Elizabeth Street

by Laurie Fabiano

  “Che?”

  Clement smiled and switched back to Italian. “Papa, don’t you worry. I’ll become a rich American.”

  “Va bene. You see that stronzo across the street with the brown coat? No, no, don’t be so obvious!”

  Turning his head back to the cart, Clement muttered, “I see him.”

  “He’s been watching us. He’s another Blackhander.”

  “What would they want with us? We have nothing left.”

  “I heard they even harass pushcart sellers.”

  “Let me get him first,” seethed Clement.

  “No! Clement, I want to cut these rats to their knees, but I don’t want you or your sisters hurt. I’ve heard too many stories from your stepmother about how they get you back. We will watch him, as he watches us.”

  “But what will we do?”

  “Your stepmother says the lieutenant has a secret service that will send them all back to Italy soon. For now, we will try to be invisible.”

  Lieutenant Petrosino, his expression dour, was uncharacteristically slumped in the chair opposite Commissioner Bingham’s desk.

  “Joe, I’m sorry it has to be you, but there really isn’t anyone else qualified to do this job. Who else could work the system and the informants to get these records?” cajoled Commissioner Bingham.

  “I understand, Commissioner; it’s just that my little girl will grow so much in the three months I’m away.” Lieutenant Petrosino lowered his face to hide his emotion.

  “You’re a good man, Joe, and a good father. That little girl will have much to be proud of. Let’s go over the details.”

  Bingham settled into his chair. “We have promises from the Italian government to hand over the criminal records. And we have promises from our own government to deport the thugs when we have their records in our hands.” He took out a steamer ticket from a leather portfolio on his desk. “You sail the day after tomorrow on the Duca di Genova—first class, I might add. You’ll travel as a Jewish businessman with the identity of Simone Velletri. In this folder I have letters of introduction for the Italian Minister of the Interior and the head of Italy’s police forces, Francesco Leonardi.”

  While Petrosino inspected the letters, Bingham joked, “Joe, I know how much you love that watch,” pointing to the gold chain across Petrosino’s pocket. “But I don’t think a gift from the Italian government thanking you for arresting criminals would be a good thing to carry.”

  Petrosino managed a little laugh. “Yes, I think I’ll leave it at home.”

  “I want you to stay home with Adelina and the baby tomorrow. We’ll spread the rumor that you’ve had a relapse of pneumonia and on doctor’s orders you are leaving town to convalesce. Only members of the Italian Squad will know your whereabouts.”

  “And my Adelina, of course.”

  “Of course. We’ll take good care of her, Joe. Now, do you have your list in order?”

  “Yes, Commissioner. And it starts with Lupo.”

  “Lupo’s been here more than three years, Joe.”

  “I know, Commissioner, but my brother works at Ellis Island, and we found proof that he traveled to Italy last year under an alias.”

  “You are clever! How many names do you have on that list anyway?”

  “It’s up to seven hundred, sir.”

  “Joe, you’ll need an army to dig up that many records.”

  “Imagine, Commissioner, if we could deport them all.”

  Commissioner Bingham stood. “Imagine, indeed. We’ll be heroes, Joe.”

  FEBRUARY 12, 1909

  Giovanna stared at her mother’s writing on the envelope. At last, the proof that she needed. Tears welled in her eyes as she slit the letter open.

  Dearest Giovanna,

  We received your generous cable with 1,000 US dollars.

  Giovanna breathed a great sigh of relief and continued.

  I only hope that you have not sacrificed everything to send it. This is a fortune. Zia Marianna will also be writing to you, but I can say without a doubt that this money has saved her life. Her health was so fragile and her despair was so great that your father and I feared she would die. This gives her hope of establishing a home again. The same is true of cousin Fortunata and her family. Everything that you said in your letter that Enrico Bellantoni told you is true. So many of our friends and family are gone, but we live. I don’t know why this is, and I question our fortune each day. We that remain live all together in our home. It’s probably hard for you to believe, but fourteen of us live here now. Zia Marianna remains in the French hospital. Each day, we work at rebuilding houses. Soon Fortunata’s family will be moving back into their home. The armies removed the bodies and much of the debris. They never found your Zia Antoinette’s and Signora Scalici’s bodies. Pasquale’s body was found only last week. It was his rings that identified him. You know how he loved those rings! People work night and day rebuilding and cleaning, but I worry that when the work is done, we will look around only to see a Scilla that is empty. Please do not come here. The money you sent will help more than you’ll ever know. Give my love to your brother and all my grandchildren. Mamma.

  FEBRUARY 28, 1909

  Bingham paced his office. He had spent the entire week questioning his decision to tell the press of Petrosino’s mission. Those dandy aldermen were all over him and he needed to prove he had taken decisive action. But he hadn’t expected the story to be picked up by the International Herald.

  “Come in,” called Bingham, answering the knock on his door.

  Lieutenant Vachris entered and instantly Bingham could read his anger.

  “Sit down, Lieutenant. I hear you wanted to see me.”

  “Yes, Commissioner. Why? This mission was…”

  “Not so secret, truth be told, Lieutenant. I had word that more than one person on the ship recognized Joe, and these Blackhanders are not so stupid.”

  “But still…”

  “Unfortunately, Lieutenant, you cannot separate police work from politics and, in this case, politically it was the necessary thing to do.”

  Vachris literally bit down on his lip.

  “Commissioner, with his cover blown, he’s a sitting duck. Send me over to help him.”

  “Lieutenant, it’s impossible for you both to be out of the country. Besides, in a few weeks his mission will be completed. From what Joe said in his last cable, when he returns we should have plenty of penal records to deport these thieving blackmailers. You get the men ready for his return, because when he does, Lieutenant, it’s going to be an old-fashioned roundup.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  MARCH 13, 1909

  Louis Saulino, Lieutenant Petrosino’s brother-in-law, ran up the steps at 300 Mulberry Street into police headquarters and grabbed the first policeman he saw.

  “Calm down, sir,” assured the officer. “It’s another reporter with a good imagination. This isn’t the first time there have been rumors of your brother-in-law’s death.”

  “Why would he come to my sister’s home at two in the morning?”

  “Because he’s a muckraking reporter, Mr. Saulino. Wouldn’t we have heard if something had happened to Lieutenant Petrosino? Please, go to your sister and tell her it was a cruel joke.”

  After being told the same thing by the desk sergeant, Saulino left headquarters. The day was just dawning, and the newsies were hitting the streets. He hadn’t gone a full block before he heard the first newsboy shout, “Famous detective murdered!” He snatched a paper and sprinted back to police headquarters.

  “Do you still think it’s a joke?” he shouted, waving the newspaper in front of the desk sergeant’s face. “Some joke, Sergeant!”

  Bingham was in Washington, so a call was placed to Deputy Commissioner Woods, rousing him from bed. Newspaper or not, the men in police headquarters and at Petrosino’s precinct on Elizabeth Street refused to believe the report and waited for official word. At ten o’clock that morning, they received their cable:

 
; “Palermo, Italy, 12 March 1909 Petrosino killed revolver center city tonight killers unknown martyr’s death

  Consul Bishop.”

  APRIL 12, 1909

  Giovanna dressed for Lieutenant Petrosino’s funeral. Her grief over his murder became personal when the detective from the Italian Squad knocked on her door with two tickets to the mass. Up until that point, she had successfully treated it as the death of a public figure that she read about in the newspapers.

  “Signora, I got you these,” offered young Detective Fiaschetti. “I believe the lieutenant would have wanted you there.”

  Taking the tickets from the officer’s hand, Giovanna felt her throat tighten. Given all the tragedy she had endured, she should have been able to shake her head and say a prayer for the slain policeman. At thirty-six, she had lost a husband, a business, and been uprooted from her home, which was in ruins and served as a tomb for dead friends and family. Yet somehow Giovanna had maintained her faith that good would prevail. But with Lieutenant Petrosino’s murder, she knew she was burying the last shreds of her idealism with the little lieutenant.

  Moments passed before Giovanna could look at Detective Fiaschetti. “Grazie,” she mumbled. “You’re kind. I would like to attend.”

  When she closed the door, Rocco, who had been sitting at the table, was ready with the comment she expected. “This is no business of yours.”

  “This death is everybody’s business,” she snapped, but she quickly softened. “There will be thousands of people there. Rocco, there is no need to worry.”

  “I will not go with you!”

  “I will have my nephew accompany me then.”

  It was Domenico, practically in tears, who had delivered the news to Giovanna nearly a month before. In the days that followed, she was riveted to the newspaper each morning. Domenico would arrive before school to read her the American papers, and she would read him Il Progresso. She had grown from a young girl anxiously awaiting the arrival of a newspaper in Scilla to a woman in New York who was drowning in news. They had to wait if Rocco had not yet left to get his cart because he had forbidden any discussion of Petrosino or the Black Hand. Giovanna thought Rocco was like a small child who hides his head under a pillow and thinks he’s invisible because he can’t see. But she also had to admit that her way, Lieutenant Petrosino’s way, had not brought justice—only tragedy.

  It wasn’t until Giovanna saw the pages upon pages devoted to Lieutenant Petrosino in the American papers that she realized how important this man was. All of a sudden their meetings took on an even greater significance in her mind. There was, of course, speculation as to who was responsible for the Petrosino murder, and she searched her own memory, reviewing their many conversations for clues. She thought with rage of the article trumpeting his “secret” mission and had to stop herself from running to the commissioner’s office and hurling blame. Her anger was only slightly abated when she read that it was possible Petrosino’s killers actually traveled to Italy on the same ship as Petrosino, and that most criminals were well aware of his mission. In the month since he had been slain, people on both sides of the ocean had been arrested, but each of the many suspects was released because they had no evidence.

  She could not help but think of Petrosino’s widow and infant girl. How would Adelina be today among all this pomp and circumstance, unable to bury her husband in private? After that horrible article in the Herald, she didn’t allow Domenico to buy that newspaper anymore. The paper had congratulated itself on being the first to learn of Petrosino’s death and told of how its reporter had arrived at Mrs. Petrosino’s house in the middle of the night to announce the news. They did not even allow time for her husband’s spirit to visit her.

  Giovanna adjusted her hat and looked at her face, one section at a time, in the tiny mirror hanging near the bed. A moment later, Domenico came through the door with the ubiquitous newspapers. “Today, they listed all the Black Hand bombings. Your store is here.”

  “Let me see.”

  Domenico pointed to 242 Elizabeth Street.

  Giovanna scowled. “Let’s go.”

  They were fortunate to have tickets, but they still had to stand in the back of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral on Mott Street. The sermon was in English, except for a brief bit that Pastor Lavelle said in Italian, so Giovanna concentrated on her rosary while Domenico stared at the uniforms and the important people who filled the church. To the left of the center aisle were Mayor McClellan, Commissioner Bingham, and assorted other men whose bearing announced their position. One hundred schoolchildren sang from the cathedral’s choir loft, but their angelic voices were not enough to drown out the sobs of the women and the noises made by the men clearing their throats to stifle tears.

  The Easter decorations had been removed and only resurrection lilies remained on the altar. The mass was beautiful, but it didn’t comfort Giovanna. It was a disillusioned woman who stood in the cavernous cathedral. She had put her faith in a man, and that man had been murdered. She wasn’t thinking that his death was God’s plan, or that the lieutenant had died a martyr. Instead, she was thinking that her only duty in life was to protect her family. Nothing else mattered.

  Petrosino’s coffin was carried out of the church and placed in the hearse. The delegations from sixty Italian societies were ready, drawn up with bands at intervals. The mounted police led the procession, followed by the fire department and the street cleaners, which was where Lieutenant Petrosino had begun his career. At least a thousand police followed on foot, along with five open carriages filled with flowers, the hearse, and the black carriages carrying his family. The clear air resounded with Chopin’s funeral march and the Italian funeral march in turn. When the last of the regiments joined the parade, Giovanna and Domenico followed with the other civilian mourners.

  The neighborhood streets, windows, and fire escapes were filled with tearful residents shouting benedictions and tossing flowers. When the procession made its way out of the Italian colony, Giovanna expected that the crowds would thin and it would be easier to walk, but this was not the case. On Fifth Avenue, every foot of sidewalk was thronged with mourners and even the flags at the luxury hotels were at half-mast. Because of the crowds, it took four hours for the funeral procession to reach Fifty-seventh Street and Second Avenue. There, everyone on foot disbanded, and the carriages and the hearse continued alone across the bridge to Calvary Cemetery.

  “Domenico, here is a coin for the trolley. Go to Vito’s. It is late, and your mother will be angry with me.”

  “Are you going there, Zia?”

  Giovanna nodded.

  “I thought so.” Domenico kissed her cheek and left.

  By the time Giovanna got to the cemetery, Petrosino’s coffin had already been laid in its grave. No one was there except one policeman standing guard and the gravediggers who continued shoveling dirt to fill the hole.

  In the quiet, Giovanna leaned against a tree and wondered what to make of all this. Here was an Italian man buried with all the honor of a king, but he was indeed being buried. If Lieutenant Petrosino was so important and so loved, why hadn’t they given him the help he had asked for? She remembered the lieutenant telling her that out of the 285 arrests made in one year, “where we had them dead to center,” there were only forty-five convictions. He tried to explain the American legal system, but he eventually shrugged in frustration and said, “It doesn’t matter. These criminals have friends in City Hall who look out for them.” But wasn’t it City Hall who gave the Italian detective this regal funeral? The only thing she knew was that she must return to her neighborhood, where Italian criminals were free to prey upon their brethren.

  She was exhausted—and probably pregnant. Her period was late, and now, after this trek, Giovanna looked down at her swollen ankles. Knowing there were only a few more hours of daylight, she released the half-wilted flower nearly stuck to her hand and went to pray at Nunzio’s grave.

  TWENTY-NINE

  APRIL 20, 1909
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  Domenico Costa watched the Star of Italy from behind the pole of the gas lamp. He knew that if anyone caught him lingering there, including his cousin Clement, he would get a beating. He, like everyone in the family, had been forbidden to go near Black Hand haunts or discuss them. But Domenico couldn’t help himself when he saw five policemen enter the building with their nightsticks raised. Although it was only April, it was hot and they wore their summer uniforms, each with a single row of gleaming brass buttons down the front.

  No one knew who the enemy was anymore. Since Lieutenant Petrosino had been killed, the police were angry. It wasn’t just the Italian Squad; loads of policemen were coming around and banging heads for no reason. Some of the very same store owners who were victims of the blackmailers’ swindling were being questioned and knocked around by the police.

  Domenico had learned not to defend the police. A lot of self-satisfied people, including his Uncle Rocco, were running around saying, “See! They do nothing for us! They got the lieutenant killed, and now they take it out on us!” But the way Domenico saw it, they were avenging the lieutenant’s death. He was proud that the Irish cops were angry that the little Italian detective had been killed.

  The cops pulled two skinny men out of the Star of Italy by their collars. They made a big show of dragging them down the street to the precinct. Domenico vaguely recognized them and was pretty certain they weren’t Black Hand. He pulled a stub of a pencil and his little black book from his pocket and made a note of the arrest. The book was only two inches wide, enabling him to slip it in any pocket and keep it out of view of his family. He had seen Lieutenant Petrosino making notes in a book like it and begged Zia Giovanna to find him one, which she had done last Christmas. Precious few pages were left, because it was nearly filled with notations of the suspicious faces attending Lieutenant Petrosino’s funeral. Zia had told him about the cards at the police station, and although he couldn’t weigh or measure the suspects, he described them, dutifully recording the date and location he had seen them.