17 di settembre, 1880

 

Caro nonna,

         Today is near the end of our voyage, Papa says. He took Isabella and I up on the main deck and we were able to see land in the distance. I could not make out anything, but it’s there. Oh, nonna, I am so pleased. We have been on this small, cramped boat far too long. The small children grew restless much time ago. We are all anxious to stretch our legs and walk on solid land again. It seems ages ago that I bid you goodbye in Firenze. I miss you so much, nonna. Mama is ill and cranky, and she does nothing more than lay in her dark corner all day and moan. It frightens me, nonna. I am used to seeing Mama so strong and brave, and now she is weak and sick. I am worried about her. Sebastiano has told me stories of how they take the sick away from their families in the new county. I do not want them to take Mama away from us. They cannot take Mama away from us. Papa will not let them. I will not let them.

Molto Amato,

Brigida

 

18 di settembre, 1880

 

Caro nonna,

         I am writing to you late this evening. Isabella sits on one side of me and Natashenka sits behind her on our small shared cot, braiding her long, wavy hair. They both say to tell you hello and send their love. Please pardon if my writing is messy, but I cannot see where I write. It is an immense darkness down here. It is hot and cramped. Though I cannot see anything, I can hear the sounds of many bodies turning and moving and rustling and whispering softly to each other and retching. I can smell them too. A month’s worth of human secretion is down here, nonna. It is horrible. I never imagined that humans would be reduced to living like animals, but here we are. And what angers me the most is that the cargo that the sailors bring back from Italia is positioned on the decks above us, traveling much more comfortably than us. It isn’t fair, nonna. Papa says to think that when this is all over we will be in America. Terra di il libero, Papa says. Land of the free. I do not understand this. How can it be free if Papa had to sell nearly everything we own so we could come on this terrible journey? Papa says we are going to a place called Nuovo York. New York. Each night, instead of telling us the usual stories about Coniglio Paolo, the mischievious rabbit who gets into all sort of mischief, and our favorite fable, he sits as Isabella, Tomasso, and I lie, falling asleep, and tells us of this place, New nYork. Even Natashenka and Sebastiano listen, and they always claim they are too old for Papa’s stories. He tells us of buildings that seem to touch the clouds, and streets filled with people, and yelling and delicious smells of all sorts of food being sold by merchants. He tells us of busy ports and bustling businesses. I can hardly believe any of it. I have never heard of anything like it and often I wonder if Papa is making this all up. But then he tells us of the tenement he and zio Lorenzo and zia Stefana have and how Zio and Zia and has promised to fix it up so it will be all ready for us when Papa arrives back with us. He tells us of how the apartment is small but cozy and has many memories of Italia and there are always warm, delicious smells coming from zia Stefana’s delicious dishes in the kitchen. He says that no matter how unfamiliar the world outside is, coming home into the fourth floor apartment on the busy street Canal is always wonderful. Papa says there are many friendly people there and it is much like Firenze in that everyone knows everyone. It all sounds so wonderful I can hardly wait.

Molto Amato,

Brigida

        

19 di settembre, 1880

 

Caro nonna,

         Today we saw it, nonna. The ones on the boat that have made this voyage before, for it is not only Papa, but many others fathers that have come back for their families, have been speaking of the majesty, the magnificence, that will await us when we finally arrive to the new country. None of us have been able to believe it. Until today, that is. When I see it I can hardly breathe. Can hardly believe what is before me. When I see it I know that all Papa has said is true. The promise of freedom, of happiness, it is all true. It has to be! We cannot have come all that was for nothing. I just know it. And standing there, taller than anything I have ever seen in my life, one arm raised into the stormy skies, as green as the much too expensive mint gelatto at Enzo’s, the beautiful woman shines brightly the pursuit of freedom and a new life. A better life for us. I am so jumpy that I nearly fall of the boat. I cannot wait any longer. I have to be there. I have to be there now.

         It takes another two hours until we dock at a place Papa says is called isola di Ellis. Ellis Island. I don’t see an island. All I see is a square brick building and many, many boats much like ours with dizzy people wrapped in shawls and worn coats pouring out, tired and clinging to one another, crying out in joy. The board is lowered to let us onto land and I am lost in the crowd. I cannot see Papa or Natashenka or Sebastiano or Gemma anywhere, much less smaller Isabella or Tomasso, so I just allow myself to be swept along. I will wait for them on solid land. The land of the free. My new home. I cannot wait!

Molto Amano,

Brigida

 

20 di settembre, 1880

 

Caro nonna,

         Oh nonna, it is so early that there is no light yet so i am writing by a candle. It seems like centuries since I left the boat yesterday afternoon. I realized soon that everyone had gotten off the boat except for a few families with sick ones that were going more slowly. I began to get worried because I did not see Papa or anyone among those. Then I spotted Isabella and Gemma. Finally. They came up onto the main deck looking dizzy and confused. They looked more of sixty than of thirteen and nine. But when they saw me their faces lit up. They called to Papa that I was there and then Papa appeared with a dehydrated Mama in his arms and Sebastiano and Natashenka alongside him. Tomasso was trailing along behind, not sure what to make of the whole thing. Papa nearly jumped when he saw me.          “Brigida, pensiere quello perdere!” He thought he had lost me? How strange. This whole time I thought I had lost him. But my eyes were focused on Mama, who was lying limp.

         “Mama?” I asked tentatively.

         “Acqua!” Papa exclaimed. “Lei dovere acqua!”

         “Papa,” Sebastiano said reasonably. He was the most reasonable fourteen year old boy I had ever seen. All of his friends were rash and always in mischief. But not Sebi. “Papa, nessuna acqua.”

         He was right. I saw no water but the ocean itself, and we certainly weren’t going to give Mama that.

         Suddenly, a uniformed man came up to Papa and started speaking to him in rapid English. I did not know what he was saying, but I took it from his hand gestures that he was trying to escort us into the long line that was snaking its way out of the square brick building.

         Now, Papa had been living in Nuovo York for long enough that his English was not so scratched anymore and he could speak semi-fluently. Fluently enough to have a conversation with a security guard. But in his fury, his face turned red and he started yelling in italiano. “Mia moglie dovere acqua! Mia moglie dovere acqua ora! Lie aux morire se lei no bere acqua ora!” He went on shouting like that, his face getting redder and redder, until Sebi grabbed his arm and looked up at the guard fiercely, his deep brown eyes, usually so calm and loving, flashing angrily. Then he said, in the choppy English he had learned in grammar school, “Me mama need the water. Need the water or die she will. Need the water, need it now!” The man looked at Mama’s crumpled figure and smiled apologetically. Then he told us, in strained italiano, that there was nothing he could do. That every family needed something for their sick ones. But all he could do for us now was check us off into the line. Papa frowned angrily as the security guard walked off, a happy-go-lucky smile on his face.

         The line was long and unmoving, so Papa set Mama down on a tree root so she could rest in peace. I sank down beside her and gazed at her sickly, frail body. “Mama?” I whispered to her, brushing my fingers across her sunken eyelids. Slowly, her eyes fluttered open and she looked up at me. Her once clear blue eyes, passed on, not to Natashenka, Sebastiano, Gemma, Isabella, or Tomasso, but to me, the only di Cucciaio child who look anything like Mama with her pale blue eyes, fair skin, and reddish brown curls, were now distant and empty.

         “Stefana?” Mama whispers hoarsly through dry lips.

         “No Mama,” I cup her soft cheek in my own palm. “Io sono Brigida. Tuo figlia. Noi sono qui. Nuovo York. America, Mama!” I try my best to explain to her that I am not her sister, but her daughter, and that we have finally arrived in America.

         “America?” she is confused. Her eyes start to close again and her body is limp.

         “Mama, Mama,” I cry. Her eyes seem to pry themselves open, but I know they will not stay open for long. I explain anxiously what Papa has told me so many times before. When we are checked for the deathly sickness, anyone who has it will be sent to quarantine. And then, well, I don’t even wan’t to think about it. The thought of starting a life in this new and strange country without Mama by my side–even if she is weak and ill–is too horrible for words.

         “Mama,” I say urgently. “Tu dovere fingere.” I explain to her that when we go inside, no matter how bad she is feeling, she must pretend not to be ill. Mama’s eyes open again. “Fingere?” she asks. She is not understanding that she has to pretend. The line is moving faster now-we are almost to the entrance. “Papa!” I cry frantically as Mama’s body falls limp once again. I feel a hot breath on my back and realize that he has been standing behind me. He gives my shoulder a sad little squeeze. “Noi aux provare,” he says softly. I can see in his eyes that he has already given up hope. I want to shout, want to scream. We cannot just try, we must succeed! We must!

         I pull sharply away from Papa and Natashenka and Gemma catch me and pull me close to them on either side. Isabella clutches tight to Nata’s hand and Tomasso follows eagerly after Sebi as he helps Papa get Mama up. Then he and Papa wrap Mama’s limp arms around them and cover her in a tattered shawl. I catch Mama’s feet dragging across the cobblestoned path as we proceed through the entrance and wince, but from the front it looks like Mama is just walking along between her husband and son. It’s all going to work out, I decide with relief.

         We walk inside a long, dark hall crowded with people and suitcases. Children cry, adults shout, and above it all, fans whir slowly, blowing the stuffy air around and making the room even hotter. Papa pulls out a small, square blue card. It is creased and folded, like someone has held it and ran their fingers over it many times. It looks important, and I take that it is when he holds it up to a guard and he lets us through to the front of another long line.

         A matter of minutes later, we are called up to the counter. Papa gestures us to stay back, but the old, tired looking man behind the counter beckons us forward. All of us, even Tomasso.

         “Name?” the man says, eying us like he thinks we are stupid. I hate being looked at this way. Papa slides the blue card forward and the man studies it curiously.

         “Vincent Spoon,” he says finally. I look up, confused. What is he talking about?

         Papa nods, but his face says that he finds these two words as unfamiliar as I do. “That is me,” he says finally. I stare at Papa, wide-eyed. His name is Vincenzo di Cucciaio. His Papa’s name and his Papa before him. Sebi’s full name. Vincenzo Sebastiano di Cucciaio.

         The man said a lot of words really fast and Papa nodded his head many times before he spoke. “Mia noglie, my wife,” he said, squeezing Mama in what looked like affection but I could tell was really to keep her from falling over. “She is, ahhh, mute. Yes,” he concludes confidantly with a straight face. Then man seems to buy it. He asks a few questions and Papa says Mama’s name–Fernanda. But the second name he says is strange. It is what the man called him. Spoon. I blink in surprise. The man thrusts out a stack of papers for Papa to sign and proceeds to write Mama’s name on a fancy looking document. He points to Nata and Sebi and Gemma, and behind them, I with Tomasso and Isabella. Papa rests his hand on Gemma’s curly brown locks and speaks in words I do not know. Then he announces, “My children. Sebastiano, Natashenka, Gemma, Brigida, Isabella, and Tomasso.”

         “Sebastian, Natasha, Genny, Bridget, Isabelle, and Thomas.” I watch horrified as Papa nods.

         The man stamps my hand with a blue mark and smiles. He is missing his front teeth. “Welcome to America, Bridget,” he says. I blink and rip my hand away from him. I am not Bridget. No matter what. I am Brigida di Cucciaio, not Bridget Spoon in any way, shape or form.

Molto Amano,

Brigida

 

21 di settembre, 1880

Caro nonna,

         I have not yet recovered from the shock. Mama and Tomasso are gone. They took them away from us, just like that. What happened was just this. We got in another long line. It was so long I could not even see what we were in line for. But when we grew closer I realized it was some sort of health inspection. My breath came in sharp. Mama just had to get by it.

         Sebi went first. The doctor, a cold blooded man with thin blonde hair and a sharp voice, instructed him to take of his shirt and then held a strange device up to his chest before patting him and pointing out where he was to wait for us–on the other side of a door. He shrugged and joined the happy families filing through it. I could not bear to focus my eyes on the other door, where ill people were being shuffled through as their families were held back.

         Next Natashenka, Gemma, and Isabella, then I. I was astonished to realize that the doctor expected us to step out of our petticoats in the middle of this public hall. But trembling, I did as I was told. I just wanted to be free of this prison. Last of the children was Tomasso. He was crying as the doctor inspected him. Then he said a few words to Papa and Papa clung onto Tomasso fiercely. The doctor shrugged and informed Papa there was nothing he could do. I stared at my little brother. Tomasso was the healthiest and liveliest of all of us. What could possibly be wrong with him. Saliva bubbled in my throat but I swallowed my fear. Papa would not let anything happen to little Tomasso. I knew that.

         Next was Mama. Papa helped her out of her garments and I looked away, ashamed of Mama’s violation of privacy. The doctor had yet to put his machine to her when he nodded grimly and shoved her away. A scream ecaped me. How could he treat Mama this way. Tomasso looked very confused as another doctor began escorting him and Mama to the sickroom. Papa grabbed for Mama but missed. Sebi, Natashenka, Gemma, Isabella and I just stood there, paralyzed with shock. What were they doing? The man drew a gun and pushed Papa away. He shoved Mama and Tomasso into a room filled with ill people and shut and bolted the door. Then someone else escorted Papa and the rest of us outside. Papa was still shouting, his rage lost in the crowd of people. All around me people were screaming and crying and yelling. I covered my eyes and felt tears slide down my cheeks as I pictured Mama’s sad, empty eyes and Tomasso’s usually bright cheerful face so blank and confused, not understanding why these men were taking him away from his father and brother and sisters. I turned back but all I saw was a crowd of people I did not know, pushing past me, shoving and calling to each other. Suddenly, the thought of our humble, impoverished life in Firenze seemed wonderful compaired to this sad mess. I just want to be there with you, nonna. I just want to go home.

Molto Amano,

Brigida