Excerpt
Nicholas Petr arrived at the Rose Street house a few days after Stefans tenth birthday. A New York fellow recently hired at the shipyard, he was a Party member looking for Anton Mrokas house when he saw the sign in Jiri Mrokas front window. ROOM AND BOARD APPLY INSIDE. He was barely into his twenties.
Well, aint you in luck, Angela smiled.
Thats my grandfather youre looking for, Mister. Want me to show you where he lives?
Now, Steffie, let the young man come in and get warm, see the room and all.
And so a new scenario was about to unfold as Stefan watched a new boarder follow his mother into the house.
Nick Petr was a riveter at the shipyard in Curtis Bay. He was tall and lean of muscle, sporting a slash of black moustache above his thin upper lip. His dark brown eyes were soft and dreamy-like and his voice was gentle even in his diatribes against greedy Capitalists and the ignorant Papists in the neighborhood. Mama always acted as though he didnt mean to include her as she maintained her devotion to Mother Mary every Sunday morning at Mass.
As soon as Pop left the house for Kozis Bar, Nick and Mama would turn on the radio and do the Charleston and the Black Bottom on the newly waxed kitchen floor. He moved like a cat, lithe, prepared to attack like the amateur boxer he was at the Friday night bouts held at Workingmans Hall to raise money for Union members.
Stefan liked Nick Petr, Comrade Nick, imitating him with his small fists peppering a shadow opponent. Papa encouraged the relationship even though it was common knowledge Nick Petr kept the hot-blooded Angelas bed warm while Jiri was away. Papa turned a deaf ear to the gossip, praising Nicolas Petr for his keen mind, resolute in the Cause for uplifting the fate of the Workers of the World. Nick was smart and well informed of history in the making unlike the dumb animal Bohous whose grunts and groans drove Stefan from his own bed, sobbing in Papas arms, finding comfort in the soft lap of Baba.
Nick Petr became a Leader of the Young Pioneers where Stefan took pride in his uniform and security in the company of his young Comrades who did not live on Rose Street, did not hear the whisperings about his mother nor the shameful, cowardly behavior of his father. They did know his grandfather whose name was revered by these sons of laboring men, these boys from homes of many cultures other than Czech. Through this diverse community all with a single purpose to make their world a better one for all races of working people, a paradigm of Brotherhood ensued.
Stefan saw his grandfather as his Comrades saw him, a scarred, tough labor Union organizer respected by Earl Browder and the Newspaper Guild alike. From the day Anton Mroka set foot on American soil and found the promise of equality had to be rescued in the streets of New York with other immigrants, he became a man to be reckoned with from Baltimores busy Port to the tool and die workers at the factory he helped to free from slave wages. As the Russians five-year plans flourished in the death throes of American capitalism, Anton, like thousands all across this impoverished land, joined the swelling membership of the American Communist Party.
Now retired from his labors, Stefan felt the eyes of his grandfather upon him as he continued to clean up the dishes in the sink across the room. His soft, throaty voice spoke, I am pleased you wear your red silk scarf when you come to see your Papa, Stefan. It helps patch a hole in my heart made by my own son, Jiri, whose love of drink has drowned my teaching. Tony, too, is deaf in one ear. But he is a man of moral responsibility and some day he will give me the other ear, eh?
Im proud to be a Young Pioneer, Papa, Stefan spoke defiantly, recalling his parents harsh recriminations.
Good, little frog. Your leader has done his work well, but I have a few stones to throw. I like Nicholas Petr, his dedication to the Cause. With all his strength of muscle, I despise his weakness. He beds down your mother, he cuckolds your father in his own house and I do not approve of that!
His deep voice was so strong it rattled his frail body. It was a cry of rage and indignation and there would come a time when Stefan would recall these words and the unforgiving rebuke behind them. Stefan put his hands over his eyes, shivering as a rabbit ran over his grave.
Stefan fiddled with his drawing pad, the snowy white blank paper inviting him to fill it. He searched his bookbag for his charcoals and colored pencils. He glanced at Baba whose eyes were closed now. Her rocking chair was still being propelled by her red felt slippered feet, rhythmically like a metronome. Her snow-white wrinkled hands were folded over her plump, aproned stomach. Once golden hair now tarnished with grey encircled her head in a thick braid. Despite the pungent odor of wood smoke from the stove, a faint smell of violets captured Stefans senses.
Look, Papa, Babas sleeping. Guess Id better be going.
The old man looked up from the sink. His wet hand cupped his ear. Not sleeping, son. She would not admit to that. She takes a pause before bedtime, like a cat who lifts one eye.
Stefan began to sketch while Papa mopped the linoleum floor. He studied his work, the outline of Baba and the curving lines of her rocker. They grey dress beneath the white apron was alive with tiny red rose buds. His fingers carefully drew in every petal, every leaf, discarding the apron. He pursed his lips. Yes, better without the apron. He would leave the outlines just as they were, suggestive, vague and the patterned dress the main part, the focal point of the sketch. Boy, this will make a swell oil, he thought.
Papa was coming in from the yard carrying a bucket of wood chunks for the cook stove. The big brown clock from the old country sat on its wall perch loudly ticking away the hours. With each second passing, Stefan felt time was aging the large friendly kitchen with all its contents, the square oaken table where he was sitting, the high-back caned chairs around it, the big black wood stove with its thick neck stuck through the wall puffing out its wondrous aromas summer or winter, never sleeping, kitchen cabinets stacked with dishes that had weathered gigantic undulations of the North Atlantic while secured in steerage with hundreds of immigrants, the rocking chair and Baba, too, whose snores were now soft nuzzly sounds. Stefan frowned at the clock aging her and Papa and himself. Stefan knew he was aging with every tick of the clock. It was going too fast. He had to catch up with it.
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