Notes: Without Homeland takes places in New London, Connecticut in the 1910s and 1920s. More information and fics can be found at my journal. These fics are short vignettes and character studies and aren't necessarily meant to be read chronologically.

Karol wasn’t sure of the direction this conversation was headed, but he was pretty sure he didn’t like it.

“Those Fort Trumbull guys must put out a paper–why not write for them?” he asked, refilling the teapot he and Alba had already drained.

Alba scoffed and peered out the window, as if she could see Fort Trumbull from Karol’s kitchen window. “Marchegiani snobs… just because I’m a Sicilian they think I’m no different than the rest of those flag-wavers and cross-kissers on Shaw Street. No offense,” she said, touching Karol’s knee; she’d been trying to rein in her anti-clericism around him, but it still slipped out once in a while. “And plus, ever since I split up with Angelo, they don’t want anything to do with me around there.” She touched his knee again. “I know–sore subject. Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Karol said, hoping Alba couldn’t see him bristle at the mention of her ex-boyfriend.

“Anyway, they don’t even have a paper of their own. Every once in a while one of them gets something in the Cronaca Sovversiva, but that’s it.” Karol nodded, pretending to understand. Alba got to her feet and strode to the window, looking down at the snow-covered street below. “What I want is something local, and something that anyone in New London could read.” She spun on her heel. “That’s where you come in.”

Karol stared at her, hoping he didn’t look as nervous as he felt. It seemed that every time he spoke to Alba, he found himself pulled deeper and deeper into something he wasn’t totally sure he wanted to be pulled into. Sometimes their conversations felt like quicksand.

“That’s right,” Alba continued, returning to her seat and taking Karol’s hands. “Polish translation. There’s tons of Poles in New London, and we’ve seen what they can do when they get organized. But no one’s talking to them about anarchism. If we could translate some things for them–some of my articles, some Goldman, some Kropotkin…I think those ideas would spread like wildfire! And then, who knows? Maybe some of the Poles would want to write their own articles for the paper. Imagine, a Polish anarchist perspective on the freighthandlers’ strike, in Polish!”

Alba was beaming, and Karol couldn’t help but return the smile, even though his mind was reeling. He was supposed to be getting ready for seminary–what was he doing helping an anarchist who’d probably dynamite his church if she had the chance?

But before he had time to think about that question, Alba was on her feet again, pacing around the kitchen, her hands flying as she spoke. “I’ve already got enough material for the first issue. Every article will be in three versions–Italian, English, and Polish. Once we get the translations done, we can print it up–I figure five hundred copies to start with. And I figure…” She stopped, her eyes locked on Karol’s.

“That I could do the printing,” he said, finishing her sentence. As soon as he heard himself say it, he knew that this is where the conversation had been heading all along.

“Well, we’d do it together,” Alba said, again rushing to her seat and clutching his knees. “You could show me how to use the press and–”

And that had been that. They’d sealed the deal with a kiss.

***

Two months later, Alba stood shivering outside Mr. Jaronczyk’s print shop on a Sunday morning as Karol hunted for his ring of keys.

“I must have dropped them,” he mumbled, his red fingers digging through the fresh snow covering the sidewalk.

Alba wrapped her arms around her suitcase, as if that battered box full of articles and essays would help keep her warm. “Do you remember having them when you left church?” she asked through chattering teeth.

Karol nodded and continued digging aimlessly. Part of him hoped that he couldn’t find the keys, that losing them was God’s way of telling him what he’d known all along: that he shouldn’t be helping Alba with her paper.

But something had happened during the hours he’d spent working on the Polish translations with Alba that winter. It wasn’t just sitting shoulder to shoulder with her at his kitchen table, feeling her hair brush his cheek as they leaned over a page, watching her finger slide under each line of text, watching her brow crinkle and her mouth form synonyms for him to choose from. It wasn’t just the way they celebrated each finished translation by tumbling into his bed. It wasn’t just about her.

The ideas had begun to make sense. And he’d begun to think it wasn’t entirely wrong to spread them around.

“Found them!” he exclaimed, pulling a dripping clump of metal from a puddle of gray slush on the side of the road.

“Thank God,” Alba said as Karol unlocked the door of the printshop.