Bread and Roses, Too

"You got more clothes, Jake boy?"

Jake shook his head. "It don't matter."

"You got fire at home?"

"Naw, it don't matter."

"You come to Angelo's and get warm. Can't have you sick. We got too much to do now."

The Best Student

Rosa was sitting quietly at her desk, her eyes on her history book, when the riot bells began to ring. All the children were suddenly roused out of sleep or stupor. The bells did not sound like any they had ever heard; it was as though madmen had been let loose in the city hall tower.

Rosa looked at her teacher, Miss Finch, who was sitting perfectly erect at her desk, her eyes wide like those of an animal who has been startled and is too frightened to flee. Rosa watched as the teacher slowly rose to her feet and walked over to the window. It was grimy and the sill sooty, so she was careful not to touch anything. Then she left the window and came back to the space behind her desk. The shrill blasts of factory whistles pierced through the clang of the city hall bells. Some of the children covered their ears against the racket, but Miss Finch gave a little shake of her head, as though to dismiss both the bells and the whistles.

"Yes. Where were we?" She glanced down at her book. "All right. Who knows who Thomas Jefferson was?"

Only Rosa raised her hand. She raised it up barely halfway, glancing around at her classmates as she did so. Most of their heads were still cocked, as they listened to the strange shrieking and clanging that went on and on. She was instantly ashamed for them—their faces gray with the grime that never seemed to scrub off. Marco Bartolini's nose was running, as usual. When he caught her looking, he dropped his eyes and rubbed his nose across his ragged sleeve. She looked away hastily.

"Hasn't anyone besides Rosa read the assignment?" Miss Finch sighed to indicate how her pupils constantly disappointed her. "All right, Rosa. Tell the others what you know about Thomas Jefferson."

How much should Rosa say? Besides the pages in the textbook, she had read a whole library book about the third president. In the silence, the insistent bells seemed to crash even more threateningly.

"We're waiting, Rosa."

"He—he was the third president of the United States."

"Yes. But before that. What did he author that was important to history?"

The children turned from staring at the window to look at Rosa. She hated to be the only one to answer Miss Finch's questions. But she had to hurry. The bells demanded it.

"The—the—the—"

"No need to stutter, Rosa." The teacher was actually tapping her foot in time with the bells.

"The—the—the Declaration of Independence."

"Very good, Rosa." The teacher turned to the rest of the class. "All the information you need to know about Thomas Jefferson is in the textbook that each of you should have read last night."

No! No! No! The bells accused them. Help! Help! Help! The whistles screamed.

"Marco, did you read your assignment?"

He hung his head. With the single exception of Joe O'Brien, everyone, including Rosa, did the same. They knew what was coming next.

"Do you even own a textbook, Marco? Brigid? Tony? Pierre? Luigi? Marta?" Each child in turn gave a shake of his or her head, never meeting the teacher's stern gaze.

"Is Rosa Serutti the only person in this class whose parents have realized the importance of buying a history textbook? How many times do I have to repeat myself? It is useless to come to school if your parents do not provide you with textbooks. You need to speak to them about the importance of education. How many of your parents are enrolled in the evening classes?"

No one raised a hand. How could their parents work long hours in the mill and then go to school at night? They were tired all the time as it was. The children—all but Joe o'Brien—sagged into their rigid seats, their heads so low that their chins nearly scraped the splintery desktops. It didn't matter that they'd heard this, or similar lectures, from Miss Finch since September. It still stung as bitterly as the January wind rattling the window of the schoolroom while the tower bell clanged, Dunce! Dunce! Dunce!

The Khoury brothers had fallen asleep as usual, despite the bells, which eventually stopped, only to be replaced by a shrillness in Miss Finch's usually quiet voice.

"You must go home today and urge your parents not to strike." The lace jabot at her throat bobbed up and down. Rosa watched her, fascinated.

"Do you understand, boys and girls?" The teacher's voice went up several more notes. "I know Mr. Wood personally. A kinder, more compassionate employer you couldn't hope to find. He wants what is best for his workers, believe me. Tell your parents that he was a mill operative himself long ago. Did you know that?"

All the children snapped to attention. The big boss of the American Woolen Company once worked in the mills?