“It is not my real name, of course. My parents were from Milan and would not have given me the name of girls from bassa Italia. My name was Chiara, but my brother used to call me Carmelooch to tease me and make me angry, since all the meridionali seemed to be named Carmela. When I entered the convent my superiors gave me the religious name of Sister Carmela and I thought, Oh, dear, now I’m Carmelooch for life! And now I’m here at the School of Our Lady of Mount Carmel—it all seems to have been intended by the Good Lord.”

Umbertina was perplexed at this fine ladylike nun confiding such things to her. But that wasn’t all. Umbertina could see the wisps of very fair, fine hair that were barely visible beneath her coif, and she thought, She is a blonde. Her eyes were blue behind the glasses she wore and her skin was pale and soft. Umbertina could not imagine this fine person teaching the children of the poor. In Italy no one taught the poor.

“But I’m glad to have been sent on this mission,” the nun went on. “I think it was God’s plan to name me Sister Carmela to remind me that my life is to be spent educating the children of the South. Now I can teach proper Italian to these children who speak only dialect.”

Umbertina’s shyness vanished in an instant. “Oh, no, Sister, not Italian! It is American our children need. They have to go out and earn their living in America and they have to read and write for us who have no learning. Leave the Italian to us at home, and teach them the language of how to do business in this country.”

“Why, Mrs. Longobardi”—the nun laughed condescendingly—“none of you speak proper Italian at home! You speak dialect. And you don’t read or write. It is the cultural heritage of these children to know their mother tongue.”

“Pazienza, Sister Carmela. The culture will come after we make a living, God willing.”

The aristocratic nun wrinkled her brows and her light eyes looked steely with disapproval for an instant. And then she said, “I suppose this will be my cross, as much as my name! But so be it.”

Umbertina went away marveling that she, a poor goat-girl from the hills of what that fine person had called bassa Italia, low Italy, had been able to prevail over a northern lady. This was truly the country of equalizing! It was a miracle. She resolved to remember Sister Carmela on every July sixteenth, the feast day of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, with a great bouquet of garden flowers to help soften the indignity of her name. She’d send her special pastries at Christmas and Easter.