by Janet Dawson
“I’ll be back to meet the passengers once we get underway,” Jill said.
She walked up two steps to the main level, past a small water fountain tucked into a space at her left. Here another set of steps led up to the car’s Vista-Dome. These stairs curved slightly, and were edged with Lucite that glowed at night with muted lighting. In the lounge, comfortable chairs upholstered in sandalwood and brown—five on one side and four on the other—ranged along the sides of the car, which had a rounded end known as a “fish tail.” The flowered carpet was tan and beige. Venetian blinds and curtains covered the windows on either side of the car. In the middle of the lounge, within reach of passengers who would sit there, were small, round metal tables with recessed holders for glasses around the perimeter and ashtrays in the middle. At the very back of the car, two settees, each wide enough for two people, faced the car’s rear double door. On either side of the door were two small tables built into the sides of the car, just big enough to hold a glass or two. The table on the right held a silver tinsel Christmas tree, about eighteen inches tall, decorated with red and green glass balls and a gold star.
Both this lounge—and the Vista-Dome at the top of the stairs, with seating for twenty-four people—were available for the use of all the sleeping car passengers. Just to the right of the stairs a writing desk held stationery and postcards for the passengers’ use, as well as newspapers for them to read. Multiple copies of the San Francisco Chronicle and Examiner had been delivered to the train before it left the coach yards. The papers were distributed through the cars, including this one.
Jill glanced at the front page. The largest headline was about an explosion at a chemical factory in Japan. There was also a photo and article about the opening of the new Broadway Tunnel in San Francisco the day before. Evidently sightseers had turned out in droves.
She picked up the Chronicle and leafed through the first few pages. The death toll in that terrible plane crash had gone up to eighty-six. Two days earlier, on December 20th, an Air Force C-124 cargo and troop transport plane had crashed at Larson Air Force Base in Moses Lake, Washington. Most of the passengers were Air Force personnel from Korea or Northwest bases, catching a ride home for Christmas in a program called Operation Sleigh Ride.
Their poor families, she thought, remembering the coffins being loaded onto the baggage car. She turned the pages of the newspaper, scanning the articles.
On page 8, in the upper right corner, she saw a headline. POLICE BAR ROSENBERG RALLY AT SING SING. She read through the article. A delegation of over seven hundred people seeking clemency for Julius and Ethel Rosenberg had traveled by train to Ossining, New York, site of Sing Sing Prison. But the local police had kept them from marching to the prison. Instead, they’d marched near the train station. The Rosenbergs, charged with passing atomic secrets to the Soviet Union, had been convicted and sentenced to death in the spring of 1951. In October 1952, the United States Supreme Court had ruled against reviewing the case. Now the couple’s execution was set for the week of January 11, 1953.
Mr. Parsons came into the lounge. He glanced at the newspaper and pointed at the article. “Those Rosenbergs, d’you think they’re really going to the electric chair?”
“Looks like it,” Jill said. “It’s scheduled for next month. Though I suppose it could be delayed again.”
“Don’t know what to think about that. Lots of folks think they’re not guilty.”
“Lots of folks think they are guilty.” Jill recalled the discussions her mother and father had had on the subject. Certainly those hundreds of people who had gone to Sing Sing yesterday thought the Rosenbergs were innocent.
She turned the pages, until another headline caught her eye. This one was an editorial. NO ROMANCE IN MODERN WAR. Jill closed the paper and put it back on the writing desk. She didn’t think there was ever any romance in war.
Jill had things to do. The passengers would be arriving soon and she wouldn’t have a moment to relax until the train was well on its way. She placed one last name card in the wall holder. Then she returned to the Silver Solarium’s vestibule and stepped down to the platform inside the huge, echoing Oakland Mole, where the train waited for its passengers. She walked to the rounded end of the observation car, where a small rectangular sign stood out on the car’s stainless steel skin. CALIFORNIA ZEPHYR glowed in yellow neon letters against an orange background showing an outline of the Golden Gate Bridge.
A group of Red Caps, the railroad station porters who wore distinctive red headgear, waited for the onslaught of arriving passengers. They gathered around a radio playing what some people called race music, but Jill knew it as rhythm and blues. She recognized the song, Ernie Andrews singing “Pork Chops and Mustard Greens.” Her brother, Drew, loved R&B and ever since the record came out last year, he played it constantly.
Then voices drowned out the music, echoing off the Mole’s high roof. Passengers from the East Bay cities had the option to board the Zephyr here at the ferry terminus, or at the train’s first stop, the Western Pacific station located at Third and Washington in Oakland. People had already arrived here by car and bus. Jill saw men in Navy uniforms, not surprising with the Naval Air Station located in Alameda. An officer in dress blues approached, walking arm in arm with a redheaded woman whose knee-length blue coat matched his uniform. Behind them, a little blond girl dawdled, clutching an overnight case and a teddy bear. A young sailor in bell-bottomed trousers hurried past Jill, carrying a duffel bag on his left shoulder. He saw the officer and stopped, snapping a salute. The officer returned the salute and the sailor continued toward one of the Dome chair cars.
Out on San Francisco Bay, a foghorn bellowed its warning. A moment later, Jill heard another horn, signaling the approach of the double-decker ferry from San Francisco.
She quickened her pace and walked to a spot a few yards beyond the end of the Silver Solarium. Here she joined the Pullman conductor, Mr. Alford, who supervised the porters and had overall charge of the sleeping cars. The porters were employed by the Pullman Company rather than the railroads. Now, as the passengers arrived, he would check in those with sleeping accommodations, while Jill greeted people, providing assistance and directions as needed.
The horn sounded again as the ferry docked. Mr. Alford straightened his cap. “Ready, Miss McLeod?”
Jill nodded. “I’m ready, Mr. Alford. Here they come.”
Chapter Two
The flood began. Passengers disembarked at both levels of the ferry, then hurried down the gangplank toward the train. The platform bustled with activity. Red Caps took suitcases, bags, and packages, carrying them to the coach and sleeper cars, or stowing them on carts for transport to the baggage car. Passengers converged on the train, talking, laughing, intent on finding the cars in which they’d be traveling.
A family of five came by, a mother, a father, and three children giggling as they sang that Christmas song that was so popular this year, “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.” Then their voices faded. Other passengers streamed past Jill, their voices and fragments of conversation replacing the lyrics of the song.
“I’m looking forward to Aunt Millie’s mince pie,” a woman told her male companion.
“Yeah, it’s the best.” He laughed as they both hurried past, carrying overnight cases and wrapped packages.
“If we get the contract, we can start work in April,” one man said to another. “We’ll discuss it on the train and I’ll send him a wire when we get to Sacramento.”
“…and Johnny Ray,” a teenaged girl said to another. “I just love it when he sings ‘Cry.’ It makes me swoon!”
“Oh, I think he’s drippy,” her friend said. “I like Eddie Fisher better.”
A growing line of passengers queued in front of Mr. Alford, checking in for the sleeping accommodations. The Pullman conductor smiled as he held out his hand. “Good morning, sir. May I check your reservations, please?” The man handed over his tickets. Mr. Alford glanced at them. “Mr. and Mrs. G
rayson, I see you’re holding two berths in car twelve.”
“That’s the car called the Silver Pine,” Jill said.
“That car is available for occupancy now,” Mr. Alford said. “I see you’re traveling to Provo, Utah. We are scheduled to arrive there at six thirty-two tomorrow morning. Do have a pleasant trip, Mr. and Mrs. Grayson.”
Jill saw an older couple she recognized, walking arm in arm, followed by a Red Cap carrying their suitcases. The man showed his tickets to the conductor.
“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Gunther,” Jill said. The Gunthers had traveled on the Zephyr several times before, most recently in August. The woman wore a Christmas corsage, a candy cane with a spray of holly pinned to the collar of her tweed coat. She carried a small beige leather overnight case and a bouquet of red and white carnations.
“Miss McLeod, you remember us,” Mrs. Gunther said. “How nice to see you again. Look, Martin, it’s Miss McLeod. She was on our train last summer.”
“You look lovely, my dear,” Mr. Gunther said as he stepped away from the Pullman conductor. He pulled a red carnation from the bouquet and handed it to Jill. “Merry Christmas.”
“Thanks, Mr. Gunther.” Jill took the flower and sniffed its spicy scent.
“We’re going to Salt Lake City to spend Christmas with our daughter and her family,” Mrs. Gunther said. “I’m looking forward to the trip. The scenery in the Feather River Canyon should be spectacular, with all the snow. Of course, it’s gorgeous all the time.”
“Yes, I’m sure it will be beautiful. We’re due into Salt Lake at five-forty tomorrow morning. I hope you enjoy your trip.”
“Oh, we always do, on the Zephyr.” Mrs. Gunther took her husband’s arm. “Which car are we in, dear?”
“Car sixteen, the Silver Gull, compartment G,” Mr. Gunther said.
“First sleeper near the diner,” the Red Cap said, stepping forward. “Right this way, sir.”
As the Gunthers walked up the platform, another couple stepped forward, followed by a Red Cap carrying two suitcases and an overnight case. The man and woman appeared to be in their mid-thirties. He had a wiry frame and brown hair in a crew cut. His overcoat was unbuttoned, revealing a gray pinstriped suit. The woman’s chestnut hair was pulled back into a sleek ponytail that accentuated her long, narrow face. She wore a mossy green suit under her black wool coat.
The man reached into the inner pocket of his overcoat and handed the tickets to Mr. Alford, who glanced at them and said, “Mr. and Mrs. Cole, bound for Chicago.”
“That’s right,” Mr. Cole said. “Heading home.”
“We’ve been on our honeymoon in San Francisco.” Mrs. Cole squeezed her husband’s arm with her right hand, flourishing her left so Jill could see the wide gold band.
“Congratulations,” Jill said. “I hope you enjoyed your stay.”
“Oh, I do love San Francisco,” Mrs. Cole said. “I always have. It’s marvelous, one of my favorite cities.”
Mrs. Cole spoke English with a slight accent. Something European, Jill thought. German? Perhaps. She couldn’t place it just now.
In addition to the French she’d learned in college, Jill had acquired a smattering of German, Italian, and Spanish. While working on the California Zephyr, she’d picked up a few words of even more languages, including Dutch, Swedish, Russian, Polish, Chinese, and Japanese. People from all around the country and all around the world rode the Silver Lady. Jill’s ear for languages had proved an asset in this job.
“You’re in compartment B aboard the Silver Gull,” Mr. Alford told the Coles. “That’s car sixteen. The Red Cap will show you the way. We should arrive in Chicago at one-thirty on the afternoon of December twenty-fourth.”
“Just follow me, sir,” the Red Cap said, moving past the Coles as he headed for the sleeper section. Mrs. Cole squeezed her husband’s arm again, her laugh tinkling as she tilted her head toward his.
Jill turned and smiled at the next passenger. This was one of her “special attention” passengers, traveling aboard the Silver Solarium. Jill recognized Lydia Stafford from the photo on the jacket of her latest novel. Jill had purchased the book and wrapped it up for her mother, the package now waiting at home under the McLeods’ Christmas tree. Had she known the author was going to be on the train, she’d have brought the book with her, to get an autograph.
“Miss Stafford, it’s a pleasure to have you aboard,” Jill said. “I enjoy your books.”
“Thanks.” Miss Stafford returned Jill’s smile and handed her ticket to the conductor. She was in her thirties, with brown hair swept back from a high forehead in a short ear-length bob, showing off her pearl earrings. Her wool suit was a herringbone tweed. Behind her the Red Cap carried a small overnight case and a Smith-Corona portable typewriter.
The conductor checked the ticket. “That’s bedroom C on the Silver Solarium, the Dome observation car, which is right here behind us. Have a pleasant trip, Miss Stafford.”
Next in line was a middle-aged man in a gray suit and tie, accompanied by a woman who wore a blue wool coat over her stylish blue dress, showing off sapphire-and-gold jewelry. The Red Cap a few steps behind them pushed a baggage cart carrying two suitcases and two overnight cases.
The man presented two tickets to the conductor. “We’re going to New York City.”
Now that accent was pure Brooklyn, Jill thought.
The conductor examined the tickets. “Welcome aboard, Mr. and Mrs. Perlman. You’ll be traveling on the Silver Rapids, car eleven. That’s our transcontinental sleeper. Once we get to Chicago it will be transferred to the Pennsylvania Railroad for the trip to New York City.”
“Yes, I know. We’ve ridden the through sleeper before.” Mr. Perlman took the tickets from the conductor and beckoned to his wife. “Come on, Blanche. Let’s get settled in and…” His voice faded as he and his wife walked toward their car, followed by the Red Cap with their baggage.
More passengers lined up with tickets in hand, a family of four, traveling to Winnemucca, Nevada. Jill directed them to the first coach car, the Silver Pony. Then, in rapid succession, came passengers headed for points all along the California Zephyr’s route—from California all the way to Illinois, and some like the Perlmans, heading for other destinations in the eastern United States. They were young and old and every age in between, some traveling on their own, some accompanied by families.
A young woman in a pleated skirt and cardigan fumbled with her small suitcase and held out her ticket to the conductor. “I am going to Chicago,” she said in an accented voice.
Jill placed the accent. “Vous êtes française?”
The woman’s face brightened and she spoke to Jill in French. Her name was Solange LeGros, she said. She was an exchange student at the University of California in Berkeley, and she thought this trip would be a wonderful way to see the United States.
Jill glanced at the ticket. “Bienvenue, Mademoiselle LeGros. You’ll be traveling in the third chair car, the Silver Saddle. It’s car number twenty. I, too, went to the University of California. If you have any questions about Berkeley, I’d be happy to talk with you. And yes, this is a great way to see our country. I hope you enjoy the trip. You’ll see some beautiful scenery.”
As the young woman moved away, Jill saw a middle-aged man coming down the ramp from the ferry. He wore a tan overcoat and carried a small leather valise. He stopped at the foot of the ramp, set the valise next to his feet, and smoothed his sandy hair, receding from his forehead. Then he removed the wedding band from his left hand and slipped it into his pocket.
Jill hid a rueful smile. She’d seen that move before, the married man who had decided to be single for the duration of the trip.
Now he picked up the valise and walked up to Jill instead of the Pullman conductor. With his other hand, he pulled his ticket from the inner pocket of his overcoat. “Hi, honey. I’m Brad Washburn. What’s your name?”
“I’m Miss McLeod. May I help you, Mr. Washburn?”
He
chuckled and leaned closer, waving his ticket at her. “Oh, listen, honey, I’m sure you could help me a lot. Got a bedroom on one of the Pullmans. Hope to get some rest and relaxation on the way to Omaha.”
She glanced at his ticket. “You’re in bedroom J on the Silver Gull, Mr. Washburn. That’s car sixteen, just before the dining car.”
“Why don’t you escort me to my bedroom, honey?” He moved closer still. She could smell the Old Spice cologne that he’d splashed on that morning.
Jill took a step back and gestured toward the Pullman conductor. “I must stay here to assist other passengers, sir. Please show your ticket to the conductor so he can check you in. Then the porter for that car will help you get settled.”
“I’m sure I’ll see you later on the train, honey.”
“I’m sure you will,” Jill said. Though she wished she could avoid it.
Mr. Washburn flourished his ticket at Mr. Alford. Then he tucked the ticket into his overcoat and shifted his leather valise from one hand to the other. The valise rattled. She glanced down at the half-open zipper and saw several bottles inside the valise. Definitely not Old Spice. More like Old Crow. Mr. Washburn was looking for more than rest and relaxation on his journey to Omaha. He’d be partying in his bedroom and looking for female companionship.
Jill glanced at the passengers approaching the conductor and saw the other two “special attention” passengers who had traveled on the ferry from San Francisco. Angelo Constanza was a noted tenor who had performed with the San Francisco Opera this past season and stayed in the city to give a series of concerts. Now he and his wife, Sophia, were traveling to Chicago, in the drawing room on the Silver Solarium. At nearly eighty dollars for two people all the way to the Windy City, this was the most luxurious accommodation afforded by the California Zephyr.