Fire from the Rock
Page 15
“Rachel! We have to get out of here! Can you get up?” Sylvia shouted desperately as she shook her friend.
Groggy, Rachel stirred. “What happened?” she asked, her voice thick with confusion.
Sylvia pulled Rachel out from under the spice shelf and helped her to her feet. “The store is on fire,” Sylvia told her, terror in her voice. “Let’s go!”
“My parents!” Rachel screamed, looking around in confusion. “Where are my parents? Mother! Papa!”
Sylvia, becoming stifled now and feeling the heat from the flames that were getting closer, grabbed Rachel’s arm and pulled her, with great difficulty, toward the door. The entire store was ablaze. “We’ll find them, Rachel! They’re probably looking for us as well. Hurry! We gotta get out of here!”
Just as the terrified girls reached the door of the store, they heard Mr. Zucker’s thick German accent outside, screaming for his daughter. “Rachel! Where is my Rachel!” he cried frantically.
Sylvia, still holding Rachel’s arm, ran through the front door and outside into fresh, breathable air, and safety. Amazingly, the bell on the door still tinkled pleasantly.
FRIDAY, AUGUST 16, 1957—SIX P.M.
Gasping and breathing hard, Sylvia looked at the gaping opening where the front glass window used to be, and watched Zucker’s store burn. The new yellow paint on the front door bubbled and sizzled, melting any memories of the signs of hatred—those swastikas. Also ablaze was Miss Lillie’s beloved little flower shop. The two businesses, once separated only by wooden walls, independent ownership, and mutual respect, now burned together in one incredible ball of flame and smoke, which snaked into the darkening sky. The outer walls of Mr. Crandall’s barbershop, two doors down and separated from the others by an empty lot, stood smoke-blurred, but unharmed.
Rachel, safe in the arms of her parents, cried like a baby. Her mother, it turned out, had left the store to take out the trash and had found her husband wandering outside, screaming for his family.
By that time, the sirens of fire trucks and police cars began to pierce the sound of muffled explosions coming from the store as bags of goods were consumed. The air smelled of burned hair, smoldering leaves, and charred sugar. Dreams disappeared with the smoke.
Sylvia, standing off to one side by herself and shaking uncontrollably, was having trouble comprehending the enormity of what was happening. This can’t be real, she thought, not here in stupid old Little Rock. Her pretty yellow dress, stained and torn in spots, hung on her like a wilted bloom. She wrapped her arms around herself and ached for her mother.
Bright orange and yellow flames tinged with blue drifted up to the sky. The small stores, made mostly of thin plaster and wooden beams, were easy morsels for the fire to devour. It made no distinctions between bouquets of gardenias and shelves of oatmeal, between colorful carnations and bottles of syrup.
The two structures began to crumble in the heat. At one point two thin skeletons of wooden beams were perfectly outlined by the bright orange flames, an oddly beautiful painting of destruction. The fire hoses did little more than add decoration to the gloomy afternoon.
Mr. Crandall, his son Johnny, and the two Smith brothers stood quietly on the opposite corner, looking aghast at the destruction. Sylvia shivered. She did not see Miss Lillie at all. Finally, Crandall scratched his thinning hair, then walked across the street to where the Zucker family huddled together.
“Hey, Zucker. You all right?”
“Ya,” Mr. Zucker replied shakily. “My family is safe. That is all that matters to me. What about you?”
“Fire didn’t touch my shop.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Hey, I know you and me got our differences, but I want you to know I never did nothing to hurt you.”
“Ya. So you say.” Mr. Zucker turned to hug his wife, then looked at Mr. Crandall with eyes filled with grief. “Thank you. Now go—we must deal with this tragedy ourselves, sir.”
Mr. Crandall spat on the ground and walked away. “Can’t even be nice to these folks,” he mumbled.
People from all over the neighborhood, both colored and white, had gathered to watch the fiery show. Old women who had hurried from fixing their dinner, children who relished the spectacle of noise and excitement, men who had been cutting their grass—all rushed to the scene.
“I heard somebody say the stores got struck by lightning,” one onlooker said.
“Wasn’t no thunder or lightning within a hundred miles,” another person said. “Somebody did this on purpose.”
“Who would want to burn out old Zucker? He never hurt nobody. He lets folks shop on credit and his wife makes darn good cookies!”
“We got too many Jews in the neighborhood anyway!” another voice spat out.
“I heard Zucker supports the integrationists—those troublemakers from up north who are coming in here to upset our Negroes!” an indignant female voice said.
“We got plenty to be upset about, lady. We don’t need no Northerners tellin’ us how bad you be treatin’ us,” an angry Negro voice replied.
“I know plenty of folks who’d want to burn old Crandall to the ground! Seems kinda funny his shop didn’t have a scratch on it,” one man commented.
“Grady, quit talking like that,” a woman’s voice said. “We don’t want to wish ill luck on nobody.” The man said nothing else.
“What about sweet Miss Lillie?” a soft-spoken woman’s voice said. “Nobody would want to hurt her, for sure.”
“She took fresh flowers to Mrs. Z every morning,” a woman said softly.
“Zucker’s too friendly with the coloreds,” another voice said into the gathering darkness. “Serves him right.”
“Well, Crandall hates the coloreds and the Jews. Everybody knows that. Awfully strange he didn’t get burned out.”
“Seems like that fire don’t care what color the owner used to be,” a man’s voice said harshly.
“Poor Miss Lillie,” a woman added. “She loved that little shop.”
“Miss Lillie must be the sweetest little colored lady in Little Rock,” a white woman’s voice said.
“Do they know who set the fire?” someone else asked.
“Not a clue. Any evidence probably got burned up.”
“Such a shame. I’m going to miss those cookies.”
“Anybody seen Miss Lillie?” another woman called out frantically. Only the silence of confusion answered.
Sylvia, still in shock, listened to the voices, but it was as if they were floating over her head. She didn’t pay close attention to all the words.
She knew she had to call her mother, but she couldn’t stop shaking. She walked over to where the Zuckers sat on the grass across the street from their store. Mrs. Zucker, who held Rachel in one arm, hugged Sylvia with her other, and for once her thick, enveloping embrace felt comforting. Sylvia huddled with them as they watched a lifetime go up in smoke.
FRIDAY, AUGUST 16, 1957—EVENING
You saved my life,” Rachel whispered finally.
Sylvia shook her head and managed a small chuckle. “I’m no hero. I saved my life—I just took you with me!”
“Ya, you save my Rachel,” Mr. Zucker said thickly. “I can never thank you enough.”
Sylvia felt uncomfortable and got shakily to her feet. Mrs. Zucker couldn’t seem to stop crying.
“What will we do now, Papa?” Rachel asked her father.
“We do what we always do, my child. We go on.” He scratched his forearm unconsciously.
As the ambulance drivers tended to Rachel’s cuts and Sylvia’s bruises, a police officer finally came over to where the Zucker family sat. “I’m really sorry about this, Mr. Zucker,” the young policeman began, “but it looks like both buildings are going to be a total loss.”
“That I can see,” Mr. Zucker said without emotion.
“Do you have any idea how this might have started?” the policeman asked. “Any problems with wires or plugs or electric lights lately?”
“Then what do you do, sir?” the policeman asked.
“I paint my door once more.” Mr. Zucker stood up stiffly and looked at the young man face-to-face. “What do you do? Don’t you think these incidents are related?”
“It could be random events, sir. We have no proof that those incidents are related to the fire, but we’re going to do a thorough investigation.”
“Investigate what?” Rachel asked angrily. “And how will you find out who did this? Do you even care?” The officer looked away from her, scribbled on his clipboard, but did not reply.
“Is Miss Lillie all right?” Sylvia asked the policeman.
“We have not been able to locate her,” he said with a bit of concern in his voice. “We hope she was out delivering flowers.” He seemed to be glad to turn his attention away from the Zuckers for the moment.
“But she was in her window just a little while ago, working on her display,” Sylvia said, fear in her voice.
“I’m sure she’s line—we’ll keep you posted,” the officer said. He hurried away, still writing notes on a clipboard.
Just then Sylvia’s mother came running around the corner, her face a mask of fear and worry. Her bedroom slippers flopped crazily, and she had difficulty keeping them on as she ran. “Sylvie!” she screamed as she glanced with horror at the flames that greedily consumed the wooden frames of the buildings.
Sylvia jumped up and ran to her mother’s arms. “Mama!” They reached each other in the middle of the street, which was blocked with fire hoses, emergency vehicles, and curious onlookers. Sylvia collapsed into tears at last, grateful for her mother’s strong brown arms, the enormity of what had happened finally sinking in.
“I heard the sirens, but I ignored them at first. Then Gary ran in and told me it was Zucker’s store, and I thought I had lost you!” her mother whispered into her ear.
“I should have called you right away, Mama, but the pay phone is a block away and my legs felt like they just wouldn’t work. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I’m just glad you weren’t hurt. Are the Zuckers all right?” her mother asked, wiping her nose on a handkerchief. She glanced over at the trembling family on the grass. “What about Miss Lillie? Did the Crandalls get hurt? Oh, my Lord!” Mrs. Patterson covered her face and wept.
Sylvia had rarely seen her mother cry, and had never seen her out in public dressed as she was, wearing her old, torn bathrobe—the one she wore when she cleaned the oven—and her hair half in curlers, half-uncombed.
“It’s okay, Mama,” Sylvia said. “Rachel and her folks are fine—just a few cuts and bruises—they got out safely,” Sylvia replied. “And, Mama, you look a mess!” Sylvia was grateful for the chance to smile.
Her mother wiped her eyes, pulled the remaining curlers out with one hand, and tucked them into the pocket of her bathrobe. A faint smile touched her lips. “First time in years I decide to get ready for bed early, and look what you make me do!” She took a deep breath, surveying the devastation. She did not let go of her daughter’s hand. “Is everybody safe, Sylvie?” she asked.
“The Crandalls look okay—not a scratch on any of them. But nobody has seen Miss Lillie,” Sylvia replied with concern.
Knocking down fire barriers and jumping over hoses, Calvin arrived with a clatter on his bicycle. “Where’s my mother?” he shouted over the noise of the fire trucks and hoses. “Sylvie? Are you okay? Have you seen my mother?”
“I don’t know, Calvin. Everything happened so fast.” Sylvia looked distraught as Calvin ran toward the burning buildings.
“You can’t go in there, son!” an officer yelled at Calvin, chasing him. “It’s totally engulfed!”
Calvin ignored him and kept on running. The officer caught him and tackled him to the ground. Calvin squirmed and fought, but the policeman was stronger. “I gotta find her! I gotta find my mother!”
“If she’s in there, you can’t help her, son,” the policeman said gently.
Finally, what was left of the two buildings, with a great whoosh, crumbled in on itself. The crowd stepped back in awe at the horror of it all. Sparks and flames flew into the sky, along with thick, black smoke. Calvin wept.
Sylvia and her mother walked over to where Calvin now sat on the sidewalk. Mrs. Patterson sat down on the ground, took the boy in her arms, and let him cry. Sylvia sat close by, afraid to think about what might have happened, or why.
When Calvin’s grandfather arrived on the scene, they left the two of them huddled together, hoping for a miracle. But Calvin couldn’t sit still. Restless, he walked aimlessly in front of the ruins, searching the faces in the crowd, looking in vain for his mother. He wasn’t ashamed to let people see him cry. The fire-men had set up ropes to hold the increasingly large crowd back—almost everybody in the neighborhood had ended up there, gawking at the tragedy that was unfolding in front of them.
Where’s Reggie? Sylvia thought as her mind began to clear and she looked around at the huge throng of people. It seemed like everybody in Little Rock was out watching this, and Reggie was nowhere to be seen. Sylvia shuddered, trying to block out images she wanted desperately to forget.
Sylvia’s father came speeding around the corner in the car a few minutes later, with a worried-looking Donna Jean and Gary in the backseat. They jumped out as one.
“Sylvia! What happened?” her father cried with anguish. “How did you get involved with this?”
Sylvia jumped up and grabbed her father. “Mama sent me to get some things so she could make cakes for the bake sale, Daddy. One minute I was talking to Rachel about the latest record on the radio, and the next thing I knew I was on the floor.”
Her father embraced her tightly and whispered into her ear, “I love you, baby girl. Don’t you dare go dyin’ on me!”
Sylvia trembled in her father’s arms, feeling incredibly safe enveloped in his words and the smell of his Old Spice cologne. “I’m okay, Daddy,” she whispered. “Now that you’re here, I know I’m gonna be all right.”
DJ, standing alone on the sidewalk, shifted from one foot to the other. “I’m scared,” she admitted.
Sylvia reluctantly left her father’s reassuring arms and knelt down to give her sister a hug. “Me, too, DJ, but it’s gonna be all right. Promise.” She knew she sounded like her parents—lying about the truth to make the little ones feel safe.
The little girl trembled in her arms. “Was it those boys who knocked us down?” Donna Jean asked quietly. She barely blinked.
“What boys?” Mr. Patterson said, looking concerned.
“What are you talking about?” Mrs. Patterson asked, almost at the same time.
Sylvia bowed her head and wept once more. “I should have told you, Mama and Daddy. I’m so sorry. All of this is my fault!”
“You’re not making any sense! Told us what? How could any of this possibly be your fault?” her father said.
Sylvia, her face streaked with dirt and tears, looked at her father. “A couple of months ago, when me and DJ went downtown to the library, Johnny Crandall and his friends the Smith brothers were kinda messing with us.” She paused.
“Messing with you how? Tell me!” Her father sounded frantic.
“And you didn’t tell me, Sylvie?” Her mother sounded hurt. “Come to think of it, you two did seem a bit subdued when you got home that day, as I remember now.”
“I knew we should have told Mama,” Donna Jean whispered to Sylvia.
“They didn’t hurt us, Daddy. Not really. They yelled at us, kicked our books around, and pushed us down in the dirt.” She paused. “Johnny Crandall slapped me. I was afraid to tell you.” Sylvia made circles in the dirt with the toe of her shoe. This is such a mess. I should have known better.
“Slapped you! How dare he!” Mr. Patterson looked as if he were about to explode. He breathed heavily, unable to contain his frustration. He looked around wildly. For once, his face matched Gary’s when he had reached a boiling point.
“That’s why I didn’t say anything, Daddy. I didn’t want anything else bad to happen. It wouldn’t have changed anything.”
Her father sighed deeply. “So how does that incident have anything to do with this fire?”
“It’s complicated.” Sylvia knew she was stalling, but she didn’t know what to say.
“Do you think the Crandall and Smith boys set the fire? Were they following you? Trying to hurt you?” She had never seen her father so upset. “I’m ready to smash my hand through this tree trunk, Sylvia! Please explain what you know.” Mrs. Patterson touched her husband’s arm, trying to calm him, but she looked worried as well.
Sylvia didn’t have a chance to answer her father at that point, because the police walked over to interrogate her. After speaking to everyone in the Zucker family, and interviewing all the Crandalls, it was finally Sylvia’s turn. She trembled with fear as the policeman approached.
“I need to ask you some questions,” the young officer said to Sylvia. He had taken off his hat and his blond crew cut had taken the shape of the police cap.
“Can’t I take her home first?” her mother asked. “She’s injured and needs rest. Perhaps we can do this in the morning.”
“This will only take a few minutes,” the policeman replied.
“I’m okay, Mama. Let’s get this over with,” Sylvia said. But her hands were shaking.
“You were in Zucker’s store when the fire began?” the officer asked. She wondered why the officer couldn’t say “Mr. Zucker.” The man had lost everything—surely he deserved a little respect.
She kept these thoughts to herself and replied respectfully, “Yes, sir. I was shopping for my mother.”
“Do you often shop at Zucker’s? There’s a colored-owned store a couple of blocks away.”
“Rachel Zucker is my friend, and the Zuckers are wonderful people. Our family has shopped there for years.” Why does everything boil down to race? Sylvia thought angrily.