Tradition of Deceit (15 page)

Twenty
August 1917

Lidia stood knee-deep in
the Mississippi River's cold muck, waiting for a few more shingles to drift within reach and dreaming of hats. One day, she thought, I shall own a hat. Perhaps it would be a bonnet, covered with silk and adorned with ribbons. Or perhaps it would be woven of straw, with a perky brim and a cluster of artificial flowers. Either one would be glorious.

She'd climbed the ninety-seven steps to the top of the hill. She knew how Yankee women dressed. Now that she was seventeen, she needed to find good work. She'd dreaded the prospect of hiring out to clean floors or mind babies for the very gawking women who came to look down on the Flats. But now, she thought, perhaps I'll be able
to earn money for a hat without going into service as maid or nanny …

A floating shingle bumped into her. She snatched it quickly, and the two more close behind. There, that was enough to fill her basket—which was good, because the lumber business was in decline, which meant the pickings were, too. Lidia waded ashore and headed home.

She had the shingles drying in the sun by the time Grandfather Pawel trudged home from the mill. Through the window she watched him nod with satisfaction before turning to the washbasin by the front door.

He came inside as she set the table for dinner. “Well done, Lidia.” He paused, coughing. When he could, he continued, “Now I can mend the ridgeline.”

Mama turned from the cookstove. “Not until you've had a good meal and some rest,” she scolded lightly. “You're too tired.”

Grandfather Pawel sank down at the table. “Frania, I don't think I can last much longer.” He stared at his big hands. “I'd hoped to last another year or two. We'll hurt for my salary.”

Mama began dishing up the soup. “We'll get by.” Her tone was light, but her mouth settled into a worried line.

Their anxiety made Lidia's heart ache. She took a deep breath. “Perhaps things won't be quite as difficult as you imagine. I want to apply for a job.”

Mama's eyebrows lifted. “What job is this?”

Lidia took great care to set the spoons out with precision. “At the mill.”

“At the
Washburn
Mill?” Mama's eyes went wide. “There are no jobs for women at the mill.”

“There will be soon,” Lidia told her. “The company is going to begin packaging flour in small sacks, which are more convenient for homemakers. They are going to hire forty women to handle the bags!”

Mama looked accusingly at Grandfather Pawel, who raised both hands defensively. “She didn't hear about it from me.”

Lidia slid into her place. “Tomasz told me about it,” she said, as innocently as possible. Tomasz had, in fact, urged her to apply. “We must be good Americans,” he'd said. “Especially now with the war, and so much hatred toward foreigners. We must be one hundred percent Americans.”

Lidia suspected he was right, but her mother and grandfather didn't share that view. Well, right now she didn't want the conversation to get diverted to a discussion of her choice of beau. “Mama, the pay is good! Fourteen dollars a week, and Sundays off.
Please
. I want to apply.”

Mama set the last soup bowl down on the table with such force that broth spilled over the brim. “That mill has brought this family nothing but grief!” Tears glinted in her eyes. Grandfather Pawel looked stricken, too.

Lidia hated bringing pain to the two people she loved most in the world. But the deaths of my father and grandmother have nothing to do with me, she thought. “I won't be doing anything dangerous. With the dust collectors, the chance of fire is very small. I won't be working near the train tracks or big machines. The sacks will be just five pounds.”

The silence was heavy.

“I could look for a position as maid, or a nanny,” Lidia allowed, “but there is little future in such work. The world will always need flour! At the mill, there might be room for advancement. They say they want women to become supervisors on their floor. They say that women might be able to move into clerical jobs too, especially with men leaving for the war. I would need more education for something like that, of course …”

She paused again. Mama didn't move. Through the open door came the normal evening sounds: boys playing, women laughing, a few distant shouts, a dog barking.

Grandfather Pawel had been staring at his soup, but he finally looked at her. “There is trouble in the mill you may not be aware of. Some men want to form a union. They figure that with the war, there is more need for flour than ever, and now is the time. The boss men are against it. There is talk of a strike.”

Lidia sucked in her lower lip. Everyone knew that in 1903, over a thousand Washburn Mill employees had gone on strike—and lost. Managers hired new workers, swearing they'd never bargain with a labor union. Some of the strikers had eventually been rehired, but none of the organizers. Growing up on the Flats, surrounded by immigrants working the most grueling, dangerous, and poor-paying jobs, Lidia had heard plenty of grumbles and complaints. And she sympathized.

Mama's mouth tightened. “I don't want you in the middle of such trouble!”

“A strike wouldn't have anything to do with me,” Lidia insisted. “They are setting aside a special place for the women to work. We won't be anywhere near the men.”

“My
kwiatuszek,
”
Grandfather Pawel said sadly. My little flower. “I know you are a hard worker. I know you want to help the family and get ahead. But I don't think the mill is the right place to do it.”

Lidia twisted her spoon in her fingers. “I want to be part of something important! Minneapolis is the flour milling capital of the world. Every day, these mills produced enough flour to bake twelve
million
loaves of bread.” She was quoting Tomasz, now. She couldn't fully grasp that number, but his eyes shone when he spoke of it, and the enormity of it excited her. “So … may I apply for the position?”

Grandfather Pawel hitched one shoulder in a tiny, helpless shrug. Mama lifted her chin and stared at the paper cutting tacked like a blessing above the front door. Grandmother Magdalena had made the beautiful
wycinanka
shortly before her death.

Finally Mama turned her gaze on Lidia. “You are old enough to make your own decisions.”

“Oh
Matka
, thank you—”

“I'm not finished,” Mama snapped. “Think hard before giving the mill men your application. Tomasz has filled your head with big ideas, but I fear that working in the Washburn Mill will bring you sorrow.”

Twenty-One

Roelke's cousin Libby and
her kids were waiting in the lobby when he arrived at the Milwaukee Public Museum. Time to switch gears, he told himself. In a major way.

Libby was a blunt, no-nonsense woman. After divorcing her scumbag husband, she'd done an impressive job, in Roelke's opinion, of creating a new life for herself and the kids. She was bemused by, but tolerant of, four-year-old Dierdre's passion for Disney princesses, girlie-girl ruffles, and dolls with long curls. But Libby didn't always know how to handle her son.

“Hey, guys,” Roelke said. He hoped his hearty tone sounded more normal to their ears than it did to his.

Libby smiled. “It's good to see you.”

Roelke kissed the top of Dierdre's head—carefully avoiding the plastic tiara—before turning to Justin. “I understand you've got a school project to do. Ready to see the museum?”

“Just you and me.” Justin glared at his mother and sister. “Not
them
.”

“Hey,” Roelke said sharply. “That kind of talk is not okay. I
want to see the exhibits with you, but we're not going anywhere until you apologize to your mother.”

He thought Justin might refuse, possibly at the top of his lungs. Finally the boy muttered, “Sorry.”

“Thank you,” Libby said, and she thanked Roelke with her eyes. “You can take the camera, Justin. The exhibits close in an hour, so how about Dierdre and I meet you guys in the snack shop then?”

Roelke followed a sign pointing toward the museum's most beloved exhibit, The Streets of Old Milwaukee. “So,” he said to Justin, “what is your assignment exactly?”

“We have to do a project about an ethnic group that settled in Wisconsin.”

Roelke had visited the museum for the same reason when he was in fourth grade. The exhibit had been brand-new then. “Any group? Aren't you supposed to study your own ethnic background?”

“No. We get to choose.”

“Well, hunh.” Evidently, Roelke thought, a few things
have
changed since I was in fourth grade.

“It's better this way,” Justin explained earnestly. “Suppose some kid in my class was adopted? Or suppose some kid's parents don't know where their ancestors came from? That's why we get to pick. No one ends up feeling bad.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” Roelke agreed.

They'd reached the exhibit. “Come on!” Justin cried.

Roelke was relieved to see Justin shaking off his bad mood. Roel­ke would never understand how Dan Raymo could be so callously indifferent to his kids. Dierdre had no real relationship with her father. She also was easygoing and adaptable by nature. But Justin … Justin was a sensitive kid. He wore glasses and was not good at sports and didn't make friends easily. And he still tried hard to believe that his dad was a nice guy who loved him. I'm glad Libby called me, Roelke thought, and followed Justin into the dim corridor.

Museum curators had created a glimpse of the city at the turn of the last century. Roelke felt a sense of his own boyhood awe return as he strolled down a narrow cobblestone street complete with horse troughs, fireplugs, lampposts simulating gaslight, and even trees. Sidewalks bordered maybe two dozen businesses, including a candy shop, movie house, tea shop, and tavern. Manikins dressed in old-timey costumes were visible through the windows of shops and homes.

“Ooh, look at this one!” Justin called, his nose pressed against the window of a butcher shop. Inside a woman appeared to be arranging fresh sausages on a plate. More sausages hung on the wall behind her. Justin stared hungrily for a moment before racing on. The museum was quiet at this hour, and they had the exhibit to themselves.

Was the city ever really like this? Roelke wondered as he ambled along. Quaint, quiet, peaceful? Maybe for some—good Germans and Irish and Polish folks in their middle-class neighborhoods. Maybe life was still like this for some people. Not for cops, though. Never for cops.

Roelke's heart squeezed into his throat when he spotted a re-
created restaurant:
The Comfort Saloon and Restaurant, Chas. Mader. Bottle Beer 5 cents.
He and Rick had wanted to take Chloe and Jody to Mader's. Now they never would.

“Hey, Roelke!” Justin called. “Is this an old-fashioned phone booth?”

Roelke joined the boy in front of a round, white-painted wooden structure with a fancy pointy roof. “Do you see a telephone inside?”

“Nope,” Justin reported. “And there's no windows.”

“Imagine that I walked a beat in Milwaukee a hundred years ago and arrested somebody. Back before public phones and handy-
talkies.”

“Oh!” Justin's face lit with understanding. “Is this where you'd put a bad guy? Like, if you were really mad at him?”

“I think the idea was that I could lock a bad guy in this holding cell until the paddy wagon came to take him to jail. But it
would
help if I was mad.” Roelke could think of several people he'd like to lock in that dark, cramped holding cell—forever.

The Streets of Old Milwaukee flowed into the European Village, where each house was devoted to a different ethnic group. “This is where you'll get some good ideas for your project,” Roelke told Justin. “Look in all the windows and see what house you like.”

As Justin began his study, Roelke stared up at the wooden
European Village
sign. A fancy heart and two roosters were painted above the words. He thought of the card Erin had dropped at the restaurant, with its chickens.

“Roelke!” Justin gestured wildly from the window of a whitewashed home with thatched roof. “I like this one.”

Roelke joined him and found the identification label:
Polska Chata
. Polish House.
“Why this one?”

Justin tipped his head, considering. “It's really cheerful.”

Roelke peered through the window. “It is,” he agreed. “But you should look at all the houses before you decide.”

When Justin wandered off, Roelke stayed at the Polish House window. A female manikin wore red shoes, a green shawl over a lacy white blouse, and a vivid skirt adorned with flowers. Bright flowers were painted on the white walls. The yellow ceiling was covered with painted strings of flowers. More flowers decorated the green furniture and the white chimney above the stove. Flowers were even painted around the windows on the outside walls.

Roelke pulled Erin's card from his pocket and studied it. The card's flowers were similar to those decorating the Polish House. But although a plate hanging on the back wall featured two blue roosters, and a metal rooster sat in one windowsill, there were no chickens in sight.

So … is the design on this little card really Polish? Roelke wondered. Does it have some meaning? Does all that fancy stuff in the Polish House have meaning, or is it just decoration? He had no idea. But he knew who might. All this ethnic culture stuff was right up her alley.

Suddenly Roelke missed Chloe so badly that he had to sit down. He wanted to show her the chicken card. He wanted to show her the Polish House. He wanted to talk with her about Rick. He wanted to crush her into his arms and bury his face in her hair. He wanted to drift off to sleep with her head on his shoulder.

“Roelke? I like the German House best.” Justin appeared beside his bench. “It's got …” The boy's voice trailed away, and his eyes grew wide. “You're
crying
.”

Roelke swiped at his cheeks and felt wetness. He drew a shuddery breath into his lungs, blew it back out. “I guess I am,” he said. “My best friend got killed a few days ago, and Chloe is visiting a friend in Minnesota. I'm very sad.”

“I've never seen you cry before,” Justin whispered.

“I don't
like
to cry. But every once in a while, when you're feeling really awful, it's okay to cry.” Roelke didn't know what else to say. Part of him was horrified for letting tears spill over in front of Justin, and part of him thought that it might be okay. He gave Justin time to say something. Speak of his father, maybe, and how sad he felt about Dan backing out of this museum trip. Justin stayed silent, but he nodded once and patted Roelke's arm gently. Maybe that was enough.

“Did you say you liked the German House best?” Roelke asked.

Justin nodded again. “It's got a whole lot of toys.”

“Sounds good. We better take some pictures.”

When they met Libby and Dierdre, Justin told them all about the cool German house. Dierdre was busy with a coloring book, but Libby listened intently. “Sounds like a winner,” she told him. “On the way home, we'll drop your film off at the drugstore to be developed.”

“Can we please buy some posterboard too?” Justin asked. “I can make a display with the pictures.”

“Sure thing, buddy. And you know what? I've got an old German cookie recipe at home. If you like, we can bake some for your class.”

Justin's face lit up. “Okay!”

Libby fished a couple of dollar bills from her jeans pocket. “The gift shop is right over there. Go see if they have some good postcards.” When Justin disappeared, Libby turned to Roelke. “I can't thank you enough.”

“It's okay. I'm glad I could help.”

She peered at him. “Are you all right?”

“I never know what to say when people ask me that.”

Libby wrapped her arms around him.
Don't do that,
Roelke almost said, because she wasn't Chloe, and because he was afraid he might leak another tear or two if she was too nice to him. But in the end he kept his mouth shut and hugged her back.

“You've always been there for me, Roelke,” she told him quietly. “
Always
. You know I'd do anything for you. All you have to do is let me know.”

“I just miss Rick. And I miss Chloe.”

“Chloe will be back.”

“I don't know. She … I think I screwed things up.”

“She'll be back,” Libby repeated. “Trust me. I know.”

Roelke shrugged.

Libby handed over a small piece of notepaper. “Here. This is her friend's phone number. Give her a call.”

Roelke stuffed the slip into his pocket.

“When was the last time you had real food?” Libby asked. “Come over for breakfast tomorrow. Or lunch. Whatever you want.”

“I can't come over tomorrow.”

“Why not?”

Roelke watched two older ladies hurry through the lobby, zipping up coats and pulling on gloves. “Because I'm going to Waupun tomorrow,” he said. “I need to talk to Patrick.”