Mary continued. “It was a horrific storm and you remember how quickly the temperature dropped. New York instantly shut down. When it hit, our little miss was on her way home from school. She was extremely brave and found her way even through the blinding snow and frigid ice. When the storm passed everything seemed fine. But a few days later they noticed Olenka’s foot was black.”
“Frostbite,” Olenka said. I cringed but Mary assured me it was best to speak in facts.
“The frostbite was severe and required a doctor,” Mary continued. “But doctors don’t make calls here, where people are actually sick. They’re too busy lunching till three and doting on debutantes with the sniffles.” Mary took a slow breath. “Without a doctor there wasn’t much they could do. Gangrene set in.”
It took several seconds for me to realize what Mary was saying. By then Mary had Olenka’s permission to pull back the quilt.
I jumped to my feet and blurted something about not getting in the way. Mary, however, needed my help and directed me to sit back down. I sat back down.
Olenka wore a russet wool nightgown that stopped just below her knees. Her pallid skin looked like bone china against the dark fabric. On her left foot was a man's baggy black sock; the right foot was missing.
The amputation was just above the ankle bone. Tight gauze wound around the end covering the stump, and as Mary inspected the bandage, I could see obvious seepage around the edges.
“We have to change the dressing today. I’ve brought some new medicine.”
Mary arranged her supplies with confidence. There were several rolls of clean gauze, a spool of paper tape, a stack of cotton balls, and two small jars. One was filled with a clear liquid, the other with a paste. I steadied myself as Mary began to unwind the bandage. After just a couple turns, I again rose to my feet.
“I need to wash my hands,” I said, lunging for the kitchen. In my haste, I tripped over the chair and toppled it. Snickering followed me to the kitchen. Then since I was up, it was my job to bring back an empty tin to hold the soiled materials. I glanced at the front door in defeat.
When I returned, Mary had removed the old bandage. I held out the tin for Mary, trying not to stare, but the sight was a new experience for me. The skin around the stump had bruised and puckered where stitches closed the wound. I noticed a bit of dried green fluid but Mary told me it was ground herbs and not infectious pus. I again looked to the door.
Mary wet a cotton ball with alcohol and dabbed at the wound. Once used, she tossed it into the tin still in my grasp then asked me to prepare another one. I set the tin on the bed and did as she instructed. Mary also needed me to cut several strips of paper tape. I floundered until Olenka handed me a pair of scissors from the bedside table.
Inspired by Olenka’s composure, my nerves settled and I became a passable assistant. I handed Mary salve and gauze on command, then when Mary finally re-wrapped the wound, she trusted me to hold the ends tight while she tied a knot. I did not flinch at touching the wound.
While Mary stacked the extra supplies on the table, I cleaned up the used materials and took the tin to Mrs. Tzekernik. In a mix of stilted Polish, hand gestures, and simple English, Mary gave instructions to continue changing the dressing every day and said she was pleased with the progress and saw no signs of infection. Though I remained silent, I wondered if Mary was too optimistic. The stump looked a bit ragged.
With doctoring finished, Mary suggested Olenka take a nap while she worked with her mother. The girl looked to me so I clasped her hand and said I would stay right by her side while she slept. Mrs. Tzekernik muttered something in Polish then whispered in Mary’s ear. Mary blushed.
The English lesson was labored, yet Mary remained patient and tender as she corrected the young mother’s backward letters and helped her pronounce a list of simple nouns. For over an hour they took turns reading aloud and reviewing basic numbers. The afternoon passed in an instant, so I was surprised to notice the fading light and cool breeze through the door. I checked my watch.
We were invited to stay for dinner and Mary accepted, hoping to have enough time to give Mr. Tzekernik his lesson. While Mrs. Tzekernik lit a fire in the stove, Mary pulled a bundle of carrots from her bag and held up a knife to me. “Everyone works here,” she said. “Though based on your nimbleness I’m not sure you’re safe with a knife.” I prepared to defend my honor when the girl awoke and begged me to play Old Maid. I held up my hands in submission. Mary huffed, but when she turned I saw her smiling.
After the game, Olenka taught me a Polish birthday song that sounded like “The Farmer in the Dell.” Her mother joined in, and soon she and Mary were doing a high-stepping folk dance around the apartment. What a delight to watch Mary have so much fun. Then Mrs. Tzekernik grabbed my elbow and dragged me to my feet. Just as she swung me around, Mary’s other student arrived.
Mr. Tzekernik is an enormous man with calloused hands and startling auburn hair. He served as a fishing boat captain in Poland but could only find work selling roasted chestnuts from a street cart and mucking the East End stable. As soon as he saw Mary he nodded and said, “Welcome.” He then saw me, my arm still interlocked with his wife, and he looked back to Mary. Mary nodded, and he held out his hand. “Welcome.”
After checking on his daughter, Mr. Tzekernik stepped behind the curtain and returned with a thin book clasped against his powerful chest. Without any prompt, he sat at the table, opened the book, and began. Mary leaned close, seemingly unaware he smelled of sweat and grease, and listened as he read aloud. His pace labored, but from the pride on both of their faces it was as if he read a scientific journal instead of a child’s reader.
Dinner was simple but well cooked, and with the help of Olenka’s translations we talked about baseball. Everyone loves baseball.
The evening ended with hugs and Mrs. Tzekernik again kissed my cheeks. As we reached the door, Mr. Tzekernik slapped me on the back and said, “You are nice to Mary. She is dobry.”
Although not sure of the exact meaning, the message was clear enough. We shook hands before he escorted us as far as the stairwell.
The streets were deserted and most of the lamps were broken. Gusts of wind swirled loose trash around our feet, and in the distance I heard the sounds of fading cries and breaking glass. Mary took hold of my arm.
“I’m very proud of you, Thomas. You handled yourself well.”
“Me? I was about to say the same of you. You’ll make a terrific doctor.”
Mary dismissed the idea with a shrug and shared again how much the amputation had healed. This was when I voiced my earlier concern, though in retrospect there are some details best kept.
“Trust me, Thomas, it looked much worse. There were no doctors, as I said, and the family doesn’t have money for hospitals.”
My heart seized. “Did the father have to—”
“The butcher. Did it in the slaughter room. At least he cleaned the knife. If it was during the war he probably wouldn’t have wiped off the cow blood first. We’ve learned a lot from the cleanliness of midwives. Still, it’s taking a long time to heal properly.”
“That poor girl.”
“I’m blessed to know them. They are so very special,” Mary whispered.
I squeezed her arm just as a man appeared from the shadows. He had a black hat pulled low over his eyes, and Mary tightened the grip on her handbag as he passed. Looking again at the isolation, I had a disturbing thought about Mary’s travel arrangements.
Mr. Tzekernik walks Mary out of the neighborhood when he can, but she is not comfortable with an escort. She worries the families will think she is afraid of them. Her rationale was absurd, so I told her I could not permit her to travel without an escort. It was perhaps the wrong choice of words but I stand by the sentiment. Mary replied she did not need my consent, and a quiet, but intense, argument ensued. She called the idea of a chaperone nonsense; I was shocked she was so stubborn about something so obvious.
When we had reached a stalemate, Mary flicked her chin forward. “Look, we’re almost back. I see a few buggies and the street lamps are lit. This is hardly much of a walk. Please, Thomas, let’s not talk about this now. I’m glad you worry about me, but I don’t want this to ruin our day.” Mary nudged my shoulder with hers. “You know, I think I may have a little competition. How do you feel about redheads?”
We concluded our evening without further incident, and overall it was an enlightening outing. Yet the following morning I was still agitated and again addressed the subject of her safety. My attempt to explain the realities of a harsh world soured by violence led to a
passionate disagreement. Our heated quarrel swelled until it became obvious that these weeks of clandestine trysts have taken a toll on our nerves. In the end, Mary even revealed a deepening guilt from our secret outings. So, Henry, we have made a difficult decision.
After four glorious weeks it shall be excruciating to leave, but the time has come. We plan to continue our correspondence by means of Mary’s dear friend, Miss Ross, who has agreed to act as messenger for our letters and keep Mary’s confidence. However, the dubious fate of our courtship remains in the hands of a tyrant. Worse still, Mr. Harting’s threat may not be so idle.
There is a chap in a charcoal coat. When I try to get a good look at him, he turns to peer in windows or raises a newspaper. Still, I am certain it is the same man because his right shoulder droops when he walks. Maybe I am paranoid, but I could not risk exposing my meetings with Mary. Hoping to thwart any attempts to follow me, I have crisscrossed the city like a hound on a scent and began carrying a change of hat. I suppose this is another good reason for me to leave the city. My absence means Mary is in less danger—at least from the obvious thugs.
The industrious Mr. Kennard has graced the Harting household no less than five evenings these past few weeks. I must wonder what else he is stealing. It seems clear Mr. Harting is grooming Mr. Kennard for a place in the Harting family, my place to be exact, but his choice is peculiar. Mr. Kennard is of some importance to the company, but there is nothing obvious about his prime placement or sticky fingers. I must figure out how to send him away.
