She hadn't meant for the words to come out quite so prissily. It was almost Miss Finch's voice in her mouth, only Miss Finch, not being Catholic, wouldn't be talking about Mass. She thought that Catholicism was almost as bad as atheism.
"Granny J. went to Mass," Marija said. "The priest just yelled about strikers, so Ma and I decided not to go."
"We go with you, Rosa," Mamma said. "Father Milanese, he not like Father O'Reilly, he on our side. Come on, Anna, we take Communion with our Rosa." She picked up Ricci, who clutched her around the neck.
"But you've already eaten breakfast—" Rosa was alarmed at Mamma's impiety. "You can't take Communion—"
"I think God don' call bite of stale bread and smear of molasses real food, and what do priest know?"
Why had she brought up the subject of Mass? The mood Mamma was in, she didn't seem to care if she damned her soul to everlasting fire.
Father Milanese didn't condemn the strike. The owners were being unreasonable, he said, speeding up machines to make more profit while cutting wages. Mamma nodded her agreement all through the homily. But then Father Milanese went on to warn them against Joe Ettor, who was an outside agitator, an anarchist, and therefore someone whose motives must be questioned. When he said this, Mamma humphed, got up, and walked out, her shawl, which she'd wrapped around Ricci, trailing in the aisle. Anna ran to join her. There was nothing for Rosa to do but follow. She needn't have worried about Mamma receiving the host in a state of sin.
Outside the church, crowds were gathering, already planning the next move. Mamma handed Ricci over to Rosa—"Go home, Rosa. Get yourself some bread. Anna and me got work to do."
They came back hours later, exultant. "Some of the men grabbed the hoses and turned them against the watchmen at the mill!" Anna said.
"Now they know how it feels to be soaked," Mamma said.
Marija and Mrs. J. came in minutes later even more excited. "You know what your frien' Miz Marino do?" Mrs. J. asked.
"What did that crazy one do?" Mamma was smiling happily.
"She and her friends, dey pull da clothes off a policeman on da bridge and say dey going to trow him in icy river—see how it feels, dey say."
"No!" Mamma said.
"No, some more police come save da poor fool yust in time."
"Mr. Joe Ettor say 'No violence,' last night," Mamma said. "Mrs. Marino better behave, I think."
"It was like a joke, Mamma," Anna said. "You're laughing yourself."
Mamma was laughing. It shamed Rosa to see it. Mamma was turning into one of the ignorant immigrants Miss Finch railed against. Her sweet, loving mamma was going to turn into loud, crazy Mrs. Marino, and there was nothing Rosa could do to stop her.
Granny J. didn't leave Rosa enough room to toss and turn in bed, but that night her mind churned. At the strike meeting that evening it was announced that the governor had called up the militia. He'd even given Harvard College boys guns and uniforms. Tomorrow a virtual army would be on the streets of Lawrence, ready to confront any who dared continue the strike. It only made the women more determined than ever. No one was going back to work until the strikers' demands were met, no matter what the governor said or did. Holy Mother, there was bound to be violence. How could Rosa save Mamma and Anna from this madness?
That was when Rosa had her great idea. She wouldn't go to school. She'd have her own strike. She'd refuse to go to school as long as Mamma refused to go to work. Then Mamma would see that she had to work—that all she and Papa had done to make it possible for at least Rosa to get an education would be wasted. Mamma couldn't stand waste, so she'd realize that she had to go back to work for Papa's sake, if not Rosa's.
Songs of Defiance
Mamma was pinching Rosa's toes. "Wake, up, dormigliona. Time for school."
"I'm not going to school," Rosa said, burrowing under the quilt. The bed felt luxurious when Granny J. wasn't in it with her. "I made up my mind, Mamma. If you and Anna go on strike, I go on strike."
Mamma threw back her head and laughed. It struck Rosa that she had heard Mamma's laugh more in the last couple of days than she had since before papa died. "Okay, Signorina Asino. You win. No school today." She patted Rosa's toes. "See you later on. Me and Anna got to go now to join the march."
Rosa could have screamed. She was not a donkey. What was the matter with Mamma? She was the stubborn one. She was supposed to give in, go to work, do anything to keep her child in school. Rosa sat up and threw off the quilt, but before she could open her mouth to argue further, Mamma, Anna, Mrs. J., and Marija had walked through her room and out the front door. She could hear them laughing as they clattered down the stairs. They were probably laughing at her. Miss Donkey, indeed! She musn't be late. She jumped up and put on her clothes, grabbed a bit of bread off the kitchen table, and left the flat.
The street was full of women and girls, all heading toward Jackson Street. She slipped in and out among them until she got to Jackson Street herself. It was there she finally saw Mamma and Anna ... and yet, it was not Mamma she saw. The woman she saw was drawn up to a height much taller than her squat little mamma. Her face was red with cold and rage, and then she began to laugh—laugh—right in the face of one of the Harvard boys the governor had called into service. Even in his new wool militia uniform and with his shiny rifle he looked as frightened as a three-year-old caught in some mischief.
Finally, he brought down his rifle so the tip of the barrel poked Mamma's shawl. Rosa's ha
nd flew to her mouth. He wouldn't kill her! How could some silly college boy kill her mamma? Still, he was so scared, who could tell what he might do? And then Mamma did a strange thing. She began to sing.
The boy, his face full of confusion, backed up and let her pass, let all the women pass, so that they began to march like a ragged army down Jackson Street. They gathered in strength as they went, for women were pouring out of every doorway to join them. They took up Mamma's song. Where had the song come from? Where had Mamma learned to sing about workers uniting? The only songs Rosa had ever heard her sing were Italian lullabies and arias from Verdi and Puccini. Those songs had died with Papa. But every woman on the street seemed to know this song. It was not just the Italian women but the Lithuanians and Poles and Syrians and Turks and Jews—all the polyglot female residents of the Plains, singing in many languages but together in one thunderous voice.
It was not only Mamma's college boy who was scared. The newly arrived militia and weary local police stationed along the route fell back as the crowd of women swelled. There were girl workers like Anna, too, of course, but there were also children smaller than Rosa and babies in their mothers' arms. One of the babies, looking back over its mother's shoulder, stared at Rosa with big brown eyes, as if to say: "Why has my mamma gone mad? Where is she taking me?"