Enza wrestled with the promise she had made to Ciro to return to the mountain to raise Antonio among family and friends in the Alps. She gave it serious consideration, but the world had changed quickly in the months after Ciro’s death. Italy was in the midst of political tumult, and it would not have been prudent to take her American son back to where she came from. Observing the social changes in her homeland, she knew she had made the right decision to stay in Minnesota. She chose America because it had been good to them.
Enza was loyal to the town Ciro had chosen for them, and business was steady. She did alterations for the department stores and built wedding gowns, coats, and dresses for the ladies of Chisholm. She sewed draperies, slipcovers, and layettes. Customers marveled at her skill and returned time and again.
Luigi ran the shoe shop alone. The constant flow of company provided by the Latinis, especially Pappina, but also their sons and Angela, who was now nearly ten years old, had been a tonic for Enza. Only when she climbed the stairs and closed her bedroom door at night did her loneliness at the loss of Ciro consume her. Eventually her tears stopped, giving way to a dull ache that Enza accepted as the natural pain of widowhood, one for which there was no cure.
Antonio skated by, grinning and waving at his mother. Enza leaned against the wall and watched as Betsy Madich, also seventeen, in a short red velvet skating skirt, white tights, and a matching sweater, took Antonio’s hands and skated with him. Enza smiled, remembering when the pair had gone roller skating together down West Lake Street when they were children.
Antonio was madly in love with Betsy, a willowy Serbian beauty with her mother’s chestnut hair and blue eyes. She planned to attend nursing school at the University of Minnesota, one of the schools where Antonio hoped to play basketball. Enza had many talks with her son about girls, but she always found them difficult. During those conversations, she felt Ciro’s absence like a missing limb. Sometimes she even felt annoyed at her husband for leaving her behind to raise their son alone. It seemed that she needed Ciro more as time went by, not less.
Antonio and Betsy skated over to the wall where Enza stood.
“Mama,” Antonio said, “I’d like to go Betsy’s after skating.”
“Mom is making povitica,” Betsy added.
“Aren’t you going to help Mr. Uncini flood the rink?”
“Yeah. After that, I’d like to go to Betsy’s.”
“Okay. You have your key?”
“Yes, Ma.”
“Not too late, va bene?”
“Va bene, Mama.” Antonio winked at his mother. Her native Italian had become a secret language between them. When they closed the door at 5 West Lake Street, mother and son spoke as though she had never left the mountain.
Later that night, Mr. Uncini, nicknamed “Oonch,” played “Goodnight, Irene” and closed the rink for the night. The teenagers piled into their cars to go home, or to Choppy’s Pizza, which had just opened on Main Street.
“Clear the ice for me, Antonio,” Mr. Uncini said.
Antonio lifted a long-handled wire broom from the storage bin next to the rink and skated in a circular pattern, clearing the loose shavings and chunks of ice off the rink. While Antonio smoothed the surface as best he could, Mr. Uncini unspooled the fire hose.
Antonio came off the ice and removed his skates. He pulled on his work boots and helped Mr. Uncini crank the wheel to release water onto the rink. Flooding the rink took some time. Antonio would sit with his father’s old friend and talk.
“How are you doing in school?” Mr. Uncini asked.
“Great except for calculus. I might get a B,” Antonio said.
“You’re getting serious with Betsy.”
“Have you been talking to my mom?”
“I have eyes, Antonio.”
“I’d like to marry her someday.”
“That’s pretty serious.”
“Not yet. After college.”
“That’s a good plan. A lot of things will change in four years. It’s a lifetime.”
“That’s what Mama says.”
“You know, your father came to see me before he died. And now that you’re going off to college, I think there are some things I should tell you. You know, he wanted me to look out for you.”
“And you always have, Oonch.”
“I hope I haven’t been too obvious.”
“You cried when I sang ‘Panis Angelicus’ at Saint Joseph’s—that was pretty obvious.”
“I just wanted you to know I was standing in for your father. It’s not the same, I know, but I promised him I would be there for you.”
“What was he like, Oonch? Mama cries when I ask her. I remember a lot about him, but I wonder what I would think of him now that I’m older.”
“He was a decent man. But he loved to have fun. He was ambitious, but not to the extreme. I liked him because he was a true Italian.”
“What’s a true Italian?”
“He loved his family and he loved beauty. For a true Italian, those are the only two things that matter, because in the end that’s what sustains you. Your family gathers around and shores you up while the beauty uplifts you. Your father was devoted to your mother. He made boots like I make scrambled eggs. You’d be talking to him, and he’d be measuring and pinning pattern paper on a sleeve of leather, and in no time, he was sewing and then polishing and buffing. It was as if it was nothing. But it was hard work.”
Antonio looked out over the ice as Mr. Uncini turned the water pump off by cranking the wheel in reverse. The clear water had settled above the old layer of blue ice, filling in every pit and crack. The air was so cold, the surface had already begun to harden, making patterns that under the lights looked like lace. The woods were quiet, and once the water was turned off, there was no sound.
Antonio’s nose burned, and tears came to his eyes as he thought about his father, and how he’d gone around Chisholm, hat in hand, asking his friends to fill in for the times to come when he could not be there. The realization of this made Antonio long for his father and miss him more. He wiped his tears on his sleeve as he closed the gate to the rink.
“You all right?” Mr. Uncini asked.
“Just cold,” Antonio answered.
“You are six-three, Antonio,” Dr. Graham said, scribbling on the report. “You weigh two hundred and fifteen pounds, all muscle.” The doctor chuckled. “Have you decided where you’re going to go to school?”
“The University of Minnesota offered me a four-year scholarship.”
“Of course they did.”
“But I’m going to Notre Dame.”
“Good for you.”
“I want to play professionally once I graduate.”
The phone rang in Dr. Graham’s office. “I’m on my way.” He hung up the phone. “Antonio, please, go get your mother. Tell her Pappina Latini is in the hospital.”
Antonio ran a mile swiftly; in a matter of minutes, he’d pushed the shop door open, called for his mother, and told her to come with him to the hospital. By the time they made it up the hill, Luigi and his children were in the waiting room. They were holding one another, weeping. Angela let out a wail, and called out for her mother.
“What happened, Luigi?” Enza put her hands on his shoulder.
“She’s gone, Enza. She’s gone. There was trouble with the baby and they tried to save her, and they couldn’t. Pappina never came out of it . . . and our baby son died.”
Pappina was a year or two younger than Enza, and this baby had been a surprise. Pappina had been going through the change of life early, and hadn’t thought creating another life was possible. But the Latinis had been as happy with the news as they had the first four times. Enza, who had prayed for years for a sibling for Antonio, was always profoundly touched by the way Pappina included her at the heart of every pregnancy. Pappina never made a fuss, but she somehow drew Enza into the circle of happiness with her, involving Enza in every aspect of the new baby’s life, so Enza might be filled up w
ith joy despite her longing.
After leaving the hospital and ensuring that Luigi was capable of handling the final arrangements, Enza took the Latini children back to 5 West Lake Street with her. John Latini was eighteen and an apprentice in the shop. The older boys were stoic, but Angela could not stop crying for her mother. As they walked along the sidewalk beneath the bare winter trees, Enza tried to comfort them.
“Children come to us in many ways,” she remembered Pappina saying. The thought sent a chill through her.
At home, Enza cooked for the Latini family, Antonio and John led them in games to distract them, and later on, Enza bathed Angela and prepared her school clothes. It was, of course, the least she could do for all the Latinis had done for her and Antonio when Ciro died. The children had always called her Zenza, a combination of Zia and Enza, and most of them had spent as many nights under her roof, playing with Antonio, as they had under their own.
Pappina’s funeral was held four days later in a standing-room-only mass at St. Joseph’s. Pappina had been beloved in the community, a wonderful baker, a beautiful wife and mother. Luigi was bereft at the loss of his wife and new baby. His life would never be the same, nor would his heart.
Each of her children took a turn reading the scripture. Enza knew her friend would have been very proud of her children that day.
Enza slowly eased the younger family back into their routine. After a few weeks, she moved them back to the Latini house, showing the boys how to do their own laundry and prepare meals.
Angela watched Enza carefully, and tried to do chores as her mother had done. Cleaning was not difficult, but cooking and baking for the entire family were too much for a child only ten years old, and she grew frustrated at the challenge. Enza stepped in and made the meals. She arranged to have the children come only on the weekends for lunch, and made sure they went to church on Sundays.
One morning, Enza had opened the shop and was sewing in the back. Luigi came in, and called out to her. He began to repair shoes as he had every morning. But something was different about him that day. He put down his tools, went back to the sewing workroom, and sat in front of Enza.
“I’m going back to Italy,” he said.
“Luigi, it’s too soon to make any decisions.”
“No, I’m going to do it.”
“You can’t run away from what happened to you.”
“I can’t bear it. I want to start over. And the only way I can do that is go back to the beginning.”
“But your children!”
“I’m going to take the boys with me.”
“But what about Angela?”
“I was hoping you would take her. I don’t know what to do with a girl,” he cried. “She needs a mother.”
Enza sat back in her chair. She understood Luigi’s concern. In the coming year or two, Angela would begin adolescence. Without a mother in the home, there would be no one to guide her in the matters of womanhood.
Antonio was leaving for Notre Dame in the spring, to begin training for the basketball team. Enza would be alone, and now, if Luigi left for Italy, she would have to rent the workroom out.
“Leave her with me,” Enza said. “I’ll take care of her.”
“Grazie, Enza. Grazie.”
“Pappina would have done the same for me.” Enza was sure of it.
Enza prepared the spare room for Angela. She painted it pink, sewed a white chenille coverlet, and made lampshades with some leftover chintz. She made sure that Angela had photographs of her mother, father, and brothers on the dresser. Knowing what it was like to live in someone else’s home, Enza vowed that she would make Angela comfortable and secure; it would be nothing like her own experience in Hoboken with the Buffa family.
Enza went to the school to make certain that the teachers were aware of Angela’s needs. Angela stayed in her room a lot, but that was to be expected. The ten-year-old girl was making the transition from life with a big family to the serenity of the Lazzari home. Luckily she had been in and out of the shop all of her life, and had many happy memories of shared holidays upstairs in the Lazzari apartment. Enza checked on her, and would find Angela reading, or sitting quietly and looking off in the middle distance. It was heartbreaking for Enza; she understood every nuance of what the little girl was feeling. At least Enza knew her mother was alive, and she could write to her. Angela did not have that luxury.
One Sunday afternoon, Enza was making pasta in the kitchen when she heard singing. Enza smiled, happy that Angela felt comfortable enough to play the phonograph without asking.
As the recording continued, Enza realized that the orchestra was not joining in after the first a cappella stanza. A single voice continued to cut through the quiet. Enza stopped kneading the pasta dough, wiped her hands on the moppeen, and followed the sound down the hallway. Enza moved toward Angela’s room, then stopped, frozen by what she saw. Angela was singing. Enza had not heard a voice like it since Geraldine Farrar back at the Met.
Angela did not slide into a note as she sang, she hit it and held it. The crystal quality of her tone was natural and God given. Enza closed her eyes and followed the sound, picturing the moment she first heard the same aria at the Met years earlier. Enza stepped away and listened until Angela finished singing the phrase, then tiptoed back to the kitchen.
Enza pulled on her coat and gloves and her best hat and walked up West Lake Street for her appointment with Miss Robin Homonoff, Chisholm’s only piano and voice teacher. Her first name was not written out on the mailbox, rather it was a sketch of a tweeting bird.
Miss Homonoff answered the door. She had soft gray hair, and was in every way prim. She invited Enza to sit in the parlor by the baby grand Steinway piano, the only shiny object in her blue cottage.
“I want to talk to you about Angela Latini,” Enza began.
“I think she has talent. If she begins to study now with me in earnest, and works very hard, I think she could be a professional singer someday.”
“I think she sounds like Geraldine Farrar.”
“You studied opera?”
“I worked at the Metropolitan Opera when I was a girl.”
“You sang?”
“Sewed. But I love music, and I think this would be good for her. She’s endured a lot in her young life, and I think this would give her confidence.”
“We’ll get started right away, then.” Miss Homonoff extended her hand.
“How much are the lessons?”
“Not one penny. In a matter of months, she’ll be teaching me, Mrs. Lazzari; that’s how good she is.”
Miss Homonoff closed the door and smiled. She lived for these moments, when raw talent was entrusted to her to refine and shape. She would make a world class soprano out of Angela Latini.
Angela knelt in the living room at 5 West Lake Street. She fiddled with the dial on the radio until WNDU out of South Bend, Indiana, came through clear and sharp without static. Enza shook the pan on the stove in the kitchen, and soon the popcorn was crackling inside. She held the lid down as the puffs exploded.
“Hurry, Zenza! Antonio is in the starting five!”
Enza threw the popcorn into a bowl, and just as they had every Saturday since the Notre Dame basketball season had begun, she and Angela listened to the game on the radio. Notre Dame was playing Army in South Bend.
Angela and Enza listened as Antonio scored. They laughed because the announcer mispronounced Lazzari. Angela corrected the announcer. “I know he can’t hear me,” Angela said, her eyes flashing. “But I wish he could.”
When Antonio graduated with honors from Notre Dame in 1940, Veda Ponikvar, the editor of the Chisholm Free Press, wrote a profile about him, with his picture. The headline read:
HIS FATHER’S SON
As soon as Antonio arrived home to Chisholm with his diploma, a letter from the draft board was waiting for him. Antonio was summoned to appear with his mother in Hibbing. Angela was in school when Enza took the trolley with Antonio to Hibbing. She
had a heavy heart, knowing that her son would be sent to fight in the second world war. She thought of the stories Ciro had told her about the Great War, and she couldn’t help but feel that history was repeating itself. She tried not to show her apprehension to Antonio, but it couldn’t be helped.
“I’ve called you here today because you’re in a unique situation.” Corporal Robert Vukad looked at Enza, then Antonio, in the small, spare storefront office on the main street of Hibbing.
“I understand that your father served in the Great War. You’re the only son in the family, and your mother is a widow. We don’t have to send you into action. In fact, you can be exempt from it entirely. It’s the government’s way of holding families under these circumstances together.”
“I want to be in the war, sir. I want to serve my country. I don’t want to be benched.”
“Your mother may disagree with you. Mrs. Lazzari?”
Enza wanted to tell the officer that she wanted her son to take the exemption. As a mother, she couldn’t imagine offering her only son to the war. She had already lived through the loss of her husband; the thought of losing her son as well was devastating. Enza looked at Antonio, who had the calm confidence that begat courage. So instead of taking the offer, she said quietly, “Sir, my son goes like every other young man. He should not be exempt from the war to take care of me. It means more to me as a mother that he wants to emulate his father. It means he understands the great debt we have to this country.”
“I’ll be all right, Mama.”
Enza and Antonio walked back to the trolley from the recruitment office. They didn’t say much on the ride back to Chisholm, and walked in silence from the trolley station. Enza’s heart was heavy as she unlocked the door. Antonio pushed the door open. The scent of tomato and basil gravy simmering on the stove permeated the hallway.
“Angela?” Enza called out.
“I made dinner, come on up!” she hollered.
Enza and Antonio entered the kitchen. The table was set with a cloth, candles, and china. Antonio’s girlfriend, Betsy—beautiful and collegiate in a Pendleton wool skirt, blouse, and loafers who was home from nursing school—was tossing the salad, wearing an apron.