Trending
The women were rattling stacks of dishes in the kitchen sink, clearing away the last remnants of Christmas dinner, and Uncle George and I were settled in deep chairs in the livingroom, half asleep, replete with all the good things of a holiday meal.
This all happened a long time ago, but I still can see Uncle George, a big burly man with face reddened by years of exposure to weather, hands like miniature hams and white hair that he wore cropped close to his scalp.
Uncle George was a retired policeman, a veteran of the days when patrolmen did bare knuckle battle on the sidewalk with citizens who refused to accept orders to "move along, you" or "quiet down, punk."
His old mind was a storehouse of East Liverpool history, but it was the kind of history that never went into a book and seldom, if ever, appeared in the newspapers. Uncle George had a very sour view of the human race, for he had seen how some people conduct themselves in the hours between midnight and dawn, the things they do to themselves and each other. If I could hit on just the right key, I might loosen his memory and his tongue and he would spin one of his incomparable yarns before sleep overtook him.
We were talking about the bridge over Beaver Creek and the road that runs downgrade from the state line. It must have been the words "state line" that touched some hidden reflex in his subconscious mind, for he twisted and pushed himself erect in the chair, grinned, filled his pipe bowl with tobacco in his methodical way and grinned again as he touched a match to the evil-smelling mixture.
"Yes," he said. "The state line. Ah, what a place that used to be….." His voice trailed off and he stared at the ceiling a moment as though waiting for more scenes to find their way out of his crowded memory of times long ago. I sat perfectly immobile and silent, for I feared to distract him would mean the end of another story before it got started. The only sounds were the chatter from the kitchen and the occasional sharp clink of a plate against a goblet.
Uncle George said he wanted to tell me about something that happened in his first few years on the force, when he was past his rookie year, but far from being a veteran. He thought it must have been in the era of World War I because the City Hall was still on E. 3rd St. and the patrolmen were working 12-hour shifts, six days a week.
Uncle George had the East End footbeat then, a vague assignment that concentrated on the business district on Mulberry St. but sometimes sent a man ranging far afield-away up around Dry Run or Marshall's Bottom or Little England-if something big was stirring.
The shifts changed at 6 in the evening, he remembered, and ran until 6 in the morning. It was a long lonely night, particularly after the last saloon closed, the last streetcar had made its run to the barn along Pennsylvania Ave. and the last drunks finally had staggered off the street.
Uncle George traveled to and from his beat by streetcar, but first he had to report in at City Hall, don his gear, and get any special instructions from the deskman or the chief. He remembered that he had buckled on his tools this particular night and was debating whether or not to put on another pair of socks as insurance against the December cold when the chief called him into his littered little cubicle of an office.
The chief told Uncle George that he had received a telephone call from a Mrs. Lucinda Johnson who lived in a small shack below the streetcar tracks at the state line. Now this was a momentous enough event in itself because telephones were very rare in those days and a woman would think twice before walking up to half a mile to the nearest store where she could make a call to City Hall. Uncle George perked up when he heard about the telephone call, for he knew that Mrs. Johnson must have a serious problem, or think she had.
The chief told Uncle George that Mrs. Johnson was distraught and excited and he could not understand much of what she said. On top of all that, the connection had gone dead after a moment or two and the telephone call never was resumed.
But he remembered that Mrs. Johnson said she was very fearful of a mysterious man who had been seen in her home several times in the last few weeks. Yes, that was right, he told Uncle George, the man was seen inside the house. And since Mrs. Johnson was a widow, she was understandably troubled, perhaps terrified, by the stranger.
Uncle George promised to check into the problem at the first opportunity, which meant that he would go to the little home at the state line as soon as he assured himself that peace and quiet reigned in the East End saloons and that no gangs of thugs were roving the streets.
The chief said he thought Mrs. Johnson's story was the vaporing of a widowed, lonely woman, but he reminded Uncle George that part of a policeman's task was to relieve the public of its fears, real or imaginary. Of course he didn't say it just that, because the policemen of that day were a rough and ready lot, but Uncle George got the idea and promised to look into it.
And as he left the chief's office, he decided upon the extra pair of socks-and mittens, too-for the weather seemed to be getting colder every minute. He gave a last tug at his helmet to square it solidly on his big head and then shouted good night to the desk man as he walked out into the swirling snow.
The streetcar was steamy warm, thanks to the crowd it carried, and Uncle George rode most of the way to Mulberry St. in a privileged spot next to the motorman, exchanging rueful remarks about the weather. He positioned himself on the step just inside the pneumatic doors, so that he could be the first one off when the car stopped at Mulberry St.
Uncle George covered Mulberry St. in one big circuit, walking in that half stroll, half strut that he had learned from the veteran patrolmen. He peered inside the busy food and dry goods stores, waving to a customer or a clerk occasionally, as he made his leisurely path south to the railroad tracks and then back to Pennsylvania Ave. Along the way, he stopped in the largest saloon, the one with the best free lunch, and chatted with the bartender while he put away an early supper of pigs knuckles and kraut, two schooners of beer and a large chunk of cheese.
Then he stepped outside and pulled the lever of the Gamewell callbox to tell the desk man he would be in the state line area for an hour or so. The deskman answered with his incomprehensible, gruff monosyllables that were more like the barks of a querulous dog than a human-the way of deskmen everywhere. But Uncle George knew he had received the message. He walked to the corner to catch the next streetcar headed for the state line.
The car that took him to the state line was not so crowded, for all the late shoppers were at home now and at supper, but Uncle George exercised the policeman's prerogative to stand and chat with the motorman-an act expressly forbidden by the company's notice on an enameled plaque screwed to the wood work above the windshield.
The motorman, responding to Uncle George's questions, said he knew Mrs. Johnson because she rode his car occasionally, very occasionally, on shopping trips downtown. He confided that the woman was in her mid-30's and that she lived with her small son in a tiny home south of the streetcar company's substation. But he called it a shack instead of a house and said was hidden in a grove of second growth trees not far below the railroad tracks-between the tracks and the river.
He assured Uncle George that he would find it sooner or later, because it was the only human habitation in the whole general area "on the wrong side of the tracks," as he phrased it.
Uncle George thanked the motorman and swung off the steps of the car again with the same clumsy grace-overcoat, helmet, night club, tools and all. He stood near the tracks to watch the car receding swiftly toward the bridge over Beaver Creek.
Then he hitched up the belt of his overcoat, squared his shoulders and half walked, half skidded down the short embankment to the railroad tracks. He stumbled across the rails and the large, rough slag on the right-of-way, then shouldered his way into the brush and timber on the other side.
Small unseen branches lashed the cold skin of his face and clawed at the soft woolen fabric of his overcoat. But he pressed on, looking for some sign of a home. Finally, he saw the glow of a lamp in a window which he knew, must be the home of Mrs. Lucinda Johnson whose wild female imaginings had brought him to this remote spot on such a beastly night. He hoped the chief would be satisfied, sitting there in his cozy office with the base burner glowing red, when Uncle George reported back on his bare-brained mission.
Uncle George finally pushed his way through the last of the trees and brush and emerged into the smallest of clearings, what the widow must have thought of as her front yard. He strode purposefully to the door, just to right of the window showing the yellow light of a kerosene lamp, and knocked loudly enough to let Mrs. Johnson know that the law was outside.
In a moment the door opened a few inches and a pert, attractive woman peered at Uncle George in the darkness. She wore a plain, but clean, blue cotton housedress. Her hair was pulled into a practical bun at the nape of her neck, but Uncle George could see the dark red sheen of it in the lamplight from over her shoulder.
He introduced himself, explained his mission and asked to step inside out of the cold. The widow swung the door wider then to allow Uncle George to enter. One quick glance took in the whole home, one large room with an alcove on the eastern side, a huge brick and stone fireplace glowing in the southern wall and a tiny bed near the hearth in which a small boy dozed.
The boy roused and raised his head from the pillow as Uncle George entered. The youngster smiled shyly, setting off a twinkle in his large blue eyes. His blond hair was like cornsilk against the worn cotton fabric of the pillowcase.
Uncle George stood with his back to the fireplace, trying to remember not to burn his coat, as he listened to Mrs. Johnson's story. It was short, vague, just about what he expected. The widow explained that she slept in the alcove on the eastern side of the one-room home. The boy slept closer to the fire place because he was given to colds and fevers in the winter time.
And the last thing she did every night before blowing out the kerosene lamp was to pile a large log on the fire, hoping it would keep until morning.
When Uncle George frowned in his official way and rocked on his heels to indicate impatience, she hurried on with her story.
The widow said on two or three nights in the last week or 10 days she had awakened suddenly and unexpectedly in the middle of the night. Always when she awoke the room was cold and there was only a faint glow from the fireplace, so it must have been 4 or 5 in the morning. But on each of those occasions, she swore, she saw above the back of her favorite rocking chair near the fire place the head of a white-haired man.
The back of the chair was solid, she confided-a fact that was obvious to Uncle George-and as a result she could see only the top or the side of the man's head. It seemed to be inclined downward, she said, as though the man might be reading or studying his hands.
But each time when she mustered the courage to slip out of bed and creep toward the fire place, even though she did it with all the stealth at her command, there was no man in the chair. She told Uncle George she was a practical hard-headed woman, inured to fending for herself, and she was not imagining things, no matter how much he might think so.
By this time Uncle George had smirked a couple of times, almost unnoticeably, but the widow could see that he believed her story was the product of a wild, female imagination.
Uncle George did his official best to assure her that what she had seen probably was a reflection from the fire or moonlight finding its way through the front window. She repeated her story, while Uncle George shook his head wonderingly. But while he feigned surprise and concern, his mind was working on a way to get out of the home in a graceful way without telling the woman outright that she was crazy.
He finally took the easy way out and told Mrs. Johnson that he would make a full report on her experience to the chief, and possibly to the mayor. He promised that the department would keep a lookout for strange characters passing through town, but he assured her again that what she thought she saw probably was a trick of light or shadow, or both.
Mrs. Johnson obviously was not pleased or satisfied with Uncle George's findings, but she smiled bravely as she let him out the door. He could hear the lock click forcefully behind him as he walked across the little clearing and then struck off through the brush for the streetcar line.
Uncle George puzzled about the widow's story in the back of his mind as he rode the swaying, clanging trolley through East End, alighting again on familiar Mulberry St. She didn't seem like the sort of woman who would imagine such a strange thing. But on the other hand, neither he nor she could think of a logical explanation for the strange vision by the fireplace.
Uncle George found Murphy's Saloon strangely quiet when he paused on his next round of Mulberry St. Gus, the bartender, was rubbing a spotlessly white towel stolidly on the smooth mahogany surface. In a distant corner, two men were crouched at a table nursing a part of nickel beers. And at the bar, staring unseeing into the big mirror at the rear, was the stooped, gnarled figure of Henry Dorgan, reputed to be one of the oldest residents of the whole area between Yellow Creek and the state line.
As Gus drew a schooner of beer for Uncle George, the cold, tired policeman told him of his wild goose chase to the state line, the silly imaginings of the widow and the futility of trying to reason with a flighty woman who was scared by shadows.
Some phrase or other in the story stirred only Henry Dorgan's attention and he shifted his position at the bar so that he stood closer to Gus and Uncle George. He began to ask questions: Where the little house stood, how far below the railroad tracks it was and details about the appearance of the woman and her son.
Then Henry Dorgan claimed the floor, after Gus had filled his glass again, and told some of the things he knew of the state line area and its folk tales and its legends and its mysteries. He turned back time as he spoke, for Henry Dorgan's memory went far back, beyond the times remembered by any other living man in the area.
He told of Hermann Alois Heimbrunner, the German Socialist who made his way to the United States in the troubled times in his homeland in 1848. He told how Hermann squatted on a small piece of ground at the state line that no one else wanted, building a small home there for himself and his small son. Hermann, although young, was very slow in learning to speak English of the most broken sort and he and his son struggled to subsist in the modest cottage in the woods.
But Hermann finally mastered enough of the strange language of his adopted country to get a menial job in a brickyard. The little boy got himself off to school in the mornings because his mother had died in the steerage section of the slow craft on which they set sail for America.
Hermann Alois Hembrunner was a proud man and would accept charity from no one. Not that it would have been offered, for he was a foreigner and the country was over run with foreigners then, taking the bread out of honest American's mouths, Dorgan related.
But after working long hours at low wages and using almost all his money for food and fuel, Hermann Alois Heimbrunner rarley had even a few pennies left over for some small luxury. But the motherless little blonde boy was happy in his remote home with his father. Paul learned English quickly in the school, played with American boys and adopted their ways. But at home, he and his father spoke German, because it was much simpler for the father that way.
Paul couldn't remember Christmas very well as it was celebrated in Germany. But Hermann Alois Heimbrunner was determined that Paul would receive a gift on Christmas morning and some sweet meats, too, if he could manage it. He revived his skill as a wood carver, the skill he had learned at his grandfather's work bench when it was decided that Hermann Alois Heimbrunner would follow the family trade-the trade in which generations had made their living.
And, although his apprenticeship barely was finished when he fled his native land, he carried his skill and some of his tools to the land across the sea. As the December nights lengthened, the German sat by the fireside each night, carving carefully and painstakingly as he fashioned a Christmas gift for his son.
He worked each night after Paul was sound asleep. And as he worked, his fingers regained their skill. He reveled in returning to his true occupation, work that took him away from the menial, dirty tasks at the brickyard.
He was carving a figure of the Christ Child, a miniature in exacting detail, complete to the finest lines around the nose, the almost invisible threading of the hair and the hands outstretched as though in benediction.
Henry Dorgan knew the story of the immigrant's labor of love, the long hours he spend in the lamp light, close to the fireplace, at work on the intricate figure while his small son slept.
As the policeman and the bartender listened, halfheartedly at first and then with undisguised interest, he told how the devoted father worked each night, lavishing all his skill and love on the figure of the Christ Child as it materialized as though by magic out of the block of straight-grained hardwood.
As his excitement in his craftsmanship grew, Heimbrunner took his near completed figure to the plant one day, wrapped carefully in many layers of muslin cloth. He showed it to an Austrian friend, one who knew and appreciated the art of wood craving. He confided it was a Christmas gift for his little son, Paul, and that he hoped to complete the work on it that very evening-if he could find enough time. The Austrian praised the craftsmanship and thought what a selfless man his friend must be, that he would sit for hours in dim lamplight, working at the exacting task, so that his son would have a gift on Christmas morning.
And that was almost the end of the story, as Henry Dorgan remembered it. No one ever saw Heimbrunner of his son alive again. Their tiny home burned to the ground the very night, taking both their lives. But no one knew of the tragedy for a full day. It was that long before anyone from the plant went to investigate when Heimbrunner failed to show up for work. They found the house totally destroyed, only the strong stone foundations and the massive fireplace remaining to mark the spot where it had stood.
And so the proper authorities were called, the charred bodies of the German immigrant and his little son were buried cheaply and unceremoniously in a back corner of the cemetery and the whole affair was forgotten in a few months. After some years, the timber and the brush sprung up again around the unwanted home site, nearly hiding the stone foundation of what had once been home to Hermann and Paul Heimbrunner.
Uncle George stared at his windburned, raw knuckles-against the dark brown of the bar. He thought again and again over Dorgan's tale and the story the widow had told him. He looked at the big clock ticking away behind the bar. Almost midnight. Time to make another round of his beat.
Uncle George finished his work that night uneventfully but as he walked the dark streets, listening to the echo of his own footsteps from the recessed doorways, he could not forget old Dorgan's tale and the story the widow had told him. He looked at the big clock ticking away behind the bar. Almost midnight. Time to make another round of his beat.
Uncle George finished his work that night uneventfully but as he walked the dark streets, listening to the echo of his own footsteps from the recessed doorways, he could not forget old Dorgan's tale. He felt his mind turning more and more toward the little house at the state line.
The following night he did not get off the streetcar at Mulberry St. He rode directly to the state line, turning aside the motorman's repeated questions. And as the car trundled eastward along the tracks, he turned once again and retraced his route across the railroad tracks and into the brush, headed for the widow's tiny home.
The yellow lamp light was streaming from the window again as he hammered on the front door. Lucinda Johnson admitted the policeman this time without the question in her eyes. The blonde, blue eyed boy was resting again on his small bed, covered with a quilt. The mother said he was troubled with a cold again.
Uncle George told her the story of Hermann and Paul Heimbrunner, skipping all but the essential details. Lucinda Johnson listened wide-eyed and silent through the whole recital. From time to time she nodded her head, as though to confirm a detail. And occasionally she stole a glance at the boy half dozing in his little bed.
She told Uncle George how she and her husband bought the land for next to nothing at the tax sale ten years earlier and then were surprised to find a brush-covered foundation and a still serviceable fireplace. So they built their modest home on the old foundation, working the fireplace into the south wall without any difficulty.
Then she spoke again of the white head of the man she had seen seated in her rocking chair. From time to time she shook her head, as though in awe, or paused to make certain she was recalling the details just as they had happened.
Lucinda Johnson said she wasn't frightened now that she understood the strange happenings around her hearth. She picked up the kerosene lamp from a table and carried it to the fireplace. Holding it close to the top of the mantel, she pointed silently to the word "Heimbrunner" worked in polished stones.
Uncle George stared, but not in disbelief. By this time he was ready to accept any fantastic coincidence. Then the widow turned from the fireplace and walked to her son's bed. The little fellow stirred and opened his large blue eyes as the mother pulled aside the quilt and pulled out what appeared to be a doll's figure.
She told Uncle George that the wraith-like figure appeared at her fire side again the preceding night, not long after he had finished listening to old Grogan's story in the saloon on Mulberry St. But this time she remained unmoving in her bed, staring with all her might into the gloom around the fireplace.
After what seemed like hours, she saw the wraith arise from her rocking chair and walk to the child's bed. She stifled a scream as she continued to watch. The dim, obscure figure bent over the sleeping child for a moment, lifted the quilt gently and then replaced it with a loving pat. The child slept on unknowing.
The figure bent, as though to kiss the child's cheek. And then it turned, soundless, vague, almost indiscernible in the gloom. And while Lucinda Johnson stifled her terror, her heart pounding and her eyes wide, the figure vanished totally, as though it never had existed.
Lucinda remained immobile in her bed, how long she did not know, but finally forced herself to rise and walk to her son's side. The boy still slept quietly. But underneath his left hand, which was clutched atop the quilt, she saw the figure of the Christ Child for the first time.
Now she handed it to Uncle George. He stared at the beautifully detailed features of the Christ Child, the craftsmanship in the hands that were raised in a gesture of benediction for the world. He thought of the countless hours that had gone into the carving.
He held the exquisite figure closer to the lamp, turning it so that light and shadow brought out the details. And then he noticed the strangest things of all. In the upper two thirds of the figure, the wood was darkened, smooth with the patina of age. But the lower section was fresh and bright and clean. He almost swore he could smell the scent of freshly-carved wood.
He turned the figure and studied the base. And there, carefully carved in intricate, beautiful letters, he read: "For Pauli, Christmas 1852, H.A.H."
Uncle George pointed to the fresh-carved base of the figure and the lettering. Mrs. Johnson nodded, smiling. Then she placed the Christ Child's figure alongside the sleeping boy again.
"He came back to finish his labor of love," she said. Uncle George nodded with misty eyes. He hitched at his belt and squared his helmet. It was time to head back for the beat on Mulberry St.
The widow was framed in the lamp light of the open doorway as Uncle George strode across the clearing. At the last moment he turned, touched his hand to his helmet in salute and called back softly:
"Merry Christmas!"