“I’ll say.” And then we watch the parade of animals, regal and dignified as they process into the glorious tent. The llamas, the bears, the tiger, and the lion, followed by the hardworking elephants, disappear inside.
“Just like Noah’s ark.” Frankie counts the animals.
“Almost.” Franco puts his arms around his son.
“That was the best thing I ever saw,” Frankie says to his father. “Do you think so, Ma?”
“Oh yes,” I agree.
“You’re not going. You’re too old.”
“I’m thirty-four.”
“That’s too old!” I tell my husband, knowing full well that three Roseto men have already signed up to fight against Mussolini and Hitler, and their ages are twenty-nine, thirty-four, and thirty-eight.
“The army doesn’t think so.”
“I don’t want you to go,” I plead, but to no avail. Franco’s mind is made up.
“You have help here. Your parents won’t be traveling to Italy with the war on, and my folks are right across the street. It would be different if we didn’t have their help with the kids, but we do. I want to do the right thing,” Franco says firmly.
“The right thing is to be safe for your wife and children,” I remind my husband. I can see by the way he looks past me and out the window that I am losing the fight.
“They need mechanics badly. There isn’t a machine in the world that I can’t take apart and put back together again.”
“Please, Franco.”
“Nella, if there was ever a woman who didn’t need a man around, it’s you.” He kisses me on the forehead. “Now, think about your children and their future.”
“I am thinking of them! We can raise money for bonds and help the war effort in other ways.”
“I want to show my son how to love his country, and I can’t do that staying here and working in the mill. I need your support, honey.”
We have been going back and forth about this since December 7, 1941, when the news broke. It is February and Franco is determined to join up. He has already spoken with the recruiter, who gave him hope that they would take him at thirty-four. “I support you.” But really, I’m giving up. He’s a man on a mission, and no one, not even his mother, can stop him.
The entire family, the Paganos, Zolleranos, Castellucas, our children, and I, all take the ride to New York City to see Franco report for duty. I cry for most of the eighty-mile car trip (we have three cars in caravan, with Franco driving the lead car). I try to be strong for the children, though Frankie thinks his father is a hero already, and Celeste is too young to understand. That leaves me to reconcile my husband’s choice. I look over at him and think about what he told me, that I don’t need a man, but he’s so wrong. I need him desperately, and the thought of losing him is inconceivable to me.
And yet I’m not alone in my heartbreak. Many families in Roseto are giving up their men: Chettie’s baby brother, Oreste, Franco’s first cousin Paul. Nearly every girl at the mill has a husband, beau, or brother who is shipping out. But no matter how many men go, every woman feels alone, bereft by what she can only hope is a temporary loss. It is not only men that we are losing to the fight; Roseto has two nurses who are shipping out to England. We pray for victory, and soon.
Franco’s younger brother has already joined the navy. My mother-in-law faces the possible loss of two sons, yet she doesn’t shed a tear. I am amazed at her strength.
It seems so odd for those of us who are Italian to be at war against the country we come from. It is hard to understand turning against your own, but we know the true hearts of the Italian people, at least those from our village. They don’t want a dictator. My husband is not conflicted at all about Mussolini. “He must go,” Franco said simply.
Franco kisses his mother and father good-bye, then he kisses Frankie and then Celeste, who stuff all sorts of trinkets into his pockets. He takes me in his arms and kisses me last. As I walk him to the entrance, he doesn’t say much. For the first time in our marriage, he is quiet and I’m a chatterbox. I try to encapsulate all our dreams quickly, reminding him of what we’ve meant to each other, promising him that I’ll take care of the children, that when he returns we will have our dream and open our own blouse mill.
“I’m not worried,” Franco says.
“Good. That means you’ll be careful.” I try to smile.
“I’ll be careful,” he promises.
We look at each other, and I no longer see any trace of the young man I met at the mill when I was just fifteen. He isn’t simply older, he has grown up.
“You know that I love you with all my heart, all of it,” I tell him.
“And I love you.”
“Come home to me.”
“I will, Nell. I promise.”
Franco joins the other recruits in a line, and I see that my husband is by far the oldest. But when it comes to experience and skill, he will have much to offer. As he walks into the building where the recruits will be detained, I turn and walk back to my family. Elena holds Celeste, while Papa holds Frankie’s hand. From this moment on, no matter what comes, I will not cry, I promise myself. I will do what my husband wishes and try to live without him. It’s not like I have a choice.
Chettie and I spend our lunches at the mill scheming about what it will be like when Franco and I are finally able to open our own factory. It’s been nine months since he left. Chettie’s brother has been sent to the Pacific theater, and his letters are less frequent now. We hear news that the war cannot go on much longer, but who knows for sure?
Freddie Jenkins has decided to take as much advantage of us as he can while the men are away. (Freddie was deferred due to poor eyesight.) The movie business is booming, and our mill continues to crank out styles worn by the younger starlets, Lana Turner, Gene Tierney, and the Latin bombshell Carmen Miranda. The design from her image came in, and we all had a chuckle. A floral blouse tied at the waist, perfect with the suspender pants and platform shoes so popular now. The machine operators had quite a time with the voile material, but the results were spectacular.
Frankie writes to his papa once a week. He imagines Franco in bomber jets and on the field carrying a gun. In fact, Franco is working in a munitions plant in England. He is repairing the planes that return from battle. News of the bombings in London always take my breath away, but I pray that Franco is out of harm’s way.
When the government car pulls up in front of the factory, the buzzing of the machines goes silent. One girl in our ranks, Mary Bozelli, lost her fiancé, and that was almost a year ago. She left work that day, but returned the next. She dealt with her grief by pressing on, and we all marveled at her strength.
“Oh no,” Chettie says. “Bad news.”
My heart leaps into my throat as the young officer comes toward us.
“Who are you looking for, sir?”
“Concetta … I can’t pronounce the last name.”
“Marucci?” Chettie asks, her voice trembling.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That’s me.”
“The United States Army regrets …”
I watch Chettie as though we are in a fog; she nods and listens to the officer, her eyes fill with tears, and when he says the name Oreste Ricci, tears roll down her face. The officer turns and goes.
“My poor brother,” Chettie cries. “How will I tell Mama?” Then Chettie fishes in her apron and pulls out Oreste’s picture. She bows her head and begins to pray the Litany of the Saints, reminding them to welcome her brother into their fold. I bow my head with her, but I’m overcome with the sorrow of it all; I mouth the words, but I’m not really praying. The last thing I would do in a moment like this is seek out God. Why would I pray to Him, when He took my loved one from me? But Chettie is different. In matters of faith she has always been clear and uncompromising. She knows what she knows about her soul as though it were her right hand. It’s as real to her as the things in this world, something that I have never been able to co
mprehend. She slips the picture back into her pocket. “After all that, my brother dies.”
“After all what, Chet? The war?”
“No. Losing Papa the way we did. Oreste without a father since he was a boy. I watched as my brother went from a carefree, happy boy to a somber little soldier. And then fate makes him one.”
I hug Chettie, who tells me that she must go and tell her mother. She moves down the steps and up Garibaldi Avenue to take the turn onto Dewey Street. She walks so heavily, and the factory is still so silent, that I can hear her footsteps as she goes.
The funeral mass for Oreste Ricci at Our Lady of Mount Carmel brings out all the women and men who have sons, brothers, and husbands in the war. Homefront magazine, published in Bangor, Pennsylvania, runs a special article about Oreste. War has erased the lines among Italian, Welsh, Irish, and Dutch. We realize that we are all in this together. We’ve even stopped using the expression “Johnny Bull.”
Renato gives a beautiful eulogy, remembering Oreste as a boy, and chronicles the Ricci family saga. He speaks of their bravery and their common touch, reminding us all of Carlo Ricci, who was our school janitor. Renato is a powerful and convincing speaker, but he too is filled with emotion when the flag is presented to Oreste’s mother.
The November wind is bitter cold when we leave the church. There will be no burial today. The Riccis are hoping that Oreste’s remains will be found, though he was serving at sea, so the possibility of that is slim.
“Nella, how are you?” Renato comes through the crowd, seeking me out.
“I’m fine. The family’s fine.”
“Any word from Franco?”
“He’s still in London. So far, so good.”
“I’m praying for him.”
“Thank you.”
“Nella, could we talk for a moment?”
“Sure.” I look around, and maybe it’s my imagination, but I feel eyes on me, all around.
“Come with me,” he says. Then, in a gesture that makes me uncomfortable, he guides me through the crowd, across the plaza in front of the church, and next door to the church office and rectory.
“Hello, Mrs. Stampone,” I say to the church volunteer who keeps the rectory. Mrs. Stampone looks up and smiles, going about her dusting. Renato leads me into his office and closes the door.
“I haven’t seen you at Mass for a very long time. Why is that?”
“We’re going to St. Elizabeth’s in Pen Argyl now,” I tell him. At first we were the subject of some gossip for leaving Mount Carmel, but then a rumor went around that we were thinking of opening a factory in Pen Argyl, so we wanted to stake a claim in the community. Of course, that wasn’t true.
“Why?”
“It was Franco’s decision.”
“Was it because of me?”
I nod that it was.
“I was afraid of that. I should have discussed it with him. The first Sunday you weren’t in the pew.”
“No, no, that’s a bad idea.”
Renato goes behind his desk and sits down. I can’t look at him. Still. I am fine when I don’t see him, and completely at peace when I don’t think about him.
“Did I do something to offend him?”
I shake my head. “No. I did.”
“You did what? You offended him? How?”
“You know, there’s that concept in our faith …” I begin.
“Yes?”
“… that love never dies.”
“It doesn’t,” Renato says plainly, clearly not yet understanding what I’m trying to tell him.
“That’s what my husband believes. And that’s why we go to St. Elizabeth’s.”
“Ridiculous.” Renato throws up his hands as the full meaning of my words finally sinks in. It reminds me of the day he got impatient with me when we were reading aloud and I couldn’t pronounce the Latin properly. “To change your home parish over something that happened years ago … I don’t understand.”
Now I do. Renato is completely resolved on the subject. Even though the strings to the past are delicate, I am the only one holding on to them. My husband knows me better than I know myself sometimes.
I hear a thump outside the office door. With my luck, Mrs. Stampone is listening; soon my business will be carried from house to house like a milk delivery. I stand and tuck my purse under my arm. Renato stands. I look him in the eyes, still the same intensity, the same blue, but now they hold a different regard for me. Now almost forty, Renato has the dynamic confidence that comes with experience. In a sense, it makes him more alluring. His quick temper and bombastic opinions are gone, replaced with a quiet and dignified calm that makes him a true leader. Under his leadership, the parishioners have built a primary school and a convent for the Salesian nuns who will run the school. This fall he will break ground for a Catholic high school, to be built across the street from the church plaza. He is working on building a hospital in town. He is tireless when it comes to community activisim. Like Father DeNisco before him, he has rallied the people of Roseto and brought out their ambition and their generosity. He is determined to make the town expand and grow. And yet, when I look at him, I see a poet. “This job suits you, Renato.”
“Just as yours must suit you. You are as beautiful as ever.”
His comment takes me aback. It is inappropriate, and yet I longed for it. I always want to know what he thinks of me, even if it’s years later and a lifetime ago. “Thank you,” I whisper.
I leave without saying good-bye, not to him and not to Mrs. Stampone, who dusts the windowsill outside his office. And finally, I bow my head in sincere prayer. Please, God, bring Franco home soon.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
To the left, Franco! To the left!” I shout from the ground to my husband on a ladder. “It’s too high.” Franco drops the sign, which swings from two chain links, about five inches lower. “Perfect!” I call up, shielding my eyes from the sun. I fish into my pocket for my sunglasses. When I put them on I look up and see NELLA MANUFACTURING COMPANY, EST. 1945 in perfect white script on a vivid red background.
“What do you think?” Franco asks as he descends the ladder and joins me on the ground.
“I think we should have called it Zollerano’s Manufacturing Company.”
“Too cumbersome. Besides, I like to be reminded who I’m working so hard for.” Franco puts his arm around my waist and kisses my cheek.
Just as we planned, as soon as Franco got home, the First National Bank of Bangor, Pennsylvania, gave us a business loan to start our own mill. Freddie Jenkins was furious, and angrier still when nearly all the machine operators came to work for us. He ended up closing his Roseto mill, but since he opened three more in Jersey, the Jenkins family fortune is secure.
Frankie, now twelve, and Celeste, six, are thrilled with the mill. Papa is home to greet them after school, and Franco’s mother will often make them dinner on nights when we’re late with shipping. The headaches from the new mill are the same ones we had at Jenkins’s but at least they’re our headaches. Our first order comes from our old friends the Rosenbergs, who have done beautifully with the Hollywood blouses. We go into production on the Jennifer Jones, a white cotton blouse with a breast pocket embossed with an embroidered horse. This one should sell like mad.
“Aunt Nell, I really need your help,” Assunta says when she stops by the new mill. She looks so much like her mother at this age that often Elena and I forget it’s 1945 and think we’re back on Delabole farm. Assunta is tall and slim, with her mother’s black eyes and pale skin. She even has the same crease between her eyes. But Elena’s influence on little Assunta is apparent. She has largesse and kindness. She has her mother’s feistiness, but none of her bad temper.
“Father Lanzara asked me to run for queen of the Big Time,” she continues.
“Well, you know we already think you’re a queen,” I say.
She laughs. “I know, Aunt Nella. But this is a different thing. I get to wear a crown and put one on the Blessed Lady
. It’s a big deal.”
“I know it is. And it has been since I was a little girl. Who else is running?”
“Elisabetta Sartori. Her parents are Enzo and Caterina, they have a farm in Totts Gap. And Ellie Montagano.”
“Her?” I remember the bratty little girl with the ringlets.
“She really wants to win. Mostly to beat me, I think.”
“Well, what would beating Ellie Montagano involve?” I ask.
“Raising money, lots and lots of money,” my husband says as he comes through the office door. I look up at him from my desk. He wears a T-shirt and work pants, and his hands are covered in grease. “The Holy Roman Church Incorporated needs lots of dollars.”
“Don’t touch anything, Franco.” I hand him a rag and ignore his comments. “What do you call that tithe you put in the basket every Sunday at St. Elizabeth’s?”
“Fire insurance.” My husband shrugs. At thirty-seven, he still has the same strong arms and neck, but his hair has tiny flecks of white.
“Well, will you help me run?” Assunta asks us both.
“Absolutely. But if you’re going to run, you have to work hard. A Castelluca-Pagano cannot lose,” I tell her.
“I wouldn’t worry, Assunta.” My husband laughs. “You’d be the first Castelluca to lose. They’re a determined bunch.”
At the end of the day, when we’ve counted the tickets and posted the numbers, Franco and I go through the factory turning off the lights.
“Did you get the finishing room?” I call out to him.
“Yeah, hon.” He flips the lights and comes through the main room. I stand and look all around.
“Thank you, Franco. I love our mill.” I put my arms around his neck. “I love you more, but I love our mill.” I know he feels the same way. He loves our independence as much as I do.
Franco kisses me and reaches for the light switch of the main room. He pulls me down on a pile of silk blouses on their way to finishing. He unbuttons my work smock and finds his way to my blouse, kissing me as he goes. I laugh and pull him close. “This is against the rules.”
“It’s your mill. Change the rules,” he says as he slides on top of me.