Shadows of the White City

by Jocelyn Green

  A bright-cheeked waitress arrived, and they placed their order. The young woman’s wooden shoes clopped as she returned to the kitchen.

  “If Jozefa were truly her mother,” Kristof said, “she should have been happy to see that she’s been so well cared for all these years, and should have let her feel secure in the Dabrowskis’ love and in yours. All she’s done is cause turmoil.”

  Sylvie leaned forward. “Believe me, I’ve thought the same thing. But she saw how aggressively Rose was searching for her family, and Jozefa had been searching for her, too. How could she possibly resist?”

  Kristof frowned. “Does it bother you that you still have no proof of her identity?”

  Her mouth screwed to one side. “It does. I talked to Rose about it this morning. She said Jozefa had to sign over her rights to the baby when she surrendered it to the orphanage, and she has a dated copy of that, but she didn’t bring it to America. Other than that, all she has is a lock of hair from Rose as a newborn. Apparently, she has worn it in a locket all these years.”

  A lock of hair didn’t prove anything. “We need to talk to Mr. Janik again. He may be able to confirm some of these details.”

  Sylvie agreed. “Could you contact him for another meeting when you have a chance? I’d do it myself if he spoke English. But we don’t have to talk about this anymore. This is your day.” She smiled. “Yellow becomes you. It’s really sweet of you to wear them.” She nodded to Olive’s wilted flowers in his jacket.

  “Glad you approve.”

  “I do.”

  The waitress returned, setting cups of cocoa in front of each of them. Kristof watched Sylvie blow on its surface to cool it, then slowly take her first sip. “Good?” he asked.

  “Mm-hmm.” She closed her eyes in unabashed pleasure.

  A smile curved Kristof’s mouth. He wondered when he could hold her hand again. Or if, perhaps, she might reach for his.

  Sylvie looked at him then. Enchanted him without even realizing it. “Don’t you like it?”

  He took his first taste of cocoa and licked the froth from his burning lips. “I do.”

  THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 7, 1893

  Inside the Polish Café, Sylvie and Rose were shown to a table with a view of the lagoon framed by the eastern pavilion of the nearby Fisheries Building. A lazy breeze struggled through the open window, laden with the songs of gondoliers as they glided over the water. Sunshine caught on dragon-headed vessels painted purple, orange, and green.

  Sylvie fixed her attention on the menu, though food was not her priority. She’d expected Rose would want to see Ivan. She was shocked that she’d been invited to come along.

  “Do you see him?” Rose asked, peering over the top of her menu. “Lottie was supposed to tell him I’d come today.”

  The café was full, even though they’d come in the middle of the afternoon, after Sylvie’s tours for the day were done. She scanned the servers carrying platters of steaming, savory dishes throughout the sunlit space.

  “There he is!” Rose whispered. “I almost didn’t recognize him.”

  Twenty paces away, a clean-shaven Ivan Mazurek wore a spotless white shirt beneath a long black vest that reached almost to his knees. Red tassels trimmed the belted vest, matching the red-and-white-striped trousers he wore tucked into black leather boots.

  He was coming toward them. Of all the tables in the café, they’d been seated at one of his.

  “I was hoping I’d see you soon,” he said upon reaching them.

  “Well, here we are!” Rose’s laugh betrayed her nerves.

  “Yes, I see that.” He gave a stiff greeting to Sylvie. “Can we go somewhere after my shift?”

  “Oh. I don’t think so, Ivan.” Rose knotted her fingers together. “But I was hoping I could speak to you here. Could you spare a few minutes?”

  “I’d rather talk when I’m done working. We could ride a gondola.” He gestured toward the window. “Every time one of them passes, I think of you. Of us, together, in one of those.”

  Rose blushed. Sylvie studied her menu, which was the only measure of privacy Ivan was going to get right now.

  “That’s a nice thought,” Rose said. “But really, just sit with us when you can.”

  He didn’t seem happy about it but agreed. “Do you know what you want to order yet?”

  Predictably, Rose ordered pierogis, adding that Jozefa’s version was awful. Sylvie requested only a side dish of potato pancakes.

  When he took their order to the kitchen, Rose said, “He isn’t going to like this. But the sooner I tell him about Jozefa’s letter, the better.”

  “Of course,” Sylvie assured her.

  Rose leaned forward. “Remember, Mimi, your job is to make sure I go through with this. If you weren’t here, I might not have the courage to do it. And if I were alone with him, I—” She pursed her lips. “He can be very persuasive. He’ll try to talk me out of anything that would take me away from him. He does have a bit of a temper, but with you here, and with all these people . . .”

  “If he wants to keep this job,” Sylvie said, “he’ll find a way to control his reaction.”

  Not ten minutes later, Ivan returned and took the seat beside Rose. “All right, what’s this all about?” He draped his arm across the back of her wooden chair, claiming her.

  A deep inhale seemed to steady Rose as she faced him. “Do you remember the locket Jozefa wore all the time? It had a lock of hair inside from her baby.”

  His brows knit together. “So?”

  Rose sent a glance toward Sylvie before continuing. “Jozefa and I had long talks about that baby, a daughter she gave up for adoption when the baby was just a week old.”

  Sylvie straightened. She’d thought Jozefa had only mentioned the locket for the first time in the letter.

  “I heard some of that story,” Ivan said. “She wasn’t married, and she wanted to keep acting. So somewhere out there you have a long-lost cousin. Is that what she was telling you?”

  “I thought so,” Rose said. “She asked me if I thought she should try to contact her daughter, or if she should just leave her alone. I told her that if she knew where she was, she ought to at least try.”

  Understanding filtered through Sylvie like a wave of nausea. Jozefa had been preparing Rose, step by calculated step, the entire time.

  “But what if the daughter was happy where she was?” Ivan asked. “What if she didn’t even know she’d been adopted? It seems like Jozefa should have decided when she gave birth what she really wanted.”

  Color stained Rose’s cheeks. “Jozefa asked me those questions, too.”

  “And?” He was growing impatient, either with the story, or with Jozefa, or both.

  “And I said I didn’t know the answer. But she kept talking about it, almost every evening after you’d gone home for the day. She told me how miserable she was for what she’d done, how she longed to make things right somehow. I felt truly sorry for her.”

  Which was exactly what Jozefa wanted. Sylvie bit her tongue to keep from saying anything. This was another layer of manipulation, but the motivation, at least, was understandable. Jozefa needed to know if Rose could see the situation from her perspective before risking the unvarnished truth.

  “I don’t feel sorry for her,” Ivan said. “My mother would never do that, no matter what. What kind of mother gives her own baby away, for any reason?”

  “She didn’t think she could give her a good home without a father.” Defensiveness climbed into Rose’s voice.

  A short laugh burst from Ivan. “That’s an excuse if I ever heard one. How many families do you know that still have fathers? How many of those fathers make it a ‘good’ home? No, she gets no sympathy from me. It’s ironic, though. You lost both your parents, and she willingly gave up a perfectly healthy baby. So what did you tell her to do?”

  Rose took a drink of water, clearly stalling. Wavering. Sylvie nodded for her to continue.

  “I—” Rose dabbed a napkin
to her lips. “I told her if she ever found her daughter again, then it was meant to be, given how little information she had about her. If Jozefa found her, she could try contacting her. She’d regret it for her entire life if she didn’t.”

  Sylvie’s mouth went dry. It was the perfect setup, and Rose had responded exactly the way Jozefa had hoped.

  Ivan shrugged. “Makes no difference to me. I don’t understand what Jozefa’s baby has to do with you either, especially if you have no idea where she is.”

  Rose’s nostrils flared. Color bloomed on her neck. “But I do know, Ivan. She’s right here. It’s me. The hair in the locket is mine.”

  He frowned. “You just said that was Jozefa’s baby’s.”

  A lump bobbed behind Rose’s collar. “Yes.” She hesitated. “Jozefa wrote me after she left. She isn’t my aunt. She’s my mother. She named me Rozalia. I was the baby she gave away.”

  Sylvie listened intently to Rose’s tone, her words, the spaces between the words. She hadn’t said, “She thinks she is my mother,” or “She says she is my mother.” She had presented the statement as fact. The realization tore a fissure somewhere inside Sylvie. It was small, and halfway expected. But now that it was there, she could feel herself deflating, releasing every breath she’d held.

  “She could be lying again.” Ivan glowered. “Miss Townsend, do you believe this? You can’t.”

  Sylvie’s throat scratched like sand when she swallowed. “I have no proof either way.” She twisted the linen napkin in her lap.

  “Jozefa might have given up a baby girl named Rozalia,” Ivan argued, “but there must be thousands of girls with your name out there.”

  Sylvie listened as Rose supplied more details to convince him. Then she lifted her chin. “She asked me to reconsider her invitation to go to Poland with her. She’ll be in New York City for several weeks before setting sail.”

  Ivan stood, the blood-red tassels on his vest swaying with the abrupt movement. “And?”

  “And I’m considering it. I wanted to let you know.”

  “You’ve already considered it. Say no. I don’t want you to go.”

  Rose’s eyes glittered with irritation. “What about what I want? If I decide not to reunite with my mother, it won’t be to cater to your whim. Why can’t you be the least bit happy for me? Don’t you understand? I found my mother.”

  Whirling from her, Ivan marched away.

  Slouching, Rose rested her forehead in her hand. “He’s angry.”

  “It’s a shock,” Sylvie managed to say. “It’s understandable, given how he feels about you.”

  “If he loved me, wouldn’t he want what I want for myself?”

  Somewhere else in the restaurant, a server dropped a tray of dishes. Sylvie barely noticed. “So you’ve decided already?” She turned to the window, unable to keep the pain from her expression.

  “Sometimes I think I have. How could I do otherwise, when I advised her to tell her daughter what happened? When I fed her hope that any daughter would find a way to forgive her?” But then she moaned. “That was before I knew that daughter was me. Oh, Mimi, I’m so tired of people telling me what to do. And then, sometimes, I just wish someone would tell me what to do!” The laugh that followed was cheerless.

  Sylvie faced her and watched a tear trace her cheek.

  Rose wiped it away with a fingertip. “Aren’t you going to tell me what to do?”

  Stay here, Sylvie’s battered heart cried. Stay safe, stay with me! But she trapped the words in her throat. Instead, she forced a smile. “Not this time, dear. This choice is yours alone.”

  Ivan returned with a tray. The surface of the small table disappeared beneath dishes Sylvie had never seen before. No pierogis or potato pancakes were among them.

  “What’s this?” Rose asked.

  “Polish food. What else?” Ivan tucked his tray beneath his arm. “If you’re going to move there, you’ll need to get used to it. In front of Miss Townsend is kaszanka.” He pointed to fat sausage links. “Made from pig’s blood and buckwheat kasza, fried with onions and stuffed in pig intestines, with horseradish on the side.” Then he described a soup called czernina, made with duck blood and poultry broth.

  “And for you, Rose, the real specialty.” Ivan pinched the edge of the plate set before her and shook it, jiggling the gelatinous mound it held. “Nóżki w galarecie.” Through the clear molded gelatin, chopped carrots and peas were layered over jellied cow’s feet.

  Rose covered her mouth and pushed it away. “You deliberately brought us the only dishes I wouldn’t like.”

  “Are you sure?” Ivan opened a menu and held it at her eye level. “Take a look.”

  “You’re being ridiculous.” Rose’s complexion burned red. “You know I can’t eat this, just like you know I can’t read that menu.”

  “I’m the ridiculous one?” He laughed. “Listen to yourself. You can’t read Polish aside from the word pierogi. You can’t speak or understand it. Don’t assume Jozefa will teach you either. You asked her to at the Palmer. She knew she would invite you to go to Poland with her, and she still didn’t teach you any of the language. She wants you to depend on her. For everything.” The vein at his temple throbbed.

  Sylvie’s mind spun, searching for any other reason Jozefa hadn’t taught Rose Polish. Did she consider it premature? Was she superstitious enough to believe it might bring bad luck?

  “Things will be different if I move there,” Rose insisted. “I’ll learn it on my own if I have to.”

  Ivan folded his arms. “Miss Townsend, you can’t let her do this.”

  A wedge of helplessness slid between Sylvie’s ribs. “If she wants to go, I won’t stop her.”

  FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 8, 1893

  The fact that Kristof had known this day was coming didn’t make it any easier when it arrived.

  Outside, rain fell from swagged clouds suspended just over the courthouse and city hall. It tapped the windows in sliding, silver beads.

  Gregor sat across the kitchen table, a lock of hair escaping his pomade and curling at his temple. “I don’t understand why you can’t give me a little more time. We’re family.” His belongings were packed and by the door.

  “Come on, Gregor. I’ve already given you a week’s extension, and you know it isn’t just about the money.”

  “Are you still sore about Sunday? I could have gotten home just fine even if Karl hadn’t come to get me.”

  Excuses were so ingrained in Gregor’s reasoning that Kristof doubted he even realized what he was doing. They had talked about this multiple times without traction. Gregor’s answer for the drugs, the women, and the gambling had been insincere apologies, empty promises to reform, and declarations that Kristof wasn’t perfect either—a fact Kristof already knew and was learning to accept. They were dogs chasing their own tails.

  “You aren’t fine.” Kristof looped his thumb through the handle of his coffee mug. “You need help, and all I’ve done is hinder you from growing up.”

  Gregor smoothed his hair back into place. “We’re brothers. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?” His pupils were pinpoints, his complexion flushed. Both were signs, Kristof had learned, that opium was in his brother’s system even now, discounting everything Gregor was saying.

  “It’s because I love you that I’m letting you go,” Kristof explained. Gregor would probably hit rock bottom, but he needed to in order to finally look up and see how low he’d sunk, and that there was Light above, if only he would reach for it.

  “Letting me go,” Gregor scoffed. “You’re literally kicking me out into the rain.” As if on cue, thunder clapped, shaking the windowpanes and the dishes in the cupboard.

  “You’ve had time to arrange employment and lodging,” Kristof said. “Did you check with the Austrian or Hungarian orchestras at the Fair? Either might be interested in another violinist, especially one of your talent, and they have space for you to lodge with them, as well. It might hold you over until you can audit
ion again for the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.” If he could humble himself to do so.

  Gregor waved a hand dismissively. He scratched his neck and behind his ear, the itching skin another drug-induced symptom. “I heard you the first time you suggested it. No, I haven’t gone begging for crumbs. That’s not my style. You know that.”

  “If you keep up this dissolute lifestyle, begging for crumbs is exactly what you’ll be doing.”

  “Oh, really? Would a beggar be able to afford this?” Reaching into a pocket, Gregor produced their father’s gold pocket watch with the flourish of one who’d been keeping an ace up his sleeve. By his triumphant smirk, he appeared to believe he was calling Kristof’s bluff. That this one card would change everything.

  Kristof picked up the watch, rubbing his thumb over the cold, smooth surface. He unlatched the cover, and two small diamonds winked at him. This piece cost far more than a month’s rent, even at the pawnshop’s price.

  “Do you see?” Gregor leaned back in his chair, inclining his head. He was completely at ease now. “I told you I’d get that back. I said you could count on me, and I came through. For you. This is what brothers do. I know you’ve always wanted it.”

  The weight in Kristof’s hand as he held it was so much lighter than the memories attached to it. Vividly he recalled trying to talk to his father about some childhood concern. Instead of looking at Kristof’s face, his father’s attention had been fixed on the watch’s. “Time is precious,” his father would say, pointing to the ticking second hand. By the time Kristof reached adolescence, he’d learned a dual lesson: that time was precious, and that he wasn’t. Gregor was precious, but not Kristof.

  But his heavenly Father said he was, imperfections and all. Thanks to Sylvie and the Hoffmans, he finally believed it.

  Kristof snapped the cover back into place. “It wasn’t Father’s timepiece I wanted. It was his time.” He slid the watch back across the table, releasing everything it represented. “I have no need of this.”