Old George's Gold

By Steve Repko

This book is a historical novel about the life of a young man growing up during the Great Depression and World War II in the cold fields of South Pennsylvania and the struggles he incurred after his father was killed in the mining accident. Old George was shell-shocked coal miner who lived in a shack near the community where the boy lived. Martin was a talented artist who has very little to look forward to when he found out that George had a lot of money and he didnt keep it in the bank. Martin befriends the troubled old man with the intent of getting a hold of the money for his own use. His friendship with George grew, and when the old man froze to death during the snowstorm, Martin searched for the money. The old mans cabin was ravished and burned by a horde of local people who had the same idea. Martin eventually found the money, and he gave it to an orphanage where Georges blind niece resided.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Mar 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781490753621

Steve Repko

Born on November 25, 1932, the author is the eighth of nine children born to John and Theresa Repko, Hungarian immigrants that settled in a company-provided house in a coal mining community located in Allegheny Mountains of Southwesten Pennsylvania. The author’s father was killed in a coal mine accident in 1935, leaving the author’s mother a single parent of nine children and of little income. Since social security had not been enacted the author’s family were subsided on a $5 per child per month allowance from the mine. This allowance was only up to the sixteenth birthday. The author’s family lived in poverty during the hard times brought on by the Great Depression of 1930. The author was the first child in the family to graduate high school and soon afterwards served in the USAF during the Korean War as an air traffic controller. The author married in 1956 and had four children and moved to Brooklyn, New York, continuing his career as an air traffic controller for the FAA until he retired in 1986. He is currently residing in Wading River, New Jersey, with his wife of fifty-eight years.

Book preview

Chapter One

During an exceptionally damp period in February of 1932, while searching for damaged electrical wires, Andrew Balough enters a section of the Newton Coal Company Mine, Number 5.

It had been a bitter cold winter. The deep blanket of snow that had fallen upon the Allegheny Mountains in early December still rested on the slopes of Beacon Hill and Coon Ridge, two loaf-shaped mountains that framed the Coon Valley. In the secluded valley where the small coal mining community of Shamrock rested, soot from the coal-burning railroad engines, as well as the powdery coal dust that oozed consistently from the mine tipples, had long since turned even the most recent dusting of snow a dirty gray.

It was the last week in February, 1933, and the first faint signs of spring had already begun to appear. Patches of bare soil began to appear on the stream banks, and icicles from the melting snow hung heavily from the eaves of the houses. A persistent chilly rain fell upon the mountains and gradually eroded the depths of hard-packed snow. It had rained for four consecutive days and the frozen earth beneath the snow had started to thaw. With the relentless rain, gullies and ditches were filled to the limit with the icy water. Coon Creek, normally a passive mountain stream, had been transformed into an angry ogre of swollen muddy rapids. To the men of Mill Road, who labored in the coal mines, it seemed as though the sun would never shine again and the rain would never stop.

To them, this dank weather was worse then the frigid temperatures and the heavy snows that it was replacing. Deep inside the mines, protected by the mountain above, the temperature was constant and tolerable, but it was also dark. On days such as this a coal miner’s entire existence was shrouded in darkness. It was dark when he went to work and it was well after dusk when he returned home. It was, indeed, a depressing existence that did little to bolster the morale of the poverty-stricken workers during these uncertain times.

Well before dawn on this morning, a blast from the steam whistle atop the roof of the boiler house at the Newton Coal Mine Number 5 shattered the calm of the sleeping valley. It was the five o’clock wake-up whistle. It was the mark that began each new workday.

Andrew Balough slowly opened his eyes and focused on the gray ceiling of his bedroom. He groaned in disbelief, momentarily unable to accept the harsh reality of another dawn. The night had passed much too soon. He snuggled beneath the soft feather tick, trying to prolong the inevitable; hoping, perhaps, to steal one final moment of contentment.

He could hear the wind-driven rain as it pelted the bedroom window and drummed monotonously on the roof and he could also hear the water from the eaves splatter onto the plank walkway that stretched from the back porch to the brick sidewalk out front. A faint but constant drone added to the din. The roaring waters of Coon Creek were rising again and there would certainly be flooding in the towns and villages downstream. Reluctantly, Andrew grew sober and prepared to face the realities of life, once again. It was time to get along. There were bills to pay and children to provide for.

Times were not good in 1933. The Great Depression had strangled the entire nation, and had also sapped the life from the coal markets. The Newton Coal Company could offer only one or two days of work each week for the miners, and their pay barely covered the rent, the grocery bill at the company store, and the other essentials of life.

Mary was already awake. She always got up before the whistle. Andrew could hear her moving about in the kitchen below him. She had stoked the stove, cleaned out the ash bin, and had put out the cat. He could hear it desperately scratching on the back door trying to get back inside. The odor of the coal fumes, from the stove, mixed with that of frying bacon drifting up the stairway. Breakfast was almost ready. Soon Mary would come to the stairway and call to him softly. Andy, you up? It’s almost time to go.

Andrew quickly shed the covers and left the warm sanctuary of his bed. The cold air served as a tonic to spur him on. He quietly donned the dirty work clothes that hung from a nail in the wall, and he struggled with the heavy work shoes that he retrieved from beneath the bed.

As he tiptoed across the bedroom, he glanced into the corner of the room where Martin slept. He walked over to the small bed and smiled fondly as he cherished the angelic face, illuminated by the dim glow of the hall light. Through sleepy eyes, Martin looked up at his father. He offered a weary grin before he disappeared beneath the covers.

Breakfast was thick slabs of homemade bread, toasted and soaked in hot bacon grease, and washed down with a steaming cup of tea. The bacon would fill the sandwiches that he would take to work with him. Mary joined him at the kitchen table, and, as so many times before, they shared a few brief moments together. She touched his hand gently and he smiled at her. Neither spoke. It was too early for talk. Methodically, she packed his dinner bucket. As was the custom of the miners’ wives, she packed more then he would eat. It was their way of insuring that their men would have something to eat in the event they were trapped underground. The extra food was usually brought back home. Sometimes, the children would meet their fathers on the way home, and finish off what was left.

At five-thirty, another blast from the mine whistle echoed across the valley. It was time to leave. Andrew gulped down the remainder of his tea, donned his heavy, coal-stained mackinaw and pulled a woolen stocking cap over his ears. He slung the large round dinner bucket over his shoulder, kissed Mary lightly on the cheek, and shuffled out the back door into the blinding rain.

Patches of hard-packed snow, made slick by the cool rain, still clung to the brick sidewalk and walking was difficult. With his head bowed low, shielded from the wind, Andrew cautiously made his way toward Number 5.

All along Mill Road, the other miners of Shamrock left their homes and joined the procession on the sidewalk. The faceless figures, without greeting or conversation, fell in line like soldiers; their footsteps pounded a staggered tattoo on the icy sidewalk.

Amid the steady drone from the falling rain and the roaring rapids of Coon Creek, squeaking sounds of the dinner bucket handles could be heard as they swayed from the shoulders of the miners. Somewhere in the blackness, a miner coughed, then gagged, trying to clear yesterday’s coal dust from his lungs. Across the street, Mrs. Ritzig was swearing at her husband, while she stubbornly tried to get him dressed and out of the house. Further on, someone’s baby was crying, dogs were barking, and doors were slamming. As the day shift neared the Number 5 tipple, they could hear the thunderous sound of rolling mine cars as a train was being coupled together to carry them to their place of work.

The mine tipple was a long enclosed ramp where the coal that the miners loaded was weighed, graded, and eventually dumped into large railroad hoppers. This morning, the tipple also served to shelter the men from the rain while they waited for their workday to begin. Andrew sought out his cousin, Peter Rozsa, and the two of them exchanged greetings. All about them groups of miners, chatting in a dozen different languages, discussed the news of the day. They talked about the Depression and they complained about their wives but this morning, the dominant topic of conversation was the weather. One of the miners, who commuted from Newtonville, a short distance down stream from Number 5, reported that the bridge at Main Street was clogged with debris from Coon Creek and the water was backing up and flooding the entire east side of town.

There was also a rumor circulating that West Main, a major artery inside the mine, was flooded, and the electrical power was out. The attention of all of the miners was focused on the small bosses’ shack, just outside the tipple, where Bert Ford, the mine foreman, and Gutch Clayton, the company electrician, were in conference. Through the window of the shack, the animated activity of the two company officials clearly displayed their concern. When the six o’clock whistle blew to signal the start of the work day, and Bert and Gutch remained in the shack, the miners suspected the worse.

Andrew leaned against the far wall of the tipple and studied the faces of his fellow workers. Among the group were Poles and Hungarians, Italians, Greeks, Slavs and Russians. So many different people from so many places. Few, if any, had ever mined coal before they came to the new country. Some had worked in the quarries of Eastern Europe but most were just poor farmers or common laborers who couldn’t make a living in their native lands. Most were unskilled and uneducated. He included himself in that group. He knew them by name and he trusted them because they worked together, but when he went home, he associated only with his own kind—Hungarians. What he shared with the others was his work, the hard times, and dreams for a better life.

When Bert finally emerged from the shack, his face was troubled. He swaggered toward the tipple, shouting to the groups of miners that crowed around him. The mine’s closed. Too much water. Disgruntled murmurs rippled through the tipple.

West Main is flooded and there is a short in there someplace, Bert continued. Can’t even take the motor in. No power anywhere. No air either. The air fan isn’t working. He jumped up on one of the mine carts. We have to take a crew in and see what we can find. He went on, shouting to be heard over the vocal complaints of the miners. If anyone wants to work, we can use some of you. You’ll draw company pay. That’s the best I can offer. He motioned toward the rear of the tipple. Those that want to work, stand over there; the rest of you can go home.

That prompted another outburst from the disgruntled workers and many of them began walking toward the entrance. As they did, they dumped their drinking water from their dinner buckets.

Nobody wanted to work for thirty-three cents an hour but some of the men couldn’t afford to pass it up. What are you going to do? Andrew ask his cousin.

Peter threw up his hands. I’m going home and I’m going back to sleep, he replied, emphatically. He turned toward Andrew. How about you?

Andrew lowered his head and backed toward the rear of the tipple. I think I am going to stay, he answered. We need the money.

As Peter turned to walk away, he hesitated. He didn’t have any children and he wasn’t as financially strapped as most of the other miners, but he didn’t feel right leaving his cousin. Andrew was more then just a cousin to him. He was his partner in the mine, his buddy, and he was his best friend. The two had grown up together in the old country, they had served together in the Hungarian Calvary during World War I, and they had emigrated to America together. They were more like brothers. Aside from Alex Murdock, his uncle by marriage, Andrew was his only relative in America.

Andrew saw him stop. He knew what was going through Peter’s mind. Go home, he chided. Go home and pester your wife. They both laughed as they parted.

There was a low section of West Main where the coal seam, following the contour of the earth, dipped beneath a small stream. Sometimes, water seeped through the roof or through the walls and pooled on the floor at the lowest point. A drainage ditch through the air shaft that lead to the outside kept the area reasonably dry, but small cave-ins often clogged the ditch and backed the water up into the mine. The area was called The Hole.

This condition was what Bert Ford suspected. It had happened a number of times before. He was also concerned that there might be some serious damage to the high-voltage power lines that extended throughout the mine. The wires could have been cut by falling rocks or they might have been submerged in the water and shorted out. Whatever the case, workers had to enter the mine and locate the trouble.

Bert addressed the men who had volunteered to work and rapidly barked assignments to them, anxious to get the mine reopened. He sent a crew to the motor barn to load pumps and hoses onto flat-bed mine cars while he directed another group to the lumber pile to gather props and railroad ties that would be needed for repairs. Gutch, take Greaser, Balough and Popovich, get some picks and shovels, and go in and have a look, he directed. Watch for cracks in the roof and check the wires all the way in. Make sure you check all the fuse boxes. When you find the problem,’’ he insisted, Send someone out right away."

As the four men headed toward the mine entrance, he shouted after them. Gutch, whatever you do, damn it, stay the hell out of the water.

Inside the mine, the gray damp dawn quickly disappeared and gave way to total darkness. The men lit their carbide lamps and fastened them to the front of their caps. Small spots of yellow light appeared in front of them and the odor of burning carbide immediately tainted the air. Large grotesque shadows swayed and bobbed on the tunnel walls as they proceeded, single file, into the mine.

It wasn’t long before Greaser began to sweat. It happened every time he entered the mine. He opened the collar button of his coat. Damn, this place is hot! he remarked. He waited for a reply from the others but they simply ignored his remark. They knew Greaser well. He, like many other miners, never got over the depressing terror of being confined beneath the ground. His inner thoughts never strayed from the dangers that awaited him and he could never shake the fear of the awesome weight of dirt and rocks that surrounded him. It was like being buried alive.

The men progressed cautiously through the darkness, tapping the roof with their pick handles as they walked, testing for loose spots in the slate above them. Gutch kept his lamp trained on the heavy-gauge trolley wire fastened to the roof, and on the main power line that extended from white insulators fastened to the mine props. He paused to check the fuse boxes that were spaced along the wires. Aside from the continuous tapping of their pick handles and the creaking of their dinner buckets, the mine was silent.

Without the fan to ventilate the tunnel, the men encountered pockets of stale air, but they were not overly concerned. As long as their lamps continued to burn brightly, they knew that there was enough oxygen to keep them alive.

A half-mile into the mine, the tunnel divided. The left fork was West Main. With renewed caution they followed the rails into West Main and headed for the hole. Almost immediately, they encountered their first problem. Large thin slabs of slate had fallen loose from the mine ceiling and had severed the power line.

Gutch uttered a sigh of relief. Hell, he shouted, It’s just a busted wire. I expected something a lot worse. He dropped his dinner bucket and his tool bag. Popovich, go tell Bert we found a break in the power line. Tell him it will be fixed in an hour.

George Popovich, obviously annoyed, threw his pick against the wall and mumbled some choice Polish curses before he stomped away.

Nice man, Gutch remarked sarcastically. He’s a good worker but he has worms in his head. I should have sent one of you guys.

While the electrician worked on the wires, Andrew and Greaser rested. They sat on the tracks munching from the contents of their dinner buckets. Andrew took the opportunity to refuel his carbide lamp and Greaser began to complain about the heat again.

It’s not the heat that’s bothering you, Andrew teased. You just had too much hooch last night.

Greaser wasn’t amused. Seen any rats? he asked, trying to change the subject.

Not a one, Andrew replied. Funny how they disappear when they sense danger, huh?

They are a whole lot smarter then we are, Greaser countered. You never find any dead rats caught in a cave-in! Me, I don’t feel good anyplace where a rat won’t stay.

That’s woman’s talk, Greaser, Gutch remarked as he rejoined his companions. He sat down beside Andrew and lifted a sandwich from his bucket. You know old man Bozak? he continued. He lives in the last house on Mill Road. He paused to take a bite. Bozak used to work here, maybe ten years ago. He would never come to work without a canary. They were supposed to be good luck because they died as soon as the air started to get bad.

The electrician paused for a sip of water and another bite from his sandwich. He swallowed rapidly, eager to get on with his story. Well, one day the canary fell over, dead. Bozak ran like hell, heading for the outside. Mickey Kline was his buddy then. Mickey was pushing an empty car into the work place. Gutch stopped to get his breath. He wiped some mustard from his face with his sleeve and began to chuckle. Bozak ran right into the car; broke both legs; hasn’t worked since. Gutch laughed so hard he almost choked on his sandwich. Listen to this, he went on, emphasizing each word. Kline said the dumb bird died of old age.

From deep within the mine, from the direction of the hole, a loud cracking sound interrupted his story. Abruptly, Gutch stopped laughing. Hear that, Andy? he whispered.

Yeah, Andrew replied. Sounds like a lot of roof coming down, doesn’t it?

In the immediate aftermath there was only silence and the men froze while they listened intently. Why don’t you and Greaser wander down there and have a look, Gutch suggested. I’ll finish up here and then I’ll join you later. Now, don’t go off half-cocked, he warned. Keep your eye on the roof and don’t touch any loose wires. If you see anything fishy, come right back.

Greaser took the right side of the tunnel while Andrew walked on the left. They progressed slowly, tapping the roof judiciously every few steps. Periodically, they passed some of the smaller tunnels that branched off on either side of West Main. These offshoots split into dozens of still smaller tunnels that eventually led to the cave-like holes where the coal was actually mined. The coal vein along that part of West Main was all worked out and some of the tunnels had been blasted to close them off. Some stumps, pillars of coal and slate, that were left untouched to help support the roof while the men were still working there. Some work places were visible from West Main.

Andrew stopped and peered into the low dark crevices. Since only the coal was mined and the coal vein varied in thickness, some of work areas were less then three feet high. The miners that loaded the coal from those places probably worked on their knees all day. You want to go in there and dig some coal? Andrew taunted, sarcastically.

Go to hell, Greaser countered.

Further into the tunnel, they encountered some chips of slate that had fallen from the roof but that wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. Debris falling from the ceiling was common. As they went on, Greaser became increasingly edgy. Let’s go back, Andy, he stammered from time to time. I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all.

Andrew stopped. Be quiet, he whispered. I think I hear something. The two men stood motionless, straining to hear above the sounds of their own breathing. Then, from the blackness before them, faintly at first, then gradually increasing, they heard the unmistakable sounds of splashing water. Hear that? Andrew snapped.

I hear it now, Greaser whispered. It sounds like the whole damn ocean is coming through the roof.

You’re right about that, Andrew agreed. Lets go down and get a better look. Stay close to the wall.

The floor of the mine slanted downward slope as the men neared the hole. You know where we are at? Andrew asked calmly. We’re right below that little crick between the park and the cemeteries. Maybe we’ll see some skeletons come falling through the ground. He turned toward Greaser and chuckled. Maybe we’ll find your old lady in here somewhere.

As they approached the lowest part of West Main, they found that it was filled with water; just as Bert had predicted. They stared in awe at the gigantic black pool spread out before them. The light from their lamps reflected on the water and danced erratically on the ceiling. At one point, the water was only a foot below the roof. From the right wall, a steady stream of water poured into the mine from a large crevice near the roof.

Man! Greaser cried out. Look at that, will you! I never saw that much water in the mine before.

Andrew edged closer to the water but Greaser lagged behind. I think we should get out of here, he stammered. You better get back from there.

Andrew continued to inch along the wall toward the water. I think there is a broken prop in there. A lot of the roof is down, he reported.

Then don’t go any closer, Greaser cautioned. Let’s just get the hell out of here, Andy. Let’s go get Gutch.

In a minute. Let me just peek around the corner; see if I can see anything else. Andrew leaned out over the pool as far as he could, holding onto one of the mine timbers with his left hand to keep from falling into the water.

Suddenly, the heavy cross-beam that spanned the width of the tunnel directly above them shifted. Particles of dirt and small pieces of slate spilled from a crack in the roof. Greaser spun around and scrambled wildly up the slope. He glanced toward Andrew but his visibility was obstructed by the dust that now billowed throughout the tunnel.

The entire mountain above them began to tremble, and sharp clapping sounds rolled through West Main as the slate from the roof above the cross-beam began to separate. The heavy timber groaned, as if in pain, as the full weight of the mountain bore upon it. Even as Greaser scurried to get out from beneath it, the beam snapped, the vertical props on either side fell inward, and a large section of the mountain crashed into the hole. In seconds it was all over. The sound of the splashing water was all that disturbed the sudden ghostly silence.

Greaser had somehow managed to evade the falling rocks, but in his haste to do so, he tripped and fell hard against one of the rails. His cap was jarred loose and the carbide lamp was thrown free. He watched helplessly as the lamp rolled back down the slope and into the water where the flame was snuffed out.

With out his lamp, he was totally engulfed in the inky blackness. Andrew’s light was not visible either and he suddenly felt alone. He began to sweat profusely and the lump on his head where he had struck the rail pulsated with pain. He felt a warm trickle of blood leaking down his cheek. His fear turned to panic as he scrambled, on his hands and knees, up the slope and out of the hole, clutching the steel rails to guide himself along.

Greaser stopped at the top of the slope. He sat on the damp floor facing the sound of the splashing water while he rocked back and forth, trying desperately to regain control. The inside of his mouth was dry and he had difficulty breathing from the thick cloud of dust that infiltrated the air. Only after a long pause was he able to call out to Andrew. You all right, Andy? His quivering voice echoed through the tunnel. There was no reply. Where you at, Andy? You all right? Nothing!

As reality crept into his thoughts, Greaser feared the worst. There was a good probability that his partner might be badly hurt. He yelled again, louder. Shine the light, Andy. I’ll come and get you. He drew no reply. He listened intently for any sound, any movement; anything that would indicate that Andrew was alive. My God, I have to do something! he murmured. I have to get up. I have to go for help.

The dust seemed to thicken and he knew that it was in his best interest to leave while he still had the strength. He stumbled erratically through the dark tunnel, slamming into the walls, first on one side then on the other. As he did, he became disorientated in the darkness and had difficulty keeping his balance. He fell often, and each time, renewed flashes of pain sparked through his head. Finally, he could go no farther. He fell to his knees, totally exhausted. Gutch! he screamed. Gutch! Help me! Something has happened to Andy!

Gutch had heard the roar of the cave-in and was already on his way to the hole. He nearly tripped over Greaser; who he found lying on the mine floor, whimpering softly. What happened, Greaser? he demanded. Where is Balough?

Greaser blubbered incoherently as he struggled to blurt out the bad news. While he desperately clung to the electrician’s coat sleeve with one hand, he motioned toward the hole. Hurry, Gutch, Andy is still in there.

Gutch hurried down the slope and when he reached the edge of the water he was devastated by what he could make out through the dust. The level of water in the pool had continued to rise. In some spots, it was touching the roof. Piles of rock and debris protruded from the water. The sight before him was eerie and gruesome, like something out of a bad nightmare. Deeply disturbed, he scanned the area carefully but there was no sign of Andrew. He knew that there was little hope that he alone could locate the lost miner. He also surmised that nobody would find Andrew Balough alive. He grabbed Greaser by the wrist and pulled him along as he scurried toward the outside.

Bert Ford and the remainder of the crew were just preparing to enter the mine when Gutch and Greaser emerged from the entrance. They didn’t have to be told that something was terribly wrong. The truth was horrendously etched on the faces of the two men. Gutch Clayton, a veteran miner, as hard as the coal he worked with, was crying.

Cave-in! Gutch yelled. Balough got caught in a cave-in!

All along Mill Road, the inhabitants of Shamrock heard the alarm. Loud, short, monotonous, repetitious blasts from the mine whistle. They heard it in Newtonville as well. Everyone knew the meaning. They had heard it before. It drove fear into their hearts and it penetrated their hides like the icy winds of winter. It was the most dreaded sound in the coal fields. People stopped whatever they were doing. Some immediately headed for Number 5, while others knelt and prayed. For everyone who heard the alarm, the day had suddenly turned sour.

Martin Balough was five years old, too young to go to school with his sisters, too young to do almost anything. He didn’t get out of bed until after Margaret, Judy and Lizzy, his older sisters, left for school. After breakfast he bundled up and went out into the backyard to play. It was still drizzling but the heavy rain had ceased. He took some stale bread for the chickens and got some oats from the feed box in the barn for the geese and rabbits. He checked the goose barn for eggs but there were none. One of the geese was starting to nest and he tried to tease it out of the barn. It hissed at him but it refused to pursue him. Martin was disappointed. Springtime is coming, he scolded. You better get busy or you aren’t going to have any babies this year.

Martin was walking back to the house when the alarm sounded. He ran to the front porch just as Mary came out of the house. Why is the whistle blowing? he asked. Mary ignored him.

Most of the neighbors were also out on their porches. Even though their men were safe at home, they were still apprehensive. Some of the men were blindly running down the sidewalk toward Number 5 and they flashed greetings to Mary as they passed. She fought back a strong urge to join them and she leaned hard against the bannister. With each blast of the whistle, she felt the knot inside he stomach tighten. Her breathing became labored and she felt like she was going to be sick. Mary had heard the disaster alarm many times in the past but it never got any easier. Someone was hurt at the mine, and that was the cold fact. Some miner’s family had been devastated today. As always, she was certain it was her Andrew. The same questions, the same fears that had gripped her before were with her again. How badly is he hurt? Is he crippled? Is he dead? God! What will become of us if he doesn’t come home? she murmured.

Mrs. Sansone, the next door neighbor, shouted across the yard. Your Andy home? Mary shook her head. Her neighbor said no more.

Martin saw the concern on his mother’s face. The color had left her cheeks and her lips trembled. He climbed upon the bannister and sat next to her. What’s the matter, Mum? he asked.

Nothing, Mary quickly replied, feeling a bit embarrassed that she had caused him concern.

Then why is everybody running down the sidewalk? Martin persisted. Why is the whistle blowing so long? Mary put her arm around her baby and helped him from the bannister. Let’s go into the house where it is warm, she suggested. There is some trouble at the mine, that’s all. Just some trouble at the mine.

Chapter Two

Alerted by the haunting blasts of the mine whistle, used to warn the community of mine disasters, Mary Balough’s fears are confirmed.

After the emergency signal from atop the boiler room at Number 5 stopped blaring, Martin decided to go out to play. He crawled through the hole in the chicken wire fence that separated the Balough and Sansone front yards and joined Honey Sansone on the front porch. Honey was only four years old but she was larger then Martin and the two were well-suited to each other. They were constant playmates. The Sansone’s house was slightly higher on the slope of Beacon Ridge then the Balough’s, and thus, provided a better view of the neighborhood. From their vantage on the front porch swing they had an excellent view of Mill Road for nearly the entire length through the community of Shamrock. They could see as far as the grade school to the west, beyond which a sharp curve in the road obstructed their view.

On the sidewalk, the people that had scurried to Number 5 when the alarm had initially been sounded, were straggling back to their homes. Mrs. Sansone briefly poked her head out of the front door and yelled to one of them. Who was hurt? The man shrugged. Did you hear anything? The man shook his head.

The Zunek kids and Korey Novak were outside as well. They were floating milk cans in the ripples of the icy water that drained in a ditch along the side of the road. Honey suggested that they join them but Martin shook his head. I’m not allowed to play with them, he remarked, sadly. My mother said that they always like to fight because they are Russians. I have to stay away from them.

The large red feed wagon, pulled by Lehman’s gray mules, moved slowly up the grade, stopping occasionally to allow the driver to deliver sacks of grain and flour at some of the homes. Near the school, they could see Paul Goodrige, the mailman, his leather bag slung over his shoulder, criss-crossing the road from house to house, delivering the afternoon mail. Even at such a distance, he was easily recognized. Paul had one leg shorter then the other, due to a bout with polio, and he limped profoundly. His body swung from side to side like a pendulum.

Through the vacant lot across the road, they could also watch the activity on the railroad tracks, below them, and they had a good view of Coon Creek, beyond the railroad tracks. They marveled at the large trees, that now bobbed insignificantly atop the muddy rapids of the swollen creek, trees that had been torn out by the roots somewhere upstream.

Martin and Honey could hear the motor long before the car came into view, around the curve, beyond the school. They jumped off the swing and hung over the porch banister. There weren’t many cars in Newtonville in 1933, and it was a rare occasion when one actually came up Mill Road. They watched in amazement as the car sped toward them. This one was a real beauty; gray with shiny black fenders.

The driver tooted the horn and the kids playing in the road scrambled on to the sidewalk.

They waved and shouted at the car as it passed. Martin and Honey were surprised and pleased, when the car pulled off the road and parked directly across the street. Two men got out of the car, crossed the road and entered the Balough’s gate. Honey raced from the porch and darted across the street, where she joined the other kids that had gathered around the car. They amused themselves, peering at their distorted images reflected in the polished finish and gaping in awe at the large chrome fixture on the hood. Martin wanted to join them but he was curious about the two strangers that had gone into his yard. In an flash, he slipped trough the hole in the fence and followed them to the back porch.

The big man in the dirty miner’s clothes knocked on the back door. The other man, dressed in a smart black suit and a long topcoat, stood on the steps behind him. He was holding his derby in front of him with both hands and his head was bowed. To Martin, it appeared as though he was praying. Martin squeezed around him to get onto the porch. The man’s clothes smelled like a mixture of mothballs and cigar smoke.

The man in the dirty clothes stepped back when Mary opened the door and moved out onto the porch. She smiled at the men but she looked scared and she kept wiping her hands in her apron like they were dirty. Martin moved over to her and nudged against her leg.

Good day, Mrs. Balough, Bert began. His voice was low and labored. He didn’t face Mary, instead, he stared at the porch floor as he spoke and methodically scraped his brogans on the boards. It was evident that he would much rather have been somewhere else. Mr. Newton simply nodded and shuffled uneasily on the porch stairs.

Good day to you, Mr. Ford, Mr. Newton, Mary replied. She stared straight out between the two men, her jaws clamped and her lips pressed tightly together. During the awkward silence that followed, Martin felt his mother’s body stiffen and then she began to quiver. Just the sight of the two mine officials on her back porch was indication enough that they were the bearers of bad news.

J. C. Newton was the first to break the silence. Mrs. Balough, there’s been an accident at the mine, he said. He took a cigar from his pocket and fumbled with the wrapper.

Martin looked up at his mother’s face. Her expression didn’t change but she was wringing her hands more intensely then before. Is Andrew hurt bad? Mary asked in a small, nearly inaudible voice. As she spoke she rocked her head and shoulders while she continued to stare beyond the men. When they didn’t respond, she asked again; this time louder. Is he hurt bad?

Bert continued to scrape his shoes on the porch floor and J. C. fussed with his cigar. Neither appeared eager to say anything. Their silence frustrated Mary and she glared at them fiercely. Bert’s face got red and he began to stammer. He turned toward J. C. and then back to Mary. The torn look on her face was more then he could take. He cleared his throat before he continued. Mrs. Balough, Andrew is dead. He was killed in West Main this morning. He got hit on the head and got knocked in the water. We suspect that he drowned.

Martin could feel the tension grip his mother’s body and he saw that her fists were clenched and that her knuckles were white from the pressure. Suddenly, her hands were around him and she was pulling him against her side. She held him with such force that his ears hurt and he had to struggle to pull loose. Mary looked down at him as he backed away. She made one pathetic attempt to smile at him, then she turned her attention back to the two mine officials. She slowly raised her clenched fists to her mouth as she whispered, softly, My God! My God!

Newton moved to comfort her but she pulled away from him. I’m sorry, Mrs. Balough, he murmured awkwardly. He was visibly disturbed by her apparent anger. Andrew was a good man. He was a good worker. We will all miss him, he stated. Tears streamed down his cheeks