Into the Whirlwind by Elizabeth Camden

clothing.
    “Your name is Kazmarek as well?” Mollie asked curiously. “You must be related to Mr. Kazmarek?”
    “Zack is our boy,” the older man said proudly.
    “Our son,” Joanna added. “Isn’t he handsome? Of course he knows it, and—”
    “And it goes straight to his head,” the elder Mr. Kazmarek said. “He went out to listen to a polka band at the biergarten, where the girls always throw themselves at him.”
    Mollie looked at the both of them. Mrs. Kazmarek had rough, callused hands, much like her husband’s, as if she had spent her life hanging laundry or hauling water. As the older pair continued to rattle on about various neighborhood girls who were trying to land their handsome son, Mollie glanced around the interior of the curious home. Despite the grand entryway, the parlor to her right was chaotic, as if the contents of a warehouse had been dumped inside. There was almost no furniture, but towers of papers, wooden crates, and books crammed every square foot. Not even nice books either. They were ratty books that looked like they’d been salvaged from a tinker’s wagon. Bundles of newspapers were stacked so high they seemed ready to topple over. Mrs. Kazmarek saw where she was looking and scurried to pull the pocket doors closed, cutting off her view of the strange room.
    The dining room, mercifully clear of the clutter that choked the other room, was on the opposite side of the hallway. Over the table was a large oil painting. The painting was . . . well, it was simply breathtaking.

    In shades of green and amber, a girl stood in a summer garden, gazing at a watch in her palm. Dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves, illuminating the girl’s white dress so she looked lit from within. The brushstrokes were too choppy to reveal many details of the girl’s appearance, but she looked soft and lovely standing in the patches of light. Peaceful. Luminous.
    “What a lovely painting,” she said softly.
    “It is a Monet,” Mrs. Kazmarek said. “He is all the rage in Paris. Zack was in Europe last year, and he insisted on buying it. I am glad you like it.” Mrs. Kazmarek elbowed her husband, some unspoken communication flying between the two. Before Mollie could interpret the strange gesture, Mrs. Kazmarek nudged her back toward the kitchen.
    “Come down to the kitchen where we can get better acquainted,” she said. “Zack has told us so much about you.”
    “He has?” Why would any man talk to his parents about a person he was trying to swindle?
    “Oh yes. He told us what pretty hair you have, but—” Mrs. Kazmarek winced a bit when she glanced at Mollie’s braids. “Oh, yes. I see what he means. Come, you must let me fix your hair sometime. I would so enjoy that. I always wanted—”
    “She always wanted a daughter,” Jozef said.
    “You hush! This is between girls.”
    Mollie wanted to leave. If she couldn’t talk to Mr. Kazmarek, she needed to get back home to Frank, but the sound of a bird chirping came from down the hall. Peeking down the hallway, she saw a little blue bird flitting about a cage. “Is that the finch from Mr. Kazmarek’s office?”
    Something about this eager little bird had always appealed to Mollie. She drew closer and admired the peacock-blue plumage of the finch.
    “That’s Lizzie,” Mrs. Kazmarek said. “Zachariasz fussesover that bird like it is a princess. He can’t stand the thought of her alone in that dark office all weekend, so he brings her home every Friday.”
    Mollie poked a finger through the iron bars and let the bird peck at the fleshy tip. It was hard for her to imagine that intimidating man fussing over anyone, let alone a little bird. From down the hall Mollie heard the front door open, then a heavy tread and the rich timbre of Zack Kazmarek’s voice from the front of the house.
    “There is a fire on the south side of the city,” she heard him say. “You can smell the smoke on the wind. It looks like a bad one.”
    Mollie