Francesca pretended not to notice and said goodbye to the rest of the group. A few looked up and replied in kind.
As she and Fritz sauntered off, Francesca was careful to keep an arm’s length between them. She knew several pairs of eyes were watching them go.
“We take the train?” It was a long walk home, so she assumed Fritz would be anxious to get back to the bierhaus.
Something like disappointment crossed his features. “I thought we’d walk, if that’s all right? It’s a nice evening. Apart from the gangs.”
She laughed. “Apart from the gangs.”
“I suppose you’re right. We should take the train.”
“No! I like to walk. I like to…” Her cheeks burned.
A smile bloomed on his face. “A walk it is.”
“Thank you, Fritz,” she said. “You didn’t have to see me home.”
“You’re my sister’s friend. And my friend,” he added hastily. “I couldn’t let you go alone… I didn’t want to let you go.” He cleared his throat. “Go alone, that is.”
The fluttering sensation returned, and when she met his eye, he smiled broadly.
“Shall we?” He held out his forearm, and as she accepted it, a cloud of evergreen and earth floated around her. His scent.
A scent she could definitely get used to.
*
Two days had passed since the incident in the park and her walk with Fritz, and yet Francesca couldn’t put it from her mind. She had friends—even a male friend, and though it hadn’t been entirely comfortable dining with the Brauers and the other German families, she could see herself slowly becoming a part of things. She’d never been welcomed into a large circle, or welcomed at all in truth, outside the cozy warmth of Sister Alberta’s home.
Francesca wiped down the staff dining table, helped Claire put away the last of the clean dishes, and eyed the wineglasses set out as a treat for them when they finished. She was worn out, and her stomach hadn’t stopped churning all day. Sadly, the wine didn’t look particularly appetizing either. She’d almost taken to bed, worried an illness was coming on, but didn’t want to leave Claire on her own.
A soft but insistent knock came at the staff entrance door.
Frowning, Mrs. Cheedle looked up from her puzzle. “Who could that be at this hour?” She headed to the door, and when she returned, a frown stamped her features. “Francesca, someone is here to see you.” She made a point of looking at the clock. “I invited him inside, but he insisted on waiting for you on the stoop.”
He? Francesca couldn’t imagine who that might be. She laid down her towel and went to the door. Just beyond the potted flowers, a man sat on the top of the stairs. Not just any man. It was Fritz Brauer.
Her heart skipped a beat. What was he doing here?
“Fritz, is that you?” she called.
“I know it’s getting late,” he said. “I’m just leaving work, and I needed to talk to someone. I thought… Well, I thought of you.”
“Are you all right? Do you want to come in?”
“No. I mean, yes. No.” He laughed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I came.” He stood to go.
“Don’t leave,” she said, climbing the steps that led from the staff entrance below street level. The night had cooled, and as the crisp air crept over her skin, she crossed her arms over her chest and rubbed them. “Did something happen?”
“I had a rough day at work. My boss heard some rumors about a strike, and now he’s threatening to fire workers, many of whom are my friends. He said he’d hire all new immigrants if he had to, to get the subway built. And to avoid the headaches.” He took off his hat, rubbed a hand over his hair, and said a few things she didn’t understand. She was relieved when she could finally make sense of something he’d said. “I tried to convince him it was in his best interest to pay us more,” Fritz went on, “and to think about shortening the workday, even just by an hour, but he wasn’t hearing it.” He tried his very poor Italian. “I’m sorry. Your English and my Italian… Does any of this make sense to you?”
“The boss doesn’t want workers to leave him, but he won’t pay,” she replied in English.
He sighed. “Yes, but what he’s also trying to say is he doesn’t want the anarchists working for him anymore.”
Anarchists. An anarchist had shot the king in Italy a few years ago, and her father had celebrated. That was how she knew she wanted nothing to do with them, but Alma’s explanation—or defense of Fritz, rather—had given Francesca pause in her assumptions. Fritz didn’t seem like the sort of man to cause trouble, and certainly not the kind of man to shoot someone.
“They know you are anarchist?” she asked.
He nodded. “And they want me to get my men to settle down, or they’ll fire me and anyone else out of line. But if I walk, we all walk, and there will be a major strike.”
“Maybe you stop anarchism now.”
“Maybe,” he said reluctantly. “But it’s really none of their damned business what my politics are and what I do in my spare time. I think Mark Schumacher was the one who rattled their cages.”
“Rattle cages?” She frowned.
He laughed and his mood broke. “Stir things up. Make people upset.”
“I see,” she said. “The man from the park with the marks on his face? But he is your friend. I don’t understand.”
He shrugged. “Neither do I.”
“He’s not much of a friend these days, is he?” Fritz sat in a puddle of moonlight, making his eyes look like orbs of silver. “Our working conditions are pretty dangerous most of the time. We still have a long way to go, so we’ll likely have to strike soon, no matter what else happens.” Determination settled in the lines of his jaw.
Though confused as to why he’d made a trip here just to tell her this, at this hour, she was glad he had. He seemed to trust her, and the thought pleased her more than she wanted to admit. As a vision of Fritz laughing with Helene flitted through her mind, Francesca realized he didn’t think of her in the same way he did Helene. Francesca and Fritz were simply friends, and it was a wonderful feeling to have friends. And that was enough. It had to be enough.
She sat beside him on the step without speaking, listening to the distant rumble of trains. She was acutely aware of his nearness, of his breathing, and the smell of earth that clung to his clothes after a long day’s work. Did she smell of sugar and yeast and jam tarts?
He peered at her in the dark, his eyes traveling over her face. “Thank you for listening.”
Shifting under his stare, she said, “We are friends.”
“I couldn’t talk to Alma. She’s already worried about me, and my parents don’t understand.”
Her hands seemed to have a mind of their own and reached for him, touched his knee. “I’m happy you came. I like to talk.”