Page 11 of The Rebel of Seventh Avenue

Just before four o’clock the next afternoon, I stood on the top step of Mrs Marshall’s new grand corner mansion on Fifth Avenue, experiencing an unnerving lightness, like the end of the summer term, knowing you have weeks of light-filled summer days ahead of you, no homework, no classes, no teachers. A weightlessness that held no responsibility, only good fortune and sunshine.

I had delivered the finished dress, it had been greeted with Julia Marshall’s usual screech of excitement, the promise of three more commissions and recommendations to two other friends. Any concerns that Rosa had voiced the night before had been pushed away by Mrs Marshall’s strength of conviction in my abilities. But as my feet hit the street, a nagging anxiety began to pull at me. It was time to go and find my friend, so that I could make sure she never returned to the factory, that she would come with me to see the studio next week and start work as soon as possible.

Quickly I began to walk towards Washington Square. I could have taken the trolley, but Rosa and Irene didn’t finish work for another hour, and I had a nervous energy that I needed to get rid of. The piercingly bright day was fading into late afternoon, the shadows now lengthening and the lights beginning to create an atmosphere of warm geniality. Horse-drawn carriages and noisy automobiles were haggling for space on the road, shoppers were dawdling on the pavement; I dodged them all as if I was dancing an instinctive reel, my steps light and involuntary. I sidestepped the countless building works where the street was being widened and the grand Fifth Avenue residences demolished, making way for more modern buildings to house big, bright shops – the kind of shop a couturier might need.

As I reached Washington Square, I slowed; I was hot, a slight film of perspiration on my forehead. There were families in the square, enjoying the very last of the evening sun, you could smell the coming of spring, that hopeful smell that urges you to be outside, to breathe the long-awaited freshness in the air. Walking through the square I could see Rosa, in my head, packing up her day’s work; Rosa was always slower and more deliberate than the other girls, folding her work carefully and delivering it to the foreman with a respectful nod, no rush to leave, ignoring the girls’ Saturday night chatter as she checked her pay packet carefully, counting those coins and notes meticulously, already apportioning them to the next week’s food bill.

There was a brisk wind, and now that I was dawdling, I began to feel cold and buttoned up my coat. Reaching the edge of the square, at the corner of Washington Place, I walked over to the door where the girls would shortly appear. I thought of the conversation I would have with Rosa, how I would hug her for making it through her last day at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory, how we might celebrate with a gelato on our way home, how we could look forward to more colourful work days and a safer life in my new studio. But as I was playing this out in my mind’s eye, I heard a shout.

‘Fire!’

I turned around. There was a man across the street looking up at the top of the building that housed the factory. I followed his gaze. A plume of smoke rose into the darkening sky, an orange lick of flames in one of the large windows on the east side of the block.

‘Fire!’ the man shouted again.

Then I heard bells and sirens in the distance and more shouts across the street. As I began to comprehend what was going on, the sounds around me, although getting louder, seemed to muffle, almost as if I was under water or my hearing had become damaged. The smell of burning began to permeate my dulled senses. Anxiously I watched the entrance where Rosa should be appearing, but it remained empty. Up the street I could see a few girls who must have just come down on the freight elevator, emerging from the Greene Street entrance. I rushed over to them. I recognised Yulia, one of the Russian women I’d often sat close to in the factory.

‘Have you seen Rosa? And Irene?’ I shouted at her. ‘Where are they?’

She looked dazed, her face dark with a sooty sweat, a bruise on her forehead, her clothes dishevelled as if they’d been pulled at, and there was a rip on the shoulder of her coat. It was as if she too was struggling with her hearing, as if everything around her was moving sluggishly. Eventually she shook her head and gave me an uncomprehending shrug.

I intercepted another, Tessa, who Rosa and I would often share our lunches with, hardly recognisable with her blackened face.

‘Rosa?’ I grabbed her arm. ‘Irene?’ But she was just like Yulia, slow and incoherent, her eyes glazed, her face streaked with tears. Then another stream of women fell out of the entrance on Greene Street, and, running up to them, I shouted, ‘Rosa, Rosa, Irene!’ my voice cracking. But any response was smothered by sirens and bells, the thundering of horses, the clattering of the fire engines making everyone turn. The horses skidding to a halt, the men jumping out, the air becoming more acrid, the tongues of flames above us becoming longer and hotter, the plume of smoke becoming darker and more insistent. Suddenly we were surrounded by crowds of onlookers, jostling for the best position, elbowing to get to the front, crossing themselves, praying, hands over their mouths, wails of distress, wretched howls of anguish. But as the sirens quietened there came another noise, a sickening thud, a sound that seemed to go straight through me, so unfamiliar and ominous. Then another thud and another, bodies falling like apples off a tree. I looked up to see flailing arms, cries and then a shrieking as two women, hand in hand, leaped from a flaming window; then they were silenced by the double thud that felt like a punch to my stomach, as if I had been winded and was struggling to breathe.

The crowd became silent as the fire ladders sat hopelessly against the building wall, too short to reach the top floors, unable to help those women in the windows, as fire hoses shot great blasts of water but rarely hit their target, ineffective streams gushing down the side of the building. Soon the police pushed everyone back as the blood on the sidewalk, mixed in with the water, made for a slippery, dangerous mess. And then suddenly there was no noise, no more thuds, no cries, no clattering, just silent prayers as we watched the police cover the bodies in white sheets, tag their feet, as bewildered, blackened women wandered aimlessly, most of whom I couldn’t recognise, none of whom were Rosa or Irene.

I stood on that street for hours, dazed and nauseous, trying to work out what had happened. But, of course, I knew what had happened. The locked doors, the doors that, once unlocked, opened inwards onto a narrow corridor, being no help if there was a surge of panicking women trying to get out. I could see it clearly, more clearly than the wet, soaking mass in front of me: the smoke, the shrieks, the clawing at the door, the turning to run and see if the door that led to Washington Place would let them out, but it too would have been locked, the fire escapes also blocked with bolts of spare fabric, spare flammable cotton fabric. The more I played out the scene in my head, the greater the rise of bile, until I had to lean over, hands on my knees and retch. Was Rosa one of those bodies or had she made it out? I watched as a firefighter carefully brought a blackened body out of the main door of the building, laying it down cautiously like a large, wet rag doll alongside the other women. This was the first of a stream of charred figures to appear, unrecognisable, blackened lumps of flesh. The line of bodies grew, waiting to be taken away by the wagons that were lumbering northwards along Greene Street, ambulances taking the bedraggled and blackened injured away. I stared at a police officer as he began picking up items from the street, a charred hair-ribbon, a small leather handbag, a half-burned envelope just like those used for our pay packets, putting them into a wicker basket which soon became full. I looked down at my feet and my eye was caught by a glint. Bending down I picked up a broken hair comb made from tortoiseshell with a tiny spangle hanging off the spine. I held it between my thumb and forefinger, just staring at it, then beyond it, before carefully putting it in my pocket.

‘Miss?’ The policeman was in front of me, his truncheon in one hand, the wicker basket in his other. ‘Miss, you should move on. We have to clear this place.’ He had weary eyes, there was blood smudged on his hands and across his forehead where he must have wiped the sweat. I felt the comb in my pocket, rubbed my thumb over the broken spine, the spiky edge giving me a strange reassurance.

‘Miss?’ He stepped a little closer.

I nodded, unable to speak.

With no idea where I was going, I began to walk through Washington Square, almost unable to see. But as I moved the fog in my head began to clear and I realised where I needed to be.

It was only a two-block walk but I ran. The crowds were dispersing, but I still had to weave my way through small huddles of mourners and gossipers. As I ran, every scenario went through my head. How had the fire started? Was it another cigarette in the rag bins? The more questions I asked myself, the faster I went. How many people had got out? How many had died? The piles of bodies on the sidewalk made it seem as if no one had survived, but there were those dazed, charred, walking wounded in the distance, perhaps Rosa had been one of those. I ran to each one, grabbing them by the elbow, frantic to see their faces.

‘Rosa? Rosa?’ I asked desperately, tears now running down my face. None of them was Rosa.

When I arrived at the West Houston Street tenement, I could see that the windows were dark, but I climbed the stairs, two steps at a time, gulping for air, tripping over my skirts, almost falling over. I knocked on the door, out of breath and not expecting an answer.

A man I didn’t recognise answered the door. He had the look of Matteo but was shorter, his face less good-natured, his despondent shuffle and red eyes a forewarning of what was to come.

‘Rosa? Irene?’ I asked, wiping tears from my face.

A slight shake of the head and a resigned gesture to come in was all he could manage.

‘Where are they?’ My voice rising, the question asked too quickly, too impatiently.

He looked down at his worn shoes, wet with dark stains riding up his shabby trousers. ‘The pier. They’ve taken them to the pier.’

I couldn’t swallow, my throat closing. Charities Pier was where they’d taken the bodies. Turning away, unable to look at the man, I could see Nonna in the dark, sitting in her usual chair, but she seemed to have shrivelled since I saw her just a day ago, as if she had dried up, withered into a papery, frail version of herself, that would turn to dust if I touched her.

I kneeled in front of her suddenly feeling the dreadful silence in the room. The Bassinos were always talking, always doing something: cooking, sewing, cleaning, sometimes playing cards, but now there was nothing – no voices, no noises from the stove, no heated discussions, no gesticulations, no laughter, just an emptiness that was alien to me. The room was freezing, there was no fire in the grate, no coal in the stove. It was as if the business of the Bassino family had completely shut down, that their reasons for being had ceased.

I took her hand and said, ‘I’m sorry.’ It was the only thing I could say.

Slowly, she took my hand and put it on her heart, covering it with both of her cold, wispy hands.

That gesture created such a flood of emotion in me that the tears returned, this time in great streams, nose dripping, eyes puffing, hiccupping, as the horror of the evening played out in my head, again and again. The thud of the bodies as they hit the ground, the constant drip drip of the water running down the sides of the building, the occasional sob or moan from the bystanders, that terrible coppery, metallic smell that was still in my nostrils. Nonna stayed in her seat, patting my hand gently and whispering, ‘My Maisie, my Maisie,’ as if she was drawing out the toxic images, just like a hot poultice will draw out the poison.

Those words helped calm me, the same words my maw had once used. I leaned back, wiped my face, smoothed my hair, and sniffed back the emotion.

‘I should have been there. I should have been there instead of Rosa.’

Nonna shook her head. ‘No, no, no,’ she said gently, and then more sharply she said something in Italian to the man.

He shook his head, his elbows on the table, head in his hands.

‘Where are Roberto and Annina?’ I asked, suddenly feeling that I needed to make myself useful.

The man nodded towards the closed bedroom door. ‘They’re asleep.’ He sighed. ‘We haven’t told them yet. We thought it better to let them sleep, they will find out soon enough.’ There was a depth of weariness in his voice that struck me, a resignation at the difficulties to come.

‘Would you like me to stay and help when they wake up?’

‘No,’ he said curtly, too quickly, with a stiff shake of his head. ‘I think you’ve caused enough problems already.’

It was like a sharp slap to my face, the crack slicing the eerie silence in the room. He and I stared at each other until I had to look away, shame rising up my face like a girlish blush.

‘Aye,’ I whispered, getting to my feet. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

That fire destroyed so much. Rosa had been the captain of her family’s ship, running and administering the needs of her crew. Now the sails were flapping in the wind, the ship directionless, unable to move forward. Over the next week I tried to visit to see if I could help, but Matteo was wordless, motionless, incapable of pulling himself away from his grief. The apartment was cold, the stove empty, no more of those welcoming aromas as Nonna had taken to her bed. I worried for Roberto and Annina, who stayed huddled in a corner, unwilling to take any consolation from their mother’s friend.

The following Sunday I had originally planned to spend the day with Rosa, making plans for our new business, but I hadn’t the heart to do it without her.

I dressed with no purpose and could settle to nothing. Out of habit I took the lid off my sewing machine but could think of no reason to use it, this piece of machinery that had become another arm, another part of me, now seemed useless, I couldn’t bear to look at it. Quickly I put the lid back on. I paced my room, the smell of Mrs Majewski’s breakfast rising up the stairs making me feel queasy. Finally, unable to bear the starkness of the room any longer I put on my coat, hat and gloves and went out.

An hour later, feeling empty and a little lightheaded, I sat down on the wall opposite the entrance to The Plaza Hotel to rest. Sometimes I would find it soothing to watch the fashion walk up the entrance steps: the close-fitting, long-silhouette coats with fur collars, the tailored suits with brocaded buttons, the wide-brimmed hats with oversized feathers. But this time I couldn’t so easily steady myself; I was too off-balance to be mollified by a moment of fashion-watching.

‘It’s designed just like those French chateaux, but with way bigger proportions. Its facade is made from marble and white terracotta and the copper mansard roof reflects the green of Central Park.’

These words, so out of context, crashed into my thoughts, confusing me, making me feel as if I was just waking up. I turned to see a man I recognised but couldn’t place: the kindly eyes, the worn bowler hat, the jaunty manner. I tried not to stare as I attempted to work out where I’d seen him before. Not only was his conversation out of context, so was he. My world of the rich women of New York or the poor immigrant workers in the garment factories did not include anyone of this man’s colour.

I must have frowned because he then said, ‘You going to need another of those pretzels? You sure look like you’re in need of some sustenance.’

Joseph Jackson, my rescuer that time I’d almost fainted in Central Park, supplier of warm pretzels and sage advice.

He was sitting on the low wall which bordered Central Park, arms crossed and leaning back to admire the building in front of him. He looked as if he was going out for tea with an elderly aunt, wearing an uncomfortably rough woollen suit, white shirt and tie, bowler hat pushed back on his head.

The thought of food, something warm, salty and doughy, suddenly felt appealing, but I didn’t know this man, a complete stranger, and I wasn’t ready to be friendly with him quite yet.

He must have noticed my reticence as he returned to his original subject. ‘Twelve and a half million dollars. That’s what it took to build this beauty. Can you imagine ever having that kind of money?’

I didn’t answer, just looked up at the building across the street.

‘D’you know, Mr Sterry, he’s the manager of that hotel, he said, just when they opened, he said, “Building a house like this is much like making a woman’s dress. Everything is specially made and specially fitted for the purpose.” How about that?’

‘How do you know that?’ I asked, my attention caught by his analogy.

‘I read about it in one of those architectural magazines. I work at an architectural practice just down on Broadway.’ He pushed his hat back on the crown of his head. ‘All this building work that’s going on just now, it’s so… exhilarating. Can you imagine? The new inventions we’re constantly seeing, the tallest skyscraper, the elevators, the moving stairs.’

‘I’ve never paid much attention to buildings,’ I said as I considered the ironwork holding up the portico, patterned as if it was a dark embroidered motif on the white marble, and the raindrop-shaped lanterns that resembled individual pearl beads placed strategically on ebony-coloured embroidery.

Joseph leaned back, his eyes widening. ‘Never? You don’t know what you’re missing. Have you not seen the Dakota Building, St Patrick’s Cathedral? Surely, you’ve seen the new library they’re building just down the road?’

I shook my head. ‘No. Too busy making dresses for fine ladies.’

And quite suddenly, there was that smile, the one I hadn’t quite been able to forget. ‘So, you’re like an architect too!’ He stood up and with a grand bow, taking off his hat, he said, ‘Pleased to be acquainted with you, miss. Joseph Jackson, aspiring architect, at your service.’

I got up from the wall and gave a slight inflection of the knees. ‘Maisie McIntyre, aspiring couturier, at your service.’

‘Say, would you like me to show you St Patrick’s Cathedral? It’s just round the corner.’

For those last few minutes, I’d forgotten about the fire, I’d been the Maisie I was before. All I wanted was to be her again, without the fire, with Rosa, with my friends. And because of that I went with Mr Joseph Jackson so he could show me St Patrick’s Cathedral, I went so that I could have a little bit of normality back, to pretend that nothing had gone wrong.