“Oh, no! I believed it was the end of the world. The earth shook and rumbled underneath us. When it grew light it seemed as if the mountains of Calabria were coming at us across the straits to crush us.”
Francesco now took up the story: “I made my way down to the Faro. When it was light I found a boat and rowed out to the ships in the harbor. Later, when the Russian vessels came, they gave me a little food and a few clothes. In the end they took us on board their ship, they fed and clothed us. Russians, did I say, Signora? No, they were angels. They took us and many, many others to Naples on their great ship. At Naples the highest signoria waited upon us as if they had been servants. They gave us white bread and wine and more clothes, shoes also, and they showed us the kindness of brothers and sisters. We shall never forget them. Then the Duchess of Aosta paid our fare to Rome.”
“What? The railroad did not take you free?”
“Oh, no! Every one was paid for by the Duchessa benedetta.”
As they seemed pleased to have me stay with them, I sat and comforted them as well as I could for an hour. After a little Lucia came and sat beside me and promised me that she would not grieve when her time came to go to the hospital. We made out a list of the things most needed, headed by a set of plumber’s tools for Francesco and a basket for the baby to sleep in. I promised to return in a few days, and as I rose to take leave they clung to me as if I had been an old friend.
“Is it your wish in the future,” I said to Francesco, “to remain in Rome, or later to return to Messina?” Even now we outsiders had not yet grasped the awful completeness of the disaster.
At my question Rosina became terrified, and for the first time in our interview lost her self-control. She threw both her hands above her head with a dreadful gesture of despair and shrieked:
“Messina? What is it that you say? Messina non esiste più!”
It was from Rosina that the eagle-faced man had got his phrase; it was from her that I for the first time had an inkling of the true extent of the calamity. When I look back at these last months during which I have lived with the thought of Messina always with me, till it seems as if the word Messina must be found seared upon my heart when I am dead, I hear those words, “Messina non esiste più!” When I pass in review the hundreds of survivors I have seen and talked with in Rome, Syracuse, Palermo, finally in Messina itself, I see clearest of all the face of Rosina, the ancient woman; I hear her shriek of woe: