Shaken to the Core (26 page)

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With every step toward the morning room, Giuliana’s tension grew. She couldn’t just follow Kate in and sit at the Winthrops’ table. “Kate,” she whispered right before they reached the door. “I cannot eat breakfast with you. I do not belong, and everyone will know this.”

“You’re my guest. Biddy won’t dare say a word.”

“It is not only Biddy. Maybe it is better if I go.”

Kate whirled to face her. “No!” Her blue eyes reminded Giuliana of the sparks the fallen live wires had emitted. “Please…Stay.”

How could she say no to that? Giuliana sighed. “All right.”

Kate’s tense features softened. She gave Giuliana a nod before opening the door and guiding her into the morning room.

An older couple, two young women, and a man of about thirty had joined the Winthrops at the long mahogany table. The men stood as Kate and Giuliana entered.

Giuliana barely held herself back from curtsying as Kate introduced the Bakers.

“I didn’t know you had another guest,” George Baker, the oldest son of the family, said. His eyes glittered with interest as he studied Giuliana.

“We took in the poor dear because she lost her home in the earthquake,” Mrs. Winthrop said as if it had been entirely her idea. “Her house collapsed on itself. Can you imagine?”

The Baker women gasped.

George pulled out one of the high-backed chairs for Giuliana and indicated for her to sit next to him.

Giuliana hesitated. She would have preferred sitting next to Kate, but there was no way to politely decline, so she thanked the gentleman and gingerly settled between him and his sister at the table.

As soon as she was sitting, her gaze fell on the large bay windows facing southeast. Now it was Giuliana who gasped.

By now, the sun was rising higher in the sky, a blood-red ball of fire, nearly blotted out by massive columns of smoke that rose from several places. The plumes of smoke gathered high up in the sky, blocking out the daylight and making lamps necessary even though it was morning. The fires from below painted the smoke clouds in hues of pink, orange, lavender, and crimson.

“It’s almost beautiful, isn’t it?” said one of the Baker sisters between sips of orange juice, her pinky finger elegantly extended.

Beautiful? Giuliana stared at her. She doubted any of the people whose homes were burning thought of it that way. How could the Winthrops and the Bakers sit here and have breakfast while watching the city burn as if it were an event provided for their entertainment?

“Eat,” Kate whispered across the table to her, although Giuliana noticed that she had taken just a little oatmeal for herself. She kept glancing out the window at the columns of smoke.

Maybe Kate was right. Who knew where the next days would take her? This might be the last time in a week that she got a good meal.

A veritable feast had been laid out in front of her: rolls, toast and jams, buttermilk biscuits, eggs, strips of bacon, orange juice, and oatmeal with a pitcher of cream. Giuliana couldn’t help thinking that her entire family could have lived off all that food for a week. The scents wafting through the room made her stomach growl, but she was hesitant to help herself to any of the food. She couldn’t handle the silver cutlery as elegantly as the Winthrops and the Bakers. As soon as she started to eat, she’d give herself away as a working-class woman, embarrassing Kate and her parents.

“Try the biscuits, Giuliana,” Kate said, seemingly unconcerned. “They’re great with a little jam.”

Giuliana slid the smallest of the biscuits onto her plate and poured herself a bit of orange juice.

“Giuliana,” George Baker repeated. “That’s Italian, isn’t it?” Not waiting for her reply, he continued, “Are you related to the owner of the Fior d’Italia?”

How typical. Why did Americans always think all Italians were related to each other? She had never even set foot in the finest Italian restaurant in the city. Trying hard to hide her accent and imitate the educated diction and tone of the Winthrops, she said, “Not that I know.” She busied herself with her biscuit just so she wouldn’t have to say anything else, but she could sense his gaze on her.

“So your house collapsed? I didn’t know North Beach had been hit that hard,” George said.

Giuliana gave a noncommittal hum, content to let him believe she lived in the neighborhood where most Italians made their home in San Francisco, not in the poor area South of Market. She ducked her head, gaze firmly on her plate, hoping he’d stop peppering her with questions.

“Or do you live elsewhere in the city?”

“You haven’t, by any chance, been down in the financial district this morning, have you, George?” Mr. Winthrop asked, drawing the younger man’s attention away from Giuliana.

A lively discussion involving banks, money, and earthquake damage in the financial district ensued.

Giuliana breathed a sigh of relief and quickly ate the biscuit, now that everyone’s attention wasn’t on her anymore.

Without warning, the floor beneath her started to shake. The delicate cups rattled in their saucers, and the good china and crystal glasses clinked on the table. Mrs. Winthrop and the Baker women screamed at the top of their lungs.

The lamp on the side table crashed to the floor and shattered. Coal oil or kerosene drenched the beautiful rug and ignited within seconds. A circle of flame shot up, quickly threatening to engulf the floor-length curtains.

Fire!
Giuliana was on her feet before she was fully aware of jumping up. She grabbed the pitcher of orange juice from the table and dumped its contents onto the flames.

With a hissing sound, the fire went out. The aftershock stopped as quickly as it had begun.

Giuliana stared at the smoke that curled up from the rug. Her body started to tremble. Vivid images of the smoke drifting up from the wreckage of the boardinghouse flashed through her mind. Heat from the fire below her seemed to sear her feet.

The scraping of a chair over the floor brought her back to the present.

Mr. Winthrop rushed around the table and stomped on the smoldering remains of the rug. He wrenched open the window and unceremoniously threw the smoking, orange-juice-dripping rug into the garden. When he turned back around, he gave Giuliana a terse nod. “Good thinking, young lady.”

Lady…Either he was trying to keep up appearances in front of his guests, or he was truly grateful for her intervention. Giuliana slowly relaxed her death grip on the pitcher and tried to still the trembling of her fingers.

Now that their own home had been threatened by fire, the Winthrops seemed to have lost their appetite and no longer appeared to find the sight of the burning city all that beautiful.

Mr. Winthrop emptied his cup and folded his linen napkin. “I think I’d better drive down to the office and check if everything is in order.” He turned toward his wife. “I’ll stop at the bank on the way back and get our money. We’ve barely got a cent in the house, and who knows what will happen in the next few days.”

George nodded. “I think we should do the same,” he said to his father. “If the firefighters can’t stop the fires at Market Street…”

“You don’t think we have anything to fear, do you?” Mrs. Winthrop asked.

“Oh, no, don’t worry. Dennis Sullivan won’t let it come to that. He’s the best damn chief the fire department ever had.” George blushed beneath his thin mustache. “Sorry for the language, ladies, but it’s true. Nob Hill is safe.”

“I’ll go, then.” Mr. Winthrop strode to the door.

Kate jumped up. “Wait, Father. I’ll go with you.”

“Out of the question. You stay here and—”

“And sit around drinking tea while the city’s on fire?” Kate shook her head so wildly that a few strands came loose from her pompadour. “This is my chance.”

“Chance for what?” Mr. Winthrop asked.

Kate stopped halfway toward him and looked him in the eyes. “To help people…and to take photographs.”

Her father shook his head. “If you want to help people, stay at home and crotchet them a warm shawl or something. I won’t have you put yourself at risk for other people or for silly mementos.”

“It’s not about mementos,” Kate answered. “I want to see my photographs in the
San Francisco Call
. I want to be a newspaper photographer, Father.”

Both Winthrops groaned.

“We’ve talked about this, Kathryn,” her father said. “No daughter of mine needs to work for a living.”

“But I want to. I—”

“Not in front of our guests,” Mr. Winthrop said. “We’ll talk about it when I’m back.”

“It might be too late by then. I need to photograph the city now, before the fires are out.” Kate took two more steps toward her father and the door behind him. “I’m going, with or without you.”

Giuliana didn’t want to be left behind with just Mrs. Winthrop and Biddy, her biggest adversaries in the house. Her chair scraped across the floor as she jumped up and ran after Kate. “Can I come with you?”

A grunt of frustration escaped Mr. Winthrop.

His friend, Mr. Baker, laughed and patted him on the back. “You should marry her off, Cornelius.” He winked over at his son. “Once she has her own household to run, she won’t have time for such harebrained ideas.”

“Oh, come on, what would it hurt to let her take a few photographs?” the younger Mr. Baker said.

Mr. Winthrop grimaced, glared at Kate, and waved his index finger at her. “You stay in the automobile at all times. No jumping out to take photographs, do you hear me?”

“Yes, Father,” Kate said, meek as a lamb.

But Giuliana knew better. If Kate saw a chance at a newspaper-worthy photograph, she’d be out of the automobile, her father and all danger be damned. One more reason why Giuliana wanted to go too. She would keep an eye on Kate.

CHAPTER 14

Market Street

San Francisco, California

April 18, 1906

By the time Kate had packed her camera into her carrying case, stuffed as many unexposed glass plates as possible in there, and was finally on her way downtown, it was already after eleven.

Her father had to drive so slowly that Kate wondered if she wouldn’t be faster walking. Rubble blocked their path in some places, making detours through side streets necessary. The roads were full of people, most heading west to find refuge in Golden Gate Park, others fleeing north toward the open grounds of the Presidio or east toward the ferry building so they could catch a boat to Oakland. It looked as if a mass exodus was on its way.

Hundreds of soldiers in mustard-colored uniforms patrolled the streets, each carrying a rifle with a bayonet. They must have marched down from their posts in Fort Mason and the Presidio right after the strongest shock of the earthquake had stopped.

Heavens! Had martial law been declared? Kate fidgeted in the passenger seat and threw a concerned glance over her shoulder at Giuliana in the backseat. Had they underestimated the danger?

The closer they came to Market Street, the more they had to slow down. The smoke became denser, making them cough.

Kate stared ahead, to where a two-mile-long wall of smoke rose. Oh Lord. South of Market had to be a raging conflagration, the individual fires probably having merged into one giant inferno. Before, she had just thought of the spectacular photographs she might be able to take, but this was real. A tremor went through her body. She clutched the side of the door in an attempt to make the trembling stop.

Guilt started to gnaw at her gut. Was it wrong of her to want to photograph the disaster when people were losing their homes—or even their lives? But even if she were to turn around and put her camera away, it wouldn’t make a difference. The fires would keep burning, no matter what. The only thing she could do was document the disaster and keep an eye out for people in need of help.

Just as her father steered the automobile around the last corner and onto Market Street, a deafening boom shook the cobblestones.

Kate ducked, her heart pounding. Breath burst in and out of her lungs.

Her father hit the brakes. “What the heck was that?”

“Dynamite,” a man shouted from the sidewalk. He was wearing three hats and several layers of clothing, probably trying to save his entire wardrobe. “There’s not a lick of water to be had, so they’re trying to create firebreaks.”

They were blowing up buildings in the middle of Market Street? Kate couldn’t believe it. As her father carefully steered the automobile northwest, she realized how bad it really was. Several buildings on the south side of Market Street were burning, and the dynamite didn’t seem to stop the flames. A plume of smoke was rising from somewhere behind the Emporium, the fire quickly approaching the department store.

Kate had to swallow at the sight of all the familiar buildings threatened by fire. It seemed so surreal that her brain had difficulty grasping what was going on. Fear started to skitter down her spine. Was the city in trouble?

Nonsense,
she tried to tell herself. The chief of their fire department wouldn’t let that happen. He was already dealing with the situation, dynamiting some buildings to keep the rest of the city safe.

Her father seemed to think the same because he continued driving.

But when they approached Fourth Street, Kate was greeted by a sight that even seeing the Emporium engulfed by smoke hadn’t prepared her for.

Flames shot out of the top stories of the Spreckels building. Kate’s clammy fingers dug into the leather of the passenger seat
. Oh no. No
.
The tower that housed the
San Francisco Call
was burning from the top down, like a candle. Editors and reporters had fled the building and were now standing at the intersection, looking as dazed as Kate felt. With no water available, the firefighters could only stand by and watch. One held a hose, the nozzle limply dangling down.

A heaviness settled over Kate. She knew it was just one more building burning, but to her, the
Call
was so much more. It represented her hope for the future.

A hand touched her shoulder from behind.

When Kate turned, she glanced into Giuliana’s compassionate brown eyes.