Elizabeth Street (5 page)

With every item that Giovanna packed, Nunzio assured her this was a brief chapter in their lives. He would soon return to Scilla with the money they needed to move north and have Giovanna start her studies. Giovanna never laughed at his plan again, but she felt like she was playing along with a child’s fantasy. All she wished for was that Nunzio would return to her and the child she hoped she was carrying. She wondered why Nunzio’s dream had to be bigger than her own and reminded herself that was how it had always been. He was the idealist and she the pragmatist. Yet, like everything in their lives, there were contradictions. He was the idealist with little faith, and she was the pragmatist who believed in miracles. Nunzio dreamt and Giovanna prayed.

Giovanna insisted on going with Nunzio and her father to Naples. On the night before they were to leave, they both had trouble sleeping. Nunzio awoke at one point to find Giovanna carefully unraveling the Christmas tablecloth and winding the yarn into a ball. He did not question her and instead helped her undo the stitches. When the last of the string was wound on the ball, he simply took her hand and led her back to bed. They found it difficult to speak to each other and spent what little time they had in an entangled embrace.

It took them a day to walk to Reggio. They avoided the roads, knowing they might be stopped and forced to pay a tax, or jumped by brigands who would assume that if they were traveling on a road they were wealthy. Instead, they took to the hills, and when they did encounter brigands in the mountains, they were given a hot meal and advice for safely navigating the streets of Naples. Sitting by the fire, a man with many slashes on his face, some scarred and others fresh, warned, “If the ship is not ready, go back into the mountains. The port is filled with thieves and hucksters.”

From Reggio they took a boat to Naples. Emotionally and physically drained, they slept for most of the trip. Giovanna had never been to Naples, or to any city so large, and she was at once repulsed and awed. The smells and voices assaulted her, and the buildings made her jaw gape. With the brigands’ words ringing in their ears, they avoided the peddlers selling “
Americani
clothes,” the “dentists” who offered to extract troublesome teeth before the voyage, the “monks” who sold blessings for safe passage, and the cures for trachoma, the dreaded eye disease that would prevent an immigrant access to l’America.

Giovanna was relieved that the
Spartan Prince
was leaving the next day. She couldn’t imagine being able to act so strong for much longer. Nunzio bought a ticket for steerage and was examined by the ship’s doctor. The shipping companies did not want to run the risk of transporting back a rejected immigrant at their expense. After Nunzio passed the physical, they coached him. The shipping agent asked in Neapolitan dialect, “Do you have a job in America?”

“Yes,” answered Nunzio, thinking of Lorenzo’s promise to find him a job.

“No, the answer is no,” reprimanded the agent. “If you say yes, you will be rejected. A yes means that you are contracted labor, and that’s illegal.”

“No, I have no job,” Nunzio repeated.

They slept in a
pensione
near the port and woke to the sounds of a ship’s departure—the vendors’ cries, the clopping of heavy hooves hauling luggage, and men shouting orders. Nearing the ship, they also heard the wails and sobs of the many women who had come to bid their husbands and sons good-bye. Peddlers circled in and out of embracing families in a last-ditch effort to sell their wares. They knew their prey was vulnerable, and a distraught mother might pull out her last coin for a blessing or extra food.

Domenico cut the awkward silence between Giovanna and Nunzio with the first of many reminders to kiss Lorenzo’s children and to tell his son to write more often. Domenico seemed desperate to lessen their pain by ignoring it and pretending all was well.

“Carry your luggage? I’ll bring it right on the ship.” A young boy pestered them.

Nunzio ignored the child and knelt on the dock. He reached his cupped hand into the water and poured it on the back of his neck, letting it spill into his shirt. The Italian waters made their way down his back and started to evaporate. When he stood, Domenico reached up to fix Nunzio’s collar and took him by the shoulders, turning his son-in-law’s face toward his own. “Our blood is your blood. No country can separate you from your family.” At the gangplank, Domenico told him, “Go, go, I expect you to be a big man in America. Don’t forget you are a maestro.”

Giovanna reached in her bag and handed Nunzio the ball of yarn from the tablecloth. All she said to him was, “I’ll be here.”

Nunzio gripped her so hard that she forever had a scar where his nail had dug into her neck. She called the scar “Nunzio’s good-bye.” Domenico separated them. Nunzio walked up the gangplank and went to the ship’s rail above where Giovanna stood. He held one end of the string and threw the ball down to her.

The noise around them became deafening; people shouted, horns blew, and donkeys brayed in a whirl of motion. In the midst of this chaos, Giovanna and Nunzio stood perfectly still, staring into each other’s eyes, each holding tight to the string. Another horn blew shriller than the rest. Smoke billowed around them as lines were untied and the ship’s motor roared. Giovanna and Nunzio did not move, only the string began to unwind when the
Spartan Prince
slowly pulled out of port. The string stretched between them, becoming longer and longer as the ship became smaller. When the ball was at last unwound, the string left Giovanna’s and Nunzio’s hands at the same moment and drifted into the sea.

Cedar Grove, New Jersey, 1963

Everyone remembers that day. I just remember it a little differently. I was in the first grade, seated alphabetically, staring at the bulletin board. The second grade teacher walked into the room and whispered into my teacher’s ear. My teacher, who was old and very upright, slumped back onto her desk and covered her gaping mouth. It took a few minutes, but in a shaky voice, she told us to put our heads on our desks because the president had been shot. From our lowered viewpoint, we could catch glimpses of Mrs. Robinson pacing and whimpering. The principal’s voice came over the loudspeaker. It didn’t boom like usual. “Children, President Kennedy was shot and he has died. School is dismissed so that you can all go home and mourn with your families.” We didn’t quite get it. Mrs. Robinson had to tell us to leave.

My best friend, Thea, and I ran home to tell our mothers. As we ran into the circle at the dead end, there was a big black car, a funeral parlor car, in our driveway. I remember asking Thea if she thought they brought the dead president to my house. My mother was sitting with a strange man. I ignored him to announce the president’s death to my mother. Instead, she told me that my great-grandmother had died. She said my Big Nanny died at the same moment as the president. I spent the remainder of the day trying to figure out if my great-grandmother’s death and the president’s death were connected.

My mother and grandmother took me to the wake. I overheard them say, “It will be fine; she barely knew her.” They didn’t realize how well I remembered brushing my Big Nanny’s long gray hair, how holding her enormous silky hands always made me feel safe, and how I had memorized her face as she said words to me in Italian that I didn’t understand.

I studied my great-grandmother, her coffin, and the red roses that spelled
M-O-T-H-E-R
from the kneeler in front of the casket. She looked like a fairy princess with a rosary knotted in her fist. Her dress sparkled. It was blue, the same color as her eyes, the blue that they painted heaven in church. I absentmindedly played with the sequins on her gown and wondered about heaven. Did you eat in heaven? If so, would Big Nanny make the president gravy and meatballs? My musings were interrupted when my grandmother swatted my shoulder. “Get away from here now.”

As always, my grandfather came to my rescue and drew me onto his lap.

“She didn’t have to hit me, Nonno.”

“She’s upset, Anna. Everybody love your Big Nanny, but most of all your nanny.”

I watched Nanny take something from her vinyl purse. She unwrapped a small religious medal, kissed it, and placed it under the pillow that held Big Nanny’s head. For the first time ever, I saw my grandmother cry.

A month later I sat at my alphabetically arranged school desk. Mrs. Robinson handed out the new
Weekly Reader.
The president’s picture was on the cover and the headline was H
ERO
. I taped the card from the funeral parlor to my
Weekly Reader.
At the top of the card was the Blessed Virgin Mary with outstretched arms. Underneath Mary’s robes of heavenly blue was printed,
GIOVANNA COSTA SIENA
1873–1963.

Nunzio stood at the prow of the ferry with the throng of new immigrants released from Ellis Island. The ferry rocked as it approached the dock in Battery Park, where Nunzio could see a huge crowd of people waiting. Moments earlier, he’d overheard one of the ferry operators say, “You can always tell when we’re releasing eye-talians. There’s five of them at the gate for every one off the boat.”

The boat bumped up against the dock, and both crowds roared. The searching for familiar faces began even before the first person disembarked. The passengers gripped bags and lifted children, nervously inventorying their families and luggage as they jostled forward through the ferry gate as one. Within seconds, people were being hoisted into the air, embraced, and patted on the back. There was uncontrolled weeping and laughing. When all had disembarked, the crowd became a knot of humanity—relatives weaving in and out in search of loved ones, or padrones looking for fresh recruits for the mines and farms. At Ellis Island, Nunzio had been handed a pamphlet warning him of the swindlers that would greet them at the Battery and how much to expect to pay in rent or for a carriage ride. Watching the solicitors swarm the crowd, he wondered what would happen to those who couldn’t read or who hadn’t heard.

With most of the crowd dispersed, Nunzio continued squinting into the sun, looking for Lorenzo. He was trying hard not to be distracted by the tall buildings in the distance. Finally, one hundred yards away he saw a man running, carrying a child with one arm and holding the hand of a small woman with the other. Another child held onto the mother’s skirt and struggled to keep up. He couldn’t see his face, but he hadn’t forgotten that Lorenzo ran like a goat.

Lorenzo reached him, breathless, and caught him in an embrace. “The walk was longer than I remembered. I’m sorry, brother.” He kissed Nunzio’s cheeks. Nunzio had not yet heard Lorenzo call him brother. Lorenzo had always called him cousin, but after Nunzio and Giovanna married, Lorenzo’s letters began to refer to him as “
mio fratello
.” Seeing Lorenzo made Nunzio miss Giovanna even more. He hadn’t counted on Lorenzo being a constant reminder of his wife. Lorenzo too had smooth, clear skin and was tall and straight, but his face didn’t hold the conviction of Giovanna’s—it was more relaxed.

Lorenzo stepped back. “Teresa, this is my brother, Nunzio Pontillo. Nunzio, this is my wife, Teresa, and my children, Domenico and Concetta.”

Nunzio bent to kiss Teresa and lifted Concetta from the ground as she wiggled back to her mother. He took off Domenico’s cap and tousled his hair.

“Thick hair like your father’s. Are you as strong as your father?” Nunzio asked.

Domenico put up his fists and pummeled Nunzio’s legs. “Ah, stronger! How old are you, big boy?”

“Seven.” Domenico punctuated his age by making a muscle.

Laughing, they gathered the bags and turned to begin their trek to Elizabeth Street.

“It’s not as far as Naples,” teased Lorenzo, who was holding one end of the trunk with Nunzio holding the other. Lorenzo was grateful that Nunzio didn’t question him when he saw other arrivals get into horse-drawn carts with their families. And when Nunzio stared at the elevated track, Lorenzo knew that it wasn’t because he wanted to take the train but because he didn’t know what it was. Nunzio’s head was locked in the up position as they walked underneath the El. The track trembled and there was an enormous roar. Nunzio dropped the trunk, grabbed the children, and rushed from beneath the elevated track. Teresa and Lorenzo ran after Nunzio to assure him they were safe, but before they uttered a word, a train thundered on the track above, explaining everything. Nunzio stood in amazement with the children still clutched to his sides.

“The cars, none fell off! A railroad in the sky! This America of yours, does it always build what you dream?” Nunzio exclaimed.

Lorenzo dragged the trunk to where his brother-in-law stood and greeted Nunzio’s childlike enthusiasm with a parental answer: “Nunzio, I promise we will take a ride soon.” Lorenzo felt guilty again, especially because their route to Little Italy followed the El. He wished they had the extra money for train fare, but they had moved into a three-room apartment in preparation for Nunzio’s arrival and for the third child that young Teresa was carrying.

Nunzio didn’t know whether to look down or up, and if Lorenzo hadn’t been attached to the other side of the trunk, leading him out of the way of carriages, he would have been run over. Nunzio stomped his foot on the pavement and looked down.

“It’s a sidewalk,” said Lorenzo. “They are on some streets.”

“Where does it lead?” asked Nunzio.

“Wherever you want,” answered Lorenzo, smiling.

Nunzio thought his head was going to burst trying to absorb it all. When Lorenzo asked about Giovanna, Nunzio realized that for the first time in his three-week voyage, he wasn’t thinking about her. He was too caught up in the sights, heights, and sounds of this strange city.

More people passed speaking a foreign tongue.

“Does no one speak English in America, Lorenzo?”

Lorenzo laughed. “Even when we all speak English, our accents are so different we don’t know if we are speaking the same language. Language is not so important in this country. If you want to understand one another, you do.”

“This way. We’ll walk up Broadway,” directed Lorenzo.

Concetta and Domenico kept stealing glances at Nunzio, who only occasionally caught them because his head was spinning. A cherry tree was in bloom next to a church with a tall spire that Nunzio was scrutinizing.

“It’s not a Catholic church,” Lorenzo said. “It’s an American church, Trinity, and people think it is very old.”

A streetcar pulled by horses thundered toward them. Not bony horses like the ones in Calabria, but enormous ones that dwarfed the pedestrians. The streetcar carried more people than Nunzio could count—men and women pressed so close together that Nunzio imagined Father Clemente would be outraged. When the car passed, Nunzio had a full view of an even more amazing sight; it was a building taller than he imagined possible.

Lorenzo looked back at Nunzio and smiled. “I knew you would have your head in the clouds.”

“What is it? What is it called, Lorenzo?”

“And I knew you would ask me about the buildings, so I found out their names. This one is called Park Row. They finished it last year, and they say it is the tallest. But this seems to me a big competition these Americans have. If they don’t stop, they’ll scratch the sun.”

Teresa smiled at her husband and directed her pride at her children. “See how much your papa knows?” Lorenzo had told her all about Nunzio, how he was a maestro, and how he had gone to school in the north. She was nervous to meet him, embarrassed that she couldn’t read and write. But she was feeling less uncomfortable already; Nunzio had a nice smile, and she liked how he treated the children. Teresa was only fifteen when she married Lorenzo. She had never gone to school, but she had been in the country since she was a little girl, and this gave her the edge to maintain the balance of power in their marriage.

Nunzio stopped in front of Park Row. Lorenzo tugged. “Brother, you will see the sights when I don’t have forty kilos hanging off my arm. Forza.”

They walked through an area with large, wide buildings, not as tall as the others, but mammoth structures that were grouped together. Lorenzo would narrate when he saw Nunzio’s eyes lock onto something. “This is the city hall and the court.”

Nunzio thought about Scilla’s small stone building near the chiazza where they brought the babies and where they recorded their marriages. In his mind, he saw Giovanna at his side as he signed the ledger recording their marriage before the
sindaco
. Diverted from this memory by the row of skyscrapers that loomed before him, he focused on the one that was bigger than the rest, which had a gold dome.

“Is this the Jewish church?” Nunzio had heard that many Jews lived near the Italians.

“No, a newspaper building. They all are. That one is the
New York World
building.”

Nunzio sighed. “There must be a lot to write about.”

Conversation about newspapers made Teresa insecure, so she pointed beyond the buildings toward the east. “Nunzio,
guarda
!”

Nunzio had caught a few glimpses of the structure, but it was distant and too unbelievable. Within range of his scrutiny, he was forced to drop the trunk and marvel at the towers and suspension wires of the Brooklyn Bridge. Lorenzo knew that he had no choice but to stop and rest, and this was as good a place as any. Teresa smiled with a child’s pride that she was the first to point out the most spectacular of all the marvels to him.

Nunzio stood in awe. Had Giovanna been there, she would have been convinced that such reverence proved that Nunzio saw God in the works of man. When they eventually picked up the trunk, it was as if a prayer had ended, and they continued on in silence. Nunzio glanced back at the bridge, and only then were his eyes able to take in the river, the ferries, the barges, and the bustle of waterfront activity.

Their walk had taken them up Park Row, but now Lorenzo led them left onto Mott Street. The English letters on signs turned into Chinese characters. Nunzio knew many different people lived in New York, but he hadn’t expected them to have their own cities. He imagined that China didn’t look much different than life on this street; pigs and hens hung in store windows, people ate with sticks in restaurants, and baskets of clothes were piled to the ceiling in cellar laundries. Nunzio saw a shop with small bottles of every color and shape arranged neatly on shelves over barrels brimming with herbs. He knew Giovanna’s eyes would burn bright if she saw such a place and he envisioned her rubbing the herbs between her fingers, smelling them, and concocting recipes for new poultices and salves.

Two Chinese men in Western dress walked toward them, but when they passed, Nunzio saw that long braids fell from their felt hats. He wondered how you decide to wear the Western suit but keep your hair in a long tail. What would change about him in this l’America? Nunzio thought of the Calabrians who returned home but thereafter were called Americani. There was no time to figure out the answers to these and other questions; he was trying too hard to navigate the strange streets. He simply had to take it all in and have faith that the curious would soon explain itself.

A Chinese peddler, balancing a large wicker basket on a long stick, walked beside them. Nunzio was sure that whatever the teetering basket held would soon fall on his head, and he tugged Lorenzo farther away. They followed the stone path that Lorenzo had called a sidewalk, but many streets, including this one, were also paved in stones, and it made the noise around them deafening. The sounds of wagon wheels, boxes being dragged, water splashing from pots—all were amplified with no dirt to absorb them. There was such a rhythm to the noise and motion of the street that Nunzio’s closest comparison was Scilla’s Feast of Saint Rocco. Life in this New York was a parade without an order of march.

“Lorenzo, is every day like this?” shouted Nunzio.

“It’s quiet today because it is Sunday.”

For the first time, Nunzio felt exhausted.

“Ah, we are on Elizabeth Street,” exclaimed Lorenzo.

The Chinese characters changed to Italian words. Even from the signs, he could tell that much of the dialect was Sicilian.

This street was not paved with stones. Dust and dried manure swirled through the air with each breeze. Some pushcarts, stripped of their inventory, lined the road.

Responding to Nunzio’s glances, Lorenzo said, “On weekdays, there are so many sellers it’s difficult to walk. It can be a good living. This block here”—Lorenzo nodded—“is where all the fish peddlers live. Elizabeth Street is mainly Sicilians. There are more Calabrians on Mulberry Street, but we found a better apartment here.” Since marrying a girl from Puglia, Lorenzo crossed lines more easily.

“Here we are. Home. Elizabeth Street, 176.”

They entered a narrow, dark hall and climbed three flights. The children ran up the stairs ahead. If it weren’t for the strong and familiar smells on each landing, and the laughing and arguing that characterized Sunday dinner echoing in the halls, Nunzio would have thought they had entered a cave. Lorenzo pushed open one of two doors on the third floor. They entered an apartment with not much more light than the hallway.

“We moved in last week,” said Lorenzo nervously. By the expression on Nunzio’s face, Lorenzo knew that Nunzio’s reaction was similar to his own when he first saw the houses of l’America.

Nunzio walked between the three small rooms thinking, “How do you get outside? Is the only way out really down those narrow stairs?” Looking for an escape, he ducked his head under the fabric hanging on a string in front of the window. Raising the curtain, he leaned his body on the sill and was startled by all the people looking back at him. Hundreds of people were leaning out their windows above and beneath him, across the street, and up the block. The tenement dwellers stared at the newcomer, and Nunzio nodded awkwardly. A man smoked a cigar; a woman called to her children; but mostly, they leaned forward, watching the seething street with their elbows resting on pillows or burlap sacks. “So, this is how you go outside in l’America,” thought Nunzio. He had heard descriptions of New York apartments, but like everything thus far about l’America, until you saw it, you wouldn’t believe it, and even then it was hard to comprehend.

Upon arriving, Teresa immediately set about preparing a meal in the cramped kitchen. “I was only a child, but I remember the food on that ship.”

Teresa had done most of the cooking before going to meet Nunzio at the Battery. Sunday dinner was always extravagant—they had meat and salad—but today she had prepared all of her specialties with Lorenzo’s blessing. The children lifted the cloth to pick at the
pasticcini,
but Teresa slapped their hands and shooed them into the hall to play. Lorenzo poured Nunzio a glass of wine and explained that he had traded a few things for a soft mattress to put in the kitchen for Nunzio’s bed.