It is nearly two in the morning when Tyrell finally falls into bed. He sleeps deeply until just before dawn, when he doesn’t quite wake up but isn’t quite asleep either. Someone is in his room.
He tries to open his eyes, but he can’t move. Through the slits in his eyes he watches the girl at the desk writing a letter.
“What?” he gasps, desperately trying to sit up and see her.
She turns to him. “Der Ofen,” she says.
With a sharp gasp he bolts up, throwing off the comforter. But his room is empty, the girl gone. Dust swirls in lazy rivulets in the stream of light from the window. He stands and walks to the desk. What is she trying to tell him?
Just before eleven that morning, he goes down the narrow stairway to the kitchen. His mom and dad are sitting at the table, coffee cups in hand. A platter with syrup and a single pancake sits in the middle of the table. His mom eyes his dad and then him, as if to say, Don’t talk about it now.
“How did you sleep?” she asks, a sharp edge in her voice.
“Okay. I guess I overslept.”
Dad sets down his coffee cup. “Not getting chilled again, are you?”
Tyrell does feel chilled, not to mention exhausted, but staying home with an angry mom doesn’t sound like a good plan either. “I’m fine. I have to go in. I can’t miss any more or . . . ”
“Or you could fail,” his mom says.
“Yeah, that.” Tyrell pulls the last pancake from the plate and eats it.
*****
As he gets out of the car at Middleton High the wind picks up. It is sharp, like a slap in the face. His mom drives off, and he tucks his hands into the pockets of his sweats. His fingers wrap around a soft piece of paper: the crumpled ten-dollar bill. Yes! He has just enough time to buy a cinnamon roll in the cafeteria before next period.
“What’s this?” the lunch lady asks as she takes the bill.
“Ten dollars, right?” he says. His mouth waters as he eyes the sweet, buttery cinnamon roll.
“This doesn’t look right.” She holds it up to the fluorescent light. “No, something isn’t right with this.” She hands it to him and takes back the plate with the roll.
“Wait, what?” Tyrell holds the bill out.
“See?” She pulls another ten-dollar bill from the register and holds it up.
He lifts his bill next to hers and studies them. He’d been so excited about the letter that he never really looked at it. The back of his bill is greener than the other, and it shows an old Model T car. He flips the bills over. The front of his bill is dark, the ink almost black, but the same Alexander Hamilton face appears in the oval in the middle. But underneath that on his bill it says Will pay to the bearer on demand TEN DOLLARS.
“See what I’m saying?” The lady plucks her bill back. “It’s not right.”
He glances at the date: series of 1928. The bill and the letter are both from the same year as the fire. He must get to Ms. L and find out what the letter says.
“Ty!” Ms. L says from her office when he walks in.
“Did you translate that letter?”
“What? Oh, yes. I printed it out for you.” She pulls a sheet of printed paper from a stack on her desk and hands it to him, along with the letter. “The date is blurry, but it’s nineteen something.”
Dear Mother,
I have found work! Elsa, another girl, told me about a sewing job out west. I took trains and trains and then a boat and now I am here, at the Schneider Wearables Factory, near the town of Middleton. It is beautiful here, very green with trees and lakes, like Bavaria. I sew dresses. I am not very good with the machine because I always sewed by hand before. The boss is mean, and he yells at us in English, always to work faster. If we do not meet the goal, then we must come to the factory after dinner, sometimes until after midnight, and sew. I am slow, so I will have to stay tonight. It is cold and dark in the factory at night since the oven is off, and my fingers move slowly. But tonight I will bring a candle and I will sew faster. Elsa leaves tomorrow for another new job in the big city of Seattle. We girls all stay together in a small cottage. There are many of us, but since there is no heat here, it is good for warmth. I play with the young girl here. She is much like our little Marie. I am sending you this ten dollars, and I will send more. Worry not, Mother, I am well.
Love, Helga
“What happened to her?” Ms. L says when Tyrell sets down the letter.
“Something bad,” he mumbles.
“Why do you say that?”
The girl at the desk and in the factory, it has to be her—Helga. “There was a fire in the factory,” he says. “The paper said no one died, but I think someone did. I think it was Helga.” He lifts the letter. “Do you have more copies of that fire article?”
“Sure.” Ms. L goes to her computer and clicks a few keys. The printer hums as papers spit out. “This one?” She hands him the Schneider Factory fire article, and he scans it.
“Here.” He points. “September fourteenth, that’s the date of the fire and also the date of this letter.”
“That’s why you think this Helga died in that fire?”
“That and something else. I know it.”
“Have you talked to anyone else about this?” Ms. L says.
“No. Well, I did mention it to Miss Schneider.”
“You saw her! Why didn’t you say something?”
“She’s accusing me of trespassing. I think I’m gonna have to do community service.”
“Trespassing?”
“I went to the factory, and she saw me somehow and called the police. If I go back I’ll get arrested, and they’re demolishing the factory tomorrow. Now we’ll never find out what happened. Yeah. I’m screwed. And I probably have community service.”
“Community service isn’t that bad.”
“You only say that because you don’t have to do it.”
“Maybe. By the way . . . ” Ms. L turns. “Was she in her wedding gown?”
“It was a long white thing, but maybe it was a nightgown?”
*****
Tyrell can barely concentrate in chemistry while all of the puzzle pieces float through his mind and connect. Helga is slow at sewing on the machine. It’s very cold up there and her hands freeze, so she brings a candle. Something in that bin catches fire. But she doesn’t leave. Why doesn’t she open the window? Because of the bars. Why doesn’t she run out? The door is locked. The scissors!
“She was trying to get out!” Tyrell blurts.
“Excuse me?” his teacher says. They’re supposed to be balancing equations.
“He locked her in! The keys! Who had the keys?” Helga wasn’t reported missing because whoever had locked her in would get in trouble. He’d just read that after the Shirtwaist Fire, stricter employee safety laws were enacted to prevent such tragedies. So someone must have hidden the body. But where? In that room? Or in the chest? It wasn’t burned, so it was moved in there later, after the fire. That had to be it! If I can find that key, I can open the chest.
“Tyrell—” the teacher starts, but then the bell rings and Tyrell bursts out into the hallway.
He has to get to Miss Schneider before it’s too late.