Elizabeth Street (27 page)

AUGUST 27, 1909

Rocco decided to bring his cart back an hour early to leave time to change for the Feast of Saint Rocco procession. Usually, his name day was the only day of the year he took off, but this year with their troubles, he decided to work.

It was hard maneuvering the cart through the throngs of people—and animals. Sheep were being led through the streets to be raffled off later that night in one of the many backyard celebrations. Because the Sicilians and Calabrians wouldn’t gather together, there were competing holy rituals throughout Little Italy. Nearly any alley would take you to a shrine and backyard fire escapes festooned with decorations. At each shrine, a statue of Saint Rocco, typically owned by the local tavern, along with hundreds of candles and flowers, sat atop a makeshift altar covered in bedsheets.

Rocco had sold most everything he had because people bought more generously on feast days to prepare large meals. So when he was cleaning up, it didn’t take long to notice a piece of paper in his cart. Unfolding it, he saw a drawing of a knife and a black handprint, but also something else—a crude drawing of a Ferris wheel with a car falling into the ocean.

The realization that they had been watching his family out of the neighborhood immobilized Rocco. He was frozen in fear, and for the first time he didn’t immediately rip up a Black Hand threat—and for the first time he wanted to know what it said.

“It says bring the money, five hundred dollars, on Tuesday the twenty-fourth to the Garibaldi statue in Washington Square Park,” read Clement.

“Five hundred dollars! They are crazy!”

“Papa, how did they know we went to Coney Island?”

“How? I don’t know!” Rocco spit. “You trust no one.”

“Maybe we should pay.”

“Pay with what? We don’t have five hundred dollars!”

“If they took the time to follow us to Coney Island, they’re not going to go away.”

“That’s why I’ll kill them.”

“Papa, you’re old…”

“Look at these muscles…”

Clement interrupted, “Papa! These are thugs.”

“Then what, Clement?”

“Give them something until I find out who’s behind this.”

“No! You’re not getting involved! I knew I shouldn’t have shown you this! I want you to go far away! Do you hear me? Even if you go to Pennsylvania and work in those mines.”

“Pop, you still have to decide what to do.”

“I’ll give them something. And if you try to get involved, I’ll kill you myself.”

AUGUST 29, 1909
HIGHLAND, NEW YORK

“How long you going to stay in the woods up here, Lupo?” asked Tommaso.

“It’s not the woods. It’s a cheese farm. Can’t you see that, you jerk?”

“Lupo, you’re not a country boy.”

“Give me the ink and shut your mouth.”

Tommaso pulled a large bottle from the sack around his shoulder. “How they doing in there?” asked Tommaso, pointing to the barn where two men were printing two-dollar bills off counterfeit plates.

“With this ink they can finish and we’ll get rid of everything.”

“But what if you get another order?”

“We’re not taking no more orders. The cops, and not the kind we own, are poking around. Secret police from Washington. Do you have the money from Siena, the fruit seller?”

Tommaso the Bull put a twenty-dollar bill on the table.

“Twenty? We told him five hundred!”

“Lupo, those two punks who were working the street got their money and then blew up their store. He’s only got a pushcart.”

“No brains! Since when do you think you have brains? You listen to me. You think I’d demand five hundred dollars from a guy with a pushcart if I didn’t know better? Huh? His wife, she sent a thousand dollars to her family in Italy after the earthquake. I got it direct. And how come those two morons knew they had money before we did? Get the five hundred dollars! And make it a regular payment!”

“I need money to get back.”

“Walk, you idiot!”

“Come on, Lupo, just give me a couple of those,” he said, pointing to a stack of counterfeit two-dollar bills.

“You really are an idiot. Here,” said Lupo, throwing a five-dollar bill on the table. “You owe me change.”

SEPTEMBER 1, 1909

Her belly was getting even bigger, but all out front. “It’s a boy,” thought Giovanna, rubbing her swelled stomach, “Little Nunzio.” She made a strong espresso at the stove for Rocco while he dressed. In the predawn quiet, Giovanna wondered what was bothering her husband. He was even quieter than usual and avoided her eyes. In bed, he turned to the wall. He acted as if he couldn’t bear to be near her, or the children for that matter.

“No bread. Just espresso,” barked Rocco, coming to the table. Not taking the time to sit down, he threw back the thick black coffee. Mumbling
“Ciao,”
he left.

Rocco was leaving the house earlier and coming home from work later. He was exhausted, but his anger and stubbornness kept him going. After he had given them money, they’d left more notes. This time he didn’t ask Clement to translate and instead went back to ripping the notes into shreds. He told Clement all was well after he paid them twenty dollars.

When Giovanna sent the second payment to Scilla, he’d been relieved they weren’t moving as he’d promised her they would. Life was dangerous on Elizabeth Street—but it could be worse somewhere else. Now, in idle moments, he spent his time counting the months to the next and final check, and he paid more attention when he heard people talking about places like Newark and Hoboken.

Rocco wheeled his cart into his regular spot. He eyed everyone who passed suspiciously and made a habit of patting his pocket to check on the presence of his knife. Today was a dull day, moisture clouding the dawn light. Only a few other vendors were setting up this early. Rocco methodically stacked his fruit into small towers on the cart. Across the street, the pepper seller alternated his greens and reds even though it was more practical to keep them separate. There was great pride and competitiveness in the display of produce, but Rocco was distracted. Lately his towers didn’t have their usual aesthetic appeal—nor were they engineered well.

After creating a tower of pears, they suddenly began to tumble. He lurched forward to stop them from falling into the street at the exact moment he felt something drop behind his back. A split second later a thunderous thud caused Rocco to fall over his cart.

The noise and the sight of Rocco and his cart collapsing frightened the other vendors, and they fled. A woman screamed,
“La Mano Nera!”
and crossed herself. Within seconds Rocco was up, knife drawn, looking for the assailant. Instead, he saw a huge rock on the sidewalk where he had stood.

SEPTEMBER 4, 1909
HIGHLAND, NEW YORK

“Those idiots! They’re lucky he moved. I said, ‘Get the money,’ not ‘Kill him!’” fumed Lupo.

Pietro Inzerillo swatted at the flies circling his head. “Tommaso said he’s Calabrian
gabbadotz
.”

“The fruit seller may be stubborn, but Tommaso’s stupid. You’re sure they have the money, yes?”

“Twice she’s received big payments, and she has more coming. It’s a settlement from the gas company Brooklyn Union,” answered Inzerillo, continuing his war on the flies.

“She got money from them? She’s smarter than us. We’re up here knee-deep in cow shit, and she sits home and gets fat checks from the Americans for nothing.”

Lupo stormed around the barn while Inzerillo fanned himself with hay. There was a look of resolve on Lupo’s pug face. “I’m going to give this one to Leo.”

SEPTEMBER 8, 1909

“Commissioner Baker, it was an extremely successful mission,” Lieutenant Vachris and Sergeant Crowley reported, standing at attention in the new police commissioner’s office.

They had just returned from nearly three months in Italy. The Italian government was embarrassed by Lieutenant Petrosino’s murder and had fully cooperated in collecting the penal records that Petrosino had uncovered. Lieutenant Vachris’s eyes roamed the room. All traces of Commissioner Bingham, who had been replaced during their trip, were gone. The new commissioner didn’t invite them to take a seat.

“I’m glad to see you two men home alive. We couldn’t afford another screw-up over there.”

Vachris was pretty sure he didn’t like this man. “We were advised not to go into Sicily. They felt sure we would be killed. But with the Italian police, we were able to secure the records of seven hundred criminals. Seven hundred! Just about everyone from Lieutenant Petrosino’s list and more.”

Crowley jumped in. “Commissioner, if we could get more help on the Italian Squad, we can have most of these criminals deported within the year. The Italian colony would be free of crime.”

“It’s the best way to avenge Lieutenant Petrosino’s death,” added Vachris.

“I don’t think we’re ready to move that quick, men.”

“But, sir, if the crooks are here three years, we can’t get rid of them! Some of them will pass the three-year mark in just a few months.” Thinking he’d made his argument clear based on the commissioner’s silence, Lieutenant Vachris continued, “Detective Crowley and I figured out a plan to round them up…”

“I don’t think you heard me, Lieutenant. I said we’re not ready to move on this yet.”

“But, Commissioner, look!” exclaimed Vachris, leafing through the papers in his hand. “In two months, these men will reach three years: Vincenzo Sapio, Tommaso the Bull, Alfonso…”

“We can pick them up right now,” Detective Crowley interrupted before the commissioner could.

“There’s more to policing in this city than the Italian Squad. This is one neighborhood, gentlemen! In fact, I need you both elsewhere, and I’ve arranged for your transfers to other departments.”

“You can’t…”

“I am the police commissioner, and I can. I suggest you take your transfers gratefully. I order you to not breathe a word of your mission or these records, which I will take for safekeeping. When we’re ready, we’ll deal with them.”

“Will we be ready after the election, Commissioner?” sneered Vachris. Flipping through the records, he added, “Is it their votes or their fists that the alderman requires?”

“Vachris, I’ll let that go with a two-week suspension, because I am sure you’re tired from your trip. However, if I find out you have discussed this mission or its results with anyone, you’ll be discharged from the force. Am I understood?”

I had been in Italy a month and was getting frustrated. No matter how many frescoes, bronzes, and cathedrals I saw, I wasn’t satisfied. It took me a while to realize that I was looking for something I would never find in the splendor of the northern cities. I was trying to find Nonno’s Italy. I needed to see where he fished for swordfish. I wanted to connect all those stories that he told me as a child with places that weren’t imaginary.

“Nanny, I’m in Italy.” An international call was a backpacking extravagance, but I was confused.

“What? I thought you were still in school in London.”

“The term is over. I’m traveling. So, Nanny, I can’t find Scilla on the map.”

“You’re going to go there?”

“If I can find it.”

“Look in the toe. It’s spelled S-c-i-l-l-a.”

“No wonder. I was looking for S-h-e-i-l-a-h.”

“That’s Irish.”

“Do we still have family there?”

“No, there was no work. They’ll all be gone by now.”

“Did you ever visit?”

“I went with the cousins’ club in 1970, after Nonno died. It’s beautiful there. But I was also there when I was a little girl. I went with my mother, just the two of us. That’s when I first saw your grandfather…”

It took ten trains to get to the toe of the boot. The sea was a gorgeous turquoise that glowed in the early evening light. Land was visible across the water, and from all my staring at maps, I knew it was Sicily. The way my family spoke of Sicilians, it was hard to believe they came from the same country, let alone only a mile or two across the water. A mountain was also visible across the strait, and it was smoking. The difference between the civilized north and seismic south couldn’t be more obvious.

There was only one pensione in town. It was called “Le Sirene”—“the mermaids”—and sat on a beautiful white sandy beach. The room was sparse. Tile floors, stuccoed walls. Over the bed was a picture of Saint Anthony. I tried to remember from catechism class what he was the patron saint of. His claim to fame wasn’t visually obvious, like Saint Lucy, who was always shown holding her eyeballs on a plate. I had to look it up: “patron saint of those searching for something.”

Hunger pangs struck, and I picked the restaurant with the swordfish on the sign. Inside, the walls were lined with old fishing pictures. I was stunned by how all the men’s faces resembled my relatives. I stared harder hoping to actually recognize Nonno in one of the photos.

“What are you looking for?”

The man next to me spoke English.

“Well, my family was from Scilla.”

“Thousands of American families were from Scilla.” The man sounded bored, like he heard this all the time. From the way he stopped to talk to waiters, it was apparent he was the owner of the place.

Obligingly he asked, “What’s your family’s name?”

“Arena.”

“Ah, Arena. You know what Arena means in Italian? It means ‘sand.’ There are nearly as many Arenas from Scilla as there are grains of sand on this beach.”

“The town doesn’t look that big.”

“You Americans are so literal.” Seeing I wasn’t going to give up, he asked disinterestedly, “Do you know anyone who would have lived here in my lifetime?”

“My grandfather’s name was Anthony, I mean Antonio.”

“Half the boys are Rocco and half are Antonio. I’m Antonio.”

“Well, I had an Uncle Sal who came back and forth from America.”

“Salvatore Arena?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about this Salvatore.” Antonio looked expectant.

“Well, he was pretty bad…”

“What do you mean, ‘bad’?”

“He was the black sheep. He gambled; he drank…”

“Salvatore Arena! He was my father’s best friend! Salvatore,” he said, shaking his head. “Sit down. Sit down.”

Antonio led me back to my table and called for wine.

“You know, you have family here,” he said. “Salvatore’s two children—Cosmo is a fisherman, and he lives with his sister, Rosa, and her family.”

“Where’s their house?” I asked, practically standing up.

“In the Chianalea with all the fishermen. It’s too late to go there now. Meet me here tomorrow morning, and I’ll take you.”

The next morning, Antonio was waiting outside the restaurant in his car. We drove less than a minute before he pulled over and parked.

“We have to walk from here. Cars don’t fit in the Chianalea.”

We wove our way down stone staircases and through narrow streets. Occasionally, I had to flatten myself against a wall to allow a scooter through. In the breaks between the houses, I could see the water. At a large opening between buildings, where five or six boats were drawn up on shore, a man sat repairing a net.

Antonio called in Italian, “Cosmo! Cosmo! This is your cousin from America.”

“Che?”

“Questa è tua cugina.”

Cosmo walked over, looking confused. Antonio explained that Cosmo’s father and my grandfather were brothers. Cosmo nodded, and I smiled. I saw an older woman walking toward us holding groceries in netted bags. She stared at me for a moment, dropped her bags, and ran over.

“You’re family. You’re family,” she said repeatedly in Italian while stroking my hands. When Antonio confirmed what she already knew, my cousin Rosa cried and kissed my face.

“Ciao, I have to get back to the restaurant,” called Antonio, walking off.

I panicked. “But Antonio, you can’t leave. My Italian is terrible.”

“You’ll manage; it’s your family,” he answered from farther down the alley.

I looked at my smiling cousins and understood they needed to feed me.

For five days, I was fed and feted. There were more cousins, some distant, but all insisted that I eat with them. At these meals, with the little bit of Italian I knew, and lots of drawings, I learned about my grandfather’s life in Scilla. They showed me where my grandfather caught his biggest swordfish, where my great-grandmother Fortunata got her water at the public fountain, pictures of all the Arena brothers and sisters, and old postcards from America.

On the second day, Rosa took a key off her wall and said we were going to Nonno’s house. She stopped in front of a small building a few doors down and behind her own house.

“This is where my father, Salvatore, and your grandfather Antonio were born and lived,” explained Rosa.

I was practically shaking as I entered the vacant house. There was little inside, but it was easy to imagine that nothing had changed since Nonno was born there eighty-three years ago. When I asked why no one lived in the house now, Cosmo, whom I had the easiest time communicating with, explained that there was no water or electricity. He also said something about how they had tried to fix the house after an earthquake, but that the repairs hadn’t lasted.

On my last day in Scilla, I walked past a stone house that looked like it was built into the foundation of the church above it. We had walked past this house many times, and I had noticed that it seemed older than all the other buildings.

“This was your great-grandmother Giovanna’s house,” said Rosa.

I was so focused on my grandfather’s life in Scilla that I hadn’t asked about Big Nanny’s house and family. This house was also vacant, but no one could remember who had the key. Cosmo explained that Big Nanny’s house was one of the oldest houses in the village because it wasn’t destroyed in the same earthquake that had made Nonno’s house uninhabitable.

“The fisherman’s church above it was ruined—that’s a new church, built in 1910. But your great-grandmother’s house, because it’s built into the cliff, survived. Her parents lived in the house alone after their children went to America. No one has lived here since they died.”

“What do you know about my great-grandmother?” I asked, my mind instantly going back to the blue sparkling dress in the coffin.

“Your great-grandmother was my second cousin,” answered Cosmo. These conversations were difficult enough to understand in English, never mind in a foreign language. When Cosmo drew a family tree, I understood. I knew Nonno was related to Big Nanny, but seeing it explained in boxes and lines made sense.

“There are still stories in Scilla about your great-grandmother. She left before I was born, but because she was a midwife, the tales got passed down.”

“Who was her first husband again?”

“Nunzio, my great-uncle. He was killed in a construction accident in New York.”

The family in Italy seemed much better than the Americans at passing down family history and keeping track of who was who.

When I tried to leave, I was told I couldn’t. “The Feast of Saint Rocco is only two days away! Cosmo will carry the saint!” exclaimed Rosa.

I knew it wasn’t negotiable. So for the first time, I left my notebook and questions back with the mermaids and Saint Anthony and swam out into the Strait of Messina.