New York

by Edward Rutherfurd

  Keller looked puzzled for a moment. “Oh,” he said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean the strike, I meant the fire.”

  For it was the aftermath of the Triangle fire that most people remembered. It had been a huge scandal when Blanck and Harris, the factory owners, had been taken to court and sued. It had turned out that the exit from the ninth floor, where so many girls had died, had been locked, and the fire precautions totally inadequate. Even after that, it had only been union pressure that had improved the standard of worker safety in the city.

  “My point,” he went on, “is that the factory owners were so blinded to their workers’ safety by their pursuit of profit that they actually lost some of their own relations in the fire, and could have perished themselves.”

  “The fire? Oh. I see.”

  “It was sad about the girl, wasn’t it?”

  “The girl?”

  “The Italian girl you brought to that lunch. Anna Caruso. I noted her name at the time.”

  “What about her?”

  “She died in the Triangle fire. I noticed her name when the newspapers published the lists.”

  “I wasn’t aware.”

  “Mother!” Charlie was looking at her, in disbelief. Rose felt herself blush.

  “How should I know such a thing?” she said irritably.

  “I’m embarrassed,” said Charlie to his tutor.

  Rose stared at Edmund Keller. So he’d made her look a fool again. In front of her own son, this time. For all she knew, Charlie was going to start respecting him more than he did his own mother very soon. If she’d disliked the socialistic Mr. Keller before, she felt a positive aversion for him now. But she did not show it.

  “Tell me, Mr. Keller, about your work at the university,” she said very sweetly. “Are you writing a book?”

  The burgundy was excellent. By the time they were halfway through the main course, the butler had refilled Edmund’s glass more than once, and he felt quite at home as he talked about his researches for a book on Greece and Rome. Young Charlie was looking happy, his father had shown himself to be friendly and interesting, and even his hostess, about whose feelings he was a little uncertain, was listening with every show of interest. It seemed to Keller that he was among friends. After a slight pause, he decided it would be pleasant to share a confidence with them.

  “Between ourselves,” he told them, “there’s a chance I might be going to England next year. To Oxford.”

  “Oh,” said Charlie, looking rather disappointed.

  “I heard things were awfully quiet there,” said William Master.

  “That’s just the point,” Keller said. “So many of the Oxford undergraduates and faculty are away fighting in the war that the place is half empty. I could live in one of the colleges as a visiting fellow for a year, do a little teaching, and work on my book. I’d also have the chance to make myself known there. I might even get a permanent fellowship.”

  “How did this arise?” William asked.

  “Through Elihu Pusey,” said Keller. “Perhaps you know him?” They didn’t. “Well, he’s a rich old gentleman here in New York, and a notable scholar. I met him through some research I’m doing. He has connections with two Oxford colleges, Trinity and Merton, and he’s going to put in a good word with them both on my account.”

  “How fortunate,” Rose murmured.

  “The only thing that would hold me back is my father. He’s getting so frail that I don’t like to leave him. But he insists I should go, and he’s offered to finance the whole thing.”

  “Selfishly, I hope you stay here,” said Charlie.

  “Don’t repeat what I’ve told you, please,” said Keller.

  “Of course not,” said Rose.

  The thought of Edmund Keller being removed from Columbia for the rest of Charlie’s time there was certainly most attractive to Rose. But with all her social connections she couldn’t quite see what she could do to make it come about. If Elihu Pusey meant to recommend him to people he knew, well and good, but she had no means of influencing an Oxford college.

  She’d almost put the business out of her mind, therefore, when just a week later, at a gathering to support the New York Public Library, she saw that Mr. Pusey was also one of the guests, and asked to be introduced to him.

  He was a distinguished-looking old gentleman. It didn’t take her long to steer the conversation to Columbia University, to mention that her son was there, and that she knew Mr. Nicholas Murray Butler.

  “I know Butler, of course,” he said politely, though she didn’t detect any great warmth in the statement.

  “There’s a lecturer my son likes very much named Edmund Keller. I wonder if you have ever met him.”

  “Edmund Keller?” Now Elihu Pusey brightened visibly. “I certainly know him. A historian of great promise. In fact…” He seemed to be about to say something, and then to have changed his mind.

  “He was at my house for dinner the other day,” she said, pausing for a reaction. “He and my husband share an enthusiasm for Rolls-Royce motor cars,” she continued gently. “Mr. Keller is quite an Anglophile.”

  “Ah.” Elihu Pusey looked at her sharply. He paused a moment. “Do you know him well?”

  “Not especially well, but I know a lot about him. My husband’s grandparents, Frank and Hetty Master, were great supporters of his father, the photographer, in his early days.”

  “I see. Master.” She could see him calling to mind what he knew about the name. “Then you are the Mrs. Master who lives just off Fifth Avenue? I have heard of your dinner parties.”

  “I’m so glad. Could I persuade you to come to one of them?”

  “Most certainly.” He brightened again. Whether it was the prospect of dinner, or more probably that he knew of her reputation for sound, conservative opinions, Elihu Pusey seemed to be ready to divulge more of whatever was on his mind. “Perhaps,” he said quietly, “you could give me your opinion on a rather sensitive matter. In confidence, that is.”

  “People in my position know the value of discretion, Mr. Pusey.”

  “Quite. The fact is that I was going to write a letter for young Keller, a recommendation.”

  “I see.”

  “But before doing so, I thought I should make one or two further inquiries. His family is German, I understand. German-speaking, even. And I wondered whether, in the present circumstances …”

  She could guess exactly what Elihu Pusey must be wondering, and she could sympathize. He’s imagining those Oxford colleges, she thought, and what it will do to his reputation if Keller arrives there on his recommendation, and starts making pro-German statements.

  “I remember hearing that Edmund Keller had to study German in connection with his reading at one time,” Rose said blandly. “I believe he speaks several languages. But I can tell you for a fact that his father Theodore doesn’t speak a word of German. The family is as American as, I don’t know, Astor or Hoover, or Studebaker.”

  “Ah.” Elihu Pusey hesitated. “There is another matter, perhaps more serious. I spoke to Nicholas Murray Butler, and he did express to me a slight concern. He feared that some of Mr. Keller’s views might be …” the old man hardly liked even to pronounce the word, “somewhat socialistic.”

  If there was ever a time to dissemble, this was it. For just a moment, Rose looked completely astonished.

  “Socialistic?”

  “Yes.”

  She smiled. “You know Mr. Butler well, I am sure, Mr. Pusey, and he is a man who has prejudices.”

  “True.”

  “Well, I know from my son that Mr. Keller in his lectures, for instance, is always scrupulous to present both sides of a case. And I can imagine Mr. Butler, if he does not care for somebody, accusing them of,” she shrugged, “I don’t know what. But I can assure you of one thing: if Mr. Keller was any kind of a socialist, he’d never have set foot in my house.”

  “Butler can be unreasonably prejudiced,” Pusey agreed. “But are you sure abo
ut Keller’s private views?”

  “I am for this reason, Mr. Pusey. Just a few years ago, when there was all that trouble about those garment workers striking, I was at a private luncheon. And I heard Mr. Keller speak out—very strongly—against the strikers. He warned everyone there, in the plainest terms, that the strikers were being whipped up by socialists and Russians and anarchists, and that we should give them no consideration at all. He spoke with great passion. I remember it well. And how right he turned out to be.” And having delivered herself of this monstrous, bare-faced lie, she gave old Mr. Pusey a meaningful nod. “So much,” she said drily, “for Nicholas Murray Butler.”

  “Ah.” Elihu Pusey looked immensely gratified. “That is most helpful, Mrs. Master. Really most helpful.”

  It was a couple of months later when Charlie informed her that Edmund Keller would be going away to Oxford.

  “I know it’s what he wanted,” she said with a smile. Three thousand miles away from her impressionable son—everything that she could wish for, but that would remain her little secret.

  “And Keller says that you put in a good word for him with the man who was recommending him. You never told me you did that. Keller’s so grateful to you.”

  “It was nothing. I just happened to meet Mr. Pusey at a party, that’s all.”

  “I know you used not to like Keller too much. I guess you must have changed your mind, after he came to dinner.”

  “Evidently.”

  “I’m so impressed that you could do that. Change your mind, I mean.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  “I can tell you one thing.”

  “What’s that, Charlie?”

  “Edmund Keller,” he said, beaming at her, “is now your friend for life.”

  1925

  Strangely, it was not the death of Anna, nor the war, nor even the bizarre new law—inexplicable to anyone from a wine-producing country—that forbade Americans to consume alcoholic drinks, nor the increasing estrangement of Paolo from his parents that changed the life of Salvatore Caruso’s family. It was his eldest brother Giuseppe and the Long Island Rail Road.

  The LIRR was a wonderful thing. A huge and complex amalgamation of railways and trolley lines, some going back nearly a century, the mighty system ran from Pennsylvania, across Manhattan to Long Island. Through Penn Station in Manhattan, and the great junction at Jamaica, Long Island, millions of commuters now flowed. Naturally, the railroad did everything it could to persuade the world of the merits of Long Island as a place to live, from which you could easily get into the big city. And the expanding island railway lines were chiefly built by Italians.

  As a result, Italian communities had been settling at numerous places along Long Island’s pleasant south shore.

  When America first entered the war, before any conscription lists had been started, Giuseppe Caruso had decided to enlist. His father was not sure it was a good idea, but Giuseppe had told him: “We’re Italians, Papa. Still outsiders. We have to show that Italians are good Americans, like anyone else. And as I’m the oldest son, it should be me.”

  Salvatore always remembered the day that his big brother had come back safely, and walked down Mulberry Street in his uniform, getting smiles and congratulations from their neighbors, and even a friendly nod from an Irish policeman who happened to be passing. And perhaps that was the moment when Salvatore truly became American, as he proudly watched his brother who, by his service, had already led the way.

  It was soon after his return that Giuseppe had decided to join a group of his comrades-in-arms who were going to work on the Long Island Rail Road. And it was not a year before one of his workmates introduced him to a nice young Italian girl. Her family lived on Long Island, out near Valley Stream, but what really impressed the Carusos was that Giuseppe told them: “Her family have land.”

  Not much, to be sure, but you didn’t need a huge farm to grow vegetables. Plenty of other Italians were setting up as small Long Island farmers now. One enterprising family named Broccoli, who grew the vegetable of that name, had contracts to supply some of the finest restaurants in New York.

  The girl’s family made a modest living. Better yet, as she had no brothers, Giuseppe and she would take over the farm one day from her parents, in the old-fashioned way. And the Caruso family would be back where it belonged, farming the land.

  The wedding was a traditional affair, just like a village wedding back home. Within a year, Giovanni and Concetta Caruso had moved out to Long Island. They couldn’t afford to retire, but Giuseppe had found some easier work for both of them. For the first time in the twenty and more years since she’d come to America, Concetta Caruso looked contented. Maria went with them to Long Island, and soon found work in a local store.

  So that just left Salvatore, Angelo and Uncle Luigi in the city.

  And Paolo, of course. Not that you ever saw him. A few months after Anna’s death, he’d given up shining boots. He told the family he was working for a man who owned property in Greenwich Village. Salvatore went to the place once, and found an office where several Italian men were keeping books. When he said he was looking for his brother Paolo, they told him Paolo was out, and didn’t encourage him to wait. That was all Salvatore ever discovered. Each week Paolo would put money on the kitchen table for their mother, but she only took it reluctantly; if he offered her presents, she always refused them. As time went on, Paolo and she hardly spoke, and in the end he announced that he’d found another place to live.

  Every few months, however—usually when Salvatore was alone some-where—Paolo would suddenly appear. He was always sharply dressed. He’d smile and embrace Salvatore, and they’d chat and maybe eat something together. But there seemed to be a hardness about Paolo now; Salvatore could imagine him becoming cold, and threatening. Their old comradeship was gone. Before departing, Paolo always left money with Salvatore for their parents.

  Salvatore and Angelo had discussed going out to live on Long Island, but they soon agreed that neither of them wanted to. So they rearranged the family lodgings so that Uncle Luigi could move in with them too, and with three men working hard and splitting the rent, they could all put a little money aside each week. Uncle Luigi, who pocketed his tips and consumed almost nothing beyond the leftovers he ate in the restaurant, must have accumulated quite a lot of savings, Salvatore suspected, though his uncle’s finances were always a mystery. Once, when he asked Uncle Luigi what he did with his money, his uncle told him: “I invest it.” And when Salvatore asked him how he decided what to invest in, Uncle Luigi answered: “I pray to St. Anthony.” Salvatore never knew if he was serious about this or not.

  Salvatore never forgot what Anna had said. He always looked out for Angelo, and he really didn’t mind. He loved his little brother. After Anna’s death, he’d started showing him the world. When the Carusos first arrived in New York, the subway system would take them up as far as Harlem; but in the two decades that followed, it was extended up into the Bronx, across to Brooklyn and far into Queens. The fare was only five cents, no matter where one went. Sometimes he and Angelo would ride out into the growing suburbs just to say they’d been there.

  Salvatore would also take Angelo to a ball game. With Babe Ruth playing for the Yankees, baseball in New York was exciting. Thanks to Paolo, who’d somehow got them tickets, they’d also gone up to the Polo Grounds to see Jack Dempsey fight Luis Firpo, El Toro Salvaje de las Pampas. That had been an event to remember, with Dempsey knocked clean out of the ring before he came back to win.

  But Angelo’s favorite outing was going to the movies. The movies weren’t expensive. They’d watch the Keystone Kops, and Charlie Chaplin, who’d settled in America and switched from stage to screen. They’d see D. W. Griffith’s great stories over and over. From the moment that the organist started to play, Angelo’s face would become rapt. He also had an amazing memory, and he could name every movie his favorite stars had performed in, and facts about their performances and lives in the way that
other kids could remember baseball scores. He followed the careers of Mary Pickford and Lillian Gish with special devotion.

  These stars, however, seemed to be the only women in Angelo’s life. Salvatore liked going out with girls, and one day he wanted to marry, but not until he’d saved up some money. In the meantime, once a week, he’d make a visit to the old Tenderloin District, around Broadway in the Thirties. There were plenty of prostitutes in Little Italy, but he preferred to keep this part of his life private. Uncle Luigi knew what he did, and always cautioned him to be careful. “Do you know,” he told him, “they made it so difficult for our troops to get rubbers in the war that nearly three-quarters of our boys caught something?” He even told him where he could buy the rarer latex ones. Salvatore took precautions. As he told his uncle, with a shrug: “Whores cost money, but it’s better than going crazy.”

  Salvatore wasn’t sure why Angelo had so little contact with women. Perhaps he was too shy. Salvatore wondered if he ought to do something about it, but Uncle Luigi advised him to leave well alone.

  What worried Uncle Luigi was not Angelo’s leisure, but his work. When Salvatore had become a bricklayer, Angelo had quietly joined him, and whether or not it was thanks to the weights he still worked out with, he had grown into quite a wiry young man, so he could handle the physical labor without difficulty.

  “But he shouldn’t be laying bricks,” Uncle Luigi would protest. “He has talent.” Uncle Luigi might have abandoned his foolish dream that Angelo should be an architect, but there were other things the young man could be: a house painter, a decorator, something at least where he could use the gifts God gave him. It seemed, though, that Angelo preferred to work with his brother. Yet he’d never stopped drawing. Salvatore might go out to a bar after supper, but Angelo would stay at the kitchen table, occasionally reading a book, but usually drawing. And at these times, his young face would take on a look of concentrated intensity. Sometimes, coming home early, Salvatore had entered the room and stood for several minutes beside Angelo while he was drawing before Angelo even noticed that he was there. Uncle Luigi had taken some of the drawings, framed them and sold them to customers at the restaurant. But his attempts to persuade Angelo to take orders for pictures from customers had so far gotten nowhere. “I get paid for laying bricks,” he told his uncle with a smile, “and then I can draw what I like.”