Elizabeth Street (24 page)

“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, yes, 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?”

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.

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.”