Umbertina’s great frustration was that her hands weren’t trained enough for the piecework the other women did to earn money and that she who had worked the fields and herded goats in Calabria could only do wash in the city.

The street had a life of its own that reminded her of the dusty streets of Castagna when they had sat out and gossiped as they did their work and minded the children. But Castagna was becoming more unreal and insubstantial as time passed, and her memory glossed over past fatigues to fasten on to the present ones. If one had asked her how Castagna was, she would have answered, “Quiet . . . quiet as the woods and the ruined abbey in the valley.” And to her mind now, constantly battered by the sounds of the New York streets, it did seem that Castagna was a place where only the wind in the trees or the rush of the stream was heard.

On Bleecker Street, together with the constant roar of the Broadway Elevated, there were the wagons and peddlers, the organ grinder and monkey, and a continual chorus of calls from the vendors: roasted peanuts, ceci, chestnuts on a charcoal brazier; baked sweet-potatoes or, in season, watermelon, peaches, and cherries. Even for the poor, abundance flowed through the streets, replenishing afresh the dream that had brought them there.

Yes, it was hard; but how could one doubt? Umbertina watched the color and bustle of everyday life and saw, despite the wretchedness, the look of expectancy on everyone’s face that seemed to replace the old look of stolid resignation which was native to Calabria. And then there were the feast days, when the neighborhoods took on a gaudy, brazen look with illuminated arches over the streets, flags, banners, and huge ornate candles, fruits, flowers, and pastries in profusion to honor the old country’s saints. They paraded and feasted for martedì grasso just before Lent, for Corpus Christi, for Our Lady of Mount Carmel, and then each street had its own special festa: the Sicilians for Santa Rosalia, the Neapolitans for San Gennaro, the Calabrians for San Rocco. Processions were formed; the children skipped alongside, bright-eyed with wonder; and everyone joined in.

There was solidarity among the countrymen who stuck together in their neighborhood. None of them strayed out into the alien city, despite Anna Giordani’s chidings that things were better uptown or over on the West Side. They had already been wrenched once from their homes; they could not give up their last comfort—the protective feeling of being together where their language was understood.

Each payday a dime or even a quarter went into the savings Umbertina kept with their countryman Ranucci, who had a bank in his grocery store on the corner. Then, one day, Serafino came home with a message from some new arrivals from Soveria Mannelli.

“Beppino wants us to send some money so he can come over.”

Umbertina looked up with a scowl from the table where she was rolling pasta. She looked to see if Serafino—the husband to whom, by custom and Church law, she owed deference and obedience—had taken the correct estimate of this preposterous message from her brother.