Elizabeth Street - Laurie Fabiano [105]
The woman smiled and shrugged.
In frustration, the principal turned to Giovanna. “Could you translate?”
“My English no good,” stammered Giovanna, but nudged her three-year-old. “Angelina, help.”
“Alright, then,” said the principal, looking down at Angelina in both amusement and exasperation. “Little girl, will you please tell this woman that it is important for her daughter to come to school every day.”
Angelina, who acted much older than her years, turned to the woman confidently. “Signora, è importante che vostra figlia venga a scuola giornalmente.”
“Sì, ho capito.”
Angelina turned to the principal and, relishing her role, translated. “The lady said she understood.”
“Then ask her why her daughter is absent so much.”
“What’s absent?”
“Not in school.”
“Perché spesso vostra figlia non è a scuola?”
“Ha solamente un vestito.”
“Because she only has one dress.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Non capisce.”
“Devo lavare il vestito ed a volte non è asciutto di mattina.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Angelina, now understanding herself and turning back to the principal. “She has to wash the dress and sometimes it isn’t dry in the morning.”
The principal put his hands on his hips and let out a big sigh. “Tell the mother that before next year starts, I will get her a second dress—and I want her daughter in school every day.”
Angelina translated and the woman smiled.
“She said thank you.”
“You’re a smart little girl,” said the principal, patting her head. “Thank you very much.”
“Can I come to school? I’m almost four.”
“Soon…”
An explosion nearly rocked them off their feet. It was followed by a series of small exploding noises. The children’s screams of “La Mano Nera!” rang out from the open windows.
Within seconds there was the sound of chaos—chairs scraping, yelling, and stampeding feet. The principal looked around and, seeing nothing, ran into the building, shouting, “Stay in your classrooms. Everything is alright!” But the principal’s admonishments were drowned out by the children’s screams and their teachers’ efforts to control them.
Through the door, Giovanna saw children running down the stairs and falling over one another. The only way to help was to keep them flowing through the door. With Angelina clinging to her back, she held the door open and shouted to the children to keep walking, but not to run.
When the children saw no black smoke or cascading bricks, they began to calm down. The stampede stopped, and teachers lined the students up and inspected them for injuries. Giovanna spotted Mary and Frances and sighed in relief.
Up the block, two policemen were speaking with Father Salevini and a short man whose face was covered with ash. The father’s hands were gesticulating wildly. Giovanna moved closer to the principal, knowing the officers would report to him. When they strode up, she instructed Angelina to listen.
“What did they say?” she asked her daughter.
“They said the man was getting the bombs and firecrackers ready for Saint Anthony’s Feast on Sunday, and some of them went off.”
Giovanna sighed, softly shaking her head.
Angelina tugged on her mother’s skirt. “Mamma, are we going to the feast?”
JULY 21, 1909
Rocco bent to the crate to get more fruit for the cart. His hand shot to his back and he winced. Mondays were difficult, especially after such a big Sunday meal and a little too much wine. He mopped his brow with his handkerchief and squinted up at the sun to guess the time. Instead, he found himself staring into the face of the big square-headed man whom he knew had been watching him on and off for weeks.
“Ah, so the rat has finally come for the cheese?” exclaimed Rocco.
“It’s true then! I heard you were not so right in the head.”
“You should have also heard that I have no money, since your fellow schifosi bombed my store.”
“I know nothing of your store. Only that you seem to have a good pushcart business that needs to be protected.”
“Protected from you.”
“This is the price of business.”
“I’d rather my cart blow up and watch melons rain down on you, you big oaf!”
“Vaffanculo,