Emmi in the City Read online

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Cover

  Half Title Page

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  A Note From The Author

  Glossary

  Making Connections

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Back Cover

  CHAPTER ONE

  Downtown Chicago

  October 8, 1871

  Sunday evening, 9:30 p.m.

  The night the Great Chicago Fire started changed Papa’s and my lives forever. The air was dry and windy as I ran up our downtown street to O’Malley’s Saloon. Church had just ended. People were strolling around in their Sunday best, wearing huge grins in the warm weather.

  Papa had said that if I was quick about it, I could go listen to the Irish music pouring out of the saloon.

  “Just for a few minutes, Emmi,” he’d told me. “I’m going to go home and work on my ship.”

  Papa was a toy maker. For a few weeks now, he’d been busy working on his greatest creation yet. He had made a beautiful, detailed wooden toy ship.

  “I’ll be home soon,” I had promised him.

  I hurried up to O’Malley’s, tripping over my skirts in my excitement. A dry wind ripped through our neighborhood. But it was a nice night for October. People were happy. It seemed like all of Chicago was walking the streets or talking and laughing in the beer gardens.

  I skidded to a stop outside O’Malley’s Saloon. People were already dancing to the fiddle music spilling out of the front doors. The men kicked up their heels, and the ladies’ frocks rustled and shook. Other people circled around, clapping their hands and stomping their feet—mostly Irish people.

  I figured no one would notice me if I stayed in the background and tried to blend in. So I stood behind the circle, clapping my hands to the melody.

  I loved Irish music. It had a way of making me feel less homesick for Germany. Papa had said it would make us happier and more prosperous if we came all the way to the new land of America. I still wasn’t sure about that.

  Before we’d come to Chicago two years ago, I had no idea what it was like to feel different. In Germany, I fit in with everyone. But now, I couldn’t seem to forget that the people in Chicago weren’t always happy about immigrants like us.

  The music made me forget all that for a minute. I started stomping my feet with even more excitement, stepping from side to side.

  “Watch where you’re going!” someone yelped.

  I stumbled and tried to catch my balance. I’d almost stepped on little old Mrs. O’Bannon, the neighborhood flower seller.

  “Flowers for your mama and papa, Miss Emmi?” Mrs. O’Bannon said in her crinkly voice.

  She was huddled next to her cart, wrapped up in shawls to protect her from the wild wind. She held up a bundle of sad, dust-covered flowers.

  I frowned. Mrs. O’Bannon could never seem to remember that my mama had died when I was little and that Papa had raised me by himself.

  Still, I really liked Mrs. O’Bannon. Even though she was Irish, she talked to me like it didn’t make any difference that I was German. Early on, I’d learned that the Irish Catholic and German Protestant people in the city often didn’t get along. Fights often broke out between the two groups.

  But both Papa and Mrs. O’Bannon thought all that was complete nonsense. Mrs. O’Bannon had even told me so once—out loud, in the street, where anyone could hear.

  It was the first time I’d met her, just when I was starting to understand English. She’d asked how I was. I’d been surprised that she was talking to me.

  “Why are you surprised?” she’d said, her eyebrows raised.

  “Because I’m German,” I’d replied. “I thought you weren’t supposed to like us.”

  She’d said, “Bah. Human. We’re all human. You have two arms and two legs? So do I. Do you want a flower?”

  Right then and there, I’d decided that I really liked Mrs. O’Bannon.

  Now I shook my head at her wilted flower bundles. I wished I had the money to buy one. “No thank you, ma’am.”

  Mrs. O’Bannon smiled and put the flowers down. “Listen to that fiddle!” she said cheerily, as she swayed to the music. “It takes you places.”

  I knew what she meant. The fiddle reminded me of the way the sea had sounded when Papa and I were on the ship coming to America, way out in the middle of the huge Atlantic Ocean.

  The water had continually lapped under the ship. Sometimes it had been fast and wild, sometimes slow and dreamy—just like the fiddle.

  I stopped clapping. Thinking about our journey here made me sad.

  “People are people,” Papa had insisted when we’d first arrived in America. We had soon realized how people felt about immigrants. “And we all came to this great country to live better lives than the ones we had in Europe,” he’d continued. “Doesn’t that bond us together?”

  I’d thought our lives were perfectly fine back in Europe. Our beloved town in Germany was called Sonneberg, and there was often dancing and music. The air was fresh and clean. There were high, beautiful mountains and a river. The thick forest was deep, dark green.

  Here in Chicago, there was dirt and dust. Black smoke billowed into the sky from factories. The wooden buildings on our street were piled crookedly on top of each other like a bunch of friends leaning on each other’s shoulders.

  The beautiful song ended. People started to drift homeward.

  Careful not to trip over Mrs. O’Bannon again, I turned and ran toward home. The wind was even louder now. It sounded as loud as a huge serpent blowing fire across a field. Or at least it sounded the way I imagined a huge, angry serpent would sound. I shielded my eyes from the sand blowing into my face.

  On the corner, a group of homeless people huddled on a stoop. They were also trying to shield their faces from the fierce serpent-wind. I shivered when I saw them. Homeless people lived all over Chicago’s bridges, parks, and alleyways. They were always either hunkered down against the biting winter cold or sweating in the summer heat.

  I always worried. What if those homeless people were immigrants? What if they hadn’t learned the language quickly enough to get jobs?

  I gulped and promised myself I’d make Papa practice his English even more. I would not let us end up homeless.

  Thoughts swirled inside my head. I didn’t even notice when something flashed out in front of my foot. Before I knew it, I’d tripped and was sprawled flat out on the ground. I heard laughter. Sitting up painfully, I rubbed my scraped knees and looked up.

  I groaned. Seamus and Cara O’Dowd stood there, hooting with laughter. The twins were about a year older than me. They lived in the Conley’s Patch neighborhood. For some reason, they were always running through the downtown streets near our house, fighting with my German neighbors.

  “Did you hear, kraut?” Seamus sneered, using an insult I hated. “There’s a fire!”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Downtown Chicago

  October 8, 1871

  Sunday evening, 10 p.m.

  I stood up and wiped my dirty palms on my skirt. I frowned at the twins. “Nice try. Leave me alone.”

  Cara howled with laughter. She brushed her reddish blond braids away from her face. Seamus’s hair was darker red and mess
y, and he’d pulled a hat down over it.

  “She doesn’t believe us!” Seamus crowed in his raspy voice. “Well, fine—you’ll be sorry when the whole city’s burning!”

  “The whole city’s not gonna burn,” I shot back. “They put out that big fire yesterday just fine.”

  “They say this one might be worse!” Cara shrugged carelessly. “We heard the fire bells already rang down south. But don’t believe us, then.”

  “I don’t,” I said, sticking out my tongue.

  I had no idea why Seamus and Cara were allowed to run wild at all hours of the day. I never saw their parents. Someone once said their parents were ghosts and lived in the attic of their house, but I didn’t believe in ghosts.

  “How did you like Fritz’s prank last week?” I added. I knew that would get on Cara’s nerves. The shoemaker’s son, Fritz, had tied Cara’s braids to a lamp post while she’d been leaning against it. She’d been spitting mad.

  Cara frowned at me. She picked up a handful of sand and threw it at me. Then she and Seamus took off again, laughing.

  I wiped the sand off my skirts, muttering to myself. Then I ran the rest of the way home.

  The wind blew clouds of dust into my eyes. I burst through our front door and closed it behind me as fast as I could. Then I breathed in the peace and quiet of the toy shop.

  Papa’s toys looked down at me from the shelves, as if they were welcoming me back. Papa himself sat in the corner at his messy workstation. He was wearing an apron and was lit by the glow of the lantern. A brush quivered in his hand as he carefully painted the beautiful toy sailing ship.

  “Hello, Liebling.” He smiled at me, trying to practice his English, though his nickname for me was the German word for darling. “Let me just get these finishing touches on here.”

  In Germany, Papa hadn’t had time to make the same kinds of beautiful toys he made here. Instead, he’d been forced to make thousands of the exact same boring dolls, day after day. Agents had come through our town to buy the dolls to sell to other parts of the world.

  But Papa didn’t want to make the same toys over and over again. He wanted to make toys like the unique toy ship he was painting. Papa had been sure he could do that better in America than in Germany.

  “People want German toys in America,” he’d told me, a gleam in his eye. “They want new, different kinds of toys.”

  Papa had decided we should come to Chicago, because there were less crowds and disease than in New York City. Here, Papa worked hard to sell as many toys as possible. He always told me not to worry, but I saw the worry in his eyes anyway.

  Soon after we moved, he’d said, “This is a gamble, my Emmi. If it doesn’t work, I’ll find work that pays steadily. But let us first try this dream.”

  I took my time walking over to him. I loved the way the toys looked in the dim light. They were made of leather, papier-mâché, porcelain, and wood. There were animals, trains, yo-yos, Noah’s ark sets with all sorts of exotic animals, blocks, clockwork windup toys, spinning tops, puzzles, rocking horses, and hobbyhorses. They were all painted bright and beautiful.

  Papa held the wooden sailing ship to the light, checking to make sure the paint was perfect. Its hull was bright cherry red. The sails were a deep cornflower blue. When he turned a little crank on the side, the sails turned. Their other side was sunny yellow.

  “It’s magnificent,” I said.

  “The bravest little ship in all of Chicago,” Papa declared. Then he took a closer look at my face. He put the ship down. “What’s the matter, Liebling? I can see something is wrong.”

  I sighed. I could never fool him. “I don’t think I’ll ever fit in here. Not completely.”

  He wiped his paint-covered hands on his apron, nodding and listening seriously. It was one of the best things about Papa. He always listened.

  “Well, I have something to cheer you up,” he said. “I’ve been keeping it a secret, but I think it’s ready now. I thought it would remind you of our journey here.”

  And he handed me the cherry red ship!

  “Careful, the paint on one side is wet,” he said.

  I took it from him, my mouth open. “I can’t take this, Papa! It’s beautiful, but… you could sell this and make good money.”

  “Nonsense,” he said, smiling. “The wood and paint couldn’t have been spent on anything better. And I remember that our sea journey was exciting for you. I think you’re the perfect person to own this ship.”

  I put the ship back down carefully. I didn’t want to mess up the paint. I blinked away tears and didn’t say anything.

  “I know you miss home,” Papa said sadly. “But I’m going to keep making a good life for us here, I promise.” He lifted his head, his eyes gleaming. “One day we’ll have a nicer shop, maybe brick or stone. It will be in a better part of downtown, with better protection from all the fires in this city.”

  He looked off into the distance. He was probably picturing the windows of a new shop filled with toys.

  “I know we will too, Papa,” I said, even though I knew we would never be able to afford a brick store. “Thank you so much for the ship. Do you mind if I go to bed? I’m tired.”

  “All right, Liebling,” Papa said. “I’ll just finish up down here. I’m also working on a bear I’d like to have ready soon.”

  I went up the steps to Papa’s and my living area right above the shop. The wind was still howling outside. It was so loud that now I could barely hear any other noises from the street. I hurried to my room to close my window. The wind was so powerful it was hard to yank the shutters closed.

  I lay down in my little bed in the corner, listening to the wind howl. As I started to doze off, I thought of the cherry red ship downstairs. Papa was right. I would never forget our sea journey.

  The ocean had looked like a glittering jewel as far as the eye could see. I’d stood on the deck as often as possible so I could breathe in the salty air. The ship had been crowded and smelly, and many people had gotten sick. It felt like we’d eaten nothing but zwieback, prunes, and dried meat.

  My favorite times had been at night, when the moon shone on the ocean. People would gather on the deck to sing songs.

  Papa would always join in, singing about new beginnings. He would sing even when his eyes were more full of worry than I’d ever seen them.

  I remembered how I’d felt when the ship had approached the harbor in New York, before we’d gotten on the train that had taken us west to Chicago. From farther away, the harbor had looked like a strange dream. There were buildings so tall they seemed to disappear up into the clouds. Bustling, important-looking crowds moved through the streets. Wagons and coaches and carriages and people in fancy clothing were everywhere.

  But as we got closer, I’d noticed the strong, putrid smell of the harbor. Like a cross between a dead animal and an armpit.

  My nose had wrinkled up and probably didn’t unwrinkle for several days. But Papa’s eyes had been big with wonder. We pushed our way through the streets with the other new arrivals.

  “The poor people are mixed right in with the rich ones here,” he said.

  Papa had soon realized he had to be careful. Con men and pickpockets had tried to steal our money. Papa had needed to learn to dodge and avoid them.

  I’d stuck very close to him, tightly holding his hand. I’d been suspicious of the thousands of people around us. I’d almost gagged at the stink of the oyster stands, piles of trash, and factory smoke everywhere. My heart had ached for the rolling hills and fresh air of Sonneberg. In Chicago, I still felt that ache.

  The wind was now rattling the shutters as furiously as a monster trying to get in. But I was so tired I turned over in my bed and drifted off to sleep.

  Before I knew it, I heard Papa calling, “Emmi! Emmi, wake up!”

  I rubbed my head drowsily, still half-asleep. Papa w
as leaning over me, the lantern in his hand.

  “What is it?” I said, struggling to sit up. I’d fallen fast asleep.

  “There’s another fire,” he said.

  I groaned. “Really? The twins were telling the truth?”

  “Probably nothing to worry about, but I’m going to go see,” he said. “Get dressed just in case. I’ll be right back.”

  “OK,” I yawned, lying back down. “I’m sure it’s nothing, Papa.”

  I heard him clatter down the stairs, out the door, into the roaring wind. And then I fell back asleep.

  * * *

  A sharp, loud crack woke me up. I sat bolt upright. One of my shutters had opened, and it was banging back and forth in the wind. The light looked different outside. It was almost red.

  I stumbled to the window, still half-asleep and tripping on the hem of my nightgown. I grew aware that the noises outside were strange too. I heard the clatter of wagons, screams, and shouts. And there was an even bigger roar than the one the wind had made earlier.

  I shielded my face from the wind, held the shutters open, and peered down at the street.

  For a second, nothing I saw made sense. The sky was reddish, so light it almost looked like day. The air was filled with bright, burning red flakes that drifted down slowly like snow. The air was thick with the smell of smoke. Below on the street, people moved in a chaotic swarm. Wagons and drays and wheelbarrows thundered over the ground. Horses whinnied, coachmen shouted.

  And through the chaos, one panicked cry kept leaping up over the crowd:

  “Fire!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Downtown Chicago

  October 9, 1871

  Monday morning, 2 a.m.

  “Papa!” I bellowed, slipping on my shoes, my heart pounding in my chest. “Papa!”

  I raced to his room. It was dark and empty, and his bed was made. That meant he hadn’t come back to his room after going to check on the fire.

  I bounded down the stairs and circled the shop. It was also dark and empty. The lantern sat near his worktable, its flame extinguished.