Francesca was awakened by the wails of her baby cousin, his small lungs making enough noise to wake up the whole floor. Not that it mattered; the apartment her family lived in was crammed and often filled with arguing couples and crying children.

Fourteen on the twentieth day of the first month of the year, Francesa felt very grown up. No longer did she stay home with her siblings, Leonardo and Giovanna who both were younger than her by several years. Instead she got to work with her older sister Eleanora in a factory.

Her new job was hard on her body, and the effects showed, after only three months. It seemed there would forever be a layer of dust covering her skin; her back and feet were in constant pain, and she had never felt more tired in her life. Dark bags stood out against her olive skin, and her fingers were red and often bled from the number of times a needle had accidently stabbed them.

Her aunt worried over her; she had begged for several days for her husband not to allow Francesa to work, saying she needed to stay in school until 15 like Eleanora had. Uncle, who was a heavy built man with a thick mustache and thicker voice, said that since baby Alberto was born, they needed another person making money in the home.

Francesca wanted nothing else than to work. She admired Eleanora; she considered her everything she was not. Unlike Francesca’s baby-like features, Eleanora had a defined face; hollow cheeks, narrow eyes, and a sharp jawline. She was beautiful, walked in the most graceful manner, and Uncle often said she would soon find a man to marry.

Even with her beauty, the workload of the shirtwaist factories weighed heavy on Eleanora. Her body had taken the same shape as Francesa is: thin with a back arched uncomfortably, sore fingers, sore feet, and the dark blueish-purple bags under her eyes.

Francesa enjoyed the idea of working. There was something about being able to make money for her family that made the harsh conditions bearable. Even when she went home from a long day of work, and 11-year-old Leonardo would talk about his class, she ignored the longing feelings for her past school life, and instead, focused on him.

Baby Alberto let out another cry, this one drawing Francesa from bed. She yawned, running a hand through her hair as she watched her aunt held the small baby in her arms.

Her aunt, who looked nothing like the rest of Francesca's family, was a short and frail woman; nothing but skin and bone. She was the youngest sister of Francesa’s father, and had taken her and her siblings in when her parents had perished from sickness the year prior. Aunt spoke in a soft voice, one that carried through the air like a melody when she talked. Everything about her gave off exhaustion, from her tired eyes to how her body showed the lack of sleep.

“Where has Eleanora gone to?” she asked in Italian, looking over at her aunt as she brushed her hair. Her aunt shrugged with a hum, rocking Alberto back and forth to calm his tears.

“Off with your Uncle to get milk, I believe.” She responded, also in Italian. Only the children knew English, and Alberto would be the first child in the family to be raised speaking it. Three years in America and her aunt and uncle were desperate to still hold onto their Italian roots, only learning small amounts of English to make their days easier.

Francesa put the hairbrush down now dressing into the outfit she was expected to wear for her job. Her aunt was still staring down at her son, the first child of hers to reach their first birthday.

It was silent, other than the baby making any noise it could to get attention. Leonardo and Giovanna slept later than everyone else, right until it was time for Leonardo to head to school. Giovanna had never been able to speak, so instead the nine-year-old stayed home and helped their aunt with whatever she needed.

The door opened, and in walked Eleanora and their uncle. He had a cigar in his mouth and was staring at the floor angirly. This caught Francesa’s attention, and she was quick to question, “What’s wrong, Uncle?” as soon as he entered the room.

“Yankees.” Eleanora answered for him, setting  a new bottle of milk on the first surface she found. “A group of American boys started throwing rocks at us, calling us English words we did not understand.”

Their aunt gasped, covering her mouth with her hand, “Oh!” She breathed, “That’s horrible, are you two alright?”

Neither answered her directly. Eleanora shrugged, and Uncle grunted. “We have work, Aunt.” Eleanora nodded towards Francesa. “Today there is talk of union girls coming and talking us out of working.”

“Absurd.” Uncle groaned, “No need for a union. You work, and you get paid. They are not there to baby you.”

No one responded to his comments which just seemed to make him angrier. He let out another grunt and sat on his favorite seat, leaving the two girls to put on their jackets and walk to the factory.

It was mid-March, the snow had mostly melted and left behind thick mud in its place. The air was warm, and often there would be a soft breeze. Before and after school newsboys and newsgirls ran about selling newspapers, union members were on strike, adults were doing their shopping, and children ran about and played.

Francesa loved New York. She loved everything about it, mainly how busy the streets seemed to be and how kind the other working children were. Working kids in New York stayed together; forming their own small groups and helping each other out when they were in trouble.

Out of all the working kid groups in New York, Francesa adored the Newsies the most. The way they walked around New York like they were the ones who built it amused her, and she often compared them to a family of rambunctious children.

By the time Eleanora and Francesca made it to the factory, it was time to work. The girls worked on different floors, so they said their goodbyes and got busy. It was agonizing work, and even if she was careful, Francesa would often slip and stab her finger with a needle.

There was a scream, the girls in the room seemed to freeze for a moment, but soon continued to their work. There was another scream, followed by another, than shouts. The word made Francesa’s hair stand up on the back of her neck.

“Fire!” That single scream from the floor below was enough to set every girl in the room into panic, each attempting to make her way towards the door. There was another scream, this one much closer, and the crowd in the hallway thickened.

Francesa stayed put. She kept her feet planted at her work space, eyes widened in horror, and body frozen in shock. She watched as the group of girls fell over top of each other, like some kind of sick ocean, to get to freedom.

She didn’t know what to do, so she stayed put. She stayed put as she watched as the group of girls thinned out, and she stayed put as she heard her name being screamed.

It was Eleanora; she was in the doorway, her own eyes full of fear and shaking so badly she resembled tree branches in a storm. She let out a small sigh when she saw Francesa, running over to grab her hand.

“The fire has not reached this floor yet, but it will soon. We have to go, there is a working elevator.”

Francesa couldn’t form words, she nodded. Eleanora gave her a small smile of encouragement, though each knew it was fake, and dragged her through the hallway.

The air was thick with smoke; there was still the sounds of screaming and cries from the girls floors lower. If she tried hard enough, she could make out what sounded like fire trucks.

This thought brought some sort of hope to her chest. The firemen are here; they will put out the fire, and she’ll go home that night to a crying aunt and a cup of something warm.

Francesa had no clue how wrong she was. The fire was too high for them to reach, and it had already spread so far that they wouldn’t save many. She wasn’t aware of the number of girls having a choice: jump out the window and die of your own accord or let the smoke suffocate you and the fire lick at your skin.

Instead, she was making her way towards an elevator, hand tightly gripped in Eleanora’s as the older girl kept her stare straight forward. Neither spoke, the only sounds were the weeps of pain mixed with the terrible stench of burning building.

When they found the elevator, the silence was broken by Eleanora, who cried out an Italian prayer and stepped on. There were other girls there too, packed in like sardines to try and get as many out as they could.

The rest was a blur to young Francesa. A blur of faces, a blur of heat, and a blur of tears. All she knew was Eleanora was hugging her hard, they both reeked of smoke. The two girls were standing outside, being checked over by some older women, who seemed to be saying prayers just as Eleanora was only mere minutes ago.

By the next morning it seemed like everyone in the world knew. Neither sister left the home until a week and a half after it happened. 146 girls died in that fire, and the sisters didn’t want to believe that they weren’t included.