PART EIGHT

NEW YORK, NEW YORK DECEMBER 29, 1908–SEPTEMBER 8, 1909

TWENTY-FIVE

DECEMBER 29, 1908

“Terremoto! Terremoto in Sicilia e Calabria!” The Italian newsies ran down Mulberry and Elizabeth Streets, abandoning their usual corners.

“Messina destroyed!”

“No news from Reggio!”

“Earthquake followed by tidal wave!”

“Thousands dead!”

Before the newsies were done trumpeting headlines, church bells began to toll. If the residents of the Italian colony were not awoken by the sound of their neighbors’ footsteps running downstairs to get the paper, the chorus of pealing bells roused them. The newsies’ canvas bags were quickly emptied, and people grouped around the nearest person with a paper. Those who couldn’t read or were too far from the newspaper beseeched the readers, “Tell us! Tell us!” Their pleadings were met with loud admonishments to be quiet as the reader, hands shaking, tried to get through the front page.

Often when they finished or reached a sentence that spelled doom, the reader collapsed, unable to tell their family and neighbors of the catastrophe. Weeping summaries were reduced to “Gone, they are all gone!” Then the others would also collapse, and each doorway was littered with knots of people moaning “No!” and praying aloud to the saints.

Frances had run downstairs for the paper and had scanned it on her way up before handing it to her stepmother. She knew her father no longer had family in Italy, but she had quickly read enough to know that this was horrible news for her stepmother.

Giovanna laid the paper on the kitchen table, spreading it out in full. Unable to sit, she stood over it, gripping the sides of the pages. Her daughter, husband, and stepchildren watched in silence as her chest heaved and her pale skin turned blotchy, but with a steely concentration she continued reading. An emotional earthquake was taking place. The surface of her body showed only the faintest signs, but the pressure building up beneath was visible. Frances was sure her stepmother was going to split in two. Instead, it was the paper that was torn in half from the stress of Giovanna’s grip. Leaving the ripped paper on the table, Giovanna ran to her bedroom.

“Giovanna! What is going on?” asked Rocco.

“Messina is destroyed. Probably Reggio too. An earthquake and a tidal wave. They could all be trapped. I’m going to find them,” she said, throwing things, including the little money they had saved, in a bag.

“Stop this! You can’t go there. Even if it was possible, it would take weeks, and by then…”

Giovanna flashed Rocco a look of determination and grabbed her bag and rushed to the door. When she opened it, Lorenzo was standing there with a look of terror on his face.

DECEMBER 30, 1908

After a day of grieving, Lorenzo knew that the only thing to do was to go with Giovanna to the shipping lines. The ticket office was crowded with hundreds of Italians, each being told the same thing. There were no tickets, and even if they could get to Naples, there was no way to get to the stricken area. Only first-class tickets aboard the Lucania were on sale. In desperation, immigrants handed money and scraps of paper bearing family names and locations to wealthy Italians boarding the Lucania, begging them to send word of their families.

“Giovanna, I know that man!” exclaimed Lorenzo, pointing to a man ready to board. “I painted a mural in his import office.”

Lorenzo fought his way through the crowd, calling the man’s name. The well-dressed signore heard the call and turned.

“Signore, I am Lorenzo Costa. Can you help us?” The man’s face was swollen and red, and he looked at Lorenzo with a dazed expression.

“Remember, signore, I painted your mural? Of the Strait of Messina?”

“Oh, sì, sì.” The man continued to stare at Lorenzo.

“Signore, please, can you send word of my family? They are in Scilla, Calabria.”

“But I hope to go to Messina. My wife, my children, my parents, they are all there. I…,” he said, pounding his chest, “I sent them. I sent them for Christmas. I sent them to their deaths. May the saints be with your family, Signore Artiste.” The gentleman turned and left.

The scene at the cable office, which was their next stop, was no different. Crowds of Sicilians and Calabrians jammed the small office and the street. A clerk, standing on his desk, tried to yell over the din of the crowd. “You can place a cable, but it won’t get there. There are no telegraph or telephone lines in the area. Try again in a few days.”

Most of the crowd, including Giovanna and Lorenzo, waited in line anyway to send their futile missives, even prepaying for the reply they wouldn’t receive. The line was long, and the crowd exchanged newspapers while waiting. Today’s story was longer, covering many pages and featuring maps and photographs of Messina and Reggio before the disaster. Giovanna was given a New York Herald and was about to pass it on when she saw much of it was written in Italian. Leaving Lorenzo in line, she went outside to read.

100,000 DEAD IN MESSINA, REGGIO’S LOSS IS 45,000 IN STAGGERING CALAMITY

SHIPS RUSHED TO STRICKEN SECTIONS WITH FOOD AND TENTS

HELPLESS, HOPELESS SURVIVORS OF THE TERRIFYING SHOCK BECOME SHRIEKING MANIACS AND ADD TO THE TERROR OF THE SCENES BY ENDING LIVES ALONGSIDE VICTIMS’ BODIES

Try as she might by praying feverishly, Giovanna could not stop visualizing her parents trapped beneath rubble, dead—or worse, in pain and unreachable. To have her fears expounded upon in the ink of a newspaper was too much to bear. She forced herself to scan the article, looking for mention of Scilla, but she did not find it. Even the map didn’t show Scilla. But it did show the neighboring towns of Bagnara and Palmi, and it said that hundreds of bodies had been found. She shivered at the thought that Scilla was closer to Reggio and Messina than either of these two places.

“It is sent.” Lorenzo lifted his sister off the crate by her hand. “Did you find out anything more?” Wordlessly, she showed him the map and pointed out all the surrounding cities that had been destroyed. He looked at the paper but said nothing.

“I heard someone say that people are going to the Consul General’s office,” mumbled Lorenzo. “Let’s try.”

Arriving at Consul General Massiglia’s office on Lafayette Street, they were greeted by mayhem. People were fighting to get in the door and yelling, “Give us transport!” “Release the names of the dead!” The Consul General’s underlings moved through the crowd, telling them the little they knew and trying hopelessly to quell the anxiety and assure people that when they received information it would be quickly disseminated. Lorenzo shrugged in desperation. There was only one place left to go.

Lorenzo and Giovanna stepped into Our Lady of Loreto on Elizabeth Street. Every candle was lit, and the church was crowded with weeping women—and even with men, who were unaccustomed to the surroundings because baptism and death were often the only occasions that brought an Italian man to church.

Looking around, Giovanna felt a pang of guilt for not coming here first. She surprised herself at how practical she could be sometimes. Kneeling before the altar, she took a stick from the tray and placed it in an existing flame. There were not enough candles in all the churches of New York for the victims. Each candle would have to carry the burden of many souls. More than fifty times she put the stick in a flame, saying the name of the person for whom she prayed, starting with her mother and father. After lighting their candles, she lit one each for Nunzio’s mother, Zia Marianna, Nunzio’s sister, Fortunata, and her husband, Giuseppe Arena, and their children. Because her mind was clouded with smoke and grief, she aided the process of inventorying her loved ones by imagining the faces of her friends and family in her trip down the aisle to marry Nunzio. She lit a flame for each soul and prayed to Nunzio to save them or receive them in heaven.

Lorenzo was also mumbling prayers not far from where Father Longa was trying to comfort the many families surrounding him. Giovanna knew Father Longa came from Messina and wondered how he had the strength to comfort others when his own family’s fate was unknown. She decided Father Longa was either blessed with this diversion or had a higher calling.

DECEMBER 31, 1908

It took Angelina a day to figure out what was happening, but when she did, she was inconsolable. Her Nonna and Nonno, who had lavished her with attention in Scilla, might be buried in rocks, drowned in a gigantic wave, or burned in a fire. Everywhere she went, adults were talking or reading the paper. And if she didn’t understand what they said, she could understand the grief of women who sat in doorways with their aprons thrown over their heads, wailing and rocking.

When she wasn’t thinking about Nonna and Nonno, she was thinking about Antonio and his brothers and sisters. How could that same calm, beautiful water that Antonio taught her to swim in swallow people up? She heard one lady reading that the survivors were going insane and walking around naked. Frances said that meant that they were crazy. Was Antonio crazy, with no clothes on?

That morning when she woke up, her mother was already kneeling beside her bed praying. Angelina started crying again, but she tried to muffle her sobs with her pillow. The only time her mother cried was when she saw Angelina cry, and she didn’t want that to happen. Seeing her mother cry was worse than imagining all those horrible things.

When Rocco came home from work, earlier than usual, he looked at the sad expressions on his children’s faces and his wife still on her knees in prayer and said, “Come, children, let’s all go for hot chestnuts and visit your cousins. It’s New Year’s Eve.”

Mary, with Angelina clinging to her hand, whispered to her father, “I don’t want to leave Zia.”

“Zio Lorenzo will come sit with her.”

Rocco sensed that his wife didn’t want him around and was only finding comfort with her brother. Her grief and anxiety were far too great for him to resent her feelings, so he tried to stay out of her way.

The door closed on Giovanna’s solitude; her shoulders slumped in relief, and she laid her head on the bed. Her mind wandered to the New Year’s Eve she spent as a voiceless widow traveling in the bowels of a boat to a foreign land. Six years later, worse than sailing away from the land and people she loved, she might have lost them completely. The memory of the pink icing on that little girl’s finger burned in her throat.

JANUARY 1, 1909

The first day of the New Year brought confirmation of Giovanna’s worst fears. The headlines of the New York Herald were each more horrifying than the one before.

IN ONE INSTANCE THE GROUND OPENED AND FROM A CHASM EIGHTY FEET WIDE THERE SPOUTED BOILING WATER IN WHICH THOUSANDS WERE SCALDED TO DEATH

CLOUDS OF CROWS MYSTERIOUSLY ATTRACTED TO THE STRICKEN DISTRICTS ADD TO THE TERRORS THERE

HUMAN BEINGS FIGHT WITH DOGS FOR FOOD

Scanning the first page, she ignored details while desperately looking for the word Scilla. Turning the page, her search ended, for there was the name “Scilla” staring back at her. A box listed all the affected cities, their populations, and the number dead. Number six on the list was Scilla. But while all the other cities listed a number dead, or said “hundreds dead,” in Scilla’s column it simply said “in ruins.”

Giovanna stayed at the table staring. Rocco looked over her shoulder; the chart was easy enough to figure out even for an illiterate. His gnarled index finger pointed at “in rovine” across from Scilla’s name.

“What does this say?”

“In ruins.”

“Let’s go for a walk.”

“No.”

“I’ll take the children for a walk. Do you want me to get Lorenzo?”

Giovanna didn’t answer. The children, who were just waking up, gathered around Giovanna and the newspaper. Their father tried to shoo them away.

“Come on, get dressed. We’re going for a walk.” Rocco even roused Clement who was still sleeping.

Rocco and the children were nearly out the door when Lucrezia knocked. She carried holiday pastries, a New York Times, and her doctor’s bag. Rocco waved her in, and, motioning to his wife, gently shook his head. He tipped his cap in farewell.

“Giovanna, it’s me, Lucrezia.” She sat at Giovanna’s side, and Giovanna actually took her hand and held it.

Lucrezia used her other hand to fish in her bag. She pulled out Humphries Pills No. 17, which, although advertised for depression, Lucrezia had found to be a good sedative.

“Here, take this,” she said, putting the pill in Giovanna’s mouth and getting up to get her a glass of water. “Before I speak further you should know that my husband said they could be exaggerating the devastation to get more aid. But there was more news of Scilla today.”

Giovanna nodded and pointed at the chart in the newspaper in front of her. Lucrezia looked at it. “Yes, that’s what the New York Times had. There was something else, too. It said two priests from Scilla escaped because they were in the vault of a church that resisted collapse.”

Giovanna’s eyes flickered. This was the first news of Scilla that was not abstract. She tried to think which church had a vault.

“It also said that Scilla was completely destroyed. Even the rock of Scylla has completely disappeared.” Lucrezia’s voice lowered. “The priests think they are the only survivors.”

For the first time in her life, Giovanna fainted. Lucrezia had a difficult time getting her to the bed. Once conscious, Giovanna was still drowsy because the sedative had begun to work. In spite of this, Giovanna pushed up from the bed.

“I must tell Lorenzo!”

Lucrezia gently pushed her down. “He knows. I saw him before coming here. He asked me to take care of you. You need to sleep.” Lucrezia lay down beside Giovanna and held her friend, who gagged on her tears before falling into a deep sleep.

Hours later, when Giovanna woke, Lucrezia was at the stove stirring soup. “I made you broth. If you feel up to it, there is a special service at the Church of the Most Precious Blood on Baxter.”

For once in her life, Giovanna’s preference was not to be alone. This tragedy extended beyond her family, and she felt the need to congregate. “I’ll go.”

Lucrezia miraculously made Giovanna’s family reappear and got them ready for the service.

The mass, led by Father Bernardino Polizzo, was packed with people clad in black and heartbreak. Giovanna clutched Angelina’s hand. At least she had her daughter and stepchildren. From the number of single men in the church, she surmised that many of their wives and children were sent home during the last year when times in New York had become even more difficult. These men were probably all that was left of their families. She also noticed that Italians of all classes were in the pews. Tragedy was more common in the lower classes, but it had enveloped them all.

Angelina was tugging at her mother’s hand. In tired exasperation, Giovanna asked, “What is it?”

“Mamma—Nonna and Nonno are still alive.”

Giovanna squeezed her daughter’s hand a little too hard and whispered, “Angelina, I told you what we read today.”

“But he told me!”

“Who told you?”

“Saint Rocco.” Angelina pointed to his statue on the altar. “I was praying to him, and he told me that they are safe.”

Giovanna, who usually believed in miracles, could not accept this. Instead, she cradled her child and said sadly, “You keep praying.”

JANUARY 2, 1909

In what was now a ritual, the day started with the papers. For the first time, there was a list of confirmed dead, city by city. And there it was, “Scilla, 2,800.”

“That means 2,200 are still alive!” Giovanna thought with elation. It was the mathematics of tragedy, where every number becomes disconnected from the horror and pain of the life it represents. Giovanna found her thoughts consumed with macabre fractions. “If my parents are alive, then these three people are dead.” But complicating matters was the disclaimer at the bottom of the chart: “This list does not include the deaths that may occur in hospitals.” With this in mind, it was no longer simple math.

She began to add all the numbers for each city and then realized the total was already listed at the bottom: 164,850 confirmed dead. Who were the unconfirmed dead? Was that like not being baptized?

The sound of trumpets and drums from the street saved her from her thoughts. Clement ran to the window and reported. “There’s a band and lots of people and carriages behind it.” The entire family went to the window to see carriages decorated with Italian and American flags and signs asking for contributions for the earthquake’s victims. The first carriage was draped with banners reading IL PROGRESSO and was followed by men in thick overcoats and sashes.

Giovanna squinted to see the people in the carriages. They appeared to be important Italians—they had medals pinned to their chests in addition to the sashes. She was certain that one woman, whose picture she had seen in the paper, was an opera star. Young girls carrying tin boxes were at the sides of the procession, darting in and out of stores and vestibules to collect contributions. The carriages were already piled high with cans of food, medicine, and clothing.

Angelina watched a man at a fish cart unbutton his shirt, rip it from his body, and throw it on the carriage, leaving him bare-chested in the January wind. Women and children crossed themselves as the procession passed and ran into their apartments to get what little they had.

Giovanna quickly moved through the apartment picking up whatever she could and putting it into a basket. Thrusting the basket and coins into her stepson’s hands, Giovanna shouted, “Here, Clement, run down with this.” She was nearly drowned out by the sound of the band that was under their window and the weeping on the street when the procession passed.

JANUARY 3, 1909

“Rocco!” called Giovanna, running back into their apartment with the newspaper. “Rocco, here look!” Her husband was still in bed. She sat on the edge of the bed and read to him. “‘Physician gets no word from Italy. Dr. Bellantoni sends messages and money but obtains no reply.’ And he is from Scilla! Is this Bellantoni related to your Angelina?”

“And if he is? What can he do?” Rocco asked.

“He is sending messages everywhere. Listen to this: ‘In his efforts to obtain some word from the stricken district, the physician has sent messages to the Italian government and has appealed to the Italian Consul in this city, but all efforts so far failed to obtain any results.’”

“He is my wife’s third cousin. But I don’t see how he can help. He hasn’t been able to help himself.”

“Can I go see him?”

“I will go with you.”

It was a long trip to Dr. Bellantoni’s home, north on Amsterdam Avenue. His was an imposing brick house with a doorway framed in etched glass and brass hardware.

“Is it all his?” asked Giovanna, surveying the building.

“I think so,” answered Rocco, removing his cap and using the knocker.

A maid answered.

“I am from Scilla, here to see Dr. Bellantoni.”

Hearing “Scilla,” the maid hurried them into the foyer and scurried off to get the doctor.

They heard the doctor’s quick footsteps before they saw him. A short, rotund man practically lunged into the room to greet them. He looked quizzically at Rocco.

“I am Rocco Siena—Angelina’s husband. This now is my wife, Giovanna.”

“Yes, yes, of course. I knew I recognized you. Have you brought news?” he added anxiously.

Giovanna’s heart sank. In thinking of herself, she hadn’t considered that their visit would raise his hopes. She said gently, “I’m sorry, Dottore, we know nothing. We were hoping you might know something more.”

Dr. Bellantoni’s disappointment was palpable, but he responded graciously. “Please, come in,” he instructed, leading them to the sitting room.

Under different circumstances, Giovanna would have memorized the brocades, the enameled globe, and gilt frames. Instead, she sat down awkwardly and Rocco followed.

“If I remember correctly, Signore Siena, you no longer had family in Scilla.”

“True. But my wife, Giovanna, all her family is in Scilla, and we’ve had no word.”

“And their names?”

“I am a Costa. Our other family names are Pontillo and Arena.”

“I remember. You are in the Chianalea, yes?”

“Sì.”

Dr. Bellantoni looked uncomfortable. “I have received no word on individuals. But I do know the devastation in Scilla was great. Particularly in the Chianalea.”

“Yes. We also heard this.” Giovanna tried to hide her pain upon hearing the Chianalea singled out. “We were thinking, Dottore, that perhaps when you send your messages, you could add my families’ names. I only know how to send a cable, and the paper mentioned that you’ve been in touch with the government.”

Dr. Bellantoni’s face flickered with the recognition of how they got here, and he also seemed to notice for the first time their Sunday best, which was far from the best. “Oh, yes, the paper. Yes, of course. I will do what I can.”

There was nothing left to say. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, the doctor said, “Can I invite you to share my Sunday meal?”

Rocco stood and answered before Giovanna could. “Thank you, Dottore. But the children are waiting at home to be fed.”

Giovanna also rose. “Dottore, I am so sorry that we have bothered you.”

“No, no, it is no bother. We must help each other in this time of crisis. Please, wait a few moments and I will get you a carriage.”

“That is not necessary.”

“It’s my personal carriage. I insist.”

All heads turned on Elizabeth Street when Giovanna and Rocco alit from a private carriage. On the ride downtown, Giovanna thought how hospitable New York could be when you had means.

JANUARY 11, 1909

Lucrezia had insisted that she needed Giovanna’s help, but Giovanna knew it was only to get her out of the house. In the last week the only time she had left the confines of her apartment was to check the telegraph office, which she did as religiously as she lit candles in church.

She imagined that Lucrezia also wanted to tell her all about the concert she went to last night at the Metropolitan. Scores of singing sensations performed to raise money for the victims of the earthquake, including the great Enrico Caruso. Already, Giovanna could see the headlines announcing, MORE THAN $15,000 RAISED as she made her way down the street. With a stab of resentment, she imagined Lucrezia’s husband accompanying her to the opera. It allowed him to show his concern for the heathens and still wear white gloves. Giovanna quickly chastised herself; it was unkind of her to question the charity of others.

She decided to stop by the telegraph office before going to Lucrezia’s. The clerk was just unlocking the door.

“You’re early this morning, signora.” He went to the in-boxes and leafed through the stack of cables quickly because he had become accustomed to no replies from the hundreds of telegrams he was sending to Italy.

Giovanna’s head was turned when the clerk doubled back through the stack.

“Giovanna Costa Siena, correct?”

Giovanna spun around.

“Yes. You have an answer.”

After all this waiting, Giovanna couldn’t take the envelope from the clerk’s hand.

“Open it for me.”

“Signora, I am only allowed to read your missive if you are illiterate.”

“I can’t read.” At that moment she wasn’t lying.

“Va bene,” he said, eyebrow raised, and slit the envelope with a silver knife. It took an eternity to unfold the paper.

“Concetta and Domenico Costa, Marianna Pontillo, the Arena Family. We live.”

In the dead of winter sweat poured between Giovanna’s breasts as she ran from Little Italy in search of her brother. She arrived at his job site, telegram waving in her hand. Lorenzo dropped his shovel and ran to her, knowing this would not be how she would announce their parents’ death. They embraced, crying and laughing, and then knelt on the frozen ground and prayed.

TWENTY-SIX

JANUARY 27, 1909

Rocco packed up his cart in the dim winter light. Snow was falling, and he was anxious to get the cart back before it accumulated. Giovanna stood at the apartment window and watched it fall. After seven years in New York, she still found snow a novelty. Her husband cursed it, but she looked forward to the first few hours when the soot of New York was blanketed in clean white crystals.

From the window, she had already seen Rocco turn the corner with his cart, heading to the garage. Knowing he was this close to home, she went to the stove, put the pasta in the boiling water, and stirred the chi chi beans in garlic and olive oil with her wooden spoon. The heat of the stove felt good. It was bitterly cold, and she had given away her warmest sweater the second time there was a collection for victims of the earthquake.

The girls were doing their homework and the table was set, so she went back to the window, pulling a shawl around her body. Rocco had just stepped aside to let a carriage pass, but it stopped in front of their building. She saw Rocco hurry toward it and realized it was Dr. Bellantoni’s carriage. The door opened and a man exited, but even from three flights up it was apparent that it was not Dr. Bellantoni. This man was thin and in clothes much like theirs. Rocco shook the man’s hand and escorted him into the building. Giovanna looked around her apartment to see if there was anything she could straighten up and opted instead to set another place at the table.

“Giovanna! There is someone here with news!” announced Rocco, coming through the door.

In the weeks since receiving the telegram, most of Giovanna’s time had been spent speculating about what had happened. After the initial elation of finding out that her loved ones had survived, she was filled with questions that went unanswered, despite her numerous letters and cables. It was difficult for Giovanna even to greet this man without first demanding information.

“Good evening, signora. I am Enrico Bellantoni, a cousin of Dr. Bellantoni. Until last month, I lived in Scilla.”

Giovanna stared at the man, hoping to recognize him, but didn’t. The man perceived her anxiousness and kept talking.

“I was in Naples for work when the earthquake hit. It took a week, but I returned to find I had no home. I saw the many cables from Dr. Bellantoni and decided to contact him. His family, like mine, is all gone.” The man crossed himself, and Giovanna realized her body had been blocking the entrance to the apartment and she hadn’t invited the man in.

“Signore Bellantoni, please, come sit and eat with us.”

The children had learned to be incredibly quiet since the tragedy struck. They assembled at the table, eager to be included in hearing the details firsthand.

“It’s a simple meal, Signore Bellantoni.”

“It is hot, signora, and in this weather that is all that matters. And, please, call me Enrico. There are few people left on this earth who can.”

“So, Dr. Bellantoni sent you?”

“Yes. I was able to make contact with him when I was in Italy, and I told him the devastating news. He sent money for me to come to New York and also gave me the names of your family members to look up before I sailed.”

The man hungrily slurped at his soup.

“Your husband told me that you’ve already received the wonderful news that your family is alive.” Although Enrico Bellantoni tried to sound positive, there was no escaping the underlying message of ‘but my family is not.’ “I found your family before coming here, and I have much to tell.”

The pasta remained untouched in Giovanna’s bowl as Enrico did what no newspaper, cable, or rumor had been able to do. He told her what had happened to her family. Enrico was not a good storyteller, but some stories tell themselves. The children’s eyes widened with each detail, and the only other noise in the apartment was the scraping of shovels outside.

“Your parents are alive because they live under Santa Maria di Porto Salvo. The church couldn’t save itself, but it saved your parents. The foundation of the church remains, but nothing else.”

“The murals are gone?!” exclaimed Giovanna.

Enrico practically snorted. “Signora, not only are the Scillese practically wiped out, so is our history! Do you not know the extent of the devastation? Pieces of Castello Ruffo are in the sea. Scylla’s rock that inspired Homer is gone! Do you think because your family is alive, Scilla is not devastated?”

Giovanna felt terrible. “I’m sorry, Enrico, I didn’t mean…”

“No, no, it is me who should be sorry. I apologize. Sometimes I think I will lose my mind, and it will be a blessing.”

Rocco rose from the table and got more wine, which he poured into Enrico’s glass, muttering, “Drink, drink.”

“Yes, the murals are gone, but your parents’ house is intact with practically no damage. They were sleeping at the time, and thankfully they stayed in their house, because if they had come outside they would have been in greater danger—much collapsed around them.”

Thinking of Nunzio’s house only a few yards away, Giovanna asked, “And my aunt Marianna Pontillo?”

“She was trapped for two days.”

Giovanna stifled her gasp.

“Your father and a few other men heard her cries and dug her out.”

“Is she alright?”

“I didn’t see her. She was in the hospital that the French made from tents. But your mother thinks she will recover. Her house is gone, though.”

“And Marianna’s daughter, Fortunata Arena, and her husband, Giuseppe?”

“This story I heard even before I knew it was your family! They were in a boat, all of them, on their way to Messina, and they managed to survive.”

Mary dropped her spoon. “But how?” In Mary’s mind, their boat was teetering on the top of the gigantic wave like a magic carpet.

“I can’t tell you how, little one. No one wants to speak of survival.” He turned to Giovanna. “They are living with your mother. Their house was not totally destroyed, but the top floor caved in. When I called on your mother, Giuseppe Arena and his boys were out digging through the rubble of their neighbors’ homes looking to find the bodies to bury. Your cousin, she had no interest in speaking about what happened. Her daughters-in-law were there, and they lost their families.”

Giovanna brought her cold, full plate of pasta to the sink. It was hard to stay in her seat. She had to fight her instinct to rush to the nearest dock, sail to Italy, and dig with her hands if she had to.

“My brother will sail for Scilla. I must go with him.”

“Signora, your mother was clear with me. She said to tell you she forbade you to come. Disease and pestilence are sweeping the area, and she said you and your brother could do more for them by staying here. The armies are beginning to show up, and they will do the digging and rebuilding.”

Giovanna put her head in her hands and cried at her helplessness. Mary and Angelina went to her side.

“Zia, you can’t go. I don’t want you to get sick,” whispered Mary.

“Mamma, don’t cry,” pleaded Angelina.

“Enrico,” said Giovanna, wiping her tears, “there are many more people I must ask about. Maybe you know them. The midwife, Signora Scalici?”

“Signora Scalici brought me into this world. No one has found her.”

Giovanna twisted and knotted the napkin in her hand. “Father Clemente?”

“He survived, but then died in the hospital.”

“My cousin Pasquale Costa?”

“Where did he live?”

“South of my parents in the Chianalea.”

“In the stretch beneath the castle?”

“Yes.”

“Signora, that entire enclave of the Chianalea and the people in it are gone. There is no trace. Even the land is in the sea.”

Giovanna quickly did the death calculations. That would mean Zia Antoinette was gone and Pablo Caruso. She took deep breaths, forcing herself to be mindful that this man’s losses were far worse than her own. Grief would come later. “Enrico, what will you do now?”

“The good doctor has been kind enough to invite me to live with him. I have nothing left in Scilla. Nor does he.”

Seeing Giovanna’s expression, he realized he had once again made her feel guilty. “Signora, it has been a privilege to bring you this good news. I am sincerely happy that your family has survived. But, as I know, it is not so easy in this circumstance to be among the living. I will pray for your family as I pray for mine.”

Clement spoke for the first time. “Signore, are you related to my mother, Angelina Bellantoni?”

“A third cousin, yes.”

“Did anyone from my mother’s family die in the terremoto?”

“Most everyone.”

These were distant relatives that the children had little knowledge of, but the news brought the disaster closer to home for her stepchildren, who had never even seen Scilla. Giovanna thought about how tragedies knitted themselves into your soul when there was a connection—no matter how tenuous. If you walked down a street where a murder had occurred, or studied a country where there was a famine, all of a sudden the horror became your own. She watched ownership of this earthquake creep over her stepchildren’s faces.

Giovanna went to her bedroom and took two palm fronds that had been braided into crosses off the wall. “These are from Scilla’s Feast of Saint Rocco this past August. Please take one and give the other one to Dr. Bellantoni.”

TWENTY-SEVEN

FEBRUARY 1, 1909

The thousand-dollar payment from Nunzio’s settlement did not arrive on January 1. In fact, Signore DeCegli had to remind the attorney to send it. They had never seen the first check; it had gone directly to the bank to pay for the store. Giovanna stared at the check with three zeros and tried to figure out the safest way to get it to Scilla. With Lieutenant Petrosino’s warnings ringing in her ears, she decided to ask Signore DeCegli’s advice. Signore DeCegli assured her that Bank Stabile on Mulberry Street would transmit it safely, and he accompanied her there. She was not the first Italian to be sending money home, but Giovanna couldn’t help but notice the clerk’s expression when he saw the amount.

“I do not want to send this unless you can tell me that it will go directly to my family,” stated Giovanna.

“I assure you, signora, we can do that. We have already sent a great deal of money to Messina and Reggio.”

“But this isn’t going to Messina and Reggio; it’s a small village.”

“I understand, signora, and we will get it there safely.”

Signore DeCegli stepped in. “I suggest that we prepay a reply for her family. This is my card. Certainly, if it does not arrive in due time, I could be called for assistance.”

Taking the card, the banker said in an offended tone, “Sir, we are a reputable institution.”

At the door, Giovanna thanked Signore DeCegli.

“I assume you will no longer be moving, signora.”

“No. We’ll have to wait.” Giovanna’s voice carried with it the conviction she felt. When she buried the swordfish mustasole at Nunzio’s grave, she promised to watch over all that Nunzio loved in Scilla. The earthquake left Nunzio’s mother and his sister’s family without homes and in need of medicine. Now Nunzio would provide for them. While her plans to move her family to a safer place were scuttled for now, tonight she would go to sleep knowing that her family in Italy would have shelter and food.

Feeling at peace for the first time in a long while, Giovanna headed home. At the corner of Prince and Elizabeth streets, she nearly careened into Lieutenant Petrosino.

“Lieutenant!”

“Good day, signora. How fortunate! I wanted to speak to you. But not here. Can you come to my office?”

When they had settled into chairs at his desk, Petrosino said, “I heard the good news about your family!”

“How is it that you know everything?”

“When will you understand that this is my job!” chided Petrosino good-naturedly. “In all seriousness, signora, I am so happy your family survived.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. But that isn’t why you asked me here, is it?”

“No. I have a question. Do you know Manzella’s store, two doors from you?”

“Of course. He just closed his shop.”

“He filed for bankruptcy. I was suspicious and questioned him. It turns out that for three years Lupo had been extorting money from him.”

“But Lupo’s gone! Do you believe Manzella?”

“I believe him, because this was something he had no intention of telling. What it means is that Lupo left town with a lot of money—Manzella’s cash and his creditor’s money.”

“Does this make you think Lupo was behind the bombing of our store?”

“No, no, I didn’t say that. It might. It might not. But this is your block, signora, so I want you to keep an eye out for the bulldog-faced wolf and watch Inzerillo.”

“What of Manzella?”

“He’s looking for work. If we ever find Lupo, we’ll prosecute him.”

It was clear that Petrosino was preoccupied and didn’t want to take this conversation further. As he walked her down the stairs, Giovanna asked, “And your little girl, how is she?”

“Oh, signora, she is beautiful! She’s two months old today. And when she sees her papa, it’s all smiles!”

“And your wife, is she well?”

“Sì, thank you for asking.”

At the door, Giovanna commented, “I saw in the papers that you now have a secret service to fight the Black Hand.”

“Yes, signora. Even though the Board of Aldermen wouldn’t fund it, Commissioner Bingham got it funded privately. We also have the Italian government’s cooperation. We can begin deporting all the criminals who have taken haven here.”

“Should I begin working on our case again, Lieutenant?”

“Well…yes, yes, of course, signora. You come see me. If I am not here, be sure you work with Lieutenant Vachris. There are new photos for you to review.”

“I’ll do that, Lieutenant. Arrivederci.”

Giovanna watched the little man turn back up the stairs into his headquarters at 19 Elizabeth Street.

FEBRUARY 7, 1909

Clement was between jobs and helping his father. It was difficult to find construction work in the winter.

Rocco took advantage of their time together and lectured Clement incessantly. “When you’re my age, you won’t push a cart, or even build someone else’s building. You will have your own business. Your own house. You can’t have another man own you. Work every day and save your money for these things. You hear me, Clement?”

“Yes, Pop.”

“Pop? What’s Pop?”

Clement smiled. “Papa.” Clement’s Italian had become Americanized.

“See that, you speak good English. You need to speak English. In fact, from now on you only speak to me in English.”

“Papa, you don’t speak English.”

“Don’t you worry about me. I understand.”

“Okay, if that’s what you want. I’ll speak English.”

“Che?”

Clement smiled and switched back to Italian. “Papa, don’t you worry. I’ll become a rich American.”

“Va bene. You see that stronzo across the street with the brown coat? No, no, don’t be so obvious!”

Turning his head back to the cart, Clement muttered, “I see him.”

“He’s been watching us. He’s another Blackhander.”

“What would they want with us? We have nothing left.”

“I heard they even harass pushcart sellers.”

“Let me get him first,” seethed Clement.

“No! Clement, I want to cut these rats to their knees, but I don’t want you or your sisters hurt. I’ve heard too many stories from your stepmother about how they get you back. We will watch him, as he watches us.”

“But what will we do?”

“Your stepmother says the lieutenant has a secret service that will send them all back to Italy soon. For now, we will try to be invisible.”

Lieutenant Petrosino, his expression dour, was uncharacteristically slumped in the chair opposite Commissioner Bingham’s desk.

“Joe, I’m sorry it has to be you, but there really isn’t anyone else qualified to do this job. Who else could work the system and the informants to get these records?” cajoled Commissioner Bingham.

“I understand, Commissioner; it’s just that my little girl will grow so much in the three months I’m away.” Lieutenant Petrosino lowered his face to hide his emotion.

“You’re a good man, Joe, and a good father. That little girl will have much to be proud of. Let’s go over the details.”

Bingham settled into his chair. “We have promises from the Italian government to hand over the criminal records. And we have promises from our own government to deport the thugs when we have their records in our hands.” He took out a steamer ticket from a leather portfolio on his desk. “You sail the day after tomorrow on the Duca di Genova—first class, I might add. You’ll travel as a Jewish businessman with the identity of Simone Velletri. In this folder I have letters of introduction for the Italian Minister of the Interior and the head of Italy’s police forces, Francesco Leonardi.”

While Petrosino inspected the letters, Bingham joked, “Joe, I know how much you love that watch,” pointing to the gold chain across Petrosino’s pocket. “But I don’t think a gift from the Italian government thanking you for arresting criminals would be a good thing to carry.”

Petrosino managed a little laugh. “Yes, I think I’ll leave it at home.”

“I want you to stay home with Adelina and the baby tomorrow. We’ll spread the rumor that you’ve had a relapse of pneumonia and on doctor’s orders you are leaving town to convalesce. Only members of the Italian Squad will know your whereabouts.”

“And my Adelina, of course.”

“Of course. We’ll take good care of her, Joe. Now, do you have your list in order?”

“Yes, Commissioner. And it starts with Lupo.”

“Lupo’s been here more than three years, Joe.”

“I know, Commissioner, but my brother works at Ellis Island, and we found proof that he traveled to Italy last year under an alias.”

“You are clever! How many names do you have on that list anyway?”

“It’s up to seven hundred, sir.”

“Joe, you’ll need an army to dig up that many records.”

“Imagine, Commissioner, if we could deport them all.”

Commissioner Bingham stood. “Imagine, indeed. We’ll be heroes, Joe.”

FEBRUARY 12, 1909

Giovanna stared at her mother’s writing on the envelope. At last, the proof that she needed. Tears welled in her eyes as she slit the letter open.

Dearest Giovanna,

We received your generous cable with 1,000 US dollars.

Giovanna breathed a great sigh of relief and continued.

I only hope that you have not sacrificed everything to send it. This is a fortune. Zia Marianna will also be writing to you, but I can say without a doubt that this money has saved her life. Her health was so fragile and her despair was so great that your father and I feared she would die. This gives her hope of establishing a home again. The same is true of cousin Fortunata and her family. Everything that you said in your letter that Enrico Bellantoni told you is true. So many of our friends and family are gone, but we live. I don’t know why this is, and I question our fortune each day. We that remain live all together in our home. It’s probably hard for you to believe, but fourteen of us live here now. Zia Marianna remains in the French hospital. Each day, we work at rebuilding houses. Soon Fortunata’s family will be moving back into their home. The armies removed the bodies and much of the debris. They never found your Zia Antoinette’s and Signora Scalici’s bodies. Pasquale’s body was found only last week. It was his rings that identified him. You know how he loved those rings! People work night and day rebuilding and cleaning, but I worry that when the work is done, we will look around only to see a Scilla that is empty. Please do not come here. The money you sent will help more than you’ll ever know. Give my love to your brother and all my grandchildren. Mamma.

FEBRUARY 28, 1909

Bingham paced his office. He had spent the entire week questioning his decision to tell the press of Petrosino’s mission. Those dandy aldermen were all over him and he needed to prove he had taken decisive action. But he hadn’t expected the story to be picked up by the International Herald.

“Come in,” called Bingham, answering the knock on his door.

Lieutenant Vachris entered and instantly Bingham could read his anger.

“Sit down, Lieutenant. I hear you wanted to see me.”

“Yes, Commissioner. Why? This mission was…”

“Not so secret, truth be told, Lieutenant. I had word that more than one person on the ship recognized Joe, and these Blackhanders are not so stupid.”

“But still…”

“Unfortunately, Lieutenant, you cannot separate police work from politics and, in this case, politically it was the necessary thing to do.”

Vachris literally bit down on his lip.

“Commissioner, with his cover blown, he’s a sitting duck. Send me over to help him.”

“Lieutenant, it’s impossible for you both to be out of the country. Besides, in a few weeks his mission will be completed. From what Joe said in his last cable, when he returns we should have plenty of penal records to deport these thieving blackmailers. You get the men ready for his return, because when he does, Lieutenant, it’s going to be an old-fashioned roundup.”

TWENTY-EIGHT

MARCH 13, 1909

Louis Saulino, Lieutenant Petrosino’s brother-in-law, ran up the steps at 300 Mulberry Street into police headquarters and grabbed the first policeman he saw.

“Calm down, sir,” assured the officer. “It’s another reporter with a good imagination. This isn’t the first time there have been rumors of your brother-in-law’s death.”

“Why would he come to my sister’s home at two in the morning?”

“Because he’s a muckraking reporter, Mr. Saulino. Wouldn’t we have heard if something had happened to Lieutenant Petrosino? Please, go to your sister and tell her it was a cruel joke.”

After being told the same thing by the desk sergeant, Saulino left headquarters. The day was just dawning, and the newsies were hitting the streets. He hadn’t gone a full block before he heard the first newsboy shout, “Famous detective murdered!” He snatched a paper and sprinted back to police headquarters.

“Do you still think it’s a joke?” he shouted, waving the newspaper in front of the desk sergeant’s face. “Some joke, Sergeant!”

Bingham was in Washington, so a call was placed to Deputy Commissioner Woods, rousing him from bed. Newspaper or not, the men in police headquarters and at Petrosino’s precinct on Elizabeth Street refused to believe the report and waited for official word. At ten o’clock that morning, they received their cable:

“Palermo, Italy, 12 March 1909 Petrosino killed revolver center city tonight killers unknown martyr’s death

Consul Bishop.”

APRIL 12, 1909

Giovanna dressed for Lieutenant Petrosino’s funeral. Her grief over his murder became personal when the detective from the Italian Squad knocked on her door with two tickets to the mass. Up until that point, she had successfully treated it as the death of a public figure that she read about in the newspapers.

“Signora, I got you these,” offered young Detective Fiaschetti. “I believe the lieutenant would have wanted you there.”

Taking the tickets from the officer’s hand, Giovanna felt her throat tighten. Given all the tragedy she had endured, she should have been able to shake her head and say a prayer for the slain policeman. At thirty-six, she had lost a husband, a business, and been uprooted from her home, which was in ruins and served as a tomb for dead friends and family. Yet somehow Giovanna had maintained her faith that good would prevail. But with Lieutenant Petrosino’s murder, she knew she was burying the last shreds of her idealism with the little lieutenant.

Moments passed before Giovanna could look at Detective Fiaschetti. “Grazie,” she mumbled. “You’re kind. I would like to attend.”

When she closed the door, Rocco, who had been sitting at the table, was ready with the comment she expected. “This is no business of yours.”

“This death is everybody’s business,” she snapped, but she quickly softened. “There will be thousands of people there. Rocco, there is no need to worry.”

“I will not go with you!”

“I will have my nephew accompany me then.”

It was Domenico, practically in tears, who had delivered the news to Giovanna nearly a month before. In the days that followed, she was riveted to the newspaper each morning. Domenico would arrive before school to read her the American papers, and she would read him Il Progresso. She had grown from a young girl anxiously awaiting the arrival of a newspaper in Scilla to a woman in New York who was drowning in news. They had to wait if Rocco had not yet left to get his cart because he had forbidden any discussion of Petrosino or the Black Hand. Giovanna thought Rocco was like a small child who hides his head under a pillow and thinks he’s invisible because he can’t see. But she also had to admit that her way, Lieutenant Petrosino’s way, had not brought justice—only tragedy.

It wasn’t until Giovanna saw the pages upon pages devoted to Lieutenant Petrosino in the American papers that she realized how important this man was. All of a sudden their meetings took on an even greater significance in her mind. There was, of course, speculation as to who was responsible for the Petrosino murder, and she searched her own memory, reviewing their many conversations for clues. She thought with rage of the article trumpeting his “secret” mission and had to stop herself from running to the commissioner’s office and hurling blame. Her anger was only slightly abated when she read that it was possible Petrosino’s killers actually traveled to Italy on the same ship as Petrosino, and that most criminals were well aware of his mission. In the month since he had been slain, people on both sides of the ocean had been arrested, but each of the many suspects was released because they had no evidence.

She could not help but think of Petrosino’s widow and infant girl. How would Adelina be today among all this pomp and circumstance, unable to bury her husband in private? After that horrible article in the Herald, she didn’t allow Domenico to buy that newspaper anymore. The paper had congratulated itself on being the first to learn of Petrosino’s death and told of how its reporter had arrived at Mrs. Petrosino’s house in the middle of the night to announce the news. They did not even allow time for her husband’s spirit to visit her.

Giovanna adjusted her hat and looked at her face, one section at a time, in the tiny mirror hanging near the bed. A moment later, Domenico came through the door with the ubiquitous newspapers. “Today, they listed all the Black Hand bombings. Your store is here.”

“Let me see.”

Domenico pointed to 242 Elizabeth Street.

Giovanna scowled. “Let’s go.”

They were fortunate to have tickets, but they still had to stand in the back of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral on Mott Street. The sermon was in English, except for a brief bit that Pastor Lavelle said in Italian, so Giovanna concentrated on her rosary while Domenico stared at the uniforms and the important people who filled the church. To the left of the center aisle were Mayor McClellan, Commissioner Bingham, and assorted other men whose bearing announced their position. One hundred schoolchildren sang from the cathedral’s choir loft, but their angelic voices were not enough to drown out the sobs of the women and the noises made by the men clearing their throats to stifle tears.

The Easter decorations had been removed and only resurrection lilies remained on the altar. The mass was beautiful, but it didn’t comfort Giovanna. It was a disillusioned woman who stood in the cavernous cathedral. She had put her faith in a man, and that man had been murdered. She wasn’t thinking that his death was God’s plan, or that the lieutenant had died a martyr. Instead, she was thinking that her only duty in life was to protect her family. Nothing else mattered.

Petrosino’s coffin was carried out of the church and placed in the hearse. The delegations from sixty Italian societies were ready, drawn up with bands at intervals. The mounted police led the procession, followed by the fire department and the street cleaners, which was where Lieutenant Petrosino had begun his career. At least a thousand police followed on foot, along with five open carriages filled with flowers, the hearse, and the black carriages carrying his family. The clear air resounded with Chopin’s funeral march and the Italian funeral march in turn. When the last of the regiments joined the parade, Giovanna and Domenico followed with the other civilian mourners.

The neighborhood streets, windows, and fire escapes were filled with tearful residents shouting benedictions and tossing flowers. When the procession made its way out of the Italian colony, Giovanna expected that the crowds would thin and it would be easier to walk, but this was not the case. On Fifth Avenue, every foot of sidewalk was thronged with mourners and even the flags at the luxury hotels were at half-mast. Because of the crowds, it took four hours for the funeral procession to reach Fifty-seventh Street and Second Avenue. There, everyone on foot disbanded, and the carriages and the hearse continued alone across the bridge to Calvary Cemetery.

“Domenico, here is a coin for the trolley. Go to Vito’s. It is late, and your mother will be angry with me.”

“Are you going there, Zia?”

Giovanna nodded.

“I thought so.” Domenico kissed her cheek and left.

By the time Giovanna got to the cemetery, Petrosino’s coffin had already been laid in its grave. No one was there except one policeman standing guard and the gravediggers who continued shoveling dirt to fill the hole.

In the quiet, Giovanna leaned against a tree and wondered what to make of all this. Here was an Italian man buried with all the honor of a king, but he was indeed being buried. If Lieutenant Petrosino was so important and so loved, why hadn’t they given him the help he had asked for? She remembered the lieutenant telling her that out of the 285 arrests made in one year, “where we had them dead to center,” there were only forty-five convictions. He tried to explain the American legal system, but he eventually shrugged in frustration and said, “It doesn’t matter. These criminals have friends in City Hall who look out for them.” But wasn’t it City Hall who gave the Italian detective this regal funeral? The only thing she knew was that she must return to her neighborhood, where Italian criminals were free to prey upon their brethren.

She was exhausted—and probably pregnant. Her period was late, and now, after this trek, Giovanna looked down at her swollen ankles. Knowing there were only a few more hours of daylight, she released the half-wilted flower nearly stuck to her hand and went to pray at Nunzio’s grave.

TWENTY-NINE

APRIL 20, 1909

Domenico Costa watched the Star of Italy from behind the pole of the gas lamp. He knew that if anyone caught him lingering there, including his cousin Clement, he would get a beating. He, like everyone in the family, had been forbidden to go near Black Hand haunts or discuss them. But Domenico couldn’t help himself when he saw five policemen enter the building with their nightsticks raised. Although it was only April, it was hot and they wore their summer uniforms, each with a single row of gleaming brass buttons down the front.

No one knew who the enemy was anymore. Since Lieutenant Petrosino had been killed, the police were angry. It wasn’t just the Italian Squad; loads of policemen were coming around and banging heads for no reason. Some of the very same store owners who were victims of the blackmailers’ swindling were being questioned and knocked around by the police.

Domenico had learned not to defend the police. A lot of self-satisfied people, including his Uncle Rocco, were running around saying, “See! They do nothing for us! They got the lieutenant killed, and now they take it out on us!” But the way Domenico saw it, they were avenging the lieutenant’s death. He was proud that the Irish cops were angry that the little Italian detective had been killed.

The cops pulled two skinny men out of the Star of Italy by their collars. They made a big show of dragging them down the street to the precinct. Domenico vaguely recognized them and was pretty certain they weren’t Black Hand. He pulled a stub of a pencil and his little black book from his pocket and made a note of the arrest. The book was only two inches wide, enabling him to slip it in any pocket and keep it out of view of his family. He had seen Lieutenant Petrosino making notes in a book like it and begged Zia Giovanna to find him one, which she had done last Christmas. Precious few pages were left, because it was nearly filled with notations of the suspicious faces attending Lieutenant Petrosino’s funeral. Zia had told him about the cards at the police station, and although he couldn’t weigh or measure the suspects, he described them, dutifully recording the date and location he had seen them.

“What are you looking at, you little hoodlum?” A hand under his arm nearly raised Domenico off the ground, and he ended up face-to-face with a ruddy-cheeked policeman.

“Nothing, officer. I was just standing around.”

“We’ll see about that. Come on then.”

Tight in the officer’s grip, Domenico spied Frances down the block. She nearly dropped the bread she was carrying as he called out in Italian, “Tell Zia to come to the police station.”

“Speak English, boy.”

“Yes, sir.”

Domenico crossed himself in thanks that there was a chance that Zia would make it to the police station before his mother and was again relieved to see they were headed to the Italian Squad’s precinct at 19 Elizabeth Street. Once inside, he scanned the room for familiar faces.

“What do you have here, Rafter?” asked the desk sergeant.

“He was watching the arrest at Star of Italy. Probably a messenger.”

“No, sir, officer!”

Yanking him by the collar, Officer Rafter reprimanded, “I’m not talking to you!”

“So what did you see, kid?” asked the desk sergeant.

“Two black rats being taken away.” Domenico had heard Lieutenant Petrosino use that term.

A cop not in uniform, but one Domenico recognized, smiled. “Really? You know this?”

“Well, I don’t know…”

Giovanna swept through the door, breathless. “Cos’è successo?”

“Signora, is he yours?” asked the detective in Italian. It was Fiaschetti, the barrel-chested policeman who had brought her the tickets.

“Sì. My nephew. A good boy.”

“I thought I recognized him. The way he was acting, the officer thought he was a lookout.”

“No, no, detective. My nephew, he wants to be a policeman.”

“Officer Rafter, we can let him go. He’s just a boy who wants a badge.”

“I want to be like Lieutenant Petrosino,” piped in Domenico.

“Keep your nose out of police business, boy, or you could end up just like Lieutenant Petrosino,” growled Rafter.

“What did he say?” asked Giovanna of Fiaschetti.

“Nothing, signora. Take the boy home.”

MAY 27, 1909

The sound of the knife on the barber’s leather strap was relaxing to Rocco. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

The barber leaned closer to Rocco’s ear as he cranked up the seat. “Are they bothering you again, Rocco?” he whispered.

Rocco put up his hand, waving the question away.

“They’re everywhere lately. Not just one gang, but five. They come in almost every day. I can’t even put out a barber’s pole for fear they’ll think I have extra money. Francesco, with the lady’s shop, he said he’s afraid to buy a cash register because they’ll think it’s filled with money.”

Rocco waited until the barber was done shaving his upper lip. “Shut up, Luigi. I don’t want to hear this. Everything is fine.”

“Are you afraid that your ears will be cut off, like the poor garlic seller last week?”

“Smettila!”

“After the Italian detective’s death, the police came in, beat up the neighborhood, and left.”

“I said, basta!”

“Va bene. But it isn’t going to go away.” He threw a hot towel over Rocco’s face.

JUNE 11, 1909

Mary and Frances heard the school bell ring and hurried to get their books. The back entrance of P.S. 21 was just diagonally across the street.

“I have to do some shopping; I’ll walk you down,” said Giovanna, grabbing her basket. Taking Angelina’s hand, she followed her stepdaughters down the stairs.

Giovanna and Angelina waved from the base of the school steps as Mary and Frances bounded into the building. The school principal stood next to them, speaking with a mother whose daughter hid in the folds of her skirt.

“Ma’am, she will never learn English unless she attends school every day.”

The woman smiled and shrugged.

In frustration, the principal turned to Giovanna. “Could you translate?”

“My English no good,” stammered Giovanna, but nudged her three-year-old. “Angelina, help.”

“Alright, then,” said the principal, looking down at Angelina in both amusement and exasperation. “Little girl, will you please tell this woman that it is important for her daughter to come to school every day.”

Angelina, who acted much older than her years, turned to the woman confidently. “Signora, è importante che vostra figlia venga a scuola giornalmente.”

“Sì, ho capito.”

Angelina turned to the principal and, relishing her role, translated. “The lady said she understood.”

“Then ask her why her daughter is absent so much.”

“What’s absent?”

“Not in school.”

“Perché spesso vostra figlia non è a scuola?”

“Ha solamente un vestito.”

“Because she only has one dress.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Non capisce.”

“Devo lavare il vestito ed a volte non è asciutto di mattina.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Angelina, now understanding herself and turning back to the principal. “She has to wash the dress and sometimes it isn’t dry in the morning.”

The principal put his hands on his hips and let out a big sigh. “Tell the mother that before next year starts, I will get her a second dress—and I want her daughter in school every day.”

Angelina translated and the woman smiled.

“She said thank you.”

“You’re a smart little girl,” said the principal, patting her head. “Thank you very much.”

“Can I come to school? I’m almost four.”

“Soon…”

An explosion nearly rocked them off their feet. It was followed by a series of small exploding noises. The children’s screams of “La Mano Nera!” rang out from the open windows.

Within seconds there was the sound of chaos—chairs scraping, yelling, and stampeding feet. The principal looked around and, seeing nothing, ran into the building, shouting, “Stay in your classrooms. Everything is alright!” But the principal’s admonishments were drowned out by the children’s screams and their teachers’ efforts to control them.

Through the door, Giovanna saw children running down the stairs and falling over one another. The only way to help was to keep them flowing through the door. With Angelina clinging to her back, she held the door open and shouted to the children to keep walking, but not to run.

When the children saw no black smoke or cascading bricks, they began to calm down. The stampede stopped, and teachers lined the students up and inspected them for injuries. Giovanna spotted Mary and Frances and sighed in relief.

Up the block, two policemen were speaking with Father Salevini and a short man whose face was covered with ash. The father’s hands were gesticulating wildly. Giovanna moved closer to the principal, knowing the officers would report to him. When they strode up, she instructed Angelina to listen.

“What did they say?” she asked her daughter.

“They said the man was getting the bombs and firecrackers ready for Saint Anthony’s Feast on Sunday, and some of them went off.”

Giovanna sighed, softly shaking her head.

Angelina tugged on her mother’s skirt. “Mamma, are we going to the feast?”

JULY 21, 1909

Rocco bent to the crate to get more fruit for the cart. His hand shot to his back and he winced. Mondays were difficult, especially after such a big Sunday meal and a little too much wine. He mopped his brow with his handkerchief and squinted up at the sun to guess the time. Instead, he found himself staring into the face of the big square-headed man whom he knew had been watching him on and off for weeks.

“Ah, so the rat has finally come for the cheese?” exclaimed Rocco.

“It’s true then! I heard you were not so right in the head.”

“You should have also heard that I have no money, since your fellow schifosi bombed my store.”

“I know nothing of your store. Only that you seem to have a good pushcart business that needs to be protected.”

“Protected from you.”

“This is the price of business.”

“I’d rather my cart blow up and watch melons rain down on you, you big oaf!”

“Vaffanculo, you stupid jerk. You had your chance.” The man kicked Rocco’s cart as he walked away, spilling fruit to the street.

THIRTY

AUGUST 15, 1909

Angelina held Mary’s hand as they climbed the stairs to the elevated train. Watching her older brother and sisters’ excitement made her even more eager. It was hard to put a smile on Clement’s face, but even he was beaming.

Giovanna carried a big basket with their meal, which competed with her growing belly. Rocco, whose birthday was the excuse for this extravagant outing, toted a woven bag with their clothes for bathing, and bottles of wine and water.

“How much did it cost?” Angelina asked Mary after their father walked away from the train ticket window.

“One dime each. But I think you’re free, so that would be fifty cents.”

“I hope we still have money for Dreamland.”

“Don’t worry, Angelina, this is going to be the best day of our lives,” said Frances.

The train went over the Brooklyn Bridge, which Angelina thought in itself was worth the ten cents. Once over the bridge, Angelina felt devilish peeking into second-story bedrooms and seeing men in collarless shirts reading the paper. Soon they were riding into more open space, where detached houses competed with big signs advertising the buildings of tomorrow. The meadows became marshes, which stretched to the sea. And then, in the distance, they saw the strange shapes of Coney Island.

Although it was early morning, the train was packed, and Angelina clung to Giovanna in the throng of weekenders jostling to get off. “First, we’ll swim,” announced Giovanna, steering her family to the beach and the bathhouses.

Angelina could see the excitement in her mother’s eyes. From their trip to Italy, she remembered how much her mother loved the water. The color of this ocean was more gray-blue, and the waves larger and louder, but it was the closest vision to Scilla they had seen. As they looked away from the shore, instead of seeing cliffs and lemon groves, they saw blinking lights, waving flags, and grand, fanciful buildings.

For twenty cents, they were given a small tent to change in and a place to leave their clothes. Giovanna had begged and borrowed bathing costumes for everyone. It was most difficult to find something to fit herself. Rocco had forbidden her to go swimming in her condition, but she had every intention of at least wading in the surf. Clement was the first to spring through the flap of the door and run to the ocean, his father’s warnings chasing him. Within minutes, Frances and Mary followed, as did Angelina, clinging to her mother’s hand.

Angelina’s shoulders lifted to her ears when the first wave washed over her feet. The water was cold. Her brother and sisters were already in, squealing with delight as they jumped over the waves. Inch by inch, Angelina made her way farther into the ocean without releasing her grip on her mother’s hand. She watched her father swim far out toward the horizon until he was just a speck. “Mamma! Papa is going to disappear!”

“No, he’s just showing off because he’s fifty-three today,” Giovanna said, smiling.

With each passing minute the beach became more crowded. When they arrived, it had been fairly empty, but now, wherever they turned, they bumped into someone.

Rocco walked out of the waves, panting but invigorated.

“Papa, you swim like a fish!” shouted Angelina.

Her father smiled, looked at the sky to check the position of the sun, and announced, “Let’s eat our meal.”

Giovanna spread out a tablecloth on the sand and emptied the basket of food. Before long, they were eating fried eggplant, olives, and fruit.

“Mamma, it doesn’t matter if I spill my food down my front! I can just go swimming!” exclaimed Angelina, with peach juice running down her chin.

By four in the afternoon, the allure of the boardwalk was too great. Rocco and Giovanna couldn’t bear the children’s pestering any longer. “Va bene,” said Rocco, “we’ll go. But listen to me—we each get to do one thing. You can tell the others of your adventure.”

“I know what I’m doing!” screamed Frances. “The slide in Dreamland!”

In the cabana, they dried themselves and brushed the sand off before slipping back into their Sunday best. They strolled the boardwalk, jostling elbows with every type of New Yorker and, for once, not feeling out of place. Everyone was so caught up in the sights and sounds around them that there was no time to look disdainfully at the immigrants and the poor. The crowd was equalized by the din of music from around the world and the promise of thrills.

Since Frances was the only one quite sure of what she wanted to do, they headed to Dreamland, walking down the Bowery. “This Bowery is sure different from our Bowery,” commented Clement, looking at the signs advertising curious exhibitions, restaurants, and music halls.

“See it as it happened! The great Johnstown Flood!” yelled a barker, directing his call at them. After he took a closer look, he shouted, “Italians! Come right this way for the Fall of Pompeii, only ten cents!”

Giovanna asked the children what the man was saying. “I have no idea,” answered Clement, speaking the truth.

“Guarda, Zia, there it is!” exclaimed Frances.

A gigantic angel, her wings forming a great arch, was the entrance to Dreamland. Inside, it was a city of fantasy. A great tower rose above a lagoon. Across the water, a mountain of slides were filled with obstacles that bumped and turned the shrieking riders until they reached the bottom in a breathless but exhilarated mess. At the other end, another man-made mountain of jagged peaks loomed, pierced by a train car weaving in and out of its slopes.

The children were unable to contain their excitement. They looked in every direction, speaking at once in Italian, English, and squeals of delight. Angelina clung to her mother, dazed. Rocco, too, looked either overwhelmed or simply dumbfounded. Giovanna took charge.

“We’ll go to the slides for Frances.”

At the sight of the long stairs and thousands of people, they were unwilling to allow Frances to go alone, so after negotiating with Clement, they agreed that this didn’t count as his choice but that he should accompany his sister.

The wait wasn’t nearly as long as Frances’s and Clement’s detailed descriptions of climbing the stairs, the fear in their bellies at the top, the push off, and each obstacle, twist, and turn along the way to the bottom, where they both tumbled head over heels. Giovanna cringed at seeing Frances upside down in her dress, but there were women far older who were doing the same thing with no one much noticing or caring.

“On the way up, I heard these boys talking about a Trip to Mars at Luna Park. That’s where I want to go!” shouted Clement.

“Va bene. But first we will walk around here,” answered Rocco.

“Mamma, look!” Angelina spied a miniature railroad that circled Dreamland. Children and adults, looking ridiculously out of scale, were stuffed into its little cars. The puffing engine enthralled Angelina, but none of her siblings could be persuaded to go on the ride, and her mother’s big belly would never fit. On the verge of tears, she turned to her father. “Papa, it’s your birthday, don’t you want to ride with me on the train?”

Rocco, not generally a pushover even with his daughters, looked at Angelina and said, “Let’s ride the train.”

Giovanna and the children hid their laughter as the train circled round. Seated behind Angelina, Rocco had his knees nearly drawn to his chest. His embarrassment was washed away with Angelina’s kisses and exclamations of joy when the ride ended.

“To Luna Park!” directed Clement.

The entrance to Luna Park was decorated with moons and half-moons of light. It was even more grandiose than Dreamland. They walked into a little Venice complete with gondoliers but flanked by pagoda-like structures. Frances let out a huge sigh upon seeing the Helter Skelter slide at Luna Park and worried that it might be better than the one at Dreamland. They wove their way through the crowds until they reached the Trip to Mars by Aeroplane. Clement got in line, and the family sat down on a bench nearby. Giovanna was grateful for the rest, but all too soon Clement came back.

“There were these boys on line who’ve been on everything here! I asked them which was the best and they said the Musical Railway near Dreamland.”

“Clement, they’re making fun of you! A musical railway! That is something Angelina would like!” growled Rocco.

“Papa, I only have one choice. Please let me see about this ride. They say the Trip to Mars is only medza menz.”

“Okay, but we’re not going back to Mars if you don’t like this railway!”

Giovanna looked at Clement’s excitement. For years now he had functioned as a man. It was wonderful to see him acting like a boy again. Giovanna got up off the bench, and they headed back toward Dreamland. From the size of the line at the Musical Railway, it appeared that the boys were right. Mary decided to make this her ride and went off with her brother. The sunlight was infused with the warm glow of early evening. They found an open bench; Angelina sat on Frances’s lap, and Giovanna sat beside them. Rocco waited for Clement and Mary at the ride’s exit. Nearly an hour later, the trio walked back to the bench. When Mary saw Giovanna, she broke from her father and ran to her, flinging herself into Giovanna’s arms.

“Zia! We were in a train car, and it was completely dark, and then the train car fell straight down in the dark. I thought we would die!”

Rocco and Clement reached the bench. “Oh, Mary, don’t be a baby!”

“You screamed, too, Clement, right before that beam almost took our heads off!”

“It was great, Zia. Don’t listen to her.”

Mary still clutched Giovanna, who caressed her head. “We never did have a treat after dinner, and I saw something for us to try. Let’s go.”

Giovanna led them to a stand selling ice cream on a wafer that you could hold and eat at the same time. Rocco counted out six nickels. Leaning on the rail by the water, they all laughed at the sight of one another licking the ice cream. “Mary, guarda! Don’t lick too hard, it will fall off!” cautioned Giovanna. Clement was the first to make it down to the wafer and took a bite. “It’s good!” he pronounced with melted ice cream running down his chin. But it was Giovanna who seemed most taken with these new concoctions.

As they licked their cones, they surveyed the boardwalk’s goings-on. A barker in front of what was supposed to be a funny show did nothing but stand on a pedestal and laugh. Next door, a man outside a menagerie mimicked the sounds of wild animals to call attention to the attraction, roaring one minute and screeching like a bird the next.

A painting of a saint outside an attraction prompted Giovanna to ask Frances to translate the sign. “The Temptation of Saint Anthony,” answered Frances. “The man keeps saying, ‘See Saint Anthony avoid temptation!’”

“Giovanna, if you want, I will go with you.”

Giovanna was surprised at Rocco’s interest, but she figured it out when she saw the predominantly male crowd lined up for the “show.” Her curiosity got the best of her, though, and after threatening Clement with his life if he or his sisters moved from the spot where they left them, Giovanna and Rocco joined the crowd, paying ten cents each to see the Temptation of Saint Anthony.

They entered a small room where a curtain was drawn to reveal a large oil painting of Saint Anthony on his knees, praying. The man who sold the tickets disappeared behind the painting and in an exaggerated but disinterested voice, began to tell of the life of the saint. Within minutes, men were grousing under their breath, and a second panel was revealed picturing a blonde clad in scanty garments. In a few more minutes, the murmured complaints started again and the blonde was replaced with another painting, this time of a brunette in slightly less clothing. Saint Anthony’s life story conveniently ended after the third panel, of a near-naked redhead, was put in place. Giovanna was too amused to be offended and left simply shaking her head. “At least he knows a bit more about Saint Anthony,” she thought.

Waiting like obedient soldiers, the children asked for an explanation of their parents’ adventure. “It was nothing you haven’t heard in church,” remarked Giovanna, putting an end to further questions.

The sun was setting, and the electric lights were switched on. The sky began to swirl with color both natural and man-made. Cacophonous music drowned out the pounding of the surf. Rocco once again counted his money. “I have an idea. Before we go home, how about we all go on that Ferris wheel.” The girls hugged him, and Giovanna smiled at the sight of her serious husband having fun.

By the time they got through the long line at the Ferris wheel, the sun had set but the sky was ablaze. It didn’t seem possible that in darkness there could be so much light. The attendants opened the door to the car, which could have fit twenty people, but closed it after the family of six entered. They inched up into the sky as each car was unloaded and refilled, and then, the gigantic wheel began to turn in a slow, continuous motion.

The dancing lights of Luna Park, the view of Dreamland, and the searchlights on the sea left them breathless. Angelina wanted to stay on this Ferris wheel forever and squeezed her eyes shut trying to lock in the memory. When she opened her eyes, she saw her mother smiling at her and her father puffed-up with pride as they circled in the New York night.

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you…” Angelina’s voice trailed off in the salty night air.

THIRTY-ONE

AUGUST 27, 1909

Rocco decided to bring his cart back an hour early to leave time to change for the Feast of Saint Rocco procession. Usually, his name day was the only day of the year he took off, but this year with their troubles, he decided to work.

It was hard maneuvering the cart through the throngs of people—and animals. Sheep were being led through the streets to be raffled off later that night in one of the many backyard celebrations. Because the Sicilians and Calabrians wouldn’t gather together, there were competing holy rituals throughout Little Italy. Nearly any alley would take you to a shrine and backyard fire escapes festooned with decorations. At each shrine, a statue of Saint Rocco, typically owned by the local tavern, along with hundreds of candles and flowers, sat atop a makeshift altar covered in bedsheets.

Rocco had sold most everything he had because people bought more generously on feast days to prepare large meals. So when he was cleaning up, it didn’t take long to notice a piece of paper in his cart. Unfolding it, he saw a drawing of a knife and a black handprint, but also something else—a crude drawing of a Ferris wheel with a car falling into the ocean.

The realization that they had been watching his family out of the neighborhood immobilized Rocco. He was frozen in fear, and for the first time he didn’t immediately rip up a Black Hand threat—and for the first time he wanted to know what it said.

“It says bring the money, five hundred dollars, on Tuesday the twenty-fourth to the Garibaldi statue in Washington Square Park,” read Clement.

“Five hundred dollars! They are crazy!”

“Papa, how did they know we went to Coney Island?”

“How? I don’t know!” Rocco spit. “You trust no one.”

“Maybe we should pay.”

“Pay with what? We don’t have five hundred dollars!”

“If they took the time to follow us to Coney Island, they’re not going to go away.”

“That’s why I’ll kill them.”

“Papa, you’re old…”

“Look at these muscles…”

Clement interrupted, “Papa! These are thugs.”

“Then what, Clement?”

“Give them something until I find out who’s behind this.”

“No! You’re not getting involved! I knew I shouldn’t have shown you this! I want you to go far away! Do you hear me? Even if you go to Pennsylvania and work in those mines.”

“Pop, you still have to decide what to do.”

“I’ll give them something. And if you try to get involved, I’ll kill you myself.”

AUGUST 29, 1909

HIGHLAND, NEW YORK

“How long you going to stay in the woods up here, Lupo?” asked Tommaso.

“It’s not the woods. It’s a cheese farm. Can’t you see that, you jerk?”

“Lupo, you’re not a country boy.”

“Give me the ink and shut your mouth.”

Tommaso pulled a large bottle from the sack around his shoulder. “How they doing in there?” asked Tommaso, pointing to the barn where two men were printing two-dollar bills off counterfeit plates.

“With this ink they can finish and we’ll get rid of everything.”

“But what if you get another order?”

“We’re not taking no more orders. The cops, and not the kind we own, are poking around. Secret police from Washington. Do you have the money from Siena, the fruit seller?”

Tommaso the Bull put a twenty-dollar bill on the table.

“Twenty? We told him five hundred!”

“Lupo, those two punks who were working the street got their money and then blew up their store. He’s only got a pushcart.”

“No brains! Since when do you think you have brains? You listen to me. You think I’d demand five hundred dollars from a guy with a pushcart if I didn’t know better? Huh? His wife, she sent a thousand dollars to her family in Italy after the earthquake. I got it direct. And how come those two morons knew they had money before we did? Get the five hundred dollars! And make it a regular payment!”

“I need money to get back.”

“Walk, you idiot!”

“Come on, Lupo, just give me a couple of those,” he said, pointing to a stack of counterfeit two-dollar bills.

“You really are an idiot. Here,” said Lupo, throwing a five-dollar bill on the table. “You owe me change.”

SEPTEMBER 1, 1909

Her belly was getting even bigger, but all out front. “It’s a boy,” thought Giovanna, rubbing her swelled stomach, “Little Nunzio.” She made a strong espresso at the stove for Rocco while he dressed. In the predawn quiet, Giovanna wondered what was bothering her husband. He was even quieter than usual and avoided her eyes. In bed, he turned to the wall. He acted as if he couldn’t bear to be near her, or the children for that matter.

“No bread. Just espresso,” barked Rocco, coming to the table. Not taking the time to sit down, he threw back the thick black coffee. Mumbling “Ciao,” he left.

Rocco was leaving the house earlier and coming home from work later. He was exhausted, but his anger and stubbornness kept him going. After he had given them money, they’d left more notes. This time he didn’t ask Clement to translate and instead went back to ripping the notes into shreds. He told Clement all was well after he paid them twenty dollars.

When Giovanna sent the second payment to Scilla, he’d been relieved they weren’t moving as he’d promised her they would. Life was dangerous on Elizabeth Street—but it could be worse somewhere else. Now, in idle moments, he spent his time counting the months to the next and final check, and he paid more attention when he heard people talking about places like Newark and Hoboken.

Rocco wheeled his cart into his regular spot. He eyed everyone who passed suspiciously and made a habit of patting his pocket to check on the presence of his knife. Today was a dull day, moisture clouding the dawn light. Only a few other vendors were setting up this early. Rocco methodically stacked his fruit into small towers on the cart. Across the street, the pepper seller alternated his greens and reds even though it was more practical to keep them separate. There was great pride and competitiveness in the display of produce, but Rocco was distracted. Lately his towers didn’t have their usual aesthetic appeal—nor were they engineered well.

After creating a tower of pears, they suddenly began to tumble. He lurched forward to stop them from falling into the street at the exact moment he felt something drop behind his back. A split second later a thunderous thud caused Rocco to fall over his cart.

The noise and the sight of Rocco and his cart collapsing frightened the other vendors, and they fled. A woman screamed, “La Mano Nera!” and crossed herself. Within seconds Rocco was up, knife drawn, looking for the assailant. Instead, he saw a huge rock on the sidewalk where he had stood.

SEPTEMBER 4, 1909

HIGHLAND, NEW YORK

“Those idiots! They’re lucky he moved. I said, ‘Get the money,’ not ‘Kill him!’” fumed Lupo.

Pietro Inzerillo swatted at the flies circling his head. “Tommaso said he’s Calabrian gabbadotz.”

“The fruit seller may be stubborn, but Tommaso’s stupid. You’re sure they have the money, yes?”

“Twice she’s received big payments, and she has more coming. It’s a settlement from the gas company Brooklyn Union,” answered Inzerillo, continuing his war on the flies.

“She got money from them? She’s smarter than us. We’re up here knee-deep in cow shit, and she sits home and gets fat checks from the Americans for nothing.”

Lupo stormed around the barn while Inzerillo fanned himself with hay. There was a look of resolve on Lupo’s pug face. “I’m going to give this one to Leo.”

SEPTEMBER 8, 1909

“Commissioner Baker, it was an extremely successful mission,” Lieutenant Vachris and Sergeant Crowley reported, standing at attention in the new police commissioner’s office.

They had just returned from nearly three months in Italy. The Italian government was embarrassed by Lieutenant Petrosino’s murder and had fully cooperated in collecting the penal records that Petrosino had uncovered. Lieutenant Vachris’s eyes roamed the room. All traces of Commissioner Bingham, who had been replaced during their trip, were gone. The new commissioner didn’t invite them to take a seat.

“I’m glad to see you two men home alive. We couldn’t afford another screw-up over there.”

Vachris was pretty sure he didn’t like this man. “We were advised not to go into Sicily. They felt sure we would be killed. But with the Italian police, we were able to secure the records of seven hundred criminals. Seven hundred! Just about everyone from Lieutenant Petrosino’s list and more.”

Crowley jumped in. “Commissioner, if we could get more help on the Italian Squad, we can have most of these criminals deported within the year. The Italian colony would be free of crime.”

“It’s the best way to avenge Lieutenant Petrosino’s death,” added Vachris.

“I don’t think we’re ready to move that quick, men.”

“But, sir, if the crooks are here three years, we can’t get rid of them! Some of them will pass the three-year mark in just a few months.” Thinking he’d made his argument clear based on the commissioner’s silence, Lieutenant Vachris continued, “Detective Crowley and I figured out a plan to round them up…”

“I don’t think you heard me, Lieutenant. I said we’re not ready to move on this yet.”

“But, Commissioner, look!” exclaimed Vachris, leafing through the papers in his hand. “In two months, these men will reach three years: Vincenzo Sapio, Tommaso the Bull, Alfonso…”

“We can pick them up right now,” Detective Crowley interrupted before the commissioner could.

“There’s more to policing in this city than the Italian Squad. This is one neighborhood, gentlemen! In fact, I need you both elsewhere, and I’ve arranged for your transfers to other departments.”

“You can’t…”

“I am the police commissioner, and I can. I suggest you take your transfers gratefully. I order you to not breathe a word of your mission or these records, which I will take for safekeeping. When we’re ready, we’ll deal with them.”

“Will we be ready after the election, Commissioner?” sneered Vachris. Flipping through the records, he added, “Is it their votes or their fists that the alderman requires?”

“Vachris, I’ll let that go with a two-week suspension, because I am sure you’re tired from your trip. However, if I find out you have discussed this mission or its results with anyone, you’ll be discharged from the force. Am I understood?”

Scilla, Italy, August 1978

I had been in Italy a month and was getting frustrated. No matter how many frescoes, bronzes, and cathedrals I saw, I wasn’t satisfied. It took me a while to realize that I was looking for something I would never find in the splendor of the northern cities. I was trying to find Nonno’s Italy. I needed to see where he fished for swordfish. I wanted to connect all those stories that he told me as a child with places that weren’t imaginary.

“Nanny, I’m in Italy.” An international call was a backpacking extravagance, but I was confused.

“What? I thought you were still in school in London.”

“The term is over. I’m traveling. So, Nanny, I can’t find Scilla on the map.”

“You’re going to go there?”

“If I can find it.”

“Look in the toe. It’s spelled S-c-i-l-l-a.”

“No wonder. I was looking for S-h-e-i-l-a-h.”

“That’s Irish.”

“Do we still have family there?”

“No, there was no work. They’ll all be gone by now.”

“Did you ever visit?”

“I went with the cousins’ club in 1970, after Nonno died. It’s beautiful there. But I was also there when I was a little girl. I went with my mother, just the two of us. That’s when I first saw your grandfather…”

It took ten trains to get to the toe of the boot. The sea was a gorgeous turquoise that glowed in the early evening light. Land was visible across the water, and from all my staring at maps, I knew it was Sicily. The way my family spoke of Sicilians, it was hard to believe they came from the same country, let alone only a mile or two across the water. A mountain was also visible across the strait, and it was smoking. The difference between the civilized north and seismic south couldn’t be more obvious.

There was only one pensione in town. It was called “Le Sirene”—“the mermaids”—and sat on a beautiful white sandy beach. The room was sparse. Tile floors, stuccoed walls. Over the bed was a picture of Saint Anthony. I tried to remember from catechism class what he was the patron saint of. His claim to fame wasn’t visually obvious, like Saint Lucy, who was always shown holding her eyeballs on a plate. I had to look it up: “patron saint of those searching for something.”

Hunger pangs struck, and I picked the restaurant with the swordfish on the sign. Inside, the walls were lined with old fishing pictures. I was stunned by how all the men’s faces resembled my relatives. I stared harder hoping to actually recognize Nonno in one of the photos.

“What are you looking for?”

The man next to me spoke English.

“Well, my family was from Scilla.”

“Thousands of American families were from Scilla.” The man sounded bored, like he heard this all the time. From the way he stopped to talk to waiters, it was apparent he was the owner of the place.

Obligingly he asked, “What’s your family’s name?”

“Arena.”

“Ah, Arena. You know what Arena means in Italian? It means ‘sand.’ There are nearly as many Arenas from Scilla as there are grains of sand on this beach.”

“The town doesn’t look that big.”

“You Americans are so literal.” Seeing I wasn’t going to give up, he asked disinterestedly, “Do you know anyone who would have lived here in my lifetime?”

“My grandfather’s name was Anthony, I mean Antonio.”

“Half the boys are Rocco and half are Antonio. I’m Antonio.”

“Well, I had an Uncle Sal who came back and forth from America.”

“Salvatore Arena?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about this Salvatore.” Antonio looked expectant.

“Well, he was pretty bad…”

“What do you mean, ‘bad’?”

“He was the black sheep. He gambled; he drank…”

“Salvatore Arena! He was my father’s best friend! Salvatore,” he said, shaking his head. “Sit down. Sit down.”

Antonio led me back to my table and called for wine.

“You know, you have family here,” he said. “Salvatore’s two children—Cosmo is a fisherman, and he lives with his sister, Rosa, and her family.”

“Where’s their house?” I asked, practically standing up.

“In the Chianalea with all the fishermen. It’s too late to go there now. Meet me here tomorrow morning, and I’ll take you.”

The next morning, Antonio was waiting outside the restaurant in his car. We drove less than a minute before he pulled over and parked.

“We have to walk from here. Cars don’t fit in the Chianalea.”

We wove our way down stone staircases and through narrow streets. Occasionally, I had to flatten myself against a wall to allow a scooter through. In the breaks between the houses, I could see the water. At a large opening between buildings, where five or six boats were drawn up on shore, a man sat repairing a net.

Antonio called in Italian, “Cosmo! Cosmo! This is your cousin from America.”

“Che?”

“Questa è tua cugina.”

Cosmo walked over, looking confused. Antonio explained that Cosmo’s father and my grandfather were brothers. Cosmo nodded, and I smiled. I saw an older woman walking toward us holding groceries in netted bags. She stared at me for a moment, dropped her bags, and ran over.

“You’re family. You’re family,” she said repeatedly in Italian while stroking my hands. When Antonio confirmed what she already knew, my cousin Rosa cried and kissed my face.

“Ciao, I have to get back to the restaurant,” called Antonio, walking off.

I panicked. “But Antonio, you can’t leave. My Italian is terrible.”

“You’ll manage; it’s your family,” he answered from farther down the alley.

I looked at my smiling cousins and understood they needed to feed me.

For five days, I was fed and feted. There were more cousins, some distant, but all insisted that I eat with them. At these meals, with the little bit of Italian I knew, and lots of drawings, I learned about my grandfather’s life in Scilla. They showed me where my grandfather caught his biggest swordfish, where my great-grandmother Fortunata got her water at the public fountain, pictures of all the Arena brothers and sisters, and old postcards from America.

On the second day, Rosa took a key off her wall and said we were going to Nonno’s house. She stopped in front of a small building a few doors down and behind her own house.

“This is where my father, Salvatore, and your grandfather Antonio were born and lived,” explained Rosa.

I was practically shaking as I entered the vacant house. There was little inside, but it was easy to imagine that nothing had changed since Nonno was born there eighty-three years ago. When I asked why no one lived in the house now, Cosmo, whom I had the easiest time communicating with, explained that there was no water or electricity. He also said something about how they had tried to fix the house after an earthquake, but that the repairs hadn’t lasted.

On my last day in Scilla, I walked past a stone house that looked like it was built into the foundation of the church above it. We had walked past this house many times, and I had noticed that it seemed older than all the other buildings.

“This was your great-grandmother Giovanna’s house,” said Rosa.

I was so focused on my grandfather’s life in Scilla that I hadn’t asked about Big Nanny’s house and family. This house was also vacant, but no one could remember who had the key. Cosmo explained that Big Nanny’s house was one of the oldest houses in the village because it wasn’t destroyed in the same earthquake that had made Nonno’s house uninhabitable.

“The fisherman’s church above it was ruined—that’s a new church, built in 1910. But your great-grandmother’s house, because it’s built into the cliff, survived. Her parents lived in the house alone after their children went to America. No one has lived here since they died.”

“What do you know about my great-grandmother?” I asked, my mind instantly going back to the blue sparkling dress in the coffin.

“Your great-grandmother was my second cousin,” answered Cosmo. These conversations were difficult enough to understand in English, never mind in a foreign language. When Cosmo drew a family tree, I understood. I knew Nonno was related to Big Nanny, but seeing it explained in boxes and lines made sense.

“There are still stories in Scilla about your great-grandmother. She left before I was born, but because she was a midwife, the tales got passed down.”

“Who was her first husband again?”

“Nunzio, my great-uncle. He was killed in a construction accident in New York.”

The family in Italy seemed much better than the Americans at passing down family history and keeping track of who was who.

When I tried to leave, I was told I couldn’t. “The Feast of Saint Rocco is only two days away! Cosmo will carry the saint!” exclaimed Rosa.

I knew it wasn’t negotiable. So for the first time, I left my notebook and questions back with the mermaids and Saint Anthony and swam out into the Strait of Messina.