Friends, Lovers and More

FRIENDS,

LOVERS

and MORE

Bernadette Lyttle-Smith

AuthorHouse™

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Bloomington, IN 47403

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Phone: 1-800-839-8640

© 2012 by Bernadette Lyttle-Smith. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 05/29/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-0850-2 (e)

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CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

CHAPTER ONE

Looks Aren’t Everything

My first memory remains as vivid as if it had happened yesterday.

It was our last day in Italy. Our trunks and suitcases were jammed into the back of a horse-driven cart and I was lodged in amongst them. I was three years old and my family is escaping the family compound, bound for a vessel that would take us to our new land Merica.

Other recollections of the compound in Catanzaro, in the region of Calabria are a bit fuzzy. My young age worked as an advantage, blocking out the tyrannical hold the dynasty’s great-grandmother, known as Bisnonna. She was the grandmother of both my father and my mother because my parents were cousins, second cousins. Many branches of the Rosario tree resided within the compound, built to Bisnonna’s specifications, whose sole intent was to keep an eye on her offspring, while perched in her second floor balcony. Her constant reprimands to those she viewed below were as regular as the ticking of a clock.

The Rosario family was well known within the region for their skills as in wine making, carpentry, tailoring and in the case of my father, shoemaking, a skill he learned at the knee of his father. The Rosario women received accolades for their delicately embroidered tablecloths, altar cloths, and crocheted lace veils. My mother would surpass her own mother in baking. All in all, the family sustained itself quite well.

The Bisnonna as I mentioned was a widow. Several male members of the family, my father included were named after her deceased husband, Bernardo. Oddly, no one talked about him or how he died. Unfounded rumours put him in the arms of another woman, forcing him to leave the compound suddenly, never to return. Given Bisnonna’s lack of charms it’s a distinct possibility.

As an adult I broached the subject with my Dad. I know nothing of my grandfather. Won’t you tell me about him?

I am like you Piccola, I too know nothing. Bisnonna said we could not speak his name, only name our children after him.

Where did he die? He did die, didn’t he?

Rolling his eyes, he laughed, Your imagination is great, Piccola. I visited his grave one time so I know he died, but how is a mystery.

Bisnonna was not a nice lady. Maybe she killed him? Maybe he cheated on her and well, that was the end of him.

His sad look told me I’d gone too far. Sorry Papa, you’re right I do have an over-active imagination.

Perhaps the most distinguishing Rosario trait was the size of their nose. Most were large and some were enormous. Putting it bluntly, the family nose was honking big and very few escaped the snout syndrome. However, the nose standard varied between the males and females and lacked fairness.

The nose, what about the nose, followed the announcement of an addition to the Rosario clan. Shouts of Salute and toasts heralded large-nosed baby boys. Their family tradition noses could be a source of pride. Baby girls born with the hard-to-avoid distinctive feature were greeted with proclamations of tragedy and sorrowful sighs. Would her nose prove to be an obstacle to marriage thus hindering the continuance of the family line? Given the size of the family, the nose was overlooked by love and young Rosario women got married and gave birth to more big-nosed children.

My father and mother were raised from birth together in the compound. According to my father he and my mother played together, even as babies. As they grew older, the friendship turned to a deep love that could not be denied.

At the ages of twenty-two and twenty-one, respectively, my parents declared their intention to marry. The family elders so strenuously objected to the marriage of the two cousins that for a short time the young lovers considered running away, but lacked the funds to do so.

Bisnonna deposited the problem in the lap of the local priest and when no reason could be found to prohibit the union, the family bestowed its blessing on the marriage. On June 27, 1903, the entire Rosario family rejoiced at the wedding of two of their own.

My parents shared a dream of a family and more importantly, moving away from the domineering and intrusive family nest. Fulfilling their dream of having children was a painful and sorrowful task. In the first five years of their marriage, mother miscarried four times. On March 31, 1908 their dream was realized when Claretta gave birth to what would be their only child, Camille Claudia Rosetta Maria Rosario. They loved me, big nose and all.

After three years of scrimping, saving and working long hours at extra jobs for non-family, father bravely announced his intention to take his wife and child, leave the family unit and voyage to America. His announcement stunned everyone but my grandmother. When my parents married, Nona suggested to her son-in-law that he should take her daughter away from the family compound. She needs to be her own woman. She has suffered here and she will not be happy with the others.

The concept of leaving was foreign to the family. Only one had ventured outside the compound in the past. Uncle Tomiso moved to a neighboring region to set up his own business. However, suffering from melancholy he returned home two years later to the ample family bosom. Sadly some family members called him a traitor and taunted him for the weakness that brought him back to their fold. Sometimes being a Rosario was a tough row to hoe.

Distance guaranteed we would not return. Hearing of our plans, the prodigal uncle provided generous funding for our passage and start-up finds for a new life abroad. There was an understanding that Tomiso’s spirit of adventure would journey with us.

The memory of our department on April 12, 1911 was a sad one. We left alone.

CHAPTER TWO

Ship Ahoy!

Had Bisnonna, the all-knowing, controlling great-grandmother decreed our departure would be without fanfare or a farewell? Not a soul came out to wave goodbye as we loaded, rather tossed our valises and trunks onto Uncle Tomiso’s cart. I burrowed down into the pillow set up for me in between the travel gear. The reins vibrated in Uncle Tomiso’s trembling hands as we pulled out of the compound, in the wee small hours of the morning. Not a glimmer of light shone in any of the dark apartments. However I saw a curtain move in my Nona’s window. No mother would resist a final glimpse of a daughter departing from her life, forever. I hoped Mama saw it, but if she hadn’t I vowed to tell her later.

While I nestled on my pillow, Papa, Uncle Tomiso and Mama took turns driving the horses on the two day journey. Excitement over came me many times and finally I was told rather sternly by my mother to stop asking, Are we there yet?

Arriving at the pier, our bags barely on the ground, Tomiso shouted Ciao and took off like a bat out of hell, leaving no opportunity for us to express our gratitude. We waved at his back until he was out of sight.

The sky overcast with large black clouds commanded the sun to withdraw. After our trunks were secured on board we remained on the dock waiting for permission to board. We like many families around us huddled together in an attempt to block the light drizzle. My hands tingled from the cool air and my new blue woolen hat and coat, became soaked with the light rain making them wet and heavy. Papa answered my plight by removing his jacket and draping it over two large wood crates nearby. Crouching under the make-shift shelter I watched my nervous and irritated mother finger her rosary beads while tapping her foot and poor Papa got soaked from head to toe as he paced back and forth. I was about to mention Nona’s curtain when Mama’s trembling voice stopped me.

Oh Bernardo, it is so hard to go like this, no one comes to say goodbye. It is terrible!

Claretta, they are jealous and unkind! May they never find out it was Tomiso who gave us the additional money we needed to make this trip. Life would be most difficult for him, most difficult.

Some may come and join us in America. Forse un giorno.

Why did my mother vibrate so much? Was it the cold and the rain or, something else? Her rosary beads rattled in the pocket of her dark grey wool skirt,

He touched her cheek tenderly. "It will only be us in America. Can you do this, Claretta? Can you leave them behind?"

The sweet smile on her face made me feel better. As long as the three of us are together, I’ll be okay, Bernardo.

I saw the opportunity and jumped in. I saw Nona’s curtain move just before we left. Nona saw you leaving Mama. She saw you. She did.

Aw, my sweet baby girl, thank you for telling me. I did not see it then, but I see it now, in my heart. Mama saw me. I think she was crying, too.

I’m not sure why the thought of Nona crying would make Mama happy, but she had a smile from ear to ear. It would not be the first time I thought my Mama to be a little mixed-up.

From the base of the gangplank, a giant of a man bellowed "All aboard, all aboard. Now!"

Papa put on his soaked jacket, lifted me up in his arms and kissed my cheek. In a raspy voice, he said, Piccola, look at the big boat. When I turned and looked at the ship he whispered in my ear, Andiamo, Piccola, to America.

Teary-eyed, my mother grabbed her drenched, small, brown leather bag in one hand and took my father’s hand in the other. The soft rain made the wooden plank very slippery and had she not taken hold of my father’s hand, Mama would’ve fallen. Regaining her composure, and apparently on a mission, she hurried on ahead toward the deck opening.

Stepping spritely onto the boat, three tickets gripped in her hand, Mama swiftly made her way down the right aisle. A tall man in a navy uniform abruptly shot his arm out in front of her, stopping her dead in her tracks. We watched him mutter something in her ear, turn her around by the elbow and pointed in the opposite direction.

"Third class! Bernardo what is third class? Do we have a room, or do we have to share with strangers?" Was that steam coming out of my mother’s ears?

Papa said nothing, but he followed a few safe steps behind his furious wife, who descended down two flights of stairs at a rapid pace.

The fear of sharing our room with strangers was folly because it wasn’t a room!

"This is terrible. The worst Bernardo, the very worst. What have you done?"

My dear Claretta, this is not the worst. The worst is at the bottom of this ship. It is called steerage and you do not want to know what life is like there. This is a palace compared to that. So, you see, it’s not so bad, Claretta, really it’s fine.

We have a space with two beds, a little table, and a ratty curtain on a wooden dowel. It’s terrible!

In steerage you would perhaps not even have a bed. You might have to sleep on the floor with strangers and so might your child. I noted sympathy in my father’s voice and fortunately I was too young to envision the degradation and squalor of steerage.

A white enamel basin and pitcher sat on top of the small table. Underneath was a small enamel pot with a lid. Is that where we go pee I asked, hoping to lighten the mood.

"Yes, Piccola and by the way, we do not have to empty the pot in our luxurious accommodations. For three cents extra a day, someone will do it for us, and for five cents more we can have a bath, down the hall."

I stifled my giggles at Papa’s attempt to be funny, because Mama wasn’t laughing. Instead she stood oddly silent. A silent Mama was never a good sign.

Continuing his appeal, Look, it’s all we need. We have beds and these small rock-hard pillows, sheets and woolen blankets. We even have this little candle on this little shelf, for light. We do okay. Please be nice. It’ll be fine, I promise.

Unimpressed, Mother`s stern look never faltered.

Look at the beds! Her look of sadness prompted me to go over and take her hand, which she squeezed. Patting the bigger cot of the two, Papa winked and said, We can sleep here, my Dear.

Pointing to the smaller bed, he said, Piccola, this is your bed. Va bene?

It was all okay with me, so I asked, Can we watch the boat leave?

"You two go! I’ll try to do something here." There might be little Mama could do to make it better, but she’d sure try. It was best to leave her to the task.

The railing was packed shoulder to shoulder with other passengers; each one waved a handkerchief or a hat at someone on the dock. Our fingers were locked together, until Papa said, Let’s pretend, Piccola. Wave your hat and I will too and maybe someone will wave back at us.

A loud rumbling noise rose up from the belly of the boat, followed by a big jolt that almost toppled us onto the wooden deck. The waters churned as the ship moved away from the pier. We were on our way!

Papa, are you okay? You don’t look very good.

His skin was shiny and had the same color as the green waters thrashing below us. The farther we got from the dock, the worse he looked. Leaning over the rail, he closed his eyes and patted his stomach.

But there was a hint of excitement in his voice when he said, We’re finally leaving! We’re going to America.

Following a meager dinner of broth and bread, Papa became quite ill, took his leave to the smaller cot and remained there for most of the voyage. Snuggled up against Mama on the large cot, I fell asleep to the continuous sound of Papa moaning and groaning. I loved sleeping with my mother, but I think she was not as happy as I was.

Three times a day Mama and I left an ailing Papa on his little cot and ventured to the area set up with rows and rows of wooden tables and benches. There were six scheduled eating times and our arrival a minute or two ahead of the multitude insured us two spots together. Sadly, Mama`s distrust of our fellow travelers meant I wasn’t allowed to look around or talk to those who shared our table. Even their greetings, some of which I didn’t understand but knew the sentiments, had to be ignored. Occasionally I risked a smile.

Why don’t we talk to them? She simply said she preferred our own company.

The main kitchen supplied all our meals and although the choices were few, the food supply was ample and tasted good. Boiled eggs, bread, boiled chicken, and a little fruit were the typical fare. Mother’s billowing full-figured blouse was put to good use; a piece of fruit for me and Papa’s daily sustenance were hidden inside. Poor Papa, buns and water were his mainstay for the entire trip. It was all he could keep down.

Other Italian dialects could be heard on board, but our best bet for making a friend lay on his cot trying to keep his buns down. Father’s two attempts to walk on deck for a little air, ended abruptly with a rush back to his bed and bed pan.

Apparently Mother and I possessed sailor-hearty constitutions and we took daily strolls on deck. "Up here, no one knows we’re down there! Up here, everyone’s the same." That belief helped her have a good time, and often she hummed little songs as we sauntered around the ship. My favorite pastime was to stand at the rail to feel the ocean spray on my face. Good weather every day ensured a safe and pleasant crossing.

Our arrival in America would remain a fond memory. Mama and I were on deck when we passed the big lady statue. It hurt my neck to look all the way from her feet to her head. The sky matched my blue coat and pillows of clouds floated around the lady’s crown, the sun shone so bright, I had to look through one eye.

Mama’s voice cracked with emotion, Liberty, liberty she whispered, tears in her eyes.

Minutes after the boat docked, Papa reappeared with bags tucked under his arms and clenched in his hands. He never wanted to see the cubicle again. He assured mother he had everything.

If you could I think you’d carry a bag in your teeth, Bernardo said Mama, laughing.

Let’s get off this demon boat, he said and took big strides towards the exit ramp. Father, obviously not a boat person, was happy to plant his feet on solid ground.

Sometime later our trunks were off-loaded onto the pier. Papa paid a nice black man some money to store them until we found a place to live. I’d always remember the look on father’s face when he patted the claim tickets tucked in his pocket. His smile was as big as all New York.

Health regulations demanded all immigrants be checked out head to toe by an army of doctors before being allowed to remain on American soil. White cloth screens stretched out on rods provided minimal privacy. I was relieved mother was allowed to stay with me during my examination. Several times while we waited, muffled crying and sighs of disappointment could be heard. Each time my mother would quietly utter, Ah, Dio. Not good. This I assumed meant someone had failed the physical scrutiny. Sadly I wondered what happened to those who didn’t pass muster. Were they put on another boat? What if only one was okay, did they separate them or did everyone leave? I was young but I thought a lot.

A gentle doctor tapped my chest, made me cough, looked through my hair and into my ears and mouth and checked my arms and legs, repeating the process with Mama. Outside the examination room was a never-ending hallway of benches lined up on each side. Papa was waiting for us and the three of us sat patiently along with many others. Many boats had arrived in the harbor to the place known as Ellis. All of us waited for the document that would allow us to stay in the new land.

Papa’s papers listed his occupation as, cobbler. America must have needed cobblers that day because our papers were quickly stamped and we were deposited on a New York sidewalk. Overcome with joy, my parents did a little dance, right there on the street. Having never seen my parents dance before, I stood in awe until Papa picked me up in his arms, and we all danced in a circle. We were as happy and carefree as we’d ever been. The date was April 30, 1911.

CHAPTER THREE

New York, New York

Our mouths gaped open and our eyes widened in wonderment at our surroundings. The vast differences between New York and the compound were staggering. Gone were the two and tree story white stucco buildings of a familiar complex, replaced by strange side by side red-brick buildings several stories higher.

The rapid pace of foot-traffic and horse-drawn buggies was both exciting and intimidating. Where was everyone going as they seem to move at warp speed on the street, pushing and weaving their way past each other, heads down or eyes set directly in front? Several times we splattered ourselves up against a building, just to get out of the way of a mid-afternoon rush. I was captivated by the sounds of the city; car horns, horse hooves clip-clopping along on the cobble stones, people jabbering, even shouting, all of it meshed into a musical symphony.

I liked America. Even at my tender age of three and a half, I was not frightened or distressed but found the energy of the city, exciting. As a result I wore a perpetual smile as we ventured up and down and around New York’s streets searching for basic necessities, such a roof over our heads and food for our bellies. However my parents didn’t feel the same vigor of the city or hear the music of the street. They were on a quest. I simply toddled behind them in a constant state of wonder.

Our only food source for the day was a loaf of bread purchased at a bakery. I stood at my father’s side and watched him pull out a leather pouch from inside his leather vest to retrieve a coin. Apparently it was the right amount of money as the baker nodded, Papa smiled and we left the store. Although the bread was no match for mother’s delectable morsels of dough, it filled our empty stomachs.

The weight of our suitcases increased with every step as we drudged up and down side streets looking for il casa. Our ignorance of the English language made finding a place to live most difficult. A sign in the corner of a window or on a post was Papa’s clue a room or flat was available, but apparently not to us. Several attempts resulted in disappointment. Why would remain a mystery and I was saddened to see the strain of rejection and failure show on Papa’s face when he’d wipe his brow and rub his chin in frustration. New York, it seemed, didn’t want us. What would we do, where else could we go?

Dusk arrived and we were all on our last short stubby legs when we happened upon a ground floor flat in a rundown three-story building. Removing the little for rent sign off the nail, father reluctantly walked up and knocked on the front door. Mama and I sat on our suitcases on the street, heads in our hands, eyes practically closed from exhaustion or were we avoiding seeing Papa turned away, again.

Papa danced once more that arrival day when he returned to us waving a key in his hand.

The flat was furnished with a wooden table, two chairs, a large metal tub for bathing or laundry, a Monarch wood stove, no wood and an icebox, with no ice. Our valises contained a few clothes and only bare necessities so we spent our first night in our new home sleeping on a dirty floor, our coats served as blankets and our bags were nestled under our heads. Gratefully, sleep offered an escape from our hunger pangs and the chill of an early spring night.

With the rising of the sun, Papa, on an empty stomach, was out the door to search for a job. We moved around in the dark until Mama could wait no longer. We had to find cleaning supplies and, food.

The traffic, the maddening crowd and the lack of Papa’s presence forced us to practically hug the buildings on our way to find stores to satisfy the list in my mother’s pocket lessening the adventure to an exercise in intimidation.

Papa left the small leather pouch in Mama’s safe care. Only a small portion of lira was exchanged to American dollars on board the ship and we had no idea how much was in the little leather bank. How much could we buy? Would there be enough money to cover our needs? Perhaps these were the trials that occupied my mother’s mind as we moved slowly down the street, in silence.

A second-hand hardware store a block from the apartment was a God-send. In the wonderful emporium we bought everything we needed, except for bedding and towels. It took two trips to bring home our smaller purchases of a large pot, a kettle, frying pan, four dishes, bowls, mugs, glasses and cutlery, all of it used. It was a haven for furniture and we purchased a kitchen chair, a big bed for my parents and a smaller one for me. The man at the counter promised delivery later that afternoon. I hoped he’d keep his promise as I really didn’t want to sleep on the floor again.

I can only imagine how frightening it was for the Mistress of Distrust to step up to the counter, hold out her trembling hand and allow the proprietor to take what was due from the bills. He gave her some money back and a little change. The whole transaction took place without a word being uttered, except when we left and the owner said Bye.

Out on the street, a smiling Mama blessed herself and gave thanks, Va bene. Grazia, Dio, e Maria!

In the grocery store, except for the obvious meats, fruits and vegetables, Mama shopped blind. Once, she picked up a box, turned it over a couple of times, looked at me and mumbled, Maybe food? Fortunately it turned out to be cereal. Payment was made again with no words, just a lot of nodding and smiling on both sides of the counter.

All in all it our shopping endeavors were good experiences and I was very proud of my mother and I felt the people in the stores were nice.

Back in the apartment, we ate some cereal out of the bright yellow and white box. My mother didn’t like it, so I knew it would be the only box we’d buy. Looking at all the groceries on the table it was obvious that the list had no frills on it; beef, vegetables, fruit, flour, yeast and, eggs.

There was no time to waste. Mother was a woman on a mission. All of her work had to be done before Papa came home. We got right down to the task at hand. Cautiously turning on the tap, I heard mother’s big sigh of relief when water streamed forth. I dipped my cloth in the bucket of water, pressed the large bar of brown soap onto it, worked up a lather to scrub as hard as I could. I was recruited to clean the baseboards and chairs and any other place easy for me to reach. Although the work was hard, I was happy to help. Walls, floors, cupboards, furniture, everything was scrubbed, polished and buffed. When we finished, the place and everything in it, glistened.

After several hours of cleaning, we set out with another shopping list. Our bedding and towels would be new, bought at a five and dime store. Mama was pleased to have enough money left in the leather pouch to buy the new things.

Can I have a pillow, Mama?

No, Camille, we don’t have enough money. Wait till your Papa gets a job, then, we will buy you a pillow.

We hurried home. Would the furniture arrive as promised?

Gloriously it did. The beds placed along one wall would eventually be separated from the main room and from each other, by curtains. My parents’ privacy was guaranteed because I slept like a log. I was such a co-operative child.

Excitement was in the air and Mama and I giggled as we made up our beds, washed up the new dishes and cutlery and put them away in the spanking-clean cupboards. Half a cord of wood and a block of ice supplied by the landlord, made it quite livable. After sunset, Mama set the table and placed a candle in the middle, stew cooked on the stove, and a pan of bread baked in the oven, filling the room with a wonderful aroma. We read by candlelight and waited for Papa to come home.

Not sure how much everything cost, or how much money we had to begin with, when it was all said and done, a crumpled dollar bill and two dimes were all that remained on the spotless table. I learned the value of scrimping and staying within your means that day. Mother would prove to be a better money manager than father. He wanted to please too much.

She beamed when her husband stopped inside the door. Sorry, I must be in the wrong place. This place is beautiful, not like the place I left this morning.

He’d found a job! Joe, of Joe’s Leather Goods decided to give him a try. Papa worked several hours that day, without pay, showing his boss what he could do. The job came with a bonus, an Italian boss, and it was short walk from our flat.

Heels and soles don’t last forever. It is good for business, Papa joked. It was true. In those days people mended their broken-in, comfortable shoes, rather than buy new ones. In 1911, New York City was a busy metropolis and everyone walked everywhere, wearing out their footwear. Business was booming.

Evident by the variety of accents and languages heard around us, our neighborhood was a melting-pot of immigrants. However, we lived apart from those who lived nearby. Our seclusion was imposed by Mama’s misgivings about everyone. Even Papa was unable to issue an invitation for dinner to Joe because Mama didn’t think she felt adequate to prepare a meal fit for a boss. Her refusal hit my father hard. I remember days of silence.

I hear our language out there, Mama. Can’t you hear them? We should find them and talk to them.

Those people don’t speak our dialect. Ignore them. The dialect, the region, the way they looked, what they said, all feeble excuses used by mother to avoid meeting others living in the area. Mama’s lack of confidence and suspicions crippled our family’s social life.

Europe’s hopeful landed and stayed in New York and blended together in the area. Mama’s dodging measures worked well and no one approached us. In the confines of the compound, we knew everyone; in our new home, we knew no one. It was a lonely existence, to say the least. Even I wondered if this be our future, forever?

Mama believed the neighbors stared at us because of our large noses. In truth, it was because we appeared aloof and distant, which of course, we were. Trying to get her to socialize was an impossible task. We were all in the same poor boat, however Mama called our neighborhood compatriots, undesirables. I loved shopping because it got us out of the flat, Otherwise my days were spent sitting by the window with a pencil remnant to draw stick ladies and dresses for them to wear on old newspaper. Sadly I could only watch the world parade on by.

Even though her loneliness and unhappiness was self-inflicted, Mama vented to Papa every day upon his arrival home. I want to go home. I want to go home. Look at what you’ve brought me to.

One day her crying and whining got to him.

"We are not going anywhere, Claretta. We are home. This is it! We came here for a better life, but it won’t come and knock on our door. It is up to us. We have to make a good life."

Because they were unhappy, I was unhappy, and worst of all I feared we’d go back to Italy. Every night, I prayed things would improve and the sooner the better.

Neighborhood noises rang clearer in the calm of the evening. During the summer, open windows allowed the strains of humankind around us to enter my world. I spent countless hours in front of the window listening to neighbors talking, children laughing and people singing. Often, the languages meshed together, all of it of course, Greek to me. Still it was music to my ears. Life was going on and I ached to be a part of it and deeply resented the prison cell my mother had confined me to.

Our small dirt yard backed onto an alley frequented by dozens of people passing through the neighborhood. Mother sat by the back door; head down, ignoring all who went by and crocheted doillies to be sold to the dry goods store. I, on the other hand, waved, nodded or smiled to everyone. In time, my friendliness paid off, and people murmured a Hello or offered me a smile or a wave. Did their subtle gestures suggest they knew I would get into trouble should mother notice their kindnesses?

Friday night was letter-writing night. Sitting around the table, by candle light, my parents composed letters to family back in Italy impressing them with our new found happiness in our new land. We had to let them know America was everything we had hoped it would be. It was painful to sit between them as they argued over the ‘good’ words to use to put America in a good light so other family members would want to come and live in America too.

Perhaps the ‘good’ words missed their target or our unhappiness seeped through, because not another Rosario ever announced they were heading to America. Mama took their lack of interest as a personal insult.

For three years neighborhood children passed through the back alley to and from school, talking, laughing and jostling each other. Going to school and making friends became my obsession. Mother saw it differently and viewed the outside world as a threat and home-schooled me, in Italian. I was a good student because I loved to learn, but night after night I cried myself to sleep because I wasn’t allowed to go to school.

In his wisdom, Papa recognized three factors. One, he’d never win my mother over on the school issue; her fear was too great. Two, he wanted to do something to ease my unhappiness. Three, we had to learn English to live in America and Papa was determined to stay. To that end, he came up with an ingenious way for us to learn English.

Every day he brought home a new ‘America’ word, supplied by a lady who operated a newspaper stand near the cobbler shop. Mrs. Wally unknowingly became our English teacher. At lunch he’d stop by the newsstand for a new word, selected from a day-old newspaper, which she gave to him to bring home. She counseled him on the meaning of a word and its pronunciation. However the pronunciation part got a bit jumbled somewhere between the newsstand and our apartment. As a result, our English left something to be desired and our news was a day late.

The moment his foot was in the door I’d greet him with, What’s the word today, Papa. Wanting to be a part of our new world, Papa wisely insisted on speaking ‘the new words’ as much as possible. A ragged edged second-hand English dictionary never left the kitchen table. New words were located in the dictionary and he and I struggled with the explanation and pronunciation over and over, never sure if we were getting it right. Some words were harder than others and sometimes Mrs. Wally would have to repeat the word, over and over to father before we’d get it right. She was a kind and obliging woman and we did okay learning our new language second-hand.

Mama adamantly refused to participate in our ‘English’ talks. However she couldn’t resist the urge to interject, in Italian. Whenever she’d butt in, Papa winked at me, but he’d say nothing. Keeping quiet was most difficult but because father made it into a game, I was happy to play. Mama was one smart cookie and English became her second language not by speaking the tongue, which she did rarely did, but by listening. It’s entirely possible Papa gave her special tutoring in their private moments, after I’d go to bed.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Gift

Papa believed life should be fun and, interesting. He also liked to mix with Americans. I feel like ’Merican’. I live here, I feel good here.

Sunday afternoons, the two of us walked many miles to Central Park so we could stroll the pathways, check out the flowers and most importantly, the people. In the summer we sat and ate ice cream cones, mine, chocolate and Papa’s, vanilla and waited for someone to sit down on the bench with us. When the misfortunate did land; we’d engage them in a conversation, using our limited language skills. Almost without exception, strangers corrected us with kindness and good humor. Being with Papa, meeting new people and licking ice cream were some of the best times I had in New York.

On one rare occasion when mother joined us for our park walk, she grumbled loudly, These people, they use so much salt, it’s sold everywhere, even in the tool store. That is silly, salt in a tool store.

What do you mean they sell salt everywhere? They only sell salt in the food store! Papa’s annoyance with her showed. Was it Mama’s ignorance or her volume that caused his aggravation?

Look, over there, every store, Sale, Sale, Sale. Why do they all sell salt!"

Papa followed her gaze to the stores across the street. In deed sale signs were featured in their windows. All scorn gone, he gently informed his wife, Claretta, those signs mean the stores are selling things for less money. It does not mean salt. Easy mistake, Claretta.

I thought my Papa was a kind man and I think Mama considered him so as well. Taking his hand in hers the three of us continued down the path.

*     *     *

By the time I was seven, mother loosened the apron strings enough, allowing me some freedom within our apartment building. That’s how I met Burry, the woman who impacted my life in a way no one could have imagined.

Her green and white checkered head scarf tied tightly at the back of her head couldn’t contain the wayward gray wiry hairs poking out around a heavily wrinkled face. For several days I’d watched her rail-thin frame struggle up the flights of stairs to the apartment above us. I felt sorry for her.

One day, as she was labored up the stairs, her arms full of groceries, I ran up, and tried to help her by taking one of the bags. She screamed at me in words I