The Queen of the Big Time (26 page)

“Nella, Nella, honey?” Franco gently nudges me awake. “Get dressed.”

I open my eyes and see my husband with a hat and coat on, and my son dressed the same. “What time is it?”

“Midnight.” Frankie giggles and tugs on my arm to get me up.

“Are you two crazy?”

“Papa has a surprise,” says Frankie, “and he won’t tell us what it is.”

“Get dressed,” Franco says again.

“Where are we going?”

“It’s a secret. Pop and Mama are gonna watch Celeste. We’ll be back by morning.”

“Okay, okay.” For the past month, I’ve been doing everything my husband asks of me. This request is pushing me to the limit, but I’m determined to give him whatever he wants. I climb into my clothes, stockings, and boots and meet them downstairs. Franco has packed a thermos and biscotti in a bag.

“Let’s hit the road.” He leads us out the door. Frankie looks at me and shrugs, and I shrug right back at him. From our first date, Franco Zollerano has prided himself on surprises, road trips, offbeat destinations.
I should complain that he’s crossed the line, waking our son in the middle of the night, but I bite my tongue.

Frankie soon falls asleep in my arms. Franco plays the radio and whistles as we drive toward Philadelphia. I cannot imagine what he has cooked up. “Honey, where are we going?” I ask about three miles outside Philadelphia.

“Have you read the road signs?”

“We’re in Philly, but what’s in Philly that is so important that you had to drag us out of our warm beds in the middle of the night?”

“You’ll see.” Franco pulls up in a parking lot behind a series of buses and a few trucks. When he turns off the engine, Frankie wakes up. “Are we here?”

“We’re here. Come on, son.” Franco takes his son’s hand and leads him across the parking lot. I follow, and as I move through the parked vehicles, I realize that we are at the site of the traveling circus, the greatest in the world: the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey circus.

“Don’t tell me we’re joining the circus,” I say to no one in particular.

“There it is, son.”

And there, in an open field, is the big top. It lies flat on the ground like a parachute. The orange-and-white-striped tarp seems to cover an acre. Then, with a mighty trumpet, an elephant, guided by three trainers, comes down a ramp and lumbers over to one side of the flat tarp. Soon another elephant comes down the ramp and is positioned on the other side. A third elephant comes down the ramp, this one the baby, and it too is led to the tarp. A trainer blows a whistle, the trainers holler at each other, and one shouts, “Lift!” And the three elephants line up. With their brute strength, they pick up the poles with their trunks. The flat tarp is pulled into standing position in moments.

Frankie’s eyes, wide with wonder, can barely believe the majesty of what he sees. “They put up the tent, Papa.”

“Yep. The elephants do all the work,” Franco replies.

I watch my son and his father as they marvel at the sight. My nose
burns as my eyes fill with tears. I married a man who sees the world in a completely different way from me. He is full of wonder. I cry, not for my son’s amazement, or for how I have been given the gift of witnessing this love between them. Rather, I cry for me. I don’t believe in anything except what I can see. If I can’t touch it, it’s not real. My imagination has always taken a backseat to my practical nature. I don’t know how to have fun, I don’t know how to let go, and therefore I don’t know how to live. I think I love deeply, but I don’t. I don’t give of myself where it counts. I don’t give my husband a sense of flight, or my children a sense of magic.

“Nella, can you believe it?” Franco watches the orange and white tent, now suspended on poles and ready for business.

“It’s wonderful,” I say softly.

“Was it worth the trip?” he asks, not taking his eyes off the skillful operation.

“I’ll say.” And then we watch the parade of animals, regal and dignified as they process into the glorious tent. The llamas, the bears, the tiger, and the lion, followed by the hardworking elephants, disappear inside.

“Just like Noah’s ark.” Frankie counts the animals.

“Almost.” Franco puts his arms around his son.

“That was the best thing I ever saw,” Frankie says to his father. “Do you think so, Ma?”

“Oh yes,” I agree.

“You’re not going. You’re too old.”

“I’m thirty-four.”

“That’s too old!” I tell my husband, knowing full well that three Roseto men have already signed up to fight against Mussolini and Hitler, and their ages are twenty-nine, thirty-four, and thirty-eight.

“The army doesn’t think so.”

“I don’t want you to go,” I plead, but to no avail. Franco’s mind is made up.

“You have help here. Your parents won’t be traveling to Italy with the war on, and my folks are right across the street. It would be different if we didn’t have their help with the kids, but we do. I want to do the right thing,” Franco says firmly.

“The right thing is to be safe for your wife and children,” I remind my husband. I can see by the way he looks past me and out the window that I am losing the fight.

“They need mechanics badly. There isn’t a machine in the world that I can’t take apart and put back together again.”

“Please, Franco.”

“Nella, if there was ever a woman who didn’t need a man around, it’s you.” He kisses me on the forehead. “Now, think about your children and their future.”

“I am thinking of them! We can raise money for bonds and help the war effort in other ways.”

“I want to show my son how to love his country, and I can’t do that staying here and working in the mill. I need your support, honey.”

We have been going back and forth about this since December 7, 1941, when the news broke. It is February and Franco is determined to join up. He has already spoken with the recruiter, who gave him hope that they would take him at thirty-four. “I support you.” But really, I’m giving up. He’s a man on a mission, and no one, not even his mother, can stop him.

The entire family, the Paganos, Zolleranos, Castellucas, our children, and I, all take the ride to New York City to see Franco report for duty. I cry for most of the eighty-mile car trip (we have three cars in caravan, with Franco driving the lead car). I try to be strong for the children, though Frankie thinks his father is a hero already, and Celeste is too young to understand. That leaves me to reconcile my husband’s choice. I look over at him and think about what he told me, that I don’t need a man, but he’s so wrong. I need him desperately, and the thought of losing him is inconceivable to me.

And yet I’m not alone in my heartbreak. Many families in Roseto are giving up their men: Chettie’s baby brother, Oreste, Franco’s first cousin Paul. Nearly every girl at the mill has a husband, beau, or brother who is shipping out. But no matter how many men go, every woman feels alone, bereft by what she can only hope is a temporary loss. It is not only men that we are losing to the fight; Roseto has two nurses who are shipping out to England. We pray for victory, and soon.

Franco’s younger brother has already joined the navy. My mother-in-law faces the possible loss of two sons, yet she doesn’t shed a tear. I am amazed at her strength.

It seems so odd for those of us who are Italian to be at war against the country we come from. It is hard to understand turning against your own, but we know the true hearts of the Italian people, at least those from our village. They don’t want a dictator. My husband is not conflicted at all about Mussolini. “He must go,” Franco said simply.

Franco kisses his mother and father good-bye, then he kisses Frankie and then Celeste, who stuff all sorts of trinkets into his pockets. He takes me in his arms and kisses me last. As I walk him to the entrance, he doesn’t say much. For the first time in our marriage, he is quiet and I’m a chatterbox. I try to encapsulate all our dreams quickly, reminding him of what we’ve meant to each other, promising him that I’ll take care of the children, that when he returns we will have our dream and open our own blouse mill.

“I’m not worried,” Franco says.

“Good. That means you’ll be careful.” I try to smile.

“I’ll be careful,” he promises.

We look at each other, and I no longer see any trace of the young man I met at the mill when I was just fifteen. He isn’t simply older, he has grown up.

“You know that I love you with all my heart, all of it,” I tell him.

“And I love you.”

“Come home to me.”

“I will, Nell. I promise.”

Franco joins the other recruits in a line, and I see that my husband is by far the oldest. But when it comes to experience and skill, he will have much to offer. As he walks into the building where the recruits will be detained, I turn and walk back to my family. Elena holds Celeste, while Papa holds Frankie’s hand. From this moment on, no matter what comes, I will not cry, I promise myself. I will do what my husband wishes and try to live without him. It’s not like I have a choice.

Chettie and I spend our lunches at the mill scheming about what it will be like when Franco and I are finally able to open our own factory. It’s been nine months since he left. Chettie’s brother has been sent to the Pacific theater, and his letters are less frequent now. We hear news that the war cannot go on much longer, but who knows for sure?

Freddie Jenkins has decided to take as much advantage of us as he can while the men are away. (Freddie was deferred due to poor eyesight.) The movie business is booming, and our mill continues to crank out styles worn by the younger starlets, Lana Turner, Gene Tierney, and the Latin bombshell Carmen Miranda. The design from her image came in, and we all had a chuckle. A floral blouse tied at the waist, perfect with the suspender pants and platform shoes so popular now. The machine operators had quite a time with the voile material, but the results were spectacular.

Frankie writes to his papa once a week. He imagines Franco in bomber jets and on the field carrying a gun. In fact, Franco is working in a munitions plant in England. He is repairing the planes that return from battle. News of the bombings in London always take my breath away, but I pray that Franco is out of harm’s way.

When the government car pulls up in front of the factory, the buzzing of the machines goes silent. One girl in our ranks, Mary Bozelli, lost her fiancé, and that was almost a year ago. She left work
that day, but returned the next. She dealt with her grief by pressing on, and we all marveled at her strength.

“Oh no,” Chettie says. “Bad news.”

My heart leaps into my throat as the young officer comes toward us.

“Who are you looking for, sir?”

“Concetta … I can’t pronounce the last name.”

“Marucci?” Chettie asks, her voice trembling.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That’s me.”

“The United States Army regrets …”

I watch Chettie as though we are in a fog; she nods and listens to the officer, her eyes fill with tears, and when he says the name Oreste Ricci, tears roll down her face. The officer turns and goes.

“My poor brother,” Chettie cries. “How will I tell Mama?” Then Chettie fishes in her apron and pulls out Oreste’s picture. She bows her head and begins to pray the Litany of the Saints, reminding them to welcome her brother into their fold. I bow my head with her, but I’m overcome with the sorrow of it all; I mouth the words, but I’m not really praying. The last thing I would do in a moment like this is seek out God. Why would I pray to Him, when He took my loved one from me? But Chettie is different. In matters of faith she has always been clear and uncompromising. She knows what she knows about her soul as though it were her right hand. It’s as real to her as the things in this world, something that I have never been able to comprehend. She slips the picture back into her pocket. “After all that, my brother dies.”

“After all what, Chet? The war?”

“No. Losing Papa the way we did. Oreste without a father since he was a boy. I watched as my brother went from a carefree, happy boy to a somber little soldier. And then fate makes him one.”

I hug Chettie, who tells me that she must go and tell her mother. She moves down the steps and up Garibaldi Avenue to take the turn
onto Dewey Street. She walks so heavily, and the factory is still so silent, that I can hear her footsteps as she goes.

The funeral mass for Oreste Ricci at Our Lady of Mount Carmel brings out all the women and men who have sons, brothers, and husbands in the war.
Homefront
magazine, published in Bangor, Pennsylvania, runs a special article about Oreste. War has erased the lines among Italian, Welsh, Irish, and Dutch. We realize that we are all in this together. We’ve even stopped using the expression “Johnny Bull.”

Renato gives a beautiful eulogy, remembering Oreste as a boy, and chronicles the Ricci family saga. He speaks of their bravery and their common touch, reminding us all of Carlo Ricci, who was our school janitor. Renato is a powerful and convincing speaker, but he too is filled with emotion when the flag is presented to Oreste’s mother.

The November wind is bitter cold when we leave the church. There will be no burial today. The Riccis are hoping that Oreste’s remains will be found, though he was serving at sea, so the possibility of that is slim.

“Nella, how are you?” Renato comes through the crowd, seeking me out.

“I’m fine. The family’s fine.”

“Any word from Franco?”

“He’s still in London. So far, so good.”

“I’m praying for him.”

“Thank you.”

“Nella, could we talk for a moment?”

“Sure.” I look around, and maybe it’s my imagination, but I feel eyes on me, all around.

“Come with me,” he says. Then, in a gesture that makes me uncomfortable, he guides me through the crowd, across the plaza in front of the church, and next door to the church office and rectory.

“Hello, Mrs. Stampone,” I say to the church volunteer who keeps
the rectory. Mrs. Stampone looks up and smiles, going about her dusting. Renato leads me into his office and closes the door.

“I haven’t seen you at Mass for a very long time. Why is that?”

“We’re going to St. Elizabeth’s in Pen Argyl now,” I tell him. At first we were the subject of some gossip for leaving Mount Carmel, but then a rumor went around that we were thinking of opening a factory in Pen Argyl, so we wanted to stake a claim in the community. Of course, that wasn’t true.