It was forbidden for anyone not authorized to make use of the tunnels. If you have never been in them—ah, but I see that you have, though I may guess you have not authorization. They run from place to place, always filled with warmth from the steam jets. The pipes along the ceiling, packed as they are in asbestos fibers, are like the veins in the back of a hand. The sound is like the beat of a heart, too: the source of my fear when first I walked down there. The lights hang infrequently, with pools of darkness lying between them.
I walk along the middle when I go through the tunnels, you see, where the skirts of light on the floor are almost touching, the least to be in the dark. When I am working, I place my things against the wall, in case there is someone else who walks through. That way they do not trip on my pail and mop, or tread in my lunch. The allowed time for my meal is one half hour, too short to go home to eat. I was careful to remember, for I did not wish to go hungry all night.
I heard scuttling in the depths of the buildings always. Rats lived there. They ate the insects: cockroaches, beetles; so they were pursued mostly when they were found on the levels used by the teachers and students. That was not my job. I do not like rats, and I killed as many as I could.
When I went, broomstick in hand, to investigate the sound, there came another clamor behind me, from the place where I had left my pail and my lunch. The rats again! They would not get my food if I could help it. Like the wind, I flew back there, ignoring the cold darkness. My broom handle I held like a spear. It was a miracle I did not break any of the hanging light bulbs.
There was something, a small, hulking shape crawling among my things. I swooped in upon it, striking it away from the bag. It slid across the rough floor, tumbling against the wall. If it was a rat, it was the largest of its breed I had ever seen in my life. A rat over two feet long! I raised the stick to crush its head, and it flung up its two paws, and cried out, “No!”
I was stopped by that. Never had I heard a rat to make such a human-like noise. It sprang away quick as a wink when I let the stick down, but I was quicker. I thrust the bristle side of the broom in its way, and put down a hand to capture my prey. I grasped a handful of cloth.
My prisoner struggled and kicked, but I had it by the middle of its back, and it could not hurt me. It was so light that I hardly noticed its weight. Taking it into the light, I examined it. It was a black-haired child, clad in shirt and trousers, but what an amazing child! I thought immediately of the legends of my home, of the little house spirits, who would do good deeds or bad as it suited them. It could be that this little fellow was of the same type. What else but magic could account for its appearance? The eyes and cheekbones were sharp and wide, making it look like a little wild animal. And its ears were pointed, like a cat’s laid back. But it was of human type, and it swung its tiny fists in the air, crying out in a language I do not know, trying to get loose from my grip. I stood as one frozen in place. Its face was dirty, and under the loose shirt which I clutched in my hand, its ribs were thin.
With a heart’s wrench, I thought of my own children. This child, however strange it might appear to me, was but a child, and hungry. I made soothing noises to it, and it ceased struggling. Very slowly, I moved backward to where my lunch basket lay, and I lowered the little creature to the ground. It stood up, regarding me most warily. I opened my hand, let the broom lean against the wall, and stooped to my basket. Out of my eye’s corner could I see that the child had already opened it, but I had surprised it before it could take any of the contents. In there I had apples, sandwiches, a pint bottle of milk, and a wrapped slice of cake. I am proud of my skill of bakery; my mother taught me, and she was much acclaimed in the village of my birth. Moving smoothly, with no haste, I laid the contents out in a line on the floor before the child. It was trembling where it stood, and I smiled at it to show I meant no harm. Small wonder it was frightened. Had I not just plucked the poor creature up, like a wild hawk hunting a rabbit?
Of a sudden, it gasped, and pointed open-mouthed over my shoulder. I sprang up, spinning around, to see what had so alarmed it. Nothing was there. I turned back, just in time to see the little one dashing away, with all of my food in its arms. I laughed, for I had been fooled by an old trick, showing that my little one here had all of his wits about him, and I was sure, more than ever, that he was of the magical kind. I felt blessed for having seen it, and even more so for having done it a kindness. In our folk stories, it is important to do so. It brings no good to those who do them ill.
Only once did I ever tell my husband about seeing one of the Little People in the school building. He laughed, too, but in disbelief of me. Never to the end of his life did he credit my story. In his opinion, it was that the New Learning in the college would keep old superstitions away. But what, I argued, if it was not a superstition, but reality? He reasoned that if the Old Ones were real, then the New Learning would teach about them, too, and they did not. He had a firm opinion, but one of a closed mind. I think he was afraid to believe me. If one folk tale was true, a good one, he felt that the bad ones would have as much chance to be true, too. I loved and respected my husband, but I kept my own mind open.
At first he convinced me that I was imagining meeting the child, but I did see my little one again, and many times after that.
The next time I walked from the Science building to the library, far down the passageway, in the center of a pool of light, stood my milk bottle, on top of the folded napkin in which my sandwiches had been wrapped. Both were perfectly clean; the bottle gleamed as if it had been polished. I smiled. It was the little one’s way of saying “Danke.” I was much gratified, and when I passed through the tunnel, I left behind a quart bottle of milk, more apples, and a loaf of home-made egg bread flecked with bacon, an old recipe in my family. It was in my mind that the child must have parents, and if I would starve to let my own sons and daughters eat, in what pitiful state must this one’s be?
It was many days before I saw any other sign of life in the course of my tasks. Every time, the bottle would be returned to me, left where it could not be missed. I know I was watched most carefully; others in the employ of the University passed along the steam tunnels, and yet they never saw or heard a thing. And my milk bottles never were found by anyone else.
You may ask how I could continue to provide food for people I never saw, when it might be I was pulling it away from my own family’s mouths. There are those whose hearts Charity has never touched. I am not made that way. My mother always told me that hands open so they can give. Fruit was cheaply obtained. My sister’s husband had a farm not far away, and we had often meat and produce from them. And I allow myself to be proud that I am a thrifty housekeeper. I could make but a little go far, so I was able to feed—three, I believed—extra mouths, without extra expense.
I was not the only one from whom food came, though I was the only one who gave it willingly. From my fellow workers came complaints that the rats were stealing their lunches, and that they were also to blame for the occasional disappearance of supplies from out of the dormitory kitchens. No one else reported seeing a strange child.
One night, I rushed through my tasks, and came last to the library passageway. I wanted to see if perhaps my husband was right, and I had been dreaming, or that I was, and had not. Out of my basket, I took milk and bread and fruit, and laid it in the light. But now, instead of leaving, I sat down beside my offering, and waited.
I believed that I could hear low conversation not far from me in the dark. My little ones were deciding whether or not to reveal themselves to their benefactress.
“Come out,” I called. “I will not harm you.” I held out my hands, empty of weapons, so that they could see them. More hurried conversation, though I could not distinguish of how many voices. At last, there was movement in the shadows. There stepped forward a figure. It was my little mannikin. Behind him came two others, a man and a woman, perhaps a foot taller than the child. Her hair was the same shiny black as the boy’s, but
the man’s was orange-red. They were, as I had believed, much mended, and thin and hungry-looking, but because of me, perhaps, less so than they must have been before.
I let my eyes devour my first glance in weeks of the child. It was good because I learned I was not mad, but also because my secret kindness had improved this child’s lot. He was not as thin as before, and for a wonder, he was clean! His shirt was neat, and his face had been washed. I think that even before I knew myself, these little wise ones knew I would wait for them this night. His expression had not the hunted fear of our first meeting, nor the hard defiance, which so reminded me of my younger son. He had a formidable will, into which he would grow one day, with care. I felt a sympathy with the parents. There was more here to deal with than making their child stay presentable.
They next had my attention. I was made to think of refugees, clad in well-worn rags, whose war it was not, and who wanted only to be left alone. But from what war? Whence had they come?
“How do you do?” I asked slowly. At first it seemed they did not understand me. I repeated myself, both in English and German. Both were still uneasy, so I began to talk.
I said much about my own family, my children and my husband. I spoke of my own childhood, and how I came to America with my parents. How I grew up and went to school, how I began working, and when I met my husband. And how, when I was young, I heard stories in my village of people like themselves, the Wise Old Ones, the craftwise, who did good or evil as it pleased them; and when I had told one of the tales, the little man spoke slowly for the first time.
“Are there of them any left?” he asked me with hope.
“I do not know,” I admitted. “I never did see them myself.”
I knew that he was disappointed. He did not pursue the subject; instead, he asked me most seriously, “Why do you offer charity to us?”
So proud he was. Here there were secrets of his which I was keeping, and yet he was still challenging me. I pretended to be offended, and told him, “It is not charity to give gifts to new neighbors. I am a good neighbor.” I kept my face solemn.
For the first time, he laughed. It made his face brighten. “Even so,” he said, smiling. “But it must not be unreturned.”
First they did give me this plate for my cakes and breads upon to sit. Never will any grow moldy or stale while seated here. When I protested it was too much to give me for a little milk and meat, they only smiled.
They told me how it was that they had come to central Illinois, and how they found this place of shelter, which was warm, and yet not filled to brimming with people. They thought that here they could be safe. It had been many, many years since they crossed the ocean, but I know not how, nor where they lived until then. Of the Great War which was being fought, they knew little. Midwestern University had its lowest enrollment and fewest teachers, as all had gone to fight in the War. I said that I would help them establish a home, and they took me to meet the others.
It was a leap in my mind to go from believing in one child, to a little family, but nearly a miracle it took for my poor mind to understand thirty or more poor beings, huddled together in the abandoned basement, fearful of discovery. Immediately, I thought of the newsreels, of the European horrors. Under cover of night they traveled, facing many dangers, avoiding cities, eating crops from the fields. But from where had they come, I asked? They never told me. But this place was here, in the heart of generous farmlands, and it seemed made for them, so they intended to stay.
O O O
“And so, it was my insistence that they closed off the lowest level of the library in which to live. The ceiling was too low for any classes to be held there. I think perhaps it was built by the government to use as a secret office, but it was too old; the government felt a closed door was enough, then. Tens of years had it been neglected. All that remained there were boxes of rotted wood, containing old books and other school property. The janitors were all old men, and they forgot that the place was there. Here I suspect magic, for one of these was Franklin Mackay, and Mr. Mackay had never forgotten one thing in his long life. I believe that after a time only I and my little ones knew there had ever been a lowest floor.” Mrs. Hempert placed her tea-cup into the saucer with a resolute click.
“I sure didn’t,” Keith admitted. “How did Lee get involved?”
“The same way you have. A kind heart and a willingness to help. Since I retired, he has done all that which I used to do. He orders extra goods. No one notices the missing supplies, ever, for there is always so much wasted. But he was never closer to them than he is. He trades food for education. They were eager to exchange what they had in plenty, knowledge, for that which they needed. I helped to work that out. Their pride I could circle around, once I knew that. Lee was doing poorly, now he does very well. But he will soon graduate; then he will be gone. You will take his place. I am glad you are here.”
“Me, too,” Keith said, thinking deeply. “Tell me, where does their light come from? I mean, on the ceiling?”
Mrs. Hempert was amused. “I do not know. If I say magic, and you believe me, you do not know more than if I said nothing at all. Now tell me, how did you find your way into their home? I know it is well hidden. I watched as it disappeared.”
“Well, there was a girl.…”
The old woman smiled. “One whom you like a great deal?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. She has another guy who is interested in her. Except that might not last too much longer. He’s bullying her and she doesn’t like it.”
“A bully,” she repeated thoughtfully. “No, that is not right. I shall have to speak about that. But I tell you I am glad you have found my little ones, and that you are friends.”
“Why are you telling me all this, Mrs. Hempert?” Keith asked earnestly. “I’m really grateful to you, but … I’m a stranger. I could be a fraud, or a reporter who just happened to hear something. Why are you trusting me?”
“Are you not trusting me?” she asked, a twinkle lighting the blue of her eyes into sapphire. “If I went to a reporter and told him, ‘I have seen elfs,’ they vould tell me I am a crazy old voman, yes? And I trust you. At my age I have learned something about character. You are honest. I can tell. I can tell.”
“Just one thing: what are they doing here?”
“Just living, like you, or like me.”
Keith nodded, and got up to go. “Thanks for talking to me. Um, may I come back again?”
“Of course,” she smiled, also rising. “And bring your young lady, too. We are in one another’s confidence now. What will you do now with your new knowledge?”
“I’m not sure. Help out if I can. I won’t tell anyone else.” Keith stuck out a hand. Ludmilla put her right hand into his, and enfolded both of theirs with her other hand. She had a strong, warm clasp, and he realized that she had plenty of residual strength from years at her job. However fragile she may look, she was not feeble. “I’ll tell ’em you said ‘hi.’ Hmm,” he scowled as he remembered Holl’s warning. “Maybe I won’t.”
“If you can, you will. Good bye, Keith.”
O O O
Catra continued paging through the weekly Midwestern gazette. Nothing new had caught her eye since the first article, though she had been especially vigilant. She was relieved. However time-consuming her task was, it was easier to bear than the fear of discovery once their presence was suspected there in the basement of this big building. Then, as she was passing up the advertisement pages for used cars, she found a two-inch column with the headline, “Circus Midget Colony?”, that went on to describe “miniature adults in a Midwestern Illinois town.”
This article was still reasonably vague. Probably it was just an echo of the one from the time before; these little journals read one another’s copy, and it was clear from week to week where the sources were found. It had no detail, only rumor, but it would still worry the elders. With a deep sigh she marked it with a sharp fingernail and put the newspaper back into its folder. Later on,
she could make a Xerox copy of it, when the librarians had gone home for the night.
***
Chapter 13
Keith leaned conspiratorially over the secretary’s desk at the office of the School of Nursing. “Hiya, Louise, baby,” he purred, twitching one eyebrow, a la Humphrey Bogart. “We’re goin’ over the wall tonight. I need your help.”
“What do you want?” Louise Fowler demanded, pushing Keith’s hands off a pile of carbon paper. “Keep your paws off my desk. I’m going to search your pockets before you leave.”
Keith bounced off, and dashed around the desk to kneel beside her. She deliberately cultivated a starched-stiff attitude in her duties as administrative assistant to the Nursing School, but Keith had a way of disarming her, and it usually meant trouble; either something he was planning, or something he was already in. He took her hand in his and said mournfully, “Such a lack of trust.”
Louise pulled her hand back. “I don’t have time for this. Do you want something?”
“Of course!”
“Well, what?”
“For a start, sheets. Gotta have something to tear up for rope ladders,” he said, going over a list he had rehearsed in his head.
“Why? Haven’t you ever heard of doors?”
“Whose jailbreak is this, anyway?” he insisted. “Maybe I’ll use the surplus for my Halloween costume.”
“A ghost, right?”
Keith shook his head in mock dismay. “You’re too quick for me, baby. I’ll have to take you with me. Wanna be a moll?”
“Nope.”
“Look, I’m serious. What happens to the medical center’s old sheets and pillowcases when they get worn out?”
“Well, they go to the school, for nurses’ training.”
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