The Del Monacos

Table of Contents

Ellis Island | December 24, 1899

New York City | Lower Manhattan

New York City | Mulberry Street and Broome

New York City | Mulberry Street and Broome | August 1, 1900

New York City | Office of Congressman Mario Del Monaco | Monday, October 7, 1907

New York City

New York City | Office of Congressman Mario Del Monaco | October 10, 1907

New York City | Home of Congressman Mario Del Monaco | Mulberry Street | October 12, 1907

New York City | Little Italy, 1912

New York City | Little Italy, 1912

New York City | Little Italy, 1913

New York City | Little Italy, 1914

New York City | Little Italy, June, 1922

New York City

New York City

New York City

New York City

New York City

New York City

New York City

New York City

New York City

New York City

New York City

Albany, New York

New York City

New York City

New York City

New York City

New York City

New York City

New York City | June, 1929

New York City | July, 1929

New York City

July, 1929

New York City

New York City

New York City

New York City

New York City

New York City

New York City

New York City | November, 1929

New York City

New York City

New York City

New York City

New York City

New York City

New York City

New York City

New York City

New York City

Ellis Island

December 24, 1899

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Get inside, you Guinea bastards! Immigration Officer Sean O’Hara yelled. Now!

A hundred Italian immigrants, just discharged from a ship that now rocked furiously in the waters of a raging Noreaster, made for the little building. They covered their faces against the bitter temperatures, which were now below zero backed by a fifty mile an hour wind.

Good God Almighty, O’Hara muttered. It’s a bad day the Lord made for this bunch of shit people. God help them, the bastards. He turned to his fellow Immigration Officers, who just stared at him. What? What did I say? By the Holy Virgin Mary herself, have ye ever seen a storm like this one?

Aye, Robbie McDonald said. When yer lousy Ma and Pa come here.

You shut up about me Ma and Pa, O’Hara seethed, pointing a billy club at McDonald. I’m in charge here, and you’ll mind a civil tongue.

Or what? McDonald bristled, coming off his chair.

Or you’ll see right quick! O’Hara yelled. You fuck with me and you’re a dead man, Irisher or not. I’m in charge here, and what I say goes. By the authority of the United States government.

Fuck them, and fuck you too, you big Irish bastard! McDonald screamed. Them people outside come here to do what our people done, and you do this to them all the time. Treat ‘em like shit, like your Ma and  Pa was, and they was shit too, you ask me, to raise up a bastard the likes of you. You don’t like it, you come do what you want. He assumed a fighting stance.

You dirty Irish traitor son of a bitch, O’Hara sneered. I’ll deal with you later. Now get them Italian bastards in here and do they paperwork. Like they was your Ma and Pa.

Better them people was my Ma and Pa than a piece of shit like yours was, McDonald said. You don’t like it, you come see me after work. The badges come off.

Mario Delmonico was first in line. A poor Italian farmer who had barely scraped up enough money to book passage to America, he stood before the Immigration desk with nothing but the rags on his back and the pride in his heart. Young and strong, the 25 year old Italian held his head high as he walked up to the desk.

Yer name, Officer Michael Shaughnessy said blandly as he looked down at his form. Come on, we ain’t got all day. Mario said nothing. Saints be preserved, Shaughnessy sighed. "Goddamned Italians. Nome."

Nome, Mario smiled. Delmonico. Mario Delmonico.

Finally, Shaughnessy sighed. He wrote the name as Del Monaco. You got papers? Again, nothing. "Papers. Passport. Passaporto."

No, Mario said, looking away. Like a lot of immigrants, he had arrived without any official papers. Pay the money for a ticket, and you were in. When you got to your destination, the rest was on you.

Fucking  bastards, the officer muttered. "No papers. We should have a stamp that says WOP. Without Official Papers. We can’t do it, though, ‘cause there ain’t no laws. Any of you sons of bitches can come in here and it’s up to us whether we let you in or not. Jesus Christ Almighty," he sighed, looking outside, knowing that if he turned away the man in front of him, he would have to return to the ship outside where he would probably die of exposure. He would then be dumped in the harbor as many before him had been, with no records of that ever having happened, course.

Shaughnessy looked back at Mario, who stood tall and proud before him. Shaughnessy then looked at O’Hara, who looked away in disgust.

Let the sons of bitches in, O’Hara  sighed. A few more won’t make no difference.

The Lord hates a coward, Shaughnessy  sighed. Okay, what’s her name? He pointed at a timid woman behind Mario. Nome Senora, he said, pointing again.

Amadora. La mia moglie, Mario said.

Yeah, your wife. Whatever you say, Shaughnessy said as he stamped the entry forms and handed a copy to Mario. Welcome to America, he said. You poor bastard.

Grazie, Mario said.

Sure, Shaughnessy said as Mario collected his wife and walked out into the bitter storm to board a smaller boat that would take him to find his fate in New York. Good luck. Wait until them sons of bitches in Little Italy get hold of you. He turned back to the next ragged man in front of him. Nome.

New York City

Lower Manhattan

December 24, 1899

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The rickety old boat bobbed furiously in the raging waters as the Captain tied up at Old Slip Number 9 at the lower Manhattan pier.

Out! he yelled. Get the hell off! You dumb Guinea bastards, don’t you understand nothing? Of course you don’t, or you wouldn’t have come here in the first place. Off! he yelled again, motioning toward the pier. The occupants hesitantly moved toward the front of the boat and navigated their way onto the pier.

Mario Delmonico was first, followed by his wife. The bitter wind nearly knocked them off their feet, tearing at their clothing with a cold fury they had never experienced before in their lives.

My God, Amadora said as she turned her face away from the brutal weather. What is this awful place you’ve taken me to?

America, Mario laughed as he turned his collar against the wind. The best place.

You should die for doing this to me, Amadora said. You know I hate the cold. This will kill me.

You’ll live, Mario said as he perused the New York skyline. You’re tough. You’re a Delmonico.

Not any more, Amadora said as she looked over the Immigration papers. I’m a Del Monaco. They spelled our name wrong.

No matter, Mario shrugged. We’re Americans now.

We’ll be dead Italians, is what we’ll be. Where are we going?

Over there, Mario said, pointing at the bleak New York skyline. We have friends over there. The De Stefanos are here.

New York City

Mulberry Street and Broome

December 24, 1899

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Mario and his wife walked the incredible distance from the piers to Little Italy, nearly freezing to death in the process. They stopped wherever anyone would let them warm up; shop fronts, restaurants, anything with heat. By the time they reached Mulberry and Broome, Amadora was shaking badly from the cold.

There it is, Mario said, pointing at a five story tenement building that stood on the corner. The De Stefanos own this. The place was a wreck; Amadora could not figure out how it stood in the fierce wind. Clothes flapped wildly on clotheslines, while ice crusted on the windows. Children and old Italian women with scarves tied around their heads peered out the windows at them.

It’s horrible, Amadora whispered. Rats wouldn’t live in this.

Yes they would, it’s warm, Mario laughed, shoving his frozen mate toward the towering mass of rotting lumber. Get inside before you die.

Why do you laugh at everything? Amadora said suspiciously. Have you gone crazy?

No. This is something we chose to do. That we have a little bad weather is no big problem. Laugh at life when it gives you trouble. There is no sense in crying about this. God will fix this weather problem for you.

How? Amadora said.

It’s called June, he smiled. Then you can complain that it is too hot. Get inside.

Mario pushed the door open and found himself in a dank, dark, cold lobby that stank of mold. De Stefano! he yelled. Giuseppe! He heard the pounding of feet, and Mario’s distant cousin came charging down the stairs. I am Mario Delmonico, he said as De Stefano, a 400 lb monster, lumbered towards them, a florid grin on his face. Your cousin.

Delmonico! Giuseppe boomed. Welcome to America, he laughed, eyeing the shaking Amadora. Not so hot here as in Itlaly, eh?

No, it is not. This is crazy, Mario laughed, brushing the ice from his coat. How do you stand this?

Ah, Giuseppe sighed with a wave of his hand. You stay inside and drink a lot of wine. Come on, I’ll show you to your place.

They climbed several flights of stairs. Giuseppe pushed open the door of an apartment on the fourth floor and waved them inside. Heat from the coal stove in the kitchen wrapped itself around them in a sudden blanket of warmth. This is it, he said. Amadora looked at the squalid apartment in horror. It had a kitchen, a bedroom, and a small parlor. The walls were stained with water that leaked down from the old roof, and the place smelled of mildew, sewage backing up from the ancient toilet, and a few smells Amadora had never encountered before. Nice, huh?

A dog wouldn’t live in this, Amadora said. What is this place?

New York, Giuseppe bristled. You don’t like it? Go someplace else.

Never mind her, Mario said quickly, knowing that if they didn’t accept the filthy apartment they would be back in the street, where they would die of exposure. She makes bad jokes. It’s okay, Giuseppe. What are the terms?

Well, Giuseppe sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. I could rent this ten times a day for $15.00 a month. You are family, so you can have it for ten. You have any money?