Elizabeth Street - Laurie Fabiano [91]
“Giovanna, I know that man!” exclaimed Lorenzo, pointing to a man ready to board. “I painted a mural in his import office.”
Lorenzo fought his way through the crowd, calling the man’s name. The well-dressed signore heard the call and turned.
“Signore, I am Lorenzo Costa. Can you help us?” The man’s face was swollen and red, and he looked at Lorenzo with a dazed expression.
“Remember, signore, I painted your mural? Of the Strait of Messina?”
“Oh, sì, sì.” The man continued to stare at Lorenzo.
“Signore, please, can you send word of my family? They are in Scilla, Calabria.”
“But I hope to go to Messina. My wife, my children, my parents, they are all there. I…,” he said, pounding his chest, “I sent them. I sent them for Christmas. I sent them to their deaths. May the saints be with your family, Signore Artiste.” The gentleman turned and left.
The scene at the cable office, which was their next stop, was no different. Crowds of Sicilians and Calabrians jammed the small office and the street. A clerk, standing on his desk, tried to yell over the din of the crowd. “You can place a cable, but it won’t get there. There are no telegraph or telephone lines in the area. Try again in a few days.”
Most of the crowd, including Giovanna and Lorenzo, waited in line anyway to send their futile missives, even prepaying for the reply they wouldn’t receive. The line was long, and the crowd exchanged newspapers while waiting. Today’s story was longer, covering many pages and featuring maps and photographs of Messina and Reggio before the disaster. Giovanna was given a New York Herald and was about to pass it on when she saw much of it was written in Italian. Leaving Lorenzo in line, she went outside to read.
100,000 DEAD IN MESSINA, REGGIO’S LOSS IS 45,000 IN STAGGERING CALAMITY
SHIPS RUSHED TO STRICKEN SECTIONS WITH FOOD AND TENTS
HELPLESS, HOPELESS SURVIVORS OF THE TERRIFYING SHOCK BECOME SHRIEKING MANIACS AND ADD TO THE TERROR OF THE SCENES BY ENDING LIVES ALONGSIDE VICTIMS’ BODIES
Try as she might by praying feverishly, Giovanna could not stop visualizing her parents trapped beneath rubble, dead—or worse, in pain and unreachable. To have her fears expounded upon in the ink of a newspaper was too much to bear. She forced herself to scan the article, looking for mention of Scilla, but she did not find it. Even the map didn’t show Scilla. But it did show the neighboring towns of Bagnara and Palmi, and it said that hundreds of bodies had been found. She shivered at the thought that Scilla was closer to Reggio and Messina than either of these two places.
“It is sent.” Lorenzo lifted his sister off the crate by her hand. “Did you find out anything more?” Wordlessly, she showed him the map and pointed out all the surrounding cities that had been destroyed. He looked at the paper but said nothing.
“I heard someone say that people are going to the Consul General’s office,” mumbled Lorenzo. “Let’s try.”
Arriving at Consul General Massiglia’s office on Lafayette Street, they were greeted by mayhem. People were fighting to get in the door and yelling, “Give us transport!” “Release the names of the dead!” The Consul General’s underlings moved through the crowd, telling them the little they knew and trying hopelessly to quell the anxiety and assure people that when they received information it would be quickly disseminated. Lorenzo shrugged in desperation. There was only one place left to go.
Lorenzo and Giovanna stepped into Our Lady of Loreto on Elizabeth Street. Every candle was lit, and the church was crowded with weeping women—and even with men, who were unaccustomed to the surroundings because baptism and death were often the only occasions that brought an Italian man to church.
Looking around, Giovanna felt a pang of guilt for not coming here first. She surprised herself at how practical she