"Why do they do such terrible thing, Mr. Gerbati?" Mrs. Gerbati sounded near to tears herself. "Beat up womens and little childrens and snatch baby away from Mamma? What kind of people do such terrible thing?"
"Only people who fear. Fear make people crazy."
"What have they got to be scared of?" Sal said. He'd stopped chewing and begun to pay attention at last. "They got all the guns."
"Guns don't win this kinda war," Mr. Gerbati said, thumping his chest. "Is heart. Is strong in here."
***
Rosa could hardly eat, and later it was even harder to sleep. Pictures of Mamma and Anna in what she imagined to be the Lawrence jail filled her mind. And little Ricci. Where was he? She couldn't even imagine what must have happened to her poor baby brother. It would be better for him to be in jail, wouldn't it? At least he would be with Mamma and Anna, not carried away by strangers. She was, by turn, hot with anger and cold with fear. Why had she left them? She could have kept them out of trouble if she'd been there. No, probably not. Mamma was a hardheaded Italian woman after all. Well, then ... she would have been in jail with them. Wasn't that better than being here all safe and warm and well fed while everyone she loved was suffering? She began to cry again, quietly into her pillow, so as not to disturb the Gerbatis in the next room.
Morning came at last. Rosa dressed and went into the kitchen. Some morning, she promised herself, she'd get up before Mrs. Gerbati, surprise her by starting the fire in the stove. Not today, however. Mrs. Gerbati had the stove roaring and coffee bubbling on the back of it. The bread for the day had risen and was already baking in the hot oven. She gave Rosa a big smile, though her eyes were pained as they searched the girl's face. "You sleep okay?"
Rosa shrugged in answer.
"Me, too." The woman sighed. "So much worry for Mamma and sister and baby. But it be all right, yes? We get good news soon, you see. Mr. Broggi find out soon, fix everything."
"I got to go home, Mrs. Gerbati."
"No! You can't go. Your mamma not even there."
"The Jarusalises—the people who live in our apartment—they are there—at least Granny will be. She won't be in jail. I have to go and find out about Mamma and Anna, and especially Ricci. I don't even know where Ricci is! He'll be scared to death. He doesn't like strangers at all. He won't know what happened to him."
"Shh, shh. Hush. We talk to Mr. Broggi. We find out everything soon, yes? Now, come to Mass like good girl and we pray to Virgin, okay? We light special candle—one for Mamma, one for Anna, and one for baby Ricci, yes?"
What else could she do? She had no money for train fare. She fetched her coat and hat and put them on. Mrs. Gerbati hung up her apron and threw her great wool shawl over her head and wrapped it around her shoulders.
"Salvatore not go, yes?"
Rosa shook her head. He was probably sleeping like a baby. He wasn't worried about anything.
She couldn't know that at that moment Jake was lying in his bed, staring at the ceiling. It was all going to explode soon. The police had arrested Rosa's ma. There would be questions, if not from the police, from the stinking union committee. It wouldn't be more than a day or so before ... He was actually sweating. It was a cold sweat but sweat nonetheless. He had to get that money today before everything blew sky high. There was a safe in the office. He had seen customers come to the office and give Mr. Gerbati money, which he had locked up in a little metal safe under his desk once they were gone. The key was on Mr. Gerbati's watch fob. Not much chance of pinching that. But how tough could that lock be? With one of their precious points and a hammer, couldn't he jimmy it? Make it look like a robbery? Well, it wouldn't matter if they suspected him. He'd be long gone before Mr. Gerbati discovered the broken lock and missing cash.
He began to sweat again. The police of two towns would be after him. But how smart could the police in a hick town like this be, anyway? Besides, he'd gotten the distinct impression from the men at work that the police didn't have much use for the Italian community. Too much drinking and brawling and loud talk in the streets. Duncan had said even his own family, being Scots, hated it that he was working in a wop shed. Duncan had really said "Eye-talian" not "wop." They wouldn't have minded so much if the shed had been owned by a Scot. Duncan's pa had come from Scotland to get the granite out of the ground. Now all the men in Duncan's family, except for him, worked in the quarries.
Duncan would despise him if he stole the money and ran. But why should he care what Duncan thought? The man actually thought old man Gerbati was a kind of god, creating living things out of dead rock.
What if he didn't run? Not at first anyway. If he stole the money and hid it and waited a day or two, then they wouldn't suspect him. If he grabbed it and ran, of course they'd be after him like a shot. Mr. Gerbati would send every goon in the labor union after him. And Rosa, tired of lying for him, would squeal that he'd taken the first train to New York. Then he'd have every cop in New York City on his tail.
He sat up in bed. Today was the day to do it. Nobody went near the sheds on a Sunday. It would be Monday morning before the theft was discovered, and he'd be there, shoveling up the grout, innocent as a daisy. Creeping to his door, he listened while Rosa and the old woman left for church. He dressed quickly, then waited silently until he heard the old man's feet on the stairs. He was headed for the bathroom at the end of the downstairs hall. The door shut, and then Jake could hear the regular morning noises of the old man. First there was the rush of the flushing toilet, then raspy coughing and wheezing and clearing of the throat, a morning ritual before he shaved his face. He waited until he heard Gerbati in the hall, putting on his overcoat. He was getting ready to go fetch his morning newspaper. The front door opened.... It was safe to leave. By the time the old man turned the corner and started uphill for the shop, Jake would be out the kitchen door, heading downhill to the shed.
The sky was gray; the sun had yet to make its way through the heavy clouds, which might or might not mean more snow before the day was over. Jake could tell it had snowed during the night. It seemed to snow all the time up here. He was tired of snow. Oh, it was pretty all right, like now when it first came down, but run a few horses and wagons through it, not to mention automobiles, and it churned up as bad as the slush in the Lawrence streets. Well, no matter. He wasn't out for sightseeing today.
He felt a tickle of excitement in his chest. This was better than going after a poor box. This was the real thing. He quickened his steps. There were not many people on the streets in the North End. The pious were in church. The others were sleeping off the effects of Saturday night. Why, by the time he got to the shed, even the old man would be home, settled in his chair, his glasses on his nose, reading his infernal Italian newspaper. He crossed Main Street without seeing a single vehicle, not even a trolley car. What a dead burg this was!
Just in case, just in case anyone happened to notice him—and he always felt conspicuous in his grand overcoat—he turned off Main Street a block before he needed to and wound his way in and out of sheds before he approached Rossi and Gerbati. How was he going to get in? He'd forgotten that the outside door also had a lock. Never mind, he'd broken into plenty of places before. He forced the small window in the office up far enough to let him wriggle through and slide headfirst onto the office floor. The room was dark, but he wasn't going to risk turning on any lights.
He pulled down the window and went over to examine the safe. He knelt down and ran his thumb along the edge, trying to measure the width of a cutter's point that might fit in the crack between the door and the wall of the little metal safe. The whole thing looked flimsy.
Now to find the right tool. For this he went into the shed proper. Mr. Gerbati always took his own precious tools home with him, but not all the cutters were so fussy. Duncan had left a hammer and several points on the granite block beside his monument. Jake put out his hand, but something made him draw it back. He'd get some other fellow's tools, not Duncan's. He might chip them, and Duncan was pretty particular.
It was harder to find the right point than he'd imagined. The shed was dark, and even when he'd take one over to the window to examine it, it was hard to tell. He took several into the office, only to have to return them as too wide for the crack, which seemed to grow narrower each time he tried to insert a point.
After what felt like an eternity, he found a point sharp enough to slide into the miserable crack. He stood up and took off his overcoat and threw it over Mr. Gerbati's chair. He was sweating again and breathing too fast. He coughed—the wretched air was clogged with dust even on a Sunday. He knelt again in front of the safe and jammed the point into the crack right at the place where the door lock met the wall. He picked up the hammer. Hell's bells, it was heavy, and his hand was shaking like a leaf in a windstorm. He raised it and struck the first blow with all his might. Nothing. He struck again. Nothing seemed to be giving. Now sweat was running down from his hair and stinging his eyes, but he didn't have to see to strike. Clang! Clang! They could probably hear the racket from Main Street. But he couldn't stop now. He raised the hammer and attacked the end of the point over and over again, lifting his right arm high....
Something caught his wrist in the air, twisting it so that the hammer clanked heavily to the floor. Terrified, he wrenched his n
eck to see that it was little Mr. Gerbati above him, his veined hand gripping Jake's wrist like an iron vise.