by Terrie Todd
I hustled down the sidewalk as the pealing of the church bells gave way to a discordant echo. The strains of a pipe organ took over as I ran up the steps and through the front doors. I identified the notes of “Joy to the World” as I dropped into the second pew from the back. It was definitely warmer in the church than in my apartment, but I kept my coat on anyway. The congregation was invited to stand. All eyes stayed focused on the front, where a music conductor led us through the joyful carol, then through two more.
When we sat down again, I prepared myself for the peaceful, fuzzy feelings that always filled me in Maxine’s church. Instead, I found myself distracted. In contrast to the welcoming smiles I’d always received in Pinehaven, no one here seemed willing or able to make eye contact. I felt invisible. A couple of teenagers giggled in the row in front of me, and indignant scowls from the adults only increased their twittering. A siren wailed on the street outside, then another. This set off a chorus of crying infants, including one in particular who wouldn’t be consoled and had the most mournful howl.
The pastor was talking about how he was convinced God would not allow the war to continue through 1944, predicting that we would soon be at peace and that victory would go to the Allied forces. Of course I hoped he was right, but I wondered how he could be so sure when the fighting had been going on so long already. I also wondered how he could concentrate on his sermon, what with all the ruckus inside and out. I could still hear intermittent sirens and several barking dogs who dared to compete with them. It was anything but the serene Christmas atmosphere I’d hoped to find.
When we rose to sing the closing song and I saw which one had been chosen, I snapped the hymnbook shut. They were ending with the same depressing carol that had made me switch off my radio an hour before. Not wanting to attract attention, I stood silently through the first two verses. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I’d come here for some warmth and hope. The last thing I needed was the despair of this horrible song. I slid out of the row and headed for the door.
That’s when I realized the song had another verse, with a different message from the others:
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: “God is not dead, nor doth he sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail, With peace on earth, good-will to men.”
I paused, my hand on the door handle, and listened. The congregation sang one last verse.
Till, ringing, singing, on its way, the world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime of peace on earth, good-will to men!
I pushed the door open and faced a blast of cold air. God, if you’re not dead or asleep, show yourself to me, I prayed. Otherwise, I am pathetically and utterly on my own.
Maybe God would hear. Maybe he would intervene and do something good for me, something that would turn my life around. I thought of the things I’d thrown away, the opportunities I’d taken for granted, the love I had not returned. The times I’d run away instead of facing my troubles. Why should God bother with me?
As I turned the corner, all thoughts of God dissolved at the sight of a fire truck and a police car on my street. A crowd of people had gathered. What was going on? Smoke rose from somewhere up ahead. I began to feel sick. Then I saw it.
My house was in flames.
I froze for only a moment. I ran toward the firetruck, pushing my way through onlookers and yelling, “I live here! Let me through!”
Two firemen held a hose aimed at the top of the house. A third approached me. “You live here?”
I nodded.
“Do you know if there was anyone else inside?” he asked.
“Anyone else?”
That’s when I saw my landlady seated on the snowy curb, her cat clutched in her arms, a neighbor comforting her and wrapping a blanket around her shoulders. A police officer crouched in front of her, taking notes on a pad.
“I don’t think so,” I said. Two boarders lived on the second floor, but as far as I knew, both had gone away for the holiday. The place had seemed deserted when I left. Another vehicle pulled up, and a man I could only assume was the fire chief got out.
“Looks like it started on the third floor, Chief,” one of the firemen called out. “This was all we could salvage. It was propping the door open.” He held a black book out toward the chief.
And in that sickening moment, I understood two things.
I had left my hot plate on. And the only possession I had left in the world was the Bible Maxine’s family had given me.
Chapter 33
Time stood still as I waited on that sidewalk watching the firefighters do their work. The fire was out, but they continued to watch to make sure it didn’t start up again. My landlady had gone home with her neighbor but not before giving me a withering look that said it all. I had destroyed her home.
“Do you have somewhere to go, miss?” A police officer stood beside me.
I stood there, clutching my purse and my Bible and thinking about the lost radio. Maybe if I’d used the radio to prop that door open, I’d still have it instead. It occurred to me that I was still wearing two layers of clothing under my coat. How lucky. I had a change of wardrobe.
“Miss?”
“Um . . . I . . . don’t know.” Where could I go? The factory was closed for the holiday, the dorms empty and locked up tight. It was too far to walk to the Weinbergers’ home, and buses weren’t running. And even if I wanted to go crying back to Maxine—which I didn’t—she’d be home with her family in Pinehaven.
“Excuse me, officer?” An older woman approached from behind me. “I might be able to help.” She turned to me. “Miss? We haven’t met, but I volunteer at the shelter and I’ve seen you bringing donations. I was sitting behind you in church tonight.”
Had I seen her before? Her gray hair was pulled into a tight bun, and she wore a striking red wool coat and jaunty hat. Nothing about her seemed familiar.
“I know this might sound odd, but when I saw you leave the church, I had a very clear sense that I was to follow you down the street. It took me a while to stop arguing with myself, but I knew I wouldn’t rest tonight if I didn’t obey. God tends to know what he’s up to when he gives me these thoughts.”
“God?” I muttered. Did she mean the god who refused to show himself to me when I asked? The same god who hadn’t bothered to save my home?
“My name is Harriet Watson. I live just four blocks from the church, on the other side. If you have nowhere to go, you’re welcome to come home with me. At least long enough to warm up and think clearly. You must be in terrible shock.”
“I . . . uh . . .” was all that would come out.
“Do you recognize this woman, miss?” the police officer asked. I managed to shake my head.
“I served Christmas dinner at the shelter earlier today,” the woman said. “Normally you could stay there, but they are bursting at the seams. There’s space at my house, though.”
I glanced at the police officer.
“I’m Constable Erickson. If you’re not comfortable with that arrangement, I can take you back to the station with me.”
“I’ll go with her,” I blurted. If my only other option was the police station where a bunch of drunks were probably sleeping off their Christmas binges, I’d take my chances with this lady. It was Saturday night, and Weinberger Textiles would open again Monday morning. Even though the dormitory was for sewing machine operators only, surely they’d make an exception for me until I could make other arrangements.
A wide smile broke across the woman’s face. “Oh, good. Let’s get you out of the cold.”
I found it hard to keep up with her stride as she led me to a two-story brownstone and around to the back door. We walked into a warm kitchen where she put a kettle on before she even removed her coat. I took mine off as well, and she hung both coats on a hook by the door.
“Have a seat.”
Before long, we sat drinking tea and eating oatmeal cookies at her cozy table
. My purse and Bible lay on top of it.
“I know you’re in shock, dear. You don’t have to figure things out tonight. If you’re comfortable staying overnight, you are more than welcome. You can sleep in my daughter-in-law’s room. She stays here with me, but she had a chance to go home to visit her parents in Ontario for Christmas. She’ll be back Monday.”
I only half heard her as she explained that her son was overseas. All I could think about was my apartment in flames and the things that had been inside. I mentally took inventory of my losses. I thought about all the beautiful clothes Caroline Weinberger had given me and realized that, except for the two outfits I had on, they were all now in ashes. The little stack of mittens and scarves waiting to be delivered to the shelter were gone. My cherished radio, gone. The few books I’d collected, the letter from Victor Harrison’s mother. Gone. I was trying to remember how much money was in my bank account and calculate what I’d need to set up housekeeping all over again.
“I’m glad they rescued your Bible, Bridget,” the woman was saying, as though she’d known me for years. “The Word of God is powerful, and sharper than a two-edged sword.”
I looked at the black book. “Bibles are replaceable,” I said, picking it up and flipping through its pages. A faint odor of smoke wafted up to my nose.
“The printed page, yes.” The lady refilled my teacup, pouring from a dainty china pot. “But God’s actual words endure forever. They led me to you, and now you’re here.”
This woman was even weirder than Maxine. But her house was warm, and I was exhausted and in no position to argue. I flipped to the front page of the Bible, where Mrs. Ross had inscribed my name. I’d read her message more than I’d read any of the book’s actual passages: To Bridget. Merry Christmas, 1940. Remember, when you give your heart to God, he will cherish it—it doesn’t matter what’s going on inside it or how you’re feeling. He loves you.
That’s when I saw it. I couldn’t remember tucking Victor Harrison’s telegram into my Bible, but there it was—still reminding me that somewhere in this world was a plot of land that was rightfully mine. A plan began to form.
Monday morning, I trudged to work carrying a small brown suitcase Mrs. Watson had given me. With her assistance, I’d washed all my clothes the day before. The case now held my one extra outfit plus a few things she’d supplied: a nightgown, a hairbrush, a few toiletries—even a simple dress she insisted no longer fit her daughter-in-law and said she’d be happy to part with. I gave her the most heartfelt thank-you I knew how to give, half expecting her to demand at the last minute that I pay her back. But when I suggested that I’d repay her kindness as soon as I was able, she merely told me to help someone else in need and said that would be payment enough.
In many ways, I felt much as I had the day I first arrived in Winnipeg. I wondered if I was destined to wander in circles for the rest of my life. But I reminded myself that I now had an education, a much better job, and experience. And I was a landowner, too, whatever that was worth.
My plan was to seek out Miss Brenner, explain my situation, and request a bed in the dormitory for a couple of nights while I used my off-hours to find a new boarding room. I figured I had enough money in the bank for a week—maybe two if I was really careful—and another paycheck coming in a few days. Then I’d buy a round-trip train ticket for Bleak Landing, claim my father’s property, and put it up for sale. I had no idea how to go about any of that or how long it might take to sell the place or what I could get for it. Only one thing was certain: I wouldn’t stay in Bleak Landing any longer than absolutely necessary.
I was early for work, so didn’t expect to see many others around. But as I reached the front doors, I was surprised to find a dozen young women gathered on the steps. One of them recognized me and ran over.
“Miss Sullivan, what’s going on? We’ve all returned from Christmas break expecting to go back to work. What’s the meaning of this sign?”
One of the other girls was trying in vain to open the front door, while another peered through the window to see if there was anyone inside. A large sign was taped to the door:
WEINBERGER TEXTILES CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.
GOVERNMENT HAS CANCELED ALL ORDERS FOR MILITARY UNIFORMS.
Then, in finer print:
TO OUR VALUED EMPLOYEES: IF WE WERE UNABLE TO REACH YOU, WE APOLOGIZE FOR THIS INCONVENIENCE AND TRUST IT DOES NOT CAUSE YOU UNDUE HARDSHIP.
That’s all it said. By the time I turned around, another dozen people had gathered behind me, demanding to know what was going on. I assured them I’d had no idea this was coming and had not received a call or a telegram, either. I didn’t mention I had no home at which to receive a call or a telegram. The only person here I recognized was Helen, who had been sewing for the factory since before I started.
“Well, well,” she said as she approached me. And with those two words, I recalled the disdain she’d expressed for me the day we met. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen.”
I studied her scornful face. “Excuse me?”
“It seems you’ve come full circle, Miss Sullivan. While some of us have stayed in our positions for years, you managed to somehow wiggle your way into Mr. Weinberger’s house and office, and into his daughter’s fancy clothes. Now you’re in the same jobless boat as the rest of us.”
I turned when another girl spoke.
“The government’s confident the war will be over soon. They’ve stopped all orders. That’s good, right? We can go back to regular production.”
“Not that simple,” said another.
I glanced around, hoping Mr. Weinberger would show up and set the record straight. What did “until further notice” mean? A day? Six months? My head was spinning. Clustered in groups of twos and threes, the others walked away in bewilderment and anger. I sat on the frozen steps to think, wrapping my scarf tighter around my neck. The barren trees held no color, the skies no birdsong. Clouds cast a shroud over the entire city that rivaled any bleakness I’d ever seen in my hometown.
I had no home, no job, no friends.
Where would I go? I couldn’t go back to Mrs. Watson’s. Her daughter-in-law was returning and would need her bed. Besides, the woman had already been more than generous. The Weinbergers were no doubt steeped in trouble if they actually had to close the factory, and shouldn’t need to deal with my problems, too—not that I wanted to ask any more from them.
That left Maxine. Was she back in the city yet?
I reached into my purse for my Bible and pulled Victor’s telegram from between its pages.
PLEASE RETURN TO BLEAK LANDING TO ARRANGE ESTATE MATTERS.
I didn’t need to go crawling to Maxine! I had options. I’d just have to implement my plan a little sooner than I’d anticipated. When I tucked the telegram back into the spot from which I’d pulled it, I saw that it was in the first chapter of Joshua, and my eyes fell to these words in verse nine: “Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.”
With me. What a joke. If there was one thing I’d learned, it was that I was on my own. I returned the Bible to my purse, picked up my suitcase, and headed off down the sidewalk at a full clip. First stop: the Dominion Bank. And second: Union Station.
Chapter 34
Bleak Landing. December 27, 1943
I could feel my heart thumping away in my chest as the train approached the platform. Bleak Landing had changed little. Run-down houses still dotted the sad landscape, with only the odd new building here or a fresh coat of paint there. Campaign signs indicated that both Victor Harrison and Bruce Nilsen were running for mayor. That figured. Two losers competing for bullying rights. I was glad I wouldn’t be sticking around long enough to have to choose between two such pitiful candidates.
I tried to ignore my sweating palms and gave myself a silent pep talk. No reason to feel nervous. It’s not like anyone is going to be here to meet you. You’re here on business, a
refined and mature woman now. Don’t forget that. I reviewed all the skills I’d gained since the last time I set foot in this place: You’ve graduated from high school. You can operate a sewing machine. You’ve learned to cook and fix a lady’s hair and care for fine clothing. You can type, file, and take shorthand. You have your own bank account and can find your way around the city.
Determined to maintain my dignity, I wore the better of the two Caroline Weinberger outfits I still owned: a top-quality navy wool suit and silk coral blouse with a fluffy bow tied at the neckline. With my hair swept up and my matching hat and gloves, I knew I looked nothing like the pathetic girl who’d left town with Mr. Nilsen a lifetime ago. Yet strangely, my surroundings had me feeling very much like her. The sensation left my stomach reeling. I was glad my old house was not within sight. I was not ready for the feelings it was sure to stir up.
When the train stopped, I retrieved my bag and donned my winter coat. Taking a deep breath, I held myself as tall as possible and stepped down onto the platform. There had always been only one hotel in town—the Sundvolden, located right across from the train station—and I was certain that was still the case. The hotel had apparently been named for some fancy hotel in Norway, which was quite a laugh given its reputation for seediness. But I headed over there now, eager to procure a room before the gray December sky turned dark.
I paid two dollars for one night’s stay and was given a key to a small room on the second floor that held a narrow bed, a table with two chairs, and a corner sink. The sight of two cheaply framed pictures on the wall made me grin. I was certain they’d been torn from an old calendar. One was a reproduction of Van Gogh’s The Starry Night. I couldn’t name the other but remembered enough from my visit to the Winnipeg Art Gallery to recognize it as a Monet—Maxine’s favorite artist.
