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.