Uprising (2 page)

It was hard to understand Signora Luciano, partly because she was screaming so loudly and partly because her words sounded garbled—too stretched out, with the accents coming down in the wrong places. Bella remembered that Pietro had said that the Lucianos came from another part of Italy. Was this still Italian she was speaking?

It had to be, because otherwise Bella wouldn't have been able to understand her at all.

“Bella will start as a learner,” Pietro said. “She'll do fine.”

Bella was glad to hear that, glad that Pietro was standing up for her.

“Pah!” Signora Luciano exploded. She looked Bella up and down, in a way that made Bella feel that her own face was dirty, and that Signora Luciano knew that Bella hadn't been able to wash her under-things since she'd left home. “You watch out, she'll end up on the streets. Who sends a girl alone to this country?”

Bella wanted to protest—she hadn't been sent alone. It wasn't her fault the officials on Ellis Island were so picky about who they let in. But Signora Luciano was still talking.

“I tell you and tell you, she can work for me, making the flowers.” Signora Luciano gestured toward the table, which was strewn with bits and pieces of fabric. Bella had wondered about all that fabric from the time she'd walked in the door: The whole scene made her think of the time back home when her family's goats had gotten into the garden and left behind half-eaten zucchini vines, half-eaten tomato blossoms. But now Bella realized that the flowers on the Luciano table had been abandoned partly created, not partly destroyed.

“Get to work, lazybones,” Signora Luciano hissed, and her three dirty children detached themselves from her skirt and rushed to the table.

“For hats. Beautiful, yes?” Signora Luciano said to Bella, and even through the strange accent Bella could hear the craftiness in her voice. “You work for me, you get up in the morning, you're already at your job. You never have to leave the apartment. And if you work fast, I'll pay you lots of money.”

The three dirty children were twisting wires and fabric together with dizzying speed. Bella felt a little sick to her stomach.

“Bella can make more money in the factory,” Pietro said. “Four dollars a week. Can you pay four dollars a week?”

Bella didn't know if that was a little or a lot; her mind still worked in lire. But she didn't want Signora Luciano to think she was just greedy.

“I have to make as much money as I can, to send home to my family,” she said, though the words “my family” stuck a little in her throat.
Oh, Mama,
she thought.
Oh, Giovanni and Ricardo and Guilia and Dominic . . .

Signora Luciano narrowed her eyes, like a bocce player studying the arrangement of the balls, planning the next throw.

“Then you work for me in the evenings, after the factory,” she said. “Earn extra money.”

Bella was about to say “Oh, yes, oh, anything to buy food for my family”—but Pietro stomped his foot. He laid his hands protectively on Bella's shoulders.

“Bella will not work for you,” he said. “We are boarders here and nothing else. Bella will not work for you during the day or in the evenings or on Sundays. And neither will I.”

He was being so disrespectful—and yet Bella felt proud of him, her tall, handsome cousin, who was only seventeen but could stand up to this frightening woman, could survive in America on his own.

Now Pietro was leaning in close, whispering in Bella's ear.

“She would cheat you,” he said. “Every week, there would be a reason she wouldn't pay. She is not an honest woman, Signora Luciano.”

Then why are we living with her?
Bella wanted to ask. But her heart was pounding too hard, she was too aware of his breath against her skin. And Signora Luciano was glaring at them both now, a clear enemy.

“I have strict rules for my boarders,” she said harshly as she thumped a sack of onions down on the only clear space on the table. “No mixing between male and female boarders. No touching our food—if I find anything missing between meals, that's it, you're out in the streets. No bringing friends here. No using our soap. If you want your sheets clean, you use your own soap, you wash them yourselves. But not too much, because I won't have you making my linens thread-
bare, using them up. No taking our candles—buy your own if you need them. No . . .”

Bella barely listened.

None of this matters,
she told herself.
Pietro will take care of me.

•  •  •

“You should probably tell them you're fifteen,” Pietro said the next morning as he walked Bella to her first day at her new job.

“I am fifteen,” Bella said.

“Really?” Pietro said, looking at her sideways in a way that made Bella notice his eyelashes, as long as a girl's, curving up from his dark eyes.

“Well, I
think
so,” Bella said. “As near as Mama can figure. Of course, it's written down at the church, back home, but it's not like we could have bothered the priest to look up the baptism records for someone like me. . . .”

She was babbling. She stopped talking and clenched her teeth firmly together, because she didn't want Pietro to think she was foolish. She concentrated on dodging a peddler who seemed intent on shoving his cart right into her path. She narrowly missed stepping out in front of a huge horse pulling a wagon full of—was that ice?
Ice
in the summertime, glistening between layers of straw?

“Careful,” Pietro said, because while she was gawking at the ice, another peddler
had
rammed his cart into her leg. Pietro jerked her away at the last minute, so it was only a glancing blow. But now he was leading her through an impossibly narrow gap between a man puffing on a cigar and a lady with a towering hat.

“Is it—always—this—crowded?” Bella managed to pant.

“Crowded?” Pietro glanced around as if he'd just noticed the cigar man and the hat lady. “This is nothing. On Saturdays, a lot of people don't come out until later in the day.”

Bella didn't even want to think about what the sidewalk would be like later in the day. Already, there were probably more people crammed in around her than lived in her entire village of Calia. Even on saints days back home, when everyone marched up to the church, nobody packed together this tightly. And those were people she knew. These were total strangers jostling against her, their elbows brushing hers, their packages jabbing against her chest.

Bella longed to clutch Pietro's arm as she had yesterday, to cling to him for protection. But somehow she couldn't. Touching him would mean something different today. She'd lain awake last night trying to remember how close a cousin Pietro was—was her grandfather his grandmother's brother? Or was the connection her father and Pietro's mother? It hadn't mattered, back in Italy. Pietro had grown up in another village. She remembered seeing him only once, at a funeral. But now . . . what were the rules in America about cousins getting married?

Even in the dark, her back against the wall, two of Signora Luciano's filthy children snoring beside her, just thinking that question had made her blush. She felt the heat rising in her cheeks now, in the daylight. She tilted her head back, hoping for a cool breeze on her face. But the air around her was hot and still and stale. In America, it seemed, even air got trapped in the crowd.

Bella gasped.

“What's that?” she asked, pointing upward.

“Just more tenement buildings,” Pietro said, shrugging.

“No,
there,”
she said. “Those metal things, running down the side of the building like caterpillars. There's one there— and there and—” She narrowly missed poking a man in the eye. He scowled at her, spat, and rushed on.

“You mean the fire escapes—the stairs on the outsides of the buildings?” Pietro asked. “The Lucianos' building has some, didn't you notice? They're so people can climb down from the higher floors if there's a fire.”

Bella counted windows. One, two, three, four ... All the apartment buildings were five stories high. Back home, except for the priest and the one or two families who actually owned land, everyone lived in one-story, one-room mud houses. The women did their cooking in the doorways; most nights, no one bothered lighting a lamp or a candle before going to bed on the dirt floor. Fire wasn't a problem.

Bella tried to imagine
living on the fifth story of some wood-framed apartment building. She imagined flames licking up through the wooden floor. She shivered despite the heat.

Pietro was chuckling.

“I forgot how strange everything seemed when I got here last year,” he said. “The littlest things. Engraved buttons. Food in boxes. Bridges. Doorknobs. Traffic cops. Now I don't give any of it a second thought. Don't worry—you'll stop noticing things after a while too.”

Bella wasn't sure she wanted to stop noticing. She was thinking how grateful she would be for a fire escape, if she ever needed one.

“Now, remember, at work today, don't let them see how
much you don't know,” Pietro said. “Just do what they tell you. And it's payday—Saturdays are when they give out the money for the whole week. But they won't give you anything, because this is just a practice day, a tryout. They want to see if you can do the work.”

“What do you mean, they won't give me anything?” Bella asked, horrified. “Pietro, I have to make money, for my family, for Mama, for . . .”

She wondered how he could have misunderstood so completely, how he could have agreed to such a ridiculous thing on her behalf. Didn't he know how close her family was to starving? Couldn't he tell by looking at her, Bella, with the bones of her face jutting out in hard knobs, her skin stretched tight, her eyes sunken in? The thin stew Signora Luciano had fed them for dinner, the slice of hard bread she'd given Bella for breakfast—that would have been three days' worth of food back home. They'd had bad harvest after bad harvest, ever since Papa died.

Why else would Bella have come halfway around the world, to this strange place, except that her family was desperate?

“They have to pay me,” Bella said. “And if they won't, I'll work somewhere else.”

“Calm down,” Pietro said. He looked around, as if worried that someone else in the crowd would overhear. “This is just how they do things here. Any other place in New York City, it'd be the same. I got you the best job I could find for a girl. You work hard today, next week they'll pay you. And then I'll send the money to your mama, right away.”

“You will?” Bella asked. “Oh, thank you!”

She walked on, not minding how thick the crowd was she
had to plow through. As far as she was concerned, she would walk over burning coals if it meant help for her family.

•  •  •

The Triangle Shirtwaist Factory was at the top of a ten-story building. Bella froze on the sidewalk for a moment, looking up and up and up. It made her dizzy to bend her head back so far. This was like staring at the mountains back home, except the mountains sloped down gradually, and the Triangle building shot up straight from the ground to the sky, its sheer, steep walls blocking out the sun.

Something like terror gripped Bella, and her thoughts tangled:
I cant work in a big fancy place like that.. . I'll starve and so will Mama and the little ones....Oh, how far away the ground must look from those windows up there. .. .

She swallowed hard, and the only words that slipped out were a question: “No fire escapes?”

“Not
here
”, Pietro said. “Not in this part of the city. There are hoity-toity rich people just around the corner. They think fire escapes are ugly.”

“But if there's a fire . . .” Bella wasn't really thinking about fire. She was thinking about falling, or failing, or being fired.

“There's probably a fire escape at the back, I guess. Or they have extra stairways inside. This is New York City. They have rules about things like that. Now come on. You can't be late your first day.”

They went inside and stepped into a marvel called an elevator—a little box that whisked them up to the ninth floor. Other girls were crowded into the box with them, girls in fancy hats and elegant skirts and those shining
white shirtwaists. Bella guessed these girls were royalty of some sort. She might have been brave enough to ask them who they were except that they all seemed to be speaking in other languages. Even one girl who looked Italian was chattering away in a strange tongue that Bella couldn't understand at all.

The box stopped and the doors opened. The other girls streamed out, rushing toward rows of machines on long tables. Pietro led Bella to a man standing at the end of one of the tables.

“This is Signor Carlotti,” Pietro said. “Signor Carlotti, this is Bella.”

“Scissors,” Signor Carlotti said, handing her a pair. “When the shirtwaists come to you, cut the loose threads.”

Actually, that wasn't exactly what he said. Bella couldn't quite make sense of any of his words—his accent was even murkier than Signora Luciano's. But he demonstrated as he talked, lifting a shirtwaist from the table, snipping threads, dropping the finished shirtwaist into a basket. Another girl sat nearby, already slicing threads with her own pair of scissors with such reckless speed that Bella feared that the blades would slip through the cloth as well.

“Buon giorno,”
Bella started to say to the girl. “My name is—”

“No talking,” Signor Carlotti said. “Work.” At least, that's what Bella guessed he said, because he held his finger to his lips and glared.

Bella picked up her first shirtwaist. The garment was delicate and fine, with frills around the collar and gathers at the waist. It was like holding stitched air. Bella turned it over
carefully, searching for hanging threads.
Ah, there's one.
She lifted her scissors, angled the blades just so, gently pulled the handles together.