Secret of the White Rose (19 page)

I tried to edge my way into the room past the two of them, protectively shielding Isabella with my body. Even in this environment, her touch electrified my injured right arm—a particularly odd sensation, given that I was unused to any feeling there other than pain.

Savvas blocked our way, so we stood awkwardly outside, under a poster advertising the IWW. It showed a man who stood tall, arms crossed, in front of a city skyline. A slogan underneath him read
FIGHT WAGE SLAVERY.

“What is the IWW?” Isabella whispered.

“It stands for Industrial Workers of the World,” I answered, quietly explaining that it was a new union founded by anarchists together with syndicalists and trade unionists. “Its leaders believe that it’s large and well organized enough that it can succeed where other labor movements have failed. But its size also means that it’s made up of members who disagree with each other about nearly everything.”

She nodded.

The black-haired man was now speaking in mocking tones. “Did you see the latest issue of
The Liberator
? Filled with articles about women’s needs. They
need
the right to divorce, they
need
access to birth control. Well, what about my rights and needs?”

The other man shrugged. “That’s just because Lucy Parsons is the new editor. It don’t mean the IWW ain’t doin’ grand things for us workers.”

Savvas suddenly caught sight of Isabella. “What do you think about Lucy Parsons, miss? You think she’s looking out for your needs?”

Isabella blushed a deep red. “I don’t know Lucy Parsons, I’m afraid.”

I waited a moment to see their reaction, almost afraid to breathe. Isabella looked the part for tonight, having exchanged her fine silk dress for a worn and tired black muslin. But she could not easily camouflage the well-modulated, educated tones of her voice.

Their focus turned to me.

“Haven’t seen you around before, either.” Savvas narrowed his eyes.

“Jonathan Strupp invited me,” I said quietly.

“Yeah?” He raised a suspicious eyebrow before calling out to a burly man standing behind him. “Lukas, is Johnny here yet?”

“He’s running late. Why—you worried this one isn’t a true comrade?”

I felt a moment’s flash of fear. What if I was revealed here as a police detective? Isabella would be endangered, as well. I’d counted on my past history with Jonathan to protect me. But—now that I observed the belligerent faces surrounding me—I realized that I may have underestimated the extent to which Jonathan’s anger had changed him.

“Maybe.” Savvas ran a hand through curly black hair, then stared at me curiously. “How do you know Johnny?”

“I was engaged to his sister.”

His suspicious eyes came to rest on Isabella. “Then who—”

But he stopped mid-sentence, his eyes catching a signal from someone just behind me.

I turned to find a man standing there. He was a tall but slightly built man with well-defined Eastern European features: high cheekbones, dark blond hair, and a chiseled nose and chin. The way a shock of straight hair fell over his left eye—itself covered with a black patch—gave him a rakish look. But what was most striking was the quiet authority he exuded, though he had yet to say a word.

He stared at me a moment before he finally spoke in soft but clipped tones. “Johnny has told me about you. You are Simon.” He took a step closer. “The Simon who would have been his brother, but for the filthy capitalists who mismanaged the
General Slocum
.”

He held out a hand to me. I pretended not to notice that the last two fingers were missing.

His mouth twisted into something resembling a smile. “A necessary sacrifice to the cause, suffered while instructing a student in the art of bomb-making.” Then he added, “And I’m sorry for your loss—one for which there’s still been no justice.”

“Only for Captain Van Schaick,” I said. “If you consider ten years’ time for criminal negligence to be justice. And that’s assuming he ever serves a day of it.” The captain whose fateful decisions had doomed over a thousand of the 1,300-something passengers that day had been convicted in court this January, but he remained free on $10,000 bail.

The blond man shook his head. “I wouldn’t hold your breath. Judge Thomas is a tool of the capitalist system. And the officers and directors of the Knickerbocker Steamship Company—who so prized their profits that they wouldn’t invest in the most simple of safety measures—will never see their day in court. What can you expect? The whole system is corrupt.”

I knew I was being manipulated—and yet I almost couldn’t resist agreeing with him, at least where the
Slocum
disaster was concerned. Was this how it had been for Jonathan? I wondered. For the first time, I understood how easy it might be to become seduced by the anarchists—surrounded by those who understood what it was to know unfairness, and who yearned for justice and a better life. It was their methods I took issue with, not their ideals.

“My name is Paul Hlad. And, comrade or not, I’m glad you are here tonight. Come—I’ll take you both to Jonathan.” He motioned for Isabella and me to follow him.

We made our way past men and women with their arms raised to cheer the speaker, who had just stepped in front of the podium. I caught sight of Mei Lin on stage behind him, clapping. I even saw my old schoolmate Samuel Lyzke. But there was no sign of Jonathan—not yet.

I held Isabella’s hand tight so as not to lose her, glancing now and then at the railway worker who spoke of better wages and shorter workdays as the crowd cheered.

“The railroads are controlled by men like Jay Gould and Cornelius Vanderbilt,” the speaker said to gasps of disgust and mutterings of “dirty capitalists.”

“Do you think they care if we have enough to eat? Or if we have a decent place to live?” the speaker asked, pounding on the podium.

“No,” the crowd shouted back.

“Do they care if our children work all day in a factory when they should be in school?”

“Damn, no.” Their second response was even louder.

He continued to talk, riling everyone in the room into a frenzy. But I heard no more, for we had approached what looked to be a concrete wall at the back of the room. I watched in amazement as Paul Hlad picked up a foot-long length of wire, inserted it through one of the cracks, and the wall magically opened.

We followed Paul inside to a smaller room. “How does that work?” I asked, surveying the large hinges on either side of the wall.

He shrugged. “Precision hinges. And a door faced with concrete slab.”

“You always did have to know everything, didn’t you, Simon?”

I turned sharply, for I had thought the room was empty. Was there another secret entrance to the back? Or had I somehow missed him?

Whatever the answer, I now found myself facing Jonathan Strupp for the first time in two years. His shock of auburn hair was a mirror image of Hannah’s—but there, any resemblance between the two ended. Hannah had been happy, always ready with a smile. But Jonathan’s face was pinched with anger, and his eyes glared at me from behind wire-rimmed glasses. He had become thinner; his clothes fit his slight frame so loosely that he appeared even younger than his twenty-three years.

“I’ll leave you to your conversation,” Paul said with a nod before he disappeared once more behind the mock concrete wall.

“Who is she?” Jonathan stared at Isabella. “My sister’s replacement?”

Isabella took his rudeness in stride. “You may call me Mrs. Sinclair. Together with my father-in-law, I’m assisting Simon with an investigation.”

“You’re married?” He raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Widowed.” Her answer was soft.

“Perhaps we should sit,” I said, gesturing to the table and chairs at the center of the room.

But Jonathan shook his head. “I’ve no need to sit. I’ve nothing to say to you. This meeting is merely to appease my father.” His words were punctuated, almost staccato.

I took a seat, indicating for Isabella to do the same. I forced myself into a relaxed position, though I actually felt anything but. It was a strategy I’d developed for this type of situation—the more difficult the interview, the more I needed to appear at ease and in control. More often than not, it led to people divulging more information than they intended. “Your father worries about you,” I said. “You might stop by more often to see him and your mother.”

His laugh was harsh, guttural. “You’re one to talk, Simon. You haven’t stopped by in two years.”

“I’m not their son,” I said. But his words had hit their mark.

“You might have been.”

“And now you have a daughter—a beautiful one with eyes just like Hannah’s.”

“Yes. My parents care for her better than I could ever hope to.”

“Even though she’s
your
daughter.
Your
responsibility,” I said.

Angry eyes flashed at me. “My responsibilities are here. She’s better off with them. She fills the void that Hannah left behind.”

“I doubt that,” I said. “What responsibilities do you have that are more important than your daughter?”

He said nothing, glowering at me.

“You also must have obligations to her mother. Who is she?”

“She is nothing to you. I warn you: do not get involved.”

“Without a mother, all the more reason why your daughter needs you,” I said, keeping a calm tone. “I, for one, know firsthand what happens to families without a father.”

His face hardened. “That’s because your father was a drunk and a gambler who thought only of himself. Except for the fact that you had to leave your scholarship at Columbia when he took off, you were better off without him. All of you.”

Without warning, he took the seat beside us, shoving it with so much fervor I thought it would break. “My responsibility is only to make a better world for my daughter,” he said. “One where she will not be forced to work in some rich lady’s house, answering doors or scrubbing floors. One where she can work for fair wages and good hours. Where she will live in a good home. And her children will attend school and learn.”

“As you once wanted to do.” I released a deep breath. “What’s happened to you, Jonathan? You’ve given up everything you once dreamed of—and for what?” I gestured to the room next door. “These people understand our society’s problems, but they don’t have the answers.”

“You’re right; they don’t,” he said, quieter now. “They think a few pennies more an hour will make things better. It won’t. They talk till they’re blue in the face and think politicians and journalists will listen. And they never will.” He pounded the table with his fist. “So much talk. For what? Nothing’s ever accomplished.”

“So why are you here?”

“Because a select group of us believe in turning all this talk into action. We want to be free—though we’ll never achieve that till all our oppressors are defeated and the capitalist lie is revealed for what it is.”

“But who are your oppressors?” Isabella interrupted. “Besides employers who don’t pay a living wage or provide decent working conditions?”

He made a brittle noise. “Our entire society is made up of systems that oppress us. Our religions force women into slavery through marriage. Our governments give the robber barons carte blanche to deny the workers of the world the most basic of human rights. Only by overthrowing it all can we start anew.”

“When did you decide this, Jonathan?” I asked. “You had the makings of a great scientist. You used to think that scientific advancements would revolutionize the world.”

“Science is no help when the working people can’t make a living wage.”

“That’s not true,” I replied. “Especially in medicine, we see science accomplishing great things for everyone, the working class included. I know you’ve been in a dark place since Hannah died. And men like Paul Hlad do you no service by involving you in things that are over your head.”

His eyes flashed with anger. “I’m not in over my head. I hold a position of authority in this organization. Men answer to
me
.”

I kept my voice even when I replied. “I don’t care who answers to you. If you’re involved with people who advocate killing and violence, then you’re in over your head.”

He returned my gaze with a belligerent stare.

“Did you have anything to do with Judge Jackson’s murder?”

He was silent.

When I asked again, I was practically begging him. “Just tell me it wasn’t you, Johnny. Hlad or Joe or Savvas, fine. But not you.”

He gave me only a cold stare. “I have nothing to say to you. Please leave.”

“Listen to me. The murder of Judge Jackson is the highest profile case I’ve ever seen. The commissioner is running this one himself and the public wants a scapegoat. They crave revenge. Whoever it is—or if it’s friends of yours you want to protect—you need my help.”

Jonathan stood, leaning on the table with a hostile expression. “You need to leave now, Simon. I have nothing to say to you. I never will.”

“You’re destroying your family,” I said. “Your parents—and the daughter who needs you.”