The church in Jersey City where they married held a portent in its very name: Our Lady of Sorrows.

It was the thick of the Depression — 1939 — and they were poor, so poor that just two days after the wedding they returned to their jobs, she as a secretary in a printing plant, he as a singing waiter.

She was an ordinary young woman, a plasterer’s daughter from a large Italian-American family, born in Jersey City in 1917. Her given names were Nancy Rose, her maiden name Barbato.

He was a far-from-ordinary young man, a scrappy, skinny kid who played the ukulele and sang, born to a small Italian-American family in Hoboken in 1915. His given names were Francis Albert. By now you know his surname.

For a dozen tumultuous years Frank and Nancy Sinatra were man and wife — a swath of time that included hearth, home and children for her and, for him, unparalleled fame and fortune, record deals, motion pictures and a string of extramarital romances that were grist for the gossip columns.