Beneath the Veil of Smoke and Ash

by Tammy Pasterick

  Hamish hesitated a moment before speaking. “Time to turn off the headlamps. We ought to save the carbide for when we really need it.”

  “Grab your water jug, Mickey, and pick a comfortable spot. It’ll be pitch black as soon as these lights go out,” Pole said. “I don’t want you getting hurt stumbling around in the dark.”

  “If it’s all right, I’m going to sit by Gus,” Mickey said.

  “Sure, kid. Try to get some sleep,” Pole said, trying to sound calm.

  The grim reality of their predicament was sinking in, twisting Pole’s stomach into an agonizing tangle of knots. He knew a sleepless night lay ahead of him. As he extinguished the flame on his headlamp, he wondered how his poor sister, Lily, was coping with the news of the roof collapse. Would she believe he could’ve survived? Would anyone? Pole took a deep breath and leaned back against the coal face, trying to conjure a pleasant memory. His restless mind was desperate for a diversion.

  Twenty-Nine

  JANOS

  BEAVER CREEK, SEPTEMBER 28, 1917

  Janos felt the weight of a dozen stares as he sat across the table from Concetta at the town’s only Italian restaurant. He had never invited his business partner to dinner before, but she deserved an evening out after working so hard at the store all week. Sensing that Concetta was also distressed by the prying eyes of their meddlesome neighbors, Janos tried to divert her attention. “Have you and Mrs. Rossi seen any films lately?” he asked as he shoved a meatball into his mouth. “I know you ladies love the nickelodeon.”

  “We saw The Immigrant last week. I didn’t like it.”

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you like Charlie Chaplin?”

  “I did, but now I’m not sure. His film pokes fun at immigrants and makes them look stupid.”

  “How so?”

  “The film is about a bumbling immigrant who gets into all sorts of trouble on a ship to America and then later at a fancy restaurant.” Concetta dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “The poor man looks like a fool at every turn. He eats peas with a knife, for heaven’s sake.”

  “I’m sure the film was meant to be funny, but that sounds mean-spirited. I thought Chaplin was an immigrant.”

  Concetta nodded. “He’s from England.”

  “England?” Janos laughed. “That hardly qualifies him as an immigrant. He’s from an industrialized country where everyone speaks English. Must have been a terribly difficult adjustment for him.”

  As Janos twirled a few strands of spaghetti around his fork, he wondered why immigrants were always the subject of ridicule. People seemed to take great pleasure in making fun of foreigners’ accents, clothing, and customs. Native-born Americans often regarded people like him as dirty and uneducated. Stupid, even. He remembered bitterly the way he had been treated in Riverton, having been called “mill Hunky” more times than he could count. He took a sip of wine, catching a glimpse of the glass factory outside the restaurant’s window.

  He thought about the progress he had made since leaving Austria-Hungary over seventeen years earlier. Prompted by his brother-in-law’s tragic accident, he had immigrated to America with his pregnant wife to help his sister raise her two young boys. It was a decision he never regretted, even though it had resulted in a decade of hard labor in front of a blazing furnace.

  Life in Bardejov had been difficult for him and Karina, and they had planned to leave sometime after Sofie was born. Stefan’s accident simply expedited their plans. With a child on the way, Janos could no longer tolerate living under the harsh rule of the Hungarian government. Its Magyarization program was cruel, forbidding all ethnic groups living under its rule to speak any language other than Hungarian. Janos would not raise his child in a country where the schools and churches were forbidden to teach the history and language of the Slovak people.

  Unlike his classmates, Janos had been one of the lucky few who had learned to read and write in Slovak thanks to the efforts of a Catholic priest, who had taught him in secret. The other children in his village only knew how to speak the language. They learned from their parents in the privacy of their homes—a place where the government could not interfere. However, as most of the adults in the remote village were illiterate, they could not teach their children to read and write in their mother tongue. Janos frequently reminded his children that they were lucky to live in a country where they could speak any language they chose. Ironically, no one in the family spoke much Slovak outside the home anymore. Janos only used it when immigrants came into the store.

  “What are you thinking?” Concetta interrupted his ruminating. “You’ve been staring out the window for a long time.”

  “I was thinking about how thankful I am to work at the store.”

  “You don’t just work there.” Concetta smiled at him, her big, brown eyes exuding warmth and possibly a hint of pride.

  Janos’s face grew hot. He had always found Concetta attractive, but in the soft glow of the candlelight, she looked rather beautiful. The low light had erased years from her face, making him wonder what she might have looked like as a young girl with jet-black hair. Janos imagined she must have been striking. Unsettled by an unexpected wave of desire, he fought to collect his thoughts. “I was so grateful when Antonio hired me,” he stammered. “I expected to work at the glass factory for the rest of my life.”

  “He needed your knowledge of Slovak and Polish at the store. You attracted many new customers. You grew the business.”

  “How was everything?” asked a heavy waitress with an Italian accent.

  “Very good. Thank you,” Janos replied, grateful for the interruption.

  “I will bring cannoli for you.”

  “Grazie,” Concetta said.

  Putting down his fork, Janos eyed his business partner curiously. He was struck by the realization that she was a stranger to him in many ways. The store had always been Antonio’s sphere, and Concetta had preferred to stay out of its orbit. She chose to focus her energies on mothering Tony and managing the household. She helped at the store on only the busiest of days when there was barely time to exchange pleasantries and the juiciest morsels of neighborhood gossip. It wasn’t until Tony’s move to Philadelphia that Concetta had been forced to become Janos’s business partner in more than just name. He suddenly wanted to know everything about her. “I should probably know the answer to this question,” he began, “but were you and Antonio grocers in Italy? I never asked him what he did before he came to America.”

  “No. We worked at a vineyard in Tuscany. We fell in love picking grapes.” Her smile was bittersweet, fading as she looked down at the red and white checkered table cloth.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Don’t apologize. I should be able to talk about Antonio without getting emotional. It’s been three years since he passed.”

  “Some wounds aren’t meant to heal.” Janos knew how terribly Concetta missed Antonio. The Morettis had enjoyed a marriage built on friendship and trust, rarely trading a harsh word. Janos had envied it, often wishing he had been as lucky in his own marriage. His had ended so disastrously. Pushing the distressing thought from his mind, he turned his attention back to Concetta. “Why did you leave the vineyard? It sounds like a nice place to work.”

  She nodded. “It was … until most of the grapevines were lost to a parasite. Antonio and I tried to find other work, but jobs were scarce due to the droughts. We had no choice but to move to America.” She brushed a loose strand of hair away from her face and leaned closer to the table. “What about you, Janos? What did you do before coming to America?”

  “I worked at a sawmill.”

  “And your wife?”

  “My wife …” Janos fought to catch his breath. He had never discussed Karina with Concetta before. He hadn’t shared much about his wife with Antonio either. When his employer had interviewed him over five years ago and asked if he had a family, Janos had simply said that he was the father of two children. When Antonio loo
ked confused, Janos quickly explained that his wife had disappeared and was presumed to be the victim of a tragic accident. Like everyone else who dared ask too many questions, Antonio awkwardly expressed his sympathy and quickly changed the subject.

  Janos was surprised Concetta had asked about Karina. Surely her husband had shared his family’s tragic story with her. But maybe she had forgotten. Janos closed his eyes as he reached for his wine, hoping it might soothe the ache in his chest. He wondered how the conversation had taken such an unfortunate turn. He suddenly felt a light squeeze on his hand.

  “Thank you for dinner, Janos. I haven’t been to Luigi’s in quite some time.”

  Relief washing over him, he opened his eyes. “You mastered the art of bookkeeping this week. You deserve a break from cooking.”

  “It’s not much work preparing a meal for one person.”

  “I guess not,” Janos said, noting the sad expression on Concetta’s face. “Maybe you could join my family for dinner sometime. Next week, perhaps.” He smiled, excited by the prospect. “You could bring a dessert.”

  Concetta’s face lit up. “I could bring cannoli—or maybe a devil’s food cake.”

  “My family will be grateful for any one of your delicious desserts. And for your company, too.”

  Now Concetta was the one who was blushing. She brushed a few breadcrumbs off the table as the waitress returned with cannoli. As Janos watched her cut the pastry into bite-size pieces, he noticed that her mood seemed lighter, her expression more serene. He was happy his invitation had given her something to look forward to. Perhaps this upcoming dinner might become a regular occurrence. A weekly event, even. As Janos gazed at the lovely woman sitting across from him, he sincerely hoped that would be the case.

  Thirty

  SOFIE

  BEAVER CREEK, SEPTEMBER 29, 1917

  Sofie felt ridiculous as she approached the school wearing Marie’s gauzy lilac dress. It was several inches too short and far more suitable for a summer wedding than an autumn dance. The fabric was flimsy, and the color not suited to the season. October was only two days away, and Sofie looked like a bridesmaid on her way to a garden reception. She pulled at the dress yet again, hoping to get the hem to fall a little lower than mid-calf. Despite Marie’s assurances, she still worried she would be sent home from the dance for showing too much leg.

  “It’s not too late to turn around. Why don’t we go to the nickelodeon instead?” A dark theatre seemed like the only place Sofie might feel comfortable wearing such a dress.

  “Don’t be silly. I spent almost an hour on my hair,” Marie said, patting the dark mound of curls on the top of her head. “Besides, I have to show off this dress. I saved months for it.”

  Sofie couldn’t deny that Marie looked lovely in her new burgundy dress. With her petite frame and her doe-like eyes, she was bound to turn heads that afternoon. Sofie wondered how many broken hearts her friend would leave in her wake. She had a reputation for being fickle, often chasing after boys only to drop them soon after she’d gained their affections. Some thought Marie’s behavior cruel, but Sofie knew her friend never meant any harm. It was her gregarious nature and short attention span that were to blame for her reckless ways.

  “Now, Sofie,” Marie said, clutching her friend’s arm. “Promise you won’t be a wallflower today. We didn’t get dolled up for nothing.”

  Sofie rolled her eyes.

  “Come on. You used to be a fine dancer.”

  “When?” Sofie looked at her friend sideways.

  “When we were little. Don’t you remember dancing at all those neighborhood weddings in Riverton?” Marie shook her head. “I haven’t seen you dance since …”

  Sofie studied her friend’s face. It was twisted in concentration, her brows furrowed. “Why does it matter? Why are you and my aunt—and even my editor—trying to force me to have fun?” Sofie crossed her arms, her irritation growing. Just the previous afternoon, her editor at the newspaper had ordered her to stop tidying up the office. “Shouldn’t you be out shopping with your girlfriends?” he’d asked condescendingly. Sofie did not understand the growing concern about how she spent her time.

  Marie suddenly gasped, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. “Jenny’s wedding.”

  “What?”

  “Jenny’s wedding,” she repeated. “That was the last time you danced.”

  Sofie clutched her chest as an image so happy—yet so heartbreaking—flashed before her eyes. She was filled with both joy and regret.

  Pole.

  Marie nodded, a sad expression on her face.

  “Did I say that aloud?” Sofie turned away, hoping to hide her crimson face.

  “Do you think it’s a coincidence that the last time you danced was with Pole?” Marie laid a hand on Sofie’s shoulder. “The minute he disappeared from your life, so did the joy.”

  Sofie spun around and glared at her friend. “Stop reading stuff from that crazy German doctor. Not every action has meaning.”

  “Look, there’s Ralph Pulaski,” Marie said, quickly changing the subject. “Who’s that boy with him?”

  “Guess we’re going to find out,” Sofie grumbled as Marie grabbed her hand and led her toward the blonde boys.

  Ralph’s cousin Jack turned out to be as reluctant a dancer as Sofie. He had lingered by the punch bowl with her for almost forty-five minutes, chatting about school and then films and then any other topic that might keep him off the dance floor. Marie and Ralph had disappeared into a sea of dancers the minute they’d entered the gymnasium, assuming that Sofie would entertain Jack.

  Sofie did not mind the boy’s company, as he had turned out to be a bit of novelty. Jack lived on a farm in Indiana County and was full of stories of shearing sheep, taming roosters, and milking cows. He was visiting Ralph and his family for the weekend and had been dragged to the dance, much like Sofie. He seemed to enjoy recounting his barnyard adventures, but there was a hint of sadness in his voice. Sofie had not yet been able to determine why.

  “Once I looped that rope around Mabel’s belly, she couldn’t kick me no more. She still tries on occasion, but her range of motion is shorter. She can’t reach me now.”

  “Doesn’t the rope get in the way of milking?” Sofie asked Jack, trying to visualize the anatomy of a female cow.

  “Not if you put the rope in front of her udders.”

  “I’ll have to remember that.” Sofie nodded as she imagined working on a farm. “It must be nice having fresh milk and eggs whenever you need them. Your mother must do a lot of baking.”

  Jack’s face fell.

  “What’s wrong?” Sofie worried she had inadvertently stumbled upon the source of his sadness.

  “Mama passed away this summer. I’m still havin’ a hard time with it.” Jack pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose.

  “I’m so sorry,” Sofie said, surprised that, for once, she was not the object of pity. It was now her turn to provide comfort and ease another’s pain. She bit her lip, trying to remember what people had often said to her. “It will get better with time,” she blurted. “One day, you’ll wake up, and the pain won’t be so unbearable.”

  Jack stared at her. “Sounds like you speak from experience.”

  Sofie suddenly wished she had a cow nearby to kick her. Why had she given Jack the impression that she understood his grief? She couldn’t possibly reveal that her mother had disappeared. That shocking truth always led to uncomfortable questions. Sofie knew her friends and neighbors still whispered behind her back, speculating about the woman shrouded in mystery—the woman whose name no member of the Kovac family could bear to utter. Sofie shuddered. No, she would not share her painful story.

  “Haven’t we all lost loved ones? Grandparents, aunts, uncles?” Sofie shook her head. “I think we should dance now.” She took Jack’s hand and pulled him toward the middle of the basketball court.

  “But I’ve never danced with a girl before.”

  “Wel
l, I haven’t danced with a boy since I was ten. Your toes won’t be any safer than mine.”

  “Ten? Isn’t that kinda young?”

  Sofie thought about her neighbor’s wedding all those years ago when her father had suggested that she dance with Pole. She’d been hesitant at first and embarrassed by the idea of dancing with a boy, but gliding across the floor with her best friend had been easy and natural—just like everything else she and Pole did together. It had been a long time since Sofie had allowed herself to think of her lost friend, and she suddenly felt a familiar ache in her heart. She fought to regain her focus.

  “It wasn’t a big deal. The boy I danced with was practically my brother.”

  “That’s different now, isn’t it?” Jack raised his arms. “Okay. Show me what to do.”

  Sofie nodded as she grasped Jack’s hand and led him in circles around the room. Her classmates were doing the foxtrot, but it was a dance Sofie had never learned. It had become quite popular in recent years when she’d avoided school dances like the plague. Sofie tried to mimic the moves of the girls around her and pretended not to notice when Jack tripped over her feet. The experience was not entirely unpleasant, but Sofie was anxious to return to her place at the punch bowl.

  “I can’t believe you’re dancing.”

  Sofie looked over her shoulder at Marie, who was grinning from ear to ear.

  “We’re leaving now.”

  “Really?” Sofie let go of Jack’s hand and turned toward the door. She was surprised Marie had grown bored with the dance, but was relieved nonetheless.

  “Ralph wants to go for a walk along the river. My mother knows the dance is ending in an hour, and she expects me to come straight home. If we leave now …”

  Sofie groaned. She knew exactly what Marie wanted to do.

  Sofie and Jack followed closely behind Marie and Ralph, who were strolling arm in arm along the path beside the Allegheny River. The late afternoon sun was warm, but a gentle breeze had begun to blow, making Sofie wish she had brought a sweater.