PART FOUR

NEW YORK, NEW YORK 1903–1904

TEN

Lorenzo and Giovanna walked up and down the rows of stone markers in the Queens cemetery.

“I know it’s here somewhere,” lamented Lorenzo.

Row upon row of stone markers lay imbedded in the ground, most with only numbers chiseled on them. Giovanna’s heart tightened. How could Nunzio be buried in such an anonymous, sprawling place? Her Nunzio, with hair that could be fiery red or golden, who could touch a building and recite its history, who could make her laugh and dream, how could her Nunzio be buried in foreign soil beneath a number?

“I found it,” called Lorenzo from two rows over.

Giovanna’s feet rooted to where she stood. Her brother came, took her by the arm, and led her to the stone that was numbered 304.

“Giovanna, I’m sorry, but when we make more money, we will get a proper stone marker with his name—a big one. They don’t put a photo on the stone in this country, but the carver could make a boat. No, it’s better a building, maybe the triangle building.” Lorenzo babbled over the silence until he realized he should retreat.

First, Giovanna brushed the dirt off the stone. With her finger, she traced the outline of the new grass. There was nothing else to fuss with, nothing to arrange. All of a sudden she understood the reason for vases and candles in the cemeteries in Italy. It gave you something to do, a connection, a way to take care of the dead.

Left only with her prayers, she knelt at Nunzio’s head, kissing her fingers and touching them to the ground repeatedly. When that wasn’t enough, she laid her palms flat to the ground while she beseeched Nunzio to guide her and tell her how to live. The cold anonymous ground gave her no answers, and she collapsed forward on top of the grave. From afar, Lorenzo wondered if he should go to her, but not knowing how to comfort her, he turned away. Giovanna lay on top of Nunzio’s grave, letting the wails and sobs that she had locked deep inside escape. Lorenzo sat behind a tree for fear that someone would question why he wasn’t helping her, but he knew that this was a passage she must go through alone. He picked up a small branch, took out his penknife, and scraped at the stick.

It was one or two hours later when Lorenzo noticed that Giovanna’s cries had tapered off to exhausted whimpers. He walked to where she lay on top of the grave and lifted her into a sitting position. Taking the corner of his jacket, Lorenzo wiped the mud and tears from her face, and, sitting beside her, he planted the stick, now a slender crucifix, in front of the stone. This gesture reminded Giovanna that she, too, had brought offerings.

The first time she had walked into Lorenzo’s airless, dark apartment, she had looked for signs of Nunzio. Finding none, she had asked Lorenzo if he had any of Nunzio’s things. Lorenzo had produced a small box and explained that the clothes and tools had been given to those in need. Giovanna had taken the box to the farthest corner of the apartment and turned her back to the others while gently lifting out each object, starting with Nunzio’s cap. She had cradled his cap and then run his razor blade across her own skin, using it to cut the string holding a package of her letters. At the bottom of the box there had been two of the mustasole cookies that Giovanna had made Nunzio for his voyage. They had remained wrapped in the fabric of her wedding dress. The G and the N had been chipped but were still entwined, and the swordfish was missing part of its fin. Giovanna had remembered that she had made a third cookie, a crucifix. She had smiled, and the smile had turned into a big, throaty roar when she realized Nunzio had eaten the cross. “Ah, Nunzio,” she had laughed aloud, “I will say your prayers.”

The sight of this new woman laughing at their dead uncle’s things had frightened Lorenzo’s children. They hadn’t known what to make of her and of the urgency with which she hugged them. They had loved their uncle and understood that this was his wife, and their papa’s sister, but she had seemed sad and strange. Their mother, too, had seemed uneasy in her presence.

Now at the cemetery, Giovanna took the two mustasole cookies from the pocket of her skirt. She had also brought two of the ancient coins that they had played with as children and a lock of her own hair cut with Nunzio’s razor. She had thought she would leave these relics at his stone, but she feared they would blow away, leaving her husband anonymous once again. Instead, she laid them on the ground and dug four small holes while Lorenzo searched for a rock to help scrape at the dirt. When the holes were dug, Giovanna buried each talisman with a prayer and a promise.

Covering the swordfish with dirt, she said a prayer to Saint Rocco and vowed to Nunzio to watch over all that he loved in Scilla. She took the coins and dropped them into the second hole. She told Nunzio that if there was justice to seek in his death, she would pursue it, and she prayed to Saint Joseph to guide her efforts. Her tears began flowing down her cheeks once again when she buried the G and N cookies wrapped in her wedding dress. Her prayer and promise became one as she vowed to Nunzio and Saint Valentine that she would never love another as she loved Nunzio.

The chestnut curl of her hair was tied with a thread, and Giovanna held it tight before putting it in the dirt. This was the hardest promise to make, and she prayed to Saint Anne, the patron saint of laboring mothers, for help. Lorenzo, seeing her silence and concentration, tipped his hat and walked away. With Lorenzo gone, Giovanna took the hair and pressed it into the ground with both hands and vowed to Nunzio Pontillo what she knew he would want the most—that she would go on living.

Life in the Costa household settled into a routine. Giovanna helped Teresa, who was in the fifth month of a difficult pregnancy, with the housework and children. Domenico and Concetta were in school, and the baby who was born before Nunzio died was now toddling around. After a month, Giovanna mentioned to Lorenzo that she would try to find work as a seamstress or take in piecework, but Lorenzo asked that she continue to help Teresa until the baby was born.

Teresa encouraged Lorenzo to let Giovanna find a job, because in truth she was not comfortable with her around. It was not because Giovanna was not helpful; in fact, Teresa thought Giovanna was too helpful. Teresa came up to Giovanna’s chest, so she felt diminished even before Giovanna did anything. And when Giovanna did something, in Teresa’s mind, she always did it better than Teresa did. Giovanna could lift and carry double what Teresa could, but it was how quickly and efficiently Giovanna accomplished everything that intimidated Teresa. Teresa still did the cooking—she would not relinquish her kitchen—but even when Giovanna remarked that a dish was delicious or asked how something was made, Teresa felt threatened.

Nothing bothered Teresa more, however, than seeing Giovanna help the children at the table in the evenings with their letters—and watching them teach Giovanna English. One evening when Lorenzo was out at the cafe, Giovanna asked Teresa to join them, saying, “Come, Teresa, we’ll learn together.” Teresa pretended to be too busy and brushed them off with a terse, “I don’t have time for that.”

For his part, Lorenzo was oblivious to his wife’s discomfort. He was glad to have his sister with him; it eased his homesickness and allowed him more freedom, because he worried less about his wife’s precarious pregnancy with Giovanna around.

But Giovanna saw that Teresa needed her privacy, and on her fourth Sunday in America, she decided to leave her alone to prepare the meal. The children watched Giovanna dress in hopes that even though Zio Nunzio was gone, they could still have a Sunday adventure; eventually, little Concetta worked up the nerve to ask Giovanna where she was going. When Giovanna answered that she was going to the cemetery, the children were only slightly disappointed. They knew the outing would at least involve a trolley ride, so they enthusiastically asked to join her, heads rotating from their mother to their aunt for approval. Giovanna waited for Teresa to answer first. Moved by this respect accorded her and by the children’s longing, Teresa reluctantly said yes. The children ran for their Sunday clothes, because leaving the neighborhood meant dressing their best. Giovanna waited by the door in her black dress and head scarf while Teresa nursed her toddler in the awkward silence.

Giovanna only had the memory of her trip to the graveyard with Lorenzo to go on, but she was certain she could retrace their route. Out of their mother’s gaze, the children were more comfortable talking to their aunt and rambled on about their walks with Nunzio, and they were rewarded with Giovanna’s rapt attention. From high in the El heading east, the children turned in their seats and pointed out buildings to Giovanna. Giovanna was so enthralled that she missed their stop and didn’t realize it until the train pulled out of the station. She nudged Domenico to ask another passenger for directions and smiled at Domenico with pride when he sat back down. He was a bright boy, lean and tall.

Following the passenger’s directions, they got off at the next stop and waited for the No. 5 trolley. The area was desolate, making Giovanna anxious. When the trolley appeared, Giovanna grabbed the children’s hands and whisked them onboard and into their seats with great relief. The conductor came toward them. Giovanna opened her purse that was hidden in the folds of her dress and for the first time confronted the strange American money that Lorenzo had put there. Domenico, seeing her bewilderment, pointed out the coins she needed to give to the conductor.

The horses trudged up the street, pulling the car along the tracks. The street was lined with factories and construction sites, which explained the area’s desolation on a Sunday. Ahead of her, Giovanna caught sight of a strange building taking shape. The frame appeared to be round. She squinted, the trolley drew closer, and her pulse quickened. There was no mistaking the stucture. It looked like a gigantic pasta pot.

Giovanna pushed to the opposite side of the trolley to get a better look. A long stretch of the road was fenced in, and near the gate to the site she could see a sign. Sounding out the words, Giovanna nearly collapsed. BROOKLYN UNION GAS COMPANY. She had to stop herself from leaping off the trolley—and she would have had the children not been with her.

Falling back into her seat, she tried to breathe normally. She had asked Lorenzo to take her to the gas tanks, but he said that he didn’t know exactly where the site was because he had picked up Nunzio’s body from the coroner’s office. The children pestered her for an explanation, and she told them through controlled breaths that this was where their uncle had been working when he was killed. Domenico and Concetta had been told how Zio Nunzio had died, but seeing the site prompted questions about the accident that Giovanna couldn’t answer. Questions that she too began to ask.

“Basta, Giovanna! What for? Nunzio is with God. Nothing will change that!” blurted Lorenzo in exasperation.

Giovanna peppered Lorenzo with questions, trying to learn every detail she could about Nunzio’s death. How did he find out about the accident? What did he do next? Who was at the coroner’s office?

Lorenzo would protest, and she would pause only to repeat the question a few moments later. Defeated, he began giving her one-word answers. Lorenzo watched the determination and concentration on Giovanna’s face as she recorded his answers, and he finally understood. He cursed his stupidity for not recognizing sooner how desperately Giovanna needed to do this. She sat before him writing, but in his mind he saw Giovanna in control, delivering babies, and generally being her fearless self. Giovanna couldn’t allow Nunzio, or herself for that matter, to be a victim. Understanding that this exercise was fundamental to his sister’s survival, Lorenzo became a more cooperative player.

It was hours before Giovanna ran out of questions, but Lorenzo’s answers simply raised more questions. Her desire to keep going was strong. She knew in her heart that she had started something she would finish, whether or not it was the right thing to do.

ELEVEN

“Dio mio!” Teresa’s screams rang through the apartment. Labor had started a month early. Giovanna was relieved when Teresa ordered Domenico to fetch the doctor who had delivered her other babies. She didn’t feel ready for the miracle of birth. Giovanna imagined that she would simply keep the children out of the way. Smiling, she thought someone might even send her to the pharmacist for belladonna as she and Signora Scalici had done to Maria Perrino’s mother. But Domenico had returned breathless and in a panic, announcing that the doctor was nowhere to be found.

Giovanna calmly sent Domenico back out, ordering him to wait on the doctor’s stoop. She closed the door behind him and turned to her sister-in-law. “Teresa, this baby is not going to wait for the doctor. Do you want me to help you?”

Having birthed three babies, Teresa knew Giovanna was right and managed to nod yes before the next contraction.

Two hours later, Domenico burst through the door with a panting American doctor who had been dragged through the streets. The apartment was quiet; Teresa was feeding her newborn, and Giovanna was scrubbing sheets.

“Why do you women all have to deliver at the same time?” groused the doctor. He pulled the blanket from the baby and gave her a quick once-over.

Giovanna didn’t stop washing but kept an eye on the doctor. She didn’t understand what he was saying, but she followed his actions.

“She’s little but looks healthy. Let’s take a look at you.” He motioned Domenico into the hall and examined Teresa. “No rips, but the baby was small.” He called over to Giovanna, “Did you deliver this baby?”

Giovanna shrugged apologetically. “Non parlo inglese.”

The doctor opened the door and called Domenico into the room. “Who’s this?” he asked, pointing to Giovanna.

“My aunt.”

“Did she deliver the child?”

“Of course.”

“Ask her if she’s a midwife.”

“She is.”

“Then why did you get me?”

“Mamma told me to.” Domenico looked at the doctor like the man was an idiot.

“I’ll never understand you people,” he muttered. Turning to Domenico, he said, “Tell your aunt to go see the midwife Lucrezia LaManna at 247 MacDougal Street. She needs help. There are not enough people to deliver all these Italian babies.”

“Okay. Do I tell Mamma anything?”

“Yes”—he snapped his bag shut—“tell her not to have any more children.” The doctor left and with him went the stale smell of scotch.

Giovanna waited outside the fence at Brooklyn Union Gas. It was near quitting time, and she watched the men gather their tools and tin lunch boxes. A whistle blew and sweat-stained workers streamed out of the gate; Giovanna stopped the first Italian face she saw.

“Signore, do you know Nunzio Pontillo?”

“No.” He turned quickly to another man. “Hey, is there a Nunzio Pontillo on this job?”

“No, no,” protested Giovanna. “He was working here. My husband. He was killed on the job, almost a year ago. I want to find someone who worked with him.”

The man sighed sympathetically. “I’m sorry, signora. Most of us are a new crew they brought in to line the tank.”

Giovanna noticed another man who had stopped walking but hung back. For a moment they stared at each other. “And you, signore, do your remember my husband, Nunzio?”

The first man spun around to see whom Giovanna was talking to and exclaimed, “Oh, Nospeakada! He was here when the accident happened. I think he’s the only one left.”

“Did you know Nunzio?” Giovanna repeated.

“Signora, he hasn’t spoken since the accident.”

Giovanna didn’t avert her gaze from Nospeakada. “Can you please help me?”

The other man noticed a foreman at the gate staring. “Signora, he can lose his job. It’s no coincidence that the only guy left on the job is mute. It’s best we all go.”

“Here’s my address.” Giovanna pressed a scrap of paper into Nospeakada’s hand. “Please, if you find your voice, I would like to talk.”

The other man had already walked away and was motioning for Nospeakada to join him. Nospeakada glanced back at both Giovanna and the foreman and left.

With so many hours on her hands, she walked from Brooklyn back to the Lower East Side. It became apparent that here in America you would have to find beauty in different things, but she had a hard time getting past the filth. Nunzio had never written of it; his head must have been in the clouds. Grime seemed to cover everything and even hovered in the air. If Giovanna closed her eyes and thought of a color for New York, it would have been gray; the city dulled even the brightest blue skies, patches of grass, and fruit on pushcarts.

Through his letters, Nunzio had taught her to appreciate the lines and grandeur of New York’s buildings, and she found beauty in their spires, angles, and in the shadows they cast. What she both hated and loved the most were the attempts at replicating the splendor of Italy in the tenements. She had seen Lorenzo’s idyllic little paintings of Calabrian countrysides in the foyers of tenements. They made her heart ache at their nostalgic hopefulness, while her head laughed at the absurdity of these little landscapes in the dark. The paintings didn’t amuse her as much as the burlap that was shellacked onto the walls with linseed oil in order to resemble linen in the dim light. What intrigued her most, however, were the plaster walls and wood trim painted to look like marble or granite. In this America, even if you didn’t have something, you simply created its facsimile. On the surface, nothing would be denied you in America.

Giovanna observed that Italian-American immigrants fell into two categories—those who had completely embraced their new world and those who spoke only of returning to Italy. This schism made perfect sense; loyalty for Italians was often a much stronger characteristic than reason. However, the Italians who had wholeheartedly accepted America and cursed their homeland at every opportunity still took pride in their heritage. Giovanna was amazed that two of the most prominent statues in New York were of Italians.

Downtown, Domenico had taken her to the statue of Garibaldi in Washington Square Park, near the big arch to nowhere. “When he was a boy, your Zio Nunzio would ride his donkey and pretend he was Garibaldi,” reminisced Giovanna, looking at the statue.

Domenico had looked at his aunt incredulously. “He had his own donkey?”

Another time, Lorenzo brought Giovanna uptown to see the new statue of Columbus at Fifty-ninth Street. Hundreds of Italians, mainly from the north of town, converged at the column on Sundays. Giovanna heard one well-dressed man exclaim that they should also put statues of Vespucci and Verrazano around the circle.

Returning home from her trek, she heard Domenico arguing with his father even before she opened the door.

“I can read and write. I speak English, what more do I need to know?”

“No! You stay in school. At least for a few more years.”

As soon as Giovanna entered the apartment, Domenico tried to enlist her support. “Zia, tell Papa I should be a newsie like the other boys!”

“Domenico, I agree with your father. You’re a smart boy who could one day write the papers, not sell them. But Lorenzo, what do you think, maybe he could work at Vito’s Grocery in the afternoons?”

Domenico turned to his father. “Can I, Papa? I know Vito would give me a job.”

“Fine. It’s settled. But only after school and weekends.”

Teresa was making sauce at the stove with the newborn slung against her chest. With every word of the conversation, Teresa’s actions became louder and louder until her furious stirring and pot slamming woke the infant. Teresa’s bitterness toward Giovanna had only grown after the birth of her daughter—she deeply resented feeling indebted to her capable sister-in-law.

Giovanna ignored Teresa, not knowing what else to do, and told Domenico about her visit to the construction site.

“Zia, you should hire a detective! They’re not policemen. I read about them in comic books. They’re called ‘sleuths.’”

“Slu-eths?”

Giovanna tried over and over again to say the word, and each time her pronunciation was met with peals of laughter from Domenico and Concetta. This was not an easy word for an Italian tongue—she even let out a big, throaty laugh herself. It was an entertaining notion, but there would be no detectives. If there was something to find, Giovanna, with the blessing of Saint Joseph, would find it herself.

A few nights later, there was a light knock at the door. Family and friends didn’t knock; they just announced themselves as they walked in. Hoping it was Nospeakada, she jumped up and opened the door without asking who was there. A stranger with dark eyes and thick lashes stood before her. She quickly closed the door to a wary crack.

Lorenzo moved behind Giovanna and asked, “Who are you?”

“I am Mariano Idone. Nunzio knew me as Pretty Boy.”

They opened the door cautiously, and Mariano limped into their kitchen.

“Sit, Signore Idone,” invited Lorenzo, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table.

“Nospeakada found me and gave me your address.” Mariano quickly continued to fill the awkward silence. “I have a pushcart now. I can’t do construction because of my leg.”

Giovanna could see why he was called Pretty Boy, but the sparkle had been stolen from his eyes. Giovanna got the impression that if you rubbed him hard enough, you would find Pretty Boy underneath.

Mariano then told Giovanna, Lorenzo, and Domenico his version of the accident as Concetta helped her mother with the two youngest children. He began by recounting the supervisor’s reluctance to follow instructions and oil the couplings from underneath. He described how when the disc didn’t lower quickly enough, everyone was anxious, and then the supervisor was summoned to a phone call. He told them how after the call, the supervisor brought all the foremen and lead men together and of the decision among the lead men to be the ones to go under the disc. He began to cry when he recounted how a foreman had assigned the eight men to the interior and perimeter. And his tears became sobs as he described how Nunzio had saved his life, switching places with him and warning him and the others seconds before the collapse.

Everyone in the room was crying.

“You see, signora, I will forever be indebted to you and your family.”

This was much more than Giovanna wanted to hear. Why couldn’t this be Nunzio telling this man’s wife the same story? She didn’t need to know her husband was a hero. He always was a hero; he didn’t need to die being one. In fact, for the first time, she was angry with Nunzio. Why had he done that? He knew she was waiting! She tried to calm down, but anger and sorrow boiled and exploded on Mariano.

“Why did you let him switch with you? You knew he was married! Why didn’t you save him?” Her voice was so loud and hard that the children clung to Teresa.

“Giovanna, please, Signore Idone is our guest!” pleaded Lorenzo.

Mariano sobbed. “I was frightened, signora. I was frightened.”

His honesty took the words from Giovanna’s mouth. A heavy silence with muffled cries hung in the room. Mariano grabbed his hat and rose. Lorenzo put his hand on his arm. “Please, don’t go. It is the shock of your story. There is more we need to know.” Mariano looked at Giovanna, who looked away but motioned him back into his chair.

Lorenzo continued, “Signore, Giovanna said people seemed afraid to talk to her at the job site.”

Mariano composed himself, grateful to talk about something that took the focus off his cowardice. “At roll call the day after the accident, the men were told that nosy reporters were asking questions that could stop the job. Everyone had to sign a paper saying they wouldn’t talk about the accident. And they all were given a ‘bonus’ for their rescue efforts. I wasn’t there. I was in the hospital, but two foremen came to my room.”

Lorenzo was puzzled and asked, “Why did they care if anyone spoke of the accident? Accidents happen at construction sites all the time.”

“I don’t know. But Nunzio thought the way they were bringing the bottom down was crazy. Carmine Martello would know better. Nunzio and I spoke at lunch, but not much about the job. I think he spoke of these things with Carmine when they walked home.”

Lorenzo remembered Nunzio mentioning a Carmine and thought that he had probably even seen him on occasion with Nunzio on Mulberry Street.

“Did they call him Saint Carmine?” Lorenzo asked.

“Yes, that’s him,” answered Mariano.

Giovanna thought of the story Nunzio had written in his letter about Carmine and the statue of Saint Gennaro. She had laughed when she read it and then said a prayer of forgiveness. She finally spoke. “Where is this Carmine?”

“I don’t know. He never came back to the job. He didn’t even get the money. Someone told me he had joined one of those traveling theater companies.”

Giovanna felt sick and couldn’t bear to hear anymore. She rose from the chair. “Thank you, Signore Idone.”

Lorenzo was embarrassed and quickly asked if Mariano would like a glass of grappa.

Mariano turned to Giovanna. “Signora, when I lie down each night, I hear the sounds and feel the pain all over again. I have no money. I can only offer you the promise that if you ever need me, I will help you.”

In the morning, when Lorenzo woke, Teresa grabbed his arm to keep him from getting out of bed. Whispering emphatically, she said, “Nunzio is dead! What good will all these questions bring? She’ll bring the malocchio to this house! Giovanna should be working. And she needs to take a husband before she is too old and no one wants her. You must help her, Lorenzo.”

Lorenzo considered his wife’s words. Perhaps he wasn’t helping Giovanna as he should. If she was busy, she might forget about searching for answers that didn’t exist or didn’t matter.

That night, after the children had gone to sleep, Lorenzo spoke with Giovanna. “I think now is a good time to get a job, Giovanna. Teresa has had a healthy baby thanks to you.”

“I will do that, Lorenzo.”

Lorenzo was startled. Even if Giovanna agreed with something, she wasn’t so quick to admit it. So he stumbled on his next sentence. “Well, Teresa’s heard of jobs at the shirt factory.”

Giovanna had already decided to work, but she had other plans. “No. Tomorrow I will go see Lucrezia LaManna. The midwife.”

Lorenzo stammered, “Okay then, it’s settled.”

TWELVE

Her decision to deliver babies in New York was a practical one. Initially afraid to deliver Teresa’s baby, she found that she was capable of doing her job without opening her own emotional wounds. She would work as a technician.

Arriving at 247 MacDougal Street, Giovanna noticed it was a nicer building than most on the block. She asked some children on the stoop where to find Lucrezia LaManna. “Signora LaManna is on the top.” Giovanna thanked them and marveled that even after a twenty-minute walk uptown, you still did not need to speak English.

She was taking the stairs in twos when she looked up and saw a woman waiting on the fourth-floor landing.

“Scusi, Signora LaManna?”

“Sì. Avanti.”

Signora LaManna held her door open and Giovanna walked through self-consciously. It was the first apartment that Giovanna had seen in New York that wasn’t crammed with extra beds and cloaked in darkness. It was small and modest, but natural light illuminated the freshly plastered walls. Signora LaManna sat behind her desk and motioned to Giovanna to take a seat.

Giovanna could tell that the signora was taken aback by her size. In Scilla, where everyone knew her, her height was accepted, but since coming to America, even people she passed on the street looked at her like she was a freak. For her part, Giovanna could not help but stare at the woman’s face. The signora’s refined features reminded Giovanna of her mother, Concetta, as did her grace. But Signora LaManna’s worldliness also intrigued Giovanna. The signora’s hair was streaked with gray and pulled near to the top of her head, rather than in the usual bun at the nape of the neck.

“The doctor sent me,” began Giovanna.

Signora LaManna put on spectacles and picked up a pen. “Did he say how many months you were?”

Giovanna answered with both embarrassment and disappointment. “No, no, signora, I am not with child. I am a midwife.”

Signora LaManna put down her pen and removed her glasses. “Una levatrice?”

“Sì.”

“How long have you been in America?”

“Almost six months.”

“Have you performed any deliveries in New York?”

“I delivered my sister-in-law’s baby.”

“Well,” the midwife got up from her desk and moved to the kitchen, grabbing the espresso pot, “I don’t know your name, signora.”

“Giovanna Costa Pontillo. I am from Scilla, Calabria.”

“Ah, so your family was starving, your husband came to work, and you followed him,” stated the signora matter-of-factly.

Giovanna was taken, rather than taken aback, by her manner. “Not exactly.”

The two women sat down at Signora LaManna’s kitchen table and exchanged stories. Signora LaManna had been a doctor in Italy. She explained that when she came to America, she could no longer practice medicine, but of course she could serve as a midwife. She had accurately surmised that if she settled in the Italian community, she could use her medical skills in the tenements. There was no medical establishment there to care if she treated the sick children in the homes of her expectant mothers. Signora said it took her husband a while to agree to live near the Italian ghetto, but she prevailed by reminding him how easy it would be to get to the university by Washington Square, where he was a professor.

Hours later, when Signora LaManna was preparing lunch, Giovanna marveled at the circumstance. Here she was in New York and for the first time meeting a woman from northern Italy. Her mind swept back to being with Nunzio on the cliff and his dream for her to be a doctor.

When Signora LaManna returned to the table with food, both she and Giovanna were filled once again with questions. Giovanna found out the signora had a daughter, Claudia, who was studying art history in college, and Signora LaManna asked for details about Giovanna’s search for information concerning Nunzio’s death.

Soon after they got into their second round of discussion, a young girl appeared at the door, summoning Signora LaManna. The doctor turned to Giovanna. “We haven’t yet spoken of delivering babies, but would you like to come along on this one?”

“Of course, Dottore…signora…”

“Please, I will call you Giovanna, and you will call me Lucrezia.”

Giovanna was “interviewed” on their brisk walk to Hester Street. “Do you read and write, Giovanna?”

“Yes, fairly well.”

“Good. I like to take notes on my patients.”

Giovanna had never written a thing about a pregnancy. It seemed strangely academic to write about birth.

They reached the woman’s tenement. “We’ll have plenty of time to continue talking. This signora labors long and calls for me early,” Lucrezia commented, starting up the stairs.

Three hours later, Giovanna sent the young girl, who turned out to be the woman’s niece, to Lorenzo’s home with a message explaining her absence.

“Giovanna, I think it best for you to work with me a while. I will introduce you around after I have confidence in your skills.”

“Grazie, signora.”

“Lucrezia.”

“Lucrezia.”

“As for money, I’ll share with you what I get, but it is difficult to say what that will be. If they can pay, they pay. If you consider having little girls named after you payment, you will be wealthy indeed. Even though it is a northern name, there are many Lucrezias in Little Italy. Usually it is the fourth or fifth child, when they have run out of the names of grandparents.”

“I see that a midwife’s pay does not change when you cross the ocean,” remarked Giovanna. Lucrezia laughed, “Yes, some traditions remain.”

The woman was showing signs of needing to push. Lucrezia examined her and spoke to Giovanna. “She’s ready. Why don’t you do the delivery?” Lucrezia had been careful not to let the woman think a stranger was going to deliver the baby and risk losing her confidence for the birth, but the woman was at a stage in labor where her only thought would be pushing her baby out. Lucrezia continued to coach the woman but let Giovanna deliver the baby.

Lucrezia was impressed not only with how Giovanna birthed the child but also with the way she directed the action in the apartment. She gently shooed children from the room and suggested to the woman’s mother that she prepare dinner and boil water to clean up. Lucrezia had learned much in medical school, but household management when delivering a child was not a subject they covered.

She also noticed that she would need to teach Giovanna more about rules of sterility and how to inspect the placenta for clues to the baby’s health. But in their brief time together, she sensed that Giovanna would not scoff at new information. For all her confidence, she appeared to be an eager student.

Lucrezia planned to stay with the mother, but she suggested that Giovanna go home. “I’m sure your family is concerned. Tomorrow, come to my house at eight a.m., and we will make visits together. It is a busy time; I have seven women in their ninth month. You’re skilled, Giovanna.”

“I had a good teacher,” replied Giovanna, thinking warmly of Signora Scalici.

“But more than skills, you have a healing touch. It’s a gift.”

Giovanna blushed. She said good-bye to the family and turned to Lucrezia. She tried to think of something to say that would convey her happiness at meeting her, but as was often the case, these types of words failed her, and she simply kissed Lucrezia’s hand and left.

Giovanna felt triumphant entering her brother’s apartment.

“Tell us, tell us everything!” Lorenzo exclaimed. “Have you eaten? Teresa, get Giovanna her dinner. Sit, Giovanna. Tell me everything,” implored Lorenzo, peeling a pear for the children.

Giovanna began to chronicle her day, but soon she dropped her reporter’s tone and her excitement shone through.

“Working with a dottore! How wonderful!” Lorenzo practically shouted.

“Signora LaManna is not a doctor here in America.”

“That’s a technicality. Italy thought she was good enough to be a doctor, and she chose to work with you.”

“I asked her for work.”

“Another technicality.”

Giovanna smiled at her brother’s pride.

That night, Giovanna couldn’t be sure, but she thought she heard Teresa crying in bed.

Opening what Lucrezia called her “little bag of tricks,” Giovanna searched for honey. The bag had grown since she had discovered the herb shops in Chinatown. One day, in an exhausted stupor after a long delivery, she walked in the wrong direction and found herself standing in front of the most magnificent store with barrels of herbs of every scent and color. She walked up and down the rows; the herbs she didn’t recognize on sight she rubbed between her fingers to smell. The proprietor watched her with interest; few non-Chinese came into his store. Seeing that Giovanna understood the herbs, he tried to explain those unfamiliar to her with pantomime and the three words of English they shared, good being one of them. After a few visits they had developed their own sign language. Giovanna became so accustomed to the signs that whenever she said “echinacea,” her hand would instinctively circle her head, meaning for everything, and when she said “ginger root,” she would gnarl her knuckles.

Taking the honey from her bag, Giovanna rubbed it on the stump of the baby’s umbilical cord. Lucrezia did not scoff at her herbal remedies. In fact, she was interested and asked to be taught. Lucrezia had cut the mother an inch to allow the baby’s head to be born. Giovanna whipped up a poultice of comfrey leaf for the mother’s perineum and handed it to Lucrezia, who applied it to the perfectly sutured area.

Giovanna shared her homeopathic expertise with Lucrezia, and Lucrezia taught Giovanna about obstetrics and the illnesses that plagued the tenements, such as whooping cough, chicken pox, and dysentery. Because the need for medical care was so great and respect for Lucrezia so high, Lucrezia had no problem getting the prescriptions she needed, and she began to teach Giovanna much of what she knew about modern pharmacology.

With her new knowledge, Giovanna reflected back on her more difficult births in Scilla. If she knew then what she knew now, could things have turned out differently? Francesca Marasculo was foremost in her mind. Lucrezia had taught her to be wary of quick births and showed her the signs that signaled possible hemorrhaging and how to massage a uterus to help it to contract instead of allowing it to be an open door for the blood in a woman’s body.

After one month of working together, Lucrezia had insisted that Giovanna should take on her own patients. Lucrezia showed Giovanna how to take notes and keep them in order, and on more than one occasion demonstrated their importance by using the previous information to help solve a current problem. Although they each had their own patients, they tended to work together on deliveries, when the other wasn’t called away, simply because they enjoyed each other’s company so much.

The two women became confidants. While Giovanna was serious and hardworking, she also had a quick, biting wit that amused Lucrezia to no end. Once, when Giovanna worried out loud that the relationship was too one-sided, with Lucrezia passing on all the advice and knowledge, Lucrezia exclaimed, “Nonsense! You teach me about all those smelly things in your old bag. Besides, you make me laugh.”

After Giovanna met Lucrezia’s husband, she understood her need to laugh. Signore LaManna fulfilled every southerner’s expectation of an arrogant northerner. He was humorless, cold, and officious. Giovanna looked for signs in her older friend that would explain the mystery of their union, but she couldn’t find them. For the first time, instead of feeling sorrow about Nunzio, she realized how lucky they were to have shared something so few people ever have. Memories of laughing together, running, and swimming flooded her mind. With all Lucrezia’s gifts, she had not been given this one.

Giovanna spoke with Lucrezia of things she had never spoken with any woman. The difference in their age allowed her a certain freedom, and the fact that they were not family allowed her even more. Giovanna told Lucrezia of her problems with Teresa. She knew she frightened and intimidated her sister-in-law, but she didn’t know how not to, and sometimes she was resentful that she should even have to try.

Discussion of her relationship with Teresa became a stepping-stone to other issues. While a mother rested between contractions, they often discussed in spirited whispers the role of women in Italy’s north and south, Italian men, their perceptions of Americans, or the education of women. Lucrezia told her that she believed her own entry into university and medicine was destined when her mother named her Lucrezia after the seventeenth-century Venetian Lady Elena Lucrezia, the first woman to receive a university doctorate. After learning this fact, whenever Giovanna said Lucrezia’s name, she felt it carried with it the strength of history.

In one of these conversations, Lucrezia questioned Giovanna about wanting children and marrying again. Normally, this was not the type of question a woman would ask openly; instead, it would be gossiped about by neighbors on a stoop. When Giovanna got over her initial embarrassment, she was relieved to tell Lucrezia about her failed attempts to get pregnant with Nunzio and her deep desire for children. As far as marriage went, all Giovanna could say was, “I could never love another as I did Nunzio.”

Giovanna asked Lucrezia about her own courtship and marriage. Lucrezia wasn’t very forthcoming, but Giovanna was able to piece together that Lucrezia’s education set her apart and made her less of a marriage prospect. She had resigned herself to a life alone when she met her husband at the university. At first theirs was a professional relationship, but when Signore LaManna’s fiancée broke their engagement, he asked Lucrezia to marry him.

Another recurring topic of conversation was Nunzio’s accident. Giovanna had told Lucrezia in detail about Mariano Idone’s visit. Lucrezia filled Giovanna in on the conditions of workers and the world outside of Little Italy. She recounted stories she read in the newspaper about Italians being used as slave labor and the many deaths in the tunnels they were building for the underground trains. Lucrezia said her husband told her that Italians were dying at a greater rate than any other ethnic group building New York because there were so many of them, and because they didn’t have the power to do anything about it.

“But your husband is an important man. He should do something about this!” was Giovanna’s reaction.

“I’m afraid for him it is an issue of race,” Lucrezia explained with embarrassment. Realizing that Giovanna didn’t have a clue what she was talking about, she explained, “When you came into Ellis Island, did they ask you where in Italy you came from?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it starts there. Actually, that is not true. It started before you got on the boat, but that’s Italy’s history.”

“Lucrezia, please,” intoned Giovanna, thinking that Lucrezia’s tendency to digress was one of her few weaknesses.

“Italians entering Ellis Island are considered to be of two races. A race from the north and a race from the south. The northerners are classified ‘white’ and the southerners ‘in-betweeners.’ Of course, in Italy, the northerners simply call you peasants or Africans. My husband comfortably distances himself from the slurs, the accidents, the inequities, because he sees himself as a different race.”

The image of Nunzio serving drinks at the Roman party flashed through Giovanna’s mind. Shocked at Lucrezia’s honesty, it confirmed her feeling that Lucrezia felt no allegiance to her husband if she was willing to share such embarrassing information. Everyone was worthy of contempt at the moment—the Americans, the northern Italians, and her fellow southern Italians—for accepting the injustice.

The new mother’s husband arrived home to meet his infant son, his fourth. Lucrezia and Giovanna stepped into the hall to allow them a few moments of privacy. They leaned against the wall and continued their conversation. “Why have you stopped asking questions about Nunzio’s accident?” asked Lucrezia.

“I don’t know what or who to ask in the absence of this Carmine.”

“Did you check the newspapers?”

THIRTEEN

“Aspetta, we have to turn right on Lafayette Street!” called Giovanna to Domenico, who was steps ahead of her on Grand Street. Domenico would no longer hold her hand and had a tendency to outdistance even Giovanna’s long strides.

She was incredibly nervous. Nunzio had mentioned going to a library at school, but she had never been to one. She was filled with questions, not the least of which was what do you do when you get there? With her ten-year-old nephew as a guide, she tried to think of it as an adventure. And then came the more difficult part—she had to try to convince herself that she liked adventures.

As she stopped in the middle of the block, Giovanna’s head pivoted from one side of the street to the other as she surveyed a large redbrick building on one side and a white columned row of buildings on the other. She looked at numbers, and Domenico looked at signs before they walked through the brick arched doors of the Astor Library on Lafayette Street.

Giovanna controlled her impulse to genuflect upon entering the building. She hadn’t seen this much real marble and ornate carving since visiting the church in Naples where she prayed after Nunzio’s departure. Domenico and Giovanna gazed in circles, taking it all in and looking for clues about what to do next. Carved wood balustrades surrounded bookcases on the right and desks on the left. A severe and squeaky-clean-looking woman sat at an imposing desk situated in the middle of the room. She didn’t look approachable, but everyone else was engaged.

Giovanna nudged Domenico forward. It was one of the first times she had seen her intrepid nephew unsure of himself. On the streets of their neighborhood, he was king. Here, among the pages of history and leather-bound dictionaries, he was a street urchin. Giovanna poked his shoulder again, encouraging him to speak.

“Ma’am, we need newspapers.”

“I believe you’ll find those sold on the street, by boys looking like yourself.” Before Domenico could protest, or, more likely, turn away, she added, “What kind of newspapers are you looking for?”

“One from September 1902.”

“That would be an archival newspaper.”

“Whatever you say, ma’am.”

“What paper were you interested in?”

Domenico scratched his head.

“What do you want to find?” the librarian persisted.

“My uncle, her husband, was killed on a job. A lady said to look in the newspaper at the library.”

The librarian, who appeared as if she wanted to ask a few more questions, simply said, “Follow me.”

They walked for what seemed like blocks and then entered a room with shelves housing tall volumes. The librarian instructed them to sit at a desk that was so highly polished they could see their reflections in its surface.

“Do you know the date of your uncle’s accident?”

Domenico looked up from the table. “September 2.”

“Try this.”

She heaved a huge book off the shelf. On the cover it read in gold letters, THE NEW YORK TIMES, SEPTEMBER 1902. Opening and leafing through the book filled with newspapers, she said, “It would be here in the beginning, September 3. If he perished on the second, you would look on the third.” Her finger scanned the index, looking for obituaries, but before she got to O, her eye caught a headline on page one: FIVE MEN KILLED IN GAS TANK COLLAPSE.

“Young man, where was your uncle killed?”

“In Brooklyn.”

Brooklyn Union Gas Company was cited in the first line. “And what was his name?”

“Nunzio Pontillo.”

For the first time the woman paid attention to Giovanna. “Why don’t you and your aunt come sit over here.”

They followed her to a desk in the corner by a window.

She put the book down. “Do you read well, young man?”

“My teacher says I do.”

“Well, it appears that the article about your uncle is right here. Are you going to copy it?”

“Yes.” He took out a thick pencil and a scrap of paper that had wrapped yesterday’s chestnuts.

“You’ll need more paper than that.” She left and returned with a few clean white sheets.

Domenico took his first look at the article, and his eyes widened.

“I will be back at my desk. But if you need something, you could ask that gentleman right there.” She pointed to an old man hunched over papers and squinting through his glasses. “He’s the archivist.”

Giovanna, assuming they had moved for better light, didn’t yet realize something had been found, and she had been amusing herself by running her hands over the gleaming wood and inhaling the smell of leather, ink, and paper in the lofty room.

“Zia, there is something here.”

Giovanna looked at him distractedly.

FIVE MEN KILLED IN GAS TANK COLLAPSE. Domenico read the headline first in English and then translated it into Italian.

Giovanna snapped to attention, and her heart raced.

He read the subheadline: CRUSHED BETWEEN STEEL BOTTOM AND CONCRETE FLOOR. Domenico continued, “Then it says, ‘THREE HOURS’ WORK BEFORE THE LAST BODY WAS REACHED—1,764 RIVETS HAD TO BE CUT—SUPERINTENDENT MULLIGAN ARRESTED.’”

From the corner of his eye, Domenico saw his aunt begin to tremble.

Not far into the article was the list of the five men, their names, ages, and addresses. Nunzio’s was the fourth name.

“Show me, show me,” said Giovanna, who then ran her finger across Nunzio’s name in the paper. Now she not only trembled but swallowed repeatedly while stretching her neck.

Painstakingly, Domenico translated each sentence. There were many words he didn’t know, and whole sentences that he couldn’t understand, but Giovanna kept motioning him on, saying, “Don’t worry; write it down.”

At one point, when Domenico was having a particularly difficult time reading, Giovanna’s mind wandered to Scilla’s chiazza. In her mind, she and Nunzio were under the juniper bush listening to Vittorio read the story of Nunzio’s death.

It was nearly one hour before Domenico reached the part describing the accident.

“All went well until about 3 o’clock when Superintendent Mulligan, who was in sole charge of the operation, went to the telephone in the office of Taylor, Wood & Co. to send a private message. The bottom of the tank had been lowered six inches to twenty-six inches above the concrete floor. Eight men were in the space between the tank bottom and the concrete floor engaging in oiling the cups in which the pins of the jacks played.

“Suddenly, there was a creaking noise, and as three of the eight men darted from under the bottom of the tank, all slightly injured…”

“Mariano,” thought Giovanna.

“…the bottom gave a lurch westward, carrying away all the screw logs and laying all the jacks in that direction, and fell with a crash on the concrete bed just two feet and a half west from where it would have laid had the lowering been carried on as intended.”

Giovanna could hear no more of her husband’s death in this foreign place. She had already dug her nails into the polished wood of the table.

“Enough, Domenico. Just copy the sentences.” Giovanna got up and paced the perimeter of the room. Her pacing made Domenico nervous. Once, his father had taken Concetta and him to the menagerie in the big park past the Columbus statue and he had watched in fear as a huge striped cat circled his cage without stopping. He looked up and saw the same dazed look in his aunt’s eyes as she moved around the room. He copied the rest of the article as quickly as he could.

When at last he finished, Domenico couldn’t keep up with his aunt as they made their way through the stacks of books; she was practically running. They sped past the woman at the desk, who tried not to show her interest. When they hit the sidewalk, Giovanna seemed to go even faster. Within minutes they were at Elizabeth Street.

“You go up, Domenico. I must see Signora LaManna.” Before Domenico could say good-bye, his aunt was gone.

The moment Giovanna saw Lucrezia, all the bottled-up emotion spilled out into torrents of tears and sobs. When her tears were spent, Giovanna produced Domenico’s thick lead scrawl and made espresso while Lucrezia sat at her desk and read.

A few espressos later, Lucrezia removed her glasses and looked up. “Giovanna, I think you should go to a lawyer.”

Giovanna waited for an explanation.

“Did Domenico read this to you?”

“As best he could.”

“Well, I will read it to you.”

The reading and translation went much more quickly with Lucrezia, but it still took a long time. In the comfort of Lucrezia’s home, Giovanna cried softly throughout.

“Giovanna, it reports that the superintendent was arrested. That act alone points to the fact that something was terribly wrong. It even quotes an engineer saying the jacks did not afford the necessary protection! They talk about an investigation. Are you sure there weren’t any further articles about the accident?”

“Yes, the anarchist helped.”

Lucrezia ignored the mistake and continued. “Giovanna, Brooklyn Union Gas is a big, important American company. I asked my husband to check, which he did reluctantly. It is run by James Jourdan, a Civil War general, and William Rockefeller is on the board of directors. It would be in Italy like having Garibaldi and King Umberto running the company.”

Giovanna said nothing. Lucrezia went on, “Did they give you any money when Nunzio died?”

“Yes, a little. Lorenzo used it for his burial.”

“Did he sign anything?”

“No. But I still don’t understand why you say I should go to a lawyer.”

“Because I think this company, or the construction company, made mistakes that led to your husband’s death. They’re responsible, but because they are so powerful, there has been no further investigation.”

“But what can I do? I speak no English!”

“These companies count on you doing nothing! Without a family crying injustice, it’s easy to divert a reporter.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“Get a lawyer and sue them for the death of your husband.”

Giovanna was silent.

“They are using Italians like donkeys to build New York. If they lose a few it doesn’t matter. They can always get a new ass.”

The harshness of Lucrezia’s words set her pacing—stress and New York City’s confined spaces had turned Giovanna’s pacing into a habit. It was hard enough when Lucrezia spoke of Nunzio’s accident in personal terms; making it political overwhelmed her completely. But what was she hoping to accomplish with all her questions anyway? She wanted justice. But what would justice be?

Her thoughts did not go much further. A woman was at the door announcing that her sister had gone into labor.

Lucrezia gathered up her things. “Come with me, Giovanna.”

Giovanna was happy to go along because she didn’t want to be alone. However, when they arrived at the woman’s apartment she could tell something was not right. The laboring woman was moaning that the baby shouldn’t be born. Seeing Giovanna’s concern, the woman’s sister explained that her brother-in-law had been killed building the Manhattan Bridge two months after his wife conceived their sixth child. Giovanna’s head snapped up and looked at Lucrezia, who looked away, unable to feign innocence.

When the baby was delivered, there were no tears of joy from the mother, only laments and sobs as the mother wailed to her newborn, “How will I feed you?” Looking at the midwives she cried, “His poor brother, only eleven, works the job and returns home, his little body broken, and there is no food on the table.”

Lucrezia and Giovanna said nothing to each other for the rest of the evening.

“Signore DeCegli, this is Giovanna Pontillo,” Lucrezia said as they both sat down. They had walked up five flights in a Mott Street tenement to Signore DeCegli’s office. They took their seats amid the piles of papers threatening to submerge his desk and file cabinets. A telephone sat on his desk. Giovanna hoped it would ring; she was fascinated by telephones and hadn’t used one yet.

“Signora Pontillo, I reviewed the newspaper articles and death certificate that Signora LaManna brought to me.”

The lawyer’s Italian was perfect. So perfect that Giovanna sat up straighter and took her mind off the telephone. He was looking right at her, and she realized that this man was handsome. It was something she hadn’t noticed about a man in a long while.

“I think there is no doubt that you have a case against the construction company. And although I am quite sure we could not win a case against Brooklyn Union Gas, it would be to our advantage to sue them as well.”

Giovanna looked at Lucrezia, who motioned with her eyes to ask.

“What do you mean, signore?”

“What I mean, signora, is that I believe in all probability that negligence led to your husband’s death, meaning that we can sue the company that is responsible.”

“Signore, I have little to pay you.”

“You do not have to pay me anything before the case is settled. I believe you will win your case and you will be compensated. My fee will come from your settlement.”

Seeing Giovanna’s puzzled look, Lucrezia stepped in. “Signore, we need to start from the beginning.”

More than an hour later, when Signore DeCegli finished explaining the American legal system and Giovanna’s options, he began asking questions of his own. Changing his tone, he said, “Tell me about Nunzio.”

“He was my husband,” murmured Giovanna, voice cracking, as if that said it all.

“Well, did he read and write?”

“Yes,” answered Giovanna, indignant. “He was a maestro. An engineer.”

“That will help. My guess is that if your husband had questions about the safety of this project, others did too. After we file, I intend to subpoena the supervisor and other workers.”

“But they will say what the company wants them to say.”

“Possibly, but generally I’ve found that Americans take truth in the courts seriously.”

“What happens now, signore?”

“You wait while I prepare the case. It may take months. If I need anything I’ll contact you, but don’t be surprised if you don’t hear from me for a while.”

Signore DeCegli walked them downstairs. When the door closed, Lucrezia quipped, “It’s a shame he was just married.”

“Lucrezia, stop it. I told you I’m not interested.”

Lucrezia let it go, but she was certain that she saw a flicker of disappointment in her friend’s face.

FOURTEEN

“Wake up, Zia! It’s Sunday! Can we go to the cemetery and stop for nuts? Please, Zia?”

Startled, Giovanna sat up groggily. But before she could answer, Teresa cut in. “No trips today. We’re having company.”

The children groaned and Giovanna, still sleepy, asked, “Who? The DiFrancos?”

Teresa was already ensconced in the kitchen. “No. Children, get dressed; I need your help. Giovanna, you will be here for dinner?” It was both a question and a command.

Giovanna thought Teresa was acting strange but decided to ignore it. “I will be here. Do you need help?”

“No, no. Concetta will help me. Don’t you have to visit Signora Russo? She told me you were visiting her today.”

“I do.” It amazed Giovanna how her sister-in-law seemed to know all the business of the neighborhood. Teresa’s body, even in the rare months that she was not pregnant, had become rotund. It was easy to envision Teresa as a bumblebee flitting in and out of the chambers of the hive that was Little Italy.

“Be back by three.”

Usually when Teresa was out of sorts, Giovanna looked to Lorenzo for guidance, but Lorenzo had already left to paint bits of Italy in tenement foyers. Teresa busied herself with making the children’s breakfast. After espresso, bread, and cheese, Giovanna left to escape the frenzy and tension.

Her quick exit brought her to an earlier mass than usual. Only old women, all widows, knelt in the pews. Giovanna wondered if they waited for the sun to rise and then hurried to mass because they had nothing else to anchor their lives. Even though she, too, was alone and dressed in black, she felt like an interloper and was threatened by the women. Nervous, she went to the altar to light a candle, but for the first time she didn’t know for what she prayed.

It was too early to call on Signora Russo, and she avoided Lucrezia’s house on weekends, when she was more likely to run into her husband, so she walked. Giovanna had grown accustomed to New York, but this morning the streets seemed extremely foreign and uninviting. She yearned for the narrow alleys of the Chianalea and her terrace, where she could sip her espresso and listen to the church bells before going to mass. Having walked all the way to Chinatown, she ended up on the herbalist’s street. Giovanna thought she saw the proprietor inside and took a closer look through the locked door. The door swung open.

“Quick, quick,” the proprietor motioned.

Giovanna understood that he didn’t want to get caught selling on a Sunday. “No, no, I go,” she answered.

“No, no, show you,” replied the proprietor, waving her to the back of the store.

A wooden crate covered in Chinese characters was half unpacked.

“Good!” he exclaimed, taking a paper package from the crate. He carefully unfolded the paper to reveal what looked like a sea urchin.

He gripped one of the urchin’s spines. “Good,” he said, and then mimed pain.

Giovanna tried not to laugh when he contorted his face and moaned. He was very dramatic. Swallowing her smile, she shrugged her shoulders to indicate “How?” She half expected him to puncture her skin with it; she had learned about how the Chinese stuck needles into people. Instead, he went to the counter and ground the spine into a rough powder, and then added glycerin. Taking a small spoon, he showed her the proper amount and pointed to his mouth. Giovanna put a tiny bit on her finger and touched it to her tongue. At once she could tell that it had the power and qualities of an opiate.

“Good? Good?” the proprietor asked.

“Sì. Yes.”

Giovanna doubted she would use it without knowing more, but in return for the kindness, she opened her purse to get a coin to purchase one of the exotic crustaceans.

“No. No. Sunday.” Smiling, he waved her money away and rewrapped the urchin, putting it in her hand.

With her purse back in her bodice, and a strange Chinese sea urchin in her skirt pocket, Giovanna walked back up Mott Street, this time feeling more at home.

Her visit took longer than expected. Signora Russo was in her eighth month, and Giovanna was worried that this big baby, who was breech, was not going to turn. She decided to try performing a version—an external method to turn the baby. Taking out her stethoscope, a gift from Lucrezia, she had Signora Russo lie on her back and bend her knees. The hardest part of this procedure for Giovanna was being chatty, keeping the mother relaxed and distracted. With one hand on the baby’s head and another on its culo, Giovanna gently turned the baby to the right. When there was no movement, she tried twisting the body to the left, and this time the baby turned a little. Waiting, chatting, and checking the baby’s heartbeat between each movement, Giovanna slowly turned the baby to a transverse position. Signora Russo was starting to get nervous and feel pain, so Giovanna let her rest, holding the baby’s head and culo in its new position for fear it would gravitate back to breech. “Even for babies, change must come slowly,” she explained.

The woman’s mother soon entered the apartment and provided the distraction Giovanna needed to continue. Twenty minutes later, the baby was in position.

“Signora, please stay and have supper with us,” invited the mother, who was preparing their Sunday meal. The woman’s kindness reminded Giovanna that she needed to head home.

“No, thank you, I must go. Signora, stay on your feet for the next hour. Go for a walk, let the baby settle, and send for me if you feel anything out of the ordinary.”

Teresa knew it was Giovanna coming up the stairs because no one else took the stairs in twos. She always wondered how Giovanna managed to do that in a long skirt. It seemed hard enough to get up the steep stairs without tripping on your hem.

Giovanna burst through the door, making apologies. “I’m sorry, my visit went longer than I thought.” Her voice trailed off at the end of her sentence because she found herself face to face with a row of strangers. Almost at attention, there in front of her stood a man nervously holding his hat in his hand, with three children in their Sunday best lined up next to him.

“Buon giorno,” mouthed Giovanna, but she was looking at Lorenzo for an explanation.

“Giovanna,” said Lorenzo with more than usual flourish, “this is our friend Rocco Siena, from Scilla.”

“Oh, piacere,” said Giovanna, thinking the man’s recent arrival to America explained this awkward formality. More relaxed, she added, “Welcome to America.”

Two of the children giggled.

“Quiet! No, no, signora, we have been here a long time,” interjected the stranger. “In fact, all my children were born in New York. I will introduce them.” As if to make his point, he said all his children’s names in English. “This is Clement, he’s twelve, Frances is eight, and little Mary is four.”

All the children gave her a big grin when their names were said.

“Well, let’s sit,” said Teresa. “You children can play in the hall or on the stoop. But don’t go far, we’ll eat soon.”

Giovanna couldn’t help but notice how uncomfortable her brother and sister-in-law were with their own friend.

“Signore Siena, I don’t know any Sienas in Scilla,” commented Giovanna, attempting to make conversation.

“Sì, signora, there are not many Sienas in Scilla. My wife, bless her soul, had much family in Scilla. She was a Bellantoni.”

“Oh, of course, the Bellantonis,” replied Giovanna.

Lorenzo cut in, “His wife was Angelina, daughter of Vincenzo and Mattia.”

“Yes. Mamma knew them. They lived in San Giorgio, yes?”

“Sì,” answered Rocco this time, “so did the Sienas. But we were sailors and often away.” After an awkward pause, he said, “Your brother tells me you are a widow.”

His question raised her worst suspicions, and she answered indignantly, “Yes, I was married to Nunzio Pontillo.”

Lorenzo immediately started in on the sales pitch. “Giovanna, Rocco was given a medal by King Victor Emmanuel!”

Her reaction was to shoot Lorenzo a stony stare.

“He saved the king from drowning when their ship went down! Show her the medal, Rocco!” exhorted Lorenzo.

Giovanna politely looked at the medal only because the man was so embarrassed at being forced to produce it. A bronze disc nearly filled the man’s palm, which was shaking slightly.

“Why were you on the king’s ship?”

“I was a merchant mariner…”

Again, Lorenzo cut in enthusiastically. “The king wanted him to be in his Roman guard.”

“And why didn’t you?” questioned Giovanna skeptically.

“Because I wanted to start a new life in America with my family.”

Teresa could see that Giovanna remained unimpressed and decided the best tactic was to keep things moving. “Lorenzo, call the children for dinner. Everything’s ready.”

Giovanna stood, as did Rocco. She did not need to work at avoiding his eyes because she was a head taller than him. Rocco’s hair was wiry and going gray, as was his mustache, and although he was lean, his muscles were thick and gave him a stocky appearance. His laborer’s hands looked enormous in proportion to his body. And now these big hands fumbled nervously as he tried to stuff the medal back in his pocket.

The commotion in the hall signaled the children’s return. Unlike the adults, they were not having problems socializing, although Domenico was acting the tough guy because Clement was a working boy, and with his calluses came street status.

Even with the children’s chatter, the awkwardness didn’t go away. Giovanna was silently fuming. If Lorenzo and Teresa wanted her out of the house, why didn’t they just tell her?

Teresa was the first to speak. “Rocco, who cares for little Mary?”

“Frances, of course. When Mary is old enough for school, Frances will work.”

“I thought all children in America went to school,” said Giovanna dryly.

“What does a daughter need to go to school for? America or no America?”

Giovanna wanted to hate him for this comment, but it seemed genuinely ignorant and not mean-spirited.

“And your son?”

“He’s a big boy. We’re in America to make money.”

“Rocco and his family live in that new apartment building at 202 Elizabeth Street,” bragged Teresa.

Giovanna knew the building; she had delivered a baby there. It was what they were calling “new law” tenements. They had more light, but the major improvement was that they each had their own toilet instead of a shared toilet in the hall.

Unimpressed, Giovanna changed the subject. “When did your wife, Angelina, pass, signore?”

“In childbirth, with Mary.”

Her professional curiosity piqued, Giovanna only stopped herself from asking further questions when she caught Teresa’s scolding look.

It was Lorenzo’s turn to try to keep the conversation going. “Isn’t it strange, Giovanna, we did not know Rocco in Scilla, but here in America, in this big city, we meet. Luigi and Pasqualina DiFranco introduced us.”

With that, Giovanna knew that Teresa and her bosom buddy, Pasqualina, had dreamt up this scheme. Teresa believed in keeping her enemies close, so when she found out that Lorenzo had once loved Pasqualina, she made Pasqualina her friend and confidant.

“We’re going back out,” Domenico announced, as the children piled their plates in the washtub.

With the children out of the room and more wine in him, Rocco turned his focus to Giovanna. “Lorenzo tells me you are a levatrice,” said Rocco.

“Sì.”

“Working with Signora LaManna.”

“Sì.”

“She is a good woman.”

“Sì.” He was trying so hard, Giovanna softened a little. “Did she deliver your children?”

“Yes, but not Mary. My wife was already too sick by then and was in the hospital.”

“Let’s have our fruit,” said Teresa.

“I have to go. I must visit a patient,” interrupted Giovanna.

“You said you only had to see Signora Russo today!” Teresa protested.

“Well, this is sudden,” replied Giovanna, grabbing her shawl.

“Signora, before you go,” Rocco stepped forward, “can I ask you if next Sunday we can walk together?”

Unable to meet his expectant gaze, Giovanna instead looked over his head to Lorenzo’s downcast eyes and Teresa’s reddened face. She would have said or done anything to get out of the house at that moment. “Va bene, signore. But only if there are no babies to deliver.”

She flew down the stairs, praying that Signora Russo would go into labor next Sunday, and almost tripped over Mary, who was sitting on the stoop.

“Signora, where are you going?” asked Mary, getting out of her way.

“I must see someone.”

“Will you come visit us, signora?”

Giovanna was taken off guard and reached down to pat the child’s head.

“Have you calmed down yet?” asked Lucrezia, pouring Giovanna another glass of wine.

“I have every right to be angry.”

“Yes, you do,” nodded Lucrezia, who had artfully defused Giovanna’s rage by calmly agreeing with everything she said.

“He said you delivered two of the children.”

“I did.”

“What do you know about this family?”

“She was a good woman. He’s a good man, hardworking, simple, but good.”

“That doesn’t tell me much.”

“There isn’t much more to tell.” There was a pause, before Lucrezia continued. “Are you considering this?”

“Of course not.”

“Why not?”

Giovanna looked at Lucrezia in shock.

“You told me you wanted children. You wanted to bring your own babies into this world.”

“Yes, but not with just anyone!”

“Giovanna, do you believe you will ever love someone as you loved Nunzio?”

“I will never find another Nunzio. There is not another Nunzio,” answered Giovanna indignantly.

“That’s my point. If you want children, you only need to find a good man. And I don’t need to remind you that at thirty-one, in all probability it will not be a young man without children.”

“I don’t believe you’re encouraging me to do this!”

“I am not. I’m simply reviewing the facts and stripping the situation of your brother and sister-in-law’s deceit so you can see it for what it is—an option. You can choose not to take this option, but you should not dismiss it out of anger.”

While she recognized the wisdom in Lucrezia’s words, she had a fiery confrontation with Lorenzo when she returned home.

“You are too young to be a widow! It is my job to take care of you!” Lorenzo yelled.

“Taking care of me is getting rid of me?”

“I want you to be happy, but you are as stubborn as a mule. If I had told you about this meeting, you would have never agreed to it!”

“Exactly.”

“Yes, exactly. Please, Giovanna, you could live with me forever, but will that be living? I heard your promise at Nunzio’s grave.”

Giovanna looked at Teresa cowering in the back room. She wasn’t so sure about the living with him forever part, but at that moment she started to forgive her brother.

FIFTEEN

Her prayers for Signora Russo were unanswered. The next Sunday, Giovanna dressed for her walk with Rocco. Teresa tried to encourage her not to wear black, and even offered her Sunday feathered hat, but Giovanna dismissed Teresa with an angry look. For an entire week there had been no banging pots or heavy sighs; Teresa practically tiptoed around her sister-in-law. While Giovanna had forgiven her brother, she had not forgiven Teresa. In actuality, Giovanna was grateful that Teresa had given her a solid reason to stop trying to be her friend.

“What do you think of him, Zia?” Domenico asked Giovanna, who was lacing her shoes. Not waiting for her reply, Domenico offered, “I like his son. The little girl is spoiled though.”

Giovanna was amused at Domenico’s tone of camaraderie and chose to play along. “The children should be in school. And you need not fault the little one. She never had a mother, and people try and make up for that.”

“Are you going to marry him?”

“No, Domenico. I am going for a walk.”

Giovanna asked Signore Siena if they could walk to the Brooklyn Bridge. It was her way of bringing Nunzio along. She made no attempt to shorten her strides as she often did when walking with other people and was impressed that the signore kept pace. Giovanna asked Rocco what he missed about Scilla. He replied, “L’America is my home.” Rocco was in the “love it” group and, having pledged his loyalty to America, he did not allow himself sentimental thoughts of the home he left behind.

With Giovanna’s occasional question and Signore Siena’s one-word answers, Giovanna had plenty of time to assess the signore’s appearance. His clothes were clean, without holes, and made of good cloth. He was dark, and even the graying of his thick black hair did not soften his rough appearance. While there was no grace to him, he was respectful and politely nodded to people he knew along the way.

When they reached the Brooklyn Bridge, they rested on a bench. Giovanna asked him what he thought.

“What do I think of what?”

“The bridge.”

“It’s a bridge. It’s a big bridge.”

Perversely, Giovanna was pleased. There could be no mistaking this man for Nunzio.

Rocco seemed to be trying to say something, because he had taken off his cap and was twisting it in his hands as she had seen him do when they first met. He bit his lip, which caused his sizable mustache to move up and down.

“Signora. I don’t ask you to love me. But I will be a good partner if you marry me.”

They both stared out at Brooklyn. Giovanna marveled at the irony. Had Rocco Siena proposed by saying that he loved her, saying that he wanted her to love him, she would have dismissed the offer instantly. But this simple man had said exactly the right thing. She watched a tugboat pushing a tanker down the river and felt the breeze on her cheeks.

“I’ll think about it.”

Ten weeks later, Giovanna had grown marginally fond of Signore Siena, but she was falling in love with the children, particularly Mary. Giovanna had also begun to face up to the truth that in all likelihood she could not have her own children. After all, she was thirty-one, and she and Nunzio had tried to conceive without success. If she married this man, at least she would have a family.

Lorenzo and Teresa had not said a word on the topic, making it easier for her to consider the option. Lorenzo had written of the possibility to their parents, and yesterday she had received a letter, written by her mentor, Signora Scalici, on behalf of her family, assuring her that they would bless whatever decision Giovanna made. Signora Scalici couldn’t help but add her two cents at the end of the letter, obliquely endorsing the marriage by writing, “I am told you are working with a woman doctor. A possibility like that would never exist here.”

Giovanna didn’t need to decide whether to marry Nunzio. It was a given. This, however, was a practical decision—to live her life alone or to create a family with a man she did not love but was beginning to respect. She thought of the lawyer, Signore DeCegli. Even if Signore DeCegli hadn’t just got married, she would never have allowed herself to love him. A smart, handsome man threatened Nunzio’s place in her heart.

Giovanna told Rocco on their next Sunday excursion that she would marry him. She reminded him of his promise that she did not have to love him. In return for this consideration, she said she would care for his children and treat them as her own. Rocco simply said, “Thank you.” The only thing indicating his pleasure was the suggestion that they cut their walk short and go to Lorenzo’s apartment, where his family was also gathered, to deliver the news.

Everyone, even the children, seemed to respect the difficulty of the decision and did not make a fuss. Instead they offered quiet congratulations and best wishes with polite kisses. The exception was Mary, who flung herself into Giovanna’s arms and nuzzled her head into her neck.

Teresa insisted that everyone stay for supper. Giovanna sat opposite Rocco, taking a hard look at the whole of his face for what seemed like the first time. Panic rose in her chest with the realization that she had promised herself to this stranger. She said fervent, silent prayers that she had not made the wrong decision.

Giovanna and Rocco were married in City Hall. Alderman Reichter presided. Rocco had said, “We live in America; we will marry the American way.” Giovanna wasn’t sure there was an “American way” of doing anything but agreed, reasoning that a civil ceremony would further distance this marriage from her wedding to Nunzio.

Following the ceremony on the walk home, they stopped at the bench where Rocco had proposed twelve weeks before.

“So, the widow and the widower got married.” Rocco put extra emphasis on “widow.”

Giovanna had had to be coaxed out of her black dress that morning by Teresa, who had bought her a new one. “I’m sorry, but I will never forget him.”

“No, don’t be sorry. I know this. And I have decided that if we won’t forget, then we should honor the memory of your husband and my wife,” Rocco stammered.

Giovanna looked quizzically at Rocco, who stared at the bridge when he said, “If we have children, the girl will be called Angelina, and the boy will be Nunzio.”

Rocco didn’t see her smile because she, too, looked straight ahead and wondered what it was about this view that made this illiterate man say the right things. Covering his large, gnarled hand with her own, Giovanna touched him for the first time.

Cedar Grove, New Jersey, 1966

When my parents moved to the suburbs, my grandfather Nonno planted a gigantic garden and surrounded it with a six-foot fence. Every day, he would drive from Hoboken to garden with me at lunchtime. I was happiest within the big green fence with my grandfather. The neighbors complained because they thought it was going to be a chicken coop, but Nonno painted it green so it wouldn’t be so noticeable among the manicured shrubs and sloping lawns.

“Nonno, she did it again,” I complained, throwing a weed over the fence.

“Shake the dirt off the weeds before you throw them. Itsa good dirt.”

“One of my friends came over to play, and she started screaming, ‘She’s not blood. Get her out of here! Tell her to go home.’ No one wants to come to my house. They’re afraid. Why can’t Nanny be like you, or Thea’s Yia-Yia?”

Nonno realized that he couldn’t change the subject. He walked over to the two peach trees in the garden. “See this,” he said, pointing to a gnarled spot on the trunk of one tree. “This is from the early frost a few years ago. It made the tree grow different. There are reasons for the way we are. Have patience with your grandmother. And remember, itsa been hard for her since your Big Nanny died.”

“I don’t like her, Nonno, she’s mean.”

“Anna, thatsa bad to say.”

“You don’t like her either. You fight all the time.”

“Shesa tough, but I love your grandmother.”

“Well, I don’t.”

Nonno put the small white Formica table in the middle of the garden and unwrapped two sandwiches. We sat in the dirt. I always tried to be quiet because Nonno didn’t say much, but invariably I failed. I would chatter about the families who lived around our dead-end circle. Three Greek, two Italian, one Hungarian, one Polish, and one not anything. I always felt sorry for the kids who weren’t anything. When people asked, “What are you?” they had to say, “Not anything” or, “I don’t know.” My grandmother had taught me how to figure out what people were by their last names. Nanny was real concerned with what people were.

The sandwich looked small in Nonno’s hands, which were big and attached to even bigger forearms, one with a tattoo of a mermaid, the other with an anchor. The rest of Nonno wasn’t so big. But he was tall enough, with brown eyes that sparkled.

“Nonno, tell me about the mermaids,” I said.

“Again? Only if you promise no more questions.”

“Deal.”

“Okay, in the firsta World War I was in the blu marinos—you say ‘navy’ in English. The mermaids, they saved my life. After the torpedo hit, I wasa hanging onto a piece of wood. I think it wasa door from the submarine. I had no water, no food, so my head wasa no good. So I keep slipping off the wood, and every time that I sink into the sea, the mermaids push me back on the wood.”

“How did you know it was mermaids?”

“Who else could ita be out there in the ocean?”

“Maybe Scylla.”

“Scylla ate the sailors, no saved them.”

“But maybe she saved you because you were from her town. It makes sense because the other men died. Maybe she wanted you to come back to Scilla.”

“Ah, then I did a bad thing, because thatsa when I went to America to visit my aunt.”

“Big Nanny?”

“Yes, Big Nanny.”

“I still don’t get how your mother-in-law is your aunt.”

“For such a smarta girl I have to explain this again! My Uncle Nunzio wasa married to your great-grandmother.”

“But how are you and Nanny cousins?”

“Because Nunzio and your great-grandmother wasa cousins.”

I couldn’t understand the family stuff no matter how hard I tried. So I went back to a topic I could understand. “Nonno, what are we going to plant there?”

“Strawberries. But we going to mix the sand ina the dirt.”

Nonno nodded to the gate. “The basanogol needs caviar.” Caviar is what Nonno called cow manure.

I unwrapped the dried figs Nonno had packed for dessert. In November, we would wrap the huge fig tree in Nonno’s yard. I would stand at the base, squinting into the light, and hand Nonno the cloth and stuffing up through the labyrinthine branches. With one foot on the ladder and another on the tree, Nonno would rhythmically wind the cloth around each limb to protect it from the northeastern winter. He had named the broad, dignified tree Kate, for Kate Smith. He told me that sometimes at night he heard the fig tree singing “God Bless America.”

Weeks later, I sat perfectly still on a wrought-iron kitchen chair cushioned in pink vinyl as Nonno cut my hair in the backyard. Minutes before, I’d been standing on the same chair to strain the tomatoes at the stove. Clippings of wavy dark brown hair fell in the dishcloth on my lap.

The kitchen window was open. My mother and grandmother were bickering so loudly as they prepared the Sunday meal that I didn’t even try to talk to Nonno. My five-year-old sister, Marie, was on the patio, lost in her pretend world, puffing on a pencil. I wondered if my sister would get lead poisoning smoking those make-believe cigarettes and when she would have to strain the tomatoes. But my musings about Marie’s health and the inequities of chores were interrupted by something I heard my mother say.

“Ma, come on. You can’t still be getting nightmares. I mean, enough is enough. That was sixty years ago!”

My grandmother getting nightmares? She was the toughest person I knew. I noticed that my grandfather was paying attention as well.

“Be quiet! Forget I said it. Just give me the spatula,” Nanny blurted.

Nonno finished cutting, and I got up, careful not to let any of the hair fall from the dishcloth. I went to the towering ash tree, the one that no one, including my big, towering father, could get his arms around, and scattered my hair all along the base. My grandfather had taught me that birds would use the hair in their nests. The first time I found a nest with my hair in it, I didn’t miss my long hair anymore.

At dinner, we made it through a couple of courses to the fruit without a blowup, but there was tension in the air. My mother and grandmother were still aggravated with each other.

“Looka,” said Nonno, picking up a discarded tangerine peel. “You want perfume?” He held the peel close to my neck and squeezed it between his finger, letting loose a spray of tangerine essence.

“Neat!” I was so excited I picked up a peel and squirted my mother.

“Stop that. Go get the milk and sugar.”

“No fair. I got the fruit.” I pointed to my older brother. “Make Michael get dessert.”

My brother gave me a Three Stooges noogie on the head.

“Mom! He’s teasing me!”

When I calmed down, my grandfather pointed to the sugar bowl, holding a cookie out of my reach. “Zucchero.”

“Zucchero,” I proudly pronounced.

“Bene.” Nonno handed me the cookie.

“Occhi.”

“Occhi,” I said, pulling my eyes sideways, cracking up my little sister.

“Stop that. Your eyes will stay that way!” reprimanded Nanny sharply. It was clear that whatever my grandmother was holding in was about to come out.

“And you!” she shouted, pointing at my grandfather. “Anna doesn’t need to learn Italian. She needs to learn her times tables!” Nanny turned to my brother, sister, and me. “You think you’d have a meal like this in Italy? You’d eat misery, that’s what you would eat! My father and mother suffered so we could live well here. It was all worth it. All of it!”

As soon as my grandmother’s back was turned, Nonno poured a little wine into Michael’s and my Howdy Doody cups.

“Come on, do your homework and maybe we’ll play Pokerino later.” My mother sounded both exasperated and tired.

For my part, I wondered if I would ever understand—or like—my grandmother.