Eastland (7 page)

Only twenty people at a time in the Armory meant the long line
crawled forward, giving me far too many empty hours to think
about the grisly task ahead. How many corpses were in the
morgue? How were the bodies arranged? If it smelled this bad
outside, what did it smell like in there? What would we hear?
Would we even be able to recognize Mae?

That last question swirled around and around my brain until
my head hurt.
Fortunately for me, there were plenty of distractions. Those
first in line were shown to a taxicab parked near the curb. A
telephone line ran from inside the Armory to the cab, where
health officials waited to interrogate people before admitting
them. Time after time, people were questioned and then turned
away grumbling in anger. A few of those that had been asked
to leave, argued with the officials, but the Health Department
always won. The morbidly curious were sent on their way.
The closer we came to the entrance, the quieter the night air
became. The earlier agitation of the people in line had turned
into a dread-filled stillness. Chilling screams and a damp, rotting
stench seeped through the closed doors. My empty stomach convulsed. The stew and biscuits I’d eaten this afternoon had been
digested hours ago. But hunger was the last thing on my mind.
This night had turned into a macabre circus. I wanted more than
anything for it to end.
One way or the other, I would know the truth. Either I’d see
Mae alive and waiting for me, or I’d find her corpse.
Finally, around two-twenty Sunday morning, Karel and I
reached the taxicab.
“Name of the deceased?” asked the health official.
“M-Mae Koznecki,” Karel stammered. I put my hand on his
arm and felt him quaking beneath the cotton fabric of his sack suit.
The man flipped through his papers. “Don’t see her name on
the list of survivors or injured. No one’s telephoned in a report
on her status. We can only assume …” He looked up, peering at
us over the top of his black spectacles. His “official” expression
softened. “How’re you related?”
“Mae is my sister.”
“And my friend.”
Karel gave me a wilted smile. “Mae’s best friend.”
“I see,” said the man. “Mae’s hair color? Age? Height and
weight?”
“Blonde hair, cut short,” Karel said.
Crimped and wavy. The memory of that day in the beauty
salon popped into my muddled mind.
“Looks spectacular, Mae!” I had circled her, admiring her
new haircut from all angles.
“Crimping’s all the rage. I had to get it done.” She grabbed
my hand. “You should too!”
“What? Cut off my braid? What would Mama say?”
“She’ll probably say you look very stylish in a bob.”
I swatted her arm and walked away. “Mama would never
permit it.”
“Then we won’t tell her ’til it’s done.”
A tingle of excitement rose in my chest. “What about the
cost? How would I get the money?”
“My treat for your sixteenth birthday. Now close your mouth,
Dee,” Mae had scolded. “You can’t refuse a gift. Even Mama
would think that impolite.”
“Mae’s seventeen,” Karel told the official. “She
was
seventeen. Guess now she’ll always be.”
It took a moment for his statement to sink into my
consciousness.
Mae would never age? She wouldn’t wrinkle? Her hair
wouldn’t gray? Death had that kind of power.
“I’m not sure about the rest,” Karel finished.
“She’s five-foot-four,” I said.“About a hundred-twenty pounds.”
“Thank you, miss.” Our interrogator searched through his inventory of bodies. “There are quite a few young women who fit that description.” He scribbled something onto a piece of paper. “Here’s your
admittance pass.” He handed the note to Karel. “My condolences.”
Karel took the pass, the paper quivering in his hand. “Thank
you, sir.” He looked at me. “You can still change your mind and
wait outside.”
“No! I’m going with you.”
I swallowed my nausea and fear, and followed Karel to the
Armory entrance where another somber-looking man reviewed
our pass.
“Your sister. I see. Well, bodies are numbered and arranged in
rows of eighty-five. Any personal belongings found with the bodies
were sealed in envelopes and placed alongside them.” He stepped
back to admit us. “Western Electric volunteers will assist you. Please
start to your left.” He touched Karel’s arm. “May God be with you.”
“Last chance, Dee,” Karel said. “I beg you, wait outside.”
I shook my head and marched through the doublewide doors
into the cavernous chamber of the Second Regiment Armory.
Bile shot up my throat. The stench that had wafted out the doors
barely held a clue to the revolting stink inside that morgue.
Hundreds upon hundreds of corpses, many drenched in the
disgusting water of the Chicago River, lay drying and decaying
on the cement floor. Some had already been embalmed, and
some were in the process. I could see tables off to the side where
undertakers were working at a feverish pace.
All the bodies on the Armory floor had been covered in
blankets of every sort, but their death-mask faces had been left
exposed for viewing. Families and friends searched the aisles,
their screams of identification knifing the air.
A man wearing a familiar Western Electric identification
badge charged toward us.
“This way, please. Take all the time you need. I’m here for
you all night.”
I held my hand over my mouth to keep from gagging as we
drifted up one aisle and down another. After hours of waiting in
the dark, the bright lights stung my eyes.
Every once in a while, Karel would approach a body and peer
into its lifeless face. Then he would rock back, shaking his head.
“Not her. No.”
Maybe not that girl or the one after, but soon, we could
come upon Mae, stiff and cold. A number without a name, all
humanity stripped from her. Yet right now, at this very instant,
there lingered one last pinprick of hope that Mae had survived,
that she’d made it safely home and all of this was some hideous
mistake. We’d seen nearly six hundred bodies. None had been
Mae. Only a hundred or so appeared to be left.
Maybe Mae wouldn’t be among them.
A few feet away, someone screamed. I turned to see a woman
and man, both in their twenties, sink to the floor beside a tiny corpse
in a blue blanket. In fact, all the corpses in that area were small, and
I realized with a painful constriction of my heart that all the dead
babies had been placed together—off to one side in a corner.
I whirled away, gasping for air.
Karel went for a nearby chair. “Sit!”
I wanted to argue, but my body sank onto the seat before my
mouth could form any words.
“Take deep breaths.” He knelt beside me. “In, out. That’s it.
Deep and even.”
My breathing slowed, and with it, my racing thoughts. I remembered Lars Nielsen and how only hours ago, he had ministered to
me in much the same way.Lars and Karel were such different men,
yet somehow I’d managed to bring out similar qualities in each
with my weak-willed demonstrations.
I stood. Karel reached for me, but I gently pushed his arm
aside.
“I’m good. I can do this.” I touched his cheek. “What about
you? How are you holding up?”
He took my hand and kissed my palm. “The best I can, as
long as you are near.”
We continued our deathly tour, hand in hand, until we came
to the last row. A young man was on his knees in front of a
slender, female body.
“Sarah! No! No!” he bawled as he stroked the dead woman’s
hair. Her features were distorted, her expression revealing the
horror of her last moments of life. She had probably been a
beautiful blonde. But now, greasy, greenish strands of hair stuck
to her ghost-white face, making her look as though she wore a
dirty mop for a wig.
I had to fight the temptation to cover my ears against his
woeful cries as we scuttled around the tormented man.
Farther down the aisle, a group of female mourners stood
clustered together. Several of the women looked familiar, one
in particular. I’d seen that feathered, aqua hat and those wild,
red curls before. In an instant, I knew. As if the girl had read my
thoughts, she turned.
I stared into the moist, emerald eyes of Dolly O’Brien,
switchboard operator at Western Electric.
“Who is that?” I pointed to the blanket at her feet.
She stepped back to reveal the corpse.
I released Karel’s hand, yet I couldn’t move. My limbs had
gone numb.
Dolly came to me and put her arm around my waist. We
hobbled closer to number 694, and I could tell the corpse was
male. Another step and I saw he had a sweet face. One last
movement—
“Johnny Volo!” Mae’s dancing partner. Last person to see
her alive.
“I heard Johnny and Mae had been together when …” Dolly
stared at me, her freckled face distorted by pity and pain. “I’m so
sorry, Dee.” She gently turned me around.
I shook her off and stumbled past 695, 696, 697. No Mae.
Dolly had it wrong. Mae wasn’t dead.
And then I saw it. A shredded length of lilac linen poking out
from under the blanket of number 698. I sank to my knees.
Karel staggered past me and stared down into the lifeless
face. He buried his head in his hands.
Mae! I had my proof. The world went dark.

“I don’t want to skate. I can’t. No, really!”
“I’ll teach you. Come on.” Mae takes my hand. We fly
through the air toward the frozen pond.
“I can’t skate!”
“How do you know when you’ve never tried?”
“I don’t want to try! Now let go!”
Mae drops my hand. I sink back to earth.
“Can’t you this once be brave, Dee? Take a chance?”
Clang
.
Something was banging … A metal door knocker? It
clanged again
.
I struggled to open my eyes as Mae’s face faded from my dream.
It took a minute or two for me to adjust to the dim light, but
eventually I lifted my head and looked around. There was an oak
wardrobe with clawed feet and carved etchings on both doors
standing upright against a wall. Beside that closet, a Princess
dressing table with an oval mirror attached. Across the room, a
window with the fringed shade pulled down.
I was home? In my own bedroom? How’d I get here? Last
thing I recalled … I shot up.
“Mae! Mae!”
Mama came rushing through my open bedroom door.
“Ma petite!”
She dropped onto my bed and scooped me up.
“You are safe now.” She rocked me in her arms. “Mae has gone
to a better place.”
“The better place is here! With me!” A stabbing pain shot
through my chest. I was pressing my hand against my heart to
stop the hurt, when I realized—
“My watch!”
Mama nodded toward my dressing table. “It is there. Waiting
for you.” She brushed the bangs from my eyes. “Mae gave you
that watch?”
I nodded and sniffled. The jabbing in my chest intensified.
Mama held me. I heard her heart beating a steady pulse in
my ears, reminding me that we were both alive. And Mae was
dead. The tears I’d been holding back burst forth, and I wept
without restraint or apology. I didn’t care about Karel or his
parents
.
I didn’t care about anyone but me.
I
had lost Mae
. I
would never see her again.
I
was alone.
Mama rocked me, singing French lullabies until my agony
faded to a dull ache. She pulled a hankie from one of the three,
wide pockets on her work apron and gave it to me. I wiped my
eyes and runny nose.
“Where … did … they find Mae’s body?”
Mama let out a long sigh and wiped away her own tears with
the sleeve of her navy house dress. “Karel said they were in the
salon near the dancing floor.”
Mae probably never heard the warning. I hoped she’d died
quickly, doing something she loved, with someone she liked very
much.
“You are trembling.” Mama retrieved my green, chenille
bathrobe from the hook behind my door and wrapped it about
my shoulders. I slipped my arms into the fluffy-soft sleeves.
“Was someone knocking at our door earlier? I think that
banging woke me up.”
“
Oui
. A nurse from Western Electric came to check on you.
She wanted to give you a tie-food shot. But I told her you did not
fall in that dirty river.” She made the sign of the cross; touching
her forehead first, then her heart, then her left shoulder, and
finally her right.
Tie-food shot?
“Oh, you mean the nurse wanted to give me a typhoid shot if
I’d fallen in that disgusting water.”
But I hadn’t fallen. I never even soiled my new snakeskin
shoes. I fought hard not to cry again.
“What time is it, Mama?”
She lifted the shade. The window was splattered with drops,
the sky beyond an ugly blue-black.
“One in the afternoon.”
“I missed Mass?”
“You missed Sunday.”
“What? It’s Monday?” I threw off the covers. “I’m late!”
Mama eased me back against my oak headboard. “No work
for you today. Tomorrow the wakes. Funerals, on Wednesday.”
She tucked my pink chenille bedspread with the puffy flower
pattern around me. “Thursday you may go to work.”
“Thursday! But I’ll be docked three days’ pay!”
“You think I worry for pay?
Paaa!
” Mama caved onto my bed.
“My child. My life. Only for you I worry.” She pressed her lips to
my forehead, kissing me long and hard. I inhaled the comforting
scent of her lavender toilet water.
I wasn’t alone. I had Mama. I curled up against her, anxious
to hear her steady heartbeat again.
“How’d I get here? What happened?”
Mama’s chest heaved with a sob. “Karel sent you home in a
horse and buggy.”
Salvatore and Lucille. They had waited, as promised. “I’ve
been sleeping for thirty hours?”
“
Oui
. You need much rest.”
My stomach grumbled painfully. “I’ve had enough sleep.
Please, Mama. I want to get up.”
She studied me for a few seconds. “Maybe enough of this bed.”
She pulled back my bedspread. “I make you some fried eggs.
Oui
?”
I nodded hungrily. We got up, at least Mama did. My sleepy
legs swayed. I landed back on my bed.
“Lean on me.” She offered her arm. I clung to her as we made
our way into the hall. I peered toward the parlor.
“What’s all that?” I stared at a pile of black material near her
Singer sewing machine.
“Mourning clothes. Some need only buttons. Others I take
in, take out.”
I turned back to Mama and noticed for the first time since
waking how exhausted she looked. Her sallow complexion had
gone ashen. The shadows under her eyes were so dark, she looked
as though she wore a mask. I started for the pile of clothes.
“I can help.”
“
Non!
Today you take it slow.”
“But there’s so much mending.” Days and days of it, by the
look of all those clothes.
“
Oui
. Much work. Mrs. Ivanko needs a new mourning dress.”
“Then Mr. Ivanko …” I touched my scalp in the tender spot
where Mrs. Ivanko had pulled my hair.
Mama nodded.
“Poor woman. What’ll she do now?”
“What we all must do. Help one to another. And live.”
Mama made living sound so definite. But I didn’t possess her
confidence. I knew I’d stumble in my efforts to make it through
each day without Mae. At least I had Mama to lean on.
“If I eat something, then may I sew?”
She shook her head. “Tomorrow, when you are stronger.”
“Please, Mama! I need something to occupy my mind or I’ll
go stark-raving mad.” And then, I smiled. “Do you realize I’m
begging to sew? And you’re demanding I rest, not work.”
Mama shook her head and chuckled. “You are strong
enough?”
“Maybe, after I eat. Can you make my favorite?”
“How many?” She looked annoyed, but I knew she was
faking.
“Three Birds in a Nest, if you please.”
We ambled into the kitchen together. I plunked into my regular chair at our tiny table to watch and to wait. Mama opened the
dampers on her black enameled-steel range, stacked maple kindling in the firebox, and lit the bundle with a match. While the
wood-burning stove warmed, she cut three slices of bread from
a thick, Italian loaf. Then using a glass turned upside-down, she
cut out a circle in the center of each slice.
“Will you check the fire?” She took three eggs from the icebox.
I wrapped the hot firebox handle in a dishrag, opened the
door, and added maple logs to the smoldering kindling. While I
was up, I grabbed the milk bottle from the icebox, a spoon from
the drawer, and a Blue Willow teacup and plate. I sat back down
and spooned out the plug of thick cream that had settled on the
top of the milk bottle.
“Did you ever see or feel Papa after his death?” I slurped
down a drippy spoonful of cold, delicious cream.
Mama cocked her head and stared at me with those penetrating black eyes that could see not only the present, but into the
future. “After he died? I do not understand.”
“You have these premonitions, but can you see spirits as
well?” I ate the last of the cream and then poured myself a cup
of milk.
“Ghosts?
Non
. No ghosts.” She held her hand over one
of the six cook plates on the range and nodded. The stove
was hot enough. “You are thinking that Mae might come to
visit?”
My chest tightened, hearing her name. “Well, yes. I was
thinking, no hoping
,
Mae might come to me. Maybe send me
some word that she’s settled and safe.”
Mama set her cast-iron skillet on the hot cook plate and plopped
in a spoonful of lard. The grease crackled. She dropped the three
pieces of bread with the hollowed-out middles into the sizzling
skillet and cracked an egg into each center. As my egg sandwiches
fried, Mama came to me and put her hands on my cheeks.
“Oh c
hérie
, you must not worry. Mae is happy now.”
“Promise, Mama?”
She looked to heaven. “I swear to God Almighty.”
I thought I had cried everything dry, but a new flood of tears
broke loose.
Mama squeezed me to her and then screamed. “The eggs!”
She rushed back to the smoking stove. “Oh, the nests! They are
burned!”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m so hungry I could eat charcoal.”
I brought my Willow plate to her. She scraped three very
crispy sandwiches onto the china with her metal spatula. I hurried back to the table.
“I must get back to work. Mrs. Ivanko needs her dress for
tomorrow.” Mama let out a tormented sigh. “So many dead.
Father Raczynski thinks there will be twenty-five, maybe more,
funerals at St. Mary’s.”
“In one day?”
“At one Mass.” Mama shook her head and padded back to
her Singer.
I sat alone in the kitchen trying to imagine twenty-five,
maybe more, coffins lined up across the front of St. Mary’s. But
the horrific image was more than I could manage on an empty
stomach. I shook all thoughts of funerals from my mind and
concentrated on my meal, devouring my three Birds’ Nests in a
few big bites. I washed my plate and teacup at the sink, and then
rinsed the empty milk bottle before leaving it out in the hallway
for the milkman.
After a quick sponge bath in our bathroom sink and a change of
clothes, I strolled into the parlor on much sturdier legs than before.
Mama gave me the easy projects like buttons, and torn
seams, and hemming. I set right to work, eager for the chance
to provide even the smallest relief to my distressed neighbors. I
may not have been able to bring them news of their loved ones,
but I could mend their mourning clothes. I passed the afternoon,
listening contentedly to the crink-crink of the metal foot pedal
on Mama’s manually operated Singer.
As sunset approached, I lit the two kerosene lamps on the
mantle, plus a third oil lamp on the round parlor table near
Grandmère
Pageau’s green velvet sofa. I’d paused to rub my
tired eyes, when Mrs. Mulligan burst through the front door.
“Saints preserve us! What has this world come to?”
Mama lifted her foot from the sewing pedal. The Singer
stopped. “What has happened?”
“The VandeKipp house has been burgled!”
“They are back home?” Mama crossed herself. “Sank the
Lord!”
Mrs. Mulligan shook her frazzled red head. “They’ve not
returned.”
“Then they’re all …” I managed.
“Dead. All six of them.”
The room fell silent, the weight of those words bearing down
on my soul. But I pocketed the grief for another day. Right now,
we had a more urgent problem.
“So if the VandeKipps are all gone, how’d you find out about
the robbery?”
“I sent my own sweet Maggie to hang a crepe of mourning
flowers on their front door.” Mrs. Mulligan wiped her nose with
her sleeve. “Maggie peered through their parlor window and
what did she see? The devil, I tell you! Looked like a gang of
hooligans had turned that house upside down.” She shook her
head and wailed, swiping at her runny eyes and nose with both
sleeves now. “What has this world come to when we rob the
dead?” She sank onto the sofa with a heavy plop.
Mama got up from her Singer and sat beside her. “There,
there, now, Mattie. We must stay strong.” I caught Mama’s eye.
“May I?” I mouthed, nodding toward the door.
Mama shooed me away.
I slipped outside to see for myself what was going on.
Three doors down, neighbors had gathered in front of the
VandeKipp home. Officer Kennelly emerged from within the
house at the very moment a paddy wagon pulled up to the curb.
The assembly erupted in questions and jeers. Kennelly held up
his arms.
“Easy now. We’ve got the situation under control.”
“Control?” argued Mr. Czarnek, who lived across the street.
“You call this control?”
“Their landlady is checking now,” said Kennelly. “She’ll let us
know if any valuables were taken.”
“And then what?” countered Mrs. Ivanko. “They’re all dead.
Even if you find the thieves, who you gonna return the belongings to?”
“Right!” Mr. Czarnek retorted. “Who?”
“Who?” the crowd echoed.
Their “who’s” soon turned into an angry chant. Kennelly
signaled to the driver of the paddy wagon. Six more policemen
piled out the back door, every one of them brandishing a billy
club. The cops encircled my neighbors, smacking their clubs
against their opened palms. My neighbors pressed outward
toward the cops, still chanting.
I was inching back toward my front door, when a whistle
blew.
“Stop! Please!” Kennelly held his whistle to his lips as the
chants fell away. “We’re all on the same side here. And we’re all
justifiably angry at people who could take advantage at a time
like this. We’re grieving for the VandeKipps. Even the police.”
Kennelly looked at his fellow cops. They nodded and lowered
their clubs. “This neighborhood, why, the entire city of Chicago,
has been devastated. We don’t want to add to that heartbreak,
do we?” Heads shook. “Good. Then let us finish our investigation. You good people go home. Be with your loved ones.”
People muttered and shook their heads as one by one
they drifted away. The six cops quietly disappeared into the
VandeKipp home. Kennelly stood alone on the porch for a moment, watching, and then turned and went back inside.
I wandered along the deserted sidewalk wondering what had
happened. Neighbors I’d known my whole life had gone berserk.
Friendly coppers had threatened violence. Burglars had stolen
from the dead. And what about the Miller Brothers, those two
pickpockets from the armory? So much evil.
Then I remembered Lars Nielsen and how he’d risked sliding into the river in order to save me from myself. What about
Karel? If not for him, I would have drowned in the capsizing,
along with those two teenagers and that baby he’d pulled from
the river only minutes later.
There was Mrs. Mulligan. Many a day she and her children