“Thank God. I’m bored.” Her younger sister chucked the scrub brush in a bucket of suds. It splashed, spraying soap across the floor. Ignoring the mess, she slipped on a shawl and hat and assessed her reflection in the mirror on the wall behind the counter. Greta enjoyed any excuse to venture out, especially if she might meet new boys. Her delicate features and flirtatious smile captured their hearts all too easily.
Alma, by contrast, had a willowy frame and a face as plain as a boiled potato. Her best features were her bright blue eyes, the color of a summer sky, and her mind. She glanced at her reflection. She liked to think she looked intelligent, and that was good enough for her. She didn’t place much value in beauty. It had done nothing for her mother but burden her with many children and seven people she must care for. Though Alma knew she must walk a similar path one day, she could scarcely imagine it. At least not anymore.
Not without Jacob.
She quickly shuttered the thoughts of him before the pain could rush in and turned to her sister. “You look fine, Greta. Let’s go.”
They pushed outside through a bustling crowd and walked beneath a row of awnings, some tattered and faded, others jutting proudly from their storefronts with crisp new cloth. Jewish bakeries, Italian coffeehouses, and German delicatessens nestled against each other in a colorful parade of nationalities. Shoemakers, taverns, tailors. Cart after cart jammed the thoroughfare while vendors and their customers swarmed in disorderly queues. Alma ducked beneath a sagging sign and around a heap of garbage, narrowly missing a fruit peddler.
“Guten morgen, fr?ulein,” Mr. Schuller said, tipping his hat at them. “Care for an apple?” He plucked one from the heap, rubbed it with his hands until shiny, and proffered the fruit to Greta. “And for your sister, too?” He smiled at Alma, though she knew he was only being polite to include her.
“Thank you.” Greta rewarded him with a bright smile and took the fruit.
Alma declined and tugged her sister’s arm, eager to get their chore finished. “He wants you to marry his son, you know.”
Greta scrunched her pert little nose. “His son’s a dog.”
“And he makes his living from a fruit and vegetable cart. You’d be pregnant and poor”—she snapped her fingers—“like that.”
“I’m not going to marry him.” Greta rolled her eyes. “Really, do you have to be so dreary?”
Alma shrugged. “If you don’t want to marry Joseph Schuller, then you shouldn’t encourage his father.”
“I guess you’re going to live with Mama and Father forever.” Her sister sniffed and wrapped her arms around her middle to ward off the cold. “You don’t even talk to men who like you.”
Greta romanticized marriage. Alma, on the other hand, was awkward around men, and she found polite conversation fatiguing, especially from possible suitors who wanted nothing more than a respectable wife and mother for their children. None were like Jacob. No one challenged her or asked about her opinions or thoughts. She and Jacob had loved each other since they were small children. When his family had moved to Minnesota a year ago, she’d been devastated. They’d exchanged letters feverishly for weeks, but as the months wore on, they became less frequent until she scarcely heard from him at all. One day, the news arrived that Jacob was engaged to be married, and the final threads of hope she’d nurtured of joining him in Minnesota were snipped.
They turned at the end of the block onto Delancey Street and headed toward the Schaller Market. Alma’s gaze traveled over a row of building facades masking the crumbling decay inside them: dingy walls, poor lighting and ventilation, no running water. They teemed with as much vermin as they did people, all packed tightly inside, using every inch of space. She imagined the frames of the tenement building bulging like a large belly straining against suspenders, the windows cracking from the weight of too many bodies inside. In spite of the gloom and overcrowding, those who lived in this part of town had nowhere else to go. The Brauers were fortunate, though their apartment still consisted of a mere three rooms inhabited by seven people. At least they had the bierhaus below the apartment, too, and the promise of steady income.
Alma purchased the items on the list and tucked the sack into the basket. She’d walk Greta home quickly, and if Father Rodolfo wasn’t available today, perhaps she’d walk to Motta’s Bakery to practice listening to Italian.
“Let’s go around the block?” Greta asked. “I don’t feel like scrubbing the floor.”
“Not today. I’m going to visit Emma. In fact, I’d like to get moving, or I won’t have time.”
Greta cast her a sidelong glance. Her bottom lip protruded slightly in a pout. “Why do you get to go out alone?”
“Father isn’t home until later, and I’m twenty-one. I should say I’m old enough to walk a few blocks alone.” She didn’t dare tell Greta her real plan. Her younger sister couldn’t keep her mouth shut. Alma had already learned that lesson the hard way.
Picking up their pace, they turned onto Orchard Street, slowing behind a group of women engrossed in conversation. Brightly colored scarves covered their heads and they chattered like a bevy of birds, their voices carrying over the din of the busy street. Alma strained to make out their conversation. They spoke in a guttural yet rhythmic language, from Eastern Europe, perhaps. She frowned, frustrated she didn’t understand a single word.
A pack of children pushed around them, running wild without shoes and coats. Ahead, a horse-drawn wagon turned onto the street and came to a near standstill in the crowded lane. No one seemed to notice, or care, that the man in the wagon was trying to get through. In this part of the city, it was always faster to travel on foot.
A loud bang echoed along the street, followed by another.
The horses attached to the wagon reared back, and the cart took off like a shot. People scurried out of the way. Alarmed, Alma grabbed her sister’s arm instinctively.
“What are you doing?” Greta asked, allowing herself to be led away.
“Look!” Alma pointed.
The driver pulled on the reins, and the crack of a leather whip rent the air. But nothing seemed to slow the spooked horses.
Pedestrians lunged out of the way.
The clot of women that had been in front of Alma and Greta continued their conversation, oblivious to the oncoming danger.
The cart picked up speed, swaying violently as the man tried to regain control.
Alma watched in horror as it veered on two wheels, narrowly missing a row of pushcarts selling roasted nuts and hot corn.
Several onlookers shouted at the women.
They didn’t understand English, Alma thought, her eyes growing round. Not only didn’t they understand, but they weren’t paying attention. If they didn’t move at once, someone could be badly hurt.
The cart thundered toward them.
“Look out!” a man shouted, waving to the group fanned across the street.
At last, the women scattered and they all made it to safety—except one, who hadn’t moved quite fast enough.
Alma cried out, covering her mouth with her hand.