Elizabeth Street - Laurie Fabiano [94]
Giovanna, who usually believed in miracles, could not accept this. Instead, she cradled her child and said sadly, “You keep praying.”
JANUARY 2, 1909
In what was now a ritual, the day started with the papers. For the first time, there was a list of confirmed dead, city by city. And there it was, “Scilla, 2,800.”
“That means 2,200 are still alive!” Giovanna thought with elation. It was the mathematics of tragedy, where every number becomes disconnected from the horror and pain of the life it represents. Giovanna found her thoughts consumed with macabre fractions. “If my parents are alive, then these three people are dead.” But complicating matters was the disclaimer at the bottom of the chart: “This list does not include the deaths that may occur in hospitals.” With this in mind, it was no longer simple math.
She began to add all the numbers for each city and then realized the total was already listed at the bottom: 164,850 confirmed dead. Who were the unconfirmed dead? Was that like not being baptized?
The sound of trumpets and drums from the street saved her from her thoughts. Clement ran to the window and reported. “There’s a band and lots of people and carriages behind it.” The entire family went to the window to see carriages decorated with Italian and American flags and signs asking for contributions for the earthquake’s victims. The first carriage was draped with banners reading IL PROGRESSO and was followed by men in thick overcoats and sashes.
Giovanna squinted to see the people in the carriages. They appeared to be important Italians—they had medals pinned to their chests in addition to the sashes. She was certain that one woman, whose picture she had seen in the paper, was an opera star. Young girls carrying tin boxes were at the sides of the procession, darting in and out of stores and vestibules to collect contributions. The carriages were already piled high with cans of food, medicine, and clothing.
Angelina watched a man at a fish cart unbutton his shirt, rip it from his body, and throw it on the carriage, leaving him bare-chested in the January wind. Women and children crossed themselves as the procession passed and ran into their apartments to get what little they had.
Giovanna quickly moved through the apartment picking up whatever she could and putting it into a basket. Thrusting the basket and coins into her stepson’s hands, Giovanna shouted, “Here, Clement, run down with this.” She was nearly drowned out by the sound of the band that was under their window and the weeping on the street when the procession passed.
JANUARY 3, 1909
“Rocco!” called Giovanna, running back into their apartment with the newspaper. “Rocco, here look!” Her husband was still in bed. She sat on the edge of the bed and read to him. “‘Physician gets no word from Italy. Dr. Bellantoni sends messages and money but obtains no reply.’ And he is from Scilla! Is this Bellantoni related to your Angelina?”
“And if he is? What can he do?” Rocco asked.
“He is sending messages everywhere. Listen to this: ‘In his efforts to obtain some word from the stricken district, the physician has sent messages to the Italian government and has appealed to the Italian Consul in this city, but all efforts so far failed to obtain any results.’”
“He is my wife’s third cousin. But I don’t see how he can help. He hasn’t been able to help himself.”
“Can I go see him?”
“I will go with you.”
It was a long trip to Dr. Bellantoni’s home, north on Amsterdam Avenue. His was an imposing brick house with a doorway framed in etched glass and brass hardware.
“Is it all his?” asked Giovanna, surveying the building.
“I think so,” answered Rocco, removing his cap and using the knocker.
A maid answered.
“I am from Scilla, here to see Dr. Bellantoni.”
Hearing “Scilla,” the maid hurried them into the foyer and scurried off to get the doctor.
They heard the doctor’s quick footsteps before they saw him. A short, rotund man practically lunged into the room to greet them. He looked quizzically at Rocco.
“I am Rocco Siena