The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(103)

The ink was still wet when the tight-faced midwife handed the single slip of paper to Rosa. “I know nothing of this,” she said, slicing a finger through the air. “Nothing!”

My heart battered against its cage. I was a criminal. Together, Rosa and I inspected the new certificate. The line above “Mother’s Name” read Rosa Lucchesi. The father: Alberto Lucchesi. I swallowed hard.

“It looks very official,” I said. “Nobody will ever guess it is not valid.”

But then I caught sight of the child’s name: Josephina Fontana Lucchesi.

“Wait,” I said. “Her name is Johanna.”

Rosa placed the birth certificate between two pieces of cardboard and taped the edges shut. “Don’t be foolish. Alberto and I would never choose a German name.”

She’d thought of everything. Why give the officials anything to question? But still, the hairs on the back of my neck prickled.



* * *





Rosa looked every bit a mother that mid-September afternoon, boarding the SS Cristoforo Colombo with Johanna in her arms. The authorities gave little more than a cursory glance at the baby nestled in the pink blanket I’d crocheted, before stamping Rosa’s papers. I approached the desk next, my heart thumping in my chest, playing the role of dutiful aunt, loaded with our suitcases and a small bag for Joh. Within minutes, I, too, was welcomed aboard the ship. I let out a sigh of relief. So far, our plan was working perfectly.

“Look!” Rosa exclaimed, pointing to the crowd that had gathered at the harbor, family members and friends who’d come to bid farewell to their loved ones.

I shielded my eyes from the sun and followed Rosa’s finger. And there, standing side by side in their Sunday best, stood our mamma and papà. They’d traveled all the way to Napoli to say good-bye. I lifted my hand, tears blinding me.

“Mamma!” I shouted over the grunt of the ship’s engine. “Papà! I love you!”

Papà lifted his hand. Mamma waved and threw a kiss.

“Your granddaughter!” I shouted.

Beside me, my beaming sister proudly lifted baby Joh. Mamma clutched her heart, and Papà dabbed his eyes. “Bellissima!” Papà cried. He raised the camera that hung from his neck and snapped a photo.

“They love Joh,” I said to Rosa. “I knew they’d love her.”

“Yes,” she said. “They are very proud of their new grandbaby.”

My chest puffed with pride. “Grazie!” I yelled to Papà, my voice choked. “Grazie mille!” I stroked Johanna’s downy hair, her rosy cheeks, and laughed through my tears.

That moment marked the last time I would ever feel such joy. I didn’t yet know that during this passage to find a brighter future, somewhere over the blue-black waters of the sea, I would lose my baby girl.



* * *





I spent every evening with Johanna. And each morning, as the sun rose, my baby’s eyes would grow heavy, just in time for Rosa to take over. As we three strolled the decks, female passengers would stop Rosa to coo at the sleeping angel in her arms. “Your first?” they might ask.

“Yes,” Rosa would say. “She’s seven weeks old, my little sweetheart. Her father is waiting for us in Brooklyn.”

An odd mix of pride and resentment churned in me. I said nothing of course. It was crucial that nobody learn of our charade. But inside, I felt robbed.

Soon, Rosa met other mothers who were traveling with their children. The lot of them would sit beneath umbrellas discussing motherhood, their husbands, gushing at photos. I wanted so much to join their conversations. But Rosa reminded me to keep quiet. She insisted I go to the cabin and rest. Later, when the women wanted to play cards, or when the baby needed to be changed, or when she simply grew tired of Joh, Rosa would fetch me.

Mothers, it seemed, shared a bond. I felt excluded, isolated, alone. My heart ached for Rico. I never should have left Italy. When I voiced my frustration, Rosa correctly reminded me, “This was your idea, Paolina. Do not forget it.”

And then she would tell of the wonderful life Johanna would have in America, something that would not have been possible had she not agreed to lie for me. All of this was true. Feeling left out was a small price to pay. Rosa had risked so much for me and Johanna.



* * *





We’d spent seven nights aboard the giant ship, each day drawing closer to America, to Joh’s future. But I could almost hear the past calling to me, chastising me for abandoning it, beckoning me to return. I had nightmares where Rico had come back for me, pounding on the apartment door while I was locked in a closet, unable to answer. I would wake, exhausted and emptied, reality creeping in with the dawn. I had given up on Rico. And it was too late to go back.

On the eighth night, neither Johanna nor I could sleep. I stood on the ship’s deck jostling her. “Shhh,” I whispered. “It’s okay. It’s okay.” As the chill of the night crept over me, I wondered who I was reassuring—my child or myself.

The eastern sky gradually came to life, a watercolor of peaches and lavenders. I blinked once. Twice. For the first time in eight days, something shone in the distance.

Cheers rose from the captain’s deck. A chill came over me. I positioned Joh at my chest, so that she could see what lay before her.