You Were There Before My Eyes

by Maria Riva

  “Once you get through, and most of you will, believe me, you will be taken by ferries to American land and left. Those of you who are already contracted, you now will find the agents of those enterprises waiting to make sure that their gangs get to where they are expected to work. But those of you, single or in family groups who must travel on, may be approached, greeted by a very friendly man speaking your language—he may even say he comes from your village—who will offer to help you.

  “Do not believe him! Do not go with him! No matter how much you want to. Some of our own countrymen have turned into hungry wolves who pray on the newly arrived—using your fears, your confusion, your innocence to steal the little money you have. Remember that your twenty-five dollars, though it is a large amount of money, is all you have to live on for you and your family until you reach your final destination and there find work.

  “If you have far to go, you must remember you will no longer be in a small country but one that is so vast … I can’t even describe it to you. Where else can you travel on a fast train a whole four days and four nights and when you finally arrive, you are only next door to the state you started from? If you must wait between trains, or miss a connection, always stay in a station waiting room and wait there for the next. And practice! Practice saying where you must go, the name of the town and, very important, also the name of the state it is in. America is so large it has many towns with the same name—only if you know what state your destination is in, can you be sure to get to the right one. Most of all, above all else, remember. All of you, even the children, burn this into your heart, into your soul. No matter what awaits you—no matter how hard your new life may be, all of it will, in the end, will have been worth it! If you work hard, never give up, you can make a good life because in America all things are possible. There is no place in all the world with such a generous heart—believe me—I know. Buona fortuna!”

  Respectfully, the men removed their caps, crowded around this benefactor, anxious to shake his hand. Their women curtsied to Giovanna, shyly acknowledging their respect for the wife of such a moving orator.

  Soon they would arrive and go their separate ways. As the only one of her cabin who had an actual address, Giovanna asked Giovanni to please write it out for her, so she could copy it, then give one to each of her shipboard companions, adding that she planned to keep the original on her person—in case she ever lost him, she would know where to go and to be sure not to omit the correct state his Detroit could be found in.

  Passing Coney Island, the ship made its way through the narrows towards the upper reaches of New York Harbor. On every level, passengers crowded the open decks, pushed, shoved, jockeyed for whatever space was available to catch a glimpse of the land that held such promise for so many and there, engulfed in late summer sun, standing tall, as though a Divinity risen from out of the sea, She greeted them. The one they had all heard of, dreamt someday of meeting and a mighty cheer rolled out to greet her, a cry of recognition for all She represented. Babies were held high, children hoisted onto shoulders to see the symbol of their glorious future. Giovanna never forgot that moment. The sound of it, all those jubilant voices hailing a thing of iron and that, for some inexplicable reason, hers was amongst them.

  Giovanni and she watched as their ship unloaded its human cargo onto the ferries alongside. Battered baggage, boxes, bundles, sacks, bales, whole lives, whole cultures tied with rope, thong and cloth, being herded aboard with practiced efficiency. Had Giovanna ever seen the Chicago stockyards, she might have used them as reference point; as it was, the scene below her became its own reference. She took out her handkerchief and waved it in farewell.

  In the dining hall, converted for the official processing on board of the cabin classes, Giovanna waited with the others to be examined. Sitting on one of the chairs now lined against the walls, she wondered how the buttonhook would be hooked on her eyelids and how much it would hurt. Moving up the line each time a chair was vacated, she finally arrived at her turn.

  “Stand up,” said a deep voice from somewhere far above her and, when she obeyed, found that for the first time in her whole life, she needed to look up at someone’s face to see them. A very tall man, the tight leggings of his field uniform making him appear even taller, lifted her lids with feather-light fingers, peered through thick spectacles into her eyes for a suspended moment, then gestured dismissal, moving her on. The doctor who thumped her chest, then listened through his rubber stethoscope stood on tiptoes to do so, but he too found nothing and moved her on.

  Breathless with relief, Giovanna hurried off to find Giovanni, who was being questioned at another table by an official speaking rapid English interrupting himself with loud bangs of his rubber stamp. Though impatient, Giovanna waited until she heard “Next,” the important word that Giovanni had taught her to listen for, then quickly whispered, “Giovanni! The eyes—I passed! But the doctor was gentle and no buttonhook. I thought you said …”

  Giovanni, preoccupied, checking the official stamps and signatures on their papers of entrance, commented, “If you had been one of the poor from below, you would have gotten the buttonhook and the pain. For those who can pay, there are always privileges, so, you got gentle hands and no hook! Now, go collect your things and say your good-byes. We will be docking. I will come to fetch you when it is time to leave the ship.”

  The small cabin was a beehive of last-minute emergencies. Megan, sprawled under her bunk was searching for a lost shoe, berating St. Anthony for not doing his appointed duty. Eugenie was tearing her bed apart in a frantic search for a precious hatpin while Bela on her top bunk, out of harm’s way, fully dressed, the salami cradled in one arm, her satchel in the other was beating out the rhythm with her booted feet as she practiced her name and destination in English. After things calmed down a bit, Giovanna handed Megan the paper with her address.

  “To this you write, to me, please, if you wish about your Patrick and his nice horses,” Giovanna said very carefully to get all the words right and in their proper order. The Irish girl, much too excited to really pay attention, tucked the small piece of paper into her satchel and gave Giovanna a fast hug of farewell.

  “Eugenie, this is for you. My address in America. You can write me in French, of course. I know you will be terribly busy moving into that fine new house but maybe, afterwards you will find some time to give me news of your exciting life and that maid of your very own.”

  The French girl, her eyes a little misty by excited apprehension, nodded. Stuffing the paper into the pocket of her summer mousseline de soie that matched the color of her violet eyes, formally kissed Giovanna on both cheeks as though she was being given a medal—and was gone. Bela took hers, folded it in four, placed it carefully inside a small coin purse. Cupping Giovanna’s face in her large hands, said in her new English, “You good girl. Husband good. Like mine Lotar. We come Detroit—ha? Maybe?” And, hefting her suitcase and dilapidated hat from the bunk, left their cabin.

  Watertight doors were opened, gangplanks attached, hundreds of anxious people looking up searching, as those on board looking down, did the same. Megan was the first to spot the face she was looking for, shrieked, dashed down the gangplank, catapulted herself into the open arms of a handsome young man in a pinstripe suit sporting a pearl gray fedora set at a rakish angle.

  “Little darlin’,” he murmured, kissing her soundly. The two men flanking him stepped back in deference, smiled, appreciating the scene. Releasing the breathless girl, the man drew on his gray suede gloves, tucked Megan under one arm, his silver-tipped ebony cane under the other and, motioning for the men to take charge of his wife’s trunk, led her towards the exit. Giovanni, having observed the romantic reunion below, commented, “That’s no stable hand.”

  A tree trunk of a man, the stoop of hard labor giving him the deceptive look of advanced age, plowed his way through the crowds, looking up, searching for the face he needed to see. Bela
saw him first, waving the salami for positive identification, she yelled, “Lotar! Lotar!” Giovanna often wondered if it was that ridiculous sausage or his wife’s face that brought that big hulk of a man to a sudden standstill but, the way he caught Bela’s outstretched hands as she reached him, the joy that transformed him into a much younger man, that was hers alone.

  Eugenie, in her rose-adorned boater and matching parasol, looking as pretty as a rotogravure on the sheet music of a love song, sat on her leather trunk waiting to be found. Giovanni hurried them out of the arrivals’ shed onto the teeming street.

  The heat of a New York summer hit Giovanna with such force, she recoiled from it as though it were something alive wanting to devour her.

  “Take your jacket off and roll up your sleeves,” instructed Giovanni doing the same. Seeing her astonishment, he laughed, “You are in America now! Freedom—my girl—freedom! Remember?”

  So there stood Giovanna on a big city street in broad daylight, undressing and not one of the hurrying multitude paid the slightest attention. The sudden thought of how far could she could go before anyone did notice made her want to giggle but she didn’t, for that would really have been going too far even for the first day of a new life. For a fleeting second, she did think of the gossips of Cirié, then forgot them forever.

  “Giovanna! Farewell!” Megan called as she was being handled into a gleaming, bright yellow motorcar that looked as though it belonged on a racetrack in constant motion, not parked sedately at a city curb by a fire hydrant. Handing Giovanna his coat to carry with her, Giovanni informed his wife that the gleaming beauty was actually a 1912 Four-Door Runabout converted with wire wheels, a monocle windshield, an oval gas tank and the removal of running-board panels into a special Ford Speedster and that Megan’s paragon of a hardworking, so dependable husband was, without a doubt, a most successful bookie and that he would explain what that meant when next he had time to do so, but now they had to hurry, catch the trolley about to leave without them, adding, “Don’t stop to look up—you can see tall buildings later!”

  Running, they caught it. As the trolley began to move, a welcome breeze entered through its open sides, bringing a little relief. We’re packed together like barreled olives, thought Giovanna and suddenly realized that from the very moment of setting foot on land, there had been nothing but people; masses and masses of them everywhere she looked.

  Incessantly clanging its bell, the trolley rattled along broad streets, scattering speeding motorcars and courageous pedestrians alike. Everywhere, bustle, constant motion, hither and yon, as though without it meant some expected disaster, with it a form of salvation. Fascinated by so much frenzy exposed, Giovanna remembered what Giovanni had said when he first told her of America beneath the chestnut tree. Now she understood what he had meant, admired so about this new world. No time to dawdle! Here life was a race, its goal expected prosperity. The ones who ran the fastest would have their reward of success—those who lagged behind justified their failure. This very day, the first in her new homeland, she too would give it her contribution, start off correctly. Looking up at Giovanni swaying by a leather strap beside her, Giovanna shouted above the din, “Giovanni—from today, please call me Jane and I will call you John.” Clutching at her hat as the trolley swayed precariously, she gasped, “This is very exciting!”

  Her husband’s answering laughter had a boyish ring. Ever since their arrival, she had noticed a youthfulness about him, as though he were happy. Although she had never experienced it herself, she knew that very often happiness accompanied a sense of homecoming and this could be the reason for her husband’s sudden lightness of spirit.

  “Jane! Look! There! Our Model T! See it? And there …” Craning to see, nearly falling off the skittish trolley, Jane saw her first Ford and thought, What a funny-looking thing. Hopping about on its big thin wheels so high off the ground it looked like a black baby stork, shuddering as though in the throes of unstoppable hiccups. This was his so famous motorcar? Certainly there were a lot of them bouncing along, chasing others of exact likeness as though they were all friends playing tag.

  “All of those? All are ‘Lizzies’?” Jane shouted.

  “Yes! ‘Watch the Fords go by,’” shouted John in English, enjoying himself enormously.

  “What?”

  “That’s our slogan. Never mind, I’ll explain later … get ready, we’re nearly there.” Pushing his way rapidly through the crowd, he called over his shoulder, “We’re here—follow me!” and jumped off, pulling Jane down after him.

  “We have to cross the street—watch where you step! They still use horses here!”

  He needn’t have worried, for the intense heat had already dried the mounds of manure into a fine powder that swirled in the hot breeze creating its own haze, before settling wherever it wished. Jane, still clutching their jackets, her suitcases, trying to catch her breath, lifted her eyes to follow him and remained rooted where she stood. Nothing could have prepared her for what lay before her.

  The kaleidoscope of colors and sounds, the sights, the sheer pageantry of it all. Everywhere pushcarts, peddlers announcing their wares, shouts of “Frutta Fresca,” scissor grinder, wheel and treadle strapped to his back, ringing his bell, the toot of a ragman’s horn, livery horses snorting stomping flies off scabbed legs, the cackle of soup chickens, their flag red cockscombs waving from out of flimsy crates, Puccini cranked from a hurdy-gurdy, its leering monkey chattering angrily plucking at the high collar of its garish costume, a marching lady in navy, adorned with red, hitting a small tambourine with the heel of a black gloved hand, girls in dark pinafores over white dresses their long braids bouncing, singsonging patter playing hopscotch, scruffy boys in knee britches and narrow suspenders clinking variegated marbles within chalked circles, others kicking a can with booted gusto, old men in buttoned under vests and brimmed hats on kitchen chairs brought outside for watching, errant children searching for the ice wagon, and women of all ages in voluminous aprons and tight head cloths gossiping. Suddenly at the sound of a policeman’s whistle, they stopped, peered down, and watched as a burly man in a woolen uniform shaking his truncheon, his official dome-shaped hat wobbling, chased a clutch of jeering boys, waving stolen licorice laces like lariats egging him on.

  John, seeing his wife still standing across the street, mesmerized, called to her. “Giovanna—wake up! Come over here!” in his impatience resorting to her Italian name. Still in a daze, circumventing a pushcart heaped high with dented pans and scrap iron, Jane made her way across the teeming cobblestone street. Motioning his wife to follow him, John strode along the busy sidewalk, stopping as he reached a house whose glass transom above its front door displayed a large number nine. Gingerly stepping between the bodies lounging on the stoop, he mounted the steps and, pulling a polished brass ball, rang the bell, and waited for the door to open.

  “Johnny! My Johnny! Back so soon! Come here! …” chortled an immense woman as broad as the double doorway she stood in. Reaching out, she pressed him to her as though she were a hungry grizzly, he a brimming honeycomb. They kissed. Finally finished, pushing away from him, her beringed fingers retaining their hold, she examined the woman standing beside him and inquired, “And this? This is the wife?” Receiving an affirmative nod, she observed in a tone of practiced appraisal, “Aha! … Well … a little thin … but strong and good hips for breeding—she’ll do for you!” and she ushered them into her house.

  That night, Jane was given a spare bed in the attic room occupied by two pretty women who appeared very cross because they had the sniffles and were therefore not allowed downstairs. They eyed her with suspicion when first introduced, then quickly became friendly when Jane undressed and they saw her sensible underthings. Although the bed seemed to sway as though it too had a sea beneath it, Jane slept. Even the night noises of this strange new place didn’t penetrate enough to wake her completely.

  Jane didn’t quit
e understand that place. The muffled footsteps, the comings and goings, up then down stairs that creaked no matter how cautiously they were crept upon. Nor why Mamma Cantonocci allowed so many of her young nieces not only to live with her, but sit around the big kitchen in the mornings in flimsy kimonos doing absolutely nothing to help. When she questioned John where he had been given a bed and what about all those many nieces, he answered very curtly, “Mamma ‘Nocci’ is a generous relative—she always finds a spare bed for an old friend like me!” By his tone, Jane knew the subject was firmly closed and so turning her curiosity to more pressing things, went in search of her companions of the attic to ask if they thought the wonder of a bath was at all possible in such a busy establishment.

  Lily, a cream pale blonde, blew her nose. Iris, a slow-eyed brunette, considered the problem, then both relinquished their daily right to bathe to the yearning immigrant before them.

  Like adoptive hens to a newly hatched chick, they fussed, getting into the spirit of things. An elegant copper bath was dragged into the kitchen, water heated, then filled to its beveled edge; Lily, sprinting to the attic to fetch her essence of violets, insisting that a bath without a drop of it couldn’t be considered a bath at all, while Iris climbed onto the kitchen stool, stood on tiptoes to reach the topmost shelf of the china cupboard to steal a cake of the special oatmeal soap kept hidden there. To shield their chick from the possibility of a draft, they positioned a lacquered screen, its panels depicting coy Japanese ladies peeping out between branches of cherry blossoms in full bloom and urged Jane to hurry, get into the water before it turned tepid. Bringing chairs, placing them in front of the tub, they sat as though they were about to attend a special performance at the Hippodrome. Flimsy kimonos askew, revealing camisoles trimmed with tiny rosebuds and bows nestled amidst rushing of Venetian lace, legs crossed, a hint of milky thigh above white hose of silken lisle, one foot dangling a seductive boudoir slipper imported from France, they waited for the show to begin. The enjoyment they derived from their good deed was so infectious that it freed Jane of all shyness. Amidst the steamy scent of wood violets, she scrubbed while her new friends applauded, enchanted by the virgin in their midst.