They were greeted by Enzo’s extended family at the port in Boston, and headed for a family celebration. Armando and Giorgio sat on either side of the old man at the head of the long table. The youngest men, made their greetings, but hovered around their cousin Mariaelena Vesprini, a dark-haired beauty.
The usual topics were discussed around the dinner table by the elders: The mozzarella and the pasta in America—and definitely the available olive oil—were nowhere like what you could get anywhere in Campania, even farther inland, at Basilicata; the savour of local prosciutto . . . ahh, the less said the better; and the wine . . . Did they all remember the old country’s Lachryma Christi? They shook their heads in sorrow and remembrance.
Only after these immigrant rituals, familiar and much respected,
did everyone exchange recent news. Giuseppe told everyone how he had found Frankie Talese in New York. At the end of the feast, when their favorite people were being toasted, Giuseppe raised his glass for Padre Stefano Antonelli, who, he had by now heard from Enzo, had died in Napoli a few months after the disaster. Something stirred in old Enzo’s memory, and he sat up excitedly.
“Your friend Francesco!” Enzo exclaimed. He reached over and grasped Giuseppe’s sleeve, spilling his wine. “The padre found his sister, the mute one.” But try as he might, old Enzo could not remember where she was now.
“Lucia!” exclaimed Giuseppe.
It was then that Italo Spinelli spoke up and recounted in detail his tale of Michele and his fate. Giuseppe wept openly, and the table had fallen completely silent. The tragic reality of Italy sat occupying the small, overcrowded apartment in Boston, as if the present did not exist, except in relation to what had happened in the old country.
“Francesco must go as soon as possible,” Enzo whispered urgently to Giuseppe, who sat wide-eyed about what he would have to tell Frankie the moment he returned to New York. “Frankie will find his sister. He will find Lucia,” he told everyone.
• • •
“L
UCIA IS ALIVE,”
I said, feeling my breath constrict, “but where is she?” She was part of my family now, an aunt for my son.
“The news comes eventually, sometimes randomly, neh?” Josephine patted my arm. “She will be okay, Bibi. You will see,” Josephine said gently, “Frankie will find her and return to you and his baby. It will only take time.”
“The hardest thing is to wait,” I said, thinking of my mother. “But did Giuseppe tell you why he hasn’t written?”
• • •
W
HEN HE HEARD
the news, Frankie had clung to Giuseppe, as if he were back on the storm-tossed Caribbean. He had not given much thought to Italy on his voyages, with the young man’s certainty that everything would remain exactly as he had left it.
“Frankie got a job on a ship to Genoa,” continued Josephine, “but there was a catch: the ship was sailing the very next day. With luck, he would be able to work his way back from Napoli, and afford passage on the same ship for Lucia.” She looked directly at me now. “According to Giuseppe, the hardest thing for Frankie was not being able to tell you in person.”
“He said that?” I asked, smiling now for the first time.
“Frankie wanted to explain things to Maeve and you, Giuseppe told me,” Josephine said. “But there was too little time.” She held her finger up and added, “It was a Sunday, so Giuseppe could be with Frankie the entire day. On that one day Frankie he had before sailing off, he wrote this letter to your mother, Mrs. Maeve Sztolberg,” Josephine said, “that’s what Giuseppe told me.”
“What!” I did not understand at all. Frankie knew how Mama resented him. “No, Josephine,” I asserted, certain that she had misunderstood, “he must be mistaken.”
“But that is precisely what he did, Bibi, believe me,” Josephine insisted. “Maybe I understand immigrants better, neh?” she added. “He had done this to show respect to your mother: The first hopeful step to honor her in his new family.”
“And he didn’t write to me!” I was not sure I was hearing right.
“No, Bibi, listen,” said Josephine, with quiet emphasis, “he
did
write to you, asking Giuseppe and Nicolina for advice as a married couple, telling them exactly what he had put in his letter.”
Giuseppe had said that Frankie’s letter to me was short, because he felt sure that I would understand, without preamble or argument. I was his soul, his
alma
, he had written, and if life on the farm was what I wanted, he would stay there; he wrote that Lucia would love that too. “This is going to be my final voyage, I swear,” Giuseppe said Frankie had written. Then he put both letters in a single envelope, inscribing both the names,
Mrs. Maeve Sztolberg and Miss Bibi Sztolberg
, above the address of the farm. Giuseppe had mailed it for him the very next day.
I was thunderstruck by what my mother had done.
• • •
O
UR TEA HAD
long been finished.
“How much time does it take to go to Italy, find someone, and bring her back?” I asked Josephine. I moved my empty cup beside the saucer, then put it back restlessly.
“That is not what is most important,” said Josephine softly, almost in a whisper.
“What can you mean?” I said so loudly that I startled myself. “I’m sorry,” I said, lowering my voice, “I don’t understand.”
“Bibi, think hard. Italy is a long way away. You never know what might have happened on the way, or over there. How Papa and Uncle Arthur came from Slovakia . . . you cannot begin to imagine the ordeals, Bibi. They could not tell from day to day where they were going, or if they would even survive.”
“But Frankie has only to go by sea and back.”
“Look, Bibi. Think of what Frankie said to Giuseppe. He loves
you, neh? But he needs to do this thing before he comes to you. Can you understand, yes?”
“Well, there is one thing I can understand only a little, but another thing I don’t understand at all. Okay, maybe it is harder than he expected to find Lucia.”
“Yes,” said Josephine, firmly. “Wouldn’t your own father have gone back to find his sister Tirzeh, if he had the chance?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” I said, “Maybe Lucia is sick. Maybe he ran out of money. Perhaps he could not easily find her. But why does he not write to me? He owes me that much.” I stopped momentarily, adding bitterly, “Maybe he does not want our baby.”
“Wait, Bibi,” said Josephine, “how do you know he has not written? And he does not know about the baby, no?”
I agreed feebly. “But why doesn’t he return?”
“I don’t know, Bibi,” said Josephine almost to herself. “But he loves you. You are lucky to have that, neh?”
Josephine stared at the empty cups. I noticed her capable hands, unadorned by any trinkets, and began to sense the core of loneliness that Josephine Grunwald guarded. She was a union worker, a secret organizer, the target of hired thugs like Ijjybijjy Malouf, a staunch friend of her coworkers, a much-loved daughter and niece, and nothing else. She was generous and thought nothing of sharing her room with a virtual stranger, a room full of books and pamphlets and a narrow bed. I understood that it would be somehow hurtful to Josephine if I were to apologize now, at this moment. Josephine’s clear intelligent eyes exuded an unsettling honesty. Few men would ever attempt flirtation with Josephine Grunwald, never getting to her deep reserve of strength and real humor that I already understood and loved.
“You know what I would be lucky to have?” I said impulsively,
rushing on. “A job, like you do, making enough for a small place of my own. I would be doing something besides just waiting for Frankie to come back. I would save every penny,” I said wistfully.
“The baby? Who would take care of him?” asked Josephine levelly.
“My mother can take care of him. She already does. That is all she likes to do. More than anything else.” My bitterness spilt out of me. “If she could nurse him, she would, till he is twenty.”
“And is that all you can say about her?”
I made myself face Josephine’s direct gaze, but could not quite meet it. “She loves us . . . me,” I conceded in bitterness, “very much. Too much.”
Josephine did not answer immediately. I could not stop my tears now. “I miss my baby, but what else can I do?”
“And what is the other thing you do not understand at all, Bibi?” said Josephine, already knowing the question which I had not been able to ask.
“Why did my mother never mention the letters?”
Josephine’s smile was ironic, but her words were gentle. “Surely you know the answer yourself, neh? You told me how she does not allow anyone, including the old man—Brendan?—ever to speak of leaving. She has waited all these years for her father to come to her. She never realized she had all the father she could have asked for. Your mother—she did not want another woman, her own daughter, in the same household, waiting, waiting like her.”
“So, should I not wait, if my truth is to wait?” I asked defiantly. “Why can’t I choose for myself? She always has.”
“Yes, Bibi,” said Josephine, “but you are alike in too many ways to agree with each other—yet. Mothers and daughters often walk a hard path.” She stood up. “Come, let us go. It’s getting late.”
The thought of Ijjybijjy Malouf came to my mind suddenly, and I looked anxiously at the shadows on the afternoon street.
“Don’t live in fear, Bibi,” said Josephine, as if she could read my mind. “Besides, I have my weapon, neh?” she added, patting her small umbrella, which, I noticed only now, had a hideous point.
“Are you good at sewing?” she asked as we strode briskly.
“I am indeed,” I replied proudly.
“We shall see how good, yes?” Josephine said, “I’ll teach you some tricks of the trade in the next couple of days. Then I’ll explain where to go for an interview. I’ll tell you what pay to expect. Don’t accept anything less.”
“Oh yes.” I was brightening immediately. “Yes!”
“And don’t mention you know me,” said Josephine pragmatically. “They know I’m a union girl. Then they wouldn’t hire you.”
I nodded happily. Linking our arms, Josephine walked to her own beat. “We bargain for our wages together. If the owners are unfair to us, we quit work together. When they want us, we go together to work—if we agree—on our terms, fair and square. We are human beings, neh? Well, some of the owners are not.” She chuckled at her own joke. “I’ll give you some pamphlets by and by. But first, the sewing tips. I need to see not only how good you are—but how fast and accurate. And for how long. We work many hours, see.”
I said yes to all this. A question was forming in my mind. Josephine read my look and simply said, “Of course, you’ll stay with me and Papa and Uncle Arthur until you’ve saved enough. They have already grown so fond of you, I should be jealous, neh?” She chuckled and asked, “Shall we go visit Uncle Arthur at his hotel now and tell him? Shall we go right now? Are you tired? Can you walk?”
“Of course,” I agreed, and we headed uptown.
We amused ourselves by watching the fine shops as we walked up Madison Avenue. I admired the mannequins, spangly bags, and hats with feathers, and longed to pause and gawk, but did not want to hold back Josephine, who never broke her stride. As we turned right to go toward Park Avenue and the big hotel where Uncle Arthur worked, Josephine asked me, “Will you write to your mother before or after you find your job?”
“After,” I replied firmly.
“How long after?”
“As soon as I can show her I can survive on my own.”
“She will worry. So will the old man Brendan. See, Frankie is not the only one to worry others.”
“Yes,” I demurred. “Okay, a month after I get my job.”
And then we were in front of the grand hotel.
“Let’s go down and see Uncle Arthur,” said Josephine.
“Down?” I wondered. We peeked in through the grand entrance where uniformed doormen stood like deposed kings in mufti. They just ignored us, as if they had been trained to see from a long distance the amount of money anyone carried. Smooth marble columns and huge potted palms rose from the most gleaming floor I’d ever seen. Tall floor lamps glittered amid plush sofas. I felt even the air was different, balmy and warm, without noise, just a hush with a few sounds of the tinkly kind, of fine china and wineglasses, rippling bars at the piano. One of the uninformed bellboys glided up to Josephine.
“Come to see your uncle, Miss Grunwald?” he said with a quick smile.
“Yes, Moishe,” she said.
“It’s Morris here,” he reminded her.
I followed Josephine through a discreet side door, clattered down some steep iron stairs, until she pushed open a great big door with the painted sign that read BOILER ROOM. Off to one side of the very warm cavernous room were a few partitioned spaces, waist-high, with a foot or so of framed glazed glass above. In one of these, under a lamp that was suspended from a very high ceiling with flaking paint, I spied the familiar balding pink head adorned with a banker’s green shade. Uncle Arthur sat at a cheap wooden desk, his jacket draped behind his chair. A cigarette dangled from his lips, a cylinder of ash suspended precariously as he leaned over a large ledger, looking intently at columns on a page, a seasoned general inspecting his troops.
He broke into a grin, his face creasing like crumpled paper, clapped his hands, and called out, “Seymour, Seymour.” Uncle Arthur whispered something to the nearsighted young man who appeared, adding as he left, “Tell Maxie Shapiro in the kitchen.”
In a few minutes, Seymour reappeared, carrying a tray laid with the most immaculate white linen, and on it, two splendid desserts. The spoons were monogrammed, as were the serviettes. For Uncle Arthur he had brought pale tea in an old porcelain mug.
“Peach Melba,” Arthur said with a flourish, “meet Miss Bibi Sztolberg and Miss Josephine Grunwald!”
• • •
“Y
OU’LL BE JUST
fine, Bibi,” Josephine told me at the packed elevator door, giving my cold hand an encouraging squeeze. “You sew far better than most beginners here.” She went up the stairs one more floor where they worked on special orders.
I felt breathless as I walked through the heavy door into what
seemed to my eyes like a world unto itself. So this was the clothes factory. I can barely remember who directed me to my seat amid the hectic
clackety-clack
of machines, smell of cloth, chirpy or sharp talk among the girls, the sudden quiet when the two owners came by. The girl next to me pointed them out: short, dark Mr. Harris, and then the broody, pale Mr. Blanck with his stiff black hair. The quips that followed after a safe interval, between her and the older woman next to her, were funny and bitter at once.