The Shoemaker's Wife(60)

A second nun pushed the door open. “Ciao, Signorina,” Sister Josephine said, then continued in Italian, “I’m from Avellino on the Mediterranean.” Sister Josephine had a full face, tawny skin, and a straight, prominent nose. She pulled up a chair next to Enza’s bed, filled the empty water glass, and gave it to Enza.

“I’m from Schilpario,” Enza said in a scratchy voice, “on the mountain above Bergamo.”

“I know the place. You’re a long way from home. How did you get here?”

“We were on the Rochambeau from Le Havre, France. Can you help me find my father?”

The nun nodded, clearly relieved to find her patient so lucid. “We were informed that he had to process through Ellis Island.”

“Does he know where I am?”

“Yes, he was told to meet you here at Saint Vincent’s.”

“How will he find me? He doesn’t speak English. We were going to learn some basic phrases on the trip, but then I got sick.”

“There are plenty of people in Manhattan who speak Italian.”

“But what if he doesn’t find someone who can?” Enza was panicked.

Sister Josephine’s face showed her surprise that the daughter was in charge of the father. Yet Enza knew that Marco had not been the same man since Stella died. To be fair, no one in the family had been the same since they lost her. Enza doubted they would have made the decision to come to America if Stella had lived. She couldn’t explain to Sister Josephine how loss had led to a plan, then to action, how precarious everything had seemed after Stella’s sudden death, and how desperate she felt to help the Ravanellis forge a more secure life for themselves.

“Your father will find his way to you,” Sister Josephine reassured her.

“Sister, what’s wrong with me?” Enza asked. “Why have I been so ill?”

“Your heartbeat all but disappeared from low blood pressure in reaction to the motion. You almost died on that ship. You’ll never be able to travel by boat again.”

The nun’s words cut worse than any pain she had endured on the crossing. The thought of never seeing her mother again was too much to bear. “I’ll never be able to go home.” Enza began to cry.

“You mustn’t worry about that yet,” Sister Josephine interjected before Enza’s despair could spiral further out of control. “You just got here. First you must get well. Let me guess, you’re going to Brooklyn.”

“Hoboken.”

“Do you have a sponsor?”

“A distant cousin on Adams Street.”

“And you’re going to work?”

“I sew,” Enza said. “I hope I can get a job quickly.”

“There are factories on every block. Hasn’t anyone told you? Anything is possible in America.”

“So far that hasn’t been true, Sister.” Enza lay back on the pillow.

“A practical girl for a change.” Sister looked around and then back at Enza. “You must know that they don’t give you your papers unless you’re a dreamer.”

“I wrote ‘seamstress’ as my occupation. That’s what’s on the ship’s manifest of the Rochambeau,” Enza said, closing her eyes. “I didn’t think to write ‘dreamer.’ ”

Marco Ravanelli stood at the railway platform in lower Manhattan with a few lire in his pocket, his duffel, Enza’s suitcase, and a small slip of paper with an address upon it. The processing through Ellis Island had taken most of the day, as the Greek and Turkish onboard came with multiple family members, adding to the slow grind of the process.

For all Marco knew, Saint Vincent’s Hospital might be a thousand miles away. He was exhausted from the interminable lines at Ellis Island and terrified at the uncertainty he faced. Marco wondered if the American doctors had saved Enza. His beautiful daughter, whom he had held on the day she was born in the same blanket that had held him, might already have died in the long hours he had been away from her side. He wanted to pray for his daughter’s life, but he couldn’t find the will or the words to do so.

Marco gave in to the emotions of the long day and cried.

The sight of this newly arrived immigrant, obviously a proud man with troubles, standing alone next to his cloth duffels in boiled wool clothing and a dingy shirt, filled a driver on the carriage line with compassion. He jumped off his perch and headed toward the man.

“Hey, Bud, you all right?”

Marco looked up at a burly American man, around his age. He wore a plaid cap, vest, and work pants. He had the flat nose of a prizefighter, and a plain gold tooth in the front of his mouth shimmered like a window. Marco was taken aback by the man’s gregarious manner, but welcomed the sound of his friendly voice. “You look like you lost your best friend. You speak English?”

Marco shook his head.

“I speak a little Italian. Spaghetti. Ravioli. Radio. Bingo.” The stranger threw his head back and laughed. “Where are you going?”

Marco looked at him blankly.

“Do you mind?” The stranger took the piece of paper from Marco. “You have to go to the hospital?”

Marco heard the word hospital and nodded vigorously.

“Joe, this hospital is about two miles from here. If you didn’t have the bags, you could walk. You Catholic?” The stranger made the sign of the cross.