Moon Over Manifest

The shaft elevator strained and heaved its way slowly out of the ground. A tall wooden shack housed the cage elevator, which carried miners one to two hundred feet underground, where they would disperse into various dugouts called rooms, each supported by a single wooden pillar. Here the miners worked their eight-hour shifts, picking out the coal, loading it into a cart, and hauling it back out.

That day, as the rickety cage elevator surfaced, a group of soot-covered faces emerged, only to be replaced by a waiting group of men ready to go below.

As one looked at them, all carrying their metal lunch boxes and wearing their denim overalls and miner’s helmets with gas lamps attached, it was difficult to distinguish one man from the next, one group from another. However, when they spoke, it became clear the Italians were ending their shift and the Austrians were beginning.

That was the way Devlin preferred it. Keep each to his own kind, speaking his own language, and everyone would stay in his place. The men coming out of the ground, squinting against the daylight, were like dead men rising out of a grave. They walked in somber formation to the water pump to wash.

That day was unusual in that Mr. Devlin himself stood near the mine elevator. Jinx hadn’t seen him since the night of the Klan rally and felt himself draw back a bit at the sight of the grand knight. Of course now there was no white hood or cloak. Mr. Devlin was dressed in a large pinstripe suit and an immaculate celluloid collar. His slicked-back hair glistened in the sun as he appeared to be having a heated discussion with the mine geologist.

Jinx was relieved when Ned finally emerged from the elevator cage with the Italian crew. He walked his bike over to join Ned in line at the water pump. Ned removed his miner’s hat, revealing his sweaty hair and white forehead against his otherwise soot-blackened face. He eyed the two men arguing. “What are they going at it about?”

“Something about the direction of the vein,” Jinx answered. “Seems the coal vein took a turn it shouldn’t have and now it’s going the wrong way. I think the geologist is about to get the boot.”

“Oh, well,” Ned said. “Let ’em argue. Where’d you get that contraption?” he asked, motioning toward the bicycle.

“Shady won it in last night’s poker game. Want to take it for a spin?”

“Can’t.” Ned pumped fresh water and washed his face and hands. “My legs are aching to be stretched after being cooped up for eight hours. I might just run from here to Erie and back.”

Several other mine workers stood around, waiting for their weekly pay.

“Benedetto. You working too much,” Mr. Borelli said, using his Italian nickname for Ned. “Study. Learn. You go to college.”

“Yes, sir. I hope to go on a track scholarship next year.”

“Good, good.” He patted Ned on the back. “You run hard and study harder. Then you’ll not have to go work underground to feed your family. Man was not meant to spend his days in the dark, eh, Vincenze?”

Mr. Vincenze wiped his face with a handkerchief. “C’è un inferno oggi!” he answered.

“Sì, sì. It is a hot one today,” Mr. Borelli answered. He patted Mr. Vincenze along, then whispered to Ned and Jinx. “He speaks no English. These mines. They keep us in the dark in more ways than one.”

Just then, Lester Burton, the pit boss, stepped among them and nailed a notice to a post near the water pump. The letters were big and bold enough to be read from several feet away.

BY WAY OF PUBLIC NOTICE

AMERICAN DEFENSE

SOCIETY WARNING

Every German or Austrian in the United States, unless known by years of association to be absolutely loyal, should be treated as a potential spy.

Be on the alert. Keep your eyes and ears open. Take nothing for granted. Energy and alertness may save the life of your son, your husband, or your brother.

The enemy is engaged in making war in this country, transmitting news to Berlin, and spreading propaganda and lies about the condition and morale of American military forces.

Whenever any suspicious act or disloyal word comes to your notice, communicate at once with Fred Robertson, United States district attorney, Kansas City, Kansas, or the American Defense Society, 44 East Twenty-third Street, New York City.

Burton turned his sun-splotched face to the men. “In wartime, that spy could be your neighbor. The chump sitting next to you at the pool hall or even at church.” He looked straight at Ned. “Could be anyone of unknown or questionable background. Be alert and trust no one. Got it?”

There was a stir among the crowd. Mostly men asking for a translation from the few who could speak some English.

“Good.” Burton fanned a stack of envelopes. “Borelli,” he called out. “Servieto. Vincenze.”

One by one, the men took their pay and drifted away like shadows.

“Gillen.” Ned stepped forward to receive the last envelope.

Burton held out the envelope only to pull it back as Ned reached for it. “So you plan to go to college, eh?”

“That’s right.”