But before bed that night Assunta pronounced the fascination banishment over each of her children.
THE WAR WAS A HARD TIME,a literally dark time, a world muted by blackout curtains. Between the curfews and the absent young men,the social gatherings were short, stultified. There was no more meat; there was no more sugar. There were memorial masses for the boys who wouldn’t come home.
Meanwhile, the Fortunas worked hard and got by. Tony rented out the second and third floors of the Bedford Street house to paying tenants, so there was rental income on top of their salaries. He still took his daughters’ pay, but he gave them spending money for movies, haircuts, soda fountains. They were becoming more American by the day.
Every year, Stella’s yearning for Calabria faded a little more, the pain of her separation softening into nostalgia. She felt guilty when she noticed, but she couldn’t help herself. Ievoli was healing over, an old wound Stella, the survivor, had overcome. There was plenty in America for her to love—her colorful dresses, the delicious rich food, the cinemas and cars and toilets that flushed.
You work hard, time passes. Even hard times pass. For Stella, this wasn’t hard times—she would have happily lived this way, working hard, eating her fill, spending her evenings with her mother and sister and friends, for the rest of her life.
***
JOEY HAD ENLISTED IN THE ARMY IN 1942,and after two years of preparing for deployment he was shipped out with his unit to Europe in late autumn of 1944. He sent one letter, a single sad page addressed to Assunta and written in censor-proof English. The letter ended with one line in poorly spelled Italian:I wish I was home.No one heard anything else from him for six months, until the day in March 1945 when the Western Union boy came to Bedford Street.
Stella knew why he was there as soon as she saw him through the curtain. The uniform, the high-brimmed hat with the gold seal—they only sent a telegram for one reason.
“I’ll get the door, Ma,” Stella shouted to the kitchen. Her mother must be protected from this—at whatever cost Assunta must not answer the door. Stella took a deep breath as Tina appeared at her elbow.
“Stella. What is he here for?” Tina’s voice was already ragged with tears.
Stella took another breath. Her heart was pounding. She was about to be told her brother was dead. She had to prepare herself.
Stella opened the door three-quarters and stood solidly in front of it, blocking Tina from running out onto the porch. “Yes?” Stella said to the messenger boy. Her throat was tight.
He was probably only fifteen years old, with an acne-blistered forehead and thick, rimless glasses. “Ma’am. Is this the home of Anthony and Assunta Fortuna?” He pronounced Assunta’s name “Uh-suhn-ta.”
Behind her, Tina was squeezing Stella’s arm so tightly it hurt. “Yes,” Stella said. “Those are my parents.”
“He has a telegram,” Tina said in Calabrese, and began to sob.
“Ma’am, I have a delivery for them.”
“I will take it.” Stella pressed her weight into the palm that was bracing her against the doorframe, letting the sharp edge of the woodcut into her skin. Behind her, Tina’s sobbing had risen to high-pitched gasps.
The boy rubbed his nose uncomfortably. “I’m supposed to deliver it to either Mr. or Mrs. Anthony Fortuna.”
Stella stepped forward and snatched the telegram out of his hand. “My brother is dead?” She felt the knot in her stomach convulse as she pictured Joey, in his uniform as she’d last seen him, dashing, handsome Joey, then her mind’s eye flashing to his little fleecy head nestled against her shoulder in the bed they had shared as children. She heard the smack of Tina’s hands on the foyer tiles behind her as her sister collapsed, wailing.
The messenger boy took a step backward and Stella seized his wrist so he couldn’t leave. “What does this say?” she demanded. There were only a few lines of text, but Stella couldn’t understand anything except Joey’s name and the date. She searched for “dead” or “kill” but the English in the telegram was unfamiliar, too officious. “My brother Joey—he was killed?”
“Uh.” The boy leaned forward and studied the text. “Not dead, no. Is she okay?” he said, pointing to Tina, who was prostrate weeping, her open mouth pressed into the floor tiles.
“She’s fine.” Stella’s dark tunnel of dread began to recede. “My brother’s not dead?”
He shook his head.
Still squeezing the boy’s wrist, Stella turned to Tina. “Get a grip,” she said. “Joey’s not dead.”
Tina instantly stopped sobbing. “Not dead?” She hiccupped. “Then what?”
The boy said English words Stella didn’t understand. When she looked at him blankly, he repeated himself, and pointed to the telegram.
“He’s hurt?” Stella tried. “Hurt bad?”
“No, geez,” the boy said impatiently. He had a whole sack of visitshe still had to make. “Is there someone in your house who speaks better English?”
AFTER SEVERAL MONTHS IN Amilitary hospital in France, Joey was sent home to Hartford. He’d been recovering from a self-inflicted gunshot wound in his left forearm. At least, that was how his discharge papers described the injury; Joey himself would never admit it, so people would always shrug and say, “We’ll never know exactly what happened.”
After two years of army training, Joey had apparently not been mentally prepared for combat; when his unit landed in France, his misgivings overwhelmed him. The rest of the 103rd headed north to invade Germany, but Joey Fortuna never made it out of Marseilles.
