The Death Beat

by Fiona Veitch Smith

  Because it’s too soon after Daniel. She looked at Toby’s hands as he lifted the sheet and examined the stump underneath. The skin was smooth and unscarred, so unlike Daniel’s. But both men were strong, she could tell that. And gentle. Is it really too soon?

  Poppy pulled herself out of her romantic reverie as Seaman Jones’s eyes turned to her.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m Poppy Denby. You probably won’t remember, but I was with Dr Spencer when he operated on you on the ship.”

  There was no recognition in the man’s eyes.

  “Yes,” interjected Toby, “the lady was a godsend. And she has come to see how you are doing. Isn’t that kind?”

  Jones’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. “You from Carter? I told that last’n I’d done nothing wrong. Nothing others haven’t done afore me.”

  Toby’s and Poppy’s eyes met over the bed. They were equally puzzled.

  “I’m not from the shipping company,” said Poppy soothingly. “And I’m sure they only have your best interests at heart. They were probably just trying to find out what happened. What did happen?” Poppy ventured.

  The man’s eyes flitted from left to right. “Nothing wrong… others done the same…”

  Poppy leaned in towards the man. “What have you done, Seaman Jones? What have others done too?”

  But Seaman Jones was no longer listening. His eyes rolled back and his limbs jerked uncontrollably.

  “He’s having a seizure,” announced Toby and proceeded to apply first aid, removing the patient’s pillow and lowering his head so it was level with his body.

  “Nurse, pad the leg.” The nurse flipped back the sheets to reveal a metal arch and proceeded to stuff pillows into it to protect the stump of the amputated limb from bashing against it as the man’s limbs flailed.

  Poppy stepped back to allow the medical staff to do their work. She had seen patients in the military hospital having fits, but had never quite got used to the shock of seeing a body in the full throes of convulsions.

  Eventually the convulsions eased. The seizure had almost run its course. Toby felt the man’s pulse. “I need to do some tests. Excuse me, Poppy, but perhaps we can meet again in less distracting circumstances. I’ll telephone you at Rollo’s, if I may. There’s a party –”

  “Doctor!”

  Seaman Jones began to wheeze, his face turning beetroot.

  Poppy withdrew from the room.

  CHAPTER 19

  FRIDAY, 19 APRIL 1921, THE GARMENT DISTRICT, MANHATTAN

  Mimi Yazierska flicked the reverse lever on her Singer sewing machine, then flicked it back to finish inserting the zip on a yellow sundress. It was the twelfth zip in an hour, and as the clock on the wall of the loft workroom struck five, she snipped the thread and put a cross next to number 96 on her daily quota card. She let out a long sigh and then leaned back in her chair, stretching out her right leg, cramped after eight hours on the treadle.

  Mimi looked to the dirty barred windows. It appeared to be a sunny afternoon in New York City. She wondered what it would be like to sit on the grass in Central Park, holding a parasol with one hand and an ice cream cone with the other – just like the photograph in the book on America she and Anatoly used to read.

  Anatoly… she’d been in the city of her dreams for seven days now and she was no closer to finding him. She must find a way to get to Times Square. But how? And if she did get there, would he really be there waiting for her?

  In the seven days she had lain awake in the garment factory dormitory, Estie tucked in beside her, she had begun to ponder whether her dreams could ever become a reality. Yes, they were what had kept her going the last two years, moving from port to port, trying to earn enough to keep her and her sister alive. She had told the story of her fiancé-who-was-waiting-for-her-in-New-York so many times that she had come to believe it herself.

  But was he really waiting for her beyond these damp factory walls? Had he even made it out of Russia alive? On her travels she had seen the detritus of the once-great Russian empire. The women and children wearing little more than rags. The aristocrats commandeering carts piled high with the remnants of their wealth. The injured and dying soldiers…

  She had to face it: the chances of Anatoly having made it to America were slim at best. And if he had, how would they find one another? The man on Ellis Island had told her One Times Square was the office of a newspaper. How could he wait for her at a newspaper? They had been fools. Young, romantic fools.

  And yet, here she was. Against all odds. And Estie, safe and well beside her. Estie had also been given work. She was expected to sweep up the threads and scraps that fell to the sewing room floor – a job the young girl was immensely proud to do. For now, anyway. It wouldn’t take long, Mimi knew, until Estie got bored and wanted to play another game. And she, Mimi, was already tired of sewing zips day after day after day…

  Yes, their current circumstances were not quite what she’d dreamed of, but at least they were here – in America – where, with or without Anatoly, she could start a new life… eventually.

  Despite her occasional romantic delusions, Mimi was no fool. She was well aware that her back-door entry to the United States had strings attached – and that they weren’t legal. The woman on Ellis Island had told her she would have to work for two years to pay for her entry; but after that she and Estie would be free to start a new life. Mimi had agreed to it – what choice did she have? – without knowing what the work would entail, still thinking she’d be able to contact Anatoly and that he would be able to buy her freedom.

  She’d held on to that thought all the way through Manhattan in the back of the ferryman’s cart, twirling the pearl ring on her finger. She had whispered it to Estie when the younger girl started fretting. She had continued to believe it when she was handed over to the manager of the garment factory and told she would be making clothes for American ladies. It was good work, tailoring – it’s what her parents had done back in the Ukraine. She would enjoy doing that until she could find a way to meet with Anatoly…

  But things were not that simple. Yesterday she had been taken aside by one of the other girls. Her name was Katerina – Kat for short – and like Mimi was from the Ukraine. Kat was in the second year of her two-year service and had been given the job of dormitory supervisor. It was Kat who gave Mimi and Estie clean sheets and towels and showed them to the communal bathroom they would share with twelve other illegal women.

  It was Kat who explained that the doors to the factory were locked – for their own safety – to keep the immigration officials and the police out. “If they find us, they will send us home,” she warned, her green eyes communicating the fear all the immigrants shared.

  And it was Kat who showed them the exercise yard where they were allowed to sit, walk or eat their lunch for an hour every day.

  Kat also arranged for Estie’s and Mimi’s photographs to be taken – for the factory files. And that, it seemed, was where things started to go wrong.

  Kat called Mimi aside during the exercise hour.

  “You are a very pretty girl, Mimi.”

  “Thank you.”

  Kat looked at her curiously, her eyes narrowing. “The Boss Man wants to see you.”

  “The Boss Man?” Mimi looked up at the window of the factory manager’s office.

  Kat shook her head. “Not him. The real boss man. The one who pays Slick.”

  Slick, Mimi had learned, was the nickname for the factory manager, whom they only saw at the beginning and end of shift. He spoke English and used Kat and an Italian girl called Lucia as his interpreters. Slick never smiled.

  “No, Slick is not the boss,” confirmed Kat.

  “Then who is?” asked Mimi.

  “I cannot tell you his name. If the police come – or the Immigration…” Kat made a cross in the air to ward off any bad luck, “you might tell them.”

  “But you know,” said Mimi.

  Kat stood up straight, her cheeks flushed with pride.
She was a beautiful girl with blonde hair and green eyes.

  “Yes, I know,” said Kat, “because I am special. He only tells the special ones – but only after he has tested them for many months.”

  Kat reached out a finger and pulled a lock of hair from under the edge of Mimi’s head scarf. Then she lowered her voice and said: “He has seen your photograph and he thinks you might be special too.” She twirled the lock around her finger and pulled.

  “Ow! Let go!”

  Kat pulled again. Mimi reached up and grabbed Kat’s wrist. The supervisor’s eyes narrowed again, but then she laughed and released the lock. “You think that hurts? That is nothing.”

  Mimi let go of Kat’s wrist and they stood toe to toe in the exercise yard, while the other women chattered around them. Estie was playing a game of hop-scotch.

  Kat looked over at her and kept her eyes on the simpleminded sister as she spoke. “The Boss Man wants to see you. He has other work for you. Special work.”

  Mimi’s stomach clenched. She had been in enough ports and taverns in the last two years to know what this “special work” might entail.

  “And if I refuse?”

  Kat grinned, still keeping her eyes on Estie. “Then someone might just be put out on the street… alone. You are the one who has signed the contract, not her. The boss does not need her. But because he is such a kind man, he has allowed her to stay. And now you must show your gratitude.”

  Mimi’s fists clenched. She was itching to give the other woman a good punch in the face.

  “Mimi! Mimi! Come play!” called Estie.

  Kat turned to the older sister and smiled. For the first time Mimi noticed one of her teeth was gold. That did not come cheap. The “Boss” had invested in her.

  Mimi swallowed and forced a smile onto her face. “I’m coming, Estie!”

  As she moved to join her sister, Kat grabbed her wrist and squeezed, her thumb digging into the tendons. “Tomorrow night. At the end of the day shift. I will take you to him. Be ready,” she hissed.

  Mimi wrenched her wrist free and with pounding heart went to join her sister.

  Slick, a whippet of a man in a beige overall coat, unlocked the door to the work room and rang a bell. Fourteen machines stopped. Fourteen women let out a tired sigh and started tidying their work stations for the night-shift that would be arriving as soon as they had gone.

  Mimi lifted the foot of her machine and checked that both top and bottom threads were neatly pulled through. Then she loosened the flywheel to deactivate the mechanism and covered her machine with a dust cloth.

  She stood up and joined the queue of women shuffling towards the door. At the door each worker had to lift up her skirt to show she had not hidden any items underneath it. Slick checked each woman, his face impassive. If he was enjoying the view he didn’t show it. It was humiliating, but as with everything else in the factory, the women had no choice but to comply.

  Mimi waited her turn. She looked out of the window and onto the street below. Women from other factories – legal ones – were coming to the end of their shift and spilling out from buildings throughout the New York Garment District, laughing and gossiping as they headed home to their families. Mimi envied their freedom and blinked back tears. Pull yourself together, she told herself. Crying will not help you and it will not help Estie. She sniffed and shuffled forward. On the street below, a middle-aged woman with a long auburn plait sticking out from under a black felt hat stopped to talk to a group of garment workers. She gave them each a small parcel from a basket she carried.

  “That’s the Angel of Chelsea,” said a voice behind her in Russian. It was one of the other women who had been there a few months.

  “Why do they call her that?” asked Mimi.

  “Because she lives in Chelsea – which they say is not far away – and she helps them.”

  Helps them with what? wondered Mimi.

  Suddenly the Angel looked up and caught Mimi’s eye. The two women held each other’s gaze for a few moments until the queue shuffled forward and Mimi moved out of the Angel’s sight.

  CHAPTER 20

  FRIDAY, 19 APRIL 1921, MIDTOWN MANHATTAN

  It was almost seven o’clock when Poppy arrived at the Waldorf Astoria Hotel on the corner of Fifth Avenue and 34th Street. The WGY radio station, housed out in Schenectady, New York, had a satellite studio for the “in-town” stars who didn’t have the time or inclination to travel out to the more far-flung headquarters.

  Poppy and Rollo had been invited to join the live audience for the experimental broadcast. She doubted her office wear – the same sage green coat over the honey skirt and blouse with the brown trim she had worn back in London – would meet the expected dress code. But she didn’t have time to squeeze in a trip back to Rollo’s to get changed and fit in her meeting with Toby. She hoped the doorman would not get shirty about it.

  There was Rollo, pacing near the entrance to the hotel cloakroom. He had already checked in his coat and hat, and Poppy was thankful to see he too had not had time to change. His chequered bowtie and braces were also not appropriate dress for an evening do. He looked relieved when he saw her. “Thought you’d never get here, Miz Denby. They’re about to start.”

  Poppy passed her coat and hat to the concierge, who raised a disapproving eyebrow at the second guest that evening who was under-dressed for the Astoria. A dollar bill, tucked into his top pocket by Rollo, silenced him.

  Rollo took Poppy’s arm and led her down the hall to one of the ground floor reception rooms that had been converted into a makeshift studio. Inside was a select audience of around thirty people, all dressed up to the nines, as if going to a “proper” theatre performance. Eyebrows were raised and tongues tutted as Poppy and Rollo made their apologies and shimmied along a row to their two allocated seats in the middle, right next to Miss King, who was without her employer. “Where’s Aunt Dot?” whispered Poppy. But before the older woman could answer, a tuxedoed gentleman stepped onto the stage and announced that the broadcast was about to begin and could there be silence, please.

  In the middle of the stage was a single ring-mounted carbon microphone surrounded by a circle of chairs. Behind the chairs was a prop table full of all sorts of paraphernalia, from a clapboard to a gravel tray with two pairs of shoes – a man’s and a woman’s. Delilah had already explained to her how the sound effects were made and Poppy was very excited to see it all in action.

  Stage left was another table laden with machinery essential for the broadcast. Poppy had no idea how all the dials and knobs worked, but she assumed the two gentlemen wearing odd-looking devices over their ears did.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the live broadcast of The Wolf by Eugene Walter, brought to you by WGY Radio. We’re trying something brand new here, folks – broadcasting a play through sound only – so listeners can tune in with their wirelesses without having to leave their parlours.” He grinned and raised his hands to indicate the studio audience. “We’re not sure if it will work properly but we’ve got some folks primed at home and ready to give us a bell as soon as they hear it. If someone comes in from the lobby, don’t be alarmed. It’s not the Germans invading; it’s just a fella who will give us the thumbs up or thumbs down.”

  The audience chuckled appreciatively. Poppy joined in, although she raised an inner eyebrow at the idea that the Germans would have made it all the way to America – three years after the war was over.

  She was grateful, however, to hear that the play was not a fanciful rewriting of German/American history, but a drama set in the Canadian woods. It was an adaptation of a play that had originally been staged at the Lyric Theatre on Broadway in 1908. It was about a man called Jules who goes to look for his half-sister – a woman who is part French Canadian and part Indian – only to discover that she has been seduced by a man called McDonald, has had a child by him, and is then driven into the woods where she and her child are attacked and killed by wolves. Meanwhile, Jules falls in love with
a young woman called Hilda, whom McDonald (aka the Wolf) also sets out to seduce. The resultant melodrama, of Jules trying to find the killer of his sister and save the virtue of his love, made for a gripping if far-fetched play. Poppy was pleased that in this play, unlike The Sheik, the rapist got his just deserts.

  The biggest surprise though – when the cast, including Delilah, came out and gathered around the microphone – was the announcement that Miss May Leigh Rose, who was scheduled to play the sister, had come down with a bout of laryngitis. There was a collective groan from the audience. The compère raised his hands to quieten them. “But not to worry, ladies and gentlemen. The delightful Delilah Marconi, all the way from London, England” – he indicated Delilah, who took a little bow and received a round of applause – “let it slip that a legend of the West End stage, and someone who has previously trod the boards on Broadway, is right here in New York.” A titter went around the audience as they turned to one another asking who it might be.

  “Good for you, Dot,” mumbled Rollo. Miss King could not keep the smile off her face when Poppy looked to her for confirmation.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce to you the legendary Miss Dorothy Denby!” A cheer went up from the audience as Dot wheeled herself in from the wings. One of the male actors greeted her with a kiss to the hand. Her face was aglow. Poppy had never seen her look so beautiful, or so happy. She felt the tears welling up.

  “Oh, Aunt Dot,” she sniffed. Rollo passed her a handkerchief.

  The forty-five-minute play was a sensation – both in the studio and, apparently, in broadcast. The thumbs-up came fifteen minutes into the performance that the signal was being received around the greater New York area. And then, after the show, over soft drinks in the Astoria bar, it was reported that when Delilah – playing Hilda – had screamed (while purportedly being attacked by the dastardly McDonald) a police officer had run into a home in New Jersey, believing a woman was really in peril.

  Cheers went up all around. Then someone whispered to someone who whispered to someone else that perhaps they should decamp to Chester’s Speakeasy to “stiffen up” their drinks. However, Aunt Dot said it would be too tricky for her to get there in her wheelchair. Rollo instead offered to host an impromptu shindig at his house on 86th Street. Everyone thought this was a splendid idea.