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Fighting for Bread & Roses

By Lynn A. Coleman

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Prologue

January 29, 1912
Lawrence, Mass.

Anna pushed her way through the crowd. Her heart pumped with frustration as she edged toward the center of the gathering. A gray-haired woman next to her screamed in Italian, “Pan é rose!”
A pencil thin man stepped from the police line and waved his bayonet. “Get back to work.”
Anna drew back. The cold wind bit at Anna’s nose. The mill owners had no right to cut our pay, she reminded herself. And those machines are dangerous. Sylvia Giovanni, her best friend, had already lost a finger. Anna knew it wouldn’t be long before she’d lose one too, if she could not keep her mind focused on the job. They had to strike. But how long could she hold out with no money and no food?
“Anna.” Sylvia waved.
Anna wove her way through the crowd toward her friend.
“Stay close. The militia has stabbed a few of the men already.” Sylvia looped her arm around Anna’s.
Anna nodded. They stood their ground, shouting with the others and waving their arms to demand better pay and safer working conditions.” The restless crowd on the street corner bulged held back by the special police and the militia.
Sylvia stared at a young, curly blond-haired militiaman to Anna’s left. She shivered. “I can’t believe they have knives on the ends of their guns.”
“It seems terribly unfair,” Anna added above the din of protests in a sea of languages. Anna couldn’t help but spout her heart’s desire in her own Italian tongue, “Pan é rose.” She did want bread, and she wouldn’t mind a rose every now and again. Twenty years of twelve-hour days had washed so many dreams down the gutter, like the icy rain falling over the city.
“Did you eat tonight?” Anna whispered to Sylvia.
“Bread and molasses.” Sylvia shook her fist in the air. “No pay, no work,” she chanted.
Anna chimed in with the same chant.
“What about you?”
The swell of the crowd pushed them back toward the street. “I had some leftover beans, but my supplies are nearly gone.”
“Mine too. We’ll get through. This strike has to be costing the owners a lot of money.”
The freezing wind cut through Anna’s thin coat. She clutched it tighter, losing her hold on Sylvia. “Yes, but they aren’t short for any.”
“They will be.”
Anna stepped toward the street. She needed more space. The sound of a gunshot pierced her ears; at the same time, a hot iron burned in her heart. Gasping for air, she fell to the ground. The crowd went silent.
The cold cobblestones under her seemed to soften. She gulped for air.
Were those people leaning over her? What were they saying?
“Anna?” She heard Sylvia scream.
She opened her mouth for one more breath…







Chapter one
Lawrence, Ma. today

Lindsey blinked back at the three lines of the newspaper account on the library monitor. Three lines¬–only three lines. But her mind’s eye could see the incident as if she were watching a television screen. Blood trickled from Anna Lopizzo’s chest, and Lindsey’s mental picture flickered to another time, another city, another book she’d been researching. Fear spiraled down to the pit of her stomach. Her hand froze on the control knob of the microfilm machine. Cold sweat beaded on her forehead.
She squeezed her eyes shut, pushing the memory away. Not now, not here.
Taking in a deep breath, she let it out slowly and released the knob, forcing herself to concentrate on the here and now. Two years had passed since she had witnessed the murder in New Orleans. One year since...Lindsey held back the memory. Before leaving Miami, she and her husband, Marc, talked about the very real possibility that her research would bring back the recurring nightmares.
Lindsey thought back on the trial transcripts she’d found on the Internet regarding the Bread & Roses strike. She needed to stay focused.
“Anna Lopizzo,” she whispered. “Who killed you?”
“May I help you?’ asked a thin woman in a fitted wool suit. Lindsey hadn’t seen this librarian the other day when asked about microfilm copies of the old newspapers from the time of the strike.
“I’m researching the Bread & Roses strike of 1912. Do you have any additional resources here?” Lindsey asked.
“You’ve pulled up the newspapers from the time, I see. Have you looked at some of the books in the resource library?”
Lindsey smiled. “Planning on that next.”
The librarian pointed to the waist level bookshelves in the far left-hand corner of the room. “I work with the reference material. If there’s anything I can help you with, I’ll be glad to. You look familiar. Are you from here?”
“No, I grew up in Maine.”
“Sorry, I’m pretty good with faces. I thought maybe you were here for the high school reunion.”
Lindsey smiled. “Nope. Thank you for the help. I’ll finish up here and head over to the resource stacks.”
“You’re welcome.” The woman nodded and walked away, straightening a few books and picking up some magazines left on a table.
Looking back at the screen, Lindsey forced her mind back to the brief newspaper account. The sooner she got it done the sooner she’d be able to return to Marc in Miami. It taken six months before she and Marc were comfortable with her going alone. He supported her passion for writing, and with both their sons away at college, traveling was easier.
Anna Lopizzo was the first to die during the textile workers’ strike. Nine strikers claimed that Officer Oscar Benoit had killed her. The police said one of the strikers shot her. A couple days later, the men who had come up from New York to help organize the mill workers were charged with being accessories to murder.
Lindsey drummed her fingers on the Formica counter-top. There was a story here. She could smell it.
Thirty minutes and a couple dozen printed pages later, Lindsey worked her way over to the resource section of the library. In the past, researching a novel had always been fun, a source of excitement. Today she struggled to remain objective.
She scanned the shelves.
“Ms. Marc?” Lindsey jumped. The librarian stood beside her. A smile creased her friendly face. “I thought it was you.”
Lindsey cleared her throat. After what happened in New Orleans, her last novel, City Streets, had hit the bestseller list. And she’d seen City Streets featured on the shelves as she entered the library. Of course she’d be recognized. “How can I help you?”
“Nothing,” the librarian stammered. “I, I came over to see if I could lend you a hand. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Lindsey chided herself for being so edgy. “No problem.”
“I’ve put some books on the Bread & Roses strike in the resource room. Would you like me to let you in?”
“Yes, thanks.”
The librarian took a key from her waistband pocket, and unlocked the door. “Here ya go. I’ll note the time I let you in on the sign-up sheet, but you’ll need to sign out when you finish.
“Thank you.”
Lindsey had used special collections in climate-controlled rooms like this one in many small libraries around the country. She found a few books written after the strike, some others about the organizing of the unions, and sections that referred to the Lawrence strike.
Two hours later, Lindsey placed her laptop computer back in her briefcase and carried the books to the reference desk.
“Were they helpful?” The librarian asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Please sign here.” She pointed to the notebook schedule for the resource room.
Lindsey picked up the pen and signed.
“I’m supposed to ask to see your driver’s license, but…” her eyes glanced down at the book.
Without thinking, Lindsey had signed her real name. She glimpsed the librarian’s questioning brown eyes and pulled out her Florida driver’s license. While the public knew her by her pen name, the combination of her and her husband’s first names, her real name was Lindsey Taylor.
“I’m a fan, Ms. Marc.”
Interesting, she didn’t call me by my real name. Lindsey drew her focus from the woman to see a male librarian standing on the other side of the room behind another counter.
“I was wondering if you’ll be coming back again?” she whispered. “Possibly tomorrow? I’d love for you to sign my books. Your books…I mean, if you’d sign my copies of your books.”
Lindsey reached over and placed a reassuring hand on the woman’s forearm. “I’d love to. I’ll be back sometime tomorrow.”
“Is there anything I could look up between now and then for you?” The librarian smiled. “I’m happy to help. May I research and assemble some book notations referencing the strike for you?”
Lindsey liked to do her own research, but considering how poor her concentration was today, she accepted. “I found precious little on John Rami. If you could find something on him, I’d appreciate it.”
“How do you spell that?” The librarian lifted a yellow pencil and scribbled down Lindsey’s response.
Lindsey glanced at her watch. Marc was due out of court, and Lindsey wanted to call him before going to an appointment with a local reporter. She hurried out into the nippy spring air, cinching her jacket tighter. Twenty years in South Florida does thin one’s blood.
* *
Leaning under the hood of his car, he took in a deep pull of a cigarette. What can a person do in a library for five hours? He pulled out his cell phone and auto-dialed.
“Hey, man, it’s me. You’ll never guess who I saw in town.”
Three minutes later the middle-aged blonde exited the library. She carried a brown leather briefcase.
She slipped into her white Toyota rental car. “I gotta go.” He clicked off the phone.
Opening the car door, he tested the engine. Knowing full well it functioned fine, but he smiled for any possible onlookers and exited the driver’s side to close the hood. The woman pulled out of the parking lot, talking on her cell phone. Not bad for middle age–blond hair, blue eyes and a fair complexion. His personal tastes ran a lot younger.
Some jobs are just too easy, he thought. Putting the car in drive, he slipped into traffic. The small red indicator light on his tracking device blinked to the right. He could follow five miles behind with this. Yup, this job is a piece of cake.
He flicked the cigarette out the window and checked the rearview mirror.

January 30, 1912
Lawrence, Mass.

With unwavering steps, Sylvia walked closer to the spot where Anna had been killed. Grief threatened to swallow her up. But determination coursed through her veins like fire running through a furnace. The mill owners were the root of all her troubles. The police killed Anna. But why Anna? The police¬¬, puppets of the mill owners, would have no reason to care. They probably thought her death would cause us all to run in fear.
Bile rose in her stomach as Sylvia joined the picket line and stood on the sidewalk. She would not work–¬not today or any day–until the issues with the mill owners were resolved. Anna’s death had to mean something. Sylvia couldn’t give in now.
“Sylvia?” James Donovan waved from across the street.
Sylvia waved back. His handsome face, with that thick, curly black hair and blue eyes as rich as a summer sky, awakened her. Sylvia shook off her meandering thoughts. This was a time to fight. She had no time for romance–not that an Italian girl could marry an Irish boy anyway.
“How are you faring?” James stood next to her on the picket line.
Sylvia tightened her worn, woolen coat against a blast of winter air. Three teens, one looked like a Syrian boy, John Rami, walked down the street as if nothing were happening around them.
“I’ll go hungry a hundred nights before I let these–” She broke off in frustrated emotion. “–These animals kill another one of us.”
“I heard about Anna. ‘Tis a shame to be sure.” James placed a caring hand upon her shoulder. “Me prayers are with you.”
The sound of bayonet-bearing militia marching on horseback drummed down the street.
“Pan é rose,” Sylvia yelled in protest as the militia came into view.
“This can’t be good,” James whispered.
“Killers!” The crowd roared their protests. “Murderers.”
Fists rose in the air. The soldiers marched on. A dark haired sentry’s face reddened as he yelled at the boys to get off the street. James wrapped his arm around Sylvia and held her close. Another soldier joined the first jabbing his bayonet at the boys.
“Killers!” a young man in the crowd called out.
James’s and Sylvia’s cries were silenced.
The crowd gasped. Young John Rami fell to the street.
“Dear God in heaven, what’s happening here?” Sylvia cried. Tears burned icy trails down her cheeks.

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