Irritation flared, and she peeked in on her brother in the back room. “Fritz!” she called. It came out as more of a shout.
“Sis?” He turned, glancing at her and then at Francesca, who was bent over the end of the table with a clean cloth. When he took in Alma’s expression, his own turned sheepish and his shoulders drooped. “You need a hand?”
She was surprised he knew what she wanted but relieved. “We could clear the room in lightning speed if we had one more pair of hands, and then Francesca and I could sit and eat, too.”
“All right. Can’t have my baby sister going hungry.” He grinned and collected two fistfuls of glasses and brought them to Greta, who was busy washing. In seconds they had cleared all of the dirty things and set the empty places at the tables for the next round of customers.
God love him, Alma thought. If only more men could be like him—and unlike her stepfather. She peered toward the back of the room where Robert sat sprawled out at the table, his cheeks ruddy. He laughed at something another of the men said and slapped him on the back. Anger prickled through her, and she vowed not to talk to her stepfather tonight. She didn’t have the patience to be polite after such a harried day.
As Mama and Greta topped off the last of the beer steins, the bell above the door jingled. Three new customers entered and flowed directly to the bar. Alma took care of their orders and, at last, filled three plates of food for her brother, Francesca, and herself. They could eat quickly, help clean up a bit, and escape upstairs. Mama could hardly expect them to do more.
“Mangiare,” Alma said as she handed Francesca a plate.
A few heads turned to stare at the person who had spoken.
“Well, I see you’re harboring a dago, Brauer,” one of the men said to Robert.
“They work for sausage,” her stepfather replied with a shrug, and the men dissolved into boisterous laughter. His red-rimmed eyes betrayed how many hours he’d been drinking already.
Alma cringed and noted with relief that Francesca hadn’t understood the slur or her stepfather’s comment. She knew her friends and family preferred to “stick with their own,” but such rudeness in their bierhaus with a guest was embarrassing. She led Francesca to a seat at the opposite end of the table.
Alma’s stepfather swigged from his stein. “Our little Italian is here for a few days, I hear. Isn’t that right? At least she’ll give us something pretty to look at instead of your ugly mugs.” They all laughed again.
Alma stabbed a piece of her pork schnitzel a little too hard, and her knife clattered on the tabletop. She wished he would shut his mouth.
“Father, she’s a lady,” Fritz said sternly. “I’d appreciate it if you would respect that.”
“Did you hear that, Robert? She’s a lady!” The men at the table teased her stepfather.
They dissolved into laughter again.
“I am good worker,” Francesca blurted out. “Smart. I understand.”
“She has a respectable job, working for a wealthy family,” Alma chimed in, furious Robert had allowed the conversation to go in this direction and embarrassed Francesca had understood. The stupid drunkards needed to call it a night and be on their way.
“I work at Park Avenue,” Francesca continued, laying down her frock.
“Well, well,” one of the men said. “Straight from the boat to Park Avenue. A regular rags-to-riches story. She sure is pretty, though, isn’t she, comrades? Real pretty. Hey, little dago, why don’t you come sit by me?”
Robert guffawed until he began to choke.
“Don’t talk to her that way.” Fritz’s voice came low, menacing. “I’m warning you.”
The men glanced at Fritz, surprised, a damper falling over their good humor.
Even Robert’s laughter stopped abruptly.
Francesca met Fritz’s eye. He held her gaze an instant and nodded.
Alma ate hurriedly, suddenly desperate to take her new friend upstairs to hide until the men had all left. When they’d finished, she and Francesca helped Else and Greta briefly in the kitchen and afterward headed to the bedroom.
Some hours later, the noise in the hall had subsided, and they crept back downstairs to make Francesca’s bed.
Fritz was sitting at a table alone, reading through a stack of papers. An anarchist pamphlet sat on top. Alma bristled. It wasn’t like him to make a poor choice but entirely usual for him to be obstinate about it. She feared a terrible incident would befall him before he’d desert his cause.
Francesca touched Fritz’s forearm lightly. “The men…” she said. “Thank you.”
His bright eyes darkened. “Any friend of my sister’s is a friend of mine, and I look out for my friends.”
Francesca rewarded him with a blinding smile. “Grazie. I am a friend.”
“Yes,” he said, a smile at his lips. “I believe you are.”
Alma had never seen Fritz be so protective of anyone but her. She smiled a secret smile. Francesca had already won over her brother.
Humming to herself, Alma left the two alone to talk and fetched the blankets for Francesca’s bed.
24
Francesca awakened for the last time in the Brauers’ home and moved about the dark as if it were her own, turning on the gas lamps and setting the table with K?se cheese spread, jam, and brown bread, like she’d seen Mrs. Brauer do. She lit the stove to boil water for coffee and to heat some leftover sausages they’d set aside last night for the morning. Preparing the table for the family was a simple form of payment for letting her stay, and she knew Mrs. Brauer hadn’t wanted her there, even for another few nights. Francesca only wished she could make them fresh Sicilian brioche col tuppo, a buttery and fragrant knot of bread she’d eaten many mornings in Sister Alberta’s kitchen.
She rolled her head from side to side, trying to release the crick in her neck. Despite the uncomfortable pallet she’d used for a bed, she’d slept like the dead and had deeply strange dreams. She was searching for Maria, at home on the island, and when she finally found her sister, she was crying. A baby bird had broken its wing. It’s going to die, Cesca, Maria had said, her cheeks stained with tears. You can’t give up. You have to try to save her. But as Francesca reached for Maria, she was swept into a midnight sea. Francesca fought the current to reach the shore, but the moment she’d touch the safety of the sandy bottom, a wave would drag her out to the depths and the dream would replay again.
Francesca had awoken with an ache in her chest so profound, she felt as if she’d split in two. Maria was gone. She couldn’t believe her sister was really gone. She would never see the incredible home where Francesca was to live. Never make friends. Never celebrate Christmas or the wonder of snow in the city. Francesca would, however, do them all. Guilt and despair—disbelief at life’s reckless cruelty—ravaged her heart, and she’d soaked her makeshift pillow with her tears until the early morning hours. It was her will that forced her from bed to stand on her feet again. To face another day.