The Star-Crossed Sisters of Tuscany(106)

I lifted my eyes to my sister, the only person who could corroborate the truth. “Tell him, Rosa,” I begged. “Please. Now is the time.”

“Yes,” Alberto agreed. “Tell me.”

My sister’s face went white. Her hands trembled and she shoved them into her apron pockets. Despite my disgust, my feelings of vengeance, my heart went out to her. She was frozen with fear. When she finally spoke, her voice was little more than a whisper.

“It was you who miscarried, my poor sister. The day I found you on the stair steps.”



* * *





Did Alberto realize the truth? Sometimes, I suspected he did. But there were no DNA tests back then. I begged for all of us to test our blood types, but Alberto wouldn’t hear of it. And because he and Rosa were believed to be the parents, I couldn’t force it. Joh looked nothing like him or Rosa. Her skin was creamy, not nearly as dark as theirs. Her hair had a softer texture, and when the sun shone, gold highlights appeared. Her eyes eventually changed to brown, as Rosa claimed they would. But in the right light, they held fast to a hint of blue, as if my baby were insisting upon her true heritage.

But to everyone else, Johanna was Josephina, Rosa and Alberto’s new baby, the only child they would ever have.

I begged my big brother, Bruno, to listen to me, sure he would be my ally. But he only looked at me with pity. He went to a drawer, removing letters Mamma had written in the months earlier. Each page chronicled Rosa’s pregnancy, her growing belly, and the family’s excitement.

“I know about your stillborn baby. I am very sorry.” He pulled me to his chest. “It was not your fault.”

I pushed him away with such force he staggered backward. “They are lying!”

He gave me a grave look, one my father might have delivered. Then he marched to his bureau and retrieved a photo. “You must stop, Paolina! You are scaring everyone with your behavior.” He thrust the photo at me.

It was the picture Papà had taken at the harbor. A glowing new mother stood on a ship’s deck, proudly displaying her infant. On the back, Mamma had written, Rosa and Josephina, 17 September 1961. I burst into tears.

Bruno took my head in his hands and brushed the tears from my face. “You love this baby. I see this very clearly. But she is only your niece.”

“No! She is my daughter.”

Bruno gathered me in his arms. “Shhh. It is okay. You will have another child, one who is healthy, and all yours. Ignacio is still willing to marry you. Imagine that! You, the second daughter, the first to find a husband.”

I wanted to scream. Nobody would believe me. I hated America. I hated Alberto. My sister was a stranger to me. We spoke only when necessary, exchanges that inevitably ended in fierce arguments. To keep from going crazy, I busied myself with cleaning and cooking, all the while weighing my options. Marrying Ignacio was out of the question. My dream of going to the university was lost now. I had no money, and I would never leave my baby.

If I stayed with Rosa and Alberto, I could be with Johanna, but I would never be her mother. As hard as it was to live that lie, at least we’d be together. I could help shape her, guide her. That’s what Rico would have wanted.

Joh and I already shared a special bond, one that seemed to infuriate Alberto. He seethed when I called her Johanna, or when he caught her gazing into my eyes as I sang to her. He pretended not to see her smile when I blew kisses into her chubby neck. His face would turn crimson when she would cry and I was the only one who could soothe her. My heart swelled with love. She and I knew the truth.

Alberto grew weary of my presence. Within a month, he secured Rosa a job in the store, working ten hours a day. He insisted she bring the baby to work, an attempt, I knew, to keep Joh and me apart. When it became apparent I wouldn’t marry Ignacio, Alberto began pestering me about finding an apartment of my own, suggesting places in other boroughs. It was clear, Alberto loved his family of three. I was not welcome.

Every day I grew more anxious, more desperate. I had to get my child away from Rosa and Alberto, before I lost her forever.

I made a horrid mistake, one I have forever regretted. I left with Johanna, without the knowledge or resources a single mother needs. Had I stayed, perhaps I could have remained in her life, rented a small apartment nearby, convinced Alberto that I wasn’t a threat.

I escaped with Johanna one winter morning, on Rosa’s day off. I waited until Alberto had left for work and Rosa was in the bath. With a bag of our belongings and Joh wrapped in a blanket, I snuck from the apartment. We traveled as far from Bensonhurst as the city bus would take us.

Suffice it to say, Harlem was a dreadful place back then. What’s more, I had underestimated the cost of living on my own. One week later, I returned to Bensonhurst, penniless and defeated. I showed up at Bruno’s apartment with my sick child, begging him to take us in.

While Bruno warmed a pot of milk, he informed me that Alberto had filed kidnapping charges.

That was the final blow, when my knees finally buckled. He had won. I would be of no use to my daughter if I were imprisoned.

Perhaps I should have been grateful to my brother. Bruno brokered the deal. He went to speak with Rosa and Alberto and returned three hours later with a proposition. The kidnapping charge against me would be dropped. I would not go to jail. Instead, I would leave Brooklyn. Forever. I would be allowed to visit at Christmas and Easter. I could send Josephina cards on holidays. But I must promise never to claim her as my child.