Elizabeth Street - Laurie Fabiano [50]
“My uncle, her husband, was killed on a job. A lady said to look in the newspaper at the library.”
The librarian, who appeared as if she wanted to ask a few more questions, simply said, “Follow me.”
They walked for what seemed like blocks and then entered a room with shelves housing tall volumes. The librarian instructed them to sit at a desk that was so highly polished they could see their reflections in its surface.
“Do you know the date of your uncle’s accident?”
Domenico looked up from the table. “September 2.”
“Try this.”
She heaved a huge book off the shelf. On the cover it read in gold letters, THE NEW YORK TIMES, SEPTEMBER 1902. Opening and leafing through the book filled with newspapers, she said, “It would be here in the beginning, September 3. If he perished on the second, you would look on the third.” Her finger scanned the index, looking for obituaries, but before she got to O, her eye caught a headline on page one: FIVE MEN KILLED IN GAS TANK COLLAPSE.
“Young man, where was your uncle killed?”
“In Brooklyn.”
Brooklyn Union Gas Company was cited in the first line. “And what was his name?”
“Nunzio Pontillo.”
For the first time the woman paid attention to Giovanna. “Why don’t you and your aunt come sit over here.”
They followed her to a desk in the corner by a window.
She put the book down. “Do you read well, young man?”
“My teacher says I do.”
“Well, it appears that the article about your uncle is right here. Are you going to copy it?”
“Yes.” He took out a thick pencil and a scrap of paper that had wrapped yesterday’s chestnuts.
“You’ll need more paper than that.” She left and returned with a few clean white sheets.
Domenico took his first look at the article, and his eyes widened.
“I will be back at my desk. But if you need something, you could ask that gentleman right there.” She pointed to an old man hunched over papers and squinting through his glasses. “He’s the archivist.”
Giovanna, assuming they had moved for better light, didn’t yet realize something had been found, and she had been amusing herself by running her hands over the gleaming wood and inhaling the smell of leather, ink, and paper in the lofty room.
“Zia, there is something here.”
Giovanna looked at him distractedly.
FIVE MEN KILLED IN GAS TANK COLLAPSE. Domenico read the headline first in English and then translated it into Italian.
Giovanna snapped to attention, and her heart raced.
He read the subheadline: CRUSHED BETWEEN STEEL BOTTOM AND CONCRETE FLOOR. Domenico continued, “Then it says, ‘THREE HOURS’ WORK BEFORE THE LAST BODY WAS REACHED—1,764 RIVETS HAD TO BE CUT—SUPERINTENDENT MULLIGAN ARRESTED.’”
From the corner of his eye, Domenico saw his aunt begin to tremble.
Not far into the article was the list of the five men, their names, ages, and addresses. Nunzio’s was the fourth name.
“Show me, show me,” said Giovanna, who then ran her finger across Nunzio’s name in the paper. Now she not only trembled but swallowed repeatedly while stretching her neck.
Painstakingly, Domenico translated each sentence. There were many words he didn’t know, and whole sentences that he couldn’t understand, but Giovanna kept motioning him on, saying, “Don’t worry; write it down.”
At one point, when Domenico was having a particularly difficult time reading, Giovanna’s mind wandered to Scilla’s chiazza. In her mind, she and Nunzio were under the juniper bush listening to Vittorio read the story of Nunzio’s death.
It was nearly one hour before Domenico reached the part describing the accident.
“All went well until about 3 o’clock when Superintendent Mulligan, who was in sole charge of the operation, went to the telephone in the office of Taylor, Wood & Co. to send a private message. The bottom of the tank had been lowered six inches to twenty-six inches above the concrete floor. Eight men were in the space between the tank bottom and the concrete floor engaging in oiling the cups in which the pins of the jacks played.
“Suddenly, there was a creaking noise, and as three of the eight men darted from under the