The Shoemaker's Wife(72)

They had also applied for jobs all over the city, as nurse’s aides at the Foundling Hospital, as cooks and waitresses at social clubs on the Upper East Side, and as private maids in the mansions on Park Avenue. They applied at several tailoring shops, and at a milliner’s showroom.

Now that they had made the decision to leave the Meta Walker factory, their new lives could not come fast enough. Laura rushed home every day, hoping the mail would bring them good news. Enza had nothing sent to Adams Street, as she knew the ruckus that would ensue if Anna Buffa thought that her personal maid might leave her.

Today, however, was not a day for filling out forms or checking vacancies in boardinghouses; it was a day of celebration. Every street in the neighborhood between lower Broadway and the Bowery was filled with proud Italian immigrants in their best clothing, proper gloves, and hats, parading in from every borough of the city, along with the crowds who had come to sample the delicacies of southern Italy and celebrate Columbus Day.

Enza and Laura walked across Grand Street, turning heads, in Laura’s case because of her pale beauty and her height, and in Enza’s because of her dark beauty and trim figure. They wore their own creations; for Enza, a skirt of brushed gray velvet with a fawn-colored jacket trimmed in lavender, while Laura wore a green silk skirt and a matching brocade coat, belted with wide gold cording. Enza’s hat was woven of gray and beige satin, while Laura’s was a wide-brimmed gold felt. They looked every bit as stylish as the women who had their clothing made in the ateliers on Fifth Avenue.

The girls joined the throngs in the crowded streets, who came for the food, to celebrate their ties to home, and to revel in the camaraderie of being with their own people. Vendors set up simple stands along the avenue, tall whitewashed poles suspending canvas awnings over slim plank counters notched to the poles.

Customers were served every Neapolitan treat imaginable, prepared before their eyes, fresh, hot, sweet, and perfect. Bubbling vats of oil bobbed with puffy clouds of white dough that turned golden brown and would be drenched in sugar to become zeppole. Sweet squares of tomato pie resembling the red squares on the Italian flag, drizzled with olive oil and decorated with fresh basil, were placed in waxed paper sleeves and sold one by one.

A booth of fresh pastries featured trays of cannoli shells filled with fresh cream and dipped in chocolate shavings; sfogliatelle, pastry seashells filled with ricotta; biscotti rolled with pignoli nuts; millefoglie, thin sheets of pastry interlayered with strawberry cream and dusted in powdered sugar; and every kind of gelato and granita. Hazelnut braids hung down from the canopy, to be sold by the foot. A giant slab of torrone made of honey, almonds, and egg whites was hoisted above a marble-topped table suspended overhead on rope as though it had been lifted out of a mine. The purveyor hacked away, selling generous hunks of the taffy to the hungry crowd.

“Signora Buffa loves torrone.” Enza stopped at the stand.

“You’re going to buy that witch candy?” Laura asked.

“I keep hoping she’ll change,” Enza said.

“Go ahead then. Buy it. I hope she breaks a tooth.”

“You know what? I’m not going to bring her anything,” Enza said.

“Now, that’s more like it. Do not wilt in the face of the oppressor!”

The young women wondered which delicacy to sample first. Enza steered them toward the sausage and pepper stand. They watched as the cooks tossed glistening slices of green peppers and ribbons of onions on a griddle while fragrant hot sausage, splitting its skin over the open flames, was placed in fresh, crusty rolls.

Laura took a bite. “Delizioso!” she exclaimed.

“Delicious,” Enza said in English.

“Nice. But it’s only appropriate that we speak your native language. Everything is Italian today, including me!”

A young man handed them each a flyer and disappeared into the crowd to dispense the rest. Enza saw that there was a political cartoon on the front and a caption about the evils of Germany. The Great War, as it was known, was burning through Europe; it was just beginning to touch the lives of these proud immigrants. Italy had joined the war, and talk was that the United States was next. Enza worried about her brothers, and Laura about her nephews, who longed to be soldiers.

Enza tucked the flyer into her purse to read later. She knew how poor the people of her village were. They couldn’t survive a long war, which would only make matters worse.

But today, talk of war was minimal. The Italians thriving in America didn’t have time for politics. They were hard at work, many on double shifts, making American money. They kept their eyes focused on the bobbins of sewing machines, used their might on construction sites, laid railroad tracks and built bridges, factories, and homes, and took to the sky, balancing on beams high above the city as they built skyscrapers. Here, too, war would be an unwelcome interruption.

“A lot of handsome men in Little Italy,” Laura said.

“A few.”

“That’s why you get the attention. You could care less.” Laura laughed. “I remember last summer in Atlantic City. You had a three-hour conversation with that fella from Metuchen. Whatever happened to him?”

“It was just a conversation.” Enza shrugged.

“They passed envelopes for Mary Carroll, Bernadette Malady, and the Lindas in finishing, Linda Patzelt, and Linda Faria. Everybody’s getting married. Some diamond mine in Africa has just been sucked dry, and I’m gonna go broke celebrating other girls and their happiness. When are we gonna get ours?”