The Shoemaker's Wife(42)

“You always tell the truth. You stand up for the weak. And you’re not afraid of taking chances. When the sisters told us that we had to leave, and they told you that you had to go to America, you didn’t flinch. You didn’t cry. You didn’t try to make a better deal for yourself, you just accepted their offer.”

“Maybe that makes me a pushover,” Ciro said.

“No, it makes you wise. Like Papa, you aren’t afraid of trying something new. I don’t have that kind of daring in my nature, but you do. I’m not going to worry about you in America.”

“Liar.”

“Let’s put it this way, I’m going to try not to worry about you.”

“Well, I wish I could say the same.” Ciro said. “Keep your eyes open, Eduardo. Holy men sometimes aren’t. Don’t let them push you around or make you feel like you’re not one of them. You’re smarter than the keenest of their lot. Take charge. Show them what you can do.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“I’ll work hard because it’s all I know,” Ciro said. “But, everything we do, everything we make, is done so we might to return to the mountain. Together.”

Eduardo nodded in agreement. “Pray for me.”

“Papa said something to me the night before he left, and I wrote it in my missal, so I would never forget it.” Eduardo’s eyes glinted with tears as he opened his leather-bound black missal to the first page. He handed it to Ciro. In a young boy’s measured script, Eduardo had written:

Beware the things of this world that

can mean everything or nothing.

Ciro closed the book and handed it back to Eduardo. “You’ve never been without this missal. It belongs to you. Keep it.”

Eduardo placed it in Ciro’s hands firmly. “No, it’s your turn now. When you read it, you will think of me. Besides, I know you aren’t one for daily mass—”

“Or Sunday mass.”

“Or any mass!” Eduardo grinned. “But if you’ll read the missal, I think you’ll find some comfort.”

Ciro closed the missal. “The sisters of San Nicola, my brother, and the world conspire to turn me into a good Catholic. To all of you, I say, good luck.”

The whistles of an incoming train pierced the air. An attendant climbed a ladder and wrote the new arrival on the station’s giant blackboard:

R O M A

“I have to go,” Eduardo said, his voice breaking. “That’s my train.”

The brothers embraced. They held one another a long time, until Eduardo straightened his back and gently released his brother.

“You go to track two for the train to Venice—”

“I know, I know, then the ferry to Le Havre. Eduardo?”

Eduardo picked up his satchel. “Yes?”

“I’ve never been to France.”

“Ciro?”

“Yeah?”

“You’ve never been to Venice, either.”

Ciro put his hands on his hips. “Do you think anyone can tell? Do I look like a goat herder from the Alps?”

“Only when you wear lederhosen.” Eduardo slung his satchel over his shoulder. “Be careful in America, Ciro. Don’t let anyone take advantage of you. Watch your money. Ask questions.”

“I will,” Ciro assured him.

“And write to me.”

“I promise.”

Four young men, similar in countenance and age to Eduardo, each carrying a single satchel, boarded the train for Rome. Eduardo turned to follow them. “Your new brothers are waiting for you,” Ciro said.

“They will never be my brothers,” Eduardo said. “I only have one.”

Ciro watched as Eduardo slowly disappeared into the crowd.

“And don’t you forget it!” Ciro shouted, waving the missal, before he, too, crossed the platform and boarded a train to take him to his new life.





PART TWO

Manhattan





Chapter 9

A LINEN HANDKERCHIEF

Un Fazzolletto di Lino

Two days after he left Eduardo at the train station in Bergamo, Ciro made his way up the plank of the SS Chicago in Le Havre, hauling his duffel over his back. His impression of the French port city was limited to the view of the canal, with its bobbing dinghies nipping at the hulls of ocean liners lashed to the docks. The pier was cluttered with passengers filing up the planks of the ships with their luggage. Behind a wall of fishing net, swarms of loved ones waved their handkerchiefs and tipped their hats as they bid their final good-byes.

There was no one to see Ciro off on his journey. For an ebullient young man who had never known a stranger, he was subdued and sober as he made his connections. Ciro bought a meal of cold polenta and hot milk before boarding. He skipped the sausage, so the hearty meal only cost him a few centesimi. He hoped to arrive in America with his small purse intact.

The attendant took Ciro’s ticket and directed him belowdecks to the men’s third-class compartment. Ciro was relieved the sexes were segregated on this ship, as Sister Ercolina had told him about grim steerage accommodations where men, women, and children stayed in one large room, separated only by squares drawn on the ship’s floor with paint.

Ciro pushed the metal door to his cell open, dropped his head, and stooped to enter. The room was five by five feet, with a small cot jammed against the wall. Ciro could not stand up in it, and there was no window. But it was clean enough, with a scent of saltwater.