shake from exhaustion fueled by anxiety. He knew he must appear in control and composed to meet the immigration officer; any sign of mental illness or physical weakness would be a reason to deny him citizenship. He must act as though he was nothing but an eager laborer who had come to America to join the workforce, although at middle age, he was a less than ideal candidate in the eyes of immigration. But his heart was breaking, and his feelings of inadequacy and failure as a father were on the brink of overwhelming him.
Marco set the cap on his head at an angle, to show confidence. He placed one hand in his jacket pocket, feeling the smooth lining, a patch of rare silk sewn by Enza. His eyes filled with tears when he thought of his daughter and her efforts to improve the lot of the Ravanelli family. There was never a girl so driven to hold her family together.
Enza looked after her brothers and sisters, and she had more responsibility than most girls her age. But did his daughter have the strength to recover? What if there was an underlying cause to Enza’s illness that could not be healed? What would he tell Giacomina if Enza died? The thought panicked him, as the slow pace of the line made every moment he was away from her unbearable.
Marco wished he had never agreed to come. But he knew if he had decided to stay in Schilpario, Enza would have come to America alone.
If something happened to Marco, Enza was to return home immediately, but it had never dawned on them that Enza would be the one to face catastrophe.
The Zanetti Shoe Shop had never enjoyed so much business. The small storefront on Mulberry Street stood out under a brand-new red, white, and green striped awning. The shop percolated with activity as customers stopped in for fittings, drop-offs, pickups, and repairs. Salesmen came through with sumptuous sleeves of leather, boxes of grommets, and bolts of rawhide laces. Signora Zanetti thrived on the haggling that ensued, as she bargained for supplies for the best price.
There was good reason for the boom: work had commenced on the building of the Hell’s Gate Bridge in Queens. Every available man over fourteen and under sixty had signed up for round-the-clock shifts. Each new hire needed a pair of sturdy, well-made work boots that were properly soled, could withstand bad weather, and would provide safe traction on the metal parapets high over the Hudson River. Many came to Zanetti’s for the best deal.
Remo taught Ciro everything he knew in the long hours they kept in the shop. Ciro learned how to sketch the patterns, cut the leather, and construct the work boots. He also became adept at finishing, polishing, and buffing the boots he had made, taking pride in the small details that would become the hallmark of his fine craftsmanship.
Carla handled the books, making sure boots bought on credit were paid off weekly. If money was due her, she made sure to collect it, even if she had to knock on apartment doors or visit a job site to do so. She reconciled the receipts and counted the money. The green cloth bank bag was soon too small for their deposits, and a second was added.
Ciro had been up since dawn, sewing vamps and hammering heels. He had spent the previous day creating small steel cups for the toes of every pair of boots.
“You need to eat,” Carla said as she placed a breakfast tray on the worktable.
“I had coffee,” Ciro said.
“A young man cannot grow on coffee. You need eggs. I made you a frittata. Eat.”
Ciro put down the hammer and sat. Signora Zanetti was a good cook, and he appreciated her hot meals. He placed the cloth napkin on his lap.
“I’m always impressed by your manners,” Carla said.
“You seem surprised I have them.”
“With your background . . . ,” Carla began.
Ciro smiled. He found it funny that Signora Zanetti was a snob. She tried to distance herself from other immigrants despite the fact that they shared similar histories. They had all emigrated because they were poor and had to find work. Now that the shop was successful, Signora had begun the slow, careful climb of reinvention and had even more reason to look down on her struggling fellow Italians. “My background is not so different from yours, Signora,” Ciro reminded her.
Signora ignored the comment. “However you look at it, the nuns did