His hands slid down her sides to her hips—and she pushed away abruptly, wary he might feel her abdomen. “Where’s Alma?” she asked.
His face fell as she jerked away from him. “She’ll meet us there. She couldn’t get off work until later.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry, Fran. I should behave like a gentleman. I care about you. I—”
She put her fingertips to his lips. “You did nothing wrong, caro mio. I am… How do you say it? Afraid. No, not afraid.” She shook her head. “Careful. I think of no one but you, Fritz Brauer.”
He beamed at her, cradling her hand in his once more, and they gazed at each other, oblivious to the pedestrians streaming around them. As she sank into his eyes, she didn’t feel the terror of letting her guard down for the first time in her life. She felt alive, cared for. Safe.
“Take me to this bierhalle,” she said at last, poking him in the side with her index finger.
“Right. At this rate, Alma will beat us there.” He winked as he placed her hand on his forearm.
They walked the rest of the way to the bierhalle, and he held open the door for her. “Here we are, liebling.”
“Liebling?”
He leaned to her ear. “Dear one.”
She felt his breath on her skin and something stirred inside her. She wanted him close to her, his skin against hers, his mouth on hers. Her head dizzied with the thought, and she suddenly needed a cold beverage.
“Let’s find a seat.” Fritz took her hand and drew her across the crowded room.
The hall was filled with long tables and benches, and a bar top ran the length of one wall. Lamps glowed cheerily from their mounts on the wall, and raucous laughter and conversation roared at a near-deafening pitch. Nearly every seat was taken with customers, toasting the end of the workday. The odor of beer and sauerkraut permeated the air, and summer heat rose like steam from a boiling pot, in spite of the open shop front that faced the street. Francesca was glad she’d worn her lightest dress. She’d still had the good sense to wrap her breasts and as much of her middle as she could with a tight cloth.
Fritz called to a barmaid, who returned shortly with two frothing steins. Francesca didn’t care much for beer, but in the heat she’d drink anything. They slid into two empty spaces, their heads inclined to each other so they could hear over the noise. She smiled as they clinked their glasses in cheer and took a small sip.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” Fritz said, his eyes drinking her in as he held the frosty beer in his hand.
Intoxicated by his nearness, by the adoration in his eyes, she leaned closer until her face was an inch from his. “And I think of you.”
He ran a fingertip softly under her chin. “Tell me something about yourself that no one knows. A secret.” His eyes twinkled with mischief.
Beneath her dress, she felt a soft fluttering in her abdomen.
“Oh!” she said, cupping her stomach. The child. It had moved. She’d only felt it a couple of times before as the lightest nudge, but never like this.
His eyes filled with concern. “Is everything all right?”
She flinched, removing her hand swiftly. “Yes. I… Yes.” She laughed nervously.
“There you are!” Alma said, plopping down in one of the open seats beside them. Helene slid in next to her.
In the warm glow of the pub light, Helene was even prettier than Francesca remembered. Dimpled cheeks, blond hair, and light-brown eyes that appeared almost gold. She was the kind of German beauty Alma’s sister Greta was—blond, fair, striking. The opposite of Francesca in every way. She’d been seeing an awful lot of Helene at the family gatherings lately. She knew the young matron was setting her sights on Fritz—and she wasn’t pregnant.
Trying to hide the tide of jealousy washing over her, Francesca greeted Alma and Helene with a kiss.
“I see you’ve already been enjoying yourself.” Alma winked.
In seconds, a fresh beer was placed before the newcomers.
As the evening wore on, they talked and laughed. Alma shared stories from work. Fritz practiced his poor Italian. After a particularly hilarious exchange, Francesca leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek, all too aware that pretty Helene was watching them.
Fritz grinned. “I need to practice Italian more often!”
They all laughed, and though Francesca had the feeling it wasn’t exactly polite to be affectionate in public, she didn’t care. She was so happy in this moment, she wanted to celebrate it. God knew when she would feel happy again.
“Let’s go dancing,” Helene announced suddenly, giving Francesca a thoughtful look. “I’m ready to move on.”
They all agreed and paid their bill, pushing up from their table just as the din in the bierhalle died down.
All eyes fixed on the front door.
Four policemen had entered the hall and were circulating throughout the room. They stood ominously over each table, questioning the patrons. When an officer pulled a man to his feet, the silence broke.
“It’s a raid!”
People began to shout. Some raced to the door, shoving as they went.
Fritz grabbed Francesca by the hand and called to his sister. “Come on! Out the back door!”
“What’s happening!” Alma demanded.
“It’s an anarchist raid!” he shouted above the noise.
They bolted for the back door, shoving people out of the way. Screams tore through the air as the room dissolved into chaos. Suddenly filled with terror, Francesca dashed after Fritz. She couldn’t afford to be caught as an anarchist, not when she was such a newly admitted immigrant. She’d find herself back at Ellis Island and on the next ship home. Frantic, she threw a look over her shoulder, confirming Alma and Helene were behind her.
Fritz paused to push Francesca through the back door ahead of him and waited, ensuring the others made it outside into the alleyway. Just as he started to follow, a large hand clapped down on his shoulder.
“Are you Fritz Brauer?” the policeman barked, yanking Fritz backward.
His eyes filled with regret, and he mouthed “run” before turning to face the policeman.
Heart in her throat, Francesca raced down the alleyway ahead of Alma and Helene, winding around rotted crates and a row of garbage cans. They’d gotten to Fritz! She’d warned him to leave the group—and now she could only imagine the consequences he’d face. She clutched the Madonna at her neck, sending a prayer to look after the man she loved.
The man she loved! And she did. She loved him, with all her heart.
Alma caught up to her and clutched her hand. They raced down the street for several more blocks with Helene at their heels, weaving around pedestrians and lampposts, putting distance between the police and themselves. When they felt they were a safe distance from the dance hall, they stopped to catch their breath.