The Shoemaker's Wife(56)

Enza, in her traveling clothes, would grip the railing on the deck. Giacomina could see every detail of her daughter’s hands—the slim blue veins, the tapered fingers, the trim white nails. As the storm swirled around her, Enza cried and held on. Giacomina then appeared in her own dream, crawling across the deck to save her daughter. Just as she reached to grab Enza’s cloak, a towering black wave stretching as high as a masthead bludgeoned the deck, swallowing Enza. Giacomina would call out for her lost daughter, then wake in sheer panic. Leaping out of bed, she would climb the ladder to the loft to find her daughter safely asleep. No amount of prayer would stop the nightmare, and no matter how Giacomina tried to let go of the image of her daughter aboard the ill-fated ship, she could not.

As Giacomina waved good-bye, she thought of the dream. She knew in her heart that it was the last time she would see Enza.

As Nerina clopped through the narrow streets of Schilpario, Enza turned to take one last look at Pizzo Camino, and the eternal white peaks of the Italian Alps that towered over the rolling green hills of the Orobie Prealps. She had been born and baptized on this mountain. She promised herself she would return and raise her children here; and someday, when she was old, she would be buried next to Stella under the blue angel.

It didn’t occur to Enza to be sad that circumstances were so dire that she and her father had to leave their family to make enough money to buy a house. As she had always done, she would imagine the house in her dreams and build it beam by beam. The goal was to come home as quickly as possible. That dream would fuel her ambition. She would work as many hours a day as she could stand, save every penny, and return to Schilpario as soon as possible. There was no regret on this day, only hope. The Ravanellis had plenty of love, and now they wanted security. Marco and Enza would see to it that they had both.

As they passed the church of Sant’Antonio da Padova, Enza made the sign of the cross. As they approached the cemetery, she asked her brother to stop the cart.

Enza climbed down from the bench, opened the wrought-iron gate to the cemetery, and walked the gravel path to the family grave. Standing before the small angel on the marble headstone, she prayed for her sister.

Gravel crunched behind her as her father joined her by the grave.

“What it is about grief, Papa? It never leaves you.”

“It’s there to remind us of what we had,” he answered. “It’s a terrible trick played on the living.”

Enza lifted a chain from around her neck and slipped a medal of the Sacred Heart off its bale. She kissed it and placed it on Stella’s grave.

“We should go,” Marco said. “Or we’ll miss our train.”

Marco put his arm around his daughter and walked her out of the cemetery.

As Nerina descended the mountain pass, the old carriage bounced over the pits and grooves in the Passo Presolana. Rainstorms had pounded the road and flooded the surface, wearing the gravel away, leaving streaks of cinnamon-colored mud. Enza would remember the exact shade of that color, and when she sewed, she would often choose a similar rich, reddish brown in wool and velvet, a hue that held meaning and memory for her.

If only Enza had known that this would be the last time she’d descend this mountain and overlook the gorge, she might have paid closer attention. If she had known that this would be the last time her mother held her in her arms, she might have clung to her more tightly. If she had known that she would not see her brothers and sisters again, she might have listened more carefully to every word said that day. In the years to come, when she yearned for the comfort of her family, she would conjure this day and try to recall omens and clues.

Enza would have done everything differently. She would have taken her time to acknowledge that one part of her life was ending and a new era had begun. She would have held Alma’s hand longer, given Eliana the gold chain she had always coveted, and told one final joke to Vittorio. She would have touched her mother’s face. Maybe, if she knew what lay ahead, she would never have made the decision to leave Schilpario in the first place.

Enza might also have noticed that the shadows beneath the Pizzo Camino were more menacing than they had ever been; but she didn’t see them. She wasn’t looking up, and she wasn’t looking back; instead, she kept her eyes focused on the road ahead. She was thinking about America.





Chapter 12

A FOUNTAIN PEN

Una Penna da Scrivere

The SS Rochambeau was twelve hours out of the port of Le Havre when Marco was summoned from steerage to the ship’s hospital on the second tier.

The sleek, elegant ship was French built, with a midnight blue hull, whitewashed decks, and brass bindings. It graced the ocean like fine French couture, but below the waterline, it was no different from the worst Greek and Spanish ships. Bunk beds, three to a cell, were made of thick canvas, reeked of vomit, and were stained with the sickness of prior passengers. The accommodations in steerage were primitive, the maintenance minimal: floors swabbed with ammonia and hot water between crossings, and not much more.

There was one large dining room for third class. The rough-hewn tables and benches were nailed to the floor. It had no windows and was lit by the flames of gaslights that spit coils of black soot into the cavernous space. Meals prepared with beans, potatoes, and corn, stretched with boiled barley and served with black bread, were typical. Once, in the nine-day crossing, they were served beef stew with gristle of meat, family style.