Elizabeth Street

by Laurie Fabiano

  Lorenzo fought his way through the crowd, calling the man’s name. The well-dressed signore heard the call and turned.

  “Signore, I am Lorenzo Costa. Can you help us?” The man’s face was swollen and red, and he looked at Lorenzo with a dazed expression.

  “Remember, signore, I painted your mural? Of the Strait of Messina?”

  “Oh, sì, sì.” The man continued to stare at Lorenzo.

  “Signore, please, can you send word of my family? They are in Scilla, Calabria.”

  “But I hope to go to Messina. My wife, my children, my parents, they are all there. I…,” he said, pounding his chest, “I sent them. I sent them for Christmas. I sent them to their deaths. May the saints be with your family, Signore Artiste.” The gentleman turned and left.

  The scene at the cable office, which was their next stop, was no different. Crowds of Sicilians and Calabrians jammed the small office and the street. A clerk, standing on his desk, tried to yell over the din of the crowd. “You can place a cable, but it won’t get there. There are no telegraph or telephone lines in the area. Try again in a few days.”

  Most of the crowd, including Giovanna and Lorenzo, waited in line anyway to send their futile missives, even prepaying for the reply they wouldn’t receive. The line was long, and the crowd exchanged newspapers while waiting. Today’s story was longer, covering many pages and featuring maps and photographs of Messina and Reggio before the disaster. Giovanna was given a New York Herald and was about to pass it on when she saw much of it was written in Italian. Leaving Lorenzo in line, she went outside to read.

  100,000 DEAD IN MESSINA, REGGIO’S LOSS IS 45,000 IN STAGGERING CALAMITY

  SHIPS RUSHED TO STRICKEN SECTIONS WITH FOOD AND TENTS

  HELPLESS, HOPELESS SURVIVORS OF THE TERRIFYING SHOCK BECOME SHRIEKING MANIACS AND ADD TO THE TERROR OF THE SCENES BY ENDING LIVES ALONGSIDE VICTIMS’ BODIES

  Try as she might by praying feverishly, Giovanna could not stop visualizing her parents trapped beneath rubble, dead—or worse, in pain and unreachable. To have her fears expounded upon in the ink of a newspaper was too much to bear. She forced herself to scan the article, looking for mention of Scilla, but she did not find it. Even the map didn’t show Scilla. But it did show the neighboring towns of Bagnara and Palmi, and it said that hundreds of bodies had been found. She shivered at the thought that Scilla was closer to Reggio and Messina than either of these two places.

  “It is sent.” Lorenzo lifted his sister off the crate by her hand. “Did you find out anything more?” Wordlessly, she showed him the map and pointed out all the surrounding cities that had been destroyed. He looked at the paper but said nothing.

  “I heard someone say that people are going to the Consul General’s office,” mumbled Lorenzo. “Let’s try.”

  Arriving at Consul General Massiglia’s office on Lafayette Street, they were greeted by mayhem. People were fighting to get in the door and yelling, “Give us transport!” “Release the names of the dead!” The Consul General’s underlings moved through the crowd, telling them the little they knew and trying hopelessly to quell the anxiety and assure people that when they received information it would be quickly disseminated. Lorenzo shrugged in desperation. There was only one place left to go.

  Lorenzo and Giovanna stepped into Our Lady of Loreto on Elizabeth Street. Every candle was lit, and the church was crowded with weeping women—and even with men, who were unaccustomed to the surroundings because baptism and death were often the only occasions that brought an Italian man to church.

  Looking around, Giovanna felt a pang of guilt for not coming here first. She surprised herself at how practical she could be sometimes. Kneeling before the altar, she took a stick from the tray and placed it in an existing flame. There were not enough candles in all the churches of New York for the victims. Each candle would have to carry the burden of many souls. More than fifty times she put the stick in a flame, saying the name of the person for whom she prayed, starting with her mother and father. After lighting their candles, she lit one each for Nunzio’s mother, Zia Marianna, Nunzio’s sister, Fortunata, and her husband, Giuseppe Arena, and their children. Because her mind was clouded with smoke and grief, she aided the process of inventorying her loved ones by imagining the faces of her friends and family in her trip down the aisle to marry Nunzio. She lit a flame for each soul and prayed to Nunzio to save them or receive them in heaven.

  Lorenzo was also mumbling prayers not far from where Father Longa was trying to comfort the many families surrounding him. Giovanna knew Father Longa came from Messina and wondered how he had the strength to comfort others when his own family’s fate was unknown. She decided Father Longa was either blessed with this diversion or had a higher calling.

  DECEMBER 31, 1908

  It took Angelina a day to figure out what was happening, but when she did, she was inconsolable. Her Nonna and Nonno, who had lavished her with attention in Scilla, might be buried in rocks, drowned in a gigantic wave, or burned in a fire. Everywhere she went, adults were talking or reading the paper. And if she didn’t understand what they said, she could understand the grief of women who sat in doorways with their aprons thrown over their heads, wailing and rocking.

  When she wasn’t thinking about Nonna and Nonno, she was thinking about Antonio and his brothers and sisters. How could that same calm, beautiful water that Antonio taught her to swim in swallow people up? She heard one lady reading that the survivors were going insane and walking around naked. Frances said that meant that they were crazy. Was Antonio crazy, with no clothes on?

  That morning when she woke up, her mother was already kneeling beside her bed praying. Angelina started crying again, but she tried to muffle her sobs with her pillow. The only time her mother cried was when she saw Angelina cry, and she didn’t want that to happen. Seeing her mother cry was worse than imagining all those horrible things.

  When Rocco came home from work, earlier than usual, he looked at the sad expressions on his children’s faces and his wife still on her knees in prayer and said, “Come, children, let’s all go for hot chestnuts and visit your cousins. It’s New Year’s Eve.”

  Mary, with Angelina clinging to her hand, whispered to her father, “I don’t want to leave Zia.”

  “Zio Lorenzo will come sit with her.”

  Rocco sensed that his wife didn’t want him around and was only finding comfort with her brother. Her grief and anxiety were far too great for him to resent her feelings, so he tried to stay out of her way.

  The door closed on Giovanna’s solitude; her shoulders slumped in relief, and she laid her head on the bed. Her mind wandered to the New Year’s Eve she spent as a voiceless widow traveling in the bowels of a boat to a foreign land. Six years later, worse than sailing away from the land and people she loved, she might have lost them completely. The memory of the pink icing on that little girl’s finger burned in her throat.

  JANUARY 1, 1909

  The first day of the New Year brought confirmation of Giovanna’s worst fears. The headlines of the New York Herald were each more horrifying than the one before.

  IN ONE INSTANCE THE GROUND OPENED AND FROM A CHASM EIGHTY FEET WIDE THERE SPOUTED BOILING WATER IN WHICH THOUSANDS WERE SCALDED TO DEATH

  CLOUDS OF CROWS MYSTERIOUSLY ATTRACTED TO THE STRICKEN DISTRICTS ADD TO THE TERRORS THERE

  HUMAN BEINGS FIGHT WITH DOGS FOR FOOD

  Scanning the first page, she ignored details while desperately looking for the word Scilla. Turning the page, her search ended, for there was the name “Scilla” staring back at her. A box listed all the affected cities, their populations, and the number dead. Number six on the list was Scilla. But while all the other cities listed a number dead, or said “hundreds dead,” in Scilla’s column it simply said “in ruins.”

  Giovanna stayed at the table staring. Rocco looked over her shoulder; the chart was easy enough to figure out even for an illiterate. His gnarled index finger pointed at “in rovine” across from Scilla’s na
me.

  “What does this say?”

  “In ruins.”

  “Let’s go for a walk.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll take the children for a walk. Do you want me to get Lorenzo?”

  Giovanna didn’t answer. The children, who were just waking up, gathered around Giovanna and the newspaper. Their father tried to shoo them away.

  “Come on, get dressed. We’re going for a walk.” Rocco even roused Clement who was still sleeping.

  Rocco and the children were nearly out the door when Lucrezia knocked. She carried holiday pastries, a New York Times, and her doctor’s bag. Rocco waved her in, and, motioning to his wife, gently shook his head. He tipped his cap in farewell.

  “Giovanna, it’s me, Lucrezia.” She sat at Giovanna’s side, and Giovanna actually took her hand and held it.

  Lucrezia used her other hand to fish in her bag. She pulled out Humphries Pills No. 17, which, although advertised for depression, Lucrezia had found to be a good sedative.

  “Here, take this,” she said, putting the pill in Giovanna’s mouth and getting up to get her a glass of water. “Before I speak further you should know that my husband said they could be exaggerating the devastation to get more aid. But there was more news of Scilla today.”

  Giovanna nodded and pointed at the chart in the newspaper in front of her. Lucrezia looked at it. “Yes, that’s what the New York Times had. There was something else, too. It said two priests from Scilla escaped because they were in the vault of a church that resisted collapse.”

  Giovanna’s eyes flickered. This was the first news of Scilla that was not abstract. She tried to think which church had a vault.

  “It also said that Scilla was completely destroyed. Even the rock of Scylla has completely disappeared.” Lucrezia’s voice lowered. “The priests think they are the only survivors.”

  For the first time in her life, Giovanna fainted. Lucrezia had a difficult time getting her to the bed. Once conscious, Giovanna was still drowsy because the sedative had begun to work. In spite of this, Giovanna pushed up from the bed.

  “I must tell Lorenzo!”

  Lucrezia gently pushed her down. “He knows. I saw him before coming here. He asked me to take care of you. You need to sleep.” Lucrezia lay down beside Giovanna and held her friend, who gagged on her tears before falling into a deep sleep.

  Hours later, when Giovanna woke, Lucrezia was at the stove stirring soup. “I made you broth. If you feel up to it, there is a special service at the Church of the Most Precious Blood on Baxter.”

  For once in her life, Giovanna’s preference was not to be alone. This tragedy extended beyond her family, and she felt the need to congregate. “I’ll go.”

  Lucrezia miraculously made Giovanna’s family reappear and got them ready for the service.

  The mass, led by Father Bernardino Polizzo, was packed with people clad in black and heartbreak. Giovanna clutched Angelina’s hand. At least she had her daughter and stepchildren. From the number of single men in the church, she surmised that many of their wives and children were sent home during the last year when times in New York had become even more difficult. These men were probably all that was left of their families. She also noticed that Italians of all classes were in the pews. Tragedy was more common in the lower classes, but it had enveloped them all.

  Angelina was tugging at her mother’s hand. In tired exasperation, Giovanna asked, “What is it?”

  “Mamma—Nonna and Nonno are still alive.”

  Giovanna squeezed her daughter’s hand a little too hard and whispered, “Angelina, I told you what we read today.”

  “But he told me!”

  “Who told you?”

  “Saint Rocco.” Angelina pointed to his statue on the altar. “I was praying to him, and he told me that they are safe.”

  Giovanna, who usually believed in miracles, could not accept this. Instead, she cradled her child and said sadly, “You keep praying.”

  JANUARY 2, 1909

  In what was now a ritual, the day started with the papers. For the first time, there was a list of confirmed dead, city by city. And there it was, “Scilla, 2,800.”

  “That means 2,200 are still alive!” Giovanna thought with elation. It was the mathematics of tragedy, where every number becomes disconnected from the horror and pain of the life it represents. Giovanna found her thoughts consumed with macabre fractions. “If my parents are alive, then these three people are dead.” But complicating matters was the disclaimer at the bottom of the chart: “This list does not include the deaths that may occur in hospitals.” With this in mind, it was no longer simple math.

  She began to add all the numbers for each city and then realized the total was already listed at the bottom: 164,850 confirmed dead. Who were the unconfirmed dead? Was that like not being baptized?

  The sound of trumpets and drums from the street saved her from her thoughts. Clement ran to the window and reported. “There’s a band and lots of people and carriages behind it.” The entire family went to the window to see carriages decorated with Italian and American flags and signs asking for contributions for the earthquake’s victims. The first carriage was draped with banners reading IL PROGRESSO and was followed by men in thick overcoats and sashes.

  Giovanna squinted to see the people in the carriages. They appeared to be important Italians—they had medals pinned to their chests in addition to the sashes. She was certain that one woman, whose picture she had seen in the paper, was an opera star. Young girls carrying tin boxes were at the sides of the procession, darting in and out of stores and vestibules to collect contributions. The carriages were already piled high with cans of food, medicine, and clothing.

  Angelina watched a man at a fish cart unbutton his shirt, rip it from his body, and throw it on the carriage, leaving him bare-chested in the January wind. Women and children crossed themselves as the procession passed and ran into their apartments to get what little they had.

  Giovanna quickly moved through the apartment picking up whatever she could and putting it into a basket. Thrusting the basket and coins into her stepson’s hands, Giovanna shouted, “Here, Clement, run down with this.” She was nearly drowned out by the sound of the band that was under their window and the weeping on the street when the procession passed.

  JANUARY 3, 1909

  “Rocco!” called Giovanna, running back into their apartment with the newspaper. “Rocco, here look!” Her husband was still in bed. She sat on the edge of the bed and read to him. “‘Physician gets no word from Italy. Dr. Bellantoni sends messages and money but obtains no reply.’ And he is from Scilla! Is this Bellantoni related to your Angelina?”

  “And if he is? What can he do?” Rocco asked.

  “He is sending messages everywhere. Listen to this: ‘In his efforts to obtain some word from the stricken district, the physician has sent messages to the Italian government and has appealed to the Italian Consul in this city, but all efforts so far failed to obtain any results.’”

  “He is my wife’s third cousin. But I don’t see how he can help. He hasn’t been able to help himself.”

  “Can I go see him?”

  “I will go with you.”

  It was a long trip to Dr. Bellantoni’s home, north on Amsterdam Avenue. His was an imposing brick house with a doorway framed in etched glass and brass hardware.

  “Is it all his?” asked Giovanna, surveying the building.

  “I think so,” answered Rocco, removing his cap and using the knocker.

  A maid answered.

  “I am from Scilla, here to see Dr. Bellantoni.”

  Hearing “Scilla,” the maid hurried them into the foyer and scurried off to get the doctor.

  They heard the doctor’s quick footsteps before they saw him. A short, rotund man practically lunged into the room to greet them. He looked quizzically at Rocco.

  “I am Rocco Siena—Angelina’s husband. This now is my wife, Giovanna.”

  “Yes, ye
s, of course. I knew I recognized you. Have you brought news?” he added anxiously.

  Giovanna’s heart sank. In thinking of herself, she hadn’t considered that their visit would raise his hopes. She said gently, “I’m sorry, Dottore, we know nothing. We were hoping you might know something more.”

  Dr. Bellantoni’s disappointment was palpable, but he responded graciously. “Please, come in,” he instructed, leading them to the sitting room.

  Under different circumstances, Giovanna would have memorized the brocades, the enameled globe, and gilt frames. Instead, she sat down awkwardly and Rocco followed.

  “If I remember correctly, Signore Siena, you no longer had family in Scilla.”

  “True. But my wife, Giovanna, all her family is in Scilla, and we’ve had no word.”

  “And their names?”

  “I am a Costa. Our other family names are Pontillo and Arena.”

  “I remember. You are in the Chianalea, yes?”

  “Sì.”

  Dr. Bellantoni looked uncomfortable. “I have received no word on individuals. But I do know the devastation in Scilla was great. Particularly in the Chianalea.”

  “Yes. We also heard this.” Giovanna tried to hide her pain upon hearing the Chianalea singled out. “We were thinking, Dottore, that perhaps when you send your messages, you could add my families’ names. I only know how to send a cable, and the paper mentioned that you’ve been in touch with the government.”

  Dr. Bellantoni’s face flickered with the recognition of how they got here, and he also seemed to notice for the first time their Sunday best, which was far from the best. “Oh, yes, the paper. Yes, of course. I will do what I can.”

  There was nothing left to say. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, the doctor said, “Can I invite you to share my Sunday meal?”