Jack found me again and, when he did, I was certain he wouldn’t give me a warning before his pipe found my head. I was considering leaving New York and finding work in Philadelphia or Kansas City, somewhere where my past wouldn’t follow me. As much as I wanted to go back to Ireland, staying in America made more sense. It was something I had been telling myself since I had arrived.
I climbed out of bed and lit the oil lamp—the single gas lamp on the wall hadn’t worked since the day I had let the room. Shivering, I opened the stove and stirred the ashes from yesterday’s fire. After I threw in a few small pieces of wood and a handful of coal, the fire began to smolder and I put the kettle on for tea. I picked up the newspaper, the one I had purchased the day before, and read the headline again. King Calls Party To Ratify Irish Peace; Amnesty to Sínn Féiners . The Treaty, if approved, would end centuries of British rule and oppression in Ireland, or at least in most of it. But it was a steep price that Britain demanded. They had laid claim to the six counties in the north, to most of Ulster. Like many Irish in New York, I was angry with that provision. I had hoped that the negotiators Eamon DeValera had sent to London would be able to secure more. But, if the Treaty was signed, the twenty-six counties of the south—including Limerick, Dublin, and Cork, and the cities I had known—would soon be free.
Since the truce in July, just five months earlier, I had learned what was happening back home from the newspapers and on the radio that Mrs. Hirsch played in the evenings while we ate. Daily, it was discussed and debated on the streets and in the saloons of the Lower East side. But to see it in black and white brought a finality to what I and so many of my Irish brothers had fought so hard and so long for.
As the room began to warm, I dressed for the day’s work. The kettle hissed and I poured myself a cup of tea. I took a sip. Distracted by the news and what it meant for Ireland, and more importantly what it might mean for me, I hadn’t let the tea cool long enough. Cursing, I put the tea down. As I ran my tongue over the burn on the roof of my mouth, I wondered if now was the time.
Ever since I had arrived, although I had made a new life in a new land, my old life was calling me home. The political tensions were easing and, although many were upset about the six counties in the north, most of Ireland, the papers seemed to say, was prepared to lay down their arms and begin anew.
Kathleen wasn’t the only reason I wanted to go back. There was unsettled business—the events of a year ago and those that had taken place well before wouldn’t rest. The thought of going back continued to nag me. And if the Treaty was signed, I wanted to be part of what was taking place. I wanted to do my part to help build a new nation.
I didn’t know what to do. I sipped the tea, careful this time to avoid another burn. It was a difficult decision and one that I would have trouble making. But as I would learn later that evening, it was one that had already been made for me.
___
It was six o’clock when I returned home that evening. I climbed the five flights of stairs to find Mrs. Hirsch waiting for me in the hall.
“Good evening, Mr. O’Sullivan,” she greeted.
“Good evening, Mrs. Hirsch.” I smiled but received only a nod in return. A few months ago, I had learned why Mrs. Hirsch never smiled, not anymore at least. I had asked about the photograph on the wall in her apartment. In it, Mrs. Hirsch was smiling as she stood next to her husband. Both were smartly dressed as were the children in front of them. The boy and the girl—I couldn’t tell who was older, but they couldn’t have been more than nine or ten years old at the time—were smiling as well. The only one who wasn’t was Mr. Hirsch. The photograph was from 1912 and I wondered later if perhaps Mr. Hirsch knew then what was to come. Both children would
I climbed out of bed and lit the oil lamp—the single gas lamp on the wall hadn’t worked since the day I had let the room. Shivering, I opened the stove and stirred the ashes from yesterday’s fire. After I threw in a few small pieces of wood and a handful of coal, the fire began to smolder and I put the kettle on for tea. I picked up the newspaper, the one I had purchased the day before, and read the headline again. King Calls Party To Ratify Irish Peace; Amnesty to Sínn Féiners . The Treaty, if approved, would end centuries of British rule and oppression in Ireland, or at least in most of it. But it was a steep price that Britain demanded. They had laid claim to the six counties in the north, to most of Ulster. Like many Irish in New York, I was angry with that provision. I had hoped that the negotiators Eamon DeValera had sent to London would be able to secure more. But, if the Treaty was signed, the twenty-six counties of the south—including Limerick, Dublin, and Cork, and the cities I had known—would soon be free.
Since the truce in July, just five months earlier, I had learned what was happening back home from the newspapers and on the radio that Mrs. Hirsch played in the evenings while we ate. Daily, it was discussed and debated on the streets and in the saloons of the Lower East side. But to see it in black and white brought a finality to what I and so many of my Irish brothers had fought so hard and so long for.
As the room began to warm, I dressed for the day’s work. The kettle hissed and I poured myself a cup of tea. I took a sip. Distracted by the news and what it meant for Ireland, and more importantly what it might mean for me, I hadn’t let the tea cool long enough. Cursing, I put the tea down. As I ran my tongue over the burn on the roof of my mouth, I wondered if now was the time.
Ever since I had arrived, although I had made a new life in a new land, my old life was calling me home. The political tensions were easing and, although many were upset about the six counties in the north, most of Ireland, the papers seemed to say, was prepared to lay down their arms and begin anew.
Kathleen wasn’t the only reason I wanted to go back. There was unsettled business—the events of a year ago and those that had taken place well before wouldn’t rest. The thought of going back continued to nag me. And if the Treaty was signed, I wanted to be part of what was taking place. I wanted to do my part to help build a new nation.
I didn’t know what to do. I sipped the tea, careful this time to avoid another burn. It was a difficult decision and one that I would have trouble making. But as I would learn later that evening, it was one that had already been made for me.
___
It was six o’clock when I returned home that evening. I climbed the five flights of stairs to find Mrs. Hirsch waiting for me in the hall.
“Good evening, Mr. O’Sullivan,” she greeted.
“Good evening, Mrs. Hirsch.” I smiled but received only a nod in return. A few months ago, I had learned why Mrs. Hirsch never smiled, not anymore at least. I had asked about the photograph on the wall in her apartment. In it, Mrs. Hirsch was smiling as she stood next to her husband. Both were smartly dressed as were the children in front of them. The boy and the girl—I couldn’t tell who was older, but they couldn’t have been more than nine or ten years old at the time—were smiling as well. The only one who wasn’t was Mr. Hirsch. The photograph was from 1912 and I wondered later if perhaps Mr. Hirsch knew then what was to come. Both children would
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