Elizabeth Street

by Laurie Fabiano

  Rocco stood and answered before Giovanna could. “Thank you, Dottore. But the children are waiting at home to be fed.”

  Giovanna also rose. “Dottore, I am so sorry that we have bothered you.”

  “No, no, it is no bother. We must help each other in this time of crisis. Please, wait a few moments and I will get you a carriage.”

  “That is not necessary.”

  “It’s my personal carriage. I insist.”

  All heads turned on Elizabeth Street when Giovanna and Rocco alit from a private carriage. On the ride downtown, Giovanna thought how hospitable New York could be when you had means.

  JANUARY 11, 1909

  Lucrezia had insisted that she needed Giovanna’s help, but Giovanna knew it was only to get her out of the house. In the last week the only time she had left the confines of her apartment was to check the telegraph office, which she did as religiously as she lit candles in church.

  She imagined that Lucrezia also wanted to tell her all about the concert she went to last night at the Metropolitan. Scores of singing sensations performed to raise money for the victims of the earthquake, including the great Enrico Caruso. Already, Giovanna could see the headlines announcing, MORE THAN $15,000 RAISED as she made her way down the street. With a stab of resentment, she imagined Lucrezia’s husband accompanying her to the opera. It allowed him to show his concern for the heathens and still wear white gloves. Giovanna quickly chastised herself; it was unkind of her to question the charity of others.

  She decided to stop by the telegraph office before going to Lucrezia’s. The clerk was just unlocking the door.

  “You’re early this morning, signora.” He went to the in-boxes and leafed through the stack of cables quickly because he had become accustomed to no replies from the hundreds of telegrams he was sending to Italy.

  Giovanna’s head was turned when the clerk doubled back through the stack.

  “Giovanna Costa Siena, correct?”

  Giovanna spun around.

  “Yes. You have an answer.”

  After all this waiting, Giovanna couldn’t take the envelope from the clerk’s hand.

  “Open it for me.”

  “Signora, I am only allowed to read your missive if you are illiterate.”

  “I can’t read.” At that moment she wasn’t lying.

  “Va bene,” he said, eyebrow raised, and slit the envelope with a silver knife. It took an eternity to unfold the paper.

  “Concetta and Domenico Costa, Marianna Pontillo, the Arena Family. We live.”

  In the dead of winter sweat poured between Giovanna’s breasts as she ran from Little Italy in search of her brother. She arrived at his job site, telegram waving in her hand. Lorenzo dropped his shovel and ran to her, knowing this would not be how she would announce their parents’ death. They embraced, crying and laughing, and then knelt on the frozen ground and prayed.

  TWENTY-SIX

  JANUARY 27, 1909

  Rocco packed up his cart in the dim winter light. Snow was falling, and he was anxious to get the cart back before it accumulated. Giovanna stood at the apartment window and watched it fall. After seven years in New York, she still found snow a novelty. Her husband cursed it, but she looked forward to the first few hours when the soot of New York was blanketed in clean white crystals.

  From the window, she had already seen Rocco turn the corner with his cart, heading to the garage. Knowing he was this close to home, she went to the stove, put the pasta in the boiling water, and stirred the chi chi beans in garlic and olive oil with her wooden spoon. The heat of the stove felt good. It was bitterly cold, and she had given away her warmest sweater the second time there was a collection for victims of the earthquake.

  The girls were doing their homework and the table was set, so she went back to the window, pulling a shawl around her body. Rocco had just stepped aside to let a carriage pass, but it stopped in front of their building. She saw Rocco hurry toward it and realized it was Dr. Bellantoni’s carriage. The door opened and a man exited, but even from three flights up it was apparent that it was not Dr. Bellantoni. This man was thin and in clothes much like theirs. Rocco shook the man’s hand and escorted him into the building. Giovanna looked around her apartment to see if there was anything she could straighten up and opted instead to set another place at the table.

  “Giovanna! There is someone here with news!” announced Rocco, coming through the door.

  In the weeks since receiving the telegram, most of Giovanna’s time had been spent speculating about what had happened. After the initial elation of finding out that her loved ones had survived, she was filled with questions that went unanswered, despite her numerous letters and cables. It was difficult for Giovanna even to greet this man without first demanding information.

  “Good evening, signora. I am Enrico Bellantoni, a cousin of Dr. Bellantoni. Until last month, I lived in Scilla.”

  Giovanna stared at the man, hoping to recognize him, but didn’t. The man perceived her anxiousness and kept talking.

  “I was in Naples for work when the earthquake hit. It took a week, but I returned to find I had no home. I saw the many cables from Dr. Bellantoni and decided to contact him. His family, like mine, is all gone.” The man crossed himself, and Giovanna realized her body had been blocking the entrance to the apartment and she hadn’t invited the man in.

  “Signore Bellantoni, please, come sit and eat with us.”

  The children had learned to be incredibly quiet since the tragedy struck. They assembled at the table, eager to be included in hearing the details firsthand.

  “It’s a simple meal, Signore Bellantoni.”

  “It is hot, signora, and in this weather that is all that matters. And, please, call me Enrico. There are few people left on this earth who can.”

  “So, Dr. Bellantoni sent you?”

  “Yes. I was able to make contact with him when I was in Italy, and I told him the devastating news. He sent money for me to come to New York and also gave me the names of your family members to look up before I sailed.”

  The man hungrily slurped at his soup.

  “Your husband told me that you’ve already received the wonderful news that your family is alive.” Although Enrico Bellantoni tried to sound positive, there was no escaping the underlying message of ‘but my family is not.’ “I found your family before coming here, and I have much to tell.”

  The pasta remained untouched in Giovanna’s bowl as Enrico did what no newspaper, cable, or rumor had been able to do. He told her what had happened to her family. Enrico was not a good storyteller, but some stories tell themselves. The children’s eyes widened with each detail, and the only other noise in the apartment was the scraping of shovels outside.

  “Your parents are alive because they live under Santa Maria di Porto Salvo. The church couldn’t save itself, but it saved your parents. The foundation of the church remains, but nothing else.”

  “The murals are gone?!” exclaimed Giovanna.

  Enrico practically snorted. “Signora, not only are the Scillese practically wiped out, so is our history! Do you not know the extent of the devastation? Pieces of Castello Ruffo are in the sea. Scylla’s rock that inspired Homer is gone! Do you think because your family is alive, Scilla is not devastated?”

  Giovanna felt terrible. “I’m sorry, Enrico, I didn’t mean…”

  “No, no, it is me who should be sorry. I apologize. Sometimes I think I will lose my mind, and it will be a blessing.”

  Rocco rose from the table and got more wine, which he poured into Enrico’s glass, muttering, “Drink, drink.”

  “Yes, the murals are gone, but your parents’ house is intact with practically no damage. They were sleeping at the time, and thankfully they stayed in their house, because if they had come outside they would have been in greater danger—much collapsed around them.”

  Thinking of Nunzio’s house only a few yards away, Giovanna asked, “And my aunt Marianna Pontillo?”

  �
��She was trapped for two days.”

  Giovanna stifled her gasp.

  “Your father and a few other men heard her cries and dug her out.”

  “Is she alright?”

  “I didn’t see her. She was in the hospital that the French made from tents. But your mother thinks she will recover. Her house is gone, though.”

  “And Marianna’s daughter, Fortunata Arena, and her husband, Giuseppe?”

  “This story I heard even before I knew it was your family! They were in a boat, all of them, on their way to Messina, and they managed to survive.”

  Mary dropped her spoon. “But how?” In Mary’s mind, their boat was teetering on the top of the gigantic wave like a magic carpet.

  “I can’t tell you how, little one. No one wants to speak of survival.” He turned to Giovanna. “They are living with your mother. Their house was not totally destroyed, but the top floor caved in. When I called on your mother, Giuseppe Arena and his boys were out digging through the rubble of their neighbors’ homes looking to find the bodies to bury. Your cousin, she had no interest in speaking about what happened. Her daughters-in-law were there, and they lost their families.”

  Giovanna brought her cold, full plate of pasta to the sink. It was hard to stay in her seat. She had to fight her instinct to rush to the nearest dock, sail to Italy, and dig with her hands if she had to.

  “My brother will sail for Scilla. I must go with him.”

  “Signora, your mother was clear with me. She said to tell you she forbade you to come. Disease and pestilence are sweeping the area, and she said you and your brother could do more for them by staying here. The armies are beginning to show up, and they will do the digging and rebuilding.”

  Giovanna put her head in her hands and cried at her helplessness. Mary and Angelina went to her side.

  “Zia, you can’t go. I don’t want you to get sick,” whispered Mary.

  “Mamma, don’t cry,” pleaded Angelina.

  “Enrico,” said Giovanna, wiping her tears, “there are many more people I must ask about. Maybe you know them. The midwife, Signora Scalici?”

  “Signora Scalici brought me into this world. No one has found her.”

  Giovanna twisted and knotted the napkin in her hand. “Father Clemente?”

  “He survived, but then died in the hospital.”

  “My cousin Pasquale Costa?”

  “Where did he live?”

  “South of my parents in the Chianalea.”

  “In the stretch beneath the castle?”

  “Yes.”

  “Signora, that entire enclave of the Chianalea and the people in it are gone. There is no trace. Even the land is in the sea.”

  Giovanna quickly did the death calculations. That would mean Zia Antoinette was gone and Pablo Caruso. She took deep breaths, forcing herself to be mindful that this man’s losses were far worse than her own. Grief would come later. “Enrico, what will you do now?”

  “The good doctor has been kind enough to invite me to live with him. I have nothing left in Scilla. Nor does he.”

  Seeing Giovanna’s expression, he realized he had once again made her feel guilty. “Signora, it has been a privilege to bring you this good news. I am sincerely happy that your family has survived. But, as I know, it is not so easy in this circumstance to be among the living. I will pray for your family as I pray for mine.”

  Clement spoke for the first time. “Signore, are you related to my mother, Angelina Bellantoni?”

  “A third cousin, yes.”

  “Did anyone from my mother’s family die in the terremoto?”

  “Most everyone.”

  These were distant relatives that the children had little knowledge of, but the news brought the disaster closer to home for her stepchildren, who had never even seen Scilla. Giovanna thought about how tragedies knitted themselves into your soul when there was a connection—no matter how tenuous. If you walked down a street where a murder had occurred, or studied a country where there was a famine, all of a sudden the horror became your own. She watched ownership of this earthquake creep over her stepchildren’s faces.

  Giovanna went to her bedroom and took two palm fronds that had been braided into crosses off the wall. “These are from Scilla’s Feast of Saint Rocco this past August. Please take one and give the other one to Dr. Bellantoni.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  FEBRUARY 1, 1909

  The thousand-dollar payment from Nunzio’s settlement did not arrive on January 1. In fact, Signore DeCegli had to remind the attorney to send it. They had never seen the first check; it had gone directly to the bank to pay for the store. Giovanna stared at the check with three zeros and tried to figure out the safest way to get it to Scilla. With Lieutenant Petrosino’s warnings ringing in her ears, she decided to ask Signore DeCegli’s advice. Signore DeCegli assured her that Bank Stabile on Mulberry Street would transmit it safely, and he accompanied her there. She was not the first Italian to be sending money home, but Giovanna couldn’t help but notice the clerk’s expression when he saw the amount.

  “I do not want to send this unless you can tell me that it will go directly to my family,” stated Giovanna.

  “I assure you, signora, we can do that. We have already sent a great deal of money to Messina and Reggio.”

  “But this isn’t going to Messina and Reggio; it’s a small village.”

  “I understand, signora, and we will get it there safely.”

  Signore DeCegli stepped in. “I suggest that we prepay a reply for her family. This is my card. Certainly, if it does not arrive in due time, I could be called for assistance.”

  Taking the card, the banker said in an offended tone, “Sir, we are a reputable institution.”

  At the door, Giovanna thanked Signore DeCegli.

  “I assume you will no longer be moving, signora.”

  “No. We’ll have to wait.” Giovanna’s voice carried with it the conviction she felt. When she buried the swordfish mustasole at Nunzio’s grave, she promised to watch over all that Nunzio loved in Scilla. The earthquake left Nunzio’s mother and his sister’s family without homes and in need of medicine. Now Nunzio would provide for them. While her plans to move her family to a safer place were scuttled for now, tonight she would go to sleep knowing that her family in Italy would have shelter and food.

  Feeling at peace for the first time in a long while, Giovanna headed home. At the corner of Prince and Elizabeth streets, she nearly careened into Lieutenant Petrosino.

  “Lieutenant!”

  “Good day, signora. How fortunate! I wanted to speak to you. But not here. Can you come to my office?”

  When they had settled into chairs at his desk, Petrosino said, “I heard the good news about your family!”

  “How is it that you know everything?”

  “When will you understand that this is my job!” chided Petrosino good-naturedly. “In all seriousness, signora, I am so happy your family survived.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. But that isn’t why you asked me here, is it?”

  “No. I have a question. Do you know Manzella’s store, two doors from you?”

  “Of course. He just closed his shop.”

  “He filed for bankruptcy. I was suspicious and questioned him. It turns out that for three years Lupo had been extorting money from him.”

  “But Lupo’s gone! Do you believe Manzella?”

  “I believe him, because this was something he had no intention of telling. What it means is that Lupo left town with a lot of money—Manzella’s cash and his creditor’s money.”

  “Does this make you think Lupo was behind the bombing of our store?”

  “No, no, I didn’t say that. It might. It might not. But this is your block, signora, so I want you to keep an eye out for the bulldog-faced wolf and watch Inzerillo.”

  “What of Manzella?”

  “He’s looking for work. If we ever find Lupo, we’ll prosecute him.”

  It was clear that Petrosino
was preoccupied and didn’t want to take this conversation further. As he walked her down the stairs, Giovanna asked, “And your little girl, how is she?”

  “Oh, signora, she is beautiful! She’s two months old today. And when she sees her papa, it’s all smiles!”

  “And your wife, is she well?”

  “Sì, thank you for asking.”

  At the door, Giovanna commented, “I saw in the papers that you now have a secret service to fight the Black Hand.”

  “Yes, signora. Even though the Board of Aldermen wouldn’t fund it, Commissioner Bingham got it funded privately. We also have the Italian government’s cooperation. We can begin deporting all the criminals who have taken haven here.”

  “Should I begin working on our case again, Lieutenant?”

  “Well…yes, yes, of course, signora. You come see me. If I am not here, be sure you work with Lieutenant Vachris. There are new photos for you to review.”

  “I’ll do that, Lieutenant. Arrivederci.”

  Giovanna watched the little man turn back up the stairs into his headquarters at 19 Elizabeth Street.

  FEBRUARY 7, 1909

  Clement was between jobs and helping his father. It was difficult to find construction work in the winter.

  Rocco took advantage of their time together and lectured Clement incessantly. “When you’re my age, you won’t push a cart, or even build someone else’s building. You will have your own business. Your own house. You can’t have another man own you. Work every day and save your money for these things. You hear me, Clement?”

  “Yes, Pop.”

  “Pop? What’s Pop?”

  Clement smiled. “Papa.” Clement’s Italian had become Americanized.

  “See that, you speak good English. You need to speak English. In fact, from now on you only speak to me in English.”

  “Papa, you don’t speak English.”

  “Don’t you worry about me. I understand.”

  “Okay, if that’s what you want. I’ll speak English.”