The white noise fills the room and its glow casts shadow puppets on the walls. Anne is near the kitchen leaning against her mother’s delicate hanging depiction of “Our Lady of the Unburnt Bush”. The icon shows Mary with her child in an oval mandala. The colors are still bright and command the eyes despite its years. Reds, oranges and greens with gold and flames. Anne remembers the 8 points representing something but now the memory is gone. She never quite understood why it came to be hanging in their living room on Eldridge.  But she does remember her mother coming home with it one day and quietly placing on the wall just outside their small sunny kitchen. Anne was only five years old when her mother sat her on her lap and explained, and now Anne does recall this clearly, that the image was highly respected in Russia as a protection from fire.  At the time her young mind sought only to run her fingers across it and feel the smoothness of the wood and stare are the dark and sorrowful eyes of Our lady.  But later, after their home became quiet and there were no more teas with her dolls and bears while her mother read to her. Her favorite was the Wind in the Willows. But her mother’s favorite was Black Beauty! Anne did not look at the hanging as much.

Anne’s mind comes back to the present. Everyone is over to watch Bob Hope’s first television special. It’s quite an event. There will be comedy she’s sure, and dancing. And some of Hope’s famous sketches she feels sure.

Her father is there, sitting off to the side by the cracked side window smoking into the cool evening air, her Uncle Bobby and Aunt Lizzie of course, laughing and taking over the paisley sofa near the small television. And her best friend Jack. trying to catch her eye over in the window seat It is a typical Sunday in the Finnegan house.

Anne feels a bit out of sorts. Last night she’d had the strangest dream. She was in a place outside and it was cold. Cold like it’s always been that way. She’s waiting. There are people walking by and they are dressed oddly. Long dark coats of some sort of animal skin. Large heavy hats as well. The air is white and cold coming from their mouths and their eyes are downcast. No one seems to notice her. Nor each other truly.  Everyone seems to be in a hurry. She feels quite calm though, waiting. She cannot see herself only the scene before her. She knows she has a coat and gloves on and she can feel the soft movement of her hair tickling her cheek.

Suddenly there is a scream and the bodies in front of her start to surge forward. There is the sound of what has to be gunfire, coming closer to her. She is shoved from behind and lands hard her hands catching her fall skid on the rough ground. Then there is a gust of wind as everyone stops. The cold air seems to freeze just outside her lids.

There are men in the street. They are wearing high black boots over deep green trousers. Some have scabbards while others hold long guns affixed with bayonets. On their shoulders she can see red. The man closest to her is young and his face is smooth and unlined. The gun hangs hesitantly in his hands.

There are other men in the street, these men are dressed in dark patched trousers and some have lost their warm hats. There are tears in their words though Anne cannot understand them. They are on their knees on the petrified earth. The men with the guns are clearly soldiers. And their eyes are searching. Searching for her. Somehow she is sure of this. She shrinks inside and her breath catches and is stifled. Everything seems so still. The young man she noticed earlier is turning toward her, his eyes roaming the faces. They catch on her. His gun is turning towards her a worried pucker to his face. His hands are shaking. So are hers.

The slam of the old Sycamore branch jars her out of herself. It slams against her window again and this time she can hear her father coming down the hall from his room next door. She is lying in her bed the shadows of the branches moving on her wall like alien things in the moonlight.

She does not tell her father about the dream. The profound sense of an end leaves an imprint burning on her chest and it is some days before she can breathe again. 

Next Chapter: Lucy, February 1938, New York