The Italian Prisoner Read online

  “Of course,” she said, trying to sound confident. “I’ll talk to them right away.” Meanwhile, her mind raced. She’d never thought this far ahead, focusing her attentions only on the interview and concocting a plausible lie for having to miss work at the store.

  Mr. Sullivan stood, and she rose to her feet as well. “I hope you’ll decide to join us, Miss Marino. Our men are counting on us. Every day we lose costs lives. Never forget that.” He extended his hand.

  She shook it—firmly this time. She thought of Giovanni and Laura, then pushed the images away. “I won’t. And thank you, sir. I’ll call you first thing Monday either way.”

  The streetcar rocked gently back and forth, slowly making its way downtown. An older Black man sat alone in the rear while a woman near the front tried to keep her tow-headed toddler occupied with a toy bear. Rose had the double seat to herself and welcomed the solitude so she could sort out her thoughts. She leaned her head toward the open window; the breeze was fresher here by the bayou than in the crowded Quarter. She watched people going about their business—a woman sweeping the sidewalk in front of a shop; two men in gray coveralls bent over a fire hydrant while water ran into the street.

  She thought back to a year before, when her sister enlisted, and the family upheaval that followed. Laura, two years older than Rose, had been working at Charity then; the Army came to the hospital to recruit. When her sister announced her decision at the dinner table, Rose burst into tears. Their father remained silent, but their mother exploded: Always trying to prove something! You think you’re better than us? You’re not. I forbid it. But it was too late. Laura had already signed the paperwork. Rose still saw her sister’s unflinching face, heard her voice, its firm resolve. I want to serve, just like Giovanni. Their mother had scoffed. You’re not Giovanni. Nowhere close. Her mother had stood, knocking back her chair and leaving the rest of them at the table. Worse, she refused to go to the dock with Rose and her father to see Laura off.

  Now Rose had her own decision to announce, and her mother’s spiteful words rang in her head. But so did her sister’s bravery. Rose wondered about her own motivations; did she think she was too good to work in the store? No, she told herself. The job at Higgins was just for the duration of the war. To do her part. Still, she had to be truthful—there would be other benefits. She’d be using her brain at the factory, meeting new people, finally free from the monotony of selling groceries. Her parents had poured years into the store. Was it wrong to want to reach for something more for herself?

  As she walked from the streetcar toward home, she took notice of other women, some dressed for work in shops and offices. She pictured herself at the shipyard: wearing sharp suits—like Rosalind Russell in His Girl Friday. Even with the rationing, it would be nice to buy clothes with her own money, rather than always having to ask her parents. Of course, she’d share some of her earnings with the family. But most of her paycheck would go into the red Community Coffee can she kept hidden under her sister’s bed, where she’d slowly accumulated coins and dollar bills from birthday and holiday money over the years. The can was a savings account for her secret dream: having her own place one day.

  She took a right onto St. Philip Street toward the river, allowing herself to pause a moment in front of her favorite house: a tiny cottage on the corner of Burgundy, painted white with a bright yellow door and matching gingerbread trim. She’d tried to peek inside many times, but the lace curtains were always drawn. The house couldn’t hold more than a few rooms; in her imagination, she’d decorated them with tasteful, modern furnishings—no plastic on the sofa, no dusty lace doilies on the tables. Until now, such fantasies seemed out of reach; the only women she knew who lived alone were widows and spinsters. But working at Higgins could change things. A few days ago, the job at the factory was only a remote possibility. Now she felt certain she needed to be there, that her whole life—her real life—depended on it.

  Of course, none of her hopes would matter to her parents. Non diventare troppo testardo, they’d say. Don’t get too big-headed.

  At last, she reached home. She stared at the back of the building her family rented, its peeling greenish paint, the rickety balcony overhanging the courtyard. How worn and run-down it all looked compared to the factory. She felt a tug at her heart: she loved her family but the thought of being trapped here her whole life made her want to scream.

  She ducked in the rear door, trying not to make any noise on her way up the back stairs to the apartment on the second floor. As she changed into the old skirt and blouse she wore most days—hand-me-downs from her sister—she prayed for divine assistance. How to admit the lie to her parents? How to gain their permission to take the job when she knew it would only disrupt what was left of the order of things with Giovanni and Laura away? The longer she waited, she knew, the worse she would feel. And Mr. Sullivan was right: the war wouldn’t wait.

  Tonight, she decided. At dinner. Like Laura.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  Rose tried to be extra helpful in the kitchen that evening. She set the table—too big with just the three of them there and the two places left open as if Giovanni and Laura would be back any time. Meanwhile, her mother softly hummed a tune as she cooked. As always, the postcard from Giovanni had lightened her mood. It sat propped up on the living room credenza, next to a photograph of him in uniform and a votive candle her mother kept perpetually lit. There was no such shrine for Laura.

  Her mother added sausages to the cast iron pan and the small kitchen filled with the mouthwatering aroma of onions, peppers, and garlic sizzling in olive oil. “Rose, let some of this smoke out,” her mother directed. “And call your father up.”

  Rose opened the window at the top of the stairs. Her father sat in the courtyard below, a cigar in one hand, the newspaper in the other. She chased away a pang of guilt at the thought of leaving him to the daily routine in the store. Most days were boring. Still, she cherished the easy relationship she had with her father.

  “Papa, supper’s almost ready.”

  “Be right up,” he shouted.

  Back in the kitchen her mother transferred the food from the skillet to a big yellow ceramic bowl and placed it on the beige Formica table. She stood a few inches taller than Rose, thin like her daughter, but with a sharper chin. Rose had seen photographs of her mother as a glamorous young woman. Looking at her now, Rose wondered what became of that girl. Strands of gray shot through her dark hair; she wore no makeup, and perspiration from the hot stove beaded her forehead. Her mother didn’t even bother taking off her apron before sitting down to eat.

  Her father came in and switched on the small wooden radio in the corner to the Italian music program, then sat down, tucked a napkin into his collar, and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, just as he did every night.

  “Smells good,” he said.

  Rose tried to steady her shaking hand as she poured three short glasses of red wine. She shooed away the anxiety. She’d been rehearsing the conversation all afternoon as she worked downstairs in the store.

  Rose’s mother sat down, blessed herself quickly and muttered grace. “Bless us, oh Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive, from thy bounty, through Christ our Lord. And please protect our Giovanni.”

  “And Laura,” Rose said.

  “And Laura,” her mother repeated. “Amen.”

  Rose and her father said, “Amen,” and blessed themselves. Rose steeled herself to tell them her news when the radio announcer interrupted the music.

  The American submarine Triton, with 60 sailors onboard, has been presumed lost in the waters off Papua New Guinea in the South Pacific. Reports say the enemy destroyer Akikaze was in the area hunting American subs, and the Triton was reported overdue from patrol. In other news. . .

  Her father reached over, turned off the radio, then speared a sausage from the bowl with his fork. Her mother spooned peppers and onions onto his plate. Nobody spoke, but Rose knew they all
had the same thought. Navy ships sometimes transported Army troops among the islands. Please, God, not Giovanni. Every time they heard a report of casualties, Rose felt her heart stop for a moment.

  She took a sip of wine, letting its warmth slide down her throat, as she mustered her courage. “Did cousin Rocco ship out already?”

  “I think so.” Her father shifted in his chair to make room for his belly. “They sent him to Fort Bragg, but he didn’t know whether he’d be sent to the Pacific or to Europe after training.”

  Rose looked down at her plate, cutting the sausage with the side of her fork. “You know how he worked in the accounting department at Higgins?”

  “Right,” her father said. Her mother just nodded.

  “Well, he recommended me to take his place.” She took a mouthful of food, not making eye contact with either of her parents.

  “Take his place?” Her father set down his fork and looked at Rose’s mother. “You mean working at Higgins?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?” her mother said, pointing her chin at Rose. “The shipyard? That’s impossible. Where did he get such a crazy idea?”

  Rose needed to stay calm. “I don’t think it’s so crazy. I have the accounting certificate from Soulé. I could do Rocco’s job—he works in the office.”

  Her mother dropped her fork on her plate with a clang. “Why you want to go working all the way up there? That’s no place for a girl.” She sat back in her chair and shook her head. “First your sister, now you.”

  Rose resisted the urge to defend Laura. Her sister was a lost cause; she needed to save her arguments for herself. “Lots of women work there. Now that the men are gone, the factory needs them. You know Marie’s been there for a few months. She’s making good money.”

  “You’re not Marie,” her mother interrupted. It was a well-worn theme: Marie’s widowed mother waitressed at a diner; the Leonardis never seemed to have enough money. Rose’s mother used it as a cudgel to remind her children how grateful they should be: two parents, a family business, plenty of food on the table. Guilt and shame—her mother’s favorite weapons. “If Marie jumped into the Mississippi, would you jump after her? No.” She waved her hand dismissively, as if Marie were standing there.

  “Ma, nobody’s talking about jumping in the river.” Rose tried to keep the anger out of her voice, knowing it would only fuel her mother’s opposition. “The factory needs all the help they can get. They’re making boats for the troops.”

  “Frank, talk some sense into her.”

  Her father kept chewing his food, hunched over his plate. “She has a point, Fil.”

  Rose tried to stay calm.

  Her mother folded her arms across her chest, narrowing her eyes at him. “And what about the store? You think she can leave me trapped in there all week?”

  Rose was ready for this objection. “Couldn’t Carmine take my place?” Rocco’s older brother Carmine helped in the store on Saturdays already, having been rejected from the service due to his poor eyesight. The poor kid, Rose’s parents called him, even though he was twenty-five.

  “Pfft. We’d have to pay Carmine,” her mother said. “And he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer, all due respect.”

  “It’s not as if working in the store takes a lot of smarts,” Rose blurted. The words were no sooner out of her mouth than she regretted them. Her father looked wounded. “What I mean is, Carmine can certainly handle things.”

  “Basta. Enough.” Her mother picked up her fork again. “Stop talking about it—it’s not going to happen. Just one of your little pipe dreams.”

  Rose concentrated on the tablecloth. She could feel her face getting hot. She ought to have been used to her mother’s condescension. As teenagers, she and Laura had banded together when their mother started in with her relentless nagging and criticism. They never understood why, only that they couldn’t do anything about it. But Laura wasn’t here now. She was off living her own life, and Rose had had enough. “It’s not a pipe dream, Ma. I interviewed there this morning and they’ve offered me the job.”

  Her father’s brown eyes widened under his bushy brows. “You…what? This morning?” He put down his fork and knife and ran a hand through his hair. “What about the blood drive?”

  “I wasn’t at the blood drive; I was at Higgins. I’m sorry for lying, but I knew you wouldn’t want me to go.” The words came out in a rush.

  Rose’s mother slammed her hand on the table. “Bad enough you want to do this crazy thing, but now you’re lying to us too?”

  “Rocco recommended me, and I filled out an application. I never thought they’d call, let alone offer me the job. But they did. And I really want to do my part.”

  “Absolutely not. We need you here,” her mother said, as if that settled it. “Frank, tell her.”

  “Papa?” Rose had low expectations; her father rarely went against her mother. “It’s just temporary, until the men come home.”

  Her father took a sip of his wine. “I know you want to do good, cara, but I don’t know. It’s a lot to ask.”

  “I’d share my earnings with the family, of course,” Rose said, making a mental note not to tell them exactly how much she’d be paid. Her coffee can wouldn’t fill itself. “And I can still work Saturdays, helping with the inventory and books like always, and—”

  Her father held up his hand and Rose stopped talking. He then finished chewing and took another sip of wine. “Carmine could use the work, Fil,” he said. “And if Rose is going to be making money, she could help with the expenses around here.”

  Her mother tapped the side of her head. “Pazzo, both of you. Crazy.” She stood and took her plate to the sink, then stormed out of the kitchen and slammed the bedroom door.

  “Thank you, Papa,” Rose said quietly.

  “I haven’t said yes yet. Your mother and I will have to discuss it. I’m not wild about you traveling all the way up to Mid-City and back alone, working with all those men every day. Strangers. But I’ll think about it.”

  Quit while you’re ahead, Rose told herself. But Mr. Sullivan had been clear. “I need to tell them by Monday morning.”

  Her father took off his napkin and stood up. “Enough for tonight. I’m going back down to the courtyard,” he said. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

  Rose swallowed the rest of her words and started washing the dishes in the big white ceramic sink. She caught a reflection of herself in the window; several locks of hair had come loose from her bun, and she tucked them back in with a soapy finger. Through the glass, she could see the glowing tip of her father’s cigar below as he sat in the dark courtyard.

  The next morning, before the store opened, Rose occupied her thoughts by rearranging the produce section. She moved the older vegetables to the front and was picking dead leaves off the lettuce when she heard shouting on the sidewalk.

  “What’s going on out there?” her cousin Carmine asked as he came in from the storeroom. Frayed brown suspenders held up the gray pants sagging around his waist. Heavyset with rounded shoulders, he had a prominent nose and thick glasses that made him look bug-eyed.

  Rose turned the radio down. The shouting was still there. Her father’s voice and another man’s. “I don’t know,” she said, immediately alarmed. Her father wasn’t one to yell.

  Carmine rubbed his hands together and walked toward the front of the store; Rose followed behind. From the open doorway, they could see her father standing on the sidewalk in his green apron, hands on his hips. A small crowd of neighbors had gathered across the street.

  “My boy was killed, Frank—by your people over there, in league with those filthy Krauts.” It was Mr. Prescott, a big Uptown hotel owner. His blue-and-white seersucker pants strained at the stomach, and his white linen shirt was wrinkled and had come untucked in the back. Rose didn’t particularly like him; the man never missed a chance to remind people he’d been king of Carnival.

  Her father put a hand over his heart. “I’m sorry
for your loss.”

  Mr. Prescott’s pink face glistened with sweat, his jowls shaking. Rose worried he might have a stroke right there on the sidewalk. “I’ve known you a long time, Frank. But I can’t do business with the enemy.”

  Rose’s father, now red-faced himself, took a half step back. “The enemy? You see these stars?” He pointed to the service banner hanging inside the front door—one blue star for Giovanni and one for Laura. Rose cringed; her father’s Sicilian accent always sounded thicker whenever he got agitated. “My son’s over there fighting the Japs, serving this country—OUR country. My daughter too.”

  Mr. Prescott cut him off. “And still, you have the nerve to fly that.” He pointed to the green, white, and red Italian flag hanging limply over the entrance. “It’s an insult.”

  Rose’s father squared his shoulders, fists clenched by his sides. She had never seen him hit anyone, but now she feared the two men were going to come to blows. She couldn’t stand the thought of her father getting hurt.

  She pushed against Carmine, forcing him to step outside. “Whoa, Uncle Frank, is everything all right?” Carmine asked, blinking behind his thick glasses.

  “Stay out of this,” Rose’s father told him.

  “You people ought to go back where you came from,” Mr. Prescott sneered and walked away, flipping his hand dismissively. “We’d all be better off.”

  Her father forced a smile. “OK, folks,” he said, waving his hands at the neighbors. “It’s all over. Just a little business disagreement. Nothing to worry about.”

  The neighbors—most of them Sicilian too—slowly disbanded, mumbling to each other. Rose knew they’d heard the last insult Mr. Prescott flung at her father, yet nobody stepped up in his defense.

  Carmine started straightening out the wrought iron tables on the sidewalk, brushing crumbs from the chairs with a rag. Rose reached for her father’s elbow. “Are you OK, Papa? He had no right to say those things.”