “This accident is not your fault,” I said.

            “Maybe not, but it’s the path I’ve chosen. My sons, too. I feel my son’s death is my punishment for being prideful. At this moment I feel like an upstart.”

            “I don’t know what you mean.” Dorothy didn’t respond, so I asked, “Why’d you send Darby away?”

            “Why . . . Karl and Jonas knew their father and had the right guidance from Harvey, but Darby grew up . . . pampered because his brothers were older and worked to put food on the table. Darby never had a concept of danger and became a chatterbox. By the time he was to enter high school, I sent him to my sister who had many children his age. He needed to learn caution.”

            I still couldn’t piece together what Dorothy said. Her son Darby needed to be cautious? Seemed to me he learned to be timid.

“I always thought Frankie was the chatterbox,” I said. “So alive. So ready to meet a challenge.”

            “Frankie learned of dangers from the streets, I guess. My two older boys decided he’d be better off if they didn’t frighten him with warnings. Maybe somethings are better not knowing.”

            “Dorothy, what are you saying?”

            “Nothing. Nothing. My grandmother used to say she was woolgathering. Aimless thoughts leading nowhere.”

            I told her how sad I was with Jonas’s death.

“Perhaps God finds it appalling to teach young men to fly for the Navy where they will kill other men?”

Once I heard my own father tell my mother that God was forgetful of the poor. Sam followed the notion we were all on our own. Could God have punished Jonas by having the plane fall from the sky? To what purpose?

            “Darby said the young man just starting out as a pilot also died,” I said. “A young man ready to go to war for our country? If this was God’s punishment of Jonas, why was the young pilot included?”

            “Both trying their best when best is not good enough.” Dorothy took a deep breath.

            A wail came from her, and she rested her forehead on her hand as she gripped the pew in front of us. I placed my hand on her back and felt jolts as she sobbed. I cried too for the loss of Fiona and Jonas. Where was the fairness of my daughter being taken from her three children? If God was intimately aware of the evils of radium, why hadn’t he stopped it? Or like Sam said, were some of us destined to stand in bread lines and hope for a crumb of God’s kindness?

I wondered where the minister could be. Surely, he’d have words of comfort, but no one came. So we sat—two old women steeped in loss.

            When Dorothy came back to herself, she said, “I want you to know I’d have welcomed Imogene as a daughter. I wasn’t against their marriage.”

            “Even if Jonas wanted to marry her,” I said, “Imogene felt time was against a marriage without children. Imogene is determined never to marry.”

            We rose from the pew and walked out to cooler air. A drizzle had started.

            “Clouds have rolled in,” said Dorothy. “Maybe God’s sorry for taking my Jonas.”

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 79: Sam, Sheila, Imogene

Sam:

Whispers in a crowd of onlookers identified the pallbearers. Jonas’s brothers held three corners of his coffin as they carried it into the church. Standard Oil sent a representative to hold the fourth corner. One young man had known Jonas through the Boy’s Club and held the left side of the box. Two others, former flying students, now in Navy dress uniforms, lined up on the right.

“Hey! Isn’t that older guy Daniel Burnham, Jr.?” said someone in the sidewalk crowd behind me.

A distinguished looking older man, the eighth carrier, stood as straight as he could. Officer Burke came up and put his hand on my shoulder.

“Ain’t that something. Daniel Burnham, Jr. The guy who planned out the Century of Progress,” said Burke overly loud. “That guy lived in Jackson Park in a shanty when he worked on the fair. Our sergeant told us we’d see something today. Got two extra men on duty just in case some hooligan gets righteous.”

I nodded but didn’t know what he meant by righteous. How many people could recognize Burnham? I was thinking not many. Or was Burke referring to something else?

“How’d he know Jonas Quick?” I asked.

“No idea,” said Burke. “But I’m guessing Pops is here in place of his younger son Spencer Burnham. His kid’s gotta be twenty-two. Heard tell the kid enlisted in March. Maybe they all met at the World’s Fair. Spencer would have been impressed by Jonas. Pilot, football player, handsome, muscular.” Said Officer Burke.

“What buzz brings four officers to a funeral?” I asked.

“Stories of hard feelings. Might need to crack heads. Don’t want anyone raising a stink.” Burke’s hand tapped his wooden nightstick and then my shoulder before he walked on.

            For a Saturday, businesses on Halsted Street had usual crowds, but on Sixty-third, groups of people stood together and watched the front of the Rugged Cross Church. A few were curious. Most who lingered on the sidewalks, however, paid their respects with hats in their hands. Jonas had coached their sons in sports and had taught many to fly. Some commented on Jonas’s voice when he joined choirs and entertained during holiday concerts. A few strangers stood with hands over their hearts. I thought of all the Englewood sons who had entered the war after Pearl Harbor and who might not return.

The fresh wound of Pearl Harbor still shaped our thoughts seven months after the attack as we watched news reels or read papers of the injuries and deaths in the Pacific. Wake Island losses stunned us. Coral Sea had just happened in May—devastating. Then early this month came Midway. Heavy losses—yet the newspapers said it was a turning point because of the number of aircraft carriers the Japanese lost.

            Mrs. Quick had entered the small store-front church hours before the service. She had asked that Jonas’s casket not be opened for viewing.

            Sheila had tried to offer comfort but said Dorothy had sobbed her loss as they sat in church that day Jonas died. The hurt mother had now stopped speaking to anyone and slipped into a grief that didn’t include tears.

            I stood outside the church with Ellen and her friend Eleanor. Imogene and Sheila were allowed to join the congregation inside the church. The pastor left the doors open so those near the doors could hear the service.

Sheila:

The oak pews in the Rugged Cross church filled up easily with our neighbors and shopkeepers. Some of the congregation stood next to the walls and in the back. Acquaintances offered their condolences to Dorothy with silent handshakes. Imogene and I wiped tears as three small children marched to the front and recited, “We’re sorry Mrs. Quick for your loss.” Dorothy nodded but stayed silent as she sat in the front pew by herself.

            Pallbearers carried in the casket. The service began with a heavyset Black woman singing “Precious Lord.” Her deep voice gave me chills. Just over my shoulder, Old Will, tall and very thin, teetered in a back corner. I wished someone would offer him a seat in a pew, but I knew he wouldn’t accept my seat, not from a white woman. The congregation accepted Miss Wisdom sitting directly behind Dorothy, her good friend. Everyone respected the schoolteacher, mostly because of fear of her father.

            Representatives from the Navy marched to a side wall and stood at attention for the service.

Sam:

Outside a large group of boys stood at the corner across the street from the storefront church. Each in a clean shirt and a tie. Most of them with their hands in their pockets. A few parents stood behind. I took these boys to be representatives from the Boys Club where Jonas volunteered. Clusters of strangers pulled together and spoke softly. Five Black children and a mother stood back and watched the church door.

All the major newspapers in Chicago had carried Jonas’s obituary. Eleanor showed me the featured story that had been published. Made Jonas sound like a saint. Because of his skills, Standard Oil had loaned him to the flying school in Lansing, Illinois, to help prepare young cadets for additional pilot training at Great Lakes.

A heavy, older White man with the tail of his shirt hanging out held a stack of newspapers including The Chicago Defender. He wove through the crowd, selling papers. A second scrawny ruffian followed, insisting people read a thin paper.

“You want the truth? Gotta read this one,” said the smaller, weaselly man. He held one paper, tapped it with a dirty fingernail and snarled. “They both got what they deserved.”

            Ellen bought one paper. I another. Perhaps Dorothy would want to keep copies as homage to Jonas. But something was off with these two as they folded papers and tucked them under buyers’ arms. 

The Defender, a respected Black publication embraced the bravery of the young cadet Jonas trained. The article saluted Theo who gave up college for a chance to fly for the Navy. He had been ready to do his duty for the country. The other flimsy newspaper, however, questioned whether this young pilot was Black or White. The last paragraph of that paper’s article identified the man’s father as German and his mother as mulatto. In an overly loud voice, the seller of papers shouted, “Serves them both right. Blacks and Whites shouldn’t mix. Always been the Navy’s creed. No need for Tuskegee neither.”

I saw the Black family pull together and hustle away from Halsted Street.

Our armed services needed flyers. Tuskegee tried to fill the void by training Blacks to be pilots.

            Four cops swarmed in. With one hand, a cop grabbed the seller’s elbow from behind and escorted the big mouth away with his club pressed heavily into the guy’s ribs. Another officer corralled the weasel and pushed him away from 63^rd.

War fury toward enemies had caused many to attack Japanese and German families in America. Italians too. West Coast Japanese were sent to internment camps. So were Italians in San Francisco, New York, and Philly. According to newspapers as early as 1939, J. Edgar Hoover had kept particulars on Germans, Italians and Japanese families. Folks with union activity? Watched. Folks who read newspapers written in their family language? On the F.B.I. list. These enemy aliens could be subjected to curfews and have their property seized.

But the term mulatto set off different, older, hardened anger. Anger fueled by the one drop rule. You got a drop of Black blood? You Black.

Officer Burke came to my side. “Hope that’s the last of it. My brother-in-law works for City Hall.  Tells me the Navy is considering coloreds as pilots. Suppose that means officers. A lot of ruckus if that happens. White guys saluting Blacks? Navy gonna take some heat. But promises are being made to keep their numbers low. You know how it is.” Burke gave a smirk. “A lot of them will wash out. Navy will see to it.”

I took many blows in rallies for miners to have a union, to have a say in how we got paid, how many hours we worked flat on our backs in heat that thickened the air to feel like mud. I knew what it meant to have standing—or not.

Here we were at war, and our country needed soldiers and pilots, yet having Blacks mix in units with Whites triggered hot tempers in many White communities. Our boys—milkmen, porters, mailmen, green grocers, plumbers, farmers—took on the threat of this war. Risked their lives. Yet Blacks who wanted to serve were rejected because they might have to sleep on the ground or bunk next to Whites? Some Blacks could be robbed of being a gunner in this man’s army? I guess being an officer was out of the question.

“You see Miss Wisdom go into the chapel?” asked Burke.

“I did.”

“See that anvil jaw of hers?” He raised his eyebrows.

“She looks remarkably stern,” I said.

“Does that. Take it from me, she looks just like her daddy. No mistake about it. I don’t have to worry some nuisance will tangle with her today. Not with her old man. He lives in a big house in Hyde Park. He has weight. Has say. Folks tell he never wants to see her but protects her like a beast.”

“Glad to hear it,” I said. “She’s been good to my youngest girl.”

I nodded my head toward Ellen and Eleanor who stood several feet away.

Burke smiled at the young women as he passed. “You take care young ladies,” he said, and he walked toward another cluster of the curious.

Imogene:

Mother and I sat through the service. The whole time she squeezed my hand. After the casket was brought in, Mrs. Quick’s sons joined her in the front pew. She barely moved her head but sat straight forward through shared memories, hymns, and the sermon. The minister emptied the church by asking the guests to leave so the family could have a moment alone with Jonas.

            Outside, one of the nicely dressed young men I saw in the church asked if Mother and I could join the family graveside, and he pointed to a car for our transportation. Mother crossed the street and told Dad. The crowd was in a jumble as some guests were escorted to cars for the long drive to the White cemetery southwest of Chicago in Blue Island. Jonas was to be buried next to his father.

At the cemetery, a few chairs allowed Mrs. Quick and her three sons to sit for prayers. Mother and I stood well behind her alongside Miss Wisdom. The Navy played “Taps,” and a three-rifle volley gun salute followed. A uniformed man presented Mrs. Quick with a folded flag.

As we slowly walked back to the cars, I heard Karl whisper to Dorothy, “They played ‘Taps’ and  gun salute. Rare for an employee. We’re going to be okay.”

            Then Mother and I rode home quite numb. Was this how life ended?

            Mother and I went into our flat, and Dad put his arms around me. He said he was so sorry. I told him that Jonas and I were friends—nothing more. Dad stumbled through his dream that Jonas and I would marry one day. I reminded him that I could never have children and never intended to marry. But I knew both Jonas and Karl had promised to support their mother and that drove their decisions not to marry. Jonas had told me his dreams, and those I would keep in my heart.

            Dad hung his head. “I’m sorry my girl.”

I felt lost.

“The Navy showed respect,” said Dad. “Shows Jonas is a Navy man.”

“Did you know Karl was Coast Guard in the Great War?” I asked.

“Never knew,” said Dad. His chin lowered. “Ellen and I learned something today. A trashy newspaper said the young cadet is part Black.”

“Meaning?” I asked.

“White man taught partial Black man to fly. We’ll all need to be a little careful. Neighbors might be riled.”

I felt my own anger rise. I first believed something had been wrong with the plane. Now people claimed the young cadet was Black? How dare they? Sometimes I hated people. How was Mrs. Quick to move on after losing her favorite son? How was I to move on without my dear friend Jonas?

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 80:  Frankie

I couldn’t stand being cooped up in Mother’s flat. She wanted all the windows closed even though June was hotter than blazes, and we could have used a breeze. Any breeze.

Darby wanted to play records of hymns Mother loved, but she soundly told him she wanted silence as she went to her bedroom and closed the door. Darby pulled out our family album and flipped through pages, looking at Mother’s photographs of when Karl and Jonas were kids, looking at pictures of our father with his arms around his two older sons. Another album had a few pictures of Darby as a young boy and me years later as a baby. Black empty pages followed as if Mother had lost time and interest in capturing the antics of us younger boys. All pictures stopped after Father passed.

            Karl paced the flat. None of us knew what to do after the burial of Jonas. Mother had refused the comfort of food sent by neighbors. Always one to be hungry, I went into the kitchen and made a cheese sandwich. As I swallowed my last bite, Karl pulled out the keys to Jonas’s Hudson.

            “Cars need to be driven,” he said. “Why not take a spin and get out of here for a while? Jonas wanted you to have the car since you’re a father.”

            I felt funny taking the keys. By rights, as the oldest, Karl should have taken possession of the car, but I also understood. Karl traveled by El train to work and streetcar to see his lady in South Shore. None of us had met her, so I guessed they were unlikely to marry. I couldn’t see Darby getting married either because Mother had him in her grip. I guess the Hudson was mine.

            I left the flat with keys in hand and went downstairs to talk to Sam.

            “Dad,” I said. “You want to show me your gardens in Jackson Park? I got the Hudson outside, and I need fresh air before I get back to Wisconsin.”

            Sam silently nodded and got his cap. I saw him tuck his pipe into his pocket. It made me smile. He too was under Mother’s spell of no: No smoking in the flat, no drinking, no loud radio music. Her only exception had been Paulie, the loud parrot who entertained us by mimicking her laugh.

            When I first met Sam in 1930, I was twelve and thought him very old. He was bald and had no teeth, but despite his lips disappearing into his mouth, he was muscular. Back then I believed him capable of lifting a car all by himself. When I was twelve, he and I were the same height. Twelve years later, he stood as tall as my shoulder. His blue eyes still twinkle. I imagined his joy in grandchildren, a smoke on the stoop, and big bands. I knew he loved the flowers in Jackson Park because he referred to them as “my gardens.” I still thought of him as my dad.

            “Tulips I planted last year are done now, but we got plenty of others in bloom,” he said. “I want to express my condolences to your family. Jonas was an fine man.”

            “Jonas was the best of us,” I said.

            “How’s that girl you married?” he asked as I parked the Hudson on Stony Island Avenue near the park.

            I married in 1937 when I wasn’t yet twenty. Betty was a grand girl at sixteen and excited to take me on with all my plans. I wanted to be an electrician, but my commitment got delayed when Betty became pregnant with our first. My handyman status put bread on our table. I figured when little Chloe was older, I would go back to electrician training. But Betty became pregnant again.

            “Dad, remember when I told you I got married?”

            “I do. Never understood why your mother was so dead set against any of you boys marrying.”

            “Me neither. That’s why Betty and I kept the ceremony small. So small I never told Mother or my brothers. It never occurred to me they wanted to attend. I figured they’d try to stop me.”

We walked paths and on the grass of the park, and Sam pointed out his bluejays and cardinals. Smoke from his pipe drifted skyward. A cool breeze from Lake Michigan brought the scent of flowers.

“You’re smelling white peonies,” said Sam.

When we saw the Museum of Science and Industry, Sam stood a little taller as he reminded me of his experience teaching about coal mines.

            “It’s not a real coal mine, only pretend,” he said, “but I like to think I put museum folk on the right path for showing what heavy work is. I spent two years talking once a week to little ones about coal. Got paid too.”

            He told me again about meeting Sally Rand, the fan dancer. Despite him being dressed in work duds, she arranged a ride home for him in a Packard. The driver? A Pinkerton man with cauliflower ears. Sam thought it was a good joke to be in a car with a Pinkerton.

            “She wasn’t what the newspapers said. I don’t believe she ever appeared naked. Well, maybe a few years later. You know, she wanted to be a ballet dancer, but she couldn’t catch a break. Like all of us. You make do. The Crash broke many a man and woman, but not Miss Sally Rand. She was kind to everybody who tried to make it in this world.”

            Unlike some, Sam stood by his family through the downturn—and by me as a kid. Many fathers left to search for work.  Sam took on the storm of poverty and endured, knowing there would be no payoff—just survival. That’s what made my decision hard to explain, but it was time to fess up.

            “Dad, I’m not keeping the Hudson,” I said.

            “Why not? Seems you have a perfect right to it. I recall, you couldn’t wait for Jonas to buy one.”

            “It should go to Karl. Besides, for the next few years, I won’t need it. I’m planning to enlist when I head back home.” With a puzzled look on his face, Sam stopped walking. “I’ve been thinking about it since Pearl Harbor. Now with Jonas gone, I need to do my bit. I’m the only one left to fight for our family. Karl’s in his forties. Jonas gone. Darby has a leaky pump.” I hit my chest with my fist so he’d know what I meant.

            “But you have children,” said Sam. “No one will fault you for not fighting.”

            “Got another one on the way,” I said and felt myself grinning. “Our third.”

            “I believe in men serving, but not in your case. You don’t have to,” said Sam.

            “No, it’s got to be me. All these years, Dad, I’ve felt left out of my family. I got no memory of my father because he died too soon. Then Darby was sent away. I was still a little kid. Karl and Jonas used to have serious conversations and kept careful watch that I wasn’t included. Now, Mother reads newspaper stories and is terrified someone will set fire to the building and Reese will kick her out. All because Jonas was training a man who had a Black mother.”

            “From what I read, she was half-Black,” said Sam.

            “According to Mother, it doesn’t matter to Englewood. Half-Black, quarter Black, still Black. Maybe if the street sees a Blue Star in the window, they’ll know I’ve enlisted. Ya think it will keep Mother safe?”

            Sam nodded and touched my shoulder. “Don’t you worry. I’ll keep an eye on your mother.”  

            I shook my head, grateful that Sam would try his best, but if someone attacked her on the street or threw gasoline at the two-flat, what can a man like Sam really do?

            We walked in silence until Sam said, “You know, over time, I believe I’ve cut every blade of grass in this park.” His eyes were confident, like a man with a plan.

“Well today it feels like we’ve covered most of the park,” I said. 

Memories of my brother collected behind my eyes. I pictured him in Jackson Park arranging a softball game at the church picnic.

            We passed the Japanese Teahouse, now heavily damaged in retaliation for Pearl Harbor. As we circled back to the car, we stopped to see the Golden Lady. A golden bronze statue officially named The Republic. When I was a boy, I thought it was the Statue of Liberty because a plaque says Liberty. Mother corrected me. “First, it’s not real gold. Second, it’s a duplicate from the first world’s fair—not as big but there you have it.”

I don’t know why it meant more to me at that moment. Thoughts kept crashing together of leaving Betty at home pregnant with two young children, my mother terrified of being murdered in her bed, and me being selfish in thinking duty could soothe hate. Would a blue star in the window of serving be enough to protect Mother?

            Sam had a hitch in his step by then. I thanked him for being a friend and mentor to me. He nodded the same uncomfortable way he always had when accepting compliments.

            Surprised at the distance we covered, I took his arm and helped him back to the Hudson. I tried to guess how old Sam was but just couldn’t ask him. Somewhere in his sixties, I guess. Tomorrow, back to Wisconsin to tell Betty I’d have to enlist. She’d understand. Her mother and maybe mine would be there to help with the children.

            “You gonna teach your wife to drive the Hudson? Might need it, you being gone.””

“It’s a thought. It will be hard for Betty, but she’s a champ. Can’t help feeling my role as an expectant father doesn’t seem so important. Not when we’re at war.”

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 81: Sam

Mr. Finny, the greengrocer, called me as I made my trek home after work. He looked up and down Halsted Street and crooked his finger.

            “Got something to tell you.”

            Once again, he checked the street for eyes and ears. One lady scurried down the street. I guessed she was late in preparing dinner.  I leaned toward Finny and admired his tomatoes, also looking over my shoulder.

            In an overly loud voice, Mr. Finny said, “Just came in this morning. Mighty fresh.” With lips that barely moved, he added, “Tell your missus to be careful. She walked by earlier today and a couple of young ruffians followed her. I kept my eye on her until she went into the butcher’s shop. Hoodlums moved on, but they were laughing.”

            “What made you suspicious?” I asked.

            “Two had baseball bats. One walked a half step in front of the others. Carried his bat, choking up the neck, underhanded. Like it’d be quick to grab with both hands and swing. Know what I mean?”

            “I do. Know who they are?”

            “Marvin and Leon. Don’t know last names. I gotta watch them around the fruit. Not that they eat it. Like to smash it.”

            “You think them following my wife got anything to do with the Quick family?” I asked.

            “I’d say everything.” The tension in his face closed, and he spoke loudly again. “Buy one of these tomatoes for your wife.”

            I rooted in my pocket for coins and slipped a couple into his hand. “Appreciate it,” I said.

            He winked and nodded. I hurried home.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 82: Darby

“You got a couple minutes?” I asked Sam.

            It was an overcast day. One of those days when clouds build into skyscrapers and threaten heavy rain. The wind picked up. Leftover grit from last winter’s use of cinders on icy roads still blew freely. Sam and I closed our eyes and dusted off our shirts. Since the funeral, Sam had taken up a guard post by sitting on the front stoop before and after supper. He filled two kerosene lamps and lit one of them. With the sun still up in the sky, we didn’t need the lamp light. Next to him stood his coal shovel with a shiny edge. One of his eyebrows seemed raised with determination.

            “Mind if I smoke?” asked Sam. He held a lit cigarette with his thumb and forefinger. I got the impression he was ready to pitch it.

            I shook my head and joined him on the stoop.

            Sam’s eyes never rested. He took in the houses across the street. The Canadian plasterer, the Russian newsstand guy, the Hungarian janitor, Italian sheet metal worker, Polish pipefitter, Swedish barber, and the dark family who kept to themselves and identified their dad as a laborer. Unlike Marquette Park or Beverly, Englewood was a hodgepodge of nationalities.

            Three young men—probably close to enlistment age—looked hard at us as they slowly walked east on 59^th. It gave me a chill. They were strangers. I guessed their walk had purpose. Sam’s chin lowered. Eyes glared.

            “Evening,” said Sam.

            The dull-looking, muscular one smirked and glanced at the other two as if for directions. He cracked his knuckles.

            “You live here?” asked the tall kid with freckles who carried a baseball bat low in his right hand.

            “We do. You like a smoke?” Sam held out his pack of Camels.

            None of them answered, but the skinny, short guy, also with a bat, pushed forward, and seemed to be in charge. “Why do you have a kerosene lamp lit? It’s still daytime.”

            “May need to light another cigarette. Outta matches. You got any extras?” asked Sam.

            Short guy’s lip curled. His eyes narrowed. “Might need them later.”

            “What’s your shovel doing on your stoop?” asked the thick, burly one.  “We don’t got snow. You diggin’ something?”

            “It’s a coal shovel,” said Sam. “Not a spade. I worked in mines.” He flexed his hands, muscular and calloused. “If a fella doesn’t have a gun, no better weapon than a shovel. Gives a guy reach. A bat does too but a shovel has a sharp edge. Good upper cut always wins the day. In a miners’ fight with the Pinkertons, I once saw a goon lose his hand. Howled like a devil.”

The in-charge kid scowled. “Can I see your shovel?”

            “Never let a man touch your weapon. Know what I mean? Might need it later,” said Sam. “Gets dark and varmints come out. A man’s gotta be ready. Don’t want to be mistaken for a patsy. Say, is one of you Marvin?” asked Sam.

            The muscular one nodded.

            “So which one is Leon?”

            Marvin pointed to the short guy in charge.

            “What’s it to you?” asked Leon.

            “Nothing. Just like to know who I’m talking to. Sure you don’t need a smoke?”

            When Leon gave the order with the tilt of his head and pointed down the street with his bat, the young men eyed each other, laughed nervously, and moved down the sidewalk. We followed them with our eyes as they crossed Halsted. On the next block they broke up a group of three girls playing double-Dutch jump rope.

            I hadn’t developed the connections with Sam like Frankie had. At this moment, I was grateful Sam took up a post on the stoop because of the circulating criticism about Whites teaching Negroes to fly. Sick imaginations had taken over. Newspapers speculated about Jonas’s accident and asked: Did one or both men commit suicide.

            “Is that true about using a shovel in a fight?” I asked.

            “You’re too young for the Great War. Soldiers were issued a shovel for digging an emergency hole for protection, but also told if they ran out of ammunition to fight hand to hand with their shovels. Miners in the fight taught other young men how to use it as a weapon.”

            I wanted to ask if he ever had been in a combat situation, but his Pinkerton comment had already answered that.

            “I’m sure you’ve heard rumors. Nobody seems ready to accept the plane went down by itself.”

Sam nodded. “It’s been in the papers.”

I lowered my voice. “The kid’s name was Theo. Jonas told Karl he worried about the young man he trained because Theo told him his mother was mixed race. Theo asked Jonas if that could make a difference in where he was assigned after he had his pilot’s license. Jonas knew about the Navy rules concerning Negroes but said he didn’t know the fine points of having a mother who was mulatto. It’s not like he could check because that might tip off the Navy that Theo had a secret. On his application, Theo identified himself as White.”

“He was.” challenged Sam. “I saw that kid’s picture. He was White.”

“Probably his German father.”

“This may be unkind of me during wartime,” Sam’s eyes watched a father and son walk on the opposite side of the street. “I’m guessing . . . maybe the Navy wants to keep the number of Negro pilots low. Heard Tuskegee started last summer.”

“Karl said they got Negro pilots doing the training.” I said. “But White officers in charge.”

Sam hummed some wisdom. “Typical.”

“Jonas told Karl many Tuskegee pilots did better in testing than Whites.” I kept my voice low. “He hinted to Karl that it might not make any difference what rating he gave Theo. If the Navy needed Theo to fail to keep numbers down, he’d fail.”

Sam took off his cap and ran his hand over the top of his bald head. “Heard tell George Patton’s putting together a Black tank unit. Gonna call it Patton’s Panthers. Doesn’t make sense to me the Navy being squeamish about Blacks when the Army’s giving an all-Black Unit a try. Of course, I never trust the man who controls the numbers.”

A lump formed in my throat. Emotion made my voice husky. “What if a Black man is as good at flying as a White man? What criticism falls on a trainer?”

            “You know what I don’t get? The whole business about color,” argued Sam. “His mother is mixed race. Why aren’t fellas looking at his German father? I got some German, so do you through your father. Does that matter? Is the country gonna take out after everyone?”

            “The Navy may feel Theo lied on his application by claiming he was White. Karl said that Jonas knew and gave him lessons anyway.”

“But three-quarters of him was White,” insisted Sam. His voice had the tone of an old man being riled.

“By some, one drop makes a guy Negro,” I said. “Theo was bound to fail, and that meant that Jonas also failed. Failed to inform his superiors. Failed to adhere to the rules. They could have bounced him as an instructor.”

“So there will be an inquest.” Sam struck a match, watched it burn, and snuffed it out with his fingers.

“Suspicion . . . suicide. Maybe Theo knew his service was destroyed. Maybe Jonas did too.”

“Suicide don’t make sense.” Sam removed his hat and ran his hand over his head.

“Karl fears Jonas went into that last flight believing Theo was destined to fail. If the kid still wanted to be in the Navy, the best the guy could do? Be assigned as a messman on a ship—you know clean and fetch for real sailors.”

“Oh,” said Sam. “Not much a man can do when the bosses decide it’s your turn to be the sacrificial goat. I suppose this also tarnishes the pilots Jonas trained.”

“Afraid so. There will probably be someone appointed to make sure other pilots are not Negro.”

“Is this why your mother has taken to her bed? She fears what gossip will be said about Jonas?”

“More than gossip,” I said. “Like you, she fears what people may do—like those young guys with baseball bats out for an evening stroll.”

“A man can get some mighty fine fresh air out on the stoop,” said Sam. “Get to see the world pass by.”

“Why do you have a lit kerosene lamp?”

“Street needs to know we got eyes watching. No telling what notions a car full of rascals may take in daylight. A kerosene lamp can be a good hand grenade. But there’s nothing like a coal shovel for hand-to-hand. Did you know Reese came and removed Paulie from the flat? Gonna miss that bird.”

“I hadn’t heard. Sorry about that.”

“Reese fears hooligans may set fire to the building.”

I sighed. Fire was also Mother’s fear.

“Your shovel has a shiny edge,” I said.

“Like I said, no better weapon in a fight than a coal shovel. Young roughnecks like bats. Only one way to fight with a bat. Swing it.  But a coal shovel has that straight edge for scooping, and that can be sharpened like a knife. A guy with experience can take on a thug. You don’t swing a shovel like a bat. You back away so opposition thinks he’s got you. He’ll relax while you plan for an uppercut to his throat. With enough muscle behind it, you can do considerable damage.”

“You could really take off a guy’s hand?” I felt a chill to know Sam was ready for battle, ready to risk his life to protect this building and our family.

Sam didn’t answer. He lit the cigarette. I shivered.

How would a man of Sam’s age take on the three young men who walked down the street? I imagined him hurling the kerosene lamp to the ground at the feet of one of the thugs and watching it explode.

“Many days I came up from the coal pit wearing coal dust,” said Sam. “I was blacker than old Jeremiah who took care of the mules that spent their lives in the pit. Hatred’s not about color, Darby. It’s about standing. Those who have it want to keep it. Those who don’t, get crushed.”

“You think those young guys will be back?” I asked.
            “Nah. You sitting there like a bad dude broke their moment of glory,” said Sam with a teasing smile.

I knew it wasn’t me who stopped them.

Sam impressed me and scared the hell out of me. Karl’s description had been right. Sam understood danger.

I had been away from my family for almost six years. Frankie had grown up by the time I returned. Karl had become old. Of the four of us, Jonas was the only one who had maintained his star quality.

For many of the holidays and summers, I continued to live with my aunt’s family and watched cousins grow up as brothers and sisters. Mother explained my absence as my attendance at missionary school, but while that was a lie, it was also a mean joke—a message to me that I needed to learn the rules, biblical in strength, and keep my mouth shut and maintain a low profile.

“You’re not a gangster or thug. You need to be careful,” said Mother.

 Many times, I felt like a coward. Now the newspapers carried the story of the plane crash. Our family’s safety was at risk and seemed to depend on men like Sam, willing to lob a lit kerosene lamp at a threatening car full of haters, willing to take off a man’s head with a sharpened coal shovel.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 83:  Ellen

Days after Jonas’s funeral, Darby knocked at our door. In one hand he held an angel food cake frosted in pink. Trapped under his other arm, a two-foot-long bologna. For a few silent moments, he made no movement to enter our flat but pondered the cake.

            “Can I help you?” I asked.

            “Neighbors are being too kind with donations of food. Here.”

            He inched the cake toward me and struggled control of the dark red sausage. I took the cake from him because I didn’t want him to dump it onto the floor I’d have to wash.

            “Please come in,” I said and held the door open with my body as he entered.

            Mother came forward, drying her hands and giving a warm smile. “Darby, how’s your mother? It’s been a week since the funeral, and I haven’t seen her leave your flat.”

“She’s better.”

Darby’s not one to give details.

“The funeral service was lovely,” said Mother. “Jonas had so many friends. Please thank everyone in your family for allowing us to come to the graveside. It was moving.”

            Darby looked embarrassed at the attention. He shifted the position of the bologna from his elbow to his hands and back to the grip of his elbow. 

            “How can we help you?” asked Mother.

            “We asked that people not bring food to the flat, but some continue. Karl asks that you accept this cake for your family.”

            “And the bologna?” I asked, wishing he’d get to the point.

            His face colored. “Mother has gone to her bed and has refused food. Karl thought that if you made something tempting, we might convince her to eat.”

            “Out of bologna?” I couldn’t help myself from being critical.  Who wants to feed life into an old, grieving woman with bologna? Why not chicken soup? I received a stop-talking-nonsense look from Mother. Darby lowered his chin and mumbled an explanation.

            “When I moved back home a few years ago, I worked alongside Mr. Schadel, trimming meat at a packing company. He sent us this four-pound bologna. Mother likes the meat because it’s soft, and she doesn’t have to force much chewing.” He eyed my mother. “Karl suggested a casserole for us and for your own family to enjoy. There’s plenty of meat. Unless you don’t like bologna.”

            “Darby, I’ll happily cook for your mother.  She’s been kind to us. It’s the least I can do,” said Mother as she gave me a Don’t-you-dare look. “And our family loves bologna. In these times with rationing, scarcity is back, Mr. Schadel gave you an excellent gift. How about fried bologna casserole? It’s made with onions, mashed potatoes, and cheddar cheese. From our garden I’ll add green peppers and zucchini. How does that sound?”

Darby grinned. “We all enjoy that.” He placed the meat on the table and smiled at my mother. Jamming his hand into his pocket, he pulled a five-dollar bill. “From Karl and me. We aren’t asking you to be out of pocket.”

“More than enough,” said Mother.

            I walked Darby to the door. He looked forlorn.

            “How’s it really going upstairs?” I whispered. I tried to keep the edge out of my voice.

            Darby took a deep breath. “You got a minute to sit on the stoop?”

            I nodded and called to Mother, “I’ll be outside.”

            It felt strange to sit on the front stoop with Darby who had neatly avoided my question. If I sat outside, it was usually with Dad who wanted to correct my behavior.

Darby had moved back to his mother’s flat when I was in high school. While he attended night school, he worked for Joseph Schadel. In the past several years, I only saw him as he left for work or returned late after school. Dad grinned as he teased Mrs. Quick about her disapproval of Darby’s new bookkeeping job at Pabst Brewing because she disapproved of beer. He knew she disapproved of smoking too, but he continued to light his pipe for an evening smoke. Her frown was a joy to me.

            “You work in the Loop,” I said, attempting to start a comfortable conversation.

            “In the LaSalle-Wacker building overlooking the river. I’m a bookkeeper.”

            “I’m at the Fed. Mail room.”

            “I know,” he said with a shy grin. “Karl told me.”

            We sat on the top stair and commented on 59^th Street. Cars had become more prevalent, but young men disappeared since many entered the service. We talked about the war, President Roosevelt, and the treatment of Jews in Germany that Eleanor had shared from relatives letters. But the treatment of Germans in the United States had also become scary, and I told Darby of our distant German relatives in West Virginia. I talked and registered my discontent with the world, and Darby listened and looked sadder by the minute. I figured I complained too much.

            “Do you think I need to worry about my second cousin, Otto?” I posed. “Does war mean that thugs will come after any of us who have German relatives?”

            “We have German blood on my dad’s side,” he said. “When I was away at school, I learned German. Few months ago, I tried to get into the Army, but no success. I even tried to get work out at Camp Grant in Rockford. The camp held German prisoners during the Great War, so I thought when prisoners arrive . . . out there . . .” His voice drifted off. “Didn’t want me.”

            “It seems to me the world is upside down with meanness,” I said. “People can’t be who they want to be.” I felt a strange sympathy for Darby.

            He switched the topic. “I was sorry to hear about Oskar. Does anyone know who killed him? He wasn’t German, was he?”

            My temper shot forward.

            “Killed him? Nobody killed him,” I said. I felt my face flush. What right did he have to bring up Oskar? “Oskar ran off. Too cowardly to tell me he didn’t want to marry me.”

That wasn’t totally true, but my relationship with Oskar had been complicated. I felt the rage of abandonment return.

“Anyway, he wasn’t German.”

            “I’m sorry,” said Darby. “I didn’t know.”

            “Well, now you do.”

            My anger wasn’t fair. He had just lost his brother, and I’m sure he didn’t want to hear how Oskar left me at the altar. Not exactly at the altar, but close enough. We were supposed to go look for a wedding ring. Then he disappeared. Vanished. Poof!

            “My mother admires how you stepped up and helped your family when your sister came home from Pennsylvania,” said Darby in a soft voice. “She admires how you keep the stoop clean.”

            I was richly annoyed by his mentioning of the stoop, but I kept my mouth shut. We went back to watching the street. The cleaning of the stoop wasn’t a memory I wanted. To me it seemed that’s when we moved to 59^th Street, everything went wrong. Fiona had died. I had been abandoned. However, my orders were still to scour the front stoop—despite turmoil.

            “I can’t imagine wiping stairs helped raise me in your mother’s esteem,” I said. Did he know I was peeved? “From the beginning, she and I haven’t gotten along.” I knew I sounded like a snotty kid, but I couldn’t help it. Mrs. Quick had never been nice to me.

            “Mother can sound firm. It’s her way, but she likes your family, and she’s a lot more open-minded than you think. She mentioned you’re a girl who speaks up.”

            “Speak up! Hardly something she’d approve. Years ago, I invited my friend home to see our parrot. Your mother embarrassed our family because she said Black people should not be entering through the front door. She went to find a Black woman to escort Fern home. And the woman she chose was Miss Wisdom my sixth-grade teacher. I was mortified.”

            “I don’t know about that,” said Darby, who studied his hands, “but when I lived here, we all had to be careful which streets we crossed when we were alone and how we entered a house. I don’t think tenants protecting territory has changed.”

            “No, it hasn’t. Especially during this war,” I conceded. “But I know your mother is one of those people who want to keep my Black friends in their place. I’ve never met a Black person who is black. Everyone I know from school is brown or tan. Even the Chinese aren’t yellow. Indians aren’t red. You and I, Darby, are no more than beige. Unless I go to the beach and then I admit I’m red for a while.”

            He had this big grin on his face. “You have opinions,” he said softly. “I can see why Mother admires you. Now, I understand why you two tangle from time to time. You’ve never gotten to know her.”

            “I’m sure she does not admire me.”  I felt he was plain stupid.

            “I realize you must know gentlemen interested in calling on you, so I’m not asking you for a date. But if you have an evening free and would like dinner in the Loop after work, maybe at Toffenetti’s, off LaSalle Street?  They have the best spaghetti and the best ham sandwiches plus a killer strawberry shortcake. I work north of the restaurant, you’re south. Half-way between us is Toffenetti’s. So perhaps we could meet after work. I’d like to hear more of your opinions. What do you say?”

            Going out to dinner with Darby Quick wasn’t something I ever thought about. What struck me? Here was another man not willing to pick me up at our flat. But then, we both did work in the Loop. A whole lot easier than coming home and traveling back into the city. Darby was just being practical. A trait I didn’t admire.

He was tall, blue-eyed, not bad looking. However, he was scrawny, his face pale, and personality shy. We had both lived in the same two-flat for more than four years, and this was the first time we spoke more than good-day. Imogene had shared stories and experiences with Jonas. His brothers Karl and Frankie talked regularly to Dad. But Darby was tight-lipped. What could we possibly have to talk about?

            “What was missionary school like?” I asked.

            He looked out at the street and shook his head. “It wasn’t missionary school. Mother sent me to live with her sister, my aunt Hazel.”

            “Why?”

            My mind pushed aside that I had a sister who had abandoned us, a sister who had attacked me in a most horrible way. How bad was Darby that Mrs. Quick sent him into exile?

            “I guess I asked too many questions when I was young and blabbed every detail I learned,” he said with a sad grin. “If you haven’t noticed, my mother isn’t much of a talker. If I wanted to know answers to questions, I needed to live with my aunt. She’s kind and loving.”

            “What kind of questions did you ask?”

            “Sorry. Don’t let Mother hear you ask about our family. She may recommend that your parents send you away too. I don’t think I’d like that.”

            His blue eyes shamed me, his smile a plea not to hurt him. Would I want a stranger asking personal questions about Deidre? No, I wouldn’t. Yet, I couldn’t imagine my parents ever sending me away if I shared details of that night. I reconsidered my estimate of Darby.

When I was a kid, that nasty woman upstairs tramped on my freshly washed stairs leaving marks—yes, that woman could punish her son and send him away. I imagined her taking a leather strap to her sons when they were little. I thought of Karl who had a lady friend no one had ever met. What treatment turned Jonas away from marriage. He should have married Imogene even though she couldn’t have children. As far as I knew, Jonas had thrown himself into work, charity, and church. Only Frankie had married and moved away from his mother. But then Mrs. Quick had mostly ignored Frankie’s independent behavior.

            “Will you tell your mother that you are taking me to Toffenetti’s?” I asked.

            “I will.” His voice had determination.

            “I want her approval before we set a time.”  My boldness surprised me. Did I really want dinner with Darby Quick? No. But going somewhere, anywhere? Yes.

            “We might need to wait a bit,” said Darby. “Mourning for Jonas has just begun.”

            “I suspected as much.” Yes, I was sympathetic to his loss, but it crossed my mind his mourning was a perfect excuse for him to back out of dinner . . . or it could be my excuse to cancel.

            He looked up startled, and I recognized my harsh tone.

            “I’m not using our mourning as an excuse,” he said. His eyes looked sincere.

            “Of course, not. I didn’t think you were. If you want to take me out on a date, let’s start small. Maybe a walk in Jackson Park or a visit to the Garfield Park Conservatory?” I hoped both sounded too boring.

            “Deal. Two months from today? Garfield Park?”

            I nodded and hoped he’d forget.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 84: Eleanor

During mid-summer 1942 and unknown to my mother, I began a friendship with a photographer from work. He preferred me to call him by the formal name Gerald. Our attraction? We admired each other’s work and felt Jonas could be a story.

A month after Jonas’s accident and before Gerald reported to Great Lakes, we found an airport owner willing to talk to us about Jonas Quick.

            Gerald borrowed a cousin’s car, and together we drove to Tinley Park. Ed Prosperi owned a private airfield about thirty miles south of Chicago, and he was willing to talk about Jonas. Gerald took his camera.

“Jonas? A Prince of a guy. Nobody better,” said Mr. Prosperi, a stocky man who looked like he needed to chomp on a cigar.

“What do you think happened that day?” I asked.

His face soured, eyebrows drew together, and he took a deep breath.

“I don’t know.  Shouldn’t have happened. I don’t believe the rumors; I can tell you that. The kid he trained? Capable. It had to be the plane, but the mechanics who searched the wreckage found nothing. No reason for it to fall out of the sky, they said. The farmer in the field that day said the plane went silent as if the engine had been shut off. Jonas was a hellava pilot. Hellava pilot. He never would have allowed that to happen.” He quickly added, “If he could help it.”

Mr. Prosperi said he didn’t trust the inquest process. “Too many attitudes muck up details. The longer it goes on, the more pieces get lost. Know what I mean?” He waved his hand downward and shook his head before he walked toward his office without a goodbye.

Gerald and I were stumped, but he squeaked in a picture of Mr. Prosperi as he walked away—back stooped, head bowed. I never wrote the story. Gerald’s photo got buried.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 85: Sheila

Mr. Reese had entered our flat and announced he’d be removing Paulie because of rumors he heard of ill-will toward the Quick family, and in case of a firebomb, he didn’t want to lose his valuable parrot.

            “Surely the outrage will settled down,” I said.

            “Don’t you worry, Missus, Paulie’s on a trial vacation. It will be good for my missus to see if the bird still troubles her allergies. I hear they have some medicine these days, but my sister-in-law swears by swabbing your nose with salt water. Can you beat that? All these years of my missus sneezing and coughing, and all we needed to do was to throw a handful of salt into water. I want my boy back in the house—test it out.”

            With Sam and my girls at work, our flat had become strangely quiet for six weeks. Sometimes Paulie made tsking noises like scolding, and I might have scolded back. I laughed when he imitated Dorothy’s strangled cackle. But he provided company. I never minded picking up cracked seeds or chasing him through the flat when he escaped in flight. Luckily for me, Mr. Reese brought him back.

“My missus has a snotty beak when this old boy’s around. Allergies and asthma. Best he come home to you.”

I couldn’t keep from smiling. Paulie entertained me with new sounds he had heard while living with the Reese family.

“Ge-ene? Ge-ene?” he called.

“Ain’t that a corker? Sounds just like Pat Buttram, don’t he?” said Mr. Reese.

It was true. Episodes and music from “Gene Autry’s Melody Ranch” came back to mind.

“Back in the saddle, in the saddle,” said Paulie.

“Yes, you are,” I said, “such a pretty bird.”

A couple months following Jonas’s death, even Dorothy showed signs of getting back to normal. I built time into my day to visit her. We sat in the back yard and had a cup of tea or maybe we took a walk. If the weather turned cool with rain, she played her piano. We both reminisced and once giggled about when our children were young.

“My older boys never inserted a bean into their noses, but Frankie did. Didn’t know what to do,” said Dorothy.

“Fiona tried that trick when she was young. I cried the whole time. Sam had to extract it. Fiona made sure her sisters never tried it.”

            One day as we finished tea in her flat, a knock came to her back door. She rose, opened the door, and stepped outside. Skirted is a better descriptive word as if this guest were private.

            Left in her front room, I had a chance to admire her furniture. Couch: navy blue velvet. Quite grand in its day but now worn. I smiled at the three spots of compressed velvet nap where three bottoms sat over the years. The same worn nap appeared on the stuffed navy-blue chair. The Quicks may not have a radio, but they did own a Victrola. Dorothy made sure everything was in its place, even Fiona’s crocheted lace coverings for the arms of her chairs.

            Thinking Dorothy must need to take care of something and that I should leave, I looked toward the back door. Through the window I saw Old Will—the same old man who stood in the back of the church for Jonas’s funeral, the man who brought us vegetables. He handed a sack to Dorothy before leaning forward and giving her a kiss on the forehead.

            My breath caught in my throat. I wouldn’t have been shocked if Dorothy had given him a kiss, but in these times, his kiss struck me as too familiar even for an old man. This was Dorothy, after all, who followed a severe code of propriety. She disapproved of Karl ever marrying his lady friend because she was a divorced woman. When Dorothy came back into the flat, she opened the sack.

            “Oh look, he’s given me carrots, and zucchini. A lovely thought.”

            “Zucchini does well with the heat of the city,” I said. 

“He promised me pumpkins in September,” said Dorothy. “I suppose he’ll be back next week with more zucchini.”

            I felt awkward. “Very kind of him to bring vegetables,” I said.

            She turned and put the vegetables into the ice box.

            “Darby thinks we need a refrigerator, but that most certainly will raise the electric bill, and I’d rather have ice that I can see than frosty walls that will need additional cleaning.”

            I nodded and left.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

1943

Chapter 86: Eleanor

From the time the funny papers printed the Brenda Starr comic, I became an obsessed reader. She was a glamorous Rita Hayworth-type reporter, feisty, and deeply in love with Basil St. John who had a mysterious disease that could only be cured by black orchids. The kid in me wanted to write for the Flash newspaper. Following Brenda’s infatuation helped me tolerate Ellen’s obsession with Oskar.

With both of us working in 1943, I found it hard to find time with Ellen. Finally, in a bizarre move, I landed a temporary spot at the Chicago Sun Times. I was back being a beginner doing obituaries, but I had time in my day. Ellen began dating Darby which made me highly curious. Time to repair cracks in our friendship.

            Ellen and I set a lunch date on a Saturday in the Loop. I said I wanted to catch up and share my fears for my German relatives. Ellen wasn’t interested, but she agreed to lunch.

Once Saturday rolled around and the two of us tucked into a booth, I ordered potato pancakes and Ellen ordered pea soup. I switched our conversation from the rationing of meat to Darby.

“Tell me about your dates. How often does he take you out?”

She shrugged. “Not much to tell. We do something every week.”

            “Oh please, you’re dating Darby Quick. Do you go to the library? A beer museum? What?”

            “No.” She looked peeved. “Look. We’re very different. I figured he’d dump me after five dates.”

            “But he hasn’t. So, have you kissed?” I grinned and she softened.

            “He only touched my cheek with his lips. He probably thinks I’ll slap him after a real kiss. Who knows, I may.” She adjusted her napkin on her lap and smoothed it several times. Talking about Darby made her coy.

            Ellen had always been careful in not sharing the full story about Deidre’s visit all those years ago (that description wouldn’t happen for two more years). Over the years of friendship, I learned that when she became rattled, nasty cold sores popped up around her mouth. I blamed whatever curse Deidre had done. Maybe Oskar too.

            Ellen pulled out a little notebook from her pocketbook. “I keep a list of the places we have gone.” A brightness came into her eyes, but not like I expected. She handed me her list of dates as if it were evidence.

“You went to the Garfield Conservatory? What did you see?” I asked.

“Flowers.”

“A little more detail, please. What did you do?”

“Walked from room to room. It was very humid. My hair curled at my temples,” said Ellen as if the Conservatory could be boring.

“For the second date, you went to see a movie, but your list doesn’t tell which one or what theater?”

“We didn’t travel to the Loop. We stayed in Englewood.”

 “What did you see, Ellen?”

“Mrs. Miniver with Greer Garson.”

“You had a good time?”

“Hmmm.”

“Did you ever go to Toffenetti’s? It’s not on your list.”

She tilted her head and straightened her napkin. “Yes, after work. Before you ask, we had spaghetti, and he bought a strawberry shortcake which we shared on two plates.”

Of course, they did. “I see he took you to see Flying Tigers with John Wayne,” I asked.

“For him, it hit too close to home. He left twice and went for candy in the lobby. And before you ask, Henrici’s wasn’t as lovely as it sounds,” said Ellen. “I mean, it was very nice, but I worried it was too costly for him. The cheapest dinner on the menu was the chicken a ‘la king. Food was good, but we had a hard time talking. I make him uncomfortable.”

“Ellen, he took you to the opera!” I felt my own heart racing at the thought of the Opera House.

“I know. I don’t have the right clothes for something so grand. So, I purposely dressed in my mailroom clothing.”

“At least you were in the Opera House.”

“No. The Kungsholm on Ontario.  He wanted me to hear an opera for the fun it could be.

“I don’t understand.”

“We ate a smorgasbord dinner and went into the theater to hear the opera. It was performed by puppets. The idea of it just makes me shake my head. A grown man watching puppets. Can you imagine?”

“He’s spending a lot of money on you.”

Ellen shrugged. “It was two weeks before our next date. He borrowed a car and we went to the Municipal Airport on 57^th and Cicero and watched planes land and then to Lou Mitchell’s for dinner.”

Crossed off her list was a trip to the beach. Written next, “Never again.”

Ellen tilted her bowl and scooped the last of her soup. “I put him to the test,” said Ellen. Her eyes narrowed and her lip rose on one side of her face. “I asked if we could take my two nieces to see Bambi. He didn’t think it was a good idea.”

            “Dimples lost her mother.” How could Ellen be so cold-blooded?

“Anyway, both girls wept from the beginning and definitely sobbed when Bambi spotted his father. Darby bought them ice cream, but that made Fiona’s daughter cry even more. Okay, so I’m a bad aunt.”

            Memories of Fiona filtered back to me. I felt the heat of anger rise to my face. We sat in silence until we paid the bill. As we walked to the El stop, we chit-chatted about rationing and trousers for women.

“Want to know where we’re going next?” Ellen asked as the El swayed and screeched to a stop.

            “Where?’

            “Gone With the Wind and dinner at El Bianco. I suspect he’ll propose.”

            “But you’ll turn him down. Right?” I sounded judgmental. I thought Darby was grand to be taking out someone as difficult as Ellen.

            “I might say yes.”

            We entered the crowded El and luckily found two seats together.

            “You’ve been telling me how he doesn’t please you. Why would you say yes?”

            Her posture straightened and her chin rose. Her voice turned hard. “When job applications ask for marital status, I don’t want to write spinster. I don’t want to be an old maid like Imogene.  When all the soldiers and sailors come home from the war, they’ll want pretty, young girls, and by then I could be at the end of my twenties. Name one thirty-year-old bride that we know.”

            Part of Ellen always calculated. I knew her history, but I felt Darby deserved a warning.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

1944

Chapter 87: Sheila

Dorothy walked into our flat through the back door. Paulie greeted her with, “All the ships . . . at sea.”

            “Walter Winchell?” asked Dorothy. “Can’t help hear the radio when your windows are open. Darby quotes Winchell too.”

            “Pushover,” said Paulie. “Wa-ter. Jelly.”

            “Any word from Frankie? Seems a long time since he enlisted.”

            “1944 and we’re still at war,” said Dorothy. “Yes, he’s written four letters, but I think they’re months old. Our letters seem to be passing each other. He’s asked me why I haven’t written.” She shook her head and looked in the direction of Paulie cage. We both listened as the parrot cracked seeds. “A year ago Reese removed Paulie from your flat after Jonas’s funeral. Despite that bird mocking me, I do enjoy your parrot.”

            “Spring always seems to bring troubles. I’ve been meaning to tell you, Paulie is on temporary loan. Did you know that Mr. Reese plans to move away from Englewood to a grand house on the northside? He said Paulie will go with him,” I said and fussed with my apron. “I’ll miss feeding him seeds and cleaning the cage. He’s been company even if he finds ways of being aggravating. He surprises me with what he learns. Dorothy, the house will be so quiet.”

            I fought tears. Dorothy grabbed my hand.

            Paulie eyed us with a stare before screeching, “Sam. Sam. Oh-lee-oh.”

            “What did Frankie have to say in his letters?”

            “Karl guesses Frankie’s in the Pacific, stringing line for communications. That can’t be dangerous, can it?”

“I don’t know. Maybe not.” Being up a pole connecting wiring?

“Did you know Sam sent him a letter,” said Dorothy. Her face lit with joy. “He’s very pleased with that and wants Sam to know all is well. That and he wants Sam to tell him about a baseball player, Ted Williams, who’s a fighter pilot. Frankie asked me if Jonas ever mentioned that he crossed Williams’s path. I don’t remember.” Dorothy sat and folded her hands in her lap as I made tea.

            “I’ll ask Sam if he knows anything about Ted Williams.” I was feeling down in the dumps. “Here we are in May 1944. I wonder what misery we’ll learn about today.”

Before I changed the paper at the bottom of Paulie’s cage, I read every story about our boys overseas and the battles they fought. At times, that dear girl Eleanor took me to the movies—not that I’m all that interested in the films, but I had a chance to see the news in pictures of the war. Sam refuses to go. He says he had enough of weeping mothers from the last war. I’m sure that has to do with his brother who is buried in Belgium or France.

            Because of the news, I can name major battles in the Pacific. I know about the sacrifice at Wake Island, Solomon Islands, Guam, Battle of the Coral Sea, Midway, Guadalcanal. I know that in Europe, the German army surrendered North Africa to the British and Americans.  Many of those captured German soldiers were transported west of us to Camp Grant in Rockford, Illinois. Although guards are supposed to keep silent, Mrs. Nueske who lives down the street, said her son, a guard, reported the German soldiers are very polite but didn’t appreciate mosquitos. They seem happy to work at Quaker Oats during the day.

            Japanese, Germans, and Italians in our country face hard treatment when the government lists them as enemy aliens. We saw in newsreels about the American-born Japanese losing their homes and businesses on the West Coast and being sent to camps. I’m no judge, but it seems to me that Italian young men stepped up to enlist. Or maybe it was just more Italians in Chicago.  Sam said the Japanese boys did also.

Sam came home angry one day. Someone had once again tried to burn the Japanese Tea Garden on Wooded Island.

            “Why is it that beauty is the first to be destroyed when people are filled with anger and fear?” he asked.  

            I wanted to take Sam in my arms. Once we had moved to Englewood, Sam’s only steady work was in Jackson Park. He had grown to love tending the flowers and trees. The tea garden had a peacefulness and quiet that factory work lacked.  

            Supporting America at war, a few German business owners put signs up in front windows and posted the blue star showing a son’s enlistment. Still, many had broken windows. At least, General Eisenhower came from German stock, and I like to think that carried weight to keep German families somewhat safe.

            One day Sam shook the newspaper and said, “Sheila, look at this. This newspaper reports that Italians are a separate race from Europeans.”

Our Italian neighbors down the street felt embarrassed when Italy went to war. Blue stars went up in their windows too as sons enlisted—and gold stars posted when their sons met sacrifice.

Dorothy had no such star. Jonas only worked for the Navy training pilots. Sam said that alone didn’t give him standing. The controversy of his death still allowed whispers.

            “Darby has another date with Ellen tonight,” said Dorothy. “He’s positively giddy with her. He may ask Ellen to marry him. He talked about this June. That’s less than a month away.”

            I don’t recall how I responded, but I fear my face gave away my feelings.

            “I feel the same way,” said Dorothy. “I like Ellen, but . . . maybe not for my shy son.”

            “And I like Darby. He is such a gentle man. But I’m not sure of Ellen’s feelings for him.”

            “With Frankie in the Army and Karl spending weeks with his lady friend near the lake, if Darby should marry, Ellen may move into our flat upstairs. That’s good for you and Sam. You’ll see her every day. But, I don’t think Ellen has ever forgiven me for asking Nettie Wisdom to help take Fern home that day she visited.”

            “She was embarrassed, but she has bigger mortifications to get over,” I said.

Oskar was called the Ghost because of his features and coloring, but I called him the Ghost because he haunted Ellen’s life. Was I the cause of his disappearance? Sam assured me Oskar’s temper probably got him into trouble. Still, I wasn’t sorry he was gone.

“Dorothy, we admire Darby, but I don’t think he realizes Ellen has some bitterness to get over. I love my daughter, but Oskar Varley wasn’t good for her.”

            Dorothy hung her head and lowered her voice. “I sent Darby away to my sister for a reason. Both Karl and I have told Darby he must tell Ellen that reason before he marries. Sheila, I don’t think he will.”

            “She knows his heart is weak,” I said.

By her look I knew his weak heart wasn’t the reason he was sent away.

“Let’s hope they both leave the past behind. Start fresh. Be forgiving,” said Dorothy.

            I had no such faith. By the way she looked toward Paulie’s cage, neither did Dorothy.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 88: Sam

            “Bye, Paulie. Be a good boy.”

            Sheila slipped her fingers through the cage and scratched a wing. She raised her apron to her eyes to wipe away tears. Paulie had arrived at our home in 1930. Once again, Reese decided to remove our bird, only this time permanently. Paulie had lodged with us for fourteen years and had become part of our family. In 1944, Reese hauled out Paulie’s stack of newspapers and a small bag of seed.  

            “Give us a kiss,” said Paulie. “Pur-ple. Tea. Wa-ter.”

I felt a lump in my throat as Reese carried the cage toward the door.

            “I missed having my boy around. Good to have him back.” His voice was giddy. “Got a spare room just for him.”

“Settle down, boys,” said Paulie, a phrase he picked up from a cowboy radio show.

“Oh, I expect he’ll pick up the missus’s new honking. My missus has a powerful cough.” He laughed, hesitated, then said. “Now that we’ll be living in Evanston, my man will be around for the rent. With times being better and since Paulie won’t be in your flat, you realize I’ll hike up the rent.”

“Hyuk, hyuk, hyuk,” said Paulie as Sheila drew the sheet tighter around the cage.

We watched Reese load Paulie into his car.

“He’s going to be kept away from people in his own room. That will kill him,” said Sheila.

My throat felt tight. I had offered to buy Paulie from him, but Reese saw the bird as entertainment to be pulled out for his new, high-class friends in his new suburban house. 

            Sheila said, “I don’t want to live here anymore.”

As expected, Ellen accepted Darby’s proposal. Days later, Una helped Imogene find a two-bedroom house in Mokena. Sheila and I were ready to join her in the country. Identified as a spinster, Imogene asked me to sign the mortgage with her.  I added my signature. In the blink of an eye, our life changed. We were heading out of city life.

The Mokena house needed work. On Sundays I patched holes and cleaned up plumbing. Sheila picked a date for moving: the day after Ellen’s wedding in June 1944.

“Darby said we’ll have the flat to ourselves,” said Ellen. “Dorothy will be spending time with Frankie’s family in Racine. She’ll love it and maybe won’t come back.”

I felt sad at her glee. Couldn’t imagine peace in their war.

With the big war still going on, Englewood needed laborers. I had shoveled coal into bags for delivery, dug holes in Jackson Park, cleaned floors, boxed candy, and worked in more than one assembly line. Labor was all I knew, and the thought of moving away from the city ripped at my guts. I pictured taking the Rock Island train every day to work. But White folk had begun moving out of the city. More Blacks moved north. Grinning landlords over-charged them for flats in need of heat and water. To me, disrespect of Blacks fueled another tinderbox. Seen it in coal mining towns.

I knew I was seen as old. The Science and Industry Museum aced me out of being one of their story tellers. If this war ever ended, I figured I’d be booted out of working in a factory line.  Had to admit I was tired. Losing my Fiona and Paulie knocked the stuffings out of me.

“I’m sorry I never made enough money to buy Paulie,” I said to Sheila.

She swallowed hard. “He was special, but he wasn’t ours. With a new place to live, we’ll buy lots of chickens and maybe a few ducks. We’ll need a couple cats to keep the mice population down. And a dog. A big dog for the grandchildren. We’ll have picnics in the back yard filled with the flowers you plant. Our garden will be the envy of our neighbors.”

“I like the sound of that,” I said, and found myself smiling.

When I saw the new life through Sheila’s eyes, I saw movement. I had always pictured me dying in a mine cave-in or keeling over while working in the hot sun. But in Sheila’s eyes, we weren’t going to be a burden to anybody. That was a good thing.

As I pulled some weeds around young tomatoes, I found myself humming a song I heard on the radio. A fella Dick Haymes sang, “I’ll Get By.” Tune seemed right.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 89: Eleanor

In 1944, our soldiers bore down to take Rome, and by June 6^th, 1944, Allied Forces landed on Normandy beaches. Neighbors who weren’t accustomed to listening to the radio in the morning didn’t realize the Operation Overlord invasion was happening. Shopkeepers and neighbors going to work began to alert us by yelling, “Get to a radio. Our boys are landing.”

We all did. Some stayed by our home radios. Others collected in front of stores with blaring news. We had been waiting, praying, begging.

 A seriousness entered the voices of radio announcers. Occasionally a catch of nervousness broke into their storytelling. I pictured CBS announcer Robert Trout at the battle as he spoke. Edward R. Murrow’s boys seemed to be everywhere in what they knew. But the first Allied message came from General Eisenhower’s command. Richard Ernest Dupuy announced, “Under the command of General Eisenhower, Allied Naval Forces supported by strong Air Forces, began landing Allied Armies this morning on the Northern Coast of France.”

A proud, tearful moment caused our hearts to race, but every girl I knew with a boyfriend also felt terror at the news. Was this like Pearl Harbor?

Probably due to the immediacy of hearing the battle had begun and not hearing of the cost of lives, we imagined soldiers dying on the beach as we listened. Wounded? Maimed?  Those notifications would trickle out much later. But in the first few hours, we also knew elation. It was happening.

Dad didn’t leave at his usual time for work that Tuesday. Instead, he stood at the door twirling his hat from hand to hand. Even mother let her sewing machine sit idle. Neighbors gathered in the street, and one seventeen-year-old neighbor girl began to sing the National Anthem. Standing in the kitchen, Mother and Dad joined the singing.

“Can our boys get there in time?” asked Mother.

Dad and I had no answer. For over three years, Mother hadn’t received a letter from any Jewish cousins in Germany.

When I got to the newsroom, phones rang, seasoned reporters scurried, local writers like me answered calls and shouted messages. The thrill of invasion stories kept our stomachs nervous. The first hints had come in the middle of the night from German sources as they battled Allied Forces. At first reporters wondered if the landing were a ruse. No, it was true. Our boys hit the beach. The end of the war had begun. We had our feet on French soil.

“I heard thousands of women have been spying for us in France, helping the French Resistance blow up bridges,” said a cleaning lady, a clutch in her voice. “Imagine that.”

“Easy to see. You know what gave us this day?” said another with calloused hands. “My daughter—millions of Rosies—building tanks and planes.”

Then someone scolded them to keep their mouths shut. No telling who could be listening. We all had the jitters, and for the rest of the day, we whispered details as if a secret and hungered for more news. Folks packed churches that had opened their doors for prayers.

In the coming weeks, audiences filled movie theatres, hoping to catch sight of someone they knew. Somehow the black and white film clips of ships at sea made battles distant and less painful. Who first called it D-Day? Don’t know. What did our boys really experienced as they landed on the beach? Unable to offer comfort to soldiers we loved, unable to nurse them back to health, unable to see or touch, or even whisper our messages to them, we wept for our boys. And that was how we looked at it, even children. Every boy over there was ours.

Our hope? They’d soon be home. But first we needed to do our part to make that possible. Success in battle meant money.

We scraped pennies together and added to our stash of War Bonds. If we didn’t have dollars to spare for the $18.75 price, we bought war bond stamps. We pasted stamps into collection booklets to be exchanged for a twenty-five-dollar war bond. We took strength from our booklets as if we too were important in this war. Imogene, Dorothy, and Darby did more than their share of collecting bonds, but everyone bought what they could. We did our part.

When I saw movie stars hawking the purchase of war bonds in 1942 after Pearl Harbor, I thought of Fiona. Wouldn’t she have found war bonds dreamy, especially the stars who came out: Bette Davis, Bob Hope, Myrna Loy, Hattie McDaniel. I could picture Fiona waiting at a whistle stop station for the train with fifty movie stars hanging out from open windows and off the back. A particular favorite of Fiona was Dorothy Lamour.

“I remember walking into Marshall Field’s right after I married,” Fiona had told me. “It was the exact time Dorothy Lamour had been an elevator operator. Of course, I didn’t know of her at the time. I took an elevator up, and I noticed a pretty girl dressed in a suit working the elevator. To this day, I believe it was Dorothy Lamour. It could have been her because she was discovered by Hollywood while working in an elevator. I’m gonna say it was her. She was very polite when she asked, “What floor, please?’”

Dorothy Lamour proved to be a power in selling war bonds. I wished Fiona were still around. It’s been over five years since she passed.

War correspondents told us of good soldiers pushing forward in the first wave attack on Normandy. Boys like Thor Youngberg—my classmate.  Days after Normandy, the newsroom learned of a German massacre in a French village June 10^th. Punishment for the French helping the Allies. Not to waste bullets, German soldiers efficiently lined up men, women, and children, herded them into barns, sheds, and one church, and set the buildings ablaze. I bit my lip to keep from crying. The weight of war continued, joy fleeting. Rationing inconvenient but no longer a burden. This was war. Pinned down in a barn, waiting—horrible war.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 90 Eleanor

I wanted to forget the war that Saturday, June tenth.

Even though Ellen hadn’t invited me to the dressing of the bride before her wedding, as her best friend, I thought I had earned the right to help.  I entered Ellen’s small bedroom and spotted two of her friends from work. Their surprised faces locked in secrecy.

Ellen kept her eyes averted.

“You look beautiful,” I said. “Just wanted to help.”

Ellen wore the wedding dress that two of her sisters had worn for their weddings. My mother had added shoulder pads and cut the dress down to Ellen’s size. The shiny satin-like fabric molded to Ellen’s small frame. She stood five feet tall in heels and weighed less than ninety pounds. On the bed rested a trailing bouquet of white gladiolas.

I sighed. In comparison, I was five-eight and weighed in at one-fifty. As we stood together in her bedroom, I could see why she hadn’t asked me to stand with her in front of guests. Either I’d look like a big, old clown or she’d look like a child playing dress-up.

 But also, weeks before Ellen and I had a blistering argument about Darby in which I questioned her love, and she declared love didn’t matter. Flat out I told her she had been willing to use Oskar as a tool against Deidre and now she used Darby as a tool to keep from being called an old maid.

“Ellen, you don’t love him!”

“Mind your own beeswax!” said Ellen.

Probably true that it wasn’t my business, but I felt she treated Darby dirty.

I held a mirror for her to evaluate her look. It didn’t take long for her nervous anger to come out. She said the dress had bulky seams. (It did not). She fiddled with her new lace crown that had a long tulle veil.

“It won’t stay on my head,” she said and stamped her foot.

Imogene and I bobby-pinned the head gear in place, but then it made her up-do wobble. She complained about her new shoes being tight, and the scuffed surface of her honeymoon suitcase.

She turned to Imogene. “Are you sure we have enough food for the guests from the Federal Reserve Bank?”

Sheila entered and assured Ellen, “You look beautiful, and we have enough. Imogene, your father will think you live in a beautiful garden.”

Imogene’s dress was a quiet, pale green. A knot of purple forget-me-nots graced her light brown hair. I couldn’t help but think of Jonas and what he might think of his “Jeannie.” If the plane hadn’t gone down, would he have eventually asked her to marry? Would she have said yes?

Upstairs, Dorothy had rearranged her flat for the wedding chairs borrowed from her church. Around twenty guests attended, mostly family and a handful of friends from work.

Fiona kept crossing into my thoughts. I imagined her skipping about and teasing Ellen about her wedding night. Fiona always had brought a lightness to family gatherings.

I visited with her the week before she passed. When her husband went for tea, Fiona smiled and whispered, “How’s the silver screen? Latest hotsy-totsy?”

I apologized for not following screen stars.

Although she had been sworn to secrecy, Fiona shared her wild conclusions.

“You know my mother knows gunmen. I’m not supposed to tell.” Fiona put her finger next to her nose and grinned before she closed her eyes and struggled for air.

Now on Ellen’s wedding day, Fiona’s spirit sat in the corners of the room. I couldn’t believe she’d have agreed with Ellen’s decision to marry Darby. Surely, Fiona would have questioned Ellen’s choice of wearing Oskar Varley’s watch.

As we took our seats in Dorothy’s front room, I watched as Darby glanced toward the door.

“Where’s Karl?” I whispered to Una. “Isn’t he the best man?”

“No. Officially he’s moved out to create space for Ellen to move in.” Her eyes widened. “According to my mother there was some kind of blow-up between Darby and Karl. Now he’s with his lady friend. Permanently. Her nibs is not happy.”

“Oh.”  I looked at Dorothy’s scowl as she sat on her chair awaiting the ceremony.

So Karl out and Frankie was still in the Army. Who was Darby’s best man?

Old Will had to be close to ninety. I figured depending on where the old man lived as a boy, he could have been born into slavery. His curved back shortened his stature, and he shuffled as he walked to stand next to Darby. Old Will was Darby’s best man. I hoped the ceremony would be short for his sake. His smile was soft as he looked at Darby, and he wiped away tears with a plaid handkerchief. I wondered at Darby’s choice. Didn’t he have friends?

Una’s two children and Fiona’s three became restless waiting for the service to begin. With big floppy satin bows in their hair, two gawky nieces squirmed and giggled before the service. The oldest boy, Scoot, looked bored at thirteen, but the two younger nephews ran between people and chairs which caused their shirt tails to escape their trousers despite suspenders.

Imogene’s eyes misted before she walked down the short aisle between the chairs. Dorothy Quick sat in her navy-blue velvet chair, her back straight, her chin raised. To me, she looked like she was being sent to her death. She glared at Darby. In return, his chin rose in defiance as he glanced back at his mother. I wondered if I might worm the full story from Sheila.

I waited for joy to bubble up in the room. It did not. We needed Paulie.

A quick squawk from the parrot would break the tension. “Milk Man,” or “Bug-a-boo” or his rendition of Dorothy’s donkey laugh was sure to lighten the moment.

Dear Sam, in his brushed old, black suit and new tie came in with Ellen. With tears in his eyes, he kissed Ellen on the cheek before escorting her toward Darby and the minister from Rugged Cross. Ellen didn’t look moved.

She and Darby said their vows. His eyes and voice sincere. Ellen’s voice bored. I likened it to giving a Toffenetti’s waiter the order for spaghetti. Did anyone believe Ellen’s feelings to be sincere?

After the service, we all followed the newlyweds outside for photographs, even though clouds rolled in with gray mist. I took it as another reminder of those not attending. At least it didn’t rain hard, and Sheila quickly snapped pictures with Fiona’s Brownie camera. We all scurried for cover in the Harkleroad flat. It turned out to be an acceptable day, despite my fears.

Ellen hadn’t backed out. Her dress was old, her veil new, gloves borrowed, and blue violet-like flowers tucked into her white gladiola bouquet.

But why, why, why did she constantly check the time on her wrist?

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 91: Sheila

After the service and pictures, we all met in our flat for the lunch Dorothy and I had prepared. Thin sandwiches without crusts spread thin with ham salad, egg salad, and chicken salad. Bowls of macaroni salad and potato salad sat near a small bowl of hard-to-get gumdrops. Una and Imogene provided a spectacular wedding cake frosted with pink and yellow flowers. Colors made me think Fiona had snuck in with her food coloring.

After lunch and polishing off the gumdrops, my grandchildren and Frankie’s children played in the wet back yard. Before guests left for home, we all gathered to see the newlyweds off.

With her friends around her, Ellen raised one eyebrow as she teased that her new husband was such a catch. Darby looked elated as if this touching moment of praise were a surprise to him. But something in the way Ellen held her chin seeded foreboding.

 I don’t think I was able to breathe until the couple finally climbed into the back seat of Una and Hemming’s Ford to be driven to the Englewood train station. The wedding had finally happened.  Sam gave me his we’ll see look as the car turned onto Halsted Street.  When they returned, Darby and Ellen would live in the flat with Dorothy until she packed up for a month in Wisconsin. Not ideal. But maybe Ellen would make allowances.

We packed the celebration away, and Imogene, Sam, and I resumed our own packing for our move to Mokena.  I still couldn’t believe Sam and Imogene had been approved for a mortgage. We were to begin a new life back in a small, country town. Imogene assured me at least this house had indoor plumbing, but we’d still need to boil pails of water to scald dishes or to have warm bath water.

Sam and Imogene resigned to the mile walk to the Rock Island train station in the morning and another mile walk when they returned home from work. Una promised to drive for grocery shopping. Otherwise, my day would continue as always with laundry, breadmaking, knitting, and helping with grandchildren. But I looked forward to a big garden of vegetables and chickens. Lots of chickens to talk to and fuss over.

Change wouldn’t be easy. I knew I’d worry about Ellen and miss my friend Dorothy. I wanted the war over. I wanted my children settled. I wanted Sam to be well.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 92: Eleanor

War framed Ellen’s wedding. First the elation of D-Day on June 6,1944, followed by the slaughter of a French village on June 10^th their wedding day, followed by the Battle for the Philippines on June 19^th. Names of geography and soldiers became supper table conversation. Child’s play had youngsters swooping down sidewalks with balsa wood planes and pretending they had B-29 bombers. Some thought MacArthur and his ground troops were bigger heroes than Admiral Nimitz and his naval forces. They invented games like Splash and perfected the surprise attack with water in a bucket. We had been at war long enough to hold war room arguments over dinner.

Then in November of 1944, Hollywood released a new film—Thirty Seconds over Tokyo. A pilot—Van Johnson—joins Doolittle’s raid over Japan in 1942. Despite being wounded, the pilot manages to crash land in China. His goal to make it home to his wife—Phyllis Thaxter. We all connected with his ordeal. We wanted our boys to come home.  The film also triggered memories of Doolittle’s raid on April 18, 1942, and the game boys invented then called Bombs Over Tokyo.

By 1944, however, the intensity of the game turned cruel. I walked past an empty lot in Englewood. Boys of ten to twelve had built a small fire with a large tin can propped up in the middle. They stirred the pot of melted tar, probably from tar paper. One boy dug into a large ant hill. With sticks the others scooped hot black goo and flicked hot droplets onto the fleeing ants. The ants blindly scurried some with white eggs. “Bombs Over Tokyo,” the boys shouted and gleefully danced around the target chanting and imagining fire falling from the sky and burning the enemy to death.

I told a beat cop. He chuckled and waggled his head back and forth. “Kids. Don’t want any kiddies hurt. I’ll take a look.”

He strolled toward the lot. I left and felt to him the impact of hate was okay.

            “I’ve a letter from my sister Agnes,” said Sam. “The one who moved to England with her husband and younger son, Henry.”  He let me read his sister’s letter that arrived in November.

            “Sam, you know I lost my son Henry during the Blitz when he tried to rescue a family from a burning building. Now, it seems I’ve lost my oldest son Burt who stayed in the States when we left. Burt enlisted and became a marine. I’ve a letter from a fellow marine, telling me Burt went missing with the first storming of the beaches of Saipan.

            “Here’s the amazing thing. Our sister Christine also wrote to me that her son David is in the hospital back in the United States with two broken legs. He served on a hospital ship, the Samaritan, that waited for the wounded from Saipan.  David wrote that a Kamikaze plane attempted to hit their hospital ship but was brought down before it could do real damage. Both of us had sons at Saipan. Isn’t that something? Two cousins in the same battle?

“I keep wanting to hear of a big mistake. Maybe my Burt is just missing. What if the hospital ship hadn’t been threatened? What if my Burt had only been injured on the beach and Christine’s David received his cousin onboard the Samaritan. It would be like a movie scene. Two cousins meeting after a dreadful attack.”

            “Musta been a hellava day,” said Sam when I finished reading Agnes’s letter.

My heart felt touched by magic. What if? I read a news article a woman reporter had written after she interviewed men wounded at Saipan, June 15 to July 9. Almost three thousand men died. About ten thousand wounded. The article was printed by the Chicago Tribune and included an interview with a marine at a hospital back in the States. He had months of healing ahead of him but said he was a tough guy in the 4^th Marine division. He proudly told of being a scout sniper! She wished him well when he said he wanted to become an actor after the war. She asked readers to remember his name: Lee Marvin.

            Agnes’s wish for a movie ending played out in my imagination. In my mind her son Burt survives and meets his cousin David on the hospital ship. Then, back in the States, Burt is placed in a hospital room with Lee Marvin. They both heal, become best friends, and Lee succeeds in Hollywood. Fiona would have loved this story of her cousins. 

            With 1945 coming, I looked forward to perhaps the war ending. Too much loss.

But on December 16^th, 1944, the Germans tried a massive attack on Allied Forces in Belgium, and we all learned to say, “Nuts!” General McAuliffe had a chance to surrender to the Germans. His response of “Nuts!” meant the Allies needed to dig in and wait for reinforcements and supplies. December was cold and snowy. Soldiers weren’t prepared for a siege. Gliders brought in ammunition and supplies. I thought of the story Jonas had told us about meeting Jackie Coogan. Had he told the army of his idea for gliders? Was he one of the glider pilots?

Our boys had a terrible time surviving the cold and attacks. So did the gliders.

I caught Sam at the Englewood station as he waited for a train back to Mokena. He said, “I’ll lay money on McAuliffe not saying Nuts. He’d find a stronger word.” Sam lit a cigarette. “When you’re asked to surrender at a time the Germans are losing the war? No. Your answer isn’t “Nuts.” Absolutely not. But we can’t add stronger stuff into the heads of young’uns.”

And repeat McAuliffe they did. Kids began to use Nuts in all kinds of ways when faced with things they didn’t want to do. “Eat your spinach, Billy.”

            “Nuts!”

            I can only imagine what Paulie would have done with the word.

December 1944 also brought snow to Englewood. Alleys and one empty lot filled with snow forts as young boys played war. They chose sides, stockpiled ammunition, and plotted sneak attacks before charging a fort and smashing it to smithereens.

            War, however, wasn’t playtime or fantasy. I learned Thor Youngberg, my grade school classmate, died in the attack on Normandy. I remembered what he wrote on our eighth-grade graduation day as we passed around autograph books.

            “I wish you all the luck and happiness in this good old world.”

            I wish it had been better for Thor.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 93: Imogene

Mother made sure the house in Mokena smelled of freshly made bread. Dad used his Jackson Park skills to tend his own garden of flowers and vegetables.

Mother ordered chickens both young and old. Dad built a large coop, and Mother installed several hens that she named and tucked in every night.

Dad still worked at the Englewood plating company as a union worker. Hemming continued in the shipping department at Wilson Meats. I marched into the mail room at the bank. Together we walked to the Rock Island train every morning rain or shine.

According to their agreement, Ellen had chosen to move upstairs to be with Darby as long as Dorothy spent equal time with Frankie’s family in Racine. At least Darby and Ellen had some privacy in Englewood.

New tenants moved into our downstairs flat.

“Not sure we’ll get along,” said Ellen. “For one thing, they refuse to wash the front stoop. I told the wife that the downstairs family has the responsibility to keep the stairs clean. But they aren’t listening to me.”

I had mixed feelings about Ellen’s honeymoon. Ellen hadn’t bothered to call us when their plans fell apart. Instead, a week later she wrote a long letter of complaint.

“First, Union Station filled with soldiers. Going to war? Coming from? I don’t know, but there were hundreds of them and that meant we had difficulty walking through the crowd. Then at the very last minute, the conductors bumped us from the train to Philadelphia. The ticket agent said we’d have to travel the next day because our boys had priority. Darby thought it would be cheaper if we just took a train back to the Englewood station and slept in his mother’s flat. Not likely!

“I was not about to allow that. I made him take me to a hotel. When he suggested the LaSalle Hotel on LaSalle and Madison, I agreed. His choice, however, was based on Pabst Blue Ribbon beer being sold at the hotel. I wasn’t going to drink it, and neither was he, but I think it may be the only hotel he knows. Or maybe he chose the hotel because his employer is Pabst. At least it is a grand old place, and the splurge was worth having hot running water. After we got away from the scores of people in the lobby, I enjoyed a marvelous bath.”

Just before the wedding, Ellen quit her job at the Fed. I didn’t think it wise, but she said, “I need to figure out home front duties. You know cooking and cleaning. How did our mother stand it all these years?”

Once the honeymooners finally came home from Philadelphia, I hardly ever saw Ellen. Our visits were limited to when she and Darby took the train out to see us in Mokena. Ellen let us know she felt lonely all day with Darby working. However, when Dorothy came home for a short stay, things didn’t go well either. Dorothy seemed to want to reclaim her long time flat, and she had opinions about how Ellen placed spoons at the table, about the temperature of laundry water, about how thick a soup should be. Ellen’s spending of rationing coupons became a sore point.

“Ask Mother if I can come visit for a week or a month,” she asked over the phone. I cupped my hand over the phone and asked while rolling my eyes. Mother took the phone.

“Ellen, we have no space. We only have two beds, and Fiona’s children sometimes sleep on the couch and the floor.”

Ellen protested to Dad who backed Mother. The answer was no. She had made a choice and needed to stick to it.

            By Christmas, Ellen announced she was pregnant.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

1945

Chapter 94: Sam

“Sheila don’t say nothing, but she don’t like me stopping at the tavern after work, but a drink allows me to catch a few winks on the train home. Know what I mean?”

            Walt the train conductor had shaken my shoulder. I checked the window.

Usually he wakes me at Tinley to give me time to clear my head Then I get off at Mokena.

Stops: Blue Island, Robbins, Midlothian, Oak Forest. Tinley Park, and Mokena.

This time Walt woke me early. We were just leaving Midlothian, not Tinley.

Walt plopped into the seat across from me.

            “Women are like that.  Say, your old man ever think of retiring?” he asked as he absently clicked his ticket puncher.

            “I’ve never known anyone to retire unless they were badly injured or sick,” I said. “Can’t imagine what I’d do.”

            “Me, either,” said Walt. His white hair caught the late sun; the skin on his face sagged. “FDR never saw retirement, did he? A shame.”

            “April 12^th. Sure a surprise to lose him. Guy never got to see the war end.” We glanced at the buildings we passed.

            “Neither did my grandson,” said Walt. “A nose gunner.”

            He stood and shouted out to the passengers, “Oak Forest.  Oak Forest.”

            Wheels screeched to a halt at the station. Steam hissed with the stop. Unknown passengers got off. No one got on. Walt came back and took a seat. I decided to keep quiet about my expected grandchild.

            “I saved the front page with the headline “Germany Quits,” I said. “I know the war’s not over. Our boys in Europe will probably shift to the Pacific. But still, it’s something.”

            “Not an easy time.” Walt nodded and looked toward the red brick buildings and park-like trees of the Oak Forest Sanitorium.

            “Nope, not easy,” I said. “Fellow at work tells how he takes his kids every Sunday to the Sanitorium so they can wave at a window and see their mother.”

            “That TB sanitorium in Oak Forest? Built after the Great War. Still no cure.” Walt’s eyes became dead as his brow furrowed. “Men came home from that war with tuberculosis. I heard you can catch it from air. Hospital’s gearing up again for our men who make it home but with TB. When I get low, I get to wondering which is better: a kid being shot out of the sky or wasting away in that joint?”

            I kept my mouth shut. We had a lot of war to go.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 95: Eleanor

“How are you feeling?” I asked. “You look pale.”

The sight of Ellen made my heart race. She squirmed and twisted. Her hair stuck to sweat on her forehead and neck. She grabbed at her enormous stomach and groaned with pain. I hadn’t seen her for months. But I had remembered June 1945: baby due. I found Ellen alone.

“Is Dorothy in Wisconsin visiting Frankie?” I asked.

Ellen panted as if she struggled for air. “Good riddance.”

“You’re in labor,” I said and swallowed hard.  “Have you called Darby?”

“Don’t . . . need him.” Her voice was breathy and full of grit. “Keep him away from me.”

“We need to get you to the hospital.”

“No. Just cramps.”

Her face contorted like a mad woman.

“What do you mean no?” A husky determination came into her eyes. “Ellen, you can’t deliver the baby at home without . . . a midwife or nurse being here.”

“Don’t want a baby.”

She wasn’t making sense. Her forehead. Hot! I had heard stories of women becoming dotty as childbirth neared, but saying no to the baby who wanted to be born? Not a choice.

“I’ll call Darby,” I said.

She attempted to leave her bed and slid to the floor with a yell. “NO! NO!”

Her gown was wet. I didn’t know if her water had broken or was wetness was fever sweat.

“We’re going to the hospital,” I said as I picked her up from the floor.

She struggled to get away from me as I wrapped her in a blanket, forced her down the stairs and out into the street. All the while she slapped at me and cried out for me to stop. I was bigger and stronger than she was. Yet, she fought back hard, and as I grabbed at her, I knew I left bruises on her arms.

Luckily, I spotted a taxi driver willing to risk a baby being born in the backseat. As Ellen  thrashed about in the backseat, the driver’s foot became heavier on the gas.

“Got five of my own,” he said. “Be at the nearest hospital in a jiffy.”

I didn’t understand why Ellen rejected the idea of telling Darby. About then she spewed vile stories about being brutalized by Deidre’s companion Nicholas and by Oskar Varley.  My face turned red as I caught the cab driver’s critical expression.

A muscular Black man met us at the hospital door with a wheelchair.

I fibbed when I took her in and said I was her younger sister. If she heard me lie, Ellen didn’t dispute it. A chubby nurse in a well-starched uniform asked me for our names. I answered Ellen and Eleanor. But one cry from Ellen and the nurse whisked her down the hallway before finishing paperwork. I tried to keep up and gave abbreviated answers to a couple of questions about the timing of Ellen’s pain. The nurse pointed to the family waiting room and whisked Ellen behind a set of doors.

I found a pay phone and called Darby. A bored-sounding secretary took my message. “Tell him he’s about to become a father.”

“Sure thing.”

I called Sheila.

“Ellen’s at the hospital to deliver the baby, but she has a fever, and I’m worried about her.”

I didn’t share the horror Ellen had endured with Oskar and Nicholas. To me her Nicholas story rang true and explained why at times she covered the sores around her mouth. The startled taxi driver had repeatedly turned to look at her as she spilled long-buried secrets of assaults. I feared our driver might take us to the police station.

“Yesterday she sounded weak when we talked,” said Sheila. “Where’s Darby?”

“At work. I called and left a message. The flat was empty. Dorothy’s in Wisconsin with Frankie’s family?”

“She is. Eleanor, I have Una’s daughter for the next two hours. I don’t want to leave her alone. Can you stay with Ellen until I can catch a train?”

“I can stay.”

Sheila gave her usual optimistic view about children being a blessing.

I warned, “You should know, Ellen has turned stubborn. She wants no contact with Darby. She said she’s not going to give birth to this baby.”

Sheila squeaked and took a breath. “Probably not too unusual for many women with their first child. Eleanor, I’m glad you can be with her.”

We hung up. I waited for what seemed like an hour to be escorted to Ellen’s room. No one came.

When I saw a hospital worker with a mop come out through the hallway door, I slipped in behind her in search of Ellen. I peeped into two wards where several women were waiting for the babies to come into this world. They all seemed to be lined up as if on a conveyer belt, but no Ellen. From the next hallway I heard Ellen yelling and screaming. I followed the sounds. Dripping sweat, she lay on the bed in her same wet nightgown. Her eyes were wild, face bright red. When I tried to feel her forehead, she slapped my hand away and curled closer to the wall. She made growling sounds like an animal.

“Has the doctor been here?” I asked.

“Get away from me!” Ellen said in a husky voice.

She twisted to a new position that put her feet within striking distance of my thigh. She tested the distance with her right leg, but I had taken a step back. Fighting a bedsheet, her restricted kick missed me, and she yelled with pain.

“Please step into the hallway,” said a nurse behind me.

“I hate you,” Ellen said with rage. When she squealed, the nurse offered her a sip of water. Ellen lurched and knocked the glass to the floor.

The nurse escorted me out the door with a little push.

I heard Ellen yell, “I don’t want this baby. It’s not mine. NOT mine.”

“Don’t know whose baby it can be if it’s not yours,” said the nurse. To me she said, “Family?” I nodded. “Go back to the family room. I’ll find someone you can talk to.”

Almost twenty minutes passed before another nurse appeared.

“How is she doing? Is the baby coming?” I asked.

“She’s a tough one,” said the older nurse. “We couldn’t keep her with the other expecting mothers. Fever is high, and she is being too disruptive. We can’t have her frightening other mothers.  Best to let her work out her rage alone.”

The nurse left.

“I heard her say the baby’s not hers,” said an older woman carrying a stack of folded sheets.

“I don’t know what to do,” I said.

“I’ve worked housekeeping for many years. Take it from me. Mothers talk nonsense.” She checked her watch. “Until she’s ready or until the doctor is here, probably best to leave her alone. Too agitated by people. I couldn’t change her bed linen.”

She limped away.  

I had expected the baby to arrive in minutes, but after a couple hours, shouldn’t someone be doing something? A nurse with a mean mouth eyed me as an intruder and took my elbow to escort me to a darkened room.

“I brought in my sister Ellen,” I tried to explain. “She’s the expectant mother with a fever in a room by herself and about to give birth.”

“You’re family?”

“Her younger sister. Yes.”

“You don’t look like her,” said the nurse. “Same father?”

“Different,” I said.

“Well, she doesn’t make this easy on herself, does she? For now, she is quiet enough.”

“And her fever?” I asked. “What does the doctor suggest?”

“Yes, the fever.” The nurse took several steps away then came back and whispered. “Has your sister been to see a doctor about this pregnancy?”

“I believe she has. Yes.”

“Doctor’s name is?”

“I don’t know,” I stammered.

She shook her head. “You don’t know, and she’s not telling us. When one of our doctors looked at her, she scratched gouges into his arm.”

Ellen did have a doctor because she told me about his hands being cold. But I didn’t know the name. I felt trembly.

“It wouldn’t be unusual for an unmarried mother to pretend she has a doctor.” The nurse’s voice snarled.

“She’s married.” My anxiety grew.

For a small newspaper, I had written a story on hospital care for unmarried women. I recalled one doctor hinting that childbirth could be a lesson. “Maybe they’ll think twice the next time they try to make a baby.”

I repeated to the nurse that Ellen was married.

The nurse gave a sour, superior expression. “Maybe that’s what she told you, but she shared with us that her husband abandoned her before the wedding. A good thing it was, too. Told us he slapped her around for being a bad girl.”

“I don’t know why she’s saying this. It’s not true. She’s married. Her husband will be here. You’ll see.”

“She’s not about to deliver. This act of hers has stressed the baby. Poor little thing has become less active. In cases like this, maybe it’s kinder if God takes the child.”

I wanted to say something, but fear replaced words.

“If that man of hers shows up, we’ll not allow him into the maternity wing. None of the other mothers deserve a scene of threats or abuse.”

What stories had Ellen told?

Lots of descriptive words came to mind to describe Darby, but abandoning Ellen or striking Ellen were not part of my list. Dry, dull, maybe a young fuddy-duddy, but violent? No.  In the family waiting room young fathers-to-be paced and jumped each time a nurse passed the door. I checked my watch and wondered how long it would be until Sheila and Sam arrived.  

A sturdy looking nurse with a clipboard motioned me into the hallway.

“You brought in Ellen Varley,” she asked.

“Her name is Ellen Quick.”

“She said her name is Varley.” Her look accused.

“She had a fever when she came in. I don’t think she is thinking straight. I was at her wedding when she married Darby Quick. Her name is Ellen Harkleroad Quick.”

“Maybe we are confusing two mothers named Ellen. That’s not the name patient gave us. She described her husband’s . . . brutality?”

“Darby doesn’t do that.” I couldn’t get the right words out.

“Possibly two different women.”

I couldn’t catch my breath.

“Did you bring her to the hospital?”

“Yes.”

“She has bruises coming up on her arms. Do you know anything?”

“I grabbed her and pulled her out of her bed at home,” I admitted. “She didn’t want to come to the hospital and fought me.”

The nurse wrote something on the clipboard.

“She told us she’s been slapped.” The look on the nurse’s face frightened me.

“It wasn’t me. No one was home with her. I had to bring her in.”

“She says she’s been kidnapped.”

“What? No,” I sputtered. “I brought her to the hospital because of the baby.”

“Who are the men she talks about?” asked the nurse.

I was speechless. Maybe there were two Ellens about to give birth. But the name Varley couldn’t be a coincidence. I wiped tears from my cheeks. My heart hammered.

“She has no other family here at the hospital?” asked the nurse.

“At suppertime. Her mother and father are coming in on the train. I don’t know when her husband—Darby Quick—will arrive.”

The nurse nodded and wrote a note to call security.

I felt defeated.

“We will be restricting her visitors. The hospital must be cautious in cases like this—even for unmarried women.”

As the nurse walked away, I grabbed her arm. “Will the baby be okay?”

“This confusion threatens the baby,” the nurse said with judgment in her voice. “But as you said, our business is to protect the baby. Let’s hope the mother has learned a lesson.”

The nurse walked down the hall, leaving me in the hallway.  I looked at my watch. I hated to leave Ellen at the hospital alone, but I decided to go back to the flat and wait for Sam, Sheila, and Darby.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 96: Sheila

Having a cluster of family descend on the hospital wasn’t a good idea, but none of us could wait at home for news. Besides, Eleanor thought Darby might need help with hospital staff. We all stood at the reception desk as I asked about Ellen. Given a room number, I marched down the hallway into Maternity. Covers kicked into a pile on the floor, Ellen looked dreadful and exhausted. She had no response to my touch.

I walked to the nurse’s desk, identified who I was, and clarified Ellen was Mrs. Quick and not Miss Harkleroad or Mrs. Varley.  “She’s a married woman about to give birth to her first child, my grandchild. I know how women can be treated during pregnancy. I plan to stay by her side until I can take her home.”

The nurse checked some paperwork and said, “We have a doctor who will be arriving shortly, but we would like to talk to her doctor.”

I had no name to give.

“If you’ll wait in the family room, I’ll call for a doctor to see her.”

 In the family room, Darby considered names for his new child. He talked of his Aunt Hazel. If Ellen agreed, if the baby was a girl, maybe her middle name could be Hazel. If a boy, maybe Harvey after his own father.

“Ellen probably has first names already in her mind.” Darby grinned.

The poor man had no idea of Ellen’s state of denial.

“You’ve never discussed names?” I asked.

“Ellen said it was unlucky.”

Darby had an innocence about him.

Pulling me out into the hallway, Eleanor whispered the story Ellen told the nurse of the brutality she had suffered at the hands of her husband. “She talked as if Oskar were the father.”

“You need to warn Darby,” I said.

“I can’t,” said Eleanor. “It’s too horrid.”

“Maybe he doesn’t need to know everything.”

Darby stopped a doctor in the hallway and pleaded for information. The doctor looked toward a nurses’ station and said he’d see what he could do. “But, I’m not her attending physician.”

Eventually, a younger doctor entered the waiting room and listened as we identified ourselves.

“She’s comfortable enough. Baby’s not ready yet.”

“How’s my daughter?” asked Sam. I feared his tone would offend the doctor and cut off our only lead to information.

“We’re doing our best,” said the doctor. “Perhaps you don’t know that Caesarians cannot be given to a woman without the permission of her husband.”

“I give permission,” said Darby. “Anything to save my wife and child.”

“That’s just it, isn’t it?” said the doctor with a coldness, “How do we know you’re her husband? She insists she’s Mrs. Varley.”

Blood drained from Darby’s face.

Sam stood up next to me. I felt his rage. “You’ll treat my girl with respect.”

The doctor looked confused and left.

“I don’t understand,” said Darby. “What’s wrong with Ellen?”

            By ten that first night, a nurse advised us to go home. Darby stayed. As four of us left, I noticed an older looking man in a uniform of hospital security sit in a chair near Ellen’s room. Was that because of Ellen or was it normal to have security in the maternity ward?

            Early the next morning, I found Darby looking ragged as he sat in the waiting room.  I insisted he go home. “Get cleaned up. Have breakfast. Today may be long.”

            Once he was gone, I stood in front of the nurses’ station.

            “Ellen Quick is my daughter, and I want to know if the doctor is planning for a Caesarian?”

            “Not at this time,” said one nurse. “Your daughter is making this delivery difficult.” 

            “I was present when her husband told the doctor he agreed to the Caesarian.”

            The nurse looked to the hallways to make sure she wouldn’t be heard. Then she said, “We still have questions about who he is. You see your daughter objects.” She lowered her voice even more. “She has told us he is not the father of her baby. Varley is.”

            “A doctor cannot deliver on his own authority?” I asked.

“Not unless the life of the child is at stake. Then it’s not pretty.”

            “The mother’s life is secondary?” I asked. I swallowed hard. “To save my grandchild, I will lose my daughter?”

            The nurse nodded. “We’re having a hard time breaking her fever, and several nurses have been scratched with long stripes for trying to put a cold cloth on her forehead. Doctor said to call him—once she . . . is unconscious.”

            While my temper rose, the baby had had enough with waiting for her mother to push. According to the attending nurse, “That baby elbowed and clawed her way out of her mother’s body and into the world. I’ve never seen anything like it,” said the stunned nurse.

            Ellen’s body was small and the baby large. Damage was done.

            When Ellen was clean and presentable, we were allowed to peep at her from the hallway.  Unfortunately, a grinning Darby pushed his way to her bedside, and unaware of her physical or mental state, he grabbed her hand. Ellen was limp. She glowered at him, barely able to blink.

Darby praised their child’s beauty. That was when he made a proud dad’s fatal mistake.

“Is she really mine?”

            Ellen awoke screaming, “Get out! Get out!”

            Darby was baffled. “Ellen, she’s a beauty. Is she really mine?” he repeated.

            The nurse came forward and gently pushed Darby toward the door while Ellen thrashed on the bed and screamed.

            “Get out!” she wept. “You think she’s beautiful? You keep her. I don’t want to see that thing. She looks like a pig. Keep her. Name her what you want.”

            Tears consumed her.

            Back in the waiting room, we tried to explain new mothers to Darby who took Ellen at her word.

            He named the baby Hazel after his aunt.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 97: Dorothy

As soon as Darby phoned and I heard of my new grandbaby, I left Frankie’s home and took the train back to Chicago and Englewood. At the hospital, I found Sheila holding Darby’s hand.

            “What’s happened?” I asked. “Is the baby all right?”

            “Hazel’s healthy and happy to be born as far as we can tell,” said Sheila. “We can take her home tonight. It’s Ellen. She had a difficult time and may be here for another week or so. There were complications. Hard birth.”

            “Another week? What happened?”

            “Hazel should have been delivered by Caesarian,” said Darby.

“Baby pushed herself out. They didn’t do anything to kill Ellen’s pain,” Sheila added. “Now she’s refusing to see the baby.”

My poor son looked shaken.

            “Understandable,” I said. “Well, the baby will go home with us, and since Ellen will be here, I’ll line up a wet nurse. Babies must eat.”

            I caught Darby’s eye. He said, “Little Hazel’s beautiful, Mother.”

            “Of course, she is. You named her after my sister. Big Hazel will be so proud.”

            I left them to go look at my new granddaughter. I realize babies can’t really see after they’re born, but as I stood at the window of the nursery, Little Hazel’s head turned toward me, and her eyes seemed to focus.

            “I’m one of your grandmothers,” I whispered.

            Being behind glass, of course, she couldn’t hear me, but I had the strange feeling she understood what I said. I left, knowing the woman I needed to call.

            Sheila and Darby brought Hazel home to the flat on 59^th Street, Nancy arrived at our door about the same time. In her thirties, Nancy had given birth to seven children. Her skin was dark brown. Sheila immediately thanked Nancy for agreeing to feed a white child. Nancy smiled as she took Hazel into her arms. “No trouble at all. My youngest will soon be ready to leave me and chew meat.”

I offered her the rocking chair where I had nursed my last two sons.

            As Nancy spoke and gave her breast to Little Hazel, I teared up. How many times has this scene been repeated in households?  Hazel’s pink lips on Nancy’s brown nipple.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 98: Eleanor

“You’ll be going home soon,” I said to Ellen as I walked into her hospital room. Nine days had passed. She looked weak and thin, sallow like wax. Eyes dead.

            “So, the nurses say,” Ellen whispered. Her voice carried frost.

            “How do you feel?” I asked.

            “Everyone has questions for me. You all expect I’m falling apart or that I should be eager to get into my role as a mother. Nuts to that.”

            “Why are you so angry?” I felt my own anger rise.

            She sat straighter and her jaw tightened. “Angry? I’m furious. I have been in this hospital for over a week, and no one, let me repeat, no one came to see me. No one helped me.”

“Ellen, that’s not true,” I said. “All of us have been here every day. Darby, your mother and dad,  Imogene, me, but we were only allowed to see you one at a time.”

            “LIAR. I was in this bed. Alone. No doctors or nurses. No family. Not even my best friend.”

            “Do you remember me bringing you to the hospital?”

“No. So I have you to thank for this mess?”

I wanted to argue with her. She had to remember arriving at the hospital. “Ellen, you had a fever. We all tried to talk to you, but you yelled nonsense.”

            “No one cared. Answer me this: did I give birth to a child or did mine die?”

            “You gave birth to a daughter.”

            “Who died,” she said with fury. “Because that thing you all took home is not mine.”

            I stood by her bed, too stunned to speak.

“Dorothy hired a nurse to care for Hazel until you come home.”

That was a mistake.

            “He named her Hazel?” Her face grew dark. “You know I do remember he came to visit me and asked if he was the father—as if I had been sleeping with any man on the street.”

            “He didn’t mean it that way,” I said. “I think he was amazed a child of his could be that beautiful.”

            “Beauty? They brought that thing for me to hold. She looked like a pig—a fat, red pig. You’re not my friend if you think that thing is mine.”

            Our friendship broke at that moment. Her eyes identified me as an enemy. I could excuse some of her behavior, but this Ellen had settled into temper. Her unforgiving nature had become even more than judgmental. She was cruel. I feared for Hazel.

            Dorothy Quick had a bad time when Ellen returned to the flat. Ellen held onto the idea that Little Hazel wasn’t her child and resented tending to the baby. Nancy continued to nurse Little Hazel in Dorothy’s bedroom. We all tip-toed around the flat and loved the baby quietly.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 99: Eleanor

September 2, 1945, end of war. Over! Duty done. The boys were coming home. Of course, the celebrations began in May with the Victory over Europe. We had been at war for five years. Our victory celebrations were loud. No more goodbyes. Music blasted. Dancing energetic and joyful. In streets horns shouted giddiness. We had impromptu parades of cars filled with young people waving flags. Silly laughter whooped our thirst for normal. Newspaper headlines screamed elation. Millions of people couldn’t help dancing, singing, kissing. Surely more babies would be born in nine months. Life had bloomed into a burgeoning spring even though it was September.

            Under the momentary joy came heartbreak. The destruction of lives. Liberation of camps ghastly. Heartbreak. Skeleton people, some desperate, all looking lost. We bit our lips remembering lives lost on the beaches of Normandy. Thousands gone in European battles. Wrenching back every Pacific Island dreadful loss. Dropping bombs on Nagasaki and Hiroshima? Horrible guilty, necessary loss. Wrenching memories filled quiet places in our days as we looked at photographs of those we loved and lost. 

            One story particularly hurt my heart: the fate of the Sullivan Brothers. They served together on the U.S.S. Juneau, a light cruiser. During a battle near the Solomon Islands, the Juneau was torpedoed. The ship quickly sank. Reports told all men were lost. Mrs. Sullivan, mother of five boys, waited months before she learned of her five sons going down with the ship.

Other ships in the area left for safer waters. In truth, however, one-hundred men had survived. For several days they fought hunger, thirst, their wounds, and shark attacks. Eight days or so later, someone considered checking the area for survivors. Of a hundred survivors in the water, only ten were still alive. Their account of survival turned into whispers before the story disappeared. My editor said newspapers buried the story as too ghastly and sad with victory coming.

In truth, George Sullivan and two of his brothers had survived the sinking of the Juneau. Ten survivors related the boiling waters of shark attacks. Listening to ghoulish death cries of men, George the last brother slipped beneath the water before rescue came.

For many, we winked at heartache, silenced grief, packed regrets away. Deal with it another time. Sidestep tears. Look, the sky is blue. Birds sing.

            I met Nathan on State Street and Adams in front of the Fair Store. A celebration had broken out with cheering and singing for the end of the war. I couldn’t hear what he said because a man with a trumpet entertained the crowd. Despite his crutch and bandaged leg, Nathan grabbed me and spun me about before giving me a big kiss. I was exhausted from broken friendships and the horror of death. As a good girl, I should have slapped him, but instead I kissed this soldier back and fell in love.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

1946

Chapter 100:  Sheila

            In 1946 before Little Hazel turned one, Ellen came to visit us in Mokena.

            “Where’s Hazel?” I asked.

            “Home. I left her with Nancy. Mother, it’s time for me to have it out with Deidre,” she announced. “I need a break from Dorothy.  She fawns over Hazel. The kid will get spoiled just like Deidre. Look, I’ve decided to spend a month with Deidre’s family. Maybe two. And I’m taking Hazel with me. See what Deidre thinks of her nose.”

            “What made you decide this?” I asked. The shock of it made my hands tremble. “What does Darby say?”

            “Don’t care.” She flounced into a chair and raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t tell him yet.”

            “Let me watch Hazel while you’re gone,” I said. “I’d like to spend time with her.”

            “No. Hazel goes with me. Deidre’s daughters are old enough to watch her while I look for work.” Her voice was hard, eyes secretive.

My heartbeat increased with fear.

            “Her nose is fine. Leave her here,” I said.

“She’s funny looking.” Ellen’s face scowled. “Like a pig. How soon can I have her nose operated on?”

“Ellen, at birth her nose flattened because it pushed against your belly.”

“That’s disgusting. I still see it as a pig nose. I don’t like it. Strangers stare at her.”

“That’s your imagination. Her nose is fine. This is not a good idea to take her with you,” I said. “Please leave Hazel with me?”

            A look crossed her face. Something else was in the works.

            “No. I might find a job.”

            Mentioning a job gave me chills.

            “Ellen, please, don’t.”

            Without telling Darby or Dorothy her exact plans, Ellen up and left on the train for Cleveland. Darby learned of the vacation and called me for Deidre’s address. The dear soul wanted to write letters. The pit of my stomach was hollow at the thought that Ellen hadn’t shared her exact purpose.

 Sam said, “Give her a week. Remember, she’ll be with Deidre. She won’t stay long.”

A week went by and another. Darby and I wrote letters every day and asked her to tell of Hazel’s growth.

“They change so fast. I imagine she’s walking since she wobbled when she stood and scooted around,” I wrote.

Ellen answered. “I’m trying not to be angry, but I’m having difficulty finding a job. So many businesses are hiring military men home from the war. I’ll stay a while longer.”

What frightened me? Ellen wrote, “Hazel is proving to be a clumsy child. She doesn’t want to crawl or walk any more. Probably because of the bruises she has on her knees. I think she’s mad at me for taking her away from her daddy. She’s stopped talking. I knew she would be slow.”

I called Darby and told him to take a couple days off work. “Tell your employers Hazel is sick. You and I need to bring Hazel home—Now!”

He did as I asked, and we boarded the train the next day. “If we don’t bring Hazel home, I fear she could die,” I said to him. I explained how serious it is when a baby stops trying to crawl or walk and no longer babbles.

“It’s that bad?” he asked.

“I fear so.”

My plan was to snatch up Hazel. If Ellen wanted to come home too, that was between her and Darby, who seemed unaware Ellen wasn’t on a vacation. I decided to be honest and handed him Ellen’s letters to me. She had left him and was looking for work.

            “I don’t think she’s planning a divorce; however, that may be where your marriage is going. Darby, she never became attached to Hazel. A child can’t grow without love. If divorce comes, the judge will give her custody. No court removes a child from its mother.” I hoped my look was stern. “It’s been a year. Ellen isn’t accepting her role as a mother.”

            “Wait. A judge would hand over Hazel to Ellen even if she doesn’t want her?” he asked. Hazel’s fate dawned on him.

            “Even then.”

            “Who in Ohio would care for Hazel?”

“Deidre’s daughters. The oldest one is twelve, I think. The young one six. If Hazel were home with us, your mother and I would care for her. So would Una and Imogene. As would Sam.”

I shuddered at the damage Ellen described. A child who stopped crawling, stopped talking?  Memories stirred of Deidre’s cruelty to Ellen. That awful moment Deidre tempted Ellen as a toddler to suck boiling tea from a teapot spout.

 Darby and I knocked at Deidre’s door and could hear anxious whispers inside, but no one greeted us. I knocked again with more force.

“I’m not going away,” I called. “I’m your grandmother.”

The door opened a crack with the chain lock preventing the door from going any farther.

“What do you want?” said the oldest girl.

I could only see her left eye. She had a heavy, dark eyebrow like Deidre’s.

“I want to see you, my grandchildren, and I want to see your mother. Is your aunt here?”
            She shook her head.

“Open the door, and I’ll make us some tea while we wait for your mother to come home. It’s been so long since I’ve seen Deidre, and I’ve traveled so far. I brought us homemade scones and jam.”

I tapped a bag I carried.

The girl looked frightened, but she closed the door to take the chain off the latch so we could enter.

The room was a rat’s nest of clutter and smelled dirty. Unfolded clothing piled on chairs. Empty beer bottles sat on end tables along with plates encrusted with egg yolks. Open boxes of cereal lay on the floor. Someone’s steps had crushed the contents.

A younger child, perhaps six, came out from hiding and stood with her hands behind her back.

“Hello, I’m your grandmother,” I said. “What’s your name?”

She didn’t answer, but her older sister said, “She’s Norma. I’m Lois.”

I swallowed hard at the thought of all these years that had passed, and I was just learning my granddaughters’ names.

“I think I should have one more grandchild here.” I smiled at them, thinking a light touch might cozy Lois’s skeptical mood. “Is Hazel here?”

Norma’s chubby lip wrinkled into a snarl as she said, “Aunt Ellen doesn’t like her name. We named her Dirty Piggy.”

I fought wanting to slap the child for looking and sounding like Deidre.

“And where might I find her?” I asked.

Lois looked frightened, but Norma said, “She’s in the cupboard because she messed herself.”

Darby’s face drained of color.

“Can you show me?” I asked.

Lois walked toward the next room and pointed. Below the shelves with stacked dishes, were two doors of a cabinet. Darby knelt and opened one door with trembling hands. Inside was Hazel. Carefully, we unfolded her arms and legs so we could pull her free from the small enclosure. Hazel’s eyes were glazed, her body cold to the touch. She wore a tiny shirt and a messy diaper. One pin was unfastened, but if it poked her, she never made a sound.

“It’s okay,” he whispered to his daughter, his face ashen. “Daddy’s here.” He gathered Hazel in his arms and pulled her close. The child’s head flopped toward his chest like a rag doll. He looked frightened. “Why does her skin feel waxy?”

“Lois, where are the diapers?” I demanded.

The girl pointed to a door down the narrow hall.

“Rub her skin and back,” I said to Darby. “She needs to feel loving, warm hands.”

Together we rushed toward the bedroom, and Darby undressed Hazel. My heart lurched to my throat. On Hazel’s body were bruises I recognized. Grab the baby skin, yank, and twist. I had seen the same marks on Ellen when she was a baby. Deidre’s doing then, maybe Norma’s doing now?

I went to the bathroom for a wet cloth. Found a sliver of soap.

An angry rash covered the child’s lower body. Darby took the wet cloth and carefully and softly cleaned Hazel. He coaxed her with sweet words. Hazel never made a sound. Her eyes were vacant.

“Come on, baby. This is Daddy and Grandma.” He rubbed her cheek and lips with his fingertips and managed to tempt small blinks of her eyes.

The room had no baby bed or blanket. I looked in drawers for a baby bottle. Nothing. “I’ll go find a bottle. She needs liquid.”

Darby found one of Ellen’s sweaters and dressed Hazel. Tears spilled onto his cheeks. But his expression? He wanted to kill someone for this neglect.

“Maybe sit here until I find some food for her,” I said.

She had lost weight in the last two weeks. I feared she hadn’t been fed today and searched the kitchen.

“She’s not supposed to eat,” said Norma in a nasty voice, very like her mother’s.

“And why is that?” I asked.

“Because she spills food and makes a mess. Her poo is snotty. She was in the cupboard because she’s Dirty Piggy.”

“Have you had breakfast?” Norma nodded. “Well, I’m going to look for some milk or cereal.” Norma stood still. “We’ll leave and take Hazel with us as soon as she eats something. Do you have milk? Even if it’s in a can?”

Norma shook her head.

I found hardened cookies, dried-out fried chicken, and a bowl of old popcorn. Nothing a child of one could eat. I handed a scone to each of the older girls, and I pulled one for Hazel. In the refrigerator I found beer and maple syrup.

Mixing a crushed scone with warmed tap water and a tablespoon of syrup, I spooned a bit onto Hazel’s lips as Darby held her close. At first, she didn’t respond, then her tongue reached for the food and her eyes looked at me.

The front door opened, and I heard Ellen’s voice.

Darby stayed in the bedroom and took over feeding Hazel whisper sips of watery scones.

Dressed nicely in a gray suit I had never seen with much of her brown hair loosened from the pins attempting an upsweep, Ellen looked enraged until she saw me. Her face changed to embarrassment, and she slumped into a chair and stared at a wall without saying hello.

“Darby’s with Hazel,” I said as smoothly as I could. “We’ll be leaving shortly, so don’t mind us. Hazel has decided to return to Englewood.”

“I can’t find a job,” said Ellen. “I’ve tried. Pretty rotten, I say. Companies were willing to hire women during the war. But not now.”

“Why do you need a job?” asked Darby. He walked into the front room, holding tightly to Hazel.

Before Ellen could answer either of us, Norma tattled accusations. “That old lady let Dirty Piggy loose when she should be in the cupboard.  She messed herself.”

Lois shouted, “Shut up. Shut up.”

Norma fired back at Lois. “Dirty Piggy messed her pants. Mother said she should be spanked. Every time.”

Ellen rose from her chair and slapped the child across the face which sent the young girl into a fit of tears and shrieking. Neither Ellen nor Lois went to Norma to offer comfort. But then, neither did Darby or me.

“That’s uncalled for,” I said and swallowed hard. I thought Ellen knew better than to strike a six-year-old child across the face. Lois at twelve looked miserable as she seemed to wonder what to do. Norma continued to cry and declare her hate for Dirty Piggy. Of course, Norma only did as she had been taught, as Deidre and Ellen allowed.

 Darby gave me Hazel and left the room only to return with a small suitcase.

“I packed a few pieces of Hazel’s soiled clothing I found in the bedroom. We are taking Hazel home with us.”

 As calmly as I could, I mentioned our train back to Chicago would leave the station after four o’clock.

“Ellen, will you be joining us, or do you want to kiss your daughter before we leave?” I asked.

“Give me a minute.” She looked confused but walked to the bedroom.

“She doesn’t need to come home,” whispered Darby.

“She does if you want to keep Hazel,” I whispered back.

Ellen and Darby stood at the end of the platform at the train station and argued until the train arrived. I sat on a bench coaxing, cooing, and rocking Hazel until her eyes brightened. I bit the inside of my mouth as I watched the negotiation end.

 “She’s agreed to return to the Englewood flat,” said Darby when he walked back to me. “She wants to work somewhere in the Loop, and she wants no questions from me. I’ve agreed as long as you and my mother can watch Hazel. Maybe Nancy will help in a pinch.”

“When times get hard, remember that if she chooses divorce, a judge will grant custody of Hazel to her whether she wants the child or not.”

“I know.” Darby stood and looked off in the distance. “Hazel’s too young to remember any of this, right?”

I held Hazel close to my body. “She won’t remember the gnawing hunger or being locked in a cupboard, but I’m afraid she could recall fear. Have you ever noticed the way Ellen’s head snaps when there’s a sound like a thwack? Like a shoe hitting flesh. It’s Deidre’s torment of her. Even now Ellen’s eyes dart as if looking for an exit.” Darby grimaced. “Hazel’s too young for real memories, but she may struggle with fears as her mother does.”

Darby looked toward Ellen standing at the end of the platform. “Escape like a divorce?”

“Maybe.”

The train ride back to Chicago seemed long, and my arms trembled as I held Hazel and fought tears. Judging by their stiffened necks and heads, Darby worked through the truth: there’d be no more children.

I recalled all the losses Sam and I had faced. How had we passed cruelty onto Deidre? Why did she raise a hellion child as savage as herself?

Lost Voices/Prochaska

1948

Chapter 101: Eleanor

Sheila cautioned me of Ellen’s temper. The rescue of Hazel brought hostilities into the light. She kept her agreement to live in the Englewood flat and found work in the city. Each morning, she caught the elevated train into the Loop and returned after seven at night. I never knew what delayed her in coming home. During the week, she had little contact with Hazel or me.

Darby continued to work at Pabst on LaSalle and Wabash. Dorothy mostly watched Little Hazel. But when Dorothy made the trip to Racine to help with Frankie’s children, Sheila took the train from Mokena to cherish her granddaughter. Nancy readily stepped in, occasionally even Old Will.

Despite the war being over, the world felt broken.

I always thought it significant that when Ellen came home from Deidre’s, the LaSalle Hotel burned June 5^th, 1946. Many killed, Scores injured. The Chicago Tribune showed pictures of guests lined up on fire escapes, marching down to safety—some still dressed in their night clothing. Many men had managed to wear their hats.  News articles reported women screaming from open windows for rescue. One woman, Julia Berry, the telephone operator, died of suffocation because she refused to leave her post as guests called for help. The fire rose through stairwells and consumed the lavish green and gold elegance of the public rooms. The majesty of 1909 architecture didn’t know of newer safety rules. Ellen and Darby had spent their first night of marriage there. The hotel could be rebuilt to new standards, but not a marriage. Fire of resentment still burned under the couple’s surface of smiles. All because her husband wasn’t Oskar.

Sam decided the family needed a Jackson Park picnic. Una jammed the car with her two children and Fiona’s three. The twins were now sixteen. Aunts, uncles, grandparents, children—and me—met  near the Museum of Science and Industry. Imogene called the day “Jolly.” Sheila managed to have homemade bread for sandwiches. Una told stories of how Vlad once sold ice cream in the park and met Fiona. Of course, it was a story the children had heard many times, but even the teenagers were polite about the retelling of the past. Collectively they trotted out stories of how well Fiona loved color. Fiona’s son praised M & M candies.

“She’d love the purple one,” Scoot said.

We all took a moment to remember her grinning and giggling over color.

Gradually we would pack away the horror of the Depression and the war years. I hoped polite talk would replace anger. In July 1949, the airport outside of Chicago became Midway Airport. Perhaps a salve to soothe scars of battle. 

My husband Nathan soon moved to Kansas where he had been named as manager of an insurance office. My mother, now a widow, agreed to join us. Still, I sent birthday cards to Sheila and oddly enough wrote letters to Darby. I hoped for crumbs of information on Ellen and Hazel.

Lost Voices/Prochaska

1950

Chapter 102: Darby

“Mother,” I said, “You won’t like what I’m about to do. Martha Rose called about her mother. Big Hazel is not well and may not have long. If we want to see her, we need to leave now.”

            “Who’s we?” Mother asked over the phone. “You can’t mean Ellen.”

            “No. Me and Little Hazel. No need for you to rush home from Frankie’s family.”

“You’re right. I don’t approve. There is no reason in this world for Hazel to have a memory of my sister. Go if you must but leave Little Hazel home.”

“I’ve arranged for two days off work. I leave Friday on the Pittsburgh train and arrive Saturday night. Little Hazel is coming.”

Later that night as I packed, Ellen said, “I can’t take a day off work to watch Hazel. Wait another week until your mother comes home from Wisconsin.”

            “Hazel’s coming with me.”

            “Suit yourself.”

            She went back to pressing the wrinkles from a dress she wanted to wear to work.

            The train ride made me smile. Unusual for my daughter, Hazel jabbered on about what she saw from the window. I pointed out fields with cows and corn. She knew cars but not tractors. As the train chugged along, Hazel got the hang of riding across country.  She tugged my sleeve and announced animals, “Cows!” and “Little cows,” even though they were sheep.

            When I met Auntie Hazel, she sat in a big, stuffed chair and struggled to pull her body forward. She stretched out her arms and wanted a hug.

            “Come here, my boy.” She enveloped me with her fleshy arms in a warm hug filled with love. She held me for a long time. Hazel stood well back and silent. I wasn’t sure if she was afraid, but when Auntie Hazel called to my daughter, Little Hazel made a dash for the old woman. Both hummed pleasure.

            Auntie was a big woman. Her hair was white and frizzy like a clown’s. But the dark circles under her eyes, her yellowy skin—the whites of her eyes now a deep yellow—revealed her health. Martha Rose was right to call me. Tears leaked out and ran down my aunt’s face as she held my daughter. When she smiled, her mouth opened in a wide grin, and as she laughed, her whole body shook in a Jello-like shimmy before going into a bad cough.

Auntie’s lips disappeared into her toothless mouth.

            We shared past memories, and my normally shy daughter babbled on about her imaginary friends. Auntie Hazel’s eyes grew with interest, and she laughed with happiness. Once she said, “You’re just like your father when he was young.”

            As her voice weakened, I pulled a chair closer. My knee touched hers as I leaned forward to clasp her hand.

I fought tears as my daughter blurted out. “My mommy goes to work in the dark. She rides on a train. When she comes home, she gives me a half stick of gum.”

“She does?” said Auntie Hazel, and she gave me a look and clapped her hands. “What a treat!”

“Daddy makes me breakfast and combs my hair.”

“Have Grandma and Daddy taught you to cook?” asked Auntie.

“Bread. Grandma Sheila makes big loaves.” She pointed to her fingers and counted. “Wheat, raisin, potato, and rye.”

            “Now, child, let’s see how much of a Sweetland you are. Has Grandma Dorothy taught you to cook?”

            At first Little Hazel looked puzzled and her eyes begged me to step in with an answer.

            “Tell me, how does one make pulled fudge.”

            This Little Hazel knew by heart.

            Again, she counted on her fingers. “White sugar, dark cocoa, yellow butter, a cauldron, muscular hands, and a loving heart.”

            Auntie Hazel laughed. “Dear girl, you are a Sweetland. I’m so glad your grandmother has taught you. So happy you came to see me.”

            She began to cough again, and her face turned a dark red. Martha Rose brought her a glass of water, and as Auntie drank, a sad look passed between me and my cousin. I stood behind Little Hazel and gave her a push toward my dying aunt.

            “Auntie needs her rest,” I said. “Time to say good-bye.”

            Again, Auntie opened her arms wide, and my daughter, her namesake, walked into another warm hug and kiss.

            “I will miss both of you,” she said. “Always remember, darling, you are a Quick, a Harkleroad, and a Sweetland. Sweetland was my mother’s name. Your grandmother and I were both Sweetland girls before we married. Dorothy and Hazel Sweetland.” She turned to me. “Tell her about the others when she’s older.”

            Four days later, Martha Rose called to tell of Big Hazel’s passing. I called Mother still in Wisconsin.

            “I’m taking the train back to Chicago on Saturday. Pick me up at the usual time.”

            I waited at the LaSalle Street Station in Chicago for my mother to get off the train and felt a little annoyed that it was taking so long. As the number of passengers dwindled, I wondered if Mother had missed the train. I charged ahead and got answers from a conductor.

            “We’ve had an unfortunate situation,” the serious-faced man said. “You said your mother always dressed in black?” I nodded. “An elderly lady in black has passed on. We are sorry for your loss.”

Lost Voices/Prochaska

Chapter 103: Eleanor

In the five years after the war, we had a surge of moxie. Soldiers came home wanting new jobs, big families, and large yards for gardens and swings. Women left their factory jobs for a life at home. They shopped in supermarkets like National Tea rather than weave from greengrocers to butcher shops. From their new suburban houses, these working White men and women commuted into the city where they once lived. More Black families escaped the South and found flats and schools in Englewood neighborhoods. Everyone wanted elbow room. Guts moved change. Blocks of Englewood became Blacker. The war had ignited all laborers’ desire for respect. Sam was right: we all want standing.

          Until 1950, Dorothy, Darby, Ellen, and Little Hazel continued to live on 59^th Street despite change.                  

          During the war when Sam wanted a vegetable garden behind the flat in Englewood, Old Will helped him with seedlings.

          After the Harkleroads moved to Mokena in 1944, Will took the Rock Island train and helped Sam prepare the soil. Will and Sam moved slowly with careful spade work.  The two old men, one White, one Black, took to singing as they worked. The day I visited both laughed as they tried different renditions of “St Louis Blues.”  “I hate to see the evening sun go down,” prompted laughter. Will knew to board a train back into the city when the sun was still high above the horizon. Through all this recent history, Black men and women still had to be careful as darkness crept in.

          Seven days after Darby and Hazel returned to Englewood, both his Aunt Hazel and Dorothy passed away. I boarded a train from Nebraska back to Englewood to pay my respects. Because I often read obits, even those printed in papers owned by Blacks, I learned that Old Will had also passed in his sleep. He was well into his nineties although no one knew his birthdate. I felt guilt in never knowing his last name, so when I read it, I sat back and cried. William Sweetland was dead.

           The obit writer wrote, “Mr. Sweetland could have knocked out Honus Wagner as a shortstop even when Wagner was at the top of his game.” Did Frankie know of Will playing in the Negro League? I guessed not. Or of both Will and Honus living in Carnegie, Pennsylvania? After the hardships of segregated baseball, Will went into boxing. By the time I knew of him, Old Will walked bent and slow, didn’t seem like an athlete. Just a charitable old man.

          Was he an uncle to Dorothy? Maybe a much older cousin? Pieces of Dorothy’s story fell together, particularly the endearing kiss Sheila had witnessed.

          I didn’t tell anyone about the obituary, but I had a new sympathy for the loneliness ofDorothy Quick who labored to protect her family’s secrets. I also had a new grief for Jonas. His death had been called unfortunate. Gossip blamed the young cadet for the plane crash. But did Jonas see disgrace heaped on his family if his own Sweetland bloodline came out?  Would all the pilots he trained have been investigated for their race? Newspapers had dropped the plane crash story into the dustbin when the investigation concluded without a cause of the crash being named.

          When I was young, I believed writing down the stories of the Harkleroads recorded history. Sam and Sheila hadn’t revealed all the truth when I was young. Finding the nitty-gritty took many interviews over the years for me to worm out details. I learned of struggles, loves, pain, and strength.

In her old age, Sheila admitted to asking her cousins to talk to Oskar. Did they? Had they murdered Oskar outright? Maybe he ran off to terrorize some other woman. His story was left incomplete.

          Two things came to light as I helped Sheila sort through Dorothy’s possessions and clothing left behind in the Englewood flat. From a stack of old correspondence addressed to Jonas, Sheila handed me a postcard.

          “Most of these are from family, but is this one anything?”

          It read, “See you in the air. Thanks, Jimmy Stewart.”

          Jimmy Stewart the actor had been a pilot in the war. I heard he had come home “flak happy” with memories of pilots who were shot down, young pilots who he watched fall from the sky. That emotional edge gave him the acting grit to do the bar scene in It’s a Wonderful Life. Could Jonas have met him at an airport? I pictured the two pilots shaking hands.

          Sheila waved me over and opened a small box of pictures. Silently she showed me one black and white picture of brown-eyed Hazel, her light hair windblown and two darker little girls, their hair in tight dark braids. All three girls grinned with new friendship. Puggy noses all in a row.

          “Darby took the picture,” said Sheila, “Aunt Hazel’s great-grandchildren.”  

          I was startled that Sheila knew the secret. But, of course, she must have known. Dorothy had become a trusted friend.                  

          As we worked Little Hazel wrapped herself in her grandmother’s white starchy apron and mimed stirring a pot. Play gestures and whispered talk to her imaginary friends created a dear moment of making fudge.

          “Ellen doesn’t know about the family history?” I asked.

          “Wouldn’t be wise.” Sheila closed the box and taped it shut. “Ellen’s marriage is being held together with Scotch tape as it is. Can I ask you to keep these memories with you? I don’t think anyone should destroy them.”

          “I will.”

          Before I left, I watched Sam and Little Hazel sit in the Englewood back yard and play what-hand-is-it-in with the new puppy. Pal’s nose  bumped Sam’s hand that held a bit of cheese. Hazel’s eyes sparkled as she imitated Pal begging. She too got a bit of cheese.

          Soon Ellen’s young family would move to Mokena to a big back yard with chickens and flower beds. Trees for climbing. Empty streets safe for bicycles. The smell of bread coming from Sheila’s new stove.                  

          Women had stepped back from the work force. Blacks were also expected to go back to how things were. Lynchings continued in the South. Respect for soldiers didn’t mean all soldiers. Blacks had difficulties receiving veteran benefits.

          But change could nose its way into existence.  In 1950 the United States entered a new war in Korea. The Tuskegee Airmen had proven their skill during World War II. So had the Black Golden Thirteen pilots of the Navy. Sam liked to recall Patton’s tank battalion of Black Panthers who faced heavy combat. Heroes all. My own personal hero? My classmate Glecena, who had proven her worth in WWII and entered the Korean War as a Captain in the Nursing Corp. A proud accomplishment for a Black Englewood graduate.  According to the news, Black pilots too found a role in this new war, flying jet planes. Change and Progress at last. Small certainly, but something.

          “What memories do you think Hazel will have?” I asked Sheila. “About . . . you know.”

          “She’s a dear, funny child. I hope baby memories melt away.”

          We watched Hazel shake her finger at something we could not see.

          “She’s drawn to imaginary friends,” said Sheila. “She scolds them, dances with them, blames them for broken things. My fear is she’ll recall terrible impressions from her past and have no words to explain them.”

          My stomach churned.

          Once I was home, I boxed all my writing of their family tales, all the boxed memories from Dorothy’s family, and wrote a reminder for myself to send it to Hazel—maybe in the 1970s when things were calmer—race not so fearsome. Hazel had the right to know the challenges she faced if she knew the secret. To know the strength it took.

          Weather was cooler when I received a package of pulled fudge from Imogene and young Hazel. It wasn’t as creamy as Dorothy’s, but it was delicious.

          “How do you make pulled fudge?” asked Big Hazel of her namesake.

          “With white sugar, yellow butter, dark cocoa, a cauldron, muscular hands, and a loving heart,” answered the child.

          I made a wish for a future with less need for a sharpened shovel. A future filled with the standing of a handshake.