Sofia's Tune

by Cindy Thomson

  “Oh?” She dabbed at her chin with her napkin, hoping he’d get her subtle message that he had pea mash on his chin.

  His fair cheeks flushed as he mimicked her and wiped his face.

  They exchanged smiles. She liked him already. “There is not much to see in Little Italy, I fear, Signor Baggio. Here it is much more…” She squeezed her fingers in her lap, shaking her head. “I’m afraid my English…it is little.”

  “Now don’t worry, child,” the reverend said. “We are all learning from each other.” He nodded to each in turn. “Isn’t that so, friends?”

  They all agreed.

  Mrs. Hawkins wiggled a bit in her chair. “Well, isn’t that superb that you two are familiar with the same neighborhood. Mr. Baggio, do you live near Mulberry, then?”

  “Uh, no I do not. I live with my dog over on Varick.”

  The woman grinned. “Ah, near St. Anthony’s?”

  “Not too far. I play the organ there, or rather I do on occasion when they need me.”

  “And that is how we met,” the reverend said. “He has wonderful God-given talent.”

  Sofia was charmed. A man who liked dogs, had musical talent, and was interested in her neighborhood for some reason. Mamma would not like that he was of northern descent, but Sofia did not care.

  Her palms perspired. She was being presumptuous, having only just met him. She’d only just met them all and she was already trying to impose herself on their lives. She had a family, but this one, or what seemed like a family of unrelated people, held much appeal in light of her current circumstances.

  Antonio Baggio’s face was red from the compliment. “Thank you, Reverend Clarke. That is kind of you to say.”

  The older man reached for the bread tray and passed it to Annie who sent it on its way around the table. “So, tell me, Antonio. Were you in Little Italy to play over there? There is another Italian church there, smaller, I believe. I’ve forgotten the name.”

  Sofia glanced at Antonio. Had he been to her church?

  “Church of the Most Precious Blood,” Antonio answered.

  Sofia nodded. “My parish church.”

  “Lovely,” Mrs. Hawkins said, taking a slice of bread for herself and passing the platter on to Antonio.

  He paused to take a piece as well and then handed it on to Sofia.

  “No, sir. I have never had the pleasure of playing there. I did visit briefly. I don’t know anyone in that neighborhood and wasn’t sure where to begin my inquiry. The church always seemed like the best place to go when you’re new to an area.”

  “I agree. What inquiry, may I ask?” The reverend dipped his bread into his soup.

  Antonio sighed. “I’m afraid it’s a very long story. My father had some business and…I…well.” He drummed his fingers on his thighs. “I am pursuing that business in his stead. I stopped by and spoke to a nun there. It’s a matter that will never be resolved, though.”

  “I am sorry to hear that.” The reverend put a hand on Antonio’s shoulder. “If I can be of assistance in any way, please do not hesitate to ask.”

  This time it was Sofia who nearly choked on her food. “A nun? Do you remember her name?”

  “I believe it was Sister Stefania. Very kind woman.”

  Sofia lifted her gaze to the ceiling. “I hope she didn’t…she can be a bit…long-winded?” She hadn’t meant to make that a question, but it came out that way because she was uncertain if she’d used the right words.

  “Oh, not at all. I enjoyed our visit. She even allowed me to bring my dog into the nuns’ kitchen. You know her then?”

  Sofia felt her shoulders droop. “I do. She is my mamma’s sister.”

  “Well,” Mrs. Hawkins clapped her hands. “It is a small world.”

  Sofia caught Antonio’s glance. “If you need me to intervene, to ask something for you, I would be happy to. My aunt, she can be a little…distracted.”

  He grinned, putting her at ease at once and slipping his way into her heart. “That is very kind of you. I will keep that under advisement.”

  After dinner, Annie escorted Sofia upstairs to find some books. The library was reached by ascending two stories to the top floor. Under Sofia’s feet, the wood was dark polished, the bookcases lining the walls the same. Such a beautiful room in the attic. Who would have imagined?

  Annie sounded out of breath as she leaned against the wall. “Whew, this babe. I have nearly no breathing room left, and I am more than ready for him or her to come.” Annie gently touched Sofia’s arm. “’Tis a lovely place here, aye?”

  “Bella.” Sofia drew a hand to her face.

  “My husband and I, along with a group of charity workers—we call ourselves The Benevolents—built this lofty library to honor my father. He passed away before I left Ireland. Later, when you’re not in a rush to get home, I’ll tell you more about it.”

  Sofia had told her she needed to get back to check on her mother. She hoped her family realized how much they needed her after having the Sunday meal without her help. She was anxious to find out.

  Annie Adams turned toward her, a bit unsteady. She put a hand out toward the wall to balance herself and grinned. “Oh, there we go.”

  “Are you all right?” Sofia asked.

  “Sure and I will be. Just a moment.” She took a series of short breaths. “There, now. The babe’s calmed down. Not as much kicking going on these days because there isn’t much room. Sometimes I think I will be birthing a football team rather than a wee child.”

  Sofia smiled at the woman’s candor. She chatted with her as a sister might.

  “Now, you remember I spoke briefly about my father at your school, the famous Luther Redmond?”

  “Sì.” Sofia remembered something about that.

  “Although that was not his given name that is how most people know him.” The woman roamed down one aisle, speaking about the care they’d taken to make sure the proper books were housed there. She said something about the stories her father liked to read. Or did she say ‘tell?’ Sofia could barely follow what the Irish woman said, so distracted as she was by the books. If it hadn’t been for the time Papà spent in America and the English words he had brought back to teach them, Sofia wouldn’t understand her at all. As it was she had to listen carefully to the woman’s quick, melodic speech.

  But, oh, the books. There were so many volumes that one could get lost browsing through them, but Annie seemed to know where to find the ones she wanted. She pulled one from a shelf and handed it to Sofia. Sofia carefully opened the cover. The letters she knew, but the words they formed were a mystery. She’d learned some English words, but could understand nothing on the pages she examined. She blinked and traced over them with her finger.

  The Irish girl smacked her lips. “The Poetical Works Of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. She writes lovely verses. Truly, ‘tis not a good place to start to learn English, but she’s one of my favorites and I couldn’t help but show this to you. Her words seem to float as though riding on a summer breeze. Here. Let’s sit a wee while, so.” She motioned toward a pair of high backed brown leather chairs.

  Sofia hesitated only a moment. She could postpone her return home a bit. The room, so richly decorated and stacked with more volumes than Sofia had ever seen in one place, felt like a cocoon of literary possibilities that she could not resist. Each book contained a mystery waiting to be unlocked. When they were seated, Annie took the book from her fingers.

  “Indulge me, won’t you?” She wrinkled her button nose as she stared at the page. “Hmm. Let me see. Ah, you will find this fascinating. This poet lived in Italy. She was English, of course, but moved to Italy with her husband Robert Browning, who was also a poet. You might like some of this.” She cleared her throat and began to read.

  You remember down at Florence our Cascine. Where the people on the feast-days walk and drive, and through the trees, long-drawn in many a green way…

  Florence? That was not Sofia’s Italy, and yet she could stil
l envision the people on feast days strolling down the strade, singing in the sunshine like skylarks. That world seemed distant now that she was in America, cast away like her voyage ticket after she’d crossed through Ellis Island. Like something that no longer had relevance for her life. She knew it must seem so not only for her, but for the Northern Italians as well, and even for this young woman who had been born in Ireland. An immigrant might still possess the tongue of her native land but yet be as far removed from their countries as their ancestors buried beneath it. This fact, this common thread ran through so many lives, people crowded on streetcars together and marching in clusters to the factories. Sofia could no more ignore the others than she could Sister Stefania. They were there in her path. All are God’s children bound together in a common struggle to belong. As lonely as she sometimes felt, how much worse would it be if she shut herself off from those outside her community? Or what had been her community. She needed to draw a new circle, one that encompassed everyone. Oh what this outing to Hawkins House had taught her in just one afternoon.

  Sofia was aware that she’d not been listening when Annie stopped reading and looked up from the book. Sofia coughed softly. “You are right, Signora Adams…uh, I mean Annie.”

  The mother-to-be smiled approvingly at the mention of her given name.

  “The words are…as you say, lovely.”

  “I’m so pleased you think so.” She leaned over and grabbed a couple more books from a nearby shelf. “These are fine, as well.” Annie seemed to treasure each bound copy as though they were rare jewels. “We’ll give these a go and see what you like. You can borrow them all, of course, if you want.”

  “You are generous, Annie.” The woman’s bright eyes and thin pink lips glowed from the compliment.

  Being in that snug library was a welcome reprieve from the shouting in the Falcone household. Sofia snuggled deep into the soft leather as Annie held another book aloft so they both could see it. Together they spoke out some words in Riley Songs O’Cheer, the poetry of an American named James Whitcomb Riley.

  The Little-red-apple Tree!—

  O The Little-red-apple Tree!

  When I was the little-est bit of a boy

  And you were a boy with me!

  The reading was somewhat difficult, but Sofia managed a few words without help. Just being able to decipher some of it was a victory, at least Annie said so.

  “Do not worry about the poem’s meaning. You are just learning words, English ones. Eventually the pages will speak to you of deeper meaning.”

  Finally, Annie handed her the books she thought would help her the most. Not for pleasure reading, but for instruction, books she said American children used in school. “There is so much happening in Manhattan right now in the matter of education for immigrants, Sofia. I realize your night school utilizes hand gestures and pictures to teach English, and they do indeed have some success with that method. But I want girls like you to know there is much more to be learned by using books. These are called McGuffey Readers. ‘Tis a simpler way to learn than the books I’ve shown you so far, but you’re a smart one and you’ll be ready for these others soon, so take them all.” She handed the books she had collected to Sofia.

  “I do not understand this ‘happening’ in education you speak of.”

  “Do not worry. You’ll be hearing plenty in the coming months, and ’tis wonderful news for women and for immigrants.”

  “I am afraid in my neighborhood, we keep to ourselves.”

  “You work at the shoe factory, you say?”

  “I do.”

  “Then you will be hearing about it. Everyone will be talking about Miss Julia Richman, even strangers on the trolley. She’s an educator. I am so pleased the education of those arriving here is becoming a top priority. She is focused on the wee ones, and that is important, but I believe adults should have access to learning and to stories.”

  “I see. America is a wonderful land, Annie.”

  “Oh, ’tis indeed.”

  “I am grateful for your help. I will not be able to go back to night school for a while. My mamma, she is ill.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry for your trouble, Sofia. Whatever you need, please ask.”

  “Grazie, we have a healer. I mean a doctor, and a priest, and my papà will get my mamma the help she needs.” At least Sofia hoped so.

  “Very good. In the meantime, come back here. We would love to help you learn to read the English, Sofia. And you are already speaking it quite well.”

  If only she knew how difficult it was.

  “Like I said, ’tis an exciting time for women in the immigrant quarters. The Times is reporting that Miss Richman is to be named Manhattan’s first-ever woman superintendent of a public school. She has already been working as the principal of the girls’ department at Public School 77 over on the corner of First Avenue and 85th street.”

  New York’s public schools seemed as far removed from the Benevento immigrants as the European continent, but this news seemed to please Annie Adams very much. The woman, of course, knew where these places were because she was married to a postman.

  “I must be going now. Grazie, Signora.…Annie.” She kept forgetting how Americans greeted each other.

  “Just Annie.”

  Sofia nodded to show she understood, but addressing strangers by their Christian names was something she was still trying to get used to. They marched back down the stairs to the parlor where the men were.

  Antonio Baggio took Sofia’s wrap from the housekeeper and helped Sofia drape it over her shoulders. She’d never received such attention from a man before. The gesture warmed her. If only they could spend time together.

  “May I walk you to the trolley?” he asked.

  She agreed. Thankfully he would be going the other direction. It was enough that he’d met her aunt already. If he knew her mother was not in her right mind, he might flee from her on the day they’d just met.

  Chapter 9

  After seeing the beautiful Sofia Falcone to her trolley car, Antonio encountered the reverend on the street.

  “I am on my way to my church. You will pass the corner going to Varick Street. Care to walk with me?”

  “Certainly.”

  “You say you came over as a lad, Antonio?”

  Reverend Clarke liked to ask questions. Antonio wondered if he’d already shared too much. When people learn your father had been shot, even by accident, they tend to back away from you as though your bad luck might follow them.

  “Yes. I have very few memories of the land of my birth.”

  “And your father? You mentioned his business. What kind of business is he in?”

  “He worked for the street department. I’m afraid he has passed away, six months now.”

  “Oh, I am so sorry to hear that. What kind of business was the street department doing over in The Bend?”

  “Nothing unsavory, Reverend.”

  “Oh, of course not. It’s just that he didn’t live there, and as you probably know from your own visit, folks don’t go into that neighborhood without a good reason. Much despair and poverty, but hopefully one day we will all accomplish the goal of eradicating it. I do hope you don’t think I’m too nosey.”

  “Not at all. I think it’s quite good that folks like you bring charity where it is badly needed.” Antonio cleared his throat. “My father’s death, it seems, was an accident. He was killed up at Cooper Union, though my uncle and I don’t know why he was there. He seems to have been caught in a protest. He was an innocent bystander.”

  “Oh, my dear boy. I am so sorry. That must have been difficult for you and your family.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But Cooper Union? That is no where near The Bend.”

  “It is not. This is difficult to explain. The police say my father was in the wrong place at the worst time. However, my uncle believes someone from Benevento knows something. Someone from that village, who would probably live in The Bend, has been aski
ng around. I went to the church, talked to the nun, but so far I’ve uncovered nothing.”

  “We all have to carry on despite life’s sorrows, son.”

  “I thank you for your understanding.”

  “Please, let’s stop in here a moment.” He indicated a set of red doors and Antonio followed him. It was a church Antonio had never been in before.

  “Are you sure we should be here?” He glanced around for a priest or holy man who would surely order them out for trespassing.

  The reverend lowered his plump body onto an oak pew and sighed. “We are Christians, and this is God’s house. Who is to complain?”

  Certainly not Antonio. He admired cathedrals but he’d only been in Catholic ones thus far. This place was likely Protestant, judging from the lack of holy water. It was still elaborately adorned. Episcopal perhaps, or maybe Lutheran, but yes, God’s house.

  “Are you in danger as we speak? I mean, can you be sure your father’s death was an accident? It occurs to me that blindly asking around might be harmful to your well being, son.”

  “No, I don’t think I’m in danger. There were some men asking for me at a theater where I sometimes work. I didn’t get an opportunity to talk with them, but they seemed to be under the false impression that my father owed them money. I assure you, he owed no one.”

  The reverend grunted. “I see. There could be more to this than you know. I unfortunately have little confidence in the police department. Some are upright and respectable, but many are not.”

  Antonio sighed and leaned against the hard pew. “I’m afraid I’m no good at detective work. I assure you I have no part in any gangs or anything of the sort and neither did my father.”

  “I have no reason to think otherwise. After all, the Lord directed me your way this very morning. I do think you need to be careful going blindly into that neighborhood.”

  “My uncle agrees with you.”

  “Good man.”

  “I am careful, but Reverend, someone knows what happened.”