A burst of joy surged through Francesca’s limbs. Dear Maria, Santa Maria, she was going to America!
As they boarded the ferry, her happiness faltered only an instant when Alma asked her about the inspections. She beat back a wave of nausea, unwilling to mar the happy moment with an ugly memory. After the short ferry ride to shore, they walked silently to a clutch of bushes where a tall figure lingered in the shadows beneath the rising moon. In the dark, the looming cityscape framed his silhouette.
“Fritz!” Alma called, reaching for Francesca’s hand. “è mio fratello.”
Moonlight streamed across the young man’s face, lighting a pair of high cheekbones, a prominent chin, and a pair of searing blue eyes that were a different shade of blue from Alma’s. He wasn’t exactly handsome but he was finely featured. An unspoken thought passed between brother and sister, and Alma nodded slightly.
Francesca wondered what it meant. She’d need to become very good at reading body language until her English improved.
“Francesca, meet my brother Fritz.”
Fritz removed a dark-brown derby hat from his head. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Hello,” Francesca said. “Thank you for help with Mr. Lancaster.”
“Happy to be of service.” He revealed a nice smile as he placed his hat back on his head.
In a mixture of Italian and English, Alma said, “I’m starved. You may have to help us serve some customers at the brewery, but a little serving in exchange for a place to sleep will work for you, I hope?”
“Yes!” Francesca replied. She’d clean their house top to bottom if she had to. She was relieved to have a place to lay her head for the night and glad to put her idle hands to work. Perhaps it would help keep her thoughts at bay.
Fritz’s eyebrow arched in surprise. “She’ll be staying with us tonight?”
“If I can convince Robert and Mama, yes.”
Francesca didn’t miss the surprise in Fritz’s voice. So Alma hadn’t asked her parents yet? Francesca’s stomach clenched. She hoped her parents were as kind as her new friend was.
Alma switched to German, and brother and sister went back and forth until Fritz rubbed his hands together. In English he said, “It’s freezing. Let’s get going.”
Francesca fell into step beside them, taking two steps to their one. “Your father is tall?” she said, attempting humor with her limited English.
Fritz chuckled. “Yes, he was tall. Before he passed away, that is.”
“Oh, I am sorry—”
“That was years ago,” Alma added quickly. “Our stepfather’s name is Robert Brauer. Mama is Johanna. You’ll meet our siblings, too. There are five of us in all.”
Francesca couldn’t imagine having such a large family, though she had always wished for one.
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” Fritz enunciated slowly for her benefit.
Alma nudged Fritz.
“What?” he asked irritably.
“Her sister—” Alma began.
“She died,” Francesca added quickly. To say the words aloud cut her like a knife, and the finality of living the rest of her life without Maria hit her again, pain rolling through her strong enough to take her breath away. She swallowed and focused on the road ahead, waiting for the pain to subside.
“I’m sorry,” Fritz said. She didn’t—couldn’t—reply, and after an awkward moment of silence, he pointed at her suitcase. “Can I carry that for you?”
When she felt she could speak without crying, she thanked him and gave him the few precious belongings she owned. She didn’t know these Brauers well, and yet, she gave herself over to them willingly. Sheer exhaustion prevented her from acting otherwise, or perhaps it was relief there were good people in a world that had been so cruel. As another knot of emotion rose in her throat, she guided her thoughts back to the landscape.
They walked the rest of the way to the train station in silence. Alma helped her with her ticket, and within minutes, they glided over the city, lights and buildings hurtling past them. Francesca couldn’t wrap her mind around the size of the city, the endless stream of lights twinkling in windows and from lampposts. There were as many lights in this city as there were stars in the vast skies over her island home. She wondered at the way life could change in an instant, until it was barely recognizable. How one could move through their days numbly, inured to their surroundings, days passing into years. She wished she had cherished what was good about her home, however little, while she had it, but she had been too wounded. Too desperate to flee.
When they arrived at their stop, they paced quickly through the city streets. Francesca nearly had to run to keep up, but she was glad to make haste. Exhaustion leaked from every pore.
“This is our street,” Alma said as they turned onto a crowded block.
Some of the storefronts were closed, but a glow emanated from the windows in row after row of apartment buildings and taverns. The air smelled of melted snow and mud until the breeze shifted, bringing a thick cloud of factory smoke. People shuffled along the street, stepping around broken furniture, over piles of manure, around garbage. Ahead, a small crowd gathered. Shouting echoed against the building fronts. As they neared, Francesca realized several of the men were fist-fighting.
“Come on.” Fritz tucked his free hand under Alma’s elbow. “Let’s cross the street. And whatever you do, don’t make eye contact.”
“Is it the Eastmans?” Alma asked, voice low.
“By the looks of it. And the Five Points.”
“It’s the Italians and the Jews. Turf wars,” Alma whispered, translating for Francesca.
The Italians? She cringed as she thought of the gangs at home and the way the capofamiglia warred against each other. People often ended up dead. She felt a flash of embarrassment and disgust when she considered what Francesca and Fritz must think about these people who came from her island, especially when there were plenty of good, God-fearing people. She remembered the way Mrs. Lancaster had sneered at her, how the Polish men in the cafeteria at Ellis Island wouldn’t let her sit at their table, and the many hateful comments and stares she’d endured since she’d arrived. No one liked Italians, it seemed, and the gangs made it that much worse, with their thieving and the way they brutalized those who opposed them. Her weariness deepened as she thought of the long road ahead to prove herself different from what was expected of her.
The noise grew as the men began to jeer and their scuffle became more violent.
Francesca could feel the change in both Fritz’s and Alma’s demeanor as they picked up their pace. When they were directly across the street from the group, something metallic caught the moonlight, and the brawling men paused.
“Ah, hell,” Fritz said, his tone turning gruff. “He’s got a gun. Do you understand, Francesca?”
“There is danger,” she said, pulse pumping in her ears.