The strike would soon be over. Everyone said so. And when the strike was over, the Lawrence children would be sent home. He had to speak to Mr. Gerbati right away. But how?
Barre's entire North End followed the developments in Lawrence as closely as though they'd been mill workers themselves. They still held benefits in the Labor Hall and the opera house, sending the money to the Wobblies in Lawrence. They read almost breathlessly the accounts in the newspapers of the testimony in Washington. The president's own wife, Mrs. William Howard Taft, had gone to hear children from Lawrence talk about their lives in the mills—how they had to sweep the mill floors after working hours for no pay, how money was taken from their meager wages for the water they drank, how little Camella Teoli's hair got caught in the machine and she was scalped.
On Tuesday, March the twelfth, the long-awaited telegram came from Lawrence. Mr. Billy Wood had surrendered. He would meet the strikers' demands—every single one of them. The rest of the mill owners fell like tiles in a game of dominoes. And on Thursday, the fourteenth of March, in the year of our Lord 1912, twenty-five thousand men, women, and children mill workers gathered on Lawrence common and voted to return to work.
The time had come for the Lawrence children to go home. The Barre newspaper on Saturday the sixteenth asked all the families who were hosting children to meet at the Labor Hall the next day, between 10 a.m. and 1 p.m., to make arrangements for the visitors' return. When Mrs. Gerbati and Rosa got home from Mass, Mrs. Gerbati served, with many apologies, an abbreviated breakfast, and then she and Mr. Gerbati headed for the Labor Hall.
Jake and Rosa were left at the house. The committee thought it would be easier for the adults to sort out the details without the children present. "You study now, Salvatore," Mrs. Gerbati said. "Is good chance. Then you go home and show off to Mamma, yes?"
They sat side by side at the kitchen table. Jake hadn't made much progress. He knew his alphabet at least. But Rosa would sigh over the clumsy way he made his letters. He often made the Ss backward and there were two of them, large capital ones, in Salvatore Serutti. He threw down his pencil.
"It ain't my name, anyway," he said. "I don't need to write it proper."
Rosa cocked her head. "Then tell me your real name. I'll teach you to write that. No need to show it to the Gerbatis."
"Jake," he said. "Jake Beale."
"Hmmph," she said. "I wonder if it has a silent e. Beale, that is."
After that, it was easier to tell her the story he had told Mr. Gerbati three weeks earlier. He even told her about robbing the poor box and stealing food and sleeping in the churches, Rosa being as close to a priest as he was ever likely to confess to. He didn't bother to tell her about the trash piles. She knew about those.
"You were running because you thought the police were after you?"
"Yeah. He was dead. I thought they'd blame me." Then he remembered Mr. Gerbati's admonition. "Not just that. I reckon I was spooked. I'd slept all night with a corpse. It really spooked me."
She nodded. "It would scare me, too," she said and shuddered. It made him feel better, Rosa saying that.
As little as he wanted to, he made himself tell Rosa the events of that awful Sunday when he'd tried to break into Mr. Gerbati's safe. Her hand flew to her mouth, and her whole face went white.
"I know," he said. "I done a terrible wrong. I don't know why he didn't drag me to the police the minute he caught me. He didn't beat me or nothing. He just made me promise to stop lying. And I'm trying."
It took him a minute to realize that Rosa was crying.
"C'mon, Rosa. What's the matter? I told you I was trying."
"It's not that." She looked up at him, her face streaked with tears. "It's my prayers," she said. "They've all been answered. The strike is over. Mamma and Anna and Ricci are safe. I'm going home soon. And you confessed your sins. The Virgin answered my prayers and"—here she burst into fresh tears—"and I'm not even good."
"Sure, you're good. You're the best person I know."
"No, I'm not. And all my prayers were answered anyway—well, all except for one."
"What one was that?"
"I prayed you could be as happy as me."
When the Gerbatis came in sometime later, Mrs. Gerbati went straight to the kitchen. The noon meal would be very late and, by her standards, breakfast had been nothing. Food took precedence over delivering news, apparently. The meal was on the table—soup to cake—before Mr. Gerbati cleared his throat, took a noisy gulp of his grappa-laced coffee, and began.
"Okay," he said. "We talk and make plan today. Thirty-five children come, two go back right away, yes?" Everyone agreed. "Then week before this there was four children go home because someone in family very sick, yes?" They all remembered, especially Rosa, who had not really wished illness upon any member of her family, but still.... "Then yesterday, one more." Rosa hadn't heard about that one. "That leave," he signaled with his fingers, "twenty-eight children, yes?" They all nodded. "Tomorrow Mr. Broggi can take some children, but twenty-eight too many, so some have to wait."
Rosa clamped her hand over her mouth. Otherwise, she was sure to cry out. How could she wait any longer? Mrs. Gerbati reached over and gently took the hand away. "I tell them my Rosa need to go," she said. "I don't want to lose my childrens, but they need their own mamma, yes?"
"You've been so good to us, Mrs. Gerbati. We do thank you both, but..."
Jake stiffened. Maybe he'd left talking to Mr. Gerbati until it was too late. It sounded as though they were going to be shipped back to Lawrence tomorrow. Hell's bells, why had he put it off?
"So," said Mr. Gerbati, "Rosa need to be ready for train tomorrow in afternoon. Mamma already know. She will meet you."
"Oh," Rosa said, suddenly remembering him. "What about Salvatore? When does he leave?"
Mr. Gerbati swung around and looked Jake in the eye. "Is very strange thing. On the list come from Lawrence union committee, isn't no Salvatore Serutti."
"Don't worry, Salvatore," Mrs. Gerbati said. "We straighten. You be home soon. Ti prometto. Is a promise."
Monday morning Jake and Mr. Gerbati went to work as usual. All the way there, Jake tried to make himself talk to the man, but Mr. Gerbati walked so fast and was so intent on getting to the shed that Jake's courage failed him once again.
Meanwhile, at the house, Rosa climbed the stairs to her beautiful bedroom for the last time. She was looking about, determined to keep the picture of it in her mind forever, when she heard Mrs. Gerbati's heavy step on the stairs.
"Scusami, Rosa." She stood panting at the door, a leather suitcase in one hand, her other arm full of clothing. "I send few things to home."
"Oh, Mrs. Gerbati..." She didn't know what to say.
"No, no, is nothing." Mrs. Gerbati came into the room and dumped her load onto the bed. "And bag for train." She began to fold the garments and put them into the case.
Rosa stared wide-eyed, then slowly began to help. More underwear, another dress—"For your Anna"—a set of small boy's underwear, trousers, shirt, and jacket—"For little Ricci. I don't know size so I get big, okay?"—two woolen shawls—"One for Anna and one for Mamma, eh?"
Tears were falling on everything Rosa folded. "No, no! Don't cry! Then I cry. No good we cry. Is happy time, yes?" The woman put her arms around Rosa, and Rosa could feel the old body shake with sobs. Mrs. Gerbati pulled away and wiped her eyes on her apron. "Silly old woman, eh?"
"No," said Rosa and turned to hide fresh tears. "You're too kind, Mrs. Gerbati, but not silly. Never silly." She busied herself getting the extra underwear and clothes Mrs. Gerbati had bought for her out of the bureau to add to the wealth already packed.
In the end, Mrs. Gerbati had to sit on the case before Rosa could close it. They were both laughing by the time Rosa managed to pull her to her feet again.
Mrs. Gerbati laid out even more than her usual noonday feast. No one talked much. Rosa toyed with her food. As the time for departure grew closer, it became harde
r to hide her excitement. She was going home at last.
"You don't eat, Rosa? Long ride to Lawrence," Mr. Gerbati said.
Rosa shook her head. "It's good, really it is, I just can't..."
"Our Rosa is happy girl today," Mrs. Gerbati said. "But we miss her, don't we, Mr. Gerbati, Salvatore?"
"I'll miss you, too," Rosa said.
Jake looked at her closely, as though to make sure she wasn't lying.
"I wish Sal was coming with me," she said.
"Oh, it work out for Salvatore," Mr. Gerbati said. "I talk to committee. Everything fixed." He glanced across the table at Mrs. Gerbati, and then focused on his coffee.
***
The three of them went to see Rosa off on the train even though it meant that Jake and Mr. Gerbati would be late getting back to work. The other host families of the returning children were there, chattering and hugging and promising to keep in touch.
"You write letter, Rosa, yes?" Mrs. Gerbati said. "Tell about Mamma and Anna and little Ricci, okay?"
"Of course I will," Rosa said. "And I'll write to Sal, too."
"Good practice for Salvatore," Mrs. Gerbati said. "Learn to read good, eh?"
Jake looked at his boots.
"You've got to practice, you know," Rosa said. "Promise me you'll work on it."
"Yeah, okay," he said, but he didn't look up. Why were they talking about reading when the train whistle was already blowing? She was going, and what would happen to him now? He watched the train chug slowly into the station.
Rosa hugged each of the Gerbatis. Then she turned to him. He thought for a moment she was going to hug him, too, but, instead, she put out her hand and, a bit shyly, took his. "Goodbye for now, Sal ... Jake," she whispered. "You behave, hear?"
He nodded, his throat a bit too full to get out words. Then, quickly, she was on the train, waving from the window.
The three of them stood there in a little huddle, Mrs. Gerbati wiping her tears away with the tail of her shawl.
So long, shoe girl. Thanks for everything. He lifted his hand and began to wave until he could no longer see the southbound train, its whistle scarcely a tiny peep piercing the March fog.
"Mrs. Gerbati," Mr. Gerbati said sternly. "How come you don't buy this boy no gloves? Look how red his hands is."
"Oh," said Mrs. Gerbati. "I do today. Now, before he go back to work."
"Don't you mind," Mr. Gerbati said. "I do already." Out of his big overcoat pocket he pulled a pair of brown leather gloves. "So, try on. See if they fit good."
The gloves were soft and lined with fleece. Jake pulled them on slowly. Would the man never cease to surprise?
"So, fit okay?"
"Perfect."
"Oh," said Mrs. Gerbati, shaking her head. "No good, Mr. Gerbati. Should buy big. He grow too fast."
"So," Mr. Gerbati said, "next year we buy him new pair."
Next year? Jake looked at Mr. Gerbati. The old man shrugged. Mrs. Gerbati was smiling across her wide face, fresh tears swimming in her dark eyes. She threw her arms around Jake and crushed him to her breast. "We need boy in our house," she said in his ear.
It was a hug to smother a small army of boys, but Jake didn't even care. He was never going to have to beg to stay. Hell's bells. He wasn't even going to have to ask. They had straightened it out, just as Mrs. Gerbati had promised. He stepped away from her to wipe his nose on the back of his sleeve, careful to avoid his beautiful new gloves.
"I guess it's time we was getting back to work, eh, Mr. Gerbati?"
The old man pulled out his watch. "Si," he said. "Longa past time. You run ahead, Salva—Mr. Jake Beale. Tell those men I'm on the way."
And Jake Beale began to run. Even though his new boots sometimes slipped on the icy cobbles, he did not stumble. How strange, how wonderful it seemed to be running, not away from petty crime or deadly fear, but toward a new life where bread was never wanting and roses grew in stone.
* * *
Historical Note
At the turn of the twentieth century, the industrial revolution in the United States was at its height. But in order to keep profits high, owners needed increased numbers of laborers who would work for low wages. The owners of the enormous textile mills in Lawrence, Massachusetts, sent agents to poverty-stricken areas of Europe to recruit whole families to come to their mills. Posters were displayed showing an immigrant man leaving a Lawrence factory carrying a bag of gold, heading toward a bank across the street. By 1912, there were workers in Lawrence from at least thirty different countries speaking forty-five languages. The earliest workers had been mostly native-born or Irish. The Irish quickly rose to positions of importance, not only in the mills but in the city itself. In 1881, John Breen, an Irish Catholic undertaker, was elected mayor. The John Breen involved in the abortive dynamite plot was his son.
Conditions in the mills were very difficult for the new immigrant workers. They usually had the lowest-paying jobs. In order for families to survive, everyone who was able had to go to work. If children were under the age of fourteen, parents often paid to have their birth certificates falsified so the children could work in the mill.
In 1911, the Massachusetts state legislature ordered mill owners to cut the working hours of women and children from fifty-six a week to fifty-four, beginning January 1, 1912. Since most men made higher wages than women, the mill owners cut everyone's hours to fifty-four, speeded up the machines, and cut pay to make up for any lost profits that might result from the shortened work week.
The Italian branch of the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW), led by Angelo Rocco, a twenty-five-year-old worker who went to high school at night, determined to strike if pay was cut. Rocco felt the workers, coming from so many countries and speaking so many languages, would need help if they were to organize an effective strike. He telegraphed Joseph Ettor, one of the IWW's professional organizers, and asked him to come to Lawrence. Ettor, who was Italian American, was a charismatic speaker in several languages. He arrived in the city soon after the massive walkout on January 12 and immediately established a local strike committee, which included a woman, Mrs. Annie Welzenbach, and represented a number of nationalities. Ettor also organized relief efforts for the strikers and their families, who had been living on the edge of starvation even when working full-time.
Aided by the organizing efforts of Ettor and his compatriot, the Italian poet Arturo Giovannitti, and then, after their imprisonment on false charges, by Big Bill Haywood and Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, the strikers, especially the immigrant women, maintained an amazing solidarity throughout the two months of the strike. "The women won the strike," Haywood was quoted as saying.
Others said it was the songs that brought the strikers to victory. Little red books containing union songs were passed out. Although most of the women couldn't read English, somehow they learned to sing in a way that made the police and militia tremble. "Beware that movement," one observing journalist said, "that generates its own songs."
On September 28, 1912, Ettor, Giovannitti, and a local worker, Joseph Caruso, were put on trial for the murder of Annie Lopizzo. Crowds stood outside the courtroom, declaring that the strike would not be truly ended until these men were set free.
The trial dragged on until November 23, when Ettor, Giovannitti, and Caruso were found not guilty. On Thanksgiving Day thousands gathered to cheer them. Those cheers reverberated through the Socialist Labor Hall of Barre, Vermont, and in union halls across the country.
The city of Barre was also very much an immigrant city. The area was long known for its high-quality granite, but granite could not be profitably quarried until the advent of modern derricks and steam drills, and it could not be widely sold until 1888, when a railroad line was built to reach the hill quarries. Then, all at once, a large supply of labor was needed. Aberdeen, Scotland, was going through severe economic times, and the quarries there were shut down, so many Scottish quarriers immigrated to Barre. They were followed by Scandinavian, Spanish, English, Gree
k, Swiss, Austrian, and French Canadian workers, and, of course, the Italian sculptors who left the marble industry in northern Italy to carve Barre granite. Sadly, in the early 1900s, work in the granite sheds of Vermont, where windows were shuttered against the cold weather, caused many of them to die young of silicosis, a story told in the novel Like Lesser Gods by Mari Tomasi. Modern ventilating equipment has virtually eliminated this threat to the health of stonecutters, and the last recorded death from silicosis occurred in 1932.
The early Italian immigrants were very active politically, many of them having been socialists or anarchists in Italy. They lived in tight-knit families, mostly in the North End of the city, and were in the early years regarded with some prejudice by native Vermonters. The granite industry in Barre still flourishes, although only a fraction of the labor force of 1912 is at work in the industry today. The old Socialist Labor Hall has been restored and is the site of many community events. Barre's sculptors are still highly regarded. One, Frank Gaylord, was the creator of the Korean War Memorial in Washington, D.C., and although the granite for the Vietnam Veterans Memorial is not Barre gray, the black granite of the memorial was brought to Barre to be engraved and polished.
The people of Barre remember with pride the fact that they were able to help the mill workers of Lawrence during the 1912 strike. Not only did the Italian stonecutters take in children of strikers, they also raised hundreds of dollars for strike relief. After Ettor and Giovannitti were freed, Giovannitti came to Barre for ten days and spoke in the Labor Hall, where, according to The Barre Daily Times, he "avoided the subject of politics and stated his simple desire to let his audience know just how much their support had meant to the textile operatives."