Fever Season

F
EVER
S
EASON

DUNDURN PRESS
TORONTO

Copyright © Eric Zweig, 2009

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.

Edited by Michael Carroll
Designed by Courtney Horner
Printed and bound in Canada by Webcom

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Zweig, Eric, 1963-
       Fever season / by Eric Zweig.

ISBN 978-1-55488-432-2

1. Influenza Epidemic, 1918-1919--Juvenile fiction.
I. Title.

1   2   3   4   5      13   12   11   10   09

We acknowledge the support of the
Canada Council for the Arts
and the
Ontario Arts Council
for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the
Government of Canada
through the
Book Publishing Industry Development Program
and
The Association for the Export of Canadian Books
, and the
Government of Ontario
through the
Ontario Book Publishers Tax Credit program
, and the
Ontario
Media Development Corporation
.

Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.

J. Kirk Howard, President

Printed and Bound in Canada.
www.dundurn.com

For Alice, Barbara, and Amanda,
and their experiences in Montreal

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Acknowledgements

Selected Reading and Websites

C
HAPTER
1

“Put your coat on,” David Saifert's mother said. “It's freezing out this morning. Hurry or we won't get a seat on the streetcar.”

“Honestly,” David's father said grumpily, “it was easier to get him out of the flat when he was a baby and you had to bundle him up all by yourself.”

David was no baby. It was January 1911, and he had just turned six. He could put his coat on fast if he wanted to; he just didn't like to wear it. “It doesn't fit,” David complained. “The sleeves are too short. They get all bunched up behind my shoulders, and the wool's scratchy on my neck …”

“We can't afford to buy you a new coat right now,” his mother explained patiently. “We need you to get the rest of the winter's wear out of this one, so put it on and make the best of it.” When he did, she could see he was right. The coat was too small. “I'll see if I can let the sleeves out a little more tonight,” she promised while stuffing his mittens over his hands. “Maybe you can help me with the sewing.”

Before he could answer, David's father put a hat on the small boy's head with a firm hand. “Let's go.”

David grabbed his small satchel, and the three members of the Saifert family left the apartment together. He had been going to work with his parents for longer than he could remember. The family didn't have any more money when he was born than they did now. His parents couldn't afford to pay someone to look after him, so as soon as she was able to go back to work, his mother had to start bringing him with her. Not all poor people were allowed to take their babies to work, but David's mother was lucky. She was a good worker, and Mr. Salutin, who owned the factory, liked her and his father. Mr. Salutin understood that David's parents needed both of their jobs to make ends meet. He was willing to let his mother bring her baby as long as her work didn't suffer. It didn't, and David had been coming to work ever since. He would continue to do so until he started school next fall.

Like most houses in Montreal, the three-storey dwelling the Saifert family lived in on Chabot Street had a long stairway on the outside. It curved in a winding spiral all the way up to the third floor where the family had its apartment. In Montreal, people called these apartments “flats.” The man who owned the building lived on the first floor. Another family had the flat on the second floor.

“Grab on,” his mother said, holding out a gloved hand for David to grip. “The stairs are dangerous enough for little legs at the best of times, never mind when they're covered with snow and ice.”

It took a few minutes for David and his mother to reach the bottom of the stairs. Once they did, they hurried along the sidewalk. They had to catch up to his father, who was already around the corner on Dandurand and halfway to the streetcar stop on Papineau Avenue. David's father always seemed to move quickly. He was tall, but not too tall. Less than six feet. He was thick, but not fat. Muscly and strong. He had to be to work some of the big machines at the factory. Even his hair, which was so dark it was almost black and hung straight from his head, appeared strong somehow. David's hair was a shade lighter than his father's, and his eyes were blue. His father's brown eyes were exceptionally dark and always looked just a little bit angry, even when he was smiling … which wasn't very often.

A light snow began to fall, and the strong wind made the icy flakes feel like tiny pinpricks that stung David's cheeks as he and his mother scurried along the sidewalk. Scratchy or not, he turned up the collar of his coat to shield his face a bit. When they got to the stop, he turned his back to the wind for added protection as they waited. Fortunately, the city had so many streetcars that the wait was never very long.

Because he was looking the other way down Papineau Avenue, David felt the streetcar coming before he saw it. The ground rumbled as it drew near, and David turned to see the square face of the trolley with its rectangular windows and big round lights. The steel wheels screeched as trolley car number 387 slowed to a stop. David always tried to remember the number of the car.