Up in Smoke

by Lyle Nußbaum

Background
Jubal, a mute, reflects on his life from old age: the people and events that shaped him into the man that he has become and helped him find his place and "voice" in the world.

Every man's work shall be made manifest: for the day shall declare it, because it shall be revealed by fire; and the fire shall try every man's work of what sort it is. If any man's work abide which he has built thereupon, he shall receive a reward. If any man's work shall be burnt, he shall suffer loss: but he himself shall be saved; yet so as by fire.

- 1 Corinthians 3:13-15 KJV

I awoke during the night to the sound of muffled voices, a tumult of feet from the floor above us, and the strong smell of smoke. Hurriedly, lighting the oil lamp by the bed, I carefully stepped around Grace's trundle and went to the door. As I opened the door, I was met by the tearstained, frantic features of one of the girls, fist raised in midair, about to pound on our door. Before she could utter a word, I took in the scene: I saw wispy clouds of smoke creeping down the stairs and a fluttering red-orange light emanating from somewhere above me eerily lit the staircase.

Alarmed, I placed the whistle to my lips and blew long and hard. Zipporah awoke with a look of annoyance which quickly changed to concern, then alarm, as she saw the fear reflected in my eyes and smelled the smoke. I rushed to Grace's bed, drawing her from the warmth of the blankets and placed her groggy form in Zip's arms, motioning for them to vacate the building. Then, filled with adrenaline, I rushed up the stairs.

As I leapt up the stairs three at a time, the whistle clenched in my teeth, a multitude of scared, coughing children were fleeing for the ground floor. Reaching the second floor, I saw the central room across from the staircase was engulfed with dancing flames, the result of an oil lamp being accidentally knocked off of a night table. I glanced inside, finding no one; all of its inhabitants had made it out safely. I proceeded down the hall, throwing open any closed doors, shaking sleepers awake, evacuating the hall. Once the second floor was clear of all the girls, I hurriedly ascended to the third floor, blowing my whistle the entire time. As the children woke, the older ones hurriedly got the younger ones out of bed. By the time I reached the top floor, all of the doors were open and the boys were pouring out. I picked up two of the smaller boys, placing one on each hip, and rushed down the stairs, herding everyone to safety.

As we hit the cool, night air, we fell into coughing fits, physically bent over, hands on knees. By now, some of the neighbors had awoken and had gone for the fire brigade. Zipporah was frantically gathering the children, counting them, verifying that everyone was accounted for.

Suddenly, I felt her grasp tighten on my upper arm as she breathlessly said my name; I turned to give her my full attention and saw her pointing speechlessly with the other hand at a window on the third floor. Through the smoky interior behind the glass, to my horror, I recognized the frightened features of James, a Negro boy of seven or eight years of age. By now, the smoke was billowing out of the house; the second floor was engulfed with flames. My heart sank. As bad as it was losing all the material things in the house, I knew that I could never live with myself if I did not try to rescue the frightened child.

I broke away from Zipporah's grip and raced into the house, praying that I could reach the boy in time. Once again, I dashed up the stairs. As I neared the landing on the second floor, I was faced with a raging wall of fire, not yet encompassing the stairs. Three quarters of the way up, I pulled myself over the railing to reach the stairs ascending to the third floor. As I did so, I felt the heat scorching the flesh on the side nearest the flames and smelled the pungent scent of burnt hair as the hair on my head, arms, and legs was singed. Ignoring the blistering discomfort, I continued up the staircase knowing time was short.

Reaching the third floor, I burst into the room where we had seen James' terrified face peering out of the window. Thankfully, he was still there, frantically clawing at the glass. I grabbed him, wrapped him in a blanket that I pulled from the bed, and physically picked him up in my arms. Turning, I rushed back into the smoke-filled hallway, eyes stinging, lungs burning, gasping for air. I willed my feet to move and, stumbling toward the stairs, found that there was no other way past the flames than through them.

As I neared the fire, I bent myself double to protect James with my body as much as possible and rushed headlong into the blaze. I felt my flesh blister and crack; then the feeling of momentary weightlessness as the floor gave way beneath my feet. The staircase collapsed and we fell to the ground floor below, burning boards, beams, and cinders raining down around us. I lost my grip on James and landed on him hard, having the wind knocked from me. Before I could regain my footing, the ceiling above us collapsed. I was struck from behind, pinned beneath the burning debris.

I felt pain like I had never felt before nor since permeating my face, arms, and back; strangely, I could not feel my legs. Fighting for our survival, I knew that I needed to move. I struggled beneath the crushing weight of something heavy lying on top of me; I felt James feebly clawing and kicking beneath me trying to free himself from the confines of the blanket and my entangled limbs and broken body.

Realizing that I was incapable of reaching the doorway on my own, I placed the whistle to my lips once more and blew a final, desperate cry for help. I caught a glimpse of an angel, bearing Zipporah's features, advancing through the fiery haze. Then I passed out from the pain and remembered no more.

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Chapter 28 of J. O. Baumgartner

A chapter in the book J. O. Baumgartner

Up in Smoke

by Lyle Nußbaum

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