When he entered the church he immediately climbed to the organ platform and took in the morning light from the rosette shaped stained glass window. As he silently slid his fingers over the keys, he remembered the remarks people sometimes made about his playing. A gift. God’s music flowing through him. Pleasing to our Savior and the Blessed Mary. What he was designed to do. An ability few others had.
Antonio shut his eyes. He did not want to become prideful. Besides, he was not the greatest musician. Far from it. If he were, he would not be cooling his heels during the week in the nickel theaters. But maybe the Roman Athenaeum would put an end to that.
The custodians at St. Anthony’s took extreme care cleaning the place on Saturdays. He breathed in the scents of lemon oil, freshly cut flowers, and women’s perfume. The smells always worked to bring clarity to Antonio’s mind, the aroma of worship. Just sitting at the organ settled Antonio into the proper predilection for entering God’s presence. In that respect, he did seem to be doing what God intended him to do. This would honor his father best, rather than uncovering old wounds.
Antonio played that morning with pleasure and delight. It ended all too soon. He gathered his music and prepared to leave, telling himself he should take Luigi to the park. A man approached him as he entered the gallery.
“Young man, was that you playing the organ?” The man was older, about the age of his father, with gray sideburns, and a husky build. He leaned on an elaborate walking stick.
“Yes, sir. I hope it was acceptable.”
“Indeed it was. I’m visiting here from a small church over on Rayburn Street. Protestant, but I hope you will not hold that against me.”
“Not at all.” The man’s appearance did differ from that of most of the parishioners. Definitely not Italian. Irish or English perhaps. American in speech certainly. He had welcoming blue eyes and a kind smile. Antonio took a deep breath and focused on the visitor. “I am happy you are here.” Clearly, God was directing Antonio to set his thoughts on other things.
“Might you be going my way?” The gentleman pointed to the door.
“Uh, yes. Thank you.”
Before Antonio could move toward the door, the man stuck out his hand. “I am Ronald Clarke.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Clarke. I am Antonio Baggio.”
As they stepped outside into the sunny late morning air, Antonio matched his stride to the man’s, which was surprisingly spritely. “What brought you to St. Anthony’s, if I may ask?”
The man chuckled. “You may ask, but I may not have an adequate answer.”
“You say you were visiting?”
“Yes. You see, I am a member of an aid society, a small one, which until recently has focused on helping young Irish women who come to America without relatives to help them.”
“A valuable outreach, I would imagine.”
“It seems to have been. We have vowed to follow God’s leading in this endeavor.”
“Admirable.” They paused at a street corner to allow a horse-drawn wagon to pass. A new automobile followed, barely able to match the pace of the horse.
“Would you look there?” Ronald Clarke exclaimed. “More of those on the streets all the time, and what for? They don’t travel any faster along these pedestrian clogged avenues than traditional modes of transportation.”
“I suppose not.”
“About this endeavor I mentioned. That seems to be why I visited your lovely cathedral this morning.”
“Oh?” They continued on, dodging folks who were gaping at the automobile. Antonio had had few chances to speak to people outside his neighborhood other than those he encountered at the theater. Some Irish Catholics attended mass at St. Anthony’s from time to time, but never a Protestant American like Mr. Clarke. Antonio was intrigued.
“Excuse me, Mr. Baggio, but I sometimes ponder whether or not I’m hearing God correctly.” He chuckled again, his bright eyes almost disappearing behind wrinkled cheeks.
“I imagine we all struggle with that discernment, sir.”
“I suppose so. But I’m fairly certain God intended me to meet you at St. Anthony’s today, although I cannot say why.”
Antonio found the man’s pleasant demeanor charming. “Me? Well, I am flattered and I am glad we met. I hope you come back.”
“Well, my congregants would not permit me too many Sundays away, I’m afraid.”
“Your what?”
“Didn’t I mention it? I pastor the flock at First Church.”
“Uh, no.” Antonio had not imagined a man of the cloth would not, on a Sunday, be wearing the cloth. “Well, that’s…I mean, how wonderful…for them to have you.”
“You are very kind to say so.” The reverend urged him forward once the way was clear. “Say, I’m headed over to Hawkins House for supper. Won’t you join me?”
“Oh, I don’t think so. It wouldn’t be right to impose. But, what, if I may ask, is this Hawkins House?”
“I mentioned the outreach to immigrants?” He tapped the brim of his hat with his walking stick. “Yes, of course I did. Hawkins House is part of that, a boarding house for girls, along with a night school and a lot of books.”
“Excellent.”
“Oh, it is. We would like to open ourselves to the possibility that God will direct other ethnic groups to us. After all, the city is quite diverse. In the past, we’ve had a German girl living there, and right now there are a couple of girls from Eastern Europe residing at Hawkins House, so we are not just Irish.”
Antonio agreed that the city was indeed a diverse place. He had seen all sorts of people at the theaters and on the train, although he had not conversed much beyond comments about the weather. His trip to Mulberry Street had not provided much interaction either. Perhaps he should mingle with those not like himself. “They won’t mind an extra person at the table?”
Reverend Clarke huffed as though Antonio had made a joke. “They will welcome you warmly. Do you like to read? As I said, we have quite the library over there.”
“I would enjoy seeing it.” They were headed south, not the direction Antonio would normally go. He might as well tag along, now that he was this far away from home. The elderly man hailed a cab and they set off toward Battery Park and the harbor.
Chapter 8
After Sunday mass, Papà ushered Sofia out of the earshot of the rest of the family. “I do not want you to help with the meal.”
She’d spent her hours after work yesterday preparing poultry with rice and saffron and baking a cake thickened with beaten eggs. Papà had scolded her for spending so much in the market, but Sofia had hoped the food would cheer Mamma. “What do you mean, Papà? I always do the cooking. I have everything ready to prepare, special things for Mamma. If I do not do it, who?”
“Your sister. She will manage. Perhaps if you are not here, Mamma will revive her spirit somewhat.”
Sofia glanced around at the people leaving the church. They huddled in family groups. It was the way things were done. “Where will I go?”
He handed her a piece of paper. “I told Signora Carboni you might visit her boardinghouse today. It is not far.”
Sofia’s mouth went dry. She tried to swallow the embarrassment this news caused. “You told her I might?”
“Sì. You do not have to go, Sofia. I will not insist. True, they are Sicilians, but I think they will accept you all right if you show up there.” He narrowed his brows. “And you will treat them with respect. Stay out of arguments.”
“Papà? Must I? I mean, if there is another place…”
He glanced down the walk where the rest of the family was moving away from them. “You choose, Sofia, but please give your mamma this day of rest.” He pinched her cheek. “For Mamma. Here.” He pressed a few coins into her hand. “Go to one of those shows. Just for a few hours. Later we will consider…later, Sofia. Go on, now. Make it a festive outing, like all the young people seem to want these days.”
She nodded and turned away, tears stingi
ng her eyes. Festive? She would not go to the Sicilian boardinghouse. She would not go to the theater. She would spend this on the trolley and find the place the red-haired woman visiting her night school had told her about. Down near the tip of the island where the immigrants first arrive off the Ellis Island ferry.
When she stepped off the Broadway car, she glanced down at the address written on the card in her hand. She was on the right street but not all of the buildings were numbered. Maybe this had been a poor plan. The girl hadn’t told her to stop by on a Sunday. What if they were Protestant? She had heard some Irish are. Sofia didn’t know what time their church services ended. Interrupting a Sunday feast would be rude. The thought sent a tingle through her spine. She had missed the usual Falcone Sunday meal for the first time in her life.
Glancing at the pedestrians scurrying this way and that, she reminded herself that there was more to life than family. The idea, however, did little to comfort her. She’d had no choice about it. She’d had no say in matters concerning her twin, and she should have. Serena had been hers. They did not understand. They had not been born a twin.
Taking a deep breath, she continued on, noting what addresses she could see. She was headed in the correct direction. She remembered the American system of enumerating residences from a few months earlier, when she’d found the factory and had her interview for employment.
Eventually she found Hawkins House, identified by a swinging sign on the front stoop. She rang the bell, wondering what to say when the door opened. She needed not worry, though. The red-haired woman herself answered the door. “Hello, welcome to Hawkins House.”
Sofia doubted her English. “Grazie. You told me…at night school…uh, you say to come for books.”
The woman’s face lit with pleasure. “Aye, I did indeed. Come in, please. You are very welcome.”
A dark-skinned woman appeared and offered to take Sofia’s wrap. She was unsure what to do. Was she a servant? She was certainly not related to Annie Adams, the red-haired girl.
“This is Minnie, our housekeeper,” the Irish woman said. “She would be happy to hang up your cloak, Sofia.”
Sofia was glad for the clue and removed both her wrap and her headscarf.
“We are about to sit down to dinner. Won’t you join us?”
“Uh, I come back.”
Annie took Sofia’s arm. “Nonsense. You are here and you will join us. ’Tis what we do at Hawkins House, welcome others. Do not feel that you are imposing. Here you are not.”
She was so cheerful Sofia could not refuse. She was led into a beautiful dining room with wood panels part way up the walls, a thick carpet on the floor, and sparkling gas lamps hanging from the ceiling. Three men already there stood as she entered.
Annie paused at the head of the table. “May I present my husband, Mr. Stephen Adams.”
The man took his wife’s hand and gently kissed it, causing the fair-haired young woman to blush. He turned to Sofia. “Very nice to meet your acquaintance.”
Annie turned to the older gentleman and his companion. “The Reverend Clarke of First Church, and a new visitor Mr. Antonio Baggio.”
Sofia had never met such gracious people who would so warmly welcome an outsider. There was even an Italian at the table, at least by name. He did not look like those from her village—he was fair-haired, lighter-skinned, more northern European-looking—but she was pleased she was not the only visitor. A hefty woman entered from the hall carrying a tray loaded down by a soup tureen and a basket of bread. The housekeeper Minnie followed behind with a tray of drinking glasses and a pitcher.
“And this,” Annie said, taking the tray with the meal, “is the proprietor, Mrs. Hawkins. Mrs. Hawkins, this is Sofia Falcone. I first met her down at the English school for Italian immigrants. I visited there to see if we might assist with books or instruction. I mentioned it to you.”
Mr. Adams took the tray from his wife and placed it on the long table.
The older woman grinned and lifted her chin, nodding as though strangers in her dining room were expected. “Yes indeed. Another guest. How delightful. Of course you will eat with us, love.”
“I…uh…I came for the library. Signora, I mean…Mrs. Adams invited me.”
Annie nodded, rubbing her middle. Sofia guessed she had a month at most before the baby’s arrival.
“Sit down, love.” Mrs. Hawkins motioned to an empty seat. “We have prepared our famous peas porridge. I hope you’re hungry.”
“Grazie, grazie.” Sofia sat down and the men did as well, the handsome male visitor with the Italian name taking the seat next to her.
Annie’s husband pressed his hands firmly in his lap as he spoke to her. “Miss Falcone, are you new here to New York?”
“Sì. Mia famiglia, that is..my family…we came from Italy six months ago.”
The man nodded his head. “Where did you settle? Mulberry Bend, perhaps?”
Sofia was puzzled that he should know this. Her surprise must have been spelled on her face.
Annie leaned in front of him as if imparting a secret. “He is a postman, Sofia. He knows where the various immigrant groups have settled in the city. He understands addresses, as well. I don’t know how he keeps track of them.” When the Irish woman laughed Sofia realized Annie Adams was trying to make her feel at ease and she was grateful. “Don’t you know, in Ireland the houses have names, not numbers, at least in the countryside. I traveled around with my da and I can remember a few of them. There was An Diadan, which in the Irish means The Hill, and Cois Dara, which means Beside The Oak.”
Her husband chuckled. “Can you imagine if Manhattan tenements had names? There are not enough words in the dictionary for that.”
Sofia forced a smile. “Sì, all our neighbors came from our village. They call it Little Italy there on those streets.”
Mrs. Hawkins spread her arms out over the table while the housekeeper stood ready nearby. “Shall we say grace?”
Sofia crossed herself and lowered her head. The reverend gave thanks for the food and the company and soon dishes were being passed around, not unlike what was happening at that very moment in Sofia’s home but without the help of a housekeeper. She took a chunk of thick bread, two slices of red, ripe tomato—uncooked, but she didn’t mind, and a bit of a chilled soupy mix Annie said was a classic American staple, applesauce. Mrs. Hawkins collected bowls to dish out whatever she had in the large soup tureen in front of her. When Sofia got her bowl back, she stared unbelievably at the green mixture it contained, wondering how people actually ate that.
“’Tis pea porridge. My favorite,” Annie exclaimed, dipping her silver spoon into the thick soup.
Slowly Sofia did the same. The soup was warm and tasted of cream and mint. Unusual, but not bad. Not bad at all. “You are very kind. Grazie. Uh, thank you, Mrs. Hawkins.”
“It is my pleasure, Sofia. Now, what types of books do you like to read?”
Her question seemed to make Mr. Adams sit up straighter. He raised his brows and looked in her direction as he chewed his bread. The others seemed interested, as well.
“I do not read well. It is difficult for me, but Mrs. Adams thought books in English might help.”
The plump Mrs. Hawkins nodded. “We all would be happy to assist. Right after supper Annie can take you up to the library. Please stay for a bit after you’ve chosen a book, won’t you? We enjoy helping, so allow us that, if you do not mind.”
She had a way of making Sofia feel as though she was doing them a favor instead of imposing. The periods of quiet between moments of conversation were as odd to Sofia as the peas porridge, but still fresh and intriguing. She liked it here. Mamma, however, would be appalled to know she was sitting at a dining table with Protestants, eating their strange food, but this was America, and perhaps it was what Sofia needed to help keep at bay that persistent iciness.
Just as they finished eating, Signor Baggio turned to her. “Miss Falcone, may I say your English is quite good for only
being in America a few months.”
“Thank you. My father, he came…for many seasons to work. He taught us…his children, to speak the language, although I am still learning.”
Mrs. Hawkins nodded. “You do speak well, love.”
“Grazie.” She felt foolish for slipping into Italian after that compliment.
Signor Baggio scooted forward in his chair. “May I ask what village you come from? My father and I immigrated from Italy when I was a young boy.”
As she had observed before, this man did not look Italian and he spoke like the Americans she’d met in the shoe factory. Even those in The Bend who had been born in this country did not speak like Americans because the sounds of their village still echoed through the neighborhood as though no one had ever left. Perhaps he had been born in the north of Italy, which she’d been told might as well be an entirely separate country. Sofia’s mother, in her more lucid moments, had taught Sofia many things about Italian art and history. The Italian unification had been created only a decade or so before Sofia was born, so of course the two regions were different. Old men and women from the south still considered their birthplace in Italy separate from the northerners, at times with a twinge of bitterness because of the favor the government showed to the north, spending taxes improving Rome and points north, ignoring the poorer regions to the south. Her mother had insisted this had been the cause of the hard times. If Signor Baggio thought he was the same as her, he was mistaken, but she didn’t want to make suppositions just as she was enjoying the company present. She’d test him to see how informed he was. “I am from Benevento. It is a market village.”
“Benevento?” He nearly choked as he sipped water from his glass.
“You know it?”
“No, I’m sorry. I have spent most of my life right here in New York. But I have heard of your homeland. I believe the people from that village do live on Mulberry for the most part, like Mr. Adams said. Is that correct?” He did not give Sofia a chance to answer and seemed a bit nervous the way he rambled, a departure from how he’d presented himself earlier. “I was actually over that way myself a few days ago.”
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