Prologue

4822 South Justine, Back-of-the-Yards Neighborhood, Chicago, IL

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Five people were present for the funeral and interment of sixty-nine-year-old Manuel (Manny) Rodriguez. Two of them, Manny’s nephew, Andres Rodriquez, and Andres’ partner, Josh Sawicki, shared their sparse memories of the man. Two priests read scriptures and prayed over the urn. The fifth person was the female undertaker. The service was over in nineteen minutes.

After the ceremony at Oakwood Cemetery, Josh and Andres returned to the old rooming house that was now theirs. Both felt sad over the passing of someone they barely knew, yet excited over the fact they now jointly owned a three-story building with plenty of space for Andres to make art. The building was narrow, but deep. The first floor held a spacious four-bedroom apartment, behind it a small one-bedroom unit. Each of the two upper floors held fifteen rooms, long unused.

They sat down at the kitchen table in the large apartment. The table was fifties-style, chrome with gray faux marble. A red Aunt Jemima clock ticked on the wall. Josh shifted a tangled pile of keys and pulled a handwritten note across the table. He edged his chair closer to Andres so they both could read it.

Josh and Andres,

Just a few notes.

These are all the other keys Manny gave me. Good luck figuring them out! Father Frank and I got to know Manny better the last few months of his life, to the point we assisted with all the paperwork turning this place over to you two. During his last few days, Manny frequently spoke of diaries and secrets. He said four diaries are contained in the numbered ledgers on top of the buffet. They’re mixed in throughout the records of the tenants who used to reside here. He thought there might be two other diaries, but was vague about their possible locations.

The diaries seemed very important to him and he so much wanted you to know about them and read them. Manny frequently spoke of this place and how some of the occupants became his family. We were surprised to discover that both of you have ties to the place. He said you’d both learn a lot about your DNA and non-DNA families. In fact, he wrote the last diary. He strongly expressed his desire you not sell the house. He wants you to live here. He said the place is in better shape than it looks, and it would make a stable home for you, plus space for Andres to make art and possibly display it.

Please keep Father Frank and myself informed as to your plans. We live close by, in the rectory at Saint Bobola’s. We will be glad to assist you in any way possible. I hope you two decide to keep the building and live in this community. We always need energetic, young folk establishing roots. Keep in touch, we’re extremely interested in hearing what you learn from the diaries, especially the secrets, and what you do with the place. How exciting.

God Bless You!

Father An

Diary 1

Josef Sawicki

Born November 3, 1858, Olsztyn, Poland (East Prussia)

Died April 19, 1936, Chicago

Diary found in Ledger One and translated from Polish to English with occasional comments by Mae Sawicki, Josef’s daughter-in-law.

Chapter One

Yesterday, I noticed several flecks of blood in my spittle. I don’t feel sick or any worse. To be truthful, I am old and don’t intend to live forever. I can’t wait to be with Walentina again, God rest her soul. So, today, February 10, 1934, is the day I shall write my story down so my progeny may refer to it and know the many wonderful things I have accomplished, as well as all the truth about me. Not that I’m a dishonest man, but there were times, not many, where I left out a few details. First, I must take a piss, being old has affected such things. I used to have a bladder like a horse, now it’s like a puppy.

Now I continue my writing, even after being rudely yelled at by Henryk. I refuse to call my son Hank, like the rest of the world. I named him Henryk, it’s a good Polish name. He yelled at me for carrying coal up to the hall stoves on the second and third floors. He said I should at least get dressed first, that limping around in my dead wife’s nightgown was not proper and I looked godawful. He says that a lot when I don’t dress and stay in her nightgowns, “You look godawful.” He doesn’t understand sleeping alone is lonely and her old flannel nightgowns make her feel closer to me. I miss her so much. He says fifteen years should be enough.

See, I’ve been wearing them since the night she died. Except for around the shoulders, they fit me. She always sewed them extra big. She didn’t like anything tight around her when she slept. Of course, they tore out around my arm pits so I sewed some longer threads on to connect the sleeves. Mae finally added some material and made the arm holes bigger. “Crazy old man, I don’t want you shutting the circulation off to your arms,” she said.

He’s right. Back when I did it, I figured he’d eventually lose the need to sleep in them. Now, I hope they hold together till he dies. They’re getting hard to keep fixed, but he can’t live without them. Mae

I’ve been through some bad things, but losing my wife was the worst. That first night I kept crying and tossing all over the bed. I grabbed Walentina’s pillow to hug and felt her nighty under it. It still smelled of her. I hugged it, kept wiping my tears with it, covering my face with it. Without thinking, I got naked and pulled it on over my shoulders and down around my body. Since then, only when I’m in her nighty can I sleep. We’d never slept apart and that was the best I could do.

Just wait till Hank’s all alone forever and misses Mae’s warm body every night. I know he will, because he sure gets his sausage in her enough, they have seven kids and who knows when they’ll start another one. Soon, I bet. Plus, they are not quiet when they couple. Of course, neither were we.

My Young Life

I was born November 3, 1868 in Olsztyn, East Prussia.

Aha! The truth. The old man always said he was born in 1866. Ouch. This baby just kicked me hard. Lord, let it come quickly, I’m huge. Mae, May 1, 1934.

I grew up speaking Polish and German. I’d spit at that word, German, but Mae took the spittoon away, said my old friends would have to spit outside, she was tired of cleaning out the vessel and around the floor where they always missed.

My father was a gem of a man. He was a teacher, a writer, and a dreamer. He was also a Patriot. A true, brave Polish Patriot who hated the Germans for partitioning our part of Poland. He hated the Russians even worse, and wasn’t fond of the Austrians, either. He was tall, about five-ten, wide-shouldered with blue eyes that were set so close together, some wondered if he was cross-eyed. From him, I inherited his eyes, the mole on my left cheek, and my wide shoulders and brains. Plus, his bravery.

My mother was small, tiny, maybe five-foot-one. She was also very smart, and spirited, very spirited. From her, I inherited more brains and my spirited voice. He meant his big mouth! Mae. Also, my bravery. She too was very brave and strong. They were not peasants, thank God, not like many of the Polish coming over here like lemmings who could barely read or write, if at all. Couldn’t figure, only knew Polish.

My father owned a small, private school where well-off people sent their kids. Several rooms were attached that were our home, and everything sat on three hectares of land where vegetables, fruit, sheep and a cow were raised. My mother taught writing, music and art. She also supervised the girl’s dorm.  Father taught history, languages, science, math, and supervised the boys.

My father became more and more involved in the resistance and started to neglect his educator duties. When I was eight, he was killed, Assassinated, by them goddamn East Prussians for what they said was treason. Treason! He was a Patriot trying to keep the Polish culture alive. Those bastards!

My mother tried to keep the school running, but it was too far in debt so she sold it, paid off the liens and we moved near Posen where she soon met a man and married him. He was a widower, about forty-five, almost fifteen years older than my mother. He was not a peasant either, but he was not educated. He owned one hectare with a small home, one room with a loft, where I was sent to sleep after they saw me, awakened by their moans, observing them couple.

My stepfather raised a few sheep to sell wool and mutton, he was a skilled leatherworker and he had a blacksmith business. He also owned a male donkey and a female horse that he would breed every other year and sell the mules that were born. The mare usually birthed twins. He also rented out the donkey’s services as a sire. In fact, that became one of my first duties. Leading or riding the donkey to wherever the peasant or person needed a horse or another donkey bred. Sometimes, I would leave him there, especially when the female wasn’t receptive, but when she was ripe, I would stay all day. I watched till they coupled at least three times and were worn out. I could then lead him home. After almost getting kicked, I learned to wait till he was tired out before trying to take him home.

My stepfather was a man who used his words sparingly, like he might not have enough to last a lifetime. Silent Cal, you could say, after our former president, Calvin Coolidge. I think Stepfather was also quiet because he didn’t feel as smart as my mother and didn’t want to make a fool of himself. He also couldn’t figure. Shortly after we moved in, I noticed Mother always showing up when it was time for a customer to make right with my stepfather. I knew how to figure, read, write, and could find most known countries on an atlas. I loved globes and we had one, something few people had in their homes at that time, especially in Poland. I rarely call it Eastern Prussia. That is an insult!

One day, Mother was not feeling well from another early pregnancy and asked me to run down and help Stepfather figure a customer’s bill. When I got there, I noticed he was having problems and was ready to undercharge the customer so I turned in front of him and whispered, “Stepfather, you forgot to carry the numbers. It’s double that amount.” So, he told the man the correct cost. The man seemed surprised, I think he was used to getting undercharged.

After the man left with his leather repairs, Stepfather shook my hand like an adult. He said, “Thank you, Josef. I am not good adding numbers. I am a proud man, but think my pride has kept me nearly destitute. I will make sure either your mother or you are here when it’s time to settle accounts.”

I felt very proud. First, because he shook my hand. Second, he actually smiled a little and seemed warm and human instead of like a cold forge.

My mother said she got pregnant easily, but couldn’t carry a child for long. She was cursed, she’d say. I didn’t know what she meant until a neighbor’s mare aborted early in her pregnancy. I was ten or eleven. My stepfather and I went to help bury it and I realized it was a partially formed colt. I told Mother how sad it was and she said, “Yes, I know. The same thing happens to me, a lot. I don’t know why I’m cursed.”

My new life, with no children around, was a big change from being a school teacher’s child living with other students constantly around in an atmosphere of learning, fun learning. My parents had different ideas on how children should learn. It wasn’t the strict, smack your hands if you get the wrong answer like the nuns used on my children and still do on my grandchildren over at St. Bobola’s School. I told my wife, and later, Mae, how I do not want to hear about the kids getting smacked for stupid reasons. It upsets me too much and I want to go set them idiot teachers straight. If my progeny gets in trouble because of their behavior, I want to know and will also discipline them, but not for other dumb reasons. About a year after my daughter started school, I was not welcome because I disagreed with their teaching methods. I had no problem telling those withered-up, crabby, self-righteous old nuns and priests exactly why they didn’t know how to teach and how they should teach to each child’s inner spirit. Finally, my sweet, but spicy wife, God rest her soul, told me she would tell me when she needed my help, otherwise stay the hell away from the school. So, I did, and from the church, too. That’s one of the reasons I rarely go near the place. There are more reasons you may discover.

Mother informed my stepfather she would school me one to two hours a day. After that, he should teach me as much as he could about his work. So, he did. He didn’t use many words, mostly demonstrated what he was doing, then watched as I tried to repeat it. I was a quick learner, I always have been, though I had to learn to do things differently as I’m left-handed. I wasn’t as interested in blacksmithing, but I did learn the basics. I loved building things. Stepfather also did some rough carpentry and occasional finish work. That was my favorite. Measuring, figuring out the supplies needed, and how things fit together. Building was all post and beam construction with wooden pegs, no nails and screws in the old country. I learned how to dig and install foundations, though I was a little small for moving the big rocks into place.

I also learned how to deliver baby sheep. Sometimes, they are such a helpless animal, dumber than a rock. Late winter, our six ewes started delivering. When I was eleven, Stepfather woke me one night and said he wanted me to see lambs being born. I’d seen puppies born, so figured this would be similar. It kinda was, till Stepfather said this ewe was having trouble. “Over an hour of labor and only a small bag of water showed and broke. She’s in trouble. Come here,” he said, “I want you to learn how to do this. Rinse your hands off in that bucket of water I had you carry.”

Wow! Why did I need to do this? I didn’t say that, this sounded urgent.

“Okay, now put your thumb against your fingers and slightly cup them. Now, slide one hand into the ewe and tell me what you feel.”

Well, I looked at him like he was crazy. He wanted me to put my hand inside the rear end of a moaning, heaving sheep? I knew it wasn’t her shithole, but still.

“Look, Josef, this lamb may be our meat for next winter or we sell it to buy things we need. There is at least one, maybe two more behind this one. If they die, the ewe might die. We can’t afford such a loss. Now do as I tell you.”

Slowly, I slid my hand in. “Keep your fingers together as much as possible. Slip it around. What do you feel?”

I did. It was slimy and warm, strange, but kind of exciting, like a whole other world I’d never thought about. The whole back end of the ewe and the area around her smelled of damp wool, piss and shit. Carefully, I moved my hand around, then realized I was feeling its nose and jaw. I told Stepfather and he asked, “Do you feel its feet or legs? They should be alongside the head.” I moved my hand some more, shook my head, said I couldn’t feel any feet or legs. “Okay, because you’re small, you’ll need both hands now, get your right hand in there. Push the lamb back into the canal a way, then follow the body around on each side till you find a front leg, see if you can get both of them, next pull them forward.”

I did. As soon as I got the feet and legs alongside the head, that little lamb slid out like it was greased. I couldn’t believe it! I’d just helped birth a baby lamb and Stepfather said it appeared healthy. His messy hand shook mine and he smiled at me just as the next lamb, a boy, slid out. Stepfather clapped me on the shoulder. “You saved two lives. I don’t think a third one is coming. This boy is good sized.”

I stayed out the whole night to help him. While we waited, he told me about other positions the lambs can be in and what to feel for and how to turn them in the uterus, not the canal. I was pretty proud of myself. Later, I thought about killing the lambs after they’d grown for meat. I remembered how that might have upset me when I was younger. After several years on the little farm, I realized how life worked and felt good about helping our little family survive.

As I grew and started to fill out, I began working around the area, doing whatever I could. Mother also hired a tutor to teach me some basics in algebra and geometry. I spent the summer I was fifteen working for a survey crew to map and improve the area roads and bridges. William I, the Prussian ruler and German emperor, wanted to improve our transportation methods. I also helped build a barn. Stepfather said I could keep half of what I earned, the other half went to Mother and him to help pay my keep. Mother agreed. I saved almost all my money; there wasn’t much to spend it on. Chasing girls seemed like a waste of time and money. Not that I wasn’t interested in them. Mother told me to wait till I could afford my own home and support a wife and children before I even nodded to a girl.