Remnant of Forgiveness Page 3

  But turning away from Nelson Thomas in the upholstered chair, her gaze had landed on something she had not noticed before—the turned-up trouser leg. He was missing his left limb from just below the knee. Her heart contracted. Except for some grim lines alongside his mouth and a slight downward turn of his light brown eyes, Estelle’s lean, mahogany-haired brother had an amiable enough face. Even handsome, in a timeless sort of way—if she were the least bit interested—which of course she was not. Reinforced by a determination to ignore that square jaw and those finely honed features, she steeled herself against what nevertheless might turn out to be a very long evening and tagged after her friend.

  The Chudziks’ apartment had been quite lovely, furnished in fine woods and rich textiles. But this tenement house, Mary decided on the way through the hall, emitted a nearly tangible quality of homeyness that the more elegant residence had lacked. Even though the floral runner showed definite worn paths, and the drapes and slipcovers looked faded and threadbare in spots, the whole place seemed to welcome her and make her feel at ease.

  The delicious aroma of beef stew grew stronger as they neared the kitchen and entered. This room also exuded a decidedly cheery atmosphere, whether from the red and white decor and crisp gingham curtains or the roomy expanse of work space, she couldn’t be sure. At least, not until Estelle approached the stove and tapped the shoulder of the petite-framed woman standing in front of it.

  “Mom?”

  She paused from stirring the pot of stew and turned around, the smile on her face looking as if it had been born there and never left.

  “Yes, Dear.”

  “I brought company for supper. This is Mary. Mary Theresa Malinowski. We work together at Olympic. I’ve told you about her.”

  The smile broadened, adding an engaging light to small hazel eyes as she reached out to lay a hand on Mary’s forearm. “Yes. How lovely to meet you, Mary. I’m so glad you’ve come.”

  “Mrs. Thomas,” she answered, noting the sincerity in the woman’s expression and manner. It differed very little from Estelle’s, she realized, appreciating the strong resemblance. No wonder her daughter had seemed so pleasant and helpful to a brand-new employee, growing up with such a mother.

  “Can we do anything to help?” her friend asked. “Set the table? Make lemonade?”

  “Not a thing. It’s all done. You two just run along and have a nice visit. We’ll eat as soon as your father comes in from work.”

  “Well, come upstairs then, Mary,” Estelle suggested. “We can freshen up before supper.”

  Mary snagged her handbag from the hall tree on their way to the staircase and accompanied the young woman to her room.

  They’d barely finished sponging their faces and running a comb through their hair when the summons came, and the two of them hurried down to the dining room, where the rest of the family had already gathered around the oblong maple table. Mary admired the embroidered red roses on the tablecloth as she and Estelle each claimed one of the two remaining places.

  Not without a twinge of uneasiness did Mary notice her chair was directly across from her friend’s brother. And gracing the wall behind him she spied a beautifully framed portrait of Christ, without the sacred heart she was accustomed to seeing. The old nuns at school would be shocked, she thought with chagrin. Not only had their prize student consorted with Jews, but now was being entertained by Protestants!

  “Ah. Stella has brought a guest, I see.” Light from the fixture overhead glinted on the receding hairline and bifocals belonging to the congenial-looking man who occupied the head of the table as he glanced from Mary to his daughter. His wiry, muscular build and strong hands gave evidence of hard work.

  “Oh, I almost forgot,” she said lightly. “Dad, this is Mary Theresa Malinowski, my friend from work. I imposed on her good nature to help me make cookies after supper.”

  “I see. Well, how do you do, Mary? We’re glad you could join us.”

  “Mr. Thomas,” she said politely, noting that the man seemed every bit as gracious as his wife, and he possessed an open, honest face that put her at ease.

  “Now that everyone’s present and accounted for, we’ll return thanks,” he said with a jovial smile. He bowed his head, and everyone followed suit.

  “Dear Lord, thank You for Your wonderful provision day by day and for the opportunity to share our bounty with friends. Please bless this food and our conversation around the table. And thank You for bringing Mary to our home. May this be the first of many happy visits. We ask You to grant her a special blessing this evening and in the days to come. In Jesus’ name, amen.

  “Amen,” the others echoed, and Mary crossed herself.

  Having used recited prayers for so many occasions in her life, the intimate tone of Mr. Thomas’s prayer brought Mary’s prison mate, Corrie ten Boom, to her mind. As the older man began ladling rich stew from the china tureen into bowls and passing them around, she marveled at the way some people seemed able to approach Almighty God in such a casual, friendlike fashion.

  “Would you care for bread?”

  Estelle’s voice coaxed Mary back from her musings. . .as did the realization that Nelson was staring at her. “Oh. Yes, thank you,” she mumbled, lowering her lashes. She accepted the heaping plate and removed a slice before passing it to Mrs. Thomas on her left.

  “So, Mary,” the man of the house began, “tell us about yourself. Have you and your family been in New York long?”

  She didn’t relish becoming the center of attention, much less receiving personal questions that might lead to her shameful past. But after filling her spoon with succulent beef broth to cool, she met his gaze. “My family is no more. From Poland I come to stay with American family. With the English language they help me till a job I could get.”

  “Oh, you poor dear,” Estelle’s mother murmured, administering a loving pat to Mary’s arm, her expression revealing a tender heart.

  Her husband blanched. “I didn’t mean to pry. Forgive me.”

  Mary feigned a tight smile to no one in particular. “It is. . . how you say. . .okay.”

  “Mary works on the machine next to mine,” Estelle piped up. “She’s only been with Olympic for a couple weeks and should be making her quota any day now. She lets me talk my head off whenever I want—when we’re allowed to visit, of course. Usually the noon break.”

  “But do you keep her supplied with aspirin?” Nelson muttered with a subtle curl of his lip. “For the headaches.”

  “No headaches,” Mary responded. “I am liking her talk.”

  He smirked. “Just wait till the novelty wears off.”

  “Novelty?” Mary had to ask. “This I not understand.”

  “Don’t pay any attention to that brother of mine,” Estelle said, rolling her eyes. “It’s best to ignore him.”

  But Mary Theresa caught the mischievous twitch of Nelson’s mouth, and the sight resurrected the long ago days when her own brothers would tease her mercilessly. And somehow, she didn’t mind the bittersweet memory, even if the present banter did happen to be at her expense. She returned her attention to the hearty stew before her as the father of the house began regaling everyone with amusing stories about some of his butcher shop’s regular customers and how glad everyone was to see the end of meat rationing.

  After they’d finished the stew and generous slices of fresh apple pie, Mr. Thomas reached behind him for a small leather-bound book on the lace-doilied buffet and read aloud a collection of Scripture verses pertaining to hope.

  Once more, Mary was transported back in time to Ravens-bruck. She could hear in her mind the surprisingly strong voice of the older woman from Holland, hear again some of the very same wondrous promises that had remained in her memory to this day. It seemed a fitting end to supper, one she would ponder later in her solitude. But now, however, as Estelle stood and began clearing the table, she knew it was on to dishes and baking.

  Hours later than normal, Mary Theresa finally got back to her
apartment. She still smelled of cookie dough, could still taste the satin sweetness of the chipped chocolate, melted and warm from the oven. After hooking the handle of her umbrella over the doorknob, she switched the floor lamp on, then draped her raincoat over the camelback sofa which dominated her combination dining/sitting room. As she kicked off her loafers, her gaze surveyed her surroundings.

  Compared to some of the other residences she had seen in America, her diminutive abode seemed stark and uninviting. The Chudziks had seen to it that she had curtains and linens and other basic necessities. But the walls lacked adornment. The whole place needed some bright, homey touches. Perhaps some weekend she’d prevail upon Estelle to come shopping with her. The girl had made no mention of a regular boyfriend, and she might know where to find some good bargains, assuming she wasn’t always busy with her family.

  Her family. Mary’s heart swelled at the remembrance of the kind people who made up Estelle’s world, the way they had taken her in. She couldn’t help smiling. Mrs. Thomas had fluttered about the kitchen like a mother hen, yet never really intruded, while her daughter and Mary baked a double batch of cookies. Her husband, who had not repeated his blunder of probing for personal information at the table, had retired to the parlor after supper to read the evening paper.

  But Nelson. Mary’s smile took a pensive turn when thoughts surfaced of her friend’s brooding older brother with the perceptive brown eyes. Despite definite laugh lines alongside his mouth, smiles had been few. He hadn’t exactly been friendly, but neither had he been unfriendly.

  In truth, Mary didn’t quite know what to make of him. And perhaps that was just as well.

  three

  Mary brushed lingering bread crumbs from her polka-dot dress, then took another drink of the hot tea she’d brought for lunch.

  “Looks like you’re doing great today,” Estelle commented between bites of her sandwich as she eyed Mary’s stack of finished sleeves.

  “Yes. My quota I should make, I think, this time.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.” Her friend paused. “My parents sure enjoyed meeting you last night. I hardly ever take someone home with me. They really like you.” She offered her two cookies from the batch they’d baked.

  “Thank you.” Mary lifted one of them to her nose and inhaled deeply. “So much better it smells than this place.”

  “I agree. Completely.”

  “I am liking your family, too. So friendly they are.” Munch-ing the treat, she mentally replayed the visit.

  “Even Nelson thought you seemed. . .let’s see, how did he put it? Oh, yeah. Decent. He thought you were pretty decent.”

  Mary swallowed a little too quickly, but recovered. “What means ‘decent’?” She suspected she already knew the def-inition, but some American words had a variety of meanings. In this particular instance, she needed specifics.

  “Oh, you know. Swell. Nice. It’s about as much of a compliment as he gives these days, grump that he is.”

  Estelle’s response unraveled the tightness around Mary’s spirit.

  “He’s been in a black mood ever since he came home from the rehabilitation center,” she went on. “Thinks his life is over. He hardly does anything except sit around and mope. He never used to be like that.”

  “Wounded at war your brother is?”

  Estelle nodded. “In France. He almost didn’t make it, really. He was in the hospital for quite a long time, before—” The end-of-lunch bell overpowered the last part of the sentence.

  Pursing her lips, Mary Theresa wrapped the remaining cookie and tucked it inside her handbag, then moved her chair into place to resume working.

  She didn’t want to think about Nelson Thomas. At all. He was too attractive. And too—his own word fit perfectly—decent. Too decent for someone like her. No man would ever want her now. She’d accepted that cruel reality long ago. But still, the teasing remarks he’d made to his sister and the quirk of his mouth when he had chided Estelle made Mary miss her own siblings, particularly Aleksandr and Patryk, the two who had been closest to her own age. How unfair it was that such handsome, strong youths had been put to death merely to satisfy the whim of a Nazi lunatic who hadn’t known either one of them—or any others among the countless millions who had been exterminated. She only hoped her brothers had not been first made to suffer.

  “Pssst.”

  A quick look at her coworker, and Mary caught the warning in her eyes. Mrs. Hardwick was marching purposely toward them. Plucking a set of sleeve parts from her work piles, Mary immediately positioned them under the presser foot on the machine and started pumping the treadle. She felt the keen stare boring into her back when the woman paused momentarily behind her before slowly moving on.

  Halfway through the afternoon, while Estelle left her machine to replenish her supply of shirt sections, Mary went to use the facilities. It drew a stern glower from the supervisor but couldn’t be helped. In the briefest of moments, she was back at her station and working steadily until the end of the shift.

  This had been her best day yet. She’d kept a running tally of each dozen she added to her basket and knew she’d done it—finally reached the magical number which at first had seemed an impossible goal. With a triumphant grin at Estelle, she stood to collect the completed sleeves to be turned in and logged next to her name in the ledger.

  She felt the blood drain from her face as she stared at the pathetic pile.

  In the middle of covering her electric machine, Estelle stopped. “What’s wrong?”

  “Gone!” Mary croaked through her clenched throat. “Almost half of my sleeves. Gone.”

  Her coworker leaned to peer into Mary’s basket, her expression registering shock. “It can’t be. I watched your work accumulating all through the day. I know you had to have made your quota.”

  The heavy footsteps of the supervisor grew louder on her approach. “Got a problem here, Malinowski?”

  Mary’s insides turned over at Mrs. Hardwick’s insinuating look.

  “I–I—”

  “Someone helped herself to Mary Theresa’s finished pile,” Estelle answered for her.

  “Is that right? And who might that be?” the woman challenged, cold gray eyes darting from her to Mary and back. “The girl hasn’t made her quota once in all the time she’s been here.”

  “She would have today,” Estelle insisted.

  Mrs. Hardwick tapped the toe of one black shoe impatiently and tucked her chin. “Well, we don’t really know that, now, do we?”

  “I. . .am sorry,” Mary somehow managed. “Harder I will work tomorrow.”

  “You’re right about that, little lady,” she answered, each word precise and flat. “Your quota will rise by two dozen, beginning tomorrow morning. I suggest you get here early and spend more time at your machine and less at the lavatory.”

  Two dozen more! Mary swallowed her rising panic and stood tall. “Yes, Madam.”

  “And if you aren’t turning in your daily requirements by the end of this week, there are plenty of other applicants waiting for work. Remember that.” Without further comment, the supervisor turned and hiked away.

  Once Mrs. Hardwick was out of earshot, Estelle hugged Mary. “I am so sorry. I can’t figure out how such a thing could have happened.”

  “It is. . .all right,” she whispered. “This quota I make. I make the new one.”

  Subdued, they gathered their belongings and left to catch the trolley, neither of them making their usual small talk along the way. But once they were seated and on the homeward journey, Estelle shook her head. “I don’t know how you could be so gracious to that old witch.”

  Mary shrugged, recalling more of fellow prisoner Corrie ten Boom’s admonitions at the death camp. “A job she has, like us. To turn in much work done each day. What is expected I will do.”

  Estelle regarded her evenly. “You sound like our pastor. ‘Turn the other cheek.’ I used to think I could do that without any effort at all. But not today. My tempe
r’s always been my worst fault. And this afternoon it would have given me great pleasure to punch her in the face.”

  “A good teacher I had,” Mary admitted. “And wise. So wise.” She averted her attention to the passing buildings, especially enjoying the little groups of children at play on the side streets. So healthy and carefree they looked, as children should.

  A few silent moments lapsed.

  “Doing anything for supper tonight?” Estelle asked, a ray of hope gleaming in her face.

  Mary had to smile. “Yes. A hot bath I am taking. Then a bowl of soup. Chicken noodle.”

  “My favorite.”

  “Sometime soon I make two cans. For you to eat with me.”

  “I would like that. Truly. But everybody should have some real home cooking now and then. Ever had pasties?”

  Confusion clouded Mary’s mind. “The word I not know.”

  “They’re delicious,” Estelle answered. “Kind of a meat and potato pie, served with broth or gravy over top. My mom makes the absolute best ones in the world. I’ll invite you over next time we’re having some.”

  “Already it is making me hungry,” Mary teased. Standing to pull the cord, she gave her friend’s shoulder an affable squeeze. “My stop, this is. See you tomorrow.”

  “Bright and early,” Estelle teased. “Don’t forget.”

  ❧

  “We’re off to prayer meeting, Son,” Nelson heard his father say on his way into the parlor. He wore his customary suit and tie, his Bible under one arm. “Sure you won’t come with us?”

  Nelson returned his gaze to the open book he’d been trying to concentrate on, but without success. He shook his head.

  “Maybe next time, then,” his mother suggested, tugging on white cotton gloves that complemented her church hat as she joined them. “The pastor’s been presenting a wonderful study on ‘The Cross through the Scriptures.’ We’re enjoying it immensely.”

  “That’s good, Mom. I’ll see you both when you get home.” He buried his nose a fraction deeper, to miss seeing that pained look on her face. His parents meant well, he knew. But what they didn’t seem to acknowledge was that he could no longer dredge up much enthusiasm for churchgoing—even though Pastor Herman had once been one of his biggest heroes. Sure, church had been pretty important before he went off to join the army, but that was then. A lot of water had gone under the bridge since those days. A lot.