She cursed at the deputies who dared enter the hall, most of them nonstriking miners. It was no secret that pro-management forces made for a ruthless enemy. She accused the men of having blocked the exit at the base of the stairs, even of plotting the false alarm. A heinous prank, or worse.

Father Lawrence tried to calm and restrain her. But she pummeled his arms and blasted him for initially preaching against the strike. When the deputies threatened to lock her in the courthouse, her tirade soared until they forcibly escorted her out.

A couple auxiliary members huddling by my row spoke with sympathy of Big Vera and her evident sense of guilt. The idea of the party, they said, had been hers.

All the while, people were still scouring and calling for family, searches that led to surveying the dead. There were wails of sorrow or bursts of relief depending on the find.

A thought arose in me: Was it possible Papa returned to fetch me earlier? Maybe he too was pulled down the stairs. He might still be in the stairwell...

“Živ si!” A portly woman rushed over. Beaming, she bent down to my level. “Mirta! Mirta! Živ si!” She took my cheeks in her roughened hands, jarring me fully back into myself.

Then a twenty-something fellow arrived and touched her shoulder. “Ne, Mama. Nije ti kći.”

She shook her head, resolute, and angled my face toward him as if to prove her assertion.

He didn’t bother to look. “Tamo leži Mirta.” He gestured gravely toward one of the tables, where a dozen or more children lay in their Sunday best. Round, sweet faces with nary a mark, small hands resting at their sides, eyes closed so peacefully they could have been asleep.

“Ne, ne!” she argued, holding my face firmer. The man pulled her hands to his suited chest. He repeated himself emphatically, and her expression contorted. Despite her reluctance, he ushered her away, his arm a protective shawl.

She wasn’t ready for the truth.

“Fenna…”

The name floated above the collective crying, past the muddled voices. I turned to trace the caller, seeing more strangers, fearing I’d misheard.

“Fenna!” Papa was threading through the crowd. “Fenna!”

“Papa?” My voice was strange in my ears. Coarse as sandpaper, it appeared to soften his hard features. I scrambled to stand on legs that suddenly trembled. The instant he reached me, I crumpled into his arms and my tears poured. The smell of pipe smoke on his coat, even the alcohol on his breath, was as comforting as a winter quilt.

“It is okay, schatje. It is okay.” The endearment, sounding wispily like shaht-cha, named me his little treasure. His full, dark beard felt scratchy on my forehead, but I only clung tighter. He patted my back tenderly, a rare act of physical affection.