Remnant of Forgiveness Page 2

  She repositioned a bobby pin in the poufed roll of hair be-hind her ear as the mirrored images of Christine and Veronica Chudzik, the young daughters of the household, conquered the giggles brought on by her questions.

  “No, Silly,” dark-haired Veronica said, her heart-shaped face sobering. Two years older than her thirteen-year-old sibling, she always assumed the lead. “It is nothing. Babe and chick are dobrze. Good. It means the young men think you’re pretty.”

  Mary frowned. Young men were the last thing on her mind and would likely remain so. “Much better to use proper English. Nie rozumiem. I not understand foolish American words.”

  “But you’re learning,” Christine reminded her, childish features alight with leftover remnants of mirth. “I think Mama is right. You learn faster if we only use Polish to explain things. It makes you have to start thinking in English.”

  Mary could only agree, though she’d considered the stringent household rule somewhat harsh at first.

  “And,” Veronica piped in, “you start your job next week. Soon you’ll be out on your own and settled into your new apartment.” She drew her knees to her chest and hugged them.

  Christine brushed a flaxen braid over her shoulder, her smile wilting. “I’ll miss you when you leave. It’s been fun having you share our room.”

  This lovely room. Mary Theresa glanced around. So much fancier than hers had been in the Old Country. Rose-patterned wallpaper, cheerful rugs on the varnished floor. And so big for just two girls, she’d thought upon arriving. The spacious apartment in a multistoried brownstone building in Manhattan’s Upper East Side had all but swallowed her up with its roominess. Her own tiny walk-up, more than a dozen blocks away and off Second Avenue, would be nowhere near so elegant. How had Rahel Dubinsky fared in Jerusalem?

  Swallowing down loneliness for her dear Jewish friend, she crossed to the pair and put an arm about each of them. The sweet innocence that shone from their azure eyes was a sad reminder of a part of her own life that could never be undone. “And already I am missing you. Little sisters you are to me.” Mustering all her effort, she feigned a cheery air, a wry smile tugging at her mouth. “Perhaps you teach me more foolish words, so I am knowing what these Americans say.”

  “Girls,” their mother’s voice called from the floor below, “I could use some help with supper.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Veronica answered, getting up. She grinned at Mary. “We’ll work on your English later.”

  The threesome hurried downstairs, the girls heading to the kitchen, and Mary Theresa to the linen closet for a fresh tablecloth. Mrs. Chudzik liked supper to be special, since it was the one meal when the whole family gathered together, first at the dining table, then afterward around the big radio in the parlor.

  Mary had taken to the couple at once. Their plump short frames were the exact opposite of her own late parents’, but both Mr. and Mrs. Chudzik were intelligent and loving and showed real concern for her. The family-like atmosphere reminded her of her own roots. And the fact that their children were both girls had been a bonus. Mary found it hard not to feel uncomfortable in the presence of men, young or old.

  Tonight would be one of the last she’d be with these kind people who had helped many newcomers over the years to adjust to life in the new land. It was important that her transition to American life took place as smoothly as possible. So as they had done with others, they’d taken her into their home and their lives, made sure she attended Mass regularly, and treated her as a member of the family. She tried not to think about how much she would miss them all. Or how truly alone she would be living in a place by herself.

  She felt as if she’d spent the last few years of her life saying good-bye to everyone she ever knew.

  ❧

  Leaden clouds dragged across the city, enshrouding the tops of skyscrapers and coating their sides with drizzle, leaving a sheen on the streets below. The fine mist added streaks in the line of small, sooty glass panes high up on the Olympic Sewing Factory on 34th Street. Only the sickliest light penetrated the window grime even on the best of days, and on dull ones the windows were utterly worthless.

  Inside the ancient building, a raft of black electrical cords dangled from the high ceiling like so many snakes, the exposed light bulbs casting a harsh, brassy glare across endless rows of women bent over their work. The incessant clacking of Singer sewing machines drowned out any hope of conversation—something which was not advisable during working hours, close confines or not. Everyone knew that too much visiting resulted in raised quotas.

  Occupying one of the Singers, Mary Theresa grabbed a cutout shirtsleeve and partially finished cuff from the stacks at her side and positioned them for assembly before starting her treadle. As a newly hired, inexperienced employee, she’d been delegated to one of the older foot-powered models which interspersed the lot at random. The more proficient laborers used the much faster electric machines. Mary had worked steadily all morning, determined to reach her quota by day’s end.

  Most of all, she did not want to attract undue attention of the taskmistress, Mrs. Hardwick. With her large-boned, stocky frame, sharp nose, and short frizzy hair, the woman seemed a replica of one of the guards at Ravensbruck. She was only slightly more pleasant in the somber suit, plain white blouse, and black-laced shoes which made up her typical attire.

  “Pssst.”

  Mary cut a glance at Estelle Thomas, at the electric machine to the right.

  Her coworker did not slow her own work but tipped her head pointedly toward the floor.

  A stack of finished sleeves had toppled off Mary Theresa’s machine. She smiled her thanks to the friendly brunette and snatched them up, brushing the bottom one free of dust before eagle-eyed Mrs. Hardwick skulked by to find fault. The last thing she needed was for the woman to dock her pay or raise the quota to some unattainable number as punishment.

  Mary found the job at the sewing factory tedious, but her limited English did not instill enough confidence in herself to seek something better. The long hours occupied a good part of her existence, and the wages, however meager, did provide her living expenses. Only a small sum of the money from Rahel remained in the savings account Mrs. Chudzik had opened for her—a balance she hoped to add to for night classes in English, typing, and shorthand someday. The greater part of the funds had paid for the necessary bribes and her fare to America, plus room and board to the Chudziks during the months she stayed in their home. It had also purchased new clothes and some necessities for her furnished apartment.

  At last, the noon whistle shrilled. The rows of machines ceased operation, their cacophony immediately replaced by the drone of chatter and of chairs scooting back to form circles here and there among the tired-looking mass of women.

  “Finally!” Estelle exclaimed, her thick-lashed sable eyes sparkling as she brushed a wisp of damp, curly hair from her temple. “I’m starving.” She cleared her work space for room enough to eat, then reached into her bottom drawer and withdrew a lunch sack.

  Mary did the same. “I, too, feel hungry.”

  The willowy young woman peered up at the windows, and a grimace replaced the ever-present smile on her rosy lips. “I hate it when the weather’s too cool and miserable for us to go outside for a breath of fresh air.” Removing the waxed paper from a sandwich, she set it out, releasing the unmistakable smell of tuna salad into the room’s stuffy atmosphere while she poured hot tea from a thermos bottle.

  “We stop the work for short time. That I am glad for.”

  Estelle nodded, her piquant face serene as she bowed her dark head for a quick prayer of thanks before taking a bite.

  Somewhat uncomfortable at public displays of that nature, Mary waited respectfully until her new friend’s prayer ended, then devoured her own cold cheese sandwich. It was a far cry from the sumptuous fare she’d enjoyed with the Chudziks, but the best she could throw together before dashing out the door to catch the trolley this morning.

  “Think you’ll m
ake your quota this time?” Estelle asked, her feminine features accenting her sincerity.

  Mary Theresa cocked her head. “I try. I keep trying till I do. Maybe today. Maybe soon.”

  “You’re a good worker. I think you’ll make it.” A confident nod accompanied the statement.

  “And if I do, it is because you help,” Mary had to admit. “I know nothing when I first start here.”

  “Hey, we all had to start sometime, Mary. And I’ve enjoyed having such a conscientious worker next to me. The last girl was forever grousing about one thing or another. Never failed to put me in a bad mood—to say nothing of constantly aggravating Mrs. Hardwick.” Rolling her eyes, she finished the last bite of her sandwich, then washed it down with some tea.

  Gobbling her own food so quickly had done little to satisfy Mary’s appetite. She tried not to notice the delicious-looking cookies her new friend was unwrapping, liberally speckled with chunks of chocolate and walnuts.

  “Would you care for one?” Estelle asked, holding them out. “I don’t think I can eat them both.”

  “If you are sure.” More than grateful for the treat, Mary nodded her thanks.

  “I am. In fact, I’ll be baking more tonight—my brother’s orders. Now that sugar rationing has ended, we’ve been enjoying some treats we’ve been missing.” Her eyes widened. “Hey! Why not come home with me after work? I could use the help with baking, and you could have supper with us. I live only a couple of stops past yours. I’ll see that you get on the right trolley afterward.”

  Mary stopped chewing. “I. . .think not. But thank you.”

  “Please, Mary?” Estelle urged. “I really like our working here together, and I’ve mentioned you so often to my family, they’re dying to meet you. You do live alone, right?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then wouldn’t you enjoy a good hot meal—with some other people as nice as me?”

  The light tone and big grin assured Mary that the girl was teasing. But she wasn’t altogether certain she should accept the offer, tempting or not. She opened her mouth to voice a polite refusal, but the bell to resume work cut her off.

  “At least think about it,” Estelle pressed as she swung around to her machine and turned it on. “Promise?”

  “I will think about it.”

  In truth, it was all Mary Theresa thought about for the endless hours which made up the remainder of the workday. She’d been out on her own for three weeks now, and though the Chudziks occasionally popped in to see how she was faring, it wasn’t the same as living with them. No lively chatter enlivened her tiny kitchen table at mealtimes. In fact, their parting gift, a small table radio, only made Mary homesick for the laughter that would erupt among the family over a humorous comment by Jack Benny or George Burns and Gracie Allen. When the programs ended, even the most lively big-band music seemed a letdown.

  She had started skipping Mass, also. The ornate beauty of the cathedral seemed impersonal, and once-beloved rituals no longer offered the kind of substance for which her heart yearned. She finally tucked her rosary and prayer book into one of her drawers, rarely taking them out. Mary still wore the Star of David Rahel had given her and had added a tiny crucifix to the chain. It seemed somehow symbolic of the friendship which had drawn them together.

  But after years of being crammed into a too crowded barracks, plus several months sharing a room with two sweet, bubbly girls, the solitude she had once yearned for now seemed oppressive. She almost looked forward to coming to work, simply to hear other voices—and even more important, because of the growing friendship between her and Estelle. What could it hurt to accept that invitation, to liven up at least one lonely evening?

  “Well, have you decided?” her coworker asked hopefully after the quitting time bell sounded and the muslin covers were being placed over the machines. “Please say yes.”

  Mary just smiled. Even if she had intended to refuse, Estelle’s expression would have thwarted that plan. “I will come,” she told her, and the two of them grabbed their umbrellas and handbags and filed out with the rest of the throng.

  “Do I look all right?” Mary asked when they emerged into the dwindling light of day, where a playful gust of wind snatched long gold hairs from her neatly pinned roll and tossed them into her eyes. She tied on a triangular babushka. “I am dirty from factory.”

  “No worse than me,” came Estelle’s cheery response as she opened her umbrella. “You can freshen up at my house. Oh, I am so glad you’re coming!” And with that, she linked an arm through Mary Theresa’s, unmindful of such mundane matters as puddles or umbrella spokes that bumped together all the way to the trolley stop.

  I hope I will be as glad, Mary thought. Or will this just be more people I will grow to love. . .only to have to give them up?

  two

  “That’s it. I’m outa here.” Jonathan Gray shoved his chair back from the card table by the parlor windows and unfolded his long legs to stand.

  Nelson Thomas peered up from the checkerboard and smirked at his lanky best friend. “Isn’t that a touch extreme? You’ve only lost six games. . .in a row.”

  The off-duty policeman didn’t crack a smile. “Just isn’t my day, Buddy. I gotta get to the precinct anyway. I drew the night shift this week.” He plunked his uniform cap atop his sandy head and crossed the width of the room in three strides.

  “Catch a lot of bank robbers,” Nelson quipped, lacing his fingers behind his neck to stretch his shoulders.

  “Will do. Gotta keep the streets safe for Mr. Average Citizen. See ya.” With a mock salute, the cop shut the front door almost noiselessly behind himself.

  While his pal clomped down the steps and away, Nelson returned his attention to the scattered red and black pieces. He scooped up the checkers and replaced them in their cardboard container, then folded the game board and stood it on end beside the bookcase. He debated about working some more on the picture puzzle he’d started before but decided against it.

  At that moment, his mother bustled into the room, her slight form creating a breeze which stirred the graying permed hair framing her rosy cheeks. A frown etched twin lines above her button nose. “Jon left?” she asked, drying her hands on a dish towel. “I was going to invite him for supper.”

  “He was in a hurry, Mom. Had to go to work.”

  “Oh, and just when I made too much. Well, I suppose we can eat leftovers tomorrow.” Draping the damp towel over the shoulder of the bib apron covering her housedress, she gathered the empty iced tea glasses the two men had drained, then headed back up the hall toward the kitchen.

  Watching after her until she left his range of vision, Nelson marveled over her inherent need to mother all the young people who darkened their doors. Especially the ones like his pal, who had no moms of their own. Stray young people, stray puppies and kittens, they were all the same to her. Dad had picked a real gem for himself.

  Thought I had, too. Once. Immediately shirking off that painful reminder, Nelson used his crutch as leverage to ease himself to a standing position and hobbled to the overstuffed easy chair he preferred, ignoring the vinyl-covered hassock as he sank onto the seat cushion. He switched on the radio, turning the dial in search of some lively Benny Goodman or other upbeat tunes. Anything to keep his mind too occupied to dwell on that loss. . .or the other one.

  The front door opened, admitting his sister, Estelle, on a round of giggles that made her sound twelve years old instead of just two years younger than his own twenty-three. She and a honey blond Nelson had never seen before stuck closed umbrellas into a stand just inside, then looped their shoulder bags and kerchiefs over the hall tree.

  Presuming the pair would head upstairs to Stella’s room, Nelson relaxed against the comfortable chair back and focused again on Glenn Miller’s rendition of “Little Brown Jug.”

  But they didn’t leave. He cringed as his sister’s footsteps headed his way, hers and the other girl’s. And Stella knew he wasn’t at ease around strangers—had
n’t been since he’d come home from the war. Later, he’d drive that point home to her one more time, make her understand. After all, a guy deserved some privacy.

  “Nel-se,” she sing-songed, making two syllables out of one as she came up beside him, “I’ve brought my friend from work home with me. She’s going to help me bake cookies after supper.”

  “That’s swell, Sis,” he said, not bothering to camouflage his facetious tone.

  “I’d like you to meet Mary Theresa Malinowski,” she went on. “You’ve heard me mention her before. Mary, this is my brother, Nelson. He likes to boss his baby sister around, but I don’t let him get to me.”

  Reluctantly, he slid his gaze up to meet the visitor’s.

  Nelson stared into a face as gorgeous and perfectly rendered as any porcelain doll’s. And the largest, most beautiful eyes he had ever seen mesmerized him. A luminous, celestial blue-green, and fringed by long, silky lashes, they were filled with what appeared to be outright. . .fear. She looked twice as uncomfortable as he, if such a thing were possible. He offered a reserved smile. “Glad to meet you, Mary.”

  “I, too, am pleased,” she whispered with an almost imperceptible nod, her creamy skin every bit as white as the blouse she wore with her plaid skirt. But the way she shrank a fraction backward added the anticipated dash of doubt to the polite words issued by those rose-petal lips.

  It didn’t appear as if Estelle noticed anything unusual, however. “Well, come on, Mare. I’ll introduce you to Mom. It’s still a little early for my dad to come home from our butcher shop, but he’s always in time for supper.”

  As they walked away, Nelson beheld Mary’s cameo-like profile in awe.

  ❧

  Mary Theresa struggled to gather her composure. A father she could deal with. But had Estelle mentioned a grown brother at home? If she had, that little detail had gotten lost in the noise of sewing machines being started up again after the noon break. If she’d caught it, she never would have agreed to come here.