were paying her two dollars an hour, and she knew she could pay her rent now. Mother Gregoria's money had been dwindling daily. “I'm working at a konditorei on Eighty-sixth Street.” It was four blocks away, and despite the long hours, it seemed absolutely perfect. She just prayed that, for the next few weeks, being on her feet for so many hours wouldn't cause her to hemorrhage. It had been less than two weeks since the miscarriage… less than two weeks since Joe had been gone… only a week since she had been forced to leave the convent… so many awful things had happened to her, but now, finally, something good had happened.
“Congratulations!” Mrs. Boslicki said, grinning. “Maybe now you'll come out of your room once in a while, and watch a little television, or listen to some music. Everyone thinks I rented your room to a traveling salesman.”
“I'll be gone most of the time, Mrs. Boslicki,” Gabriella explained. “I'll be working noon to midnight. But I'll come down tonight. I promise.”
“After you go eat some dinner. Look at you, you look like a broomstick. You're never going to find a husband if you don't feed yourself once in a while. Boys don't like broomsticks.” She wagged a finger at her, and Gabriella laughed. She reminded her of some of the old nuns in the convent, although none of them had been pushing her to find a husband. Far from it.
Gabriella actually took her advice and went across the street to the greasy spoon that night, and ordered a plate of meat loaf. It was plain but nourishing, and reminded her a little of the food at St. Matthew's, which in the end made her homesick. She would have done anything to see Mother Gregoria again, just a glimpse of her, hurrying down the hall, with her arms crossed and her hands tucked into her sleeves, and her heavy wooden rosary beads flying. Or any of the other Sisters would have been a welcome sight too. Sister Agatha or Sister Timothy, or Sister Emanuel… or Sister Immaculata. She was thinking of all of them as she walked back to the boardinghouse again, and remembered her promise to Mrs. Boslicki to stop in the living room for a moment. She didn't feel like it, but she thought it might seem rude if she didn't. So she forced herself to go in for just a few minutes. And when she did, she was surprised how many people were sitting there. There were six or seven, chatting and playing cards. The TV was on, and an old man with white hair who looked like Einstein was tinkering with the piano. He said they needed a piano tuner to come look at it again, and Mrs. Boslicki was arguing with him and telling him it had never sounded better to her.
They all looked up in surprise as she walked into the room, and Gabriella was suddenly embarrassed. She hadn't expected to see so many people. There were men and women, mostly in their sixties, except for the man at the piano, who seemed even older. The women had white hair, some with a blue rinse, and they smiled when they saw Gabriella. She was such a breath of youth in the room, and she was so startlingly pretty. She was wearing the blue flowered dress, and old, well-worn shoes, but her straight, shining blond hair framed her face and looked almost like a halo. Her huge blue eyes seemed full of innocence, and none of them were perceptive enough to see the sadness beyond it. She looked far too young to have seen much of life or even have suffered. And just seeing her there in their midst made them feel happy.
Mrs. Boslicki introduced her to everyone. Many of them were European, and one of them, Mrs. Rosenstein, proudly said she was a survivor of the camp at Auschwitz. She had lived at Mrs. Boslicki's for twenty years now. And she introduced the man at the piano as Professor Thomas. Gabriella wasn't sure if it was his first name or his last, but he made a little bow to her and clarified it by saying his name was Theodore Thomas, and explaining that he was no longer a professor, he was retired. She was intrigued to learn that he had been a literature professor at Harvard. His field of expertise had been eighteenth-century English novels.