by Janet Dawson
Jill knew the story of Ishi, the last of the Yahi Indians, who had been wiped out during the late nineteenth and early twentieth century. Ishi had emerged from the mountains near Oroville in 1911. Hailed as the “last wild Indian,” Ishi lived the remainder of his life with anthropologists from the University of California, until his death in 1916 in San Francisco.
The train made a brief stop in Marysville, then left the station. They would be in Oroville in half an hour. The farming community was in the foothills on the eastern rim of California’s great Central Valley, where two large plateaus, North and South Table Mountains, loomed over the town. It was here that the Feather River spilled out of the Sierra Nevada Mountains onto the flat valley farmland. The town, founded in the Gold Rush days, was about seventy miles north of Sacramento. From here, it was another hundred miles or so up the scenic canyon to the California Zephyr’s next stop, Portola.
As it reached the outskirts of Oroville, the train slowed, the whistle blowing frequent crossing warnings. Jill and Mike left the Vista-Dome and headed downstairs to collect their bags. Soon the CZ pulled into the station and stopped. They stepped down to the platform.
“Uncle Gaetano said he’d pick us up, but I don’t see him,” Mike said.
Jill looked toward the front of the train, where the conductor who had boarded the train in Oakland was greeting his replacement. Oroville was a crew change stop for the CZ’s train and engine crews. The train crew, which included the conductor, brakeman and switchman, would be on board from Oroville to Winnemucca, Nevada. The engineer and fireman, who made up the engine crew, would ride the train to Gerlach, Nevada.
The new conductor turned, facing toward Jill, and she smiled. Pat Haggerty, her late fiancé’s uncle, had been a Western Pacific conductor for years. He lived here in Oroville with his family. She had been hoping to see him while she was in town, but if he was about to leave on a run, this might be her only opportunity. She waved and walked toward Pat, looking trim in his uniform.
“This is a surprise,” Pat said, catching sight of her. “Seems strange to see you out of uniform. What brings you to Oroville?”
Jill set her bag on the platform. “I’m here with a friend. Pat, this is Mike Scolari. And this is Pat Haggerty. Mike has family here.”
“My aunt and uncle, Adalina and Gaetano Bianchi,” Mike said, shaking hands.
“Bianchi,” Pat said. “I know that name. They grow olives. And they’ve got a shop downtown, on Montgomery Street. I’ve been there. Good to meet you, Mike.” Pat consulted his watch. “I have to leave in a couple of minutes. But I’ll be back tomorrow. How long are you staying?”
“A couple of days,” Jill said. “We’re heading back to Oakland on Wednesday.”
“I’ll get in touch tomorrow, and we’ll set up a time. We can have a cup of coffee and a piece of pie.” Pat left them, walking along the platform with the familiar call, “Now boarding, the California Zephyr—”
Jill picked up her bag and they walked toward the station. Near the baggage office, an Asian man in work clothes was loading boxes onto a cart. He straightened and waved at Mike. The man was in his late thirties, Jill guessed, several years older than Mike. “Who is that?”
“His name’s Kenzi Harada,” Mike said. “We have a connection to the Harada family. Uncle Gaetano ran their farm during the war.”
“When they were interned?” Jill asked.
“Yeah. When the order came, Uncle Gaetano said, That’s not right. The Haradas have been here in Oroville since the eighteen-nineties. The Scolaris and Bianchis came over from Tuscany before World War One. A lot of those folks, they lost everything, had to sell their stores, their farms. Uncle Gaetano took over the Haradas’ land. He farmed it, paid their taxes, and whatever money he got, he put it in a separate bank account for the family. When they came back after the war, he turned the money over to them. My uncle got some push-back from the locals, but I’m proud of him for doing that.”
“I am, too. Why did your uncle decide to take a stand?”
“I told you my family came over from Italy before the big earthquake in nineteen-oh-six. They were from a little village near Siena. My Grandma Lucianna, she never became a citizen. So after Mussolini declared war on the States, right after Pearl Harbor, Grandma and other Italians who weren’t citizens got declared enemy aliens. She even had an identity card. A couple of FBI agents came to the house, right there in North Beach. They took away a radio and told Grandma she was restricted, couldn’t go more than five miles from home.”
“That’s terrible,” Jill said.
“Yeah, but it was lots worse for the Haradas. The old people, the grandma and grandpa, they weren’t citizens. But Kenzi was born here, and so were his brothers and sisters. Still, the government agents rounded them up and shipped them off to one of those concentration camps. There was all this panic on the West Coast and the politicians played right into it. People lost their farms, their houses and businesses. I’ve always thought it stemmed from the anti-Chinese feeling back in the nineteenth century.”
“That’s possible.” From her history studies, Jill knew the Chinese Exclusion Act had been passed in 1882 and had only been repealed ten years ago, in 1943. “Things were somewhat different in Colorado.”
When she was growing up in Denver, Jill had kept up with current events by reading the Denver Post and the Rocky Mountain News. That’s how she knew that when the war started, Colorado Governor Ralph Carr, a Republican, opposed Executive Order 9066. As an attorney, he believed it was illegal to imprison American citizens without cause. Carr was the only western governor who was against the order and his stand cost him his political career, but he welcomed Japanese Americans to Colorado. Many already lived there, in Denver and in small farming communities, and others came to Colorado, even before forced removal from the West Coast began. Many of those Issei and Nisei were incarcerated in Colorado’s only internment camp, Amache, which was located in the southeast corner of the state.
“There’s Uncle Gaetano,” Mike said.
The tall man walking briskly toward them had unruly gray hair atop a weathered face and a pot belly under his blue work shirt. The cuffs had been rolled up, showing ropy, muscled forearms. Faded denim pants and a pair of dusty work boots completed his outfit. Gaetano Bianchi waved at Kenzi Harada, then hurried toward Mike and Jill.
“Michele, sorry I’m late,” he said in a raspy voice. He reached for Jill’s hand, enveloping hers with his large, work-roughened palms. “So this is Jill. It’s really good to meet you.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, too, Mr. Bianchi.”
“Gaetano, call me Gaetano.” He took her suitcase. “Like I said, sorry I’m late. I got a few cases of olive oil to deliver to the store, if you don’t mind us stopping there before we go out to the farm.”
“Not at all,” Mike said. “I’ll help you unload.”
The Oroville station was located where Oliver Street met High Street. Once Gaetano had loaded their suitcases into the back of his truck, the three of them got into the cab and he started the truck, heading down Oliver to Montgomery. He turned left and on the next block parked in front of a wood-framed building with a sign that read Bianchi Olives. In back of the store, Jill saw trees along the banks of the Feather River.
A young man came out of the store and Jill was introduced to Mike’s cousin Rinaldo. While the men unloaded the cases from the truck bed, carrying them into the store, Jill went inside to look around. The store was small, with shelves of green glass bottles of olive oil, all bearing labels that read Bianchi. Other shelves contained jars of olives as well as jams and jellies.
After making the delivery, Uncle Gaetano drove them out to the farm, which was located four miles outside of Oroville, not far from the river. Jill had met Mike’s father, and Aunt Adalina was his older sister. Olive orchards surrounded the two-story farmhouse and there was a large kitchen garden at the back of the house. As the pickup truck came up the drive and parked near the garden,
Adalina came out to greet them, along with her two daughters, Lilianna and Donata. Both were in their teens, looking like younger versions of their mother.
Adalina hugged Mike, and when Jill held out her hand, she hugged Jill, too. Mike’s grandfather, Salvatore Scolari, waved at her from the back porch. Jill had met him last December when he and Mike had boarded the train here in Oroville. They had been visiting Aunt Adalina and Uncle Gaetano and were headed to Denver to spend Christmas with Salvatore’s younger daughter, Chiara, who lived there with her husband and children.
Jill leaned over to greet the old man and he kissed her on both cheeks. “I like seeing you with Mike,” he said. “You and my grandson, you make a good team. I have been telling Adalina and Gaetano that maybe someday you’ll be part of the family.”
“We hope so,” Adalina said. She kissed her nephew on the cheek. “It’s time this one was married.”
Jill smiled but didn’t say anything. It seemed that everyone, including her mother and Mike’s family, had expectations about her relationship with Mike. Why did everyone assume that just because she and Mike were dating that they were going to get married?
Adalina took over the handles of her father’s wheelchair. Liliana held open the back door and Adalina wheeled the chair into the big kitchen. To the left a room off the kitchen, close to the downstairs bathroom, had been set up for Salvatore. A delicious smell wafted from the oven.
“Donata, make a fresh pot of coffee,” Adalina said. “I have made a pan forte and we’ll have some as soon as it’s ready.”
Chapter Fourteen
The visit in Oroville passed quickly for Jill and Mike. The younger Bianchi sister, Donata, had moved in temporarily with her older sister, Lilianna, so that Jill could have a room to herself. On Tuesday morning, after breakfast, Jill and Mike, dressed in dungarees and comfortable shoes, went for a long walk. They explored the olive groves on the Bianchi farm, where rows of trees with gnarled trunks and gray-green foliage were loaded with fruit that would be harvested in the fall. They hiked along the bank of a creek that ran through the property and had a picnic lunch on a rock overlooking a small waterfall. Later they toured the facility where the Bianchis pressed the olives they grew into oil and cured table olives, both processed for sale in their shop where, later that afternoon, Jill met Pat Haggerty, then walked down to a small café for coffee.
Now, late Wednesday morning, they waited on the station platform, Jill in the same outfit she’d worn on Monday. They were waiting to board the westbound California Zephyr for the trip to the Bay Area. As the train pulled into the station and stopped, Margaret Vennor was in the vestibule of her Pullman car. She waved urgently and called to Jill, who left Mike and Uncle Gaetano and walked over to the car.
“I have plenty to tell you,” Margaret said. “Meet me in the dining car as soon as you get settled.”
Jill nodded, then she returned to Mike, who was saying good-bye to his uncle. “Thanks for your hospitality,” Jill told the older man. Despite Adalina’s periodic hints that she hoped Jill would soon be Mike’s fiancée, she had enjoyed spending time with Mike’s relatives. They had quickly made her feel right at home.
“It was good to meet you,” Gaetano said, kissing her on both cheeks. “You come back and see us again.”
Jill and Mike climbed into the vestibule of the second chair car, the Silver Feather, as the conductor called, “Now boarding…” They located their seats and put their belongings in the overhead rack. Jill had an extra bag, containing two bottles, one of Bianchi olive oil and the other homemade Chianti, bottled by Uncle Gaetano. There was also a jar of olives and a package of Aunt Adalina’s wonderful pastries.
The train pulled out of the station, moving through Oroville and its outskirts, heading south towards Marysville. They left their car and walked back to the diner, where Margaret waited at a table for four near the back of the car. It was not yet noon, so the car was half-full. They sat down, consulted the lunch menu and marked their meal checks, which were quickly collected by a white-coated waiter.
Margaret could barely contain her excitement. “I saw the shimmering light. And I heard things, too. The knocking sounds and the voices.” At the look on Mike’s face, she laughed. “Now, Mike, keep an open mind.”
“I’m trying to.” He poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the table and took a sip. “Go ahead, tell your story.”
“On Monday night, I had the porter lower the bed at ten, but I was feeling restless, unable to sleep. I read for a while, then I turned out the light. It must have been around eleven o’clock. I didn’t see anything right away. And then, gradually, this light appeared. It was similar to what you described, Jill. A shimmering light, near the ceiling.” Margaret broke off her story as the waiter returned with glasses of iced tea for all three of them. “At first my reaction was, it must be some trick of the light. But it was the middle of the Nevada desert, so dark outside, with no light coming in the windows.”
“Was the room cold?” Jill asked, remembering the chill she’d felt in the roomette during her own experience.
Margaret shook her head as she reached for her glass. “Not that I could tell. Of course, I was in bed, covered with a blanket.” She sipped her tea, then continued. “I lay there in bed, looking at the light, and it gradually disappeared. After that I must have dozed off. I woke up later because I heard—”
“The knocks,” Jill said.
“No. Voices. Talking over one another. I couldn’t understand what they were saying.”
“It must have been someone in the corridor,” Mike said. On Friday night, when Jill told him about the ghost, he had been skeptical about ghosts in general and the roomette ghost in particular.
“I got up and looked out in the corridor,” Margaret said. “There was no one there. I really did see and hear something.”
“Is that because Jill told you she saw and heard something?” he asked, taking on the role of devil’s advocate. “You may have been predisposed to have an experience because of what she told you.”
“It’s possible,” Margaret conceded reluctantly. “But I did hear something after I heard the voices. The taps.”
Now the waiter returned with their lunches. Jill had ordered a ham sandwich, while Mike had opted for corned beef on rye, both with sides of potato salad. Margaret’s choice was a chicken sandwich with tomato salad.
“The taps?” Jill picked up her sandwich and took a bite.
“The taps.” Margaret speared a tomato with her fork. “Four short taps, just like you said.” She glanced at Mike, but he kept his doubt off his face, working his way through a bite of corned beef. “Then, after a while, there were other taps. One short tap followed by a long one. Then after that, a short one, a long one, and a short one.”
Jill reached for her handbag. Before leaving for Oroville, she had copied the Morse Code alphabet from her father’s booklet onto a sheet of paper. Now she looked at her notes. She already knew that, in Morse Code, four short taps translated to the letter H. A short knock followed by a long was the letter A. Short-long-short was the letter R. Unlike the four short taps, there were no train signals that coincided with the other taps Margaret had described. What she and Margaret had heard must be Morse Code.
“If it’s Morse Code, and I think it is,” Jill said, “those taps are spelling out the letters H, A and R. But what does it mean? If it means anything at all, and I’m not convinced that it does.”
“After what I saw and heard, I am,” Margaret said.
“Is that because you want to be convinced?” Mike asked, wiping his hands on his napkin.
Margaret put her sandwich on the plate and looked at him. “Maybe I do. I got off the train in Salt Lake City early Tuesday morning, checked into a hotel and slept for a while. Then I got on this train very early this morning. I went right to bed and I didn’t see or hear anything. Of course, the Pullman car I’m traveling in for this return trip is not the Silver Gorge. It’s the Silver Palisade.
”
They looked up as an older man stopped and put his hand on the back of the empty chair at their table. “May I join you?”
That put an end to any talk of a ghost. Jill smiled at the newcomer and said, “Certainly. Please sit down.”
———
The train arrived at the Oakland Mole on time. As she and Mike left the chair car and walked along the platform, Jill spotted the green-and-white Ford Victoria, with Lucy standing near the driver’s-side door. Up ahead, Margaret had climbed down from the vestibule of her sleeper car. She tipped the porter and turned as Jill and Mike approached.
“I’ll call you,” Jill said. “Before the party on Saturday.”
“Sure. We have plenty to talk about.” Margaret walked to the line of taxis waiting to take passengers to their destinations.
They heard a car horn and then someone calling Mike’s name. “There’s my roommate.” Mike waved, then he drew Jill into his arms and kissed her. “Call me, too, if we’re going to this garden party on Saturday.”
“I will.” Jill watched him walk toward his car, then carried her suitcase to the waiting Ford.
“Welcome home,” Lucy said as Jill put her belongings into the backseat. The sisters got into the car and Lucy started it. She put it into gear and drove away from the Mole. “Did you have fun?”
“I did. I really enjoyed meeting Mike’s family. They’re so warm, and welcoming.”
“Wedding bells?” Lucy teased.
Jill felt a bit exasperated. “Not everyone is champing at the bit to get married.”
“You were a few years ago. Before Steve died.” Lucy piloted the car down Seventh Street, the thoroughfare looking as busy as it had last Saturday night when Jill and Mike had gone to Ozzie’s. “Does it bother you that Ethan and I are getting married?”
“I already had this conversation with Mom.” Jill glanced at Lucy. “Yes, with all your wedding preparations, I have been experiencing that what-might-have-been feeling. But I’m happy for you and Ethan. And I’m content with my life as it is right now. Mike’s a nice guy and I like him a lot, but we’ve talked about it and we both have good reasons to wait before we make any decisions.”
