The Diviner

It is a story of a young Hungarian woman who comes from a family of diviners. And she has a son.

In her young life she has seen much of pain and suffering. She wants a better life for her son. She will go to America.

Her story is like thousands of others and yet her story is just that: her story. The woman and her son set off on a great journey. They cross the Atlantic Ocean on a big steamer and land at Ellis Island. There, with the huddled ma.s.ses, she and her son are herded through cattle pens to be examined by doctors for sickness or disease.

In the din of different languages echoing in the room, she hears a voice behind her speaking words she understands. It is Gizi Vajda, a girl from her own village. They have not seen each other in years and here they end up together, in America. Or almost in America.

A doctor looks at their papers, then at the boy. Your name is Benedek, the doctor says.

The boy smiles at hearing his name. He holds out four fingers to tell the doctor how old he is. The doctor pats him on the head. A healthy one, he says, even though the boy does not understand. Then the doctor examines the mother. He checks her eyes. One is red and milky. He writes a T T on her arm for on her arm for trachoma trachoma, an eye infection. It is very contagious, so she will not be permitted to stay. She must return to the boat and sail back.

This cannot be. To have come all this way...It is just a cold in her eye. Nothing serious.

But her words are not understood. And her son, she cannot take him back on the boat. He is allowed to stay, so he does not get a return ticket, and she does not have enough money to buy one. Gizi says, I will keep him with me. I have a place to stay in New York. I will give you the address. When your eye is better, you will come back.

The young woman hugs her son, kisses him again and again, and, through her tears, says to be a good boy and she will come back. But how will you find me? he asks. She takes a locket from her neck. Inside is a compa.s.s. See? she says to him. This needle always points north. But in here, she says, pointing to her heart, I have a compa.s.s that always points to you. No matter where you are, I will find you.

She puts the locket around his neck and Gizi holds his hand while they wave goodbye.

The woman takes the long trip back to Europe. Her eye gets better and she works very hard to make enough money to take the boat ride again. This time she is allowed into America and goes to the place where Gizi is a seamstress for a rich family. But the maid who answers the door shakes her head. Gizi got very sick. She was in a hospital for three weeks and died.

But little Benedek. The boy who was with her? The maid shrugs. She doesn't know where they took him.

For a whole year, the young woman walks the streets of New York. She knocks on doors of churches, orphanages, hospitals. No one can help her. No one has seen her son. Until, one day, she knocks on the door of the Orphanage of the Good Shepherd. Yes, they had a boy there. His name was Benedek. But he was put on an orphan train and sent west.

For many more months the woman's search continues. As she goes farther west into America, she draws attention. People frown at her thick accent. They raise their eyebrows at her dark skin. She tells them she is from a family of diviners, a people who read the signs of land and water. But they do not understand. She is shunned and called a Gypsy and a fortune-teller. She asks about a boy and they hold their children behind them. Then she finds a little town in southeast Kansas called Manifest. And she finds her son.

But now little Benedek is seven years old. He has been adopted by Hadley Gillen, who owns a hardware store. The man loves the boy and the boy is happy. The child speaks their language as if he does not remember the one he heard as a baby.

If she reveals herself as his mother, she will bring shame on him. They will shun him the way she has been shunned. So what does she do? She does what a diviner does. She watches. She waits. She loves.

As people come to her for their palms to be read or their fortunes told, she puts on a show. She dresses the part. But what she gives them instead is the truth she observes and knows about them. To the young wife who comes in her grief over not being able to have a child, Miss Sadie gives herbs to calm her fears and open her womb. When the aging grandmother who grows forgetful and fears she is losing her mind comes to her, Miss Sadie, the diviner, comforts her. She pats her hand and tells her that the things she does remember, things from long ago, are as real as what happened yesterday.

But mostly, she watches, she waits, she loves.

Only one woman in the town takes note. Sees her pain. Recognizes the look of a mother watching her son, even from a distance. The nun who is also a midwife. She promises to keep the woman's secret. But she provides her with grade cards, childhood drawings, school papers. She does her best to do what a midwife does. She helps the woman realize, in some small way, her motherhood. She helps the mother keep the promise she made in the peekaboo song she once sang to her son. Where is little boy hiding? Where did little boy go? Mama is always watching you. Where you are, Mama will always know.

But the woman, the mother, she watches, she waits, she loves. And she bears the weight of that love. She bears the loss of her son to war. She bears the story of Manifest. When everyone else is crushed by it, by the loss, the pain. When no one else can bear to remember. She is the keeper of the story. Until someone who needs to hear it comes along. When it will be time to make it known. To manifest. That's what a diviner does.

Beginnings, Middles, and Ends

AUGUST 30, 1936.

Over the following days, Lettie, Ruthanne, and I took long walks. They listened as I told them the whole story. About Jinx and Ned, and Miss Sadie, and Gideon. And me.

We talked about other things too. About how the town seemed to have come back to life. All the Remember When stories in the paper had folks talking about the way Manifest used to be. And all the fine memories they had. And how people used to take care of each other. There were tears too, but they seemed to be healing tears.

We talked about how Ivan DeVore, the postmaster, had finally worked up the nerve to ask Velma T. to the upcoming Second Annual Homecoming Celebration, being held eighteen years after the first one. She said she knew he'd been sending her those anonymous notes all those years, but it wasn't a woman's place to do the asking.

And the women were piecing together another quilt, only this time, instead of a victory quilt, it was a friendship quilt, and they asked Miss Sadie to make the center square. After all, it wasn't her fault that a young boy's first and only welding job had been to make her a gate with her family name, Redizon, at the top. Those letters that when poorly welded and a little warped, looked more like Perdition.

Mrs. Dawkins at the drugstore gave Lettie, Ruthanne, and me a dollar apiece for our idea of offering free ice-cold water to folks traveling by on the highway. Once we put up the sign that read COME TO MANIFEST FOR FREE ICE-COLD WATER-IT WON'T CURE YOUR ILLS, BUT IT WILL QUENCH YOUR THIRST COME TO MANIFEST FOR FREE ICE-COLD WATER-IT WON'T CURE YOUR ILLS, BUT IT WILL QUENCH YOUR THIRST, the cars started rolling in. Most folks would drink their free ice water and shop a bit before moving on.

The strangest thing was how we found out that Mr. Underhill wasn't the Rattler after all. Oh, he was the one who'd written the note, all right, and he'd tacked it to our tree. He'd seen us watching him in the cemetery that first day when he was measuring out a burial plot. Turned out he'd been cheating folks for years, shorting their coffins and burial plots by six inches to a foot while charging full price. But when he heard we were on a spy hunt, he got real worried. He had been kind of a spy after all. He thought we'd found out that he was the one who'd fed Devlin and Burton information during the fake quarantine. The past week, Hattie Mae had walked into the Better Days Funeral Parlor and said, "Mr. Underhill, you've got some explaining to do." He must have been on pins and needles for a long time, worried that somebody'd find out, because he broke down right then and there and confessed the whole thing.

He was a bit put out when Hattie Mae said she'd only come in to ask him where he got off calling her a hack reporter and had he or had he not started charging by the letter for engraving tombstones after the incident involving Emanc.i.p.ation Proclamation Nesch.

So the Rattler was still at large.

Remember When entries kept coming in. One surprising entry read Remember the waterlogged victory quilt? Most people don't know that it was dried and returned to Mrs. Eudora Larkin with a handwritten apology from Ned Gillen and his friend Jinx. They both signed their names in the middle square, right over President Wilson's washed-out signature. It was a lovely gesture and that quilt has been on my divan all these years. But I'm pa.s.sing it along to a young lady in the care of Shady Howard who has helped us remember who we are and where we come from.Pearl Ann (Larkin) Hamilton But it was Heck Carlson who won the Remember When contest. His entry read Remember when Manifest seemed a place too far away to ever get back to? A place too good to be real. A place one was proud to call home. Remember? For those of us who made it home, let us always remember. And for those who didn't come home, let us never forget.

But a question remained: where was my my home? Lettie finally asked what we'd all been avoiding. "Abilene, what are you going to do?" home? Lettie finally asked what we'd all been avoiding. "Abilene, what are you going to do?"

I hadn't known for sure until I happened to take a closer look at the book I'd accidentally stolen from the high school and had yet to return. For weeks it had sat on my nightstand, apparently waiting patiently to be noticed. And then I noticed it. It was Moby d.i.c.k Moby d.i.c.k, the book Sister Redempta had mentioned when I'd quoted Gideon's saying about home. The same quote Ned had written in his last letter. It is not down in any map; true places never are It is not down in any map; true places never are.

I paged through it for a while, looking for those words. I haven't found them yet, as I've got about six hundred pages still to go. But I did find something else. The checkout card taped in the front of the book. There were names that went way back. There was one date stamp: September 12, 1917. Beside it, in a familiar hand, was the name Ned Gillen. And he must have read the whole thing, as he'd checked it out two more times after that.

But it was the next name that made my eyes well up. March 6, 1918-Gideon Tucker. I had found him. I'd found my daddy. And I would find him again.

The morning of August 30 came. It was overcast as the 9:22 chugged into the depot. Lettie and Ruthanne, one on each side of me, walked me to the train station. I wore a pretty lavender smock that Mrs. Evans had made for me out of an old dress that had belonged to her daughter, Margaret. Mrs. Evans said it complemented my auburn hair and hazel eyes. I didn't even know my hair was auburn.

Lettie squeezed my hand. "Are you sure about this, Abilene?"

"I'm sure," I said as the train hissed a steamy sigh. I held tight to my satchel that held the cigar box of mementos and letters.

"You sent him a telegram, didn't you?" asked Ruthanne.

"I did. It was a little vague."

"Then maybe we should all go back to Shady's place," Lettie pleaded.

One after another, travelers started to get off the train. Charlotte Hamilton, Miss Beauty Parlor, pranced her way down the steps and looked at me a little aghast. "Are you still here?"

I just smiled as her mother called from down the platform. I wasn't too worried about Charlotte Hamilton, daughter of Pearl Ann Larkin Hamilton and granddaughter of Mrs. Eugene Larkin, and likely future president of the Daughters of the American Revolution. She came from good stock and she would come around.

Then it appeared that all who were getting off had gotten off. Ruthanne and Lettie looked at me, apparently not knowing what to say.

"Maybe he didn't get the telegram," said Ruthanne.

"That's right. He'll probably be on tomorrow's train," said Lettie.

"No. He won't be on tomorrow's train," I said, staring off down the tracks in the direction the train had just come from. Then, as if those tracks were calling me, I took off running. I felt on solid ground again, hearing the rhythm of my feet pounding against each railroad tie. I made it clear past the shot-up Manifest town sign before I saw him. Anyone worth his salt knows it's best to get a look at a place before it gets a look at you.

He was walking toward me, one railroad tie after another, as if he'd spent the whole summer getting back to me. He looked thin; his clothes hung a little baggy. I knew he'd gotten my telegram. It was probably not that convincing a con but I guess I was banking on the hope that he missed me. The truth is I wasn't sure he would come. I knew he loved me and he'd only left me because he'd thought it was for the best. But for now he was here. Would he stay?

He walked toward me like a man in a desert, looking afraid that what he saw before him might be a mirage that would vanish when he got closer. I stepped up to him, closing the gap, and at last he knelt down and took me in his arms. He held his face next to mine, and when he looked straight into my eyes with tears in his, I knew. And he knew. We were home.

I took his hand and in it was the crumpled-up telegram Ivan DeVore sent for me at no charge.

WESTERN U UNION.

TELEGRAPH S SERVICEDEAR GIDEON TUCKER STOP REGRET TO INFORM YOU OF THE GRAVE ILLNESS OF YOUR DAUGHTER ABILENE TUCKER STOP SHE'S PUTTING UP A BRAVE FIGHT BUT THE LUMBAGO HAS SET IN AND WE FEAR HER TIME IS NEAR DONE STOP HER LAST WORDS (SO FAR) ARE: HERMAN MELVILLE SHOULD STICK TO WRITING ABOUT BIG WHITE WHALES, BECAUSE TRUE PLACES ARE FOUND IN MANY PLACES, INCLUDING ON MAPS STOP WE THOUGHT YOU MIGHT LIKE TO KNOW SO THAT YOU CAN COME TO MANIFEST AND PAY YOUR RESPECTS IN PERSON STOP WE WILL TRY TO KEEP HER ON ICE UNTIL YOUR SPEEDY ARRIVAL STOP GOOD LUCK AND G.o.dSPEED STOP

The Rattler

AUGUST 31, 1936.

I've been told that every good story has a beginning, a middle, and an end. As Gideon and I sat for a spell, just the two of us, right there on the train tracks, I told him the story I'd needed to hear. And I knew he needed to hear it too, all the way to the end.

I gave him his box of mementos and watched as he fingered each one: the Wiggle King fishing lure, the silver dollar, the cork, little Eva's nesting doll, and the skeleton key. These treasures that had sparked Miss Sadie's stories and led me back to my daddy. Gideon's eyes filled with tears when I gave him Ned's letters, all in a neat bundle and tied with string. He said he'd like to read them one more time; then we would give them to Miss Sadie. It was what we both wanted.

We pieced together some things in the middle. The fact that the spy map wasn't really a spy map at all. It was just Ned's drawing of home, a place he wanted to remember.

And I'd wondered for some time why Shady kept that bottle of whiskey right out in the open but never touched a drop of it. Gideon said it was because sometimes a man's demons could creep up on him. He figured Shady would rather know where his demon was so he could keep an eye on him.

As for the Rattler? There had been had been a mysterious figure known as the Rattler, who had never really been a spy. Just a ghostly figure some would see walking the woods at night, a faint rattling sound accompanying the movement. a mysterious figure known as the Rattler, who had never really been a spy. Just a ghostly figure some would see walking the woods at night, a faint rattling sound accompanying the movement.

But one night had been different-the night Finn met up with Jinx. "Jinx" would be the way I'd always refer to my young father. There were several people in the woods that night. Jinx and Finn were having their argument. Uncle Louver was out setting his racc.o.o.n traps. And there was the mysterious shadowy figure that loomed from nowhere, accidentally frightening Finn into stepping in one of Uncle Louver's traps. The fall landed his head on a rock so hard it killed him dead.

Gideon himself couldn't shed any light on this mystery. But I could think of one person who would have been walking in the woods after being called to the Cybulskis house to help deliver a baby. And who might look a little ghostly at night dressed in her flowing black gown. And who rattles when she walks. Oh, I was sure Miss Sadie had done her part in tending Jinx's wound. But a diviner's jewelry jangles. A nun's rosary beads rattle. It's a universal.

With that, I knew I had my story I would turn in on the first day of school. And I formed the first line in my head as Gideon and I walked into town, past the sign with big blue letters: MANIFEST...A TOWN WITH A PAST MANIFEST...A TOWN WITH A PAST.

HATTIE MAE'S NEWS AUXILIARYSEPTEMBER 6, 1936Like my aunt Mavis used to say, a whistling girl and a cackling hen had better know when to call it quits. Well, it's time for this girl to hang up her reporter's hat. Yes, this will be the final installment of "Hattie Mae's News Auxiliary," and for your years of readership, I am grateful.But I am pleased as punch to announce that I will be pa.s.sing the torch to an up-and-coming writer who, according to Sister Redempta, has an eye for the interesting and a nose for news.This young writer a.s.sures me that she will be truthful and certifiable in giving the honest-to-goodness scoop each and every week.So for all the whos, whats, whys, whens, and wheres, look at the backside of "Hogs and Cattle" every Sunday to your new auxiliary writer-ABILENE T TUCKER Reporter About Town

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Like many readers of historical fiction, I find it interesting to know what is fact and what is fiction. Sometimes what I find even more interesting is where the fact or fiction came from.

Manifest, Kansas. Moon Over Manifest Moon Over Manifest is a story that came from my family roots. The town of Manifest, although very real and vivid in my mind, is both fact and fiction. Manifest is based on the town of Frontenac, Kansas. Originally, I chose the town of Frontenac as the setting for my story because my grandparents were from that area of southeast Kansas. But in doing so, I stumbled upon a community that was rich in color and history. is a story that came from my family roots. The town of Manifest, although very real and vivid in my mind, is both fact and fiction. Manifest is based on the town of Frontenac, Kansas. Originally, I chose the town of Frontenac as the setting for my story because my grandparents were from that area of southeast Kansas. But in doing so, I stumbled upon a community that was rich in color and history.

I decided to change the name of the town to allow more flexibility in what I could include in it, but other than being a bit smaller and having fictional churches and schools, Manifest is basically the same. Frontenac was a mining town that in 1918 was made up of immigrants from twenty-one countries. In fact, at that time, only 12 percent of the people living in Frontenac had parents born in America. Coal mining was the main industry in Frontenac, and family stories tell of company vouchers and the control of the mine in the town.

The Bone Dry Bill of 1917 made Kansas a "dry state." This meant alcohol was illegal in Kansas well before Prohibition took effect nationwide. However, the two counties in the far southeast corner of Kansas, Cherokee and Crawford, often called the Little Balkans, were known to be the bootlegging capital of the Midwest. made Kansas a "dry state." This meant alcohol was illegal in Kansas well before Prohibition took effect nationwide. However, the two counties in the far southeast corner of Kansas, Cherokee and Crawford, often called the Little Balkans, were known to be the bootlegging capital of the Midwest.

Orphan trains. Ned arrived in Manifest on what was known as an orphan train. Many orphaned children found themselves on trains heading from the East Coast to the Midwest, where they were adopted by families they didn't know. Some children, like Ned, were adopted into loving homes; however, not all were as fortunate. Some children were adopted to be used primarily as hired hands on farms or to help out as domestic servants.

Spanish influenza started out as a highly contagious flu that could infect hundreds of people in a matter of hours. Experts believe that it originated at Camp Funston, a military base near Manhattan, Kansas, in March of 1918. Initially, it was not known to be fatal, but after troop ships carried the illness overseas during World War I, the virus mutated into a much deadlier strain. The same troop ships carried the virus back to the United States, and this began the first wave of a worldwide pandemic that took millions of lives before it ran its course. started out as a highly contagious flu that could infect hundreds of people in a matter of hours. Experts believe that it originated at Camp Funston, a military base near Manhattan, Kansas, in March of 1918. Initially, it was not known to be fatal, but after troop ships carried the illness overseas during World War I, the virus mutated into a much deadlier strain. The same troop ships carried the virus back to the United States, and this began the first wave of a worldwide pandemic that took millions of lives before it ran its course.

Immigrants. In my research into immigrants pa.s.sing through Ellis Island, I did not come across any story like that of Ned and Miss Sadie. However, Ellis Island has been called both the Island of Hope and the Island of Tears. There are countless tales of heartbreak and hardship that immigrants encountered when making their journey to America, not unlike the one I have imagined in this story.

The rest of the story...

Of course most of the story is fiction. But even fiction has to come from somewhere. Many elements in the book were inspired by family stories and newspaper articles from regional papers of both 1918 and 1936.

The boot with Finn's foot still in it came from a story my dad told about his work investigating airplane crashes. Among the wreckage at one crash site, he found a boot "with the foot still in it." came from a story my dad told about his work investigating airplane crashes. Among the wreckage at one crash site, he found a boot "with the foot still in it."

The free ice water Mrs. Dawkins gave out came from the story of the couple who started the famous Wall Drug Store in Wall, South Dakota. They advertised free ice water during the Depression, and cars started streaming into town, bringing new business to their struggling community. Mrs. Dawkins gave out came from the story of the couple who started the famous Wall Drug Store in Wall, South Dakota. They advertised free ice water during the Depression, and cars started streaming into town, bringing new business to their struggling community.

The gate to Perdition is based on a real gate that I came across on my research trip to Frontenac. It didn't say is based on a real gate that I came across on my research trip to Frontenac. It didn't say Perdition Perdition, but it did have an a.s.sortment of metal objects welded onto it: horseshoes, a pitchfork, a shovel, a spade, and two wagon wheels. I was there in the fall, so it even had two jack-o'-lanterns propped on top.

Real people. There are four characters named in the book who are real people. On the last day of school, Sister Redempta calls the names of students to give them their grades. Two of those students are my grandparents-Mary Hughes and Noah Rousseau. There are only two other relatives from that area whom I knew personally-my grandfather's cousins Velma and Ivan DeVore. They were brother and sister, and neither ever married. I remember them as simple and good-hearted people. I came across Ivan's name in a newspaper article announcing his new position as the Frontenac postmaster in 1934. So Ivan DeVore is the postmaster in the book, and Velma became Velma T. Harkrader, the chemistry teacher.

Galettes. Finally, galettes are a b.u.t.tery French cookie that my mother made and her mother before her. My grandmother used a heavy cast iron waffle iron set on an open flame. It is a labor-intensive endeavor to bake one or two cookies at a time, but as anybody who has tasted one can tell you, it is well worth the effort.

SOURCES AND SUGGESTIONS FOR FURTHER READING.

Mackin, Elton E. Suddenly We Didn't Want to Die Suddenly We Didn't Want to Die. Novato, CA: Presidio Press, 1993.Minckley, Loren Stiles. Americanization Through Education Americanization Through Education. Frontenac, KS: 1917.O'Brien, Patrick G., and Peak, Kenneth J. Kansas Bootleggers Kansas Bootleggers. Manhattan, KS: Sunflower University Press, 1991.Sandler, Martin W. Island of Hope: The Story of Ellis Island and the Journey to America Island of Hope: The Story of Ellis Island and the Journey to America. New York: Scholastic, 2004.Uys, Errol Lincoln. Riding the Rails: Teenagers on the Move During the Great Depression Riding the Rails: Teenagers on the Move During the Great Depression. New York: Routledge, 2003.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

All writers strive to create a good story with colorful characters, a vivid setting, and interesting plot twists and turns. But the elusive element is voice. So first and foremost, I want to acknowledge the four people whose voices I have heard from the time and place in which Moon Over Manifest Moon Over Manifest is set: my maternal grandparents, Noah and Mary (Hughes) Rousseau, along with my grandfather's cousins Velma and Ivan DeVore. Their voices and their stories, which I heard as a young girl, are the heart and soul of this book. In the same vein, I thank my parents, Leo and Mary Dean Sander. This book is dedicated to them. You often hear writers thanking the people without whom their books could not have been written. My parents taught me not to waste time trying to figure out if I could do something. Just figure out how to get it done. Without their confidence I would have quit...many times over. Eventually, I would have even quit quitting. I guess that means I wouldn't even have started. So I thank them, for giving me the fort.i.tude to keep trying and figure out how to get it done. is set: my maternal grandparents, Noah and Mary (Hughes) Rousseau, along with my grandfather's cousins Velma and Ivan DeVore. Their voices and their stories, which I heard as a young girl, are the heart and soul of this book. In the same vein, I thank my parents, Leo and Mary Dean Sander. This book is dedicated to them. You often hear writers thanking the people without whom their books could not have been written. My parents taught me not to waste time trying to figure out if I could do something. Just figure out how to get it done. Without their confidence I would have quit...many times over. Eventually, I would have even quit quitting. I guess that means I wouldn't even have started. So I thank them, for giving me the fort.i.tude to keep trying and figure out how to get it done.

Thank you to my wonderful agent, Andrea Cascardi, for your friendship and guidance. You are a trouper. To Mich.e.l.le Poploff, every writer's dream editor. And to her a.s.sistant, Rebecca Short. You both made my first experience in publishing a book pleasant and rewarding.

Special thanks to my group of writing friends, Debra Seely, Dian Curtis Regan, and Lois Ruby, for your many readings of this book, both in and out of sequence, for your comments that improved the book, and for your years of support and encouragement. To my friends at the Milton Center-Essie Sappenfield, Jerome Stueart, Mary Saionz, David and Diane Awbrey, David and Virginia Owens, Naomi Hirahara, Gordon Houser, Christie Breault, Nathan Filbert, Bryan Dietrich-all members of my first critique group, where I cut my teeth writing words on a page and listening to what others had to say about them: Thanks for all you had to say.

To Marcia Leonard for her help in shaping this book.

To Kathy Parisio for the phrase she and her siblings made up as kids, which became Miss Sadie's curse: "Ava grautz budel nocha mole." I hope my translation of it was acceptable to all. And to Tim Brady for his often-used admonition to our friend Ned Blick in college: "Ned, you're heading down the path to perdition." Of course, if Ned was going, we all wanted to tag along!