Читать книгу Amy's Story - Anna Lawton - Страница 4

A flashback

Joe Tornese was born in New York in the early 1930s, a second-generation son of Italian immigrants from a village south of Naples. His parents came to the U.S. as kids, with their families, after WWI. In 1921 the U.S. had resumed its immigration program, after a brief interruption due to the war, and had passed the first Immigration Quota Law to control the huge demand from people desperate to escape the dismal living conditions in a Europe devastated by the conflict. Joe’s grandparents and their children were among the 560,971 immigrants admitted to the United States that year. Joe’s mother, known as Mamma Lucia among the pizzeria’s patrons, is still alive at age eighty-nine and keeps telling the same story that Amy has heard dozens of times.

“È stata la miseria, bella mia. We were starving, you know? You think we would leave if we were well off? You kiddin’? That was home, family, friends, the graves in the cemetery... Hell, no. We would not leave. But we were starving. The land we worked belonged to the baron, don Ferdinando, that son-nabitch God forgive him. He had acres and acres of land, and we and other hands worked just a small piece each family. Still, it would have been enough. But at the end of each month, his men came by on horseback, with a wagon, and took all the crop. We sweated on his land and were left with nothing. Noi a faticà e lui a magnà. We had no choice but to get on the ship and go seek a better life.”

Lucia was nine when the family embarked on their journey to America with their possessions wrapped up in two blankets. Going up the gangplank, the father carried the two big bundles, the mother held two younger sons in her arms, and Lucia walked by her, holding on to her skirt. For three weeks they shared the cramped quarters in the bowels of the ship with dozens of other families. The air was stifling, there were no portholes. They slept on narrow berths, adults and children together. Twice a day they received a meager meal, consisting mainly of soup and stale bread. Many were seasick, others fell seriously ill, two women gave birth before their time. The stench grew more unbearable every day. Lucia was able to sneak out at dusk and venture onto the upper deck. At that time, the first-class passengers and the crew were having dinner, and she could move stealthily around without being seen. On one of her outings, she met a boy about her age, a fellow immigrant who ten years later became her husband.

Lucia went on with her story.

“Down there it was hell. And up on the deck it was heaven. Un paradiso. So many stars... and so close. The air was fresh, everything was clean and tidy. Now I had a friend, Rocco, and together we watched the white tail in the water behind the ship that sparkled in the moonlight. That made me forget that I was terribly hungry. We also found a spot where we could look through a window and see the large dining room with beautiful people, women in silk dresses with jewelry in the hair and around the neck, drinking and dancing. Rocco said that in America we, too, will be living like this.

“When the ship entered the harbor at the end of the journey, they let us all out to the lower deck to have a view of the land that we would call home from now on. I saw the big statue of the Lady with a long gown and a crown on the head, and I thought she looked very elegant and impressive, like those women in the dining room, but more strong and powerful, and I felt she was there to welcome me, like she was saying, ‘Hello, Lucia. Benvenuta. Come on in. Now you belong with us.’ And I realized that Rocco was right.”

As it turned out, Lucia’s expectations did not materialize in the way she and Rocco had envisioned. Nevertheless, in the end they were able to attain a modest measure of the American Dream. It was not easy.

After docking, the immigrants were corralled into the reception facilities on Ellis Island, where they endured a month of interviews, physical exams, background investigations of their criminal and political records, and other humiliating but necessary procedures to ascertain that they were fit to become citizens of this privileged nation. Many did not pass the test, for one reason or another, and were sent back home on the next available ship. They were crushed, their dream was shattered. Lucia’s parents were gripped by fear that this may happen to them as well. So, they made an extra effort to be on their best behavior, do exactly as they were told, give all the right answers, and smile a lot. Perhaps this helped, or perhaps they just got lucky. At the end of the month, the family received a pack of newly-stamped papers and was admitted into the U.S.A.

They settled in a small one-bedroom apartment, on the fifth floor of a tenement not far from the pizzeria’s current location. They got the apartment through St. Christopher Church, which provided assistance to the newly arrived. The parish priest explained that the church was named after the saint who once carried Baby Jesus across the water, and was therefore considered the patron saint of the immigrants.

There were many Italians in the neighborhood, and that made it easier to get started. They gave each other emotional and material support in a city that would have otherwise felt terrifying—a huge, alien world where everybody spoke a language they did not understand. Through a cumpà, a home-town fellowman who had been in New York for a few years, Lucia’s father soon got a job in construction. Her mother worked as a cleaning woman for a hotel chain while a next-door neighbor took care of the younger kids together with her own grandchildren.

Lucia enrolled in first grade because she had not had any schooling back home. And so did Rocco, even though he was two years older. They lived on the same street, and in the morning went to school together. They had to be careful to avoid the back alleys. Those were dangerous places because of the rival gangs that roamed the neighborhood—Italian, Irish and Jewish. But Rocco knew how to keep out of trouble and, if needed, how to kick a bully in the crotch. They soon learned to speak English well enough, and also to read and write in that language because, as Rocco said, this is what it takes to get rich in America. However, notwithstanding their best efforts, they never acquired native fluency. Their choice of words, their turn of phrase, their intonation would forever be a bit off. And their accent remained markedly Southern Italian, because at home this was the only language their parents spoke. This branded them inexorably as “not quite” American, even in the eyes of the best-intentioned people, and triggered the dreaded question—Where are you from?— at each and every first casual encounter. On occasion, they were met with hostility. More often, it was a sympathetic but overly concerned stare that made them feel diminished, as if the person had just learned that they suffered from some disability and needed help.

After graduation from primary school, they went to work; Lucia in a textile factory, and Rocco in a diner that belonged to an uncle of his. Every third Sunday, Rocco had the day off, and the two of them took the train to Coney Island and spent the afternoon at Luna Park. On the way to the station, they held hands and Rocco sang to her in his Neapolitan-accented English:

We’ll take a trip up to the moon

For that is the place for a lark.

So meet me down at Luna, Lena,

Down at Luna Park.

They splurged a few pennies on cotton candy and lemonade and walked among those mesmerizing attractions—the giant Wonder Wheel, the Cyclone roller coaster, the dizzying merry-go-rounds, brightly colored and scintillating with hundreds of lights. They laughed at the grotesque images on the freak show posters—”Marian: Headless Girl From London,” “Winsome Winnie: Fat Pretty And Jolly,” “Zip & Pip: 2 Georgia Peaches,” “Smallest Grown Ups On Earth”... And, although they could not afford the ticket for a ride or a show, they were happy all the same to watch the action and listen to the music.

When Lucia turned twenty, her father consented to their marriage. For the occasion he spent most of his savings of ten years. They had a reception at the church for the extended family, some fifty relatives on each side, with wine and food catered by Rocco’s uncle. Lucia had received a few yards of white silk from the textile factory as a wedding gift, and her mother sewed her a beautiful bridal gown. She looked splendid in that dress. Dancing with Rocco, she felt like the princess in an American fairy tale of her own. Rocco’s uncle acted as the MC and toasted the couple repeatedly, with wishes of a bright future and figli maschi (male children), which according to tradition was regarded as the most desirable and luckiest of outcomes.

They were not disappointed because one year later Joe was born. As for the bright future, it had to wait another fifteen years. It was 1933, and they were already deep into the Great Depression. Four years earlier, the nation, and the world, looked in dismay at the collapse of the stock market, and now pinned their hopes on President Roosevelt for guidance and reassurance.

Unemployment in the U.S. rose to 25 percent. Lucia’s father lost his job with the private developer he had been working for, and joined the lines of the unemployed that grew longer and longer every day. The textile factory where Lucia worked had to shut down and lay off the entire work force. She, Rocco and little Joe moved in with her parents in order to save on the rent and help the family. They slept on cots in the kitchen, while Lucia’s parents and her younger brothers shared the bedroom. To make ends meet, Lucia joined her mother on the hotel cleaning team.

Rocco, on the other hand, managed to keep his job at the diner, and was even promoted from busboy to cook. It was thanks to his talent for pizza making that the diner could survive through those dismal years. Pizza was born in Naples as a food for the poor—who knows when? Perhaps as soon as tomatoes where imported from America in the sixteenth century. At that time, it consisted of flat bread, tomatoes, olive oil, and oregano. No cheese. Cheese was added later, when pizza was already on its way to acquiring status as a folk cuisine specialty. The original version could be produced and sold for a few cents. That is what Rocco understood. His pizza was a bargain that most people could afford. The sign in the window declared: You CAN’T afford NOT to buy it! In fact, Rocco explained, it’s darn cheap, it fills an empty stomach and, on top of everything, it tastes soooo good—even if he had to substitute corn oil for olive oil and use tomato paste in the winter instead of fresh tomatoes.

Unlike other businesses, the diner was doing well, and Rocco’s uncle was able to pay him a decent salary. That is, until they received a visit from the local godfather.

Don Vincent Marrano sat down at a corner table with two of his henchmen, their backs to the wall, their faces partly obscured by fedora hats. He ordered pizza for himself. The other two remained vigilant while he was eating. Afterwards, he asked to talk to Rocco’s uncle:

“Chist’è robba buona. This is good stuff. You’re providing a good service to the people in the neighborhood. I want you to be able to continue. So, I offer you my protection. From now on, you won’t have to worry about nothing. If there’s a problem, we’ll take care of it. Parola mia. You have my word.”

A handshake, and the deal was sealed—with or without the uncle’s consent. At the end of each month, the two thugs in fedora hats came by to collect the money, leaving almost nothing for Rocco’s salary—just like the baron’s men back home would come and get our crop, that sonnabitch God forgive him, commented Mamma Lucia in her tale.

Then, one day, Lucia’s father came home with good news: he had been hired for one of the big construction projects that came about with the New Deal. That evening he went out to celebrate with some buddies of his who had had the same good fortune. Two hours later, the police knocked on the door to notify the family that someone should go to the morgue to identify the body. The police never found out what happened exactly. A brawl... an attempt to break a fight... to help a friend... the knife missed the intended target... he got the blow. Nobody came forward to provide any information, and those who were interrogated kept their mouth shut. After a perfunctory investigation, the case was closed. Not for don Vince Marrano, though. Eyewitnesses in his service identified the killer, and the guy was promptly gunned down in broad daylight in front of Rocco’s diner. This was don Vince’s way to declare his protection publicly with a spectacular gesture.

To further tighten the grip on Rocco’s family, don Vince hired Lucia’s younger brothers—with or without the family’s consent. They were just fourteen and fifteen years old, and their job consisted of keeping watch during the mob’s operations—usually, the operations involved moving alcohol cargoes from the warehouse to their network of speakeasies. The two unsuspected lookouts would alert the gang if the police were closing in. Although Prohibition had ended the previous year, U.S. federal law imposed numerous limitations and heavy taxation on the production and distribution of distilled spirits, and organized crime was still thriving on bootlegging. As the brothers grew up, their level of involvement increased, and at age twenty they were full-fledged members of the racket. This put Rocco in the awkward position of having to pay protection money to his brothers-in-law. But the brothers, discretly, never showed up at the diner, and within the family nobody ever talked about business. So, on the surface, they were all friends.

By the end of the thirties, the brothers were able to provide a decent living for their mother. She and Lucia quit their cleaning jobs and the family moved to a nice house in Brooklyn, where everyone had a room of their own. Even Joe, who at the time was eight years old. He needed his own space, because every year on his birthday don Vince would send him a magnificent gift, something a working-class kid could only dream of. One year, it was a rocking horse, lusciously decorated like the ponies on the merry-go-round. The next year, it was an electric train with a railway network that covered half of his room. More recently, it was a bicycle that looked like those for grown-ups in all details. Joe was ecstatic and felt grateful to “uncle” Vince. On the other hand, something about the man made him uncomfortable. He sensed that his father disapproved of those gifts. When they were alone, Rocco would suddenly hug him tight and say something like, ”This stuff’s not for free... I’m so sorry I can’t do anything to stop it...”

Rocco and Lucia had no other children after Joe. And so, Rocco’s desire to shield his son from the Mafia occupied all his thoughts. He even made a vow to St. Christopher that he would help renovate the church if the saint would free them from under the thumb of the mob. However, deep down he doubted that St. Christopher would be able to work that miracle. Affiliation with the Marrano family was for life. The few who had tried to terminate it had their lives terminated instead. But then, something happened. It is not clear whether St. Christopher wanted so badly to have his church renovated, or whether it was a mere coincidence, but a month later Lucia’s brothers were killed in a shootout with the police. Lucia and her mother were stricken with grief. But Rocco breathed a sigh of relief. At least one link was broken, although the chain had not completely fallen off. Don Vince offered his condolences to the mother together with a generous lump sum for compensation.

That money came in handy in the next four years, when another major event disrupted the normal course of things. The vicious Japanese attack at Pearl Harbor propelled the United States into a war that had expanded from Europe to Africa, and now Asia.

Rocco was among the first to join the Army as a volunteer, moved by patriotic spirit. He thought that among his comrades-in-arms he would finally feel like a “true” American. He was thirty-one years old at the time and had no military training, but he was accepted immediately because of his bilingual background. The Army needed interpreters for its daring European mission.

A sense of duty and sacrifice in the service of the country’s ideals of freedom and democracy inspired everybody. Many young guys in the neighborhood, who were drafted, looked forward to the great adventure with enthusiasm and high expectations. The minorities—immigrants and blacks—felt redeemed by a sense of pride. But even in upper-scale America, where nobody needed redemption, and where money and connections could have been used to avoid the call, most young men left behind families and jobs to perform their patriotic duty.

Only a few tried to dodge the draft. It was after all a war, where one could get killed. One of those was Frank Marrano, Vince’s son. He was twenty-one and a college dropout.

For the first time in his criminal career, Vince felt powerless. The military complex was not a field of operations he was familiar with. No matter how hard he tried, he failed to hook up to the higher echelons in the chain of command. Not even his political connections, who could normally be bought for money or persuaded by threat, could help in this case. In the end, Frank had to go. He and Rocco were assigned to the same assault division that would first reach the shores of Italy in the summer of ’43.

Before the guys’ departure, Vince showed up at Rocco’s place. He looked tired and depressed as if he had somehow aged overnight. He sat at the kitchen table, took a glass of wine from Lucia’s hands, patted Joe on the head, then looked at Rocco in the eye and said:

“We’ve known each other for years. I’ve got to love you as a second son, and will continue to keep your family under my protection when you’re gone. But now I want you to do something for me. I want you to keep an eye on my boy when you two are over there. I don’t want him to come back in a body bag. Look over him, as if you were his guardian angel. Dammi la tua parola d’onore. Your word of honor.”

Vince extended his hand. Rocco took it and said:

“Parola d’onore.”

The Americans disembarked on the coast of Sicily and joined the British and Canadian forces already on the ground. It took about six weeks for the Allies to secure their positions on the island. In early September, they began their march north through the peninsula. They did not meet a serious resistance for the first two months, because the Italian army had evaporated after the government signed an armistice with the Allies, and the occupying German army had strategically retreated as far as the town of Cassino south of Rome. But Rocco took his guardianship job seriously, and made sure that Frank had plenty to eat every day, even sacrificing part of his own ration, and a comfortable place to sleep at night.

When the Allies arrived in Naples, at the beginning of October, they were prepared for a big battle to liberate that main military and commercial port. But, to their surprise, the local population had already liberated itself in a bloody uprising that lasted four days, and there was not a single German soldier left in town. So far so good, Frank thought, there’s nothing so terrible about this war, and spent a few days in the city spending his money generously on girls and local food, offered on the black market at astronomically high prices. The city was devastated and on its knees, and the people were desperate to exploit whatever opportunity the new powers would bring.

Frank began to get a true sense of the war when the army reached the German fortifications at the foot of Monte Cassino. The road north to Rome was barred by the formidable Gustav Line, which extended from the Tyrrhenian to the Adriatic coasts. It consisted of trenches, gun pits, concrete bunkers, turreted machine-gun platforms, barbed wire, and minefields, and employed fifteen German divisions. Monte Cassino dominated the entrance to the Liri Valley, through which ran the main highway. On top of the mountain was a sixth-century abbey, believed to be a German post. To make things worse, it was now the middle of November, there were several feet of snow on the ground, and the sub-zero temperature made it extremely difficult to engage the enemy. Frank felt miserable and relied heavily on Rocco for support—even in battle, where he would take cover crouching behind his guardian’s back. At the camp, Rocco would manage to get him a thermos of hot coffee and fetch an extra blanket to keep him warm.

For six long months the allied forces fought valiantly on the impregnable slopes of Monte Cassino. They assaulted the Gustav defenses four times. In February, American bombers recklessly destroyed the ancient abbey in an action meant to help the ground troops. Unfortunately, it made things worse. As it turned out, the Germans were not garrisoned there, but after the bombing they took up positions in the ruins, finding protection among the rubble. Only at the end of May, with the arrival of the spring, were the Allies able to gather twenty divisions for a major assault. And they broke through the Gustav Line.

During this decisive action, Frank stepped on a landmine and lost his legs. He wanted to avoid the thick of the battle and took a detour through a clearing in the woods, thinking of rejoining his comrades later, when the fire subsided. Unaware, he entered a minefield. He would have bled to death in that secluded spot if it were not for Rocco. At the end of a heroic attack against an artillery post, Rocco realized that Frank was missing. He retraced his steps and found his charge agonizing in a pool of blood. Although he himself was wounded in a shoulder, Rocco managed to carry Frank on his back to the nearest field hospital, where the medics saved his life.

Frank was sent home with the first available transport, while Rocco continued his painful march north, from battle to battle, from victory to final victory.

In January ’46, New York gave the returning troops a heroes’ welcome—a glorious Victory Parade along Fifth Avenue, with marching bands, flags hanging from every building, a ticker tape blizzard, and thousands of women with open arms eager to hug and kiss the warriors.

The war ended, at least in the Western hemisphere, and the peace began—and with the peace, the most extraordinary period of prosperity.

Rocco’s uncle decided to retire and enjoy his senior years on the Florida beaches. He left the diner to Rocco because he had no direct heirs. Under Rocco’s management, the old diner was renamed Pizzeria Santa Lucia, and acquired a new identity and a new clientele. “Italian” was no longer just an ethnic qualifier, it became a commercial label. And, yes, mozzarella cheese became a pizza topping— and not only cheese, but pepperoni, sausage, ham, olives, anchovies, mushrooms, and more and more... In the emerging consumer society, the more the better was a fundamental principle.

Rocco felt pretty good about the business and about his family. Lucia worked at the counter and Joe, who was fifteen, tended tables after school. Only one thing still bothered him. He was determined to get rid of the racket once and for all. When the two henchmen showed up punctually at the end of the month, Rocco refused to pay, and the next day took his courage in both hands and went to see don Vincent Marrano.

A high wall surrounded the Marrano property out in the countryside. A wrought-iron gate gave access to the alley that cut through the woods and led to a villa in Renaissance style. The gate was locked, and Rocco stood there, uncertain of what to do. A man came out of the guardhouse and asked who he was. Then went back inside to make a phone call. Finally, he opened the gate and escorted Rocco to the mansion.

Don Vince was sitting behind a monumental desk in his study. Everything in the room was oversized—the leather chairs, the fireplace, the chandelier, the vast vista on the lake. Rocco was overwhelmed and felt very small. Vince pointed to a chair across from the desk and began to speak.

“I’m glad to see you, although I heard you treated my boys pretty badly last night. I should be angry with you. However, I’m a man of honor. And I’m indebted to you big time. You saved my son’s life. Frank is now a broken man, on a wheelchair, dependent on nurses, and addicted to drugs that are supposed to alleviate his deep depression. He’s a total wreck. But he’s alive, and I’m grateful to you for that. I want to pay off my debt. Ask me anything you want—money, power, influence. Anything. Tell me. Parla.”

Rocco spoke in a firm, unemotional voice.

“Don Vince, I have only one request: please, get out of our lives. Forget about us, as if we never met. Leave us alone. If I never hear from you again, I’ll consider your debt repaid a thousand times.”

Vince was silent for a long time. His eyes closed, his jaws clenched. Then, he took a deep breath and spoke.

“I’ve never done this for anyone. My friends are friends for life... But I’m an honorable man, and I intend to honor my word. You’ll have your wish.”

He got up, walked around the desk, grabbed Rocco by the shoulders, pulled him up, and kissed him on both cheeks.

Rocco never heard from don Vince again. Several years later, he learned from the newspapers that the mobster Vincent Marrano had finally been arrested and convicted for tax evasion. The prosecutor had been trying for years to charge him with more serious crimes, but had not been able to gather enough evidence. Not long after the trial, don Vince died in jail—allegedly, of a heart attack.

The pizzeria gradually became a favorite spot for the well-to-dos from uptown in search of a touch of folklore. In the mid-sixties it acquired the license to sell wine and greatly increased in popularity. Now it had a jukebox that played the Four Seasons nonstop. Frankie Valli himself occasionally showed up with members of the band, and there was a photo on the wall of Joe toasting them. Joe was in his early thirties and a partner in the business. To learn more about wine, he took a tour organized by the Associazione Viticultori d’Italia, an association of Italian wine producers who wanted to promote their products in the U.S.

For the first time in his life, Joe set foot on an airplane. Rocco drove him to the airport in his station wagon, wondering all the way whether St. Christopher would now modernize and protect transatlantic passengers in the air, as well as on water.

Joe landed safely in Rome and joined the other wine sellers and restaurateurs from all over the States. After touring the Frascati hills and the picturesque wine zones of the south, the group headed north, passing through the Chianti countryside and reaching the fertile vineyards of the Piedmont region. The tour organizers had included visits to large industrial establishments as well as to specialized small producers. One of these was the Villa Flora winery, famous for its ruby-red, floral-flavored, medium-bodied Grignolino. After having tasted the specialties of other wineries—the robust, berry-flavored, full-bodied Barolo, and the sweet, aromatic Moscato—Joe fell for Grignolino. The perfect match for pizza, as he put it. On that occasion Joe met Rosa.

The visitors to the winery were routinely treated to a brief tour of the eighteenth-century villa and its gardens. Signora Amelia had first resisted this intrusion. Her family had always kept a clear demarcation line between their private space and the winery down in the valley. But the manager had convincingly argued that the visits would help to increase the business, and in the end she relented. The world was changing and business was gradually encroaching on everything. However, she would not come out and greet the visitors. She stood firm on that point. And so, she put Rosa in charge of supervising the wine-tasting reception and of seeing to it that the group leave promptly soon after.

It was mid-July and the gardens let off fireworks of blossoms—periwinkles, daisies, forget-me-nots, lilies, peonies, fuchsias and nasturtiums artistically arranged in manicured flower beds, perfectly trimmed hydrangea shrubs around the fountain, jasmine edges along the alleys, and thick clusters of wisteria climbing up the southern wall. The rose garden was not in full view, secluded behind a row of cypresses and surrounded by a delicate colonnade, but the intense fragrance of hundreds of blooms of all possible varieties floated in the air and travelled all the way up to the terrace where the visitors were standing. The terrace extended outside the grand hall in the back of the villa. Stone banisters with neo-classical statues of the four seasons surrounded it. On one side, steps lead to the gardens.

The visitors were in awe of that luxuriant spectacle, and eagerly clicked their cameras left and right, leaning on the banisters because they were not allowed down the steps. A young man in the group, the one who spoke Italian (with a terrible accent), was more interested in Rosa than in the surroundings. He followed her around like her shadow while she was attending to her duties. He was the last one to leave, lingering at the door to talk to her at length. That night they met in town and Joe stayed over for another couple of days. Eventually, he came back a few months later to marry her. Rosa left Villa Flora, and signora Amelia lost her most valued maid.