The Shoemaker's Wife(88)

“You just got off work,” she murmured, knowing the effect her sultry voice had always had on him.

“I was down on the pier. Congratulations,” Ciro said. “I didn’t know.”

“They announced the banns several weeks ago. Since you never go to church . . .” She allowed her voice to trail off flirtatiously. “I meant to write and tell you,” she added.

“You like to write about as much as I do. It doesn’t matter. I’m happy for you. You’re a beautiful bride. Is he the match?”

She looked down at her satin shoes, trimmed in marabou. “Yeah. He owns half of Palermo.”

“Ah, a Sicilian prince. It may take you a year or two, but I think you can turn him into a king.”

“My mother did it for my father, so I guess I can too,” she said, not looking forward to the task that lay ahead.

Ciro had turned to go when Felicitá stopped him. “You gonna give that girl from the Alps that ring I always wanted?”

“Pray for me, will you?” Ciro smiled.

The library at the Milbank House was a beautifully appointed room in the English style, decorated in shades of sage green and coral with glass-fronted barrister bookshelves and a grand piano, angled between the front windows.

Eileen Parrelli, an eighteen-year-old prodigy from Connecticut, ran scales on the piano and sang. Her red curls and freckles indicated her mother’s Irish lineage, but her voice was pure operatic Italian, from her father’s side.

Enza sat down on a chair with a notebook and pen, listening while Eileen practiced. She could not believe how much her life had changed in a few short weeks.

No one, except Laura and maybe the other girls who occupied these rooms, would ever understand what admittance to the boardinghouse meant to her. The last thing that Enza wanted was to lose her room at the Milbank House. Laura and she needed jobs, and not just any temporary position. They needed jobs that would assure them a steady salary.

As Eileen finished her exercises, Enza went to the secretary. She placed paper and envelopes on the desk; then she pulled two square swatches out of a muslin pouch, one of black velvet embroidered in gold, the other, double-backed pink silk in a fleur-de-lis design of seed pearls and small crystals. Enza checked out the spelling in the library dictionary as she went.

To Whom It May Concern:

Enclosed please find two sewing samples for your perusal. Enza Ravanelli and Laura Heery are experienced machine operators, but also pattern makers, seamstresses, and most excellent trim and beading specialists.

We have extensive knowledge of the stories of the opera, plots, and characters, due to repeated exposure to the phonograph records of Signor Enrico Caruso.

If you would like to meet with us regarding potential positions with your organization, please write to us at the Milbank House, 11 West Tenth Street, New York City.

Thank you.

Very sincerely yours,

Enza Ravanelli and Laura Heery

Ciro made a decision in the spring of 1917, no different from other Italians on long-term work visas. He decided to go to war. Without a sweetheart to keep him stateside, he decided to see the world and do his bit.

The U.S. Army recruitment office on West Twentieth Street was a temporary storefront with an American flag in the dusty window. Inside, a makeshift office operation with temporary desks and rolling stools made up one of the hundreds of official recruitment offices, compliments of the passage of the Selective Service Act.

Ciro met Luigi outside before they entered. A long line of young men snaked around the block, most of them dark-haired like Luigi.

“I didn’t tell Pappina,” Luigi said.

“Why not?”

“She doesn’t want me to go. She thinks I’m slow on my feet and will get my head blown off.”

“She’s probably right.”

“But I want to fight for this country. I want to get my citizenship, and then Pappina will have hers.”

“Are you going to marry before we go?”

“Yeah. Will you be my best man?”

“I’ve never been asked a question with more enthusiasm.”

“Sorry. I have a lot on my mind. I don’t like doctors.” He whispered, “They squeeze the noci.”

“I know all about it.”

“It’s barbaric, that’s what it is.”

Ciro chuckled. If Luigi thought the physical was barbaric, what would he think of war itself? Once inside, the men’s applications were taken, and they lined up to go inside to see the doctor. Luigi and Ciro undressed down to their undershorts and waited in line. More than a few young men were asked to leave, when an infirmity was diagnosed that prevented them from serving. Some of the boys were belligerent when asked to leave, while others were clearly relieved.

“You ever held a gun?” Luigi asked.

“No. How about you?”

“I used to shoot birds in Foggia,” Luigi admitted.

Luigi went behind a screen with the doctor. Ciro stood and waited his turn for what seemed like a long time.

Luigi pushed the curtain aside and shook his head. “I have a bad ear. They won’t take me.”

“Oh, pal, I’m sorry.”

Fifteen minutes later, Ciro joined Luigi on the sidewalk outside. Ciro carried the paperwork to report to New Haven, Connecticut, on July 1. He folded the paper and stuffed it in his pocket.