Shadows of the White City Page 5

  She arched an eyebrow at him. He shrugged and smiled, that particular smile she’d noticed was only for her. The one that said, I know what you’re doing. I know you. He did. In her mind, they were older versions of Jo March and Laurie from Little Women, the way they understood each other. Friends, yes. Lovers, never.

  His smile turned wistful, and the smallest question mark unfurled somewhere in her middle. She drank her water to drown it.

  Movement caught her eye. An older gentleman approached the entrance to the restaurant, scanning the diners.

  “That’s him,” Kristof said. “See his lapel pin, the white eagle with a golden crown? That’s a Polish emblem. Be at ease, Rose. He wants to meet you as much as you want to meet him.” After this reassurance, he went to Mr. Janik with a warm greeting and an outstretched hand.

  When the men returned to the table, Sylvie and Rose stood for the introductions. Mr. Janik held Rose’s hand between both of his, wonder in his expression. After he spoke, Kristof translated. “I can’t believe it. I see your mother in you, Rozalia.”

  “Really?” The tip of Rose’s nose turned pink.

  Mr. Janik doffed his derby hat, revealing white hair that matched his neatly trimmed beard. He touched his hair, pointed to his eyes, then at Rose.

  “Your hair, your eyes,” Kristof said for him, “are Magdalena’s. She was beautiful. I’m so sorry you lost both your parents at such a tender age. They were good people. And so are you.” Mr. Janik pressed Sylvie’s hand. “You took in the only child of my friends. My thanks are not enough.”

  They took their seats, and Sylvie’s heart swelled to see Rose drinking in every word Mr. Janik offered. She was so thirsty for information, and now, finally, she was getting it.

  Plates of pork chops and buttered sweet potatoes appeared but were largely ignored while questions and stories flew through Kristof, the conduit.

  Rose’s tears dampened her folded and refolded handkerchief. “What else can you tell me?” she asked again and again. Surely each recollection furnished the bare room in her mind that held memories of her parents.

  The Dabrowskis had lived in a large house a few blocks from the white sandy beaches of the Vistula River. Nikolai had been a tombstone carver, an honorable occupation that paid well.

  “And my mother?” Rose kept her gaze on Mr. Janik while Kristof’s low voice kept up with both sides of the conversation. “How did she spend her time?”

  “In the usual ways. Cooking, cleaning, mending, gardening. She loved taking you for strolls on the cement walk along the river. People promenaded there every afternoon while an orchestra played. Small tables and chairs were scattered about so people could buy tea and small cakes. Your parents did that with you. Magdalena, especially, enjoyed the music. She played the violin at home.”

  Rose gasped. “So do I!”

  Mr. Janik brightened. “Do you?”

  “Yes! Mr. Bartok is my teacher! He’s first chair with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra, and with the Exposition Orchestra, too.”

  “Well.” Mr. Janik finally availed himself of the pumpkin pie. “Now you know where your talent comes from. Magdalena learned from her father.”

  So Rose had been carrying on a family tradition without even knowing it. Blinking back the heat in her eyes, Sylvie laughed with Rose at this unexpected revelation. It was a gift.

  Around the table, coffee cooled, and ice cream pooled around each wedge of pie. Eventually, Rose asked why Nikolai came to America. In lower tones, Mr. Janik shared that Nikolai hated the Russians who had taken over their section of partitioned Poland.

  “We were made to light candles in our windows for the birthdays of members of the royal family. It was no great hardship for us, personally, but many families spent their last kopecks on candles when they ought to have spent it on bread for their children instead. Russian soldiers were sent to private homes to billet. These things, Nikolai would endure. But when all men of a certain age were made to serve in the Russian military—”

  Kristof paused, waiting for Mr. Janik to regain his composure.

  Rose remained riveted, handkerchief bunched in one fist.

  The older gentleman shook his head, his face creased in a frown. “This, your father could not abide. He would not fight for the Russians who oppressed Poland. He would not join the Russian army and let other Russian soldiers live in his house with his wife and daughter. It was too much. When he left for Chicago, Magdalena took you to live with your grandmother, God rest her, until he sent word for you to join him. After you left the neighborhood, we lost touch.”

  Rose’s chin dimpled. Nodding, she drew herself up straight, as though she’d just remembered that she was grown up now and resolved to act like it. But she was neither woman nor child, caught in that in-between place that could feel like either.

  Sylvie ached for the loss of Rose’s parents. She ached to think of the lovely home Nikolai and Magdalena had given up, and for the disappointment that met them after they left it. She could barely stomach that they had decided to emigrate so they could stay together, and had ended up dying alone.

  “Seeing you again brings them back, Rozalia. They both would be so proud of you. Never forget that. You are a credit to them, and to the woman who raised you in their stead.” Mr. Janik bowed his head to Sylvie before focusing again on Rose. “You are exactly where your parents wanted you to be. You are free, in ways that we in Poland still are not. One day, God willing, Poland will be sovereign again, rid of our oppressors. Pray for that day, sweet Rose, but never forget that you are right where you’re supposed to be—here, in America. Your parents gave their lives for this.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 12, 1893

  The floor beneath Kristof’s feet trembled as the elevator rose to the top of the tallest building at the Fair. Packed into the small space with Gregor and several others, he held his violin case upright against his chest until the motion stopped. Wooden bars on all four sides caged them in.

  “Watch your step.” The mustached operator opened the collapsible doors and stretched out his arm, inviting their exit onto the roof of the Manufactures and Liberal Arts Building.

  “Relax,” Gregor said as they stepped out onto the wide expanse. “We’re plenty early.”

  But Kristof found it difficult to relax when his violin case held not just his instrument, but more cash than he’d ever carried. The price of his brother’s gambling habit. “The man you owe, Johnny Friendly—how will we find him?”

  Gregor smirked. “He’ll find us, I’m sure.” He tapped his own violin case. “We’re easy to spot. See any other musicians up here?”

  After the day they’d had, the rest of the orchestra was most likely ready to turn in for the night. This afternoon they’d performed to an audience of eight thousand in Festival Hall under the direction of the famous Czech composer Antonín Dvořák, in honor of Bohemian Day at the Fair. The concert had included his Symphony No. 4 in G major and selections from his Slavonic Dances. The applause for Dvořák had lasted an entire two minutes. As far as Kristof knew, the orchestra’s former maestro, Theodore Thomas, hadn’t even come to watch.

  A gust of wind off Lake Michigan cooled the sweat on Kristof’s brow. He made his way to the waist-high chain link fence that served as the only barrier between the roof and the ground and lagoons two hundred feet below. The searchlight in the corner flashed on and beamed a thick stripe of light across the sky. White electric lights bordering every building in sight made the Fair appear to be a city made of tiny stars. Those gathered on the rooftop behind Kristof gave a collective murmur of delight, but the dazzle was lost on him.

  Gregor came and stood beside him. “It’s a white city, even at night,” he mused, but his tone sounded vacant. Growing serious, he turned his back on the view and leaned his elbows on the fence. “This won’t happen again, Kristof. I mean it.”

  Bending, Kristof picked up an empty paper cup. He crushed it and tossed it in a nearby wastebin. “Actuall
y, it will. This is only most of what you owe. We’ll pay the rest after our next paycheck.”

  “That shouldn’t be a problem. He said I had ten days to pay. It’s only been eight. He’s lucky to be getting this much now.”

  “Lucky?” The unfamiliar voice, a distinctive tenor, came from a wiry gentleman sauntering toward them with movements as smooth as a cat’s, his fedora cocked slightly. “I don’t call it luck to get what’s mine. I call that fitting. You lost. I won. That’s that.”

  “Johnny.” Gregor nodded. “This is my brother, Kristof. You brought some friends, too, I see.”

  “You could say that. Say hello, fellas.” He introduced the man with thin lips and a notch taken out of his ear as Tiny O’Bannon. He stood more than six feet tall, and his hands were the size of mutton chops. The shorter man of stocky build with wide-set, thick-lidded eyes was called Smokes Quinn. Cloying smoke lifted from the cigar in his mouth.

  Neither said a word.

  “Can we get the party started, then?” Gregor asked with a lightness Kristof didn’t feel.

  A red silk handkerchief gleamed in the breast pocket of Johnny’s suit. “You’re the ones keeping it locked up.”

  This wasn’t the place Kristof would have chosen for such an exchange. There were no tables or chairs on the rooftop, and the wind was strong at this height. Taking a knee, he set his violin case on the platform on which the searchlight was mounted, opened it, and withdrew a paper bag of cash.

  Gregor handed it to Johnny, who opened the bag and counted the bills. “You’re light.”

  Quicker than thought, Quinn slammed his fist into Gregor’s nose, the sickening sound of bone crunching cartilage stunning Kristof.

  “What do you think you’re—”

  O’Bannon grabbed both Kristof’s hands in his and squeezed so tightly that Kristof thought he might hear his own bones snapping. Pain stabbed up his arms. The pressure was building, crushing. Though every instinct told him to break free and fight back, reason told him the reward for that would only be escalating injury.

  “You said ten days, Johnny!” Gregor leaned forward, blood dripping from his face. “This is our first installment, and the lion’s share of the debt. We’ll get you the rest on time, you have my word. You think breaking his hands will get you the money faster?”

  At the flick of Johnny’s wrist, O’Bannon released Kristof, who shook out his hands. He’d never felt more powerless.

  A couple promenading the perimeter slowed as they approached. “I say! Are you quite all right?” The woman covered her mouth.

  Gregor grimaced. “Quite.” With a flourish, he whipped a handkerchief out of his pocket and held it to his nose.

  The couple passed by, followed by others far more interested in what was going on below. Two pairs of young people paused at the railing to watch Venetian gondolas strung with lights carry passengers across the lagoon, then finally lost interest and moved on. Moths fluttered in the searchlight’s beam and pinged against the lens.

  Hands still pulsing with pain, Kristof bridled his anger. Lashing out at these men would only bring more harm. Swallowing his pride, he handed Johnny two narrow sheets of paper and a pen. “Receipts, so we have a record of having paid you tonight. Sign both and keep one for yourself.”

  Johnny’s eyelids flared. He jerked his chin toward his so-called friends. “Tiny? Smokes?”

  Smiling for the first time since their arrival, the men each took one receipt from Kristof, ripped it to shreds, and sent them swirling on a breeze.

  Kristof’s temper smoldered. Gregor had gotten himself mixed up with bona fide thugs. “Just the same, Mr. Friendly, we know how much we’ve paid and how much we need to bring in a few days’ time.”

  Johnny stepped closer. “Your debt is paid when I say it’s paid. Got it? We’ve no call for your records. But you won’t mind if I help myself to a little insurance. Just to make sure we get the rest.”

  His complexion waxen in the unnatural light, Gregor balled his soiled handkerchief in his fist. “You have all the cash we could put together. We have nothing else to offer right now.”

  “I disagree.” Johnny snapped his fingers and pointed to Kristof’s violin.

  Before Kristof could react, Quinn yanked the instrument from its velvet nest. “This looks valuable.” He smirked around the cigar.

  “Not a smart move,” Kristof said. The humidity in the night air mixed with the sweat filming his skin. “That’s my livelihood you’re holding.” It was also worth far more money than these goons could possibly guess.

  “Then you’ll be sure to bring the rest of the cash in exchange for its safe return, won’t you? And if you don’t, I’ll get what I can for your fiddle.” Johnny tugged the brim of his fedora.

  “Don’t be daft.” Kristof flexed his hands at his sides. “How am I supposed to earn more money without my violin?”

  “No imagination. That’s your problem, not mine.” But with an almost imperceptible twitch, Johnny signaled Quinn to hand the instrument back to Kristof. “Then I’ll take out a different insurance policy on you boys. And this time, I’ll get creative.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” Gregor asked, his pitch rising.

  Johnny only smiled, and Kristof went cold. These were the wrong men to cross. The sooner they cut ties with them, the better.

  From the shadows, the elevator operator called for passengers.

  “Going down?” Johnny asked.

  “We’ll take the next,” Kristof replied.

  Quinn and O’Bannon made clumsy pivots as Johnny turned, and all three walked away. The elevator gate slammed shut.

  “Charming friends you have,” Kristof grumbled as he strapped his violin back into the case and fastened the clasps.

  “You think I like them any more than you do?” Gregor refolded his handkerchief and brought it to his nose once more. “A few more days, and we’ll have the rest of the money to pay them off. I wouldn’t mind if I never see them again.”

  In that, at least, they were agreed.

  “We should get going.” They’d been hired to play on the Wooded Island tonight to provide ambience in the Rose Garden before the fireworks display stole the show.

  Kristof curled and stretched his fingers. His knuckles stung, but he had full range of motion. Once he started playing, he was confident he’d forget about the pain.

  It took them fifteen minutes to reach ground level and walk past the North Canal and the Electricity Building to reach the nearest boat landing, which was perfumed by honeysuckle and summer sweet. As they crossed the lagoon in a silent electric launch, Kristof spotted a snowy egret standing near the island’s shore.

  The Wooded Island was a fascinating study of man’s attempt to perfectly orchestrate nature. The landscape architect, Frederick Law Olmsted, had carefully curated plants for their color, foliage, height, scent, and bloom time. On the banks, milkweed, ferns, cattails, and bulrush provided a graceful screen from the rest of the Exposition. Wildlife had been imported to add a sense of motion to the island. Kristof wondered how much it bothered Olmsted when plants outgrew the desired perimeter, or worse, died without permission. He’d heard the architect was irritated to learn the island would be divided into plots for nations to exhibit their finest flowers, with no consideration for the aesthetics of the whole.

  What a challenge it must be, working with living things like that—plants and people, both. At least with music, Kristof mused, the violin always obeyed his fingers. Then again, any mistakes were his to own in full.

  Once on shore, Kristof could hear a band’s program wrapping up in the center of the teardrop-shaped island. It wasn’t all he heard. He looked over his shoulder and saw nothing but the movement of wind through silver maple and willow branches.

  “Forget something?” The glow of the lanterns highlighted Gregor’s swollen nose.

  Kristof shook his head. The fact that he’d heard footsteps wasn’t unusual on the island. But snapping twigs and crunching leav
es meant someone wasn’t keeping to the path—despite the many signs instructing visitors to do so.

  They passed German exhibits of tea roses and dahlias, and beds of azaleas and rhododendron from New York. Before they reached their destination, Kristof smelled the roses, their scents sharpened in the night’s dew-laden air. Roses, and something else.

  The unmistakable smell of cigars.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Chicago had grown too big, too fast. But here on the Wooded Island, Sylvie could almost forget the crowded city’s problems. Scents of exotic flowers and of rich earth damp with dew were a heady combination. Fireflies twinkled golden in the purpling shades of night, more winsome and whimsical than even the Chinese lanterns bordering the paths and gardens. A younger version of herself would have fully embraced the enchanted evening, imagining that she’d stepped into a fairy tale.

  The older, wiser Sylvie looked beyond the surface of things. Before the landscape architect had begun his work, this so-called island had been a peninsula of sand dunes and mosquito-laden ponds. Then they’d dredged out lagoons and canals to create the island, and used the dug-up land to form the gently rolling hills. All this beauty had been built on twenty acres of wasteland.

  “Just think, Meg.” She looped her arm through her sister’s. “None of this was here two years ago, and in a few months more, the spell will be broken. All the more reason to enjoy it while it lasts.” Ahead of them on the paved path broad enough to fit ten abreast, Meg’s husband, Nate Pierce, walked with their twenty-year-old son, and Hazel chatted with Rose and Jozefa. Seven-year-old Olive flitted between the men and the women like a puppy in search of attention. “I’m so glad you all came tonight.”

  “So am I.” Meg’s picnic basket, long since emptied of the dinner it held, dangled from her left hand beside the lavender skirt that matched her belted jacket. Wind whispered through the cottonwood trees along the western bank and set a row of sunflowers gently nodding. “Nate has been working so much lately, and so have Walter and Hazel, which has left poor Olive alone with me for most of the summer. This is the first time we’ve been out as a family together in far too long. Speaking of family . . .” She raised an eyebrow. “How are things in your home these days? Rose seems to be getting along splendidly with your houseguest.”