If You Are There: A Novel - Hardcover

Sherman, Susan

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 161902845X ISBN 13: 9781619028456

Publisher: Counterpoint, 2017

Synopsis

Set in the early 1900s, the novel follows young Lucia Rutkowski who, thanks to the influence of her beloved grandmother, escapes the Warsaw ghetto to work as a kitchen maid in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the bustling city of Paris. Too talented for her lowly position, Lucia is thrown out on the street. Her only recourse is to take a job working for two disorganized, rather poor married scientists so distracted by their work that their house and young child are often neglected. Lucia soon bonds with her eccentric employers, watching as their work with radioactive materials grows increasing noticed by the world, then rising to fame as the great Marie and Pierre Curie.

Soon, all of Paris is alit with the news of an impending visit from Eusapia Palladino, the world’s most famous medium. It is through her now famous employers that Lucia attends Eusapia’s gatherings and eventually falls under the medium’s spell, leaving the Curie household to travel with her to Italy. Ultimately, Lucia is placed directly in the crosshairs of faith versus science what is more real, the glowing substances of the Curie laboratory or the glowing visions that surround the medium during her séance?

About this title

About the Author:

Susan Sherman is the author of The Little Russian. She is the former Chair of the Art Department of Whittier College and the co-creator of one of the most successful television shows for children in the history of the Disney Network. Learn more at susanshermanauthor.com.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

CHAPTER ONE

Warsaw, December 1901

It was uncommon for a girl from the slums of Warsaw to escape the mills. There were some who married a good earner, more that died, but no one Lucia Rutkowska ever knew went off to Paris. To her way of thinking, just purchasing a ticket made her somebody, or nearly so, and she hadn't even gotten started yet.

On the morning she left, Lucia walked all the way from Babusia's house to the railway station in her new boots. They were her first pair of new shoes―truly new―had not been worn by another soul. On good days, when she was hopeful of making something of her life, she thought of them as a symbol of a bright future to come. On those days she saw nothing but fresh possibilities: a situation in a respectable house, money in her pocket, and a new dress to go with her new boots.

When they were leaving the shop with the boots still in the box, Babusia told her to give them to the boy to break them in. Lucia had no intention of doing so. When she told Babusia as much, her grandmother turned on her in annoyance. "So willful. Just like your mother." But Lucia heard the familiar stitch in her grandmother's voice. It had been eleven years, yet Babusia still felt the keen loss of her daughter, Lucia's mother, the brightest angel in heaven.

As it turned out, the boots were scuffed by the time Lucia reached the station; her heels were rubbed raw just as Babusia said they would be. A ferocious blister had formed on her right heel and another was threatening on her left, making every step a trial. She prayed to Mary the Blessed Mother to ease her suffering, to make her shoes more comfortable. However, the Holy Mother must have been busy with other, more deserving requests, for she got no relief.

Lucia tramped up the front steps of the columned portico, dragging a folding chair behind her, bumping it from one step to the next, wishing she could afford the fare for the omnibus. Even though it was only five grosze, Babusia had already given her all she could. Every expenditure had been accounted for, items added and subtracted, the list often copied fresh on a new piece of paper: so much for sausages and a loaf of bread; so much for a warm coat from the rag dealer that cost a little more because the stain was in the back; so much for a blanket, for a folding chair, for a warm pair of stockings; and all the rest for her ticket to Paris.

Lucia was so impressed by the train station that she had to stop by the door to take it all in. She crossed herself twice, fingering the rosary in her hand. Even though she had lived in Warsaw all her life, the only train station she had ever seen was the old tottery platform down the road from Babusia's house. This was something else. On the outside, the Vienna Station looked like a palace with its stone façade, wide colonnades, and two soaring clock towers at either end, each flying the Russian flag, but on the inside it looked like a cathedral with high windows and shafts of light pouring in through the clerestory. It reminded her of the painting of the Holy Mother and Child that hung in the Church of Mary Magdalene near Babusia's house. She imagined angels floating down on the light and stepping over to the counter to buy a ticket to Vienna or Skierniewice. It was a blasphemous thought; she felt a stab of remorse for having it. She offered a quick prayer of contrition to Saint Lucyna, her patron saint, who was by now used to her heretical imaginings.

She found a bench behind a pillar that had a good view of the doors. Babusia had warned that she wouldn't be safe until she was on the train, so she had to be careful. Stay alert. She put her bundles down and leaned the folding chair up against the bench. She noted the location of all the gates, just in case. Across the way at the railway restaurant, she spotted a table that sat in deep shadow half hidden behind a column. She thought that if the worst happened, if he came for her and she couldn't make it to the gates, she could hide there. She stuck her hand in a bundle and groped around for the medallion of Saint Ursula. She brought the little saint along for companionship, Saint Christopher for protection, and Saint Lucyna for everything else.

After that she relaxed some, unlaced her boot, and lifted her heel out to let it breathe through her stocking. She knew she still had to buy a ticket, but she had come such a long way that even Babusia would give her a little time to rest. Besides, the train didn't leave for hours, and looking around at her fellow travelers, well-dressed gentlemen and ladies coming and going in their furs flecked with snow, she couldn't believe there'd be much call for a place in a freezing fourth-class carriage, where you were expected to sit on your own folding chair and shiver under your own blanket.

Two girls, perhaps a year or two older than Lucia, came in through the big double doors, laughing at some private joke and stumbling over each other in their haste to get out of the cold. They weren't Poles. They were too well dressed in their fur coats and hats and expensive leather boots. The taller one had a matching muff that she carelessly tossed on a bench before collapsing on it and pulling her friend down to whisper in her ear. They were Russians―too noisy, too grand, their gestures too large and careless. Poles moved about in their own country as if they were in someone else's parlor. Russians made themselves at home, spreading out, claiming the most comfortable chairs.

Lucia tried to ignore them while keeping an eye on the door, but her attention kept straying back. She hated to admit that she envied those girls. After they removed their coats, she noticed that the thinner one, the one with the full mouth and almond eyes, wore a tailored skirt with braiding all around the useless little pockets. The same braiding on her gloves and on her boots. Lucia wanted to spend her time worrying about braiding, not about keeping warm and getting enough to eat, not of head lice and ruinous work in the factories, of cholera and typhus, of criminals in the streets. She wanted to be Russian, as shameful as that sounded. She wanted Russian worries.

Suddenly, the Russian girls rose up and headed toward the restaurant. As they passed, the taller one stumbled over Lucia's bundles, even though they were well out of the way. In that instant Lucia heard something break, a muffled snap like the delicate bone of a bird. They heard it too, for they hesitated, only for a moment, before going on without a word of apology or glance back.

Lucia opened the bundle and hunted around until she found the gromnica, the thunder candle that Babusia had given her when her mother died. It was in pieces. It had been a beautiful candle with her mother's name inscribed in gold at the base and decorated with a white ribbon and paper lilies. It was supposed to keep Lucia safe from lightning and flooding. At first she was furious, but then she hoped that God would strike them down, as every Pole knew he would, when he got as fed up with the Russians as she and her people were. She knew that things were not right in Poland. She also knew in her heart that God would put things right again as soon as he found the time.

Lucia was grateful for the many gifts that God had given her. Among them was her hair, which she wore in a thick braid down her back. Sometimes she would pile it on top of her head like a grand lady, but only when Irina wasn't around to scold her for acting above her station. She could cook and do complicated sums. People said her embroidery was accomplished. But her greatest gift of all was her vocabulary. It was nothing to use big words almost every day of the week. She had learned these words and many more in a dictionary that she had won at school for being an exemplary student. Exemplary.

She went to an underground school for the poor that had no name. They had to stay hidden because they spoke Polish and read Polish history and literature and wouldn't bow to the czar even if he were in front of them. Although, Lucia supposed Mademoiselle Wolfowicz would have told them to bow out of courtesy. Their teacher was exceedingly polite, even to her servants, even to the peddlers and beggars on the street.

The school was always on the move from back rooms to basements to the dark recesses of warehouses. They had to be careful not to get caught. Mademoiselle Wolfowicz would certainly be sent to Siberia. She was brave to run the school. She wasn't even paid, and she bought all the supplies herself. It was true that her father owned a big department store and they lived in a fine house on Nalewki Street, in the good section where all the rich Jews lived. Still, she spent a lot of her own money on the children, many of whom were not even Jewish. Once she even invited them to her house for little cakes and sandwiches. They were allowed to eat all they wanted and when the food ran out, she rang for more.

Mademoiselle Wolfowicz was the nicest lady Lucia had ever met. That's why whenever Tata or Irina called Mademoiselle the little zhyd or asked about her tail or her horns, Lucia wouldn't answer. She would just escape to Babusia's house. She always tried to respect her father and her stepmother, but sometimes it was a prodigious task. "Prodigious," she whispered under her breath as she wrapped up the pieces of her broken thunder candle.

· · ·

Lucia and her best friend, Ania Brodowska, lived on Dobra Street in tenements that looked very much alike. Both buildings had the same rundown rooms, the same rubbish in the courtyard, the tap in front where everyone lined up for water, and the wrought iron balconies that occasionally gave way under the weight of a tenant. To the south, across Krakowskie Przedmieście and Nowy Swiat, were the fine shops, houses, and government buildings. But this was Powiśle, a poor section of Warsaw, located along the river. Here the rutted streets lay mired in mud, the taverns stayed open late, and the occasional cry for help went unheeded. This is where the mill workers lived in a collection of doleful shacks that miraculously survived each passing winter despite their crumbling walls and patched roofs.

Every morning Lucia would stop under Ania's window and call up to her. One particular morning, they walked down Dobra Street to the square on Bednarska. It had snowed the night before, but the morning was bright under a clear sky. It was during Advent, right after Saint Barbara's feast, and here and there in sunny windows they could see bare cherry branches poking out of jam jars filled with water. Usually they made fun of the older girls who put them there hoping they would flower on Christmas Eve so they would find husbands on zapusty. At fourteen they were still too young to think of hanging their hopes on cherry branches, but they weren't so young that they didn't devour the latest romantic serials in the illustrated weeklies.

On most days Lucia and Ania made it a habit of stopping in Saxony Square at the obelisk erected by Czar Alexander II. It had been a gift to his Polish subjects. These were the same Poles who betrayed their countrymen and fought on the side of the tyrant, so spitting on the monument was something of a tradition among patriots. Lucia always spit first, because Ania needed time to screw up her courage. Generally, Ania was too scared to get up much spit. She had good reason to be scared. Spies were everywhere: the street cleaner on the corner, the waiter taking an order, even the fine-looking greengrocer's son, who teased them about being late for school. They could all be spies and you'd never know, until it was too late.

This time Ania didn't even try to spit, because she didn't like the look of the barber, who was watching them from the doorway of his shop. Instead she pulled on Lucia's sleeve and they walked on together, plowing through a deep pile of snow, letting it come all the way up to the tops of their boots.

About this edition

• Publisher: Counterpoint
• Publication date: 2017
• ISBN 10: 161902845X
• ISBN 13: 9781619028456
• Binding: Hardcover
• Number of pages: 368