HELEN’S STORY
In 1900, a kernel of hope was planted in the fertile imagination of Paolo Giametta. The hope for a better life in America was a dream that he nurtured until it grew into an elegant stalk, its head plump with grain. That year, the harvest in his heart far exceeded Foggia’s meager harvest, which was taxed heavily and left barely enough to survive. Paolo often went hungry so that his wife, Rosa, could eat; after all, it was from her bosoms the bambinos were nourished.
La miseria abounded in Italy but America: the name tickled his ears like a lover’s tongue, playful and intoxicating. America would be different. In 1901, Paolo promised Rosa, newly pregnant with their fourth child, that he would establish himself in America and send money for the rest of the family’s passage before the baby was born.
***
One hundred and seventy-one Puritan Ave was the culmination of Paolo and Rosa Giametta’s American dream. A single-family home whose ivory-stucco exterior was complimented by terracotta-colored trim. Despite its location in the heart of Worcester, Massachusetts, the house had a uniquely Italian appearance as though it had taken on the history and heritage of its inhabitants. Helen, the sixth of Paolo and Rosa’s ten children was born in the house on Puritan Ave.
As a child, Helen was engrossed by the challenges her family overcame immigrating to America. She loved to hear her father tell the harrowing tale of his transatlantic journey in the steerage compartment of the Neapolitan Prince. How, despite the cramped and fetid conditions below deck, he never once questioned his decision to leave Italia.
When he arrived in New York, Paolo stayed with and learned the trade of a family friend who’d left nearly a decade earlier. Roberto Arlotta was a hat maker with a thriving workshop. Paolo worked hard to earn his keep. He was a man of quick wit and deft fingers. He mastered the trade readily. However, New York was saturated with Italian hat makers. Paolo was committed to pursuing the opportunity of America that still whispered to him lovingly at night. But he knew he would never receive all She promised if he stayed in New York working under Mr. Arlotta’s thumb.
Worcester was friendly to new manufacturers. The city was growing fast and easily accessed from New York by rail. Paolo moved to Worcester, opened a hattery, and quickly saved the requisite funds to send for his family. In May of 1903, Rosa and her four children, Josie, Mike, Gianni, and baby Salvatore, made the same harrowing journey Paolo had taken nearly two years before.
In contrast to her husband’s experience, Rosa’s confidence was shaken by every pitch and heave of the ship’s bow. She longed to be with Paolo and for their new life in America, but the odor of sick, filth, and death hung heavy in the steerage compartment of the Christoforo Colombo.
Josie—her eldest child—helped comfort the boys during the bleak days below deck. Little Sal was ill for most of the voyage. With his every indolent wail, Rosa and Josie prayed to the Madonna for his recovery; she granted them this miracle in time for Salvatore to pass health inspection at Ellis Island.
Rosa loved to reflect upon the moment she laid eyes on the Statue of Liberty, her torch held high and her compassionate gaze—the American Madonna. Rosa believed the Holy Mother had granted them safe passage. At Ellis Island, a disinterested worker transcribed Rosa and the children’s last name as Jenette. This was the only surname name Helen, born in 1912, had ever used.
At age fifteen, Helen grew tired of her parents’ frequent rehashing of this journey as though it were an epic rags-to-riches tale. Her mother never spoke English, although Helen knew she understood it. While they did not live in a tenement or a triple-decker like many other recent immigrants, Helen shared her bedroom with three sisters and two nieces. Helen wished her sister Josie and her husband hadn’t moved back in with their three kids. Thank God her older brothers weren’t married yet. The idea of cramming more bodies into the tiny house was maddening.
Helen slid her hand across the smooth plaster wall as she descended the narrow stairs. All three bedrooms and the bathroom were upstairs. Downstairs was a small kitchen, the “dining” room, which had been converted into Josie and Marco’s bedroom and the parlor. Her mother’s prize possession resided in the parlor: a gleaming, mahogany, upright player piano, which she paid for in weekly installments. Rosa loved singing with her daughters at the piano. She constantly reminded Helen how lucky she was to live in such a house.
It was hard for Helen to imagine the cottage with dirt floors her parents had shared with three generations of family and a suspicious quantity of livestock for people who claimed to be hungry. Whenever she had the gall to complain about life in America, her mother would smack her and tell her stories of the old country, the illness, hunger, and lack of opportunity. To Rosa, their home with indoor plumbing, wood floors, electricity, and mattresses (rather than beds of straw) was a veritable palace. Helen lacked the perspective necessary to see the house in the same positive light as her mother.
It was April 19th, 1928. Helen’s birthday was just a few weeks away. She would be sixteen, and in the warmth of early spring, she could feel a shift in her body. A ripening. Where she was once as flat and straight as the boys, she’d begun to curve, a subtle widening of the hips, an alarming strain on the buttons at the front of her blouse. No longer a child, Rosa required Helen to wear her dark hair in the same style as hers: parted on the left, pulled back, braided, and then wound into a tight knot at the back of her head. The severe look accentuated her eyes, which were dark in color but bright with the eagerness of youth.
That morning, the windows were opened, and the kitchen was alive with the smell of baking bread and the sounds of Rosa and Josie jabbering in Italian so fast the words were almost indistinguishable. They had been to the butcher, purchased half a pig, and planned to spend the day breaking it down and making sausages.
The luscious, breezy springtime weather reminded them of the need for ice to preserve the meat. A young girl clung nagging to Josie’s apron.
“Ma, ma, ma, MAAAAA”
“Che cosa vuoi?” Josie answered the child sharply.
“Can I help make the sausages?”
“Si Bambina, maybe you and big Helen can go fetcha the ice first?”
Helen glared at Josie. There were thousands of perfectly good names in the world; why she had chosen to name her daughter Helen too, annoyed her. Helen was constantly getting stuck with her namesake niece. Always having two Helens around was molto disorientare.
In her head, Helen retorted sharply to her sister ‘Anything to get out of here’ however, the words that slipped through her tight lips were: “Yes, we’d be happy to go get ice.”
Helen knew that Grafton Street, where they’d find the ice vendor’s wagon, would be bustling on a temperate spring Saturday. Despite her resentment at having to take little Helen along, she was delighted to escape the stuffy house.
The younger Helen’s hands were inexplicably sticky and warm, as always seems to be the case with young children. Despite her distaste for the moisture building between their palms, the elder Helen waved goodbye to their mothers, and the girls dutifully set out on their mission. Even as they started to navigate the granite slabs that served as stairs to the road, little Helen began to wriggle away from her aunt, her slimy hand quickly escaping the elder Helen’s unenthusiastic grasp.
“I’m not a baby, you know,” young Helen said. “You don’t need to hold my hand everywhere we go. I’m six.”
“I know you’re not a baby. You think I want to hold your hand?” Helen retorted in a tone more cutting than she intended. “Just stay close to me, okay?” she said more gently. “Okay,” little Helen agreed.
Both girls were happy to be out of the house and away from the watchful eyes of their mothers. Young Helen smiled at her aunt, and her eyes twinkled with mischief as she began to skip just far enough away to be aggravating. Her body loped gracefully along the quiet street, all jutting elbows and bright smiles. Soon, the elder Helen also found herself skipping, bounding forward in a cloud of dust, a goofy grin plastered to her face as they passed the tidy single-family homes that lined their dead-end street. The younger Helen arrived at the cobblestones of Grafton Street first.
“Wait up!” The elder girl called.
The young girl stood patiently. When the elder Helen arrived, giggling and breathless, she took her niece’s hand.
“Isn’t it lovely out?” Helen said.
“Yes, it really is,” her niece replied. Her brown eyes glinted with a hint of gold, reflecting the rays of the powerful spring sun.
On the wide expanse of Grafton Street, multiple Worcester Consolidated Street Railway tracks merged on their way to Union Station. The road was abuzz with sound: the clanging of cable cars, the clip-clop of horse hooves, and the aggressive growl of automobile engines as they darted between pedestrians and obstacles alike. It was a dazzling spring day. The street’s black, brown, and sepia tones cut a stunning image against the cerulean sky. As they embarked upon Grafton Street, Helen saw a group of teenagers she knew from school and dropped her niece’s hand. The elder Helen began to palm the front of her cotton jumper; the fabric felt cool and smooth under her skin.
Jimmy McIntyre was among the group, and while her cheeks had been ruddy from skipping, now they were afire with blood rising in her face. Jimmy was clever and good-natured, well-liked by teachers and students alike. Helen and Jimmy had been in classes together since fourth grade; however, Jimmy had never paid Helen any attention. Jimmy noticed her from across the street and tipped his woolen flat cap in her direction.
“Hey-a, Helen,” he called out.
Stunned, Helen trained her eyes on her brown leather shoes to avoid the looks from her classmates and Jimmy’s piercing blue eyes. She was drawn to his voice, which lilted with the gentle brogue of one who’d grown up on stories of the Emerald Isle but had never visited it himself. Helen looked up at him, her cheeks growing so hot she feared she might spontaneously combust. She reached for the younger girl’s hand once again and, looking both ways, navigated the busy street toward a folla of her classmates. The younger girl’s eyes scanned the street sulkily, searching for the ice vendor’s wagon.
“Hi, Jimmy,” Helen managed as they approached the crowd.
She was growing bolder despite her nerves. The noises and smells of the street were heightened and more abrasive in his presence. Clasping her niece’s hand, Helen was now thankful for the small comfort of its sticky dampness.
“Nice day, isn’t it. What do you have planned for the weekend?” She couldn’t believe the voice had come from within her. While quiet, she sounded confident. Dare she imagine, sharp? Helen looked up from her feet and directly into Jimmy’s glittering blue eyes; they struck her as brighter than the sky.
The white-washed walls of a familiar wagon pulled by two heavy horses caught the younger girl’s eye from diagonally across Grafton Street. Little Helen was learning to read, and one of the words emblazoned on the side was familiar. The prominent block letter read “Walker Ice Co.” She began to tug eagerly on her auntie’s arm.
“I see the ice man! There he is, let’s go!”
Little Helen was anxious to get home to stuff the sausages. She loved the glossy translucence of the casings filled to the brim with their decadent contents. She was craving the fragrant mixture of ground pork, herbs, and spice so acutely she could taste it. Her mouth began to water. She wriggled out of the elder Helen’s grasp and began to trot jauntily backward toward the ice vendor’s wagon. A mischievous, jovial expression on the little girl’s face. Helen watched nervously as the distance between them grew but was reluctant to end her conversation with Jimmy so swiftly. She wanted to stay, chat, and stare into his blue eyes for hours.
“Who’s your friend?” He asked.
“She’s my sister’s girl. Her name is Helen too. I need to catch up to her. We’re supposed to buy ice. It was nice to see you, Jimmy. See ya at school.”
Helen’s face flushed anew as she turned away from Jimmy, catching a whiff of his scent on the breeze: it was at once musky and grassy fresh. The smell of almost man.
As Helen turned to steal one last look at Jimmy, she heard a terrible screeching of tires. She whipped around to see little Helen’s body catapult many feet from where she’d stood and heard a subtle crunch within the pronounced thud of her landing.
“HELEN!” She screamed, an inhuman noise exiting her body.
She ran blindly to the broken child’s side. There was blood in her nose; her body looked wrong. Her chest rose and fell in short, ragged gasps. Helen realized she had been holding her breath; upon seeing that her niece was still alive, she granted herself permission to continue breathing. The world, which had been bright and blue, turned heavy and hazy. Helen heaved. She crouched down and gathered little Helen in her arms, rocking and holding her tight. The girl was just flesh and bone, a lithe and tiny thing with an energy and vitality that had made her seem more substantial than she was. Clutching her slight body, the elder Helen could feel her true fragility. The container of her soul small and undeveloped, not yet budding like hers and not yet grown like an adult’s.
A crowd began to form a perimeter around the accident. The chauffeur in his stiff, brass-buttoned jacket and tidy cap ran over. He began to simultaneously excuse himself from wrongdoing and berate Helen for not having been more solicitous of the young girl.
Helen was deaf to the commotion around her. Her ears whirred as she held on for dear life, drawing young Helen’s chest as close to hers as possible as though the strength of her heartbeat might inspire her niece’s to continue. They remained this way for many minutes. The crowd lost interest and began to disperse. A stranger put a warm hand on Helen’s shoulder, wrenching her out of the sphere of her nightmare.
“Dear, we must get you both out of the road. With the cable cars and traffic, you’ll likely be next if you stay here. May I carry the little one home for you?”
Helen stared up at the man blankly, taking a moment to process his offer. Eventually, she nodded in acquiescence. He bent down and retrieved the unconscious girl from her arms, lacing his hands gingerly under her armpits and gathering her up to his chest. As he stood, little Helen’s leg dangled floppily. Helen led them silently back to Puritan Ave. Finally, the man carried little Helen gravely up the house’s front steps. Helen motioned for him to wait and entered the house with a sudden sense of urgency, the rosy glow gone from her face, the brightness stolen from her eyes.
“Ma, Josie, there’s been an accident,” Helen said with a heaviness that pressed on her chest like a steel girder and motioned towards the front door.
Josie’s face twisted with concern, “Where’s my baby Helen?” She asked as she rushed out onto the steps.
Upon seeing her child in the man’s arms, Josie howled, “A! Bambina!” Is she dead?” She asked the man as she greedily tore the girl away from him and showered her grimy face with kisses.
“She’s alive. She was hit by an automobile in the street and thrown a distance.”
“la ringrazio per il gentile aiuto signore,” Rosa managed, placing her hand gently on her distraught daughter’s elbow.
“I’m very sorry. I hope the young one makes it.” The gentleman said before tipping his black bowler hat and retreating up the dusty road.
“Ave, O Maria, piena di grazia, il Signore è con te…” The Hail Mary poured from Rosa’s lips repeated with a speed and fervor reserved for times of great crisis. Josie clutched her daughter’s mangled body to her breast as she carried her to the living room and laid her on the bristly horsehair couch. The little girl’s eyes opened; she looked up at her mother and smiled. “Mama.” She breathed.
Josie brushed the mud-crusted, brown hair from her forehead and kissed her lightly. “You’ll be okay, Bambina,” Josie whispered, a tear sliding down her face as she crouched beside the sofa.
A look of concern clouded little Helen’s visage. “I can’t move, Mama,” she whispered, strain visible in her eyes as her brain sent messages to limbs that went unanswered.
“Don’t try, baby. We’ll call the Doctor, he’ll come see you. Soon, you’ll be all better,” Josie uttered with wavering conviction.
“Helen, find Sal. Have him run to Doctor Abruzzo’s and let him know to come right away.”
Helen emerged from the corner she had tucked herself into and knelt beside the sofa. She placed her hand on her niece’s shoulder and whispered, “I’m so sorry, Helen. I shouldn’t have let you go. This is all my fault. I hope you’ll forgive me.”
The young girl managed a half-smile, “It’s not your fault, Helen. I wanted to catch the ice man.”
Bearing her guilt like an oppressive woolen cloak that muffled and muted the sights and sounds of the outside world, Helen went to look for her older brother, Sal. She located him in the backyard, splitting wood. His eyes, nearly black, squinted in the brightness of the day as he white-knuckled the axe with his customary intensity.
“Sal,” Helen was forced to shout over the racket of his labor.
Startled, he looked up, still gripping the axe.
“Helen was struck by an automobile. You need to find Dr. Abruzzo.”
It was afternoon when Sal returned with the Doctor. He was a small, stout man whose dark clothing and solemn, bespectacled eyes gave him an air of dull sobriety. He carried with him a black leather bag, which contained his repertoire of medical accouterments. Josie swiftly ushered him into the parlor, where little Helen remained laid out on the sofa, unconscious at the moment. He knelt beside her and took her thin wrist in his stubby fingers; he brought his left ear near her mouth, listening for the quality of her breath, and watched her chest rise and fall ever so slightly.
“Her breathing is shallow, and her pulse is weak.” He said, making a verbal note. Opening his bag, the Doctor retrieved his stethoscope and placed its cold, metal diaphragm on little Helen’s pale skin, listening closely to the internal workings of the child’s wounded being.
“Has she been conscious since the accident?” The Doctor inquired.
“Yes, she has, in and out. She’s even spoken a bit.” Josie replied, her voice betraying a twinge of hope.
“Well, that’s something.” The Doctor said ambiguously as he examined her body and tested her reflexes. No response registered while he poked, prodded, and tapped at little Helen. His face was locked in a concerned frown. His palpations became more invasive, and he still received no response. Eventually, the Doctor retrieved a vial of smelling salts from his bag and waved it under little Helen’s nose. Momentarily, she came to, eyes glassy, confused. Her pupils shrank to pinpricks as her eyes darted wildly around the room. Josie rushed to her side and took her hand. The girl’s eyes followed her mother’s hand, but she did not move.
“You’ve been in quite a mess, my dear. Are you in pain?” the Doctor asked.
A tear dropped from the corner of Helen’s eye, leaving a narrow trail across her brief temple before falling below her dusty hairline.
She answered, “No, I can’t feel… anything. Mama, I can’t feel your hand.”
Her eyes widened to the size of saucers, and her sallow face began to twist with fear. Doctor Abruzzo turned to Josie and gently relocated her hand to Helen’s face.
“Do you feel that dear?” He asked.
The tension in Helen’s face visibly dissipated, and the tears continued to flow. The Doctor removed his hand, but Josie continued to stroke her daughter’s cheek.
“Yes, I can feel that.” Helen exhaled. She closed her eyes and began to drift off.
The Doctor continued to poke and prod her lower body in search of something that eluded him. When it was certain the child was no longer conscious, he addressed Josie:
“She’s likely broken her back, and if she survives, she may never walk again or perhaps move at all. I cannot be certain, but her body is quite taxed and lacks all reflexive responses. It will be a matter of waiting to see if her organs are well enough to recover from the shock. She may survive; however, I do not want to give you false hope. The child is gravely hurt and will likely be called back to Our Lord.”
Josie withdrew her hand from the girl’s waxen face and crumpled to the floor.
“Is there anything that can be done for her, Doctor?”
“Keep her comfortable. Talk to her. Pray. I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but I recommend having Father Benedict come to offer her last rites.”
Rosa, who, until this point, had been muttering her Hail Mary in the corner, began to wail. The elder Helen, who had retreated to the kitchen to listen out of sight at the Doctor’s arrival, felt a darkness creep into her belly. The hope that her niece would be okay had built a cozy nest near her breast; its black form now turned its beak to her face, squawked once, and flew away. Leaving her cold and empty. Helen prayed for it to return, prayed for the child to live, and prayed that her family would not blame her for the accident.
Helen’s knees developed bruises and callouses, the front of her skirts perpetually dirty from time spent prostrating herself to the stone Madonna in the front yard. The Holy Mother’s blue cloak and serene eyes tucked into the safety of an oversized clamshell offered her a modicum of solace in those long days. After all, Mary had been her age when Gabriel had come to her and told her she was carrying Our Savior. Helen enjoyed a renewed understanding of the Virgin Mother’s fear and shame and hoped she could trust her to save this child.
The broken Helen was moved from the sofa to her parent’s bedroom, where Josie kept watch at her daughter’s side. The girl drifted in and out of consciousness, occasionally coming to and receiving her mother’s tender words with as much recognition as she could muster. While her body still clung to life, all traces of youthful vigor had abandoned her tiny, immobile shell. Her mother, grandmother, aunts, and neighbors kept vigil, frowns engraved on their faces, rosary beads clutched between their rough fingertips. The Doctor returned the next day to examine Helen again; he poked, prodded, and tapped much in the same way as he’d done before. She was harder to rouse, disoriented when awake, and quick to allow her delicate lids to droop over her now bloodshot and bulging eyes.
“How does she look, Doctor?” Josie asked, clinging desperately to her last morsel of hope.
“Not good. I believe Helen suffers from swelling on the brain, sometimes caused by impact. I’m afraid that this, combined with her other injuries, will prove too much for her little soul to overcome. Her breath is still ragged, and her heart is working very hard to beat, but for how much longer, I cannot say.” Doctor Abruzzo placed his hand warmly on Josie’s elbow as he delivered his findings.
Josie received the news with an empty stare. After the Doctor left, Josie lay on the bed next to her dying child, clasped her limp hand, and placed a pillow over her own mouth to stifle the scream she felt rising to her lips. She could not stop the river of tears that would fall for weeks. ‘This sort of thing wasn’t supposed to happen in America,’ she thought. The month-long journey in steerage should have been the worst suffering Josie had ever known; she would gladly spend the rest of her life in similar conditions if such a sacrifice could keep her daughter alive. On the third day, it was clear to all Helen was failing. Her breath came in infrequent, tortured gasps, and she could not be roused. Rosa called on the priest, and he came to offer the girl her final sacrament. Father Benedict stayed until Helen’s shallow breath was a memory. Her frail and delicate form, now a mass of skin and bones, matter without purpose and ready to be discarded.
Helen went to the girl after the priest, and Josie left. She laid a hand on her chest and quickly pulled it away, horrified by this cold thing her niece had become. Guilt and terror washed over her like a wave, sending a chill to her core. Rosa watched from the doorway and came to offer her comfort. She held Helen as she shook and heaved. Both women cried.
“Ma,” Helen asked, “Can the Lord ever forgive me for such a sin?”
“It wasn’t your fault, Helen; the lousy driver who hit her is to blame,” Rosa said. Helen stared up at her, but Rosa would not meet her gaze.
Helen never went back to school. On a trip to the market weeks later, she passed Jimmy on Grafton Street; she kept her head down, hoping he would not notice her.
Jimmy called across the thoroughfare to her, “Hey’ya, Helen. How’d your niece make out? Is she okay?”
She pretended not to hear and shuffled along, eyes trained on the cobblestones. Her infatuation with Jimmy died with little Helen, and she had no desire to resurrect it.
Helen kept herself occupied at home cooking, mending, and ironing. She completed every task asked of her with meticulous care and without question. The guilt ate at her insides like acid. Paolo, her father, died the following year. Helen blamed herself. His heartbreak over the death of his favorite grandchild had ignited something dark within him that quickly consumed his life.
Her brothers took over the hattery, and Helen found herself responsible for the bulk of the household tasks.
She married late. In 1940, she wed a divorcé who was six years her elder. Later that year, they welcomed their first child, a son. Soon after, they welcomed a daughter. To her surprise, Helen discovered she was pregnant for a third time at age 40. At first, the pregnancy seemed like a blessing. When her husband died of a heart attack during her sixth month, the burden of culpability Helen carried, coupled with grief over his death, became too much to bear.
Helen was committed to the Worcester State Hospital. Her third child was born there. Helen’s stay was temporary, as she managed to navigate the rough waters of her inner life well enough to be released when her youngest daughter was 6 weeks old.
Helen’s greatest desire for her children was that they live small, safe lives. She loved them dearly. However, that love radiated out from her at odd angles; there were corners and sharp edges where it did not reach.
Liz Teuber is a mother, farmer, wife, divorcée, yoga teacher and avid forever student in the
school of life. She divides her time between Vermont’s rural Northeast Kingdom and the
metropolis of Burlington. An eclectic writer of poetry, CNF and fiction, her work has appeared
in The Prairie Review, Otolith’s Magazine and Discretionary Love. You can find her on
instagram @liz_teuber
OVUNQUE SIAMO 