She continued on, finally reaching Orchard Street, and she was struck again by the differences between her Park Avenue neighborhood and the Lower East Side. Though somewhat subdued here, people still flowed down the muddy street in a steady stream, and vendors were setting up their wares. Children chased each other around the carts or gathered in alleyways between the buildings. The sheer number of people living on this block didn’t allow for silent streets. Francesca felt more at home in the crowded but lively neighborhood where Alma lived than on pristine and luxurious Park Avenue.
After Francesca arrived at the bierhaus, Alma escorted her to a Catholic church. As they rounded the block onto Mulberry Street, Francesca stopped abruptly. Italian flags hung over doorways or in various shop windows. The rich smell of strong coffee mingled with garlic in the air, and the sounds of her own language fell gently on her ears like a melody. Her heart squeezed. She hadn’t realized how much she’d needed to be among those who were like her, who would understand her and accept her. Her coworkers and her new friends didn’t understand the discomfort of not belonging. Not like she did. Here among other Italians, she found the person inside her she thought she’d wanted to banish when she came to America. And yet her home was a part of her and would forever be. Her life here only added a layer to who she was. It didn’t erase what came before it, and maybe that was all right, good even. She blinked rapidly against the onslaught of tears and glanced at Alma.
Her friend watched her closely.
“The church is just there,” Alma said softly, pointing to a steeple that looked about a block away. “Father Rodolfo is a very kind man. He’ll make you feel right at home.”
“It’s…it’s…” Her voice wavered and she fought back emotion. “This.” She waved her hand at the scene in front of her. This is what she had needed so desperately, more than she ever realized.
Alma smiled as she began to understand. “Sì, amica mia. You’re not so very far from Sicily now.”
Eyes brimming, Francesca nodded. “It’s a little piece of home.”
Alma embraced her. “Do you want me to come with you? I don’t have to go to church today.”
She kissed Alma’s cheek. “I need to do this alone, but I’ll see you after mass.”
She watched Alma go and headed to the church and up the steps. Inside, the mournful notes of the organ filled the room, and light streamed through windows stained blue and red and gold. The church was far more beautiful than the humble chapel where Sister Alberta had taken her in Capo Mulini. Yet when the mass began, and the familiar strains of Latin drifted around her, she felt instantly at ease.
Mass followed a pattern that soothed her, even if she didn’t believe all the church demanded she believe. And she thought that counted for something.
Later, she skipped communion and instead sent up prayers for Maria, and prayers for wisdom to know what to do when the time came. When she’d finished, her mind wandered to the picnic that afternoon. A smiling Fritz popped into her head. She couldn’t help herself. She liked him, more than she ought to, and yet it was hopeless. He would wed a German woman, she knew, and her childish dream would come to an end.
Was that what she wanted? To be with Fritz?
Her stomach turned over at the thought of him near. Perhaps she shouldn’t go to the Brauer picnic after all, put some distance between her and the family. It would only become more difficult in time to say goodbye.
As the mass concluded, Francesca watched the church’s patrons; they looked like her with dark hair and rich skin tones.
A woman touched Francesca’s shoulder as she filed out of her pew. “Welcome. I’m Rosa Colombo. This is my husband, Aldo, and our children.” The woman rattled off the names of all seven children jammed into the pew, who wiggled and poked at each other.
Francesca smiled. “I’m Francesca Ricci from Capo Mulini, near Catania. I arrived a few months ago.”
“Is your family here in the city?”
Francesca’s smile waned. “I don’t have any family.”
A crease formed between Rosa’s dark eyes. “You’re alone? That must be difficult.”
“Yes, but I have a good job and I’m making friends.”
“And now you have new ones.” Rosa kissed each of Francesca’s cheeks. “We live at 37 Mott Street. I insist you visit. I’ll cook. Will you be here next Sunday?”
Though uncertain if she’d return, Francesca smiled. “Sì.”
They walked toward the exit, pausing at the door to shake hands with the priest.
“See you next week, Padre.” Rosa kissed Father Rodolfo on the cheeks and, with a small wave to Francesca, bundled her children into the street.
Francesca watched them go, realizing that she was making a life for herself in the city.
“Welcome. You are from Sicilia?” Father Rodolfo said, interrupting her thoughts.
“Yes. I guess I’m not the only one.”
He chuckled and laid a hand on her shoulder. “You’re surrounded by your countrymen here. I hope you’ll consider our parish your new home.”
“Thank you, Father. I’d like to go to confession. When is the next session?”
He smiled kindly. “I hold confession on Sunday afternoons, usually, but I can see you now, if you’d like. I’ll not turn away those who seek His mercy.”
She needed more than mercy. She needed a miracle.
The priest led her to a confessional booth, pulled aside a red curtain, and motioned for her to enter.
She knelt beside a beautifully carved lattice that separated her from the priest. As she pulled the little curtain closed to hide her face from his, she made the sign of the cross and bowed her head. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been at least four months since my last confession.”
“Go on.”
She began with taking the Lord’s name in vain and followed with contrition for her thieving. Heat crept across her cheeks as she confessed sex before marriage, but as she began to confess the lies she’d told, her words trailed off. Her theft had kept Maria alive in Napoli and on the ship, and it had paid for her desperately needed new clothing after leaving Ellis Island. She’d lied for self-protection. As for the sexual transgressions, only once had it been with a man she thought loved her, and the other instances had bought her way to freedom. She wasn’t sorry for any of them, and neither did she believe them truly sinful, given the circumstances. Besides, she was already being punished with the pregnancy.
The idea of truth seemed slippery, a mirage that changed shape and color in different light. Perhaps it shouldn’t be judged so quickly. Surely God understood her desperation and her intentions.
Perhaps she shouldn’t be at confession at all.
“Signorina Ricci, are you there?”
“Sì, Padre. I’m…I’m trying to remember what else I wished to confess.” She felt the first prickles of guilt. Now she’d lied to a priest, at confession! “I—I lie sometimes, Father, but it doesn’t always feel wrong. And I’m not sorry to have done it.”
He was quiet for some time. Finally, his raspy voice filtered through the curtain. “Sometimes lies feel like they protect us. Is that what you mean?”
“Yes,” she said, looking down at her hands.
“Still, we must be contrite that we have deceived our fellow man.”