Beneath the Veil of Smoke and Ash Read online

“Where are you going? I wasn’t finished.” He sat up and grabbed her by the elbow. “We only have a month left together.”

  Karina turned around, her eyes narrowed. “In a month, I’ll be out of work, and you’ll be in New York City at your cushy new job. Why should I crawl back into bed with you?”

  “Shouldn’t we enjoy the time we have left? Are you ready to go back to that disgusting boarding house already? Because I can hire someone else to pack my things.” Henry was certain his threat would scare Karina back into bed.

  “I can’t think of anything worse,” she grumbled.

  Henry studied Karina as she sat on the edge of the bed, eyes closed, hands clutching her knees. She sat motionless for several minutes. He could only assume she was thinking about the boarding house and her lack of options. Suddenly, she opened her eyes and turned to face him.

  “Take me with you, Henry. Take me to New York.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You’re joking, right?”

  Karina shook her head sheepishly.

  Henry’s eyes widened. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “Probably. The idea of going back to that wretched boarding house is driving me mad. I can’t do it,” she said, her voice breaking.

  Henry watched as a tear rolled down Karina’s cheek. She quickly brushed it away and pulled the sheet over her chest. She stared blankly toward the foot of the bed. Henry suspected his chances of dipping his wick one more time before work were slipping away. He needed to act fast.

  “Maybe I can give you a reference. Surely there’s another family who’d be willing to hire you.” Henry doubted his words the instant they’d left his lips. No woman in her right mind would want a looker like Karina under the same roof as her husband. And few would hire a Hunky housekeeper anyway. Henry was the exception. His hiring decisions were driven by his weakness for gorgeous women.

  Karina looked up. “I’m not sure that’s what I want. I’ve had enough of this filthy town.”

  “But your family …”

  “I know. I know,” Karina whined. She pulled at her hair, dropping the sheet that was covering her chest.

  Henry trembled with excitement. Karina looked so alluring with her hands above her head, her breasts on full display. Maybe he couldn’t live without her. Perhaps taking his housekeeper to New York wasn’t so absurd. If she lived with him, he would have access to her both day and night. He imagined waking up from an erotic dream in the dark of night and rolling over toward Karina to satisfy himself.

  “Why are you grinning like that?” she asked, interrupting Henry’s fantasy.

  “I’m considering your request. It could be mutually beneficial.”

  “You are?” Karina’s jaw dropped.

  “But I need to figure out what role you would play. Your beauty is wasted in a housekeeper’s uniform. I wonder if my society friends might be accepting of you as my mistress. You’d look stunning in proper evening attire.” Henry did not mention that he had yet to make any society friends. But he was sure his promotion would open many doors for him. Perhaps he could procure a spot on the board of a prestigious charity.

  “A mistress?” Karina asked, sounding surprised.

  “You can’t go as my wife.” Henry shook his head. “Someone of my stature would never marry a Hunky immigrant.”

  Karina glared at him. “I suppose we could tell your friends I’m Russian or German. No one in your circles would be able to identify my accent. It’s so faint anyway.”

  “You look Russian. I haven’t had much experience with foreigners, but I once met a girl from Moscow who had cheekbones like yours.” Henry did not dare mention that the girl was a prostitute he had paid to pleasure him. “Tell me again why your English is so good. Don’t you Hunkies all live together in the same neighborhood speaking Slovak and eating cabbage and noodles?”

  Another glare. “My husband took the English classes offered by the mill when we first arrived in America. He taught me everything he learned,” she said, straightening her back.

  “Do you think you can lose the accent?”

  Karina shrugged. “Maybe.”

  Henry cleared his throat. “If I allow you to accompany me to New York, I expect you to make some changes. I need a mistress fit for high society.” He smirked as he offered his terms, certain he sounded like a man of power and influence.

  Karina frowned as she stood up and went to the window facing the smoky valley occupied by the mill. She muttered to herself in Slovak for several minutes while staring at the town she loathed. In the midst of her apparent deliberating, she turned around twice to give Henry a long, hard look.

  Was she sizing him up? Was it really so difficult to make a choice between him and Riverton? Henry was insulted, but reminded himself that she did have a husband and children to think of. Still, as the clock ticked, his irritation grew. He considered rescinding his offer.

  Suddenly, Karina went silent. She turned around slowly and climbed back into bed, a determined look on her face. She planted herself on top of Henry and leered at him like an animal about to pounce on its prey. He wasn’t sure whether to be aroused or scared.

  “Who do you want me to be, Henry?” Karina asked, clutching his face.

  “I don’t know. I can’t concentrate when you look like you’re about to hurt me.” Henry couldn’t decide if Karina was angry or merely playing a new erotic game. The look in her eyes was menacing.

  She mumbled something in Slovak—a curse perhaps—and then loosened her grip on Henry’s face. “This is insane. I should leave,” she said, shaking her head and turning away from him.

  “If that’s what you want,” he said, trying to sound resigned. “Those drunks at the boarding house sure will be surprised to see your pretty face in the morning.”

  Karina scowled.

  Henry reached up to stroke her hair. “Don’t you want to go to New York? Don’t you want to get away from this miserable town?” He stared at Karina’s twisted face, watching the potency of his words take effect. As her chin moved in an almost imperceptible nod, he gently pushed her head toward his midsection.

  Karina closed her eyes and let out a deep sigh. She then inched her way down the length of Henry’s chest, pausing just below his abdomen. He thought he heard her whimper, but was soon too caught up in his own pleasure to wonder why.

  Five

  SOFIE

  RIVERTON, MAY 27, 1910

  As Sofie headed down the steep hill from St. Michael’s Catholic School toward the river, she could barely contain her excitement. She loved escaping the noisy commotion of her town—the screeching trains heading to and from the mill, the overwhelming chatter of a half-dozen languages being spoken in the town’s market district, the squeals of children playing in her run-down Slavic neighborhood. Fishing along the banks of the Monongahela River was her favorite Friday afternoon pastime.

  Sofie had begun exploring the river’s banks with her father as soon as she’d learned to walk. He had shown her all the best places to fish, far away from the center of town and upstream from the mill where the water ran clear. He’d warned her not to fish anywhere near where the mill dumped its waste into the river. The scent of it was rank, and it sickened the fish if it didn’t kill them.

  With the help of her father and her best friend, Pole, Sofie had become an expert fisherman. She was proud of her skills and grateful she could provide for her family in her own small way. Fresh fish from the river meant less of Papa’s paycheck had to be spent at the market.

  As Sofie followed the narrow trail at the edge of town that led to her favorite fishing spot, she heard the roar of an angry river. The morning’s thunderstorm had left the river swollen and had strengthened its already swiftly moving currents. She immediately spotted Pole leaning against a hazelnut tree with three carp on his stringer. Though he was a few months shy of his thirteenth birthday, he looked older due to his height and muscular build. His wavy, brown hair was disheveled, and his flannel shirt was covered in dirt.


  “How did you catch three fish already?”

  “I skipped my Slovak lesson. Couldn’t really see the point,” Pole said in his most rebellious tone.

  “The point is to preserve our heritage. I like learning about our culture and language.”

  “Your parents may be Slovak, but you’re American, Sofie. You were born here. Besides, I’m only half Slovak, and that’s not my favorite side. I like bein’ Polish better.”

  “I know, Pole,” Sofie said sarcastically.

  Pole’s defiant nature sometimes irritated her, but he had good reason to be bitter. His mother died two years earlier, and all he had left was a drunken father. John Stofanik worked at the mill and made Sofie’s father uneasy. He worried that Stofanik would fall into a pot of molten steel, or worse, he would be responsible for someone else’s death.

  Pole was currently wearing a nasty shiner, and Sofie didn’t need to ask where it came from. Even if she did, Pole would invent a ridiculous story. He was ashamed of his father, and who could blame him? That drunk was the reason Pole rejected his Slovak heritage and embraced his mother’s Polish one.

  “I saw your mama on her way to work this morning. Does she always leave that early?”

  “Sometimes. She doesn’t seem to mind though,” Sofie said, trying not to sound angry. She resented the fact that her mother was more devoted to her job than her family. Mama had practically sprinted out the door that morning to impress the men from Pittsburgh. Sofie was still upset about the comment her mother had made about her hair. Suddenly, a disturbing thought popped into her head. Mama doesn’t think I’m pretty. Was that the reason she never paid her any attention?

  “Must be paradise cookin’ and cleanin’ for Mr. Archer all day in a house like that. How’d she get so lucky?” Pole picked up his tin can full of worms and handed it to Sofie.

  She grabbed the can and gave him a dirty look.

  “I guess that was a stupid question. Who wouldn’t prefer a pretty lady washin’ their drawers over an ugly one? Your mama’s a looker.” Pole brushed some dirt off his knee and gazed across the river. “You know, you have her blonde hair and blue eyes.”

  “I’d rather have a fat, ugly mother who loves me.” Sofie bit her lip and angrily baited her hook with a worm. The poor creature bore the brunt of her frustration.

  “At least you’ve got your papa. He’s a good man. I’d trade my pop in any day for yours.” Pole sighed and stared at his fishing rod.

  The two sat quietly for several minutes, tending their fishing poles. The top of her head growing warm, Sofie looked up to see an exceptionally bright sun beating down upon her. The sky over Riverton was usually filled with too much smoke to see the sun, but the morning’s thunderstorm had cut down the haze.

  Sofie turned her attention to the river and watched the afternoon sunlight sparkle on its ever-changing surface. It was mesmerizing. The little twinkles of light danced among the currents, carrying her upsetting thoughts away with them downstream. Sofie inhaled deeply as she caught the scent of wild lilacs in the gentle breeze. She leaned toward the ground to smell the earthworms and wet grass. She was suddenly calm and content.

  A strong tug at the end of Sofie’s fishing line interrupted her reverie. She tightened her grip on her rod and began to reel in what she imagined was an enormous beast. Beads of sweat formed on her forehead as she jerked her rod while fighting her way backwards up the riverbank. The fish was tenacious, yanking so hard on Sofie’s line she feared it might snap. She was encouraged when her adversary’s head emerged from the water several minutes into the battle, but it quickly fought its way back to its murky domain. Sofie cursed under her breath.

  “Need a hand?” Pole asked from behind her.

  “No, I’ve got him,” she said, grunting. Determined to conquer her dinner, Sofie gritted her teeth and gave her rod one last forceful jerk. She squealed as the fish sailed through the air and landed in the grass at Pole’s feet.

  “That’s a monster!” he shouted.

  Sofie leapt with joy at the sight of the carp. It was nearly as long as her arm. She rushed over to Pole to retrieve her prize.

  “Let me put it on the stringer for you, Sof,” he said, holding the fish. “You catch your breath.”

  As Pole busied himself with the stringer, Sofie found herself staring at her best friend instead of her fish. “How lucky would we be if we lived together in a house with my father and your mother?” she wondered aloud. “If she were still alive, of course. We’d have the perfect family.” Sofie had always wished for a mother as sweet and thoughtful as Pole’s. She often had freshly baked cookies waiting for them when they returned from fishing. And she gave the best hugs.

  “Sounds nice, but there’s no use daydreamin’ about things that can never be.”

  Sofie frowned, disappointed in Pole’s lack of imagination.

  “Aww, come on.” He laid a hand on her shoulder. “I’m not tryin’ to be mean. I just think you’re better off keeping your head out of the clouds. You gotta deal with the reality you’ve got.”

  Sofie thought about her awkward interaction with her mother that morning and her poor excuse for not wanting to visit the neighbors. It was nothing out of the ordinary. Mama was always looking for ways to avoid her family. Sofie doubted it would ever change.

  “Wipe that frown off your face and look at the size of this fish you caught,” Pole said, holding up the stringer. “Wait until your papa sees it. He won’t believe his eyes.”

  Sofie glanced at the enormous carp and then studied Pole’s face. “Why do you look so proud? You didn’t catch that fish.”

  “No, but I wish I did.” Pole chuckled. “I’m proud of you, Sof. Now let’s hurry up and catch a few more. I can’t wait to get back to town to show off this beast.”

  Sofie blushed as she shoved a hook through a worm. She suddenly couldn’t remember what had been troubling her minutes earlier.

  Six

  POLE

  RIVERTON, MAY 27, 1910

  When Pole Stofanik returned just before sunset to the Hunky boarding house he and his father called home, he quickly noticed the somber mood of his fellow residents. On the bowed wooden front porch of the crumbling hotel sat three young steelworkers speaking Slovak in hushed tones, each with a whiskey in hand. Two of the boarding house’s maids sat on the porch steps, arms entwined and heads hung low. Something must have happened at the mill. Friday nights at the boarding house were usually anything but quiet.

  Pole and his father had come to live at the Janosik family’s dilapidated hotel just months after his mother’s death. Without the additional income from her job at the bakery, his father couldn’t afford to continue renting the two-room shack the family shared on Railroad Street. John Stofanik’s penchant for booze would ensure that they stayed broke forever.

  Life at the boarding house had required adjustments for Pole, but he was resilient and resourceful. He seized the opportunity to make money and quickly befriended the immigrants fresh off the boat. He often sold them fish or accompanied them on their errands in town, translating for them at the market or bank. He knew enough Slovak and Polish to be able to sell his services, but he had to refer the Russians and Lithuanians to his friend Dmitri, who lived down the street.

  The boarding house was rather run-down, but it was a fascinating place to live. It was a three-story hotel built into the side of a hill. Years earlier, an ingenious—or possibly thrifty—builder attached three walls of pine siding and a shake roof to a limestone rock face. It was a novel but imperfect idea. During heavy rains, water seeped into the building at the seams near the rock face and created a thick layer of green mold on every nearby surface. The one benefit, however, was that the limestone wall at the back of the boarding house stayed cool in the summer, while the rest of the house did not.

  Because Pole’s father spent most of his paycheck from the mill on whiskey, all they could afford was a tiny third-floor bedroom at the back of the house. It was probably less habitable tha
n a dog box. Pole and his father had to share an old, sour-smelling mattress stained yellow with the sweat and oil of working men. Pole shuddered when he imagined the sorts of things that might have occurred on such a mattress. Prostitutes were always hanging around the town’s boarding houses. After first moving into the room, Pole had slept on the cold, filthy floor for almost a week while trying to locate a cheap sheet or blanket to cover Mrs. Janosik’s poor excuse for a bed.

  Pole’s week of sleep on the floor proved to be an uncomfortable yet eye-opening experience. Because the gaps between the wooden floorboards were so wide, he could see, hear, and smell everything that occurred in the room below him. His neighbors’ drunken laughter and shouting interrupted his sleep several times each night while clouds of acrid cigarette smoke constantly wafted upward, threatening to suffocate him. Perhaps the only benefit to those gaps in the floor was the education he received on the relations between men and women.

  At first, Pole was rather fascinated by all the belly bumping taking place below him—the soft curves of the young women, their round breasts, and plump bottoms. Even their moans and groans during the act were intriguing. It was all so new and exciting for a boy on the verge of manhood. But after several nights of poor sleep and a sore throat from the cigarette smoke, Pole grew tired of the antics of his neighbors below. It wasn’t just that he desperately needed a good night’s sleep, he lost interest mostly because the participants in all that tail-tickling were often not very attractive. Some of them were quite hideous, in fact.

  His boyish curiosity satisfied, Pole was relieved when he finally found a tired-looking Indian wool blanket at a second-hand store across town. It was exactly what he needed to provide a barrier between himself and his mattress.

  Since his mother’s death, Pole’s life had become a series of unusual events—some calamitous and some downright amusing. He never knew what the day would bring when he woke up each morning, but he was now confident in his ability to survive.

  Glancing at the young girls comforting each other on the front steps, Pole wondered what misfortune had befallen the boarding house on this occasion. He cautiously approached the one steelworker on the porch whose English was better than Pole’s Slovak. His name was Josef, but people called him “Sef.”