He glared at her. “I’m not just another worker. I’m one of their foremen. They trust me.”
“All the more reason to be cautious. Your friends are hotheaded.” And sometimes they were idiotic, she wanted to say. Fritz’s best friend, Paul, had a busted lip from one of the riots only a few weeks ago.
Though the anarchists believed in maintaining order through small communities and volunteerism rather than a larger government that abused power in the name of their own interests—a peaceful philosophy at its core—the movement often attracted the wrong kinds of people. And these exact people had been in the news lately: those who favored violence over reason. President McKinley had been shot and killed by an anarchist last year, fueling even more bad press. Alma couldn’t believe Robert still let her brother hold meetings at their bierhaus. She supposed it was because her stepfather had grown up with anarchism in Germany and it felt like second nature to him. The movement abroad had come about in opposition to monarchies and dictatorships, corruption, and the unfair plight of the common man, and it had landed on America’s shores with the immigrants. Now, it was tied to the laborers’ plight. This is where Fritz had become a part of the movement, but none of those peaceful beliefs mattered if he was caught hosting meetings or arrested. The police could shut her parents’ business down, and then where would they be?
When they reached their apartment, Fritz paused outside the door. “I’m not stupid, Al. I know how to handle myself, and I sure as hell won’t be telling everyone what I think at work. There’s no time for that, anyway.” He pushed open the door.
“I know you’re not stupid,” she replied. “It’s the others I’m worried about, bringing the trouble here.” She unbuttoned her overcoat.
“Don’t worry about it.”
Catching the irritation in his voice, she let the topic drop. She wouldn’t win an argument with him when he was tired. Not that she could sway her stubborn brother when he set his mind on something anyway. As he headed upstairs, she turned to the kitchen.
The smell of pork sausages wafted around her in a welcome cloud.
“Guten abend.” She greeted Mama with a kiss on her cheek. And rather than wait and lose her nerve about the waiver, she dove right in. “I have something to ask you.”
Johanna Brauer moved quickly to the vat of sauerkraut, scooping a large helping into a bowl before tossing a sausage link on top. “We’ll talk after dinner, liebling. Take this to the gentleman in the green jacket.”
Alma obeyed, despite her annoyance. If she had to wait until later, it would make her jittery all evening. Besides, her mother would be exhausted and in no mood to discuss it by night’s end. Now was definitely better.
Alma served the plate to the gentleman, who didn’t even nod in thanks before digging into his dish. She helped serve several other hungry customers and, during the quick break afterward, seized the opportunity.
“The question I want to ask… Well, it’s more of a favor.”
Mama refilled a stein with beer. “What is it?”
“I know a young woman who needs a work permit,” Alma began. “Would you consider signing one?”
Mama turned to her, eyebrows raised. “What? Why would I do that? I don’t want to pay anyone outside of the family. We’ve had a profitable season, and with your wages and Fritz’s contributions, we’ll be moving uptown by the fall for sure, with money to spare.”
“You won’t have to hire her,” Alma persisted. “All you’d need to do is sign the employment waiver so she could be admitted, and then I’d help her find another—”
“What do you mean ‘so she could be admitted’?”
Alma bit her lip. This was precisely what she’d been trying to avoid—bringing up the fact that Francesca was an immigrant—but it was too late now. Once Mama was on to a scent, she wouldn’t let up until she had pried the truth from Alma.
“She’s an immigrant from Sicily, and she’s completely alone. I’d like to—”
The words died on her lips.
Her mother stared at her wide-eyed, as if Alma had just asked her to commit murder. “You’re asking me to sign a paper stating that an Italian immigrant is going to work for us? And it’s not even true! You want me to lie”—she spat out the word—“to the Bureau of Immigration. Put our business and home at risk for some, some—”
“I understand,” Alma interrupted, her shoulders drooping. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Why do you feel like you need to help a perfect stranger? You have no idea what she might be like. We could risk our reputation if we took her on, or worse. What if she’s mixed up with those gangs?”
Alma huffed out a frustrated breath. Her mother had said—practically verbatim—exactly what Fritz had predicted. “Mama, her sister just died and her father is a cruel man. I can’t condemn her to that life. She’s so deeply sad, and she’s only about my age. I want to help.”
She watched beer drip from the spout into the basin beneath it, used to catch any overflow. She couldn’t imagine being in Francesca’s predicament. Francesca made Alma feel ashamed of her small life and steadfast routines and inspired her to do something—anything else. For now, this act of kindness was her something: helping a woman who had helped her, and who had come too far and had suffered too much to be turned away, even with its risks. She deserved this chance.
Mama crossed her arms. “Can’t she find a job elsewhere?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Who would I ask?”
Her mother took Alma’s hands in her own. “Why don’t you ask that priest of yours, or the nuns? They’re Catholics, and Italians besides. They might find something for her.”
Alma nodded, though she knew that wasn’t an option either. The nuns had already told her so, and a priest couldn’t very well hire a young woman. It was out of the question.
“If you saw her, Mama, you’d know why I asked. If you spoke to these people, day after day…” To her surprise, she felt a rush of emotion flood her throat. Whether or not Mama spoke to them, Alma did, and it was wearing on her, thinking of the immigrants as the enemy every day when what they wanted was as basic as filling their bellies and being treated like human beings.
Her mother’s eyes softened and she tucked a stray wisp of hair behind Alma’s ear. “We can’t afford to risk what your father and I have built for ourselves. Certainly not for a stranger. I’m sorry, but your friend will have to find her own way, just as we all do.”
Alma didn’t reply, but she wanted to say that some had an easier way than others, through no inherent superiority but simply by the luck of being born at the right place in the right time—or with the right nationality and ethnicity. She could see that now, understood what she had been taught all her life wasn’t the only way of doing and being and believing. It was only one small and narrow view, and she wanted to make things right, at least for Francesca.
But sadly, it seemed that wasn’t meant to be.