“My, my, Rupert, we are in a frisky mood. There must be good news.”
“There must be champagne, my dearest one.”
“Champagne? My goodness, it is not yet four o’clock! It would be scandalous!”
“Then, let’s be scandalous. Let’s celebrate my good fortune to have taken out an insurance policy that will not only replace the lost building, but will allow us to enjoy a few of life’s pleasures as well. Isn’t life grand? Beth, my love, I do believe it is time we paid a visit to Henry Flagler in Palm Beach. I would like to pay back his loan to me in person. Winter is so very hard, darling, and he wants us to meet his new wife.
“Oh, please say yes. It will be such fun. It will be so lovely to sit beneath the palm trees and listen to the ocean. Just like a honeymoon. It would be a second honeymoon for us.”
Beth fought to make a pout, “But it is such a long, dreary train ride to Florida.”
“Oh, come now, darling,” said Rupert as he whirled her into an elaborate turn. “Henry has just finished construction on his new home. He calls it Whitehall. It is a wedding gift, in fact, for Mary. Do you remember those fellows, Carrère and Hastings, who did the bank here? They are utterly famous now. They designed the New York Public Library. Can you believe that Flagler had contracted them to build his home in Florida? It has more than fifty rooms and a ballroom for three hundred and fifty guests. He insists we must stay. He and Mary will travel there right after New Year, and so should we. Say yes, my love.” He kissed her deeply.
“Yes.” Feeling light as a feather, Beth gasped with happiness as she thought about the shopping she would have to do before they left for Palm Beach.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Epidemic
October 25, 1904
Isaac hunched over his work at the Linotype machine in total concentration, his fingers flying over the keys. He needed to get home to the schoolwork that was waiting for him.
It was becoming harder to concentrate on his school assignments. He would be the first in his family to go to university, and the weight of expectations was enormous. Yet, since the fire, he could feel the newspaper taking hold of his life. A new road had opened before him. He had won praise for his writing and had been invited to apprentice as a copywriter.
Most important, since the fire he had been welcomed by the other reporters and editors to join them at their regular gatherings at the Mariaggi Hotel. All the news people met at the Mariaggi, as did the men who conducted their business in the Grain Exchange. It was the place to argue politics, current events and business trends, and Isaac Zigman had been invited to join. He could hardly believe his good fortune. Maybe they didn’t know he was Jewish. Maybe they didn’t care. A lot had happened in the two weeks since the fire.
Just another few minutes, and he’d be finished work. He adjusted the visor over his eyes and stretched the weariness out of his back before taking a deep breath and bending to the task of typing in the last few lines. As tired as he was, there was something about the feel of the keyboard and the rhythmic music of the Linotype machine that filled him with a sense of accomplishment. He was so caught up in his work that he jumped when Jim McGraw came up behind him and brought his fists up in a playful jab.
“Well, if it isn’t our new star reporter back in the salt mines.”
“Jim! I thought you were in Toronto. When did you get back?” Isaac was genuinely pleased to see his friend.
“They called me back to work on this story about the bloody typhoid. The hospital is crawling with sick folks.”
“What do you mean? It’s almost November. We had a bad bout of it last summer, but that’s long gone.”
“There ya go, thinkin’ like a guy typing up stories, not reporting them, Isaac. I keep tellin’ ya to open your eyes to what’s goin’ on around you.”
Isaac smelled a trap. McGraw looked like he was gearing up for one of his practical jokes. Well, this time he wasn’t going to fall for it and end up in yet another wild goose chase.
“Jim, you know I live right on Selkirk Avenue, the heart of the North End,” said Isaac. “You could not ask for a more central location for typhoid in this city, and I tell you it’s quiet.”
“Aw, you know so much. Why don’t you come with me over to the hospital and we’ll see what’s goin’ on? I could use some extra help. I got tickets to the new vaudeville show in from New York, and Maggie is expecting me to fetch her in time for that curtain. Be a sport, will ya? Here’s the thing: I’ll introduce you around, you write the first draft of the story for me, see, and I’ll share my fee with you. What do you say? We know you can write. Come on, I know you’re itchin’ to do it.” He pulled a cigar from his coat pocket and slapped Isaac’s shoulder in one fluid motion.
Isaac hesitated as he arranged the last few metal lines of type in the frame that would be the front page. His composing work was done, homework was waiting, and now here’s McGraw with an offer too tempting to turn down.
“All right. Only, you don’t think this will get me in trouble, do you?”
“Not a chance. Get that grease smudge off your face, and let’s get moving. Yeehaw!”
Isaac laughed out loud at the boisterous McGraw and wondered what if felt like to take life so boldly into your hands.
The hospital was crowded with people waiting to be seen. Standing in a corner, McGraw pointed out familiar faces among the visitors in the hospital corridors, reciting who owned which business and who had come into wealth through investments in real estate.
“Look around. This ain’t your ordinary epidemic. These folks have been hit hard, and I don’t think we can count this as one of those plagues you studied as a kid, where God sent in locusts and floods and all that to punish people. This is going to be a big story.”
“So, it’s typhoid,” Isaac agreed, trying hard to look grown up and sophisticated. “So what? Winnipeg gets hundreds of cases a year. Where’s the story?”
“Where’s the story? Are you kiddin’ me? This typhoid epidemic is slamming the upper class families, you dope. Does that not strike you as a big story, lino-boy?”
Isaac flushed.
“Sure, I guess. I just never saw the paper take typhoid seriously before.”
Jim pulled Isaac into a quiet corridor and put a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t mean any disrespect in what I’m going to tell you, Ziggy, but, you see, no one cares about the folks in your neighborhood. Jews, Ukrainians, Poles, all those East European immigrants don’t figure high on the list of attention getters for the front page. I don’t say that to hurt your feelings or anything, you know.”
“Oh, I understand. It’s just true.” Isaac dropped his eyes.
“But just wait and see what happens when word gets out these are rich families coming down with the typhoid. I tell you, folks in Winnipeg are about to have a whole different view of how serious this disease is when people with good names start droppin’ dead. No offense,” McGraw shrugged. “C’mon, Ziggy. I’ll introduce you to some people.”
The director was in a meeting and could not be disturbed, so Isaac did not have the benefit of a proper introduction. Everyone else Jim had expected to introduce him to was busy or away. Some start, thought Isaac, but Jim had full faith his friend would get the job done.
“Ziggy, you just get the details, and leave the rest to me. Now, I have to get my ass out of here, so here’s what you do. Find out as much as you can about where these people live and how many in their families are sick. Get any names you can, but if they clam up don’t worry. The paper won’t likely let us print their names anyway because all these guys are friends with the people who own the papers and it’s too embarrassing for them. Talk to the nurses. A few of ’em like to gossip.” McGraw dug into his pocket and handed Isaac three neatly folded bills. His eyes flew open at the casual way Jim handled so much money.
“If they need a little extra persuasion to give you information, here’s a little help.” McGraw explained.
“I see.” Is
aac made a pretense of being calm.
“Now get in there, and get us some juice. Write what you learn, and leave it on my desk. I’ll polish it up for tomorrow’s morning edition and we’ll be the golden boys!” McGraw raced off to get Maggie to the vaudeville show.
Isaac froze. He did not have the vaguest notion of what to do. The only thing he knew was that he was in way over his head. What was he thinking that he wanted to be a reporter? He wasn’t a reporter. He was an imposter. He was a poor Jewish kid with big shot dreams of being something other than a storekeeper. He felt his cheeks go red and his stomach flip.
“Do you need something?” The voice that startled him belonged to a young woman in a starched white cap and crisp white apron. “Are you feeling faint? The admittance desk is in the waiting room. Go down the hall that way. You must have come in the wrong door.”
“Um, well, thank you, but no, I’m not sick.”
“Oh. Are you here to visit someone?”
“I’m a newspaperman. I’m here to write about the typhoid epidemic,” he blurted.
“Oh. Well.” The nurse stepped back. “Well, I can’t help you. Goodnight.”
“No, please, wait.”
“You’ll have to talk to the hospital director. Goodnight.” She turned and walked briskly down the hall.
Isaac spoke to the director’s secretary and made his request. Then he waited, watching the wall clock as it ticked away the minutes. He asked again. He waited again. The third time, he was told that the director had left for the day and to please try again in the morning. He went on to speak to two nurses who shook their heads and scooted away before he could show them a bribe. He talked to three neatly dressed, English-speaking visitors who said they would not talk to a newspaperman.
He knew McGraw was going to kill him. He had no facts and no story. He had nothing but fear and the realization that he was just not cut out for this kind of work. He felt a weakening in his knees and realized he needed to sit down. He made his way to the waiting room and eased down onto a bench trying to take up as little space as possible next to a portly man with a large handlebar moustache.
“I say, dear boy,” the man nodded politely in Isaac’s direction, “would you mind taking another seat so that my son might sit with me? He’s on his way here, and I would greatly appreciate it.”
They were ordinary, well-modulated words, but they stopped Isaac cold. It was the perfect English accent that did it. The words rolled forth, steeped in education and generations of wealth. Isaac could only think that this must be exactly how the King of England sounded. He’d never spoken to anyone who sounded like the king and he was immobilized as he stared blankly into the man’s face. The man pushed him, repeating his request in a very loud voice.
“PLEASE MOVE. MY SON IS HERE. I WANT TO SIT WITH HIM.” He ended with a gesture one might use to shoo pigeons off a park bench.
It was then that Isaac recognized the man. Mr. Barnard R. Sedgewick, one of the leading bankers in the city and a member of every important business organization as well as every social group in the city including the Granite Curling Club. He was a powerhouse both in size and by reputation.
Isaac nodded and slid down the bench. Any hope of recovering his tongue vanished; he was silenced with humiliation, consumed by dread. The blood pounded in his ears. How would he tell Jim that he couldn’t do the assignment?
He gripped his aching head and swallowed the bile that was suddenly in his throat. Then, without warning, without any effort on his part, something wonderful happened. Isaac realized he had disappeared. All around him, well-dressed English people were talking freely about typhoid. Mr. Sedgewick had given him the gift of access by creating the impression he did not speak or comprehend English. Isaac didn’t need to interview anyone. He would get the whole story by eavesdropping.
People came and went. Isaac moved soundlessly to different seats in the waiting room. Twice, when spoken to, he shook his head and said “No English”, the same way his grandmother would. Emboldened by the reaction he received, he even added a bit of a stammer for extra effect. He made no eye-contact but stole discreet glances about the waiting room. He sat and soaked up the details for Jim McGraw.
The visitors exchanged stories, speculated about the cause of the typhoid outbreak, and gossiped about the people they knew to be ill. Isaac quietly pulled out his notebook and pencil and started making notes in Yiddish. He wrote down names and street addresses, and he learned that typhoid truly was a very serious problem in the wealthy neighborhoods of Armstrong’s Point and elsewhere along the Assiniboine River where the great homes were built. He also learned it was getting worse. Many people were ill or dying. McGraw was right. Wealth and fancy homes were no protection against the horrid grip of the disease, and the people wanted answers. They were demanding to know why the city had allowed typhoid to escape from the immigrant neighborhoods.
In two hours, Isaac had all the information he needed. He slipped out of the hospital and ran back to the newspaper office to write it up for McGraw. He also had a puzzling new angle of the story to think about. How could typhoid spread so quickly through the one part of the city that had both sewer and water connections? It made no sense.
The story he left for Jim to polish stated the facts regarding the number of victims being extremely high for this time of year, and confirmed that many had died. Isaac was only too aware of the story’s weaknesses. No official had been willing to say anything about what might have caused the outbreak. Neither would anyone confirm that the location of the outbreak was primarily in Armstrong’s Point and the tony neighborhood on Broadway known as the Hudson’s Bay Reserve. Everything Isaac had learned was anecdotal. Just as he was finishing his draft, McGraw came bounding into the room.
“Hey lino-boy! How did the interviews go?”
“Not the way you expected. But here’s what I found out,” Isaac handed over his copy. McGraw eased a hip onto one corner of the desk and started reading. He let out a low whistle.
“Isaac. This is very good. This is going to be one hell of a story.”
Isaac smiled and reached into his pocket.
“Thanks, Jim. Here’s the money you gave me. I didn’t need any of it.”
“What?”
Isaac explained what had happened. McGraw slapped his hand on his knee and laughed so hard he started coughing.
“Ziggy, the invisible reporter. I tell you, we are going to be one hell of a team.”
“I’d like that Jim. I think I could learn to do this.”
“Learn? You’ll be teaching me a trick or two. I can see that,” Jim said, smiling broadly.
“I’ve still got homework and it’s late, so I’ll be seeing you. Goodnight Jim.” Isaac slipped his coat on.
“Just a minute. Here’s partial payment on the story.” To Isaac’s surprise, Jim handed him two folded two-dollar bills.
“You mean it?”
“I never joke about women or money, kid. And I won’t be callin’ you lino-boy anymore.”
At the Zigman dinner table the next day, the entire family had plenty to say about Isaac’s story and his great windfall. What made the story particularly lively was the Zigman family’s analysis of the typhoid problem. No one did a better job at this sort of thing than his mother. Hannah was well known and greatly teased for her habit of hearing two words of a tale and attaching a whole new story, then passing it on. Often she would continue to add new details from her vivid imagination as new opportunities arose to tell the story. Mama should have been in the theater, Isaac mused. But, somehow her stories always got to the heart of what was going on.
“They should wash their hands, those people with so much money they can’t think of what is sensible to do,” she proclaimed. “They’re sick because they are filthy rich. That’s all there is to know. Washed hands make it hard to get sick.
Hannah muttered and sputtered while slamming her kitchen pots about in the dishpan as Isaac went to his homework. He could not get the
news story off his mind. He couldn’t make sense of the spread of the disease, and he worried about Maisie, knowing so many of the cases were in Armstrong’s Point.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Darkness Descends
October 30, 1904
Emma grew restless as the weather turned colder. The thought of picking up a book or her embroidery was just too dull to consider. Too old for dolls and too young to be courted, she was longing for the day when just getting out of the house would be easier. It was not much fun being thirteen. She felt like a gosling, ugly, and awkward as she waited for her flight feathers to grow in. She hated the way everyone insisted that she be treated like a child. No, she could not go over to Mary’s house without a proper invitation. No, she could not ask Henry to run her downtown for a little shopping on her own at Robinson’s store. No, Mother had been having headaches this week and was not up to a game of backgammon. It was all so truly unfair to be stuck in such emptiness, she thought as she gazed out the window at the lifeless grey sky. Just when she thought she would surely die of boredom, Maisie poked her head into the room and purposefully started fluffing pillows.
“Pardon the intrusion, Miss Emma, but you appear in need of a distraction.” She paused to listen for Mr. Chadwick. Satisfied he wasn’t hiding nearby, Maisie nonetheless lowered her voice.
“I thought perhaps you’d like to join me in the kitchen to bake cookies.”
Emma perked up immediately. The very idea was both positively risqué and enormously appealing. Dare she go below stairs with the servants?
“Oh, Maisie! What a wonderful idea!” Emma jumped from her chair, straining to keep from squealing with delight. “But Mother will be horrified. She never allows me down in the kitchen.”
“Your mother has seemed a bit overwhelmed these last few days. Perhaps she won’t mind you joining me if you ask her properly. Mrs. Butterfield and Lizzie are doing the marketing today so we have some time.”
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