An Arab child ran by, stick in hand, chasing a donkey past booths in a bazaar. Sunshine glinted on jewelry for sale. “I was hoping you would,” Sylvie told her. “And this is just the beginning. Keep bringing Olive, won’t you? We’ll have lots of time to learn things in the exhibition buildings later, but the weather today is perfect for outdoor activities.”
“Like standing in line for Mr. Ferris’s wheel?”
Sylvie grinned. “I did promise them. Besides, we’re practically right next to it already. You’ll ride it with us, won’t you?” The camel driver began leading the girls back.
Meg hesitated. “I’ve already spent fifty cents for Olive and me to enter Cairo Street, and another fifty cents on the camel ride. Two tickets for the wheel will cost another dollar. Really, I ought to remain on terra firma and save fifty cents. I’ll stay busy sketching. You go with the girls.”
Of the two sisters, Sylvie had always been the one to count the costs, reckon accounts, and calculate risks. But it didn’t surprise her to hear Meg pay strict attention to budgeting now, too. Since June, almost five hundred banks across the country had suspended operations, including a couple of large ones in Chicago. The Erie and Reading Railroad companies had both gone bankrupt, and millions were out of work nationwide. The depressed economy had flattened everyone’s pocketbooks.
When the girls returned, Sylvie explained the plan to them as she handed back their parasols.
Olive latched on to Meg’s elbow. “Please, Mama! I want you to come with me. You can’t imagine what you’ll see from up there! Won’t you want to paint that, too?”
Meg’s resolve was clearly cracking, so Sylvie pressed. “We’ll save money elsewhere. Lunches at restaurants cost between fifty cents and a dollar, for the most part, but we can get Vienna Sausages at a snack counter for ten cents. And when we come back to the Fair on other days, we’ll bring our own food.”
Rose discreetly nodded her approval, but Sylvie was sure it was Olive’s silent pleading that ultimately closed the case.
Meg bent and kissed her daughter’s cheek. “You win.”
“Do you know something?” Rose said to Olive. “When you smile like that, you look just like your mama.”
Olive’s grin broadened. She looked from Rose to Sylvie, then back at Rose. “Why don’t you look like yours?”
“Actually, I do,” Rose said. “But my mother died, remember? I don’t resemble your aunt because we’re not related.”
“Biologically,” Sylvie told Olive. “But we’re still family. Just like your dad and his stepsiblings are still a family, even after their parents died. Families are born, but they can also be chosen. I chose—I choose—to love Rose as my own. She is my own.”
Olive tilted her head toward Rose. “And you chose Aunt Sylvie.”
“I was younger than you when my father handed me over,” Rose answered. “I wasn’t given a choice.”
Sylvie’s cheeks burned. Since their meeting with Mr. Janik, Rose had swung between grateful and pensive, still wishing for a blood relative to materialize. Sylvie ought to say something right now to unravel the sudden tension between them, but it coiled so tightly that she wasn’t sure how. What Rose had said was true, and Sylvie sympathized. But the fact that she’d said it aloud, while saying nothing of their mutual affection, smarted.
Meg wrapped an arm around Rose’s slim shoulders. “We all love you, dear. More than you could possibly know.”
Simple words, gently spoken. Comforting and perfect. Meg was gifted in nuance and sensitivity. Sylvie wasn’t. She was bristly where Meg was soft, cool when Meg was warm. Would Rose love her more if she could shape herself into her sister’s likeness?
Nonsense. Rose had been glum this morning after Jozefa moved out of the apartment and into the Palmer. Her discontent had less to do with Sylvie specifically, and everything to do with sorting out who she was and who she wanted to be.
By the time they’d finished lunch and were next in line at the bottom of the wheel, however, Rose’s angst had receded before the towering adventure before them. It was impossible not to be thrilled by its colossal size. The wheel was taller than any building in the United States, save for a handful in Chicago and New York. Thirty passenger cars, as big as streetcars, each held up to sixty people. Encasing the wheel was a structure with wide stairways to platforms at staggered elevations, so that several cars could be loaded and unloaded at once.
“Get ready, Olive, here comes our car!” Rose took the little girl’s hand in hers while Olive bounced in excitement.
The wheel slowed, then halted as a car hovered at their level. At platforms up and down the wheel, doors opened and passengers streamed out. Blue-uniformed conductors stood at the thresholds of their cars. “All aboard!”
Olive claimed Meg’s hand, too, and the three of them climbed into the car. Sylvie followed.
“Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, for the ride of your life! My name is Marvin Lindstrom, and I’ll be your conductor, your tour guide, your doorman, and your security guard for the duration of the twenty-minute ride.”
“Twenty minutes?” echoed a woman beside Sylvie.
“That’s right, ma’am, you get two—I said two—full revolutions for your maximum enjoyment of this wonder of the world. It takes twenty minutes, and you’ll wish it were longer.”
“Over here!” Olive waved to Sylvie. “I saved you a seat.”
Sylvie sat beside her in a rotating metal chair attached to the floor and waited while the car filled. The quiet was charged with anticipation, if not flat-out awe.
“That’ll do!” Marvin boomed as he closed the door and locked it. “As you can see, ladies and gentlemen, you need not fear claustrophobia here. The ceilings are a generous nine feet high. You are free to move about the car and enjoy the views as you wish. The wire over the windows is for your comfort and protection. There is no danger of falling out, no chance of a madman jumping out, and no way a bird can fly in.”
With the smallest lurch, the wheel began rotating. Sylvie held on to her seat at the completely foreign sensation of being suspended above ground.
Olive grasped Sylvie’s hand as they climbed higher and higher into the sky. Then all at once, the little girl leapt up and ran to the window where Meg stood. “We’re so high!”
More people grew brave enough to stand and move about the car, Rose among them. Commanding her queasy stomach to still, Sylvie joined her at a window that faced west. A light sheen of sweat broke out over her skin. The ride was smooth enough, but there was so much air, so much nothing between their car and the ground.
She put her back to the window. Perhaps she wasn’t quite as daring as she’d thought.
“Having fun, Mimi?” Rose grinned.
Sylvie placed a hand on her waist and defied the turbulence within. “Rose, Meg was right when she said that we all love you. I love you more than I can say. Do you know that?”
“I do.”
That was something. Feeling bolstered, Sylvie faced the window again. While Marvin droned on about the 825-foot circumference of the wheel, the people on the Midway grew slowly smaller.
She frowned. “Rose.” She pointed at a man watching the wheel, his hands stuffed in his pockets. “Isn’t that Ivan Mazurek?”
Rose squinted. “I think it is. He lost his job at the stockyards recently. I wouldn’t be surprised if he were after a little cheer, or at least a distraction.”
Strange. The Midway Plaisance didn’t have an entrance fee like the Fair did, but with all the concessions and dining, it was still an expensive place to be for a young man fresh out of work.
“He’s looking right at our car,” said Sylvie. “Did he know you would be on the Midway today?”
“I don’t see how he could have. We certainly didn’t make arrangements for a rendezvous.” She brushed a wrinkle from her skirt.
“Do you suppose he comes to the Hull House Players’ practices just to watch you? Have you considered he may come to Readers Club just
for you, too? He never contributes to the discussion. If he is enamored with you, dear, you must be careful not to lead him on.”
“Enamored? You think he’s enamored with me?” The slightest blush crept up Rose’s neck and into her cheeks. “If he is, I had no idea.” Her hand fluttered to her collar.
“I get the feeling he’s following you, and I don’t like it. Have you done anything to encourage him?”
Rose folded her arms across her pleated bodice. “You know my every move. I’m rarely out of your sight, so you tell me. Couldn’t he just happen to be on the Midway along with thousands of others? Why wouldn’t he see this wheel? It’s the biggest attraction at the Fair, even if he can’t afford a ticket.”
They were nearing the apex of the ride. Dizziness buffeted Sylvie, and she held on to the rail to steady herself. As they descended toward the east, she could see miles of blue Lake Michigan.
She didn’t care. Squeezing her eyes shut, she leaned against the rail with her jaw locked until they were lower.
“You sound so paranoid,” Rose said. “Your father was this way, too, wasn’t he? So maybe it runs in the family, but there is no reason to be so suspicious.”
The remarks stung. Her father had only wanted to protect his daughters, a desire that sharpened and strengthened after the war. She understood that now more than ever. If Ivan was gone by the time the wheel started to ascend again, she’d drop the matter.
Two slow minutes later, Sylvie peered out through the wires meant to keep them safe. Ivan wasn’t where he’d been standing earlier. He was half hidden behind a soda-water stand but still watching. She waved at him. He didn’t return it. Brow folded beneath the brim of his cap, he looked sullen. Why?
Sylvie’s imagination exploded with possibilities. Truly, she had no desire to be overly suspicious, but as a parent, wasn’t that part of her job, to be aware of hidden dangers?
Rose shaded her eyes with her hand, her lace-trimmed cuff sliding on her wrist. The bruise Sylvie had spotted more than a week ago was gone. Sylvie’s questions weren’t.
“I need to ask you something.” The car swayed gently, and Sylvie widened her stance. “Are you sure the mark on your wrist was from Walter trying to keep you inside the Ice Railway car?”
Eyebrows plunging, Rose faced her. “What are you asking, exactly?”
“I’m asking if it could have been Ivan—or anyone else—who laid a hand on you.” And if she ought to be more worried than ever.
“You’re asking if I lied to you. If you don’t believe me, that’s your problem, not mine.” Spine stiff, Rose stepped around Sylvie to join Olive, and her demeanor immediately changed. “What do you think, honey? Ready to go around once more?”
Sinking into a chair, Sylvie pressed a hand to her temple. Metal squeaked as Meg sat beside her and rotated toward her, notebook on her lap. The folds of her jade-green skirt brushed Sylvie’s knees. Her pencil poked out from above her ear, a habit she’d picked up from Nate. “What’s wrong?” she whispered.
What wasn’t wrong? Sylvie glanced at the girls, who had moved to the other side of the car. Men and women shuffled around them. “Oh, I’ve irritated Rose again.”
“It’ll blow over. Girls this age seem to be on an emotional pendulum. Hazel was the same way and sometimes still is. She’ll come back to you.”
“She called me suspicious. Like Father was.”
Meg’s eyes softened. “Are you?”
“I begin to wonder. Ivan Mazurek is down there, watching Rose. I thought I saw him in the Rose Garden during the fireworks, too.”
The ride was ending soon. Meg slid her notebook and pencil into her bag and slung the strap over her shoulder. “You know what to do. Examine your fears, and if they’re baseless, discard them.”
She made it sound so simple.
Sylvie was still considering this when the wheel stopped at the bottom and everyone left the car.
Persian sword dancers demonstrated their skills in the street while Meg, Sylvie, and Rose popped their parasols open again. Olive spun in a circle. “What’s next?”
Rose checked the timepiece pinned to her shirtwaist. “I’m afraid I must be going if I’m to get to my violin lesson on time.”
“On a Monday, dear?” Meg asked.
“Mr. Bartok had rehearsals all day last Friday for the Dvořák concert, so we rescheduled it for today. I checked my violin at the Casino before we met you this morning.” She turned to Sylvie. “I’ll see you at home later this afternoon. Or, if I’m not there when you get back, I’ll be at the Jane Club for dinner with Tessa, and I’ll meet you at Readers Club.” Her hard stare held a challenge.
“I understand,” Sylvie said calmly, willing herself not to scan the crowd for Ivan again. “I’m so glad you could spend so much of the day with us, Rose. I’ll see you later.”
Rose stepped back, only by a foot, but Sylvie felt a new distance fall between them. “One more thing, if you please. My name is Rozalia. It’s time we call each other by our real names, don’t you think?”
“If that’s what you want, of course. Rozalia.”
“Thank you, Sylvie, it is.”
Rose walked away, leaving Sylvie, speechless, behind.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Sylvie could hardly wait for the Hull House Readers Club to be over. Rose had never come. But Ivan had.
After an hour of halting discussion about A Tale of Two Cities, she dismissed the group and then signaled for him to stay. The seams of his shirt strained at his shoulders, and he looked miserably out of place against the grey-and-yellow floral wallpaper behind him. Framed works of art hung from the picture rail circling the room.
“Yes, Miss Townsend?” Sweat dotted his brow. It was suffocatingly hot in the upstairs room of the Butler Gallery, the building adjacent to Hull House on Halsted Street.
“I thought I saw you on the Midway today.” Her voice lifted as though in question.
The young man twisted his hat in his broad hands. “I was there. But I didn’t do anything wrong.”
Sylvie fingered the frayed corner of her novel’s cover. She hadn’t meant to put him on the defensive. Maybe he really was just a harmless, lovesick fellow who was even worse with conversation than she was. She could understand that. Maybe he even appreciated literature but simply wasn’t confident enough to comment.
“Actually, I’m glad you were there,” she tried again. She needed him to feel at ease if he were to share anything helpful with her. “I wonder if you saw Rose after our ride on Mr. Ferris’s wheel.”
He shifted on the chair. The patched newsboy cap in his grip had already lost its lining. Now he was battering it to a pulp.
“I hope you did,” she rushed on. “I was expecting Rose to be here this evening. The last I saw of her was on the Midway.” Sylvie had stopped at the Jane Club apartment building already, but Tessa had told her Rose had never come.
He stilled. “You mean she’s missing?”
So far Sylvie had managed to keep that word at bay. “She could be at home even now,” she admitted. “I just thought I’d ask if you happened to see her after I did.”
A pleat formed between his eyes. “I saw her go to the Fair, but I didn’t go in.”
“So you did see her get in through the gates, at least?”
He seemed hesitant but finally nodded. “It wasn’t right, Rozalia going alone like that. I wanted to go in and keep an eye on her myself, but I—I didn’t have the money with me. For a ticket. Did you really send her in there alone? Was her cousin waiting to meet her, or Miss Wright?”
Sweat trickled from the nape of Sylvie’s neck to her collar. “I’m sure she’s home right now. Perhaps she felt ill.”
She rose, clutching her book. Part of her wanted to ask him what he’d been doing, watching them like that without coming to say hello. The rest of her cared about one thing only: getting home and assuring herself that Rose was fine.
So with a brief thank-you and farewell, she descended the stairs, han
d gliding over the black walnut rail, and rushed out onto Halsted Street. The usual odors pinched her nose, but she was so distracted she didn’t even bother with her lemon-verbena-scented handkerchief as she waited for the streetcar at the corner. Flies buzzed over mounds of rotting garbage in the gutters. In an upper-story tenement, a couple quarreled, glass broke, a child screamed. Babies cried weakly for milk. In front of a saloon, a cluster of men argued in languages Sylvie couldn’t understand.
Her pounding pulse made all of it sound very far away.
Kristof didn’t need to eat another bite. But when Anna Hoffman offered her famous homemade Berliners, resisting was futile.
“Come, dear.” Anna set a plate of the pastries in front of him. Plaited silver-gold hair crowned her head. “I made these just for you, a small reward for all those lovely concerts you give us. You’ll only hurt my feelings if you don’t eat them.”
“Woman!” Karl Hoffman dropped his fist on the kitchen table in mock dismay. “You’ll hurt my feelings if you give those all away! What do you say, Kristof? We can share these, ja?”
Kristof patted his belly, imagining how it would strain his belt if he ate everything Anna offered. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
Gregor was missing out, wherever he was. The Hoffmans were rare and giving souls, as eager to hear whatever Kristof would share as he was to hear any stories they wanted to recount. Often they spoke German together, the official language of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, which Kristof had left for America.
Knocking cut through the conversation. “Anna? It’s me, Sylvie.”
Something was wrong. Kristof heard it in the urgency of her tone. He swallowed and wiped his mouth while Anna answered the door.
“Hello, Anna, I’m actually looking for Kristof.” Sylvie’s voice sounded sunken and distant. “Is he here?”
He was already on his feet, smoothing a hand down his shirtfront to dispel any crumbs. Anna led Sylvie inside. She clutched her hat in front of her waist, bending the brim.
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