A slim young nun in a navy blue habit eased Enza back down onto the pillow. “Your father is not here,” she said in English.
Baffled at the new language, Enza began to cry.
“Wait. Let me get Sister Josephine. She speaks Italian.” The nun turned to leave. “Don’t move!” The nun grabbed Enza’s chart and went.
Leaning back against her pillow, Enza surveyed the room.
Her travel clothes were neatly folded on a chair. She looked down at her white hospital gown. A needle was bound with a bandage into the skin of her hand. She followed the tube to a glass jar filled with liquid. There was a small pulsing pain in her hand where the needle met the vein. She bit her dry lips. She reached for a glass of water on the small table and drank it down in a single gulp. It was not enough.
A second nun pushed the door open. “Ciao, Signorina,” Sister Josephine said, then continued in Italian, “I’m from Avellino on the Mediterranean.” Sister Josephine had a full face, tawny skin, and a straight, prominent nose. She pulled up a chair next to Enza’s bed, filled the empty water glass, and gave it to Enza.
“I’m from Schilpario,” Enza said in a scratchy voice, “on the mountain above Bergamo.”
“I know the place. You’re a long way from home. How did you get here?”
“We were on the Rochambeau from Le Havre, France. Can you help me find my father?”
The nun nodded, clearly relieved to find her patient so lucid. “We were informed that he had to process through Ellis Island.”
“Does he know where I am?”
“Yes, he was told to meet you here at Saint Vincent’s.”
“How will he find me? He doesn’t speak English. We were going to learn some basic phrases on the trip, but then I got sick.”
“There are plenty of people in Manhattan who speak Italian.”
“But what if he doesn’t find someone who can?” Enza was panicked.
Sister Josephine’s face showed her surprise that the daughter was in charge of the father. Yet Enza knew that Marco had not been the same man since Stella died. To be fair, no one in the family had been the same since they lost her. Enza doubted they would have made the decision to come to America if Stella had lived. She couldn’t explain to Sister Josephine how loss had led to a plan, then to action, how precarious everything had seemed after Stella’s sudden death, and how desperate she felt to help the Ravanellis forge a more secure life for themselves.
“Your father will find his way to you,” Sister Josephine reassured her.
“Sister, what’s wrong with me?” Enza asked. “Why have I been so ill?”
“Your heartbeat all but disappeared from low blood pressure in reaction to the motion. You almost died on that ship. You’ll never be able to travel by boat again.”
The nun’s words cut worse than any pain she had endured on the crossing. The thought of never seeing her mother again was too much to bear. “I’ll never be able to go home.” Enza began to cry.
“You mustn’t worry about that yet,” Sister Josephine interjected before Enza’s despair could spiral further out of control. “You just got here. First you must get well. Let me guess, you’re going to Brooklyn.”
“Hoboken.”
“Do you have a sponsor?”
“A distant cousin on Adams Street.”
“And you’re going to work?”
“I sew,” Enza said. “I hope I can get a job quickly.”
“There are factories on every block. Hasn’t anyone told you? Anything is possible in America.”
“So far that hasn’t been true, Sister.” Enza lay back on the pillow.
“A practical girl for a change.” Sister looked around and then back at Enza. “You must know that they don’t give you your papers unless you’re a dreamer.”
“I wrote ‘seamstress’ as my occupation. That’s what’s on the ship’s manifest of the Rochambeau,” Enza said, closing her eyes. “I didn’t think to write ‘dreamer.’ ”
Marco Ravanelli stood at the railway platform in lower Manhattan with a few lire in his pocket, his duffel, Enza’s suitcase, and a small slip of paper with an address upon it. The processing through Ellis Island had taken most of the day, as the Greek and Turkish onboard came with multiple family members, adding to the slow grind of the process.
For all Marco knew, Saint Vincent’s Hospital might be a thousand miles away. He was exhausted from the interminable lines at Ellis Island and terrified at the uncertainty he faced. Marco wondered if the American doctors had saved Enza. His beautiful daughter,