by Lynn Austin
He looked horrified. “We can’t lie, Violet.”
The meat was every bit as slimy and gelatinous as the dish they’d served on Folk Night, with varying-sized chunks of things imbedded in it. My choosing game had sprung to life. I was living one of my questions: If you had to choose between eating something disgusting in order to find your mother, or refusing to eat it and never seeing her again, which would you choose? The next time Ruth Schultz asked about the most disgusting thing I’d ever eaten, I would win the prize.
I reminded myself that I had eaten snails at Madame Beauchamps’. This was no worse, was it? I could always just gulp it down without chewing or tasting it. But in retrospect, the slippery garlic butter had helped expedite the snail’s passage down my throat. Garlic can disguise the most obnoxious of flavors.
I decided against gulping down the headcheese. If I finished it too quickly my hostess might offer me more. She returned with the kettle of water and proceeded to brew tea for us. The finished concoction smelled and tasted as though she had used a clump of weeds from alongside the road instead of real tea leaves.
“I’m trying to find my mother,” I began, swallowing the first tiny nibble of meat. “She was Bohemian, I believe. Her maiden name was Cepak. Angeline Cepak. Do you know any other families in this neighborhood by that name?”
“No, I cannot think of any. But I have heard this family name in the old country. Is not so unusual there.”
I swallowed a second bite along with my disappointment. “Do you know of any other places in the city where other Bohemian families live? Or do you know someone else I might ask?”
“No, I know only the families around here. I am sorry.”
“How long ago did you immigrate to Chicago? Were you here during the Great Fire?”
“No, we are coming here nine years ago. I am sorry I am not helping you find your mother. I wish I could. When did you lose her?”
“Eleven years ago.” I ate a third bite and chased it down with a sip of tea. Both tasted terrible.
I had to think! What other clues had I gathered about my mother? Aunt Birdie kept mentioning that she’d loved the theater— but my aunt often got her stories mixed up. Was it possible that my mother worked in the theater as an actress instead of merely attending the shows? I knew she had loved to dance. I took a chance. I had nothing to lose.
“Have you heard of anyone named Cepak who worked in the theater? An actress, maybe? Or a dancer?”
“No, I don’t think so… .”
All of a sudden the little old grandmother in the corner began talking a mile a minute in another language. She pointed to me and gestured with her twig-like hands as she talked.
“What is she saying?” I asked.
“My husband’s mother says there are Cepaks in the old country who are married with gypsies. They are thieves.” She turned to her mother-in-law and said loudly, “They cannot be her family. She is nice girl.” The old woman babbled even louder, waving her arms.
“What did she say? Please tell me.”
“She said in America the gypsies perform in the shows. But it cannot be the family you look for. The shows are … how do you say? … Not so nice.” She lowered her gaze, brushing crumbs off the table.
I knew that the old woman was talking about burlesque shows, not the legitimate theater or even vaudeville. The thought made me feel ill. But then, I already felt queasy from the headcheese and bitter tea. I choked down the last bite of meat and stood.
“Thank you so much for your help,” I said. “We need to be going.” I wondered if I should offer to pay her for the information the way Silas McClure had paid the bartender.
Louis took my arm to help me down the steep flight of stairs. My head reeled from the heat and from this new information.
“I’m sorry we didn’t learn more, Violet. Is there someplace else you want to go?”
“No—back to the settlement house, I guess. I’m all out of ideas.”
When we reached the main street, I suddenly heard a terrible squealing sound, like a child being tortured. We rounded the corner and Louis halted abruptly.
“Violet, wait!” He tried to hold me back and block my view but his warning came too late. In the middle of the filthy, littered alley, someone was butchering a pig. The man had hoisted the animal up on a scaffold by its rear legs, and he proceeded to slit the pig’s throat, right before my eyes. The screeching halted abruptly. The amount of blood that gushed out was unbelievable. I bent over by the side of the road and vomited.
“Violet? Are you okay?” Louis asked, squatting beside me.
“Yes,” I lied. I wanted him to go away. Being sick was bad enough, but I was horrified to have him see me this way. I tried to stand up and walk and felt my gorge rise again. I turned away and threw up a second time.
Louis offered me his handkerchief. His kindness and sympathy only added to my humiliation. Every time I was with Louis something degrading seemed to happen. First I had encountered the horrid onions and beets, then the drenching rain and mud, now this. This humiliation was by far the worst.
“I need to go home.”
Louis let me lean on his arm as I staggered back to the settlement house. Someone brought me a cool cloth to wash my face. Louis brought me a glass of water.
“I’m sorry for forcing you to eat,” he said.
“No, it wasn’t your fault. It was the sight of … you know.”
“I think you should go home.”
Home. I would have to go home to Lockport in four more days. I couldn’t stop my tears. Could my mother’s family really be involved in those horrible shows? Visiting the Jolly Roger had been bad enough, but going to a burlesque theater to search for her would be much, much worse. Nevertheless, I had to do it.
“I need to find my mother, Louis. I need to find the family of gypsies named Cepak who are involved in the theater.”
“But the woman said—”
“I know. You don’t have to help me anymore. But you’ve been to some of those neighborhoods—if you have any advice …”
“I don’t know what to tell you. Mr. Moody sometimes rents theaters for his rallies, but not those places. He’s holding a rally on Thursday, in fact, but it’s in a respectable theater—”
“Maybe we could talk to the theater manager and ask if he has heard of the name? Or maybe one of the other actors at the theater has heard of her.”
He looked very dubious, but he said, “I guess it’s worth a try.”
“Thank you.”
I heard a babble of excited voices in the front hall. The house seemed to be filling with young women my age.
“What’s going on?” I asked Louis.
“I think they’re registering new girls for the Jane Club. Miss Addams started a boardinghouse for single women using several of her vacant bedrooms. Many of these girls don’t have families in the city, and they need a safe place to live that won’t use up all of their meager wages.”
I nodded, thinking of all the vacant bedrooms in our house in Lockport.
“We should go find your grandmother and tell her you’re not well,” Louis said. “You need to go home.”
My stomach rolled at the thought of venturing outside. “Would you mind if I stayed here while you fetched her? The smells in the street …”
“Sure. I’ll be right back.”
The sound of laughter and babbling voices grew louder as the girls spilled into the other rooms from the front hall. One of them looked very familiar to me. It took me a moment to realize that it was Katya. She looked bedraggled without her crisp maid’s uniform and starched white apron. Her skirt was patched and threadbare, her shoes scuffed and worn. My strength had returned, so I stood and made my way toward her, calling her name.
“Katya … Katya …”
Her eyes widened when she saw me. She whirled around and hurried away, plowing a path through the crowd and out of the house.
“Katya, wait!” I called. “Come back!”
&n
bsp; Why was she running from me? I braved the terrible odors outdoors and chased her down crowded Halsted Street, weaving between the other pedestrians. Katya was very fast, and I was still feeling light-headed after being sick, but I kept running. I caught up with her at the corner when she encountered too much traffic to risk crossing the street.
“Don’t run, Katya. I’m your friend!” Both of us were breathing hard, and I could taste the terrible odors as well as smell them. “What’s wrong? Why did you run?” When she didn’t reply, I said, “Listen, I know that you’re in love with Nelson—and that’s okay with me.”
“No, please …” I saw her surprise and fear. She had no idea what I would do with that knowledge.
“It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone.”
“But you are the woman Nelson is going to marry.”
Now it was my turn to be surprised.
“How do you know that? He only proposed to me a week ago. And that was after you left the Kents. Besides, I haven’t agreed to marry him.”
Tears filled her eyes. “But he must marry you or he will have nothing.”
“Listen, can we go back to the settlement house and talk this over? I want to help you.”
“Why? Why will you help me?”
“For Nelson’s sake. He’s my friend.”
“I do not understand.”
I took a chance and told her the truth. “I saw you with him. I saw the way he looks at you and the way you look at him. Nelson is in love with you, not me. And I saw him kissing you.”
Her hands flew to her face. “Oh no. He will get into trouble… .”
“I’m not going to tell anyone. Listen, I came to the settlement house to help women like you, not harm them. Let’s go back and talk, okay?”
“You won’t tell anyone—about Nelson and me?”
“No. I promise.”
We walked back to the house and pushed our way through the crowd of girls. I led Katya into the library and sat down to talk with her at a table in the corner. She seemed very nervous, glancing all around as if she might get into trouble. She spoke so softly I had to strain to hear her above the noise.
“Tell me what happened. Why did you stop working for Mrs. Kent?”
“Because Nelson must forget about me. It is too hard for him, seeing me every day. He was so unhappy. So I quit.”
“You mean, nothing happened? No one caught you two together?”
“No. No one knows about us. I leave because I love him.” Tears flooded her eyes.
“I don’t understand. Why would you leave if you loved him?”
“Nelson loves me too. He tells me over and over. He says he will find a way for us to be together, a way for us to get money. But I know that he is better without me. His family will be very angry about me. They will never want him to marry me. They will throw Nelson out of the family if he does, and he will have nothing. He is better with someone like you. I love him so much … and I want him to be happy.”
I stared at Katya in amazement as she wiped her tears. Her love was genuine, self-sacrificing. She loved Nelson so much that she was willing to give up her own happiness for his. I envied her. And I wanted to help her.
My mind raced with plans. I could loan her some of my gowns and teach her everything I knew about proper manners. Nelson could break away from his father’s business, and they could start a new life together on their own. There had to be a way to make this work.
“Listen, if you and Nelson love each other, then you should be together. I want to help you. Will you trust me?” She nodded slowly, as if afraid to hope. “Where are you staying? How can I contact you again?”
“Miss Addams is very kind to rent me a room here.”
“Good. I’ll be in touch with you after I talk to Nelson.”
“Thank you.” Katya stood and hurried away just as my grandmother walked into the library, her face creased with worry.
“Violet Rose! You’re as white as a ghost. Louis told me you were ill.” She felt my brow for a fever as she smoothed my tangled hair off my face.
“I’m feeling better now.”
“I’m taking you home.”
We walked to the main street, and for once my grandmother hailed a cab instead of waiting for the streetcar. I was grateful. I couldn’t leave that stinking neighborhood quickly enough. When we had traveled a short way, my grandmother sighed and said, “Violet, dear, I know you’ve been looking for your mother.”
“Did Louis tell you?”
She shook her head. “I’ve been trying to find her too.”
“My mother? You’ve been searching for my mother? For how long?”
“Since coming to Chicago. It was one of the reasons I came here after Isaac died. And one of the reasons I started working down here at the settlement house. Hundreds of Bohemian people live in this area, so I decided to start here and do the same thing you’re doing. But I’ve had no luck, Violet, in all these years. I haven’t found anyone who knows her or her family.”
“What were you going to do if you found her?”
“Ask her to come home to you and your father.”
I closed my eyes in disappointment and defeat. I wasn’t going to find my mother. Grandmother had been searching for seven years and I had only three more days.
“While I was trying to find Angeline,” Grandmother said, “I met so many women like her who needed my help. That’s how I started working with the poor. So you see, something good can come from our sorrows and disappointments if we give them to God. And when I heard that D. L. Moody was preaching in theaters all over the city, I volunteered to help him too. I still hoped to find your mother—but I also hoped that other women like Angeline would have a chance to hear the Gospel.”
I wondered if my grandmother realized that she had dropped a valuable hint. Once again, I pretended that I knew more than I did, hoping she would offer new information.
“You mean other actresses like my mother?”
“Yes. I’m sorry I couldn’t find her for you, Violet, but I tried.”
I was familiar enough with the neighborhoods by now to know that we were halfway home. I had to keep Grandmother talking and unravel more of the mysteries before we arrived.
“Did my mother run away with Uncle Philip?” I asked.
She drew a startled breath. “With Philip? Who has been talking to you about Philip?”
“Aunt Birdie showed me a picture of him and my father. She said he was away at war. I never even knew I had an uncle. Why won’t anyone talk about him? Where is he?”
She turned away, gazing out of the window as if reluctant to answer. I continued talking.
“I came to the conclusion that Uncle Philip must have run away with my mother since nobody will talk about either one of them, and—”
“No, Violet,” she said, shaking her head. “No. That isn’t what happened.” I waited for more, but she was quiet for a very long time. I was about to ask another question when she finally spoke. “No one talks about Philip because it’s too painful—for your father as well as for me.” Again, I waited.
“Your grandfather tried to control everything his sons did and said and thought. He forgot that God was in charge of the world, not him. He meant well, but he was much too strict. I didn’t go against him, I’m sorry to admit, and we did a great deal of harm to our sons. Isaac wanted Philip and John to become ministers, like him. I got caught up in it, and I wished them to be preachers too. But that choice wasn’t up to us.
“One day Philip had enough. There were too many rules in our household and not nearly enough love. Too much law and not enough grace. When Isaac tried to discipline Philip, he rebelled and left home. He had just turned eighteen, so he went off to war. He was nearly killed at Cold Harbor, but a good friend saved his life.”
“Was his name Lloyd O’Neill?”
She nodded. “Philip returned home from the war filled with bitterness and resentment. He was angry with God. He had seen too much suffering and bloodshed to ev
er believe in God’s mercy. He lived the reprobate life of a prodigal. The only thing that he and your mother had in common was that Philip was also involved in the theater.”
“Are … are you still searching for Philip too?”
“No,” she said quietly. “Philip died more than twenty years ago.”
I leaned my head against her shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
“I know. No one talks about Philip,” she said, wiping a tear, “because it hurts too much. None of us ever had a chance to reconcile with him.”
“It must have been very hard … but at least you know why Philip left home and where he went. No one will tell me why my mother left me.”
“Violet,” she said with a sigh, “you know that I promised your father I wouldn’t talk about her.”
“Isn’t there anything you can tell me?”
She sighed again. “Try to imagine a woman like Irina or one of the other women we met in these tenements… . Imagine her suddenly moving to your house in Lockport and having Mrs. Hutchins to cook and clean for her and a nanny to help take care of her children. Can you see what enormous changes she would face?”
“I guess so.”
“Suppose Irina had to attend dinners and social functions in Lockport, and she didn’t know anything about fine manners or social customs. Think of all the years of training you’ve had in school about proper etiquette. How would a woman like Irina ever learn those things? And do you think that the women in Agnes’ crowd, for example, would ever accept Irina into their social circle?”
“No. They would make her life miserable.”
I suddenly thought of Katya. She would never fit into Nelson’s world or be accepted by his family and friends, even if I dressed her in my finest gown. If she were to rise from mere servant to lady of the house, Haughty and Naughty and their crowd would have nothing to do with her. Neither would Nelson’s family. Could true love conquer all of those obstacles? It hadn’t in my parents’ case. And Nelson Kent was much wealthier than my father was.
“Can you understand the enormous strain on your mother?” my grandmother asked.
“Yes. I think I can… . Thank you.” I had gained a little more understanding of my mother, even if I hadn’t found her.