The Shoemaker's Wife

by Adriana Trigiani

  Once a day, the passengers in the belly of the ship were encouraged to go up to the deck for fresh air and sun. Many chose to sleep on the deck through the night, to avoid the overcrowded conditions in the accommodations below. The cold night air and ocean storms, it turned out, could be as perilous to their health as the cramped conditions in the cabins below. Many contracted coughs they could not shake, influenza, and fevers, for which there was nothing but mustard plasters and weak tea.

  While on the deck below, the passengers in steerage could hear the tinkling of champagne glasses, the strings of the orchestra, and the sandy shuffle of feet as the first-class passengers danced through the night above them. In the morning, they were awakened by the heady scent of fresh coffee and cinnamon rolls drenched in butter baking in the ovens in the upper-class kitchen. When the steerage passengers went below for their own breakfast, there were vats of scorched black coffee, cups of cold milk, and heels of day-old bread with butter.

  The elegance and easy living of first class seemed so close. The passengers imagined what it must be like. The young girls dreamed of dancing in chiffon dresses and eating cake in the ballroom. The boys imagined vendor carts serving caramel peanuts while they played shuffleboard on the polished wood floors in the game room.

  As the men below gathered on the deck to smoke, they compared plans and schemes, promising themselves that when they returned to Italy, they would return on this boat, traveling in first class as rich Americans. Their wives would have their hair done, wear peacock plumes, and douse themselves in perfume. They would stay in large suites with soft beds, a butler in attendance to steam their suits, press their shirts, and polish their shoes. French maids would turn down their beds at night.

  The women, wives, mothers, and grandmothers saved their dreams for their new lives on the other side of the Atlantic. They imagined wide American streets, lush gardens, sumptuous fabrics, and large rooms in clean houses awaiting their touch. They had received the letters, they had been told the stories, and they believed domestic bliss awaited them.

  The trick, it seemed, was to make it across the ocean without incident. It was simple: avoid the crooks and stay healthy. Enza Ravanelli was not so lucky.

  The hospital aboard the Rochambeau consisted of three small rooms with bright red crosses painted on the doors. They were outfitted with clean beds on stationary lifts and well attended by a nursing staff. The porthole windows made the accommodations seem lavish compared to the dark cells in steerage.

  Dr. Pierre Brissot, a lanky Frenchman with blue eyes and a permanent slope in his posture, ducked his head and left Enza in the room, to meet Marco in the hallway.

  “Your daughter is very ill,” Dr. Brissot said in halting Italian.

  Marco could hear his heart pound in his chest.

  Dr. Brissot continued, “She was brought here from her cell. Was she ill before the ship left Le Havre?”

  “No, Signore.”

  “Has she been ill on a ship before?”

  “This is the first time she has been on the sea.”

  “Have you traveled by motorcar?”

  “Never. She drives our horse carriage. She has always been very strong.” Waves of panic washed over Marco. What if he lost her, as he had lost Stella?

  He barely listened to Dr. Brissot when he said, “I cannot order the ship back to Le Havre for one sick passenger in third class. I’m very sorry.”

  “May I see her?”

  Dr. Brissot opened the door to the hospital room. Enza was curled up in the bed in a fetal position, holding her head. Marco walked over to her and placed his hand on her shoulder.

  Enza tried to look up at her father, but her eyes filled with terror as she was unable to lift her head or focus her gaze.

  “Oh, Enza.” Marco tried to soothe her, hoping his voice didn’t give away his fear.

  Enza searched for the strength to tell her father she felt like a spoke in the wheel of a runaway carriage. Nausea rolled through her in waves. Sounds were deafening, each wave against the ship’s hull shattering within her ear like explosions of dynamite, rock smashing against rock without reprieve.

  Enza opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

  “I’m here,” Marco said. “Don’t be afraid.”

  Night after night, Marco lay on the cold metal floor beside Enza. He slept only briefly, awakened by nurses, the clank of the engines, and Enza’s agonized moans. Utter exhaustion gave way to brief nightmares as the terrible days crept by. Dr. Brissot’s reports offered little encouragement. The medicines he usually prescribed for extreme motion sickness failed to have any effect on Enza. She became weaker and weaker, dangerously dehydrated. Soon her blood pressure began to plummet. Tinctures of codeine, a syrup of black cohosh, seemed to only make Enza worse.

  Toward the end of the nine-day journey, Marco finally fell into a deep sleep, where he dreamed he was back in Schilpario, but instead of the green cliffs, the hillsides had been torched by fire, and the gorge was filled with black water. Marco had gathered his family to safety on a precipice, but below he saw Stella drowning in the floodwaters. Enza jumped in to save her, and she too began to flail in the black water. Marco dived into the gorge headfirst, hearing his wife and children on the cliff screaming to stop him, but it was too late.

  Marco awoke in the hospital cell, feverish and disheveled. A nurse gently tapped him. “We’re in the harbor, sir.”

  Marco could hear the muffled sounds of the cheers from the Rochambeau’s passengers above, gathered on deck as the ship docked in lower Manhattan.

  There was no celebration for Marco and Enza, no lingering first gaze at the soft turquoise majesty of the Statue of Liberty or awe expressed at the view of the cityscape of Manhattan. There was only the scratch of Dr. Brissot’s fountain pen against the paperwork to save Enza’s life once the ship was safely in the harbor.

  “I’ve made arrangements for signorina to be taken immediately to Saint Vincent’s Hospital in Greenwich Village. They may be able to stabilize her. You have to process through Ellis Island with the others.”

  “I must stay with my daughter.”

  “You’d be an illegal alien, sir. You don’t want to risk that. They’ll pick you up and send you right back to Italy without your daughter. Follow instructions to Ellis Island, and then join her at Saint Vincent’s. They’ll be doing everything they can for her. We will file her paperwork through the hospital.”

  Dr. Brissot bustled off to attend to his other patients, and Marco was asked to leave the room as the nurse and two of the ship staff placed Enza on a gurney to transport her off the ship.

  As Enza was carried off on the stretcher through the narrow doorway, Marco reached out to touch her face. Her skin was cold to the touch, just as Stella’s had been the last morning her father ever held her.

  The nurse pinned the ship’s manifest to Enza’s sheet, per standard regulations, then handed Marco a slip of paper with the address of the hospital. In the bright sunlight, Enza looked worse, and waves of panic overtook Marco as he watched her go. He turned to the nurse in desperation.

  “Is my daughter dying?”

  “I don’t speak Italian, sir,” she replied briskly in English, but Marco understood her meaning. The nurse had avoided telling him the terrible truth.

  As Marco stood on the interminable line at Ellis Island, he began to shake from exhaustion fueled by anxiety. He knew he must appear in control and composed to meet the immigration officer; any sign of mental illness or physical weakness would be a reason to deny him citizenship. He must act as though he was nothing but an eager laborer who had come to America to join the workforce, although at middle age, he was a less than ideal candidate in the eyes of immigration. But his heart was breaking, and his feelings of inadequacy and failure as a father were on the brink of overwhelming him.

  Marco set the cap on his head at an angle, to show confidence. He placed one hand in his jacket pocket, feeling the smooth lining, a patch of rare silk sewn by Enza. His e
yes filled with tears when he thought of his daughter and her efforts to improve the lot of the Ravanelli family. There was never a girl so driven to hold her family together.

  Enza looked after her brothers and sisters, and she had more responsibility than most girls her age. But did his daughter have the strength to recover? What if there was an underlying cause to Enza’s illness that could not be healed? What would he tell Giacomina if Enza died? The thought panicked him, as the slow pace of the line made every moment he was away from her unbearable.

  Marco wished he had never agreed to come. But he knew if he had decided to stay in Schilpario, Enza would have come to America alone.

  If something happened to Marco, Enza was to return home immediately, but it had never dawned on them that Enza would be the one to face catastrophe.

  The Zanetti Shoe Shop had never enjoyed so much business. The small storefront on Mulberry Street stood out under a brand-new red, white, and green striped awning. The shop percolated with activity as customers stopped in for fittings, drop-offs, pickups, and repairs. Salesmen came through with sumptuous sleeves of leather, boxes of grommets, and bolts of rawhide laces. Signora Zanetti thrived on the haggling that ensued, as she bargained for supplies for the best price.

  There was good reason for the boom: work had commenced on the building of the Hell’s Gate Bridge in Queens. Every available man over fourteen and under sixty had signed up for round-the-clock shifts. Each new hire needed a pair of sturdy, well-made work boots that were properly soled, could withstand bad weather, and would provide safe traction on the metal parapets high over the Hudson River. Many came to Zanetti’s for the best deal.

  Remo taught Ciro everything he knew in the long hours they kept in the shop. Ciro learned how to sketch the patterns, cut the leather, and construct the work boots. He also became adept at finishing, polishing, and buffing the boots he had made, taking pride in the small details that would become the hallmark of his fine craftsmanship.

  Carla handled the books, making sure boots bought on credit were paid off weekly. If money was due her, she made sure to collect it, even if she had to knock on apartment doors or visit a job site to do so. She reconciled the receipts and counted the money. The green cloth bank bag was soon too small for their deposits, and a second was added.

  Ciro had been up since dawn, sewing vamps and hammering heels. He had spent the previous day creating small steel cups for the toes of every pair of boots.

  “You need to eat,” Carla said as she placed a breakfast tray on the worktable.

  “I had coffee,” Ciro said.

  “A young man cannot grow on coffee. You need eggs. I made you a frittata. Eat.”

  Ciro put down the hammer and sat. Signora Zanetti was a good cook, and he appreciated her hot meals. He placed the cloth napkin on his lap.

  “I’m always impressed by your manners,” Carla said.

  “You seem surprised I have them.”

  “With your background . . . ,” Carla began.

  Ciro smiled. He found it funny that Signora Zanetti was a snob. She tried to distance herself from other immigrants despite the fact that they shared similar histories. They had all emigrated because they were poor and had to find work. Now that the shop was successful, Signora had begun the slow, careful climb of reinvention and had even more reason to look down on her struggling fellow Italians. “My background is not so different from yours, Signora,” Ciro reminded her.

  Signora ignored the comment. “However you look at it, the nuns did right by you.”

  “I had parents too, Signora.” Ciro put down the fork and napkin and placed the tray aside.

  “But you were so small when they left you.” Carla poured herself a cup of coffee.

  Signora’s comment cut through Ciro’s heart. “Don’t ever assume, Signora, that my brother and I were unloved. We probably got more than our portion.”

  “I didn’t mean . . . ,” Carla stammered.

  “Of course you didn’t.” Ciro cut her off as Remo joined them in the workroom.

  Ciro treated Signora with respect, but he didn’t have affection for her. Her love of money offended him. In Signora’s eyes, those who had money were better than those who didn’t. She treated her husband, Remo, as a servant, barking orders and making decisions without consulting him. Ciro promised himself that he would never fall for a woman with a temperament like Carla Zanetti’s. She was a demanding boss, but as the American saying went, she was also a tough customer.

  There were nights when he thought about leaving the Zanetti Shoe Shop and trying his luck working on the road crews in the Midwest, or going south to the coal mines. But he never seriously considered it. Something had happened over the past several months, a turn of events that Ciro had not counted on.

  Ciro had fallen in love with the craft of shoemaking. Remo was a fine teacher, and a capable master craftsman. Through his instruction, Ciro discovered that he enjoyed the arithmetic of measurements, the touch of the leather and suede, the feel of the machines, and the delight of the customers when he made a boot that fit, after a lifetime of ones that didn’t. Ciro began to appreciate fine workmanship as an art form unto itself. The painstaking craft of building a proper boot or shoe from simple elements gave Ciro a purpose he had never known before.

  Remo saw Ciro’s raw talent blossom under the techniques Remo had learned from an old master in Rome. Ciro was eager to learn everything Remo knew, and built upon that knowledge with his own insights and ideas. There were modern machines being developed, and new techniques that would take shoemaking forward in a progressive, exciting way. Ciro wanted to be a part of that.

  But there were two sides to business: the creative side, handled by Remo, and the business side, closely guarded by Carla. Signora Zanetti was far less eager than her husband to share the details, or teach Ciro how to run a business. Was it her inborn sense of competition, Ciro wondered, or her secretive nature? Either way, she withheld all of her practical business knowledge. Nevertheless, Ciro picked up on Signora Zanetti’s techniques of salesmanship, customer payment plans, and dealing with the bank. This Italian woman knew how to make good American money. As Ciro gained confidence in his abilities, he had begun to hunger to take his own green bag to the bank. He was thinking about money, and it was in this moment that he lost focus. The metal lathe sliced into his hand.

  “Aah!” he shouted, and looked down at the bloody puncture in his palm. Carla raced for a clean rag.

  “What did you do, Ciro?” Remo asked, leaping from his stool to run to Ciro’s side.

  Ciro wrapped a clean moppeen around his palm to staunch the bright red blood.

  “Let me see the wound!” Carla insisted. She took his hand and unwound the tight cloth. A deep gash in his hand oozed fresh blood, a flap of blue skin dangling over it. “We are going to the hospital.”

  “Signora, I have to finish these boots,” Ciro said, but his voice broke in pain.

  “The boots can wait! I don’t want you to lose your hand to gangrene. Hurry! Remo! Hitch the cart!”

  Enza opened her eyes in a hospital room that had the scent of ammonia. For the first time since she left Le Havre, the room did not spin, and her body did not have the sensation of free-falling. She had awoken to a pounding headache, and her eyes had trouble focusing, but she was no longer in the state of agonizing constant motion. She had no memory of the transport from the ship to Saint Vincent’s Hospital. She didn’t remember her first ride through Greenwich Village in the back of a horse-drawn ambulance. She did not take note of the trees in bloom, or the windowboxes stuffed with yellow marigolds.

  As Enza attempted to sit up, a searing pain split her head from top to bottom. “Papa?” she called out fearfully.

  A slim young nun in a navy blue habit eased Enza back down onto the pillow. “Your father is not here,” she said in English.

  Baffled at the new language, Enza began to cry.

  “Wait. Let me get Sister Josephine. She speaks Italian.” The nun turn
ed to leave. “Don’t move!” The nun grabbed Enza’s chart and went.

  Leaning back against her pillow, Enza surveyed the room.

  Her travel clothes were neatly folded on a chair. She looked down at her white hospital gown. A needle was bound with a bandage into the skin of her hand. She followed the tube to a glass jar filled with liquid. There was a small pulsing pain in her hand where the needle met the vein. She bit her dry lips. She reached for a glass of water on the small table and drank it down in a single gulp. It was not enough.

  A second nun pushed the door open. “Ciao, Signorina,” Sister Josephine said, then continued in Italian, “I’m from Avellino on the Mediterranean.” Sister Josephine had a full face, tawny skin, and a straight, prominent nose. She pulled up a chair next to Enza’s bed, filled the empty water glass, and gave it to Enza.

  “I’m from Schilpario,” Enza said in a scratchy voice, “on the mountain above Bergamo.”

  “I know the place. You’re a long way from home. How did you get here?”

  “We were on the Rochambeau from Le Havre, France. Can you help me find my father?”

  The nun nodded, clearly relieved to find her patient so lucid. “We were informed that he had to process through Ellis Island.”

  “Does he know where I am?”

  “Yes, he was told to meet you here at Saint Vincent’s.”

  “How will he find me? He doesn’t speak English. We were going to learn some basic phrases on the trip, but then I got sick.”

  “There are plenty of people in Manhattan who speak Italian.”

  “But what if he doesn’t find someone who can?” Enza was panicked.

  Sister Josephine’s face showed her surprise that the daughter was in charge of the father. Yet Enza knew that Marco had not been the same man since Stella died. To be fair, no one in the family had been the same since they lost her. Enza doubted they would have made the decision to come to America if Stella had lived. She couldn’t explain to Sister Josephine how loss had led to a plan, then to action, how precarious everything had seemed after Stella’s sudden death, and how desperate she felt to help the Ravanellis forge a more secure life for themselves.