Beneath the Veil of Smoke and Ash

by Tammy Pasterick

  The wounds Karina had inflicted upon her family had taken time to heal and had rendered them all cautious and skeptical. But it was a fair trade. They now lived in a home filled with unconditional love, a place from which no one was plotting an escape. And even Lukas, with his wealthy benefactor and boarding school friends, was always happy to return home to see his family. Perhaps because there was never any doubt that the people he came home to shared an unbreakable bond, strong and resilient like the steel Janos once produced. Formed in the wake of Karina’s destruction, it bound them together, making the whole greater than the sum of its parts.

  Janos nodded and repeated Sofie’s words aloud. “We’re better off without her.” Only this time, there was no guilt. Karina was gone, never to return. And Janos did not care.

  As he took a sip of his lukewarm tea, he realized that his sister had been right. It was time to move on. Time to let go of the past and focus on the future. Janos felt a rush of excitement as he resolved to chart a new course. He had no idea if Concetta shared his feelings, but he was determined to find out. He would reveal what was in his heart and maybe give her a reason to stay in Beaver Creek.

  Thirty-Four

  POLE

  ABBOTT’S HOLLOW, OCTOBER 3, 1917

  Pole was the stubborn one, the last holdout who refused to drink from the lunch bucket filled with piss. It sat on his lap, the pool of dark yellow liquid completely still and emitting the pungent odor of ammonia. It had been almost two and a half days since he’d had a drop of water. His throat was dry and sticky, and his head ached. There was no doubt he was dehydrated, but he wasn’t yet desperate enough to force himself to drink a disgusting concoction of mule and human piss. He took another whiff of the acrid beverage and quickly set it down a few feet away from him.

  “I can’t do it. I’ll take my chances,” Pole said. “Maybe I can survive on the juice from the next batch of rats we kill. I’ll suck the blood out of their little bodies if I have to.”

  “The piss doesn’t taste too bad if you hold your nose,” Mickey said.

  Pole looked over at the boy, who was sitting near Gus’s rear legs, wearing the only headlamp that had carbide left in it. He had become an expert rat killer over the last two days, bashing two rats over the head with a rock on Monday afternoon. He’d been the first to sample the raw rat meat and had also been eager to wash his kill down with a couple of sips from the piss bucket. Pole was slightly in awe of the young kid, but wondered if he was going through a growth spurt, his hunger pangs louder and more violent than those of a fully-grown man.

  “I’ll have to try that. Thanks.” Pole studied Hamish, who was resting a few feet away. He looked terrible. He’d grown weaker over the past few days, sleeping most of the time and mumbling incoherently when he was awake. Pole had tried several times to examine the old man’s wounds while he slept, but he was caked with so much dried blood, it was impossible to see anything. Pole worried that Hamish had broken a few ribs and was bleeding internally. He’d perked up quite a bit on Monday afternoon after eating a whole rat—Mickey and Pole had split the other one—but since then, Hamish had grown quiet and listless.

  It was Wednesday evening, and all three miners had agreed it was time to eat again. The two remaining rats lurking around Ruthie Tunnel would make a passable dinner. Hopefully, help would arrive soon, and they would be able to spare Gus. Pole looked at the sluggish mule and wondered how he was faring. The animal had not eaten or sipped a drop of water since Friday—over five days ago. Mickey had offered the mule a sip from the piss bucket earlier in the day, but the poor creature had refused. He, too, would not compromise his standards no matter how unbearable his thirst.

  “Look, Mickey!” Pole whispered. “That giant grandaddy rat is creepin’ along the wall on the other side of Gus. Get ready.”

  Pole watched the enormous rat sneak up to the pile of manure behind Gus. It was hungry like the rest of them. Mickey sat motionless, following the rodent’s movements with only his eyes. He tightened his grip on the large rock in his lap as the grandaddy rat began poking around the manure pile just two feet away. Pole’s shoulders tensed in anticipation as he waited for Mickey to strike the fatal blow. The boy’s arm went up slowly.

  “Goddamn it,” came a loud curse from Hamish as he broke into a coughing fit.

  Startled, the rat ran away from the manure pile. Mickey lurched, trying twice to strike it with his rock, but he missed. The rodent panicked, scampering in the direction of Pole, but it soon realized it was heading toward another predator. It quickly changed directions. Acting on pure instinct and primeval hunger, Pole grabbed the rat by its tail. He picked it up and whacked it against the wall of the tunnel.

  “Holy shit! We almost lost him,” cried Mickey.

  Pole studied the limp rat hanging upside down from its tail, the wiry appendage pinched between his thumb and forefinger. It wasn’t the first animal he’d killed. He had spent plenty of time hunting deer, rabbit, and turkey in the woods around Abbott’s Hollow. He was a pretty good shot and kept his sister and her mother fed better than most of the neighbors. Killing was relatively easy for Pole, but it didn’t give him the pleasure that some of the hunters around the patch village derived from it. Hunting wild game was simply a means of survival. But this rat? Pole wasn’t certain this poor creature’s death was warranted. They had been underground for five full days and hadn’t detected any sign that help was on the way. Killing this rat was probably a waste, as they would all be dead soon enough. Pole wondered if he was prolonging their suffering.

  “You goin’ to skin that rat or stare at it?” Hamish murmured.

  His ominous ponderings interrupted, Pole said, “Sorry. I was thinkin’.”

  “About what?” Mickey asked.

  Pole didn’t dare poison the boy with his dark thoughts. Mickey had been so brave over the past few days, his hope seeming to grow with every outlandish attempt they made at survival. “I was thinkin’ this rat might be the biggest goddamned one I’ve ever seen. We’ll eat him tonight and save the last one for tomorrow or the next day.”

  “Fine by me. I’m not hungry anymore,” Hamish said through labored breaths.

  Pole handed the rat to Mickey and walked over to the old-timer, who was motionless, his eyes half open. “Maybe you should have a drink. Hand me that bucket, Mickey.”

  “No, no. Save it. I’m on my way out.” Hamish groaned softly.

  Mickey was suddenly at Pole’s side with the bucket of piss. “What’s he sayin’?”

  “I’m dying, lad. Goin’ to see my Aggie.”

  Pole studied the injured man’s face in the light of the carbide headlamp Mickey wore. There was no denying it. Hamish looked awful, barely clinging to life. “Are you in pain, Hamish? Is there anything we can do for you?”

  “If you get out … cash box is under the floor. In the kitchen.” Hamish coughed. This time he did not wince or clutch his side.

  “Don’t you have sons in Johnstown? We can give them your savings.”

  “They have good mill jobs. You lads need money more’n them. Get away … get away from these mines.”

  Mickey sat down next to Hamish and curled up next to his uninjured side. Pole’s eyes watered. “Get some rest,” he said, patting the man’s shoulder. “You’re goin’ to be fine. Mickey will keep you warm.”

  “Don’t want to eat any more rats. I’ll take some of that mule though.” He closed his eyes. “Can’t wait to see my Aggie.”

  Mickey and Pole exchanged worried glances. “He needs to rest. I’ll skin the rat while you sit by Hamish. He could use some comforting.”

  The young boy nodded solemnly.

  As Pole pulled out his pocket knife and sank the blade under the rat’s skin, he heard a faint noise. “You hear that?” he asked Mickey, looking in the direction of the collapsed end of Ruthie Tunnel.

  He took the carbide lamp from Mickey’s head and walked up the tunnel to where he’d been struck by falling debris days earlier. He scanned
the pile of rubble, listening for a sound—any sound other than his own breathing.

  He stood for several minutes. Nothing. He turned back toward Mickey and Hamish, his head hung low. He called out, “Sorry, kid. I guess I’m imagining things.”

  And then came the glorious sound of rocks falling. And men calling from the other side.

  “We’re in here!” Pole shouted, running toward the mound of debris. “We’re alive!” Adrenaline coursed through his veins, awakening his senses and giving him a potent boost of energy. “I can work from this side,” he yelled as he began picking up jagged chunks of collapsed roof.

  “No, don’t!” cried a raspy voice from the other side of the tunnel. “Sit tight. We’ll come to you. We gotta reinforce the roof.”

  “Okay, okay,” Pole said, trying to calm himself. He noticed Mickey was wrapped around him, hugging him tightly.

  “I knew it, Pole. I knew we’d be rescued.”

  Pole grabbed the boy and held him. His eyes welled with tears as he exhaled deeply, the stress of the last five days escaping him. His tense shoulders finally began to relax, allowing him to stand straighter. He was suddenly a lighter man.

  “How many alive in there?” shouted the gruff voice through gaps in the rubble.

  “Three men and a mule.” Pole looked down at Mickey. “How’s Hamish?”

  “His breathing’s kinda weak.”

  “We’ve got one injured,” Pole yelled to his rescuers. “How long before we’re out?”

  “An hour. Maybe two. We’ll get you soon as we can.”

  “Thanks, man. Thanks for comin’,” Pole shouted. “Come on, Mickey. Let’s go tell Hamish the good news.”

  Pole walked arm in arm with Mickey back down the tunnel toward Hamish and Gus. When the boy began skipping, Pole happily joined him, humming the tune to “Darktown Strutters Ball.” He was brimming with joy, the realization of his awaiting future sinking in. He would get to see his sister again, feel the warmth of the sun on his face, drink a beer. And maybe he would take wild and crazy Kate out for a night of dancing. The possibilities were endless.

  As soon as they arrived at the end of Ruthie Tunnel, Mickey ran over to Gus. He stroked the mule’s muzzle and whispered the news of their impending rescue into his ear. Pole sat down next to Hamish, who was sleeping against the rock wall. He gave him a gentle nudge.

  “Hey, Hamish. We’re gettin’ out. The rescue crew’s coming for us.”

  There was no response.

  Pole studied his friend, who was eerily still. He leaned over and put his ear in front of Hamish’s mouth, trying to ascertain whether there was any life left in him. Pole’s heart sank. Still holding onto hope, he leaned backward to view the man’s chest, searching for a trace of movement, a sign that air was being drawn in and out of his lungs. There was none.

  Hamish was gone.

  It took almost three hours for the rescue crew to reinforce the tunnel roof and dig Pole and his companions out. When a safe path through the rubble had finally been cleared, a scruffy-looking, stocky man greeted Pole and Mickey.

  “It’s sure good to see you boys.” The man slapped Pole on the back and shook his hand vigorously. He handed him and Mickey fresh jugs of water. “We were afraid we’d be too late. Took too long to get the rescue underway.”

  As Pole greedily drank the clean, odorless water—a luxury he vowed never to take for granted again—he realized he did not recognize his unshaven rescuer. The man had a weathered appearance as if he’d spent too much time in the elements. Could this sunburnt man be a miner?

  “Thanks for gettin’ us out,” Pole said breathlessly, water dripping down his chin. He looked around the tunnel at the other four rescuers, all of them strangers. “Who are all of you? I’ve never seen you around the mine.”

  “I’m Stan Davis,” said the scruffy man. “I’m with the United Mine Workers of America. This is our best mine rescue team,” he said, motioning to the burly men surrounding him.

  “But we’re not a union mine,” Mickey blurted, confused.

  “You are now!” Davis said, grinning like the cat that ate the canary.

  “How can that be?” Pole asked.

  He remembered the attempts at unionization the miners in Abbott’s Hollow had made a few months after the collapse that killed his father in the summer of 1910. Disgruntled and fearful, the men had contacted the United Mine Workers of America to help them negotiate with the coal company for better wages and safer working conditions. The Murphy Brothers Mining Company was small and owned only a few mines. When the workers went out on strike for two weeks, the stubborn Irish brothers—once miners themselves—began evicting families from their company homes and threatened to close the mines permanently. With winter approaching and no other job opportunities in the immediate area, the miners quickly caved and abandoned the idea of unionization. Pole wondered what was different this time.

  “Those Murphy brothers like the color green.” Davis sniggered. “The war in Europe is causing a serious coal shortage. Prices are on the rise, and your employers don’t want to miss out on the chance to fatten their wallets. They recognized the union within a few days of our arrival in town.”

  “Hold on,” said Pole. “I’m not following you. How did you end up in Abbott’s Hollow at the same time the coal company was dealing with a collapse?”

  “Well, you see, my friend, that’s the problem. The coal company wasn’t dealing with the collapse.” The union man shook his head back in forth in disgust as he spat a wad of chewing tobacco on the ground. “The owners of your mine were going to leave you down here to rot. They were going to close this tunnel and mine around it. They said it was too dangerous to try to get you out. I’d say it was just too expensive for those stingy old men. Anyways, your friends and neighbors didn’t like that idea, so they got word to our contact in Portage.”

  “And the Murphy brothers didn’t put up a fight?” Pole asked in disbelief. “They just welcomed the union with open arms?”

  “Not exactly. It took a few days to educate them. I told ‘em if this war keeps up, we’ll have more to worry about than just coal and oil shortages. Uncle Sam’s been sending so many of our boys to fight, we’re soon going to have labor shortages, too. I asked those old Paddies who would mine the coal then.”

  “Those greedy bastards,” Pole muttered under his breath.

  “We got ourselves a union!” Mickey cheered, slapping Pole on the back.

  “Well, that’s something,” Pole said, astonished. “The country had to go to war before we could get a union.”

  “That’s the way it works, boys. Supply and demand. Coal companies all over the state are recognizing the UMWA. For once, labor’s got the upper hand. The war effort needs us.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Pole said.

  “So where’s your injured man?” asked Davis.

  Pole and Mickey shook their heads, looking at the ground.

  “Don’t you worry. We’ll bring him up and make sure he gets a proper burial. His family will receive a death benefit. So will the families of the two Rusyn miners.”

  “Blazovich and Petras didn’t make it,” Mickey whispered.

  “I’m afraid not, kid. I haven’t seen many mine collapses as bad as this one. You’re lucky to be alive.” Stan Davis gave Mickey a sideways hug. “Let’s get you two up to see the sun—maybe moon by now, I guess.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “It’s late, but there are probably still people waiting at the mine entrance to see you.”

  “What day is it anyway?” Pole asked. “Wednesday?”

  “It’s almost Thursday, October 4th. You’re going on your sixth day in this mine. Let’s get you outta here,” the union man said.

  “I’m not leavin’ without Gus,” Mickey said, crossing his arms.

  “We’ll take care of him. There’s a fine funeral parlor in Portage.”

  “Gus is the mule,” Pole explained. “He’s been through hell, too. He deserves a happy retirement.”


  “He’s the property of the mine. The owners won’t part with him easily,” Davis said.

  Pole studied Mickey’s face. His joy over being rescued was fading. His sole concern was now the welfare of his best friend. “Bring the mule up,” Pole ordered the rescuers. “We’ll buy him from the goddamned mine if we have to.”

  “Really, Pole? You mean it?”

  “I sure do.”

  As Mickey followed the rescuers down the tunnel to retrieve Gus along with Hamish’s body, Pole put on a carbide headlamp that someone had handed him. He surveyed what was left of Ruthie Tunnel, memorizing its jagged walls and uneven roof. He never wanted to forget what it felt like to be entombed in that space, helpless and waiting desperately for someone to save him. He vowed never to put himself in such a precarious situation again. He would not be returning to Ruthie Tunnel—or any tunnel for that matter. His mining days were over.

  As Pole turned to leave the treacherous mine that had taken the lives of Hamish, Blazovich, Petras, and even his own poor excuse for a father, he managed to muster enough spit in his dry mouth to cast a harsh insult onto the tunnel wall. Watching his saliva trickle down the craggy rocks, he cursed the mine one last time. He even threw in a curse against the devil for good measure, thinking that if a beast such as Lucifer existed, he wouldn’t be far from that wretched place.

  Pole wondered why Lily wasn’t at the mine entrance waiting for him. He scanned the crowd of curious onlookers, hoping to see a flash of his sister’s red hair. Where was she? Only moments earlier, the throng of hopeful spectators had erupted into deafening cheers at the sight of Pole and Mickey emerging from the mine with the union’s rescue team. The well-meaning patch village residents—and even a few elegantly dressed men and women from far flung places—were overjoyed and genuinely relieved that a couple of men had made it out alive.

  As Pole was being patted on the back and hugged by several of his neighbors, he caught sight of a suited man approaching him. He wore a bowler hat and wire-rimmed eyeglasses.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the man said, offering his hand. “I’m a reporter from the Johnstown Tribune. How did you survive underground for over five days?”