The Shoemaker's Wife

Chapter 23

A LIBRARY CARD

Una Tessera della Biblioteca

Enza could barely make out the flats of the Iron Range under the snow from the window of the train as it pulled into the station at Hibbing. Low rolling hills covered in white drifts seemed untouched for miles. Close to the train tracks, there were gray zippers on the ground where flatbed and dump trucks had made impressions in the snow. Haulers and cranes were parked close by in an open field, plenty of equipment at the ready to plow, carve, and dig into the earth.

The mining operations were vast, decamped over two hundred miles of northern Minnesota terrain. The mouths of the mines were studded into the earth like nailheads along the range. Shifts went round the clock, as hundreds of miners extracted the ore with a mechanical vengeance. Iron ore, the key component in the manufacturing of steel, was valuable and in demand. Steel was the building block of the future, used to create motorcars, bridges, and airplanes. Iron ore fed the industrial boom, and the development of defense weaponry, tanks, and submarines. The range was split open wide and deep for the taking, the precious ore a lucrative business.

As the couples stepped off the platform at the Hibbing station, a bitter cold wind greeted them, nearly toppling Enza over. Ciro put his arm around his bride to guide her safely over the ice. Luigi followed with Pappina, worried that she might slip, and terrified that she and the baby would be injured. The air was so cold, they could barely catch their breath. The sky was saturated as blue as India ink, without a star in sight. Enza thought no place on earth could be colder than the Italian Alps, but now she knew she just had never been to Minnesota.

As they crossed Main Street, Enza could see that Hibbing was a city raised quickly on the outskirts of the mines. A collection of new buildings including a hospital, a school, a hotel, and a few stores stood away from the landscape like stakes plummeted into the flat earth. The architecture of the buildings was serviceable and plain, with thick windows, sturdy doors, and functional trim, including spikes attached to every roof to break the ice that inevitably formed during the long winters. There was nothing grand about Hibbing; it was built to withstand the harsh elements.

As they passed the Hibbing department store, Enza noticed that the mannequins in the window did not wear gowns of silk and brocade they might in B. Altman’s in Manhattan; rather, they were outfitted in wool coats, boots, and scarves, the couture of subzero living.

Pappina took note of the construction of the buildings along Pine Street, where a red-brick schoolhouse faced the Carnegie Library. Scaffolds, ladders, and the open steel frames of unfinished buildings were set against the sky like pencil slashes. Hibbing was growing, and not even a Minnesota blizzard would halt the progress.

As a mother-to-be, Pappina’s first concern was where her children would be educated. She also looked at the modest homes that lined the streets, full of children who would become potential playmates. She saw snow-covered lawns and sledding hills with sleek grooves carved into them. The town was tidy, sidewalks were shoveled, and the parking lots were scraped clean of snow. The stable lights glowed outside the barns off Main Street, indicating that while the area was industrial, they didn’t have machines for everything just yet. A horse-drawn carriage was still a popular mode of transportation in this part of the world.

“Just a few more steps,” Ciro shouted over the wind as he guided the group to the entrance of the Hotel Oliver. Ciro held the door open for Pappina and Enza, who were so thrilled to be inside in the warmth, they embraced.

Luigi followed them inside, carrying the bags like a good sherpa, handing Ciro’s off to him. They peeled off their hats, coats, and gloves. The hostess sat them in a Victorian dining room, decorated with lace curtains and polished walnut tables with matching chairs. The crackling fire in the hearth warmed them immediately. The scent of the burning pine was sweetly fragrant and welcoming. Miner’s lamps were used on every table instead of traditional candlelight. “We know who runs the town here,” Luigi commented as he placed a napkin on his lap.

“They do it with a pick and shovel,” Pappina said.

“Mr. Latini?” A sturdily built man around forty joined them at the table. He wore a wool suit and tie, and snow boots on his feet.

“You must be Mel Butorac,” Luigi said as he stood and shook his hand. Luigi had sent a telegram from New York to Mel Butorac, a local businessman who leased real estate to entrepreneurs and helped them set up their businesses with the local banks.

“Ciro, this is the fellow who lured us up here to make boots.” Ciro stood and shook Mel’s hand. They introduced their wives and pulled up a chair so Mel might join them.

“How was your trip?” Mel seemed friendly and energetic.

“I think the trip across the ocean was faster.” Pappina smiled.

“I wouldn’t know.” Mel smiled. “I’ve only been as far south as the Twin Cities. Someday I hope to visit my cousins in Croatia.”

“Nothing like the Adriatic Sea in the summertime,” Luigi said.

“I’ve heard,” Mel agreed. “I’m here to help you make a smooth transition. The city government is here to provide whatever assistance you need. We want to make you feel at home.”

“You said you had some real estate for us to look at,” Luigi said.

“I do. But I wanted to offer up an idea. I know your plan was to open a shop together, but the truth is, we need a shoemaker in Hibbing, but there is also a need for one down the road in Chisholm. If you split up, you could open two shops and still have plenty of work.”

Enza leaned back in her chair. They just dropped their luggage, and already the deal was no longer the deal as it had been presented to them in New York.

Ciro could see that Enza was concerned, so he said, “This isn’t what you promised.”

“Of course I will show you the real estate for the shop here in Hibbing as planned. All I ask is that you keep an open mind about Chisholm,” Mel said in a tone that told Luigi and Ciro that he had given this speech before to other tradesmen lured to the Iron Range to serve the mining industry. “Hear me out. I didn’t mean to mislead you in any way. The conditions on the Iron Range change daily. Mines open, we get an influx of new workers, and we have to meet their needs. Give me a chance to show you what I’m talking about. Have your dinner, get a good night’s sleep, and I can show you both properties in the morning. I have a truck, and we can go over to Chisholm and you can take a look around. You may like what you see, and if you don’t, we’ll stick with the original plan. Fair enough?” Mel proposed.

Ciro and Luigi looked at one another. They did not expect that everything would go according to plan, but they had counted on the fact that they would face whatever came together. Still, they had come to Minnesota in the first place to make bold business choices. Ciro spoke for their partnership. “All right, Mel, we’ll keep an open mind and we’ll see you in the morning. Seven o’clock all right with you?”

“I’ll be here in the lobby,” Mel said. “We are happy to have you, and we look forward to introducing you to your fellow Italians here on the Iron Range.” He shook hands with the men, bowed his head to the ladies, and went.

“I don’t like the idea of splitting up. We just got here.” Pappina smoothed the napkin on her lap.

“Neither do I,” Luigi said. “Should I check the train schedules back to New York?”

“Let’s decide in the morning,” Ciro said as he took Enza’s hand. “Let’s take a look before we leave.”

The next day, Enza stood on the corner of West Lake Street in Chisholm and looked across the bridge to Longyear Lake. It reminded her of Schilpario. The lake was deep and wide, making her think of the midnight blue waters of Lake Como and the windswept whitecaps on Lake Garda. To her astonishment, Chisholm felt like home.

Ciro put his arms around Enza. “Come inside.”

The empty two-story red-brick saltbox had two workrooms on the first floor, separated by a service window. A small patch of yard for a garden was just a step off the back room, but it was covered in ice. Ciro and Enza joined Luigi and Pappina in the front room. They were chatting with Mel. “I’m going to leave you folks to talk things through. I’ll be at Valentini’s, having a cup of coffee.” He put his hat on and left them alone.

“What do you think?” Luigi asked.

“I think Mel has a point. If we split up, we can serve two mining operations. I can handle the work from Buhl and Chisholm, and you can handle the Hibbing operation.”

Luigi paced with his hands in his pockets as he considered their options. “It’s true. When we had the cart, we made double the money for the Zanettis.”

“Yeah, but was that us or Signora’s bullwhip?”

“A little of both.” Luigi smiled.

“Mel assured me we can get enough of a loan from the bank to open both shops,” Ciro said. “The only problem is that we’ll be separated, essentially starting a business single-handed, even if we’re partners on paper. What do you think, Enza?”

“There’s a hospital in Hibbing, and Pappina needs to be close to it when the baby comes. There’s a trolley, so it isn’t difficult to get from here to there. I think the more boots you can make, the better off all four of us will be. It’s simple, really.”

Ciro and Luigi took Enza’s opinion seriously. She was experienced in weighing business propositions, first with her father, and later in the costume shop. Enza had learned that even the Great Caruso took extra jobs to fill his purse. He sang in the opera house, but he also performed private concerts for profit and made records of his arias. There was no such thing as a one-track career, and Enza knew the value of two men capitalizing on two towns that needed shoemakers.

“I liked Hibbing.” Pappina smiled. “But I leave the shoemaking to the shoemakers, and the business to you, Enza. You know what you’re talking about. I’ve only ever worked in my mother’s home, so I don’t know the first thing about ledgers, figures, and banks.”

One thing was decided for certain that morning. They were not going to run back to New York City at the first bump in the road. They were going to give the Iron Range a real shot. Luigi and Pappina left to meet up with Mel and sign the lease for the shop in Hibbing. They would also take the apartment above the shop, which was clean and spacious. Ciro and Enza stayed behind and spent the afternoon looking over the property at 5 West Lake Street.

A set of wide-plank wooden stairs, painted burgundy, led to the upstairs apartment. A large open living room with three windows overlooked the lake. A dining area connected to the kitchen. A hallway led to three bedrooms and a landing porch outside the master bedroom that overlooked the backyard. A small bathroom, one of the town’s only indoor facilities, was tiled in white, with white enamel fixtures.

Enza’s heart leapt when she noticed that despite the dark sky on that winter day, the apartment was filled with light because every room had a skylight in the ceiling.

“What do you think?” Ciro asked when he joined Enza in the room that would become their master bedroom. “The rent is three dollars a month.”

“Tell Mr. Butorac we will take it. You’ll make shoes in the front workroom, and I’ll sew in the back. We’ll do just fine.”

Ciro kissed his wife, certain that he was the luckiest man in the world for having married her. Enza’s practical nature was a tonic for the emotions that had controlled him all of his life. In her presence, Ciro forgot the isolation he’d felt as a child, and the injustice he’d endured when he was exiled from his mountain. He even put the anguish of war behind him. Ciro was in love with a good woman who had become his full partner, and they were going to build a life together.

Ciro unpacked the crates in his new workroom. He set up a pattern table, with bright metal lamps suspended overhead. He had purchased several planks of wood to build cubbies for storage, a top-of-the-line saw to cut the patterns, a buffing machine with four brushes, a threading machine, and a rolling machine to prep the leather.

Ciro had also bought a Singer sewing machine for Enza, with enough thread, needles, buttons, and trims to start her own business.

“Buon giorno! You look like you could use a hand,” Emilio Uncini said as he entered the front door of the shop. He leaned on the table and smiled at his new neighbor. Emilio was in his middle forties, with a thick thatch of gray hair, a small black mustache, and a winning smile. He placed his hands on his hips. “What is the wood for?” he continued in his rapid-fire dialect.

“I’m going to build shelves. I’m Ciro—”

“Lazzari. I heard all about you. Our prayers have been answered. We need a shoemaker.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a stonemason. I live one street over. I built the fieldstone wall around the library.”

“Very nice. So tell me about your town.” Ciro lifted the wood onto the pattern table, and Emilio helped him stack it.

“It’s a nice place. But watch your business. The Chisholm bank is solid, but avoid the third window and Mrs. Kripnick. She repeats figures at the bar at Tiburzi’s after work on Fridays, so if you don’t want everyone to know what you have, don’t let her see your deposits.”

“Va bene.” Ciro laughed.

Emilio continued, “The winters are harsh, but the spring and summer more than make up for it. You will love the cool breezes off the lakes when the weather turns warm. There are lots of italians here. Molte famiglie . . . we have the Maturi, Costanzi, Bonato, Falcone, Giaordanino, Enrico, Silvestri, Bonicelli, Valentini, Ongaro, oh, and the Falcone, Sentieri, and Sartori families. I don’t like to leave anyone out because they mind if I do! We also have Austrians from Trentino, who are as Italian as you and me.”

“I know all about them. I spent a few years on Mulberry Street in Little Italy.”

“So you know about the rest of the Middle Europeans. We have the Czechs, Hungarians, Romanians, Polish, Yugoslavians, Serbians, and Croatians. They just got here too. The Finlanders, the Scandinavians, this is their town. They got here first, and they act like it. They still are frosty with outsiders, but that’s because they opened the first iron ore mine and became the padrones. But most are nice, if you’re polite to them.”

“I build boots for all feet, including Finlanders,” Ciro assured him.

“Have you made a friend?” Enza asked from the doorway. Ciro introduced his wife to Emilio.

“My wife, Ida, will be happy to show you around,” Emilio told Enza.

“I’d like that. Grazie. Ciro, we need some things for the apartment. I’ll be back shortly.” Enza waved good-bye. Ciro had used Marco’s dowry to put a down payment on 5 West Lake Street. Enza had kept a firm hand on her savings and was happy to spend it on things that would bring the newlyweds comfort. She also liked the feeling of not having to ask her husband for money; it was that sense of independence that attracted Ciro, and it gave Enza a certain self-confidence.

Enza made her way up West Lake Street, taking in the storefronts. Chisholm was a prim, small town compared to New York City, but when she thought of Schilpario, Chisholm was a big city by comparison. It was interesting that her new married life had landed her somewhere in the middle, between the small alpine village of her childhood and the international city of her young adulthood.

Enza peered into the glass window of Leibovitz Jewelry and admired the pearls resting on a velvet display. She was mesmerized by the beautiful gold rings studded with clear blue aquamarines and diamond chips, the slim platinum chains dripping on velvet, and the enameled cuff bracelets stacked on a Lucite dowel. A town that had beautiful jewelry for sale must have a clientele that required them. This boded well for her custom clothing business. Enza passed the Valentini Supper Club, the Five and Dime, and several bars (the staple business of all mining towns), including the bustling Tiburzi’s, until she reached Raatamas Department Store.

The department store was owned by a Finnish couple who had lived in Chisholm all their lives. It was an enormous single-story room with a tin ceiling painted pale blue and the clean lines of Scandinavian design. The walls were painted oyster white, a cool backdrop for the variety of merchandise.

Unlike the chic stores in New York City, each filled with merchandise over several floors connected by escalators, Raatamas displayed all their goods on one level. The sections were cordoned off with sheer linen curtains. There was a fabric and notions section, another for furniture, and yet another with housewares. Glass cases were filled with gloves, purses, hats, and scarves. Enza walked up and down the aisles, surveying the inventory.

“May I help you?” The salesgirl was a young Nordic beauty, around sixteen years old, with a small nose and large blue eyes.

“I’m a new bride.” Enza smiled. “And we just moved to Chisholm.”

The salesgirl followed Enza as she chose a mattress and box spring, two lamps with yellow ceramic bowl bases, a white lacquered table with four chairs, and two comfortable reading chairs, covered in soft sage green chenille. Enza remembered the sage green and coral used for the interior decoration of the Milbank House, and chose the same colors for her new home, reminding her of happy times with Laura.

Enza intended to splurge on the best items she could afford. She had American money in her purse, but she had the Italian determination to purchase things that would last. She had a good head start, as she and Laura had packed a trunk with the basics for any proper home, including linens, sheets, towels, moppeens, napkins, and tablecloths, made in the costume shop of the Met. They filled another trunk with fabric—yardage of wool, silk, cotton, and corduroy—knowing that there were things that Enza might need once she arrived, and she would already have the material to sew whatever she needed.

In the furniture department, along the wall, were three models of phonograph players in wooden cabinets. Enza ran her hands over a mahogany model with brass bindings. She lifted the lid and spun the turntable with her gloved hand.

“I’d also like to buy this record player. Could you deliver it to Five West Lake Street?”

“Of course.” The girl smiled, knowing that her mother and father, the owners, would be thrilled with the sale. “Would you like to see the records?” she asked Enza. “They’re over here in this cabinet.” The salesgirl opened a wooden cabinet filled with phonograph records, arranged in alphabetical order.

Enza looked through the selections until she found the recordings of Enrico Caruso. She was pleased to find compilations that included duets with Geraldine Farrar and Antonio Scotti. Their faces adorned the cardboard sleeve, their profiles drawn inside large silver stars with their names emblazoned in clouds underneath their images. Enza bought the scores to La Traviata, Aida, and Cavalleria Rusticana. She decided not to have the records delivered; she would carry those herself. She held the brown paper package close to her, and somehow it made her feel connected to her days at the opera.

Enza walked to the top of the hill, the end of West Lake Street. The snow had begun to fall again, throwing a glittery gauze over the town. Enza imagined this was Chisholm’s way of asking her to fall in love with it. She crossed the street to enter the building that had most intrigued her when they drove past the first time in Mel Butorac’s truck, and walked up the wide half-moon steps into the Chisholm Public Library, a regal red-brick building in the Georgian style, angled artfully on the block in the shape of a half moon.

Enza treasured the public library. She’d first gone with Laura, at the behest of Signora Ramunni, who sent them to the New York Public Library to research fabrics for historically accurate costumes when she worked at the Met. Laura had insisted that Enza get a library card, and until she became a citizen, it had been Enza’s main source of identification.

As she pushed open the front door, she was met with the familiar scent of books, leather, and lemon polish. Enza took in the main room, with its cozy reading alcoves, a picture window revealing a garden in winter across the back wall, long walnut study tables outfitted with low lamps, and the floor-to-ceiling stacks, filled with cloth-bound books in shades of deep green, blue, and red. As she went to the front desk, Enza imagined she would spend many happy hours here.

“Good afternoon”—Enza looked at the librarian’s name tag, reading it aloud—“Mrs. Selby.”

The portly, white-haired lady wore a simple serge day dress and hand-knit white wool sweater. She did not bother to look up at Enza, especially after she heard her Italian accent. “I have no books in Italian. If you want them, I have to special order them from the Twin Cities.”

In an instant, Enza was back in Hoboken, where Italian immigrants received little respect and it was assumed that they were illiterate and therefore unintelligent. She took a deep breath. “I would like to sign up for a library card,” Enza told the librarian firmly but politely.

Mrs. Selby finally looked up, taking in Enza’s proper hat, well-structured wool coat, and gloves.

“You do have library cards, don’t you?” Enza asked.

“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Selby sniffed.

Enza filled out the application as Mrs. Selby watched her out of the corner of her eye. When she was finished, Enza placed it on the desk blotter.

“I’m afraid the card itself won’t be ready until tomorrow,” Mrs. Selby said, clearly taking pleasure in the delay.

“It’s no problem for me to come back,” Enza said. “You see, I love to read, and I can tell that you have a lot of books here that will keep me busy on these long winter nights. You’ll be seeing a lot of me.” Enza flashed her most dazzling smile and turned on her heel before the lady could respond.

Enza walked out of the library, relieved to be outside in the fresh air. She realized that life might be difficult in a new place, in a part of the country that she did not know. She decided to bring Mrs. Selby an embroidered handkerchief on her next visit to the library. Winning a stranger over with kindness was a tactic Enza had used in Schilpario, and was certain it would work in Chisholm.

Enza and Ciro had been in Chisholm a couple of weeks when they were invited to a party. The Knezovichs lived across Longyear Lake in an old farmhouse with red cotton curtains in the windows, trimmed in white rickrack. Inside, Ana, the mistress of the house, had had her husband, Peter, paint every piece of the simple furniture a lacquered candy apple red. On the floor, he stenciled black and white squares on the wood, an artful contrast to the red. Enza remembered when the scene designer would have a crew paint the floor at the Met, and how dramatic the pattern would look from the mezzanine.

Enza couldn’t wait to write to Laura about the Serbian style. Every detail was bright and polished, like the jewels in the Leibovitz window. Enza had been to many fancy parties in New York, but none could top the theatrics of the Slava.

While the Roman Catholics honored the feast days of their saints quietly with a visit to church or early morning mass, the Serbs threw an all-day, through-the-night party, serving homemade plum brandy and robust cherry wine, glasses refilled without request.

The house was so full that the guests spilled out into the cold winter night, where firepits had been lit in the fields, and an open tent had been raised for dancing.

The Serbian women wore full silk skirts in jewel tones and white blouses trimmed in lace, topped with fitted velvet vests secured with gold silk buttons. The men wore traditional high-waisted wool pants and hand-embroidered shirts with billowing sleeves. The clothing they wore served the same purpose as theatrical costumes: they served a theme, were colorful, and moved to accommodate the dance.

Long tables filled with Serbian delicacies were placed under the tent and inside the house, as a loyal band of women kept the platters filled to overflowing, while their daughters bused dishes and washed and dried them for the next shift of revelers.

The Serbian dishes were prepared with fragrant spices, including sage, cinnamon, and turmeric. The festival bread kolach was hearty and delicious, with its thick buttery crust and soft doughy center. They ate it with sarma, a fragrant meat mixture of bacon, onions, rice, and fresh eggs wrapped in kupus, tangy cabbage leaves that had been pickled in a crock. Burek, a meat strudel with a tender buttery crust, was cut into squares and served with roasted potatoes. The dessert table was a wonderland of pastries filled with fruit, dusted in sugar, and glazed with butter. Small ginger cookies and bar cookies made with candied dates were dipped in strong coffee and savored. Kronfe, round doughnuts dusted with cinnamon sugar, were passed in baskets piping hot from the fryer. Povitica, layers of thin pastry dough filled with walnuts, brown sugar, butter, and raisins, rolled carefully, layer over layer, baked, and sliced thin, was served on a platter in neat slices resembling pinwheels.

Emilio and Ida Uncini joined Ciro and Enza by the dessert table. Ida, a petite brunette in her forties, wore a full turquoise skirt and a gold velvet jacket. For an Italian, she was throwing herself into the Serbian festa like one of their own. In the short time Enza had been in Chisholm, Ida had been steadfast, showing up at the new building to help her wash floors, paint walls, and arrange the furniture. Ida had been through a big move herself years ago, so she understood how important it was to make a home comfortable as soon as possible.

“I’m going to ask Ana to teach Enza how to make povitica,” Ciro said, taking a bite.

“She has enough to do,” Ida chided him. “She has curtains to make, and a sewing machine to assemble. And I know, because I promised to help her.”

“And I need your help,” Enza said.

“This is some party,” Ciro said. “Is everyone in Chisholm here?”

“Just about. But let me warn you. This is nothing. Wait until you go to Serbian Days in July. Every Serb from here to Dbrovnik shows up to sing,” Emilio promised them.

“My husband loves that celebration the most because the girls have a dance competition. Baltic beauties, each more stunning than the one before, line up to tap, kick, and sashay,” Ida assured them.

“I like the dancing for the art of it, Ida.” Emilio winked.

“Now he’s a patron of the fine arts.” Ida shrugged.

“How long have you and Emilio been in Chisholm?” Enza asked.

“Since 1904,” said Ida.

“We were here for the Burt-Sellers mining disaster in Hibbing,” Emilio said. “It was quite a welcome to life on the Iron Range. Hundreds of men died underground. Such a tragedy.”

Enza looked at Ciro, who looked away. An expression of hollow grief crossed his face. He forced a smile. “Emilio, want to join me for a smoke?”

Emilio followed Ciro to the outside of the tent. “Did Emilio say something wrong?” Ida asked.

“Ciro’s father died in a mining accident in 1904 in Hibbing.”

“How awful. I’m sure Emilio didn’t know.”

“He wouldn’t. Ciro never talks about it. It’s such a terrible part of his past, and his mother, poor thing, didn’t handle it very well. She ran out of money, had no family to turn to, and finally had to put her sons in a convent.”

“Iron ore makes steel and widows,” Ida remarked.

Ida showed Enza the wine barrels, set up at the far side of the tent, with easy access from either side. Enza helped herself to a glass and sipped the sweet wine, feeling her mood plummet at the thought of Ciro’s unhappiness. She didn’t know what to say or do; any mention of his father produced either a depressive silence or a quiet rage, never directed at her, but taken out on equipment, tough leather, and himself. She wished there was some way to heal his broken heart. Maybe moving to the place where his father died hadn’t been the best idea.

Ida excused herself to join a group of ladies, leaving Enza to circulate through the tent alone. Suddenly the band began to play and men and women paired off, practically skipping onto the dance floor, planks of wood set into the ground for just that purpose. Enza looked around for Ciro, going up on her toes to look over the crowd. She saw him enter the tent alone and waved to him. He looked around but did not catch his wife’s eye.

A comely young woman of twenty with a long, silky blond braid cascading down her back grabbed Ciro by the arm and pulled him on to the crowded dance floor.

“You better watch your husband,” Ida said to Enza as she passed her on the way to join the cakewalk in the field.

Enza didn’t need any reminders from Ida to look out for Ciro. Plus, Enza could find Ciro in any crowd easily because of his height. She tried to move onto the dance floor to join him, but the surrounding bystanders were too thick, and she couldn’t push through.

She watched as Ciro put his arm around the waist of the Baltic beauty, who was eager to show him the steps of the dance. He laughed as she took his hands, and Enza flashed to Mulberry Street, when he’d entered the shop carrying two bottles of champagne in the delightful company of Felicitá so many years ago. Ciro had the same look on his face that he had then—not a care in the world, just a sense of unfettered joy. The girl was not that much younger than Enza, but suddenly Enza felt a hundred years older. The beauty leaned in and whispered something in Ciro’s ear, and he whispered in hers. Enza felt a flash of pain in her chest, sudden and piercing.

Ciro’s lean build and broad shoulders were an athletic counter to the willowy limbs of the girl, whose own green eyes shimmered like emeralds. At one point, the couples swayed toward the bystanders near Enza, and she tried again to wave to her husband. But he was no longer looking for her. He was laughing with abandon as the girl spun around him, pivoting back as she lifted the hem of her voluminous pale green velvet skirt, revealing her smooth calves and small ankles. Ciro drank the details of her in, and it made Enza’s stomach churn.

“She seems to have no idea he’s married,” Ida said.

Ida’s comment jolted Enza back into reality. “He doesn’t wear a ring. I wear his ring.” Enza twisted the signet ring on her finger.

“You should go out there and break it up right now,” Ida insisted. “There were too many barrels of plum wine at this shindig, and they’ve all been emptied. Go. Go get him!”

If Laura were here, she would probably have said the same thing. But for some reason, Enza couldn’t seem to make the move to claim her husband. Instead, she watched the scene unfold as though it was not her husband dancing with another woman, but a character in a novel she’d once read. This made what she witnessed less true, almost manageable. He didn’t mean anything by his actions. He couldn’t possibly. Wasn’t the nature of trust to let go? Enza tried hard to remember how the novel ended, but for the life of her, she couldn’t.

One of the Knezovich girls came by with a tray, and Enza placed her empty glass on it. When she looked up, she couldn’t find her husband on the dance floor. She pushed her way into the crowd, but it quickly became a morass, and she had no choice but to let the crush of the bodies push her along. Eventually she was shoved to the spot where she had seen Ciro and the girl dancing, but they were gone.

Enza felt her face flush. She reminded herself that Ciro loved her, and that she trusted him, but a wrenching pain twisted in her gut, perhaps a premonition of some kind, the kind her mother used to have but which Enza had never experienced before now. She closed her eyes, telling herself that the sweet sugar fermented in the wine had gone to her head.

Suddenly Enza was afraid. She felt so helpless, she almost began to cry. She shuddered at the thought that every decision she had made had been wrong; she was in a place that she did not choose, married to a man she could not find, and all she knew was that the nagging feelings of doubt within her had replaced reason in her mind.

Enza fought her way back through the crowd to reach Ida and Emilio, but they too had gone. Enza took a deep breath to calm herself. She told herself that she was just overtired, and not thinking straight. She told herself that her instincts were off, that her tears were simply a product of the gray smoke billowing from the firepits.

Enza walked out from under the tent. She couldn’t discern how much time had passed. It seemed as though Ciro had been dancing with the girl for a very long time. She returned to the house, hoping to find Ciro there, and went through every room. The volume of the conversation, music, and laughter was deafening, but there was no sign of her husband.

The trays and serving plates that had been full earlier were now being consolidated down to a few. Ana, the hostess, checked the urn of coffee, a signal that the night would soon end. Enza thought to ask Ana if she had seen Ciro, but she didn’t want her new neighbors to think that she was a flighty woman, or worse, a jealous one. She turned and went back outside.

Enza remembered what her father had taught her on the mountain: when you’re lost, don’t move, someone will find you. Enza wanted Ciro to find her. She stood and waited as the minutes stretched into an eternity. She stood on the cold field, by the edge of the tent, as the dance floor slowly emptied and the accordions eventually ceased.

Ciro had not come back for her. Ida and Emilio had left the party. Her new neighbors smiled as they piled into their wagons for the carriage ride home. Mrs. Selby, the librarian, waved the handkerchief Enza had made for her. The librarian offered Enza a ride, but she pretended that she didn’t need one. She stood a few minutes longer, until anger rose within her and she could no longer contain her fury. She belted her red wool coat tightly around her, pulled a silk scarf from her pocket, and tied it around her head. She pulled on her gloves, snapped her collar up to protect herself from the cold, and walked back toward West Lake Street alone.

Enza lay alone in their new bed on sheets from her trousseau trunk, her head resting on one of the two feather pillows she had brought from New York. Laura had embroidered “Mrs.” on one of the pillow shams, and “Mr.” on the other. The scent of fresh paint wafted through the apartment. Everything, including her marriage, was new. Enza looked over at Ciro’s side of the bed. It was four o’clock in the morning; she had arrived home at one.

The words of her father consumed her. Without the care of a mother and a father, and a solid example of marital love, what if Ciro did not know how to be a husband? He certainly didn’t know how to be a good husband tonight. What if his womanizing ways had returned, his vow of fidelity a short-lived hope after the long war, but a promise he could never keep? She fell asleep as disturbing thoughts consumed her.

Later still, Ciro pushed open the front door of the shop. The bells on the door jingled, and he silenced them by reaching up and placing his hand over the ringer. He locked the door behind him. He climbed the stairs slowly, having had too much to drink and not enough to eat. He was a bit dizzy, and had no idea what time it was. He made his way down the hall and into their bedroom. He undressed slowly. He looked over at Enza, who was asleep. Ciro slipped into bed and pulled the covers over him. His head sank into the pillow, fragrant with lavender. The sheets were soft, the mattress firm. He smiled at the thought of having a wife who had made him a lovely home. He rolled over to kiss her sleeping cheek. She opened her eyes.

“You’re home,” Enza said.

“You’re awake?” Ciro asked. “Why did you leave the party?”

“I couldn’t find you.”

“I was in the barn.”

Enza’s voice caught. “What were you doing there?”

“Playing cards with a man named Orlich, a Polish fellow named Milenski, an old man named Zahrajsek, and another man I can’t remember.”

“What about the girl?”

“What girl?”

“The dancing girl.”

“I don’t know who you mean,” Ciro said. But he knew exactly who Enza was referring to. The girl had reminded him of the French girl he’d met during the war. She had the same gold braid and warm smile.

“I couldn’t find you.”

“I’m sorry. I should have told you I was going to play cards.”

“Yes, you should have.”

“I had too much to drink,” Ciro said.

“Don’t make excuses.”

“But it’s true,” Ciro said, turning to face her in bed. “I drank too much, and nothing more.”

“Do you want me to be honest with you?” she asked.

He nodded.

“When Ida mentioned 1904, you looked wounded.”

“I don’t want to talk about this.” Ciro turned over in the bed, away from Enza. “What good would it do now?”

“If you accept what happened to your father, you’ll find peace.”

“I have peace,” Ciro said defensively.

“Well, I don’t. When you’re troubled, you withdraw. I came home hoping to find you here. When you weren’t, I had hours to think about what might have happened to you. I was afraid you went with the girl with the gold braid.” Enza shuddered to admit that she’d felt abandoned, but this night had brought up every insecurity she had ever known.

“Why would I do that?” he asked softly.

“Because you could. You could disappear from my life, just as you did in the past. It made me wonder, what do I really know about you?”

“You know everything,” Ciro assured her. Maybe it was his wife’s brutal honesty and clear-eyed observations about his behavior, but it made Ciro think, and he had an epiphany. He not only appreciated Enza’s point of view, it made him look at his own. The truth was, Ciro saw their romantic past as a series of near misses, the result of bad luck and poor timing. Once they were married, he forgot how close they had been to spending their lives without each other. Clearly, she hadn’t. Enza was complex in ways he could not yet decipher. They were from the same mountain, but their insecurities created chasms that they couldn’t fill.

Ciro turned over and placed his arm around Enza. “I’m sorry you couldn’t find me. I danced with her without thinking of your feelings. I didn’t know it would hurt you. It was just a dance. You’re my life.” He kissed her gently. He could feel the corner of her mouth turn into a smile as he kissed her.

“It can’t happen again, Ciro,” she said firmly.

“Please don’t turn into the wife that chases her husband with a broom.”

“I won’t chase you with a broom.” She returned his kiss with equal passion, then added, “I’ll pick up a shovel.”

Enza lay back and laced her fingers through his.

“We have a little money left over from my savings.”

“You’ve done a wonderful job furnishing our home. Buy yourself a hat.”

“I don’t need a hat. But you need something.”

“I have everything I want,” Ciro assured her.

“You need a wedding band,” Enza told him.

“Enza, I gave you the only ring I ever owned. It means everything to me to see you wear my mother’s ring.”

“And I’ll always wear it because it says that I’m yours. Now you need to wear a ring that says that you’re mine. Tomorrow we go to Leibovitz’s. We’re buying you a wedding ring. The thickest gold band I can find.”

Ciro laughed. “I don’t need a ring to prove that I’m yours. You have me, Enza.”

“I know that. But I want the rest of the world to know it too.”

Enza had done such a good job of decorating the Caterina Shoe Shop windows for Christmas that many women stopped in and asked to buy shoes. They were disappointed when they saw Ciro’s industrial machines, the garish overhead lights, and the stacks of miner’s work boots to be repaired. They realized it was a shop for men, with nothing to offer them, and they would depart as quickly as they had entered after Ciro apologized. Sometimes he would promise the ladies that one day, the window would be filled with fashionable shoes for them that he had designed and made. Then he’d send them up the street to Raatamas. He couldn’t count how many times he threw the department store business.

Enza was in the back of the shop, sewing a satin blanket for Pappina’s baby’s layette, when she overheard a female customer talking with Ciro. She snipped the threads from the blanket, and when she heard the bells signaling that the woman had left, she joined Ciro in the front of the shop.

“Why don’t we sell women’s shoes?”

“Because I don’t make them,” Ciro said as he measured a sheet of leather.

“We don’t have to make them,” Enza said. “We could buy them from a middleman and sell them at a profit, just like any store in town. I could have Laura check with some suppliers in New York. There’s enough room in the front of the shop. We could put in a couple of glass cabinets.” Enza turned and imagined the perfect spot for the display cases.

“I don’t have time to sell shoes,” Ciro reminded her.

“But I do,” Enza said. “We send more customers up the street than we keep. I won’t bother you with any of it. I just need the space in the front of the shop.”

“All right,” Ciro said. “But when I start making women’s shoes, you’ll have to stop selling the ready-mades.”

“You have a deal.”

Enza took the trolley to Hibbing. She entered the Security State Bank of Hibbing on Howard Street in her best hat and gloves and went to the loan department to see Robert Renna.

“Mrs. Lazzari?” Mr. Renna looked up from his paperwork. He wore a suit with a vest and a plain navy tie. A pair of reading glasses was perched on the tip of his long nose. “How is everything working out?”

Enza smiled. The last time she was in the bank, she had cosigned Ciro’s loans for the business and witnessed Luigi’s paperwork. “Both shops are busy,” she said as she took a seat.

“I’m happy to hear it. What can I do for you today?”

“We have a lot of ladies come through the shop. I’d like to sell ready-made shoes. But I need a loan to build the inventory.”

“You have three stores in Chisholm that sell shoes.”

“I know, but they don’t sell the kind of shoes I would stock. I have a connection in New York City to bring real fashion to the ladies of the Iron Range. That is, of course, if you’ll help me go into business.”

“What does your husband think?”

“He has his hands full, so this would be my project.”

Renna was used to widows coming into the bank for loans, but not married women. Usually their husbands handled the banking. Mrs. Lazzari was obviously an uncommon woman. “Let’s take a look at your present loan.” Mr. Renna went to the shelf and removed a ledger containing the pertinent information on all current loans. He opened the leather bound ledger and with a ruler, scanned the handwritten columns. “Here we are.” He turned the page. “Your husband and his partner opened an account with a nice nest egg. You and Mrs. Latini co-signed the loan. They’ve borrowed against it at a reasonable rate. So I think there’s some wiggle room here to help you out.”

Mr. Renna went to the file desk and put together loan papers for Enza. She watched him as he handed the secretary some forms to type. A few minutes later, he returned with a contract.

“Take this home. Look it over. Talk it through with your husband, because I need his signature on the loan. And then let me know how much you need.”

Enza smiled. “I can make a go of it, I know it!”

Renna showed Enza a ledger with a note in the margins. “Does your husband have a brother?”

“Yes. But he’s in Italy.”

“No, a brother here. There’s a safety deposit box in the bank, it’s under C. A. Lazzari.”

“His father was Carlo Lazzari. He worked here about fourteen years ago.”

“Would you like me to check?” Mr. Renna offered.

“Thank you.”

Renna went to check on the information regarding Carlo Lazzari’s accounts. Enza felt queasy, as she always did when the subject of Ciro’s father came up. She thought of the Italian expression, “If you truly love someone, when he is cut, you bleed.” Enza didn’t know if it was simply her empathy for her husband that made her anxious about his father, or the unanswered questions that surrounded his disappearance and death. After a few minutes, Renna returned to his desk.

“Well, the accounts are closed,” Renna explained. “But there’s an unclaimed safety deposit box.”

“I wouldn’t know where to begin to look for a key,” Enza said.

“We keep them here.” Renna pulled a small silver key from his pocket and gave it to her. “I can show you to the vault.”

“Should I wait for my husband?” Enza looked down at the key in her gloved hand.

“You’re a signatory on all of your husband’s accounts, including the business. You are authorized to open the box if you’d like.”

Enza followed Mr. Renna through a steel gate to a large room with a marble floor. The walls were lined with small steel boxes, etched with numbers. Mr. Renna excused himself and went back out into the main floor of the bank.

Enza looked for Box 419. When she found it, she lifted the key to the lock. Her hand shook, though she hadn’t thought she was nervous. She turned the key in the lock and looked inside. There was one sealed envelope inside. She removed it. It was a plain white business envelope, with neither an addressee nor a return address, slightly yellowed with age.

Enza removed a hairpin from her chignon, carefully opened the seal, and pulled out a document. It read:

Burt-Sellers Mining Corporation

Hibbing, Minnesota

100 shares of common stock

Carlo A. Lazzari

Enza folded the stock certificate and returned to Mr. Renna’s desk. “I don’t mean to bother you,” she said, “but can you tell me what this is?”

Mr. Renna unfolded the stock certificate. His face broke into a wide grin. “Mrs. Lazzari, this is your lucky day. This stock is now worth a dollar a share. That is, if you sell it today. You can hold on to it, and watch it grow, if that’s your preference.”

“I don’t understand.”

“There are many safety deposit boxes in this bank with unclaimed stock certificates. After the mining disaster in 1904, Burt-Sellers almost went under. They couldn’t afford to make a cash settlement to each family, but reparation was clearly required. So they issued stock. Some of the men that died left no survivors. Others had provided no information for contacting their survivors. But each of them had a box in this bank. It was lucky that we thought to check today. We didn’t catch it when your husband and Mr. Latini came in for the loan. I guess you’d call this fate,” Renna said kindly.

On the trolley ride back to Chisholm, Enza guardedly peeked into the envelope over and over again, scarcely able to take in this stroke of luck. When the trolley pulled into the station, she ran down West Lake Street and burst into the shop. Ciro was buffing a pair of work boots on the brushes. She ran to him and flipped the switch of the machine off.

“Ciro, you are not going to believe it. I went to talk to the bank about my shoe business, and Mr. Renna found a safety deposit box in your father’s name. Since I’m a signatory, he let me open it. Look!” She handed Ciro the envelope. “Your father left you stock.” He sat down on the work stool and opened it as she prattled on with the details. “Honey, it’s worth a hundred dollars.”

Ciro placed the stock certificate on the worktable. He stood, picked up the work boot he had been working on, flipped the switch on the brushing machine, and commenced polishing the boot. Enza was mystified, her excitement and impatience slowly giving way to anger. She went to the machine and turned it off. “What is wrong with you?”

“I don’t want it.”

“Why? It was your father’s. You always tell me that you wished you had something of his. This stock was given as reparations for his death.”

“And it wouldn’t change a thing, now, would it, Enza?”

“He would want you to have it.”

“Buy furniture with it. Or send it to my brother for the poor. That stock is blood money. It could have meant everything fourteen years ago, when my mother had to sell all our belongings to pay off our debts forcing her to leave Eduardo and me in the convent. But now she’s gone, and my brother is a priest, and I don’t need it.” He put down the boot and looked up at the shelves he had built, loaded with boots, laces tied together, each pair affixed with a small tag showing the customer’s name and a pick-up time. “This is my legacy. My hard work. You. Us. The rest of it doesn’t matter. It’s just money. And it isn’t money that I earned. It will just remind me of all I lost and will never recover.”

Enza stood for a moment, holding the certificate. She folded it and placed it in her pocket. She didn’t bring up the subject again. Instead, she cashed the stock and opened a bank account in Chisholm in their names. Then, like Ciro, she put it out of her mind.

Luigi opened the door of his apartment in Hibbing, festooned with fresh greens, tied with a bright blue bow. “Buon Natale!” Luigi embraced Enza and then Ciro. He helped Enza with the packages she carried.

Pappina had set their holiday table with candles and white china. The scent of butter and garlic simmering on the stove wafted through the three-room apartment. An empty bassinette in the corner was covered in small white ribbons. Pappina was in the kitchen, very pregnant and cheerful and delighted to see Enza and Ciro.

“What are you making?” Ciro asked.

“Escargot in butter and garlic.”

“Did you put the nickel in?” Ciro asked.

“Go ahead,” said Pappina.

Ciro fished in his pocket for a nickel and dropped it into the pan where the snails, in their copper-and-white shells, simmered.

After a few moments Pappina sifted out the nickel, still a shiny silver, returning it to Ciro. The Italians never eat escargot if the coin turns black. It means the snails are rotten. “They’re good.”

“They better be. We’re starving,” Enza said, pitching in to help Pappina with the pasta. Luigi poured Ciro a glass of wine in the living room, and they joined their wives in the kitchen.

“Ciro came to mass with me this morning.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Luigi.

“We went to Saint Alphonse,” Pappina said.

“We have to. If we want the baby baptized, we have to tithe,” said Luigi.

“Oh, you make it sound like all the church wants is your money,” Pappina said.

“They don’t mind your money, but they’d prefer your soul,” Ciro said.

“Your brother is a priest, and you talk like that?” Enza gently slapped her husband’s cheek. “You know you enjoyed it—you liked the kyries and the hymns. Right?”

“I did. And looking at the statues brought me right back to San Nicola. It’s funny how the things you do as a boy never leave you.”

“I hope some of the things you did left you,” Luigi joked.

“I’m a happy husband now. I only have eyes for Enza.”

“Smart man.” Pappina laughed.

“It’s difficile for a statue to change its pose,” Luigi said.

“I’ve changed for the better, brother.” Ciro smiled.

“We’ll take your word for it,” Pappina said to Ciro. “Would you take the platter to the table? I need a strong man, I left the bones in the turkey.”

Ciro lifted the platter and turned to take it to the living room. Enza watched him go. He seemed to get more handsome as time went on, and she imagined that when he was old, he would become even more attractive to her as his light brown hair turned white. She saw how other women looked at him, and knew that they were seeing on the surface what she had always known: there was no one else like him. She followed him into the dining room, where he placed the platter on the table. He stood up and rubbed his lower back with his hands.

“Honey, are you all right?” Enza asked as she massaged his lower back.

“He’s got the shoemaker’s stoop,” Luigi said. “Put blocks under your cutting table to make it higher. A few inches will save your neck and shoulders. My back was killing me until I put down the blocks, and now I’m much better.”

“I’ll try it,” Ciro said. “Can the blocks help me with my workload?”

“That they cannot do.” Luigi laughed.

“Wooden blocks really work?” Pappina asked.

“Absolutely,” Luigi said.

“Well, make me a pair of wooden shoes then.” Pappina laughed. “I’ve had a sore back for seven months.”

Enza went to early mass alone on Christmas Day. Ciro was tired from the long visit at the Latinis, and had made his once-a-year church appearance the previous evening. She let him sleep, leaving a note to tell him that she would be late coming home after mass.

Her Christmas gift to him was one she could not share until she was certain he would approve of it.

Enza tied the scarf around her neck and pulled her wool cloche over her ears. She set out on foot for Saint Joseph’s Cemetery, about a mile outside Chisholm. She loved to walk, and whenever she went far, she remembered doing the same on the mountain trails above Schilpario. There were small reminders of the place she came from everywhere.

Her feet crunched the dusting of snow on the frozen ground as she walked. The clean air had the scent of pine and, occasionally, the smoke of a hearth fire from a farm off the main road. The winter in Chisholm had a palette of white and gray, like the feathers of a snowy owl, or the gray jays that would return once spring came. As Enza walked along the plowed road, she thought how much easier it was to walk in Chisholm. There were no steep trails to climb, just long black ribbons of road leading to new destinations.

The fir trees along the road were dense and tall, with trunks so thick, she wouldn’t be able to put her arms around them. It was clear that this swath of forest had been untouched for a hundred years, just as they remained in the Italian Alps. She had seen the fields where the loggers had felled the forests along the road between Chisholm and Hibbing in the name of progress. It was only a matter of time before these old trees met the same fate. But this morning, they were all hers.

She pushed open the black wrought-iron gate to Saint Joseph’s Cemetery. There were barren shade trees scattered about, a few statues of the Blessed Lady and kneeling angels, but mostly she saw tasteful polished marble markers embedded in the earth, with carved inscriptions. Unlike in Schilpario, there were no marble mausoleums with altars, colorful frescoes, or gilded gates to house the granite sepulchers. This cemetery was as plain in presentation as a farm field.

The priest had given her a map. In the center of the cemetery, under a grove of leafless trees, were the burial plots of men who had died in the mines. She began to dust the stones with her glove to reveal the names: Shubitz, Kalibabky, Paulucci, Perkovich. These men, she had been told, had worked in the Mahoning mine, the Stevenson mine at Stutz, Burt-Pool, Burt-Sellers, and the Hull mine. The Catholics among them had been transported from Hibbing on the Mesaba Railway, where they received a funeral mass and proper burial. Photographs had been taken and sent back to the families in Europe, although in some cases, nothing had been sent because the miner had not left any instructions or forwarding information.

They had not found the remains of Carlo Lazzari. He had burned in the fire.

Enza leaned down and cleared a headstone with her glove.

Carlo Lazzari

1871–1904

She smiled. It was a smooth black granite stone with the engraving inset in gold. She made the sign of the cross.

“Enza!” Ciro said from the gate. He walked down the path to join her with a look of concern on his face. “You shouldn’t be out in the cold. Monsignor Schiffer said I would find you here.” He looked down at the gravestone and saw his father’s name carved into the polished black granite. “What is this?” he asked, perplexed.

“I had it placed here. I bought it with a portion of the money from the stock. I felt it was the right thing to do, even though they never found him.” Her voice broke, because she was afraid of his reaction. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to upset you any further, so I didn’t tell you.” Enza knelt next to the stone.

“Why would you place a gravestone when his body didn’t survive the fire?”

“Because he lived. Because he was your father. I buried a box with a picture of you and Eduardo, a letter from me, and a lock of your hair. The priest blessed it, and they placed the stone here a couple days ago. It’s the first time I’ve seen it.”

Ciro’s blue-green eyes stood out against the winter sky as Enza looked up at him. She realized she would never really know her husband; she was never sure what his reaction might be. He was a deeply emotional man, and his physical strength was in no way an indication of a strong resolve. He had lost so much in his life that he didn’t know where to put the grief.

Ciro knelt next to her at his father’s grave in the snow and began to cry like a boy of six. Enza leaned down and put her arms around her husband.

“All this time, I hoped it wasn’t true.”

“You had to hope,” Enza said. “I would have.”

“All my life I was told that I look like him and think like him—” Ciro’s voice broke. “But I never knew him. I can remember small things about him, but I don’t know if those are really my memories, or if Eduardo had told me the stories so often that I claimed them as my own. You would think a grown man wouldn’t need his father or have to hold on to the idea of him. I know it was silly for me to pretend that my father might still be alive, but I wanted him to be. I needed him to be. To admit that he’ll never see the man I’ve become or meet my wife or children . . . it’s almost too much to bear.”

Enza took a piece of pattern paper and a pencil out of her pocket. Asking Ciro to hold the paper against the stone, she rubbed the pencil against the engraving on the granite. Slowly, her father-in-law’s name and years of birth and death appeared on the sheer white paper, a palimpsest, proof that he had received a proper burial. She folded the paper neatly in her pocket, then helped her husband stand. “Let’s go home,” she said.

They walked out of the cemetery and closed the gate. As they made their way back to West Lake Street, they clung together against the bitter winter wind. If a stranger had seen them walk past on that Christmas morning, he would find it hard to tell if the husband was holding up his wife, or if she was shoring him up.

Enza worried Pappina would go into labor and have the baby before Enza could arrive to help her. So Luigi paid a runner in advance to take the trolley from Hibbing to Chisholm at the first sign of labor, to let Enza know that it was time.

For the two weeks prior to Pappina’s due date, not a flake of snow fell on the Iron Range. Though twenty-foot drifts remained from the January snows, the roads were icy, and the temperatures freezing, as long as the trolley tracks remained clear, Enza could be at Pappina’s side in minutes.

Enza had helped her mother and the midwife in Schilpario when Stella was born. Enza hadn’t been allowed to be with her mother for the birth of any of the other children, but by the time Stella came into their lives, Enza was like a second mother to her brothers and sisters. She helped with the wash, the meals, and taught them how to read. Giacomina was so confident in Enza’s abilities that she allowed her to watch the children when she left the house to run errands, or go up the mountain trails to gather herbs.

Giacomina had barely whimpered when Stella was born. In fact, Enza remembered that the room had been quiet and dark, and there was almost a sense of reverence to the way in which the baby slipped from her mother and into the arms of the midwife like a bouquet of flowers.

Enza held Pappina’s hand as she hollered and struggled throughout her long labor, until the moment her son appeared, perfect, long, and squawking. The nurses in the Hibbing Hospital were accommodating, so Pappina was able to recover over the course of several days before going home to the apartment Enza had prepared for her.

Enza fell into the familiar routine of a new baby in the house. She set up the layette, made sure that Luigi had regular meals, kept up with the laundry, bathed and washed Pappina’s hair, and made sure everything in the apartment was tidy. She made a large pot of soup, with tomatoes, root vegetables, orzo, and broth, that would help Pappina regain her strength. Enza felt a rush of giddiness, imagining that Pappina would do the same for her someday.

Enza took the trolley home to Chisholm after five days at Pappina’s side. She smiled as she looked out the window, remembering that nothing made a woman more bone-tired than looking after a baby.

She pushed the shop door open and smiled. Ciro looked up and placed his lathe on the table. “How is young John Latini?”

“Almost ten pounds, and I have the sore neck to prove it.” Enza laughed.

“A Valentine’s Day baby.” Ciro beamed.

“You should take the trolley over to see them.” Enza turned to go upstairs, then remembered she had a message to deliver, “Luigi said to tell you that the baby had a small nose. He said you would understand.”

“Va bene,” Ciro said, bursting into laughter at the private joke.

“He’s a healthy boy, small nose or not,” Enza assured him.

“All that milk she drank was worth it.”

“We’d better buy a cow,” Enza said.

“Where would we put a cow? That patch of ground in the back will yield some tomatoes, and that’s about it.”

“It could be a small cow,” Enza said softly, placing her hands on her hips and then the small of her back.

“Are you—” Ciro looked Enza up and down, in search of the lush fullness a woman carrying a baby would most certainly possess. She was as beautiful as ever; only her hand on her waist indicated a change.

Enza nodded that she was expecting a baby.

A honeymoon baby.

Their wedding-night baby.

Somewhere between Paoli, Pennsylvania, and Crestline, Ohio, on the path of the Broadway Limited to Chicago, Enza had conceived their child. Ciro went to her, lifted her up off the ground, and held her tight. “I thought I couldn’t be any happier.”

Ciro felt a joy within his heart that he could not describe, filling him up in a way he had never thought possible. It was instant, and would last for the rest of his life.

A baby of their own was his highest dream. Ciro remembered imagining his wife and children before he met them, and the house he would build in Vilminore for them. But all those dreams were beside the point, now that it was really happening. He had so much love for his wife and the baby within her that he felt a new fire within him, stoking a greater ambition to provide for them. All he hoped for in this moment was many children, and a long life to take care of them.