by R. T. Kaelin
It seemed impossible to tell anything but the truth to that calm, doomed face. “I can’t recall,” Sfayot whispered. “Sometimes I was. Sometimes I wasn’t. I cannot remember.”
“Ah, well.” The answer was apparently satisfactory in some way as the Dragonfly turned to a man in the next cell. “Kindly pass this on until it reaches my master of arms, if you would. Tell him that it is fit, after all, that he dies in battle.”
The low-spoken word passed from mouth to mouth in the opposite direction, until all was dark and silence, and then the noble said, “I should stand ready, if I were you.”
Sfayot obediently crawled over to the given cell. Peering in, he saw a flash of white. He called her name, softly, urgently, three times before she stirred, looking up. She was half-starved, filthy, bruised and scabbed, but her face was beautiful when she saw that he had come for her.
The padlock holding the hatch shut was solid. The wood, though, was a different matter. His people had an Art that meant they would never starve, that they could live anywhere, on anything.
There was a cry from the far side of the cells, a long, howling yell, dragged straight from the pits of someone’s being, a maniac’s death-cry. It went on and on, accompanied by the sounds of someone battering and kicking at the wood, screaming curses and oaths. Soon, every Wasp in the area was running or flying toward the racket. Sfayot set to work, bringing his head low to the foul wood of the cage. He got his teeth to the slat and began to chew. His stomach roiled, but then his Art overruled it, and his jaws worked, grinding and grinding away, tearing off splinters and jagged mouthfuls of the cell.
Wasp slavers were all around, pitching into the air and casting over the labyrinth of cells towards the commotion. Sfayot glanced up, jaws working fiercely, as one of them levered open the lid on that cell, hand extended. Instantly, a man leaped from it, a Dragonfly-kinden, his Art-born wings flaring, his rich clothes reduced to nothing but rags. There was a brooch, some golden brooch, proudly displayed on his chest now, something the slavers surely would have taken had they found it. From nowhere, from thin air, a sword was in his hands, long-hafted, straight-bladed. Still keening that dreadful, agonized shriek, he laid into the Wasps, cutting two of the surprised slavers down the instant before the rest descended upon him with sword and sting.
Sfayot bent down and fixed his teeth in the wood again, wrenching and rending until he was through. The hatch swung open when he pulled.
They passed her up to him. That was what he remembered most, the other prisoners, Grasshoppers and Dragonflies, passing her up first.
He looked round. There was still a commotion at the far extent of the cells, the flash of sting-fire. The howling cry had stopped, but somehow the Dragonfly master-at-arms was still fighting, although not for long. The distraction was coming to its fatal conclusion.
While Sfayot looked, the cell beneath him had emptied, Grasshoppers clearing the hatchway in a standing jump, Dragonflies crawling out and summoning up their wings. Sfayot took his daughter in his arms and huddled back to the nobleman’s cell.
“I cannot free you, sir,” he said, almost in tears. “I would, but—”
“Take your child,” came the reply. “You can do nothing for us except remember.”
And Sfayot fled with his daughter clinging to him. He never looked back.
*
Orphan Train
by Vicki Johnson-Steger
I was a homely child.
Little girls should have pretty faces, or at least have someone who loves ’em to tell them they do. But I had neither.
I found out on the orphan train that if you were a sturdy boy or pretty girl you’d be chosen, and the younger the better.
An influenza epidemic in New York many years ago took the only folks belonging to me, or so I was told. After that, I moved to an orphanage with other survivors of the sickness: those who’d been abandoned to the streets and babies left on the back stairs in the middle of the night.
All the girls in the orphanage were excited when a baby was found on the steps, wrapped up in a blanket or an old coat, left there by an angel. That’s what we were told anyway. The angel part.
I always wondered why the angel didn’t wait around for Mrs. Zielinski, the cook, to get up in the morning so those babies didn’t have to stay on the porch overnight. But Sister Mary Thaddeus would tell me, “Margaret, mind your own business and don’t be meddling into the affairs of others, especially angels.”
When I was seven, I was finally old enough to help in the nursery with the babies and the little ones who, like me, would call The Foundling Charity Hospital our home.
After a few years, the orphanage was full up and we were told we were going to be loaded onto a train bound west with nothing but our clothes, which was just about all we had anyway. Besides my single plaid dress, I had a ragged doll that the Methodist Ladies Society gave me during my first Christmas there. I called her Evangeline ’cause even though I didn’t remember my mother, I imagined that might it be her name. Evangeline sounded sweet and comforting.
On dark, bitter cold winter nights, I’d lie on my squeaky bed, trying to call up a picture of what my mama and daddy looked like. I imagined my daddy was tall and handsome, with strong arms he got from carrying me. I had to imagine. I was little more than a baby when I came to the orphanage. Never knew who brought me. I might’ve been one of those the angel left on the porch steps. The memories are so faded I can barely recall anything about that time.
Our dormitory had eighteen girls ranging in ages from five to sixteen years old. The small ones were kept in the nursery. I have only one recollection of the nursery, of being rocked by a large, soft woman who smelled like fresh baked bread. I like to think that’s what my mama smelled like.
One rainy, fall day while we gathered in the dining hall, Sister Mary Thaddeus announced that we would all be finding homes and families. I sat with Lizzybeth on a bench at a long wooden trestle table holding my bread, staring at the sister, afraid that I’d heard her wrong. But as the others were all whispering and excited, I reasoned hadn’t.
A week later, three ladies came to take us to the new Pennsylvania Station. I guess none of us slept the night before we left. Finding a family was all I ever wanted but now I was a jumble of nerves.
The Ladies Aid Society gave each of us a new dress. Well, new to me anyway, and the first one I ever had that wasn’t too big or too small. It had my name and age sewn into the hem. I found out later that was so our new parents would know both. Lizzybeth, my best friend, discovered that she was two years younger than she thought. The sisters at the orphanage wanted us to be younger ‘cause it gave us a better chance of being chosen.
On a brisk morning a week later, we walked to the biggest building I’d ever seen. Huge columns held it up and giant granite eagles perched on the rooftop as though guarding it. I couldn’t imagine anything more beautiful than the Pennsylvania Railroad Station.
Inside the waiting room, the ceiling resembled a marble honeycomb sky. Morning light streamed through windows so high only a bird could’ve seen them up close. Steel arches overhead looked like giant lacework supporting a stone cathedral.
After the ladies had waited in a long line to buy our tickets, we followed steps down to a maze of underground tracks. Sister Mary Thaddeus lined us up and pinned numbers to our coats so our new parents could pick us out. Lizzybeth and I huddled together and I put my hands in my coat pockets to keep them from shaking. No matter how many times I swallowed that cold lump in my belly kept trying to crawl back up my throat.
As we stood on the platform, I could barely hear Miss Rabe warn us to mind our manners over the whooshing sound and the squeal of the iron wheels. We climbed the tall metal steps, following her onto the train. Our hard and stiff seats faced each other with a window in between. The Pullman car was warm, bright, and the air smelled of warm leather. Excitement buzzed through our group when the conductor came through to punch our tickets.
We were
underway.
The train chugged through underground tunnels before bursting into bright morning sunshine. Cows and pigs dotted farm fields that slid passed our windows while Lizzybeth and I talked about new families. Maybe some rich folks would take both of us home. Miss Rabe, one of the ladies traveling with us, must’ve been listening ‘cause she said in a stern voice, “be grateful for whoever God gives you.”
A few hours later, we pulled into a station in Maryland. Most of us got off the train and lined up so the townsfolk could get a good look. As the crowd walked toward us, I started to shiver, my nerves getting the better of me. Suddenly, I didn’t want to be chosen. All I wanted was to go back to the Sisters of Charity. Even though there was rarely enough to eat and the rooms were cold in the winter, it was the only home I’d ever known.
At our first stop three girls and four boys left with new families. The younger ones were carried and all of them were bawling. As the girls waved goodbye, I found myself a bit angry that they were leaving, but more relieved that the crowd had gone.
The rest of us got back on the train. Miss Rabe taught us a poem about a spider’s tea party. We sang some of the songs we’d learned from the sisters and practiced adding sums. Miss Rabe said that our new families would be happy that we knew so many things.
I wasn’t sad that I hadn’t found a home ‘cause Lizzybeth hadn’t found one either. Maybe we would always stay together.
The train headed west.
After a few days and many stops, it was easy to see that families wanted sturdy boys for farm work and pretty girls, especially the blonde ones with curly hair. Only three of us were left when we reached Kansas City where a dozen more boys and girls from another orphanage got onboard.
I don’t know how long I was on that train, but, one by one, all those I’d lived with were taken. I asked why baby Robert never got off at the stations. Miss Rabe said it was because he’d already been promised. Someone had ordered him special from the orphanage, just like he was a Christmas ham.
When we arrived at a town the next day I watched a girl about my age with long chestnut braids tied in pale blue ribbons run up the platform. Her parents stood behind her, smiling as she held out her arms for baby Robert. I overheard the girl’s mother whisper that Abigail had been asking for a baby brother and that God had answered their prayers. I wondered when God would answer mine.
The very next day, Lizzybeth left with a family that had four older boys. I watched her get into a wagon pulled by two black horses. She turned and waved. Both of us had tears dripping off our faces like we’d been caught in the rain.
The mournful sound of the whistle when we pulled away from the platform made me feel so empty. I don’t think I’ve ever been that lonely and forlorn as I was that day. I cried myself to sleep while the locomotive chugged its way along the tracks.
Later that night when I was all cried out, I found the courage to ask Miss Rabe what would happen if no family wanted me. Would I be sent back to the Sisters of Charity?
She pushed the stray hair off my face and gave my shoulder a squeeze. Then she dipped into her purse and handed me a red and white peppermint. “Don’t worry child, God has a home for you.” I didn’t believe her, but I forced myself to smile anyway and sucked on my candy, trying to make it last.
The next day we arrived in Nebraska, a little town called Scotia. I was the last one off the train because I’d lost my doll and had to find her. There must’ve been twenty of us in a row while a parade of grown-ups looked us up and down. Several seemed not to even see me, and a few others just grunted as they passed by. Some of the children smiled and did little dances, trying to get noticed. All I could do was stare at my scuffed black boots.
When I finally looked up, a pair of older women was heading my way. They shuffled quickly past the boys, but stopped at each girl. The tall skinny woman with a red kerchief would put her hands on their shoulders, look them in the eye, and then shake her head while saying “you’re not the one,” and move to the next. There I was, the only girl left, too afraid to look up because I knew what she was going to say. She put her large hands on my scrawny shoulders and stared me in the eye, her piercing look seeing clear through me. Then she turned to the short plump woman with a gray bun and said “sister, she’s the one.”
The other woman took me by the shoulders and nodded. “Yes, she is the one. She has a beautiful soul.”
And with that I’d found my family.
Two sisters from Sweden had chosen me for my beautiful soul. My aunties, as I called them, loved me every minute of every day for nearly thirty years. They taught me the healing properties of prairie plants and how to concoct remedies. I learned how to run a farm, milk goats, and spin wool. When they died, they left me their small plot in the chalk hills of Nebraska and a lifetime full of wonderful memories.
*
Authors note:
This story is based on the life of Margaret, great aunt to my friend, Laura. When Margaret was a little girl she learned the healing properties of native plants, as well as folk remedies from the Swedish aunties who’d chosen her from an orphan train for what they called “her beautiful soul.”
What is known today as the Orphan Train Movement began in 1854 ending in 1929. These trains ran from Boston and New York to forty seven states and Canada, finding homes along the way for more than 200,000 orphaned, abandoned, and homeless children.
Margaret never seemed to dwell on the past, but embraced the future. She was a tall, sturdy woman who always spoke her mind often saying, “I don’t make the truth I just report it.” When she reminisced about the past she referred to herself as a homely child.
She was a switchboard operator and spinster in her late thirties when she married Aaron, a widower, the love of her life. Together they raised his two teenage sons. Margaret lived to be seventy-nine years old. Aaron, celebrated his ninety-sixth birthday in 2012. Margaret remains the love of his life.
*
Holocaust
by Maxwell Alexander Drake
“I remember the night they came and took my father.” I looked down into my grandson’s eyes, excitement battling fear in his brown irises. I hated telling this story to him. The story of my past. My life. The story of our race. Of our fight to survive. But it had to be told lest history repeat itself.
“Soldiers came banging on our front door.” I looked out the window. Dusk was approaching. “It was about this time when they knocked. My family and I had just finished dinner. My mother and younger sister were busy clearing the table, washing the dishes. My father, grandfather, and I were sitting around the fire, just like you and I are now.” I glanced around the room, and it struck me how similar this house looked to the home in which I grew up. Not surprising considering how important tradition is to our race.
The living room where we sat was small, but comfortable—with a warm and welcoming fire blazed in the hearth. This living area spilled into an open dining room, which in turn flowed into the small but useable kitchen. My son’s wife and their daughter were both busy in there, cleaning up after the final meal of the day. My son and his oldest boy were out back, playing some sport or another.
This left me with my youngest grandchild. Abarron had been ill all day, fighting off a simple cold, and had spent the day with me. Abarron and I have always been close. Earlier this week, his father informed me that it was time for Abarron to learn our history. My son had told the story to the two older children, though I was present when he did, of course. But this would be the first time I had told it alone since I sat down with my own son so long ago.
A small hand tugged on my knee. “Are you going to tell me or not, Grandpa?”
I laughed. ‘From the Mouths of Babes’ as the saying goes. “Yes, I’m going to tell you.” Reaching down, I picked up Abarron—blankets and all—and set him on my knee.
“When the soldiers came, did you fight?” I could feel him balling up his tiny fists beneath the patch-worked blanket.
I
gave him a sad smile. “Fighting was not our way back then. I grieve that it has become our way now. No. The soldiers came and my father went with them without so much as a harsh word.” The memory of my father kissing my mother goodbye, telling her to be strong, that everything would be all right, came to the forefront of my mind. It was the last time I ever saw him.
“Why did they take him? Where did they take him to? What did they do to him?” The questions spilled from Abarron like a waterfall.
“Patience, child. Patience. I’ll get there.” Not until he settled did I continue. “We had heard that soldiers were collecting adult males in other towns or villages. We held out hope that our village would be spared. Officially, the government said they were taking them to camps for training, to work in the new factories being constructed. ‘For the betterment of all’ was what they said.”
“Were you scared when they came?”
“Of course. It is a frightening thing to have men with guns invade your home. To steal your father away into the night.” I will never be free of the memory. I still wake some nights in a cold sweat, even after all this time.
“What did you do?” Abarron’s voice squeaked.
“What could we do? My family and I huddled in front of the fire and tried to comfort each other. My mother and sister cried. I tried to remain strong, but I was young. Not much older than you, in fact. If it were not for my grandfather’s words, I’m not sure I would have been able to keep up the appearance of strength.”
“Your grandfather’s words?” Abarron sounded more amazed that his grandfather had a grandfather, as opposed to the story at hand. “What did he say?”
I pointed to the plaque hanging above our front door. I moved my finger, mentally underlining each word I read. “In times of hardship, hope may be all you have. But with hope, all things are possible.”
Abarron scrunched up his face as if it were the first time he had noticed the sign. “I don’t understand, Grandpa.”
