by S. Rose
My mother was equally horrified by Sparrow’s fate, but too overwhelmed with her own problems to think of a solution. Throughout the ordeal, we stuck close together and kept each other going. That was the silver lining. I realized that Mom was just as much my mother as she was before Thanksgiving, and Dad was, for better or worse, the only father I had. I was sure that someday we’d all be able to speak openly about my adoption, but it was definitely not the right time.
“Mr. Cunningham,” I spoke up boldly, “may I please ask a legal question? It’s about my friend.”
“We don’t have time for that now,” Dad said.
“Please?”
“I’m in no rush,” Arty offered.
“It’s like this . . .” I explained at length.
“She wasn’t a bad girl at all,” my mother added after I’d finished the story. “A bit rough, but . . .”
“If they sent all the backwoods girls to reform school for being a bit rough, they’d be mighty full. No, this reeks of the Hatchets,” Arty declared.
“There’s no doubt they used their influence,” she affirmed. “But is it legal?”
“Well, she was convicted of assault in juvenile court. I’d have to look at the charges, but juvenile justice is a whole ’nother ball of wax. See, if I was to punch some guy in the face and bust his nose . . .”
“And knock out a tooth.” Mom winced as she said it.
“Ya sure, an old-fashioned knockdown butt kickin’, which the little wretch deserved, from the sounds of it. Anyhow, depending on my previous conduct, whether or not I had a record, I’d likely get probation. I might get a fine and or serve up to ninety days, but they couldn’t lock me up for very long. Conceivably, they could hold a juvenile until she’s eighteen if they make a case that she’s deviant because her mother can’t control her.”
“Oh my God, no,” I cried.
“It doesn’t help that she’s half-Indian and illegitimate. It’s not fair, but that’s how it is. It isn’t that she’s being punished for this one offense; she’s been removed for her protection from what they’ve decided is a bad home situation. The good news is that we can appeal.”
“Her mother is indigent,” my father interjected.
“And we’re not far behind, if things don’t get straightened out soon,” Mom countered.
“What, if anything, has John Wind tried to do about it?” Arty asked.
“We haven’t spoken to him about it. It happened several weeks ago, and we haven’t seen him since,” Dad said.
“The fact that the girl is half Ojibwe means that it could be considered an Indian affair, if she’s registered with the tribe. ’Course, that won’t matter if her father isn’t interested in claiming paternity. I’d be willing to take a look at the case, if her parents’ consent.”
“I hope you can help them,” Mom said. “My heart just aches for Anna Schimschack . . . It makes me sick to think about it. I haven’t even paid her a call since it happened. I really should go over there.”
“You could broach the subject with Mrs. Schimschack, and I’ll offer my services to John Wind.”
“What exactly do I tell her?”
“That if the girl’s father files an acknowledgement of paternity with the family court, he would have a legal claim to her, and she can become a registered member of the tribe. She wouldn’t be the same as legitimate, but she’d be legally a Wind, not a Schimschack. Under those circumstances, a judge would be far more likely to release her into her father’s custody. The trend is not to repeat the sins of the past.”
“What sins?” Mom asked.
“Wisconsin has a dark history of forcibly removing Indian children from their parents and sending them to boarding schools—to make them assimilate. Actually, it happened throughout the country. Have you heard about the former Hayward Indian School?”
“No,” we chorused.
“It was closed in 1934. Ironically, the building is a hospital now; the sad fact is that living conditions were so poor, the children often got sick and died. Tuberculosis was rampant. The physical and mental abuse was horrendous. I’ve spoken to some older Chippewa who had the misfortune of being educated there—imprisoned is more like it. All across the United States, the government tried to kill the Indian in the children by cutting their hair, putting them in uniforms, and forbidding them to speak their native language. The so-called education consisted mostly of hard farm labor, no better than slavery; discipline was brutal. Some kids were so young when they were removed from their families that they hardly remembered their own parents. One man I interviewed from North Dakota was taken from his parents at six years old, without their consent. The only thing he’d brought from home was a blanket, woven by his mother. The director of the school made him line up with the other students and watch while he doused it with gasoline and set it on fire. But the little boy still had spirit—they hadn’t had a chance to beat it out of him yet. He rushed to the blanket and tried to stamp out the flames.”
My mother gasped and put her hand over her heart.
“He showed me the scars on his legs; he was proud of them. But the scars that they bear on the inside are often far worse. Unfortunately, the tradition of removing Indian children from their families lives on—only they send them to reform schools and juvenile detention centers now. Do you think for a moment that if some white girl bopped a boy with her schoolbag, they’d remove her from her parents? Not likely, although a child of a poor single mother isn’t treated so well by the courts either.”
As he was speaking, a tiny flame began to kindle deep in my heart; I felt hopeful and excited for the first time in weeks. “Mr. Cunningham, what did you have to do to become a lawyer?” I piped up with enthusiasm.
He smiled indulgently, the way grownups do when they think a child has said something cute. “Now, what makes you ask?”
“I want to help kids like Sparrow when I grow up.”
“Oh I see; well, young lady, first I did all my homework and graduated high school with good grades. Then I went to the University of Wisconsin at Madison and earned a bachelor’s degree in political science, with a minor in pre-law—lots more homework. After graduation, I spent a year working fulltime at the family dairy, while doing volunteer teaching at the reservation school over in Lakeland. I was accepted to the Law School at Madison; I earned another degree, and then passed the state bar exam.”
“Wow! That’s a lot of work, but I think I could . . .”
“But if you’re interested in helping the Indians and poor children, there’re some fine programs for social work at women’s colleges . . .”
“No, not just the Indians and poor children . . . I want to help everybody. I want to know the law,” I said excitedly.
“After you graduate high school, you could attend a junior college for a secretarial degree. There are courses to become legal secretaries. The pay is good . . . for a woman, and the bigger law firms are always looking for topnotch secretaries. A smart gal like you could set aside a tidy sum of money . . . before you get married.”
“But I don’t want to be a secretary. I want to be a lawyer, like you.”
“Practicing law can be a tough job.” He spoke slowly and deliberately, as if I might not otherwise understand. “That’s why girls generally don’t become lawyers.”
I looked to my mother for help. “It’s a man’s world,” she said with a sigh of resignation. “People likely wouldn’t even hire a woman lawyer.”
“Is there some law against it?” I asked in dismay.
“Ha.” My father chuckled and smiled for the first time in months. “No, Puddin’ . . . but I think there ought to be. The courts are a mess as it is, without having the ladies mixing up in the law.”
“Oh yeah? Well, maybe that’s why things are messed up: we need more women lawyers.” I told him off. The two men looked at each other and laughed out loud.
“She’s gonna give some poor man a run for his money, you betcha,” Arty said jovially. My fa
ther guffawed. I decided to suck it up and drop the argument before I got myself kicked out of the kitchen.
Mom redirected the conversation. “Arty, if we sue the Hatchets, how long might it take for us to win? When can we even expect to go to trial?”
“If I get a move on, we might go before a judge as early as February.”
“February?” my father exclaimed in dismay.
“It’s not even Christmas yet,” Mom added. “What are we supposed to do for income until then?”
“Mind you, that would be for the pretrial scheduling conference,” Arty explained. “I know it sounds like a long way off,” he added sympathetically.
“How long before it might be resolved?” Dad wanted to know.
“That’s tough to say . . .” But the look on Arthur Cunningham’s face said it all. “The first matter at hand is whether or not you may use the structure for commerce in the interim. I’m going to ask for a temporary occupancy permit. That should have been a simple enough matter, but it was blocked downtown.” He raised his eyebrows pointedly.
“What is it about those people that gives them such power?” Mom asked in exasperation.
“Money lining the right pockets . . . favors and alliances going back generations. And fear of reprisal—”
“Excuse me,” I interrupted. “I don’t see what the Indians hope to gain by suing over less than five acres. What if we just hand it over to them?”
“By their calculations, about a quarter of your chalet is sitting on one of those acres.”
Mom looked pointedly at my father. “Then it’s no use,” she said dejectedly. “I hate to take the wind out of your sails, but this could drag on indefinitely. Even if we could get a temporary permit to conduct business, February is just too late.”
“I’m afraid Tina is right,” Dad said. “We’re mortgaged to the hilt, and we’ll be in foreclosure. Then the Indians can go duke it out with the Northern Mortgage and Trust.”
“Now, that’s a fact,” Arty exclaimed. “The bank has resources, and the dispute would be tied up so long . . .”
“They’d have nothing to gain,” I imposed with a tinge of smugness.
“You’ve given me an idea,” he said to my father. Mom and I looked at one another in disbelief. It was my logical thinking that generated the idea.
“All of you,” Arty conceded. “Maybe we can make a deal with the Chippewa that’ll benefit both parties and stick it to the Hatchets.”
“I’m glad I was able to help,” I said proudly. “I’ve got work to do now, if you’ll excuse me.” I exited with my head held high. I knew Arthur T. Cunningham was a good man, but he’d come down half a notch in my estimation; I’d overlook it if he could help Sparrow. The young lawyer’s perfunctory dismissal of my future possibilities only stoked the stove of determination. My father’s sarcasm worked like gasoline on a fire. Right then and there, I made up my mind and my destiny was a done deal. I wasn’t cut out to be a brave little sparrow—I planned to master the wind and soar like the eagle. The fulfillment of my dream was still a long ways off, but the State of Wisconsin could look forward to one tough lady lawyer.
37
“THEY WOULDN’T EVEN let me see her until yesterday,” Anna choked out between sobs. Her meek voice was stretched thin as a high note on a violin.
It was Sunday morning. Mom and I had driven over to the Schimschacks’ while my father got some much needed rest. We had to leave the car parked out by Highway 2 and trudge in, since no one had shoveled Saturday night’s snowfall.
“For two weeks, I could not see my own child,” Anna emphasized. Her eyes were raw with anguish, and the rough red patches she’d always had over her cheekbones were inflamed. I’d never seen an adult so distraught, carrying on like a frightened child. It was heartbreaking and disturbing and at the same time bolstered my resolution of the previous day. I would never allow myself to grow up ignorant, at the mercy of those in power.
“How is she now?” Mom asked. Instead of responding, Anna looked hesitantly over toward Timmy. The house was so small that he sat scarcely six feet away on the couch, holding two rabbits in his ample lap. He crooned quietly as he petted them. His mother indicated concern that he might be upset by whatever she had to say, but Timmy had retreated far into the world he inhabited, seemingly unperturbed by his mother’s wailing. It was as if he couldn’t even hear.
Piotr Gorski sat at his station by a pile of stove-wood, silently smoking his pipe. It seemed odd that he hadn’t risen from his chair or even greeted my mother when we came in from the cold. He used to be so fond of her. Anna was about to speak when her father suddenly opened the cast iron door to the firebox, ostensibly to add more wood. Instead, he leaned down and peered inside, as if checking on a loaf of baking bread. The flames cast a blinding light that lit up his red face like a demon. Then he spoke in Polish, not to Anna, but as if to someone or something within the stove. He chose a stick of wood and examined it thoroughly before placing it inside, slowly, far too slowly, with his hand too close to the flames.
“Careful, Papa,” Anna shrieked. That’s when I noticed he had a dirty rag wrapped around his hand. I could see oozing blisters peeking out.
“Careful?” He turned to look at her so that his face was only lit on one side. Somehow, he looked even more frightening. “Too late for care,” he said gruffly. “I sold my soul to the devil, and for what? My sons are dead . . . and my only daughter is some Indian’s whore.”
“Oh, Papa . . . we have company. I’m so sorry, please excuse him,” Anna said in mortification.
My mother looked suitably appalled. “Why don’t you let me take you home with us for a little while, so we can talk without, uh, disturbing Mr. Gorski,” she said, pulling off a feat of discretion.
“I don’t want to trouble you . . .”
“No trouble,” she said, getting up, clearly intending to leave whether she came or not. Piotr Gorski muttered again, then shut the black cast-iron door.
“What is he saying when he talks to himself?” I asked, once we were outside.
“Cassandra, that’s personal,” Mom admonished.
“It’s okay,” Anna assured. “I can’t tell what he says . . . I’m forgetting my Polish,” she said hurriedly, still buttoning up her coat. She couldn’t get out of the shack and away from him fast enough.
“I don’t mean to pry, but it looks like your father’s injured his hand,” my mother said as we trooped through the snowy woods to the car. “I think he needs to see a doctor.”
“I know. I told him. He’ll not listen. Too stubborn,” Anna said dismissively.
IN THE PRIVACY of our kitchen, Anna spoke freely. “The first thing they did was cut off her braids. I hardly recognized her; her hair is like . . .” She put her hands at the level of her jawbone to indicate the length.
“Oh, no! What a terrible thing to do to a girl . . . especially a girl who sees herself as Indian,” Mom sympathized.
“I’d like to kill them,” I cried, jumping to my feet. “If I were a lawyer, I’d sue the school for a million dollars. I’d sue the state of Wisconsin for another two million!”
“It’s just awful. Not like your cute haircut.” Anna pointed at me. “Like chopped with a meat cleaver.”
I recalled with chagrin how I looked before my aunt took me to the beauty shop.
“But I’m more worried about her heart,” she went on. “My daughter seems changed already . . . very hard.” She waved her hand over her face and assumed a stoic mask. “Her eyes burned with anger, and she wouldn’t let me hug her. She pushed me away. I’m afraid she hates me. I don’t blame her.”
“She’s probably in a state of shock,” Mom offered. “I would be.”
“Sparrow is tough; they can cut her hair, but they can’t break her spirit,” I said, hoping I was right. “Mr. Cunningham has an idea to get her back. He’s a lawyer who’s helping my dad . . . helping us. I told him what they did to Sparrow, and he said he’d talk to her father.”
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br /> “This is true?” Anna looked at my mother hopefully.
“Yes, and that’s what we came to tell you. I’m not sure I understand entirely—”
“I do,” I interrupted. “At least I remember what Mr. Cunningham said. John Wind can choose to file a petition to acknowledge that he is her father, even though . . . uh, even though you two aren’t married. Her own father would have a right to go to court and try to get her back. Then she can legally change her name to Sparrow Wind. Mr. Wind could register her with the tribe, too; then her case would be an Indian affair.” I smiled with satisfaction, pretty sure I’d recalled the important details and explained the matter clearly. “Do you think he’d do that for her?”
“I don’t know. I hope so,” Anna said. “So then . . . she would have to live with him, at the reservation?”
“That’s what it sounded like to me,” I said, “but I’m not positive about that.”
“I pray he will have her . . . it’s a touchy thing, with his old father. I’d miss my daughter terribly . . . but I’d be okay as long as she is out of that prison. I was in prison once. Oh God, my poor child.” She began to cry again.
“I don’t understand,” Mom said.
“They were in a concentration camp in Poland, during the war,” I said quietly.
“Oh Anna, I had no idea. I’m so sorry, but don’t worry . . .”
“They cut my hair too.” She continued to weep.
“I understand, but we don’t have anything like that in this country. No matter how bad reform school is, it’s nothing like a concentration camp.”
“What’s this about a concentration camp?” my father’s hoarse voice interjected. He had just got out of bed and was still wearing his robe over flannel pajamas.
“George, I’m sorry to have disturbed you,” Anna said, sniffing. Mom handed her some more Kleenex.
“Why is this being discussed in front of my daughter?” He looked expectantly from Anna to my mother; his voice had the edge of a serrated knife.
“It’s okay, Daddy. I already heard all about it from the kids at school.” My half-truth protected Sparrow from blame.
