

## The Invisible Immigrant

\- Paolo and Me -

By Pete Bellisano, Jr.

## The Invisible Immigrant

\- Paolo and Me -

Written by Pete Bellisano, Jr.

Copyright 2020 by Pete Bellisano, Jr.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without prior written permission of the author/publisher, except in the case of brief quotations used in reviews.

Other than members of the author's family (living and deceased), the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation to anyone bearing the same name. Any resemblance to individuals known or unknown to the author is purely coincidental.

Dedication

To my grandfather Paolo Bellisano. I wish you could have told me your story.

**Table of Contents**

Acknowledgements

Prologue

Chapter 1: June 1910

Chapter 2: October 1910

Chapter 3: July 1911

Chapter 4: May 1912

Chapter 5: August 1912

Chapter 6: May 1914

Chapter 7: December 1918

Chapter 8: July 1920

Chapter 9: December 1920

Chapter 10: June 1921

Chapter 11: April 2019

Chapter 12: August 1923

Chapter 13: March 1924

Chapter 14: November 1927

Chapter 15: February 1930

Chapter 16: October 1932

Chapter 17: July 1934

Chapter 18: May 1935

Chapter 19: August 1935

Chapter 20: June 1937

Table of Contents

Chapter 21: January 1938

Chapter 22: July 1939

Chapter 23: August 2019

Chapter 24: July 1941

Chapter 25: October 1941

Chapter 26: January 1942

Chapter 27: September 2019

Chapter 28: August 1944

Chapter 29: October 1945

Chapter 30: May 1949

Chapter 31: July 1951

Chapter 32: October 2019

Chapter 33: February 1954

Chapter 34: September 1965

Chapter 35: November 2019

Chapter 36: April 1954

Chapter 37: October 1979

Chapter 38: June 1955

Chapter 39: September 1955

Epilogue

About the Author

## The Invisible Immigrant

\- Paolo and Me -

Acknowledgements

I wish I could personally thank the people responsible for inspiring me to write this book: Paolo and Caterina Bellisano, my paternal grandparents. They had the courage to leave their home and come to America over one hundred years ago. My grandfather died a few days before I was born, and my grandmother died thirty-five years before that. They must have endured incredible sacrifices and hardships that I can't even imagine- especially my grandfather who was widowed at such a young age. But unfortunately, I know virtually nothing about them, and that seems extremely unfair.

Like many people of my generation, I owe a debt of gratitude to the grandparents who made the decision to start a new life in a new country. They never came close to achieving "success" as measured by our modern standards, and I think they'd be shocked at the relative affluence enjoyed by their middle-class American descendants. But therein lies their posthumous success.

So, thank you to Paolo and Caterina for coming to America. Thanks to Paolo for sustaining his family through the Depression; thanks to my father for surviving combat in World War Two and providing for his kids; thanks to my mother for devoting her life to taking care of my siblings and me.

**Prologue**

This is a story about my grandfather Paolo, about whom I know very little. Over the past couple of years, I've become increasingly curious about this man. I began looking into my ancestry and the little I learned really got me interested in (maybe even semi-obsessed about) learning more about who this man was. Unfortunately, there's no one left to speak with about him. As far as I know there's no one left alive who knew him, since he died well over sixty years ago. So, I'm left to wonder about his story.

My father didn't speak about his childhood much. When prompted he would share a story or two, but it never dawned on me that these stories didn't include any mention of his father. I do know he had a tough upbringing, as many did during the Depression. He did tell me that his father's second wife (he didn't call her his stepmother) was brutally abusive, causing him to run away from home as a young teenager. He was a tough man, a rugged product of hard times who didn't think in terms of expressing emotions other than anger.

I recently learned about the extent of combat my father experienced in the World War Two: another thing he never discussed. He'd only made a few cursory comments about his service during the war, referring in general terms to the type of battalion in which he served. My recent connection with a WWII historian unveiled the fact that my father served on the front lines during extended periods of brutal combat. I now believe that is likely what hardened him into an angry, closed man with an unapproachably gruff exterior; the man I feared as a child. He certainly was not one prone to sharing feelings or memories. But since his death over thirty-five years ago I've come to understand him a little better than I did when he was alive. Whatever our relationship was, I am at peace with it. Of course, I regret that I didn't ask him more questions about his life, especially now that I'm on this quest to learn about my grandfather.

_I don't know everything there is to know about my own father. And while I'd like to know more, for some reason I've become much more curious about_ his _father. Candidly I feel a little guilty, a disloyal son "skipping over" his own father in his quest to learn about his ancestry. But as I said, I'm at peace with my father now, although it took many years after his death to get there. Now there's this stranger looming behind him whose story is waiting to be uncovered._

Interestingly, I was supposed to have been named after my grandfather but when he died just before I was born, I guess my parents changed their minds. As strange as it may seem, I do feel some sort of bond with him- or maybe it's a bond that I wish could be there. My father and grandfather each died in their mid sixties, which is the age I've now reached. Maybe that's what's triggering this powerful urge to learn about Paolo. Part of who I am is locked up in this mystery; I need to understand who he was.

While most of this story is fabricated, it does include some factual events and some real people. I list some of these in the Epilogue, but for the most part I haven't bothered to differentiate the factual events and real people from those that were pulled directly from my imagination. That would only matter to a handful of family members, and they can just ask me.

The reader will note that a few early scenes are set in Italy and on a steam ship traveling to America. Unless otherwise noted, the rest of the story takes place in New Jersey.

-Pete Bellisano, Autumn 2019

"And while the future's there for anyone to change, still you know it seems  
It would be easier sometimes to change the past." - Jackson Browne

## The Invisible Immigrant

\- Paolo and Me -

Chapter 1

Santa Lucia di Serino

Avellino, Italy

June 1910

Annunziata kissed her son Paolo desperately on each cheek and reached up to hold his face in her hands one last time. " _Figlio mio, figlio mio,_ " she whispered over and over, achingly trying to prolong this one last moment with her only son. " _Non ti preoccupare, mama, va bene,_ " he murmured. Then, in broken English, "is OK mama, is ok."

Caterina stood beside her, staring at the ragged suitcase leaning against the back of Paolo's calves. At twenty, she was two years younger than Paolo, the same age he'd been when they married two years before. She sniffled, trying her best to suppress the urge to call out to him and beg him not to go. Paolo gently placed his hands on his mother's shoulders, looked into her eyes and kissed her forehead. Then, turning slightly, he reached out to his young wife. " _Carissima_ ," he whispered as she moved into his arms, both their faces now wet with tears.

"No, Paolo, no," she said as stoically as she was able. "We talk the English now, like in America." She smiled up at him, and they laughed and cried at the same time. Paolo always thought that Caterina looking up at him was the most beautiful sight he'd ever seen, and he knew he'd be counting on the memory of this moment to get him through the next few months. Her jet black hair was parted in the middle, pulled back and somewhat severely knotted into what he playfully called her _mela nera_ , because what she called a bun he thought looked like a black apple. The left side of her face was almost completely covered with a red birthmark that looked like someone had splashed pink paint on her face. They often joked about how it was probably caused by her father spilling wine on her when she was an infant. But to Paolo, this imperfection only added to the character and strength that emanated from her face. She had the classic and wonderful combination of strength, toughness, beauty and determination so common in southern Italian women. And he loved her completely.

Paolo's father Pietro had died just the year before, his heart exploding after a long day of working in the vineyard owned by his friend Franco Pacelli. Annunziata, peasant-old already at the age of forty-one, donned the widow's uniform immediately thereafter: the black dress, the black shawl covering her head and shoulders, and the ubiquitous rosary beads wrapped around her wrist with its crucifix cradled in her hand almost all day and night. Squat, tanned, and wrinkled, she could easily have passed for Paolo's grandmother.

With her husband's passing, her life hadn't really changed that much. In her role as caregiver, housekeeper and cook, Pietro's death only meant that she had one less person in her charge. But tradition called for a long period in the mourning dress, and Annunziata had been steeped in the southern Italian traditions her whole life.

Paolo's favorite cousin Giuseppe had been writing to him since he moved to a place called New Jersey, and he was lobbying hard for Paolo to join him there. Giuseppe's letters were filled with wonderful stories about the opportunities that were available to young, healthy men if they came to America willing to work. Paolo thought of this as he held Caterina. Giuseppe's letters told of jobs building bridges, digging tunnels, and working on something he called "sky scrapers", which apparently were buildings ten or twenty times taller than anything Paolo had ever seen. All you have to do is work, he'd said. If you work ten or twelve hours a day, you can make enough money to live in a nice apartment, buy food, and take Sundays off to go to church and play bocce with your friends in the alley ways. Paolo had determined that if he could get such a job, he and Caterina could live well and save enough money to return home with a substantial nest egg that would guarantee a great future.

Everyone had heard the stories about America, and how she welcomed men from Italy with strong backs and willingness to work. Giuseppe had become something of a celebrity in Paolo's village outside of Atripalda, where Paolo would read Giuseppe's letters at family gatherings and in the shops where the men met to play cards and drink wine. Most men in the village were either too old or too young to give serious thought to traveling to America. The few men of Paolo's age were already struggling to feed their growing families, so coming up with the money for a voyage to America was out of the question.

When Paolo first mentioned his desire to make the trip, his friends teased him about everything from being childless at the advanced age of twenty-two to being a traitor who was going to turn his back on his ancestral home. But he knew they were jealous, and that they secretly wished they could go. Anyway, he was accustomed to being teased by the local men who called him " _il professore_ " because he was one of the few people in the entire village that could read and write beyond a rudimentary level. While he had no distinct memory of being taught how to read, Paolo had vague early-childhood memories of his mother reading a page from the bible and then handing the book back to him saying, "now you." Paolo could not recall a time _before_ he knew how to read. Caterina took great pride in her husband's relatively advanced level of literacy, and early in their courtship he had begun teaching her to read as well.

He and Caterina would lie awake at night, holding each other and whispering about plans for the future. They shared a spare room off the kitchen - a converted pantry actually - in the small house that had been in Pietro's family for so long that no one could imagine or remember how his ancestors had built or bought it. Paolo would say virtually the same thing every night as they clung to each other in the dark. "We will go, Caterina. We will live in a nice place surrounded by people from our home country, and I will earn a lot of money. Within just a couple of years we can come back and live like royalty. We will be able to buy our own villa on the hillside overlooking the village our fathers came from. Our children will go to fine schools and have everything we want to give them. We will have a happy life, dear one. I will make sure we do."

Just a few weeks before, Cugino Giuseppe had arranged an introduction for Paolo to the local _padrone,_ Antonio Petrillo. Giuseppe's letter had said that someone named Gerardo would be in contact with Paolo soon to arrange a meeting. Senor Petrillo lived in the big town of Atripalda, just a two hour walk from Paolo's village. He was known locally as an important man because of his varied business interests and his connections with steam ship companies that provided passage to America. Only with the proper introduction could one meet with Don Petrillo to discuss potential arrangements. According to his reputation, Petrillo was a champion of the Italian people, and was eager to help as many of his countrymen reach American shores as he possibly could. After all, the more _paisani_ he could help get to America, the better off future immigrants would be.

Paolo had heard from the men in town that Petrillo's ties and influence were so strong that he could negotiate a significant discount for anyone fortunate enough to be represented by him. The rumors around the village spoke of his generosity, and how he was so dedicated to helping his _paisani_ get to America that he would sometimes subsidize their passage out of his own pocket when it was clear that money was tight for the prospective emigrant.

In reality, Antonio Petrillo was one of a large group of "agents" hired by the ship lines to recruit what amounted to cheap labor, in effect harvesting Italian muscle for a decent commission. Most of the people the agents worked with were semi-literate at best, and once they were convinced they were working with someone of stature who wanted to help them, they were subject to whatever fee Antonio could wring out of them. He would often double the twenty-dollar steerage fee, although he would report to the ship line that he had to negotiate hard to simply collect the twenty dollars on which his commission was based. While he smiled and bowed his head subserviently when collecting his commission, he took great pleasure in knowing that he was likely earning much more money than the fools at the ship line who had hired him for this work.

One Sunday afternoon just two weeks after Paolo received Giuseppe's latest letter, a young man named Gerardo showed up at the café where Paolo was playing cards with his friends. After the shopkeeper pointed out where Paolo was sitting, Gerardo walked over. Gerardo was small and almost bird-like in appearance. His skeletal upper body was pitched forward at the waist as though he were leaning into a stiff wind. With his hands in his pockets, his elbows jutting out behind him and his awkward strut, Gerardo's appearance brought to mind a pigeon in an expensive, ill-fitting suit. The men in the shop eyed him suspiciously. Many had known each other since early childhood, and they were unaccustomed to seeing outsiders in the village. Most of the men only glanced at him and quickly decided he was no threat, so they went back to their wine, card games, and friendly arguments as he approached them.

" _Madonn'_ ," he gasped, "so hot for this time of year. Oh, excuse me; I am Gerardo. You are Paolo Bellisano?" Rising from his seat, Paolo smiled, glanced at the empty table near the window, and tilted his head in that direction as a silent invitation to sit there with him. Gerardo winced when the wobbly chair screeched in protest as he slid it back from the table, smiled nervously and waited for Paolo to sit before taking his own seat. With that he sat down, wiped his brow with the dirty blue-and-white checked handkerchief he pulled from his pocket, and told Paolo that Gerardo's uncle, Don Petrillo himself, was looking forward to meeting with Paolo at the café he owned in Atripalda. They set the date and Gerardo left abruptly without taking a drink or exchanging any pleasantries. "Odd fellow," Paolo said to his friends as Gerardo walked away. Friendly taunts of "big shot" and "world traveler" followed, with laughter and back-slapping all around.

After a particularly hot and sleepless night in late July, Paolo woke just after dawn and walked to Atripalda to meet with Don Petrillo. He stopped along the rocky trail periodically to swat the dust out of his baggy trousers, wipe his brow, and run his fingers through his curly dark hair in an attempt to tame it. He smiled when we recalled how his mother always referred to his hair as "that mop of yours." This was a big day for Paolo and Caterina, and he wanted to make a favorable impression on Don Petrillo. He was so nervous that he practiced his greeting over and over, trying to affect just the right voice, posture and overall demeanor that would enable him to impress Petrillo as a serious man with big plans. He carried a down payment with him, half of what he believed to be the total cost of the trip for two, wrapped tightly in a small leather pouch his mother had given him for his confirmation all those years ago. He felt compelled to keep one hand on the pouch at all times, and he switched it back and forth between pockets every so often, reassuring himself that the money was in fact still there.

As he approached Atripalda, the dusty, rocky terrain smoothed out and became more verdant. The rippling hillsides reminded him of the green velvet he'd seen his mother use to make a holiday cape for the statue of the village patron saint. The shallow valleys in between were thick with grape vines, with the near-black grapes shiny and plump in the early morning sun. He saw the workers scampering about in between the rows of grape vines, like so many honey bees flitting from flower to flower. On one hillside, where a farmer had recently plowed (odd for this time of year, he thought), the red earth burst through the lush green carpet as though the hill had been wounded, with the rust-colored soil bleeding from the gash. The sky was such a bright clear blue that Paolo could barely look up without squinting. There were only a few puffs of nearly translucent clouds visible in the entire sky. He now realized that having lived his whole life in this countryside spending a great percentage of his time out doors, that he too often lost sight of how profoundly beautiful it was.

Soon he was walking on a cobblestone street that by comparison was very smooth and easy to navigate. As he entered the _Piazza del Umberto_ , he spotted the _café d'Antonio_ almost immediately. There were four tables in front of the café, two evenly spaced on either side of the door that was held open by a cast iron doorstop. The small square tables were already occupied by boisterous men sipping espresso while they argued loudly in their musical Neapolitan dialect. Paolo smiled and shook his head, chuckling at how the noisy exchanges would sound like bitter disagreements to anyone unfamiliar with the way his people communicated.

It struck him that he'd never had that thought before; he'd never considered how "outsiders" might perceive people like himself. He remembered how he once met a man from the north, a man his mother disparagingly called "that _Germanese_ ". The man was tall and fair, with soft hands and a superior attitude. His dialect was virtually indecipherable to Paolo, and he over-pronounced words in a manner that seemed affected and arrogant. But now for the first time ever, he found himself wondering how he would look and sound to people from other places, like America. Just twenty meters from the café, he stopped one last time to dust off his pants, straighten his shirt and run his fingers through his hair. He took a deep breath, swallowed hard and whispered his rehearsed greeting one more time before approaching the café.

## As he resumed his approach, he spotted the man who had to be Don Antonio Petrillo sitting alone at a table under the striped awning at the far-right side of the café. The table was larger than the other three, and it was the only one covered with a crisp, clean red-and-white checked tablecloth. A beautiful burst of wild flowers bubbled up from the white ceramic pitcher in the center of the table, and there was a very deferential cameriere doting on him. The differences between this man and the other eight crowded around the remaining tables could not have been more stark. The other men were short and wiry with leathery, prematurely weathered skin. Their clothes were worn and baggy, and somehow dusty and clean at the same time. Boisterous, loud conversations were punctuated with emphatic gestures, shoulder punching and back slapping. Gnarled fingers fondled the delicate espresso cups as they savored the strong, bitter anisette-laced blend called "café speciale." Paolo thought it comical how their crooked pinkies jutted out as though in salute when they lifted their tiny cups and slurped loudly and appreciatively.

Don Antonio was much larger than the other men. Although clearly soft, fat, and not used to physical work, he cast an imposing figure as he sat regally in the corner, holding court over the entire piazza. Even in the late morning heat, he wore a dark blue suit with a bright white shirt opened at the collar. His belly protruded out of his open jacket, his shirt buttons straining to contain the bulge that rested against the table. A diamond ring adorned his right pinky, which, like the pinkies of the other men, jutted outward as his massive fingers cradled his cup of _café speciale_. His dark eyes swept the piazza as he raised the cup to his lips. Spotting Paolo's approach, he gently placed his cup down, tilted his head and smiled. "You are Paolo Bellisano, the cousin of Giuseppe," he bellowed in a rich, authoritative baritone.

Reaching out with is ring-studded left hand, he beckoned Paolo to join him although he made no attempt to rise. As he offered his hand in greeting, Paolo momentarily considered kissing it, but decided on a firm handshake instead. "Don Petrillo, it is my honor," he said, repeating the greeting he had rehearsed dozens of times during his morning walk. "Sit, young man, I understand you could use my help." Without taking his eyes off Paolo, be summoned the cameriere who nodded politely and scurried off, returning seconds later with a cup and saucer which he placed ceremonially in front of Paolo.

Paolo swallowed hard, biting back his nervousness. "Don Petrillo, thank you for seeing me this morning. I know you are a busy man, and I am grateful that you have made time to see me. I have heard much about you, and once again I am honored to meet you. With respect, I ask for your counsel. As you know, I would like to arrange passage to New York. My dear cousin Giuseppe has arranged for me to have work and a place to stay for my wife and me. It is a placed called Newark, in a province called New Jersey, which I understand is very close to New York. My Caterina- she is my wife, Don Petrillo- and I, we are very excited about this opportunity and we are ready to make the voyage as soon as it can be arranged."

Petrillo clapped Paolo on the shoulder, gave it an avuncular squeeze and smiled broadly. He looked into Paolo's eyes and said importantly, "My nephew Gerardo, whom you've met, is my godson. He is very special to me and your cousin Giuseppe is his dear friend. Therefore, you should think of me as an uncle who will look out for you. Better yet, think of me as a second father- no disrespect to senor Pietro, your departed father. My mission in life is helping people like you to better themselves. I am a fortunate man, blessed in so many ways. It is my duty to help others just as I was helped when I was young man."

Mentioning Paolo's father by name had exactly the effect Don Petrillo had expected. He knew he had won Paolo's trust, and that was always the most important first step in separating a _cafone_ like this from his money. Usually desperate and afraid, these young peasants ate up the fatherly attention. Petrillo smiled, thinking he could easily convince a simpleton like this to hand over all of his meager possessions for the trip to the "promised land", and that he was their best if not only source for helping them get there. "Now, my son," he said while patting Paolo's hand, "let us talk about how I can help you with arrangements."

When Petrillo explained how the greedy ship line had increased the fee for passage, it became clear that all of Paolo's savings would not be enough to purchase passage for one, let alone two. Petrillo had agreed to forego his meager commission, indicating that he would put up some of his own money to make up the difference between Paolo's total savings and the cost for one ticket. Initially, Paolo had resisted, saying "With all respect, Don Petrillo, I must turn down your generous offer." Petrillo went silent and looked directly into Paolo's eyes. Although he lifted one corner of his mouth in a half-smile, the sheer power and ferocity emanating from Petrillo made Paolo swallow hard as he tried to look away. "Tell me why you would turn your back on this opportunity, and why you insult me by rejecting my offer to help."

Paolo took a deep breath, cleared his throat and closed his eyes for a few seconds to compose himself. "Don Petrillo, the last thing I would ever want to do is offend you, especially since you have offered to counsel and help me like a father. I have two reasons for turning down your generous offer. First, my place is with my wife, and we have been planning to go America together. I cannot even consider leaving without her. Also, as much as I genuinely appreciate your generosity, I am afraid that I will never be able to repay you."

His penetrating gaze still locked on Paolo's eyes, Petrillo allowed a smile to slowly overtake and transform his icily impassive face. "Paolo, I offer to do this for you because it is best for your family, my son. I advise you to accept this gift I offer and go to America. You will find that with the help of my friends there, you will quickly earn enough money to send for your wife, or to come home with a small fortune. The short time you spend apart will be a very small price to pay for the future you will be able to build." He patted Paolo's shoulder and pulled him closer, leaning in so their faces were merely inches apart. "As to repaying me, I offer this as a gift, not a loan. My repayment will be in knowing that I have helped a fine young man build a better life. Also, I have business interests in New Jersey, and as I get older I find it more and more difficult to manage things from so far away. I will take comfort in knowing that I have another friend there, someone I can call on to help with some small favor if the need arises. I know you already have arranged for a job there, but I can provide opportunity for you to make extra money helping with my business from time to time. But we can talk of this some other time; now, the important thing is getting the arrangements in place."

Paolo's mind was racing as Petrillo continued, "I'm afraid that I can only hold this price for you for a few days, as those rich _bastardi_ who own the ship line are constantly raising their fees and taking advantage of poor, good-hearted Italians like myself who are only trying to help their _paisani._ I will not be able to afford to help you after the next increase, which I expect any day now. Listen to me, Paolo. I can see that you are a good boy, and you will be a fine addition to the growing number of your countrymen making new lives in America. By this time next month, you could be living in your new apartment in America, working an easy job that pays more money every week than you'd see in a year of the back-breaking field work you do today. In a few short months, you could send for your wife - Caterina, was it? - and in a year or two you can return home with enough money to give your wife and your mother a better life here in our homeland. Either way, rest assured that you can rely on my friendship and support in whatever you do."

Petrillo paused to sip his espresso, sucked air through the gap between his large front teeth, and smiled as he continued. "It will make my heart glad, Paolo. Knowing that you'll be living a better life in America and returning a rich man to raise a family of fine Italians makes me feel like my sacrifices are worthwhile. After all, I am only in this business to help others." With a sideways glance to make sure Paolo had been reeled in, Petrillo resisted the urge to chuckle and put on the most serious expression he could muster under the circumstances. After all, he was in his own way giving this young peasant a break by only charging him twice his own cost for a steerage ticket. "It is for the best, Paolo. Go to America."

Overwhelmed, Paolo had agreed with Don Petrillo, and arranged to meet with Gerardo at the café in Atripalda in three days.

Paolo cried all the way home. Standing outside his house holding back tears, he thought about how he'd explain this to Caterina. As much as he believed this was the best thing for their future, his heart ached at the thought of being apart from her. He opened the door slowly, and the aroma of Caterina's ciambotta embraced him as he entered. The mixture of garlic, zucchini, eggplant, tomatoes, peppers, potatoes and chunks of chicken was his favorite meal. The sautéed finnoch' and fresh bread were already on the table, as was a jug of deep red- nearly black- wine produced by their good friends the Ricciardellis. He stood for a moment, savoring it all. "Cara," he whispered, "we must talk."

The next morning as he reflected on the prior night's conversation, Paolo thought about how he'd always loved and admired Caterina's strength and determination. She was so persistent and downright stubborn at times that he often called her his little "testa dura." After what seemed like hours of heart-wrenching discussion, she'd set her jaw and told him that he should go without her, just as Don Petrillo had said. She argued that their brief separation was a small price to pay when compared to what this would mean to their future. And besides, although she didn't know Don Petrillo, it seemed clear that refusing a favor from him would be a bad idea. "So, Paolo, it is settled, you are going. Finita! You go to America, to New York, to New Jersey," she'd whispered as they finally dozed off in each other's arms.

The next two days were filled with visits from friends and relatives, all coming to wish Paolo well on his journey. "Write us letters, so we can tell stories to our friends about our Paolo in America," said his cousin Maria Trenelli, although he was certain she could not read. There were several large meals with extended family and these two days seemed like one long visit, with very little time for Paolo and Caterina to talk. To some extent, this was a relief because they'd said everything they needed to say to each other that first night when he returned from meeting with Don Petrillo. The air was thick with excitement, anticipation, anxiety and melancholy. Although Caterina smiled and played the gracious hostess throughout, Paolo knew she was only being strong for his sake and that she was as heartbroken as he was.

At dawn on the day he was to meet Gerardo in Altripaldo, Caterina and Paolo were already walking hand in hand through their tiny village. They walked slowly, as though that would slow the passing of the few remaining hours they had before his departure. Neither spoke much. Paolo studied the shops and houses, the narrow dirt lanes and the cobblestone streets, the church of Santa Lucia where they were married. He wanted to be able to recall every detail during the upcoming voyage and the resultant separation he so dreaded. Finally, as they approached the village church, Caterina stopped, took both of his hands and gazed up at him. "Thank you, Paolo," she said, never taking her eyes off his. "Thank you for doing this for us. From me and from our children and grandchildren, thank you."

Later that morning, Paolo put up a brave front as he said his goodbyes. As Annunziata kissed him one last time, she knew in her heart that she would never see him again. Turning to embrace his wife, Paolo whispered, " _Carissima_ , I will write every day and we will be together again very soon." She nodded and her attempt at a smile looked more like a grimace that showed all the pain of the upcoming separation in one expression. All the uncertainty, fear and loneliness that were to follow were captured in that one look from his wife. Through sheer force of will, he broke their embrace, picked up his suitcase, turned and strode away purposefully. At that moment, if Paolo had been told that it would be over two years before they were reunited, he would have dropped his suitcase along with his plans for traveling to America.

Chapter 2

Newark, New Jersey

October 1910

"Your English is good and getting better every day, Paolo," Giuseppe said through a mouth stuffed with spaghetti. "And you, Giuseppe, you are a real ` _merigan',"_ chuckled Paolo, using the somewhat derogatory term that many years later might be translated as "wanna-be American." Swallowing loudly, Giuseppe said, "My name is Joe now; that's American for Giuseppe you know, you _cafone_. I've told you a hundred times, my name is Joe now! And you, your name is Paul, not Paolo. Paul and Joe Bellisano. I like the sound of that." They laughed, and Paolo said, "I dunno, I still think my name is Paolo, dammit!"

Holding his hand several inches above his plate, Paolo spun his fork between his thumb and forefinger, mimicking the same motion he'd use to load spaghetti on the fork. Joe teased him about this peculiar habit, just as Caterina had done so many times. Paolo had started doing this as a child, imitating his father who would absent-mindedly spin his fork in the same manner- seemingly at every meal. "Hey, you make me _pazzo_ spinning your fork like this! You wear out the fork, and you wear out your fingers, and you wear out my nerves!" Although he tried to appear seriously annoyed, Joe's smirk widened into smile that broke into more laughter.

"You know _Jo-o-o-o-h_ ," said Paolo, kiddingly drawing out the name and barely suppressing a laugh, "sometimes when I stand up, it still feels like I'm on that cursed ship. I get a little dizzy and it feels like the floor is rolling over the ocean waves." Paolo stood and staggered like a drunkard around the room, jokingly making his point. Taking a sip of wine, Joe said, "Hey, _ubriacone_ , you are only here a few weeks. It takes time to get your legs. You will be fine; you are young and strong. Strong as a bull and just as smart, no?"

The two had always been close but living together in the two-room cold water flat had brought them even closer. Paolo looked up to Joe, and Joe watched over him like a loyal big brother. Joe had introduced him to a friend of Don Petrillo's, who helped arranged for Paolo to get a job working in a leather tannery in Newark, not far from the brewery where Joe worked. Paolo worked from 7:00 AM to 6:00 PM six days per week, and Joe had the same schedule on weekdays but worked only a half-day on Saturdays. He often teased Joe about his "soft" work schedule. There was little time or energy for much more than work and sleep, except on Sundays. As weeks passed and late summer faded into early autumn, Sundays were spent sitting on the stoop outside their tenement building or playing bocce in the alley while drinking wine, swearing in Italian, laughing and arguing. At Joe's urging, Paolo opened a savings account at the local bank, and by living frugally he was able to save a dollar nearly every week.

Joe had been keeping company with an Irish woman named Kay since just before Paolo's arrival. On Saturday nights, Joe would go out with Kay while Paolo sat in the apartment or strolled around the neighborhood exploring his new world. Paolo often joked how people back home would be scandalized if they knew their Giuseppe was involved with some donn' Irlandese. To them this would be the equivalent of being with a creature from another planet. To someone from Avellino, even northern Italians were considered foreigners, and in fact the occasional intermarriage with a northerner would set tongues wagging throughout the village. Paolo couldn't imagine their reaction to a person from Ireland! Although she seemed nice enough, Paolo had only spoken to her once or twice and then for only a moment. Since coming to America, he'd only seen a few non-Italian women, and to him they seemed cold and mannequin-like compared to Italian women. He'd heard more than one paisan' whisper sangue sottile whenever a "thin-blooded" German or Irish woman walked by. But Joe seemed to enjoy his time with Kay, so Paolo had no strong feeling about her one way or another.

One unseasonably warm Sunday afternoon in late October, Paolo and Joe were playing bocce in the alley with Angelo and Franco, the Bruno brothers who lived downstairs. The Bellisanos had become good friends with their neighbors who'd arrived from Naples the previous spring. The Brunos had the reputation of being tough customers, having already survived six months working at the docks in Port Newark where daily jostling for work often led to vicious brawls. After coming out ahead in several fights with other tough raw-boned laborers, the Brunos caught the eye of several local foremen who were always on the lookout for tough, strong men hungry for work. These foremen began picking the brothers out of the "shape up" lines every day and found them to be tireless laborers who took pride in out-working everyone on their crew every day.

More impressively, the brothers demonstrated that they were wise enough to look the other way when cases of coffee, sugar, and other expensive cargo were pulled off pallets and quietly loaded into the car of the local union boss. At the docks, the ability to mind your own business and keep your mouth shut was valued as much as strong backs and eagerness to work. Angelo and Franco had an additional advantage over the other workers in that they were both semi-literate and could even do rudimentary math. All of the men on the docks were tough and strong; very few were tough, strong, smart and ambitious. It was therefore inevitable that the Brunos would be destined for bigger and better things.

In a matter of just a few months on the job, the brothers were selected to assist the foremen in tasks such as tracking inventory and selecting day laborers from the "shape up" lines. It wasn't long before they discovered that desperate men with mouths to feed were willing- eager, even- to share a small portion of their daily wage in exchange for being selected to work for the day. Although these individual tributes were small- typically one hour's pay per person- each brother was soon collecting payment from sixty to seventy workers every day. Most of the men knew where the money was going, but it was never overtly discussed; it was just accepted as part of the job. Occasionally the rank-and-file workers would see a big shot in a nice suit talking to one of the foremen. The typical reaction was classic Italian non-verbal communication: jutting out the jaw, raising the eyebrows and shrugging the shoulders. But somehow there was an unspoken code of conduct, an instinctive awareness that some things just were not to be talked about.

What impressed the foremen most about the Brunos was the brothers' ability to gain the loyalty of the very men they were shaking down every day. The arrangement worked in everyone's favor: the men willing to play ball got all the work they could handle; the brothers and foremen were skimming a nice commission on the workers' wages; the union boss was getting the benefit of a well-organized "shrinkage" in the inventory of expensive goods along with a nice cut of the total wages paid every week.

Although the brothers lived modestly in a small apartment in the same building, Paolo and Joe were vaguely aware that the Brunos were doing well financially, since they'd occasionally mention plans for moving to nicer quarters outside the city. But work was not a topic for conversation during their precious leisure time. They knew that the Brunos worked at the docks, and the Brunos knew where Paolo and Joe worked. But when they got together to play cards or to enjoy an afternoon of bocce, they mostly talked about their hometowns and plans to return one day. There was implicit understanding that their current circumstances were only a temporary- albeit important and necessary- interruption of their permanent lives in Italy. It was clear to anyone who knew them that the Brunos were men not to be trifled with, but to Paolo and Joe they were just two men cut from the same cloth as they were, with similar dreams, challenges, habits and priorities.

These Sunday afternoon bocce games had become a ritual that brought a touch of their distant homes to the Bellisanos and Brunos. While all four had been working hard at learning to swear in English, the verbal jousting on that day was particularly humorous. Somehow, swearing in English just didn't seem adequate so they switched to Italian when they really needed to make a point. Back home, their fathers, uncles and friends could elevate swearing to a veritable art form in which they were somehow able to weave siblings, parents and ancestors without causing offense. The obscene bilingual banter on this sunny Sunday was particularly comical, and they all spent much of the afternoon doubled over in laughter brought on by the combination of strong wine and playful ribbing by good friends. "Your shot, Paolo, let's see how you handle your balls," grunted Angelo, stifling a laugh.

The alley was formed by three four-story brick walls, with no windows on the first two floors of any of the three buildings. It was fifteen feet wide and about eighty feet deep: a shady urban glen with a relatively flat dirt surface that with just a little sweeping made a fine bocce court. The Bruno brothers had their backs to the alley entrance while Paolo and Joe were at the inner end just a few feet from the sheer brick wall at the alley's end. Just as Paolo was lining up his shot, he noticed someone move from the sunny sidewalk into the shade of the alley, approaching the brothers from behind. Paolo straightened and squinted in an attempt to more clearly see who the man was. Joe was taking a leak in the corner, and the brothers were still looking at Paolo trying to gage his reaction to their latest wise cracks. So, Paolo was the only one who noticed the man walking into the alley.

"Hello, paisani," the stranger said in a thick Neapolitan accent, "I look for Paolo Bellisano. He is here?" The Bruno brothers, like most men in this close-knit community were suspicious of strangers. As they turned to face the stranger, their expressions transformed instantly from jovial to menacing. They turned and moved closer together, closing ranks as Angelo asked, "Who are you," in his most authoritative, threatening voice. "Per piacere\- uh, please, my friend, I only have a letter for this Paolo. I hear from people in the neighborhood that Paolo, he live around here. I hear you call out 'Paolo' while you play, so I come into alley and ask. You are him, maybe?" As the stranger got closer, he shrugged his shoulders and extended his hands palms-up: all gestures meant to convey "I'm just a harmless messenger." Angelo, always the more combative of the brothers, stepped closer to the stranger and grunted, "I don't know no Paolo. Now go away while you can." Shaking his head, the stranger said, "I am Giorgio. I live around the block. I see you before but no talk to you or meet you. We are paisani. I come here from Naples one year ago. I am sorry if you think I mean trouble. I do not. My father is friend of Don Petrillo from back home. He send letter to my father, and my father, he ask me to bring letter to this Paolo fellow. This is all I know. If you and your friends are not Paolo, I leave you alone."

Having initially sensed trouble, Paolo quickly covered most of the distance between the back end of the alley and the spot where this heated exchange was taking place. His pace slowed when he heard about the letter from Don Petrillo. "Easy, Angelo," he called as he approached. "There is no trouble here. I know this Don Petrillo and if this man has a message from him I want to see it. Giorgio, I am the Paolo you look for." He stopped a few feet in front of Giorgio and rested his hand on Angelo's shoulder. "Is ok, Angelo. Is ok." Joe had also crossed the alley and stood protectively beside Paolo. His head swiveling to take in the four men who stood in front of him, Giorgio took a step back and pulled a letter out of his jacket pocket. "Paolo," he said, "here is letter. I am sorry I do not know anything of this business. Like I say, I only bring this because my father, he tell me to bring this letter from his friend. I do not even know this Don Petrillo, but if he has my father's respect then he must be a man deserving of this small favor from me." Paolo stepped forward and took the letter. Giorgio backpedaled several steps, pivoted, and walked away briskly without saying another word.

Later that evening as Joe and Paolo were finishing dinner, Joe stood and asked again about the letter. Paolo had been browsing it throughout their meal and had clearly read it several times since receiving it just a few hours before. Joe noticed how Paolo shook his head as he perused the letter, his jaw muscles rolling under the taught skin on the sides of his face. Paolo swore as he knocked over the empty wine glass that had been resting on the letter. Joe glanced at the letter. He was struck by the neatness and symmetry of the handwriting, although to his illiterate eye it might as well have been hieroglyphics. Resting a hand on Paolo's shoulder, he reached under the table, picked up and uncorked the jug. He reset the overturned glass, refilled it and said, "Drink some wine, Paul. Tell me what this thing is and how I can help you." Paolo stood abruptly, nearly upsetting his chair. He looked at Joe, shook his head, and walked out of the apartment with his head down so Joe couldn't see the tears running down his cheeks.

Paolo had been writing to Caterina at least once every week, sending her a dollar or two whenever he could work it into the stringent budget he'd worked out for himself. Caterina would respond with brief but heartfelt notes in response, her English showing improvement with virtually each message. He smiled when he realized that she must have been studying the materials he'd sent to help her improve her command of English. He couldn't understand why she had never mentioned his mother's illness, or her rapid decline since he'd left their home. According to the letter from Don Petrillo, his mother had been ill for months before Paolo had left home, but she hid this from him because she did not want to interfere with his plans. And now, Caterina had done the same, going so far as to relay fabricated messages from his mother in her letters to him so as not to burden him with the bad news about her deteriorating health.

And now, his mother was gone. And he hadn't been there to comfort her or Caterina. His mind raced as he strode through the busy streets, dodging the piles of horse manure, ragged children, noisy peddlers, delivery wagons and the occasional rattling auto. Had she suffered? Was Caterina alone now? His mother's whole life had been dedicated to taking care of and protecting him, even to the very end. He should have been there, looking after her just as she'd looked after him for all those years. Paolo had never felt so alone and disconnected. He needed to see Caterina, so speak with her, to be near her. But she was about as far away as Paolo could imagine, across that wide ocean he'd crossed just a few months ago.

Paolo looked up just in time to avoid a head-on collision with a burly man standing in the middle of the sidewalk talking to a handful of paisani sitting on the stoop in front of a tenement. "Mi scusi- uh, excuse me," said Paolo as he stopped short, snapping out of his reverie. He looked around, trying to orient himself. The neighborhood looked almost exactly like his: the damp work clothes swaying on lines strung across the alleys; the children scampering from stoop to stoop, their parents scolding loudly in Italian; the smell of frying meats and stewing vegetables mixed with auto exhaust, horse manure and rotting garbage. "I know you," said the man in broken English. "You are friends with Joe Bellisano and the Bruno brothers, no? Mi chiamo – my name it is Giovanni\- uh, I mean I am Johnny. I used to work with the Brunos down at the docks, and I meet Joe a couple of times with them. I see you playing bocce with the Brunos and Joe sometimes when I walk to visit my relatives who live near them."

Paolo straightened up and introduced himself. Johnny had the ruddy features of a laborer: the leathery skin, the sinewy arms and disheveled hair. When Paolo shook Johnny's sandpapery hand and looked into his dark brown eyes, he felt a sense of warmth and friendliness that can only come from meeting someone with shared experience. He knew instinctively that Johnny was a paisan' who likely came from a village very near his own. "You will join us? Our uncle's wine is very good this year," Johnny said as Paolo pulled out his dirty handkerchief to wipe his brow.

The Bergamino brothers- Johnny, Tony and Carlo- turned out to be recent immigrants from a small village not too far from Atripalda. The three had been working in a large grocery store owned by a distant relative they called Zio Donato, although he was actually a remote cousin of their father. Johnny worked mostly in the store, while his brothers spent most of their time making deliveries and peddling vegetables and meats in the streets. They considered this easy work compared to the grueling and dangerous work on the docks, and the heavy construction work they'd done when they first arrived. Stocking shelves, making deliveries and peddling groceries was a far cry from unloading ships, digging trenches, mixing concrete and carrying lumber and bricks on the dangerous building sites that seemed to spring up on every other block in the city. The brothers considered themselves very fortunate; they were effusive in praise for their dear uncle to whom they owed their good fortune.

To his surprise, Paolo felt comfortable with the Bergamino brothers almost immediately. He smiled as the brothers moved over to make room for him on the steps, poured him a glass of wine, and clapped him on the shoulder in greeting.

They talked about their homes on the other side, which is how Italian immigrants often referred to their home country. They talked about their jobs and how work was readily available to anyone willing to bend their backs. They talked about plans for returning home- always in a year or two \- with a cash stake that would enable them to start new lives. Although Paolo had just met the brothers, he told them the story about leaving Caterina, and about the news he'd just received about his mother. As was the habit of all Italian immigrants when heartfelt communication was needed, the Bergaminos switched to their mother tongue when offering condolences.

Standing abruptly, Paolo said "Oh, madonn', it's almost dark. Joe, he probably worries about me! I should go home now. Come by next Sunday and join us for some bocce and wine. Joe and the Brunos will be glad to see you, and so will I. Buona sera." With that, he shook hands with each of the brothers, and looked up and down the street as if trying to determine which way to go. With a shrug, he ran his fingers through his hair, attempting to straighten it and remembering how his mother always called it that mop of yours. He could almost hear her teasing him about his unruly hair as he closed his eyes and smiled sadly. Seeing the bemused look on Paolo's face, Johnny laughed and said, "Yes, you were day-dreaming when you got here so I'm not surprised you don't know the way home. Here, I walk with you to Avenue C, then I know you can find your way from there."

Chapter 3

Santa Lucia di Serino

Avellino, Italy

July 1911

Caterina sang softly as she cleared the table and began the post-dinner clean up. Her cousin Salvatore sat outside and smoked a pungent sigaro while his wife, cugina Christina helped Caterina in the kitchen. The couple had moved in with Caterina after Annunziata died the previous Autumn, and Caterina deeply appreciated their companionship and support. Having long ago lost her own parents, and being an only child, she felt herself fortunate to have some semblance of family life.

Salvatore and Christina Bartolomeo were about ten years older than Caterina, and their affectionate relationship with her felt more and more parental as time passed. Often they would talk about moving to America, as so many locals had done over the past few years. Nearly everyone they knew had some relatives or friends who'd gone to America and sent news about how much better things were for them, having escaped the grinding poverty and rising despair in the poor rural areas of Southern Italy. The mantra was always the same: go to America, take one of the virtually limitless laborer jobs, earn and save money, then return home for a better life. The hardscrabble southern Italian contadini men, accustomed to long back-breaking work days in the hot sun, were well suited to the thousands of construction jobs in the cities of America's northeast.

One sunny afternoon as they finished a light mid-day meal, Salvatore said with a chuckle, "I want to go to America before I am too old to work," echoing the running joke about how, though only thirty two years of age, he was nearly old enough to be Caterina's father. While they often spoke of going to American, the discussion was always vague and somewhat wistful. But somehow the tone was different today. Caterina believed that she had saved nearly enough money for passage, and the Bartolomeos had recently been in contact with a relative from Naples who was willing to repay a long-owed favor by providing them with enough cash for the journey.

"We can do this. Please write to Paolo and tell him we are making plans," said Salvatore. "We can go together, Caterina, the three of us. You can be with your Paolo and Christina and I have relatives there who will help us get settled. And I am friendly with Don Petrillo, who can help us with travel arrangements." The Bartolomeos' relatives were among the thousands of southern Italian immigrants who settled in the New York/New Jersey area in the early twentieth century. One of Salvatore's cousins had somehow managed to own a small tavern in Newark, New Jersey, which to Salvatore qualified him as a wealthy man who'd be a perfect sponsor for Christina and him. Now that funds would become available for passage, Salvatore felt that there was no reason to delay.

This was the answer to Caterina's prayers. While she and Paolo had agreed that she would join him at some point, she was terribly frightened about the prospect of making arrangements and actually venturing out on her own. Although she had never admitted it to Paolo, she could not conceive of such a trip actually happening. As a young, uneducated woman who had never been more than a few miles from where she was born, the idea of organizing and following through with such a seemingly impossible ordeal was terrifying. With the knowledge that Salvatore could handle arrangements and the comfort of the couple's company on the trip, it actually seemed achievable. "Yes, we can do this," she said as her eyes filled with tears at the prospect of this amorphous dream becoming reality.

Christina's smile faded as she realized it was time to speak up. "Salvatore," she said looking at him earnestly, "I was waiting for the best time to tell you. This may be the worst time; I am not sure. But I am very sure that I am pregnant."

Married for over ten years, Salvatore had long ago accepted that they were just not meant to have a child together. While he had always wanted children, he made peace with the idea that he would never be a father. And now this wonderful news! Salvatore was rendered speechless for a moment, which was unusual for the gregarious, boisterous man. When he recovered, he swallowed hard, smiled and said, "God is blessing us with a new life for our new life." With that, he hugged Christina and laughed. Christina and Caterina embraced, each other's smeared tears mingling on their cheeks. As the news settled in, Salvatore began thinking about how this would impact their plans. "Of course, we must wait for the baby to come before we make the trip. A sea voyage is no place for a woman carrying a child. We will wait for the little one to be born before we travel. I will visit with Don Petrillo so he knows we are planning to travel next year. Now we have TWO wonderful messages to send to Paolo." Christina and Caterina laughed, cried, and hugged each other while Salvatore smiled and nodded approvingly.

Six months later, Salvatore and Christina beamed as Padre Santino baptized little Teresa, whom they had named after Christina's mother. Little Teresa was born on Salvatore's birthday, and Philomena the local midwife had helped make arrangements for the baptism. Philomena was seated in the first pew, with a broad smile on her wrinkled face, as though she herself had given birth to Teresa. As was her custom, Philomena whispered a prayer asking for blessings on her little nipotina, for in her heart she considered every child she helped bring into this world to be her very own grandchild.

With the vigilant care of two dedicated women, little Teresa thrived. "This is good training for me," Caterina would say as she took Teresa from her mother's arms, which she did at every opportunity. "When Paolo left, I began feeling that having my own children with him was an impossible dream. Now I am sure that Paolo and I will be bringing little ones along someday soon. This little one will make the trip to America with us, and Paolo and I will be together. And we will have babies like our beautiful little Teresa." When Teresa was six months old, Salvatore and Christina agreed that the time for the voyage had come.

Chapter 4

Newark, New Jersey

May 1912

"I will not have Caterina endure the filth and misery I went through in what they call steerage class. I will get a second-class contract for Caterina's voyage," Paolo said as he and Joe sat smoking on the stoop on a cool spring evening. They seldom discussed what they'd experienced while crossing the ocean in steerage class. No one could have- or would have- prepared immigrants for the unspeakably squalid conditions in the bowels of the steam ships. Incredibly cramped quarters, horrid odors, rampant illness, woefully inadequate sanitation facilities, and very limited access to fresh air sickened even the most healthy and hearty steerage passengers. Paolo had heard stories about steam ships on which one in ten steerage passengers didn't make it to America alive. He never would have believed these stories if he hadn't experienced the conditions himself.

"She will be coming with her cousins Salvatore and Christina, and their new baby Teresa. Thanks to their families, the cousins can afford second-class passage. I will feel much better about Caterina's safety if she is able to travel with them. She already has nearly forty American dollars saved, and I have almost enough to send her a prepaid second-class contract. Just today I got a letter from Caterina, telling me they are ready. Salvatore has met with Don Petrillo, who is glad to help with arrangements."

Paolo had been working seven days per week, putting in as many hours as his boss at the tannery could provide. There was always plenty of work available, since not many men could stand long hours engulfed in the noxious fumes emanating from the vats in the leather tannery. And whenever he had an hour or two to spare, he supplemented that income by working with the Bergamino brothers in their uncle's market, washing floors, stocking shelves and delivering groceries.

"The Bergaminos' Zio Donato has been very good to me. He has insisted that I accept a loan from him that he calls an advance on my pay. He will give me the rest of the money I need, so I can buy the prepaid second-class contract for Caterina. This is really gonna happen, Joe! Caterina and I will be together again very soon."

Paolo was surprised to see the look of concern that suddenly darkened Joe's expression. "What is it, Joe? You look like you just thought of some bad news. We should be having a drink to celebrate; why the sad face all of a sudden?" Joe sighed and shook his head. "It's nothin', really," Joe replied. Paolo raised his eyebrows and tilted his head in a gesture meant to encourage Joe to speak up. "Well," Joe began in an incongruously somber voice, "I shouldn't say nothin', but I can't help thinking about that whole Titanic thing. I mean, everybody's talkin' about it. That gigantic ship, so big that it couldn't be sunk, they said. Sorry, Paul, you asked. I just got a little nervous thinkin' about that ship, that's all."

Paolo nodded grimly and said, "Yeah, I heard all about that. But I also heard that the idioto limey captain was in such a rush to make the fastest crossing that he got careless, and that's why they hit that iceberg. How many ships cross the ocean every day, and you never hear about stuff like this happening. I read in the newspapers that they're being extra careful on crossings now, really takin' their time 'cause nobody wants to be the next Titanic captain. Everybody blames him for what happened. The bastard is dead at the bottom of the ocean where he deserves to be. So many people died when the ship went down, including women and children. Sure, I'm worried. But I'm gonna put that out of my head and concentrate on the good news about my wife coming to join me."

Paolo had already been concerned with his wife's safety on the voyage, and his anxiety was only partially assuaged by the fact that she'd have Salvatore and Christina traveling with her. Being an avid consumer of daily newspapers, he was of course well aware of the Titanic tragedy, although he hadn't brought it up in conversation with Joe. The news had shaken him, and he actually considered asking Caterina to cancel the trip so he could rejoin her back at home. But since he was fairly certain that news of the disaster hadn't yet reached their tiny village, he kept his fears to himself. He also believed what he'd read and heard about how ships' captains were now on high alert and were exercising heightened levels of caution on the ocean crossings. And he took comfort in his conviction that second-class passengers would enjoy better safety and comfort than those in the bowels of steerage. Only when his wife arrived in America did he discover that the Titanic news had in fact reached her, and that she was petrified about the trip.

After clapping Paolo on the shoulder, Joe rose, trotted up the stairs and returned in matter of seconds with the wine jug he'd retrieved from the shelf over the kitchen sink. "You're right, Paul. My cousin ain't gonna be a solitario bachelor anymore, so it's time to celebrate. Hey, you gonna get a new place to live, or are the two of you gonna stay here and keep me awake nights," Joe asked with a suggestive giggle. Paolo shook his head and chuckled, "No, Joe, I don't want my wife to have to live in the same apartment with a cafon' like you around. I didn't mention it to you, but I been workin' on getting us an apartment close by. Old man Canizzo is moving out, going to live with his daughter out in Pennsylvania someplace. We'll be living right down the hall!"

Joe laughed heartily, "You asino, you! Now you keepin' secrets? I still don't know why that nice pretty girl ever married a bum like you." With that Joe filled their glasses and they toasted Caterina and the bright future ahead.

Chapter 5

Second Class State Room

SS Ancona en route to New York

August 1912

Christina cradled the squirming infant, cooing softly to him as she nursed him. Earlier in the voyage, Christina and Caterina had befriended the boy's sickly mother and anxious father. Anna and Umberto were about Caterina's age, although Anna's pale complexion and frail demeanor made her seem much older. Anna had been ill when she boarded, but in typical peasant style she shrugged it off as a minor inconvenience that she would not permit to slow her down one bit. On the second day at sea she contracted a raging fever, and her condition had deteriorated rapidly in the three days since. The ship's doctor had done his best to minister to the exasperated young woman, but no amount of medicine or fresh sea air provided any relief to her agony. At first, the doctor believed that the woman was in the grip of a tenacious case of influenza, but he puzzled at how her three-month-old boy remained so robust and cheerful, not showing any sign of contracting his mother's illness. The woman's husband also showed no signs of contagion, although he refused to leave her side.

The doctor had treated influenza patients before, but he'd never witnessed such complete and rapid decline as he saw in this case. He felt alone and powerless, with no mentor or peer to turn to for advice. All of his training, dedication and passion for patient care were worthless: he simply did not know what was wrong with this woman or what to do to alleviate her suffering. His worst fears were realized when the woman died suddenly, in the throes of a fever-induced convulsion. Although he and his assistant had several dozen other sick patients to tend to, the doctor couldn't stop wondering about this poor woman, what caused her death, and sadly, what would become of the poor infant she'd no longer be there to nurse.

When they heard about the woman's death, Caterina and Christina went immediately to Umberto and assured him that they'd help care for the baby. The man sobbed and fell to his knees the first time Christina held the baby to her breast and fed him. Smiling at Caterina, she said, "Only a few more days, and we will land in America. Thank God, this little one will be greeted by a large family in New York, with plenty of aunts and cousins to fuss over him. Umberto has two brothers and two sisters in New York, and from what I can gather from him, there are at least two or three babies born into the family in the last year or so. But until then, Caterina, we will be his mother. Little Teresa will have to drink a little less, but I swear that this precious boy will survive this trip." Caterina smiled in admiration while she cuddled and rocked Teresa who was sound asleep in her arms.

Chapter 6

Newark, New Jersey

April 1914

Paolo trudged up the tenement stairway. After a long day immersed in the noxious fumes of the tannery, he always found comfort and relief in the aromas wafting through the halls as dinners were prepared. Somehow, the chaotic sounds that accosted him as he mounted the stairs were soothing: pots and dishes clanging, children scampering and yelling, annoyed fathers bellowing hollow threats to the rambunctious kids; mothers leaning out of the windows, screaming the names of the older kids to beckon them home for dinner. These had become the sounds of home. Subconsciously, his steps lightened as he approached the final set of stairs that led to his third-floor walkup. Walking into the flat after his shift was always the highlight of his day.

The scene was virtually the same every day: Caterina at the stove, stirring a pot of steamy, thick tomato sauce, or frying up a batch of fatty beef with peppers, onions and garlic. Always a huge crusty loaf of bread on the table, courtesy of his friend Marco the baker. On the floor next to his chair, a gallon jug formerly used to deliver bleach but now filled with deep purple wine from the Bergaminos. And baby Joseph perched on Caterina's hip. She somehow managed to prepare these meals with one arm wrapped around a boisterous six-month-old, bouncing him on her hip in rhythm with the stirring motion of her other arm.

He paused in the doorway and smiled. The apartment was cramped; the building crumbling and overrun with vermin; the city dirty and congested. But his little family was surrounded by people from the other side who made the neighborhood feel like home. And he took comfort in knowing that he and Caterina were working toward the dream they had talked about before he left for America. Their plan was to stay in America for another two years or so, at which time they'd have a nest egg that would enable them to return home in style. Paolo had always been an optimist, and he now considered himself to be a very fortunate man. He of course loved his wife, who made a nice home for them. The icing on the cake had been the arrival of baby Joseph. As he did nearly every night, Paolo snatched Joseph from his mother's arms and danced around the apartment singing to him in Italian.

"Hey, Paul, sing to the kid in American, will ya? Or better yet, hand him over to Uncle Joe so I can teach him," said Joe who'd come down the hall when he heard Paolo arrive. "You are wrong, Jo-o-o-oh, this little one is not American, he's just a visiting Napolitan'. By the time he's old enough to talk, we'll be back home where he won't need to talk American." Joe shrugged his shoulders, lifted his chin, raised his hands palm-up and said "And you call Caterina the testa dura!"

Caterina smiled and shook her head. "So, Uncle Joe, you will eat with us," she asked. "No, Kay has dinner on the table already. I just wanted to come say hello to my long-lost roommate. I suspect that he likes living with you and little Joseph better than he liked living with me, but that's only a guess." They all laughed as Joe turned and headed toward his apartment down the hall.

Paolo bounced Joseph on his knee, expertly balancing him while twirling spaghetti onto his fork. "It is easy work, Caterina. And Joe makes more money in an hour or two than I make in a 12-hour shift at the tannery. All he does is deliver money from some customers to Petrillo's partner in Newark, this Vitorelli fellow, who seems like an important man. Vitorelli's men help the owners of local bars and restaurants somehow, and Joe collects their payments to Vitorelli twice each month."

Caterina frowned, glanced at baby Joseph, then bowed her head as if in prayer. After an uncomfortable moment's silence, she looked at Paolo and said, "but it seems like he's being paid a lot of money for such easy errands. I worry that there may be some bad connections that could put him in danger. And you two are so close, most people think you're brothers; you two even look alike! So, if he gets in trouble that could put us in danger," she said, staring into his eyes. Paolo took her hand. "Don't be so dramatic. You and the other women tell too many tales of the Camorra back on the other side. This is simply a local businessman who needs reliable help, and Joe is grateful for the chance to make the money. He'd never do anything to endanger our family, Caterina, you must know that."

She sighed and said, "Just promise me that you won't get mixed up with any of this. You have a steady job and our little family is doing just fine. I hear stories about men from the other side getting in trouble with criminals from Mano Nero, Camorra, Mafia\- whatever they are called. Concietta Russo's husband disappeared three months ago, and he was working with one of these business men you speak of. Now she is alone with three kids and no husband. Her husband got mixed up with bad men, Paolo, and-"

Paolo shook his head, saying "not me, Caterina. This I promise. I didn't know Concietta's husband, so I don't know what happened to him. But I do know that Joe felt like the family owed a debt to Petrillo. I don't feel that way since I long ago repaid him for his help and he has not contacted me since. Joe and I are different in some ways. He has ambition, he wants to be a big man; me, I just want to work and take care of my family. I don't know these people Joe is working with, but I must tell you that I do have a bad feeling about them. I know the Bruno brothers work for Vitorelli, and they are a couple of tough customers. They are friends, and I think good men, but they are hungry for more than they can eat. They also say that working for Vitorelli is easy work, but my father told me long ago to be careful about anything that seems too easy. The work they do for Vitorelli makes me think of those words. Anyway, Joe and the Brunos know that I don't want to get involved in these things, so they don't even talk about it in front of me anymore. It's okay, Caterina; now let's enjoy this meal." Although her rising concern was not assuaged, Caterina once again dropped the subject.

"I shoulda ate with Paul," Joe thought as he looked down at the bowl of stew Kay had placed before him. Kay had proven to be much better in the role of girlfriend than housewife. While she was still somewhat attractive, and they still enjoyed going out to shows occasionally, it was obvious to Joe that keeping house and making meals were not something in which Kay took any amount of pleasure. Her mannerisms and habits, so distinctly non-Italian, used to seem exotic and interesting. Now they were often annoying. To an Italian wife, the amount of time and effort put into meal preparation were borne with a measure of pride. Visitors could barely get through the door without the wife scurrying around to prepare something to eat and drink. With caregiving bred into these peasant women for generations, they invariably saw feeding the family as their mission in life; and often they were able to work wonders conjuring up wonderful meals with only pennies to work with. When Italian men spoke of their wives, one of the first things they mentioned was their ability as a cook. They often joked that the wife's skills in the kitchen were more important than skills in any other room. But to Kay, meals were somewhat thrown together, and she made it clear that she saw cooking as a chore.

But, he mused, she is a good woman and we have a good life together. He thought about how Kay must have had to adjust to dealing with his habits and mannerisms, just like he'd had to adjust to hers. All in all, he thought, she's a good wife and I'm lucky to have her. He smiled visibly, when he thought, at least I'll never get fat. Seeing him smile, Kay took the opportunity to broach a subject that had been on her mind.

"We gonna buy that house, Joe," Kay asked as Joe dug into his dinner. "I been meaning to tell you something, but I wasn't sure until the last couple of days. I'm pregnant, Joe." Joe paused, put down his fork, glanced into his stew for a moment, then looked up at Kay and smiled. "A cugin' for little baby Joseph! Cent' Anni," Joe said, lifting his wine glass. "Of course we'll buy that house! And we'll have big Sunday dinners with Paul and Caterina, and the Bartolomeos too! And the kids will run around the house, play in the yard, and grow up together! Now let's finish eating so we can go down the hall and tell my cousins the good news."

Chapter 7

December 1918

Little Joseph burst through the front door, nearly colliding with Caterina's protruding belly. "Easy, my little uomo pazzo! It's time to sit for dinner. Zia Kay has made a nice meal for us, now let me clean you up so she knows she is not feeding a bunch of animali. Your little sister and brother, they are still in the yard with your father; call them in while I get a tub of water and some soap."

Paolo was romping in the yard with his two younger children, little Lucia and Angelo, who were nearly as disheveled and dirty as their brother Joseph. The day was unseasonably warm for December- warm enough that Paolo was able to convince Caterina to let the kids play outside. As with most immigrant families in the area, Paolo and Caterina had a burgeoning brood, with children closely placed. The running joke (which Paolo never found funny) was that each of his children was nine months and fifteen minutes younger than the last. While they had moved to a larger, somewhat nicer apartment after Angelo was born, Caterina couldn't help feeling a twinge of jealousy when they visited Joe and Kay in their home. While it was simple, somewhat small, and had a hard-packed dirt yard that abutted a junkyard, it was a house! That meant no neighbors upstairs or downstairs; no arguments streaming through the thin walls; no climbing flights of stairs with children in tow.

Joe and Kay had had two children during the same period as Paolo and Caterina's three: Robert was now almost five and John was two. Paolo always wondered about the names, but never brought it up in deference to his cousin and dear friend. Where they came from, it was unheard of to have a boy- never mind two! - who wasn't named after a father or grandfather. Paolo thought he'd heard that the names Robert and John came from men on Kay's side of the family, but he never questioned it. Somehow, Paolo felt a vague sense of guilt at having a son named Joe while his cousin Joe did not. Paolo also couldn't help but notice that Joe didn't seem to pay much attention to his own kids, and it seemed like they were both well on the way to being little Irish mamma's boys- what his mother would have called lumache. Kay doted on them, dressed them nicely, and forbade them from roughhousing in the yard even when Paolo was doing just that with his kids.

Joe seemed more interested in his namesake nephew than his own children, which Paolo found unsettling. But as with most families, there were things that fermented under the surface that were never openly discussed. Caterina had mentioned it to Paolo many times in private, and they wondered what was behind it. But it would never cross their minds to actually bring it up to Joe, and certainly not to Kay.

Secretly, Paolo wondered why Joe was with Kay. While she did an adequate job keeping the house and caring for the children, Paolo had never heard her raise her voice in anger or in laughter. She wasn't stern or unpleasant; she reacted with a sense of lukewarm indifference to just about everything. At first, he thought it was just that she was from a different country, with a different upbringing in a different culture. But Paolo had met Irish men and women over the past few years, and many of them were as warm, friendly, passionate and family-oriented as any Italian. So that wasn't it. Kay was just cold. Paolo was used to a very different set of behaviors: his Caterina was emotional, affectionate, and passionate in just about everything she did. The warmth that exuded from her wrapped itself around Paolo and the kids in a way that made her the stabilizing force that kept everything together.

Kay, for the most part, was just there: a seemingly disinterested, passive participant in family gatherings. The only exception was the unmitigated and effusive affection she lavished on her sons, which made her apparent indifference to others all the more off-putting. Even at his young age, little Joseph had a strong feeling that Aunt Kay simply didn't like anyone except her own two sons. To his young mind, she was a strange and somewhat frightening woman; so different from his mother, who could definitely be scary in her own right when he misbehaved, but whose reprimands always conveyed feelings of affectionate authority.

Unlike the other men he socialized with, Paolo virtually never criticized his wife, with one somewhat lighthearted exception: Caterina's stubborn refusal to allow him or anyone else to Anglicize her name. Every attempt at calling her Catherine, Cathy or – heaven forbid – Kate was met with a stern rebuke: "my name is Caterina," so eventually Paolo stopped trying. Although he still occasionally teased her about it, in truth he admired her resolve, knowing it was her way of holding on to their roots to which she still longed to return. He even felt a little guilty when they met paisani on the street who'd say 'hello Paul and Caterina'; the implication being that he was trying to be American and she was not. Or more accurately, that she was proudly and stubbornly clinging to her Italian heritage and he was not.

As Kay and Caterina began the after-dinner cleanup, Paolo and Joe retreated to the backyard to sit, smoke and enjoy another glass of wine. Suddenly, Caterina gasped, dropped a plate and said "Oh, Kay, it's time! Call Paolo while I sit down."

Baby Peter, named after Paolo's father, was born before dawn the next morning. After the midwife cleaned up and left, one of the first things Joe did was tease Paolo about having a son born in his house. "Maybe you shoulda named this one Joe too," chuckled Joe as he poured them each a shot of Strega. "You're going a lot faster than I am, Paul. You're ahead four to two. I better get busy catching up." They clinked glasses, laughed and tossed back the shots. "Take your time, Joe. Maybe you won't catch up. It looks like you may be better at making money than me, but I think I'm better at making babies."

Peter Paul Bellisano was born on December 23, 1918. Caterina had wanted to name him Paul, but she acquiesced to Paolo's insistence at naming him after Paolo's father. While the baby's birth certificate reflected his name accurately, his baptismal certificate read "Pietro Paolo Balsano", with the last name seemingly spelled phonetically. Years later, Peter would explain this to his own children that the baptism certificate reflected his Italian name while his birth certificate showed his American name. He never realized the real reason: the baptismal certificate was filled out by Paolo, who was notoriously careless when it came to paperwork, while Caterina (who was much more attentive to detail) was present when the birth certificate was completed.

Young Joe (at five years of age, he announced that he no longer wanted to be called "Joseph") doted on his new little brother. While he showed normal sibling affection toward Lucia (now called "Lucy") and Angelo (who for reasons now lost became known as "Scotty"), he was somehow more strongly drawn to baby Peter and formed a bond with him that would last a lifetime. There were of course the normal dustups and bouts of chaos with four kids coming along within six years, but little Joe took on the role of big brother in an exceptionally mature and active way, and this in effect gave Caterina a second-in-command around the household. Even with the larger apartment, Caterina often felt the place would burst at the seams. Little Joe, Lucy, Scotty and Peter filled every inch of the place, with Caterina and Paolo taking up as little room as possible with their meager belongings.

Chapter 8

July 1920

Caterina wasn't sure when it happened, but there had definitely been a change; one of those changes that you're only aware of in hindsight. She couldn't recall specifically when they'd stopped talking about going back to Italy, but they certainly had. In fact, she couldn't recall the last time they'd spoken about it. Paolo was so busy working as many hours as he could at the tannery and the grocery store, and the few precious hours of free time were spent resting and playing with the children whenever he had the energy. They were never alone as a couple until they collapsed – at separate times – into bed at the end of the day, so there was little time to talk about anything other than day-to-day household chores, issues and needs. They were still close, but the demands of caring for four young ones didn't leave much time or energy for discussing anything like future plans.

One day while she was jostling about the kitchen, dodging children and juggling pots and pans, she began thinking about how she longed to go back to Italy. Then it struck her: this isn't home. 'Home' is across the ocean, in the little town we married in so long ago. She decided then and there that she needed to talk with Paolo about this.

They had determined that the kids would learn English and hold off on learning Italian. This provided several benefits, not the least of which was the ability to hold conversations in Italian that the kids couldn't understand. Tonight at dinner, she thought, I'll be glad the kids don't understand Italian when I talk to Paolo about going home. She'd have to start the conversation with news of her pregnancy of course, but she convinced herself that news of yet another child could be a perfect way to broach the subject of returning home.

The very next evening was unusually quiet in the Bellisano apartment. Caterina had intentionally taken the kids for a long walk and had them play outside much of the afternoon. Although she herself was very tired, she was buoyed by her success in tiring the children out; they were all sound asleep. The discussion went better than she'd anticipated. "I know we haven't talked about going home for some time, Caterina," Paolo whispered while sipping his wine. "But I know that is what's in your heart, and in mine. I remember our plans. I've just been too damned busy working and trying to save money. I am sorry if you think I have forgotten."

Paolo paused, looked at his wife and continued, "I promise you that I have not forgotten, and now when the new little one arrives we will find a way to go back. We have some money saved, and I am sure Zio Donato will provide us with a loan if I ask him. His store is doing very well, and he always asks if we need anything from him. I will speak with him tomorrow and tell him that we want to return home after the new baby comes. Now, let's talk about what we will name our new child! I would like Paolo if it's a boy, and Christina if it's a girl."

Caterina smiled, wiped a tear from her eye and said "Those are exactly the names I want, Paolo. Christina after our dear cousin; Paolo after my dear husband. We will have to squeeze into the house back home, but the children will be able to run and play on the same hillside that you roamed as a child, as did your father before you. I am sure Cugina Maria has taken good care of the house while we have been gone. She will be glad to move back with her sister when we return. Oh, Paolo, I am so happy that we'll be going home at last."

Paolo smiled and cradled Peter is his arms, singing softly to him. "Little Pietro Paolo we will go back home and you will grow up where I spent my childhood years. I will show you all the secret hiding places, streams and the best places to steal sweet grapes right off the vine. I will tell you stories of Annunziata and Pietro, and their parents before them. You will play in the village streets with the other boys and grow big and strong on your mamma's food. You will go to school and be an important man one day." Little Peter smiled and giggled sweetly, as he did whenever Paolo spoke to him.

They way Paolo had it figured, over the next year he could save almost half of what he needed for passage for the family. Joe was doing well these days and was showing no signs of ever returning to Italy, so Paolo assumed he could ask Joe for a loan. Between Zio Donato, cugin' Joe, and whatever Paolo could save, he was sure he'd be able to afford passage for the entire family. "Madonn'", he said to himself aloud, "there will be seven of us by this time next year."

As always, Caterina handled her pregnancy with ease, even through the summer months' oppressive heat when the apartment felt like an oven. Paolo often teased her that she was made to have children, and that they should have nine or ten at least. Somehow, Caterina was able to ride herd on the kids, take care of the apartment, and make meals without tiring or complaining. Carrying the baby- a big one this time, she'd told Paolo- didn't slow her down. Paolo was often surprised and sometimes amazed at her boundless energy and enthusiasm. The thought of going home brightened her spirits and filled her with hope and purpose.

Chapter 9

December 1920

Paolo burst into the bedroom after hearing the midwife scream, "Non due, non due" over and over. He'd suspected something was wrong when the midwife sent for her sister late the previous night, telling him she just needed extra hands because she was getting on in years. Felicia had delivered his last three children, along with dozens of others in the neighborhood over the past few years, and Paolo knew she often withstood forty-eight hour vigils without rest; so there had to be some other reason she was sending for help.

Caterina and stillborn baby Paolo both lie dead on the bed, deaf to the wails and cries of the two midwives. "The baby, he was strangled by the chord. Mamma, she have the bleeding I cannot stop. We could not save the baby or the mamma. Dio mio, dio mio," she repeated over and over. Paolo stood motionless, his first thought being that he should feel something; but he was numb. He didn't know how long he'd stood there, or who went to get Joe. He became aware of Joe's arm around him and Joe's voice in his ear, "Let's go, Paolo. Let's go see your kids at the Bartolomeos'. You will need Christina and Salvatore more than ever now. And the kids, they will need their papa to be strong. Let the women do their job; I will go see the priest after I leave you with your family."

As they walked out onto the street, Joe remembered that he had been meaning to talk to Paolo about his problems with Kay, but of course that would have to wait now. Joe knew that Paolo had more than enough to deal with now, and Paolo would find out soon enough that Kay was likely going to leave him. In a perverse way, Joe was actually relieved that he didn't have to go home for a day or two, since he had to look after Paolo and work out logistics with the undertaker and the church. For most of their time together, Kay had silently resented being the "outsider" to Joe and his family. But over the past year or so, she'd become increasingly vocal and shrewish, complaining about their "guinea" food, music, language and customs. She rarely even spoke to Joe anymore, other than to harp on him about something lacking in the house, in his attire, or his treatment of their sons.

After leaving Paolo with his children at the Bartolomeos' house, Joe headed for the church. Walking briskly on the slippery sidewalk, he thought about the argument he'd had with Kay the prior night. "You shoulda married Paolo, you love him so much. And you love his little guinea snots more than your own kids! You no like-a you kids! You shoulda had a nice-a ee-taliana wife-a like Caterina," she barked at him, mocking his accent. Lately, it seemed like the only time they spoke was when they argued about something. Kay had increased her drinking, had put on weight, and looked like she'd aged ten years in the past one. Now she was threatening to leave him. He knew he should feel upset, but all he felt was a sense of relief. He allowed himself to imagine what life would be like if she did leave, and to his surprise the idea brought him no degree of sadness or worry. In fact, the thought was pleasing.

As he stuffed his hands deep into his coat pockets and leaned into the biting December wind, Joe chided himself for thinking about his own situation while Paolo was in such trouble. The Bartolomeos would certainly help with the kids in the short term, which would surely be a godsend. But what worried Joe most was how Paolo would hold up. He needed to keep providing for his kids, and to do that he needed to keep his job at the tannery. As much as Joe loved Paolo, he never considered him to be particularly strong or ambitious. Joe worried that Paolo would not be up to facing the challenges ahead; how could anyone get past such a grievous loss? Even a strong man would be shaken by something like this. And those kids! It was inconceivable that a working man could care for four children, run a household and work to earn enough money to support them. Joe knew the Bartolomeos to be generous, caring people, and he knew they were very close to Paolo and Caterina. But they had children of their own to care for, with three-year-old Salvatore Junior and one-year-old Josephine virtually filling their crowded house. Joe couldn't imagine a worse scenario for poor Paolo; he was sure that the Bartolomeos would help, but he couldn't imagine how long they'd be able to.

Finally arriving at the church, he entered the narthex, wiped his feet and crossed himself before entering the sanctuary to find father Vigilius. His footsteps echoed loudly and incongruously in the empty, silent church. Midway down the main aisle, he stopped in his tracks when he realized it was little Peter's second birthday and the day before Christmas Eve, when the Bartolomeos had a large gathering planned to celebrate the Feast of Seven Fishes. Peter had become Paolo's favorite, although Paolo did his best to hide that fact from the others and he denied it whenever Joe teased him about it. And although Caterina as an exceptionally loving mother showed affection for everyone one of her children, it was understandable that the as the youngest Peter would get the most attention.

Now that poor little boy would have only vague memories of his mother, if any at all. And his namesake, little Joe, would have to grow up quickly. He was already expected to help out around the house much more than normal for a boy his age. Knowing little Joe as he did, Joe realized that the young boy would feel obligated to take care of his siblings, and would likely lose his childhood to his duties. Joe slid into a pew, knelt and bowed his head, spending a few moments in anxious silent prayer. He then rose, crossed himself and headed for the door that led to the rectory office in search of the priest.
Chapter 10

June 1921

Joe grabbed Paolo by the lapels on his baggy shirt and snarled at him, "Paolo, you have to wake up. I don't mind you staying here, but you can't keep leaving your kids at the Bartolomeos' for days on end without seeing them. And having them come back and forth between my house and theirs must be making the kids feel like orphans. Their mother died, Paolo, not their father! You gotta wake up and take care of your kids." Paolo responded with the vacant stare that seemed to be his normal expression of late. Paolo had lost a considerable amount of weight, and grey streaks had begun to appear in his unkempt hair. He slept mostly at the house Joe still shared with Kay, although Kay and the two boys weren't around much. Paolo vaguely remembered hearing something about Kay living mostly with her sister, but he couldn't recall any specifics. At any rate, things were more peaceful when she wasn't around arguing with Joe relentlessly.

"Joe, I'm giving Salvatore money every week. I see the kids when I can; they're being fed and have a roof over their heads. I'm doing my job as a father. If you don't want me here, I'll just leave," Paolo whispered. "Paolo, speak American, will ya," Joe said, raising his voice in agitation. "These days, you only speak Italian, and your voice is this annoying whisper. And you look like a bum, like uomo pazzo. Do you know how the kids are doing in school? Is little Peter learning to talk? Did you know little Joe refuses to speak Italian no matter how much Christina insists? He says his mamma wanted him to speak American only. You are very lucky that there is family around to help, but that does not take you off the hook; you are responsible for them, so act like it," Joe seethed at Paolo, trying to elicit a reaction. Paolo just stared at him, a distant look in his eyes. "Is ok, Joe, is ok. You are right, I will do better." But Paolo's words did little to convince Joe that anything was going to change any time soon. Joe shook his head, put his arm around Paolo's shoulder and said, "Let's have a glass of wine. Then I want you to get cleaned up so we can go see your kids, you cafone."

Things were unexpectedly well organized at the Bartolomeos' home. Christina ran a tight ship, and it was clear that the six children in her charge (her two plus Paolo's four) were well cared for. Paolo's children swarmed him when he walked through the door, bolting past Joe who had to dodge the stampede. Then Joe said, chuckling, "Hey, you little ones forget your uncle Joe?" as he squatted down in anticipation of a series of hugs. As expected, little Joe led the charge, breaking free from his father's embrace and leaping into Joe's arms. "Little man, you grow so fast that I think maybe you should be working in the slaughter house down the street by now," he said, mussing the boy's hair. The two had always shared a special bond, and if anything that bond had strengthened since Caterina's passing. Looking over the boy's shoulder, Joe noticed that little Peter had followed his big brother, with one hand grasping his little Joe's suspenders as though he wanted to maintain constant contact with him. Joe lifted the toddler and kissed his cheek, softly singing "Pietro Paolo, Pietro Paolo" in his ear.

Although Paolo hardly noticed, his children were developing personalities that were strongly influenced by their circumstances. His oldest, Joe, was big for his age, and unusually mature for an eight-year-old. He looked after his siblings, helped them dress, oversaw cleanup of messes, and even helped with meal preparation. Recently, he'd begun helping Lucia and Angelo learn to read and write. Lucia had been taken under the wing of Teresa, Christina's daughter who was now ten. Teresa was an intelligent and polite girl, and her influence on Lucia was nothing but positive. Although only five years old, Angelo had already begun to feel the uneasiness that often comes with being a middle child. His older brother Joe was special because he was the oldest; Lucia was the only daughter; Peter was of course the baby. In Angelo's eyes, all of his siblings could lay claim to something that made them special, but he could not. He was shy and quiet, and consistently deferred to his older siblings and cousins. Lucia and Teresa were inseparable; Joe seemed to focus his attention on little Peter; Angelo felt distant and alone much of the time. To her credit, Christina noticed this and made a point of having her husband show the boy more attention whenever he could.

When all the children were asleep, Paolo left to spend the night at Joe's place. Salvatore was heading to bed when Christina grabbed his arm and led him to the kitchen. "Salvatore, you need to talk with Paolo. He is a lost soul, and the kids can see it and feel it. They need him, and I think he expects us to be their parents now. I love those kids like my own, and I will take care of them for as long as we need to. But I am so worried about Paolo, and about how the kids seem to have lost their mother and their father. Please, talk to him," Christina whispered. He knew that whenever she addressed him as 'Salvatore' that she was serious. "Ok, 'tina mia, ok, I talk to Paolo. He needs an arm around his shoulder and a boot in his ass." Christina gave him a stern look, and whispered through clenched teeth, "Start with the arm around his shoulder, Sal." She hugged him, said good night, and tiptoed to the bedroom.
Chapter 11

April 2019

"It looks easy on the map, but once you get into that section it can be pretty hard to find the grave," said the woman behind the counter in the dilapidated office. I'd found my grandfather's gravesite on the Internet, on one of those sites where you can actually see a picture of the grave itself, and I was surprised to find that he'd been buried with my grandmother who died thirty-five years before him. I'd always assumed he was buried alone or with his second wife, so this was a surprise. Then I remembered the rare stories my father told about his stepmother and it occurred to me that either Paolo or his children, or maybe Paolo and his children wanted it this way.

The elderly woman in the cemetery's office woman acted as though she was pleased to have someone to talk with, which was understandable given how desolate the cemetery was: rusted, crumbling iron fences and gates; weathered headstones leaning over ready to fall; inscriptions on monuments weather-worn to the point of being illegible; thousands of monuments, some spare others dramatic. Some mausoleums had once been ornate, but time had worn them down to ivy-covered hulks straight out of an old vampire movie. She let me take a picture of the cemetery map with my phone and showed me the hand-written entry in an ancient leather-bound ledger that looked like something that could've come from Scrooge's office.

She flipped a few of the stiff yellow pages, running her finger down the columns and mumbling names under her breath as she moved through the 'B' section of the alphabet. Maybe it was a coincidence, I mused, but it seemed like every surname that she whispered was clearly an Italian name. "Balsamo, Battista, Beccione, Bellasera... ah, here we go, Bellisano. Caterina and Paulo in a double plot." She spun the book so I could read it right side up. There it was, written ninety-nine years ago: my grandmother's name next to the plot number. Next to her name, in different ink from a different hand from a different time, my grandfather's name.

"Whose name is that in the column to the right of my grandparents' names," I asked, squinting in an effort to decipher the fading script. She replied, "I can't tell if the first name is Antonia or Antonio. But the last name is Opida. That's the person who bought the plot in nineteen twenty. Do you know if that would be a relative of one of your grandparents?"

I'd never heard the name before, and I don't know how many siblings either of my grandparents may have had, so this person may well have been a relative from a branch of the family tree that's unfamiliar to me. "Is there any information about the purchasers of the cemetery plots," I asked, knowing it would be a long shot. "Back then we didn't record much more than names and dates," she said, "I'm sorry but I really can't tell you anything more. Maybe there's someone in your family who'd know," she said as she rotated the book and closed it. "Maybe," I said, not wanted to prolong the conversation by telling her that there was no one left alive who could possibly know the answer. I thanked her and headed to my car.

The cemetery is huge, much bigger than I'd expected. While it appeared to be bounded by busy main roads on three sides and a highway on the other, after walking around a bit I noticed that it continued on the other side of the highway. I cringed when I thought about how the highway must've been cut through the old cemetery fifty or sixty years ago, resulting in the shuffling around of human remains.

Although there were obvious signs of age, the grounds were reasonably well kept in comparison to the office and especially when compared with the surrounding area, which was run-down and appeared downright unsafe.

As I wandered around trying to use the picture of the cemetery map on my phone, I noticed that virtually every headstone bore an Italian name. The area had changed over the years of course, but according to the little history I know, huge numbers of Italian immigrants flooded the towns in this county in the early twentieth century. And here they were now, all around me as I craned my neck to look over a tall headstone searching for my grandparents' resting place. Thousands of lives, thousands of stories, all resting here unheard, with the incongruous sounds of highway traffic serving as a reminder that time has moved on without them. I swiveled my head, partly to look for the grave and partly for safety reasons: the cemetery was smack in the middle of a somewhat seedy area, and my antennae were up. But I didn't see a single person in the cemetery; it was eerily empty, in stark contrast to the busy streets and highway that surrounded and bisected it.

Finally, I spotted the stone into which my last name had been chiseled in large block letters. Caterina, 1892-1920 and Paolo 1889-1955. She'd been twenty-eight when she died; he was sixty-six. The first thing that struck me was the pristine condition of the stone: it looked remarkably clean and almost recently engraved. I wondered if some distant relative of mine visited regularly, or if the cemetery staff just did a good job on maintenance. Or maybe both.

Before approaching the grave, I stopped for a moment and stared at my last name on the stone from a distance of about twenty feet. Although I'd anticipated this moment since finding the gravesite online, I realized that I didn't know what to do now that I was here. I frowned a little, shook my head, and walked solemnly to what I assumed was the foot of the grave. I don't like cemeteries- who does? But I always feel like I need to show respect to the interred, being careful not to walk on graves if I can avoid it. I sighed and stuffed my hands into my pockets. Then, to my surprise, I actually spoke aloud. As I recall what I said, I'm glad no one was within earshot.

"Grandma, grandpa, I'm your son's son. Wow, it's a little weird calling you grandma and grandpa at my age, and since I never met you. But I don't think I'd feel right calling you by your first names. Sorry I've never been here before, and I'm really sorry I know so little about you. Uh, thank you for coming to America. Thank you for my life. I've done the best I could with the name you gave me, and I think it's still in good shape. I think you'd be proud of me, at least I hope so. Grandma, I'm sorry you died so young. Grandpa, that must've been horrible for you. I'm just going to stand here for a few minutes and imagine what it would've been like if you hadn't died so young, Grandma."

After a few silent moments, I looked around, embarrassed and grateful that I was still alone. I smiled and shook my head, chuckling at my own behavior. As I headed back to my car, I thought about how this grave had sat here for my entire life- through hot summers, snowstorms, so many holidays, so many births and deaths. And I'd never been here; in fact, none of my siblings even knew where this grave is until I looked it up yesterday. When was the last time anyone visited this grave, and who were the visitors? I felt a twinge of guilt realizing that I never took the trouble to find out about their lives, having been raised by a father who clearly didn't want to talk about his childhood. I found myself wondering how many lives would've been changed, how different my own life might be, if Caterina hadn't died so young. So many things I wish I knew, so many questions I wish I would have asked my father. And now, all I can do is wonder...

Chapter 12

August 1923

Paolo was surprised at the sense of relief he felt when he saw the closed casket. He then realized that he just didn't want to see Joe's body. The cavernous church felt sadly empty, the priest's Latin incantations echoing along the huge marble and granite sanctuary. He sat in the third pew with the Bruno brothers and other friends of Joe's, trying to avoid Kay's histrionics and the sickening smell of incense the priest was spewing around the casket. The Brunos had been good friends to Paolo and Joe ever since they met, but recently they were much closer to Joe, since Paolo had become somewhat of a hermit and Joe liked to socialize. Although Paolo stubbornly kept his distance from their "line of work" he knew that Joe had been working for Vitorelli with the Brunos. It occurred to Paolo that it must have been the Brunos who'd made all the funeral arrangements, since he couldn't imagine Kay lifting a finger for Joe.

Joe looked around at the attendees, and other than the Bartolomeos, the Brunos and the Bergaminos he didn't recognize anyone. He gazed up at the stained glass windows, the painting of God sitting on a celestial thrown, and the huge oak rafters, wondering what kind of effort it must have taken to build this church. Consciously, he was attempting to avoid looking at Kay seated in the front pew. Knowing how Joe and Kay had been living, and how she'd been treating Joe with increasing belligerence made it even more difficult for Paolo to watch Kay playing the role of bereaved widow. So he scanned the faces in the pews, trying to place those he didn't recognize. He made a mental note to thank the Brunos for their help, and to ask them again to tell him what happened.

"Paolo, your cousin was killed in a car crash. That's all you need to know, and we don't know anything more. If we did, we would surely tell you everything. It's best not to ask too many questions, Paolo. Please, just accept that there was a terrible accident and Joe is gone. Asking around about this will not bring him back, and it won't do you any good. I ask that you trust me when I say it would be best if you just let it go," whispered Angelo as he placed his sinewy arm around Paolo's shoulder. Standing on the church steps between Angelo and Franco Bruno, shaking hands with passing mourners he didn't know, Paolo looked down and shook his head. Instinctively he knew that Joe's death must have something to do with the "business men" Joe had gotten mixed up with, but he knew enough about that world to know that he should heed Angelo's warning.

The Bergaminos approached, exchanged guarded greetings with the Brunos, and invited Paolo to join them for dinner that evening. Paolo barely acknowledged them, only managing a vacant half-smile and nod as he descended the steps to join the progression to the graveyard.

At the conclusion of the graveside service, Paolo stood motionless as the crowd dissipated. Handshakes, shoulder pats and a few hugs later, he was alone. Johnny Bergamino jogged back from the crowd that was moving toward the exit. "Paolo, come with us. We've taken the day off from work and plan to test the latest batch of Zio's wine. Then we'll have a nice dinner," said Johnny in his broken English. Paolo responded in Italian, "no, I want to stay here for a while. I may come later, but I might want to get some sleep. If I don't come today, I will see you soon. Thank you, Johnny, but I want to be alone for a while." Johnny thought it odd that Paolo seemed to only speak Italian these days, but he didn't think this was the right time to ask Paolo about it. "Ok, Paolo, ok. But not too much alone time. We worry about you these days. If you don't come to visit today, we'll be over tomorrow to check on you." Paolo stuffed his hands into his pockets and stared at the mound of dirt that would soon be shoveled into the hole that contained the remains of his best friend, the man who'd been closer to him than any person in the world other than Caterina, who was also lost to him.

He knew Caterina's grave wasn't far from where Joe now rested. He hadn't been able to bring himself to visit the grave since the day of her burial. Maybe today would be the day. But what would he do if he went there? For the first time, Paolo felt a hint of guilt about not having visited the grave. He swallowed hard and headed toward the section where Caterina was buried.

As Paolo approached the grave, he stopped for a moment and stared at his last name on the stone from a distance of about twenty feet. Although he'd anticipated this moment since the day she was interred, he wondered what to do now that he was facing the grave. He frowned, shook his head, and walked solemnly to the foot of the grave. Paolo had once been fairly religious in a perfunctory way, but the loss he'd suffered only served to destroy whatever little genuine faith he may have had. But even he felt that cemeteries were somehow holy places where he needed to show respect to the interred; he was careful not to walk on graves if he could avoid it. Then, to his surprise, he actually spoke aloud after looking around to make sure no one was within earshot.

"Caterina, the kids are doing ok. I'm taking good care of them with the help of the Bartolomeos, who have been a blessing. Little Joe is a fine big brother who looks after the younger ones. Lucia has a wonderful big sister in her cousin Teresa, Angelo is growing like a weed, and little Peter is such a smart little boy that he amazes me sometimes. And me, I'm doing fine. Don't worry about us; we are all well and happy. I will take the kids here when they get older. They remember you and speak of you all the time; never with sadness, but always with smiles and good memories." He wondered if somehow she could tell he was lying; if she could see the melancholy into which he'd sunk, and how each of the kids was struggling in one way or another since her death.

That night Paolo slept in Joe's house, just as he'd done every night for nearly two years. But this time, he was alone. He realized that at some point he'd have to talk with Kay about plans for the house. Kay and her two sons were now living alone in Kay's sister's house. Paolo recalled Joe telling him some time ago that the sister had gotten married and moved out, and since the house originally belonged to Kay's parents the siblings decided that Kay should take it over. He assumed that there must've been some maneuvering for position on Kay's part, but the net result was that she and her sons now had a nicer home in a nicer neighborhood. But surely she must now also own the house that she used to share with Joe, so Paolo realized that he actually had no right to live there. And she'd likely have to sell it because as far as Paolo knew she had no source of income without Joe. He certainly wouldn't have enough money to buy it from her; he gave nearly everything he earned to the Bartolomeos every payday. Paolo fully expected that one day soon, he'd return to Joe's house only to find that Kay was evicting him. But over a month would pass before he saw Kay again.

He settled into the familiar routine of sleeping at Joe's, working at the tannery, and visiting the kids several times each week. Christina and Sal Bartolomeo suppressed the urge to talk with Paolo about the future in deference to his obviously fragile state of mind. He'd absorbed a terrible blow with his wife's passing. Now he had to deal with the loss of his best friend who'd become a veritable lifeline. So the routine continued, with an unspoken feeling that these temporary arrangements needed to be settled at some point. But it was clear that Paolo was in no condition to care for the children alone, or for that matter to make any decisions about where he would live. To the Bartolomeos, it seemed that Paolo was wandering in a daze, yet somehow managing to go to work seven days each week to provide for his children. Privately, they talked about how something had to give at some point, but in keeping with their peasant pride they kept up appearances.

One night several weeks after Joe's burial, Paolo sat alone in the kitchen of Joe's house, gazing into the deep purple wine in the jug that he'd half emptied since finishing the day's work. He drank nearly every night now, except when nagging guilt compelled him to visit the kids. Drunkenly, he tilted his head to listen more closely to the sound on the front porch: someone trod up the steps and was fiddling with the door. He nearly called out Joe's name before he remembered that Joe was gone. "Who the hell is out there," he barked in Italian, his voice thickened by the wine. Kay entered noisily. "We gotta talk, Paolo." Out of habit, he responded in Italian. Kay snapped at him, "I don't talk that guinea talk, Paolo. Talk American when you talk to me."

She grabbed a glass from the cupboard, pulled a chair to the table and sat across from Paolo. Filling the glass nearly to the brim, she smiled and said, "one thing you dagos do right is make wine." She lifted the glass with a slight nod and drank half of it in one noisy swallow. "You think I'm a roaring, raging bitch, don't you," she said in between sips of wine. "I'm sure that cousin of yours filled your head with ideas about what a horrible woman I am. Well, you shouldn't believe everything he told you, especially since he was no saint. He ran around all hours with the hoodlum friends, doing God knows what with God knows who every night. So, sure, I complained about it. He wanted me to sit quietly and go along with whatever he did. And he just about ignored his own sons, like he had no feelings for them- his own flesh and blood. He mocked me for not being an Italian wife, whatever that means. So we fought a lot, and when I got the chance to move in with my sister, I did. It got to the point where we had a business arrangement, not a marriage. We had separate lives in separate houses, and once a week he'd drop off money for me to take care of the kids. But if he told you I acted like a bitch, or if you saw me acting that way, believe me I had my reasons for being mad at him. Your sainted cousin was impossible to live with."

Paolo began to protest, but she raised her hand to silence him. "Look, I didn't come here to fight. I have problems now with Joe gone, and so do you. Yeah, my sister gave me the house we grew up in, but I got no money coming in. The few bucks I'd saved are just about gone, and I've been depending on my brother for help. He's doing the best he can but he's got a family of his own to take care of. I gotta sell one of the houses- either this one or the one my parents left, so I can pay off this mortgage. So I'm stuck, and so are you. You got four kids that need you, I got two that need me. We are both alone, Paolo. Maybe instead of fighting, we could help each other." Paolo looked at her, puzzled by what he was hearing and too drunk to sort it out clearly. He began to respond in Italian, but seeing her aggravated expression, switched to English. "I don't know how I can help you; I can't even help myself or my kids anymore. I don't care about anything. I wish I never left home," he said. Then he did something that surprised Kay as well as himself. For the first time since Caterina died, he burst into tears.

Kay drained her second glass of wine and sat watching as Paolo sobbed uncontrollably, his chin on his chest and his shoulders heaving. When he showed no sign of calming down, she pushed her chair back, rose and moved around the table toward him. She suppressed a smile when she realized how completely vulnerable he was. Standing behind him, she tentatively rested her hands on his shoulders and whispered, "it'll be ok, Paolo. We're family now. We'll all be ok." When he didn't resist her touch, she moved closer and wrapped her arms around him, cradling his head and gently rocking him like an infant. "We don't have to be alone, Paolo, neither of us."

He gently grasped her arms, pulling them even tighter around him as she held him and kissed the back of his head, rocking gently to comfort him. Finally, the sobbing subsided and they both went silent as she felt him relax. After a moment, she moved from behind him, put her hand under his chin and lifted his head. Looking into his eyes, she said, "You don't have to be alone, Paolo. You got me." With that, she kissed him. When he stood up, she grabbed his arm and led him to the bedroom.
Chapter 13

March 1924

"Paolo, you gotta take the kids to live with you and Kay. Me and Christina can't do it no more. And the kids are upset about how you're living with Kay and her two sons. They feel like you have a new family and you have deserted them. It is like they are some goddamned orfani. You walk around like la morte, and when I talk to you I feel like I am alone. But those kids are yours, Paolo, not mine! And you, what kind of father lives with another woman's children while his own flesh and blood live under another man's roof? Svegliati! Wake up," Sal growled while grabbing the lapels of Paolo's dirty work shirt. Paolo had never heard Sal raise his voice, and he certainly never saw Sal lose his temper.

"You wanna crawl into a hole and die, you wait until your kids are grown! Then, it's ok whatever you do. But now, you must stop this foolishness and be a man. We thought we would help you for a while when Caterina died, but we never wanted to take over for you and her. But to have six kids in our house, it's too much. And your kids- especially the oldest and the youngest- have become too much to handle. Little Joe got thrown out of school for fighting, and young Peter seems like he gets into fights with every little boy he comes across," Sal said before pausing to calm himself.

"That Peter, he's only six years old, Paolo, and he imitates everything little Joe does. Joe and Peter are headed for trouble, and it is their father's duty to set them straight. Lucy has become too attached to our Teresa, who can't even have any time with friends or schoolwork, the way Lucy clings to her. It seems like Lucy cries whenever Teresa is out of her sight. And Scotty- I mean, Angelo- well, he is so quiet that I believe he thinks too much for a little boy. He gets pushed around by everyone, including his older brother, and even his little brother! You must take care of your kids, Paolo. Giving us money every week to feed them is not being a father," Sal said, his voice softening into a more conciliatory tone. Then, calmly, Sal said, "We are family, Paolo. We want to help. But I must think of my wife and kids. And of your kids, too. I no longer know what to say when they ask me questions about you. Wake up, Paolo, and do the right thing," he pled.

The children, especially little Joe and Peter, had made no attempt to hide their disdain for Kay. Being the oldest, little Joe clearly remembered the way she harangued his dear uncle Joe, and the way she complained about Paolo's "dago brats" right in front of them as if they weren't there. As for Peter, well, anyone hated by his big brother Joe was someone to be hated by him as well. The few times they'd seen Kay over the past several months she'd been icily civil, but even as young as they were the children sensed her lack of sincerity. Little Joe, street-wise well beyond his years, knew where this was headed. Secretly he'd already spoken to his siblings about it.

"Uncle Sal and Aunt Christina can't take care of us forever, and it looks like Papa is going to marry that puttana Kay. So, I'm sure that pretty soon we'll be living with her and her two finochio sons. I don't like this any more than you do. She's a nasty old bitch, and she hates us. No matter who Papa marries, nobody will even replace Mama; you remember that. Yeah, I wish he'd marry somebody nice, but we gotta stick together; at least we'll be with him, so we'll make the best of it. I'll protect you guys, don't worry," he said, puffing his chest out in an attempt to look even more imposing to them. "Anyway, we'll see uncle Sal and aunt Christina all the time. After all, we'll be living just a few blocks away." Peter looked up at his big brother and asked, "when do we go live with the puttan'," which brought a chuckle from Lucy and Scotty. Joe slapped Peter on the back of his head, and smiled when the little guy instinctively jumped into a fighting stance. "Just remember, we can talk like this about her to each other, but never in front of Papa. He ain't been right in the head since Mama died, and he's gonna need us to not act like a bunch of babies about this. Anyway, nobody has said anything to us yet, so maybe it won't happen. Meanwhile, keep your mouths shut about it until Papa or Uncle Sal or Aunt Christina says something. I just wanted to warn you guys about what I think is coming," Joe said, every bit the miniature patriarch.

Uncle Sal had not yet found the right time to talk with young Joe as Paolo had requested. He dreaded the conversation, but he knew that Paolo wasn't going to tell Joe. Sal was worried about the boy's reaction to hearing that Paolo had already married Kay, and that she was pregnant.

Chapter 14

November 1927

"Listen, ya little guinea brat," Kay screamed as Peter ducked the dish she'd thrown at him. "Next time you lay a hand on one of my kids, I'll bust your little dago skull for ya," she shrieked as he ran out of the house. Peter had once again roughed up his step-brother John, which seemed like a weekly occurrence of late. He found the boy to be arrogant, effeminate and annoying. He teased Peter about being a stupid dago orphan, always when his protective mother was within earshot. Although he wasn't particularly large for his age, Peter had been in so many street fights that he could hold his own against any two kids his age. So, it really wasn't much of a challenge to pin Johnny down, muss his hair and rip his shirt before administering a few slaps. "I didn't even punch the little finnochio," he yelled as he burst out of the house and leapt off the front porch.

Somehow, Peter had become Kay's favorite target. While she was barely civil to the rest of Paolo's children, there was something about Peter that just rubbed her the wrong way. The oldest, Joe, was already several inches taller than Kay and was sufficiently intimidating to cause her to leave him alone. While she found Lucy annoying, the girl spent most of her time at her aunt Christina's house, and was quiet and subdued in Kay's presence. Scotty was a veritable non-entity, barely speaking to anyone and staying under Kay's radar. But Peter made it clear that he resented Kay, that he detested her sons, and that if he had it his way his father never would've married her. He'd become a brash, pugnacious boy with a chip on his shoulder everywhere he went. Joe did his best to protect Peter from Kay's wrath, but lately Joe was around less and less, taking every opportunity to avoid being around her.

Paolo had become a distant figure to his children. When he came home in the evening, he'd barely acknowledge anyone as he followed virtually the same nightly ritual: a tall glass of wine, a small meal of whatever was available, a smoke on the porch, and then off to bed. He didn't even pay much attention to little George, the only child they shared. Paolo and Kay spoke rarely, and she'd even stopped complaining to him about his kids. Young Joe, who'd established himself as the leader of the brood, had tried multiple times to engage his father in conversation, but was met with vacant stares and one-word answers. For all intents and purposes, Paolo's four children were parentless while Kay's three at least had a doting mother.

Though barely a teenager, Joe had pretty much assumed the role vacated by his father. Since Kay barely fed or clothed his siblings, Joe took it upon himself to provide for them. He'd been caught stealing from the bakery, from the grocer and even from the brewery, but somehow always managed to get himself out of trouble. Kay had once confronted Joe about where and how he was getting the food and clothing: a mistake she only made once. Joe was a tough kid, wary and intimidating well beyond his years. Kay had heard that he ran with a rough-looking bunch of kids who are a few years older, and that they had a reputation for being a gang of hoodlums. Kay steered clear of him since that one confrontation, when he just glared at her and said, "You're not talking to my father now, bitch, so mind your business. I'll worry about my brothers and my sister, you worry about your two finocchio brats and little George. And the next time you lay a finger on Peter, you'll have to deal with me."

Although the admonishment from Joe did curtail Kay's outright violence toward Joe's siblings, it didn't improve the level of hostility that permeated the house. Joe, Lucy, and most of all, Peter all knew they were hated by Kay. Even Scotty, always quiet and reserved, walked on eggshells around the house for fear of running afoul of Kay's temper. Kay fed her sons better and more regularly, leaving their leftovers on the table for Paolo's kids. In an act that convinced Joe that Kay was pazzo, she'd actually placed a chain and lock around the icebox. Whenever he was around, Joe would make sure to have a sit-down dinner with his siblings. Invariably, Kay and her three sons would either leave the house or retreat to a separate room when Paolo's children gathered for a meal.

Lucy and Scotty pretty much avoided interacting with Kay. Joe, whose absence from the house had become more frequent, didn't even acknowledge her when he was home. The others couldn't help but notice how Kay steered clear of Joe, and this only enhanced their respect for him, which had become almost paternal. So the three older siblings dwelled in a state of uneasy truce. Peter, on the other hand, felt the need to stand up to Kay, and he would frequently talk back when she addressed him harshly. He was combative and openly resentful of Kay, and he fully believed that his very existence aggravated her. Peter's courage in dealing with her was bolstered by the warning from Joe that he'd recently overheard. And Kay would goad Peter, knowing she was more likely to get a rise out of him than she would with Scotty or Lucy.

When Kay felt particularly belligerent, she'd bad-mouth Peter's mother. This of course enraged the boy. Although he'd never known his mother, he harbored a deeply held sense of loss, yearning and veneration for her. The more harsh and cruel Kay became, the more Peter idealized his vision of his sainted mother. Kay knew this, and picked at this emotional scab every chance she got. Thus, the chip Peter carried on his shoulder had become disproportionally large for his age.

Chapter 15

February 1930

Joe wanted to be there when the census taker came to the house. He was leery of anyone who served in any official capacity, especially anyone who wanted to ask questions and write down the answers. He'd told his sibling to keep their mouths shut and to let him do the talking. Peter had said, "What's the big deal, Joe? They just wanna count how many people live here, that's all. My friend Guido told me that they just want to know who lives here, how old everybody is, and what the old man does for a job. Who cares if they write that stuff down? I don't know what you're so hot about." Joe held up his finger and gave Peter a stern look. "I don't want nobody coming around asking questions about my family. I just don't like it, is all. Now do like I say," Joe growled at his younger brother. Then, noticing how Peter recoiled at the rebuff, Joe gave him a playful punch on the shoulder.

Although Kay was present, even she deferred to Joe during the census interview. While Joe had answered every question accurately, he thought it would be fun to "make up" another sibling and have a fictitious name added to the census. So, he had a young friend of Peter's sit in, and introduced him as Peter's younger brother Paul. No one- not even Kay- dared question Joe about this. After the census taker left, Joe laughed and said, "they now think there's another kid living here! Shows how much those idioti know."

Many years later, Peter's son would find the 1930 census document on the internet. It listed Paolo(42), Kay(43), Joseph(17), Lucia(16), Angelo(14), Robert(13), Peter(12), John(11), Paul(10), and George(5). Paolo's grandson would waste a lot of time in his genealogy research trying to get information about this missing "uncle Paul" never realizing that such a person never existed.

Note to readers... I actually came across a 1930 census document for the family home. I recognized all the names except for a child named Paul, who was 2 years younger than my father. There's no trace of this person, and my siblings never heard of him. So, I explained it by concocting the story above. I still wonder who in the hell this person was. Not sure I'll ever find out. [PB]

Chapter 16

October 1932

"Quit your cryin', little guy," Peter said, placing his arm around George's shoulders. "Nobody's gonna pick on my kid brother. Listen to me Tweet, you just point this kid out and I'll set him straight." Although George originally hated the nickname Peter had hung on him, he'd grown to like hearing Peter call him Tweet. George had the peculiar habit of making a whistling sound when pronouncing the letter s, leading Peter to begin calling him Tweet when he was only five years old. Now everyone except George's parents called him Tweet, and only a few people could recall where the name came from.

Peter had grown fond of Tweet and took pride in being his big brother. He detested Kay's other two sons, and avoided them as much as possible, but Tweet was different. Even though the hated Kay was Tweet's mother, they had the same father; they were blood. And he was the only one of Paolo's children who inherited Paolo's blue eyes, but that was as far as the resemblance went; he looked much more like his mother, much to Peter's dismay. Tweet was shaping up to be a good kid, not like Kay's two mama's boys. Peter liked to think that it was his influence that had made the difference. Tweet was not close to Kay's other sons, and he didn't have much interaction with his other stepsiblings. But the little boy idolized Peter and spent as much time with him as he could without getting scolded by Kay.

They sat on a stoop across the street from the school, watching the children burst through the doors and scramble through the gate. "That's the kid, Pete. The redhead with the green shirt. His name is Archie. He was making fun of my name, calling me Tweetie, and when I told him to stop he slapped me around, ripped my shirt and knocked me down. He's in eighth grade, and everybody says he's the toughest kid in the school. He's bigger than you, Pete. You sure you wanna tangle with him-" Peter cut him off, "quiet down, Tweet. I seen this kid before. He was in my class before I quit school. Yeah, he's a real tough guy, pickin' on little kids. Well, I'll show you how tough he is."

With that, Peter jumped up and strode toward the schoolyard gate. "Hey, Archie! Archie! Yeah, you. I wanna talk to you." Archie puffed out his chest and put on his fiercest scowl. "What the hell do you want, dago," he barked, dropping his books and jacket on the ground and raising his fists. "What I wanna do, what I'm gonna do is give you a beatin' and teach you a lesson, that's what." Although Archie was several inches taller than Peter, the fight didn't last long. Archie was tough in a toughest-kid-in-school sort of way, but Peter was already an experienced street fighter who'd mixed it up with young men who were much taller and heavier than he, sometimes more than one at a time.

Archie threw the first punch, which Peter saw coming. Peter ducked under the looping right hand, shuffled in and landed two quick shots to Archie's exposed midsection. When Archie doubled over, Peter grabbed the back of his head and slammed his knee into Archie's face. The boy slumped to his knees, then fell prostrate at Peter's feet. Peter rolled him over onto his back and gave him several crisp backhanded slaps before one final punch that knocked out at least two front teeth. Then, kneeling on the kid's chest he called Tweet over. He grabbed Archie's hair, lifting his bloody head off the pavement. "You see this kid? He's my kid brother. You mess with him again and next time I'll be mad when I see you, and I won't go so easy on you. Now tell Tweet you're sorry you piece of shit finocchio."

It took two days for Kay to get wind of the story. When she confronted Peter, for a moment he actually thought she would praise him for protecting her youngest child. Instead, she laid into him. "I heard you beat up that kid down the street. You're a vicious dago hoodlum just like your brother Joe. You and that brother of yours are gonna wind up just like your useless uncle, dead on the street like a couple of bums. I gotta hear from that pain-in-the-ass down the street that you knocked her son's teeth out! She told me how you snuck up on him and hit him when he wasn't looking, for no reason. 'Your son did this,' she says. So I tell her that little animal ain't no son of mine, you lousy guinea bastard."

With that, she took a large carving knife from the counter and came at him. He headed for the second floor, surprised at how close behind she was with the knife. "Crazy bitch, get away from me," he screamed as he ran into the tiny room he shared with Scotty and Tweet. She followed with the knife held in front of her like a fencing foil, an evil grimace on her face. She stopped, just short of striking distance. Peter knew he either had to hit her or escape. Instinctively, he knew that if he defended himself that he would kill her. He turned, brushed the curtain aside from the open window, and leapt out. A searing pain ripped through his ankle and lower leg when he landed. On his hands and knees, he looked up at the window only to see her enraged face glaring down at him. He pushed himself up, spat out a string of curses at her and limped away, vowing to never see her face again. It wasn't until he arrived at the building where Joe shared an apartment with several friends that Peter realized how badly he was hurt. In addition to a severely swollen ankle he sustained, he also had a broken left forearm.

"What the hell happened to you," Joe said, leaping off the stoop and discarding his cigarette. "I need to go to the hospital, Joe, I'm busted up pretty bad. Can you take me, please? I'll tell you what happened, but I gotta get some help 'cause I'm hurtin real bad," Peter whispered, wincing as he sat on the cement step. "I know an Italian doc down the street that'll take a look at you. I helped his kid out of a jam a while back and the guy acts like he's my best friend, always sayin' he owes me a favor. Better off taking you there, Pete. Come on, let's get you over there."

Chapter 17

July 1934

"All done, doc, see ya tomorrow," Peter said as he put on his cap. Doctor Iaconelli paid him fifty cents every time he cleaned the office, and invited him to an occasional meal at the doctor's adjoining apartment. "I see you don't limp anymore, and you'd never know how badly your arm was broken, kid," doc said as he patted Pete's shoulder. "I have a couple of errands for you tomorrow, so I need you to get here early. There'll be an extra quarter in it for you, so be here by eight."

Doctor Iaconelli had built a busy, meaningful but not very lucrative practice ministering to the sick an injured in the densely populated Italian community surrounding his office. More often than not, his compensation came in the form of a meal, a jug of homemade wine, or a promise to return the favor at the first opportunity. But even with his meager cash income the doctor and his wife lived in relative comfort, having moved into in a nicely furnished apartment with an adjacent storefront office.

Peter had begun cleaning the doctor's office within weeks of being treated for his injured ankle and arm. For months he refused any payment but eventually he acquiesced to the doctor's insistence and was now earning several dollars per week cleaning offices and running errands for the doctor and a few of his merchant friends. Peter slept on the floor in the tiny kitchen in Joe's apartment, and he got on well with Joe's roommates, mainly because he was able to kick in a few dollars for rent and food when needed. While he did get into occasional scrapes he managed to avoid major trouble, thanks to the influence of Doctor Iaconelli or his brother Joe, who was well known in the neighborhood as someone not to be trifled with.

Peter was wiry, tough and unapproachable, and he took pride in his burgeoning reputation as a person best left alone. The only trace of softness or affection he ever displayed came in his relationships with the doctor and his siblings, particularly his older brother Joe, who had virtually replaced his father in Peter's eyes. While his hatred for Kay had been smoldering and fueling his bitter outlook on life, his feelings toward his father were peculiarly neutral. He wasn't angry with his father, nor did he feel compelled to visit him. Whenever his father's name came up, Peter would shrug his shoulders and change the subject. The only exception to this was when Joe tried to encourage Peter to mend fences with their father. In response, Peter would attempt to appease Joe by saying he'd patch things up one day, but in truth he couldn't understand why Joe felt any connection to their father. Peter hadn't seen their father since the day he left home, and as far as he was concerned that was just fine.

Peter was grateful that Joe made sure to arrange regular visits with his siblings. Recently Joe had mentioned that their father seemed to have stopped asking about Peter. Joe's own relationship with his father was somewhat strained, with Paolo seemingly intimidated by his oldest son. Whenever Joe visited, Kay left the house and took her two oldest children with her, intentionally leaving George/Tweet as if acknowledging that he partially belonged with Paolo's brood. As always, Paolo was quiet and aloof during these visits, but Joe made a point of seeing his siblings regularly. And whenever possible, he'd take one or two of them away for an afternoon telling his father he was taking them to the park or a movie. Joe assumed that his father knew they were visiting with Peter, particularly since he knew that Lucy couldn't keep a secret if her life depended on it. Lucy and Scotty were always glad to see Peter, but they weren't nearly as excited as Tweet became whenever he knew he was going to see his big brother.

Peter and Sal Bartolomeo Junior had become close friends. And when they weren't hustling for a quarter here and there they loved to play baseball in the vacant lots near Newark bay. Along with a group of friends, they'd rake the lot flat and use flour for baselines. The empty flour bags made adequate bases, and the ball was invariably lopsided and wrapped in electrical tape. The more fortunate (or perhaps more opportunistic) of the boys even had their own mitts, so they got to play the infield. After the games, they'd borrow a rowboat and tool around the bay, crabbing, swimming and enjoying the relief from the stifling summer heat. In the evening they'd light a fire on the beach and boil up the crabs caught that afternoon. Tommy Busacca, whose father was part owner of a bar on Avenue C would occasionally come up with a couple dozen bottles of beer, making the most popular guy in the group.

While he bore virtually no physical resemblance to his older brother, Tweet took pains to mimic Peter's speech and behavior, and had begun displaying a similarly combative attitude. He'd been getting into fights at school, and he would talk back to his mother whenever she scolded him. Whenever Kay launched into one of her frequent diatribes about the "gang of guinea brats" Tweet would brazenly speak up in their defense, emboldened by the lack of pushback he received from her. Tweet had two very separate sets of siblings: Kay's two sons and Paolo's four children. In a different setting, Tweet could have been something of a uniting factor as the only child biologically shared between the two parents. But Kay had so thoroughly driven a wedge between the two factions that even from a very young age Tweet felt as though he had to choose sides. In his eyes, the choice was easy: his half-brothers Joe and Peter were tough and strong, and he was particularly close to Peter, who made him feel protected and nurtured. This was in stark contrast to Kay's sons Robert and John, whom he saw as selfish, soft and effeminate.

Each of Caterina's four children had developed their own way of dealing with the discord in their lives. Joe and Peter were similar in that they'd become hardened and toughened, but Joe didn't display the blatant bitterness and anger that permeated everything Peter said or did. Lucy was uniquely positioned as the only girl in the group, so she was able to establish a peaceful though loveless relationship with Kay that enabled her to get by relatively unscathed. Scotty avoided confrontations and had become increasingly reserved and introverted. This enabled him to stay under Kay's radar for the most part, and he was the only one of the four who got along well with his stepbrothers. This in effect made him Kay's "favorite" of Caterina's children; more accurately, he was the one she disliked the least.

Although Paolo showed no sign of realizing or appreciating it, he was one of the very few fortunate men in Newark able to enjoy semi-regular employment during the harsh Depression that had gripped the country. He'd worked dutifully and quietly at the tannery for over twenty years. The owner had inherited the business from his father, and had grown up sweeping floors and running errands, interacting with the men who labored in the stench of the facility. He'd known Paolo most of his life, and he made sure that Paolo had work whenever there were orders to fill. While Paolo's family lived a hardscrabble, hand-to-mouth existence they were faring much better than the majority of people in the area. Mired in the throes of this devastating Depression, most families were hard pressed to have a roof overhead and a meager supply of food on the table.

Chapter 18

May 1935

"What the hell is 'three Cs'," asked Peter as he took off his jacket. Doctor Iaconelli had just told him that he and his wife would be moving out to the countryside in western New Jersey, where he'd gotten a great deal on a nice house in a small town in need of a doctor. Between Doc's move and the fact that all of his other work had dried up, Peter was going to be left with no visible means of supporting himself, and Doc was worried about him. He started to explain the CCC to Peter, then handed him a pamphlet describing how the Civilian Conservation Corps- the 'three Cs' – was providing jobs and lodging for hundreds of men in the area. "It's worth a shot, Peter. I know someone pretty high up in the CCC, and he tells me that it's a good way for a guy like you to keep his nose clean, make some money and learn a trade. I know the families of a couple of young guys who've joined; they tell me there's nothing but good news in the letters they're getting. This Roosevelt guy, he wants to get men back to work so we can dig out of this Depression thing. He wants guys off the streets and out in the countryside building roads, bridges, parks. I'm telling you, Peter, if you were my own son I would encourage you to sign up."

Peter sat down and opened the pamphlet. "This thing calls it ECW, Doc. You called it 'three Cs'. What's the difference," Peter asked. Doc smiled, "Yeah ECW is sorta the official name of the program, but everybody calls it CCC or three Cs. That's not important. What matters is that the government is willing to pay thirty bucks a month plus lodging, food and clothes. And since you really don't need to spend money on anything, they make you send twenty-five bucks home. Think about that; your brother Joe could be socking away that money for you." "I don't know Doc," he said, "looks like joinin' the army or something. These guys in the pictures all have uniforms on. I ain't no soldier."

Doc shook his head, "No, Peter, it's not the army. Sure, you'll wear a uniform, and yes there are rules and schedules. But remember, you only have to commit to a six-month term. After that you can re-up for another six months if you like. I think you can stay in for up to two years overall. You wouldn't have to have to pick up a gun and go fight somewhere and maybe get killed. You'd be in America, working on building roads and bridges, planting trees - stuff like that. They have training courses, so you could learn how to operate construction equipment or maybe become a mechanic. That'll help you get a job when you get out. My friend's own son is out west, where he's working on a lumberjack crew. The kid has sent pictures home, and my friend tells me he's never looked so good. Hard work in the country air, good food and medical care will do that for a guy, Peter. The camps are pretty nice, and you'd get three squares a day, clothes and a clean bunk every night. This guy at the three Cs, I know him well and he wouldn't steer me wrong."

Peter paused, perusing the pamphlet. "Hey, it says here I gotta be eighteen to join. I just turned seventeen in December, Doc."

Doc smiled and said, "Don't worry about that; I can square it through my friend. I told him about you and he says he can get you in. You look older than you are, so as long as you don't forget to say you were born in 1915 instead of 1918 you'll be ok. I can take you over to meet this guy today if you'd like." Peter sighed and shook his head, "I gotta think about this, Doc. Maybe talk to my brother Joe about it, see what he thinks. Can we maybe talk again tomorrow?"

"OK, but we'll be moving in about two weeks, and my friend will only be in Newark for a few days. Come over in the morning and we'll talk again," Doc said as he patted Peter on the shoulder. "Look at me, kid. I won't be around to help you anymore. If there was a way for me to force you to do this, you'd be signing up tomorrow. But I know about that thick skull of yours." This had the intended effect on Peter, who smiled and chuckled as he looked up at the man who'd been such a firm, affectionate mentor to the young man.

Peter had no way of knowing that Doc had already spoken to Joe, and that Peter's older brother was in full support of the idea. Just two weeks later, Peter was on a bus headed to Maryland where a train would take him to an ECW camp in Colorado.

Years later, while hiding under his disabled M4 Sherman tank in the searing hot sand of North Africa, Peter shook his head as he remembered Doc and wondered whatever became of him.

Chapter 19

August 1935

The blisters on Peter's hands were mostly gone, having been replaced by rough callouses. Digging trenches, chopping down trees and clearing brush was hard work, and the summer heat sapped the strength of even the toughest crewmembers. But to his surprise, the paramilitary routine and manual labor agreed with him. After a rough start - he'd had his first fist fight the day he arrived at camp – Peter settled in and actually made a few friends on the crew. The young men in the crew were remarkably similar in background, experience and even in appearance. They'd all come from large urban areas back east, and to a man they were lean, wiry and suspicious, having lived through tough times brought on by the Depression.

Peter found it enjoyable to throw himself into the demanding physical work every day, after which he could collapse into the relative luxury of a clean cot in a dry barracks. He even got involved in the Sunday baseball games, where he'd established himself as a sturdy catcher who routinely caught double-headers. He'd always enjoyed playing baseball whenever he could, and like most boys from that era, as a kid he'd dreamed of being a pro ball player. Those dreams, of course faded away in the harsh reality of day-to-day life in Newark.

He was also grateful for the food. He'd never experienced the security of knowing there'd be three substantial, nutritious meals every day. To him, even the meager bagged lunch he was given every day was a vast improvement over what he'd been accustomed to. The bag contained the same lunch every day: a baloney sandwich, a peanut butter and jam sandwich, and a piece of fruit. Just a few months ago, this would've been as much or more food than he'd have on a good day. Now he began to notice that the adequate nutrition coupled with the demanding physical work had added muscle to his lean frame.

Most surprisingly, Peter felt a sense of camaraderie and belonging. Even though most of the crewmembers were scrappy and roughly hewn by the hard lives they'd lived, morale was high and disputes were few. The young men were glad to have the work, lodging, food and money. One might expect that men such as these would recoil from the discipline and structure imposed on them. To the contrary, virtually every one of them experienced a sense of pride that comes with honest work and visible productivity. Most men understood how fortunate they were to be given this chance to pull themselves out of the poverty and hopelessness that permeated their hometowns. This is how the CCC transformed thousands of young men from restless, agitated ruffians to the strong American men who'd go on to win World War II.

The first six months flew by. Peter re-upped for another six months without a second thought. He was excited to learn that his next assignment would be at a camp that was doing heavy excavation work, and that he'd be learning to operate heavy equipment like trucks, bulldozers and cranes. He'd lost track of how much money he'd sent Joe since signing up six months prior, but he had complete confidence that Joe was saving it for him as they'd agreed. He smiled to himself when he thought about how he could have a couple hundred bucks saved up by the time he was done with CCC. He could hardly imagine having that much cash, and he often daydreamed about how he'd start a new life with a good job and money in his pocket when his service was done.

Peter loved driving the large dump trucks that hauled endless tons of dirt and debris from the excavation and clearing work of his new crew. He considered this the best job in the entire project, and he was determined to keep it. He loved the rib-rattling, thunderous roar of the engine when it came to life in the morning, and the satisfaction he felt when he maneuvered the lumbering Model AC Mack Six-Wheeler around the job sites. This was the first time in his life that he felt a sense of accomplishment, that he possessed a legitimate skill, and this made him very proud. The crew had christened the truck "Big Pete" in his honor, and someone had actually stenciled that name on the driver's side door of the rig.

Unlike the site of his first six-month tour, this camp was located within ten miles of a small town that had a bar, a couple of diners and a movie theater. Naturally, the men went to town as often as they could, but even with nickel beers and ten-cent shots five dollars per month wouldn't finance more than a couple of evenings in the town's bar. A few of the men struck up relationships with local girls and talked about settling down there when their CCC term was done. Given the conditions in the big cities back east, it's not surprising that some men actually did settle in towns near the CCC camps; this was happening all around the country, particularly in the western camps.

Peter didn't go into town as often as some of the others, but he did go to a few dances in town, where he surprised his friends and himself with his ability on the dance floor. He liked having a few beers as much as the next guy, but quickly became tired of hearing the same stories and seeing the same small dusty bar, half-empty dance hall and musty movie theater. There really wasn't that much to do in town, so he was satisfied with a making a trip or two every month or so and spending the rest of his leisure time playing cards or just lounging around the barracks, resting up for the next day's work. On Sundays he usually preferred staying at base camp, where he borrowed a catcher's mitt and played baseball all day.

After two additional reenlistments, Peter decided to head back to Newark. He'd written to Joe asking for his help finding a job now that he was an experienced truck driver. With five breweries and countless warehouses in Newark, he was sure there'd be plenty of opportunities for a qualified truck driver.
Chapter 20

June 1937

"Christ, look at you! You were a skinny little shit when you left, and now you look like you could get in the ring with Dempsey. Man, that country livin' sure agreed with you," Joe said, throwing his arms around Peter who'd just bounded off the train. Then, holding him at arms' length with one hand on each of Peter's shoulders, Joe shook his head and said, "You look more like the old man than ever. You're only missing the blue eyes, but other than that, kid, you look just like him."

Peter's smile evaporated at the mention of his father. He'd thought a lot about his family while he was away, particularly his father. For the first time, he now wanted to understand his father, to know him better. While he still harbored- and always would harbor – intense hatred for Kay, something about his experience over the last two years had softened his resentment for the old man. Maybe it was being around older men who were in positions of authority, or maybe he'd just grown tired of being angry at his own father. Deep down, Peter understood but would never acknowledge that he was, with a few exceptions, angry at the entire world. His experience in the CCC had taught him how to hide the chip on his shoulder, and even subdue his anger and frustration when needed. But at heart he was still the bitter and belligerent teen who'd jumped from a second story window to avoid being stabbed by his own stepmother.

"We got a little welcome home party set up for you at the firehouse, Pete," Joe said, smiling and clapping his brother on the back. Tweet, Scotty, Lucy and the Bartolomeos will be there, and a bunch of people from the old neighborhood. Sal Junior has been asking about you, and you can't believe how excited Tweet is about seeing you again. That kid idolizes you, although I can't imagine why he looks up to a such a cafone," Joe said, chuckling as he put his arm around his brother's shoulder. "Madonn', you got muscles under that shirt, kid. Just remember who's the big brother around here."

Peter stopped short, turned to Joe and asked, "what about Papa, will he be there?" Joe, taken by surprise at the question, paused and looked at his shoes. "Honestly, kid, we didn't even tell him about the party. I think he knows you're coming home because loudmouth Lucy probably blabbed it all over town. But when I saw him the other day he didn't mention it, so neither did I. By the way, it's funny you're asking about him all of the sudden. What gives with that," Joe asked, staring intently into Peter's eyes.

"I don't know, Joe. It's been so long since I talked to him that I don't even know what I want to say to him. But I feel like I should show him the respect a father deserves, even if I don't think he did all the right things to earn it. But let me get one thing straight: I will never, ever talk to that crazy bitch again. She's lucky I didn't put her in the friggin' ground after what she did. I been thinkin' about that a lot Joe. Why didn't I slap the shit out of her when she came at me with the knife? Only thing I can think of is that I was worried about how it would affect the old man. Hard as it is for me to say, she's his wife. We all saw what a friggin' mess he was when he was alone, and I still don't think he could take care of himself without her. Tell me about him, Joe. Is he still the same? Does he still walk around like a ghost, barely talking to anyone? Do you think he would want to see me?" Then, after a brief pause, "I don't know why, Joe, but I feel like I want to see him."

"Tell you what, kid. Let's talk about it after the party. We got a couple of kegs, some of the Bergaminos' wine, and some sandwiches from Martucci's. Oh, and Zia Christina has been cooking for days, so you know we're in for some really good eats. No way they got anything like her cooking out there in Colorado, kid." On that count, Joe was absolutely right. Although Peter had been well fed during his CCC service, there was nothing they served that even remotely approached the quality, character and satisfaction of homemade southern Italian food. And if there were a better cook than Zia Christina around, no one in Peter's family had ever met her.

Peter shrugged and said, "Well, Joe, when you're right you're right. And you can't go wrong on Wright street," he chuckled, repeating an old joke that started when they lived near that street as kids. "When is this party? Are we going straight there," Peter asked, now excited about the idea. "Nah, it's not until six o'clock tonight. We gotta get you home and cleaned up, you bum. You look like they made you ride on the outside of that train." With that, they headed off to Joe's new apartment, where Peter would have his own room for the first time in his life.

"Hey everybody, here's to this long lost cafone brother of mine," Joe said, raising his glass and his voice. Shouts of "Cent'anni", "Salut"' and "Benvenuto cafone" rang out in response to Joe's toast. Then Joe whispered to Peter, "Say somethin' to everybody, kid." With that, Peter stood up, raised his glass and said, "My brother's the ugliest cafone I see here, so why is everybody toastin' him?" With a road of laughter, glasses were raised and people continued enjoying the cold beer and strong red wine.

Sal Bartolomeo Junior and Peter's brother Tweet followed him around throughout the party. Peter teased Tweet about growing nearly as wide as he was tall. Even though Peter was barely five and one-half feet tall, he was several inches taller than Tweet. But Tweet had grown into a stocky bull of a boy with a block-like physique. Joe had warned Peter that Tweet had gotten himself into trouble several times. "He's nuttier than you were as a kid, Pete. Seems like he wakes up in the morning looking for someone to fight. Jesus, what's he gonna be like when he gets older? The way he acts, sometimes I forget he's just a stupid kid. Maybe you could talk to him, he might listen to you. God knows he doesn't listen to anything I tell him. I even slapped him around again a couple weeks ago, but it's like slapping a little brick. And even then, he just yesses me to death and goes right back to being a wiseass troublemaker."

Peter agreed that he needed to talk with Tweet about this, but definitely not on this night that was made for food, drink and fun. For now he was busy answering endless questions from Tweet and Sal Junior, who were curious about the CCC but even more curious about Colorado, which to most people in the neighborhood might as well have been the planet Mars.

And although the question must have crossed everyone's mind, no one asked why Paolo wasn't there. Late that evening, as the party began to break up, a noticeably drunk Peter pulled his brother Joe aside, whispering, "Don't make any more excuses for the old man, Joe. He can't even come here to his son? I don't know why I was thinking that I wanted to see him. He's got no use for me, so we're quits."

Joe shook his head, looked his brother in the eye and nodded slowly. He realized that it was best to let Peter blow off steam, and that Pete would feel differently after a day or two. So he patted Peter's shoulder and said, "let's have another drink."

Chapter 21

January 1938

"We got easy detail today, Sal," Peter said as he jammed the gearshift into first. "Just a couple of deliveries; on the road all day. No inside work, thank God." Sal nodded his head, saying, "Yeah man, no shoveling guts or mopping up blood for us today. Let me know if you want me to drive on the way back." Looking at Sal sideways, Pete stifled a laugh and said, "Just stay awake you lazy bum. We got a three or four hour drive to the first delivery, then another one this afternoon. I slept good last night, and I got some strong coffee this morning, so I'm in good shape for the day. Just hope we can get some heat in this rig, it's cold as hell out there." Sal smiled at the opportunity to tweak his best friend a bit, "That don't make sense, Pete. Hell ain't cold." Pete responded with a playful punch to Sal's shoulder, let out the clutch and rolled the truck slowly out of the garage.

The "inside work" Peter and Sal performed a couple of days each week was, even to the experienced workers, stomach-turning. When Peter had visited his father at the tannery he'd been overwhelmed with the nauseating fumes emanating from the huge vats. He never imagined that he'd smell something so much worse. The stench of blood, entrails, and death itself permeated every nook and cranny of the slaughterhouse. Even the loading doc and warehouse bore this stench, and the men often talked about how it would cling to their clothes, hair and skin no matter how many times they tried to wash it off.

Since they weren't the most senior men on the crew and delivery routes were assigned by seniority, Peter and Sal were stuck working inside on days when only a few deliveries were scheduled. The inside work included hoisting huge chunks of beef and pork carcasses that had been lopped off right after the animals were killed, hosing down the pens and chutes where the animals had spent their last minutes, prodding the animals along on their death march, and loading meat onto the delivery trucks. They'd gotten used to seeing animals killed and butchered, but they couldn't imagine anyone ever getting accustomed to the smell of a slaughterhouse. As horribly insufferable as it was during the cold winter months, summers were even worse.

The truck slid sideways as the drive wheel slipped on the icy sidewalk, but it quickly gained traction thanks to the chains they'd placed on the wheels in order to deal with the previous night's snowfall. "Hey I know a good place to stop for coffee after we make our first delivery. Did you bring the sandwiches," Peter asked as he shifted into second gear. "Yup, got 'em. Ma made us peppers and eggs on fresh bread I picked up last night," Sal replied. Peter smiled and shook his head, "you mamaluke, you're twenty years old and your mamma still wipes your nose. But I'm glad she still makes us lunch every day. You're lucky to have my Zia Christina for a mother, you lousy chooch."
Even though Peter and Sal came from the same neighborhood with parents from the same village in Italy, they had very different experiences growing up. Unlike Peter, Sal had an attentive and engaged father who, although a strict disciplinarian, was also a strong, loving patriarch. They'd known each other as long as either of them could remember, and the only person Peter felt closer to was his brother Joe.

It was a stroke of luck that got them working together at the slaughterhouse. Joe had lobbied for both of them with his friend Mikey, who ran the operation during the day. Because the boss only wanted to take on one new worker, Pete got the job. On his very first day at work, Mikey called him in to tell him that one of the workers who'd been with him for years had simply stopped coming to work. Apparently, Mikey had people go to the man's apartment but they found no trace of him. It wasn't entirely unusual for transient workers to disappear: sometimes they moved away, sometimes they got sick of the slaughterhouse, some even died. But this man was no transient day laborer. He'd been working in the slaughterhouse for over four years, which placed him fairly high on the seniority ladder.

"So, Peter, your brother tells me you have a cousin who's a good steady worker. Joe says he's okay, and Joe says he's okay that's good enough for me. Can he start tomorrow," Mikey asked, through gritted teeth gripping a smelly little black cigar. "Hell, I bet he'd start today if I asked him. You want me to go get him, I know where he is," Peter replied, excited at the idea of getting Sal a job. "Nah, tomorrow's good. And my foreman who's showing you the ropes will work with both you guys tomorrow. What's the name of this cousin of yours; Italian kid, right?" Pete smiled and nodded, "Of course he's Italian Mikey, what else? He don't talk Italian too good, but yeah, his parents are from the other side alright. His name is Sal."

Walking out of Mikey's small cluttered office, Peter thought about how proud and lucky he was to have Joe for a brother. Joe had been looking out for him as long as he could remember, and even now he had helped Peter get a job. This was no small feat given the scarcity of jobs and the number of men hungry for them. And Joe was influential enough to get jobs for both Peter and Sal. That brother of mine, he thought as he walked back to the warehouse to continue loading the truck.

Chapter 22

July 1939

"Madonn', this sandwich is beautiful," mumbled Pete through his mouthful of sausage, peppers and onions on semolina bread. "Too bad they don't have beer or wine at this stupid feast. This would be even better if I didn't have to eat it with a friggin' bottle of coke, like a stupid 'merigan." Sal laughed, "we are both 'merigans, Pete. We were born here, not on the other side. We both talk American and only understand a little Italian, so yeah, we're a couple of regular American guys." In response, Pete launched a barrage of obscene but humorous insults, first in English, then in Italian.

The annual Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel was organized and run by the parish of the same name just a few miles away in the city of Orange. In addition to the great food, pastries, and music, they'd heard that it was a good place to meet girls. So far, the only females they'd seen were either nuns, married women herding kids, or little girls. "Let's hit the road, Sal. I could use a cold beer or two, and maybe there's a card game going on at the Stadium." The Stadium was their favorite tavern, run by a boisterous man everyone called Contact, though no one seemed to know where the name came from. "Yeah, okay Pete, that sounds good. I think if we go down this street we'll get to the car quicker," Sal said, looking up at the street sign.

As they turned the corner, they came upon two girls sitting on the curb. They looked to be about the same age as Pete and Sal, and one was crying hysterically. The other was trying in vain to console her, but the guys couldn't make out what she was saying. Pete and Sal looked at each other, paused, then approach slowly. "Hey, you girls okay," Pete asked in his friendliest voice. He noticed that girl seated on the curb sobbing into her handkerchief had light brown hair. And when she looked up, her blue eyes widened in apprehension at the men's approach. The other one girl, who though visibly upset was the calmer of the two, had jet black hair and dark eyes that darted suspiciously from Pete to Sal and back. She stood and answered, "No, we are not okay."

Smoothing the front of her dress, she continued, " these two stronzi we were with left us here when we refused to, well, we're good Italian girls and these guys I guess expected something different. My sister, she's only seventeen, and she has never dealt with jerks like those two. Those bastardi, they just walked away and left us here. It took a lot of begging to get our father's permission to come to the feast in the first place. Our uncle dropped us off, and we convinced him that we could get a ride home from a couple we knew from the church. We couldn't let our parents know that we'd agreed to meet these two guys here. They were gonna be our ride home. Thank God we never got in the car with them. At first, these two, they seemed okay. We talked to them and walked around a little; then, well then they acted up. I told them to get lost, and they did."

"My name is Pete, and this is my buddy Sal. Listen, we could take you home, but I wouldn't blame you if you're afraid to take a ride from strangers. So why don't we just walk with you, maybe buy you a soda or ice cream, and then we can get you a cab. Those guys sound like a couple of real winners. I'm glad you're okay, and I'm sorry about what happened."

"My name is Mary, Mary Della Sala. Actually, it's Christina, but nobody ever calls me that. Since I was a baby, everybody calls me Mary." Sal's eyebrows went up, as he said, "hey, that's my ma's name, Christina. How 'bout that." Pete interrupted, "it really is; that's no bull. Sal ain't the kinda guy who'd make up something like that, especially if it involved his mother, right Sal?"

That got a chuckle from Sal and a slight smile from Mary. Pete took his clean handkerchief out of his back pocket and cautiously approached the girl sitting on the curb. Handing it to her, he asked gently, "and what's your name?" She looked up at him apprehensively and whispered, "Angelina Della Sala, but nobody calls me Angelina. Everybody except my parents calls me Ginger, 'cause they say I look like Ginger Rodgers." Pete tilted his head, measuring his words. Then he chuckled and said, "so you both go by an alias, like a couple a gangsters or somethin'." Ginger looked up at him silently, then slowly broke into a half-smile that broadened as Mary, Sal and Pete all laughed. The tension broken, Ginger rose, dusted herself off and said, "OK, let's get a soda."

This would be remembered as the night on which Pete and Sal met their future wives.

Chapter 23

August 2019

"He was a combat medic in a tank battalion? Are you sure," I asked Bob when I first heard that my limited knowledge of my father's WWII service was completely wrong. "He never talked about his time overseas, but the few times he'd answer questions all he talked about was tanks. He'd describe the different types of tanks and which were more difficult to drive, but that was it. He made it clear that questions weren't welcome, so all I've ever known about his service was that he was in a tank battalion," I said, still incredulous. Bob convinced me by sharing copies of duty rosters and commendation letters from 1944-45.

I'd been exchanging emails with Bob after connecting with him through his website a couple of weeks back. Bob is an historian who studies WWII, and I'd found his website when I searched for information on my father's service. His website contains a wealth of information on the very tank battalion in which my father served, its history and service in the war. When Bob told me via email that he recognized my name, I knew that I was onto something. We'd exchanged several emails, and I'd sent him copies of the few pictures and documents I had; Bob sent me maps, documents and comments about what he'd learned through his research. Among other things, I learned that my father saw extensive, intense combat in the Italian campaign. I can't imagine the carnage and suffering that a combat medic would have seen.

One of the first questions Bob asked was whether Angelo and Peter Bellisano were brothers. I knew that my uncle Scotty (I still have trouble referring to him as Angelo) and my father had been together while serving overseas, based on a picture I have and a few sparse comments over the years. It turns out that they were both certified medics, and both also listed as truck drivers. I always wondered why and how the brothers ended up in the same unit, always assuming that there was some special provision for joining together. I had the impression that my uncle Scotty was quiet, shy and somewhat soft, certainly in comparison to my father who had a tough exterior and combative nature. My father did mention that he "looked out for" his brother during the war, but I assumed that was just normal fraternal feeling he expressed.

Bob told me that it wasn't uncommon for combat medics to be among the most reluctant to talk about their experiences, particularly those medics who like my father had been through extended periods of intense action. He'd heard of combat medics who'd say they were clerks or mechanics in order to deflect questions about their combat experiences.

So the tough, unapproachable longshoreman whom I'd feared as a child and made peace with as an adult had seen months and months of bloody combat, and his duty was to drive ambulances and tend to the wounded in the field- many of whom must have died before or after he got there. Maybe this will help me better understand him. But I really need to let this sink in for a while, maybe talk to my siblings about it. This is certainly a lot to digest after all these years.

I wonder what my mother's life was like when he was overseas for three years so early in their marriage. I know she got a job for a while- one of the few times in her life that she was employed outside the home. I recall picking out her face in a group picture from a Christmas party at the factory where she worked. She was all of twenty-two years old in 1943. I remember wondering what she might be thinking when that picture was taken. I know she'd been seeing the newspaper articles sent back to local papers by war correspondents. The local newspapers would receive these articles and insert the names of any local residents serving in the battalions noted in the articles. In those days, reporting the number of enemy soldiers killed every week was considered to be morale-boosting news. How did she feel when she saw her husband's name in these articles?

And what was my father like when he came home? Maybe he wasn't so hard and angry before his war experience. Maybe the war changed him; I'm sure thousands of men came back "different". There were so many young men who'd just begun to see a glimmer of hope as the Depression finally abated, only to find themselves thousands of miles from home, mired in the brutal carnage of combat. How could anyone, no matter how hardened by their Depression experience, not be deeply impacted by seeing such brutality, death and destruction?

But I confess to feeling like a disloyal son. I am of course interested in learning all I can about my father's life, and what made him the person he was. But maybe the little bit I've learned is enough to square things between us; digging deeper won't change anything. Here I am getting new and important information about my father's life, yet the more I ponder all of this, the more curious I am about my grandfather. He would've been in his mid-to-late fifties during WWII. Where was he when all of this was happening? Was he still married to his second wife? How did he handle having two of his four sons being drafted and seeing combat in the same unit, spending over three years overseas? Maybe I need to understand my grandfather as a precursor to understanding the man between Paolo and me. For as much as my father's influence has shaped me, neither of us would have existed without Paolo.

My grandfather and my father both died in their mid-sixties. Maybe the fact that I've reached that age myself explains the sudden interest in their stories. It all started with Paolo. I don't know how, why or when he came to America. Other than a single blurry black-and-white photo that appears to be from the late 1940s, all I have is a handful of cryptic stories about my father's childhood. And these mostly centered around his vicious, belligerent stepmother. I do know that Paolo died just a week or so before I was born, and that initially my parents had intended to name me Paul after him, but changed that when he passed away. Maybe that's somehow making me feel a connection to him, or more likely, one that I wish could be there.

I also now know that Paolo was buried with his first wife, my grandmother Caterina, even though she predeceased him by thirty-five years and as far as I know, his second marriage lasted much longer than his first. My instincts tell me that my father and his siblings had something to do with the burial of their father with their mother, but the story is lost and the memories are all buried with my father's entire generation. So many questions, and no one left to ask.

Chapter 24

July 1941

Pete and Sal finished their deliveries a little earlier than usual on this sweltering July day. "Will your new wife let you go have one cold beer with your old buddy, or do you have to go home and do some housework," Pete asked teasingly as they jumped from the truck and slammed the doors in unison. He knew that Sal was eager to get home to his very pregnant wife, but there was never any reason to dispense with a little good-natured ribbing. "First of all, you stronz', Mary's not so new. We been married almost a year now, with a little one coming soon. And second, you just invite me out for a beer so you can ask me to buy, you moocher," Sal replied, barely suppressing a laugh.

"I got news for you, moocher," Pete shot back, not realizing that they had just instituted a nickname for each other that they'd use for the rest of their lives, "I'm gonna get married too. I'm gonna tell- I mean ask- Ginger tonight when I go to her parents' house for dinner. Got it all figured out: there's a nice little second floor apartment in her father's house, and it's empty right now. The old man likes me- how can you blame him- and I'm sure he'll give us a good deal on it. He owns a few houses in the neighborhood, I guess he does okay in his bakery. Anyway, I gotta talk to the old man first, but that won't be a problem. Like I said, he likes me and I think he'd love to get another one of his daughters out of the house."

Angelina/Ginger came from a large family of five girls and three boys. She was the second oldest next to Mary, and since Mary had already married Sal and moved out there was an expectation that Ginger was next. She was after all nearly twenty years old. Her father Rafaelo Della Sala had managed to make a nice living running his bakery by leveraging the free labor of his brood, networking with other local Italian merchants, and buying property at pennies on the dollar during the Depression. Ginger would often proudly point to the fact that the family had never had to rely on any form of government assistance even though many neighbors had to resort to getting help just to survive. In fact, Rafaelo had been able to take care of his family as well as help several friends who were down on their luck. Of this, he was understandably proud. He was a typical if not stereotypical Italian patriarch: stern and demanding, proud and authoritarian while his wife Sabina allowed him to believe he was in charge as she quietly ran things.

The grapevine provided some measure of protection from the early evening sun as Pete and Rafaelo shared a glass of wine and munched on the crunchy taralle that Sabina had put out for them. Pete always thought that Rafaelo's homemade wine was the best he'd ever tasted, and he looked forward to savoring a glass whenever he could. The wine was cool, having just been retrieved from the underground chamber that had been dug out beneath the basement, where Rafaelo's grape press and oak barrels produced this robust red wine every year.

Pete used his handkerchief to wipe the moisture that rolled in beads down the sides of his glass, lifted it and said "Salut', Pa," in his most respectful voice. Pete had learned the same Neapolitan dialect spoken in Rafaelo's family, but he was hardly fluent. But since Rafaelo stubbornly pretended not to understand English, and out of respect, Pete did his best to communicate. The old man seemed to appreciate his efforts. He did seem to have genuine affection for Pete, who'd always assumed it was because of the way Rafaelo's own sons seemed immediately and permanently intimidated by him.

Each of Rafaelo's sons was several inches taller than Pete, but by comparison they were soft and untested, whereas Pete carried himself like a brawler who might lash out at the slightest provocation. In fact, Pete had been in more fights by the time he was a teenager than all three of his future brothers-in-law combined had had in their entire lives. They were loyal sons who worked hard in their father's bakery, but they reminded Pete of Kay's finnochio sons who got him into so much trouble as a youth. So while on the surface Pete got along well with the brothers, it was clear that he'd never share a true friendship with them.

When Pete asked for permission to marry his daughter, Rafaelo smiled broadly and chuckled, "It's about time. Go ahead. Salut'," then he called out, "Sabina, come here and hear the news you have been waiting for!" Sabina of course had anticipated this; why else would this rough-edged young man ask to speak to Rafaelo in private? But since he was Italian - Napolitano in fact - and he seemed to be a hard worker, she had no objection. Had she harbored any reservations, she would have found a subtle way to undermine the whole idea. Having none, she had already begun plotting how Ginger and Pete could move into the apartment upstairs.

Rafaelo owned several houses within a few hundred feet of their own, and Sabina always assumed that her children would marry, move into these houses and fill them with grandchildren who'd swarm around her in her old age. Her assumption nearly came to fruition: most of her eight children did in fact move into these houses when they married, and they did produce over twenty offspring among them. However, Sabina only lived to see part of this, having died at fifty-seven by which time only about half of her grandchildren had been born.

The next morning, Pete and Sal met at the bus stop, rode together to the stop around the block from the slaughterhouse, and walked briskly to avoid being late for their shift. "So what's the plan, moocher," asked Sal as they began loading the truck for the day's deliveries. "I don't know. Her father knows the priest over at Our Lady of Mount Carmel in Orange \- that's their church. Ginger and her parents will work that all out, and figure out what kind of party we'll have after the service. All I gotta do is show up," Pete said as he hoisted another crate onto the truck. "Sounds like you once again found a way to let somebody else do your work for you, ya lazy cafone," Sal grunted as he struggled with a heavy crate. Then, turning serious as he wiped his brow with his sleeve, "Hey, Pete, it'll be nice. We'll have a bunch of kids who'll all grow up together. We got a lot to look forward to, mooch."

Chapter 25

October 1941

Since early childhood, as long as he could remember, Pete had always felt a special bond with his older brother Joe, who'd often acted more like a father than a big brother. Now that Joe was married they didn't see each other as frequently as they used to, but Joe was still the only person Pete would go to for advice or help. Joe's wife Stella understood and respected the brothers' bond, and was careful to make Pete feel welcomed whenever he visited their apartment.

"I'm going to visit my sister," Stella called as she grabbed her purse and headed for the door. "There's some fresh bread in the cabinet, and some macaroni and meat on the stove. See ya later." Joe poured a glass of wine as Pete slid the chair back and took off his cap. "What's new, kid," Joe asked in his gravelly voice that inevitably invoked joking comparisons to Louie Armstrong. "You doin' ok with the wedding and all?" Pete answered, "Yeah, that's all ok. We're gonna have a nice party after the ceremony. Ginger's father has friends who own a nice little restaurant. He even knows a guy with a little band, so we'll have some good food and music. Should be fun."

Joe broached the subject that was hanging over them, nearly palpable in the air. "You seen Papa, kid? You know, he's been asking about you again, and I can't remember the last time I saw the two of you together. You're the only one who, well the only one who acts like you got a gripe with him after all these years." Pete shrugged, sipped his wine and looked directly into Joe's eyes. "So now he wants to be my father or somethin'? Look, there ain't no way I'm ever goin' to that bitch's house. Period. I'm sorry Joe, I guess the old man wants to see me, and maybe I'd kinda like things to be different. But I never, ever want to lay eyes on that putan' again, until the day I dance at her funeral."

Joe paused and shook his head, "You gotta let that go, kid. I got no use for her either, but she can't hurt you anymore. You don't have to be nice to her, or even talk to her. But she's our father's wife. She's Tweet's mother, for Christ's sake. Sometimes you just gotta let bygones be bygones, Pete. We all hate her, just like you do, but the rest of us tolerate her so we can make peace with the old man."

Joe continued, "That's probably what's behind these hard feelings, Pete. You're the only one who's so open about how much you hate her. Lucy was lucky being the only girl, and Scotty, well, he always kept his head down and his mouth shut. As for me, I put her in her place a long time ago, then just ignored her ever since. But you, even when we were just little kids, you always mouthed off whenever she started in. You could never just walk away, and that really got under her skin. She never liked any of us, but she really hated you. And now, we're all on our own and she sure as hell can't do anything to hurt any of us. We almost never see her because she leaves the house whenever she hears that any of us are coming by. So, what's the harm in going to see Papa?"

Pete launched into a viciously profane tirade, switching back and forth from Italian to English. Joe interrupted him, "Okay, okay, I get it. How about this: I'll ask Papa to come over here for dinner. He'll come by himself, and you can bring Ginger so he can meet her. He'd really like that, Pete. When's the last time you even talked to him," Joe asked. Pete sighed. "This is gonna surprise you, but I went to Stanziale's market on a day I knew he'd be working there. That old man Stanziale is a good guy, and soon as I walked in he told Papa to take a break and have some lunch in the back room. He had his son bring in some meats and cheeses for us, and we spent about an hour together. That was a couple of months ago."

Pete frowned away an unspoken, unpleasant thought and continued, "The old man looks like he's in his seventies. He told me he's working a few days a week at the store, and that he's worried about Roosevelt drafting his boys into the army. He's right, that crap over there with Hitler and all, it's gonna get worse before it gets better. Sooner or later we're gonna get involved over there. I just hope they clean it up before they get to me with the draft. Anyway, Papa seems okay; he really hasn't changed. He still looks like his mind is somewhere else when I talk to him. It's like he's in some sorta fog. You always tell me that he wasn't like this before Mamma died, but he's been like this as long as I can remember."

Joe shrugged his shoulders, lifted his eyebrows and jutted out his chin: an invitation for Pete to go on. "I don't know if that crazy bitch has worn him down, or if he's just getting old. Maybe both. But we had a nice talk. I told him all about Ginger and her family. He asked about Sal Junior and said I should bring him around sometime. We didn't talk about Kay at all, but I had the feeling that he wanted to. Ain't no point talking about her. He knows how I feel and I'll never understand how he feels. Far as I'm concerned, he let that evil bitch mistreat us when he could've stuck up for us. In fact, he took her part against me one time too many. He's my father, and I'll try to respect him. But I will never forgive him."

Joe sighed and said, "Well it's good that you went to see him, Pete. He's had a rough ride and maybe we should cut him a little slack. You don't remember what it was like when Mamma was alive. He was so different then. I wish you were old enough to remember her and what Papa was like in those days. When she died, I thought he was gonna die too. Maybe he sorta did die a little bit, I don't know. Things are different now, Pete. Lucy's married, I'm married, and Scotty- well Scotty's just Scotty. But believe it or not, the old man always kinda favored you. Maybe it's 'cause you're the youngest, maybe because you got the hardest head." This had the desired effect of breaking the tension, the brothers sharing a hearty laugh before Pete sighed and said, "Okay Joe, let me know when Papa's commin' for dinner. Maybe I'll bring Ginger like you said. I'll try, Joe, I really will."

"Okay kid, that's enough of this, let's eat."

Chapter 26

January 1942

Pete tugged off his boots and clapped them together, leaving them on the mat outside Joe's apartment before entering. "Nasty out there, Joe. Snow's almost up to my knees, and damn it's cold. How 'bout a little anisette for your frozen kid brother," Pete said as he pulled off his heavy overcoat. "Sit down, kid," Joe said as he poured two shots and handed one to Pete. "Thanks, Joe. Hey, I gotta talk to you."

Joe shook his head as Pete relayed the inevitable news: he and Scotty had both received their draft notices and would have to report to Fort Dix in late February. "Christ, kid, they got both of you," Joe growled in his gravelly voice, "You both gotta report on the same date," he asked. "Yeah, ain't that somethin', we both got our notices the same day, and we have to report on the same day," Pete replied.

"Damn," Joe said, "I'm worried about Scotty. Don't get me wrong, I'm worried 'bout both of you, but I know you can take care of yourself. I don't know how he'll do in the army, especially if he has to go overseas. There's bound to be some nasty combat over there, those Nazis are friggin' animals. Hey, listen. I heard that you can request being assigned to the same unit with a family member. I think if you guys went down to the draft board office and talked to them, they might assign you to the same outfit. You gotta check that out, kid. This way you can look out for Scotty. God knows he needs somebody lookin' out for him."

Pete knew Joe was right. He'd been preoccupied with his own anger about having to leave his new wife, and hadn't thought about how Scotty would do in the service on his own. "Damn it, Joe, I just got married a couple of months ago! Now I gotta leave my wife and go God knows where for God knows how long. This ain't right," Pete said, his voice rising in anger. "Yeah, kid, I know. You're right. But now you gotta think about how you and Scotty are gonna get through this. And you gotta tell Papa. He's been worried sick about his sons getting drafted, especially after those animali blew up Pearl Harbor. You gonna look out for Scotty, Pete," Joe asked as he moved his glass aside and laid his folded hands in its place.

"I'll go down there tomorrow; me and Scotty'll go together and see what we can do." Pete would have been surprised to learn that he and Scotty would in fact be assigned together; that they'd be overseas together for over three years; and that Joe had enlisted in the marines shortly after the Pearl Harbor attack.

Two days later, Pete was sitting with his father in the back room of Stanziale's shop, sharing a lunch of freshly baked bread, hard salami, sharp provolone cheese, and the shopkeeper's home made red wine. "Pa, it's no big deal. It'll be just like the triple C operation. Only this time, me and Scotty'll be together. I set it up so that we'll be in the same outfit, so we can look out for each other. We'll get three squares a day, a roof over our heads, and pay that I can send home to Ginger. She'll be fine, living right upstairs from her parents, with family all around. Anyway, there's nothing I can do about it. Can't fight Uncle Sam, can ya," he said, trying to lighten the mood. "You'll watch out for your brother, right," Paolo asked, his china blue eyes misting over. "He ain't like you, Pete. He's a good boy, but he's not tough like you or Joe." Pete smiled and said, "Or like Tweet. Man if we could send a couple hundred guys like Tweet over there, we'd clean house in no time."

What Pete didn't know was that his younger half-brother Tweet had recently been given the choice between the army and prison by a stern judge in Newark. By the time he found out about Joe enlisting in the marines and Tweet being pushed into the army, Pete and Scotty were completing basic training and awaiting deployment orders, and it would be nearly four years before the brothers were all together again.

Tweet was short, stocky and homely. Unlike his half-brothers, he inherited none of Paolo's good looks. His deep-set eyes, protruding brow and squat physique gave the look of a sinister Neanderthal. His high voice and ready laugh were misleading: he was even tougher than his older half-brothers, with a sinister affinity for street fights. He was a brutal brawler, and frequently bested men a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than himself. Tweet had been mixed up with some unsavory characters since he was a teenager, and most recently worked as a collector for a local loan shark. Things turned bad for Tweet when he had the misfortune of providing a vicious beating to a delinquent borrower who happened to be related to the chief of police in Newark.

Tweet had almost completely lost touch with his siblings over the past couple of years. He still saw Joe periodically, but only when they'd run into each other by chance in the old neighborhood. Pete and Joe had a vague sense that Tweet was still involved with local hoodlums, but it was something they'd long ago stopped bringing up when Tweet was around. To them, he was still their boisterous fun-loving ruffian little brother, and on the increasingly rare occasions when they did get together they mostly laughed about old times. And while Tweet was affable and even affectionate with his older brothers, they knew he wasn't someone they could talk into or out of anything.

"Let's go, Paolo, time to close up shop," Tony Stanziale called after his sons and Paolo completed sweeping the floors and wiping down the counters. "It was good to see young Pete today. Your boys are all grown men now, Paolo. All except Georgio are married now, no," he asked. Paolo shrugged, nodded his head and replied, "It's nice to hear someone call him Georgio. Everybody calls him by that stupid name his brother game him as a kid. I know I'll never call him 'Tweet'." Shuffling toward the door, Paolo paused and said to Tony, "Yeah, it was good to see Pete. You know, him and Angelo are gonna go into the army. Don't know when I'll see him again. Well, good night, Tony." With that Paolo exited through the back door, walked down the dark, dank alley that separated the buildings by less than four feet, and began the fifteen-minute walk to his house on Avenue C.

"You hungry," Kay asked as Paolo walked through the door into the kitchen. "I got a nice chunk of beef from the butcher and made stew the way I know you like it," she said as Paolo removed his cap, sat at the wobbly kitchen table, and kicked off his shoes. Either Kay's cooking had improved or he'd just grown accustomed to eating meals the way she prepared them, he mused as she placed a large bowl in front of him. Their marriage had settled into a peaceful if not loving relationship. They coexisted like two old acquaintances who, while not particularly close, had decided on a life of calm and quiet cohabitation. As years went by Kay had been doing a better job taking care of the house, cooking and cleaning. The home was one of quiet discontent, each of them acquiescing to the fact that this arrangement was their best if not only option.

"Pete and Angelo got drafted," he said, not lifting his eyes from the plate of stew in front of him. Mindlessly spinning his fork in his right hand, as though twirling up a forkful of invisible spaghetti, he shook his head. "Who knows when I'll see them again," me mumbled so quietly that Kay barely heard. "It's gonna be okay, Paolo. At least the other boys aren't going in. Maybe they'll stop this damned draft before they get to Joe, George, John or Bobby. I hope so. They can't take all of our boys, can they," she asked. Paolo ignored the question, pretending not to hear. The way things normally work out, he thought, her two sons will somehow be spared and all of mine will end up getting drafted.

Digging into the bowl of stew, Paolo said, "This is really good. I didn't realize I was hungry until I got a whiff of this stuff when I opened the door." Kay smiled at the rare compliment, wiped her hands on her apron and ladled out a large portion of stew for herself. She poured a glass of wine for each of them and sat across from him. She tore two pieces from the large loaf of bread that served as the border between them, and placed one chunk in front of him. The silence between them was no longer tense or uncomfortable, so neither felt the need to speak while they ate.

Later that night, Paolo sat alone on the front porch smoking his first De Nobile and sipping his second glass of wine. Whenever the weather permitted, he would retreat to this sanctuary at the end of the day. This was his time to think about the old days, to remember Caterina and their life together. He often thought about what life would be like if she hadn't died so very young and how different his kids might be. Most of all, he wondered what kind of man he could have been. He'd realized long ago how her death had hollowed him out, and how he'd broken his graveside promise to her that he'd be a good father. Inevitably, the tears would come when he couldn't even console himself by saying he'd done his best. He knew he hadn't, and he knew that he'd abdicated the raising of his kids when they needed him most.

So here he sat, night after night, feeling much older than his fifty-four years, wondering if this was where and how he'd live out his remaining years. Recently he'd taken a close look at himself in the mirror, and was startled by the balding, white-haired, downtrodden old man that looked back at him. When he thought about his life as a hardworking, energetic, devoted young father and husband, it seemed as though he was thinking of someone else, or maybe a character in a movie or play he'd seen. That version of himself was long gone, and he now doubted whether that man had ever existed.

Paolo no longer visited Caterina's grave, partly because of the long walk to the cemetery and partly because he feared backlash from the resentful Kay if she found that he'd visited. One thing that could surely break the peace in their house was even the mention of his first wife, even after all these years. Besides, whenever he used to go he only found himself tearfully apologizing for failing as a father. And Paolo wanted to do whatever he could to avoid such emotional pain, just as he avoided confrontation with Kay. While he'd never been particularly religious, he did wonder whether there was any truth to what the priests always said about seeing her again after his own death. This thought actually brought a sad smile to his face, as he imagined his young, feisty wife scolding him for the way he fell apart and stubbornly refused to pull himself back together after she died.

"It's been over twenty years and I still can't get over it," he whispered to himself as he lit another of the pungent black cigars. Refilling his glass, Paolo shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, and lifted a silent toast to his long-dead wife. As the wine began to take the edge off his melancholy, he allowed himself to replay pleasant memories of the early days. He leaned back against the wall, with the chair resting on two legs. He closed his eyes as a smile slowly crept across his lips. He remembered the difficult voyage, and how hard it was to leave his wife behind. Then, the joyous reunion when she arrived in America, followed by four beautiful little ones, one right after the other. The future looked so bright, with him working steadily, Caterina taking care of their burgeoning brood, close friends nearby... Still smiling, Paolo nodded off, hoping he could script a dream to follow this reverie.

Weeks after his lunch with his son Pete, when Paolo came to learn that all four of his sons were enlisted to serve in this war that seemed to have gripped the entire world, he was understandably distraught. Try as he might, he could not suppress the memory of how many neighborhood sons never made it back from the last war. He wondered why Kay's sons hadn't been drafted, and often mused that this was a punishment God had sent to him for being an absent father. But hadn't God punished him enough by taking his my wife and best friend, leaving him an empty shell of the man he could have been?
Chapter 27

September 2019

My oldest son smiled at me, "You still have that weird habit, don't you," he said pointing at my hand. "Habit? Oh that; yeah I have no idea where I picked that up. Been doing that off-and-on for as long as I can remember. My father used to get annoyed by it, but I never understood why. But it always got on his nerves. I guess I was afraid to ask him why it bothered him. If you knew my father, you'd understand why the best course of action was to just cut it out when he told me to, without asking questions." We both chuckled, looking at my right hand resting on the table near my plate. "You know," he said, "when you do that it really looks like you're twirling a load of invisible spaghetti onto your fork. Does that mean you should've ordered pasta," he kidded as the waiter approached to take our order.

I love these family dinners, and this one was extra special because we're celebrating my birthday. It's getting harder and harder to get all the kids together now that they all have their own lives. They're all married now, and most of them live close enough to get together periodically. Until their own kids are grown, they'll never understand how much I look forward to these gatherings. I haven't mentioned that this birthday has brought about a disturbing array of feelings that I'm still sorting through. I've now reached the age at which my father died, and I'm only a year away from the age at which his father died.

I've been telling them about my efforts to learn more about my grandfather's life, and keeping them updated with the little I've come up with. I shared a picture of my grandparents' grave and told them about one of my visits there, avoiding telling them that I'd been back several times over the past few months. I told them about the census documents I'd found on the internet, and how there's a mysterious sibling of my father's on the 1930 and 1940 census: the boy named Paul who was listed as being two years younger than my father. I told my kids how I knew my father's siblings, and none of them had ever mentioned a brother named Paul, so I had no idea who this person was. And as had recently become a habit, I reminded them to ask me questions about my life while I'm still here.

They are very interested in what I learned about my father's service in World War Two, but I got the sense that they don't understand why I'm more interested in my grandfather's story. I am one-hundred-percent American, but there's a trace of immigrant in me somewhere, or maybe just a visceral desire to understand the immigrant who came here and started the chain of events that led to my own story. I think my wife understands, even though both of her parents' families have been in America for many generations. My siblings are sort of curious too, but seemingly not as preoccupied with this as I am.

So, I share the scant information that I manage to dig up, and lament the lack of sources for more. There's this nearly overwhelming feeling that knowing Paolo's story will help me better understand who I am. He's been gone as long as I've been alive (plus eight days!), but his story is out there waiting for someone to hear it. If I were just a little more obsessed, I'd say he's calling to me across the generations. But I'm careful not to talk like that in front of the family.

My mind took me back to the last time I was at the gravesite, when I found myself thinking, "Who the hell were you? How did you get here? What was it like to leave your home and start over in America? What was my grandmother like? Did my father really have it as tough as I think he did growing up? Why didn't my father talk about you," and a dozen other questions that I know can never be answered.

"Hey, Dad," my daughter said, noticing that my mind was wandering, "how come grandpa's name is spelled differently on his birth certificate and baptism certificate? Was our name changed or something? Was our name originally spelled differently than the way we spell it now," she asked, knowing this would reengage me in the conversation. I told her how there was a misconception, mostly inspired by movies, that immigrants' names where intentionally changed at Ellis Island by clerks seeking to simplify the spelling. In reality many immigrants were illiterate or semi-literate, so variable spellings of surnames was fairly common. Semi-literate immigrants, new to the English language and American record-keeping, would do their best to "sound out" their names, which of course led to multiple spellings of the same name in some cases, and outright changes in the spelling of surnames in others.

So, it could be that my grandfather was illiterate and didn't recognize the change in spelling. Or it could be that the Italian priest who filled out the baptismal record had heard the name but had not seen it in written form. So, he "sounded it out", spelling it the way he'd heard it pronounced. I actually asked my father about this (regrettably, one of the few questions I ever asked about his childhood), and his explanation was that the current spelling of our name is the "American" version, while the baptism certificate shows the "Italian" spelling. Whatever that means.

My youngest son chimed in, "Hey I see other families in New Jersey with our last name; are we related," he asked, looking at me across the table. Then, my middle son added, "There's even one with my first name too! You think he's a remote cousin or something?" I answered, "I really don't know; I don't think so, but there are just too many gaps for me to be sure. As part of my research I plan to reach out to them to see if there's a connection. But as far as I know, they're not related to us. It's a shame, because I know so much more about my mother's family than I do about my father's. Speaking of my mother's family, her father made the best wine I ever tasted. Which reminds me, pass me the Chianti, will ya?" That got a chuckle out of the group, and led to a toast to my grandfathers. "But especially to the man who gave us our name," I said. "To Paolo."

Chapter 28

August 1944

Tony Stanziale lived just around the block from Paolo's house on Avenue C. It was a short walk that Paolo made nearly every Saturday night so he could participate in the animated, boisterous games of Briscola and Scopa with Tony and several of his neighborhood paisani. Even on the hottest summer nights, it was relatively cool in the dirt-floored cellar where Tony had placed a long, narrow oak table and a collection of mismatched chairs. Paolo looked forward to these sessions all week; Tony was a generous host, always providing plenty of good wine and fine meats and cheeses from his store. He also looked forward to the camaraderie, even though he wasn't particularly close to any of the men.

In fact, Paolo really hadn't had what one could call a true friend since Joe died all those years ago. Tony was good to Paolo, and they got on well, but Tony always had the sense that Paolo wanted to keep people at arm's length. So while they were always cordial and friendly toward each other, Tony knew they'd never be close friends. Tony of course knew that Paolo's first wife had died very young, and that there seemed to be a rift between his second wife and the children from his first marriage. He had always sensed that Paolo was deeply troubled, and early on he'd tried a few times to get Paolo to talk to him about what was on his mind. But Paolo had a way of politely evading questions and changing the subject, so eventually Tony stopped pressing.

Tony had three sons who helped him run his grocery store, and thanks to their hard work and his keen business sense they made a decent living from the operation. There were rumors that Tony's sons had avoided the draft thanks to his friendship with several important local politicians, but that was something that was never brought up in Tony's presence. Paolo found it ironic that he didn't harbor any resentment or jealousy toward Tony for leveraging his connections to help his sons avoid the fate Paolo's sons had met. Good for him, Paolo thought to himself whenever he heard someone complaining about this. If I could do the same I would. What father wouldn't?

The banter at these gatherings would abruptly shift from Italian to English and back many times over the course of an evening. The men prided themselves on raising the act of cheating to an art form, using what they thought were subtle facial expressions and hand gestures to signal their partners. This always triggered a round of light-hearted finger pointing and genuinely creative name-calling. Invariably, as the evenings went on and the wine jugs were drained, the signals became more and more overt and comical. Nearly every Saturday evening, the men enjoyed five or six hours of drinking, eating, swearing and laughing.

Each of the other men- Mario, Guido and Alessandro- had at least one son serving in the military. Guido had two, and of course Paolo had four. But they avoided talking about the war and their sons' whereabouts, partially out of respect for Tony who they all believed was secretly ashamed that his sons weren't serving. Avoiding the topic that was foremost on everyone's mind had the effect of providing the men with an enjoyable and somewhat cathartic evening of good-natured fun. Like most transplants from southern Italy, these men manifested a peculiar form of patriotism. They weren't necessarily loyal to America per se, but they were fiercely protective and proud of the improved standard of living that they'd established here. So any real or perceived threat to their new way of life was something to be met with derision and scorn. Reluctantly, they accepted the harsh reality that their sons had to go fight to protect the place that they now called home.

The men talked about their jobs, gossiped about people they knew, and most of all about the old country, which they always referred to as the other side. Some still harbored secret fantasies about returning one day, but each knew that they were too deeply rooted in America to ever seriously consider picking up stakes. Anyway, who other than Tony could ever afford something like that? And who knew when if ever the madness over in Europe would calm down enough to make traveling possible. They talked about how they decided to come to America, who they left behind, the difficulties of the voyage, and how they got their start in the new country. They talked about their wives, their parents, their siblings- with only cursory references to the ones uppermost in their minds, their sons.

On one unseasonably cool August night, Paolo shuffled home after another rousing card-playing session at Tony's. Quite drunk, he stumbled a few times and chuckled each time he regained his footing. As he approached the rusty gate in front of his house, he paused and looked up at the sky. It was a clear, cloudless night with a huge full moon that was bright enough to have lit his way home. His mind wandered back to the night before he left Italy all those years ago, and how his wife's courage had given him the strength to strike out on his own. "I musta been too stupid to be scared," he muttered as he pushed the gate open and walked slowly toward the front porch. After several failed attempts to insert his key in the front door lock, he shoved the keys back in his pocket and side-stepped over to his favorite chair. He plopped down onto the chair, sat back and tipped his cap down over his eyes. I'll rest here for a few minutes, he thought, but within minutes he was sound asleep.

"Pa, what're you doing sleeping out here," John said, resting his hand on Paolo's shoulder. Even in his semi-drunken stupor, Paolo still recoiled at the sound of his stepson calling him "Pa". He'd never gotten used to it, and he was certain that he never would. "Huh," Paolo grunted, "it's getting light out. I gotta go to bed. Is Kay mad," Paolo asked. "I don't know, Pa. She's probably sleeping on the couch so if you can keep it quiet you should be able to get to bed without getting in trouble. Come on, I'll help you."

Paolo's stepsons John and Bobby were always respectful, and John in particular had always tried to forge a better relationship with his stepfather. While Paolo treated them decently, he always made it clear in subtle ways that were not his sons and he was not their father. This didn't seem to bother Bobby in the least, but John continued to try to break through and get closer to Paolo.

Within minutes of his head hitting the pillow, Paolo was in a deep sleep. Three hours later, half-awake, he pulled the covers over his head, closed his eyes and tried to hold on to the pleasant scenes that had played out in his dreams of the old days. There was Caterina, balancing baby Peter on her hip while she stirred a huge pot of tomato sauce. The other kids were noisily fluttering around the apartment, each of them dropping their toys and running to him in a loving stampede as he walked through the door after a long day's work. He could see his oldest son Joseph leading the pack, with little Angelo and Lucia trailing behind as he squatted down with arms wide open to receive them. He remembered Lucia recoiling after rubbing her face against his, her cheek chafed by the bristly stubble on his chin. And little Joseph feigning disgust, wiping off the kiss Paolo had placed on his forehead. Angelo, nearly tripping in his baggy hand-me-down pants, threw his arms around Paolo's gritty neck and shouted, "Papa's home!" over and over. The sound of Kay and John talking in the kitchen roused him from his reverie.

Assuming Paolo was still sound asleep, John said, "What's wrong with him, Ma? I try to talk to him, and it's like talking to a shadow. He's always got that far-away look in his eyes, and his friends told me that even when he's having fun playing cards he can't concentrate on the game. They say he makes a lot of dumb mistakes, loses track of the score, and even sometimes forgets who is partner is. I feel sorry for the guy. I know he's still friendly with the Bartolomeos, do you ever hear from them? Maybe they know what's going on with him."

"Yeah, I think he still sees Sal Bartolomeo often; they've been friends forever. Sal and Christina don't talk to me 'cause they feel the same way about me as Paolo's sons do. Like it's my fault his sainted first wife died or somethin'," she said as she lit the burner under the coffee pot. "Paolo's kids- especially the oldest, Joe- they all know he ain't right in the head. And let me tell ya, I been living with him for a long time and it ain't been easy. It's not that he's mean or anything like that. In fact, he's usually sorta nice to everybody. Sometimes he's even sorta nice to me, but I've never seen him show anybody any affection. At first we fought a lot, but over the years it's like he got quieter and quieter. It ain't like he's crazy or anything like that. He just always seems like he's somewhere else, but I never know where. Years ago he told me that he has trouble concentrating, and that he often gets into these sad moods for no reason. But we stopped talking about it and I stopped askin' questions a long time ago. I think he's a good man, John, he's just kinda lost or somethin'," she said, "been that way for a long time."

Overhearing this, Paolo shook his head and sighed. It was true that he frequently fell into sad moods from which he couldn't extricate himself. It was also true that he had trouble concentrating, and his mind seemed to wander aimlessly as he meandered through his days. The worst part was that he seemed to gravitate toward these moods, almost as if being sad was his desired state. For years, he'd chided himself about snapping out of it and recapturing the energy and strength of his youth. But lying in bed listening to Kay and John talk about how they saw him made him realize that just as Kay had given up talking about it, so had he given up trying to get ahold of himself. He also realized for the first time that it was easier just to wander along and let life happen as it would, rather than exert the effort needed to get back on his feet, especially since he wasn't confident that he'd be able to get himself back together.

"Hey Paolo," Kay shouted up the stairs in her booming voice, "I got coffee brewing, and you gotta go help at Stanziale's around noon. Time to get movin'." Right, Paolo thought, it's Sunday. I gotta get over to the groceria 'cause it gets real busy when mass lets out around eleven thirty. The smell of coffee brewing, eggs frying, and bread being heated made it easier for Paolo to sit up, shake out the cobwebs and rise to dress for the day. He realized that he had no memory of climbing the stairs, undressing, or getting into bed. The last thing he recalled from the prior night was relaxing on the porch. Letting out a grunt as he bent to lace his shoes, Paolo smiled as he recalled highlights from last night's dreams. He shook his head and whispered aloud, "Always the same, always the same," then rose, cleared his throat, dried his eyes, and headed downstairs for breakfast.

Although Paolo took care to wipe his eyes and wash his face every morning before joining Kay in the kitchen, his swollen, reddened eyes always made it obvious that he'd been crying. Kay was so used to the sight that she didn't bring it up when Paolo sat at the kitchen table, noisily blew his nose, and complained about having a cold even in this hot weather. With her back to him, she rolled her eyes and suppressed a sarcastic chuckle. "Yeah, it's tough having colds when it's hot outside. Ya'd think they only happen in winter, huh," she said as she turned with coffee pot in hand. "Some hot coffee should help."

"Yeah, thanks. Eggs smell real good, too. Pretty hungry this morning. I want to get over to the store early today, so I can help Tony get ready for the rush when Mass lets out." Kay didn't react when Paolo seemingly ignored her questions about the prior night's visit with his friends. It wasn't unusual for her attempts at starting a conversation to fall on deaf ears. So, she prepared and served breakfast and cleared the table as Paolo left for the day.

"Hey, ubriacon', " Tony called from behind the counter, "you okay this mornin'?" Paolo smiled, took off his cap and closed the door behind him. "I was not the drunkest man in your house last night, my friend. Maybe second, but not first," Paolo joked as he pulled his apron from its hook and replaced it with his cap. The day would be spent boxing up orders, hauling customer bundles to their cars, and keeping the shop as clean as possible during its busiest day of the week. Paolo also busied himself by keeping the storefront sidewalk clean and holding the door for incoming and exiting customers. Predictably, he'd be asked several times each Sunday why he wasn't seen in church that morning. His non-verbal response was always the same: eyebrows raised, head titled, shoulders shrugged. Occasionally he'd add a verbal response in broken English that usually elicited a smile from the customer, along the lines of "You no see me 'cause I no there."

As things began to wind down late that afternoon, Paolo started getting the shop ready for closing time. His back to the door as he swept, he heard the tinkle of the bell hanging over the door, announcing the arrival of another customer. As he turned to greet the customer, he was met with a playful punch on the shoulder from his old friend Sal Bartolomeo. "You old cafon', finally somebody makin' you work," Sal said as he pulled Paolo into a jarring embrace. "What, I gotta come here to see my old friend? How you been, Paolo," he asked as he relaxed his grip and looked up at Paolo. Although several inches shorter than Paolo, and several years past fifty, Sal was still a powerfully-built man who was fond of playfully roughhousing with friends. "How 'bout I wait around for you to finish up, and we go over to my house. Christina will be glad to see you, and Sal junior should be around for dinner. He's dyin' to hear what's going on with your Pete," Sal said before turning and approaching the counter to pick up the order Christina had placed the day before.

Paolo often wondered why Sal junior, who he knew was Pete's best friend, hadn't been drafted along with his sons and so many others in the neighborhood. Sal senior certainly had no influential friends, so that wasn't it. Having not seen Sal junior in over three years, Paolo was not aware that the young man had sustained a severe back injury on the loading dock and had only recently been able to return to work. Only after speaking with young Sal did Paolo come to realize that the stigma of being "unfit to serve" was at least as difficult to handle as the physical pain of the injury. Many men who wanted to serve had been rejected by the army, and unfortunately there was a great deal of popular sentiment that "4-f" was the label of a malingerer. For a dedicated, hardworking man like Sal junior, that perception was almost too much to bear.

"Zio Paolo," Sal junior said as they sat before the huge spread that Christina had put out, " you hear from Pete?" Paolo sighed and said, "I get letters from Scotty, who's with Pete, so I get to hear a little about how he's doing. They started out in England for some kinda training, then went to North Africa, and now they been in Italy for over a year. They even spent a couple of months not too far from my hometown. 'Course I didn't find out about that 'til after they moved on, otherwise I would've asked them to look up some of our family there. Scotty makes it sound like they're having an easy time, but I see articles in the papers about their unit being in all kinds of battles. He tells me that all they do is drive trucks, and they're not on the front lines. But I know Scotty, and he's the type that wouldn't want me to worry, so I don't believe it. According to the papers, they're in some sorta tank outfit that's seeing a lot of really rough combat in the Italian mountains. But according to Scotty, Pete and him are doin' just fine."

Paolo asked, "You and your wife, you see Ginger? I know Mary is Ginger's sister, and you four were always close. How's she doin'?" Sal put down his fork and answered, "She's okay, Zio. She lives upstairs from her parents, and has her brothers and sisters around. Mary and my kids see her about once a week, and we have dinner at their father's house a couple of Sundays every month." Paolo paused and said, "Your kids? I still can't believe you got kids Sal. It's still hard for me not to call you 'Little Sal'". Sal smiled and said, "That's right, Zio, I got two; little Sal and baby Lucia who's just two years old. It's funny, I'm Sal junior, but now my little boy is called 'Junior' by everybody. Lotsa people don't even know his real name's Salvatore." Paolo said, "Madonn', you're a father! I can't believe it. Cent'anni," he said, raising his glass.

Thanks to Scotty's letters, Paolo had snippets of meager information about two of his four sons. He'd only received a handful of cryptic letters from Joe, and none from Tweet, so he had to rely on an army officer friend of Tony's who was able to relay information to Paolo. He learned that Tweet and Joe were both stationed stateside, Tweet in Colorado at Camp Carson and Joe at a marine base called Quantico in Virginia. He wondered why the two sons who'd been drafted were overseas in combat while Joe (who'd volunteered) and Tweet (who'd been ordered to enlist by a judge) were stationed in the U.S. It seemed to him that it should be the other way around: if you signed up voluntarily or were forced to join because you were in trouble, it made sense that you'd get sent overseas. If anyone could've stayed in the states, he wished it could've been Scotty.

Chapter 29

October 1945

With help from her sisters, Ginger made arrangements for the welcome home party. The weather had been unseasonably mild, so they planned to have the party outdoors in the yard between two of Rafael's houses. The house on South Day Street- the "front" house- was occupied by two of Rafael's sons and their wives, while Rafael, his wife and youngest daughter Carmela lived in the family home behind it. Ginger split her time between her father's home on the first floor and the apartment on the second floor she shared with Pete.

The yard was bordered by the two two-family houses on the west and east side, a chain link fence on the south side, and the ten-foot-high wall of a sewing machine factory on the north side. It was a small yard, maybe fifty feet by fifty feet, a tidy concrete-paved enclosure that was kept meticulously clean by the family. Behind the rear house was a garden that yielded peppers, tomatoes, zucchini and herbs. Adjacent to the garden was a driveway that belonged to yet another house around the block owned by Rafael and rented by his daughter Anna and her husband Rocco. The driveway was covered by a trellis fashioned from cast-iron pipes that were virtually hidden by the grape vines clinging to them. This was Rafael's favorite place to sit, especially on warm summer evenings, and it was the very spot where Pete had asked for Ginger's hand almost exactly four years prior. But Ginger and her sisters decided that the back yard would provide a better setting for the party.

The Librettis, close friends who owned a restaurant in town, were providing the food. The wine, which was particularly robust this season, would come directly from the barrels in Rafael's wine cellar. His friend Antonio would provide music on his mandolin, accompanied by an accordion and guitar. The back porch of the street-facing house would serve as a bandstand. His sons had fashioned ersatz tables from sheets of plywood and saw horses. Fifty wooden folding chairs borrowed from Mount Carmel Church had been delivered via a friend's truck and arranged around the tables.

The preparations were completed day before the party. Lights were strung on the fence and on clotheslines between the houses, along with red, white and blue balloons and over a dozen American flags. Festive tablecloths adorned the makeshift tables, transforming them into bright, pleasant accommodations. Food delivery was arranged and several huge five-gallon jugs were filled from the wine barrels in the cellar. Ginger had invited Pete's sister Lucy and his brother Joe, who'd recently been discharged from his stint in the marines. Joe volunteered to bring Scotty, who'd arrived back in Newark a week ahead of Pete's discharge. Joe told Ginger that he knew Tweet had also been discharged, but he hadn't heard from him in months and didn't know where he was. She asked Joe to invite Paolo, who surprised her by enthusiastically asking whether he could help with the party.

Ginger's excitement was matched by a vague sense of anxiety. She and Pete had only lived together as man and wife for a few months before he left, and she hadn't seen him in three-and-a-half years. She'd heard stories about men who returned home unrecognizable to their own families after experiencing combat duty. She wondered how much Pete had changed, physically, mentally and emotionally. But the thrill of being reunited with her husband was enough to suppress whatever trepidation she felt.

Pete's best friend Sal had agreed to pick up Pete and Scotty at the Newark train station around four o'clock. Originally, Ginger wanted the party to be a surprise, but Sal convinced her to let him brief Pete on the planned celebration when he picked him up at the station. Ginger had purposely scheduled the party for the night after Pete's return, figuring that he'd need a quiet night at home with her before being welcomed home by their families and friends. Her instincts were on target: he slept twelve straight hours on his first night home, after a sumptuous meal and several glasses of Rafael's wine.

Although the guests had been told to begin arriving around noon, Joe was so eager to see his brothers that he'd picked Scotty up after breakfast and insisted that they head over to see their brother Pete right away. Scotty dressed quickly when he heard Joe impatiently honking and calling for him. He bolted from his apartment and jogged over to Joe's Ford idling noisily at the curb, then froze just as his hand touched the car's door handle. There in the back seat sat his father with a huge smile on his face.

"Angelin'," shouted Rafael, his voice echoing through the hall and up the stairs. "Angelin', you and Pete come down here. You have company." Pete smiled and said, "Still doesn't speak a word of English, does he?" Pete was sitting at the kitchen table, savoring his second cup of coffee and browsing the newspaper in his boxer shorts and tee shirt. "See who it is and let me know if I gotta get dressed," he said with a chuckle. "We still got a couple of hours before people are supposed to show up." Ginger wiped her hands on her apron and said, "Stay put, I'll see who's there and let you know." Pete smiled as he sipped his coffee, listening to the echo of her footsteps and the sound of surprise as she said, "Joe! Scotty! Let me get your lazy brother out of bed before you come up." Then, silence. After a moment he heard Ginger say, "Just wait here a minute I'll call you up when he's ready."

"Pete, your father's here with your brothers. He's standing outside like he's afraid to come in. I don't think my father saw him, otherwise my mother would've dragged him into the house for a cup of coffee. She wouldn't like the idea of any guest standing out in the yard, especially not family," she said as she closed the door behind her. "After you get dressed, invite them up. But you gotta go down there are see your father." Pete certainly wasn't expecting his father to show up today. They'd had no communication during his time in the army, and Pete assumed that whatever tenuous connection they'd had was now gone. He knew immediately that Joe was behind this, remembering that Joe was always trying to reconnect the two.

More out of respect for Joe than for their father, Pete dressed quickly and headed down the stairs. Joe wrapped him in a bear hug while Scotty patted him on the back. "Welcome home, kid," Joe said, "you look great, ya cafon'." The three brothers were all smiles, being together for the first time in years. Pete was about to ask about Tweet when Joe pointed through the porch window toward the figure standing on the walk. "God," said Pete, "it's the old man. He looks like he's aged 20 years since the last time I saw him." Joe replied, "He ain't been doing too great, kid. He really wants to see you. He talks about you all the time, about how you're the only one of us who holds a grudge from when we were kids, and about how he feels like you disowned him. He's old now, Pete. Gotta bury the hatchet before it's too late."

Pete sighed and said, "Well at least he didn't bring that bitch with him, did he? He's my father and I'll show him respect, but I hope he knew enough not to bring her around my house," Pete said, his anger rising. Putting his hand firmly on Pete's shoulder, Joe said, "Don't worry about that. First thing he said when I offered to pick him up was to make sure you knew she wasn't coming. I shoulda told you that soon as you came down the stairs."

Pete opened the door and looked at his father, who was gazing downward as though afraid to meet his son's eyes. Then, slowly lifting his chin, he looked at his son. Pete walked slowly down the brick steps and approached his father. After a few seconds of awkward silence, Pete said, "Hiya Pa," after which Paolo threw his arms around his son and began sobbing. At first Pete's hands remained limply at his sides, but then he raised them and clumsily patted his father's back. "Filgio mio, mi dispiace, mi dispiace," he whispered. At a loss for words, Pete finally replied, "Pa, you don't have to be sorry. Don't worry, I'm home now and everything's gonna be okay".

None of the brothers could remember the last time they saw their father smile and socialize the way he did at this party. He seemed to thoroughly enjoy swapping old-timer stories with Rafael, and he shocked his sons when he asked Ginger to dance with him to a favorite old Italian folk song. Pete's evening was full of hugs, handshakes and toasts to the future.

After a particularly vigorous round of dancing, he leaned against the wall and surveyed the crowd. He smiled as his gazed floated from guest to guest, smiling at how everyone was having a great time. Then he and his father locked eyes, only for a moment, but it was enough to trigger a barrage of bad childhood memories that immediately rekindled the old rage simmering just beneath the surface. Wincing in reaction to Pete's angry glare, Paolo averted his eyes and looked around the room as if searching for a safer place. Pete struggled to suppress the anger that began to seethe inside him, shook his head and headed to the table containing the pitchers of wine. Paolo reached for his wine glass and took a long pull as he watched his son, knowing exactly what was going through Pete's head, and that he'd once again lost his son.

"Good time at the party," Kay asked as Paolo walked gingerly to the kitchen table. Grimacing at the screech of the chair as he slid it back to make room for himself, he slowly lowered himself into his seat. "Yeah, good time. Got any coffee," he asked. "Hey Paolo, what are we gonna do about your sons, especially Pete. I'm your wife for Christ's sake, and they don't show me any respect. You gotta go to the party without me? That Pete, he hates me so much that I'm actually afraid of him, and I think that's exactly what he wants. I been quiet about this for a long time, but hell, at some point I have the right to expect to be treated right. I haven't complained about this in years, mostly 'cause I feel like you don't want to hear it. But enough is enough. I can't even go to a party with my own husband because that son of yours doesn't like me? That ain't right," she said, her voice rising in volume and pitch with her growing agitation. Paolo looked up from the newspaper he'd been perusing and said, "What do you mean? What's not right," clearly showing that he hadn't been listening.

"This is why I don't mention it anymore. Forget it," Kay said, slamming the cup on the table so firmly that half of the coffee spilled. Then she stormed out of the room. Paolo heard her rustling around, in the living room before he heard the door open and slam shut as she bolted from the house. He shrugged his shoulders and got up to fetch the coffee pot from the stove.
Chapter 30

May 1949

On a rainy and unseasonably cold Sunday afternoon, Sabina decided that the weekly family dinner would be held in the basement. Being the largest room, its layout was the best in the house for accommodating a large group. Unlike the dark, damp wine cellar that had been excavated beneath it, the basement was pleasantly finished and well lit. Three matching tables were arranged end-to-end, with enough benches and chairs to provide seating for twenty people.

Pete rough-housed on the floor with his son Joey, a rambunctious two-year-old, while Ginger balanced six-month-old Catherine on her hip as she helped her mother set the table. In an uncharacteristic break from tradition, Pete had named his firstborn son for his older brother rather than for his father or grandfather. When little Catherine was born, there was no question in Pete's mind what her name would be.

With the exception of Ginger's parents and her sister Mary, Pete never forged any sort of bond with members of her family. In fact, he had always felt like an outsider among them. Mary of course was married to his best friend, and Pete found her to be a warm and considerate woman. Privately, Pete joked that Ginger's parents loved him because he was the son they'd never had. He always thought that Ginger's other siblings didn't like him, but the reality was that they were vaguely intimidated and put off by his gruff demeanor and rugged appearance.

Although he would never admit it, these noisy and hectic family gatherings caused Pete to secretly wish that he could have had this kind of familial togetherness with his own parents and siblings. These feelings triggered a subtle, unintentional resentment that was noticed by Ginger's siblings and interpreted as disdain for them. His relationship with her parents, however, was a completely different story. It had taken quite a while for Pete to get comfortable with calling Sabina "Mama", but over time he'd grown quite fond of her and it seemed more and more right to him. He didn't realize it, but early on she'd recognized his need for a maternal connection, and this intensified her efforts to embrace him into her family.

The huge platters of macaroni, meat and "Sunday gravy" were passed around while Sabina took a moment to hoist her two oldest grandchildren onto her lap. Little Sal Junior and Lucia- who everyone now called "Dolly"- squirmed and giggled as she hugged them close and smothered them with kisses. As little Joey toddled over and tried to climb up to join them, Sabina laughed in her broken English, "Gramma have no room, Joey. You wait a minute." With that Sal Junior jumped down and scampered over to his mother while Sabina gently placed Dolly on the floor. She scooped Joey up in her arms and tickled him under his chin as she sang an old Italian folk song about a lost little boy.

Paolo's house in Newark was just a few miles away, but it might as well have been on another continent. As was his habit, he slept relatively late this Sunday morning, having had another late Saturday night at Tony Stanziale's weekly card game. He rose, washed up and tried to rinse the sticky, sour taste from his mouth before heading downstairs. After two cups of potent coffee and a large chunk of bread, he pushed his chair back, stood and wiped his mouth. He took one last sip from his coffee and said, "Going to the groceria," and left for the day.

He now went to Stanziale's store nearly every day, although the long-time arrangement had called for him to work on Sundays and one or two mornings during the week. While Paolo did continue to sweep up and help with the customers, and Tony continued to pay him a few dollars after closing on Sundays, the groceria now served primarily as a place for Paolo to visit and pass the time. Tony sensed that Paolo needed someplace to go and something to do, so he let Paolo come and go as he pleased.

Kay wasn't around the house much anymore. Paolo wasn't sure- and didn't much care- where she spent her days, but he thought he remembered a comment about her spending more time with her sister. While they seldom argued or even disagreed any longer, he still found it easier to be alone in the house. Kay would make breakfast and dinner a few times every week, and she slept in the house every night, but there was virtually no communication between them. Paolo had a vague sense that he should be concerned or upset, but the feeling wasn't specific or powerful enough to elicit action on his part. Virtually nothing was these days.

Occasionally, Paolo would get a surprise visit from Joe or Scotty at the groceria, and every month or so Lucy would stop by and invite him to dinner at her house. Her husband Tom was a deadbeat who was woefully inadequate as a provider for Lucy and their two young daughters. Joe had already roughed him up once in an attempt to straighten him out, but everyone knew things weren't improving. Paolo knew about this because unlike her brothers Lucy was quick to share news, whether good or bad, and she wasn't shy or embarrassed about criticizing her own husband. When Paolo passed on several of Lucy's invitations, Joe got involved and "moved" the invitations to his place, suggesting that they establish a monthly Sunday dinner gathering there.

Paolo wasn't certain whether the monthly gathering was scheduled for this Sunday or the next. He paused motionless, broom in hand, as he struggled to remember. The gravelly voice of his oldest son startled him, "Hey Pa, I'll pick you up at four, okay," said Joe, who seemingly materialized out of nowhere. "Uh, yeah," Paolo replied, "four sounds good." Joe smiled and said, "Sorry I woke you up. You were sleepwalking with that broom. Hey, Pete's comin' today. Stella's cooking up a storm and Pete's gonna bring some of his father-in-law's wine. I'll be back at four." Paolo smiled and nodded as Joe turned and left.

"Smells great, Stella," Paolo said, removing his cap and kissing her cheek as she stirred the tomato sauce. "Sit down, Pa," she replied. Turning from the stove, she asked, "Where's that husband of mine?" Paolo stared as though she'd asked him to solve a complicated equation. Then he blinked his eyes and said, "Oh, he went to pick up Scotty. Told me to tell you that he'd be back in fifteen minutes. Uh, Joe tells me Pete's coming too." Stella smiled and said, "Yeah, I think so. It'll be good to see the boys all together, Pa. Been way too long."

An hour later Paolo, Scotty and Joe sat at the table struggling to make small talk, avoiding the question hanging over the room, while Stella nervously fluttered between the stove and the sink. Finally, Joe verbalized what they were all thinking, "Where the hell is Pete? Well, let's not let the food get cold; let's eat. If Pete shows up late and gets cold macaroni, that's his problem," growled Joe as Stella straightened her apron and began to retrieve dinner. "Told me he was coming. I know he ain't working today. Maybe he's busy with the kids or something. I'll catch up with him at the port tomorrow," Joe said. Scotty asked, "You guys on the same crew again," before refilling his wine glass and wistfully adding, "I wish this was Rafael's wine that cafon' brother of ours was supposed to bring."

The year before, Joe had leveraged his connections to get Pete a job at the port along with membership in the union. Longshoremen's pay and union benefits were much better than those at the slaughterhouse, but the working conditions were tough. The demanding physical labor was nothing compared to the union politics, favoritism, graft and even occasional violence that made the port a rough place to make a living. But a tough man who knew how to work hard and keep his nose clean could do okay, especially if he had a connection within the union hierarchy. All in all, working as a longshoreman was preferable to the slaughterhouse job Pete left when this opportunity arose. He only wished he could've gotten his friend Sal in as well, but Sal's injured back and easy-going nature couldn't possibly handle the working conditions. Besides, after Sal's injury his boss had taken good care of him, giving him a much cushier job as a full-time driver without responsibility for loading or unloading trucks or any other heavy work.

The basement in the Della Sala house was bustling as Sabina and her daughters completed the post-dinner clean up and brought out the trays of cookies and pastries while Rafael poured each of the men a shot of Strega. Raising his glass and saying, "salut'," Pete thought about the excuse he'd use when confronted by his brother the following day. He'd just say that he'd forgotten and hope that Joe bought it. Sure, Joe'd be mad but it wouldn't be a big deal.

Placing his empty glass gently on the table Pete stared at it, lost in thought. Ginger noticed, and she paused as she considered whether or not to interrupt whatever he was pondering. He'd become increasingly moody over the past couple of years, and Ginger had become more cautious about when and how she approached him. He could be distant and brooding one moment, gentle and loving the next. There were times when he retreated into himself, meeting attempts at conversation with a belligerent glare. Only his brother Joe dared confront him about this behavior, and they'd argued about it several times.

Ginger gently placed her hand on Pete's arm and asked, "You okay," before placing a cup of steaming espresso in front of him. Anticipating a snarling response, she was relieved when he shrugged his shoulders and said, "Huh, yeah, sorry. Guess I was daydreaming or somethin'." She smiled and said, "Wait 'til you taste the cake Mamma made," as she slid her chair back and bolted to chase after little Joey who'd managed to climb up onto the table. Pete shook his head and looked around the room. He poured a splash of anisette into his cup of espresso and took a sip, the tiny cup almost lost in the grasp of his calloused laborer's hand.

Chapter 31

July 1951

Pete and Ginger were enjoying a rare visit with Joe, Scotty and their wives. Scotty had married Loretta the year before, and she'd hit it off well with the others. Having moved from their apartment to a more spacious house, Joe and Stella were eager to host what they hoped would be more frequent gatherings of the family at their place. Joe had somewhat reluctantly invited Lucy and was secretly relieved when she begged off, saying her kids were too sick to leave their house. Lucy's husband had disappeared, leaving her with her two daughters in a cramped apartment just a few blocks away. The brothers loved Lucy, but they found it increasingly difficult to bear the barrage of whining and complaining they had to endure with every visit. Ever the helpless victim, Lucy now had even more to grouse about. Joe was of course concerned that his nieces might in fact be ill, but given Lucy's propensity to over-dramatize, he was fairly certain that his nieces might at worst have a summer cold. He made a mental note to check in on them over the next few days.

Joe wondered if Lucy was avoiding contact with Pete, who'd recently chastised her for her endless complaining about her lot in life. Being the more patient brother, Joe frequently tried to calmly counsel Lucy, listening to her tales of woe and assuring her that things would work out. Pete on the other hand was less willing to listen to a litany of troubles every time he saw her, and he'd finally lost his temper the last time they'd been together. Pete was carrying quite a load, working as many hours as he could handle at the port and taking care of his own growing family. His already impatient nature was exacerbated by exhaustion and stress, and his last visit with his sister happened to be on a day when he was exceptionally irritable. Of course Pete loved his sister, and along with his brothers was always available and willing to help her. His last comment to her, however, touched off an emotional outburst that left him shaking his head: "I'll do whatever I can to help you, sis; anything but listen to you bitch." While this comment got a laugh out of the brothers, it seemed to leave Lucy completely devastated, adding yet another travesty to add to her list of things to complain about.

Although Joe and Scotty were both childless, they loved Pete's children and enjoyed their visits immensely. But wanting to enjoy a rare "couples" evening, Pete and Ginger had left their three kids- Joey, Cathy and three-month-old Patricia- with her mother. Ginger and Loretta helped Stella mix the salad and slice the bread while the tomato sauce simmered and the macaroni pot boiled. The men sat around the kitchen table munching on dates, hazelnuts and warm bread. Pete uncorked the jug of Rafael's wine that he'd brought and provided a generous pour to his two brothers. "Here's to Tweet," he said, with Joe adding "and Papa."

Tweet was serving eight to ten years at Rahway prison for armed robbery, and only Joe had been to visit him. When Joe mentioned that he'd recently seen Tweet, Pete asked how their brother was doing. Joe replied, "you wouldn't recognize him, kid. He lost a lot of weight, and he's got a crew cut. He's missin' a couple of teeth and has a couple of ugly tattoos that look like they were done by a drunk blind man. He says it was pretty rough at first, but he's getting used to it. Knowing Tweet, I bet he's knocked a few heads together in there, and the other guys know not to mess with him. He wanted me to ask you guys to go see him, or at least write him a letter once in a while. Pa's pretty much disowned him, and even his crazy mother hasn't kept in touch. By the way, Pete, did you know they ain't even living together anymore?"

Pete stopped mid-sip and put down his wine glass, asking, "who ain't living together," with his brow furrowed as he looked across the table at Joe. "Pa and Kay. She sold the house and moved somewhere with her sister. Pa was living in an attic room over Tony Stanziale's house, but now he stays with Zia Christina and Zio Sal. They have plenty of room in the old house now that it's just the two of them. They gave him their son's old room and he has a nice porch to sit on when the weather is nice. I think he still stays at Stanziale's once in a while when he plays cards with the old guys on a Saturday night. But I know he feels at home with the Bartolomeos. You know how they are; they'll take good care of him," Joe said, "he's probably better off this way. Zia will keep him well fed, and Zio Sal will do a good job looking after the old man. You know Kay wasn't taking care of him."

The mere mention of her name was enough to start Pete seething, but this news really got his blood boiling. "That puttan' sold the house out from under the old man? I knew she owned it, but I always thought that since they got married he would own half. Or something," Pete grumbled as he fidgeted in his chair. "Nah, Pete, it ain't like that, at least not the way Papa tells it. He says he's better off now that he's rid of her. And like I said, who's gonna take better care of him than the Bartolomeos? He makes a little bit of money working in the groceria, and he says Kay gave him a little money when she sold the house. I don't know if I believe that part of the story, but Stanziale is a good friend to him and he has family to stay with. Best of all, he's got that crazy bitch out of his hair. Ask me, I say she done him a big favor. Finally did something good for him."

Pete let loose with a string of profanity that prompted Joe to raise his voice. "Easy, kid. Our wives are here and we're supposed to be having a nice family dinner. We all know how you feel about her, but she's gone and now we should worry about Papa. He's what, sixty-two, sixty-three now. Something like that. I talked to him just the other day, and you guys should know that he's getting a little pazzo, like he's a lot older than he is. He loses track of things, forgets what we're talking about, stuff like that. He sees Lucy's kids pretty often, but putting up with her whining is a little too much for him. He's only seen your kids a couple of times, Pete, and he doesn't even remember how many there are or what their names are. She's gone, Pete. Now there's no reason why you can't visit the old man once in a while. Let him see his grandchildren. Try to think about it like she's dead if that makes you feel better."

Pete sneered, "only if I could dance at her funeral and piss on her grave, Joe." Joe shook his head and sighed, "Jesus, you got such a hard head, kid. I'd let you have a shot in the mouth if I wasn't afraid to break my hand on that cement block you have for a head. No matter what, he's our father. And you gotta think about how you'll feel when he's gone if you don't go see him once in a while. I know you think he shoulda done a better job looking after us, and protecting you from her. But he didn't, and what's done is done. I just wish you could find a way to let it go and give the old man a little respect in his old age."

"I hear you, Joe, I hear you," whispered Pete as he lowered his head and took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "Hey Ginger, let's invite the old man over for dinner sometime soon, okay," he said as she approached with his plate of spaghetti. As he twirled his fork, loading with a huge lump of the sauce-laden spaghetti, he remembered his father's habit of twirling an empty fork alongside his plate. This brought a sad smile as he pushed back at the encroaching unpleasant memories of his childhood.

Chapter 32

October 2019

In stark contrast with the run-down conditions that surrounded the property, the cemetery is clean and well kept. I wonder how the Catholic Church manages to maintain such a large cemetery, how many caretakers are needed for its upkeep, and whether they're paid for their work or if they're volunteers. I started this journey about a year ago after retiring, and since I found the gravesite I've been visiting every couple of months. I haven't told anyone how frequently I've been coming here, mostly because even I know there's no logical reason for me to visit so often. I'm afraid that this whole search for my grandfather has become a bit of an obsession, and I don't want my family to think I've gone over the edge.

I've decided that I'm going to refer to them as Paolo and Caterina. Using their Anglicized names seems forced, and calling them Grandpa and Grandma feels quite silly. A couple of months back, I hired a friend who specializes in genealogy research. She did uncover some information like steamship passenger lists that show when each of them came to America. I've seen certificates that prove my grandfather was born and baptized, and that he got married and died. I've even seen census documents from 1930 and 1940 that provide a list of names, one of which remains a mystery. I recognize all of the names except one: someone named Paul who was two years younger than my father. My father had mentioned every other name listed on these documents except that one, so I'm left to wonder if I had another uncle and what became of him.

But none of this gives me any insight into who my grandfather was. I've been able to learn a few things like when he came to America, but I don't know what he left behind aside from his wife who joined him two years later. I know when he was born, but not what he looked like. I know when my young grandmother died, but not how he dealt with it; that his second wife was mean to my father, but not how he cared for his kids; that he died eight days before I was born, but not why my older siblings have no memory of him.

I have one undated, blurry black-and-white picture that shows him standing in front of a tree. The picture might have been taken in a park somewhere, because I don't see any houses in the background, just a dusty field with some sparse grass and a few meager-looking trees. I wonder where this was taken, who was with him, and who took the picture. He looks fairly old in the picture; my guess is that he was in his sixties, which would have put him pretty close to the end of his life. I've lined this picture up alongside snapshots of my father and my kids, and I can see traces of Paolo in their faces as well.

Funny how at first it didn't occur to me to compare his picture with my own. But when I did, I was surprised to find that my resemblance to Paolo was much stronger than my resemblance to my father. In his picture I see my own nose, lips, cheeks and chin: an older version of myself, even though he was likely younger than I am now. I sometimes find myself staring at that picture, as though some previously unnoticed clue will help me uncover an important piece of the puzzle that was his life.

Since my father's siblings are all gone, and the only ones surviving from my generation are my siblings and me, I'll never see another picture of Paolo. And I'll never see a picture of Caterina. I have managed to conjure up an image of her in my mind: she's petite, but with a big voice and strong personality; curly black hair, dark brown eyes, a classic "Roman" nose, full lips and olive skin so common in southern Italians. She's stoic, strong and hardworking, a combination of servant and lioness whose life revolves around caring for and protecting her family.

Despite the image of a weary, aging man I see in the picture of Paolo, I imagine him as a young, strong, determined man who came to America over a century ago. He worked to build a life for Caterina and himself and started a family that led to... me. I carry his name, along with some of his facial features. I wonder if I inherited any of his personality traits. Do I have any of his tendencies, fears, aptitudes or shortcomings? How much of who I am came from Paolo?

These two transplanted southern Italian peasants are now nothing more than names carved into a dual headstone on a cemetery plot. They deserve more than that. Every one of Paolo's children benefited from his sacrifice and hard work. And Paolo would be shocked if he could see his grandchildren living in the comparative affluence of America's modern-day middle class. Whether he knew it or not, Paolo fulfilled the ultimate dream of every immigrant: his children did better than he, with his grandchildren surpassing their own parents.

He should be remembered, honored and thanked. But wait a minute. I really don't know anything about him; maybe I'm canonizing someone who doesn't deserve it. After all, my father did tell me that Paolo's second wife was outright abusive. Paolo had to have known about that. If he tolerated the mistreatment of his own son, maybe I need to shorten the pedestal on which I seem to be placing him. But if he did tolerate it, could there have been a reason, or at least a mitigating factor? The man did lose his wife at a young age, and he was left with four kids. Even if he wasn't 'father of the year' material, seems like I should cut him quite a bit of slack.

No matter what, there's no getting around the fact that I am here because of him. I have the life that I have because he came to America. Next time I come to visit I'm going to bring flowers. I wonder what Caterina's favorite flower was.

Chapter 33

February 1954

"We can have another one, babe," Pete said as he gently tucked the covers under his wife's chin. Ginger was shivering even though Pete felt like the steam heat had turned the hospital room into a sauna. "Doctor Masciocchi says you're gonna be okay, and that's all that matters now. He says you need to stay here for a day or two. Let's not rush it. Your sister Mary is watching the kids, and they're having a ball playing with their cousins. Doc says he gave you something to help you sleep. Looks like it's working, 'cause you look like you're ready for a nap. Close your eyes. I'll sit here for a while until I'm sure you're out for the night."

Although rare, these displays of tender affection always had a calming effect on Ginger. She often wondered how he could be so kind and gentle at times like this, while growing increasingly gruff and unapproachable most of the time. She supposed another baby would bring out the best in him, so if that was in the cards it would be alright with her. Besides, how much harder could it be to care for four little ones than it is to look out for the three she already had.

Pete chastised himself for bringing up the idea of another baby. Maybe that was the last thing she needed to hear after what she'd just been through. Later that night, sitting alone at his kitchen table nursing a glass of wine, something very unusual happened: he cried. Pete couldn't remember the last time he'd done that; certainly not since he was a kid as far as he could recall. He remembered the story that he'd overheard when he was a small boy, about how his mother and a new baby had both died as she was giving birth. Although that story haunted him throughout his childhood, it was many years before he confided in his brothers that he'd overheard their father tearfully recounting the story while sitting on the porch with a friend.

And now the feeling returned. He was angry that he was sad, and sad that he was angry. Once again, he desperately searched his memory to see if he had any recollection of his mother. And again he came up empty. He recalled that his brother Joe had somehow confiscated a picture of their mother, and how even as a young man he was transfixed by it. He closed his eyes and visualized how she'd looked in that ancient photograph. He thought of her dark hair and big brown eyes, and how the wine-colored birthmark covering an entire side of her face did nothing to diminish her beauty. "Here I am a grown man with three kids, and I'm sitting here crying for my mother," he whispered, reaching for his wine glass. How different things might have been; should have been.

Within a week of the miscarriage, Ginger was back at full strength. As was his habit, Pete took every available shift at the port. He hadn't told Ginger that he'd been desperately seeking the extra pay in anticipation of an upcoming strike that would put him out of work indefinitely. The last strike lasted four months, and Pete had to resort to taking a job as a meat cutter in the slaughterhouse in order to keep the family afloat. Grueling as longshoreman's work could be, he preferred that to the fetid confines of the slaughterhouse.

Paolo heard about Ginger's miscarriage during a visit with his son Joe. At first, he was offended and saddened that he hadn't gotten the news directly from Pete. Then he realized that he shouldn't have expected anything else, since his contact with Pete had become so infrequent. He tried to recall the last time he'd seen Pete but had to resort to asking Joe when he could not remember. When he heard that it had been over a year, he shrugged his shoulders and shook his head. "That's the way it's gonna be, I guess," he said to Joe as they sat for dinner in Joe's kitchen. "Pa, I don't know what to tell you. He's got a head like a rock, that one. And he's working like a slave down at the port; never seen anybody put in so many hours. Ginger and him are real busy with the kids and all," Joe said, trying to placate his father. "Yeah, so busy he forgets his own father," Paolo grumbled in his broken English.

After dinner, Paolo and Joe enjoyed a strong cup of espresso laced with anisette, followed by what Stella called the "smelliest cigars in the world". As the evening wore on, seeing that Paolo was getting sleepy, Joe said, "come on, I'll drive you home. You staying with Zia Christina and Zio Salvatore tonight, or over at the Stanziales?" Paolo smiled, "hey, some guys got no home, and I got two! I like the Bartolomeos' house better when it's cold outside. My room in the attic stays nice and warm in the winter. Anyway, I stay there most of the time these days. Plus, your aunt makes the best breakfasts I ever had. Don't get me wrong, Stanziale feeds me real good, but Christina and Sal, well, they're family. So I guess my home is now with your aunt and uncle," Paolo said with an uncharacteristically broad smile.

As Paolo sat in his attic room that night, he stared out at the cloudless, starry, cold winter sky. Poor Ginger, he thought. But at least she's alive. That's when the memories swarmed over him, and he knew that this would be a night he'd spend immersed in dark, bottomless remorse, with the overwhelming pain as real as it was over thirty years before.

Chapter 34

September 1965

I whispered to my sister, "look! You can't tell one from the other. They have the same walk, the same hands in their pockets, and their feet are even hitting the ground at the same time." She giggled and nodded. We followed my father and my uncle Joe through the parking lot after attending Mass. Their posture, gestures and mannerisms were so similar that I wondered whether my father was consciously imitating his older brother. Even at the age of ten, I knew that my father had a special relationship with my uncle Joe. I never witnessed my father showing anyone that level of respect, bordering on reverence.

Although we followed them closely and I leaned in to listen, I couldn't pick up on what they were talking about. I think I heard Uncle Joe thank my father for something, but I couldn't tell what that was. Then my father said something like, "it's time, Joe. Been long enough, that's all." Of course, I would never dare to interrupt them and ask what they were talking about. Having the attention span of a ten-year-old, I quickly lost interest in their conversation. Anyway, watching them stride in synchronized lockstep was more amusing.

Since the Mass was in Italian, I hadn't paid much attention but I did hear our last name mentioned a couple of times. When I asked my father about that on the way home he told us that the Mass was in memory of his parents, then quickly changed the subject. Of course I didn't realize at the time that it had been scheduled to commemorate the tenth anniversary of my grandfather's death.

After the Mass, Uncle Joe and Aunt Stella hosted a luncheon at their house. Being around my father's family was nothing like being around my mother's. In her family, there were so many cousins that there was always someone to play with. Family gatherings were large, bustling affairs, with kids running around and parents reprimanding them at every turn. It seemed like every one of us had at least one cousin of the same age. In my father's family, the only cousins we had were my Aunt Lucy's two daughters who were older than us and therefore quite disinterested in spending time with us. So whichever of my father's kids tagged along to a family gathering on his side- for some reason he never took all five of us- would wind up being the only kids there.

We'd normally sit quietly watching TV, or maybe wander around the yard. Our uncles and aunts would of course greet us and make a little small talk, but we'd always be implicitly banished to another room so the adults could talk. It was as though they didn't know how to interact with kids. So, while they treated us lovingly and we liked visiting them (uncle Joe was usually good for tucking a five dollar bill in our pockets), there was always a vague sense of discomfort as we quietly waited for being summoned to the table where the adults sat or told that it was time to leave.

On the way home, my father uncharacteristically turned on the radio and turned up the volume. It was clear that there was to be no conversation. From my perch in the backseat, I peeked at him in the rearview mirror a few times. The one time I caught his eyes, I thought I saw a barely-perceptible nod accompanied by a sad smile. I was too busy plotting the disposition of my newly acquired fortune to consider what he might be thinking about. Since my birthday was just two days away I'd pocketed a ten-dollar bill from Uncle Joe and an extra five from Uncle Scotty, so my mind was racing through images of what I might buy with that nearly unimaginable amount of cash.
Chapter 35

November 2019

One of the most stinging curses of the aging process is the tendency to look back on missed opportunities with regret. I guess everyone has regrets to some extent, but the trick is to not spend too much time and energy replaying them over and over, as if to remind yourself that you screwed up. I haven't learned that trick. Sure, I have the usual regrets about dumb things I did and smart things I didn't do, as well as things I wish I'd said or hadn't said. I assume that my list of regrets is probably about as long as that of the average person my age. But I get the sense that I dwell on mine more frequently than most people, and I'm ashamed to admit that I have a tendency to re-torture myself whenever I ruminate on things that I regret.

These days my one of my top regrets seems to be that I didn't ask my father questions about his life. He wasn't what you'd call the most approachable man you'd ever meet, and for much of my childhood I was quite afraid of him. But I have to believe there were opportunities for me to catch him in a good mood and get him to open up a little. Maybe I couldn't have pulled that off when I was a kid, but the man he "mellowed" into when my children were born was probably someone who would've shared memories if only I'd have asked him in the right way.

I'm blessed with a set of adult kids who are close to me, and my relationship with them is one of the great joys in my life. I can't imagine being out of touch with any of them. And now that I'm a grandfather, the idea of not knowing my grandchildren is simply incomprehensible. Yet when Paolo was my age, it seems like he was out of touch with at least one of his sons as well as his grandchildren. How else could I explain why my older siblings have no memory of him, particularly my brother who was eight when Paolo died? My mother's mother died just a year after Paolo, and my older siblings have vivid memories of her. So I don't think their memories of Paolo were simply lost in the fog of youth. The only logical conclusion I can reach is that he just wasn't a part of their lives.

Just the thought of being disconnected from my kids makes me wonder how I'd get out of bed in the morning. And the grandkids! Going a week or two without seeing them is about all I can stand. I can't imagine what circumstances could ever cause me to be excluded from their lives. Yet there was Paolo, for reasons I'll never know, a stranger to his own grandchildren. Maybe there was a sudden falling out at some point after my father returned from the army. Or maybe there was a long-standing rift that never got repaired. Could it have had something to do with Paolo's second wife and the way she treated my father, causing him to run away from home as a young teen? Whatever the cause, it's clear that Paolo was disconnected from my father during the last years of Paolo's life. I'll just have to accept the fact that I will never know why.

Chapter 36

April 1954

"Okay, Paolo, your turn," Tony Stanziale grunted, trying his best not to show annoyance with his old friend. Paolo shrugged and regarded Tony with a blank stare as Sal Bartolomeo leaned in and gestured toward the card that Paolo should play. Since Paolo was living in Sal's house full time now, he'd been driving Paolo to and from these weekly card games. It wasn't long before the always-affable Tony invited him to join in. Sal took up Tony's offer, partly for the chance to have some fun on Saturday nights but also so he could keep an eye on Paolo who'd become increasingly absentminded and frail.

Although they were almost exactly the same age, Paolo looked and acted fifteen years older than Sal. He'd taken to using a cane, which seemed to accentuate his stooped posture, and his clothes were always rumpled and soiled even though Christina was diligent about doing his laundry every week. It had gotten to the point where she needed to remind him to bathe, and he certainly would have skipped a lot of meals if she hadn't stayed after him.

Paolo still tottered down to Tony's groceria several times each week. He'd shuffle in and don an apron as though preparing for work. His time in the store, however, was mostly spent chatting with customers and drinking coffee between occasional cursory, ineffectual attempts at sweeping and cleaning. Paolo had developed the habit of abruptly switching from Italian to English and back in the middle of conversations. Since most of the customers and workers in the store were bilingual, they were able to politely feign interest, and nearly everyone was kind and friendly in their dealings with him. Tony continued to give Paolo a few dollars every week, which Paolo still thought of as his salary for working in the store.

Alerted by the tinkle of the bell hanging over the shop's door, Paolo turned from his sweeping in order to greet the incoming customer. "Hey, Pa," Joe said, "how ya doing? I was in the neighborhood and I wanted to check in on you." Paolo smiled and leaned his broom against the wall, "hey, my long-lost son. What are you doing here, I thought you forget where to find me," Paolo chuckled as he wiped his hands on his apron. Although Joe was by far his most frequent visitor, Paolo still teased him if even a week went by without a visit. This irked Joe to some extent, but he chalked it up to his father's absentmindedness and let it go without comment. Inwardly, he was frustrated with his brothers' lack of attending to the old man. All he needed was a visit every couple of weeks or so, and they couldn't even manage that. Then Joe smiled when he thought that it was probably a good thing that Lucy didn't visit, since her whining and complaining seemed to intensify as years went by.

"How's Stella, how's your brothers," Paolo asked as they sat in the back room to enjoy a cup of potent coffee. "I don't ask about Lucy, 'cause I know she's not doing good. She has so many terrible problems, I don't know how she survives," he said with a sarcastic snicker. "Pete and Scotty and their wives are doing okay, Pa. Scotty's still got that job at the post office and Pete's working steady at the port. I saw him, Ginger and the kids a couple of weeks ago, and they're all doing fine. That little Joey is seven years old and he's a real handful. I think Cathy is five and Patty is three, and they seem like they're a lot less work than that little boy is."

"It's nice that your brother named his first son after you. You must be so proud," Paolo said with a sarcastic snicker. Then he sighed dramatically and said, "most sons, they name their first born for their father, but I guess it don't work that way in America." Joe knew that this bothered his father, and that made him hesitant to bring up Pete's kids in conversation. But he couldn't very well avoid mentioning them altogether as though they didn't exist. Joe found these conversations to be awkward, since they no longer discussed Paolo's estrangement from Pete. They spoke of Pete and his growing family as though they were casual acquaintances that they held in common. In Scotty's case, there was no overt rift with his father. He simply was not one to extend himself beyond his little universe, and he tended to avoid things unpleasant or confrontational. Seeing his father deteriorating was just too much for Scotty to deal with. Pete on the other hand carried a grudge that festered, growing more and more bitter as years went by. Even Joe had given up on trying to persuade Pete to bury the hatchet and connect with his father before it was too late.

When Pete first returned from the service, Joe thought that he'd patched things up with their father. He recalled that Paolo even attended Pete's welcome home party, and actually seemed to enjoy himself that night. He wasn't aware of any specific falling out that drove them apart again, but it was clear that Pete wanted nothing to do with their father. Clearly something had happened either during or soon after that party, but no one seemed to witness any argument that night. He'd asked Pete about it one last time a few months back, and it only led to the inevitable tirade and argument. He'd also brought the subject up with his father, who just shrugged and changed the subject, making it clear that it wasn't something he was willing or able to discuss. So, Joe stopped bringing up the subject with his brother and their father, but whenever he met either of them it loomed silently like a crouching predator ready to strike. Joe thought of it like a smell that you get used to, or the sound from the trains passing near his house that seemed thunderous at first but over time was barely noticeable.

That evening, Joe received a call from an extremely upset Zio Salvatore. Paolo hadn't come home after the groceria closed. Sal went down to the store, called Tony Stanziale at home, and had even scoured the neighborhood looking for Paolo. "I'll be right there, Zio, gimme ten minutes," Joe said as he grabbed his car keys and his cap. "Stella, I gotta go. The old man is missing and I'm gonna help Zio Sal look for him."

They drove up and down the neighborhood streets, stopping periodically so Joe could hop out and peer into an alley into which Paolo might have wandered. As they turned onto Avenue C for the second time, they saw a police car pull up to a house in the middle of the next block. Joe didn't think anything of it, but as they got closer he noticed that the car had stopped in front of the house formerly owned by Kay and Paolo. "Stop here, Zio," Joe said. As Sal slowed to a stop, Joe jumped out of the car and ran toward the house without even pausing to close the door. Sal of course recognized the house at once, so he pulled up behind the police car, turned off the engine, and got out of the car.

There on the porch were two police officers talking with an obviously agitated Paolo and an angry woman who must've been one of the home's occupants. As Joe opened the gate and began jogging up the walk, one of the cops hollered, "stop! Who are you?" Joe stopped and extended his hands, palm up. "Sorry guys, that's my father. He used to live here, and he's probably confused. Let me talk to him, please." One of the cops was fluent in Italian, and he'd been trying to calm both Paolo and the angry English-speaking woman in their respective languages. He looked at Paolo, then at Joe and said, "come on up here. Maybe you can help."

The woman had been startled when she came home to find Paolo sleeping in the chair on her front porch. When she confronted him, Paolo began ranting in Italian even though she repeatedly asked him if he could speak English. Since she had no familiarity with the language, she couldn't know that he repeatedly told her- in Italian - that he was in fact speaking English. "What's the matter with you, lady? Why you keep telling me to speak English? That's what I'm doing," Paolo said over and over in his native Neapolitan dialect, growing more and more frustrated.

Joe approached and said, "Pa, you okay? Take it easy will ya?" It took a moment for Paolo to realize that it was his son speaking to him. "Joe, thank God. What the hell is going on here," Paolo asked, sounding like a lost little boy before suddenly going silent. Turning to the woman, Joe said, "Ma'am, this is my father. I'm sorry for your trouble but he's confused. He doesn't mean any harm. If it's okay with these guys," he said, nodding toward the police officers, "I'll take him home and I'm sure he won't bother you again."

The bilingual cop said to Joe, "sure. As long as she doesn't want to make a complaint we can just let him go home. Okay by you lady, or do you want to come down to the station and lodge a formal complaint," he asked, making sure to imply that it would cause her no small degree of inconvenience. "Uh, sure," she said, "he just scared the hell out of me. Shouldn't go around making himself at home wherever he likes."

Joe said in his most conciliatory tone, "he used to live here, ma'am. For a long time. He's old and a little confused these days. Just looking at him you can tell he's harmless. But I understand how you feel; I'd feel the same way if a stranger showed up sleeping on my porch. I promise we'll keep a close eye on him and he won't bother you again."

Having calmed down, the woman sighed and said, "sure, I understand. My father's almost eighty-five and sometimes he gets confused." Turning to the officers she said, "I'm not gonna lodge any complaint. Just take him home," before turning and reentering the house. Joe recoiled a little having heard his father compared to a man twenty years his senior. Gently taking his father's arm, he said to his father, "let's go, Pa. Let's get you home."
Chapter 37

October 1979

I avoided looking at my uncle Joe in the casket, even as I approached to do the obligatory kneel-and-pray just inches away from his body. When I felt like a sufficiently respectful amount of time had passed, I crossed myself, stood and walked over to where my brothers were standing, uncomfortable in the awkward silence. The suggestion to walk out for some fresh air was met with nods, and we strolled toward the exit, unconsciously lining up single file in age order with me in the middle.

While we weren't particularly close to our uncle and saw him infrequently, we had always been affected by our father's obvious respect and affection for him. No one in my family had ever heard our father say he loved anyone, but we knew instinctively that there was a strong emotional bond with his brother. This had to be tough on him, and I wondered how he would handle it.

As we left the room I paused in the foyer and turned to scan the crowd looking for my father while my brothers continued toward the exit. Although my father and his remaining siblings had the customary front row seats nearest the casket, only Uncle Scotty and Aunt Lucy remained seated while he paced around the room exchanging cursory greetings with well-wishers. When he spotted me standing in the foyer he averted his eyes and reached into his rear pocket for his handkerchief. That's when I witnessed a sight that I'll never forget: for only the second time in my life I saw my father cry. We locked eyes for just a few seconds, but in that brief engagement I saw such profound sadness that wanted to walk over and embrace him. But that was something that just wasn't done in our family, I thought as he turned and continued his walk through the crowd of old friends, coworkers and relatives.

"What's up," my younger brother asked, "what are you staring at?" He saw me frozen in place near the entrance to the viewing room and had come over to see if I was ok. I mumbled, "Huh, nothing, let's go outside," as I turned to walk with him through the funeral home's exit. Then I said, "I'll be right there," as I pivoted toward the men's room, feigning the need to go.

Standing in the men's room, I stared at myself in the mirror and recalled the only other time I'd seen my father cry. I was probably eight or nine years old, and for some reason had gotten up unusually early one morning. My father was always out of the house long before any of us woke up, so for the first time I sat at the kitchen table and watched him lace up his huge steel-toed work boots. I've always wondered what made me ask him questions about his parents on that particular morning. I remember asking about his father, and how he replied that his father was pretty much like him. He worked in a leather factory and died before I was born. When I asked about his mother, he took a long sip from his instant coffee, then cleared his throat before responding. "She died when I was a baby. She died having a baby, and the baby died too," he said, his voice cracking as a tear rolled down his heavily-stubbled cheek. "My brother Joe has a picture of her. She was beautiful. She had a birthmark, a red mark that covered one side of her face. But nobody could ever say that she wasn't beautiful."

The sight of my father crying was probably the biggest shock of my young life. Here he was, the man who in my young mind was surely the toughest man on earth, crying about his long-lost mother. I remember feeling bad that I'd upset him, but more than that I was surprised to see such an emotional reaction from him. I also remember struggling to hide my own tears, as though seeing me cry would make things worse. He said, "You're crying because I'm crying. That's okay. Why don't you go back to bed, Peter? You still got a couple of hours before you gotta get ready for school." That was it. No embrace, no wiping away tears by either of us. I went back to bed in the room I shared with my two brothers and wondered what it was like to be a kid without a mother. And I resolved right there and then that I'd never again ask him about his parents. If that subject could make a man like him cry, I wouldn't want to ever bring it up again.

And now here I stood, a twenty-four-year-old man with a son of my own, shaken by the sight of my father tearing up at the loss of his beloved brother. I splashed cold water on my face and shook my head as I dried my hands. What was it about seeing my father cry that affected me so? Was it because I still saw him as a hard man, a tough product of the Depression and World War Two who never showed any emotion other than anger? Maybe it was because I sensed for the first time that my father was capable of feeling emotions like love and grief, even though I'd never seen him express either emotion. Now that I'd seen him grieving at the loss of his brother and best friend, he seemed to be fragile and vulnerable. And that was extremely unsettling.
Chapter 38

June 1955

"I think we should name the baby after your father if it's a boy," Ginger said as she poured Pete's coffee. "Or maybe name him after me," Pete replied. "Peter Paul Junior sounds pretty nice, don't ya think?" Ginger sat and pushed her breakfast plate away. "I really gotta cut down, I feel as big as a house," she said as she patted her stomach. "And this little boy - I just know it's a boy by the way - he's eating us out of house and home," she chuckled as she reached for her coffee cup. "Anyway, I think the name Paul goes really well with our last name, and it would be nice to honor your father like that." She paused, realizing that she may have touched a nerve by pressing the issue. But Pete just shrugged and said, "We'll see," which was his way of changing the subject.

Having suffered two miscarriages since giving birth to Patty four years ago, Ginger was initially nervous about this pregnancy. Her mother's constant reassurance that this was a "good one", coupled with an overall feeling of calm vitality made Ginger confident that not only would she take this baby to term, but that she'd deliver a healthy baby boy after having birthed two consecutive daughters.

She still carried a vague sense of guilt that their only son - firstborn little Joey, now approaching eight years of age - wasn't named for his grandfather. In her experience, every firstborn boy was named after the paternal grandfather unless he was deceased, in which case the baby would be named after the maternal grandfather or the father. That's just the way it always was, and she couldn't think of a single exception in her extended family and friends. Even though Pete and his father were estranged, there was still the matter of basic familial respect that governed such things.

With the impending arrival of their fourth child, Pete and Ginger knew that they'd outgrown the two-bedroom apartment upstairs from her parents. At Rafael's urging, Ginger's brothers and brothers-in-law had put together plans and begun work on an addition to the two-story house. The work would of course be financed by Rafael, and Anna's husband Rocco was sufficiently skilled to organize and lead the work itself. Pete, Rocco and Ginger's brothers did as much of the work as their job schedules allowed, and Rocco hired three capable men who'd recently been laid off from the brewery where he worked. The two-story brick addition would add a sizable room to each floor. Ginger and Pete would use the new room as a badly needed third bedroom, while Rafael and Sabina had no specific need or plans for the extra room; they simply wanted to keep the entire extended family in close proximity. Rocco had indicated that the addition would be completed by the end of July, which made Ginger very happy.

Ginger and Mary had always been the closest among the Della Sala siblings. Even though each of the sisters was completely consumed with corralling a brood of rambunctious kids, they made a point of getting together for breakfast as often as they could. Of the seven children between them, only young Patty was still of pre-school age, which made it easier to arrange for a brief respite every now and then.

One sunny June morning, Ginger brought Patty downstairs to stay with her grandmother while Mary started the coffee in Ginger's second-story apartment. Sabina cherished any opportunity to have one-on-one time with any of her grandchildren, so Ginger never had to ask twice. "Thanks, Ma," Ginger said as she headed for the stairs, following the rich aroma of the percolating coffee. The weather was so pleasant that she'd decided that they would take their breakfast out to the porch so they could enjoy a visit in the warm sunshine.

"We'll give the girls the bigger bedroom," Ginger said, stubbing out her second cigarette of the morning. "If it's a girl, the three girls can share the bigger room; if it's a boy - which I'm pretty sure it is - then I still think the girls will get the bigger bedroom. I already asked Pete to paint the room pink so I can fix it up for the girls." Mary smiled and said, "And what if it's twins?" Ginger smiled, then turned pensive and said, "Is that possible? Twins don't run in the family. But then again, I'm awfully big this time." Mary patted her hand reassuringly and said, "I was kidding, Ginge, I was kidding. No, twins don't run in our family. What you got there is a big fat baby boy like Mamma said." Ginger sat back, caressed her bulging stomach and said, "I haven't told Mamma yet, but if it's a girl we'll name her Sabina. If it's a boy, I think we should name him for Pete's father, but you know how things are with him and his father. So I'm not sure if the boy's name will be Paul or Peter Junior. Looking down at her stomach she said, "What do you think, little one," and they both laughed heartily.

Joe hung Paolo's cap on the hook behind the door and ushered him to a seat at the kitchen table. "Joe, Scotty told me that Ginger's pregnant again," said Paolo as he sat for dinner. "That's number three, or number four, I forget," he mumbled, shaking his head and closing his eyes. "Yeah, Pa, she's expecting number four in September or October I think. After two girls in a row, then the two miscarriages, Pete is sure it's gonna be a boy. And Ginger's feeling much better this time around. She had a tough time with losing the last two; what a shame that was." Paolo lifted his chin, arched his eyebrows and said, "Joe, maybe he name the baby for me? He name the first one for his big brother, but maybe this one for his papa, no?" Joe shrugged his shoulders and sighed. "I don't know, Pa, I don't know what's on his mind. You know what a hard head he's got. I don't want to bring it up with him, 'cause we're getting along pretty good these days. He's touchy when it comes to things like that, and once he gets something in his head, nobody can talk to him, even me."

Paolo stared out the window, seemingly lost in thought. After a moment of awkward silence, Joe recognized the expression on his face and knew it was time to change the subject. These visits had become increasingly challenging for Joe. Since he was closer to Paolo than any of his siblings, he felt obligated to maintain a connection with him. Every two weeks or so he'd pick his father up and bring him home for a visit. While Joe was troubled by his father's physical feebleness, he was even more concerned about Paolo's mental condition. Without warning, Paolo would often pause mid-conversation and appear confused. He would appear lucid and engaged in conversation one moment, silent and withdrawn the next. Paolo would often become confused, forgetting names of family members and repeating questions that had already been answered.

"Hey, Pa," Joe said, breaking the silence, "Stella made a nice ciambotta, and I got a couple of loaves of fresh bread, so let's eat."

Chapter 39

September 1955

Being childless and living just a few hundred feet away, Ginger's sister Anna was well positioned to help her around the house during her last few weeks of pregnancy. With additional support from her other sisters and their mother, the apartment was kept in order, meals were prepared, and the three kids were cared for. Joey was now an energetic and adventurous eight-year-old; Cathy was quiet and polite for a girl of six; and Patty, at age four was her aunt Anna's favorite.

"Isn't it about time the baby came? What are you waiting for," Anna teased one evening as she cleared the table after dinner. "I just want to keep this maid service I got going," Ginger said, smiling at her younger sister. "Let's get the kids cleaned up and ready for bed, then I'll warm up something for Pete's supper. He's been getting home between eight and nine for the past few weeks, and I want to make sure there's a hot meal ready for him. He's been working six or seven days a week, twelve hours a day since the summer started. He says things will slow down in a couple of weeks, but he's glad to make the extra money while he can."

Just as Ginger was tucking the girls in for the night, the phone rang. She heard Anna answer it then say, "Oh my God! Hold on." Ginger tiptoed anxiously out of the girls' room, nearly bumping into Anna who was charging in to call her to the phone. "It's Pete's brother Joe. He needs to talk to you," Anna whispered. "What's wrong? I heard you say 'oh my God', so what's wrong," Ginger asked nervously. Anna just stared at her and said, "Talk to Joe, he's waiting. Here, I'll bring a chair over to the phone so you can sit." I have to sit down, she thought, it must be bad news.

Immediately after their conversation, Joe drove over to be with Ginger when Pete got home. Around eight-forty-five, when she heard his heavy workbooks clunking up the stairs, Ginger tried to dry her eyes and clear her throat. Joe patted her hand and said, "I'll tell him."

"Joe, what're you doin' here," asked Pete, surprised to see his brother sitting at the kitchen table. One look at Ginger's face told Pete that something was terribly wrong. "What is it, babe? You okay," he asked, closing the door behind him as he approached her. "Pete, the old man died," Joe said as softly as his gravelly voice would permit. "Zio Sal called me this morning, and I went over to help him and Zia out. I called Ippolito over at the funeral parlor, then went to see the priest about setting things up. I'll handle everything, unless you wanna help me. I told Scotty and asked him to go see Lucy 'cause I didn't have the stomach for dealing with her today. Ippolito is a good guy; he'll handle everything and we'll get a good price."

After a brief pause Pete asked, "what happened? Where did he die. How?" Joe replied, "all I know is that he was found dead by Zia Christina that morning when she went into his room to wake him for breakfast. Zio Sal says he wasn't sick or anything, or at least he wasn't complaining about being sick lately. He was old, Pete; older than his age, if you know what I mean. You know that he had some health problems over the past few years, and I guess it just caught up with him. Any time I talked to him about going to a doctor he just kinda blew it off. I don't know, he acted like he really didn't care anymore what happened to him."

Pete pulled out a chair and say across from his brother. "Yeah, he wasn't in great shape the last time I saw him. Christ, that was a couple of years ago, I think. Whenever I asked him how he was doin', he always told me he was doin' just fine. I mean, I knew it was an act, but I didn't know he was that bad off."

Pete looked down at his hands, folder on the table as if in prayer. "Joe, you gonna pay for all this? Let me help out a little, will ya?" Joe cleared his throat and said, "yeah, okay, kid, we'll work that out together. Tonight, I'm gonna go over to see Lucy and Scotty, you wanna come?" Pete sighed and shrugged his shoulders, then said, "let's have a glass of wine first. I'll need one before dealing with Sarah Bernhardt over there." Joe chuckled at Pete's use of the disparaging nickname he'd hung on Lucy in reaction to her seemingly never-ending histrionics. Seeing the mood lightening, Pete added, "or maybe a couple of glasses before we head over to her house, huh?"

The next morning, Joe drove to East Orange to visit the cemetery where his mother was buried. He pulled through the black wrought iron gate and nosed his Ford into the nearest open parking space directly in front of a squat building with a sign that read 'Administration Office'. He walked up the worn stone stairs and entered, triggering the tinkling of a tiny bell hung over the door. The office was cramped and stuffy, and smelled of stale cigarette smoke, moldy paper and leather. Barely visible over the four-foot-high counter was an ancient woman scribbling into a ledger of some sort. Without acknowledging Joe's presence, she quietly closed a large leather-bound volume and returned it to a sagging shelf behind her. Then she turned and said, "hello young man, may I help you?"

"Yeah, I hope so," Joe said politely, "my mother is buried here, and I want to know if I can buy a plot near her. It looks like the plot right next to hers is empty." The old woman smiled warmly, seemingly happy to have a visitor in her musty dungeon. After telling the woman his mother's name, she turned and shuffled over to the book shelf, running her gnarled finger over the books' edges as she searched for the right volume. "Ah, here we go," she whispered as she strained to pull the worn leather-bound ledger from the shelf and lug it to a small table behind the counter that served as her desk. "These old books weigh a ton! Let's see what we got," she panted as she opened the book and began flipping through pages.

Then she stepped up onto a short stool hidden under the counter and placed the book in front of Joe. Spinning it around so he could read it, she pointed out the entry that read, 'Caterina Bellisano, d. Dec 23, 1920'. Alongside the entry he saw the name Antonia (or maybe Antonio- he couldn't tell) Opida. "Who's that listed next to my mother's name? Is that Antonio or Antonia," Joe asked, pointing at the entry. "Oh, that's the person who bought the two grave sites," she replied, "and I can't tell if it's Antonio or Antonia, either. But it's definitely the person who bought the sites.

"What do you mean, 'sites', there's more than one," Joe asked. "Yes, whoever this Opida person was, he or she bought a double grave site when your mother passed. So, there's an empty plot alongside hers, and according to this it belongs to her family. "Can you tell me anything about this Opida person? Are there any records," he asked. "This is the record, son. All I can tell you is that if you're a family member, you own two adjacent burial plots, one of which is your mother's. Do you have plans for the second plot?"

Joe stared at the entry and wondered who would've paid for this double plot when his mother died thirty-five years ago. He never recalled hearing the name Opida and had no idea who that could be. Was it a church member, a neighbor, or a relative he hadn't known? He'd have to ask Zio Sal about this. He smiled sadly when he looked at his mother's name which had been flowingly written in elegant script, so unlike the coarse handwriting he was used to seeing. He imagined an old man with a visor and a quill, painstakingly scrawling the entry by candle light. There, beneath her name, was the empty space where his father's name would soon be entered by another hand, all these years later.

One week later, Ginger gave birth to a healthy baby boy. Having given birth three times with little difficulty, she was confident that delivering her fourth child would be almost routine. She was completely unprepared for the prolonged labor and breech birth of her fourth child. Years later, whenever the boy misbehaved, Ginger's scolding would often refer to his being 'born backwards'.

"So, what's his name gonna be, Ginge," Pete asked as she nursed her new son for the first time. "Well, since he is such a tough and stubborn little guy who gave me a hard time already, I think we have to name him after you. How does Peter Paul Junior sound to you," she asked. Pete's smile faded. Closing his eyes and shaking his head, he said, "we were gonna name him after my old man. He would've liked that." Ginger stroked her new son's cheek, looked up at Pete and said, "my mother says it's bad luck to name a baby after someone who just died, Pete. I think so too. Besides, this little guy already acts just like you."

"Hello, little Pietro Paolo," Pete whispered as he gently patted the baby's back with his stubby calloused fingers.

**Epilogue**

After I finished writing this book, I printed the grainy picture of Paolo and hung it in my study. It's next to the picture of my father, Paolo's son. The image is blurry, and no matter how much I squint I can't bring it into focus. This seems appropriate, since it aligns with my sketchy knowledge of the man.

Seems like I hung it there for two reasons. First, as mentioned in this story's prologue, I've recently found myself wondering about my grandfather's life. Although the image is vague, something about displaying it makes him more real. I think there's another reason: I want people, especially my kids, to ask me about the picture, so I can share the little information I have about him. I want my kids to know more about where they came from, and I want them to know more about where I came from.

I also mentioned in the prologue that much of this story was fabricated. The characters named Bellisano and Della Sala are all actual relatives or ancestors of mine. Many of the fictional characters carry the surname of a friend or neighbor from my youth. Among the actual events recounted in the story are the following:

  * Paolo did come to America without his wife, who joined him some time later. Unfortunately, I don't know how long that "some time" was. This was a fairly common practice: many men came to America before their wives in order to get established before they "sent" for their wives.

  * Paolo's first wife did in fact die at the age of twenty-eight in 1920. My father told me that she died in childbirth along with the baby, and that they were buried together. Cemetery records, however, do not mention the baby.

  * Paolo remarried several years after Caterina's death, and his second wife was abusive toward Paolo's kids- particularly my father.

  * Paolo and his first wife are buried together, even though she predeceased him by thirty-five years and he'd remarried after her death. I thought that was interesting, and it added credence to my understanding that Paolo's second wife was not well regarded by his children.

  * My father actually did leap from a second story window, and ran away from home as a teenager. He also served in the CCC, although I can't find any information about where he was stationed or how long he was in.

  * I knew that my father saw combat in WWII, but it was only when I began research for this book that I found out that he was a combat medic assigned to a tank battalion, and that his unit saw extended periods of brutal combat. He'd only told me that he drove a tank, and that he didn't want to talk about his time in service.

  * Although my two surviving older siblings were old enough to have known Paolo, neither of them have any memory of seeing him or even hearing about him. Clearly, there was some sort of rift in the family, since it's highly unlikely that my father would have been in close touch with Paolo without ever including my siblings.

  * I really did have an uncle named "Tweet"! In fact, I didn't learn his real name until I was a teen. I think it's best if I just say that my characterization of him in this book is accurate to the best of my knowledge. In fact, this might be a good place to insert an "Uncle Tweet" story told to me by my mother... Apparently on one occasion during their engagement, my father was visiting my mother's home when they decided to spend the evening listening to the radio. In those days, there was a popular radio program called Gang Busters, which told true-life stories about the exploits of criminals and their run-ins with law enforcement. On this particular evening, according to my mother, the narrator of the program mentioned my uncle Tweet's name during the broadcast! My mother's parents, who didn't speak English, were present. When they heard the last name of their daughter's fiancé, they looked at my father who apparently just shrugged as if he didn't know why his surname showed up in the broadcast. I've been trying to track down that episode, to no avail. Boy, do I hope this story is true!

  * There's a story in this book about my grandmother's cousin Christina nursing a baby whose mother died on the voyage to America. This is actually based on a true story involving my maternal grandmother, who by all accounts was an extraordinary woman. I recently learned that she saved the life of an infant by nursing him when his mother died on the voyage from Naples to New York.

I realize that I've portrayed Paolo as gradually degenerating into a somewhat hapless and pathetic figure after the death of his first wife. That saddens me, and it may be somewhat unfair since I have no real first- or even second- hand information on which to base that description of him. But there must have been some reason why he was seemingly unknown to my siblings, and why my father never even spoke about him. I certainly meant no disrespect to Paolo's memory, but I felt compelled to come up with a way to explain why he became invisible.

I suppose a made-up story is better than nothing.

## The Invisible Immigrant

\- Paolo and Me -

**About the Author**

Pete Bellisano was born and raised in Orange, NJ, and has lived in Jersey his entire life. He has always enjoyed writing, which has been an on-again/off-again hobby of his for many years. He regrets spending too little time writing and too much time working throughout his adult life, but plans on making up for lost time now that he's in semi-retirement.

Pete is a proud (and fortunate) father and grandfather. He lives in central New Jersey with his wife, and values above all his Faith, Family and Friends.

Message from the Author

Check out my Blog (stuffbypete.com) for FREE copies of other books and short stories:

**Furry Tales Volume IV** : A Compilation of Stuff

**Jimmy's Stand** : A Modern Business Tale For Adult Children

**Sam Hill** : A Short Story about a man losing his mind

Thank you for reading this story; I hope you enjoyed it and I'd appreciate your feedback. The FREE STUFF page on my blog has a place for leaving comments.

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