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"Now, boys and girls," the big man who had been on the train was saying in a booming voice. "Let me ask you. Have you had enough to eat?" A few scattered yeses and thank-yous were heard. The man cupped his hand against one ear. "I can't hear you.... Have you had enough to eat?"
"YES!" the children thundered back.
"Good," he said. "We don't want no child hungry tonight. Now you will meet your hosts for your visit in Barre. Is everyone excited?"
"YES!"
"Good. I can promise you all the people in Barre are excited, too. I bring here only thirty-five children, and many, many more families want to be hosts." He shook his head. "So now, Mr. Marchesi, please to call out names from the list, and the family that has this name, come meet your guest, all right?"
"Gladly, Mr. Broggi." The same young man who had checked names off the list earlier stepped up and began reading the names of the children. Not all the names were Italian, Jake realized. He could have kept his own name, except that he couldn't be Rosa's brother with a name like Jake Beale. His heart thumped as each name was called. What was the man going to do when he got to Rosa's name? But he needn't have worried. "Rosa and Salvatore Serutti," the man called out, just as though his peculiar name had always belonged on the list.
"Stand up!" Rosa commanded. He got to his feet, looking around for the people that would come forward to claim them. At first, no one seemed to move.
"Rosa and Salvatore Serutti?" Mr. Marchesi repeated, looking around as well.
A woman was moving toward them. She looked ancient to Jake, all white hair and wrinkles, a shawl wrapped around her body. Several steps behind her was a tiny man. He was no taller than a child, but not a child at all, for he had a head of snow-white hair and a gr
eat white mustache sprouting from his upper lip like a snow-covered bush.
They came slowly from the far corner of the hall to where Mr. Marchesi stood holding the list. The woman turned and waited for the old man to catch up with her, and when he did, he muttered something in Italian to Mr. Marchesi.
"What did he say?"
"He said he didn't ask for any boy," Rosa whispered back.
The Gerbatis
Jake almost panicked. If the old man didn't take him, what would happen? He'd be separated from Rosa and stuck with some family that probably didn't even speak English.
"Mr. Gerbati," Mr. Marchesi began, but Rosa interrupted whatever he was about to say.
"Scusami, Signor—" She was putting on her saddest, prettiest little face. He'd probably never know whatever it was she said to the old man, but he could see the old lady's face soften.
"Oh," she murmured, "povera bambina," and she put her arm around Rosa's shoulders.
"There are many families who would be glad—" said Mr. Broggi, but the woman interrupted him.
"We fine, Signor Broggi. Is okay."
The old man was defeated. Jake could see that. Without speaking another word, he started for the door. There was a coat rack beside it from which he took an overcoat and a fedora. Then he led them outside and down the stone steps. Mrs. Gerbati followed, her arm still around Rosa's shoulders, with Jake trailing behind. Mrs. Gerbati stopped on the top step, took the shawl off her own shoulders, and wrapped it around Rosa. She turned and smiled at Jake, as if to apologize for not having another to give him. The old man never glanced around. He was down the steps already and, shoulders straight as a sergeant major, was marching up the middle of the street where most of the snow had been cleared away from the cobblestones.
It was obvious that Mr. Gerbati didn't own an automobile or even have access to a livery. Why couldn't they have gone home with their parade driver? Not this glum old man. The walk to the Gerbati house took only a few minutes, but Jake truly thought he might be frozen to the stone street before they got there. His shoes had never been much protection, but they were of no use at all here, and the wind went straight through the shirt and trousers the priest had given him.
Mr. Gerbati reached the house before the others, and he stood, waiting on the porch, stiff as a telegraph pole. The house was hard to make out in the dark, but it loomed large. They went inside, and Mr. Gerbati closed the door, took off his fedora, and hung it on a huge piece of furniture in the front hall. They followed him into a room off the hall to the right, where there were chairs, a couch, and a squat iron stove.
Mrs. Gerbati murmured something to her husband. He nodded curtly, thrust a heaping shovelful of coal into the stove, and stirred the fire, making the flame blaze up. The children looked at each other, their eyes wide in amazement. An entire shovelful of coal! And nearly bedtime, at that.
"Come, come close." Mrs. Gerbati motioned Jake toward the stove. She turned and said something in Italian to Rosa, which must have meant, Doesn't your brother speak Italian? because Rosa was smiling apologetically. "He wants to be only American," she said in English. "So he's forgotten all his Italian."
"Forgot?" Mrs. Gerbati shook her head sadly. "Must not forget, Salvatore, must not." It didn't seem the time to tell Mrs. Gerbati that he wanted to be called "Sal."
The old man hadn't said a word yet. He sat down in a large chair, lit a pipe, and watched as though he were at a performance of some sort as his wife bustled about. Rosa and Jake stood awkwardly, not speaking, not daring to look at the old man as their hostess disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later she reappeared with a tray of steaming cups. "Just a little vino, warm against the cold, si?"
"Grazie," Rosa said.
"Grazie," Jake echoed, making the old woman beam with pleasure. He took the cup and held it, trying to steal some of its heat for his frozen fingers.
When Mrs. Gerbati took Rosa upstairs to go to bed, Jake had another moment of panic. They hadn't been expecting a boy, just a girl. Where would they put him? But he needn't have worried. There was a tiny room with a narrow bed off the kitchen. Mrs. Gerbati gave him a flannel shirt that must belong to her husband and told him to put it on. She left while he changed, and then came in and made up the bed with gleaming white sheets, quilts, even a pillow. He started to get under the covers. "No, no, aspetta. Wait!" She hurried into the kitchen and brought back some kind of long-handled contraption, which she rubbed up and down between the sheets. "Now," she said. "Is nice for you."
