The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(102)

Fear gripped me. I would never accept such a life for my child. But what could I do? I had nothing to offer her. I swiped my cheeks, desperate to save my daughter. There must be a solution! My child’s entire future weighed on my shoulders. Johanna was counting on me.

Slowly, one anemic spark at a time, a fire flickered to life. “No,” I said firmly. “Johanna will not live her life as a disgraced child.”

Rosa folded a towel, silent.

“My daughter will be proud . . . and free!”

Rosa shifted her gaze toward me.

“If . . .” I began, cautiously. “If I came with you to America, who says I must marry Ignacio?”

A sad little smile appeared. “Stop. You do not want to go to America. I know this.”

“I—I must do what is best for Johanna. That is what Rico would want.”

Rosa slid the laundry basket beneath the bed and shook her head. “I am afraid it is too late. The government will never allow an illegitimate child into the United States.”

I reared back. “You tell me this now? You have been begging me to come with you, to raise my child in America. And all along you knew it was impossible?”

“I only found out last week, after doing some checking.”

I closed my eyes, all of my options vanishing before me. What seemed like an act of treason just minutes before now appeared the obvious solution. I must get to America with Joh, and allow her to have the bright future that neither Italy nor Germany would allow.

Rosa paced the floor and shook her head. “If only you were a married woman, with a husband waiting for you in America. Then you and the baby would be welcome, no questions asked.”

I spun in a circle, clutching my head. “Help me, Rosa. I need a plan. I am responsible for my child’s life, her happiness. Her only chance is in America.”

“I would love to help you. You know this. Alberto and I would gladly take you in and help you raise Johanna. He has money and a fine apartment. But first, you must get to America.” She bit her thumbnail and paced the room. “Perhaps you could hide baby Joh, sneak her onto the ship.”

“No. That is much too dangerous. God knows what the officials might do to her if we got caught.” I chewed the inside of my cheek. “There must be a better way.”

And then an idea struck me. It might actually work. I looked up.

“What if . . . ?” My voice trailed off.

“What?”

“Never mind.”

“Tell me.”

My head spun. I took a breath, my thoughts taking shape as I spoke. “What if . . . what if you pretended Joh was your child? Just until we arrived in America.”

“Oh, no,” Rosa said. “I do not look like her mother—anyone’s mother. Not yet.”

“But you do. We can disguise your pregnancy. See, it is easy to believe you’ve just given birth.” I pulled her shapeless dress a bit tighter at the waist, surprised that her belly wasn’t bigger. Alberto left for America seven months ago. She should be round by now.

“Rosa, when are you due?”

She batted my hands away and fluffed her dress. “The authorities will know that I am not Johanna’s mother,” she said, ignoring my question. “She is too attached to you.”

“But I will be there, too.” I took her by the arms, my urgency rising. “Nobody will suspect a thing. I will continue to feed her and care for her. Only when we are in public will you pretend to be her mother.”

She frowned. “The birth certificate. They will want to see it.”

“We’ll get another. Surely that old battle-ax midwife will create a new one if we grease her palm. This one will list you as the mother and Alberto as the father.”

“Oh, Paolina, if I get caught—”

“You won’t. I promise. Please, tell me you’ll do it.”

She let out a heavy sigh. “Let me think about this, Paolina. You are asking so much from me.”



* * *





One day passed. Then another. It was all I could do not to scream. I needed an answer. But Rosa’s face looked suddenly old, and I caught her more than once on her knees with her rosary beads. I had placed her in a horrible position, having to choose between the truth and Johanna’s future. Finally, on the third day, just one week before the ship would sail, I could stand it no longer.

“Rosa, please! I beg of you. Say you’ll pretend to be Johanna’s mother. If you won’t do it for me, do it for your niece.”

She closed her eyes and then crossed herself. A slow smile came to her face. “You mean, for my daughter.”

I laughed and grabbed her into a hug. I’d never felt so much love and gratitude for my sister. “Yes! For your daughter!”



* * *





I wept the first day I tried to wean Johanna off my breast. Neither of us liked the clunky bottle that invaded our intimacy. I missed the feel of her skin against my chest, the contented sighs when she suckled from me, as if I alone could nourish her. But Rosa was right. Weaning was necessary if we were to cross the Atlantic as niece and aunt.

As we’d guessed, with the help of a few coins, Signora Tuminelli was happy to create a bogus birth certificate. And for an additional coin, she would forge the signature of the county official.