The Children's Train Page 6

  “If it melts, how am I going to do the solidarity thing?”

  Maddalena dips her hand into her bag and takes out five or six candies.

  “Here you go; these are better for solidarity. You can keep them for your brothers.”

  Mariuccia holds the candies as if they were a string of diamonds and puts them in her pocket. Then, finally, she eats the last of her ice cream.

  11

  THE COMMUNIST SIGNORINAS SIT US ON LONG benches, in rows. They come by holding a black book, read the numbers on our shirtsleeves, ask us our names, and write them down in the book.

  “Annichiaro, Maria?” a signorina asks Mariuccia, and she nods. The woman pins a red badge on Mariuccia’s chest and turns to Tommasino.

  “Saporito, Tommaso?”

  “Present,” he says, standing up as if he were answering the roll call at school.

  The signorina ties his shoelaces, pins his badge, and moves on.

  “I’m Speranza,” I say, calling her back.

  She turns, looks for my name in her ledger, and writes something down.

  “What about the badge?” I ask as she is walking away.

  “I’ve finished mine; another comrade will be coming, don’t worry.”

  I wait and wait, but nobody else comes, and I’m beginning to get worried.

  This is when the families from northern Italy start to file in. Some adults come in a gaggle with their kids, others come alone. There are both men and women. Then there are couples, husbands and wives with no children, who are the most excited, because it is as if they are coming to pick a kid of their own, exactly how they want it.

  All the people from northern Italy, the men, the women, and the children, are bigger and fatter than we are, and their faces pink and white. Maybe because they’ve eaten so much of that ham with white spots. I think that if I stay here for a while, when I go home I’ll be bigger and fatter, too, and I’m pretty sure Mamma Antonietta will say, “Weeds grow the fastest,” because giving compliments is not her strong point.

  The signorina with the black ledger comes along with a couple from the north, who stop in front of a little girl three places in front of me. She has long blond hair and blue eyes, and they pick her immediately. Nobody comes near me, maybe because I still have a melon head. The couple from the north hold the little blond girl’s hand and lead her out of the room. The signorina then goes up to a plump woman with red hair. They wander around the room and stop in front of two girls with chestnut braids in the row right in front of me. Since they look alike, I think they must be sisters. In fact, the redheaded lady takes them both, holding both by the hand, one on each side.

  Mariuccia, Tommasino, and I huddle close together, hoping they will take all three of us.

  “Amerì,” Tommasino says. “These people are from the north. They’re not blind. Don’t you think they can see we are not from the same family? You’re a redhead, I’m black as pitch, and Mariuccia’s hair is straw yellow. How could we possibly be brothers and sisters?”

  Tommasino’s right, and I feel confused. All the other kids are going off with their new parents, and we’re still here. Nobody likes the coal-head, the evil-haired boy, or the scruffy, straw-haired tomboy.

  As the room empties out, it gets bigger and colder. Every noise, even the softest sound, rumbles like thunder. I shift my weight on the bench and let out a fart. I’m so ashamed, I want to disappear. Mariuccia, Tommasino, and I don’t dare say a word, so we start gesticulating. Tommasino forms a gun with his fingers and then shakes it, as if to say, “There’s no room for us here.” Mariuccia makes a fist and shakes it, as if to say, “What the heck are we doing up here.” I shrug and open my hands, as if to say, “What do I know about it?” Then Tommasino raises his eyebrows and opens his hands, looking at me, “Weren’t you supposed to be Nobèl?” “Yes, yes. I was Nobèl on my street, but I’m nobody up here,” is what I’d like to say, but there are no gestures to express it, and so I pull in air with my nose and puff it out of my mouth like Capa ’e Fierro does when he’s smoking.

  Maddalena looks at us from a distance and starts gesturing, too. She puts an open hand up, as if to say, “Be patient, wait, it will be your turn soon.” But I’m thinking of Mamma Antonietta’s face when they send me back after nobody has picked me. She’ll say, “So, you made a name for yourself even up in northern Italy, did you?” because consoling people is not her strong point either.

  A young couple comes up to us, accompanied by one of the signorinas. They stop and look at us. The woman is wearing a headscarf, but I can see that underneath her hair is as black as Mamma’s. She’s neither tall nor fat, and her skin is dark. She looks over all three of us. Her coat is open, and I can see she’s wearing a dress with a red flowery pattern on it.

  “My mother has a housecoat that is the twin of your dress,” I say, trying to butter her up. She doesn’t understand me and turns her head the other way like the hen Pachiochia used to keep.

  “Her housecoat . . .” I pick up again, but I feel less and less sure of myself. The signorina takes her arm, whispers something in her ear, and then leads her away to another group of kids.

  Tommasino and Mariuccia are staring at me, but I don’t dare lift my eyes from my brown laces. Before leaving, I thought I could go anywhere and do anything with new shoes. Instead, the shoes are tight, and I’m still here. Nobody wants me.

  Maddalena is watching from the other side of the room. She goes up to two signorinas, and then all three turn and look at us. Maddalena points us out, one by one. The signorinas run around the room talking to people here and there, and finally a young couple, husband and wife, and an older man with a salt-and-pepper mustache, approach us. The young couple smiles at Mariuccia. The wife, who is really young and has blond hair the color of straw, reaches out and strokes Mariuccia’s head. She feels the hard stubble of her hair starting to grow back and makes a sad face, as if it were Mariuccia’s fault her father had shaved her head. She looks at her husband and then squats down to Mariuccia’s level.

  “Would you like to come home with us?”

  Mariuccia doesn’t know what to say. I give her a poke with my elbow, because if she doesn’t open her mouth, they’ll think she’s deaf, as well as dirty, and then they won’t pick her. So Mariuccia moves her head up and down slowly.

  “What’s your name?” the kind young wife asks, resting both her hands on Mariuccia’s shoulders.

  “Maria,” Mariuccia says, to sound less Neapolitan.

  “Maria. What a lovely name! Here you go, Maria. This is for you!” She puts a little tin in front of her with cookies, candies, and a little bead bracelet in it.

  Mariuccia keeps her hands behind her back without speaking.

  The lady looks upset.

  “Don’t you like candies, Maria? Take them. They’re yours . . .”

  Mariuccia finally plucks up the courage and says, “I can’t, ma’am. They told me that if I take my hands out from behind my back, they’ll cut them off, and then how will I be able to help my father with the shoe repairs?”

  The lady and her husband look at each other. Then the lady gets down on her knees and takes Mariuccia’s hands, which were crossed behind her back, holding them tight.

  “You don’t need to worry. You are my daughter now. These little hands will be safe.”

  When Mariuccia hears “my daughter,” she smiles for the first time since I met her. Then she reaches out and picks up the tin.

  “Thank you, sir, thank you, ma’am,” she says. “But why did you get me a present? It’s not my name day.”

  The couple look at each other again, a question mark written in their eyebrows. Luckily, Maddalena is there and she tells them that back home, Mariuccia would receive little gifts only on her feast day.

  Mariuccia is flushed with embarrassment and she grabs the young wife’s hand just in case the couple changes their mind. But the young wife hasn’t changed her mind. The opposite: her heart has melted.

  “I�
��ll give you lots of presents, my lovely daughter, you’ll see! You’ll get so many, you won’t even remember when your saint’s day is!”

  Mariuccia grips the kind lady’s hand and won’t let go. Either because she’s worried that she won’t remember her name day anymore, or because the blond lady reminds her of her mamma, bless her soul. Who knows? Anyway, she opens and closes her fingers to wave ciao and goes off with the young couple. Me and Tommasino are the last kids in the room.

  The man with the salt-and-pepper mustache comes up to Tommasino and holds out his hand.

  “I’m Libero, it’s a pleasure to meet you!” he says, as if he were kidding.

  “I’m free, too,” Tommasino says, unsure what he is supposed to do. Then he sticks his hand out and the two shake hands. The man with the mustache doesn’t understand the joke, but goes along anyway.

  “Would this nice tanned young man like to come with me?”

  “Is there a lot of work involved?” Tommasino asked.

  “No, the automobile is just outside. It’ll take no longer than half an hour.”

  “Automobile? Are you a cab driver?”

  “Come, now . . . I could see from the start that this boy likes a good joke. He has a sense of humor, this one! Come along now, Gina is waiting for us with hot food on the table . . .”

  As soon as Tommasino hears the words hot, food, and table he makes up his mind on the spot and slips away like an eel.

  “Bye, Amerì. Arrivederci! Good Luck!”

  “See you soon, Tommasino. Take care . . .”

  12

  TOMMASINO HAS GONE, TOO, AND I’M LEFT alone on the wooden bench, my tight shoes pinching my feet and sadness filling my belly. My eyes are pricking. It’s like there’s a needle behind my eyes holding my tears one by one, and if one drops, they will all unthread like a beaded necklace. When we were all together in the train, with all the kids laughing, blubbering, or running around, I felt as strong as my American father. As long as Mariuccia and Tommasino were there, scared to death, I could act strong, joshing with them and talking. I was still Nobèl. But now I feel like that day when I was biting into a pork-fat-and-pepper tarallo cracker and I felt a terrible pain in my mouth. I fished out my tooth, all covered in blood, and ran to Mamma Antonietta, but she was locked in with Capa ’e Fierro and couldn’t talk to me. So I went to Zandragliona’s house, and she sat me down in my usual chair and rinsed my mouth out with water mixed with a sachet of Idrolitina, bicarbonate of soda and lemon, to disinfect everything and explained how I would lose all my milk teeth one after another, just as they had grown one after another when I was a baby, and that my big teeth would soon grow in to replace them.

  Well, that’s how I feel now. Like a tooth that has fallen out. Where the tooth used to be, there is a big gap, but the new tooth isn’t there yet.

  I look around to see whether the lady in the red flowery dress has changed her mind and is coming to get me. Maybe she wanted to look at all the kids before choosing. As Zandragliona always says when we go shopping, “Never stop at the first stall!” In fact, we would always go around all the vegetable stalls to see who had the freshest produce. Zandragliona would stop in front of a basket of melons, touch them, smell them, prod the skin with her thumb to see if it was ripe or not. Maybe you can do the same thing with kids? Prod them to see if they’re good or bad inside.

  The lady with the red flowery dress and her husband have done one round of the whole hall, accompanied by the signorina with the black ledger, as if they were looking for someone in particular. I sit up straight on the bench, practically holding my breath. She doesn’t look like Mamma after all. I thought she did because she wasn’t smiling either. It looks like they’re heading for the exit. They must have changed their mind: none of the fruit was fresh enough. But then the signorina with the black ledger leads them to a corner where there is the gap-toothed blond boy. I didn’t realize he was still here; I thought I was the only one left. From a distance, I can see the signorina reading the number pinned to his sleeve. The boy isn’t even looking at them. He stares down at his nails, which are now as black as they were before they made us have a shower. The husband says something to the boy, but he doesn’t answer. He moves his head up and down as if he were doing them a favor, not the other way around. As he gets up and follows them out of the hall he turns and grins at me with a mean face as if to say, “They took me even though I didn’t tell them my name, and nobody’s taking you.”

  The couple have made quite a bargain! If Zandragliona had been here, she would have discarded that melon for sure . . . but the truth is that he’s right. I’m the only one nobody wants.

  Maddalena looks at me from the other side of the room as she talks to a lady in a gray skirt, a white blouse, and a coat. She must be the one who takes the discarded kids back home, because she’s wearing a badge with the Communist flag on it, and she looks strict and serious. Her hair is blond, but not like Zandragliona’s; it’s a more delicate, pale yellow. The lady is listening to her, but she doesn’t move. She doesn’t even turn around to look when Maddalena points at me. Then she nods her head a few times as if to say, “Yes, yes, I’ll take care of this one.” Then they both walk to me. I force my feet back into my shoes, straighten my jacket, and stand up.

  “My name is Derna,” the lady says.

  “Amerigo Speranza,” I answer, holding out my hand like Tommasino did with the salt-and-pepper-mustached man. She holds it, but doesn’t squeeze it.

  I can see talking is not her strong point. She just wants to get on with it and go home. Maddalena gives me a kiss on the forehead and says goodbye.

  “Be good, Amerì. I’m leaving you in good hands.”

  “Let’s go, son. It’s getting late,” the lady says, grabbing my arm and pulling me. “We’ll miss the bus if we don’t hurry.”

  We hurry away, me and the lady, like thieves running away from the police. We walk close together, at the same pace, not too fast and not too slow, and soon find ourselves outside the train station. There’s an enormous square in front of us, with red brick buildings and lots of trees.

  “Where are we?” I ask, a little dazed.

  “This city is called Bologna. It’s a nice city, but we need to go home now.

  “Are you taking me home with you, signorina?”

  “Of course I am, son.”

  “Don’t we need to go on a train?”

  “It’s quicker on the bus.”

  AT THE BUS STOP I START SHAKING.

  “Are you cold?”

  I feel shivers running up and down my spine, but I don’t know whether it’s the cold or my fear. The lady opens her coat wide and lets me come inside.

  “With this cold and damp weather, they send them up here with no coats. My God . . .”

  I don’t say anything about throwing our coats out the train window, or about the mothers giving them to their other children. I just think about my mother’s face when she sees I’ve been sent back like the discards from the vegetable market. I plunge my hands deep into my jacket pockets and that’s when I realize Mamma’s apple is still there. I pull it out, but I can’t bring myself to eat it. My stomach is in knots.

  “One adult, one child,” the lady says to the ticket man when the bus comes. We climb on and sit side by side. The new shoes are hurting. It feels like I’ve been wearing them for a whole year, not just one day. The bus leaves. It’s getting dark and my eyes are drooping. Before falling asleep, I slip my shoes off under the seat and leave them there. What use are they, anyway? I was barefoot when I left, and I’ll be barefoot when I get sent back.

  Part Two

  13

  WHEN I OPEN MY EYES, IT’S PITCH BLACK. I stretch my feet out to feel for Mamma Antonietta’s legs and look around to where the light usually filters in through the half-closed shutters. I sit up in the middle of the empty bed, and there is no relief from the dark. I fumble around the room with my arms stretched out and my hands like scoopers looking for a window, a door, any
thing to orient myself with.

  “Mamma! Mamma!” I start shouting.

  There is no answer. The silence tells me I’m not home on my street.

  “Mamma,” I call again, more softly.

  The darkness is wrapped around me, and I’m not sure whether I’m awake or asleep. My heart is beating hard, and I can’t remember a thing. I was on a bus with a blond lady, who was supposed to be taking me back home. I must have fallen asleep, and now I’ve woken up in this strange bed.

  After a while, I hear a sound coming closer and closer. A door opens. It’s not Mamma Antonietta; it’s the lady who came to get me yesterday.

  “Did you have a bad dream?”

  Without the gray skirt and white blouse, she looks less like a Communist.

  “I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

  “Would you like a glass of water? I’m going to the kitchen . . .”

  I don’t answer. She crosses her arms over her breast and rubs her shoulders to warm herself up and walks toward the door.

  “Signorina,” I call out to her. “Have you brought me to Russia?”

  She opens her arms wide.

  “Russia? Poor little boy. What did they tell you down there? No wonder you had bad dreams. These stories are enough to give you nightmares!”

  I feel as though I’ve made her angry, but it’s hard to tell in the dark because I can’t see her face. The lady comes back to my bedside and brushes my cheek with her hand, which is cool to the touch.

  “We’re in Modena, not Russia, with people who will grow fond of you. This is home. Trust me . . .”

  This isn’t home and Mamma always says not to trust anyone, I think. But I don’t say anything.

  “I’ll go and get you some water,” she says.

  “Signorina,” I murmur as she is about to vanish into the darkness.

  “What is it, son? You must call me Derna, though. I’ve told you . . .”

  “Don’t go, please. I’m scared . . .”