Papa taught his children to read so they wouldn’t be illiterates. And then he taught his children English. If only Papa hadn’t gone and died. Never mind. Gina could read, and she could speak a little English. Her wavy hair was getting tangled standing on the windward side of the open waters. Mimoo had ordered her to tie it back up, but there was something undeniably appealing in the image of herself in a light blue dress, standing like a reed with her long, tanned arms like stalks on the rails, her espresso hair flying in the drizzle and mist, all against the backdrop of steel gray. If only someone could paint a picture of her searching for America while the wind was wild in her hair. It pleased her to draw this picture in her mind. Sure, we might crash against the rocks like Salvo predicted, but this is how I’m going to stand in my last minutes, proud and unafraid.
Gina didn’t really believe they would crash. She believed she was immortal, like all the young.
Eventually she got cold and went back to sit with her family. Like three sacks they sat huddled, their hands folded on their knees, her mother holding the rosary beads, worrying them between her fingers, her mouth mutely moving over the words of “Ave Maria” and the invocations of God. Mary, pierced with the sword of sorrow … Maria, trafitto dalla spada del dolore. Her mother said that loudly enough for Gina to hear, so she could respond with pregate per noi. But Gina was not in a praying mood. So she tutted under her breath, saying nothing, and her mother tutted, not under her breath, and moved closer to Salvo who took his mother’s hand and echoed, pray for us.
“Do you think she is grieving, Salvo?” Mimoo asked about Gina, though Gina was sitting right there and could hear.
“Of course, Mimoo. She just hides it. She grieves where we can’t see.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed Mimoo. “When you mourn, everyone knows. You can’t keep such secrets.”
After a short glare across their mother at Gina, Salvo kept pointedly quiet. Gina knew that Salvo knew his sister could indeed keep secrets. She hid her first crush (no easy feat in a town where everyone knew everyone else). Hid her tasting too much wine at the Feast of the Holy Theotokos. Hid not going to confession every week. Made a big show of pretending to go, then didn’t. Was that in itself a sin? Hid her terrible grades. Even hid not knowing English as well as her father believed she did. Pretended she knew it better!
All the things Gina had to keep to herself, she kept to herself. Like her anxiety now. She was worried about the stark contrast between the anticipation of their sun-filled arrival and the ocean of blindness the ship was actually navigating through. She went to find the co-captain again.
“How far do you think we are?” she asked.
He pointed. It was like pointing at the wheel he was holding. “The docks are less than a kilometer away. What, you can’t see?”
When she ran to tell her brother and mother they were almost at land, they didn’t believe her. They were right not to, for the ship took another two hours to reach the shore. She could have swum faster! She was going out of her mind with impatience and boredom.
“Where’s the fire?” Salvo demanded. “Where are you planning to rush off to? What do you think will happen when you walk ashore? What, you think your whole life is going to change the minute you step off this boat?”
Gina had thought so a week earlier, somewhere near Iceland. But into his imperious expression, she said, “Don’t be so negative, Salvo. No nice American girl is going to want you when you get like this.”
“Who said I want an American girl?” He swore, then quickly apologized to Mimoo. He was usually such a good sport about things. Nothing could get Salvo down for long. His good looks and cheerful disposition assured him of finding comfort when he needed it. This late afternoon, they stood shoulder to shoulder at the masthead, watching the dockhands tie up the boat. Though she was four years younger and a girl, they were nearly the same height, Gina and Salvo. Gina was actually taller. No one could figure out where she got the height; her parents and brothers were not tall. Look, the villagers would say. Two piccolo brothers and a di altezza sister. Oh, that’s because we have different fathers, Gina would reply dryly. Salvo would smack her upside the head when he heard her say this. Think what you’re saying about our mother, he would scold, crossing himself and her at her impudence.
Chapter Two
SONS OF LIBERTY
MIMOO disembarked on Gina’s arm. Salvo pushed their three trunks on a dolly, bobbing down the plank. Gina was wobbly herself from being so long at sea.
They passed through the health control tent before they were allowed to step foot onto solid ground. No leaky eyes, no unexplained rashes, no single women traveling alone, all papers in order. Slowly they dragged their steamer trunks behind them.
“I don’t feel so good,” Mimoo said. “Where are we?”
Gina looked around for a sign. “Some place called the Long Wharf. Or Freedom Docks,” she said pointing. Her hair was hidden in a respectable bun as Mimoo had ordered.
“You’re just excited, Mimoo,” Salvo said. “Sit. Get your bearings.”
“You are a fool, Salvatore,” his mother said.
“I am not!”
Mimoo was a stout, solid woman dressed from her gray head to flat toe in widow’s black. “I haven’t kept anything down for six weeks. I am not remotely excited.”
They all sat down for a rest on a low wall near the water. So many people had left the boat before them that all the benches by the waterside had been taken by other families. The mother prayed, the brother and sister wiped their brows, glanced at each other. Where to now? Where to get some water? It was loud and chaotic; a swarm of seagulls flapped overhead, anticipating food.
“Señora! Señor! Señorita!” A sturdy male voice sounded to the right of them. Turning toward the tenor they were confronted with two young men, beaming and American, the taller one carrying a jug of water and bread, the other one a wicker basket with shiny red apples and half-moon oddities with thick yellow skin.
“Señora!” the shorter, friendlier of the two exclaimed again. He took off his skimmer hat and bowed to them, turning to face Gina. When he straightened out, he smiled widely at her, his brown eyes locked in. He seemed like the most genial of young men. He was open of face, effusive, extroverted. “You look tired and thirsty, please, let us help you, we have water.” Putting down his basket, he deftly grabbed the jug from his mate and poured water into a small metal cup, handing it to the sitting Mimoo. “Here, drink, señora. We have a little bread. Harry, offer them some. Would you like to try a banana?” He lifted his basket to show Gina. “They’re an extraordinary delicacy from the southern Americas, soon to be available all over the world.” Gina wanted the apple, but it would have been messy to eat. She didn’t want juice running down her chin as she was trying to look lady-like. Salvo, not caring about his chin juices, grabbed the apple. No one eyed the bananas with anything but rank distrust.
“I’m Ben Shaw,” the amiable man said to her. “Absolutely delighted to make your acquaintance.” He smiled.
The quiet taller boy stepped forward. “Would you like some bread? Or just the water?” He was rumple-haired and wiry, but wore a smart suit with a vest and tie, though the starched white shirt was coming loose from the trousers and the silk tie was askew. One of his gold cufflinks was about
