The Difference

by C. D'Angelo

  “Yes, I will do that for you. Have a good day.”

  “Grazie,” both Brian and I say.

  We walk up to the burnt orange painted two story home, with aged gray stone on the bottom level. Another anxious knock needs to occur on another stranger’s door. I don’t give it a second thought this time.

  Knock, knock, knock.

  A middle-aged lady answers the door, and guess what…she has curly red hair! I pause before being able to speak. My body is trembling, my eyes widen, and my heart feels like it’s dancing. I gasp for air.

  Chapter 42

  Breathing again, I surprise myself and speak first. “Hi, I hope you understand English.” I end my statement with a questioning tone, thinking how I didn’t ask in Italian. Uh-oh.

  “Yes, I do. How can I help you?” she responds with a head tilt and a grin.

  Phew, she must not think I’m a rude American. “My name is Rachel Granza. I am wondering if this is the right address for my Great-Aunt Angeline.”

  The moments between my words and hers feel like hours.

  Her face brightens and her voice raises. “Sí, signora. She is my mother. She is here right now.” She looks over her shoulder into her house. “I am Teodora. Come in and we can talk more if you would like.”

  It’s happening. She’s here!

  Brian motions for the cab driver to leave by waving to him.

  I hand Teodora the pastry box. “Thank you for letting us talk with you and your mom. This is for both of you.” I motion to Brian. “And this is my boyfriend, Brian Holden.”

  “Grazie. And welcome, both of you.” She accepts the box and leads us inside.

  In a semi-daze, I tell myself do not faint. Legs, don’t fail me now.

  We walk into the small dark foyer, with just enough room for a small metal coat rack and a plastic tray for dirty shoes, and follow her to the entry of a bright, window-filled family room. She continues on to an older lady sitting in a recliner chair. She must be my Great-Aunt Angeline.

  With immersive sunlight shining on my grandpa’s half-sister, hope rises inside me. Teodora seems to explain who we are to her mom while my soul jumps for joy. I must learn this language to know everything said though, darn it.

  As we inch into the room where she sits, she simultaneously puts down her book and looks me right in my eyes. Her face lights up as if she already knows me. I, on the other hand, start to cry. Oh, not just a tear or two, but a full on weeping. Tears of triumph stream from my cheeks to the solid oak colored floor. I take a deep breath in relief as my release continues.

  Great-Aunt Angeline eases herself up from her soft looking floral chair, plods over to me, and reaches up both hands to my face, giving me kiss on each wet cheek. There doesn’t look like any sign of surprise or fear on her part, just happiness to have this moment. The sparkle in her green eyes and huge smile tells me so.

  A “hello” escapes me and seems unnecessary. “I can’t believe we are here. I can’t believe you are my grandpa’s half-sister,” I blurt out through the sobs.

  “Half? I call him my brother. Family is family,” she says while grabbing my hand and leading me to the nearby couch, motioning to join her sitting down as she continues to her chair.

  “He said the same thing about you,” I respond, still blubbering and finally wiping my eyes.

  Brian sits next to me, smiling, and moves his hand back and forth on my arm. I feel both chills and a sense of soothing from his motion.

  I don’t know where to start. Here we are, with Grandpa’s sister!

  “Let me get you both a drink. Would you like some water?” Teodora asks.

  “Yes, please,” we both say, look at each other, and laugh.

  Great-Aunt Angeline and I are silent while we stare at each other and smile. For me it’s from being in awe. I hope she feels the same.

  Being in sort of a trance state, I quickly try to ground myself by using my senses. I can feel my feet on floor. I see the white room around me with its soft loveseat couch I am sitting on and the two recliner chairs. I smell a light scent of garlic in the air. The gorgeous blue sea shines through the large picture window at the back of the room. Voices echo in the background.

  Rachel, be present now.

  Teodora hands both of us glasses of water. I take a long sip to quench my dry throat. My racing heart and dry throat aren’t going to help me get my answers.

  Teodora inconspicuously sets down a box of tissues on the side table. Smart move.

  I don’t want to set my glass down on the end table, for fear of a water ring, so I put it on the ground.

  Great-Aunt Angeline hollers, “Il tavolo va bene.”

  I look blankly at her. I understand the meaning only as she points to the table.

  “I didn’t want to leave a water ring,” I tell her, apologetically, and grab the glass.

  “Culaccino è bene.”

  Now I have another blank look, obviously. “Sorry?”

  Teodora jumps into the conversation, or lack thereof at this point. “Mom, remember, English.”

  Great-Aunt Angeline smiles and nods.

  “She basically said don’t worry about a water ring, or ‘culaccino.’ See, you learned a new Italian word today. It means, how do you say—ah—a behind of the glass.” She points to her rear and lets out a huge belly laugh, as if she said a swear word.

  “Oh, thank you,” I say with a grin and raised eyebrows. “I don’t want to offend anyone.”

  “No, never, bella.” Teodora gets a big kick out of the miscommunication, I think. She continues to chuckle and Great-Aunt Angeline joins in.

  I can tell that Great-Aunt Angeline is a spry older lady and Teodora is a ball of energy. I want to know so much more about them both right now. And Great-Aunt Angeline’s swiftness in expressing her thoughts gives me hope I can be that alert in my nineties.

  As the day goes on, we are able to expand our subject of conversation from glass butt bottoms and not have too many language barriers. We jump topics with ease, from where we live to aspects of our respective countries. I could spend all day drilling them about Italy, but I hold myself back.

  I learn that Teodora is on the same generational line as my dad, which takes me a while to grasp. She feels like a first cousin to me instead of a second cousin, especially with her similar hair. Hours pass like minutes and there’s a bond that feels effortless and familiar. I feel like a true part of this family. My family.

  Sitting at lunch, I can’t believe my eyes. This feast is the largest I’ve seen in my life. And it’s just little old lunch!

  “Thank you for inviting us to eat with you,” I say wonderstruck by the spread. “It’s an honor.”

  “The honor is ours,” Great-Aunt Angeline replies.

  “Yes, Mom is right. We can’t let you leave without feeding you,” Teodora adds.

  “Thank you so much, both of you,” Brian says.

  I dive into the fried anchovies and mushroom stuffed eggplant bursting with parmesan and ricotta cheeses, while admiring the room where we are sitting. The gorgeous kitchen looks like it’s straight out of a movie. It can’t be more perfect. The old wooden table and the matching, yet distressed, chairs are close to yet another huge window overlooking the sea beyond the cliff. The kitchen walls are painted a light yellow color, which contrast nicely with the dark wood furniture and even the 1970s looking stove and fridge. Is it even possible to still have these appliances in working order? I also love the white lace tablecloth they use, again floral in design like the family room furniture, and gently conveying how many delicious meals have been enjoyed on it—based on the staining and discoloration.

  I take my last a bite of the freshly baked bread and wash it down with red table wine. Not only did Teodora not know they would have company today and she still has enough food for two extra people, but she has enough for anoth
er family of four in addition to us. Mangia, for sure.

  I feel a surge of courage with my newly full belly and ask both my new family members my first question. “Great-Aunt Angeline, do you know why your mom, my great-grandma, and your sister, Antonia, never followed the men of our family to the United States?”

  “My mom always told me that she feared crossing the ocean too much, especially after what happened.”

  “What do you mean?” I sit up straighter in my chair.

  “You do know your grandpa’s father, your great-grandfather, died on the voyage to the United States, right?” She stares at me with a flat expression on her face, as I am giving her.

  I shake my head slowly side to side.

  “Well, their ship sank and Gino never made it,” she looks down with drooping eyelids, “but at least the boys survived.”

  “What happened?! That’s awful!” This can’t be true. But I know she’s not lying. What?

  Brian stops eating and sets down his fork. He looks at me and grabs my hand for support. I squeeze it in fear of what will come next.

  “They were on the Titanic.”

  Chapter 43

  Silence.

  Processing.

  No…words…

  “The Titanic?” Brian is able to speak.

  “The Titanic?” I whisper.

  Great-Aunt Angeline continues, “As I’m sure most people know, the ship sank and not everyone survived. Men were told to wait to board lifeboats, and they did not have enough boats. Also, the crew didn’t use all the seats that were available on each boat, so the passengers had a low chance to survive. My mom always said she was shocked her babies made it, and thanked God for that blessing every day. She never recovered from her husband’s death, even after marrying my dad.”

  I can’t mutter any words again.

  Brian asks, “How would a group of Italians be able to board a ship that left from England? How did they even get tickets for that ship?”

  Still frozen from the new knowledge and barely hearing anything she said after the name of the ship, I sit patiently waiting for the answers and hoping my brain clears its fog.

  “I thought you would have known the story. Oh, I am so sorry for being the one to break the devastating news to you that they were on that cursed ship.”

  I finally can speak again. “I didn’t even know Great-Grandpa Gino died before coming to the United States. My parents always talked about all three of them being in America. They must not have ever known he didn’t make it there. What happened once Grandpa and Great-Uncle Vince got to New York then, without a parent? Wait, first tell us about the Titanic.” I am rambling, as one would expect with this news. I can’t even tie in how magnificently ironic it is that I have an immense interest in the Titanic and now my family were passengers on it. That is too much.

  “Let me start at the beginning then. I will try not to leave anything out. From what my mom told my sister and I, her husband and my two brothers were sent to the United States to pave a path for her and Antonia to go and live there as well, after the business was established. Gino owned a tailor business here in Genoa, but over the years, more and more people left this area for better opportunities in the new land. It was a hard decision to make, but my mom and Gino decided they could live an easier life, financially, in America.”

  I am hanging on every. Single. Word. Brian looks as though he is also, though I barely realize more people are present than Great-Aunt Angeline and me. Teodora, on the other hand, goes to the kitchen to get more water for the table. I am sure she has always known this story and is not as interested.

  Great-Aunt Angeline continues, “As it turned out, there was an extremely wealthy family named the Bastows who used Gino’s tailoring services and they developed a close relationship after many years. This family traveled back and forth from their home, to here, to the United States, like it was going to the next town,” she says while motioning side to side with her hands. “They had tickets for the Titanic and couldn’t use them because of something that came up in their own business. The man gave Gino his three tickets, in first class, to travel to America on the world’s most talked about ship at the time. Who could have passed that offer up? He even paid for their trip to one of its ports; a train ride to Cherbourg, France.”

  “France! Of course. That makes sense. I have some knowledge about the Titanic actually, so I should have known that port was the closest port of call. Excuse me, since my mind was stuck in first gear.” My brain is at full speed ahead again.

  How could my family have had such luck—bad? good?—as to get free tickets to go on the Titanic?!

  Great-Aunt Angeline, even more robust than earlier, continues on, thriving on my thirst for knowledge, I think. And her memory is comparable to that of a much younger person, it seems. Every fact is making sense, based on my historical knowledge of the Titanic.

  “I have letters from my brothers, which told Mom the whole story. The poor boys not only survived an unimaginable tragedy at sea, but then had only each other when they arrived in New York, and your grandfather was only ten years old, mio Dio,” looking up to the sky as if praying to God. “Vincenzo was about twelve, I think. They were children, and women and children were saved first, as you seem to know.”

  “Wait,” I interject. “My dad told me Grandpa came to the US in 1916 and that he was fourteen years old. That isn’t true.” I am not asking, but more conceptualizing out loud what the true facts are now.

  “Brian, this is the reason I couldn’t find the ship Grandpa came to New York on! Because I was looking in the wrong year, he was the wrong age, and the ship never even made it to New York!”

  “That would do it.” His eyes remain large.

  I rarely see him in shock, but these facts have overtaken even him, I think.

  “And my horrible math skills didn’t help. How did I miss the age gap in the censuses? I must have been so focused on the other details and didn’t realize the ages didn’t match up to Dad’s story. No wonder he only had a fourth-grade education. Ugh, I’ll have to re-analyze everything again, but I guess it doesn’t even matter now that I know what actually happened. Good thing I can calculate a countdown without any issues.” I can laugh at myself now, at least.

  Brian chuckles as well, but Great-Aunt Angeline keeps a straight face.

  I clear my throat and get back to business. “So, they came to America on the Carpathia?” I ask her.

  She responds with a slight head nod and raised eyebrows.

  Brain chimes in, “Rach, Chelsea Pier is where you said the Carpathia arrived. All this time, we have been living a few blocks from where your family entered the US.”

  “You’re right. Holy cow. I knew the Carpathia arrived at that pier, but wasn’t as enthralled because it wasn’t like the Titanic arrived there, right by our home. I always thought it was kind of neat, but not as fascinating as if the ship I was really enamored with arrived there.”

  “But you even told me once that one brown metal archway down there is the old pier landing for the shipping company lines for the Titanic and the Carpathia. You can sort of see the faded letters on it that make out both, what was it, White Star Line and Cunard Line, overlapped. See, I remember the stuff you tell me,” he says and squeezes my hand he is still holding for support, sweat and all.

  “It is pretty strange that blocks from where I ended up living is exactly where my grandpa and great-uncle arrived in the United States. They didn’t come through Ellis Island, as I assumed. This family’s history gets more wild by the day.” My eyes grow bigger by the moment. “I definitely will have to go to Chelsea Piers when we get home. I need some time there alone.”

  Mind blowing fact after mind blowing fact keeps happening. The truth is refreshing, yet still a feeling of sorrow remains as an underlying current within me. All of those movies, documentaries, and books I have watched
and read about the Titanic over the years, all of the times I have wondered about life on the boat with the class divide, the timeline of events, and how the families could cope with such a loss…and now I am one of the families affected. Yes, almost one hundred and one years later, but still affected.

  I don’t think I ever even told Grandpa about my love of the subject. It wasn’t like I tried to hide it, but it was not something I was focused on when I was with him. Would he have told me about his experience if I told him though? I doubt it because he never talked about any aspect of his immigration from Italy.

  “What happened when they got to the United States, Great-Aunt Angeline? And do you know why they shortened our last name to Granza?” I need to keep her information coming. I could have the rest of my life to process it, but need to know anything else she knows right now!

  “Well, first, I do not know why your last name changed. I was too young to realize that and never knew your Grandpa and Vincenzo any other way. Sorry about that. Your other question, though, I can answer. There was a family from here who were going to help out our family when they first arrived. Their name was Serafino.”

  “Oh! The Serafinos!” I call out.

  Great-Aunt Angeline furrows her brow so I clarify. “When I had been trying to find out family information, I saw Grandpa and Great-Uncle Vince’s names on a census under a family household named Serafino, and I was so confused. Also, I had no idea why Great-Grandpa Gino wasn’t listed with them.”

  “Yes, my dear, this is why. The boys had to stay with the Serafinos for some years, at least until Vincenzo was an adult and could take care of your grandpa. They were only planning to stay a little while with them and make their way to New York City, to start a tailor business there. Of course, that never happened. But the boys did learn more about business from the Serafinos, and that is how they were able to open their business in the United States, once they were the right age.”