Chapter 4
Chapter Four
C atherine woke up at six the following morning and left the hotel to jog around Central Park. It was already a sunny morning, but not even seventy degrees yet, and her muscles felt spry and bouncy as she swept through the trees, taking deep breaths. She passed other joggers and slender women pushing strollers in which sleeping babies lay. The babies had no idea what sort of life they’d been born into: a life of incredible privilege; a life in Manhattan; a life to a mother who cared so much about herself and her children that she woke up at the crack of dawn and put herself through the wringer to pay her bills and meet the right people and get her kids into the perfect daycare and preschool and elementary. It was a rat race. And it didn’t end till they went to college.
Catherine’s race was mostly over. She inhaled deeper, realizing that back when she’d been in the midst of those early years, she’d hardly managed to breathe at all.
Catherine paused to stretch on a patch of lush grass and extended her neck to look at the wide blue sky overhead. The city was coming to life, its horns blazing, its subways chugging along under her feet. She felt a deep and unending gratitude.
This is what you came here for, she said to her grandfather up there in the sky. I hope I carry your legacy well.
Catherine returned to the hotel by seven to find Scarlet still in bed with a notebook propped across her thigh and her phone out. She made notes frantically with a black pen.
“What’s up?” Catherine asked from the crack in the doorway. She glistened with sweat.
Scarlet nearly jumped out of bed with surprise. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
Catherine laughed and pulled her hair from its ponytail. Scarlet closed her notebook and fixed her face. It was clear whatever she wrote was nothing she wanted to share.
Maybe she’s working on a secret project, Catherine thought hopefully. Perhaps she’ll clue me in when the time is right.
“How was your run?” Scarlet asked.
“It was gorgeous. I fantasized about moving back.”
Scarlet wagged her eyebrows. “You’re a city girl!”
“Not anymore,” Catherine said with a sigh.
Catherine showered and came out to find a big pot of black coffee in the room between their bedrooms. Scarlet was showered and dressed in a trendy suit jacket with a pair of black shorts. She looked both professional and beautiful. Where had she learned to do that?
Catherine assembled everything required for the day ahead—a professional Canon camera, her phone, her laptop, and her notebook—and put them in her leather backpack. Scarlet packed a smaller backpack with her personal items and filled a water bottle. By eight, they were out the door to grab another cup of coffee from a local joint on the corner. In line, they watched a woman in her thirties lose her mind at the cashier because he’d put regular milk in her latte when she’d specifically asked for oat.
Scarlet and Catherine winced and made faces at each other.
“Okay,” Catherine breathed, “maybe I’m not fantasizing about moving back anymore.”
It was rare to see that behavior in Nantucket, at least among locals. An occasional city person lost their head with the waitstaff, but often, they were able to cool off and have an okay time a few minutes later. They were on vacation, after all.
Catherine and Scarlet took a cab to Battery Park. There, they lined up for the ferry and took plastic seats up on top. Catherine wanted to take photos as the island got closer and closer. She wanted to feel as close to her grandfather as she could.
Catherine and Scarlet reached Ellis Island fifteen minutes later. The second Catherine’s feet found the concrete on the island, a shiver went through her entire body. This is hallowed ground, she thought. This is where everything changed.
But where did his money go?
How did he lose it?
Catherine’s search was ripe with questions. Surely, there would be a clue here in Ellis Island. Indeed, this was an essential step.
Because Catherine and Scarlet had made an appointment, they could enter the records building before the other tourists. A curator named Deb met them and shook their hands. She had a sharp blond bob and very white teeth and spoke eloquently about Ellis Island in the manner of someone who gave the same speech every day but never really tired of it.
“How long have you been working here?” Catherine asked as they followed Deb deeper into the records area.
“Twenty years,” Deb answered. “It was my dream to work in museums, but Ellis Island is next-level. It’s more interactive. People like you come with questions about their family and their past. It’s remarkable what we learn together. We fill in gaps. We rewrite history together.”
Catherine hurriedly scribbled what Deb had just said on her notepad. Deb needed to be in her book somewhere. Maybe she could interview her at a later date; perhaps she could ask questions about Deb’s journey to curatorial work or her opinion about immigration or hear about the worst and best stories here on Ellis Island.
But this morning was all about Catherine’s relative: Gionnocaro Fellini.
“It was 1942, correct?” Deb asked.
“Yes. September 1942. One year before you closed down,” Catherine confirmed.
They’d paused in front of the mighty collection of books. They were as thick as tomes, with hundreds of brown and yellow pages upon which immigrants from mostly Europe had arrived and filled in their names and occupations. Because Catherine’s grandfather had come so much later than the initial gush of immigrants, his section included photographs. Catherine couldn’t wait to see his innocent and big-eyed face, assuredly so fearful about the coming months of hardship.
“Here we go,” Deb said as she put on a pair of gloves and proceeded to carefully go through the pages from September 1942. Catherine couldn’t breathe. She took numerous photos of the photos of immigrants and their occupations: baker or steelworker or dressmaker or architect. Her heart felt bruised at the expression on their faces. Fear. Turmoil. Because it was 1942, many of them had escaped the war in Europe. Maybe some of them were Jewish; perhaps they were running away from certain death.
Deb searched and searched and searched. However, after going through the entirety of September 1942, they found no sign of Gionnocaro Fellini.
Catherine’s thoughts spun.
“You’re sure it was September?” Deb asked.
Catherine nodded. It was family lore: September 1942. No question.
Deb closed the book and fixed her face into a smile. “Why don’t we check the database?”
Catherine had wanted to avoid the database, where every single name was listed and computerized. She’d wanted finding Gionnocaro’s name to feel romantic, almost accidental.
Scarlet touched her shoulder. Her face echoed Catherine’s disappointment.
“Even if it’s in October 1942 or August 1942, it’ll take hours to find it without the database,” Scarlet coaxed her. “But we’re still here. It’s still so, so cool that we’re here.”
Catherine perked up. “Thanks for saying that, honey.”
Catherine and Scarlet followed Deb to a nearby computer. Deb adjusted the keyboard so that Catherine could do the honors herself. Slowly, so as not to make any mistakes, she typed Gionnocaro Fellini.
Immediately, the database spat out April 14, 1937.
Catherine jerked her head back in surprise. “What? No. That can’t be right.”
But Deb was already off to find the book from that date. She returned with it and spread it across a nearby oak table, using her gloved hands to flip the pages. Catherine met Scarlet’s gaze.
“It must be a different Gionnocaro,” she said. “There’s just no way he came that early. My mother wasn’t born till 1947, and I know she was born just a few years after my grandfather arrived. Not ten years after.”
“I found him!” Deb called. If she’d heard Catherine’s worries, she’d decided to ignore them. The database was always correct, at least in Deb’s mind.
Scarlet stitched her brows together and led Catherine to the book. Sure enough, his name was in beautiful handwriting that evoked high society: Gionnocaro Fellini. He’d listed himself as an academic of all things. This made sense to Catherine, she supposed. In Italy, he’d had endless hours to pursue academia, to read philosophical texts, to become a great thinker. Until he’d lost his fortune and opened an Italian bakery—one of the first outside of Little Italy. It was the way he’d supported his family during that alienating time; the way he’d made his way in a cruel and dark America as the war ravaged on. It was often said that he hadn’t more than two nickels to rub together at any given time. But he’d still raised Catherine’s mother and aunts and uncle. He’d “made it,” yet had destroyed his mental and physical health in the process.
“Wow,” Scarlet breathed, her hands on her waist. “I can’t believe he listed himself as an academic.”
“It was rather common that immigrants had to pick up new ways of living once they arrived here,” Deb said. “There’s no way to know how good his English was or if he had any contacts here at all.”
“He went on to have an Italian bakery. It was one of the first Italian bakeries that succeeded outside of Little Italy, up in the Upper West Side,” Catherine explained. “So I imagine his academic contacts were limited. He made do with family recipes. He forged his way with food.”
“Just like so many Italian immigrants,” Deb said. “It was an alienating time.”
“I can’t even imagine,” Catherine breathed, still staring at her grandfather’s handwriting. “I just can’t figure out why my family always said he came in 1942. Because 1937 is a good chunk before that.”
“Stories get convoluted,” Deb said. “Maybe he told a story to his wife, who then told another story to your mother, who then told another story to you. Details get lost along the way.”
“Yes, but in a historical context, 1937 is markedly different from 1942,” Catherine pointed out. “The war raged heavily for the entire world by then.”
Deb raised her shoulders. “The books don’t lie. They’re perfect records of what happened here at Ellis Island. Whatever happened after Ellis Island is a mystery to me.”
“Where’s his photo?” Scarlet asked.
“Should be back here,” Deb said, flipping carefully to the next page.
There he was: Gionnocaro Fellini. He was solemn and clean-cut with black hair and a black mustache and large eyes. He wore an expensive-looking hat and a jacket that put him far above the photos of the photos of the other immigrants who were also pasted onto the yellow page.
Catherine’s eyes filled with tears. “Do you mind if I take a photograph?” Her voice shook.
“Just make sure you don’t use a flash,” Deb warned.
Catherine took several with her Canon as well as with the camera on her phone. Scarlet even snapped one, proof that this was nearly as emotional for her as it was for Catherine.
Catherine and Scarlet thanked Deb profusely and shook her hand again. They headed back through the gloomy halls and into the cleansing sunshine, where a massive line of hopeful Ellis Island visitors awaited entry. They cast jealous glances at Scarlet and Catherine.
But something tugged at Catherine’s heartstrings. Something felt amiss. She just couldn’t put her finger on what.
On the ferry, Catherine mentioned the date again. “The year was 1942,” she said. “It has to be. That’s the year the bakery was open.”
“Maybe he did something else before he opened the bakery?” Scarlet suggested. “Maybe he tried to join a university. Maybe he still pursued academia.”
Catherine flared her nostrils. “Okay. Let’s say that’s true. What happened to force my grandfather to quit academia and open a bakery?”
“He didn’t have enough money?”
“Sure. Yes. That’s the easy and probably best answer,” Catherine said. “But maybe I can reach out to Manhattan universities. Perhaps I can find records of him working on campus. Maybe I can figure out what he studied.” Catherine’s heart raced at the possibility of another story. She imagined finding a photograph of Gionnocaro in the library of NYU—the very university both Scarlet and Ivy attended. Just like their great-grandfather.
Maybe she was getting ahead of herself. But she was overjoyed at the prospect.
Catherine and Scarlet returned to the hotel briefly around noon. Catherine wanted to make notes and contact her sister, Sally. Sally lived in Dubai with her husband, which was a good eight hours ahead of East Coast US time. But Sally often stayed up late.
Catherine sent the photo of Gionnocaro from today’s trip to Ellis Island, plus the text: Look who I found! 1937, not 1942. Weird, right?
Sally called a few minutes later. Her voice was startlingly clear, given the distance between them.
“Cathy?” Sally sounded worried.
“Hi! Can you believe it? I saw his signature and everything! He listed himself as an academic,” Catherine said, speaking too quickly. “Which is why I’m going to contact a few universities around here. Maybe they have records. Maybe—”
But Sally cut her off. “Cathy, that’s not our grandfather.”
Catherine felt as though she’d been smacked. “What are you talking about?”
“You have photos of Grandpa somewhere, don’t you?” Sally said.
“Sure.” Catherine opened her laptop and pulled up the large file she’d assembled of photos of her grandfather, all of which she planned to use for the book. The photos largely began in the mid-to-late forties. There was her mother on the day of her birth. There was her grandmother, working tirelessly at the bakery with flour all over her face. There was her grandfather, smoking his pipe in the early fifties.
Catherine’s heart slammed to a halt.
Again, she brought up the photo she’d taken from Ellis Island. She compared the two men. Both had large black eyes. Both had black mustaches. But their face shapes were entirely different. The man in Ellis Island had a long, slender face, a sharp jaw, while the man in the fifties had rounder features and a kinder expression.
“Maybe he just gained weight?” Catherine whispered.
“It’s not him, Cathy,” her sister affirmed. “Their faces are completely different. And look. In the picture you took at Ellis Island, it lists his height as five foot eight. But Grandpa was tall, remember? Over six feet.”
Catherine’s mouth went dry. She needed a drink of water terribly. Slowly, she got to her feet, still gaping at the image from Ellis Island and her grandfather in the fifties. “I don’t understand.”
“That must be why the date is wrong,” her sister said. “I mean, that’s not our grandfather. Our grandfather Gionnocaro came over in 1942.”
“But it makes sense that he would have listed himself as an academic,” Catherine protested. “He was wealthy. He came from royalty.”
“Maybe he still did,” Sally said. “But it’s not him.”
Catherine realized she’d wanted to believe this so desperately that she’d ignored the facts right in front of her face. I wanted a fantasy. I wanted this to be him.
“What should I do?” Catherine asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe you should go back to Ellis Island?” Sally suggested. “You’re still in the city, right?”
“I’m still here.” Catherine collapsed in her chair and crossed her ankles. She was deflated.
“It’s okay,” Sally assured her. “You knew there would be some blips during your research.”
Catherine rubbed her temple. She should have known. But she was such a confident researcher. How many thousands of hours had she committed to the process? It felt bizarre she’d made such a mistake.
“You’re right,” Catherine said finally. “I’ll just go back. Maybe there’s a fascinating reason behind all of this. Maybe it’ll even serve the book.”
“Anything for the book,” Sally said with a soft laugh. “I love and miss you, Sis.”
“Right back at you, Sal.”