“Did you hear me? I’ll kill you if you’ve hurt the children!” She repeated herself, this time in German. Hanna’s heart beat like a trapped bird flapping its wings. Despite the pain radiating from her head and sides, she prepared to fight.
Father lunged for her, belt in hand. Hanna swung the pan as hard as she could. It cracked against his skull, the impact sending vibrations through her body.
He toppled from the blow, blood trickling from his hairline. Hanna gasped.
“Dumb slut,” he muttered, falling to his knees. Father slumped against the wall, appearing completely lifeless.
God in heaven, had she done it? Sweat chilled Hanna’s goose-pimpled flesh. Holding her breath, she took a step toward him. Father’s chest rose and fell while dark blood congealed in the wound.
Thank the lucky stars. He was not dead, merely unconscious. But he would be mad as the devil when he awoke. Hanna and her siblings could no longer stay in their home. Hanna ran to the bedroom and pounded her fist against the door.
“Martin! Let me in.”
A chair dragged across the floor and Katja cried out. Martin must have propped it under the doorknob to keep Father out. Martin pulled the door open, his right eye purple as an eggplant, the lid swollen. Hanna threw her arms around him, feeling his tear-stained cheeks pressed against hers.
Martin sniffled. “Hanna, I thought he would kill you. Why didn’t you come home?”
“Forgive me,” Hanna whispered.
What had she been thinking, going with Lucas to the theater? Little Hans and Katja stared up at Hanna with frightened eyes. Bending down, she pulled them into her arms, her bare shoulders protruding from the torn corset.
“What happen the pretty dress?” Katja asked, touching the fabric.
Hanna kissed her sister’s cheek, the cogs of her mind spinning faster than carriage wheels with a horse at full gallop. They had to depart now, before Father came to. There was no time to collect another month’s wages for their train passage north.
“Martin,” Hanna asked. “Did Margaret come to mind the children?”
Martin shook his head. “No. Frau Kruger brought them here and asked for extra money because she had to watch them longer than usual. Father got too drunk today to keep working, and so Mr. Thomas at the livery sent him home early.”
Hanna winced. Martin did not have to tell her how Father had reacted to that request. But why hadn’t Margaret kept her word? Hanna pulled open wooden drawers, taking out the few extra dresses and trousers for the children.
“Turn around,” Hanna said, beginning to undress.
Martin did as he was told. Hanna’s body ached as she struggled out of the corset and torn gown. The clothes did not hold beauty anymore, reminding her only of the consequences she had suffered for pretending to be someone she was not.
Hanna stepped into a pair of bloomers and pulled a chemise over her head. The pain in her ribs stabbed her like a blade. Hanna took her blue Sunday dirndl from the closet and fastened the hooks, hastily putting it on. With her shawl slung around her shoulders, she laced her boots tightly. Father could awaken at any moment.
“Get the children’s coats,” Hanna said to Martin. “We leave tonight.”
Martin nodded. Hanna pried the board loose from the floor and removed her savings, along with her mother’s painted porcelain plate.
Martin’s eyes widened when he looked at the glass jar, nearly full. “You were stealing from Father?”
Hanna tied both items inside Mother’s quilt. “Saving for our future is not stealing. I earned that money. We must go now.”
Martin nodded, wordlessly following her like someone in a trance.
“Close your eyes,” Hanna said, marching the children past Father’s bulky form. “And no peeking.” Katja and Hans obediently covered their faces with their little hands. Martin helped the toddlers as Hanna grabbed a hard loaf of bread from the kitchen cupboard. She pressed her lips together, not knowing where their next meal would come from. Then, pulling open a drawer, her fingers wrapped around a spool of thread with a needle tucked inside. Martin stared at Father’s bloodied head, his mouth gaping.
Hanna put a hand on his shoulder. “I had to do it. Go now.”
Putting the loaf of bread and the thread into the satchel with her belongings, Hanna led her siblings out of the house. One by one, they snuck away quietly, until their footsteps pattered along the dirt road. Under the cover of darkness they walked in silence. Chickens clucked as Hanna hurried past their coop.
“Where are you taking us?” Hans asked.
“Shhh,” Hanna whispered. “We will go on an adventure.”
She swallowed the lump in her throat. They required a place to stay the night. The boardinghouses on Kearny or Jackson where prostitutes turned their tricks were far too dangerous. Perhaps Margaret’s neighborhood would be better.
“Ana, I’m tired,” Katja whined.
“I’m sorry, my love.” Giving the blanket bundle to Martin, Hanna scooped Katja up in her arms. The little girl was heavier than she used to be, and Hanna’s side throbbed. “We’re nearly there,” Hanna said, blinking back tears. In truth, they had two miles to walk, and Hanna’s legs felt as though they would give out.
But three quarters of an hour later, Hanna and her siblings had reached the Tomkinson livery and stable on Minna Street. The horses whinnied, swishing their tails. Hanna looked up at the boardinghouse above, hoping it would be safe.
The inn was not far from where Margaret lived. Hanna struggled to remember which of the row houses belonged to her friend. It had been a wooden house, crowded against two others on a narrow lot on Minna. Yes, she would find Margaret in the morning. First she needed to get the children inside and put them to bed.
“Martin,” Hanna said. “Go in that building and tell the man we require a room. State our name as Mueller and say I am a widow. Do you understand?”
Martin nodded and ran across the wooden planks of the sidewalk, toward the entrance. Mueller had been their mother’s maiden name. As they waited in the darkness, Hanna’s breath formed a white cloud in the evening chill.
Hans started to cry and stomped his feet. “Hanna, I want go home. It’s cold.”
She patted his head. “Tonight we will play pretend. Dry your tears now.”
Katja looked up at her. “Ana, I’m frightened.”
Hanna squeezed her sister’s hand. “Do not be frightened, little one.”
Two men emerged from the stable beneath the boardinghouse, staggering onto the street. Hanna’s stomach lurched. Praying they would not see her, she crouched down next to Hans and Katja, hugging them close. “We must get past a big dragon to hide in our cave. But to do that we must be very brave. Can you be brave?”
Hans looked up at Hanna beneath his long lashes and nodded.
“A dragon?” Katja whispered, her eyes wide.
Martin returned, out of breath. His cheeks had flushed from the chill, and he held a key in his right hand. “We have a room for the night.”
The knot in Hanna’s stomach loosened, only slightly. “And you told him our name is Mueller?”
“Yes. Hanna Mueller. The man wrote it in a book.”
“All right,” Hanna said, standing. She led Hans and Katja by the hand, while Martin picked up Mother’s blanket. They trudged toward the boardinghouse. Inside, the rickety stairs creaked beneath their feet as they climbed to the upper level. Piano music and women’s laughter filtered through the cracks in the walls.
Hanna turned the key, opening the door to their room, then shut and locked it behind them. Lighting the kerosene lamp on the bedside table, Hanna watched as one large bed came into view, a threadbare quilt thrown over it. A window looked over the street below. Hanna shivered from the chill seeping through a crack, but the vantage point assuaged her fears. Should Father come for them, they would have time to flee.
Hanna unfolded her mother’s quilt and laid it atop the bed. Looking around the room, she searched for the best
place to hide Mother’s plate. Her body ached with exhaustion, making it difficult to think. Knowing the money to be her most important resource, she tipped the bills and coins out of the jar. Carefully tearing apart the seam at the hem of her dirndl, Hanna folded the bills and slipped them inside.
After threading the needle, her fingers stitched from muscle memory, sealing her hard-earned savings away from pickpockets.
The plate was less likely to be stolen, but Hanna would not take chances. Kneeling on the dusty floor, she gently slid the porcelain dish behind the bed’s wooden headboard, where it rested snugly against the wall. No one would ever find it there, unless the innkeeper decided to rearrange the furniture.
“Come now, into bed,” Hanna said to Hans and Katja, lifting them onto the mattress. Hanna tucked both children under the blankets. Through the thin walls, a man’s voice grew louder, yelling about gambling debts.
“Who’s that?” Hans asked, his eyes widening.
“That’s the dragon,” Hanna said. “We must stay very quiet so he doesn’t find us.”
Hanna looked at Martin, leaning against the wall. His eye had swollen shut, but he managed a smile. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep us safe,” he said, drawing an imaginary sword from its sheath. “I can slay the dragon with this.”
Katja pointed at his face. “Ouch!”
Hanna stroked her sister’s cheeks. Lying down next to Hans and Katja, Hanna’s body sank into the mattress.
Martin stretched out on the floor. He was a boy of twelve, too old to share a bed with his sister. Hanna took the shawl from her shoulders and gave it to him. She tried to hand him her goose-down pillow as well, but he waved her away.
“You keep it,” Martin said.
Hanna nodded, setting the pillow back in place. Soon Katja’s eyes closed, and a snore escaped Hans’s mouth. He looked like a sleeping cherub with his blond curls, while Katja curled up like a little fawn. Reaching over to the bedside table, Hanna extinguished the kerosene lamp, embracing the darkness.
Sunlight crept under the gap in the curtains. The fabric reeked of cigar smoke, yet Hanna feared opening the window, lest someone see her.
“Martin,” she said. “Repeat what I have told you.”
“Keep the drapes closed and the door locked. Do not open it for anyone, until I hear three quick knocks and two slow ones. Then I will know it is you.”
Hanna smoothed Katja’s dark curls and gave Hans a kiss on the cheek. “There is bread for when you have hunger. I will be home by forenoon.”
Katja clung to Hanna’s skirts. “Don’t leave, Ana. Stay here.”
Hanna swallowed. “I will come back soon. I promise.”
A crease divided Martin’s brow.
Hanna placed her hands on his shoulders. “I must find Margaret. When I have spoken to her of our plans, we can depart. Remember, the door must stay locked.”
Martin’s fingers curled around the brass key. With a nod, he shut the door behind Hanna, and she heard the lock click into place.
Horses whinnied as Hanna walked away from the livery toward the row of small, narrow houses on Minna Street. Her gut told her to turn around, and she stopped where she stood, breathing in dust from the road. Hanna shook her head. The children were safe inside, and she would travel more quickly to Margaret’s house alone.
Perhaps Margaret had fallen ill or had a fainting spell. Hanna’s boots crunched along the gravel, every pebble like a knife through the thin soles. She kept her head down, each dark-haired man with a beard causing her heart to seize. Father was likely awake now, head throbbing and temper raging.
Children shrieked and scampered across Minna Street. Women emptied chamber pots into the road. Covering her nose and mouth, Hanna attempted to block the stench of urine and feces. Some of the street children eyed her with caution, her face unfamiliar in the Irish neighborhood. Laughing as they walked, men in overalls speckled with yellow clay made their way toward the nearby tar flats.
A hunchbacked woman with a silver plait hung laundry on the line.
“Excuse me?” Hanna asked. “Do you know the house of Margaret O’Brien?”
“Aye,” the woman said, pointing toward the east. “Walk down the road a wee bit that way. It’s the fourth house on the left.”
“Thank you,” Hanna replied.
She picked up her skirt to prevent the hem from dragging through a puddle of mud, and scattered a flock of geese. The fourth house on the left had a sloped roof and flaking white paint, with a porch that sagged in the middle. Four children sat outside on the ramshackle stoop, their pale skin smeared with dirt. A girl of about ten held a crying baby in her lap.
“Does Margaret live here?” Hanna asked.
The girl’s eyes narrowed. “That’s me sister. Have you seen her?”
“Did she not come home last night?”
The baby shrieked and Margaret’s sister bounced it on her knee. She stuck a grimy finger in the child’s mouth for it to suck on. The girl’s eyes were the same brilliant shade of blue as Margaret’s, like snowmelt in the mountains. She talked fast, making it difficult for Hanna to keep up.
“I waited and waited, caring for the wee ones. Pa was madder than I’ve ever seen ’im. When Margaret didn’t come home, he said he’d kill her. Murder her dead.”
The girl’s brow furrowed and Hanna saw the restraint it took to hold back her emotions. But then her features formed a hard mask. Like Hanna’s brother Martin, Margaret’s sister had grown up too fast. In these dark times, tears were wasted effort.
“What’s your name?” Hanna asked, looking down at her soiled clothing.
“Cathleen.” Margaret’s sister stared at Hanna with hardness in her eyes, like she would take a swing at her if she had to.
“I’m Hanna Schaeffer,” Hanna said. “A friend of your sister.”
A group of scrawny children fought over a chicken bone in the street. Wishing she’d brought something to give Cathleen, Hanna offered a smile instead. Perhaps this small kindness would be enough.
Cathleen chewed her bottom lip. “Is it true what they say in the papers? That there’s a madman on the loose, murdering pretty girls? I can’t read, but my friend Moira told me it was true.”
Hanna thought of the newspaper headline she’d seen a few months back. Murder! Murder! it had read, describing a prostitute found dead in front of a brothel somewhere in Devil’s Acre. A shiver worked its way down to Hanna’s bones.
Cathleen’s lip trembled. “What if Margaret has been killed?”
Hanna shook her head. “We must not think that way. Ask every person you know if they have seen Margaret. We will find her.”
Cathleen shook the squealing baby as it wriggled to break free from her grasp. A woman hollered from inside the house.
“Cathleen, you daft git! Come ’ere right now.”
Cathleen’s eyes widened. “I’m here, Ma,” she said.
A heavyset woman with ruddy cheeks stumbled onto the porch, eyes flashing like a rabid dog’s. Instinctively, Hanna took a step back, but not before she smelled the whiskey. This woman reeked like Father after a night out at the saloons. Every fiber of Hanna’s body told her to run, but she forced herself to hold her ground.
Mrs. O’Brien placed her plump hands on her hips. Her bloodshot eyes locked on Hanna’s. “And who the hell are you, comin’ round my house?” Mrs. O’Brien’s wild reddish-gray hair gave her the appearance of a madwoman.
“I’m Hanna, a friend of Margaret’s.” Hanna stood taller. Was Margaret’s mother to push her, she wasn’t afraid to push back. “I haven’t seen Margaret since yesterday, and I have come to see if she’s all right.”
One of the younger children ran forward, grabbing Mrs. O’Brien’s leg. “Mama! I’m hungry.”
With a deft movement, Margaret’s mother slapped the child. He began to cry. “What is it you want, then?” Mrs. O’Brien spat. “My daughter has run off.”
“Why do you think that?”
Mrs. O’Brien hacked and
coughed, spitting greenish mucus at Hanna’s feet. She wiped her mouth and glared. “Margaret has been foolin’ around with that McClaren boy. Don’t you know nothin’? If you’s such good friends, you’d have seen the lad always comin’ round here.”
The acrid odor of burned eggs and urine clogged Hanna’s nostrils. Margaret had never mentioned a sweetheart.
“McClaren?” Hanna asked. “Has he a given name?”
Margaret’s mother spat again. “Kieran. Works the dock over by Clark’s Point. I told her he wasn’t no good. But she don’t listen to me.”
“I will find her,” Hanna said, glaring.
Mrs. O’Brien laughed without mirth. “Don’t fret your pretty little head. That daft trollop is good as dead, she is.”
And with that, Mrs. O’Brien turned and waddled into the house. Hanna fought the panic rising in her chest, fast as the incoming tide. Margaret’s own mother didn’t care what happened to her daughter. Hanna took a deep breath, knowing who could help. Picking up the hem of her dirndl, she ran down the narrow road.
The dirt gave way to cobblestones, and laborers thronged the wooden sidewalks whilst newsboys chanted the morning papers. Men in top hats with stiff brims walked past. Hanna reached out and touched a coat sleeve. “Excuse me, sir?”
The man stepped back, his eyes wide.
“Please,” Hanna asked. “Which way to the Merchants Exchange?”
He pointed to the north. “Straight ahead, five blocks or so.”
“Does an employee named Lucas work there?”
The man stroked his moustache, likely wondering what business Hanna might have in a building where powerful men traded money and secrets.
“There’s a Lucas Havensworth. You will find his office on the ground floor.” The man tipped his hat. “Tell him Mr. Collier sends his regards.”
“Thank you, sir,” Hanna said, bowing her head. “I will do that.”
Picking up her skirts once again, she ran past women strolling idly from one shop window to the next, giggling as they pointed at garments. Her chest heaved. Lucas Havensworth was Hanna’s only hope to find Margaret before it was too late.
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