Beneath the Veil of Smoke and Ash

by Tammy Pasterick

  A slight pinch transported Karina back to Henry’s kitchen. His teeth were on her earlobe.

  “Shall we go into the bedroom to celebrate?” he whispered.

  Two

  SOFIE

  RIVERTON, MAY 27, 1910

  Work in the mill makes a man old before his time. That was what the grown-ups in Sofie Kovac’s neighborhood always said. She thought of this tired expression as she studied the figure of a man hobbling across the courtyard behind her house. He was barely visible in the early morning fog, but seemed to be headed for the communal privy just steps from her back porch. He was a steelworker, like her father, but looked much older. He shuffled along slowly, clutching his knee with each labored step. Sofie crossed herself, praying her father wouldn’t suffer the same fate.

  She refocused her attention from the window back to the bacon grease. It flowed, like liquid gold, from the cast iron frying pan into the Mason jar she struggled to keep steady on the kitchen counter. She had dropped Aunt Anna’s grease jar once before and watched the precious drippings from a week’s worth of meals slide between the cracks in the floorboards. She shuddered at the thought of repeating that mistake.

  Aunt Anna had lectured her for days about the value of all those flavorings now resting permanently in the dirt beneath the kitchen floor. “Like tossing coins into the river,” her aunt had scolded.

  Sofie held her breath and tightened her grip on the jar as the last few drops of grease plopped from the frying pan onto the hardening pile of sludge—the key ingredient in all her aunt’s recipes. The pan now empty, she let out a sigh of relief.

  “Do you need some help, zlatíčko?” Papa asked, his footsteps growing louder as he neared the kitchen counter.

  Sofie shook her head. “The bacon’s a little crispy. I left it on the stove too long. If Mama hadn’t distracted me—”

  “You never told me why you’re making breakfast this morning instead of your aunt,” Papa said, changing the subject.

  “I had a nightmare. I couldn’t get back to sleep, so I told Aunt Anna I’d do the cooking today.”

  “You’re so thoughtful,” Papa said as he bent to kiss Sofie on the forehead. “Do you want to tell me about the nightmare? Sometimes it helps to talk about it.”

  “No, not really.” Suddenly, a haunting image flashed before Sofie’s eyes. Her father’s lifeless body lay on the ground in front of a furnace, blistered and burnt. It was the same disturbing vision that appeared in her sleep every few weeks. Why was it now tormenting her in the light of day?

  “So what’s for lunch?”

  “Bacon sandwiches, leftover fried cabbage, and an apple,” Sofie said as she fidgeted with the items in her father’s beat-up tin lunch bucket. It was badly dented and covered in grime, but one of her favorite things. Seeing that bucket on the kitchen counter always made her happy. It was proof that her father was home safe from the mill.

  Once Papa’s lunch was packed, Sofie filled two plates with eggs and bacon and placed them on the wobbly kitchen table. She sat down across from her father, who was extinguishing the oil lamp. He looked tired, his eyes still heavy with sleep. A ray of sunlight pouring through the kitchen window accentuated the gray in his freshly combed hair, making him look older.

  Sofie stared at the tattered brown shirt her father wore. He’d ripped off its sleeves since his work in front of the furnace was so terribly hot. In fact, anytime Aunt Anna bought him a new shirt at the second-hand store, Papa promptly tore off the sleeves and gave them back to her for use as cleaning rags. How Sofie wished Papa could wear a suit to work every day. He’d be so much safer in an office job. She slammed her glass of water onto the table, startling herself.

  “Are you all right?” Papa asked. “What’s got you so upset? The nightmare?”

  Sofie nodded. “Mama, too,” she grumbled as she shoved a fork full of eggs into her mouth. She wasn’t even hungry. She was still angry about her mother’s lame excuse for not joining them at the neighbors’ that evening. The Sears Catalog? Sofie never understood why her mother spent so much time staring at clothing she couldn’t afford.

  “I’m sorry your mother hurt your feelings.” Papa patted Sofie’s hand. “That happens too often.”

  Sofie wondered whether Mama had hurt his feelings, too. She’d angrily brushed Papa’s hand away when he’d laid it on her shoulder. Mama always ignored his affections. Sofie couldn’t remember the last time she saw her parents share an embrace. They were so different from the other couples in the neighborhood. The Lithuanians across the street acted like they might never see each other again when the husband left for the mill each morning.

  “Why don’t you tell me about your dream,” Papa said, stroking Sofie’s hair.

  She laid down her fork and studied her father’s concerned face. She hated bothering him with her troubles. He had a fair amount of his own.

  “I’m listening.”

  Sofie could no longer resist the urge to confide in her father. “It was the same one I always have—you’re at work in the mill, in front of your furnace. And there’s an accident …” Sofie’s eyes filled with tears. “It’s a little different every time, but the ending is always the same.” She began to cry.

  Papa reached across the table and pulled Sofie into his arms. He rubbed her back as she buried her face in his chest. “You need to stop worrying about me. The mill is dangerous, but I’m careful. I have years of experience.”

  “Will you please quit?” Sofie pleaded, looking up at her father. “Can’t you find a safer job?”

  “I wish I could, but only the mills and mines will hire immigrants,” he said, shaking his head.

  “But your English is perfect. Doesn’t that make a difference?”

  “Don’t worry your pretty little head about me. You need to focus on school and getting into trouble with your friends,” Papa said with a wink. “Now finish your breakfast before it’s cold.”

  Sofie trudged back to her chair, wiping her eyes with the hem of her dress and feeling no more at ease with her father’s work at the mill. As she nibbled on a piece of bacon, she forced her mind to switch gears. “How did Lukas end up on the floor again last night? I nearly tripped over him this morning. He was curled up in a ball near the door.”

  “He can’t seem to lie still anymore. I put him back on the mattress and covered him with a blanket before I came downstairs.”

  “I guess he doesn’t have enough space on the mattress with you anymore, Papa. He’s getting too big.”

  Sofie watched as her father pushed the remains of his eggs around on his plate, scratching his graying temple. He looked up at his daughter and sighed.

  “That’s not the problem. I fear your brother is becoming more like your mother. Restless. And in search of a better position.”

  Three

  JANOS

  RIVERTON, MAY 27, 1910

  At the Riverton mill, Janos Kovac stood before an open-hearth furnace filled with molten steel heated to over 2500°F. He wiped his sweaty brow with his forearm as he held a heavy crowbar in his hands. A dull, persistent ache plagued his lower back, making his thirty-three-year-old body feel like it belonged to a much older man. The mill’s excessive heat, persistent noise, and stifling air filled with mineral dust and furnace exhaust were taking a terrible toll on his health. Janos had survived a decade of twelve-hour shifts, often seven days per week, but wondered how much more his body could endure. Massaging his lower back, he was sorry he had sacrificed his youth to the mill.

  Janos thought about how naive he’d been when he arrived in America with his pregnant wife in the winter of 1900. Work at the mill was to be temporary, a means of survival until he became fluent in English. Once he achieved that goal, he would fulfill his lifelong dream of becoming a writer or teacher.

  Sadly, Janos had not expected that advancement would be next to impossible for an immigrant. While he mastered the English language within a year of his arrival in America—nearly unheard of for an immigrant�
�his linguistic talent did not liberate him from the mill. He couldn’t even manage to escape his position as a melter at one of the mill’s sixty open-hearth furnaces.

  Janos tried not to lose hope, but was constantly reminded of his place in American society. Whether strolling through town or working at his furnace, native-born citizens ridiculed his nationality and accent. His foreignness was offensive to them. Frightening, even. After several failed interviews with newspapers and schools and no hopes of a promotion in sight, Janos’s hopes faded. Life in the mill provided him with a daily dose of seething reality. Blazing hot, fiery, glowing, molten steel would be his life’s work.

  “Janos! Wake up! You tappin’ that furnace or not?” barked Patrick O’Boyle, the Irish crane operator whose job it was to maneuver a hundred-ton ladle of molten metal away from the furnace and over to the molds where the ingots were formed.

  “Sorry, Pat. I was lost in thought.”

  “Now’s not the time to be ponderin’,” muttered the crane operator. He spat a wad of chewing tobacco over his shoulder. The brown juice dribbled down the side of the crane.

  As Janos prepared to knock the hole out in the furnace door, his thoughts turned to his conversation with Sofie at breakfast. He hadn’t realized his daughter was so deeply troubled by his work at the mill. He hoped she was simply going through another phase and that this most recent fear would pass as quickly as had her dread of spiders. He sighed, wondering if Sofie’s anxiety was something she might outgrow. It seemed to be worsening as of late.

  But weighing more heavily on Janos’s mind than his nervous daughter was his capricious wife. In describing Lukas’s fitful sleep to Sofie, he had inadvertently stumbled upon an insightful truth about Karina. She is restless and in search of something better.

  Janos felt a familiar ache and sense of unease. Karina’s unpredictable mood swings and long periods of sadness had been a strain on him for as long as he could remember. After the birth of Sofie and then Lukas, Karina had been especially melancholy. She’d seemed detached from her babies and showed little interest in them. It still puzzled Janos. He could not comprehend how a woman who had given birth to a healthy baby could feel anything but joy.

  Janos often wished his wife would be more like the other Slovak women in the neighborhood—like the women he’d known all his life. His own mother and sister were such devoted wives and mothers. Family and faith were at the center of their lives. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of Karina. She was always indifferent when her children entered the room or when she begrudgingly attended mass at St. Michael’s Roman Catholic Church. Her mind always seemed to be somewhere else. Janos had struggled for years to make his wife happy—or at least something short of miserable—but she was constantly out of his reach.

  Fortunately, Karina’s mood had improved since she’d left the boarding house, and Janos was grateful. His wife took great pride in working for Mr. Archer, as positions in a house such as his were usually reserved for native-born Americans or Irish immigrants. Certainly not a Slovak. Janos suspected Karina’s beauty was the reason Mr. Archer had hired someone from the lowest class of immigrants. The man’s motivations made no difference to Janos as long as his wife was treated well and paid a fair wage.

  Karina’s long-awaited escape from the boarding house should have put Janos’s mind at ease, but he could not shake the feeling that something was still amiss. He had fully expected his wife’s contentment with her new position to lead to more intimacy in their marriage. He’d always believed that the rift between them was a result of her bitterness about working at the boarding house. Janos had clearly been mistaken because Karina still wouldn’t let him touch her. She hadn’t in months.

  “Kovac! Stop starin’ at that crowbar!” the crane operator yelled. “Tap the goddamned furnace already.”

  Janos flinched. He’d almost forgotten where he was. He quickly raised his bar and knocked the hole out in the furnace door. He watched as glowing red fluid gushed from the door into the ladle waiting in the eight-foot-deep pit below the furnace. The heat was so intense that his already damp work shirt was soon drenched and clinging to his body. Sparks flew, singeing the hair on his arms. Janos imagined this was probably what hell looked like, glowing red flames all around. He half expected to see the devil crawl out of that raging pit.

  Once the ladle was brimming with molten steel, Janos backed far away from the path it would take to the molds. “Ready, Pat?” he shouted.

  The crane operator nodded his head and waved his arm. He began to lift the massive ladle out of the pit. Janos continually surveyed the ladle’s progress and scanned the area to make sure everyone was at a safe distance.

  And then the unthinkable happened.

  Just as the crane was about to swing toward the molds, Janos heard a loud crack. It was sharp and quick and reminded him of a firecracker his neighbor had set off the last 4th of July. He watched in terror as the ladle carrying a hundred tons of molten metal crashed to the ground. It exploded on impact, sending splatters of fiery liquid twenty-five feet in every direction. Janos’s blood ran cold as he witnessed a worker being struck by the blast.

  Horrified, he ran to the far side of the furnace where Tomas Tomicek was lying on the ground, much of the left side of his body burnt beyond recognition. Janos fought the urge to retch. The scent of the man’s burning flesh was pungent, like meat frying in a pan.

  Trembling and blinded by tears, Janos knelt beside his co-worker and grabbed his right hand, which had been untouched by the molten metal. Poor Tomas now looked like half a man. The skin on the left side of his face had been melted by the scorching steel, revealing his cheekbone and jawbone. The other side of his face remained completely intact, looking just as young and healthy as it had moments before. Tomas’s left arm, shoulder, and upper chest had also melted. The brown work shirt he’d been wearing had disintegrated, revealing a grisly mixture of flesh and blood. Janos had never seen a more gruesome accident at the mill. He knew there was no hope.

  He leaned closer, positioning his face inches from Tomas’s. Praying to the Holy Spirit for guidance, Janos struggled to find the words that might comfort a dying man. Through quivering lips, he whispered in Slovak, “Lie still, Tomas. Stay calm.” He squeezed the man’s hand. “Your brother will be here soon.” Janos glanced up at the chaos surrounding him. Men ran frantically in every direction, desperate to find Tomas’s twin brother.

  At the sound of a guttural moan, Janos turned his attention back to the young man. He was trembling now, coughing up blood. Tears streaming down his face, Janos tried to reassure him. “God is with you, Tomas. His healing hands are upon you. He is cradling you in his arms.”

  Janos could no longer maintain his composure. He began to weep.

  Suddenly, Pavol Tomicek appeared, panic-stricken, hands outstretched. “Tomas! Tomas!” he screamed. “No!”

  Pavol reached his brother’s side and, seeing what was left of his charred and blistered body, dropped to his knees in violent sobs. He reached for his brother’s hand, but it was too late.

  Janos had felt the dying man’s hand go limp in his own just seconds earlier. Tomas Tomicek was already gone.

  Four

  HENRY

  RIVERTON, MAY 27, 1910

  henry Archer was having a splendid morning. He knew he would be late for work, but that didn’t matter. He only had a little over a month left in this hellhole. He had worked hard over the past five years to impress his superiors and had proven himself to be a competent manager. He knew that some thought him arrogant, but even he had not predicted a promotion to US Steel Headquarters in New York City. It was too good to be true. He was giddy with the possibilities.

  Also too good to be true was the blue-eyed, blonde beauty lying next to him. Henry had bedded plenty of women over the years—many of whom were paid generously for their services—but no one compared to Karina. She had the most flawless skin he’d ever seen and perfectly round breasts. Her tiny waist gave them a mor
e ample look than they deserved, but the effect was breathtaking. Henry had never met a woman with such an incredible body and face to match.

  Henry hated to admit it, but his lust for Karina was becoming uncontrollable. Images of her naked body flashed before his eyes at the most inconvenient moments. The previous week, he had been forced to excuse himself from an important meeting at the mill so he could relieve himself in the men’s bathroom. Since the start of his affair with Karina a few months earlier, his focus at work had steadily declined.

  Staring at her lying on her back with a sheet covering only her lower body, Henry was becoming aroused yet again. He rolled over toward his petite lover and squeezed her breast.

  Karina opened her eyes. “The first time wasn’t enough?”

  “I’m insatiable,” Henry said, chuckling. “I’m not sure I’ll ever get enough.”

  “What will you do when you move to New York?”

  The question nearly knocked the wind out of Henry. He hadn’t considered his arrangement with Karina since receiving word of his promotion. He’d been too excited about his career prospects to think of anything else. What would he do without her? Could he find a replacement for her in New York? Surely his prestigious position at US Steel headquarters would make him more attractive to the society women he hadn’t dared approach years earlier. He knew they valued wealth and influence above all else.

  “Looks like you’ve got a problem.” Karina pushed Henry away from her chest and started to get up from the bed.