Here we go with chapter 2. Thanks to all who have read and reviewed. As before, I am inspired by ALW and Leroux.
And their sorrows all He knoweth
The Philadelphia Inquirer May 18, 20-
Center City-Explosions rocked Center City yesterday when a bomb exploded outside 30th Street Station. The historic station is SEPTA's main railroad station and the third busiest Amtrak station in the nation. It was the target of the worst act of domestic terrorism since the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995. The FBI and Department of Homeland Security have traced the explosion to a rental truck parked adjacent to the station in metered parking near the Amtrak drop off zone.
At this time, no one has claimed responsibility for the bombing. The explosion rocked the 75-year-old marble Art Deco station during the Friday afternoon commuter rush.., The bomb was detonated at 5:15 p.,m destroying a large portion of the station as well as the adjacent Cira Centre. Portions of the Schuylkill Expressway were damaged by debris and remain closed at this time. Market Street is closed from the Schuylkill Expressway to 32nd Street; 30th Street is closed from Arch Street to Chestnut Street. Amtrak and SEPTA services will be interrupted throughout the weekend until alternate routes can be determined.
Initial reports indicate 150 fatalities. An additional 68 people were taken to area hospitals. Reports are still coming in as the excavation of the site continues...
Christine Daae's hands shook as she pasted the newspaper clipping into the scrapbook's pages. It had taken her a year to unfold that edition of the Inquirer and cut out the horrible front page article. She was doing this for the boys...for the boys...the boys would want to know, later. She turned to the first page of the book. There she'd pasted the earliest picture she had of herself and her husband, The faded Polaroid picture showed a tall, thin man surrounded by a dozen or so children dressed in their Sunday best. The sign behind them read Grace Lutheran Church. Christine let her eyes linger on the tallest boy, his sandy hair blown by the wind and falling into his eyes. Her Gus. She'd been in love with him, even then. She found herself, nearer the front of the group. Her auburn curls were pulled back from her face. Her dress was prairie-styled with puffy sleeves and a ruffled hem.
The tall man was a Very Important Theologian from Sweden, a visiting professor at the seminary in Gettysburg. He'd come to give the sermon that Sunday and the children had been taught to sing a hymn in Swedish in his honor. She still remembered standing up in the choir loft with the rest of the children and singing, "Tryggare kan ingen vara..." The Very Important Theologian, sitting in the front pew, had turned sideways to see behind him into the choir loft. He'd dangled his long legs over the side of the pew and thrown his head back, laughing and singing along in delight. Her eight year old self thought he must be a very kind and gentle man to act with such happy abandon. She knew full well what her grandmothers would have done had she acted like that in church.
When the hymn was finished, the theologian stood and applauded them before the service continued. During the long stretch of nothingness as the congregation slowly made its way to the altar for communion, the two boys on either side of Christine got into a game of "punchies." She tried very quietly and politely to make them stop and then she tried making herself smaller but nothing worked. The game got more intense and she started getting punched, too. Tears welled up in her eyes and she gripped the skirt of her dress.
Suddenly, from the pew behind her, strong arms gripped each boy's collar. "You will stop right now," a voice hissed in a whisper, "This is church and you will act like gentlemen. You. Do. Not. Want. To. Mess. With. Me." Wide-eyed, the boys put their hands in their laps and stared straight ahead.
A hand, gently now, tapped Christine on the shoulder. "Lotte," he asked, using her family name, "are you ok?" She nodded, smiling to herself. Gus Daae. Handsome, strong Gus Daae had saved her.
She'd been baptized Christine Charlotte Lindgren in that very church. Christine for her Grandma Anderson, her mother's mother and Charlotte for her Grandmother Lindgren, her father's mother. When she'd gone to live with Grandma Anderson and her great-grandmother, Astrid Valerius, she'd become Lotte. Grandma Anderson was Christine. Since little Christine would not answer to Chrissy or Christy, names of which Great-Grandmother Valerius did not approve anyway, they called her Lotte. And so she was Lotte at home and Christine at school.
Now there was no one left to call her Lotte. Her grandmothers had passed away before the boys were born. Her few close friends had moved away. Since she had no siblings or cousins, Gus had been the last one. Gus had been the last one to know her secrets. To know how she longed for a house with a mother and a father and brothers and sisters, to know how she had crept up to the window in the attic to read fairy tales when she felt lonely, to know how strict, scary Great-Grandmother Valerius would hold the sobbing Lotte at night and tell her about the Angel of Music who visited good little girls who practiced their scales every day and went to church every Sunday.
Christine closed the scrapbook and wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand, Enough. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. She stood up and pushed her chair under her desk.
"Boys," she called, "come on, it's time to go."
It was one of those perfect spring days in Philadelphia. The sun sparkled on the Schuykill River and a light breeze ruffled cherry blossoms and new maple leaves. Sitting on the stage outside of the newly reconstructed 30th Street Station, Christine wished that she'd worn sunglasses. Her eyes hurt from squinting into the bright afternoon sun. Kurt and Peter were on either side of her. Nine-year-old Peter sat ramrod straight, eyes ahead. Only his wiggly foot betrayed his nervousness. Kurt, who had just turned seven, leaned on her arm, hiding his face from the crowd before them. Christine barely heard the speeches from the mayor and the governor. She managed to clap for the Vice-President, but had no idea what he'd said.
Then it was her turn. Someone from the mayor's office was introducing her. "On behalf of all the victims of this terrible tragedy, on behalf of the families left behind, we have a musical tribute by Christine Daae, wife of Gustave Daae, one of those we lost in the bombing."
Shaking, Christine rose and walked to the microphone that had been set up for her. She held her sons' hands tightly. She could do this, she thought. She had to do this, for Gus.
She adjusted the microphone slightly and managed a shy smile. "Thank you. This is the first song I ever sang with my husband. It gives me comfort that I want to share with you."
She sang a cappella in her pure, clear soprano.
Tryggare kan ingen vara,
Än Guds lilla barnaskara,
Stjärnan ej på himlafästet,
Fågeln ej i kända nästet.
Children of the heav'nly Father
Safely in His bosom gather;
Nestling bird nor star in Heaven
Such a refuge e'er was given.
Erik stood in the crowd, watching her. The breeze blew her wild curls from the loose knot she'd put them in. In the sunlight, her chestnut hair had auburn highlights, shining, bouncing, asking to be touched. He longed to smooth back the curls that blew across her face. She wasn't distracted, however; she kept on singing.
Ingen nöd och ingen lycka,
Skall utur Hans hand dem rycka,
Han vår vän för andra vänner,
Sina barns bekymmer känner.
Neither life nor death shall ever
From the Lord His children sever;
Unto them His grace He showeth,
And their sorrows all He knoweth.
He held his camera with its powerful telephoto lens up to his eye. There. Now he could see her. A heart-shaped face, a long slender neck. She was reaching down...she picked up the smaller boy who nestled his face into her neck. And still her voice never faltered. That voice. He'd waited a year to hear that voice again. It filled his soul, lifting it to heights he'd never imagined.
Se Han räknar håren alla,
Som från deras huvud falla,
Han oss föder och oss kläder,
Under sorgen Han oss gläder.
Though He giveth or He taketh,
God His children ne'er forsaketh;
His the loving purpose solely
To preserve them pure and holy.
Yes, yes, she was pure and holy. An angel. An angel of music. He would find her. She would be his angel of music. He would never forsake her.