Chapter One
On November 13th, 1954, it appeared to be just another ordinary fall day in our mining community in West Virginia. The sun beamed high above us while disaster brewed beneath the earth where Papa worked mining coal—nestled in the Appalachian Mountains, where men and machines operate together beneath the depths of the rocky soil.
“Mama, why is Papa still in bed? Isn’t he supposed to be working today?” I asked.
“He’s not feeling well, darling.”
Then we heard an enormous boom, and our house rattled. I held tight to my chair as Mama grabbed a hold of the table. Papa jumped up out of his sleep, startled. He ran into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes.
“Where are my boots?” Papa shouted. Then he nearly tripped over them as he turned the corner. “Never mind, I found them.” Without tying a single lace, he was out the door.
The unthinkable had happened: an explosion ripped through the mine, killing sixteen miners and leading to a temporary shutdown. The blast destroyed the headframe of one mine shaft during retreat mining. First, panic and fear engulfed us all, and then heartbreak set in.
The collapse of Mine No. 9 had a significant impact on everyone. Papa took his co-workers’ loss the hardest. I had never seen him or Mama mourn before. Shortly after, our family packed up our few belongings and left. We moved to a different mining town because of the suspension of all ongoing mining activities. Employment opportunities were limited, but Papa has a strong reputation in this region. My best friend, Rachel, lives at the mine where we are now with her father, Rogan.
After supper, Mama was tired from her daily chores but would work hard to sew me a fresh coat, as my old one was too small and worn out. We were too poor to buy new, and Mama never had proper schooling as a seamstress. So, she learned on the go.
One morning, days later, my eyes grew wide with excitement when I received my newly sewn coat. I eagerly tried it on. “Oh, thank you, Mama,”
“Sweetie, I crafted it using black and brown wool to help minimize the visibility of coal stains.” Mama often used endearing terms like my sweet child or darling, and so on. It was a rare occasion when she addressed me by my name. So, I reached over and gave her a long, warm hug and kiss. “Can you please put away the sewing materials for me?” She asked.
As I placed them in the basket, my eyes stumbled across a Jewish badge tucked away between some old fabric. In curiosity, I took it out and showed Mama.
“Mama, what is this?” I had never seen it before. She seemed nervous, like someone who had stolen something and got caught. She seemed to struggle to find her words.
“Sweet child, that is the Star of David, a symbol of your people. It’s the badge that you had on when Irena Sendler rescued you from the Warsaw Ghetto as an infant.” She then took a deep breath and continued, “Your Papa and I adopted you after your parents—after Hitler did away with them. My sister and her family brought you here from Poland.”
Wiping the tears from our faces. “Mama,” I whispered, “Will you sew the star onto my coat?” Reluctantly, she agreed. Her hands trembled as she carefully stitched the badge onto the left side. “Why didn’t you and Papa tell me?” I couldn’t help but feel a mix of emotions as I cried.
“Those memories are bittersweet. I knew your mother. She was my childhood friend before I moved here from across the sea.” She cried, “Please, let us discuss this at supper when your Papa is home.” Then, her eyes wandered to her Bible on the mantle of our new house. “Wait, go over there and bring me my New Testament. It has a picture of your parents in it.” It was a photo of a couple standing near an old, tall tree. They looked so young and beautiful—so happy and in love.
“Mama, I love you and Papa, but my heart aches for something I never knew I had lost.”
“Dear Abigail, you are part of something bigger than yourself. You are one of God’s chosen people. The history of the Jews who died in the Holocaust serves as a reminder that, in part, you carry on their legacy, but remember, you are still a unique person within yourself. Never forget that!” I then gripped a hold of Mama’s neck and collapsed in her lap, and we both sobbed until Papa got home.
“Mama, why is Papa still in bed? Isn’t he supposed to be working today?” I asked.
“He’s not feeling well, darling.”
Then we heard an enormous boom, and our house rattled. I held tight to my chair as Mama grabbed a hold of the table. Papa jumped up out of his sleep, startled. He ran into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes.
“Where are my boots?” Papa shouted. Then he nearly tripped over them as he turned the corner. “Never mind, I found them.” Without tying a single lace, he was out the door.
The unthinkable had happened: an explosion ripped through the mine, killing sixteen miners and leading to a temporary shutdown. The blast destroyed the headframe of one mine shaft during retreat mining. First, panic and fear engulfed us all, and then heartbreak set in.
The collapse of Mine No. 9 had a significant impact on everyone. Papa took his co-workers’ loss the hardest. I had never seen him or Mama mourn before. Shortly after, our family packed up our few belongings and left. We moved to a different mining town because of the suspension of all ongoing mining activities. Employment opportunities were limited, but Papa has a strong reputation in this region. My best friend, Rachel, lives at the mine where we are now with her father, Rogan.
After supper, Mama was tired from her daily chores but would work hard to sew me a fresh coat, as my old one was too small and worn out. We were too poor to buy new, and Mama never had proper schooling as a seamstress. So, she learned on the go.
One morning, days later, my eyes grew wide with excitement when I received my newly sewn coat. I eagerly tried it on. “Oh, thank you, Mama,”
“Sweetie, I crafted it using black and brown wool to help minimize the visibility of coal stains.” Mama often used endearing terms like my sweet child or darling, and so on. It was a rare occasion when she addressed me by my name. So, I reached over and gave her a long, warm hug and kiss. “Can you please put away the sewing materials for me?” She asked.
As I placed them in the basket, my eyes stumbled across a Jewish badge tucked away between some old fabric. In curiosity, I took it out and showed Mama.
“Mama, what is this?” I had never seen it before. She seemed nervous, like someone who had stolen something and got caught. She seemed to struggle to find her words.
“Sweet child, that is the Star of David, a symbol of your people. It’s the badge that you had on when Irena Sendler rescued you from the Warsaw Ghetto as an infant.” She then took a deep breath and continued, “Your Papa and I adopted you after your parents—after Hitler did away with them. My sister and her family brought you here from Poland.”
Wiping the tears from our faces. “Mama,” I whispered, “Will you sew the star onto my coat?” Reluctantly, she agreed. Her hands trembled as she carefully stitched the badge onto the left side. “Why didn’t you and Papa tell me?” I couldn’t help but feel a mix of emotions as I cried.
“Those memories are bittersweet. I knew your mother. She was my childhood friend before I moved here from across the sea.” She cried, “Please, let us discuss this at supper when your Papa is home.” Then, her eyes wandered to her Bible on the mantle of our new house. “Wait, go over there and bring me my New Testament. It has a picture of your parents in it.” It was a photo of a couple standing near an old, tall tree. They looked so young and beautiful—so happy and in love.
“Mama, I love you and Papa, but my heart aches for something I never knew I had lost.”
“Dear Abigail, you are part of something bigger than yourself. You are one of God’s chosen people. The history of the Jews who died in the Holocaust serves as a reminder that, in part, you carry on their legacy, but remember, you are still a unique person within yourself. Never forget that!” I then gripped a hold of Mama’s neck and collapsed in her lap, and we both sobbed until Papa got home.