turned the eating of the cake into something akin to communion.
Giovanna had fallen asleep during the great cake debate and was awoken with a tug.
“Signora, signora, it is the New Year!”
Giovanna squinted down at her young friend and patted her head in greeting.
“Signora, I ate the most wonderful thing. On the top and sides was a cream the color of the roses in the father’s churchyard, and inside, it was soft, like bread, but sweet like biscotti. I closed my eyes when I ate it, and I could see the most beautiful things. It was sunny and clean, and my sister and I had on white dresses and hair ribbons the color of the cream. In my stomach, the torta filled me up and sang songs. And do you know what the best part was, signora? Luigi’s son said that in l’America, they have this cake for breakfast and supper! I am going to love l’America, signora!”
Giovanna smiled, caressed the girl’s face, and rolled over.
“Signora,” the girl was whispering. “Signora!”
Giovanna rolled back over and looked at her.
“I saved you a taste of the cream, signora.” The girl uncupped her hand, and there in the middle of her palm was a dab of pink frosting. “Here, signora,” she said, flicking the frosting onto her finger and holding it up to Giovanna’s mouth.
Giovanna’s first instinct was to shake her head no, but when she looked at the girl’s face, she compliantly licked her finger. The sweetness of the sugar and the girl’s gesture burned Giovanna’s throat.
“Happy New Year, signora,” whispered the girl, smiling.
NINE
When the Lombardia approached New York City’s harbor, everyone scrambled up the metal stairs and packed onto the deck, desperate to catch their first glimpse of their new home. There was a reverent hush as people watched and waited in anticipation. Slowly they saw New York seemingly rise from the sea. Prayers of thanks and animated voices rose in volume as each new detail revealed itself. Someone who had made the trip before pointed to a landmass covered in snow and shouted excitedly, “Itsa Brookalyn!” The message was passed and murmurs of, “Ah Brookalyn!” rippled through the crowd. Giovanna could make out spires on buildings and shivered at the memory of Nunzio’s descriptions of the architectural detail.
The Lombardia sailed closer to New York, and they all got a better look at the large shape holding a torch in the water. “Is that where Columbus is buried?” shouted a man on deck, trying to be heard over the jubilant shouts. “No,” thought Giovanna, remembering Maria Perrino’s mother, “that’s the whore.” The first cries of joy turned into thunderous cheers when the Statue of Liberty came into full view and she was recognized as the American Madonna. Or, in the eyes of those left behind in Italy, the American Scylla on the rock.
“Viva l’America!” was shouted, men waved their hats, women bounced and kissed the children in their arms, prayers were murmured, and tears swallowed.
Sailing forward, Giovanna’s eyes didn’t leave Liberty’s face. “You welcomed my Nunzio, but you didn’t protect him. You devoured him like the women said,” accused Giovanna, although her face bore none of the emotion that her heart felt.
She felt both excitement and paralyzing sadness at the idea of soon walking where Nunzio had walked and sleeping where Nunzio had slept. The boat turned into a dock away from the statue, but before Giovanna lost sight of Liberty’s face, she asked her, “And what plans do you have for me here in l’America?”
At the pier, the steerage passengers waited while the first- and second-class passengers were cleared through onboard customs and then disembarked. From the deck, the immigrants watched the happy reunions on the dock. They were only a few feet from l’America, but still an ordeal away. The people in steerage were boarded onto a barge that had pulled alongside the Lombardia . Standing shoulder to shoulder, they
Giovanna had fallen asleep during the great cake debate and was awoken with a tug.
“Signora, signora, it is the New Year!”
Giovanna squinted down at her young friend and patted her head in greeting.
“Signora, I ate the most wonderful thing. On the top and sides was a cream the color of the roses in the father’s churchyard, and inside, it was soft, like bread, but sweet like biscotti. I closed my eyes when I ate it, and I could see the most beautiful things. It was sunny and clean, and my sister and I had on white dresses and hair ribbons the color of the cream. In my stomach, the torta filled me up and sang songs. And do you know what the best part was, signora? Luigi’s son said that in l’America, they have this cake for breakfast and supper! I am going to love l’America, signora!”
Giovanna smiled, caressed the girl’s face, and rolled over.
“Signora,” the girl was whispering. “Signora!”
Giovanna rolled back over and looked at her.
“I saved you a taste of the cream, signora.” The girl uncupped her hand, and there in the middle of her palm was a dab of pink frosting. “Here, signora,” she said, flicking the frosting onto her finger and holding it up to Giovanna’s mouth.
Giovanna’s first instinct was to shake her head no, but when she looked at the girl’s face, she compliantly licked her finger. The sweetness of the sugar and the girl’s gesture burned Giovanna’s throat.
“Happy New Year, signora,” whispered the girl, smiling.
NINE
When the Lombardia approached New York City’s harbor, everyone scrambled up the metal stairs and packed onto the deck, desperate to catch their first glimpse of their new home. There was a reverent hush as people watched and waited in anticipation. Slowly they saw New York seemingly rise from the sea. Prayers of thanks and animated voices rose in volume as each new detail revealed itself. Someone who had made the trip before pointed to a landmass covered in snow and shouted excitedly, “Itsa Brookalyn!” The message was passed and murmurs of, “Ah Brookalyn!” rippled through the crowd. Giovanna could make out spires on buildings and shivered at the memory of Nunzio’s descriptions of the architectural detail.
The Lombardia sailed closer to New York, and they all got a better look at the large shape holding a torch in the water. “Is that where Columbus is buried?” shouted a man on deck, trying to be heard over the jubilant shouts. “No,” thought Giovanna, remembering Maria Perrino’s mother, “that’s the whore.” The first cries of joy turned into thunderous cheers when the Statue of Liberty came into full view and she was recognized as the American Madonna. Or, in the eyes of those left behind in Italy, the American Scylla on the rock.
“Viva l’America!” was shouted, men waved their hats, women bounced and kissed the children in their arms, prayers were murmured, and tears swallowed.
Sailing forward, Giovanna’s eyes didn’t leave Liberty’s face. “You welcomed my Nunzio, but you didn’t protect him. You devoured him like the women said,” accused Giovanna, although her face bore none of the emotion that her heart felt.
She felt both excitement and paralyzing sadness at the idea of soon walking where Nunzio had walked and sleeping where Nunzio had slept. The boat turned into a dock away from the statue, but before Giovanna lost sight of Liberty’s face, she asked her, “And what plans do you have for me here in l’America?”
At the pier, the steerage passengers waited while the first- and second-class passengers were cleared through onboard customs and then disembarked. From the deck, the immigrants watched the happy reunions on the dock. They were only a few feet from l’America, but still an ordeal away. The people in steerage were boarded onto a barge that had pulled alongside the Lombardia . Standing shoulder to shoulder, they
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