Friday, July 7, 1893
Silas McClure had given me an idea when he’d asked for my mother’s maiden name. The women who had danced at the settlement house on Folk Night had all been Bohemian like my mother. Perhaps one of them knew her or had heard of her family. I needed to go back and talk with them. I would ask for my mother by her maiden name. Somebody might have heard of her. I made up my mind to get out of bed early for once, overcome my loathing for horrific smells, and go to work with my grandmother.
“Are you going to the settlement house today?” I asked her on Friday morning. She was bustling around the kitchen making breakfast, but she stopped to stare at me in surprise, a frying pan in her hand.
“Why, Violet Rose. You’re up very early this morning.Would you like some eggs? They’re fresh.”
“No, thank you.” I couldn’t risk returning to that neighborhood with a full stomach. “But I would like to go with you today, if that’s okay.”
“I thought you didn’t like working at the settlement house?”
“I have a hard time with the stench. But Father is coming for me next week, and … and so I would like to go with you.” I was deliberately vague about my reasons. It was hard to lie to a woman who was as kind and good as my grandmother was. Even so, I couldn’t risk telling her about my search for my mother. I didn’t know how she would react.
I wouldn’t have believed it possible for the neighborhood to smell any worse than it had the last time I’d visited, but it did. The first week of July had been scorching, and all of the decaying, molding, putrefying odors had intensified tenfold. From the looks of things, the garbage hadn’t been collected since the last time I’d visited either. I nearly swooned the moment I stepped off the streetcar. I clutched my perfumed hankie to my nose, longing to run to Miss Addams’ house for refuge.
“Let’s go inside the main house,” my grandmother said, “and see if we can find a job for you in there. The soup kitchen will be much too hot today.”
I pushed open the heavy front door and rushed inside like a sprinter reaching the finish line. I could hear the chant of children’s voices in the distance. The massive beauty of the home’s woodwork struck me once again, each window and door framed with ropy carving that resembled thick braids. How did the immigrants handle such loveliness when their own lives were so stark?
“Would you like to work with the kindergarten children today?” my grandmother asked. “I believe I hear them in the parlor.”
“Where will you be working?”
“I’ll go wherever I’m needed, dear.”
“I guess I could try it.”
“Good. Then if it’s okay with you,” my grandmother said, “I’ll leave you here and see if Magda needs help in the soup kitchen.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll see you later.”
I found the children in the parlor, sitting on the floor in a circle while their teacher read a book to them. Louis Decker sat crosslegged on the floor with them. The children were very young, no more than five or six years old, but they looked more like shrunken old people to me than children. The hard life they’d endured was deeply etched on each somber, careworn face. Every one of them looked hungry.
I couldn’t do this job either. I couldn’t get involved with these little ones and let them into my heart, knowing that some of them would die of polio or typhus or dysentery before the year ended. How did gentle, kindhearted women like my grandmother and Miss Addams ever cope?
I stood in the doorway and leaned against the jamb to watch. The teacher held up a picture book with drawings of farm animals. She pronounced the name of each one carefully—cow, pig, goose—and then the children repeated it after her. My heart nearly broke. She may as well have been showing them unicorns and fire-breathing dragons. The only farm animals they were likely to see would be hanging in the window at the butcher shop.
When the teacher closed the book, Louis Decker glanced up and saw me. He scrambled to his feet. “Miss Hayes! It’s so nice to see you!”
“I-I’ve come to help.”
“That’s wonderful!” He introduced me to the teacher, Miss Dow. “Violet plays the piano beautifully,” he told her. “Maybe the children would like to hear a song?”
“Yes, please, Miss Hayes. I’m sure they would enjoy that.”
It was the very least I could do. I made my way over to the small spinet piano in the corner and rifled through the sheet music that lay on top of it. I found a few pieces that I could sight-read and pounded my way through them, then finished with a lively etude that I had memorized for a recital at school. The children applauded my efforts. The sound of their tiny, clapping hands brought tears to my eyes. I stood and bowed.
“Thank you.”
For the next hour or so I assisted Louis with the children as Miss Dow led them in a variety of educational chores: learning to tie a bow, learning their left hand from their right, recognizing shapes such as triangles and squares. Each time I helped a child I would ask, “What’s your name?” Most replied with only a first name. “And can you tell me your family name?” I would ask. None of their nearly incomprehensible replies sounded like Cepak.
Eventually, it was time to take the children outside to play. I had no desire to leave my stenchless sanctuary, so I remained indoors. I wandered into Miss Addams’ library and greeted a woman who seemed to be working there.
“Do a lot of people in the community borrow books from you?” I asked.
“Quite a few. Especially the ones who are trying to learn English. But our neighbors work very hard, you see, and don’t have much time for reading and other leisure pursuits.” I spotted what appeared to be a list of names lying on the round wooden table where she was seated.
“You probably see a variety of ethnic names, working here,” I said. “I find foreign names fascinating. May I?” I gestured to the list.
“Those are some of our regular borrowers,” she told me. I read through the list twice. There was no one named Cepak.
I browsed around the library for a few more minutes, pretending to show an interest in the book titles and in the artwork on the walls. The sound of childish squeals and laughter drifted through the open windows along with the muted odors of the neighborhood and Louis’ booming bass voice.
I explored more of the house and found a friendly, middle-aged woman named Miss McPhee working in a cramped office. I took out my verbal tennis racket and engaged her in a conversation about Folk Night.
“I especially enjoyed watching the Bohemian ladies dance,” I told her when we’d chatted for a while. “I would love to meet some of them. Might you know their names or where they live?”
“I know, generally speaking, where they live. The area between Halsted and the river is made up mostly of Italian immigrants. To the south on 12th Street you’ll find the Germans. Those side streets are where the Poles and Russians live. Still farther south is where you’ll find the Bohemians.”
“That’s very interesting.”
“And if you’re looking for the Irish, they’re mostly north of us.”
“Thank you.”
A few minutes later, Louis returned with the children. He was as sweaty and red-faced as they were. “It’s lunchtime, Violet. Want to help me feed this gang?”
The children gobbled down their meal as if it might be their last. I nibbled on a slice of bread, balancing my need for sustenance with the necessity of walking to the streetcar stop. When the school day ended, Louis invited me to walk to Irina’s tenement house with him.
“This is Irina’s daughter, Nessa,” he said. The little girl gripping his hand had wispy blond hair and pale blue eyes. “Irina still can’t get around very well, so I’ve offered to pick up Nessa in the morning and walk her home whenever I can.” I recalled my real goal and drew a deep breath—perhaps my last comfortable one—for courage.
“Sure. I’ll go with you.” I reached for her other hand. “How old are you, Nessa?” She lowered her chin and stared at the floorboards.
“She doesn’t say much,” Louis whispered.
We stepped outside. The afternoon had grown oppressively hot, and the sun was a glaring fireball in the hazy sky. I wished I had brought my parasol, even if it would have looked out of place in a slum.
“Do you know many of these neighborhood people’s last names?” I asked. I couldn’t afford to waste time easing my question into the conversation.
“Some of them. Why?”
“I’m mainly interested in the Bohemian ones who danced last week. Do you know if anyone has the family name of Cepak?”
“It doesn’t sound familiar. I’m sorry.”
“Is Irina a Bohemian?”
“No, she’s Polish.” I would have huffed in frustration, but I couldn’t risk inhaling that deeply.
When we reached her tenement, the area around the water faucet was littered once again with a variety of pots and containers. This time, the child patiently filling them was a small girl.
Nessa raced up the stairs ahead of us and into her apartment. When I reached the door, she was hugging her mother’s skirts. I felt a pang of longing as I watched Irina caress her daughter’s feathery hair. My mother’s hands had been beautiful and graceful with long, tapered fingers. The nannies that Father hired had taken care of all my needs, but none of them had held me and loved me the way that my mother had.
“Tank you. Tank you,” Irina said, “for bringing my Nessa.”
Louis took a moment to bow his head with Irina and pray for her and her family. I watched, moved by his compassion and faith.When he finished I felt Nessa tugging on my skirt. I bent my head toward hers. “Yes?”
“I am five,” she whispered.
“That’s the very best age to be,” I whispered back. If I could have hidden her in my trunk and taken her back to Lockport with me, I would have.
“Irina looked much better than the last time I saw her,” I said as we descended the tenement stairs. “I hope her leg is healing well.”
“It seems to be … until the next time.”
“Do you think her husband will beat her again?”
“Undoubtedly.” Louis’ gentle face tightened with anger. “So many immigrant men feel frustrated and disappointed with the hard lives they find in America. The only way they know to drown their sorrow is at the saloon. They’re good men, for the most part, until Demon Liquor takes over their life. It causes them to lose control and take out their frustration on their families.”
His words reminded me of what Silas had said. Was it possible that Maude O’Neill’s husband had done the same? It made sense, especially if the Jolly Roger turned out to be a saloon. If Lloyd O’Neill had beaten Maude, she might be very glad he was dead. But did that prove she had killed him? I remembered how Irina had looked the last time I had visited: the bruises, the terror in her eyes. And the shame. Her husband deserved to go to jail.
“Isn’t it against the law for a man to beat his wife?” I asked.
“Of course it is. But the law isn’t always enforced. There’s an attitude that a man’s wife is his property, and what a man does inside his own home is his business. Only the Gospel can change people and break the power of alcohol. That’s why it’s so important to preach Christ’s love in these neighborhoods.”
Would I blame Irina if she pushed her husband down the stairs? But even if it turned out that Maude had pushed Lloyd O’Neill in self-defense, I still didn’t want my father to marry her, no matter how much O’Neill may have deserved it.
As I walked, I wondered where my Uncle Philip fit into the picture. He seemed to be connected to Maude and her husband. Herman’s mother had mentioned something about the war. But was Uncle Philip connected to my mother? I had to solve this!
“I need to talk to some of the Bohemian women who danced the other night,” I told Louis. “Is that possible?”
He stopped walking. He touched my elbow to stop me as well. “Slow down, Violet. It’s much too hot to keep up this pace.”
“I’m sorry… . But could you take me to visit some of those women? Miss McPhee in the office says that many of them live south of 12th Street.”
“May I ask why?” When I hesitated, he said, “I can see that this is really important to you, Violet, and I want you to know that you can confide in me. I promise I won’t betray your trust.”
“I don’t want my grandmother to know, but I’m trying to find my mother.”
“I see.” He gestured to Miss Addams’ front porch a dozen yards away. “Let’s sit down and talk, okay?”
“My mother left home when I was nine,” I said when we’d reached the shady front steps. “She abandoned my father and me.”
“That must have been very hard for you.”
“I didn’t know she was abandoning me at the time. My father told me that she went away because she was sick. It was easy to believe. She had become so sad before she left. It was like she was in a boat that was slowly drifting away from me on the tide. I kept begging her to be happy again, to dance with me—but she wouldn’t. I felt so lonely after she left. I missed her hugs. She gave the best hugs… .” I couldn’t continue.
Louis gently patted my shoulder, the way I’d seen him soothe Irina. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured, handing me his handkerchief. He was easy to talk to, kind and sympathetic. I found myself opening up to him, sharing things I’d never talked about before.
“When I was Nessa’s age, my mother was a lively, vibrant woman who sang to me at night and danced the way those Bohemian women danced. She smelled wonderful, like roses. She would tell me stories— marvelous, magical adventures with flying horses and talking cats. She made up tales about a princess who battled evil sorcerers and monstrous dragons and finally married a handsome prince. She was like the sun to me, full of brilliant light and warmth. But then her light began to dim. Our house seemed to grow darker and colder as time went on. When she left, our house was always shadowy and cold, no matter how many lamps or fires we lit. I kept believing that if my mother was sick, she would get better and come home again. But she never did.”
Louis had removed his glasses while I was speaking. I looked up into his moist, gentle eyes and said, “I need to find her, Louis.Won’t you please help me?”
“Of course. What can I do?”
“Could you take me around the neighborhood so I can talk to the other Bohemian immigrants? My mother’s maiden name was Cepak. Maybe someone knows her, or knows where I can find her family.”
“I would be happy to.”
“Can we go today?” I sprang to my feet.
“I’m sorry,” he said, rising slowly. “I promised to help out at a rally this afternoon, but maybe you can meet me here next week sometime?”
“I’ll only be in Chicago one more week—”
“One week?”
“Yes. Then I have to go home.”
“Meet me here on Monday, then.”
“Tuesday would be better,” I said, remembering my plans to go with Silas to Bishop Street.
“Violet …” Louis cleared his throat and shuffled his feet, as if struggling to say something important. “Violet, I feel as though I’ve known you much longer than one month. I know this is sudden, and that we haven’t spent a great deal of time together, but your grandmother told me so much about you that I feel as though I met you long before I actually did. And … and she is such a devout woman of God that I feel that you … you’re obviously a wonderful woman too, Violet. I would feel diminished if you walked out of my life forever next week. I want so much for you to be part of what I do.”
“You mean—work with you on Mr. Moody’s campaign?”
His face reddened as he stared at his feet. “Well, yes … Well, not exactly.” He had been fiddling nervously with his glasses and finally dropped them onto the grass. “What I meant,” he said as he scooped them up, “was that … I mean, I had in mind the possibility of … of marriage. In the future, of course.”
Three proposals in one week. I couldn’t reply.
“I’ll be finished with my studies at the end of the summer,” he continued, “and there is a church here in Chicago that is considering me for their pastor—” He halted, perhaps stopped by the look of surprise and dismay that was probably on my face. “I’m sorry. I can see that I’m pushing you too fast. Is there some way you could stay longer than a week?We could spend more time working together and see if we wanted to have a future together. July has just begun. We have Mr. Moody’s summer campaign ahead of us, and you could play the piano for me.”
“I want to stay, Louis. It’s my father who is making me leave. I have a suitor back home in Lockport—but I don’t want to marry him,” I added quickly when I saw Louis’ expression.
“That’s good news for me. Suppose I spoke with your father and asked for permission to court you?”
I hesitated, recalling my father’s mumbled words about religious zealots. “You could ask him.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted the life Louis was offering me, but courting him meant I could stay in Chicago longer. And that meant more time to find my mother. I knew it was wrong to use Louis for selfish reasons the way Aunt Matt had warned. But wasn’t Louis using me to play the piano? I felt so mixed up! Would I ever unravel the mysteries of love?
My grandmother noticed how perturbed I was on the long ride home. “What’s wrong, Violet? I can see that you’re not yourself today. In fact, you haven’t been yourself all week.”
“It’s been quite a week, that’s for certain.” I sighed and slouched lower in my seat. Madame Beauchamps had called girls who slouched “jellyfish” and made us balance a book on our head for a full hour as punishment. But Madame Beauchamps never had a week like the one I’d had.
“Herman Beckett proposed to me on Tuesday,” I told my grandmother.
“Is he the gentleman from Lockport that your father wants you to marry?”
“Yes. Then Nelson Kent proposed to me on Wednesday night. He’s Aunt Agnes’ choice.”
“You have had a busy week.”
“That’s not all. Louis just proposed to me this afternoon.”
“That’s wonderful!” She clapped her hands. Then her shoulders sagged. “It seems I’m happier about it than you are. Are you trying to decide which proposal to accept?”
“I don’t want to accept any of them right now. I’m not ready to get married. And even if I was ready, none of the three ever said that he loved me. Father is the one who’s in a hurry for me to marry. I’m so afraid he’s going to choose for me, and he favors Herman Beckett. Herman is so boring! Nelson Kent could give me a comfortable life, but he … And now Louis …”
“Louis is a fine young man, Violet. You would have a very fulfilling life with him, serving God. And plenty of excitement too, I would think.”
“May I ask you a question, Grandmother?” After a slight hesitation, I continued. “Aunt Matt said something about having the blinders off when it comes to marrying a minister. What did she mean?”
Grandmother gazed into the distance. Her eyes looked sorrowful to me. “Being a minister is not like having a job with regular working hours. Louis will be gone a lot, tending to the needs of his flock. His passion is first and foremost for God, and that’s a good thing.When you serve your husband, you’ll always know that you are serving God and helping Louis to do the same.”
Her words reminded me of what Aunt Agnes had said about supporting and encouraging Nelson in his work.
“Of course, there are unfair pressures on the pastor’s family— people who expect them to be perfect,” Grandmother continued. “That’s not always a good thing. And pastors often make the mistake of putting their congregation’s needs ahead of their family’s needs. There will be times of sorrow. But also times of great joy.”
“Did you and my grandfather love each other?”
“People didn’t talk much about love back when I was a young woman. My father had four daughters, much to his sorrow. He wanted to find decent, honest husbands for each of us. Isaac was a good man. He chose me because of my devotion to the Lord. Love does grow, in time, as you make a life together and raise a family.”
Again, I was reminded of what Aunt Agnes had said. I wanted to ask my grandmother about Uncle Philip, but I was afraid that I would have to explain how I had heard of him in the first place. I didn’t want her to know that I was digging into my family’s past and searching for my mother.
“Did my father fight in the war?” I asked instead. She seemed surprised by the sudden change in topics.
“He had just turned eighteen and was old enough to be drafted when the war ended—thank heaven.” She took my hand in hers. “Violet, what is it that you really want in life?”
I thought for a moment, then said, “I want to be loved. I don’t want to spend my life all alone like Aunt Matt. I want to find someone who loves me for myself, just the way I am, not for what he’ll gain by marrying me. Is that too much to ask?”
“Not in the least.” She slid her arm around my shoulders and gave me a hug. “I know someone who loves you that way right now.”
I sat up in surprise. “You do? Who?”
“God.”
“He doesn’t count.”
“Of course He counts! I know you’re facing some very important choices in your life. And that you’re trying to understand all the new things you’ve experienced this summer. You’re trying to figure out how they fit with the experiences you grew up with and what you learned at school. Ideally, you will be able to bring everything together—and find God’s purpose for your life in the process. He allows tragedies such as losing your mother in order to shape us into better people. It’s not His will that we suffer, but He can bring good from it if you’ll allow Him to.”
“I can’t see any good in it. And now I feel like I’m trapped. Father is going to choose a husband for me if I don’t make up my mind.”
“When my husband died, I couldn’t see any good in it either. I didn’t know which way to turn. But all the loose ends came together when I sought God. I pray that you’ll do the same. And that you won’t marry for the wrong reasons.”
“Will you talk to Father for me?”
“Yes, of course I’ll talk to him. I’ll tell him that I disagree with him, and that I think you should wait a little longer before getting married. But talking is all I can do, Violet. You are his daughter.”
“What would you do if you were me?”
“I would pray.”