Elizabeth Street - Laurie Fabiano [49]
“But your husband is an important man. He should do something about this!” was Giovanna’s reaction.
“I’m afraid for him it is an issue of race,” Lucrezia explained with embarrassment. Realizing that Giovanna didn’t have a clue what she was talking about, she explained, “When you came into Ellis Island, did they ask you where in Italy you came from?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it starts there. Actually, that is not true. It started before you got on the boat, but that’s Italy’s history.”
“Lucrezia, please,” intoned Giovanna, thinking that Lucrezia’s tendency to digress was one of her few weaknesses.
“Italians entering Ellis Island are considered to be of two races. A race from the north and a race from the south. The northerners are classified ‘white’ and the southerners ‘in-betweeners.’ Of course, in Italy, the northerners simply call you peasants or Africans. My husband comfortably distances himself from the slurs, the accidents, the inequities, because he sees himself as a different race.”
The image of Nunzio serving drinks at the Roman party flashed through Giovanna’s mind. Shocked at Lucrezia’s honesty, it confirmed her feeling that Lucrezia felt no allegiance to her husband if she was willing to share such embarrassing information. Everyone was worthy of contempt at the moment—the Americans, the northern Italians, and her fellow southern Italians—for accepting the injustice.
The new mother’s husband arrived home to meet his infant son, his fourth. Lucrezia and Giovanna stepped into the hall to allow them a few moments of privacy. They leaned against the wall and continued their conversation. “Why have you stopped asking questions about Nunzio’s accident?” asked Lucrezia.
“I don’t know what or who to ask in the absence of this Carmine.”
“Did you check the newspapers?”
THIRTEEN
“Aspetta, we have to turn right on Lafayette Street!” called Giovanna to Domenico, who was steps ahead of her on Grand Street. Domenico would no longer hold her hand and had a tendency to outdistance even Giovanna’s long strides.
She was incredibly nervous. Nunzio had mentioned going to a library at school, but she had never been to one. She was filled with questions, not the least of which was what do you do when you get there? With her ten-year-old nephew as a guide, she tried to think of it as an adventure. And then came the more difficult part—she had to try to convince herself that she liked adventures.
As she stopped in the middle of the block, Giovanna’s head pivoted from one side of the street to the other as she surveyed a large redbrick building on one side and a white columned row of buildings on the other. She looked at numbers, and Domenico looked at signs before they walked through the brick arched doors of the Astor Library on Lafayette Street.
Giovanna controlled her impulse to genuflect upon entering the building. She hadn’t seen this much real marble and ornate carving since visiting the church in Naples where she prayed after Nunzio’s departure. Domenico and Giovanna gazed in circles, taking it all in and looking for clues about what to do next. Carved wood balustrades surrounded bookcases on the right and desks on the left. A severe and squeaky-clean-looking woman sat at an imposing desk situated in the middle of the room. She didn’t look approachable, but everyone else was engaged.
Giovanna nudged Domenico forward. It was one of the first times she had seen her intrepid nephew unsure of himself. On the streets of their neighborhood, he was king. Here, among the pages of history and leather-bound dictionaries, he was a street urchin. Giovanna poked his shoulder again, encouraging him to speak.
“Ma’am, we need newspapers.”
“I believe you’ll find those sold on the street, by boys looking like yourself.” Before Domenico could protest, or, more likely, turn away, she added, “What kind of newspapers are you looking for?”
“One from September 1902.”
“That would be an archival newspaper.”
“Whatever you say, ma’am.”
“What paper were you interested in?”
Domenico scratched his head.
“What do you want to find?” the