Clare Vanderpool - Moon Over Manifest

“Thank you all for coming,” Hadley continued. “I think we all know why we’re here, except for maybe Mrs. Larkin. My apologies, Eudora. In a nutshell, Arthur Devlin needs the piece of land belonging to the late Widow Cane, and for once, there’s something he can’t get his hands on. That land could be a big bargaining tool for all of us. He has to get to his vein of coal, and if we owned the Widow Cane’s land, he’d have to go through us to get it.”

There was a silence while all present considered what this meant.

“But the Widow Cane, she is dead, no?” said Callisto Matenopoulos. “Who owns the land now?”

“Legally, no one,” said Haley. “The Widow Cane passed away July first and left no heirs. Therefore, her estate is considered in probate, or in holding.”

Those assembled stared at him, not sure what he was telling them.

“Effectively, the land, and the vein of coal that runs beneath it, belongs to no one at this time. For all practical purposes, it’s—”

“No-man’s-land.” The words were spoken in a deep voice filled with salt water and brogue. Jinx knew who had spoken without even looking. Donal MacGregor stood just inside the doorway, arms folded across his broad chest, waiting for the image conjured by his words to sink in.

Everyone was painfully aware of the term used to describe the open ground between opposing trenches in the fields of France, Belgium, and Germany and of the deadly struggle for that land.

“Aptly put, Donal.” Hadley continued. “The property can be purchased by the township of Manifest along with payment of back taxes within ninety days. If the township does not have the necessary funds, or simply does not want the land, as of October first, it will revert to the county and then be open for public auction.”

Donal moved to the bar and poured himself a drink. “And the mine will outbid us all and the property will be theirs. They’ll have what they need to keep us under their thumb. Aye, it’ll be a right bloody battle to keep that land away from Devlin.” He swallowed the whiskey in one gulp.

Even without Mr. Underwood present, everyone could practically hear the final nail being hammered into a coffin.

“What is for us to do?” asked Nikolai Yezierska. “The mine—it owns us. It says you must work more hours in a day for same pay. They say here is voucher to buy what costs double at the company store. So it is Sunday? First, you work. Then you can go to church. Look at the Germans. They have a few meetings and the men in the hooded robes burn a cross to warn them.”

Everyone nodded.

“How much would it cost to buy the land, Hadley?” asked Hermann Keufer, who had been a man of some means in his homeland of Germany until he had spoken out against the Kaiser. He stroked his handlebar mustache, waiting for an answer.

“To buy the land and pay the back taxes, it will cost one thousand dollars.”

Callisto Matenopoulos expressed the shock of everyone present. “None of us have money. All we have to sell are store vouchers and perhaps a few silver spoons and thimbles brought over from our homelands.”

“What about the skills that we bring?” asked Casimir Cybulskis. “I was a tailor in Poland. I can make suits. Surely there are others who can make goods or provide services for money.”

“And who would pay for these?” asked Nikolai. “Yes, I make shoes. But who here will buy my shoes? As you say, we have no money.”

“Besides,” argued Olaf Akkerson, “Burton and his pit boys, they will know what we do. And they will take action against us. Remember Sean McQuade? He lost his job at the mine for merely suggesting that the men should not work on Sundays.”

“We have children to feed.” Etta Cybulskis rested a hand on her swollen belly, carrying her sixth child.

“They are right,” Callisto said. “We cannot risk opposing the mine. There will be consequences.”

There was a fearful rumble of assenting and the room grew quiet. There seemed to be no more to say. Little Eva continued playing with her nesting dolls, opening a larger doll to take out a smaller one and holding it in front of the peephole for Jinx to see. Fortunately, no one took notice of her. Jinx carefully reached down to rub his left foot, hoping the meeting would end soon.

The Hungarian woman plunked her shot glass down onto the bar top and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Do you forget where you come from?” She stared them down. “What about the others who depend on us? Those who are left behind?” Her breathing was heavy. “Casimir Cybulskis.” She raised her chin at him. “When your village was attacked, did your grandmother not hide you in a barn? Did she not give you her life savings to send you to America?

“Callisto Matenopoulos. Your mother. Did she not work three jobs to provide you with the chance to make the same voyage?

“And, Nikolai Yezierska? What about your family? They had to make a choice. Which son will go to America and which son will be forced to join the army? Your older brother. He insists you go and he will stay, no?” There was a stunned silence. They hadn’t realized she knew so much about them.

“They sacrifice to send us here.” she continued. “And for what? To live a dream of freedom and prosperity? Pah. They would be ashamed of us. What is it to defy the Devlin mine to those who have risked everything?”

Her words lingered. Those in the room who had remained unnamed looked into their own pasts—their own stories of coming to America.

Until a moment before, these people in Shady’s bar had thought they knew little of each other as they hunkered with their own kind in their own trenches. But with the Hungarian woman’s words, they suddenly recognized something in each other. They shared the same blood. Immigrant blood.

There was a long silence finally broken by Donal MacGregor.

“She’s right. They’ve pushed us ’round long enough. I say it’s time to do summat about it.”

Hadley observed the nods of agreement. “Okay. The question is, what?”

“Aye.” Donal rubbed his weathered chin. “They’ve got us over a barrel and they know it.”

“And what do the Scots do when they’re over a barrel?” asked Mr. Matenopoulos.

Donal’s face broke into a wide grin. “Before or after we drink what’s in it?”

There was relief in the laughter. Even Olaf and Greta Akkerson gave a chuckle.

“Well, even if we wanted to,” Hadley said, “I don’t think we’re going to be able to drink our way out of this one. We need money, and lots of it. Unfortunately, the only ones making any money are the mine owners and the bootleggers. No offense, Shady.”

“None taken.”

Jinx’s entire body was becoming one contorted knot. He stretched his leg ever so slightly and accidentally knocked over one of the whiskey bottles with a crash.

Everyone sat rigid and tension filled the room.

“What was that?” Mr. Matenopoulos asked.

Shady grabbed an empty glass. “Anyone want another round? Another cup of tea?”

Hadley Gillen stepped behind the bar, and after a quick examination, he removed the panel and hoisted Jinx from his hiding place, dislodging the wad of bills at the same time and sending them fluttering all over the bar top.

“You!” Mrs. Larkin cried out. “Velma, is this the hooligan who had access to your so-called elixir? More like the devil’s brew if you ask me. Is that the kind of thing you concoct in your chemistry class?”

“Calm down, Eudora,” Velma T. urged. “I admit there was a bit more kick in it than usual, but even you said it helped your fever and chills.”

“Helped me look a fool! The way those Temperance League ladies carry on, I’ll never hear the end of it.”