Elizabeth Street

by Laurie Fabiano

  “What are you looking at, you little hoodlum?” A hand under his arm nearly raised Domenico off the ground, and he ended up face-to-face with a ruddy-cheeked policeman.

  “Nothing, officer. I was just standing around.”

  “We’ll see about that. Come on then.”

  Tight in the officer’s grip, Domenico spied Frances down the block. She nearly dropped the bread she was carrying as he called out in Italian, “Tell Zia to come to the police station.”

  “Speak English, boy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Domenico crossed himself in thanks that there was a chance that Zia would make it to the police station before his mother and was again relieved to see they were headed to the Italian Squad’s precinct at 19 Elizabeth Street. Once inside, he scanned the room for familiar faces.

  “What do you have here, Rafter?” asked the desk sergeant.

  “He was watching the arrest at Star of Italy. Probably a messenger.”

  “No, sir, officer!”

  Yanking him by the collar, Officer Rafter reprimanded, “I’m not talking to you!”

  “So what did you see, kid?” asked the desk sergeant.

  “Two black rats being taken away.” Domenico had heard Lieutenant Petrosino use that term.

  A cop not in uniform, but one Domenico recognized, smiled. “Really? You know this?”

  “Well, I don’t know…”

  Giovanna swept through the door, breathless. “Cos’è successo?”

  “Signora, is he yours?” asked the detective in Italian. It was Fiaschetti, the barrel-chested policeman who had brought her the tickets.

  “Sì. My nephew. A good boy.”

  “I thought I recognized him. The way he was acting, the officer thought he was a lookout.”

  “No, no, detective. My nephew, he wants to be a policeman.”

  “Officer Rafter, we can let him go. He’s just a boy who wants a badge.”

  “I want to be like Lieutenant Petrosino,” piped in Domenico.

  “Keep your nose out of police business, boy, or you could end up just like Lieutenant Petrosino,” growled Rafter.

  “What did he say?” asked Giovanna of Fiaschetti.

  “Nothing, signora. Take the boy home.”

  MAY 27, 1909

  The sound of the knife on the barber’s leather strap was relaxing to Rocco. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes.

  The barber leaned closer to Rocco’s ear as he cranked up the seat. “Are they bothering you again, Rocco?” he whispered.

  Rocco put up his hand, waving the question away.

  “They’re everywhere lately. Not just one gang, but five. They come in almost every day. I can’t even put out a barber’s pole for fear they’ll think I have extra money. Francesco, with the lady’s shop, he said he’s afraid to buy a cash register because they’ll think it’s filled with money.”

  Rocco waited until the barber was done shaving his upper lip. “Shut up, Luigi. I don’t want to hear this. Everything is fine.”

  “Are you afraid that your ears will be cut off, like the poor garlic seller last week?”

  “Smettila!”

  “After the Italian detective’s death, the police came in, beat up the neighborhood, and left.”

  “I said, basta!”

  “Va bene. But it isn’t going to go away.” He threw a hot towel over Rocco’s face.

  JUNE 11, 1909

  Mary and Frances heard the school bell ring and hurried to get their books. The back entrance of P.S. 21 was just diagonally across the street.

  “I have to do some shopping; I’ll walk you down,” said Giovanna, grabbing her basket. Taking Angelina’s hand, she followed her stepdaughters down the stairs.

  Giovanna and Angelina waved from the base of the school steps as Mary and Frances bounded into the building. The school principal stood next to them, speaking with a mother whose daughter hid in the folds of her skirt.

  “Ma’am, she will never learn English unless she attends school every day.”

  The woman smiled and shrugged.

  In frustration, the principal turned to Giovanna. “Could you translate?”

  “My English no good,” stammered Giovanna, but nudged her three-year-old. “Angelina, help.”

  “Alright, then,” said the principal, looking down at Angelina in both amusement and exasperation. “Little girl, will you please tell this woman that it is important for her daughter to come to school every day.”

  Angelina, who acted much older than her years, turned to the woman confidently. “Signora, è importante che vostra figlia venga a scuola giornalmente.”

  “Sì, ho capito.”

  Angelina turned to the principal and, relishing her role, translated. “The lady said she understood.”

  “Then ask her why her daughter is absent so much.”

  “What’s absent?”

  “Not in school.”

  “Perché spesso vostra figlia non è a scuola?”

  “Ha solamente un vestito.”

  “Because she only has one dress.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Non capisce.”

  “Devo lavare il vestito ed a volte non è asciutto di mattina.”

  “Oh,” exclaimed Angelina, now understanding herself and turning back to the principal. “She has to wash the dress and sometimes it isn’t dry in the morning.”

  The principal put his hands on his hips and let out a big sigh. “Tell the mother that before next year starts, I will get her a second dress—and I want her daughter in school every day.”

  Angelina translated and the woman smiled.

  “She said thank you.”

  “You’re a smart little girl,” said the principal, patting her head. “Thank you very much.”

  “Can I come to school? I’m almost four.”

  “Soon…”

  An explosion nearly rocked them off their feet. It was followed by a series of small exploding noises. The children’s screams of “La Mano Nera!” rang out from the open windows.

  Within seconds there was the sound of chaos—chairs scraping, yelling, and stampeding feet. The principal looked around and, seeing nothing, ran into the building, shouting, “Stay in your classrooms. Everything is alright!” But the principal’s admonishments were drowned out by the children’s screams and their teachers’ efforts to control them.

  Through the door, Giovanna saw children running down the stairs and falling over one another. The only way to help was to keep them flowing through the door. With Angelina clinging to her back, she held the door open and shouted to the children to keep walking, but not to run.

  When the children saw no black smoke or cascading bricks, they began to calm down. The stampede stopped, and teachers lined the students up and inspected them for injuries. Giovanna spotted Mary and Frances and sighed in relief.

  Up the block, two policemen were speaking with Father Salevini and a short man whose face was covered with ash. The father’s hands were gesticulating wildly. Giovanna moved closer to the principal, knowing the officers would report to him. When they strode up, she instructed Angelina to listen.

  “What did they say?” she asked her daughter.

  “They said the man was getting the bombs and firecrackers ready for Saint Anthony’s Feast on Sunday, and some of them went off.”

  Giovanna sighed, softly shaking her head.

  Angelina tugged on her mother’s skirt. “Mamma, are we going to the feast?”

  JULY 21, 1909

  Rocco bent to the crate to get more fruit for the cart. His hand shot to his back and he winced. Mondays were difficult, especially after such a big Sunday meal and a little too much wine. He mopped his brow with his handkerchief and squinted up at the sun to guess the time. Instead, he found himself staring into the face of the big square-headed man whom he knew had been watching him on and off for weeks.

  “Ah, so the rat has finally come for the cheese?” exclaimed Rocco.

&nb
sp; “It’s true then! I heard you were not so right in the head.”

  “You should have also heard that I have no money, since your fellow schifosi bombed my store.”

  “I know nothing of your store. Only that you seem to have a good pushcart business that needs to be protected.”

  “Protected from you.”

  “This is the price of business.”

  “I’d rather my cart blow up and watch melons rain down on you, you big oaf!”

  “Vaffanculo, you stupid jerk. You had your chance.” The man kicked Rocco’s cart as he walked away, spilling fruit to the street.

  THIRTY

  AUGUST 15, 1909

  Angelina held Mary’s hand as they climbed the stairs to the elevated train. Watching her older brother and sisters’ excitement made her even more eager. It was hard to put a smile on Clement’s face, but even he was beaming.

  Giovanna carried a big basket with their meal, which competed with her growing belly. Rocco, whose birthday was the excuse for this extravagant outing, toted a woven bag with their clothes for bathing, and bottles of wine and water.

  “How much did it cost?” Angelina asked Mary after their father walked away from the train ticket window.

  “One dime each. But I think you’re free, so that would be fifty cents.”

  “I hope we still have money for Dreamland.”

  “Don’t worry, Angelina, this is going to be the best day of our lives,” said Frances.

  The train went over the Brooklyn Bridge, which Angelina thought in itself was worth the ten cents. Once over the bridge, Angelina felt devilish peeking into second-story bedrooms and seeing men in collarless shirts reading the paper. Soon they were riding into more open space, where detached houses competed with big signs advertising the buildings of tomorrow. The meadows became marshes, which stretched to the sea. And then, in the distance, they saw the strange shapes of Coney Island.

  Although it was early morning, the train was packed, and Angelina clung to Giovanna in the throng of weekenders jostling to get off. “First, we’ll swim,” announced Giovanna, steering her family to the beach and the bathhouses.

  Angelina could see the excitement in her mother’s eyes. From their trip to Italy, she remembered how much her mother loved the water. The color of this ocean was more gray-blue, and the waves larger and louder, but it was the closest vision to Scilla they had seen. As they looked away from the shore, instead of seeing cliffs and lemon groves, they saw blinking lights, waving flags, and grand, fanciful buildings.

  For twenty cents, they were given a small tent to change in and a place to leave their clothes. Giovanna had begged and borrowed bathing costumes for everyone. It was most difficult to find something to fit herself. Rocco had forbidden her to go swimming in her condition, but she had every intention of at least wading in the surf. Clement was the first to spring through the flap of the door and run to the ocean, his father’s warnings chasing him. Within minutes, Frances and Mary followed, as did Angelina, clinging to her mother’s hand.

  Angelina’s shoulders lifted to her ears when the first wave washed over her feet. The water was cold. Her brother and sisters were already in, squealing with delight as they jumped over the waves. Inch by inch, Angelina made her way farther into the ocean without releasing her grip on her mother’s hand. She watched her father swim far out toward the horizon until he was just a speck. “Mamma! Papa is going to disappear!”

  “No, he’s just showing off because he’s fifty-three today,” Giovanna said, smiling.

  With each passing minute the beach became more crowded. When they arrived, it had been fairly empty, but now, wherever they turned, they bumped into someone.

  Rocco walked out of the waves, panting but invigorated.

  “Papa, you swim like a fish!” shouted Angelina.

  Her father smiled, looked at the sky to check the position of the sun, and announced, “Let’s eat our meal.”

  Giovanna spread out a tablecloth on the sand and emptied the basket of food. Before long, they were eating fried eggplant, olives, and fruit.

  “Mamma, it doesn’t matter if I spill my food down my front! I can just go swimming!” exclaimed Angelina, with peach juice running down her chin.

  By four in the afternoon, the allure of the boardwalk was too great. Rocco and Giovanna couldn’t bear the children’s pestering any longer. “Va bene,” said Rocco, “we’ll go. But listen to me—we each get to do one thing. You can tell the others of your adventure.”

  “I know what I’m doing!” screamed Frances. “The slide in Dreamland!”

  In the cabana, they dried themselves and brushed the sand off before slipping back into their Sunday best. They strolled the boardwalk, jostling elbows with every type of New Yorker and, for once, not feeling out of place. Everyone was so caught up in the sights and sounds around them that there was no time to look disdainfully at the immigrants and the poor. The crowd was equalized by the din of music from around the world and the promise of thrills.

  Since Frances was the only one quite sure of what she wanted to do, they headed to Dreamland, walking down the Bowery. “This Bowery is sure different from our Bowery,” commented Clement, looking at the signs advertising curious exhibitions, restaurants, and music halls.

  “See it as it happened! The great Johnstown Flood!” yelled a barker, directing his call at them. After he took a closer look, he shouted, “Italians! Come right this way for the Fall of Pompeii, only ten cents!”

  Giovanna asked the children what the man was saying. “I have no idea,” answered Clement, speaking the truth.

  “Guarda, Zia, there it is!” exclaimed Frances.

  A gigantic angel, her wings forming a great arch, was the entrance to Dreamland. Inside, it was a city of fantasy. A great tower rose above a lagoon. Across the water, a mountain of slides were filled with obstacles that bumped and turned the shrieking riders until they reached the bottom in a breathless but exhilarated mess. At the other end, another man-made mountain of jagged peaks loomed, pierced by a train car weaving in and out of its slopes.

  The children were unable to contain their excitement. They looked in every direction, speaking at once in Italian, English, and squeals of delight. Angelina clung to her mother, dazed. Rocco, too, looked either overwhelmed or simply dumbfounded. Giovanna took charge.

  “We’ll go to the slides for Frances.”

  At the sight of the long stairs and thousands of people, they were unwilling to allow Frances to go alone, so after negotiating with Clement, they agreed that this didn’t count as his choice but that he should accompany his sister.

  The wait wasn’t nearly as long as Frances’s and Clement’s detailed descriptions of climbing the stairs, the fear in their bellies at the top, the push off, and each obstacle, twist, and turn along the way to the bottom, where they both tumbled head over heels. Giovanna cringed at seeing Frances upside down in her dress, but there were women far older who were doing the same thing with no one much noticing or caring.

  “On the way up, I heard these boys talking about a Trip to Mars at Luna Park. That’s where I want to go!” shouted Clement.

  “Va bene. But first we will walk around here,” answered Rocco.

  “Mamma, look!” Angelina spied a miniature railroad that circled Dreamland. Children and adults, looking ridiculously out of scale, were stuffed into its little cars. The puffing engine enthralled Angelina, but none of her siblings could be persuaded to go on the ride, and her mother’s big belly would never fit. On the verge of tears, she turned to her father. “Papa, it’s your birthday, don’t you want to ride with me on the train?”

  Rocco, not generally a pushover even with his daughters, looked at Angelina and said, “Let’s ride the train.”

  Giovanna and the children hid their laughter as the train circled round. Seated behind Angelina, Rocco had his knees nearly drawn to his chest. His embarrassment was washed away with Angelina’s kisses and exclamations of joy when the ride ended.


  “To Luna Park!” directed Clement.

  The entrance to Luna Park was decorated with moons and half-moons of light. It was even more grandiose than Dreamland. They walked into a little Venice complete with gondoliers but flanked by pagoda-like structures. Frances let out a huge sigh upon seeing the Helter Skelter slide at Luna Park and worried that it might be better than the one at Dreamland. They wove their way through the crowds until they reached the Trip to Mars by Aeroplane. Clement got in line, and the family sat down on a bench nearby. Giovanna was grateful for the rest, but all too soon Clement came back.

  “There were these boys on line who’ve been on everything here! I asked them which was the best and they said the Musical Railway near Dreamland.”

  “Clement, they’re making fun of you! A musical railway! That is something Angelina would like!” growled Rocco.

  “Papa, I only have one choice. Please let me see about this ride. They say the Trip to Mars is only medza menz.”

  “Okay, but we’re not going back to Mars if you don’t like this railway!”

  Giovanna looked at Clement’s excitement. For years now he had functioned as a man. It was wonderful to see him acting like a boy again. Giovanna got up off the bench, and they headed back toward Dreamland. From the size of the line at the Musical Railway, it appeared that the boys were right. Mary decided to make this her ride and went off with her brother. The sunlight was infused with the warm glow of early evening. They found an open bench; Angelina sat on Frances’s lap, and Giovanna sat beside them. Rocco waited for Clement and Mary at the ride’s exit. Nearly an hour later, the trio walked back to the bench. When Mary saw Giovanna, she broke from her father and ran to her, flinging herself into Giovanna’s arms.

  “Zia! We were in a train car, and it was completely dark, and then the train car fell straight down in the dark. I thought we would die!”