From Across the Room by Gina L. Mulligan (best book series to read .txt) 📖

a row of cracked wooden doors above a rusted staircase.

Climbing the stairs was slow, as we had to take care over missing steps. When we reached the landing, Mary took the satchel she had asked me to carry and slung it over her shoulder. She removed her black leather gloves and tucked them away. Then she unpinned her straw bonnet and used the thick navy ribbons to tie the hat to the outside of the bag. Mary then fished out a white muslin cap and put it on, careful to tuck in stray hairs.

Her preparations to teach English seemed a bit strange but I chalked it up to cultural differences and asked if there was anything I should do. Mary shook her head and led me to the last door.

Mary tapped and a petite woman with pale features and dark hair opened the door. “Miss Mary. Vonderful. Vonderful.” The women embraced and kissed each other’s cheeks.

I was then introduced to Mary’s English student, Mrs. Tzekernik. As I bowed, Mrs. Tzekernik grabbed my shoulders, kissed both of my cheeks, and gave me a thorough shake before setting me free and letting us in.

Piles of old clothing atop bare wood furniture cluttered the tiny room. In the dim light I saw a basin filled with grey water, a jagged round table covered with needles and thread, a potbelly stove leaking ash into the room, and a tan sheet strung from the ceiling. As it flapped back and forth, I saw another area with a mattress on the floor.

Across from the sparse kitchen was a narrow bed occupied by a young girl with ginger-colored pigtails. She sat propped up by a wad of rolled sheets and covered with a stained quilt. Though a bit pale, when she saw Mary, a bright smile plumped her cheeks and she tossed aside her book.

I learned Olenka was nine and learning English at a fantastic pace. Of late she stayed home from school but Mary seemed confident she would soon rejoin her friends. “We can’t keep those freckles away from the boys for too long,” Mary teased.

Mary joined Mrs. Tzekernik in the kitchen and gave her a brisket wrapped in brown paper. Once again the woman seized Mary and hugged her. While the mother busied herself with the meat, Mary washed her hands in a basin by the stove then went to Olenka and sat beside her on the bed. She set her satchel by Olenka’s feet and I waited for her to pull out a reader or perhaps some paper and pens. Expectations are often misleading.

Mrs. Tzekernik set a straight wooden kitchen chair beside Mary then went back to the kitchen. I sat and waited for an explanation.

“Miss Olenka, do you mind if I share what happened with Mr. Gadwell? Or perhaps you would rather tell him yourself,” Mary said.

Olenka seemed eager for me to know her story but deferred to Mary for the retelling. As Mary spoke, the girl eyed me as one would a rabid dog. During my attempt to avert her stare, I noticed the girl’s frail frame looked disproportional beneath the lumpy covers.

“Were you in Boston during the horrible blizzard last March?” Mary asked.

“The Great White Hurricane? Yes. It was horrific. I was trapped in the house with my father for three full days.” Regret struck as soon as the words left my mouth. I started to apologize but Mary turned to me and said in a low voice, “I know you’re nervous, Thomas. It’s okay.” Her compassion and intuition left me speechless, unfortunately not for long.

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