The House of Closed Doors (41 page)

FIFTY-FIVE

W
e heard nothing. Nothing, for days, as every cart that came from the south disgorged its load of refugees who had found temporary shelter in one of Victory’s households and as every wagon that headed back to Chicago did so laden with clothing and food that the people of Victory had donated to the relief effort.

My anxiety for the Lombardi family, and the need to help in any way I could, forced me out of my self-imposed isolation. Neighbors brought families to me to be measured for clothes, and my sewing machine whirred constantly as I tried to supply them with shirts, petticoats, and clothing for the little children who played under my feet as the mothers whispered tales to me of the fear and confusion, the frantic flight amid a jostling, screaming crowd with a wall of flame behind them.

Did they know the name of Lombardi? No, they did not.
And why would they
, I thought. The Lombardis knew nobody in Chicago, just another small family among the thousands of visitors who had fled the burning hotels with no idea of where they were heading. And yet she was there still, somewhere in Chicago. She had been heard of at the Congregational Church, where relief efforts were centered, and at the other churches offering food and shelter. Martin, whose residence now housed a German family by the name of Fassbinder, spent days looking for her in a city that was already being organized for rebuilding, the mess of rubble metamorphosing into neatly stacked piles of reusable brick and stone. If the burnt fragments that were being dumped into the lake contained the ashes of those who simply disappeared under the onrushing firewall, there was no way of knowing. Chicago was rising again amid the tears of the bereaved.

And then, after an agonizing week, he found her.

T
he disheveled, distraught woman who climbed down from Martin’s gig to fall into my arms bore little resemblance to the neat, smiling matron of my acquaintance. Bet took one look at her ruined boots and the way her clothes hung limp on her gaunt frame and decreed that there would be no gabbing until the poor lady was fed and bathed and had a decent stitch of clothing on her back. So it was not until two hours later that we sat alone by the parlor fire, just as we had done so many times at the Poor Farm. Only now Mrs. Lombardi’s damp hair cascaded over her shoulders, and she sat pleating the skirt of one of my housedresses‌—‌too long for her and much too broad in the shoulders‌—‌with hands that shook with a series of tremors as if a cold wind were passing over them.

“They are lost, Nell. All of them. My children‌—‌” her voice broke on a sob, and she clenched her hands as she regained control of her emotions.

“You do not have to tell me about it.” Although I wanted to know, very much. I had seen Teddy and Thea and little Lucy often enough that their bright faces were fresh in my memory.

“There’s little to tell. We were heading north; we were moving so slowly, with everyone pushing and crying, falling over the things that people would carry a short way and then drop‌—‌paintings, pots, chairs‌—‌there were animals… I saw a cow running with its back on fire. The wind was blowing huge sparks and burning brands onto us from miles away, it seemed, and sometimes you’d hear screaming as a woman’s hair caught fire, or her skirt.”

I closed my eyes, imagining how terrifying it must have been to be trapped between the crowd in front and the fire behind.

I opened them to see Mrs. Lombardi staring at her hands, which were curled as if remembering the touch of small fingers. Tears were spilling down her cheeks.

“I had a tight hold of Thea and Lucy, but they were getting so tired. I saw a little girl‌—‌she couldn’t have been more than three‌—‌crying, all by herself, and I wanted to take her too, but my hands were full. I called to Teddy and Roderick, but my husband couldn’t hear me, and Teddy thought I was scared for his safety. The last time I saw him he was calling back, ‘I’m all right, Mother.’ My brave little man.”

Her tears turned to sobs, and it was several minutes before she could continue. My own eyes stung as I watched my friend weep for the family that had vanished, the children she could not even find to bury.

“A little while later‌—‌I became confused about everything, Nell, I didn’t know what time it was or where we were‌—‌the girls were so exhausted that Reverend Grueber carried Lucy to Roderick and took Thea in his arms.”

“Reverend Grueber?” I did not recall the name.

“One of the missionary gentlemen we had come to Chicago to meet.” Mrs. Lombardi wiped her face, staring into the parlor fire as if it contained her memories. “I followed on behind, but I dropped back just a few yards to see if I could spot the little girl. Her face haunts me still.” She passed her hand wearily over red-rimmed eyes. “And then all was blackness.”

“What on earth happened?” I leaned forward, poised precariously on the edge of my seat.

“I was hit on the back of my head, here.”

I leaped to my feet and, parting the thick curtain of damp chestnut hair, felt the spot Mrs. Lombardi indicated. Even after all those days, there was a distinct swelling.

“You must see the doctor.” I darted toward the bell to ring for Bet. Mrs. Lombardi put out a hand to halt my progress.

“No need, Nell. I was thoroughly looked over by an excellent medical man in the Congregational Church. I am quite all right, but at the time I had a nasty concussion.”

A chill ran through my bones. “You were surely not left insensible in the path of the fire? Did Mr. Lombardi see you fall?”

“I will never know.” Mrs. Lombardi’s strength seemed to be leaving her as she arrived at this part of her tale, and I took her hand tightly in mine. “I awoke the next morning in an unburned alley. I was clearly on the other side of the river from the fire. A bridge was before me, and I tried to cross it, but the smoke and heat were so intense that I could not. I was sick to my stomach and dizzy, and I was soon dragged back from my quest by a Polish laborer. He had little English, but he made it clear to me that there was no hope.”

I let go of Mrs. Lombardi’s hand and rifled among the pile of newspapers I had refused to allow Bet to remove. I had seen a roughly drawn map of the fire’s progress in one of them.

“Do you think you were here?” I indicated an area that showed the western limits of the fire. It was due northwest of the Sherman House Hotel, which was marked on the map as being the nearest to the Courthouse.

“I could have been.” Mrs. Lombardi’s brow furrowed as she studied the crude map. “Look, here are railroad tracks. I remember that it was a rough-looking place, with freight cars and stretches of rails.”

I had also read that many of the dead‌—‌of those who could be found‌—‌were discovered just on the other side of the river from where Mrs. Lombardi had awoken. They must have been trying to find their way to that very bridge. “You must have had a guardian angel,” I said, trying to cheer her.

“A guardian angel who robbed me, Nell. I noticed later that my brooch, watch, and reticule were missing. But no matter; he, or she, saved my life.”

Mrs. Lombardi was clearly not going to be able to continue speaking for long, so I asked another question to prompt her story. “Did the Pole look after you?”

“Yes, he was most kind. He took me to his home. But I remember very little; a confused sound of voices speaking words I didn’t understand, people helping me and cleaning me‌—‌I remember vomiting,” she shook her head ruefully, “and then nothing until the next day. It must have been noon before they took me to the relief center, and late in the day before I persuaded the doctor there that I was in a condition to leave.”

“You put yourself into danger.” It was not a question; I had heard from Martin about the looting and lawlessness that followed the fire.

The faintest glimmer of a smile stole over Mrs. Lombardi’s face. “I had God’s protection,” she said. “The biggest danger, at first, was the debris on the streets. But now there are gangs of laborers clearing them. It is like a desert, Nell, a wasteland of black with just the occasional wall or archway. Only the largest buildings resemble themselves at all. And ashes …” Her voice broke again, and I realized I must put an end to her tale.

“Have you taken any steps to let people know where you are?” I asked. “Perhaps your family did escape the fire and have left word for you in Prairie Haven. Does not your mother-in-law live with you? Mr. Lombardi, if he could not find you, would surely hasten to reassure her that he was well.”

“She is in New York.” Mrs. Lombardi shook her head in a gesture of dismissal. “Her brother is dying, and she has been gone for three months. I must write to her… but first I need to know what I should tell her.”

She fell silent for a few minutes, dabbing occasionally at her eyes, but gradually a look of resolution stole over her face. It was the first time that day I had seen a shadow of the former Mrs. Lombardi.

“You have made me think, Nell. Nobody at Prairie Haven knows what has become of me, of course‌—‌that I am here with you. I have little hope that Roderick returned there‌—‌if he were alive, would he not be looking for me in Chicago? But I should not leave anything to chance. You have given me a purpose, my dear. I will go to Prairie Haven.”

“And Sarah and I will go with you.”

FIFTY-SIX