THE COUNTESS OF SAVOY SAILED at eight o’clock the next morning, one day later than scheduled. It ended up being the last emigrant boat to leave Italy until after the war.
THIS IS WHAT THE FORTUNAS would miss by evacuating Italy when they did.
Six months after they departed, in June 1940, Mussolini would declare war on France and Britain. Before the Italian state crumbled in September 1943, four million Italian troops would be deployed to theaters all over the hemisphere, from Somaliland to Russia; half a million Italians would lose their lives, a third of them civilians.
For the average Italian, this was a time of privation and fear. Soldiers—Mussolini’s fascists, American and British “liberators,” and then, most cruelly, the German forces that had until 1943 been Italy’s allies—took turns occupying countryside villages, including Ievoli, where, one woman hesitatingly told me, “They took advantage of the beautiful daughters.” I met a man who was born in 1943, smack in the middle of the six years his father was gone as a soldier, then prisoner, in Russia. “We didn’t talk about it,” he told me. “My father had to accept that my mother didn’t have a choice.”
Nonna Maria, at least, would not suffer during the war. She would die only a few months after Assunta left. So would the ciucciu, whom no one loved anymore.
In 1956, Cettina would go back to Ievoli, on a trip she and her husband took on their tenth wedding anniversary. When she visited her home village, she was distressed by how changed it felt to her—empty, listless, wounded. She let a cluster of vaguely remembered cousins dress her up in a fancy pacchiana and take pictures of her, Calabrisella bella, standing in front of the church. Cettina would smile through her disorientation and bring her negatives home to develop and pass around among her Italian American friends.
But Stella would never go back to Ievoli. She would never again see the early-morning sunlight reflecting off the shiny ripening rinds on the lemon tree, the lemons themselves not as lemon-yellow as the sun. She would never again stand in the church chiazza and watch the smoking volcano Stromboli appear on the orange horizon at the last moments of sunset. She would never again walk down the fog-thick mountain path after a January cold snap to see steam rising off the ilex trees as the frost evaporated in the wintry Calabrese sun, or worry that a cinghiale, a gray-tusked wild boar, might come charging out of the low-lying mist, leading its snorting brown babies to snuffle for bugs and mushrooms among the olive tree roots. She would never again sit on the red earth mound at the top of the olive grove and watch the leaves turn over in the wind, blue-silver green blue-silver.
You step on a boat knowing it is forever, one way or another. But understanding what forever means—that is something your heart tries to protect you from.
THE OCEAN IS VAST. You and I might forget its formidability; we can close our eyes and cross it in a few hours. For Stella, it was seven days of nothing but water in any direction, of watching anxiously every time a fellow passenger tapped the ash out of his pipe, of thinking about all hands and souls.
On the morning of the seventh day, Stella and Cettina stood at the bow, hands gripping the rail so that they weren’t jostled loose by the throngs of people who had collected to see the harbor come into view.
One of the crew chattered to the gathered travelers in fast Italian and Stella struggled to pick out words she understood. A middle-aged man standing near them caught Stella’s eye. “You don’t have Italian?” he asked in Calabrese.
“Only a little,” Stella said. She knew she shouldn’t talk to the man, but this felt like a moment she could shrug off rules. Besides, her mother was far away, hiding from her queasiness in their berth.
The Calabrese man with the gray fedora translated what the prolix young crewman was saying to the crowd. The boat was arriving three hours later than expected; your families who are waiting have been informed. It is Christmas Eve, Merry Christmas, everyone. The Lord has given us the gift of his only begotten son and also of a safe crossing to America. Up ahead on the left you’ll be able to see the statue.
“The statue?” Stella and Cettina echoed together.
“The Madonna of New York Harbor. Just wait,” the man with the fedora said, then added kindly, “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, anyway.”
Of course you know what New York Harbor looks like, can imagine what it looked like in 1939. But now imagine you come from a world where the tallest building is two stories and where glass is used strictly for church windows. Imagine that you have a father who never thought to send you a postcard.
THE KIND CALABRESE MAN HELPED with the trunk as they disembarked. He explained what would happen as they progressed through the emigrant processing stations. Here there is a medical exam, but it is short, and there won’t be any problems because you’ve already had an examination back in Napoli. You can all go in together, I’ll be right behind you. Here is where we wait to be entered in the register. We’ll be here for a little while, just be patient. Your family is waiting on the other side of that wall. Now is when they give you your certificate of arrival. Whatever you do, don’t lose that form. You’ll need it when you apply for citizenship.
And last, as he left them—his paesan from his village was waiting for him in the antechamber—he tipped his hat and said something to them in English. “That means buon natale,” he said, and winked.
“Say it again,” Giuseppe demanded.
The man repeated himself, slowly, and in chorus they answered back: “Me-ri Cris-mas!”
The Fortuna family was feeling buoyant as they stepped into the waiting room, their new U.S. residency papers in hand, happily feverish from a stranger’s kindness and eager to start their new life.
But Antonio wasn’t there.
Stella searched the crowd of hopeful and tired faces. It had been nine years since she had seen her father, and she had been a child then. She could conjure a strong visceral memory of him, but she wasn’t sure she would know what he looked like if she saw him. She glanced at her mother for guidance. Assunta looked worried, but she didn’t say anything to her children.
They stood, awkward with their trunk, by the exit door until a young man approached them and, speaking unintelligible English, guided them to the side so they would be out of the way of foot traffic. He wore a neat black shirt and trousers that looked like a military uniform to Stella. Still, Assunta said nothing, not to the man in the uniform, not to her children. Her mother was completely helpless here, a child among her children. Stella’s heart twisted, in compassion for her mother and also under the pressure of the idea that if something needed to be done, Stella would have to be the one to do it.
Where was Antonio?
The large clock on the wall, elaborate with filigree, had said three thirty-five when Stella had first checked its time. She watched as the minute hand moved up and then down again. Newly papered United States residents emerged and were absorbed into the tearful hugs or uncertain handshakes of the people who had come to wait for them. On the other side of the wall was New York, but Stella could see nothing of it but the thin white light that came down from the high windows. As she stood still she noticed the chilly air creeping up her arm. It was cold in here, as cold as the middle of a January night in Ievoli. How cold was it outside?
Eventually Cettina managed to settle Assunta on the trunk so that at least her sore legs wouldn’t bother her. What would Stella do if Antonio never came? Where would they go? Stella played through possibilities. They had his letter with his address on it. Could they find his house on their own? Would they be able to walk to Hartford? Most likely not, especially now that evening was approaching. They had no money; they couldn’t hire someone to take them. They couldn’t rent a hotel room for a night. Stella’s gut roiled with anxiety and anger. She’d spent her whole life trusting chaperones—now that there was no chaperone she was helpless.
As the clock hand rose again, the man in the militaristic suit crossed the almost empty antechamber toward them. He spoke in English aga
in, pointed at the clock, the doors, and through miming gestures succeeded in communicating that the building would be closing at six. Stella nodded, trying to look competent, and said in her best Italian, “Thank you, mister. We’ll wait here until six.” Assunta, looking small on the trunk, nodded as well.
The white light at the high-up windows had turned gray, then disappeared. The antechamber was even draftier, and Cettina had nestled into Stella’s side so they could share body heat. Luigi and Giuseppe, both of whom the sisters had had to scold for raucousness, were asleep on the floor, heads in Assunta’s lap. Stella’s feet hurt from standing in her new Nicastro shoes.
Five thirty came and went, and Stella’s heart began to pound. One by one the station agents, the doctors and record keepers who staffed the facility, had left, pulling knee-length wool coats over their uniforms and tucking scarves under the lapels as they passed through the antechamber and into the wind whistling outside. At five of six, the black-shirted man came out again and said something to them. Stella, her stomach sutures pulsing with her panic, smiled brightly and nodded. He repeated himself, and so she nodded again. He sighed, and walked back to his office box.
The overhead lights were turned off at six, but the uniformed man kept the light on in his office. The sisters were silent, Cettina trembling but for once keeping her silly mouth shut. Stella stroked her mother’s head like a cat’s to keep them both calm. She watched the minute hand descend again. There had been an innocent mistake, and Antonio had gotten the day wrong. Antonio had gone to the wrong place and would find them here when he figured out where he needed to go. Antonio was not looking for them. Antonio was dead. Antonio was in jail. The tickets had been a hoax. The journey had been to punish Assunta for being a bad wife and now they would all live homeless in a foreign country. The minute hand passed the six and began its ascent toward the twelve again. Any minute now the guard would kick them out.
It was 7:20 P.M. when Antonio Fortuna finally came to collect his family. He came with another man who looked familiar but whom Stella couldn’t place.
“We went to see a movie when we heard the ship was late” was the first thing Antonio said to his wife after not having seen her in almost a decade. “But we got up so early this morning to drive down here that when the lights went out in the movie theater we both fell asleep.”
“You must have been so worried,” the strange man said. He had a warm face and a friendly-looking mustache. “You poor things.”
“This is Zu Tony Cardamone,” her father announced. “Your Za Violèt’s brother. He’s going to drive us home in his car.”
Stella and Cettina exchanged glances. Car?
“Zu Tony, you know my wife, Assunta. These are our children. Mariastella, Concettina, Giuseppe, and this must be Luigi.” Antonio stooped to look in the brown eyes of the son he had never met. “Luigi. I’m your Papa.”
“I know,” Luigi said. His face had flamed.
“Are those all the clothes you have to wear? Short pants?” When Luigi, confused, didn’t answer, Antonio turned to his wife, his voice rising. “You let him wear short pants in December?”
Assunta didn’t reply, either, and Stella could only imagine the disorientation she must be feeling, knowing she had made a mistake but not sure where she’d gone wrong. Stella’s gut rippled with anger at her father for humiliating her mother like a child. She swallowed to stop herself from saying anything.
Antonio took off his long coat and wrapped it around Luigi’s shoulders. The hem came down to the little boy’s ankles. “There,” Antonio said. “Hold that closed so you don’t catch cold. It’s even colder in Hartford.”
DAZED AND APPREHENSIVE, they followed Antonio Fortuna outside and into the darkened park that abutted the harbor. Stella peered through the murk and shadows, trying to see what was different about this place. The air felt hard on her skin, the cold wind so strong her cheeks tingled. Stella shivered and focused on the pain in her feet to keep warm until they reached a plot of land that was full of parked cars, their glass headlights a row of winking eyes in the dim light. Stella was silent in awe, imagining how much money all these cars could be worth.
“We all have to fit in here,” Antonio told them. He opened one of the car’s doors and pulled out a coil of rope. “Giuseppe, help me tie the trunk on top. Assunta, you get in the front with me and Zu Tony. Stella and Tina, you ride with the boys in the back.”
“Cettina,” Stella said sharply.
Her father turned to look at her. He knew she was correcting him. “What?”
“She goes by Cettina, not Tina,” Stella said, because she knew Cettina herself was going to be too shy to speak up.
“She’ll be Tina here,” their father said. “Cettina is such an old-fashioned name.” He held Stella’s gaze with his narrow own, and then, deliberately, let his eyes case her body, sliding down over her hips and then back up to fix on her famous breasts. Stella remembered, suddenly, the night he had pinched her, and she felt an oily bristle run up her torso, tasted a mouthful of bile. “Tina is a better name for an American,” Tony said.
As Stella and now-Tina huddled into the cold backseat of the car, Stella understood that she hated her father even more now than she had as a child.
THERE WAS SO MUCH TO SEE, and yet it was dark. Stella must have fallen asleep. Tina shook her awake as the car descended a hill toward a sparkling clot of tall buildings. “This is Hartford, Papa says.”
Electric lamps, tall as trees, hung over the pavement, each bedecked with a ribbon-bound green garland. Stella marveled at the opulence as Tina shook the boys awake to gawp. Was there so much wealth in this city that everyone had electric lights and paved streets? Was one of these tall buildings their house?
“See here,” their father said. “See this big store? That’s G. Fox. My construction company did renovation work on it last year.”
Stella tried to imagine her father having something to do with the arches of glittering glass, the monolithic stonework.
“Is it a church?” Tina asked, staring at the bright lights.
“What?” Antonio guffawed. “No, stupida, I told you it’s a store. It’s the largest department store in the whole country, right here in Hartford.” He craned his neck over the passenger’s seat to look at Tina. “Why would you think it’s a church?”
But Tina had recoiled at being called stupid. Stella didn’t speak up, because she was still woozy with sleep, but she knew what her sister had meant. Tall, white-skinned ladies, statues but somehow more alive than statues, stood frozen behind the glowing glass, lit by the most fiery, brightest lights Stella had ever seen. They looked like angels stepping out of boxes of heaven.
It was past midnight, but they stopped at Zu Tony Cardamone’s house. Zu Tony’s wife, Za Pina, who looked sleepy but was cheerful, had made a huge antipasti spread. There were eggplant cutlets, provolone cheese, pickled mushrooms, and oil-cured roasted peppers. There was lots of fish—anchovies and sardines and breaded baccalà. It was Christmas Eve, after all. There was a basin of chewy fettuccine and extra raù Pina had kept hot to pour over the top. This, Stella would learn, was what American Italians ate. This was what made them think of home, although they had never eaten anything like it when they’d lived in Italy.
Stella was ravenous, the dread she’d felt during the endless wait in the New York terminal finally lifted. As soon as she had eaten, she became so sleepy she thought she might sit down right on the fancy cloth-covered chair and sleep through the night. Just as keeping her eyes open had become painful, Antonio herded them back out to the car so Zu Tony could take them to their own new home.
The building they pulled up to was much like Zu Tony’s, but the street was darker. They trudged up two flights of mold-flecked stairs, Zu Tony insisting on carrying Assunta’s trunk before bidding them all good night. Stella sleepily marveled that this kind man was in any way related to needle-eyed Za Violetta.
Antonio opened one of two doors on the third-floor landing w
ith a long silver key and let them into the drafty apartment that would be their home. He hit a switch on the wall, and electric light illuminated a shabby sitting room. No woman had been here to take care of the things that made life more worth living.
Stella and Tina followed their father down the hallway. “This is your bedroom,” he said. “You’ll have privacy. Isn’t that much better than back home?” Neither of his daughters responded. He pointed out the bathroom, showed them how to use the toilet. “We don’t have to share it with nobody. Our own toilet. Just you be careful not to get it clogged up, all right? The plumber is a fortune.”
Stella and Tina looked at each other, not knowing what a plumber was, or how to clog a toilet. Stella hoped it was something they could figure out in the morning.
When they were alone in their new bedroom, Stella toed off her shoes and sat on the mattress of the single bed, rubbing one sore foot and then the other. Tina opened her trunk and stared inside, until Stella said, “I’m too tired, little bug. We’ll do that in the morning.”
“Yes.” Tina closed the trunk again, then noticed the curtain. “Oh, Stella! We have a window!” She drew back the curtain and fell so dumbly silent, Stella came to look.
There, three stories below them, leaning up against a chain-link fence with spiked wire on top, were rows—or maybe more like piles—of shanty houses. Lit by a bonfire in the middle of the garbage-filled lot, roofs of rusty scrap metal shone dully among beams of broken wood. Around the fire were dirty people wearing what looked like rags in the bitter cold. Stella thought of the Gypsies in Nicastro, of their bright colors and watchful eyes. She felt sick in her stomach.
“This,” Tina said, her breath leaving a fog on the glass. Her voice had caught in her throat. “This is where we live now?”
The Seven or Eight Deaths of Stella Fortuna Page 17
