They crossed the river at a large and imposing town, Albany. And then the country, as they proceeded westward along the Mohawk River and Erie Canal, became even greener and wider. She had the sense of vastness of continent, of lands stretching for immense distances and forests not yet felled. There was a still-uncultivated look to the land and the great luxury of many fields given over entirely to pasturing cows, not made to produce beyond their fertility. Finally she got her first glimpse of corn. “Grano turco,” Serafino said as he pointed to the tall stalks of ripened corn at its prime, and she thought it was the most beautiful sight she had ever seen. The richness! Fields could be left with patches of trees between them or whole strands of woods, blocking out her view of the river. Here the fields weren’t rocky, walled, dusty patches with thin rivulets of irrigation as they were in Calabria, where nothing could be allowed to lie fallow and recover its strength. There farming had been plundering, sacking the dry earth beyond its endurance; here she saw such abundance of wild green that it put her soul at ease—it would never dry out and force them to be uprooted again.

“The first thing we will do is get a piece of land to grow our food,” Umbertina said.

Serafino nodded, satisfied to see her serene at last. He patted her hand, tough and hardened now like his. And she smiled fondly at the man she had made her destiny.

They went past canal locks, bridges, and neat homes on green grassy patches of land that weren’t cultivated for food but could be left for beauty; they passed barges, the main streets and tidy village greens that were the piazzas of upstate New York, factories on the river with high arched windows and tall smokestacks that were as imposing as the palaces and temples of the old country, and the clean white spires of the churches.

Serafino pointed out to her fine large buildings, as noble as monasteries or churches, and amazed her by saying they were stalle, cow barns. Even the animals live well here, she reflected—not made to pull loads, but, as she saw, free to graze on hills or lie, sleek and fat, on the grassy meadows, well-fed and content. How much better off they were than the poor Christians and Jews cramped in the stink and murk of the New York tenements! And she thought of the Jewish ragman who had come to the courtyard behind the tenement to sort through the refuse and had found her tending basil and slips of geraniums in some old cans. He had said something to her, smiled, and nodded. Later she was told what he said: “You Italians make something grow wherever you are.”

A richness she hadn’t conceived of was everywhere—even fruit trees, abandoned along the tracks, displayed their unpicked bounty to her wondering eyes. Green was everywhere; a yellow-orange light played over the foliage that was just beginning to show some red in the clear pre-autumn air under a huge sky billowing with clouds. Tall golden sunflowers filled her sight. Umbertina felt the blood coursing through her veins in her desire to dig the earth, to plant seed, to cultivate, tend, and harvest.