Elizabeth Street - Laurie Fabiano [12]
To keep them nourished, mothers breast-fed their children long after they would normally have been weaned. Giovanna watched as hungry people unconsciously stared at the breasts of nursing mothers, who would tug at their shawls to cover their chests as they walked quickly past.
“Giovanna, are you listening to me?” Nunzio took her chin in his hands and turned her face toward his own.
“Sì, sì, scusa, Nunzio, but before anything else, I want to have our children.”
Nunzio turned, dejected. “I know,” he whispered. This blow of reality changed his mood. They sat in silence for a long time. They could hear the water lapping up against the boats, could see the sea sparkle and smell the lemons in the air. They were being forced from the piece of heaven that their families had inhabited for generations.
“Giovanna, Scilla will always be our home and our children will marry here. I promise you this. Before we go to the north for your studies, I must get money to feed us and make things good again.”
Giovanna shivered. She knew where this conversation was going. The stars started to blur. The village where they traded food was totally empty. Immigration had started at the mountaintop and trickled down to the water. The fishermen were the last to go. Sometimes, Giovanna felt Scilla was hemorrhaging and would envision the town as her doomed friend, Francesca Marasculo. The blood had drained from the top to the bottom, and only a few were left behind clinging onto the dying village.
“It’s the twentieth century now, Giovanna. Things will change. They are changing all over the world; it is just coming more slowly to Scilla.”
Giovanna didn’t utter a sound.
“And engineers, the world needs engineers. I’ll come back to Scilla and build us a port.” Nunzio was using his big public voice.
At the words “come back,” a wail escaped from Giovanna. She pulled her knees to her chest and began to rock.
“Giovanna, I am sorry.” Tears streamed down Nunzio’s face. He tried to compose himself and reached into his pocket. “Look at this.” He pulled out a tattered piece of paper. It was an advertisement in English. “Lorenzo sent it.”
Giovanna’s eyes flashed anger at the betrayal. She knew Lorenzo thought he was helping, but how could he have done this?
Nunzio held the paper before her. He had learned some English in school, and he read it slowly to Giovanna.
CROTON RESERVOIR DAILY WAGE:
Common laborer, white $1.30–$1.50
Common laborer, colored $1.25–$1.40
Common laborer, Italian $1.15–$1.25
“Giovanna, more than a dollar a day! That’s a wealth of lire! Lorenzo said he would help me. I’ll be back in no time with all the money we need.”
“Lorenzo also said he would be back.”
“Lorenzo’s wife is in l’America. Mine is here.” Nunzio kissed her.
They cried together for so long they were saturated in each other’s sorrow. When they could cry no longer, they tangled their long legs together and made love, adding sweat to their tears.
Giovanna prayed that Nunzio would leave her with a child. In the month before Nunzio left, Giovanna ate more than her share and uncharacteristically took all that was offered, hoping to make herself healthy enough to conceive. She focused all her energies on this project, which was a diversion from the constant pain and foreboding she was living with.
The preparations for Nunzio’s departure were similar to those for Lorenzo, except she was now the one packing the trunk instead of her mother. Giovanna made it a mechanical task. She gathered, sorted, and wrapped items as if she were leading a demonstration on how to pack for the New World. She especially wanted to be sure he had dried fruits and nuts. For years they had heard stories about the horrible passage to l’America. The immigrants considered it the penance they had to pay for leaving their villages. But penance or not, Giovanna was determined that Nunzio would not eat vermin-infested food.
The only time her emotions revealed themselves was when she was baking mustasole, the hard cookies that would