Mitla Pass - Leon Uris [131]
Hannah decided to conduct a quiet investigation on her own. Not that she was spying on Pearl, but a mother has certain rights to know. Pearl was a mere child and extremely delicate, as were all of her daughters. So, why not find out? She went shopping there twice a week, anyhow.
The Lexington Street Market was a century-old institution, where one could see a fantastic display from America’s cornucopia. Hundreds of stalls in regimented rows overflowed with mountains of foods of all stripes ... the produce of the rich earth of the Maryland truck farms ... the harvest from the Chesapeake Bay ... a conglomerate of ethnic tastes and aromas to stagger the senses. Hawkers hustled gawkers and eagle-eyed housewives pinched and bargained. Stall after stall displayed bakery goods adopted from a dozen different nations. Fish, vegetables, fruits, nuts, coffees, cheeses, meats, and sweets ... a section with ham hocks, chitlins and catfish, catering to the colored folks. Weigh it, blend it, trim it, slice it, wrap it in yesterday’s newspapers, here’s a free sample ... like it, lady?
Surrounding the market was a picket line of peddler carts filled with combs, mirrors, buttons, bows, and clothing and newspaper boys screaming war headlines and soapbox orators espousing forlorn causes.
Hannah stopped before the Abruzzi Brothers stall and drank in a deep breath and winced from the insulting smells of crabs, clams, oysters, shrimp, mussels, and other forbidden foods, alongside the iced bins of sixty varieties of fresh and smoked fish.
She studied the Italians in their fish-streaked rubber aprons and high boots, as they scaled, beheaded, gutted, and chucked from flat carts with oversized wheels into the bins and sang as they worked, as though personally anointed by Enrico Caruso.
The Jewish neighborhood was smack up against the Italian, whose hub was St. Leo’s Catholic Church on the corner of Exeter and Stiles streets a block away.
Italians? Not too bad, Hannah thought, if you looked at the broad picture. A woman didn’t have to feel afraid or particularly out of place walking through their neighborhood. They were certainly not like the Irish bums and hoodlums, who always gave the Jews a bad time.
The Irish never stopped drinking and fighting and they had swarms of kids they didn’t really care for. On the other hand, the Italians liked to eat and drink and made babies they adored. Leah and Fanny sometimes exchanged nasty words with the Italian girls who worked at the factory, but by and large they lived quite well side by side, and it was even possible to make a good friend. Italians thought very much of the family as a sacred institution, like the Jews.
“Hey, lady, you like to sample some fresh shrimp?” Angelo Abruzzi, an ancient fisherman, said.
Hannah screwed up her face and turned away. “Over my dead body you’ll catch me eating traif.”
“You Jewish lady? Forgetta the shellfish. I gotta bluefish, swordfish, shark, I gotta smelts and freshwater perch”—kissing fingers to lips to denote ambrosia—”I gotta white bass, snapper, and butterfish. I gotta smoked herring, cured herring, salted herring. ...”
When the old codger wasn’t hawking or singing opera, he was making eyes at the ladies. Nu, Hannah thought, a little flirting from an Italian was better than no flirt at all. Twice a week she stopped at the Abruzzi Brothers’ stall, and in no time at all they were exchanging friendly banter.
Old Angelo and his brother Tony had seven sons between them. Six of them worked two family fishing boats in the bay, while he and his brother