Alma considered Helene’s warning as they boarded the ferry. That made two warnings—one from her and one from Jeremy.
A brisk wind blew off the water, and a bank of clouds drifted across a fiery sky. Soon, the sun would set, and one by one, the city lights would flicker to life.
“Are you going to tell me who it was?” Helene asked, voice low.
Alma leaned closer. “It’s Inspector Miller.”
“Oh.” Helene waved her hand in dismissal. “Believe me, he’s not the one to worry about.”
She sat back in surprise. “Wait, who is?”
“If you haven’t seen him at it yet, you will soon enough.”
“Tell me, Helene,” she urged, her curiosity piqued.
Helene shook her head and with a grim smile ended the conversation.
Alma wondered who Helene was referring to, and found herself more than a little disgusted at the thought of another inspector—a man who held the fate of the immigrants in his hands—taking advantage of his position.
She watched the strip of buildings grow larger, taller, as the ferry chugged toward the Manhattan port.
New York City, the land of opportunity, she thought bitterly, for some.
23
Alma and Fritz headed uptown to meet Francesca at the Lancasters’. They’d decided it best after all, assuming she might welcome the assistance after only a short time in the city. During the train ride, Alma mulled over Helene’s warning. She wondered which inspector she should watch. She mentally ran through the list of inspectors, trying to place them all firmly in her mind, searching for some signal she had missed, some clue as to whom Helene might be referring to. Exhausted by her line of thinking, she glanced at her brother. He sagged with fatigue.
She tapped his shoe with her foot. “Tough day at work?”
He ran his hands over his face and yawned. “You could say that. We’re moving uptown starting next week. Going deep underground instead of building from above. This will mean more dynamite.”
“So a greater likelihood of accidents.”
He nodded. “And when the fellas don’t speak English, it makes it difficult to get the point across.”
She watched him stretch in his seat. “There’s more that you aren’t saying, though, isn’t there?”
He sighed heavily. “It’s just the talk of another strike again. We managed to get a pay raise last time we went on strike, but a ten-hour work day?” He glanced at Alma and shrugged. “Sure, we’d all like to work less, but the commissioner is coming down hard on us to finish. They want to open the subway next year sometime.”
“Next year?” she asked, incredulous. “That seems impossible.”
“You’re telling me. God, I need a beer.”
She patted his knee, ignoring the filth on his trousers. She thought about digging and toiling in the damp underground for work every day and, for once, she felt for Fritz. In the past, she’d envied his freedom to come and go as he pleased and to collect his own wages, but his work no longer sounded appealing—even compared to the difficult days at Ellis Island. For the first time, she felt an inkling of gratitude for her stepfather’s insistence on sending her out into the work force, and to John Lambert for getting her hired at the immigration station. As draining as it could be, and as emotional as it seemed to make her, she felt she was doing a true service for her country and for the people who passed through the station’s halls. On some days, she even felt proud of her work. What’s more, she’d finally discovered what she truly wanted. To go to school to become an interpreter. Now she needed to figure out a way to talk to her parents about it.
They walked quickly to the Lancasters’, eager to gather Francesca and head home. Alma hoped Francesca had ideas as to what her sleeping arrangements would entail. Mama had made it abundantly clear Francesca wasn’t welcome, and though Alma had ignored her the first night, and would again that evening, she didn’t know how long she would truly get away with it.
When they knocked on the servants’ entrance, the housekeeper welcomed them inside the cozy kitchen. A few household staff tended to their duties as the delicious aroma of garlic, onions, and tomatoes wafted around them. And some other scent. Fried fish, perhaps, and olive oil.
On cue, Fritz’s stomach growled loudly. He laughed and placed his hand on his middle. “It smells delicious. I’m starving.”
“Hello!” Francesca greeted them in English with an Italian kiss on each cheek. Her eyes sparked with light, sweat dampened her hairline, and the apples of her cheeks were stained pink.
A rush of warmth flooded Alma’s chest at seeing the young woman so cheerful. Fritz, on the other hand, blushed like a schoolboy as Francesca kissed his cheek.
“We wanted to make sure you knew how to find the bierhaus, if you need to stay again tonight,” Alma said.
Relief flickered briefly in Francesca’s eyes. “You are so kind. Yes, I do, and I’ve just finished everything,” Francesca said, switching to Italian. “The former cook will stay for two more days while she waits for her next place to be available. I can move in when she’s gone, so I’ll be a part of the live-in staff!” She was so happy, she appeared on the verge of kissing them both again.
“That’s wonderful!” Alma squeezed Francesca’s shoulder. “I’m so happy for you.”
Alma glanced at Fritz, who was quiet through the exchange, but he watched Francesca closely.
“Give me five minutes!” Francesca said.
“No problem.” Alma smiled. Having a new friend outside of the carefully controlled circle of traditional German families her parents had cultivated was more than welcome, it felt like a gift. Even if the other Brauers hadn’t warmed to the idea yet.
When Francesca reappeared at the door, she gave Alma and Fritz each a hunk of bread rubbed with olive oil and sprinkled with salt, pepper, and herbs.
“For the stomach.” She smiled and pointed to Fritz’s middle.
“Thank you. I wasn’t sure I could make it home.” When he bit into the bread, he made an approving sound. “You’re an excellent cook.”
She smiled as she watched him devour the bread. “You are excellent eater.”
They all laughed.
They made their way southbound to Orchard Street. When they arrived at the Brauers’ bierhaus a little over a half an hour later, they ducked inside, relieved to call it a night.
“Well, don’t stand in the doorway,” Mama shouted over the bar top. “Come give us a—” She stopped when she saw Francesca.
Alma pretended not to see her mother’s glare. Once she explained the situation, Mama would have to let Francesca stay. Wouldn’t she? It was only a couple more days.
Alma looked over the room, noticing it was busier than usual. The first warm breezes of the season were probably to blame. She and Francesca went to work serving plates, filling steins, whisking away dirty dishes. Fritz, meanwhile, headed to the back to eat, and not for the first time, envy lodged in Alma’s gut. While he relaxed after a busy day, she and Francesca worked a second shift.