She was feeling out her new life slowly. Carefully. Trying not to lose herself in the great euphoria and enthusiasm that was America. Trying not to let Mrs. Quinn push her into doing anything she didn’t want to do. Next year, perhaps, she would undertake a trip to Italy. With Billy and her nonna. They would meet her cousin, and she would show Billy the family estate. She would introduce him to Roma and then they would decide – together – what they wanted their life to be.
It was this woman, this bride of Billy Quinn, this daughter of the Count of Roma, who descended from the motorcar with the aid of a chauffeur. As she entered the shop, Madame appeared from the back in much the same way that she had the first day Luciana had walked into the store.
“Bella Luciana.” Madame opened her arms to the girl and Luciana walked into them.
Madame kissed her on both cheeks.
“I have come with a special request.”
“Then I shall try to fulfill it.” Madame led her to the chair behind the screen.
“I expect that I’ll require a whole new wardrobe by summer.
I have reason to believe that I’ll be needing some gowns that don’t fit quite so tightly.”
Madame smiled then. One of the first smiles Luciana had ever seen cross her lips. And it was lovely. “I am so happy for you.”
“Grazie.”
Madame brought out her sample books, and they spent some time examining the pages, talking about colors and new styles and about the number of gowns that would be needed. Then Luciana stood, collected her things, and walked toward the back stairs. Then she stopped and turned for a moment. “Thank you. For everything.”
Madame Fortier sat in the back pew of a West End church that Sunday morning. And as she sat there, as the words of the mass were intoned, she looked at the structure that surrounded her. It was so stylish and elegant, so coldly formal. She hadn’t been in years – but it had been exactly what she’d wanted when she’d left the North End. A church with dignity and pride. A church absent any mawkish emotions and ingratiating displays of devotion. A church where people came on Sunday and then left to go about their business for the rest of the week.
It had none of the earthiness, none of the shabbiness, none of the ridiculous displays of fervor that were rife at St. Leonard’s.
But there was no joy at church that morning, or any other Sunday morning, she suspected. No spirit. No patron saints; no festas.
There were plenty of jewels on display and a multitude of stylish hats. There were men looking down at their pocket watches, and children swinging their legs back and forth, wriggling in their seats, ready to make a break for the aisle just as soon as the priest had said the concluding rite.
She slid to the edge of the pew, slipped around the edge into the aisle, and pushed through the door. If she hurried, she thought she just might be able to make the eleven o’clock mass at Saint Leonard’s.
Three months later, Julietta had just grabbed hold of the shade on the door of Madame’s shop when Mauro Vitali’s face appeared in the window. Her heart leapt at the sight, although she frowned at him. As she drew the shade down, he kept pace with the descent, giving her full view of his smiling face in the process.
She smiled too as she snapped it closed. They’d exchanged letters since he’d gone, and she’d heard he had returned to the city, but she hadn’t yet been able to manage arriving home in time for dinner. Not with Madame gone to Paris and all the work that had to be accomplished at the shop. But if truth be told, she hadn’t really tried.
She was afraid.
She was afraid that when she finally got the chance to look into Mauro’s eyes, she would find not love, but friendship waiting for her. And she wasn’t quite sure if she could bear it. So she waited a moment longer and then she pulled on the shade sharply, letting it snap open suddenly.
But Mauro was – gone.
She pressed her forehead to the glass for a moment, looking up and then down the street. He was. He was truly gone. Perhaps . . . well, he was a doctor, wasn’t he? Maybe there’d been a sort of emergency. But disappointment weighted her steps. She walked to the counter, pulled the key from the drawer, set her hat upon her head, and then secured the shop for the night. Turning away from the door, she started out onto the sidewalk and ran right into Mauro’s sturdy chest.
She put a hand up to steady herself, then moved to pull it away. But she thought the better of it. “There you are!” Her tone, infused with all the questions and all the longings she had lived with for many months, was not quite as light as she had meant to make it.
“Here I am.”
“I – ” She disengaged herself from him and looked up into his eyes. Those very dark, very solemn, very dear eyes. And she discovered in them something that thrilled her to the very core of her being. He seemed . . . had he missed her just as much as she had missed him?
“I came by to check on your arm.”
“My . . . arm?”
“But I see I’m too late.”
“Too late?” Just the idea, the mere suggestion of it, prompted her to thread that arm through his in such a way that he would have to try very hard indeed to free himself of it.
“You’ve already closed up.” He nodded toward the shop door.
“And who says you have to examine me in the shop?” It was one of those magnificent late-spring evenings when the air was still warm, the birds were still singing, and colorful patches of flowers brightened the long shadows that the sun had begun to cast. She started off down the sidewalk and pulled him right along with her.
He glanced down at her. “Do you have somewhere else in mind?”
“I do.”
They walked on a few steps in silence.
“Are you going to tell me where it is?”
“Maybe. It’s a small, intimate kind of place. Very famous in the district.”
“Is it new? Since I’ve been away?”
She looked over at him. Lifted her chin. “You might remember.
It’s called Mama Giordano’s.”
“Mama Giordano’s.”
“Quite exclusive. You have to know someone in order to get a table there.”
“Do you, now?”
“Sì.”
“I’d like to think I know some people.”
“Well, you can’t just walk in there like you’re family.”
“I can’t?”
“No. That will do you no good at all. Mama’s likely to just treat you like one of her boys.”
“And that would be bad?”
“Extremely so.”
“Then what do you suggest? To get the best sort of service?”
“Why don’t you tell her you’re my beau?”
He looked down at her to see if she meant the words she had said, and he read nothing there but apprehension. And hope.
Hope! Exactly where he had looked for it, longed for it, waited to see it for so many years. As he put his hand over the one she had curled around his arm, he looked down into her eyes. “Why don’t I do that.”
They walked on for several more blocks, trading glances with each other, trying to stop the smiles that had begun to curve their lips. And then Julietta had a thought that made her pause mid-step. “You’re not the kind of man that would make a girl stop working once she’s married, are you?”
Mauro, tugged backward by her sudden stop, turned around and laid a finger on her lips, though what he dearly wanted to do was kiss them. “What does that – why would I make you – ? Stop thinking so far ahead, tesorino mio. Let me get used to courting you first. Then we’ll see what happens next.”
See what happens next? That was just another way to say wait.
And Julietta was tired of waiting. She’d waited nearly her whole life to discover what had been right in front of her the whole time. And now that she’d seen it – seen him – she didn’t want to waste any more time. What was wrong with him that he didn’t feel the same way? She could picture life with Mauro so plainly.
She ignored his finger and reached up to fling her arms around his neck. “I love you, Mauro Vitali. Don’t ever leave me again!”
He had no choice but to drop his doctor’s bag and embrace her. And once she began to kiss him, there was no other option left but to kiss her right back.
After a few moments, he tried to speak. “I – ”
“Zitto! Don’t talk.”
People were beginning to stare. But what did he care? He closed his eyes, determined to ignore them. To ignore everyone. Everyone but the girl who was finally caught within his embrace.
They moved on several moments later, walking up the street and then taking the electric car to the North End. It was so crowded that Julietta was able to refuse a seat without too much trouble. She didn’t want to be parted from Mauro for even an instant.
She’d wanted excitement? She’d found it in the arms of a man. A man who wasn’t just a boy in disguise, but a real man with true convictions and honest passions. Her heart had thrilled at the longing in his kiss, and she blushed at the depths of the desire she now read in his eyes.
Five short blocks and they were home. Four flights of stairs and they were at the apartment.
Mama turned from the stove at the sound of the door.
“You brought Julietta, Mauro!”
“No, Mama, I brought him.”
She blinked. Stopped stirring. Turned. “You brought – ? You mean – ?!”
Julietta was smiling so broadly that all she could do was nod.
Mama wanted so badly to weep with happiness, but that wouldn’t have done. So she gave Little Matteo a pinch on the cheek instead.
“Ow! What was that for?”
“Get up. Congratulate your sister. She’s getting married!”
And then, because she couldn’t contain her emotions any longer, Mama gathered them both into the wide expanse of her embrace. Looking up at Mauro, she frowned. Just a little bit. “It took you long enough! What were you waiting for?”
Julietta stood on her tiptoes and kissed him right on the lips. “He was waiting for me.”
A NOTE TO THE READER
The Great Italian Emigration to America began in 1880 and ended in 1921. It is estimated that 4.2 million people left Italy to settle in the United States. Four million people. It was a migration unheard of in modern history, many times larger than the sweep of the Mongol hordes across Asia or the Huns through Western Europe.
Entire Italian towns were emptied. The reasons for the migration were many: drought, earthquakes, volcanic eruptions. Tidal waves and famine. The systemic oppression of southern Italians at the hands of their own government. The immigrants referred to their native land as La Miseria. Misery. And who could blame them?
Though the vast majority of Italians came in peace, with no thought but to settle and begin their lives anew, Americans, alarmed at their vast numbers and horrified at their odd customs, reacted with xenophobia and fear. The only other race more frequently lynched during the time period were African-Americans.
On the gradient of acceptable classes, there were white Anglo-Saxon Protestants, white Anglo-Saxon Catholics (among which northern Italians were included), southern Italians, and African-Americans. The label Italian, however, confused the newcomers. Italy had only taken its modern form and come under united rule in 1860. The immigrants still considered themselves Avellinos, Abruzzis, and Sicilians. Neapolitans, Genovese, and Calabrese. When the immigrants came to America’s shores, it was only natural that they settled in right beside those they had lived with in their homeland. Those who married in America most often married someone from their same native region or town. While it was frowned upon to marry outside of one’s ethnic region, it was oftentimes more acceptable to marry any nationality of Catholic (Irish included) than to marry a Sicilian.
Along with the peaceful immigrants, however, came a different sort of breed, with a different kind of goal. They called themselves anarchists. Long before the Twin Towers in New York City were ever built, early twentieth-century anarchists had determined that their most powerful weapon was the bomb, their most expendable asset, themselves. Like modern suicide bombers, a surprising number of anarchists blew themselves up – inadvertently or on purpose – in the process of dispatching their brand of violence. Anarchists terrified America in the early decades of the last century, mailing package bombs, distributing pamphlets with dire warnings, and lacing food with poison. In Europe, they especially targeted nobility. The Italian King Umberto; the Russian Tsar, Alexander II; a French president and an American president; two Spanish prime ministers; Elizabeth, Empress of Austria and Queen of Hungary; the King of Greece; and Archduke Ferdinand of Austria were all victims of assassinations committed by anarchists. Many other people of nobility had attempts made upon their lives during the epoch as well. But the anarchists’ worst and most long-lasting punishment was inflicted upon their own countrymen. Italian swiftly became synonymous with anarchist. The vast majority of honest, peaceful immigrants soon became viewed as radical zealots. And none of their indignant protests could convince the average American otherwise.
Americans grappled strenuously with their own justice system and immigration laws before deciding to entrap and deport known anarchists living within their borders. But with the accumulation of threats and explosions, with the destruction caused by the Wall Street Bombing and the collapse of the North End’s Molasses Tank (at first erroneously attributed to the work of anarchists), Americans had had enough. In 1921, Congress voted to set permanent quotas on immigration from certain undesirable countries. It was a historic law in America. For the first time, quotas were applied to immigrants, allowing the United States to clearly favor some nationalities over others. On the foundation provided by this law, the barriers to Jewish immigration during World War II were erected. The quotas were enforced so strenuously during those years that some of them even went unmet. It fell to other countries to do the work that America ought to have done.
With the bill’s passing, the Great Italian Emigration came to an end.
But in the midst of the crucible of undeserved oppression and rabid xenophobia, a strange thing happened to the immigrants. The experiences they lived through, the prejudices they endured, did something that Italy had never quite found a way to do: It turned a disparate collection of provincials into a united group. Though they came to America’s shores as Avellinos, Abruzzis, and Sicilians, when confronted with the harsh realities of the New World, the immigrants finally found a way to stand together. They called themselves, for the first time ever, Italians.
1918 was also the year of the Spanish influenza. It did not originate in Spain and it may not have been influenza, but it was a pandemic the likes of which had never been witnessed before. It first appeared in the spring of 1918. Hitching a ride on the troop transports that circulated between America and Europe, it resurfaced in the fall, seeming to appear everywhere at once. After its third wave in the spring of 1919, it retreated from whence it had come, never to be seen again. Scientists have still not been able to identify its particular strain.
The Spanish influenza killed an estimated twenty to fifty million people worldwide in its frenzied paroxysms of death. It ambushed its victims, often felling them in the course of hours. Its method was pneumonic; it shredded the fabric of the lungs. Its victims quite literally drowned to death. The Spanish influenza infected an incredible five hundred million people. And it hit those living in close, cramped conditions like the North End especially hard. When it didn’t kill people, it left them so drained of energy that some families died simply because they had no access to food and water, and none of them had the strength or consciousness to go get any.
The Spanish influenza killed ten times as many Americans as World War I.
It is astounding to me, based on numbers alone, that the Great Italian Emigration and the Spanish influenza have largely been forgotten. But if histor
y repeats itself and human nature rarely ever changes, it might be worth the effort to examine our current physical and sociological ills through the lens of the past. History is a wise teacher . . . if only we will listen to her speak.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The concept of this book owes much to Beth Jusino, who helped me to grow the seed of an idea. I owe a debt of gratitude to Maureen Lang, who cheered me on during the endless weeks it seemed to take to write this, and to my agent, Natasha Kern, who challenged me to improve upon my first draft. The omniscient point of view in which the book was written can only be blamed on my editors, Dave and Sarah Long, who strenuously urged that I use it and then trusted me to get it right. To Linda Derrick and Trudy Mitchell, my encouraging first readers. To my Facebook fan page subscribers who chose Little Matteo’s name. Merci mille fois to Dr. Paul Aoki of the University of Washington’s Language Learning Center for responding so quickly to my desperate plea for help; and to Christophe Jamot and Jennifer Keene who forwarded the message. Mille grazie to Sabrina Tatta of the University of Washington’s Italian Studies who graciously corrected my terrible Italian. Any mistakes still remaining are mine, not hers. And, finally and forever, to my husband, Tony Mitchell. Everything I write is because of you.
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
1. Most people in modern cultures have immigrant roots in one way or another. Where did your family come from?
2. Have you ever felt like a stranger in a strange land? What was most disorienting about the experience?
3. Do you see any similarities between American society in 1918 and modern society today?
4. This story revolves around Julietta, Annamaria, and Luciana. Which character did you most like? Why?
5. What flaws did you notice in the novel’s main characters? How were these flaws overcome?
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