Fritz ambled down the stairs with a yawn but paused when he saw her bustling about the kitchen.
“Buongiorno. Good morning,” she said, grateful for the interruption from her thoughts. “I make coffee.”
“Buongiorno,” he replied with a clumsy accent, making her smile.
It was kind of him to try, though she wasn’t sure what she thought of this Fritz Brauer. She didn’t trust men and their rough hands, the way they used women for their own needs, or their sharp words that cut beneath the skin. She studied Fritz from below lowered lashes, the line of his lean but muscular shoulders, his callused hands and his bright eyes. She wondered if he was as crude as the rest. He didn’t seem hostile; no latent anger hid in the angle of his jaw, but one never knew. Sometimes the most benign face hid the darkest secrets.
They filled their plates, sitting in silence as the coffee began to work its magic through their bodies. Francesca spread thick butter on two pieces of bread. She’d need her strength, and though she’d eaten well the night before, her stomach felt cavernous again. She bit into the bread, wishing it were slathered in lemon curd or prune-plum jam, but she had no right to complain. The Brauers fed her well. She’d eaten roasted apples with cinnamon, potatoes and cabbage, different versions of pork steaks and sausages. With each bite, each new dish, she’d ruminated on the stark differences between German and Italian cuisine. All was simple but tasty, and the food was certainly better than anything she’d had on the ship or at Ellis Island.
As they ate, Francesca listened to the sounds of the tenement, and the city, awakening. It was never completely silent here, even in the dead of night, and she was grateful for it. The rumble of wagons and the chorus of voices inside the building and on the street distracted her from the silence that gnawed at her insides. The absence of a voice for which she longed.
“I can walk you to work again, if you like,” Fritz said as he popped a wheel of sausage into his mouth. He explained something to her, but when he realized she was concentrating on his mouth, he stopped. “Oh, you don’t understand. Well, it’s not important. More coffee?” He jumped to his feet, slamming his knee into the tabletop. Rubbing the spot, he muttered under his breath.
“You have the grace,” she said, her voice even.
He let out a surprised laugh. “You’re funny, Francesca.”
She smiled slightly. “I like to laugh. It has been a long time.”
He refilled their coffee cups. “Why did you leave Italy?”
The mention of her home triggered a wave of images—the way she’d had to flee her own father, their constant poverty as he spent all their money on drink, the well-worn memories of her mother and the pain of her disappearance. There wasn’t any reason she should share her secrets with this man, a virtual stranger, but something about his earnest face lent her courage to say the truth aloud.
“To escape many things. My father, memories of my mother.” She drank deeply from her cup. “I came to start over, for a better life.”
He reached into the larder for a small leftover tart. “You’d better eat this then. Apple tarts make everything better, especially life.”
She laughed suddenly, and an unexpected warmth spread through her.
In the lamplight, his light-blue eyes glistened like ice. “I’m glad you’re here.”
She smiled hesitantly, unsure of what he could mean or how she should respond, but at last said, “I am happy, too.”
A thumping came from the stairwell, and Alma bounded into the room, her hair pinned hastily on top of her head. “I can’t believe I overslept! I never do that.” She sighed as she stirred milk into her coffee. “It’ll be a long day.”
Francesca wanted to reassure her the day would pass quickly, but her own long day stretched out before her. She thought of the dazzling home that looked more like a mansion with chandeliers and velvet drapes and a staircase made of fine wood and marble. The silk-covered sofa and chairs, and the many rooms set aside for guests. But it was the kitchen that delighted her most. When no one was watching, she had run her fingertips over the long row of glass jars in the pantry that held so many fragrant herbs. She’d arranged the vegetables in a colorful array, like a work of art ready to be painted. But wasn’t food art? She believed it was, even as she continued to learn more techniques from Claire. Briefly, Francesca wondered if she would see the Lancasters that afternoon. Worrying her napkin between her fingers, she imagined Mrs. Lancaster’s reaction when she discovered Francesca under her roof.
“I’m afraid I won’t have time to take you to work today, Francesca.” Alma gulped down her breakfast and stood. “Do you think you can find your own way?”
“You go on,” Fritz interjected. “I’ll take her.”
Francesca stiffened at the idea of being alone with Fritz, nice as he was. But they would be on the streets and on the train with plenty of other people around, she reminded herself. It wasn’t as if they would be alone. She relaxed a little and nodded in agreement.
In a flurry of activity, they dressed for the weather and headed to the train station. Alma waved goodbye as she climbed the platform to a southbound train. On the northbound train, Francesca chose a seat next to a window, and after a moment’s hesitation, Fritz slid into the seat beside her. She inched away from him, careful not to brush his leg. She toyed with the handles of her handbag, and after several minutes of uncomfortable silence, she attempted conversation.
“Do you like work?” she asked.
“Well enough,” he said.
She frowned. Sometimes her mind sifted through the foreign words and she landed on some understanding, and others, their meaning flitted away, just out of her grasp.
Noticing her expression, he enunciated carefully. “Yes, I like my work. Most of the time.”
She smiled. “It is good to have a job.”
Bemusement twinkled in his eyes. “I’ve never given it much thought. I’ve worked since I was a boy.”
“There is very little work in Sicily. America is good country,” she said.
“It has its problems, but yes,” he said, expression pensive. “My friends and my men want to make some changes, though. Work fewer hours for more pay. Do you understand?”
“Problems and work and change.” She smiled. “Every place needs change, but still, you have luck.”
“Yes, I suppose we’re lucky. And now we’re lucky to have you here, too,” Fritz said, a boyish grin crossing his face.
Her eyes locked on his. There was no mirth there, no mockery in their icy-blue depths. Fritz seemed to mean what he said and didn’t play games with her as her father had, to trap her.
“You look… Did I offend you?” he asked. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No, I was thinking of my father.”
“Oh, I see,” he said. “Do you miss him?”
“No!” She spat out the word. “He was a beast.”
“Well, he is far away now.” Fritz’s voice came low, reassuring. “You are safe here.”