Stella Mia Page 6

  “Sarina, I need help with my stockings.”

  I halt in my tracks. Without turning around, I say, “Carlotta, I have shown you more than once how to put on your stockings. You will never learn if I am always dressing you.”

  “Please, Sarina! I promise this will be the last time.”

  Shutting my eyes tightly, I force back the tears, for I know with certainty that Carlotta will be able to keep her promise after tonight.

  I walk over to my younger sister and do my best to keep a stern face lest my true emotions betray me and I break down.

  “Grazie, Sarina! Now I’m all ready for the feast! Do you think Papá will buy me zeppole?” Carlotta looks into my face expectantly. The fried doughnuts are one of her favorite sweets sold at the feast.

  “Most certainly and, if he’s in one of his grumpy moods, then I’ll buy you zeppole. That is, if you’re a good girl. But that’s our secret, Carlotta. You must not tell Papá or Mama that I have some money. Okay?” I place my hands on either side of Carlotta’s face, forcing her to look me in the eye. She nods her head.

  “I always want you to remember that I will carry you in my heart forever. Ti voglio bene.” I hug Carlotta tightly.

  “I love you, too, Sarina.”

  “Now run out. I need to get ready.”

  I watch Carlotta run to the front of the house and join my other siblings. How can I leave her? How can I leave my mother and the rest of them? But my sanity depends on it. Walking to the bathroom, I’m relieved no one is in there. I step in and quickly wash my face. I then put on the layers of clothes I’m taking with me. Why did I even bother taking a bath today since I will no doubt be sweating in all these clothes, not to mention it is a warm June day? As I finish getting dressed, I hear my father yell, “Sarina, where are you? It’s time to leave.”

  My heart races. I take one last look at myself in the mirror above the tiny sink in our bathroom. The face that greets me in the mirror is full of fear. Shrugging the feeling off, I walk out of the bathroom purposefully.

  I notice my mother is staring at my skirt, and I pray she does not ask me in front of Papá if it’s a new skirt. No doubt Mama is wondering when I could have had the time to sew myself a skirt with all my chores. I glance nervously at her. She lightly nods her head and walks away. Breathing a sigh of relief, I wait until all of my family has stepped out before I join them. Looking over my shoulder, I take a mental snapshot of our small house before shutting the door.

  The sounds of trombones, trumpets, and a thumping bass drum fill the air as a long parade winds its way through the narrow streets of Barcellona. A few men, both young and old, carry the towering statue of St. Anthony of Padua. I stare at the benevolent saint’s face and then transfer my gaze to that of the infant Jesus that he carries in his arms. St. Anthony’s devotion to the baby Jesus is evident in his tender expression.

  Cries of delight from Enzo and Carlotta reach my ears. They are standing at a zeppole stand, waiting for my father to buy them the powdered sugar sweets they love so much. Carlotta and Enzo reach their hands high, bouncing on their little feet in anticipation of the zeppole. My father is in a good mood tonight, for he is buying the children almost any treat they desire. I silently thank God. This way, I will not have to hold my promise to Carlotta to buy her zeppole. I need all of the money I have.

  Savory aromas vie with sweet ones. The smoke from sizzling sausages and bracciole stings my eyes. Men shout out their goods as if the sight and smells aren’t enough to lure customers to their stands. Normally, I cannot wait to have many of the delicacies found at the feast. But tonight my thoughts are racing. All I can think about is my escape. Agata bought a bag of zeppole, which she is sharing with me. I nibble on one as we stroll through the crowded streets. Our parents walk behind us. While our fathers are engaged in conversation and are enjoying the feast, they still keep their eyes on Agata and me to ensure no boys approach us.

  “Sarina, are you not feeling well?” Agata asks me as she pops what must be her fourth zeppola into her mouth.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You are hardly eating. I’ve never known you not to sample most of the food at the feast. And I can’t believe you turned down the fried zucchini blossoms—your favorite! You seem preoccupied. What’s the matter?” Agata looks at me with concern written all over her features. Whenever she is worried, she unconsciously tightens the muscles in her forehead, creating a deep crease between her brows.

  “I’m fine, Agata. The last feast we went to, I actually had a bad upset stomach when I got home. I don’t want that to happen again.” Guilt washes over me that I’ve lied.

  “I know what’s worrying you, Sarina. You’re afraid that my plan of secretly meeting Giuseppe tonight will not work, and you will get in trouble for covering for me.”

  “Yes, I am a little nervous about it, Agata.” I muster a small smile, which my sweet cousin returns.

  Agata had managed to talk to Giuseppe when she last visited me, and they agreed to meet briefly tonight during the fireworks display, which we would be watching from the roof of the house that belongs to my father’s friend Luigi Milazzo. Luigi’s house is one of the best from which to view the fireworks. It will be too dark for our families to notice Agata slip away, and they will be distracted by the fireworks. I am to cover for her in case anyone takes notice and just say she went to the bathroom. Agata is supposed to meet Giuseppe in the alleyway behind Luigi’s house. She has promised me she will be back before the fireworks are over.

  “Don’t worry. If I’m caught I’ll tell our fathers that you tried to talk me out of meeting Giuseppe. I’ll make you look like a saint!” Agata pats my shoulder.

  “You would do that for me? Take all the blame?” I cannot look Agata in the eyes. She is noble, a trait I am lacking in as I envision what I must do later.

  “Of course. You’re the closest thing I’ll ever have to a sister since my parents detest each other and can’t bear to couple again to give me any siblings. I would do anything for you, Sarina.”

  A feeble laugh escapes my lips. Agata’s words touch me, and I must resort to humor before I lose all control and break down crying. “Have you ever thought that perhaps your mother could not get pregnant again after she had you rather than assume your parents have no interest in being intimate?”

  “No one knows this, Sarina, and please do not breathe a word of it to your mother or father, but my parents have not slept in the same bed for years. Papá sleeps on a cot in a storage closet he cleared out so he could turn it into a makeshift bedroom.”

  “I’m sorry, Agata. I had no idea.”

  “If there was ever any love between those two, it’s long vanished.” Agata’s eyes look sad as she says this.

  I, on the other hand, know there was never any love between my parents. My mother was just doing her duty as an obedient daughter by agreeing to her father’s request that she marry Papá. Of course, I have no doubt that Papá found Mama beautiful and was attracted to her. But in terms of loving her, he is incapable of it. I don’t believe he even loves his children. My mother, siblings, and I are merely present to help him with his work and keep his house in order.

  “It’s time!” Agata startles me out of my thoughts. I glance at my watch. It’s 9:50. The fireworks are scheduled to go off at ten p.m. We wait for our families to catch up to us before we head over to Luigi’s house. My heart races. The evening has dragged on insufferably. And I still have a very long night ahead of me.

  Luigi, his wife, and three sons are standing in front of their house. They greet us warmly. We follow them inside and make our way to their roof. It is pitch-black, and we are all moving slowly, trying to see in the darkness, until Luigi turns on a few flashlights.

  “We will keep them on until the fireworks start.” Luigi is smiling as much as his sons. I guess this is the highlight of the year for him. I can tell he takes pride in the fact that he can give his friends the best view of the fireworks. There is something depressing
about the fact that all this man has to look forward to is the annual feast in the village where he was born and that he will most likely never leave. Yet I get the sense that Luigi is content with his simple life and has no regrets. Many of the people in our villages are this way. I cannot understand them and how they would not want to leave the confines of their small towns and explore what is waiting outside of these peripheries.

  Suddenly, bursts of color erupt through the night sky, showering prisms of light so close I almost believe I can actually touch them.

  “Veloce! Spegnere le torce elettriche.” Luigi tells us to hurry and turn off our flashlights.

  We all stand in silence, staring up at the dazzling display before us. I allow myself a few seconds to take in the beauty. But it is hard for me to relax. Usually, this is my favorite part of any saint’s feast. I love watching the fireworks from Luigi’s roof since from this height the fireworks appear so near. It feels very magical, and when you’ve had a life that is filled with as much hardship as mine, you stop believing that there is any magic or wonder left in the world.

  A sharp elbow nudges my arm.

  “Ora!” Agata whispers “now” loudly to me.

  Glancing nervously at our families, I’m relieved they haven’t heard her. But they’d have to be standing close to us to hear with the din of the fireworks.

  “Be careful.”

  Agata nods her head and is about to walk off when I grab her arm. She gives me a frustrated look. I stare into her eyes, knowing this will probably be the last time I ever see her. I then let go. She disappears at the perfect time since there is a short pause before more fireworks erupt, allowing the darkness to completely cloak her before anyone notices her exit. I know from all the years that my family and I have watched the fireworks from Luigi’s roof that there are at least three pauses throughout the show. It seems to be taking longer than I remember for the second interval to come.

  “Guardate questo! È bellissimo!” My father is holding Enzo up, imploring him to look at an exceptionally beautiful shower of fireworks. Papá’s face is lit up momentarily in the fireworks’ glow. He is smiling, and if you didn’t know him, you’d never suspect there was so much evil inside him. I cannot help but think back to when I was Enzo’s age and the few times Papá was kind to me, like when he talked to me about all the fish he’d caught, and I wonder how long it will be until he begins hitting Enzo. Sometimes, I think he takes pleasure out of beating Mama and me. Does he ever realize how horrible he is toward us? Something tells me he has no idea, and even if he did, I am almost certain he would have no remorse.

  “Ooh! Mama! Guarda!” Carlotta is standing on the ledge of the roof, but my mother’s arm is wrapped tightly around her tiny form. They are completely transfixed by the fireworks. My gaze then falls on Pietro, who is in his carriage and is somehow able to sleep even with all the noise from the fireworks.

  I turn away. I cannot wait any longer lest I lose my nerve. Edging slowly to the stairs that lead back down to Luigi’s house, I continue to watch my family. Taking one last look at their huddled forms, I quickly turn around and run down the stairs. Tears are racing down my face. As I walk through Luigi’s living room, I freeze in my tracks at the sound of voices. I see an open window and realize the voices are coming from outside. It then dawns on me that the shadows I can barely make out are Agata and Giuseppe. Afraid someone will come down and hear them, I rush over to the window and close it quietly. I can’t resist peeking out, but I make sure to stay out of their sight. Giuseppe has his hands around Agata’s waist, and he is kissing her. Her eyes are closed, yet I can still detect a glow of happiness in her face.

  I smile and whisper, “Good-bye, my dear cousin.” I then tiptoe to the front door, closing it gently behind me. Once outside, I begin running. The crowds are too preoccupied with the fireworks spectacle to pay me any heed. I keep running until I know I am a good twenty blocks away from Luigi’s.

  I head over to the Duomo of Saint Sebastian, which is the largest church in Barcellona. I pray that her doors are kept open this late at night. As I approach the cathedral, I see light streaming through the stained-glass windows. I climb the steps and breathe a sigh of relief after pulling open the heavy wooden door. Thankfully, no one is inside. I step into the last pew and pull up the knee rest. Then I crouch down and sit on the floor. This will be where I will sleep for the night. Once morning comes, I will make my way to the bus station. I will not fully let down my guard until I am on the bus and out of Barcellona. I am nearly drenched in sweat. Taking off the top layer of my clothes, I roll them into a makeshift pillow. Sighing deeply, I stretch out underneath the pew and close my eyes. But sleep eludes me. The faces of my little brothers, sister, and mother haunt me. Will I ever see them again? Forcing these thoughts out of my mind, I focus instead on what lies ahead of me and the new life that I am about to embark upon.

  6

  Gioiello del Mediterraneo

  JEWEL OF THE MEDITERRANEAN

  June 14, 1969

  I am on my way to Taormina. I woke up at dawn and was able to sneak out of the Duomo of Saint Sebastian without being noticed. Fortunately, the streets were nearly deserted that early in the morning, since most of the residents were sleeping in after staying up late to watch the fireworks. Once I left the cathedral, I quickly headed over to the bus station. There, a bus would take me from Barcellona to the city of Messina, where I would transfer for Taormina.

  As soon as my bus gets on the highway, cutting through the mountain tunnels, I breathe a sigh of relief. Finally, I can relax. My heart races in excitement. My escape worked! I’m finally free and far away from my father’s clutches. I will never suffer another of his beatings. But as soon as I feel joy, guilt immediately washes over me for leaving Mama and the children behind. They are on their own now. They will not have me to protect them from Papá’s wrath.

  Though I have been surrounded by Sicily’s vibrant landscape my whole life, I feel like I am only now truly seeing her. Suddenly, something my teacher once said comes to mind. She described Sicily as “il gioiello del Mediterraneo”—the jewel of the Mediterranean. Looking out my bus’s window, I can see why. The verdant mountains . . . the azure waters of the Mediterranean Sea . . . abundant sunshine that graces the island for most of the year . . . towering palm trees lining the streets . . . farms that thrive because of the island’s rich soil that allows almost any crop to be grown . . . orchards full of fig, olive, and citrus trees . . . prickly cactus pear plants. This is my beautiful home.

  The bus slows down as it comes to a road that has been made narrower because of construction. We pass under a rain cloud, and rivulets of water quickly pellet the driver’s windshield. The driver does not even bother turning his windshield wipers on, for within seconds we’ve cleared the clouds and are cloaked in sunshine again. I see a rainbow and smile, feeling like it is a good omen. For me, rainbows have always been proof of God’s existence. Every time I see one, I feel God’s presence even more.

  Though I am elated to be heading toward a new adventure and home in Taormina, I’m also terrified. I try not to think about the possibility that it could take some time to secure work. If I am very meager with my meals and skip breakfast and just allow myself a little bread and cheese or a piece of fruit, I can make my money last a couple of extra weeks. I am not ashamed to beg, but I will offer people something for their money. I am prepared to sing on the streets and the beaches of Taormina. But surely, with all of the hotels and resorts that line the beach, I will be able to secure work as a maid in one of them. Squeezing my eyes shut tightly, I pray to St. Anthony, asking him to help me find my way.

  I open my eyes in time to see the highway sign pointing to Taormina. Her beauty has been written about for centuries. I wonder if she will live up to her fame. My stomach growls, reminding me I have not had anything to eat since the zeppola I nibbled on last night. I saved two of the zeppole for my trip. I take them out and pop one in my mouth, chewing ravenously. Something cat
ches my peripheral view. I see a dirty boy with disheveled clothes leaning forward, staring at the zeppola I’m holding that I haven’t eaten yet. His mother is asleep beside him, and she has the same ragged appearance. I try to ignore the boy watching me, but my conscience won’t allow it. Suddenly, it’s not this strange boy’s face before me, but the face of one of my younger brothers. I hold out my hand, offering my last zeppola to him.

  “Take it.”

  The boy casts one nervous glance at his mother, who still remains sound asleep, and turns back around, quickly snatching the zeppola. He nods his head in thanks to me. I smile and turn my attention back out the window. My eyes feel heavy, and I want to sleep, especially since I only slept in spurts the night before. The hard floor and cramped space beneath the church’s bench made it hard to sleep through the night. My anxiety also kept awakening me. My dreams mingled with both happy images of what my new life promised me and images of my father chasing me, dragging me back home. Sometimes it was a monster chasing me, but then the image transformed into my father. While I would like nothing more than to take a quick nap on the bus, I must be on my guard. Pickpockets are notorious for riding buses, and I have already seen a few of the men watching me. Traveling alone as a female is one of the risks I am prepared to take. I forgot to steal my father’s knife that he uses to skin the rabbits he kills and prepares for dinner. I just pray that no one bothers me until I reach Taormina and can steal a knife from a merchant’s shop or even from a table at one of the many restaurants in the coastal town.

  I take out my rosary beads and begin praying, fingering each bead as I go through the Our Fathers and Hail Marys. Hopefully, this will help me pass the time as well as keep my nerves at bay.

  An hour later, the bus driver announces that we are entering Taormina. His voice startles me out of sleep, much to my dismay. I quickly feel my pelvis, making sure the lumps are still there. Of course, it would be next to impossible for anyone to steal my money without waking me up since I’ve hidden it in the pockets I sewed in my underwear. A thief would have to rip my clothes off to find out. I shudder at that thought, once again becoming aware of the fact that I am a woman traveling alone who could be subject to attacks.