Beneath the Apple Leaves
Harmony Verna
For Eleanor,
whose love of the land pulses in my blood
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Words can hardly express my deepest appreciation for the family, friends and readers who have supported and guided me during the writing of this novel. Every smile, every word of encouragement and every hug has given me the fortitude to chase this dream.
The seeds of this book came from my mother, Marilyn, who shared the stories—the sorrows and the joys—of growing up on a farm in rural Pennsylvania. A life sustained on the whims of the land is a hard one, and I am humbled and proud of the strength and sacrifice of my German ancestors. Together, they sowed a legacy of hard work and a deep respect for the land—one in which I hope to carry and pass on to my own children.
To the wholesome and beautiful people of my home city, Pittsburgh, I thank you for your unique character and rich heritage and humor. And for those brave men and women who served on the battlefield and on the home front, you will forever hold my highest esteem.
To my precious agent, Marie Lamba, of the Jennifer De Chiara Literary Agency, you are simply the best—my fearless cheerleader to the end. And once again, sincere gratitude to my brilliant editor, John Scognamiglio, and the entire Kensington team for helping me bring this story to life.
Most of all, I want to thank my husband, Jay, and my three boys, who have supported me through deadlines and cold dinners, sleepy days and sleepless nights, all the while making me feel deeply loved and appreciated every step of the way.
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Historical Note: Despite Pittsburgh’s spelling with an h after 1911, several sources, including the Pittsburg Press, did not incorporate the h until after 1917. In order to maintain historical accuracy, I have kept the original spelling of Pittsburg Press throughout the novel.
PART I
Each dawn as we rise, Lord we all know too well,
We face only one thing—a pit filled with hell.
To scratch out a living the best we can,
But deep in the heart, lies the soul of a man.
With black covered faces, and hard calloused hands,
We work the dark tunnels, unable to stand
To labor and toil as we harvest the coals,
We silently pray “Lord please harvest our souls.”
—“The Coal Miner’s Prayer,” by W. Calvert
CHAPTER 1
“Quiet now.” The two words pounded against the walls, elongated and echoed. “Just keep your eyes closed.”
Andrew obeyed the orders, held tight to his father’s large hand, his own tiny fingers in the womb of the callused palm. His feet stepped blindly on the downward slope. Water dripped and tapped hollowly through the tunnel, the air cool and damp to the skin, reminiscent of the early morning fog that congealed in the valley.
His father stopped and slid from his son’s grip. “Now, open your eyes.”
He was still blind. He blinked again and again and again, but the darkness was whole and complete, eternal and deep as a well. Andrew rubbed his eyes, his fingers invisible and absent in front of his face. His breathing thickened and panicked in short gasps. Invisible walls pressed from above and below, from the left and the right. The black drowned, heavy as a man’s boot stomping upon the lungs. Andrew reached one way for his father and then the other, his hands clawing the emptiness.
“Papa!”
“I’m right here, Son.” Strong arms wrapped him instantly. “I’m right here.”
Andrew clung to the rough fabric of his father’s shirt, buried his head against the burly stomach, the light smell of tobacco and chopped wood bringing comfort to his senses, a familiarity to the void. He closed his eyes and fell into the scents.
His father took hold of Andrew’s shoulders while he lowered to the boy’s level. “I just needed you to see.”
“I can’t see anything!”
The man grinned, a subtle sound of lips over teeth. “Meant you just needed to see what it’s like down here.” A scrape and hiss came to a stone and ignited a flame. With the match, his father lit the candle on his miner’s helmet, highlighting the firm streams of old wax that formed like dripping egg whites. The glow of the wick grew into a small yellow orb, just large enough to show the man’s forehead, eyes and bridge of the nose.
His father squeezed the little boy’s hands in urgent pulses. “I need you to know that this will not be your life.” The eyes spoke, the mouth still eclipsed under the blanket of onyx. “I won’t have my son picking coal. Do you hear me, Andrew?” His words were gentle in their pleading. “You work hard. Study hard. You build a life for yourself when you get older. But not here. I won’t have you picking coal. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take care of your family. Always.” He swallowed bitterly. “But not this way.”
“Yes, sir.”
The eyes watched him, moved slightly as if the missing mouth tried to form a sound. “You’re better than this,” his father finally said. “Don’t let anyone tell you different.”
Andrew listened to the words, struggled to balance the weight of them against his desire to go home, to flee into the light again. “Yes, sir.”
His father stood then. “You never come down here again. Promise?”